Shelter Island Quotes

A library in the middle of a community is a cross between an emergency exit, a life-raft and a festival. They are cathedrals of the mind; hospitals of the soul; theme parks of the imagination. On a cold rainy island, they are the only sheltered public spaces where you are not a consumer, but a citizen instead

At a party given by a billionaire on Shelter Island, Kurt Vonnegut informs his pal, Joseph Heller, that their host, a hedge fund manager, had made more money in a single day than Heller had earned from his wildly popular novel Catch-22 over its whole history. Heller responds, “Yes, but I have something he will never have … enough.” Enough. I was stunned by the simple eloquence of that word—stunned for two reasons: first, because I have been given so much in my own life and, second, because Joseph Heller couldn’t have been more accurate. For a critical element of our society, including many of the wealthiest and most powerful among us, there seems to be no limit today on what enough entails.

The storm has brought Ulla to the cold shelter of the northern islands, to the darkened caves and flat black pools where she remains to this day, waiting for the lonely, the ambitious, the clever, the frail, for all those willing to strike a bargain. She never waits for long.

JOE HELLER True story, Word of Honor: Joseph Heller, an important and funny writer now dead, and I were at a party given by a billionaire on Shelter Island. I said, “Joe, how does it make you feel to know that our host only yesterday may have made more money than your novel ‘Catch-22’ has earned in its entire history?” And Joe said, “I’ve got something he can never have.” And I said, “What on earth could that be, Joe?” And Joe said, “The knowledge that I’ve got enough.” Not bad! Rest in peace!

At a party given by a billionaire on Shelter Island, Kurt Vonnegut informs his pal, Joseph Heller, that their host, a hedge fund manager, had made more money in a single day than Heller had earned from his wildly popular novel Catch-22 over its whole history. Heller responds,“Yes, but I have something he will never have — enough.

Back then life was simple and sweet. Everything was simple and sweet. The taste of cherries, the cool shade, the fresh smell of the river. That was how we lived, in a vale among the hills, sheltered from the storms. Ignorant of the world, as though on an island. Peaceful and untroubled. And then. Then everything changed.

To tell the truth, sir, I believe I had rather sit in the shelter for a while. The cabbage seems to have turned my inward parts to water.’ Nonsense,’ said Stephen, ‘it is the most wholesome cabbage I have ever come across in the whole of my career. I hope, Mr. Herapath, that you are not going to join in the silly weak womanish unphilosophical mewling and puling about the cabbage. So it is a little yellow in certain lights, so it is a little sharp, so it smells a little strange: so much the better, say I. At least that will stop the insensate Phaeacian hogs from abusing it, as they abuse the brute creation, stuffing themselves with flesh until what little brain they have is drowned in fat. A virtuous esculent! Even its boldest detractors, ready to make the most hellish declarations and to swear through a nine-inch plank that the cabbage makes them fart and rumble, cannot deny that it cured their purpurae. Let them rumble till the heavens shake and resound again; let them fart fire and brimstone, the Gomorrhans, I will not have a single case of scurvy on my hands, the sea-surgeon’s shame, while there is a cabbage to be culled.

...I think we should find some kind of shelter; a cave or something." "I don't want to do that! What if there's like, a creature living in the cave?" Tiara said. "Seriously, I saw this show once where these people were stranded on an island and there were these other people who were sort of crazy-slash-bad and there was this polar bear creature running around." "What happened?" Miss Ohio asked. "I don't know. My parents got divorced in the middle of season two and we lost our TiVo.

The house was done in a classic island style, and Lei couldn’t help but like the wide, deep roofline that sheltered a porch that ran the length and breadth of the house. The lanai was dotted with Adirondack chairs in

the record for inflated raft survival appears to have been set in 1942, when three navy plane crash victims survived for thirty-four days on the Pacific before reaching an island, where they were sheltered by natives.

Egypt is a fertile valley of rich river soil, low-lying, warm, monotonous, a slow-flowing river, and beyond the limitless desert. Greece is a country of sparse fertility and keen, cold winters, all hills and mountains sharp cut in stone, where strong men must work hard to get their bread. And while Egypt submitted and suffered and turned her face toward death, Greece resisted and rejoiced and turned full-face to life. For somewhere among those steep stone mountains, in little sheltered valleys where the great hills were ramparts to defend, and men could have security for peace and happy living, something quite new came into the world: the joy of life found expression. Perhaps it was born there, among the shepherds pasturing their flocks where the wild flowers made a glory on the hillside; among the sailors on a sapphire sea washing enchanted islands purple in a luminous air.

Wisdom is really the key to wealth. With great wisdom, comes great wealth and success. Rather than pursuing wealth, pursue wisdom. The aggressive pursuit of wealth can lead to disappointment. Wisdom is defined as the quality of having experience, and being able to discern or judge what is true, right, or lasting. Wisdom is basically the practical application of knowledge. Rich people have small TVs and big libraries, and poor people have small libraries and big TVs. Become completely focused on one subject and study the subject for a long period of time. Don't skip around from one subject to the next. The problem is generally not money. Jesus taught that the problem was attachment to possessions and dependence on money rather than dependence on God. Those who love people, acquire wealth so they can give generously. After all, money feeds, shelters, and clothes people. They key is to work extremely hard for a short period of time (1-5 years), create abundant wealth, and then make money work hard for you through wise investments that yield a passive income for life. Don't let the opinions of the average man sway you. Dream, and he thinks you're crazy. Succeed, and he thinks you're lucky. Acquire wealth, and he thinks you're greedy. Pay no attention. He simply doesn't understand. Failure is success if we learn from it. Continuing failure eventually leads to success. Those who dare to fail miserably can achieve greatly. Whenever you pursue a goal, it should be with complete focus. This means no interruptions. Only when one loves his career and is skilled at it can he truly succeed. Never rush into an investment without prior research and deliberation. With preferred shares, investors are guaranteed a dividend forever, while common stocks have variable dividends. Some regions with very low or no income taxes include the following: Nevada, Texas, Wyoming, Delaware, South Dakota, Cyprus, Liechtenstein, Luxembourg, Panama, San Marino, Seychelles, Isle of Man, Channel Islands, Curaçao, Bahamas, British Virgin Islands, Brunei, Monaco, Qatar, United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Bermuda, Kuwait, Oman, Andorra, Cayman Islands, Belize, Vanuatu, and Campione d'Italia. There is only one God who is infinite and supreme above all things. Do not replace that infinite one with finite idols. As frustrated as you may feel due to your life circumstances, do not vent it by cursing God or unnecessarily uttering his name. Greed leads to poverty. Greed inclines people to act impulsively in hopes of gaining more. The benefit of giving to the poor is so great that a beggar is actually doing the giver a favor by allowing the person to give. The more I give away, the more that comes back. Earn as much as you can. Save as much as you can. Invest as much as you can. Give as much as you can.

Poverty is such a relative thing; but no man is really poor till life becomes a desert island that gives him neither food nor shelter nor hope.

But the Count hadn’t the temperament for revenge; he hadn’t the imagination for epics; and he certainly hadn’t the fanciful ego to dram of empires restored. No. His model for mastering his circumstances would be a different sort of captive altogether: an Anglican washed ashore. Like Robinson Crusoe stranded on the Isle of Despair, the count would maintain his resolve by committing to the business of practicalities. Having dispensed with dreams of quick discovery, the world’s Crusoes seek shelter and a source of fresh water; they teach themselves to make fire from flint; they study their island’s topography, it’s climate, its flora and fauna, all the while keeping their eyes trained for sails on the horizon and footprints in the sand.

Being a father isn't supposed to be a bed of roses. It's not just pretty for a while and then disposable when it's useless to you. It's a forest, constantly changing, growing, evolving. It's shelter and roots and branches to climb and leaves to break their fall.

And the waves, of course, have almost gone here in the shelter of the island and the peninsula where even today there are cars glinting wet through the trees, people desperate enough to walk in the rain or some of them just seem to drive to the end of the road and park and sit there, newspapers and tea from a flask and it makes him itch everywhere at once just thinking of it, people sitting in parked cars, the windows steaming up, waiting for minutes to pass, for their lives to drip away.

If he isn’t able to leave this island, he wants desperately to be granted the shelter of the house

Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “We are always getting ready to live, but never living.

Mere opinions, in fact, were as likely to govern people’s actions as hard evidence, and were subject to sudden reversals as hard evidence could never be. So the Galápagos Islands could be hell in one moment and heaven in the next, and Julius Caesar could be a statesman in one moment and a butcher in the next, and Ecuadorian paper money could be traded for food, shelter, and clothing in one moment and line the bottom of a birdcage in the next, and the universe could be created by God Almighty in one moment and by a big explosion in the next—and on and on.

Mere opinions, in fact, were as likely to govern people’s actions as hard evidence, and were subject to sudden reversals as hard evidence could never be. So the Galápagos Islands could be hell in one moment and heaven in the next, and Julius Caesar could be a statesman in one moment and a butcher in the next, and Ecuadorian paper money could be traded for food, shelter, and clothing in one moment and line the bottom of a birdcage in the next, and the universe could be created by God Almighty in one moment and by a big explosion in the next—and on and on. Thanks

Everything I am is based on this ugly building on its lonely lawn—lit up during winter darkness; open in the slashing rain—which allowed a girl so poor she didn’t even own a purse to come in twice a day and experience actual magic: traveling through time, making contact with the dead—Dorothy Parker, Stella Gibbons, Charlotte Brontë, Spike Milligan. A library in the middle of a community is a cross be-tween an emergency exit, a life raft and a festival. They are cathedrals of the mind; hospitals of the soul; theme parks of the imagination. On a cold, rainy island, they are the only sheltered public spaces where you are not a consumer, but a citizen, instead. A human with a brain and a heart and a desire to be uplifted, rather than a customer with a credit card and an inchoate “need” for “stuff.” A mall—the shops—are places where your money makes the wealthy wealthier. But a library is where the wealthy’s taxes pay for you to become a little more extraordinary, instead. A satisfying reversal. A balancing of the power.

geography of life. Home is not just shelter, nor is it simply the scenic backdrop to our lives. Places shape people. Home comes from the Sanskrit word aham, meaning self. Where we are determines who we are. It’s why we take pride in our hometowns and root for the home team.

Old Rekohu’s claim to singularity, however, lay in its unique pacific creed. Since time immemorial, the Moriori’s priestly caste dictated that whosoever spilt a man’s blood killed his own mana - his honor, his worth, his standing & his soul. No Moriori would shelter, feed, converse with, or even see the persona non grata. If the ostracized murderer survived his first winter, the desperation of solitude usually drove him to a blowhole on Cape Young, where he took his life. Consider this, Mr. D’Arnoq urged us. Two thousand savages (Mr. Evans’s best guess) enshrine “Thou Shalt Not Kill” in word & in deed & frame an oral “Magna Carta” to create a harmony unknown elsewhere for the sixty centuries since Adam first tasted the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. War was as alien a concept to the Moriori as the telescope is to the Pygmy. Peace, not a hiatus betwixt wars but millennia of imperishable peace, rules these far-flung islands. Who can deny Old Rekohu lay closer to More’s Utopia than our States of Progress governed by war-hungry princelings in Versailles & Vienna, Washington & Westminster? “Here,” declaimed Mr. D’Arnoq, “and where only, were those elusive phantasms, those noble savages, framed in flesh & blood!” (Henry, as we later made our back to the Musket confessed, “I could never describe a race of savages too backwards to throw a spear as ‘noble.

—Our goal: defend Artimé and drive Warblerans away with as few casualties as possible. —Artiméans should feel perfectly comfortable using any and all means of magic to protect themselves. —Any Warblerans who truly wish to escape the tyrant Queen Eagala will find shelter within Artimé.

Every night, you could either sleep by the rocket in this tent shelter where the geckos crawled all over you or take this one-hour boat ride that made you seasick back to the main island,” he said. “Every night, you had to pick the pain that you remembered least. You got so hot and exhausted. It was just amazing.

There was a parking ticket on her windshield. She rolled down her window and reached out, yanking the paper from beneath the rusted windshield wiper. She wadded it into a ball and tossed it out the window. To her mind, ticketing this rattrap and expecting to get paid was like leaving a bill on the pillow at a homeless shelter.

In 1951, the first radiocarbon date from the Pacific was reported by Willard F. Libby’s lab at the University of Chicago. Based on a sample of charcoal from the lowest layer of an excavation of the Kuli‘ou‘ou rock-shelter, on the island of O‘ahu, it fixed the earliest occupation of this Hawaiian site at A.D. 1004, plus or minus 180 years.

From the shelter of their porch, she turned to look out over Avonlea: the gulf in the distance roared; the wind was scented with melted icecaps and blew the trees like stalks of kelp; the rain fell faster and faster until it looked as if a veil had been drawn over the island, tinting everything wet gray. She hardly recognized Avonlea as home. From someone else's front door, it looked so different.

He was hungry, and his first thought was to collect a dozen or two gulls’ eggs to make a meal. But embryo chicks were forming in all of them. So he rowed out to do some fishing and was more succesful. He lived on fish from day to day and sang and whiled the time away and ruled over the island. When it rained he too shelter beneath a splendid overhangig rock. At night he slept on a patch of grass and the sun never set.

It was August; the city was empty. Malcolm was in Sweden on holiday with Sophie; Richard was in Capri; Rhodes was in Maine; Andy was on Shelter Island (“Remember,” he’d said before he left, as he always said before a long vacation, “I’m just two hours away; you need me, and I catch the next ferry back”). He couldn’t bear to be around Harold, whom he couldn’t see without being reminded of his debasement; he called and told him he had too much work to go to Truro. Instead he spontaneously bought a ticket to Paris and spent the long, lonely Labor Day weekend there, wandering the streets by himself. He didn’t contact anyone he knew there—not Citizen, who was working for a French bank, or Isidore, his upstairs neighbor from Hereford Street, who was teaching there, or Phaedra, who had taken a job as the director of a satellite of a New York gallery—they wouldn’t have been in the city anyway

Beyond the typhoon shelters, ships slid past them, lighted buildings on the march, and the junks hobbled in their wakes. Inland, the Island whined and clanged and throbbed, and the huge slums twinkled like jewel boxes opened by the deceptive beauty of the night. Presiding over them, glimpsed between the dipping finger of the masts, sat the black Peak, Victoria, her sodden face shrouded with moonlit skeins; the goddess, the freedom, the lure of all that wild striving in the valley. They

Consider it this way. The present is a split second, so tiny and trivial as to be immaterial. Everything else, everything real and substantial, is a coral reef of dead split seconds, forming the islands and continents of our reality. Every moment is a brick in the wall of the past, building enormous structures that have identity and meaning, cities we live in. The future is wet shapeless clay, the present is so brief it barely exists, but the past houses and shelters us, gives us a home and a name; and the mortar that binds those bricks, that stops them from sliding apart into a nettle-shrouded ruin, is memory.

As the Prajna-paramita Sutras (Sermons on the Perfection of Wisdom), which were compiled at the end of the first century BCE, explain, the bodhisattvas do not wish to attain their own private nirvana. On the contrary, they have surveyed the highly painful world of being, and yet desirous of winning supreme enlightenment, they do not tremble at birth-and-death. They have set out for the benefit of the world, for the ease of the world, out of pity for the world. They have resolved: “We will become a shelter for the world, the world’s place of rest, the final relief of the world, islands of the world, lights of the world, the guides of the world’s means of salvation.

If you read Lord of the Flies at some point in the past, you probably remember the story’s premise. A plane carrying a group of British schoolboys crashes on a desert island. In the adult world, war is raging. While the boys wait for grown-ups to rescue them, they set up a miniature society. They elect Ralph as their leader because he’s the one who finds a conch shell and uses it to call them together. They establish groups and roles: some boys will hunt, some will build shelters, and some will keep a fire burning in hopes of summoning a rescue boat. These plans are sensible and practical, but it’s only a matter of time before they fall apart. In order to eat meat, some of the boys must be willing to kill. Doing so requires them to cross a line—to let go of all they’ve been taught and unleash some part of themselves that they never before dared to reveal. As the leader of the hunters, Jack is intoxicated by this freedom. Meanwhile there’s Piggy, the voice of reason, reminding them that they must have rules and remain focused on rescue. But it’s easier to play than to work, and being wild is more fun than being disciplined. Undermining it all is the element of fear, which trumps reason and incites panic. Soon the same war raging in the adult world erupts on the island. Children who were once proper schoolboys become distortions of their former selves, barely recognizable as human.

As we walked off the plank, we were greeted by a swarm of felines that clearly knew the boat's arrival time. There were cats stretched out on the dock, cats lounging in the morning sun, cats playing and fighting one another, and cats cleaning themselves. Calicos, tabbies, tuxedoes, ginger, and black cats. At the end of the dock were crates that had been converted into blanket-covered little cat apartments. Tails stuck out from inside the shelters. The few buildings on the street were adorned with graffiti of cats. A Japanese tourist couple also getting off the boat were more prepared than us- they had bonito flake treats to dole out to the felines. But the local fishermen sorted their wares in sheds by the road were the real treat-givers. They threw out small fish to the cats. The lucky cats on the receiving end pranced by us with fish heads and tails sticking out from either side of their mouths.

Torminster in A City of Bells is Wells. If the houses in the Close, hidden behind their high walls, could be seen with the eyes of imagination as fortresses, the Palace was one in actual fact. Grey, battlemented walls, with loopholes for arrows, surrounded it and its gardens, completely hiding them from sight, and a wide moat, brimful of water, surrounded the walls. The portcullis was still there, and the drawbridge that linked this warlike island to the peace of Torminster. As they stood watching, the swans obligingly rounded the curve of the moat and sailed royally towards the drawbridge… The foremost swan…pulled with his beak the bell-rope that hung from the Palace wall. He rang it once, imperiously…and instantly a human menial showered bread from a window. This ringing of the bell was the superb accomplishment of the swans of Torminster, an accomplishment that had made them world-famous.36 Small wonder that Elizabeth said, linking her own childhood experience with that of Robert Louis Stevenson: Looking back from such a different world, through such a length of time, it seems that the sheltered happy childhoods of Victorian and Edwardian days had a very special magic.37

The current generation of huts might help creative folk focus on making new work but the bothy's original function was more egalitarian. It wanted to offer shelter in remote Scottish locations for walkers and climbers, the idea being that if hikers made the sacrifice to explore extreme locations they should be rewarded by basic accommodation that was free of charge. The concept was rolled out across the country and aroused a new kind of generosity among landowners. More than a hundred of these shelters are provided by estate owners on the proviso they are left clean and undamaged. "Bothying" came about as agricultural methods changed and farmsteads were increasingly abandoned. During the 1940s the idea of leisure was shifting as it began to mean roaming in the hills and countryside. Walkers looked for shelter on their meanderings and these small buildings did the trick. All share the same unique highlight: they are sited within some of the most breath-taking scenery that rural Scotland has to offer. To come across a bothy is the closest experience Scotland has to a palm tree dotted island mirage after hours stranded out at sea. With one slight difference: this vision is real.

Scrubby evergreen bushes released a strong scent of resin and honey; forests of pine gave way to gentle south-facing vineyards disturbed only by the ululation of early summer cicadas. Sitting up tall on the seat, she craned around eagerly to see what plants thrived naturally. It was a wild and romantic place, Laurent de Fayols had written, the whole island once bought as a wedding gift to his wife by a man who had made his fortune in the silver mines of Mexico. One of three small specks in the Mediterranean known as the Golden Isles, after the oranges, lemons, and grapefruit that glowed like lamps in their citrus groves. There were few reference works in English that offered information beyond superficial facts about the island, and those she had managed to find were old. The best had been published in 1880, by a journalist called Adolphe Smith. Ellie had been struck by the loveliness of his "description of the most Southern Point of the French Riviera": 'The island is divided into seven ranges of small hills, and in the numerous valleys thus created are walks sheltered from every wind, where the umbrella pines throw their deep shade over the path and mingle their balsamic odor with the scent of the thyme, myrtle and the tamarisk.

On the Larch Scape humans had never managed to extend a sizeable population across entire continents, so much of the megafauna considered to be a distant Pleistocene memory on other Scapes had lingered. The mammoths, giant sloths and woolly rhinoceroses were extinct, but there were hyenas, fanged cats and amphicyonids hunting bison, omnivorous deer, glyptodons, great boars, and wild horses too large for men to ride south of the Laurentian Sea, in what was called Illinois on Malone’s Scape. The island of Manhattan was not an island due to the lower sea level, and it was uninhabited by men, an impenetrable mass of old growth larch trees ruled by creatures thought to be related to the raccoon. The Larch ‘raccoon’ was frequently said to be too intelligent to domesticate; in groups they would destroy shelters and eat the faces of sleeping humans. The atrox cat had been genetically sequenced in cooperation with Austral scientists years ago and determined to be more closely related to the lion than the cougar, and it had enjoyed a range extending north of the Laurentian Sea up to the glaciers until very recently. It was a dark creature with a thick mane in both genders; besides the elements, their prides were the deadliest things to encounter in the far north.

It is no surprise, then, that the earth deities of the Old Religion were demonized or co-opted. A typical task for Greek heroes was to rid the civilized world of those “earth-born bogeys.” The Gorgon Medusa, whose gaze turned men to stone, became an obvious target. Nevertheless, on the periphery of the Greek world, there is evidence that She was venerated in her ancient powers. During the 6th century BCE on the island of Corfu, an eight-foot-high full-bodied sculpture of Medusa was placed at the highest point on the pediment of the temple of Artemis. This Medusa is not raging, but is radiant in her full potency. Snakes with open jaws extend from each side of her head and two copulating serpents encircle her waist, carrying the potential for both death and new life. She wears winged sandals, her great wings are fully extended, sheltering her two children, and her bent-knee posture suggests that she is flying. All shamanic dimensions are Hers—the Great Above, the Great Below, the Primordial Waters, and the entire expanse of the Earth. She is flanked by great felines, just as the Phrygian Mountain Goddess Cybele and the seated Ancestral Mother from Çatalhöyük before her.'' ''The establishment of the Greek patriarchal world shifted the previous cultural valence from the egalitarian continuity of the Old Religion to the extreme imposition of male dominance and the cult of the hero. Under this new world order, all challenges to male hegemonic systems were to be crushed. As the classicist Eva Keuls emphasizes, “the suppression of women, the military expansionism and the harshness in the conduct of civic affairs all sprang from a common aggressive impulse.” That impulse was the expression of “male supremacy and the cult of power and violence.

IF ONE END of Long Island was a fish mouth ready to chomp on the barb of Manhattan, the tail fin was the East End, split down the middle with Shelter Island between the two. Let the billionaires have the Hamptons on the South Fork, with the shops and restaurants and parties that re-created what made them so exquisitely comfy in Manhattan. The North Fork was two ferry rides away, and it showed. It was farm stands on actual farms. It was pies and parades and stony beaches that hurt your feet, banging screen doors and peaches eaten over the sink.

The Greenbrier Bunker was one of America’s best-kept secrets for decades. Beneath the Greenbrier Resort in West Virginia, a bomb shelter was hidden from the general public. It was created for members of Congress in the event of an emergency, stocked with months’ worth of food and supplies. The bunker was kept a secret for over thirty years, and it was built alongside the Greenbrier Resort, in the town of White Sulphur Springs. Even the official historian of Greenbrier, Bob Conte, knew nothing about the bunker. Conte had all sorts of records and photos from the property, but nothing that revealed information about the bunker. It turns out that the bunker was built in case of an emergency during the Cold War. The space of the bunker has been compared to that of a Walmart store, with thick, concrete walls and an extensive air filtration system. Rows of metal bunkbeds line the walls, with enough beds for 1,100 people. The building of the bunker was called “Project Greek Island,” and hotel workers and locals were told the construction was for a new conference and exhibition center. It was even used for conferences by thousands of people who had no idea that it was actually designed to be a secret bunker. Down the hall from the sleeping quarters, there was a room designed to be the floor for the House of Representatives. A group of secret government employees disguised themselves as technicians, but they were really some of the only people in the world who knew about the bunker. It was their job to make sure there was a constant six-month supply of food, the most up-to-date pharmaceuticals, and everything that the members of Congress would need in the event of an emergency. The bunker was exposed to the public in 1992. Today, the Greenbrier property is home to not only the Greenbrier Resort, but also the Presidents’ Cottage Museum. As over twenty-five presidents have stayed there, the museum shows their experiences, the property’s history, and, now, part of the bunker. There is a new emergency shelter in place, but only a handful of people know its whereabouts.

To calculate 'the' fine structure constant, 1/137, we would need a realistic model of just about everything, and this we do not have. In this talk I want to return to the old question of what it is that determines gauge couplings in general, and try to prepare the ground for a future realistic calculation.

We decided to get another cat—no, two! A pair of tiny, spotted sisters from an animal shelter on Long Island. We brought them home in a cardboard box punched with holes that they poked their noses through. They ran around the house curious, fearless, and then abruptly collapsed, always right next to each other. They did everything that way: They ate and drank in unison; they got in the litter box at the same time, like a two-headed kitten. Paolo would have sneered at their sweetness. When Lucy was holding them, carefully clipping their nails, combing their fluff, she was the benevolent person I had met on the night of the blackout: Boy Scout Lady. She was the promise of family, decency, kin. And we were a kind of family now—they were only cats, but they were ours, new lives that we were taking on the care of, together. They slept in the bed with us and followed us around from room to room, except sometimes when we crossed paths with them and they looked at us as if they were seeing—for the first time in their lives—creatures so terrifying, so dangerous, they could barely stand to know that we existed. Then they went flying for the closets, where they hid until they were ready to recognize us again for who we were: the people who waited on them and met their every need. Their love slaves.

SITTING QUIETLY ALL NIGHT does something to a person. At least it did something to me, to the digital me. I didn't sleep; you can't sleep in this game world if you don't have a bed. Even if I had a bed, I don't have a safe place to put it. I need a shelter of some kind. To get a shelter I need tools, and to craft tools I need resources.

A brief examination of the gray bluff revealed a narrow cleft leading to the top of the precipice. Joe, ascending first, found himself on another path which seemed to rim the island from the top of the bluffs. “Here’s the trail the hermit used to keep us in sight yesterday,” he told the others. After scrambling up, Frank, Tony, and Jerry paused for a look about. Below them sparkled the bright ocean, extending to the mainland a few miles away. Behind lay a little plateau, overgrown with small pines and scrub oaks. In the center of the flat area rose a steep, rocky hill which gave the island its humping silhouette. “A hut would be easy to camouflage among those trees,” Frank remarked. “We’ll have to spread out and comb every foot of the woods.” Though the youths worked carefully around the plateau, they found no sign of any shelter. On the island’s seaward side, where the growth was sparse, the boys checked the sides of the steep hill for caves. They saw none.

Being a father isn’t supposed to be a bed of roses,” I say. “It’s not just pretty for a while and then disposable when it’s useless to you. It’s a forest, constantly changing, growing, evolving. It’s shelter and roots and branches to climb and leaves to break their fall.

At a party given by a billionaire on Shelter Island, Kurt Vonnegut informs his pal, Joseph Heller, that their host, a hedge fund manager, had made more money in a single day than Heller had earned from his wildly popular novel Catch-22 over its whole history. Heller responds, “Yes, but I have something he will never have … enough.” Enough. I was stunned by the simple eloquence of that word—stunned for two reasons: first, because I have been given so much in my own life and, second, because Joseph Heller couldn’t have been more accurate.

Many tourists were rendered homeless in the August 2023 Maui wildfires and were vacationing in government shelters.

And whose very snug-looking place is this? said Charlotte as, in a sheltered dip within two miles of the sea, they passed close by a moderate-sized house, well fenced and planted, and rich in the garden, orchard and meadows which are the best embellishments of such a dwelling. (This is basically the description of my maternal great grandparents on Prince Edward Island who lived closer to the sea than two miles. <3)

February 2013 Continuation of Andy’s Message (part four)   The priest from Taer and Anak’s parish was as corrupt as they came. The day after I broke ties with the boys, they came to my lodging with their priest demanding monetary compensation for my intimate liaisons with them. I had no idea the Father ran a homeless shelter for runaway kids. This padre was a pimp: he dished out these runaways in return for food and protection.               That day, he labelled me a sinner and pelted me with fire and brimstone, accusing me of corrupting his innocent dependants. Then he proceeded to hound me to repent from my nefarious ways. According to this man of God, ‘the one and only way’ to cleanse my moral impurities was to confess and donate to his parish. He gave me an ultimatum to appear at his office at the soonest and told me he would not hesitate to contact the police if I transgressed. But as soon as they were out of sight, my buddies and I vanished to another island without trace. From there, we departed for Canada, knowing the threat had been nothing but fraudulent extortion. (Besides, I knew if I had gone in for confession, he would have tape-recorded my penance to blackmail me). My intuition had served me well: a year later, I came upon a TV documentary exposing the Marcos’ state and church corruption in the Philippines. One of the indicted priests was none other than the man who had accosted me the year before. Young, you probably are aware that corruption runs rampant in Third-World countries. This tale of mine is just one cautionary example of many. This disreputable experience had left its loathsome mark – one I had difficulty quelling, even though I wanted to see more of this awe-inspiring country. Maybe my apprehension will dissipate if I visit that part of the world with you, cherished memories in hand. You’re one fine specimen from that region.☺   Your loving ex, Andy XOXOXO

The island of Ruegen was to be hollowed out to provide shelter for a gigantic naval base. The navy's Z Plan, the last of the major pre-war armaments programmes, was signed into force on 27 January 1939, giving the Reichsmarine absolute priority over all other industrial projects of the Third Reich.

Out of the three of us, she was the only one to graduate. Casey and I both dropped out. But rather than taking a seat on the family throne, she once again thumbed her nose and moved to Nags Head permanently, where she promptly put her inheritance to work by opening the islands’ only no-kill animal shelter, simply called The Haven. She funds it entirely and works tirelessly helping homeless and abused animals have a second chance at life.

In fact, it is unlikely that all the men on the island went in search of food and water. While some went foraging, others would have set about building rough shelters, thatched with palm fronds, above the high-water mark. At the same time, sailors, probably under the watchful eye of Sir George Somers, made repeated trips to the grounded vessel, salvaging anything that might be of service. Planks above the waterline were torn from the ship’s oaken frames and hauled ashore along with hatches and any undamaged spars that could be removed and metal fittings and canvas and cordage and tools and even books and the important charts from Newport’s cabin and, of course, the instructions and a copy of the new Virginia charter given to Gates by the officers of the Virginia Company in London. Somehow the heavy ship’s bell was hauled ashore, as were several heavy cooking kettles and at least one of the smallest cannon. Within days, though, the salvage operation came to an end as the Sea Venture slipped beneath the waves, to rest where her bones still lie, between the two coral outcroppings that trapped her. Even though the survivors must have known the ship was lost once it struck the reef,

By the first week of August—within a week or so of the wreck—Sir George “squared out a garden” where he planted muskmelons, peas, onions, radish, lettuce, and other herbs and good English plants.21 In ten days the seeds, carried as cargo on the Sea Venture, had sprouted and pushed their way above ground. The island’s birds made quick work of the sprouts, though, and none of the plants matured. Somers had no better luck with several sugarcane sprouts he planted in the garden area near the little gathering of thatched huts; they were almost immediately rooted up and eaten by the island’s wild hogs. Despite these early disappointments, Somers and the other survivors thought that the Bermudas would prove to be a likely place for English settlers to grow the lemons, oranges, sugarcane, and even grape vines that thrived in some of the Spanish islands of the Caribbean. In fact, as fertile as the Bermudas appeared to the survivors, the island chain’s soil and subtropical climate were ill suited to producing most crops. Still, the survivors found plenty of food and lush surroundings and mostly pleasant weather and ready shelter.

Of course, Sir George and Sir Thomas and Captain Newport had worries other than just food and water and shelter. They were bound, by duty and by desire, to fulfill their obligations to the Virginia Company. The men and women in Jamestown were waiting for their arrival and the supplies they carried, while others in Virginia and in England and in Bermuda, too, had invested heavily in the Virginia venture. Somehow, the Sea Venture survivors had to escape the islands and make their way to the Chesapeake.

St. Brigid’s Island perched like a jagged accident above the water, all grass and rock, no beach to ease the passage of a boat, no harbor to shelter it once there. Twelve miles west of Ireland, at times nearly impossible to get to and just as deadly to try to leave. It was the whim of the wind and the swelling sea that determined who landed there and who was let go.

BOXCAR CHILDREN SURPRISE ISLAND THE YELLOW HOUSE MYSTERY MYSTERY RANCH MIKE’S MYSTERY BLUE BAY MYSTERY THE WOODSHED MYSTERY THE LIGHTHOUSE MYSTERY MOUNTAIN TOP MYSTERY SCHOOLHOUSE MYSTERY CABOOSE MYSTERY HOUSEBOAT MYSTERY SNOWBOUND MYSTERY TREE HOUSE MYSTERY BICYCLE MYSTERY MYSTERY IN THE SAND MYSTERY BEHIND THE WALL BUS STATION MYSTERY BENNY UNCOVERS A MYSTERY THE HAUNTED CABIN MYSTERY THE DESERTED LIBRARY MYSTERY THE ANIMAL SHELTER MYSTERY THE OLD MOTEL MYSTERY T

What if he were an incomer, someone who’d got lost on his way home and had taken shelter on our island but knew nobody? What if he’d arrived by sea, all alone, as we were told the images of the church saints had done, and that was why he didn’t know how to talk, just as the images didn’t? This was what I thought as a child, and I regret that grandfather never let us know more about him. And I never imagined that one day I’d be telling the story of my childhood. When

Non-violence (ahiṁsā) is the exhibitor and illuminating light for the spiritual passage that one should pursue. It is an island of relief for human beings who are drowning in the ocean of material existence. It is the salvation, shelter, and remedial state. It is the foundation on which the building of spiritual achievements rests. Non-violence is a comfort for those who fear any unwanted acts that might be inflicted against them. It is as beneficial as a flight in the open sky is for birds. It is quenching for the thirsty, and nutritious for the hungry. It is medicine to cure the sick and is akin to a ship of salvation upon the ocean of recurring life cycles. These are just a few instances, but non-violence is vastly more healing. It brings a surplus of welfare for all, auspicious for the earth, water, wind, fire, vegetation, seeds, and water-bound, earth-bound, air-bound, insects, and all other livings beings. Undoubtedly non-violence is like a mother who bestows life while protecting all living beings from vexatious elements. Non-violence is like an elixir of life with an endless supply, whereas violence is like a venom and a repository of toxic elements.

If my family had crossed the river two months later, they would have been massacred. Thailand was no longer taking Hmong refugees from Laos; there were too many coming in because of the continued influx of North Vietnamese soldiers to help the Pathet Lao kill the remaining Hmong. Jane Hamilton-Merritt, a journalist from America, recorded the deaths of two hundred Hmong people, families with small children, on the Mekong on July 27, 1979. The group was on a sandbar gathering vines to weave a bridge to Thailand. They built fires and boiled water in old U.S. Army canteens. The women took off their shirts to put over sticks to shelter their babies and the old women. They fed their hungry children. Many of them were little more than skeletons. The adults didn’t eat. They saved their rice for the children. Thai soldiers appeared on the Thai bank in jeeps with a machine gun bolted to the front hood. In two Thai patrol boats, the soldiers traveled to the island. The Thai soldiers slashed the vines that tried to connect the people to Thailand. Thailand had had enough Hmong refugees. On August 2, 1979, Hamilton-Merritt learned that a group of thirty to forty Pathet Lao soldiers had landed on the river island and the Hmong were massacred.*

John Bogle, the Vanguard founder who passed away in 2019, once told a story about money that highlights something we don’t think about enough: At a party given by a billionaire on Shelter Island, Kurt Vonnegut informs his pal, Joseph Heller, that their host, a hedge fund manager, had made more money in a single day than Heller had earned from his wildly popular novel Catch-22 over its whole history. Heller responds, “Yes, but I have something he will never have … enough.” Enough. I was stunned by the simple eloquence of that word—stunned for two reasons: first, because I have been given so much in my own life and, second, because Joseph Heller couldn’t have been more accurate. For a critical element of our society, including many of the wealthiest and most powerful among us, there seems to be no limit today on what enough entails.

Two people drift in a lifeboat on an uncharted sea. One says, “There! I see an island. Our best chance is to go ashore, build a shelter, and await rescue.” The other says, “No, we must go farther out to sea and hope to find the shipping lanes. That is our best chance.” Unable to agree, the two fight, the lifeboat capsizes, and they drown. This is the nature of humanity. Even if only two people are left in the entire universe, they will come to represent opposing factions. —

Hell Week is something entirely different. It’s medieval and it comes at you fast, detonating in just the third week of training. When the throbbing ache in our muscles and joints was ratcheted up high and we lived day and night with an edgy, hyperventilating feeling of our breath getting out front of our physical rhythm, of our lungs inflating and deflating like canvas bags squeezed tight in a demon’s fists, for 130 hours straight. That’s a test that goes way beyond the physical and reveals your heart and character. More than anything, it reveals your mindset, which is exactly what it’s designed to do. All of this happened at the Naval Special Warfare Command Center on prissy-ass Coronado Island, a Southern California tourist trap that tucks into slender Point Loma and shelters the San Diego Marina from the open Pacific Ocean.

For it did seem to be the case, she reflected, that the owners of art galleries were very frequently men who were unable to use ordinary language with any precision and who walked about in a horrible blizzard of peculiar superlatives and meaningless coinages from which they tried to shelter themselves by a wild flailing of their hands.

This is the happiest I have ever been. The most at peace with myself and all things that anchor me to this world. I have grown with our love, it is a place of shelter. My island of solace. With you, I have seen all my dreams come into fruition. Everything I want is here in this moment. All I ask now is for time with you, as much as we are allowed.

Some people are into hiking, some into sailing and some into flying. We just happen to be into solving mysteries. That’s just how it is. I admit the bomb shelter might not have been the best place to take shelter, but if we hadn’t gone down there things might have been worse. We were lucky that Andre came back and rescued us, but that’s life. You can never predict what’s going to happen.

At a party given by a billionaire on Shelter Island, Kurt Vonnegut informs his pal, Joseph Heller, that their host, a hedge fund manager, had made more money in a single day than Heller had earned from his wildly popular novel Catch-22 over its whole history. Heller responds, “Yes, but I have something he will never have … enough.” Enough.

Having dispensed with dreams of quick discovery, the world’s Crusoes seek shelter and a source of fresh water; they teach themselves to make fire from flint; they study their island’s topography, its climate, its flora and fauna, all the while keeping their eyes trained for sails on the horizon and footprints in the sand.

Being a father isn't supposed to be a bed of roses," I say. "It's not just pretty for a while and then disposable when it's useless to you. It's a forest, constantly changing, growing, evolving. It's shelter and roots and branches to climb and leaves to break their fall.

Mom was excited to get back to the island, watching as it appeared in the distance. Her anticipation turned to dread, and she gasped, her hands on her mouth, when she saw the dock they had worked so hard on before gone. “What happened?” she asked, breaking her silence for the first time. “I’m pretty sure this was Ortho's work. He seemed to really hate villagers and destroyed every village he came across,” Dad said with a frown. Mom’s face softened. “I’m glad he can't do that anymore. This is so sad.” They pulled up to the island, stretching as they stepped from their boats. “We should probably fix up a shelter,” Dad said. “We’ll need a place for when it gets dark. Then I think we should strategize for this ocean monument trip we have to make.” “Oooh!” Kate said. “We should have turtle shell helmets!” Mom gasped. “Kate! Why would you do that to the poor turtles?” Kate giggled. “No Mom, baby turtles drop scute when they grow into big turtles, then you can collect it and make turtle shell helmets. They’re cool because they let you breathe underwater a bit longer. Plus, you can enchant them with...um. I forgot the name. But there’s an enchantment that helps you breathe longer, too.” “And one for mining underwater,” Jack added. “Why would you need that?” Dad asked. “Can’t you just mine like normal?” Jack shook his head. “Have you ever tried to swing a pickaxe underwater?” Dad blinked. “Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Sorry to dredge that up.” He wiggled his eyebrows. Mom was about to give Dad ‘The Look’ but Kate beat her to it. “No Dad, Jack already did a bunch of jokes.” “What?” Dad looked offended. “I’m supposed to do the Dad jokes!” “You are,” Jack said. “That’s why I did Jack Jokes.” Dad snorted out a laugh. “Were they punny?” Jack grinned. “Definitely. They worked great for our new villager friends when they helped us on the farm. They were real ice-breakers.” Dad laughed extra loud. “That’s it, I’m done!” Kate said. “Come on Mom, let’s go get some turtle scute.” “I’m right there with you girl. Let’s go.” Dad waved. “We’ll make sure we have shelter, and we’ll give it a nice outfit.” Dad winked. Jack cocked his head. “What does a house wear?” Dad grinned. “Address!” Jack laughed, and the girls rolled their eyes. “We’ll make sure not to build a house like a penguin though. They just igloo them together.” Kate and Mom groaned and hurried off towards the turtles. “Don’t run in front of a car!” Jack yelled. “You might get tired!” “Run faster, Mom,” Kate yelled. Dad and Jack laughed at their fleeing forms. Chapter 18 By the time Mom and Kate came back from their turtle excursion, Dad and Jack had fixed up a house

On an island called Pharos, which lay offshore and sheltered the anchorage, stood the great lighthouse.

Nennius tells us, what Gildas omits, the name of the British soldier who won the crowning mercy of Mount Badon, and that name takes us out of the mist of dimly remembered history into the daylight of romance. There looms, large, uncertain, dim but glittering, the legend of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Somewhere in the Island a great captain gathered the forces of Roman Britain and fought the barbarian invaders to the death. Around him, around his name and his deeds, shine all that romance and poetry can bestow. Twelve battles, all located in scenes untraceable, with foes unknown, except that they were heathen, are punctiliously set forth in the Latin of Nennius. Other authorities say, “No Arthur; at least, no proof of any Arthur.” It was only when Geoffrey of Monmouth six hundred years later was praising the splendours of feudalism and martial aristocracy that chivalry, honour, the Christian faith, knights in steel and ladies bewitching, are enshrined in a glorious circle lit by victory. Later these tales would be retold and embellished by the genius of Mallory, Spenser, and Tennyson. True or false, they have gained an immortal hold upon the thoughts of men. It is difficult to believe it was all an invention of a Welsh writer. If it was he must have been a marvellous inventor. Modern research has not accepted the annihilation of Arthur. Timidly but resolutely the latest and best-informed writers unite to proclaim his reality. They cannot tell when in this dark period he lived, or where he held sway and fought his battles. They are ready to believe however that there was a great British warrior, who kept the light of civilisation burning against all the storms that beat, and that behind his sword there sheltered a faithful following of which the memory did not fail. All four groups of the Celtic tribes which dwelt in the tilted uplands of Britain cheered themselves with the Arthurian legend, and each claimed their own region as the scene of his exploits. From Cornwall to Cumberland a search for Arthur’s realm or sphere has been pursued.The reserve of modern assertions is sometimes pushed to extremes, in which the fear of being contradicted leads the writer to strip himself of almost all sense and meaning. One specimen of this method will suffice: "It is reasonably certain that a petty chieftain named Arthur did exist, probably in South Wales. It is possible that he may have held some military command uniting the tribal forces of the Celtic or highland zone or part of it against raiders and invaders (not all of them necessarily Teutonic). It is also possible that he may have engaged in all or some of the battles attributed to him; on the other hand, this attribution may belong to a later date." This is not much to show after so much toil and learning. Nonetheless, to have established a basis of fact for the story of Arthur is a service which should be respected. In this account we prefer to believe that the story with which Geoffrey delighted the fiction-loving Europe of the twelfth century is not all fancy. If we could see exactly what happened we should find ourselves in the presence of a theme as well founded, as inspired, and as inalienable from the inheritance of mankind as the Odyssey or the Old Testament. It is all true, or it ought to be; and more and better besides. And wherever men are fighting against barbarism, tyranny, and massacre, for freedom, law, and honour, let them remember that the fame of their deeds, even though they themselves be exterminated, may perhaps be celebrated as long as the world rolls round. Let us then declare that King Arthur and his noble knights, guarding the Sacred Flame of Christianity and the theme of a world order, sustained by valour, physical strength, and good horses and armour, slaughtered innumerable hosts of foul barbarians and set decent folk an example for all time.

The nearest known place where they might at least find food and shelter was tiny Paulet Island,

CHAPTER ONE The Secret Stronghold CHAPTER TWO Dave on the Road CHAPTER THREE Porkins CHAPTER FOUR Carl CHAPTER FIVE Captured by Zombies CHAPTER SIX The Portal CHAPTER SEVEN The Nether CHAPTER EIGHT The Pigmen CHAPTER NINE Caught CHAPTER TEN Entering the Fortress CHAPTER ELEVEN Blazes CHAPTER TWELVE Swords at the Ready CHAPTER THIRTEEN The King of the Pigmen CHAPTER FOURTEEN Escape CHAPTER FIFTEEN Snow EPILOGUE -- BOOK TWO -- PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE Nothing but Snow CHAPTER TWO Bear! CHAPTER THREE Finding Shelter CHAPTER FOUR Under the Igloo CHAPTER FIVE Phillip and Liz CHAPTER SIX The Wither CHAPTER SEVEN Ripley CHAPTER EIGHT The Underground Room CHAPTER NINE Zombie Attack! CHAPTER TEN Steve Turns to the Dark Side CHAPTER ELEVEN Ripley's Plan CHAPTER TWELVE Statue Fight CHAPTER THIRTEEN Robo-Steve's Last Stand CHAPTER FOURTEEN Goodbye Again CHAPTER FIFTEEN Return to the Nether CHAPTER SIXTEEN Dave vs Enderman CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The Ender Hunters CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Hunting Trip CHAPTER NINETEEN Pearls CHAPTER TWENTY The Witch CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Bedrock CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Lava CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Giant Lava Herobrine CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Return to the Nether (Again!) CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Nothing but Water EPILOGUE -- BOOK THREE -- CHAPTER ONE Water, Water, Everywhere... CHAPTER TWO Carl Gets Left Behind CHAPTER THREE Bubbles and Zombies CHAPTER FOUR Locked Up CHAPTER FIVE The Floating Dead CHAPTER SIX The Underwater Pyramid CHAPTER SEVEN Dave Alone CHAPTER EIGHT The Pirates CHAPTER NINE Aquatropolis CHAPTER TEN The Mysterious Island CHAPTER ELEVEN Carl the Pirate CHAPTER TWELVE Princess Alicia CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Kraken Attacken CHAPTER FOURTEEN Reunited CHAPTER FIFTEEN Drowned CHAPTER SIXTEEN Carl's Big Decision CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The Kraken Returns CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Aftermath EPILOGUE -- BOOK FOUR -- CHAPTER ONE Cool Island CHAPTER TWO Cool City CHAPTER THREE Derek Cool CHAPTER FOUR The Opening Ceremony CHAPTER FIVE Battle Royale! CHAPTER SIX A Lovely Walk CHAPTER SEVEN Thag CHAPTER EIGHT Carl Steps Up CHAPTER NINE Gammon CHAPTER TEN I Can Smell You! CHAPTER ELEVEN Carl the Golem CHAPTER TWELVE Curly CHAPTER THIRTEEN What Now? CHAPTER FOURTEEN Metal in the Moonlight CHAPTER FIFTEEN Critical Error CHAPTER SIXTEEN A Trio of Cool Dudes CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The Purple Pearl CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Totally Cool! EPILOGUE -- BOOK FIVE -- CHAPTER ONE Land Ahoy! CHAPTER TWO The Mine CHAPTER THREE Greenleaf CHAPTER FOUR The Secret Base CHAPTER FIVE Dave Makes a Plan CHAPTER SIX The Plan Begins CHAPTER SEVEN Porkins's Dilemma CHAPTER EIGHT The Night Before CHAPTER NINE Little Bacon CHAPTER TEN Elder Crispy CHAPTER ELEVEN Attack! CHAPTER TWELVE Once More Into the Nether CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Pit CHAPTER FOURTEEN Zombie Potion CHAPTER FIFTEEN Goodbyes EPILOGUE Thank You Newsletter Dave is on Facebook!

N the middle of the big river, the river that began in the mountains and ended in the sea, was a small island. The river swept round the island, sometimes clawing at its banks, but never going right over it. It was over twenty years since the river had flooded the island, and at that time no one had lived there. But for the last ten years a small hut had stood there, a mud-walled hut with a sloping thatched roof. The hut had been built into a huge rock, so only three of the walls were mud, and the fourth was rock. Goats grazed on the short grass which grew on the island, and on the prickly leaves of thorn bushes. A few hens followed them about. There was a melon patch and a vegetable patch. In the middle of the island stood a peepul tree. It was the only tree there. Even during the Great Flood, when the island had been under water, the tree had stood firm. It was an old tree. A seed had been carried to the island by a strong wind some fifty years back, had found shelter between two rocks, had taken root there, and had sprung up to give shade and shelter to a small family; and Indians love peepul trees, especially during the hot summer months when the heart-shaped leaves catch the least breath of air and flutter eagerly, fanning those who sit beneath.

Having acknowledged that a man must master his circumstances or otherwise be mastered by them, the Count thought it worth considering how one was most likely to achieve this aim when one had been sentenced to a life of confinement. For Edmond Dantes in the Chateau d'If, it was thoughts of revenge that kept him clear minded. Unjustly imprisoned, he sustained himself by plotting the systematic undoing of his personal agents of villainy. For Cervantes, enslaved by pirates in Algiers, it was the promise of pages as yet unwritten that spurred him on. While for Napoleon on Elba, strolling among chickens, fending off flies, and sidestepping puddles of mud, it was visions of a triumphal return to Paris that galvanized his will to persevere. But the Count hadn't the temperament for revenge; he hadn't the imagination for epics; and he certainly hadn't the fanciful ego to dream of empires restored. No. His model for mastering his circumstances would be a different sort of captive altogether: an Anglican washed ashore. Like Robinson Crusoe stranded on the Isle of Despair, the Count would maintain his resolve by committing to the business of PRACTICALITIES. Having dispensed with dreams of quick discovery, the world's Crusoes seek shelter and a source of fresh water; they teacher themselves to make fire from flint; they study their island's topography, its climate, its flora and fauna, all the while keeping their eyes trained for sails on the horizon and footprints in the sand.

Found it,” Einen said. Their very large boxes, sealed with glowing hieroglyphs, were at the bottom. Einen recognized them by the designations written on the tops of the boxes in the desert language: ‘Islander’ and ‘Northerner’. Pulling them out of the rack, the friends thought about what they should do next. Then it dawned on Hadjar and he simply touched the hieroglyph. His blue bracelet flashed, and then the seal disappeared, melting away like a slight haze. The sword lying inside the box soothed his tense nerves better than any herbal tincture ever could. As soon as Mountain Wind was back in his calloused hand, confidence welled up in Hadjar’s soul: no obstacle in his path could stop him or even slow him down. The old leather wallet with his friends’ wedding bracelets reassured his aching heart. ‘The Black Gates’ Patriarch’s ring, the fairy’s tears, and little Serra’s gift were almost insignificant compared to those two most important things. Although, after looking at the sword, Hadjar tied the wallet to his belt first. There were many swords in this world after all... “I don’t think you’re allowed to do what you want here,” someone behind him said. Hadjar turned around. He realized that he’d been lost in his own thoughts for a while. The sounds of merriment had long since subsided. The central hall, which had resembled a tavern and a brothel at the same time, was now empty. All the practitioners wearing blue amulets had bared their weapons and crowded behind Glen. He was still lazily sipping from his mug, but his gaze was tenacious. The leader of the fifty ‘guinea pigs’, selected by Karissa, was ready to fight. To the death. Einen, who’d somehow managed to put his people’s traditional outfit on, stood next to Hadjar. In his hand, the spear-staff, which hadn’t exposed its deadly stinger yet, swayed dangerously. “Put those things back and go to bed,” Glen said bossily. “You shouldn’t steal from people who’ve sheltered you.” “We haven’t stolen anything,” Einen snapped in reply, “we’ve just taken back our things.” “There’s nothing of yours here.” “The names on the boxes beg to differ,” Hadjar stated calmly. They met Glen’s eyes. By the Evening Stars, the undersized rogue was one of the few people who could withstand Hadjar’s gaze. “It seems that children from the north and the islands can’t count,” Glen said more forcefully. “I’ll give you one more chance. Put-” “Put a dog’s reproductive organ down your throat,” Einen spat on the floor. His friend’s cursing made Hadjar open his mouth in surprise. Apparently, the stress of the recent weeks had really affected the usually calm islander. “How many newbies have you cheated like this so far? You make them think that they can’t take their things back, and then you send them to their deaths.

The old days were over, when sorrow could be sheltered by the empathy of the many, confronted by imported rage, a most foreign beast at war with a human emotion - terror. The invaders, such angry strangers steeped in madness, paraded the island as if they were its new and infernal overlords. How fathomless was Fazul the Egyptian’s betrayal of Pate and it’s people. The amorphous war he had stimulated cascaded over so many simple lives. It seized the best of Pate’s men, implicated in this sickness only because they were the best of men. Most of the taken would never return, not even as corpses. Those they left behind were forced to learn the languages of eternal hauntedness and silence.

The audacity of her disintegrating at this moment. How could you do this to me? The mounting horror of her debts—loans I had been unaware of, the cost of her treatment. It was your job to make me safe. The obvious necessity to sell the house on Shelter Island to pay for everything. Is nothing mine in this world? The indignity of an addiction counselor at her rehab—a stranger!—informing me that I should not call my spouse to demand the truth when lies unfurled themselves in my head: It was not what Lucy needed.

Melchora Aquino de Ramos, a woman from the Philippines who was eighty-four when the unrest broke out that would lead to her country’s independence. Far from being intimidated, she used the shop she ran as a shelter for the wounded and persecuted, in addition to offering advice to the revolutionaries from those modest quarters where secret meetings were held. The old woman’s subversive activities came to the attention of the colonial authorities, who detained her and interrogated her about the identities of the revolutionary leaders. Melchora Aquino refused to give any information, and as a result she was deported to the Mariana Islands. When the United States took control of the Philippines, Melchora returned home as a national heroine and was named “Grand Woman of the Revolution.” She was actively involved in the creation of her new country for more than twenty years and died at the age of 107.

Just visiting from Trinidad, we could have never seen the darkness of this island. The strength of it overpowered and silenced you. Only after moving here did the calm become unsettling. Traces of resentment glowing under the skin of proud faces, in the gait of mobile bodies. The house, our holiday haven from Trinidad city life, seduced us into its womb, promising peace of mind, crime-free living, and the blue Caribbean Sea. Once Peter’s work in Trinidad had finished, we moved. And now the haven sheltered us from things unknown and deep. Always mothering, giving space for mistakes and meditation, watching over our sleep.

His model for mastering his circumstances would be a different sort of captive altogether: an Anglican washed ashore. Like Robinson Crusoe stranded on the Isle of Despair, the Count would maintain his resolve by committing to the business of practicalities. Having dispensed with dreams of quick discovery, the world’s Crusoes seek shelter and a source of fresh water; they teach themselves to make fire from flint; they study their island’s topography, its climate, its flora and fauna, all the while keeping their eyes trained for sails on the horizon and footprints in the sand.

At a party given by a billionaire on Shelter Island, Kurt Vonnegut informs his pal, Joseph Heller, that their host, a hedge fund manager, had made more money in a single day than Heller had earned from his wildly popular novel Catch-22 over its whole history. Heller responds, “Yes, but I have something he will never have … enough.

We separated for a while. Lucy stayed out on Shelter Island and I found an apartment in the city. Sometimes it was a relief to be on my own, not feeling (as) awful about myself, not fixated on how much she’d been drinking or what I could do to stop it. Sometimes I inhabited my life: I looked at the trees outside my window and felt unconfused. Other times I missed Lucy so much it was nauseating. But I started up my affair again. I’m separated! Why not? If I was going to suffer like this, there might as well be some kind of payoff. I would get to the bottom of it. I would get it out of my system! Addictions that are fed get worse, though, not better.

We separated for a while. Lucy stayed out on Shelter Island and I found an apartment in the city. Sometimes it was a relief to be on my own, not feeling (as) awful about myself, not fixated on how much she’d been drinking or what I could do to stop it. Sometimes I inhabited my life: I looked at the trees outside my window and felt unconfused. Other times I missed Lucy so much it was nauseating.

Joseph Heller and I were at a party given by a billionaire on Shelter Island. I said, “Joe, how does it make you feel to know that our host only yesterday may have made more money than your novel Catch-22 has earned in its entire history?” And Joe said, “I’ve got something he can never have.” And I said, “What on earth could that be, Joe?” And Joe said, “The knowledge that I’ve got enough.” —Kurt Vonnegut

Ruth and a friend saw a boy carrying a banana and a flashlight, crying and wandering in a daze. He had gotten separated from his father, the boy told them. Using the flashlight to find their way in the darkness, they sought shelter in a ditch and waited until they believed it was safe, then started out across a prairie in the direction of Galveston. They were safely away from the port when the High Flyer blew, showering the night sky with a chemical rainbow and spitting its four-ton turbine four thousand feet across the bay.

He still asked to be her foundation, her resting place, her shelter from all the storms, but also the true source of joy. Him, not Wes. Him, not Lara. Him, not her career.