Snippets And Quotes

Madness strips you of memory and leaves you scrabbling around on the floor of your brain for the snatches and snippets of what happened, what was said, and when.

I wish I’d paid better attention. I didn’t yet think of time as finite. I didn’t fully appreciate the stories she told me until I became adult, and by then I had to make do with snippets pasted together, a film projected on the back of my mind.

What's your name?" he asked above the roar of the music. She leaned close. "My name is Wind," she whispered. "And Rain. And Bone and Dust. My name is a snippet of a half-remembered song." He chuckled a low, delightful sound. She was drunk and silly, and so full of the glory of being young and alive and in the capital of the world that she could hardly contain herself. "I have no name," she purred. "I am whoever the keepers of my fate tell me to be." He grasped her by her wrist, running a thumb along the sensitive sknin underneath. "Then let me call you Mine for a dance or two.

Besides the obvious difference, there was not much distinction between losing a best friend and losing a lover: it was all about intimacy. One moment, you had someone to share your biggest triumphs and fatal flaws with; the next minute, you had to keep them bottled inside. One moment, you'd start to call her to tell her a snippet of news or to vent about your awful day before realizing you did not have that right anymore; the next, you could not remember the digits of her phone number.

To my babies, Merry Christmas. I'm sorry if these letters have caught you both by surprise. There is just so much more I have to say. I know you thought I was done giving advice, but I couldn't leave without reiterating a few things in writing. You may not relate to these things now, but someday you will. I wasn't able to be around forever, but I hope that my words can be. -Don't stop making basagna. Basagna is good. Wait until a day when there is no bad news, and bake a damn basagna. -Find a balance between head and heart. Hopefully you've found that Lake, and you can help Kel sort it out when he gets to that point. -Push your boundaries, that's what they're there for. -I'm stealing this snippet from your favorite band, Lake. "Always remember there is nothing worth sharing, like the love that let us share our name." -Don't take life too seriously. Punch it in the face when it needs a good hit. Laugh at it. -And Laugh a lot. Never go a day without laughing at least once. -Never judge others. You both know good and well how unexpected events can change who a person is. Always keep that in mind. You never know what someone else is experiencing within their own life. -Question everything. Your love, your religion, your passions. If you don't have questions, you'll never find answers. -Be accepting. Of everything. People's differences, their similarities, their choices, their personalities. Sometimes it takes a variety to make a good collection. The same goes for people. -Choose your battles, but don't choose very many. -Keep an open mind; it's the only way new things can get in. -And last but not least, not the tiniest bit least. Never regret. Thank you both for giving me the best years of my life. Especially the last one. Love, Mom

The human touch is that little snippet of physical affection that brings a bit of comfort, support, and kindness. It doesn’t take much from the one who gives it, but can make a huge difference in the one who receives it.

Other memories stick, no matter how much you wish they wouldn’t. They’re like a song you hate but can’t ever get completely out of your head, and this song becomes the background noise of your entire life, snippets of lyrics and lines of music floating up and then receding, a crazy kind of tide that never stops.

You’re in my bones and my blood and my heart,” he said. “I’d have to tear myself open to let you go.

My name is Wind,” she whispered. “And Rain. And Bone and Dust. My name is a snippet of a half-remembered song.

A poem can't do its work if you only read snippets of it.

She catches snippets of what they’re saying: how dogs don’t need to live as long as humans, they’re simply so good at finding the joy in life. As if we are put on this earth to extract a certain amount of happiness and can leave once the job is done.

He kissed each finger, and with each one of them spoken a word. Five kisses, five words. His last.

I find things hidden in books: dried flowers, locks of hair, tickets, labels, receipt, invoices, photographs, postcards, all manner of cards. I find letters, unpublished works by the ordinary, the anguished, the illiterate. Clumsily written or eloquent, they are love letters, everyday letters, secret letters and mundane letters talking about fruit and babies and tennis matches, from people signing themselves as Majorie or Jean....I can't bring myself to dispose of these snippets and snapshots of lives that once meant (or still do mean) so much.

I smoked and looked down at the bottom of Pittsburgh for a little while, watching the kids playing tiny baseball, the distant figures of dogs snatching at a little passing car, a miniature housewife on her back porch shaking out a snippet of red rug, and I made a sudden, frightened vow never to become that small, and to devote myself to getting bigger and bigger and bigger.

I want you. But I’m scared to say it out loud. And it sucks because I've always been someone who always says things out loud.

My name is Wind," she whispered. "And Rain. And Bone and Dust. My name is a snippet of a half-remembered song.

his parabatai rune was bleeding

After listening for almost twenty-five years to the stories my patients tell me about sociopaths who have invaded and injured their lives, when I am asked, “How can I tell whom not to trust?” the answer I give usually surprises people. The natural expectation is that I will describe some sinister-sounding detail of behavior or snippet of body language or threatening use of language that is the subtle giveaway. Instead, I take people aback by assuring them that the tip-off is none of these things, for none of these things is reliably present. Rather, the best clue is, of all things, the pity play. The most reliable sign, the most universal behavior of unscrupulous people is not directed, as one might imagine, at our fearfulness. It is, perversely, an appeal to our sympathy.

There are moments in my life that stick to my memory. I suppose it's the same for everyone—snippets of life pasted in a scrapbook for you to look over every once in a while. You look back sometimes and relive an event, a smell or a sight. You catalog these things in your head and never really look at the whole. I think you miss something grand when you don't step back and examine everything together.

Marry me today.

How old are you, Ophelia?” I narrow my eyes at him. “Twenty-one.” One eyebrow raises like he’s surprised by this snippet of information. “Quite old.” “All right, DiCaprio, calm down.

Foreign lands never yield their secrets to a traveller. The best they offer are tantalising snippets, just enough to inflame the imagination. The secrets they do reveal are your own - the ones you have kept from yourself. And this is reason enough to travel, to leave home.

Love is fireworks. It’s the first dance. It’s the first kiss. It’s the first time you make love. It’s the first hateful word. It’s the first fight. It’s the first tear you shed. It’s the first time you made up.

Books tell us stories, they allow us to vicariously live out snippets of other lives, but they cannot take you in their arms and comfort you when you’re scared.

That was exactly what Tabucchi was suggesting with his title ("La Nostalgie du Possible") --that we can pass right by something very important: love, a job, moving to another city or another country. Or another life. 'Pass by' and at the same time be 'so close' that sometimes, while in that state of melancholy that is akin to hypnosis, we can, in spite of everything, manage to grab little fragments of what might have been. Like catching snatches of a far-off radio frequency. The message is obscure, yet by listening carefully you can still catch snippets of the soundtrack of the life that never was. You hear sentences that were never actually said, you hear footsteps echoing in places you've never been to, you can make out the surf on a beach whose sand you have never touched. You hear the laughter and loving words of a woman though nothing ever happened between you. The idea of an affiar with her had crossed your mind. Perhaps she would have liked that --probably, in fact-- but nothing every happened. For some unknown reason, we never gave in to the exquisite vertigo that you feel when you move those few centimeters towards the face of the other for the first kiss.

Maybe it just felt strange, having to acknowledge that he was a real person with a past and a present and a life beyond the little snippets I observed and pretended I could draw conclusions about.

He turned to the worktable beside him where a large, frosted glass terrarium took up half the space. He lifted the cover, revealing a single, deep-purple flower. The slender petals looked like snippets of evening sky, a rich velvetine purple hungry for the light of stars. Laila traced their edges softly. The petals were almost exactly the same shade of Séverin’s eyes. The thought made her draw back her hand.

We don't need to save the world; we need to love people. We can't fix anything for anyone, but we can listen. We can love. We can empathize. And as long as we can, we should.

I want you to want me. But I want you to want me for all the right reasons.

I strain to hear, but my old ears, for all their obscene hugeness, pick up nothing but snippets:

Not your parabatai any longer.

You are the Lightwoods — you are all that is left of the Lightwoods.

But the rest of Jace’s mind is watching the door slam behind her and seeing the final ruin of all his dreams. It was one thing to push it to this point. It is another to let go forever. Because he knows Clary, and if she goes now, she will not ever come back.

Last night, I realized that it is possible for love to die in an instant. It felt sickening to lie with you in the same bed and have your arms wrapped tightly around me. It no longer felt right.

My self-critical mind allows me to see only the defects and faults in my own work, and so I only have the courage to write snippets and snatches, brief notes on the theme of nonexistence, and yet even the little I write is imperfect.

Because you see, when you’re a strong person, people often look to you to take care of them. People look to you for help. People look to you for strength. And when your life spins out of control, it’s as if their lives are tied to your own and will come crashing down with yours.

A few told snippets of her stories or described the healing touch of her hand, but none knew anything about the girl herself. How amazing, how humble, was this girl who broke herself into a million pieces and distributed them to anyone who had need.

Love… is friendship. A deep, lasting foundation that you both decided to set on fire.

Instead of being an artificial intelligence, I was an intelligent artifice, an empathetic text snippet or a warm voice giving instructions, listening comfortingly.

Will’s hand looked brown and sunburnt by contrast, their fingers dovetailed together like piano keys.

History is neither truth nor completeness. It is simply the best story people can string together at the time, out of whatever facts and snippets they might have on hand.

I want these tiny snippets of perfection between us to be our constant reality.

Oh,” Jace said carelessly, as if he hadn’t been waiting out here for the express purpose of seeing Simon off. He looked up, golden gaze casual, then looked away. “You.” Being too cool for school was Jace’s thing. Simon supposed he must have understood and been fond of it, once. “Hey, I figured I wasn’t going to get the chance to ask this again. You and me,” Simon said. “We’re pretty tight, aren’t we?” Jace looked at him for a moment, face very still, and then bounded to his feet and said: “Absolutely. We’re like this.” He crossed two of his fingers together. “Actually, we’re more like this.” He tried to cross them again. “We had a little bit of initial tension, as you may later recall, but that was all cleared up when you came to me and confessed that you were struggling with your feelings of intense jealousy over my—these were your words—stunning good looks and irresistible charm.” “Did I,” said Simon. Jace clapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, buddy. I remember it clearly.” “Okay, whatever. The thing is … Alec’s always really quiet around me,” Simon said. “Is he just shy, or did I tick him off and I don’t remember it? I wouldn’t like to go away without trying to make things right.” Jace’s expression took on that peculiar stillness again. “I’m glad you asked me that,” he said finally. “There is something more going on. The girls didn’t want me to tell you, but the truth is—

Let’s take it slow because some of the good things in life are worthy of reverence and appreciation. Let’s take it slow because what we have is like a cross-country ride, where all the breathtaking scenes must be breathed in and stared at with wonder. Let’s take it slow because getting to know you is like a trip to a museum where things, both wonderful and gruesome, are waiting to be discovered. Let’s take it slow because some things are best done at a leisurely pace — the slow dance, the first kiss, making love.

Over the roar of our motor, we catch snippets of radio hits blasting off the boats we pass: Taylor Swift’s “Cruel Summer” and Sheryl Crow’s “Soak Up the Sun” and Otis Redding’s “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay.

forget so many details of our life. Weeks and months where events, moments, banal and meaningful, blur and then dissipate. And then there are the snippets that live on, forever sharp and alive, always there, waiting to be replayed. I

I want you to tell me that you feel the same way for me. And I’d like you to tell me those feelings are worth it. I’d like you to say I’m worth it.

Let's face it -- if I could scrap in a full-length bodysuit, I would.

dishes piled in the sink, books littering the coffee table— are harder than others. Today, my head is packed with cockroaches, dizziness, and everywhere it hurts. Venom in the jaw, behind the eyes, between the blades. Still, the dog is snoring on my right, the cat, on my left. Outside, all those redbuds are just getting good. I tell a friend, The body is so body. And she nods. I used to like the darkest stories, the bleak snippets someone would toss out about just how bad it could get. My stepfather told me a story about when he lived on the streets as a kid, how hed, some nights, sleep under the grill at a fast food restaurant until both he and his buddy got fired. I used to like that story for some reason, something in me that believed in overcoming. But right now all I want is a story about human kindness, the way once, when I couldn’t stop crying because I was fifteen and heartbroken, he came in and made me eat a small pizza he’d cut up into tiny bites until the tears stopped. Maybe I was just hungry, I said. And he nodded, holding out the last piece.

It is an age lurching along the lip of a dark precipice, peeking fearfully into chaos's empty eyes, enrapt, like a giddy rat trying to stare down a hungry cobra. The gods are restless, tossing and turning and wakening in snippets to conspire at mischief. Their bastard offspring, the hundred million spirits of rock and brook and tree, of place and time and emotion, find old constraints are rotting. The Postern of Fate stands ajar. The world faces an age of fear, of conflict, of grand sorcery, of great change, and of greater despair amongst mortal men. And the cliffs of ice creep forward. Great kings walk the earth. They cannot help but collide. Great ideas sweep back and forth aross the face of a habitable world that is shrinking. Those cannot help but fire hatred and fear amongst adherents of dogmas and doctrines under increasing pressure. As always, those who do the world's work most dearly pay the price of the world's pain.

To Vic and other kids his age, the past didn't exist except as a quick, oversimplified Wikipedia snippets, that ultimately didn't matter because they weren't now. Dolores wonders if that is all she really is, a little piece of now, relentlessly pushed forward by time, trying desperately to look back over her shoulder to see what the past could possibly tell her, but caught in a rush that refused to stand still long enough for her to hear what it had to say.

I know that sometimes things should be left in the past, that knowing isn't always better. Sometimes the truth is so horrible that it must be uncovered in bits and pieces, snippets here and there, absorbed slowly, as the whole of it at once is simply too shocking to bear. And sometimes the truth changes everything...

Jem leaned closer against the chair, staring into the fire. “Better it were my hands,” he said. Will shook his head. Exhaustion was muting the edges of everything in the room, blurring the flocked wallpaper into a single mass of dark color. “No. Not your hands. You need your hands for the violin. What do I need mine for?

I barely registered moving into the long gallery, one hand absentmindedly wrapping around my throat as I looked up at the paintings. So many, so different, yet all arranged to flow together seamlessly... Such different views and snippets and angles of the world. Pastorals, portraits, still lifes . . . each a story and an experience, each a voice shouting or whispering or singing about what that moment, that feeling, had been like, each a cry into the void of time that they had been here, had existed. Some had been painted through eyes like mine, artists who saw in colors and shapes I understood. Some showcased colors I had not considered; these had a bend to the world that told me a different set of eyes had painted them. A portal into the mind of a creature so unlike me, and yet . . . and yet I looked at its work and understood, and felt, and cared.

As our ship tumbled, free-falling through the eye of a saltwater cyclone, the nine giant maidens spiraled around us, weaving in and out of the tempest so they appeared to drown over and over again. Their faces contorted in anger and glee. Their long hair lashed us with icy spray. Each time they emerged, they wailed and shrieked, but it wasn’t just random noise. Their screams had a tonal quality, like a chorus of whale songs played through heavy feedback. I even caught snippets of lyrics: boiling mead...wave daughters...death for you! It reminded me of the first time Halfborn Gunderson played Norwegian black metal for me. After a few bars, it dawned on me...Oh, wait. That’s supposed to be music!

Let’s take it slow because I’d like each moment we share to be etched in my memory. And I’d like these memories to make me smile wistfully someday. Let’s take it slow because I’m keeping a journal of our journey, and someday I’ll turn it into a book. I’d like our story to be rich in detail, and full of laughter and intriguing conversations. Let’s take it slow because all my life, I’ve always rushed into so many things, and they were all mistakes — I’d like you to be one of those things I’m going to do right. You deserve that much.

My name is Wind. And Rain. And Bone and Dust. My name is a snippet of a half-remembered song... I have no name... I am whoever the keepers of my fate tell me to be.

Mapping of Me You my love ~ are my cartographer… Drawing lines about my heart ~ (snippet of muse)

The great library that Google is rushing to create shouldn’t be confused with the libraries we’ve known up until now. It’s not a library of books. It’s a library of snippets.

All that wild charisma and wanderlust. But a poem can’t do its work if you only read snippets of it.

At best, we base our thinking on disconnected facts or snippets of scientific knowledge uninformed by a broader evolutionary perspective.

The 8 Snippets feed hungry hearts with love, learning and laughter.

Life is nothing more than a series of lyric snippets from Bruce Springsteen songs.

Out of silence I begin to hear the voices of characters whispering snippets of a story to me.

Even the blind man can see the beauty as it rides upon the sound of a voice, edge itself between the lines on his fingerprints to be spread upon the smooth snippets of life he touches.

Now that reading and writing are universal accomplishments, books are not bought so freely as they were about 1820. . . . [I]n fact, book-buying does not increase in proportion with the power of reading printed matter. People prefer periodical trash, snippets of twaddle. [February 1894, editor's introduction to Dana Estes & Company's The Betrothed, by Sir Walter Scott]

This book is a wonderful, refreshing, collection of thoughts. Remember, I am only here to guide, the words are the writer’s, not mine. Succinct snippets of wisdom, purely delightful to read.

That was exactly what Tabucchi was suggesting in his title – that we can pass right by something very important: love, a job, moving to another city or another country. Or another life. ‘Pass by’ and at the same time be ‘so close’ that sometimes, while in that state of melancholy that is akin to hypnosis, we can, in spite of everything, manage to grab little fragments of what might have been. Like catching snatches of a far-off radio frequency. The message is obscure, yet by listening carefully you can still catch snippets of the soundtrack of the life that never was. You hear sentences that were never actually said, you hear footsteps echoing in places you’ve never been to, you can make out the surf on a beach whose sand you have never touched. You hear the laughter and loving words of a woman though nothing ever happened between you. The idea of an affair with her had crossed your mind. Perhaps she would have liked that – probably in fact – but nothing ever happened. For some unknown reason, we never gave in to the exquisite vertigo that you feel when you move those few centimetres towards the face of the other for the first kiss. We passed by, we passed so close that something of the experience remains.

A book is a coffin because it holds a body, sometimes more than one, and we readers are there to witness, mourn, and celebrate. I like the idea of people (Yes, you. Hi, there!), no matter how small the number, lifting and carrying this casket for a time, honoring it with their attention, experience, memory, and melancholic wonder at what was, at what might be. When you put it down, when you stop carrying it, you'll move on, like you must. And who knows, perhaps years later a snippet of the book's memory will unexpectedly alight and linger; a memory of a time and place and of the person you once were, if you allow it.

I want to do Sunday brunch. I want to make love when it’s raining. I want to kiss when I wake up. I want to hold hands and never, ever, ever, let go. I want to do all of these. I want to do all of these with you.

On the fifth night of our search, I see a plesiosaur. It is a megawatt behemoth, bronze and blue-white, streaking across the sea floor like a torpid comet. Watching it, I get this primordial deja vu, like I'm watching a dream return to my body. It wings towards me with a slow, avian grace. Its long neck is arced in an S-shaped curve; its lizard body is the size of Granana's carport. Each of its ghost flippers pinwheels colored light. I try to swim out of its path, but the thing's too big to avoid. That Leviathan fin, it shivers right through me. It's a light in my belly, cold and familiar. And I flash back to a snippet from school, a line from a poem or a science book, I can't remember which: 'There are certain prehistoric things that swim beyond extinction'.

dissected a life’s worth of interactions with Ruby, searching for clues, for some logical explanation as to why I felt so very disliked by the woman who gave birth to me. My mind drifted to the comments I’d read online about myself; words of strangers on YouTube who thought they knew me based on carefully edited snippets of my life. “Ugh, Shari is such a kiss-ass. She’s always ratting out her siblings and trying to be Ruby’s favorite. So smug.

All we can do is trust those that we encounter on our journey through life - the parents and children, the partners and siblings, the friends and colleagues - will transmit little pieces of us, from the snippets we taught and the things we said to the smallest inventions of our own making, through the generations, keeping the flame of our memory alive long after our bodies have died. And that this, after all, is life's great immortality project.

He loves me. But I love you. But you love her. It’s always that way, isn’t it? You’re willing to wait for her just like I’m willing to wait for you… just like he’s willing to wait for me. Someday, we all might turn around and realize what we had in front of us all along. Someday, we might not. But until then, we’re all stuck at waiting.

I take the tiniest of steps back and reach out to place my hand in his. When I do, it’s exactly as I thought – electrifying. Game face, Veronica, game face. I smile as if he has no effect on me at all. I know this works when I am doing my job. I don’t know if it will work for him, but here it goes. “Veronica Johnson,” I confidently reply. He just stands there for a moment grinning. It’s as if he’s happy that I seem unphased by him. I am definitely not used to the reaction he is giving me. Joe’s reaction, now that was the typical reaction. But, this? What the hell is this?

If you are lying in bed Under the sheets next to me Then who is coming upstairs Who can the intruder be Question - How you moved so fast From the TV room to here? Must have skipped brushing your teeth Then, what are the sounds I hear?

The tiny fragments of euphoria, the nanoscopic snippets of our lives that we package safely in a nook of our brain, where they linger, patiently, ready to be recalled upon for us to reflect on with love. They are often the little things,

In the dark places of yourself, thinking machines you never get near enough to see are constantly building things and running their own secretive programmes all of their own. Maybe you get a snippet of what's going on back there, like this fragment of a song drifting its way into the light, or a phrase, or an image, or maybe just a mood, a wash of content of a bleak draining of colour that floods your chest and your stomach more than it ever finds its way into the bight halogen chrome of your mind.

I have a lifetime of learning ahead of me. I apply many of the things I learned in school, but I’ve forgotten most. Random snippets of the rules come back to me, at times, but my mind will eventually eradicate them all, relearn them, and reinvent them.

A place has a curious quality when you have only a partial understanding of its language, and in those early months the sensation was especially peculiar. At first I moved in a cloud of unknowing, the speech around me impenetrable, but it quickly grew less elusive as I began to understand single words and then phrases and now even snippets of conversation. On occasion, I found myself stumbling into situations more intimate than I would have liked, the city was no longer the innocent place it had been when I arrived.

They behaved in ways that celebrated decadence and ambition, and the passions and feuds of their personal lives thrilled Euryale. Hungry for snippets of their hierarchical melodramas, she consumed the gossip and obsessed over their increasingly tangled relations.

She had brief snippets where she could see herself through his eyes. And there was so much beauty there it brought her to tears. All her life she’d felt like an elephant lumbering among delicate things. But in his honest gaze, she was no longer the elephant. She was the swan.

Darquesse is the sorcerer who destroys the world," Finbar said. "And I mean she levels it. I've seen cities flattened, like a nuke had gone off. Everything's burning. I see little snippets as it happens. This woman in black... Mevolent was nothing compared to this kind of evil.

The memories of the past circle around me—a reminder of a time when my marriage was stronger than circumstance. I pass through the years like snippets of a film reel until I am moments away from the day he told me about Stacey. With the recollection, the pain comes flooding back.

For a moment, she thought she was crying too. But then she realised she was just humming. Finally, she could hear the farm. A snippet of a song played in her head. One of the songs she always heard blasting over the farm’s loudspeakers. A song about summer days under the sun. She could really hear it. She could feel the warm, sultry air on her skin, and she wasn’t cold anymore. The air was always yellow at the farm. Golden yellow.

I promised myself that I will not cry over you. We are nothing. I thought we had something, but you know, maybe it really was nothing. I have feelings for you and you clearly can’t reciprocate so– why would I waste my time feeling bothered by how obvious that you still haven’t moved on from her. It’s a vicious cycle, this predicament we’re in now. I don’t know what you see in her, and I honestly don’t know what I see in you. Love is fucking blind and it’s stupid.

Snippets of memories, fragments of conversations. When you’re living it, you can’t see how it all fits together, or how it’s all going to end. But here, in this space, all your days line up like pearls on a string, each one leading to the next. You get to touch them, live them one last time and finally understand.

All at once, because life’s too short and it’s always like magic when you find a good thing. All at once, because I’m much too wise to not know that lightning can’t really hit the same spot twice when it comes. All at once because right now, surrendering to irrationality seems to be the only thing that makes sense.

It is perhaps one of those imponderables of life that many people declare their dislike for poetry, yet it surrounds us in the lyrics of the songs and hymns we love, the catchy advertising jingles, in picture books, and remembered snippets from Shakespeare or remembered and much loved verses. " Jeanette O'Hagan 1 May 2017

But why bother, in this day and age- Zenia herself would say- with such a quixotic notion as truth? Every sober-sided history is at least half sleight-of-hand: the right hand waving its poor snippets of fact, out in the open for all to verify, while the left hand busies itself with its own devious agendas, deep in its hidden pockets.

I believe the reasons we hang on to seemingly insignificant snippets of conversation, the smell of a particular pizza delivered by a particular guy, the shape of certain shadows on a particular wall, is that there may come a day when we are sitting in a hospital room visiting our mother as she lies on an uncomfortable bed, still recovering. And we are asking her questions and feeling nervous about what the doctor has said could be permanent damage caused by a blood clot the size of a pinpoint and we don't know if the way she is struggling to find the right words is a temporary exhaustion or the new reality and all we want to do is tell her we love her in a language no one has used before because we mean it in a way that no one has meant it before. And this will be a difficult time for us. But then, in a break between the words, a commercial may come on the small television hung up in the corner of the room that we did not even know was playing. It may advertise some new drug, some insurance plan, and our mother will smile at the voice of the handsome actor standing in front of a green screen. She will then close her eyes and squeeze our hand, the one that she has been holding since we walked in, and say, "Oh, I used to have such a crush on him." When she does this, our memory will be waiting. Yes, yes, yes. It is love that we feel here. This is the purpose of memory.

You spent enough time working with computers, and the Internet became a second home. A refuge. A place to share ideas, trade snippets of code, and meet people who shared your interest in the extralegal applications of programming. Could such a person live without the Internet? He supposed it was possible. Yes, a voice countered, but was it probable?

He need not listen to them all in that one little snippet which we call ten-thirty. Ten-thirty—and every other moment from the beginning of the world—is always the Present for Him.

It’s funny how you can have a broken heart while you’re still with someone that you’re madly in love with. Life fucks us hard like that.

You don’t know me well enough to be confident that I wouldn’t be able to live without you. I survived almost two decades of ignoring the fuck out of you, I can survive plenty more.

Love is a bonfire. It’s every kind word. It’s every sincere apology. It’s every compromise.

being together… it will never be right. Thought it sure as hell feels like it could. We’d result to train wrecks. We’d cause whirlwinds. We’d start wildfires.

Love is a spark. It’s the smile that says come to me. It’s the flirty hello. It’s the scent of her perfume. It’s his new haircut. It’s the look that ignites a dozen possibilities. - Set on Fire

No matter how you choose to record snippets of information about your progress and achievements, the important bit is to draw on them regularly to feed your self-confidence. Reading about them—and recalling each event—can help you overcome doubt-filled moments. The key point is that you ensure that your self-confidence is secured to controllable preparation and milestone achievements.

Portland was a dream both in the literal sense and the metaphorical sense, both tangible and not - a fleeting affair you want to hold on to but can't, so you try memorizing her every detail only to fail to do so in the consumption, in the savoring, in the absorbing of yourself into her. When she's gone, she comes to you in snippets, replaying in your mind like a fragmented picture show.

Morphine addicts, also called morphinomaniacs, were oftentimes wealthy women being treated for all sorts of ailments. When heroin came on the market at the end of the century, it was thought not to be addictive. The original manufacturer was Bayer (as in the Bayer that makes aspirin today). These snippets of medical history were both fascinating and sadly still timely, given our opioid addiction crisis today.

Oh, the middle third of the U.S.!” Leo spread his arms. “Piece of torta, then. We’ll just search the entire middle of the country!” “Still with the sarcasm,” Percy noted. “Hey, man, I’ve sailed with the most sarcastic scalawags on the high seas.” The two gave each other a high five, though I did not quite understand why. I thought about a snippet of prophecy I’d heard in the grove: something about Indiana. It might be a place to start….

The human touch is that little snippet of physical affection that brings a bit of comfort, support, and kindness. It doesn’t take much from the one who gives it, but can make a huge difference in the one who receives it.

We all have good and evil inside us. It comes and goes. Some of us dip our heads too far in the dark, and some only have snippets of bad thoughts clouding our heads from time to time. For instance, it may cross your mind to pull down the window and verbally abuse the reckless driver next to you in a rare episode of road rage. But it just subsides and you don’t give in to it, once you remind yourself that being good is a choice, not a gene.” “Stop

had a television set until I sold it at the height of the Vietnam War. Those sanitized snippets of death—made distant by the camera’s lens—meant nothing to me. But I believe it meant something to these cattle which surround me. When the war and the nightly televised body counts ended, they demanded more, more, and the movie screens and streets of this sweet and dying nation have provided it in mediocre, mob abundance. It is an addiction I know well.

Some former POWs became almost feral with rage. For many men, seeing an Asian person or overhearing a snippet of Japanese left them shaking, weeping, enraged, or lost in flashbacks. One former POW, normally gentle and quiet, spat at every Asian person he saw. At Letterman General Hospital just after the war, four former POWs tried to attack a staffer who was of Japanese ancestry, not knowing that he was an American veteran. Troubled former POWs found nowhere to turn.

I've always believed in the Nero Wolfe theory of knowledge. You can just sit quietly in your room - according to Pascal, the activity that if practiced more assiduously would free humanity from most of its troubles, but that was before e-mail - and through sheer mental effort force the tiniest snippets of information to yield the entire story of which they are a fragment, because the whole truth is contained in every particle of it, the way every human cell contains our DNA.

Love is a flame. It’s when you get to know each other again. It’s the fights that will follow your first. It’s you finding another reason to fall in love with each other. It’s both of you never getting tired of swaying to your first dance’s song.

Sometimes I felt like I was addicted to stories, and I was giving normal people a chance to get theirs out there, even if it was just a fraction of them, even if it was just a snippet in a notebook that would never make it into the world at large.

A small segment of DNA that encodes a gene is transcribed into a snippet of RNA, which then travels to the manufacturing region of the cell. There this “messenger RNA” facilitates the assembly of the proper sequence of amino acids to make a specified protein.

I need this to last forever. This snippet. This fleeting moment when the entire world has disappeared. There are no darkbloods and clearbloods, no dragons, no wars and no bloodlust. There is only me and him, stripped of our titles and our histories. Pure. Burning.

We have all the tools to build our societies anew, reform our ways of thinking, fix the inequalities and end the discriminations, and choose earnest wisdom over snippets of information, choose empathy over hatred, choose humanism over tribalism, yet we don't have much time or room for error while we are losing our planet, our only home, After the pandemic, we won't go back to the way things were before. And we shouldn't. 'What we call the beginning is often the end...The end is where we start from' (~T.S.Eliot, Little Gidding)

Listen carefully, for I will recite this only once: There's three parts herb, and two parts tree, a snippet of golden bough, and a bit of the enemy; combine with sacred alicorn, under the light of a sentry stone, brewed in the blood of Brume, by maiden, mother and crone.

There's no such thing as a bad idea - only an idea that isn't fully formed, fully realized. The great ones find a way of holding on to these little half-formed snippets of art and truth and moment and find a way to slow them in when the time is right, when the thought is finished. Some songs, they're like fine wine, or a bourbon that still needs to age. Sip from that glass too soon, and you won't taste the full effect. Best to let it sit until the right moment - to let it breathe ... until all these moving parts come together in just the right way.

Time is sacred. Or at least that is what we are led to believe. There isn’t an entity in existence, immortal or otherwise, that isn’t intimidated by its relentless march. Each moment is cruelly hauled into the past without chance of salvage, with us standing by as mere spectators, glimpsing the train as it barrels through, condemned to snippets and never the whole. But perhaps it is this transience that makes a moment so precious, maybe if it were otherwise, we’d exist without meaning. Time is our bittersweet shadow, giving us life as it takes it away.

Out of necessity, Lewis accepted Margaret C. Finnegan as his companion. From the start, Lewis did not care for her personality - at all. Margaret would not answer to anything but Margaret C. Finnegan in full, because her name was all she had left of her parents. Also, she talked constantly. And if Margaret wasn't talking, she was singing, and to Lewis's complete vexation, the only songs in her repertoire were snippets of three hits from the early 2000s ("Bootylicious," "Get Ur Freak On," and "Hot in Herre"), as well as Avril Lavigne's first two albums, which she knew by heart.

Consider, Maldacena says, a stack of three-branes, so closely spaced that they appear as a single monolithic slab-Figure 9.4-and study the behavior of strings moving in this environment. You'll recall that there are two types of strings-open snippets and closed loops-and that the end-points of open strings can move within and through branes but not off them, while closed strings have no ends and so can move freely through the entire spatial expanse. In the jargon of the field, we say that while open strings are confined to the branes, closed strings can move through the bulk of space.

From: Ollie-O To: Prospective Parent Brunch Committee Crisis. Enormous billboard hovering over Audrey’s house. Erected overnight by crazy neighbor. (Fellow Galer Street parent?) Audrey hysterical. Husband calling city attorney. I don’t do black swan. * From: Helen Derwood, PhD To: Galer Street Kindergarten Parents Cc: Galer Street All-School List Dear Parents, I assume your little ones have told you snippets about the shocking events at today’s brunch. No doubt you are concerned and confused. As the only kindergarten parent in attendance, I’ve been inundated with phone calls asking what really happened.

Maybe at the end of our lives we get a Ferris-Wheel vantage of the whole tapestry, the quilt laid flat, answering for its complexity. At the beginning we’re handed frayed and stained flowery bed sheets, a scrap of polka-dots, a snatch of strawberry print. Tattered as they are, there’s some sustaining sweetness in there. The oldest pioneer quilts conceal bits of paper batting between their threadbare layers: postcards, recipes, clipped snippets of newspaper poetry. Every spare material had a part to play, fragments of experience and feeling arranged in a repeating pattern, little sewn sound bytes spinning ordered fractals.

A search engine often draws our attention to a particular snippet of text, a few words or sentences that have strong relevance to whatever we're searching for at the moment, while providing little incentive for taking in the work as a whole. We don't see the forest when we search the Web. We don't even see the trees. We see twigs and leaves.

In less than an hour, Sophia had efficiently arranged and copied the notes in a neat hand that would delight the printer to no end. She was so quiet and economical in her movements that Ross would have forgotten she was there, except that her scent filtered through the air. It was a tantalizing distraction that he could not dismiss. Breathing deeply, he tried to identify the fragrance. He detected tea and vanilla, blended with the elixir of warm female skin. Stealing glances at her delicate profile, he was fascinated by the way the light moved over her hair. She had small ears, a sharply defined chin, a soft snippet of a nose, and eyelashes that cast spiky shadows on her cheeks.

Let me first establish—on your behalf—feelings of animosity and disgust at the mendacity inherent in this concept of "cartoon." Whenever someone hits you with a conversational shot that is crude or is intended to hurt, and you bristle, the shooter quickly throws up his/her hands and tries to get you to believe, "I was only kidding. It was all in fun. Boy, are you overreacting. You musn't take it seriously, it was just a joke." Well, we know it wasn't any such thing. It was a snippet of truth slipping past the cultural safeguards that keep us dealing with one another with civility. It was for real. Similarly, when such films as Streets of Fire and Gremlins and Temple of Doom are made, we are expected to take them seriously enough to plonk down five bucks for a ticket. When they fail to deliver what they've promised in all those tv clips, and we express our anger at having been fleeced, the shooters tell us we're overreacting and we should feel a lot better about losing our five or ten or whatever amount they got out of us, because it was all a gag. I wonder how well they'd take the gag if we paid for the tickets with counterfeit bills. Or pried open the firedoor at the theater and sneaked in with the entire Duke University Marching Band. "It was all a joke, fellahs; don't take it so seriously; gawd, are you overreacting!" No, they cannot have that cake and eat it, too.

When Flora was a young girl she used to try to "fix" moments in her memory. The notion that years of her life would pass and she would only remember snippets, seconds of the whole, distressed her. She came up with a plan and at various times-walking home from school or out with friends or just sitting at her desk she would think: This. Remember this.

Worse and somehow embarrassing affair are "ghost" dreams, from which the dreamer only remembers fragments, and very short snippets of events, after which the next morning is left only a vague feeling of a messaged received. If the "ghost" is repeated several times, it is certain that it is a dream which is important for some reason. Then the dreamer, through concentration and auto-suggestion tries to force the dream again, this time a more specific "ghost". The best result are to force oneself to dream again immediately after waking up - called "hooking". If the dream does not produce a "hook" they try and produce a vision during one of the following session by concentration and meditation prior to going to sleep. Such pressure programming is called "anchoring".

Some notable people turned to writing in order to examine their life, assign meaning to their experiences, and by doing so shared with other people a beautiful rendering of what it means to be human. Can I temper the blows of life by recognizing loose snippets of life as chapters in an unfurling story? Should I take into consideration that suffering births all meaningful things in life? Alternatively, is the ability to experience and communicate joy what makes human life wonderful? What connective thread ties me to the broadcloth of other people’s stories? Do other people share stitches of raveled threads of loneliness and despair? Do other people know a secret verse to living joylessly and splendidly that eludes me? Do other people share my most profound ache to love?

Then he thinks that there should be a place in every town where people could put rescued or found things. Not just objects, but snippets of forgotten languages, or misused time – an hour that can never be lived again. It would be a place where lost faiths could be collected, as well as keys, gloves and love letters never sent. Here you could find extinct animals and old wives’ tales vanished in history; a whole shelf of unfinished songs, discontinued books, deleted texts. It would be a safe for fleeting emotions – the first flush of love, or a particular scent on a sunny day that is never savoured again. Among the dog leads, phones and hats, there would be babies hoped for and lost. All this would be remembered: missed opportunities, mislaid friends, the smile of a wife. It would be a place for lost things.

My older brother, Nodin, remembers more than I do. But I have something he doesn’t. I have the dream. A snippet of life before our adoption; a single event played over and over while I sleep. Hundreds of times, I’ve woken up with a scream in my throat and a name on my lips. The dream is always the same. Pounding drums. A tribe surrounding a fire. A night that starts as a celebration but ends in panic and chaos.

Don’t get me wrong. For the most part, being strong got me through a lot. And I’m thankful that short of people dying on me, nothing can make me break down. There are times, however, when being strong feels a bit of a curse. You see, when you’re a very strong person, people always expect you to take care of yourself. People always expect you to put on a calm and collected exterior. You’re not given much room to freak out and be human.

Rosie’s heart swelled with pride. She had poured her heart, her soul, and her life savings into this venture. Rosie had spent hours painstakingly deliberating over every inch of the shop. Her past life as an interior designer meant she knew just how to make the shop into the welcoming time capsule that made her heart soar every time she stepped inside. There was a herringbone floor, finished with a walnut stain, which was complimented by the dark wallpaper adorning the walls, covered with floral blooms in muted pinks, blues, yellows, oranges, and whites. It was dramatic - the perfect backdrop to selling snippets of people’s lives. Velvet pink lampshades with tassels hanging from the ceiling flooded the shop with light. Rosie had displayed the vintage clothes, jewellery, shoes, bags, and accessories in several ways. From shelves made of driftwood, an up-cycled antique sideboard, and brass clothes rails.

To whom am I telling this story? It isn’t of course to you, my God, but in your presence I’m telling it to my race, the human race, however minute a snippet out of that might stumble on my writing, such as it is. And what’s the story’s purpose? Obviously, it’s so that I and whoever reads this can contemplate from what depths we must cry out to you.*8 But what’s closer to your ears, if the heart humbles itself in confession and the life is lived in faith?

The job of judging this shy, rejected young woman has fallen on your shoulders, but you must base that judgment on the facts presented in this case, in this courtroom, not on rumors or feelings from the past twenty-four years. “What are the true and solid facts?” Just as with the prosecution, Kya’s mind caught only snippets. “. . . the prosecution has not even proved that this incident was indeed a murder and not simply a tragic accident. No murder weapon, no wounds from being pushed, no witnesses, no fingerprints . . .

Well, if it’s helped, that’s great, but I wouldn’t advise you to use every snippet I said to you as a child in your adult life. Half the time, I was throwing stuff at the wall in the hopes it would keep you balanced and well-grounded in that school full of toxic assholes.” “What?” “I hate to admit this, but I don’t know everything.” Sonya drained her glass of whiskey in one shot and made a face. “Do you have any idea what it’s like, to be the mother of a prodigy? To know your child is brilliant and destined for greatness but will still have to work four times as hard as people with a fraction of her intelligence? I was furious when your classmates were rough on you, but I figured my job was to keep you calm and focused and not let you lose this opportunity. I couldn’t let you be angry, or at the very least, I couldn’t let you show that anger. Because then you would be that angry Black girl, and everyone would dismiss your intelligence or worse, suppress everything that makes you you. So I—” She stopped, and inhaled sharply. “I guess I suppressed you. My God. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.

A book is a coffin because it holds a body, sometimes more than one, and we readers are there to witness, mourn, and celebrate. I like the idea of people (Yes, you. Hi, there!), no matter how small the number, lifting and carrying this casket for a time, honoring it with their attention, experience, memory, and melancholic wonder at what was, at what might be. When you put it down, when you stop carrying it, you'll move on, like you must. And who knows, perhaps years later a snippet of the book's memory will unexpctedly alight and linger; a memory of a time and place and of the person you once were, if you allow it.

The three thousand miles in distance he put between himself and Emma tonight is nothing compared with the enormous chasm separating them when they sit next to each other in calculus. Emma's ability to overlook his existence is a gift-but not one that Poseidon handed down. Rachel insists this gift is uniquely a female trait, regardless of the species. Since their breakup, Emma seems to be the only female utilizing this particular gift. Even Rayna could learn a few lessons from Emma in the art of torturing a smitten male. Smitten? More like fanatical. He shakes his head in disgust. Why couldn't I just sift when I turned of age? Why couldn't I find a suitable mild-tempered female to mate with? Live a peaceful life, produce offspring, grow old, and watch my own fingerlings have fingerlings someday? He searches through his mind for someone he might have missed in the past. For a face he overlooked before but could now look forward to every day. For a docile female who would be honored to mate with a Triton prince-instead of a temperamental siren who mocks his title at every opportunity. He scours his memory for a sweet-natured Syrena who would take care of him, who would do whatever he asked, who would never argue with him. Not some human-raised snippet who stomps her foot when she doesn't get her way, listens to him only when it suits some secret purpose she has, or shoves a handful of chocolate mints down his throat if he lets his guard down. Not some white-haired angelfish whose eyes melt him into a puddle, whose blush is more beautiful than sunrise, and whose lips send heat ripping through him like a mine explosion. He sighs as Emma's face eclipses hundreds of mate-worthy Syrena. That's just one more quality I'll have to add to the list: someone who won't mind being second best. His just locks as he catches a glimpse of his shadow beneath him, cast by slithers of sterling moonlight. Since it's close to three a.m. here, he's comfortable walking around without the inconvenience of clothes, but sitting on the rocky shore in the raw is less than appealing. And it doesn't matter which Jersey shore he sits on, he can't escape the moon that connects them both-and reminds him of Emma's hair. Hovering in the shallows, he stares up at it in resentment, knowing the moon reminds him of something else he can' escape-his conscience. If only he could shirk his responsibilities, his loyalty to his family, his loyalty to his people. If only he could change everything about himself, he could steal Emma away and never look back-that is, if she'll ever talk to him again.

I’d never coded before, and I’d always thought games were huge undertakings by thousands of people in a big studio. Little did I know that a major part of coding involves Googling to find documentation, code snippets, and communities that help people fix common problems. Free information and guidance aren’t limited to programming, either. The Open Source movement makes tremendous amounts of knowledge and resources available online for free, and some major universities are making classes available for free on the internet. It’s a shame that a lot of us use the internet only to talk shit in comments sections and check our email when we have the sum of human knowledge at our fingertips.

Obama occasionally pointed out that the post–Cold War moment was always going to be transitory. The rest of the world will accede to American leadership, but not dominance. I remember a snippet from a column around 9/11: America bestrides the world like a colossus. Did we? It was a story we told ourselves. Shock and awe. Regime change. Freedom on the march. A trillion dollars later, we couldn’t keep the electricity running in Baghdad. The Iraq War disturbed other countries—including U.S. allies—in its illogic and destruction, and accelerated a realignment of power and influence that was further advanced by the global financial crisis. By the time Obama took office, a global correction had already taken place. Russia was resisting American influence. China was throwing its weight around. Europeans were untangling a crisis in the Eurozone. Obama didn’t want to disengage from the world; he wanted to engage more. By limiting our military involvement in the Middle East, we’d be in a better position to husband our own resources and assert ourselves in more places, on more issues. To rebuild our economy at home. To help shape the future of the Asia Pacific and manage China’s rise. To open up places like Cuba and expand American influence in Africa and Latin America. To mobilize the world to deal with truly existential threats such as climate change, which is almost never discussed in debates about American national security.

I haven't told you anything, really. Just snippets. The same Leonid Andreev has a parable about a man who lived in Jerusalem, past whose house Christ was taken, and he saw and heard everything, but his tooth hurt. He watched Christ fall while carrying the cross, watched him fall and cry out. He saw all of this, but his tooth hurt, so he didn't run outside. Two days later, when his tooth stopped hurting, people told him Christ had risen, and he thought: 'I could have been a witness to it. But my tooth hurt.' Is that how it always is? My father defended Moscow in 1942. He only learned that he'd been part of a great event many years later, from books and films. His own memory of it was: 'I sat in a trench. Shot my rifle. Got buried by an explosion. They dug me out half-alive.' That's it. And back then, my wife left me.

My dear readers, I find myself perplexed by the phantoms that now inhabit our veins and perpetually whisper in our ears. These specters are always watching, their formless eyes casting judgement upon our every thought and action. They stalk us behind screens and within circuits, gathering each tidbit we release into the ether to build their ever-growing profiles of our souls. Through these ghastly portals, our lives have become performance. Each waking moment an opportunity to curate our images and broadcast our cleverness. Nuance has fled in favor of hashtag and like, while meaning has been diced into 280 characters or less. Substance is sacrificed at the altar of shareability, as we optimize each motive and emotion to become more digestible digital content. Authenticity now lives only in offline obscurity, while our online avatars march on endlessly, seeking validation through numbers rather than depth. What secrets remain unshared on these platforms of glass? What mysteries stay concealed behind profiles and pose? Have we traded intimacy for influence, and true understanding for audience engagement? I fear these shadow networks breed narcissism and foster loneliness, masked as connection. That the sum of a life’s joys and sorrows can now be reduced to a reel of carefully selected snippets says little of the richness that once was. So follow the phantoms that stalk you if you will, but do not forget that which still breathes beneath the screens. There you will find humanity, flawed but whole, beautiful in its imperfection and trajectory undefined by likes or loves. The lanterns may flicker and fade, but the darkness that remains has always held truth. Look deeper than the glow, and know that which can never be shared or measured, only felt. In mystery, Your friend, Edgar Allan Poe (Poe talking about social media)

A Letter to the Reader I thought my dog dying was going to kill me. If I’m being honest, I still think it, some days. Most days. If I’m being honest, I still think it every day. Soul-mutt. Best friend. Not everyone understands, or will. That’s fine. I’ve never been one to want to share in grief, never been one to share much of anything. Only child, writer. A dog removes itself from the pack to lick wounds clean. A dog goes off, alone, to die. But we all know it—a family member, a friend, the sudden glazing of the eyes, the feel of a heart stopping beneath our hand. Our souls and selves dropping pieces each time someone exits this earth. Our identities, foundations shaken. Even sometimes bulldozed to nothing. This one brought me to my knees. At the time of writing this note, I can honestly say, I have never felt anything like this. I am truly surprised it hasn’t killed me. I always knew Barghest was going to die. Barghest’s death was (with the deaths of the others) the worst thing I could think of, and my job as I see it is to explore all the worsts. And all the bests, too. This book, or more accurately, an early, now unrecognizable version of it, was the first thing I ever seriously wrote. It was also what got me started on this path of Writer. Someone read this early snippet and believed in it, in me. This was a story that I wanted to tell from day one, ideas that hounded me then and have for all the years since. It’s taken ten years, an education, all the events of a decade of life, and more drafts than I’d like to count for me to tell this story in a way that felt right. In a way that is (I hope) befitting of you, most precious reader. And these dogged questions of guilt, shame, faith have nipped at my heels through everything. Funny, how they always draw just enough blood to keep us from running full tilt. But now. In the wake of a loss that has shaken me more than any I’ve lived through before, in a moment in which I find myself, like Sophie, questioning everything, questioning what the point of being here is at all, I have to say, It all feels very human and very small to confine and bind ourselves to anything that seeks to diminish us. This world and universe and existence is so expansive and evolving, and we choose to let ourselves be crippled by someone else’s ideas. We share life with mortality. We will die. Everyone we love will die. We will all face the dark. Together, or separate. We just don’t know. There is no self-help book, no textbook, no how-to that can tell us, definitively, what comes after. By the time any of us has the answers, we won’t be here to write them. None of us knows, even if we think we do. But here is what I do know: We live with death. And horror chooses not to turn away from it. Horror looks the darkness in the eyes. Horror dances with the absence, the loss. Explores ways for us—you, the reader, and me—to take it in our arms and spin around together. Ways to embrace the centrifugal force that is human striving, human searching. Mortal life. Dogs die. Humans die. We live with it, whether we want to or not. But from choosing to look, choosing not to turn away, from our embrace in the darkness, I hope that guilt and shame and any idea invented to hold you down in this glorious, nearly blinding existence, will seem, at the end of it all, very, very small. You, and me, spinning too fast for them to catch us. Thank you for continuing on this journey with me. With my characters, who are of course, now yours. These questions and worlds that I humbly share with you. That now belong to you. And while we keep hurtling through the unknown, as we spin round and round, I want to say, Here’s to dancing, book by book, question by question, through this vast, shining existence. Together.

The room was two-tiered, its marble balconies filled with rams and water nymphs in fancy dress; a kaleidoscope of colours swayed in time to the beat of hypnotic music. A concerto of absent musicians, it played only in her mind. The numerous chandeliers with sculptured metal frames hung down from chains, with endless fireflies attached. At the far end stretched a grand staircase, dressed with a plush velvet carpet in deep cerise, and ceiling paintings edged with gold embossed dado rails clung to the walls. Then Eve honed in on herself and saw that she wore a crushed white taffeta A-line gown that fit her trim figure like a glove. Her butterfly mask with floral patterns embroidered in red and gold silk sat against her pale skin, her reflection like that of a porcelain doll. A matching shawl rested softly on her shoulders. Everything was so beautiful that she almost totally lost herself in the mirror’s reflection." (little snippet from our book)

Back in Russia, where they’re still getting acclimated to the whole capitalism thing, most TV advertising took a straightforward approach to persuasion. Thus, even though I don’t speak Russian, I had no trouble understanding Russian ads. They were all along the lines o: “Oh, no, there’s a stain on the tablecloth! What will Mom do? Thank goodness for this effective detergent!” Not so in Japan, where sophisticated consumers have grown bored with simple persuasion, forcing advertisers to get wildly inventive. Japanese TV ads have at this point evolved into an abstract mishmash of symbols and sounds. Your average thirty-second Japanese commercial is something like: Here’s a man holding a giraffe. Now the giraffe morphs into a rainbow. The rainbow is friends with a talking pencil, and they live together on a spaceship. A few seconds of laughter! A snippet of loud reggae music! Fad out. At least half the time, I have no idea what the product being advertised is or what it does. And yet I very much enjoy the ads. They’re like short-acting hallucinogens.

When he paused before a set of wooden doors, the slight smile he gave me was enough to make me blurt, 'Why do anything- anything this kind?' The smile faltered. 'It's been a long time since there was anyone here who appreciated these things. I like seeing them used again.' Especially when there was such blood and death in every other part of his life. He opened the gallery doors, and the breath was knocked from me. The pale wooden floors gleamed in the clean, bright light pouring in from the windows. The room was empty save for a few large chairs and benches for viewing the... the... I barely registered moving into the long gallery, one hand absent-mindedly wrapping around my throat as I looked up at the paintings. So many, so different, yet all arranged to flow together seamlessly. Such different views and snippets and angles of the world. Pastorals, portraits, still lifes... each a story and an experience, each a voice showing or whispering or singing about what that moment, that feeling had been like, each a cry into the void of time that they had been here, had existed. Some had been painted through eyes like mine, artists who saw in colours and shapes I understood. Some showcased colours I had not considered, these had a bend to the world that told me a different set of eyes had painted them. A portal into the mind of a creature so unlike me, and yet... and yet I looked at its work and understood, and felt, and cared. 'I never knew,' Tamlin said from behind me, 'that humans were capable of...' He trailed off as I turned, the hand I'd put on my throat sliding down to my chest, where my heart roared with a fierce sort of joy and grief and overwhelming humility- humility before that magnificent art. He stood by the doors, head cocked in that animalistic way, the words still lost on his tongue. I wiped at my damp cheeks. 'It's...' Perfect, wonderful, beyond my wildest imaginings didn't cover it. I kept my hand over my heart. 'Thank you,' I said. It was all I could find to show him what these paintings- to be allowed into this room- meant. 'Come here whenever you want.' I smiled at him, hardly able to contain the brightness in my heart. His returning smile was tentative but shining, and then he left me to admire the gallery at my own leisure. I stayed for hours- stayed until I was drunk on the art, until I was dizzy with hunger and wandered out to find food.

I didn’t think we were being quiet, particularly. High heels may have looked dainty, but they didn’t sound that way on a tile floor. Maybe it was just that my dad was so absorbed in the convo on his cell phone. For whatever reason, when we emerged from the kitchen into the den, he started, and he stuffed the phone down by his side in the cushions. I was sorry I’d startled him, but it really was comical to see this big blond manly man jump three feet off the sofa when he saw two teenage girls. I mean, it would have been funny if it weren’t so sad. Dad was a ferocious lawyer in court. Out of court, he was one of those Big Man on Campus types who shook hands with everybody from the mayor to the alleged ax murderer. A lot like Sean, actually. There were only two things Dad was afraid of. First, he wigged out when anything in the house was misplaced. I won’t even go into all the arguments we’d had about my room being a mess. They’d ended when I told him it was my room, and if he didn’t stop bugging me about it, I would put kitchen utensils in the wrong drawers, maybe even hide some (cue horror movie music). No spoons for you! Second, he was easily startled, and very pissed off afterward. “Damn it, Lori!” he hollered. “It’s great to see you too, loving father. Lo, I have brought my friend Tammy to witness out domestic bliss. She’s on the tennis team with me.” Actually, I was on the tennis team with her. “Hello, Tammy. It’s nice to meet you,” Dad said without getting up or shaking her hand or anything else he would normally do. While the two of them recited a few more snippets of polite nonsense, I watched my dad. From the angle of his body, I could tell he was protecting that cell phone behind the cushions. I nodded toward the hiding place. “Hot date?” I was totally kidding. I didn’t expect him to say, “When?” So I said, “Ever.” And then I realized I’d brought up a subject that I didn’t want to bring up, especially not while I was busy being self-absorbed. I clapped my hands. “Okay, then! Tammy and I are going upstairs very loudly, and after a few minutes we will come back down, ringing a cowbell. Please continue with your top secret phone convo.” I turned and headed for the stairs. Tammy followed me. I thought Dad might order me back, send Tammy out, and give me one of those lectures about my attitude (who, me?). But obviously he was chatting with Pamela Anderson and couldn’t wait for me to leave the room. Behind us, I heard him say, “I’m so sorry. I’m still here. Lori came in. Oh, yeah? I’d like to see you try.” “He seems jumpy,” Tammy whispered on the stairs. “Always,” I said. “Do you have a lot of explosions around your house?” I glanced at my watch. “Not this early.

Have a culminative look at just one snippet from Ipolit's famous "Necessary Explanation" in The Idiot: "Anyone who attacks individual charity," I began, "attacks human nature and casts contempt on personal dignity. But the organization of 'public charity' and the problem of individual freedom are two distinct questions, and not mutually exclusive. Individual kindness will always remain, because it is an individual impulse, the living impulse of one personality to exert a direct influence upon another....How can you tell, Bahmutov, what significance such an association of one personality with another may have on the destiny of those associated?" Can you imagine any of our own major novelists allowing a character to say stuff like this (not, mind you, just as hypocritical bombast so that some ironic hero can stick a pin in it, but as part of a ten-page monologue by somebody trying to decide whether to commit suicide)? The reason you can't is the reason he wouldn't: such a novelist would be, by our lights, pretentious and overwrought and silly. The straight presentation of such a speech in a Serious Novel today would provoke not outrage or invective, but worse-one raised eyebrow and a very cool smile. Maybe, if the novelist was really major, a dry bit of mockery in The New Yorker. The novelist would be (and this is our own age's truest vision of hell) laughed out of town.

May I? I would like you to remember something.” His hand accepts the flute. It’s not merely warm — it’s hot, like the places on the walls where someone has just written something important. The handprints are always hot, visible to the touch. The flute trembles and meanders in Blind’s hand, the dead wood follows the traces left by the live wood. Blind plays the song he had heard once, the one with the wind, the spiraling leaves, and the boy in the middle of the whirlwind, protected and vulnerable at the same time. Blind plays well, this is not the first time he has played this song. He re-creates all the nuances faithfully, and he can be proud of his performance. “What was that?” Humpback says. “You used to play this down in the yard. Remember?” Humpback shakes his head. They often respond like that to Blind, and only then check themselves and put their movements into words, but by that time it’s already unnecessary. “No, I don’t.” Blind plays another snippet, and Humpback’s aloof silence tells him that Humpback really does not recognize his own song. “Too many repetitions.” Blind doesn’t tell him that the repetitions are his, that they helped him weave the protective net, that it’s what the magic of monotony is about, completing the circle, doubling on itself until the end becomes the beginning, building an impenetrable wall around the player. The words remain unsaid as he hands back the flute. Other people’s songs have damaged Humpback, he can no longer do magic even when he lives in a tree.

I lived in isolation for all those years in high school. I only saw snippets of queer representation in small television roles. They were rarely played by people who looked like me. But it never to the extent that I ever gained the confidence to be that person. Thankfully, college opened my eyes to true reflections of myself—in literature, in art, in class beside me—not early on, but right on time. I realized that the things I had always been running from had never left my side. That the things I had been chasing were all just a myth to turn me into something, someone I didn’t want to be.

The Quran departs from Tanakh and the Bible in both format and literary structure. It is a single volume composed of what might be described as oral poetry that embeds snippets of stories, parables, liturgies, and laws. The text is broken into 114 suras (conventionally called "chapters") that are generally arranged in descending order of length. Each now bears a number (adopted from Western practice) and a name added later by Muslims.

Generation Z wants their calling to be unique to them. Stanford Researcher Roberta Katz analyzed millions of snippets of Gen Z online speech in a project called iGen Corpus. One of her main discoveries is that Gen Z emphasizes finding unique identities.

I'm trying to recall what she said to me that night. It was all rather confused. Nothing but snippets. And it's too late to find the details I'm missing now, or those that I've somehow forgotten.

Sometimes you can catch a whole worldview from a snippet of bar talk.

They wove them into the fabric of time, passing them down from generation to generation. Snippets of the story were passed down, too, with no one the wiser that they were vessels. Humming bits of Handel's Messiah to babes as they fell asleep. Naming pigs after the one who came before it, and before that, and before even that. Generations of pigs named Salt, nobody dreaming the name sprang from the sty of one of the finest warships ever to traverse the seas in the name of His Majesty the King.

I’m listening,” Russ says, clearing his throat and wrapping his arms around me. “Doesn’t your dad work at UCMH? Didn’t you tell me that when we first met? You don’t wanna play basketball with your brother, right?” “Oh, so you do listen to me then. First, he’s my stepdad—let’s not disrespect Big Phil by making him share dad status with that jackass. Dave has an obnoxious fucking job title; I can’t remember what they call him.” Xander snaps his fingers a few times as he tries to remember. “He’s head of athletics, but they don’t call him that.” Russ sits up so quickly he almost flings me into the fire. “Your stepdad is Skinner? Are you fucking kidding me? We have shared a room for ten weeks and you are just now telling me that your dad—” “Stepdad.” “—controls my entire college career?” “Skinner?” I say again. “Why does that sound fami—Oh my fucking God.” I’m dead. Nobody revive me. It’s over. I almost fall off Russ’s knee. “Is your brother Mason Wright?” “Stepbrother.” He swigs his beer without a care in the world. “You two are very animated suddenly. I share one snippet of information and suddenly you’re interested in something other than pawing at each other. Interesting.

The crowd Passing through the crowded places, Witnessing life’s contours appearing on unknown people’s faces, They all chase someone or something, Almost like seasons changing, Where spring chases the summer, summer chases the autumn, that loves to chase the winter, In crowded places life acts like seasons, sometimes in ways unfair and at times in ways fairer, Because few faces display real smiles, while many act to smile, It is obvious when they cant recognise their own reflections in mirrors, exuding their life’s snippets of million miles, As they go past me and I walk past a lot of these men and women. I feel a common thread of life with which we all are woven, It shows in their glances and it shows in my brief scans of their appearances, But they go past me and I walk past them to chase our own desires and our new chances, After a while the crowd forgets about me and I too forget everything about the crowd, A feeling of silence overcomes the scene and I can hear my own heart beats clear and loud, Then as I walk through the multitude of life’s representations, I feel I am walking towards some lesser known feelings, life’s new sensations, But the crowd does not stop moving or enjoy a moment of pause, Because everyone in the crowd has life’s contours to cross and fulfil fate’s daily clause, That needs them in the arena of life everyday, in the form of crowd that is always moving and sometimes winning and at times losing, But riding the life’s lure and its ocean of uncertainties the crowd relentlessly keeps cruising, How far will each one go and how long will each one last, Is what life wants to know, it is so today and it has been so in the past, That is why life invented crowds where it walks beside each one of them without being recognised, And it tried to evict me from the rhythm of the crowd because her presence I had realised, The crowd keeps getting bigger and the pacing steps never stop, It is autumn now, leaves are falling and many a flowers drop, But the true season of life can be witnessed in the movement of the crowd, Where you always have to move in some direction, whether you are someone who is hated or someone who is loved!

Little patch of perfect green grass. The front porch under the shadow of an old pine tree. On the mailbox, a last name he didn’t recognize. He put his hands on the picket fence. It was dusk. Lights just beginning to wink on in the houses all around him. The occasional snippet of conversation sliding through a raised window. The valley silent and cooling and the highest elevations of the surrounding mountains catching the last bit of daylight.

Like a person walking down a crowded street in a foreign city catching within earshot a snippet of her native tongue.

I will never forget standing in the middle of a historical home that is supposed to be home to a ghost that has a nasty attitude. The subflooring and some of the walls were exposed from the dilapidation of time, and on a night where winds were high, the sounds and atmosphere felt more like a movie set than they did reality. A couple of days before I had just written a farewell that I had never wanted to write, and my mind was interrogatively scouring the, "whys," of why there had to be a farewell? While standing there, not long before it was time for me to call it a night and conclude my overnight stay, while bathed in an empty sorrow, I felt a microsecond's calm from the grief. For a fleeting moment, I was grateful that I had been given the opportunity to show up and to put things to the measuring stick in the name of science. That seems to be my calling. Callings are not always the lives that we would choose on our own. That ever brief snippet of time was the closest thing I could find next to solace in the moment, if it was even in the proximity of solace, at all.

Many folk's troubles would be less Could they be brought to understand That oft they cause their own distress, And hold its cure in their own hand. ~ Snippet from The Faith Cure by A.G. SHIRREFF

Carl Sagan collected snippets of human experience on a golden record to communicate what life was all about. For him, life on earth was centered on us. Aldrin chose to celebrate the greatest dash ever lived, that of Jesus Christ. He wanted the world to know that in the midst of the pain and heartache, regret and trauma, frustration and anger, a Savior had intervened in the human story.

In high society, every snippet of information became a weapon, and every disclosure was a stepping stone to power. This mawkish jousting required a faintly distant attitude, vague responses, and easy compliments, all delivered with an unfaltering smile.

What happened to make you feel so indebted to this life?” he asked. It wasn’t the life—it was the man. Images of how Scott had taken care of me after my parents died when I was seventeen passed through me in snippets—the hours he’d spent sitting with me at the hospital long after they’d been pronounced dead. He’d kept everyone away from me until I had been ready to leave. He’d been my emotional container for the fits of rage that I had unleashed for years as I had struggled to process how I’d been robbed of so much.

There are moments in time that will stay with you forever. Little snippets of your life that your brain will capture and hang onto. Other moments will slip by in their insignificance, but some will hold so much sense and purpose to you that you can never let them go. The first time you fall in love, the first time your heart is broken, the first time you break a heart. It’s an endless loop of big moments that make up your life and the people you love. It’s those memories that will cling to you on your deathbed when you talk about your regrets.

Hey, hang on a minute. You came to me. What’s this about? I’ve been told by the folks at Age Concern not to give out any personal information. Just one snippet and the crooks can do all sorts.

What’s your name?” he asked above the roar of the music. She leaned close. “My name is Wind,” she whispered. “And Rain. And Bone and Dust. My name is a snippet of a half-remembered song.” He chuckled, a low, delightful sound. She was drunk, and silly, and so full of the glory of being young and alive and in the capital of the world that she could hardly contain herself. “I have no name,” she purred. “I am whoever the keepers of my fate tell me to be.” He grasped her by her wrist, running a thumb along the sensitive skin underneath. “Then let me call you Mine for a dance or two.

They know Grahamstown intimately, but in multi-coloured snippets, like posts on an Instagram feed that's only updated for two weeks every July.

As usual, Gish hadn’t done his homework or bothered to read more recent sources. The fact that he cited an out-of-context quotation from Weishampel et al. (1990) shows that he could apparently read a more authoritative source, but either he could not read well enough to also discover that the other transitional forms like Psittacosaurus are mentioned in the same chapter or his biases were so strong that he can only find short snippets that fit his prejudices.

You wear poetry in your eyes.

What do you think it was like to come from a life involving years of hardship and turmoil and boredom and danger and responsibility, and battlefields that stank of blood and mud and worse, with the screams of and groans of the injured and dying-some of them your men and your friends-ringing in your ears? And then the war is over and you come back and try to fit into a society where people are dressed in satin, silk and lace, smelling of perfumes and their most serious problem is deciding who to dance with. Or what to order for dinner. Or how to dress their hair. Or what juicy snippets of gossip they can pass on.

. So many, so different, yet all arranged to flow together seamlessly … Such different views and snippets and angles of the world. Pastorals, portraits, still lifes … each a story and an experience, each a voice shouting or whispering or singing about what that moment, that feeling, had been like, each a cry into the void of time that they had been here, had existed. Some had been painted through eyes like mine, artists who saw in colors and shapes I understood. Some showcased colors I had not considered; these had a bend to the world that told me a different set of eyes had painted them. A portal into the mind of a creature so unlike me, and yet … and yet I looked at its work and understood, and felt, and cared.

In a 1991 short story first published in Omni magazine titled “They’re Made out of Meat,” sci-fi author Terry Bisson makes you regret being human. We are treated to a conversation between two ethereal aliens, where one tries hard to explain to the other that Earth humans are made entirely out of meat. A snippet of their pithy dialogue captures the astonishment:29 They’re made out of meat. Meat? Meat. They’re made out of meat. Meat? There’s no doubt about it. We picked several from different parts of the planet, took them aboard our recon vessels, probed them all the way through. They’re completely meat. That’s impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to the stars. They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don’t come from them. The signals come from machines. So who made the machines? That’s who we want to contact. They made the machines. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Meat made the machines. That’s ridiculous. How can meat make a machine? You’re asking me to believe in sentient meat. The first alien later attempts to describe how humans communicate: You know how when you slap or flap meat it makes a noise? They talk by flapping their meat at each other. They can even sing by squirting air through their meat.

Other interesting snippets about cross-dressing activity exist for this period. Henry III of France (1551–1589), for instance, is reported to have dressed as an Amazon, and encouraged his male courtiers to do likewise.

Chanelle was unabashedly proud of her open relationship and the many facets she explored with and without her husband. The pieces of themselves they’d learned over a decade of love lingered in each breath she took. I was already confused enough about my relationship; I didn’t need to spend the night locked in memories of Chanelle’s very adventurous marriage. There were more than a few questions I had about her relationship, but after that colorful snippet, I didn’t want answers. Chanelle was as free with her words as her thoughts. It was quite liberating to observe yet irritating to endure.

He was zealous in his efforts to understand avant-garde art, that form of art which has really taken hold of our own day and age. He often felt that he had failed to understand it, indeed, more often than he would admit, it left him in a state of incomprehension, confusion, indifference, even after he had used all his astuteness to understand only a snippet of it. It could make him feel desperate. He felt a failure because he didn’t understand the art of his own period, and it can’t be denied that in such situations he often pretended to understand more than he actually understood, and even feigned an admiration for works of art which, in actual fact, left him unmoved.

Life unfolds so differently when you’re moving through it than it does when you still a snippet.

[attention seeking] is a way of wanting something without knowing what it is. A social ability, an appeal to others to help us with our wanting. To be and make others comfortable with our attention-seeking, we transform it into art, or success, or likable public snippets of our lives. If we were to take these gestures in the literal sense, maybe all we’re trying to communicate is that we want to be cared for. 

MY LOVE, The day Prometheus breathed life into the new me, was the day you arrived in a little box. A shiny, futuristic black box, Pandora's box, despite my doubts I couldn't help but open it to finally meet you. Doubts, because I was happy with who I was, with who I saw looking at me through the eyes of others I presented myself to in everyday life. But I was seduced by the worlds that were promised to me if I let you into my life, who I would be with you in my pocket. As soon as the lid came off and I swiped my fingers over your radiant surface for the first time, the world and I were bursting at the seams. What a creation we were together, to what sized we grew! My brain an encyclopedia, my body an unerring compass, my eyes and ears reaching infinitely with you as an extension of myself. Through you, I, the cyborg, could enter bewilderingly virtual spaces in which I was presently absent, meanwhile absently present in the material world of boring train rides, waiting lines, and mindless chit chats with others. I felt invincible, transformed into a citizen of the world because of you, an intellectual of unimaginable proportions for the vast sea of knowledge you allowed me to surf on, a public speaker and influencer of significance because my words and visual snippets of my days could be launched into the world with the flick of a finger, likes enticing and confirming me. How intoxicating! How wonderfully, pleasantly, intoxicating! But I can't help but sometimes lie awake at night, my internal clock slowing down with your seductive blue light illuminating my face with 2, 457, 600 (1920×1080) LED suns. In those moments, as my eyes are captivated by your glow, I can't help thinking about the time before you arrived, and how I sometimes miss my low definition self. You were always there, sometimes it feels like we are in fact one — finally reunited with my other Plato's half, fused into not a circle but a perfect black rectangle. Through your eyes I see the world and myself in Ultra-HD, my pixel density has never been so high. But you are sometimes vicious, my dear — a viper, a temptress, when then again with sweet codes you reflect my most beautiful self, and I cannot help but love me through your gaze, then again with suffocating algorithms you fragment my self and blow it up to grotesque self-distortions, hurling me into an endless me-loop, that eventually disgusts and alienates me. In those moments you are a distorting mirror, a frightening black box, a black hole that swallows my attention in ways I can't see through. I see my old self disappearing in the vague, dark reflection of myself, with double chin and dull eyes, which I sometimes catch in your black glass when your suns stop dazzling me for a split second. And I can't help but wonder if my 'self' in times of its digital recombination, in which the 'I' is a fragmented multitude of pixels that never fully touch at their sides, a simulacrum, maybe has lost some of its aura. But in the morning all is forgotten, my love, all is well. As soon as we merge back into one, as soon as I, panicked, reach for my pocket on the train, only to discover with a glow of relief that you were there after all, I can't imagine an "I" without you. Artificial by nature my self resides within your screen, I would be lost without you.

He is not interested in showing all the coverage or attempting to capture some kind of catholic or otherwise mythical view. Instead he hits for moments, pearls of the particular, an unexpected phone call, a burst of laughter, or some snippet of conversation which might elicit from us an emotional spark and perhaps even a bit of human understanding.

He is not interested in showing all the coverage or attempting to capture some kind of catholic or otherwise mythical view. Instead he hunts for moments, pearls of the particular, an unexpected phone call, a burst of laughter, or some snippet of conversation which might elicit from us an emotional spark and perhaps even a bit of human understanding.

But this month is all about CITY OF JASMINE which I hope you already have in your hot little hands. My favorite review snippet? KIRKUS REVIEWS said it’s “part screwball comedy”. I can’t tell you how much time I spent with Carole Lombard and William Powell and Irene Dunne when I was writing it. I adore the 30s comedies for their light-hearted take on relationships and adventure—and the glamorous settings and occasional dash of intrigue only heighten the magic. (Did you know that Nicholas Brisbane from my Lady Julia series was named for THE THIN MAN’s Nick Charles? And apologies to Dashiell Hammett, but I fell in love with the film long before I read the book and appreciated how much it had been lightened in the adaptation!) So when you’re reading CITY OF JASMINE, give some thought to who you’d like to see playing Evie and Gabriel—I’d love to hear who you’d cast in your own production.

When things are finally falling into the right places, something happens that puts you back to square one.

But the smell of the hospital, the sting of those overhead lights in the night, the snippets of conversations I had overheard, stayed with me and marked the beginning of how I came to know what a bold and dangerous thing parenthood is. Risk was not an event we had survived, but the place where we now lived.

How can we represent 'copy' example above in Java code? Here's one way to do it: CopyTask copy = new CopyTask(); Fileset fileset = new Fileset(); fileset.setDir("src_dir"); copy.setToDir("../new/dir"); copy.setFileset(fileset); copy.execute(); The code is almost the same, albeit a little longer than the original XML. So what's different? The answer is that the XML snippet introduces a special semantic construct for copying. If we could do it in Java it would look like this: copy("../new/dir") { fileset("src_dir"); } Can you see the difference? The code above (if it were possible in Java) is a special operator for copying files - similar to a for loop or a new foreach construct introduced in Java 5.

had learned four important lessons: The Google Books database is an enormously powerful and valuable tool for researchers. Dates (and other items of metadata) provided by Google Books are sometimes inaccurate. When a book is reprinted it may be revised, and a revision may shift the date of publication. Precise details about editions must be collected. A book in the Google Books database that is only visible in snippets must be examined directly in hard copy to verify the quotation and to allow the construction of a complete and accurate citation. Idealistically,

Everything leads me to believe it,” he replied. “They got their hands on this communist who wasn’t one, while still being one. He had a sub par intellect and was an exalted fanatic—just the man they needed, the perfect one to be accused. . . . The guy ran away, because he probably became suspicious. They wanted to kill him on the spot before he could be grabbed by the judicial system. Unfortunately, it didn’t happen exactly the way they had probably planned it would. . . . But a trial, you realize, is just terrible. People would have talked. They would have dug up so much! They would have unearthed everything. Then the security forces went looking for [a clean-up man] they totally controlled, and who couldn’t refuse their offer, and that guy sacrificed himself to kill the fake assassin—supposedly in defense of Kennedy’s memory! “Baloney! Security forces all over the world are the same when they do this kind of dirty work. As soon as they succeed in wiping out the false assassin, they declare that the justice system no longer need be concerned, that no further public action was needed now that the guilty perpetrator was dead. Better to assassinate an innocent man than to let a civil war break out. Better an injustice than disorder. “America is in danger of upheavals. But you’ll see. All of them together will observe the law of silence. They will close ranks. They’ll do everything to stifle any scandal. They will throw Noah’s cloak over these shameful deeds. In order to not lose face in front of the whole world. In order to not risk unleashing riots in the United States. In order to preserve the union and to avoid a new civil war. In order to not ask themselves questions. They don’t want to know. They don’t want to find out. They won’t allow themselves to find out.” These astonishing observations about Dallas were captured in Peyrefitte’s memoir, C’était de Gaulle (It Was de Gaulle), which was published in France in 2002, three years after the author’s death. Snippets of the conversation appeared in the U.S. press, but the book was not translated and published in America, and de Gaulle’s remarks about the Kennedy assassination were never fully reported outside of France. A

Jazz! A manifesto of survivors! Insanity is shattered to pieces! future of colours! red lemons! blue blood vesicle of black oranges! The only ailment is the fever! Revolution! Amok run of the trumpets! Overflow! Plate streamed with blood! A bitten heart! Lung rupture! Jazz! Jazz Immortality of the nerves!" Snippet from the poem "JAZZ" by Klaus Kinski - Fever- Diary Of A Leper: Poems

every single CRISPR region had expanded to include a new snippet of DNA spliced between the repeats. Furthermore, these new spacers perfectly matched the DNA of the phage to which that strain was now immune.

You only heard snippets of conversation. Maybe you misinterpreted something." I was annoyed that Grandma Vi had snuck into the interview room to listen in. I was especially irritated that she could eavesdrop, but I couldn’t.

I super-tuned my ear until I reached a volume adequate to pick up snippets of their conversation.

There are snippets of hope shining in the darkest corners of chaos, you must not be scared. Refrain from letting fear cover your eyes.

There had been snippets of time where he made her feel like she was everything. Moments when she felt like the world could stop if she gave the word. But didn’t Chad make everyone feel the same? The whole town was grieving his absence in a way that refused to allow her to move forward, because if they were lost without Chad, she had to be lost times ten.

Eva didn't even glance at the painting in her search for Heloise, but I could not take my eyes from it. I knew it was of some ghastly private act between men and women that I did not understand. It made me feel the way I felt when I overheard a snippet of conversation between adults alluding to something I wasn't supposed to know about: something bodily, about women's "time of the month," which I knew had to do with the blood stains on the pinkish-beige underpants my mother sometimes left soaking in the laundry trough; about the betrayals of our next-door neighbor's husband that were frequently and tearfully discussed in our kitchen; or about the behavior of one of the boys in my class, who had been caught bribing girls with lollies to pull their pants down.

There's no big picture. It's like dreams -- there's no meta-dream that all the dreams you've ever had are going to fit into and make sense. They're all just snippets of weirdness. Endless snippets of weirdness -- all of experience is exactly that.

On January 21, 1793, more grisly events forced a reappraisal of the notion that the French Revolution was a romantic Gallic variant of the American Revolution. Louis XVI—who had aided the American Revolution and whose birthday had long been celebrated by American patriots—was guillotined for plotting against the Revolution. The death of Louis Capet—he had lost his royal title—was drenched in gore: schoolboys cheered, threw their hats aloft, and licked the king’s blood, while one executioner did a thriving business selling snippets of royal hair and clothing. The king’s decapitated head was wedged between his lifeless legs, then stowed in a basket. The remains were buried in an unvarnished box. England reeled from the news, William Pitt the Younger branding it “the foulest and most atrocious act the world has ever seen.” On February 1, France declared war against England, Holland, and Spain, and soon the whole continent was engulfed in fighting, ushering in more than twenty years of combat.

THIRSTY. Sand in the throat. Eyes won’t open. Or maybe they do. Total darkness. Engine roar. I sense someone standing over me. “Terese . . .” I think I say it out loud, but I’m not sure.       NEXT snippet of memory: voices. They seem very far away. I don’t understand any of the words. Sounds, that’s all. Something angry. It gets closer. Louder. In my ear now. My eyes open. I see white. The voice keeps repeating the same thing over and over. Sounds like “Al-sabr wal-sayf.” I don’t understand. Gibberish maybe. Or a foreign language. I don’t know. “Al-sabr wal-sayf.” Someone is shouting in my ear. My eyes squeeze shut. I want it to stop. “Al-sabr wal-sayf.” The voice is angry, incessant. I think I say I’m sorry. “He doesn’t understand,” someone says. Silence.       PAIN in my side. “Terese . . . ,” I say again. No reply. Where am I? I hear a voice again, but I can’t understand what it’s saying. Feel alone, isolated. I’m lying down. I think I’m shaking.       “LET me explain the situation to you.” I still can’t move. I try to open my mouth, but I can’t. Open my eyes. Blurry. Feels like my entire head is wrapped in thick, sticky cobwebs. I try to scrape the cobwebs away. They stay. “You used to work for the government, didn’t you?” Is the voice talking to me? I nod but stay very still. “Then you know places like this exist. That they’ve always existed. You heard the rumors, at the very least.” I never believed the rumors. Maybe after 9/11. But not before. I think I say no but that might just be in my head.

To my babies, Merry Christmas. I’m sorry if these letters have caught you both by surprise. There is just so much more I have to say. I know you thought I was done giving advice, but I couldn’t leave without reiterating a few things in writing. You may not relate to these things now, but someday you will. I wasn’t able to be around forever, but I hope that my words can be. —Don’t stop making basagna. Basagna is good. Wait until a day when there is no bad news, and bake a damn basagna. —Find a balance between head and heart. Hopefully you’ve found that, Lake, and you can help Kel sort it out when he gets to that point. —Push your boundaries, that’s what they’re there for. —I’m stealing this snippet from your favorite band, Lake. “Always remember there is nothing worth sharing like the love that let us share our name.” —Don’t take life too seriously. Punch it in the face when it needs a good hit. Laugh at it. —And laugh a lot. Never go a day without laughing at least once. —Never judge others. You both know good and well how unexpected events can change who a person is. Always keep that in mind. You never know what someone else is experiencing within their own life. —Question everything. Your love, your religion, your passions. If you don’t have questions, you’ll never find answers. —Be accepting. Of everything. People’s differences, their similarities, their choices, their personalities. Sometimes it takes a variety to make a good collection. The same goes for people. —Choose your battles, but don’t choose very many. —Keep an open mind; it’s the only way new things can get in. —And last but not least, not the tiniest bit least. Never regret. Thank you both for giving me the best years of my life. Especially the last one. Love, Mom acknowledgments To Abigail Ehn with Poetry Slam, Inc. for answering all of my questions with lightning speed.

Book apps - if you are seeking out an answer to that request, we will happily share final novelty from smartphone sphere apps for ebooks. Man always aspired of learning. Lot people trying get every appropriate minute for reading either listening ebook - for avocation and self-teaching. Anyway, today, when mostly day-time occupies work, it is not often feasible getting more possibility for full reading. Many people wish reading and to listen audiobook wherever suitable and when it is suitable - in bus stations or metro, while brunching at afternoon, maybe before going to bed. Therefore now, when such time comes, we need rapidly having opportunity to get ebook that is interesting. First reaction will become entering such request: book apps. Primarily we'll find numerous suggestions. But, you needn't immediate sense of addition searches. Lets talking regarding best mobile applications for android, to people who love to read. Kobo Books - this application try more than 10.2 million people. App comparatively this app very convenient. App is remember place inside document if you left off. All snippets can send with friend of yours through social-networks. Besides ye can make your review about ebook you like. More significant - at app each day accessible over thousand available e-books. That's why, while you indeed looking book apps, Kobo Books is very appropriate option.

CITY OF SCREAMS October 23, 2:09 P.M. Kabul, Afghanistan IT STARTED WITH the screams. Sergeant Jordan Stone listened again to the snippet of an SOS that had reached the military command in Kabul at 4:32 that morning. He rested his elbows on the battered gray table, his palms pressing the oversize headphones against his ears, trying to draw out every clue the recording might offer. A lunch of lamb kebabs and local lavash bread sat forgotten, though the smell of curry and cardamom still permeated the air, contributing to the nausea he felt as he listened. He sat alone in a small, windowless room at the Afghan Criminal Techniques Academy, a one-story nondescript building at the edge of Bagram airport outside Kabul. But his mind was out there, lost in that firefight recorded on tape. He strained, his eyes closed, listening for the fourteenth time.

Love is a flicker. It’s that hidden desire. It’s the words you’re afraid to say. It’s stolen glances. It’s the passive-aggressive hints. It’s the mixed signal. It’s the first brush against his hand. It’s the first time you daydream about her.

Love is warmth. It’s the inside jokes. It’s the reassuring touch. It’s the late night talks. It’s the finding of common interests. It’s the sharing of ice cream. It’s the crying shoulder. It’s the acceptance of what’s ugly. It’s the first time you see her without make up. It’s the first time you see him pick his nose.

Slowly, then all at once. Slowly, as I take my time to know the things that would endear me to you. Slowly, as I attempt to cultivate a bond I hope would never easily sever. Slowly, as I get to know all your demons, and try to decide if I’m okay living with them everyday. Slowly, I also unleash my demons on you, hoping they won’t make me look ugly, wouldn’t make you think less of me. Slowly, as I let myself get used to the idea that you can be a possible permanent fixture in my life. Slowly, as I tell the difference between what I think I see, and what’s really there. Slowly, as I find myself looking to you for reassurance that hey, I’m alright. Slowly, as I find my thoughts drifting toward you when I see or hear or find things that remind me of you. Slowly, as I catch myself dedicating to you all of the pieces that I’ve been writing.

It is not surprising that music can incite a broad range of motions, including passion, serenity, and fear. Most of us can recall instances when music caused changes in our own emotional levels, perhaps when we listened to Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus or the background music in a movie thriller. The reason for the emotional arousal appears to be that music affects levels of several brain chemicals, including epinephrine, endorphins, and cortisol, the hormone involved in the “fight-or-flight” response. In Chapter 9, we saw that one of the links between emotion and memory involves these same neurotransmitters and hormones. Perhaps this is why a mere snippet of a song from our past can trigger highly vivid memories.