Shark Finning Quotes

Louie found the raft offered an unlikely intellectual refuge. He had never recognized how noisy the civilized world was. Here, drifting in almost total silence, with no scents other than the singed odor of the raft, no flavors on his tongue, nothing moving but the slow porcession of shark fins, every vista empty save water and sky, his time unvaried and unbroken, his mind was freed of an encumbrance that civilization had imposed on it. In his head, he could roam anywhere, and he found that his mind was quick and clear, his imagination unfettered and supple. He could stay with a thought for hours, turning it about.

Where were you? What happened?” I carved a chunk out of another lizard’s face. “I just took the kids to fight some ghouls,” Curran said. Oh, so it was fine, then . . . Wait. “You did what?” He kicked a lizard. It flew into the others like a cannonball. “I called Jim before we left the house to talk about ghouls, and he said they found some in the MARTA tunnels. So I grabbed the kids and did a little hunting.” I would kill him. “Just so I get it right, Jim calls you and says, ‘Hey, we found a horde of ghouls in the MARTA tunnels,’ and your first thought was, ‘Great, I’ll take the kids’?” “They had fun.” A careful note crept into his voice. Curran saw the shark fin in the water but wasn’t sure where the bite would be coming from. “You even took the dog.” Grendel chose that moment to try to shove past me. I shoved him back into the Guild and he began running back and forth behind us, growling. “He had fun, too. Look at him. He’s still excited.

pools of blood are not recreational even lifeguards drown when the undertow breaks bread with the underbelly demons disguised as sharks have not put enough thought into their costumes a wiseman stays ashore when pointed fins read like italian subtitles the end is near (...) the beginning

And you," Jude said, stepping forward and putting his finger in Tony's face. "Don't you ever try to give something of yours to put on her body." The muscles just below Jude's neck were sticking out like shark fins he was so tense. "Or I'm never throwing another ball your way. Got that?

There's a shark. Following the ship.' I tried not to look, but couldn't help it. I saw a flash of dirty white down in the green. We walked back to the deck chairs. Walter, we'll have to wait. Till the moon comes up.' I guess we better have a moon.' I want to see that fin. That black fin. Cutting the water in the moonlight.

But these, wide-finned in silver, roaring, the light mist of their propellers in the sun, these do not move like sharks. They move like nothing there has ever been. They move like mechanized doom.

Everything drifts. Everything is slowly swirling, philosophies tangled with the grocery lists, unreal-real anxieties like rose thorns waiting to tear the uncertain flesh, nonentities of thoughts floating like plankton, green and orange particles, seaweed -- lots of that, dark purple and waving, sharks with fins like cutlasses, herself held underwater by her hair, snared around auburn-rusted anchor chains.

What we eat is an essential part of who we are and how we define ourselves.

Learning another cuisine is like learning a language. In the beginning, you know nothing about its most basic rules of grammar. You experience it as a flood of words, or dishes, without system or structure.

Let’s go back to Mr. Hernandez’s film literature class, back to Jaws. Mr. Hernandez pointed out that we never actually saw the shark until about eighty minutes into the film. Instead we heard horror stories, glimpsed its sinister fin; primed to be scared, so that when the shark made its grand debut, we saw everything we’d been taught to see, the merciless, blood-seeking Jaws. Before the cop pulled Philando over, he’d reported the man resembled a robbery suspect, commenting on his wide-set nose. By the time the cop stepped up to the window, he didn’t see Philando, he saw everything he thought he knew about wide noses, blackness, guns, added it all up to threat in his head. The problem is not who we are, the problem is what you think we are. The realities you cast on us; that Philando would be violent, that I’d ask for sex behind a dumpster.

As it moves closer, Galen can make out smaller bodies within the mass. Whales. Sharks. Sea turtles. Stingrays. And he knows exactly what’s happening. The darkening horizon engages the full attention of the Aerna; the murmurs grow louder the closer it gets. The darkness approaches like a mist, eclipsing the natural snlight from the surface. An eclipse of fish. With each of his rapid heartbeats, Galen thinks he can feel the actual years disappear from his life span. A wall of every predator imaginable, and every kind of prey swimming in between, fold themselves around the edges of the hot ridges. The food chain hovers toward, over them, around them as a unified force. And Emma is leading it. Nalia gasps, and Galen guesses she recognizes the white dot in the middle of the wall. Syrena on the outskirts of the Arena frantically rush to the center, the tribunal all but forgotten in favor of self-preservation. The legion of sea life circles the stadium, effectively barricading the exits and any chance of escaping. Galen can’t decide if he’s proud or angry when Emma leaves the safety of her troops to enter the Arena, hitching a ride on the fin of a killer whale. When she’s but three fin-lengths away from Galen, she dismisses her escort. “Go back with the others,” she tells it. “I’ll be fine.” Galen decides on proud. Oh, and completely besotted. She gives him a curt nod to which he grins. Turning to the crowd of ogling Syrena, she says, “I am Emma, daughter of Nalia, true princess of Poseidon.” He hears murmurs of “Half-Breed” but it sounds more like awe than hatred or disgust. And why shouldn’t it? They’ve seen Paca’s display of the Gift. Emma’s has just put it to shame.

It wasn’t kidnapping. She was no kid and she certainly wasn't napping." Shark Fin Soup 2015

Don't Trust Blindly If in shark infested waters, don't assume the fin coming toward you is a dolphin.

Many fishermen “fin” sharks—that is, slice their fins off, then dump them back into the water to die.

The idea ... seemed about as likely as a shark strolling out of the sea on its fins to ask for a bowl of soup.

The dating world is a lot like seeing a fin in the water and thinking it’s a dolphin, only to later discover it’s a shark.

In England we agonised over the demolition of every old shack; in Sichuan, they just went ahead and flattened whole cities! You had to admire the brazen confidence of it, the conviction that the future would be better than the past.

At least there's nothing traditional about an engagement dinner, so we'll be spared having to prepare a twelve-course wedding banquet loaded with meaning. There will be no roasted pig to symbolize purity. No bright red lobster for luck. No shark fin soup for wealth.

In 1998, shark fins sold in the Far East for over $250 a pound. A bowl of shark fin soup retailed in Tokyo for $100. The World Wildlife Fund estimated in 1994 that the number of sharks killed each year was between 40 million and 70 million. As of 1995, some 37,000 industrial

We call them groundsharks." Sanguine shook his head immediately. "That's a stupid name. Makes them sound like little shark fins slicing through the living room carpet." "I wanted to call them razorworms," said Persephone. "That's a damn sight better than groundsharks." (Eyes of the Beholder)

Song of the Paddlers" Dip, dip, in the brine our paddles dip, Dip, dip, the fins of our swimming ship! How the waters part, As on we dart; Our sharp prows fly, And curl on high, As the upright fin of the rushing shark, Rushing fast and far on his flying mark! Like him we prey; Like him we slay; Swim on the foe, Our prow a blow!

it takes several years of quite dedicated Chinese eating, in my experience, to begin to appreciate texture for itself. And that is what you must do if you wish to become a Chinese gourmet, because many of the grandest Chinese delicacies, not to mention many of the most exquisite pleasures of everyday Chinese eating, are essentially about texture.

Think, for a moment, of the words we use to describe some of the textures most adored by Chinese gourmets: gristly, slithery, slimy, squelchy, crunchy, gloopy. For Westerners they evoke disturbing thoughts of bodily emissions, used handkerchiefs, abattoirs, squashed amphibians, wet feet in wellington boots, or the flinching shock of fingering a slug when you are picking lettuce

One of Palau’s biggest draws for tourist divers is its shark population. When I asked for Remengesau’s reaction to the hundreds of shark fins found in the hold of the Shin Jyi, he immediately launched into an explanation of the economic impact of killing sharks. Alive, an individual shark is worth over $170,000 annually in tourism dollars, or nearly $2 million over its lifetime, he said. Dead, each sells for $100, and usually that money goes to a foreign poacher. Even if his numbers seemed a bit overstated, there was no doubting the financial consequences of killing the sharks. More than a dozen countries, including Palau and Taiwan, had banned shark finning. But demand for the fins, especially in Asia, remained high. Served at Chinese weddings and other official banquets, shark-fin soup, which can sell for over $100 per bowl, has for centuries signified wealth.

The night candle on the bedside table burst into spontaneous flame. The golden glow revealed a creature whose pale white skin was marked with dark blue swirls, like some barbarian war paint. Fins jutted from her arms and legs, and the claws tipping fingers and toes clung to the house’s woodsiding. A host of slender tendrils squirmed around her face in place of hair, and her grin revealed row after row of shark’s teeth. Oh, thank heavens. Nothing to be afraid of after all

Sichuan pepper is the original Chinese pepper, used long before the more familiar black or white pepper stole in over the tortuous land routes of the old Silk Road. It is not hot to taste, like the chilli, but makes your lips cool and tingly. In Chinese they call it ma, this sensation; the same word is used for pins-and-needles and anaesthesia. The strange, fizzing effect of Sichuan pepper, paired with the heat of chillies, is one of the hallmarks of modern Sichuanese cookery. The

The Daily Grind by Stewart Stafford Crooked broker flashes teeth, Cannibal flesh on their napkin, The traffic jam zombie shuffle, Stars, take me home quickly. Follow the screaming off a cliff, Panic echoes as the land recoils, Sea spray whipping up at you fast, Splash down into drowning lessons. See a shark fin’s scything slash, Fangs picked clean with a toothpick, Dark eyes wander to exposed midriff, Chomp, and all the problems cease. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

Fishes are the most primitive vertebrates (animals with backbones). They are a very varied group, with about 20,000 species, and they use gills to breathe and fins to swim. Some fishes live in the sea and some in fresh water; others migrate between these environments. Fishes first appeared about 500 million years ago. Most were small, jawless, and covered with heavy armor. In the Devonian period, often referred to as the Age of Fishes, fishes became numerous, and early representatives of the major living groups were present. Skeletons of fossil fishes can be abundant in certain areas, but it is more common to find isolated teeth, especially of sharks.

Mrs. Carnegie and I had dinner at a friend’s house in Chicago. While carving the meat, he did something wrong. I didn’t notice it; and I wouldn’t have cared even if I had noticed it. But his wife saw it and jumped down his throat right in front of us. “John,” she cried, “watch what you are doing! Can’t you ever learn to serve properly!” Then she said to us: “He is always making mistakes. He just doesn’t try.” Maybe he didn’t try to carve; but I certainly give him credit for trying to live with her for twenty years. Frankly, I would rather have eaten a couple of hot dogs with mustard—in an atmosphere of peace—than to have dined on Peking duck and shark fins while listening to her scolding.

They’d been eaten! Chet was the only one left! He was about to run up to Main Street for help, but then Dewey came up sputtering. “You idiot,” Dewey said, looking around. “You kept me under too long! That wasn’t the plan!” Who was Dewey talking to? And what did he mean about a plan? Sid came up out of the water, gasping for breath. Where was the shark? And why was Sid laughing? “We got you!” Sid shouted at Chet. He held something up. A chipped gray tile. The fin. Chet’s head started to spin. He felt like he might throw up. They’d tricked him! Monty was standing on the bank on the other side of the creek. “I can’t believe you fell for that!” he laughed. Chet couldn’t talk. His heart seemed to be

James wondered for a moment whether this was the first time someone had used a witchlight rune stone as stage lighting before his mind went blank. Christopher made a small noise in the back of his throat, and Thomas stared wide-eyed. The mermaid had human legs. They were long and really quite shapely, James had to admit, loosely draped in diaphanous skirts made of woven exotic seaweeds. Unfortunately, from the waist up she was the front half of a gaping, staring fish. Her scales were shiny metallic silver and reflected the light in a way that almost, but not quite, distracted from her dinner-plate-size, unblinking yellow eyes. The audience went mad, cheering and hooting twice as loudly as before. One of the werewolves howled, "CLARIBELLA!" in a mournful, yearning voice. "May I present," Matthew cried with a grin, "Claribella the Mermaid!" The crowd whistled and banged their approval. James, Christopher, and Thomas struggled to find words. "The mermaid's backwards," said James, having regained some of his vocabulary--though perhaps not all of it. "Matthew hired a reverse mermaid," Thomas agreed. "But why?" "I wonder what kind of fish she is," said Christopher. "Are mermaids a specific kind of fish? Sharks or herring, or such?" "I had kippers this morning," said Thomas sadly. The backward mermaid began to swing her hips side to side, with the ease of a practiced cabaret dancer. Her mouth bobbed open and closed in rhythm with the music. Her small fins, on either side of her body, flapped.

1944 - Exploring London in wartime, a city with stiff upper lip, gritted teeth, clenched fists, makes you realize that Paris is a bit of whore. Every day and every night for weeks now, London has been bleeding and hiding its wounds with impressive dignity. A ‘don’t show off’ attitude prevails. From time to time a sputtering doodle-bug (a VI) shatters the torpor of the overcast sky. One second, sometimes two ... at most three ... of silence. Visualizing that fat cigar with shark fins as it stops dead, sways, idiotically tips over, then goes into a vertical dive. And explodes. Usually it’s an entire building that’s destroyed. Apparently the Civil Defense rescue teams observe a very strict rule of discretion and restraint. You never see any panic. In this impassive city detachment is the expression of panic.

Humans have adopted such an extreme form of the peak-late strategy because, as a species, we have come to inhabit an equally extreme ecological niche. The main demands imposed upon us by the odd, crowded cave to which we have adapted can be summed up with what I’ll call the Three Cs: we are required to be creative, cultural, and communal. The demands of the Three Cs make us, like the helpless, blind, altricial crow chicks, more vulnerable than robust and less complicated animals. For instance: sharks. You’d never want to put a four-year-old human up against a four-year-old shark. Yet it remains the fact that our weak, mewling infants grow into relative masters of the universe, putting sharks in aquariums, eating their fins in soups, and now, unfortunately, driving them to extinction in many regions of the world.

take tuna. Among the other 145 species regularly killed — gratuitously — while killing tuna are: manta ray, devil ray, spotted skate, bignose shark, copper shark, Galapagos shark, sandbar shark, night shark, sand tiger shark, (great) white shark, hammerhead shark, spurdog fish, Cuban dogfish, bigeye thresher, mako, blue shark, wahoo, sailfish, bonito, king mackerel, Spanish mackerel, longbill spearfish, white marlin, swordfish, lancet fish, grey triggerfish, needlefish, pomfret, blue runner, black ruff, dolphin fish, bigeye cigarfish, porcupine fish, rainbow runner, anchovy, grouper, flying fish, cod, common sea horse, Bermuda chub, opah, escolar, leerfish, tripletail, goosefish, monkfish, sunfish, Murray eel, pilotfish, black gemfish, stone bass, bluefish, cassava fish, red drum, greater amberjack, yellowtail, common sea bream, barracuda, puffer fish, loggerhead turtle, green turtle, leatherback turtle, hawksbill turtle, Kemp’s ridley turtle, Atlantic yellow-nosed albatross, Audouin’s gull, balearic shearwater, black-browed albatross, great black-backed gull, great shearwater, great-winged petrel, grey petrel, herring gull, laughing gull, northern royal albatross, shy albatross, sooty shearwater, southern fulmar, Yelkouan shearwater, yellow-legged gull, minke whale, sei whale, fin whale, common dolphin, northern right whale, pilot whale, humpback whale, beaked whale, killer whale, harbor porpoise, sperm whale, striped dolphin, Atlantic spotted dolphin, spinner dolphin, bottlenose dolphin, and goose-beaked whale. Imagine being served a plate of sushi. But this plate also holds all of the animals that were killed for your serving of sushi. The plate might have to be five feet across.

And everywhere, just as there were animals on land, were the animals of the sea. The tiniest fish made the largest schools- herring, anchovies, and baby mackerel sparkling and cavorting in the light like a million diamonds. They twirled into whirlpools and flowed over the sandy floor like one large, unlikely animal. Slightly larger fish came in a rainbow, red and yellow and blue and orange and purple and green and particolored like clowns: dragonets and blennies and gobies and combers. Hake, shad, char, whiting, cod, flounder, and mullet made the solid middle class. The biggest loners, groupers and oarfish and dogfish and the major sharks and tuna that all grew to a large, ripe old age did so because they had figured out how to avoid human boats, nets, lines, and bait. The black-eyed predators were well aware they were top of the food chain only down deep, and somewhere beyond the surface there were things even more hungry and frightening than they. Rounding out the population were the famous un-fish of the ocean: the octopus, flexing and swirling the ends of her tentacles; delicate jellyfish like fairies; lobsters and sea stars; urchins and nudibranchs... the funny, caterpillar-like creatures that flowed over the ocean floor wearing all kinds of colors and appendages. All of these creatures woke, slept, played, swam about, and lived their whole lives under the sea, unconcerned with what went on above them. But there were other animals in this land, strange ones, who spoke both sky and sea. Seals and dolphins and turtles and the rare fin whale would come down to hunt or talk for a bit and then vanish to that strange membrane that separated the ocean from everything else. Of course they were loved- but perhaps not quite entirely trusted.

Pickwick was bought by a man who had an earring and by a man with a luxuriant moustache and by a man who catalogued butterflies and by a man who had bought shark’s fins at the wharf to make soup and by a man with a beard who carried a radical newspaper who attended agitated assemblies and by a man in a scruffy coat, who wrote short pieces for magazines and by a man wheeling a barrow of exotic shrubs he would sell at his nursery. One of these had a brother who was a respectable alderman; the cousin of another was a priest; another played whist with a banker; the buyer of radical literature had a friend in the Whigs; the nurseryman knew a doctor and several lawyers; the man with the moustache had a friend in the senior ranks of the cavalry; the scruffy man knew several editors. There was also a little middle-aged hawker called Knox, recognizable on the city streets by his plaid jacket, though his pinched cheeks, pointed chin and combed red side whiskers ere never conducive to anonymity.

Airmen would later speak of sharks arriving almost the moment that their planes struck the water. In 1943, navy lieutenant Art Reading, Louie’s USC track teammate, was knocked unconscious as he ditched his two-man plane. As the plane sank, Reading’s navigator, Everett Almond, pulled Reading out, inflated their Mae Wests, and lashed himself to Reading. As Reading woke, Almond began towing him toward the nearest island, twenty miles away. Sharks soon began circling. One swept in, bit down on Almond’s leg, and dove, dragging both men deep underwater. Then something gave way and the men rose to the surface in a pool of blood. Almond’s leg had apparently been torn off. He gave his Mae West to Reading, then sank away. For the next eighteen hours, Reading floated alone, kicking at the sharks and hacking at them with his binoculars. By the time a search boat found him, his legs were slashed and his jaw broken by the fin of a shark, but thanks to Almond, he was alive. Almond, who had died at twenty-one, was nominated for a posthumous medal for bravery.

The candy-colored pavillions and exhibit halls, fitted out with Saturn rings, lightning bolts, shark's fins, golden grilles and honeycombs, the Italian pavillion with its entire facade dissolving in a perpetual cascade of water, the gigantic cash register, the austere and sinuous temples of the Detroit gods, the fountains, the pylons and sundials, the statues of George Washington and Freedom of Speech and Truth Showing the Way to Freedom had been peeled, stripped, prized apart, knocked down, bulldozed into piles, loaded onto truck beds, dumped into barges, towed out past the mouth of the harbor, and sent to the bottom of the sea. It made him sad, not because he saw some instructive allegory or harsh sermon on the vanity of all human hopes and Utopian imaginings in this translation of a bright summer dream into an immense mud puddle freezing over at the end of a September afternoon - he was too young to have such inklings - but because he had so loved the Fair, and seeing it this way, he felt in his heart what he had known all along, that, like childhood, the Fair was over, and he would never be able to visit again.

That knife! It looks similar to a machete-like weapon used in India- the Kukri! He's using it to chop leeks, ginger and some herbs... Which he's tossing into a pot of rich chicken stock!" "Ah! Now he's grinding his spices!" Cross! "What?! He's crossing different implements in every step of his recipe?! Can he even do that?!" "I recognize that mortar and pestle. It's the kind they use in India to grind spices." "Oh gosh... I can already smell the fragrance from here!" He clearly knows just how much to grind each spice... ... and to toast each in a little oil to really bring out its fragrance! "Ah, I see! What he has steaming on that other burner is shark fin!" "From Indian cuisine, we dive straight into something very Chinese! Cross! Saiba x Mò Liú Zhâo!" "What the heck? He's stroking the fin... ... quickly running the claws along its grain!" Ah! I see what he's doing! Shark fin by itself is flavorless. Even in true Chinese cuisine... ...it's simmered in Paitan stock or oyster sauce first to give it a stronger, more concentrated umami punch. But by using those claws, he can't skip that step... ... and directly infuse the fin with umami flavor compounds! "Saiba... Cross..." "Aaaah! That implement! I recognize that one! Eishi Tsukasa!" Tsukasa Senpai's Super-Sized Grater-Sword! "He took a huge lump of butter... ... and is grating it down into shavings at unbelievable speed!"

It's basty!" "There's definitely a soup underneath the crust. I see carrots. Gingko nuts. Mushrooms. And... Shark fin! Simmered until it's falling apart!" Aah! It's all too much! I-I don't care if I burn my mouth... I want to dive in right now! Mm! Mmmm! UWAAAAH! "Incredible! The shark fin melts into a soft wave of warm umami goodness on the tongue... ...with the crispy piecrust providing a delectably crunchy contrast!" "Mmm... this piecrust shows all the signs of the swordsmanship he stole from Eishi Tsukasa too." Instead of melting warm butter to mix into the flour, he grated cold butter into granules and blended them... ... to form small lumps that then became airy layers during the baking, making the crust crispier and lighter. A light, airy crust like that soaks up the broth, making it the perfect complement to this dish! "Judge Ohizumi, what's that "basty" thing you were talking about?" "It's a dish in a certain style of cooking that's preserved for centuries in Nagasaki- Shippoku cuisine." "Shippoku cuisine?" Centuries ago, when Japan was still closed off from the rest of the world, only the island of Dejima in Nagasaki was permitted to trade with the West. There, a new style of cooking that fused Japanese, Chinese and Western foods was born- Shippoku cuisine! One of its signature dishes is Basty, which is a soup covered with a lattice piecrust. *It's widely assumed that Basty originated from the Portuguese word "Pasta."* "Shippoku cuisine is already a hybrid of many vastly different cooking styles, making it a perfect choice for this theme!" "The lattice piecrust is French. Under it is a wonderfully savory Chinese shark fin soup. And the soup's rich chicken broth and the vegetables in it have all been thoroughly infused with powerfully aromatic spices... ... using distinctively Indian spice blends and techniques!" "Hm? Wait a minute. There's more than just shark fin and vegetables in this soup. This looks just like an Italian ravioli! I wonder what's in it? ?!" "Holy crap, look at it stretch!" "What is that?! Mozzarella?! A mochi pouch?!" "Nope! Neither! That's Dondurma. Or as some people call it... ... Turkish ice cream. A major ingredient in Dondurma is salep, a flour made from the root of certain orchids. It gives the dish a thick, sticky texture. The moist chewiness of ravioli pasta melds together with the sticky gumminess of the Dondurma... ... making for an addictively thick and chewy texture!

You can't make shark fin soup without water

Six days a week at the cooking school were not enough for me. In my free time I sought out restaurants and snack shops I hadn’t visited before, and begged them to let me study in their kitchens.

Assholes that commit crimes against marine life will commit them against people, too.

learning the tones of Mandarin Chinese is difficult enough to begin with: you must distinguish between the flat first tone (m), the rising second tone (má ), the dipping third tone (m), and the fast-falling fourth tone (mà ), not to mention the unobstrusive neutral tone (ma). If you have no sense of tones when speaking Mandarin, people won’t understand you, and you may find yourself making mistakes like asking for a kiss (qng wn) when all you wanted was an answer to a question (qng wèn). But in Sichuanese even the standard tones are all

The cleaver is not just for cutting. Invert it and its blunt spine can be used to pound meat to a paste for meatballs: a time-consuming method, but the purée it produces is perfectly smooth and voluptuous. The nub of the handle can stand in for a pestle, to crush a few peppercorns in a pot. The flat of the blade, slammed down on the board, can be used to smash unpeeled ginger, so that its juices permeate a soup or marinade.

He could talk at length about the known invasive species, and why there were so many different ones: the weblike filaments choking the trees in New Orleans, the flame-colored poppies erupting on Mexico City rooftops, the green fins popping up in Florida beach sand like sharks coming ashore. Every shell that struck Earth, and some that hit the surface of the water, cracked and sent millions of seeds into the air or into the oceans.

Soon there were more sharks weaving just under the surface, fins ducking in and out of the water. Though considerably smaller than the grayken, these stark, graceful ghosts of the sea left a deadly aura in their wake.

You're like a brother to me." Lewis felt his fins tingle as a light flickered on in him, his retired boyhood wish for a sibling coming to life. "You're like a sister to me," Lewis echoed, realizing as he said it that few things had ever felt so true.

There are millions of people living in the United States – one of the richest countries on earth – who are denied access to basic health services, as are billions of other people. We are fishing the oceans so ferociously that stocks of many species are collapsing. Millions of sharks are caught, de-finned and then thrown back in the ocean to die each year. We are tearing down rain forests at breakneck pace. Rhinos, tigers and elephants are nearly extinct in the wild. Humans kill and eat 50 billion chickens per year. Humans pump gigatons of carbon from fossil fuels into the atmosphere each year knowing that it will cause a global catastrophe. Millions of humans are enslaved, and millions more are economically forced into the near-equivalent of slavery. Meanwhile, people in rich nations happily consume the products of these slaves without giving it a second thought.

The hedges and driveways were black and silent, but he imagined the silhouette of a jacket hood could move into view at any time, skimming past the light of a window like a shark's fin.

Sometimes my reticence over a particular food was overcome through simple drunkenness. The Chengdu equivalent of the late-night döner kebab in 1994 was fried rabbit-heads, a snack I’d heard about from a Canadian friend. I’d seen the rabbit-heads sitting ominously in glass cabinets, earless and skinless, staring out with beady rabbit eyes and pointy teeth. The idea of eating one was utterly revolting. But one night, after a long dancing session, I fetched up at a street stall bedraggled and hungry. My reason befuddled by alcohol, I ate my first rabbit-head, cleft in half and tossed in a wok with chilli and spring onion. I won’t begin to describe the silky richness of the flesh along the jaw, the melting softness of the eyeball, the luxuriant smoothness of the brain. Suffice it to say that from that day on I ate stir-fried rabbit-heads almost every Saturday night. (Later

university textbooks I’d encountered in my few weeks of class were deathly dull and totally impractical. Instead of introducing us to useful words like ‘stir-fry’ and ‘braise’, ‘bamboo shoot’ and ‘quail’, they had required us to learn by rote long lists of largely irrelevant Chinese characters:

As a wildlife warrior, Steve fought against age-old practices that were destroying entire species. He felt it was time to focus on the nonconsumptive use of wildlife. Poachers were still hunting tigers for their bones, and bears for their gallbladders, all for traditional medicines that have been far surpassed by modern pharmaceuticals. It should be simple. We should be able to take an aspirin instead of powdered rhino horn, make whaling something that we read about in history books, and end our appetite for shark-fin soup, which is causing one of the world’s most ancient and important species to vanish from the oceans. Until the day comes when the senseless killing ends, we will all have to fight like wildlife warriors to protect our precious planet. Steve came back from his Antarctica trip with renewed determination. In his last documentary, Steve showed how penguins actually play. He tried to demystify the fierce reputation of the leopard seal. He talked about how humpback whales have a family structure similar to ours, that they are mammals, they love their children, and they communicate.

Every breath we take from the air Takes oxygen from an insect’s lungs mid-prayer And every exhalation does loudly declare That in the currency of life, we’re millionaires. A butterfly flapped it’s wings and Rome fell A passerby’s whistle cracked the liberty bell And I dare urge the daring not to yell Lest we so bid a skyscraper a rough farewell. A snake’s tongue slithered and man did sin Let me tell you how the waves from a shark’s fin Did set the tides on D-Day and let the allies win; Chance and destiny are identical twins. A word was spoken and the earth created Another phrase and the future was dictated And so every action must be carefully weighted We just never know how things are interrelated.

a shark exploded from the waves, hanging against the sky for a second, jaws gaping, before plunging down directly atop another Outsider, driving it beneath the waves where a dozen wickedly sharp fins abruptly converged.

Muy Peligroso!” Bernie’s choices had become as limited as the Taco Bell menu. Reason and blood had left the building, heading south, faster than reprobates to Florida." — Shark Fin Soup 2015

Dauna drew her lush breasts over Bernie’s cold blue lips. “Yeah. The f*cker’s dead all right." — Shark Fin Soup 2015

Dauna inhaled a deep drag from her happy cigarette. (Yes, her cig was happy. Fuck'n euphoric.) Smoke swirled over her tongue." — Shark Fin Soup 2015

Bernie let out the most pitiful wail heard since that god-forsaken day in 1942 when Bambi’s mom was shot.

Keeeerist! Look at the smile on the poor sumbiche’s face. Ain't seen anything like that since the B.J. Killer was alive." —Shark Fin Soup

Dauna marched her tasty 包子 and 餃 (which were far superior to the dumplings served at the Double Chins Cafe) into the waiting room." — Shark Fin Soup 2015

He had never recognized how noisy the civilized world was. Here, drifting in almost total silence, with no scents other than the singed odor of the raft, no flavors on his tongue, nothing moving but the slow procession of shark fins, every vista empty save water and sky, his time unvaried and unbroken, his mind was freed of an encumbrance that civilization had imposed on it.

Regular pepper is known as ‘barbarian pepper’ (hu jiao); the carrot is a ‘barbarian radish’ (hu luo bu). The character hu refers to the old Mongol, Tartar and Turkic tribes of the northwest, but it also means ‘recklessly, foolishly, blindly or outrageously’. ‘Hu hua’ (hu talk) describes the ravings of a madman; hu gao means to mess things up; and other hu compounds refer to all kinds of mischievous, fraudulent, wild, careless, irritating and deranged behaviours.

it was my last night in northern Fujian and I felt I had to eat snake.

There were no ready-made sauces, except for the slowly fermented chilli bean paste; we mixed them ourselves from the essential seasonings: sugar, vinegar, soy sauce and sesame paste in various combinations.

a passionate appreciation of food was respectable, even desirable, in the traditional scholar-gentleman.

The Gentleman Gourmet is dressed in a three-piece suit, he carries a walking cane, and a rapier wit. He speaks in the rah-rah tones of a colonial Englishman, although he is Chinese-born. And he is so early-twentiethcentury elegant that I almost expect to see spats if I cast my eyes to his feet.

Sichuanese dialect is like Mandarin put through a mangle. So the Mandarin ‘sh’ becomes ‘s’, vowels are stretched out like warm toffee, there are pirate-like rolling ‘r’ sounds at the end of sentences, and no one can tell the difference between ‘n’ and ‘l’ or ‘f’ and ‘h’ (the province of Hunan, for example, is known in Sichuan, helpfully, as ‘Fulan’).

Are you afraid of chilli heat?’ (Ni pa bu pa la?) is the customary warning for travellers on their way to Sichuan.

The Did-You-Come-Yets of the Western World When he says to you: You look so beautiful you smell so nice – how I've missed you – and did you come yet? It means nothing, and he is smaller than a mouse's fart. Don't listen to him... Go to Annaghdown Pier with your father's rod. Don't necessarily hold out for the biggest one; oftentimes the biggest ones are the smallest in the end. Bring them all home, but not together. One by one is the trick; avoid red herrings and scandal. Maybe you could take two on the shortest day of the year. Time is the cheater here not you, so don't worry. Many will bite the usual bait; they will talk their slippery way through fine clothes and expensive perfume, fishing up your independence. These are the did-you-come-yets of the western world, the feather and fin rufflers. Pity for them they have no wisdom. Others will bite at any bait. Maggot, suspender, or dead worm. Throw them to the sharks. In time one will crawl out from under thigh-land. Although drowning he will say, ‘Woman I am terrified, why is this house shaking? And you’ll know he’s the one.

A rippled ceiling of light hid the sky. Growths of fire, and smoke rippled across it. Vast spurs of blackened metal cut through the fire cloud like shark fins through an inverted sea. And then, as fast as it had arrived, it was gone. After a minute it was a fading star on the opposite horizon. Then everyone was shouting, and calling out. Amidst the clamour, the queen stood silent and still, staring at the abacus on her table. ‘Do you see now?’ asked the daemon. ‘The fire of inspiration falling from the sky,’ said Ahriman. ‘The manifestation of something so great and terrible, and outside of comprehension, that it opens these peoples’ eyes to the limits of their knowledge. If you know me as you claim, then you should know that this illustration of the power of enlightenment is wasted. ‘ ‘Yes, but no. Look at her face. Really look at her face. Think of the strength that was in those eyes before. There was worry of course. Doubt, naturally, but what is there now? ‘Fear, determination, anger, curiosity.’ ‘And what is gone that was there before.’ ‘I… do not…’ ‘The consolation of ignorance Ahriman. The simple comfort of knowing that no matter the terrors and possibilities that the world offers and threatens, those things are understood, measured. Known.

Let’s go back to Mr. Hernandez’s film literature class, back to Jaws. Mr. Hernandez pointed out that we never actually saw the shark until about eighty minutes into the film. Instead we heard horror stories, glimpsed its sinister fin; primed to be scared, so that when the shark made its grand debut, we saw everything we’d been taught to see, the merciless, blood-seeking Jaws. Before the cop pulled Philando over, he’d reported the man resembled a robbery suspect, commenting on his wide-set nose. By the time the cop stepped up to the window, he didn’t see Philando, he saw everything he thought he knew about wide noses, blackness, guns, added it all up to threat in his head. The problem is not who we are, the problem is what you think we are.

We will be stronger for this, But only if it forces us To reach out. Corona Barry Marks “…normally only visible during a solar eclipse” Of course I’m crazy there are no sharks in swimming pools, just like there were none in freshwater lakes and rivers all those years when boys and dogs and a horse or two disappeared and everyone knew it was a haint, not some biological U-Boat stalking Little Bear Creek for 400 million years. Yes, I watch for periscopes, dorsal fins, Indian signs whispering something is down there, beneath the surface tension: angle of reflection, angle of refraction, invisible geometry making you squint and not see, making you not see. Go ahead, tell me I’m crazy with my stock of masks and toilet paper, bottled water and ammo; I know this immigrant air is from Mexico, maybe Wuhan before that, and the things I can’t see are the ones trying to pry my ribs open to let the ghost-you-can’t-see out of its cage. I know things under the air, behind the darkness, within the water are real because so am I and I believe the myth of electricity and the fable of fluoridation, that the sun can be lethal and meds can mend a Stockholm Syndrome childhood. I believe my vote and my opinion count. I believe in germs and viruses, and not going out with a wet head, and the new normal and the old one, too. I believe it is the unseen things that kill us, the small things: a moment’s distraction, the hole a virus shoots through a body. I cannot believe the dead will forgive us for being too slow to believe in what we did not want to see.

...he saw Quotinir floating in front of him. Deep in the darkest parts of the ocean, he was lit only by a single, yellow light that swung from a fin atop his head. His grey skin sickly under the swinging bulb, he looked as much like a man as he did a monster, scarred and chipped around the edges, with strands of white hair like seaweed flowing around his narrow face. His human waist merged with the rubbery flesh of a shark, the tail larger than any fish or man Elf had ever seen. Though, Quotinir himself was four times larger than any man - the last true giant - trapped under the pressure of the ocean with only his light for company. Slitted, white eyes locked onto Elf as they both floated, suspended in the darkness. ‘Hey, ugly,’ Elf said.

I have four pets,’ Bjørnar Nicolaisen tells me at 69.31°N, ‘two cats and two sea eagles. I feed them all together on the shore, there by the throne, with the best fish in the world!’ He gives a huge laugh, and points east through the window of his living room: snow-filled fields sloping away to a rocky beach that borders a fjord several miles in width. Steel-blue water in the fjord, choppy where the currents are running. Far across the fjord, ranks of smooth-snowed peaks gleam in the late sunlight. They are shaped more wildly than any mountains I have ever seen before. Witches’ hats and shark fins and jabbing fingers, all polished white as porcelain. I cannot see a throne on the shore, though. ‘Here, try these.’ He hands me a pair of binoculars. Black leather-clad barrels, weathered in places to brown. Polished eye-pieces – and a Nazi eagle engraved into the left-hand barrel-back. ‘Wehrmacht-issue,’ says Bjørnar. ‘Beautiful lenses. An officer’s. When my father was dying, he asked me what I wanted from his possessions. “One thing only,” I told him, “the binoculars you took from the Germans.”‘ I lift the binoculars and the shoreline leaps to my eyes, close enough to touch. Calibrated cross-hairs float in my vision. I pan right along the beach. Nothing. I switch back left. Yes, there, a chair of some kind – but six or seven feet tall, built from driftwood lashed and nailed together. It looks like something the ironborn of Westeros might have made. ‘I take the eagles a cod or a saithe whenever I come back from a good day’s fishing. I feed them by my chair, there.’ ‘Bjørnar, you are the only person I know who counts sea eagles among his pets.’ ‘I am more of a cat person,’ Bjørnar replies. ‘Than a dog person or than an eagle person?’ ‘Than a people person!’ Bjørnar laughs and laughs – a deep, explosive laugh coming from far inside his chest.

knowing you’re going to be out there for more than four hours, wearing a slick black wetsuit and fins that might confuse any hungry shark into thinking he’s looking at a seal, rather than a SEAL, it does give you pause.

A month had passed since Roz left the island. According to her calculations, she had traveled hundreds of miles, but she still had hundreds more to go. The tireless robot continued north, on and on, toward the waters where the Ancient Shark roamed. If you travel far enough north, you’ll reach an area where the sun never sets in summer. And Roz had traveled far enough north. Up at the surface, there was constant daylight, all day, every day, until autumn. However, our robot was at a depth below the reach of the sun. And yet there were occasional glimmers. Certain deep-sea fish had glowing fins, while others had glowing teeth, and still others had spindly glowing lures that dangled from their heads. Jellyfish came in every shape imaginable, and many of them gave off a ghostly light. Most gleaming creatures kept their distance. Roz would see a flicker, and as her headlights swept toward it, the creature vanished into the murky haze. She was marching down a long slope that descended to the deepest trenches of the ocean when she felt her Survival Instincts tingling. The weight of all the water above was becoming too great. If she went much deeper, she’d be crushed from the pressure. So Roz stopped marching downhill and started swimming at a safer depth, and the ocean floor quickly faded from view. The robot’s limbs paddled automatically, which left her mind free to wander. Specks of debris floated all around, like a gentle snowfall, and suddenly she was recalling the snowfalls she’d experienced on land. She thought

swam off to make the drinks, Grace turned to her friends. “What do you think?” she whispered. “Is it possible that the dolphin leader is here somewhere?” “I don’t think so,” Zoe said. “These sharks seem too nice to do something like that.” “Should we look anyway?” Sofia asked. “Shhh!” warned Grace. The green-spotted shark was right there, holding a floral teapot in her fins. “Look for what?” she asked. “Ummm.” Grace was no good at lying. She always thought it was better to tell the truth. “The leader of the Diamond Dolphins is missing. He’s a Sea Keeper, too.” “And you think we have taken him?” the shark asked. The teapot quivered in her fins. “The dolphins told us that it was you,” Zoe admitted. “So that’s the real reason you came? I knew it was too good to be true!” The shark started to sob. Shiver Sharks began appearing from everywhere. They did not look angry. But they did look very upset.

Ignorance about sharks and their important role is remarkable: even at a marine science conference in China, I was served shark-fin soup (and my refusal, as a guest of honour, caused bafflement as much as consternation).

The Ballad of Mac the Knife Fair in Soho. The beggars are begging, the thieves are stealing, the whores are whoring. A ballad singer sings a ballad. See the shark with teeth like razors. All can read his open face. And Macheath has got a knife, but Not in such an obvious place. See the shark, how red his fins are As he slashes at his prey. Mac the Knife wears white kid gloves which Give the minimum away.

Mr. Hernandez pointed out that we never actually saw the shark until about eighty minutes into the film. Instead we heard horror stories, glimpsed its sinister fin; primed to be scared, so that when the shark made its grand debut, we saw everything we’d been taught to see, the merciless, blood-seeking Jaws. Before the cop pulled Philando over, he’d reported the man resembled a robbery suspect, commenting on his wide-set nose. By the time the cop stepped up to the window, he didn’t see Philando, he saw everything he thought he knew about wide noses, blackness, guns, added it all up to threat in his head. The problem is not who we are, the problem is what you think we are.

We didn’t realize at the time that the up-and-down motion of the fins we saw moving through the water were actually quite different from the side-to-side motion used by Hawaiian sharks

Ten Things I Need to Know" The brightest stars are the first to explode. Also hearts. It is important to pay attention to love’s high voltage signs. The mockingbird is really ashamed of its own feeble song lost beneath all those he has to imitate. It’s true, the Carolina Wren caught in the bedroom yesterday died because he stepped on a glue trap and tore his wings off. Maybe we have both fallen through the soul’s thin ice already. Even Ethiopia is splitting off from Africa to become its own continent. Last year it moved 10 feet. This will take a million years. There’s always this nostalgia for the days when Time was so unreal it touched us only like the pale shadow of a hawk. Parmenedes transported himself above the beaten path of the stars to find the real that was beyond time. The words you left are still smoldering like the cigarette left in my ashtray as if it were a dying star. The thin thread of its smoke is caught on the ceiling. When love is threatened, the heart crackles with anger like kindling. It’s lucky we are not like hippos who fling dung at each other with their ridiculously tiny tails. Okay, that’s more than ten things I know. Let’s try twenty five, no, let’s not push it, twenty. How many times have we hurt each other not knowing? Destiny wears her clothes inside out. Each desire is a memory of the future. The past is a fake cloud we’ve pasted to a paper sky. That is why our dreams are the most real thing we possess. My logic here is made of your smells, your thighs, your kiss, your words. I collect stars but have no place to put them. You take my breath away only to give back a purer one. The way you dance creates a new constellation. Off the Thai coast they have discovered a new undersea world with sharks that walk on their fins. In Indonesia, a kangaroo that lives in a tree. Why is the shadow I cast always yours? Okay, let’s say I list 33 things, a solid symbolic number. It’s good to have a plan so we don’t lose ourselves, but then who has taken the ladder out of the hole I’ve dug for myself? How can I revive the things I’ve killed inside you? The real is a sunset over a shanty by the river. The keys that lock the door also open it. When we shut out each other, nothing seems real except the empty caves of our hearts, yet how arrogant to think our problems finally matter when thousands of children are bayoneted in the Congo this year. How incredible to think of those soldiers never having loved. Nothing ever ends. Will this? Byron never knew where his epic, Don Juan, would end and died in the middle of it. The good thing about being dead is that you don’t have to go through all that dying again. You just toast it. See, the real is what the imagination decants. You can be anywhere with the turn of a few words. Some say the feeling of out-of-the-body travel is due to certain short circuits in parts of the brain. That doesn’t matter because I’m still drifting towards you. Inside you are cumulous clouds I could float on all night. The difference is always between what we say we love and what we love. Tonight, for instance, I could drink from the bowl of your belly. It doesn’t matter if our feelings shift like sands beneath the river, there’s still the river. Maybe the real is the way your palms fit against my face, or the way you hold my life inside you until it is nothing at all, the way this plant droops, this flower called Heart’s Bursting Flower, with its beads of red hanging from their delicate threads any breeze might break, any word might shatter, any hurt might crush. Superstition Reviews issue 2 fall 2008

Work hard, pay your own way, and you'll never owe anyone anything but kindness.

Here we are,” said Mallory, running up to me, pulling Margo along. “Oh, thank goodness.” Mary Anne and I counted the Pikes about five times before we were satisfied that they were all safe and sound. “I want to see the shark!” cried Nicky, jumping up and down. So did I. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s walk down the beach, away from this crowd.” Mary Anne and the other kids followed us. When we had a little space, we held our hands to our eyes, blocking the glare of the sun, and stared out to sea. “I think I see something!” exclaimed Byron. “Where?” we all asked. He pointed. “See? Sort of over to the left?” I could make out a faraway shape, but it looked like a seagull bobbing on the waves. Later, Adam swore he could see five fins circling around, but nobody else saw them. At last we gave up. We walked back to the lifeguard stand. The crowd was dispersing. Scott and Bruce were back on duty. I saw a good opportunity to ask Scott a question. “Hi,” I said to him, leaning against the base of the stand and squinting up. “Hi, love.” Love! Scott had called me love! Of course, he meant his love. When I recovered, I managed to say, “So were there really sharks?” “It looked that way. Sometimes it’s hard to tell, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.” “I’ll say.” Scott wiped his brow. “It’s going to be a hot one.” “So you want a soda or something?” I asked eagerly. “You

People that survive shark attacks were never attacked. Sharks can tell with a single bite—a short fin mako’s jaws can exert four ton of pressure per square inch—whether they’ll burn more calories digesting the kill than they’ll gain from it. Millions of years of evolution tell them whether to eat you or not.