Silhouette Book Quotes

The statue stood quiet and still, like the silhouette of a tired mime.

With your silhouette when the sunlight dims Into your eyes where the moonlight swims, And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns, Who among them would try to impress you? -Bob Dylan, "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” (1966)

The Hour-Hand of Life --- Life consists of rare, isolated moments of the greatest significance, and of innumerably many intervals, during which at best the silhouettes of those moments hover about us. Love, springtime, every beautiful melody, mountains, the moon, the sea – all these speak completely to the heart but once, if in fact they ever do get a chance to speak completely. For many men do not have those moments at all, and are themselves intervals and intermissions in the symphony of real life.

A writer is dreamed and transfigured into being by spells, wishes, goldfish, silhouettes of trees, boxes of fairy tales dropped in the mud, uncles' and cousins' books, tablets and capsules and powders...and then one day you find yourself leaning here, writing on that round glass table salvaged from the Park View Pharmacy--writing this, an impossibility, a summary of who you came to be where you are now, and where, God knows, is that?

Flynn’s reaction is electric, for all he only moves an inch, straightening, gazed fixed on the sky overhead. Though his eyes are on the clouds, I can’t help but watch his silhouette in the darkness. The way his mouth is set, the hope and determination there—the strength of his shoulders, the energy in the way he gazes skyward. The breeze stirs his hair, and I find myself transfixed.

Then she elaborated: I don't think friendship or love need any reason. What matters is how long we are committed to the relationship. This is more important than any reason.

Solitude makes me feel calm. The rain affects me differently. Books never make me feel lonely. I love hugging trees, and sleeping on grass. Can't help being addicted to coffee and writing. What about you?

...turning someone into a bigot is the first step in turning him into a terrorist. You find someone vulnerable - someone who's lost his confidence, his income, his pride, his agency. Someone who feels humiliated by life. And then you isolate him. You fill him with fear and fury, and you see to it that he regards anybody who's different as a faceless target - a silhouette at a shooting range like Calverton - rather than a human being. But even people who`ve been raised on hate since birth, people whose minds have been warped and weaponized, can make a choice about who they want to be. And they can be extraordinary advocates for peace, precisely because they`ve seen the effects of violence, discrimination and disenfranchisement firsthand. People who have been victimized can understand more deeply than anyone how little the world needs more victims.

As if on cue, a line of silhouettes emerged from behind a desert scrub—shapes that moved like cats. They wandered through the landscape of corpses, touching each with a gentle nudge. They grew closer, and it became clear that Chuluum was leading the other cats on their sorrowful homage, giving the fallen librarians the honor they deserved.

Books are the windows to our soul!

Writers write for the book lovers. And when the readers are soulful and sensitive to understand the nuances and subtleties of a story, then writing and reading the lines of your book becomes a pleasure!

My goodness. Humans are quite noisy, aren't they?" A voice called as Morgan's eyes were drawn to the large brown circles blinking back at him, floating in midair. "These two also don't seem to have a very good sense of judgement either. So quick to pick a fight rather than showing kindness. Such a shame. What wasted potential." The voice filled the air as the silhouette bobbed into view again. It slowly took on a human-like shape.

Of the nine million Harlequin Romance and Silhouette Ecstasy books for women today, sold and read by the ton, no hero appears whose primary quality isn’t arrogance. If any man appears at first helpful, cheerful, and polite, he’s the villain. The man who at first appears hopelessly mean and insensitive, he’s the hero. It’s cornography. Margaret Mitchell’s inspiration for Rhett Butler was Valentino in that tango. It’s a twentieth-century malaise.

Now the evening's at its noon, its meridian. The outgoing tide has simmered down, and there's a lull-like the calm in the eye of a hurricane - before the reverse tide starts to set in. The last acts of the three-act plays are now on, and the after-theater eating places are beginning to fill up with early comers; Danny's and Lindy's - yes, and Horn & Hardart too. Everybody has got where they wanted to go - and that was out somewhere. Now everybody will want to get back where they came from - and that's home somewhere. Or as the coffee-grinder radio, always on the beam, put it at about this point: 'New York, New York, it's a helluva town, The Bronx is up, the Battery's down, And the people ride around in a hole in the ground. Now the incoming tide rolls in; the hours abruptly switch back to single digits again, and it's a little like the time you put your watch back on entering a different time zone. Now the buses knock off and the subway expresses turn into locals and the locals space themselves far apart; and as Johnny Carson's face hits millions of screens all at one and the same time, the incoming tide reaches its crest and pounds against the shore. There's a sudden splurge, a slew of taxis arriving at the hotel entrance one by one as regularly as though they were on a conveyor belt, emptying out and then going away again. Then this too dies down, and a deep still sets in. It's an around-the-clock town, but this is the stretch; from now until the garbage-grinding trucks come along and tear the dawn to shreds, it gets as quiet as it's ever going to get. This is the deep of the night, the dregs, the sediment at the bottom of the coffee cup. The blue hours; when guys' nerves get tauter and women's fears get greater. Now guys and girls make love, or kill each other or sometimes both. And as the windows on the 'Late Show' title silhouette light up one by one, the real ones all around go dark. And from now on the silence is broken only by the occasional forlorn hoot of a bogged-down drunk or the gutted-cat squeal of a too sharply swerved axle coming around a turn. Or as Billy Daniels sang it in Golden Boy: While the city sleeps, And the streets are clear, There's a life that's happening here. ("New York Blues")

The sun played lazily behind the Byzantine silhouette of the town. Bathhouses and a dancing pavilion bleached in the white breeze. The beach stretched for miles along the blue. Nanny habitually established a British Protectorate over a generous portion of the sands.

Opening the door quietly, I slipped in without switching on the light. From the entrance hall, I could see the dining room at the end of the corridor, the table still decked out for the party. The cake was there, untouched, and the crockery still waited for the meal. I could make out the motionless silhouette of my father in his armchair, as he observed the scene from the window. He was awake and still wearing his best suit. Wreaths of smoke rose lazily from a cigarette he held between his index and ring fingers, as if it were a pen. I hadn't seen my father smoke for years.

And now the thought came to me that I lived much of my life through the pages of books as well. That perhaps I, too, was only a paper figure. A cut-out, or silhouette. Flat. I always thought I knew the shape of my life. Of course I thought I knew about life, thought I knew all I needed - or wanted - to know. And yet, like the opening left when a burning star falls from its perch, now an unexpected hole was left in what was once a solid curtain of understanding... ( )... Sitting under the cold stars, I understood that it was death that made me recognize life, and the existence, or pherhaps the non-existence of my own beeing.

Nina opened the book to the first painting and widened her eyes. It was of a dark forest with a hint of glowing blue light in the background. The trees stood like the silhouettes of soldiers in formation, awaiting commands. Nina couldn’t turn the page – this painting was luring her into an enchanted and mysterious world.

Few things in nature can compare to the long, mournful wail of a loon echoing across water and through the forest. It’s an evocative sound that will stick with you for the rest of your life and make you nostalgic for things that never even happened to you. Eerie, yet beautiful, the sound will conjure up images of solitude near mountain lakes and ponds, shrouded in fog during the early morning or late dusk, surrounded by the silhouettes of pine trees. It’s a sound that relaxes and submerges you into the tranquility of nature. I don’t think there is another sound in the world that reminds me of the wilderness more so than the wail of a loon.

O Lord, how many are Your works! In wisdom You have made them all.… —Psalm 104:24 (NAS) In her intriguing book What’s Your God Language? Dr. Myra Perrine explains how, in our relationship with Jesus, we know Him through our various “spiritual temperaments,” such as intellectual, activist, caregiver, traditionalist, and contemplative. I am drawn to naturalist, described as “loving God through experiencing Him outdoors.” Yesterday, on my bicycle, I passed a tom turkey and his hen in a sprouting cornfield. Suddenly, he fanned his feathers in a beautiful courting display. I thought how Jesus had given me His own show of love in surprising me with that wondrous sight. I walked by this same field one wintry day before dawn and heard an unexpected huff. I had startled a deer. It was glorious to hear that small, secret sound, almost as if we held a shared pleasure in the untouched morning. Visiting my daughter once when she lived well north of the Arctic Circle in Alaska, I can still see the dark silhouettes of the caribou and hear the midnight crunch of their hooves in the snow. I’d watched brilliant green northern lights flash across the sky and was reminded of the emerald rainbow around Christ’s heavenly throne (Revelation 4:3). On another Alaskan visit, a full moon setting appeared to slide into the volcanic slope of Mount Iliamna, crowning the snow-covered peak with a halo of pink in the emerging light. I erupted in praise to the triune God for the grandeur of creation. Traipsing down a dirt road in Minnesota, a bloom of tiny goldfinches lifted off yellow flowers growing there, looking like the petals had taken flight. I stopped, mesmerized, filled with the joy of Jesus. Jesus, today on Earth Day, I rejoice in the language of You. —Carol Knapp Digging Deeper: Pss 24:1, 145:5; Hb 2:14

The wiry man scratched his head, looked the two inquisitors up and down and cleared his throat softly. “We must be quick.” He turned to go, pulling his cloak over his head and shuffling through the door into the moonlight. The two inquisitors moved with impossible silence behind, floating across the straw-covered floor like the cats on the walls outside the hut. The cats froze at the disturbance before scurrying noiselessly into the shadows as the three silhouettes crossed the ten yards of grass before the blackness of the forest swallowed them. No fires flickered at this time, when the full moon was highest in the cloudless summer sky, and the three were the only waking souls in the hamlet.

Letter You can see it already: chalks and ochers; Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines; Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass; Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape; A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though: A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse); On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain All angular--you'd think a shovel did it. So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes; Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes, They carp at every gust that stirs them up. At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow Is rusting; and before me lies the vast Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue; Cocks and hens spread their gildings, and converse Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics, Now and then, toss me songs in dialect. In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker; The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff. I like these waters where the wild gale scuds; All day the country tempts me to go strolling; The little village urchins, book in hand, Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging), As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off. The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant Soft noise of children spelling things aloud. The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you! Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live: Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed My days, and think of you, my lady fair! I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times, Sailing across the high seas in its pride, Over the gables of the tranquil village, Some winged ship which is traveling far away, Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds. Lately it slept in port beside the quay. Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge: No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives, Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters, Nor importunity of sinister birds.

When I first got the news, I was devastated,” Annie said. And then her chin tilted in a defiant gesture, as if daring him to begrudge her her fear. “Actually, I was scared out of my wits.” Gabe heard the tremble in her voice, but he gave her no evidence

Love is when you can understand each other's silences.

...she spotted his silhouette in the shadows, the sea behind him churning with smoke and dragons and night whispers. A thrill raced through her veins, the drug of endless possibilities. The evening was hers to claim, and claim it she would.

With every airy light stroke, every black line of the silhouette of the girl that stood in the shallow, his chest thundered. Drawing her was, after all, the only way he could ever really touch her.

Every gal needs a great white shirt. The good news: you don’t have to spend a bundle. Find one that tapers in at the waist for a sleek silhouette. Or choose one with a crisp collar, worn un-tucked, à la Audrey Hepburn, for a chic, casual look. For instant elegance, try a classic French cuff dress shirt; the required cufflinks lend built-in style.

Lanie sipped her glass of red wine. The majestic Hotel Negresco filled the view from her small balcony at the Soho Hotel that faced the busy Promenade des Anglais. She noticed the familiar silhouette of the Negresco even before taking in the curve of the brilliantly blue Mediterranean as it outlined the dramatic stretch of umbrella-dotted beach. To be sure, she thought, the view must be every bit as remarkable from the Negresco—that grand dame of luxury and British superiority. But, as she’d asked Bob last spring when they’d booked the tour: would you rather stay in a landmark or gaze upon it? 

I want what you're throwing away. I want someone in my life who loves me-warts and all. I want someone to smile at me first thing in the morning. I want someone to give a damn whether I come home in the evening.

The silhouette of the mountains and hills whisper great secrets, mystery plays in the hidden shadows behind the looming tree-line. Quietly I gaze at the rich colours and place the scene within words of my books.

Until she pulled up at The Ridge and her headlights caught the silhouette of a tall brooding boy she’d just sworn she was done with.

Les feuilles d’oranger luisaient comme des larmes d’argent, et le chant de la fontaine serpentait sous les arcades. Je scrutai la cour d’un regard déjà chargé de déception et peut-être aussi d’un lâche soulagement. Elle était là. Sa silhouette se découpait devant la fontaine, assise sur un banc, les yeux tournés vers les arcades du cloître.

As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will never cease.” —Genesis 8:22 (NIV) As I walked to my mom’s house next door, I looked at the silhouettes of birds in the trees with the sun setting behind them. The road was still warm beneath my bare feet, and my leg muscles were tired from hours spent doing yard work and clearing the garden for winter (or “putting it to bed” as my husband calls it). Blackbirds rested on the stark branches, watching me until I was just beneath them, and then they flew away in a rush of energy. Today was warm. The sun bright. Most of our trees have lost their leaves, but our maple by the barn was holding on, wearing its marvelous colors like an ornate cloak. “Sabra, put shoes on!” the neighbor shouted from her doorway. “It’s nearly winter, don’t you know?” This is our joke. Every season she notices my feet and my tendency to be barefoot as long as possible. In March she calls out, “It must be spring! You don’t have shoes on!” And then when the snow falls, she yells, “Oh no, look at those boots! We must be in for a long winter.” With each step, I feel the warm tarry road beneath my feet. In a week or two, I’ll be wearing big thick socks and warm shoes. For now, I take in the beauty of a sunny path and hold it as a gift to help me through the long winter ahead. Dear Lord, may I always be mindful of the beauty in every season You have placed beneath my feet. —Sabra Ciancanelli Digging Deeper: Ps 19:1; Eccl 3:1–4

She saw the ghosts of her family home around her moving around in the dust and the light. To her right, a dining room full of people celebrating. In front of her, a figure in the kitchen seemed to be preparing meals. The old piano to her left was occupied by someone singing and playing. She shook her head and blinked fast as everything faded away. Lynn wondered if it was all in her head or if ghosts were really in the house. She blinked again, and their silhouettes disappeared.

Another beep sounded before a shimmering, imperfect silhouette formed in front of me. “Message request from the Council of Hadramiel,” the robotic monotone voice echoed. I’d never get any peace. “Allow.” “Samkiel.” My fists clenched, pure energy dancing across my knuckles. I hated that name. The once shapeless silhouette vibrated out of focus before returning as the embodiment of a tall, curvaceous woman. Her long blonde hair was loosely braided and ran down her side. Imogen. She resembled the Goddess Athos who had made her. The only difference was that Imogen was pure celestial and one of The Hand—my Hand.

Two strong lights are burning, yet the figures are like shadows—I saw father; no, not he, but his silhouette moves towards my bookshelf, father is looking for some books. He picks up a book on Japanese mythology, bound in blue silk with a figure embossed in gold. Father opens it and tears off the first page—Mircea presented this to me. Then one by one he gets out all the books and tears off the pages where the two names are written —the giver and the taker of the gift. He could not find that page in Goethe's Life—it remained stuck to the cover—so that's all that remained as Mircea's memento. Father slowly tears the papers into shreds and flings them out the window. In any other house the books would have been destroyed. But that cannot be in our house. We also have a Genghis Khan. Only he does not burn books. He can burn human beings but not books. The book is his God.

is that every little brick of this temple, every eternal book, every eternal melody, every unique architectural silhouette, bears within itself the compressed experience of this humankind, its thoughts and thoughts about it, ideas about the goals and contradictions of its existence

A person’s mind is way more attractive than the person’s body. Intellectual people are sexy!

She didn't like everything about her apartment, but she loved the view. In fact, that was one of the main reasons she decided to rent the place despite the price. There was nothing particularly special about it — there must have been thousands of equally affordable units out there with a better view of the New York skyline. But for her it wasn’t about iconic silhouettes of iconic buildings. Her window was giving her exactly the kind of view of the streets that she liked. Not too far, not too close, with the right mix of buildings nearby and a straight line of an avenue cutting through the city blocks and allowing to see far away. Depending on the mood, she could feel being in the busy crowd below or outside it. Which was just the way she liked it.

analyzing the silhouette of Poseidon on the other side of the glass ceiling. It was too dark for me to see the expression on Poseidon’s face, but I could make out the shape of his head, and when I played with the shadows and my imagination, I could almost make it look like he was smiling upon us instead.

Whoa!"Stella shouted. Billy ran ahead, released his tether. "Hike!" "Let'sGo!" Cautiously, they continued still deeper into the darkness. The canopy dripped snow-melt onto them. Stella shivered. The sleds were silhouettes, the dogs liquid shadows. "Listen, what was that?

They wore full-coverage raid suits, thick-filtered helmets, their gloves embellished with a ridge of claw-like, upturned hooks along each knuckle, all emblazoned with the logo of Atlas—Greek Titan of Endurance—shouldering the world in a neon blue silhouette.

We emerge into the warm night air and I smell the honeyed wisteria, hear an owl hooting across the fields on the far side of the river. I’m eager to dive in; I love to swim. I’m picking my way down the little slope when, behind me, I hear a commotion, and look back to see Paige braced between Evan and Leo; she’s tripped on her wedge heels and is cackling like a banshee. Kendra looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Hopefully the cold water’ll sober her up a bit,” she says resignedly. I don’t answer, even though I completely agree. Because, leaning against the wall of the club on our left, long legs crossed at the ankles, shoulders propped square to the stone, black hair falling over his face, is a silhouette that looks eerily familiar, like a ghost that haunts my dreams. There’s a book called The Beautiful and Damned, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, that I found in the villa’s library, and I’ve been reading it. I don’t quite understand it all; to be honest, I pulled it off the shelf because the title spoke to me, made me think of him. Luca. Definitely beautiful, and the damned part fits too, because he’s so dark, so brooding, so sad; it feels sometimes as if he doesn’t want to reach for happiness, as if he actually pushes it away-- But he saved me when I saw in danger, I remind myself. He saved my life. And then he told me he thought I might be his half sister. Which meant we couldn’t see each other anymore, in case that was true… A red dot flashes in the blue-black night as the figure raises a cigarette to his lips. It can’t be Luca, I tell myself. We’re beyond Siena, miles and miles from Chianti, where he lives. It can’t be him. Everyone’s already passed me, brushing by as I stopped to stare at the lean boy draped against the roadhouse wall. “Violet!” Kelly calls, her voice high and thrilled. “Come on! Wait till you see this!” I turn back toward the river and plunge down the little path as if I were being chased by the hounds of hell. Away from a silhouette that’s making me think of things--want things--that I can never have.

These are the 57 PIECES FOR THE INITIAL BASIC WARDROBE IN TRANS-SEASONAL FABRIC (best if KNITTED with stretch) See the List below in linear order with Cycles. The 27 for Cycle 2 are starred [*] with details listed for each. Later you can add 2 more seasons to this INITIAL WARDROBE FOR YOUR WORK & FULL LIFESTYLE. 6 - (3 SETS) UNDER SHAPERS of stretch to hold the body tight. (Cycle 1) *2 - JACKET LONG AND LEAN, 2 for each season, plus Holiday and Resort. (Cycle 1 & 2) *2 - TROUSERS (easy fit) flattering on your shape either:fitted, flared or straight. 2 for each season plus Holiday and Resort (Cycles 1 & 2) *1 - PENCIL SKIRT or a fitted, flared, or stitched-down-pleats, flattering Silhouette. (Cycle 1 & 2) *1 - JEAN, dark navy denim or black knit, both with stretch. (Cycle 1 & 2) 7 - TANKS, for the bottom necessary layer (Cycle 1) *3 - TOPS/BLOUSES/SHIRTS (Cycle 1 & 2) *1 - DAY-DRESS (Cycle 1 & 2) 1 – L.B.D. (Cycle 1, then as needed) 1 - EVENING BLACK JERSEY GOWN (Cycle 1, then as needed) 2 - RAINCOAT WITH ZIP OUT LINING AND AN UMBRELLA THAT IS FOLDABLE (Cycle 1 = 2) then, a WINTER COAT (Cycle 2 = 1, other Cycles select a jacket/sweater coat/art piece coat)

Even the silhouette of her side profile warms his heart. He believes he could find the entire universe captured in the blue of her eyes. He feels free, yet so at home whenever he looks at her.

On the Road" by Jack Kerouac is a favorite book that I love reading. I spend most times alone.

I meet people and they become chapters in my stories.

But today I was having the ‘missing you’ silence. I was missing Seher like the parched Earth misses the Rain. I was missing her laughter, which was my favorite symphony.

Meanwhile, in the realm of Something Lower, where books are but numbers in a series, the hacks grind out and the presses print the sf equivalent of Silhouette Romances. The sheer mass of Perry Rhodan lookalikes and fantasy-gaming disguised as books is awesome in much the same way that Niagara Falls is awesome: there is so much of it and it never stops.

But my edges were all spiky and barbed from past lies and deceit, and try as I might, I couldn’t quite fit into the stencil he’d created. My outlines were a little too rough for that smooth silhouette.

Sam was hovering right beside me, watching my face intently. "You ok, sweetie?" I looked at him with a smile. "I did it! I just asked, and she started pushing. I had no idea it would be so easy. I mean, I figured there was some mental magic you had to pull to get people to die for you, but it's so easy! And she gave me all her life, just boom." He stared at me in shock for a moment, his eyes flicking between mine as I rambled on. Gently, he pulled me away from the neon reflection of the daughter and the grey silhouette of the corpse, easing me out of the room without saying a thing. That in itself was enough to make me worried, replaying what had happened over and over in my mind as I tried to figure out where I'd made some kind of horrendous mistake. "Sia?" he finally asked when we reached the hall. "You know it's ok to be sad about this, right?" "Why would I feel bad? I didn't know her." "Because her daughter was there?" I waved that away. "Her daughter was telling her to let go. The old woman was suffering, and I found a way to make it better." "You know you killed her, right?" Those words made me finally understand the problem. "Sam, that woman was going to die. She could've rolled around in pain, groaning in misery until her heart clenched or her lungs gave out. As her body failed her, she would've panicked. It's kinda what we do. Instead, I made her smile. In her last moments on Earth, I made her feel comforted and protected, like this was just moving to the next step. She wasn't afraid." He nodded, taking that in. "Ok?" "You don't get it because you can't die. Death? It's the monster in the dark. It's the one thing we all fear the most, and in her last seconds, she wasn't afraid. She was thrilled. She knew she'd had a good life, and seeing me proved it to her. That's all we want. People pray to die in their sleep so they don't have to face that one terrifying second. We think about it our whole lives, refusing to talk about it because no one knows the answer, but now I do. I finally understand, and I made her death into something beautiful. Something her daughter will look back on and think is proof that she's in a better place.

One anthropologist said that when a body is decaying on grass, the grass around it will die and create something called a death silhouette.

her shape a glowing silhouette in the morning sunlight.

First, supply yourself with pamphlets and maps from the Visitors Center. Then rent a bicycle from one of those places along Seawall and ride north on 19th Street to Sealy. The heart of the East End Historical District is located between 19th and 14th, from Sealy to the Strand. Mainlanders who envision the Island as a barren sandbar are invariably amazed at the canopy of great oaks and the wall of stately palms that grace Galveston’s historic neighborhoods. Many of the homes are identified by markers: the “castle” of the Danish immigrant John C. Trube, at 1627 Sealy, is one of the Island’s strangest and most intriguing homes. It looks as though it were designed by a committee of architects. Trube, once the gardener of a Danish nobleman, had the house designed to resemble a castle in Kiel, Denmark, with battlement towers, and a mansard roof with nine gables. The house on the northwest corner of 17th and Winnie is the boyhood home of King Vidor, one of Hollywood’s best directors in the 1930s. The single most spectacular home is the old Gresham Mansion, now called the Bishop’s Palace, at the corner of Broadway and 14th. In silhouette this immense place looks like a medieval town. This was once the home of Colonel Walter Gresham, whose lobbying efforts secured federal money to widen and deepen the ship channel after the Civil War. Ashton Villa, a more delicate Victorian structure at 2328 Broadway, was once the home of Miss Bettie Brown, who scandalized Islanders in the 1880s by smoking cigarettes in public and racing unchaperoned along Broadway in a carriage pulled by matching teams of stallions—a black pair for day and a white pair for evening. It is said that on occasion Miss Brown’s ghost appears in the dead of night and plays the piano in the villa’s Gold Room.

The caves were dark. Dark and slimy and wet. I didn’t like it except for that part with darkness – I liked that very much. It made me remember my bushes. It seemed like there was nothing in here. I couldn’t hear anything and although I could see great in darkness, I didn’t see anything. Not until three little silhouettes run across my path. They were so fast that I couldn’t think of any other mob than Spiders, but then again those mobs I saw were too little to be Spiders. I approached, hoping I could get a better chance to investigate the matter. “Who’s there?” I asked as I saw the three of them crossing my path once again. They were