Steel Detailing Quotes

Do you trust me Ana?" Ana! "Yes,I do."I respond spontaneously, not thinking...because it's true-I do trust him. "Well,then"he looks relieved. "The rest of this stuff is just details" "important details

Babies are soft. Anyone looking at them can see the tender, fragile skin and know it for the rose-leaf softness that invites a finger's touch. But when you live with them and love them, you feel the softness going inward, the round-cheeked flesh wobbly as custard, the boneless splay of the tiny hands. Their joints are melted rubber, and even when you kiss them hard, in the passion of loving their existence, your lips sink down and seem never to find bone. Holding them against you, they melt and mold, as though they might at any moment flow back into your body. But from the very start, there is that small streak of steel within each child. That thing that says "I am," and forms the core of personality. In the second year, the bone hardens and the child stands upright, skull wide and solid, a helmet protecting the softness within. And "I am" grows, too. Looking at them, you can almost see it, sturdy as heartwood, glowing through the translucent flesh. The bones of the face emerge at six, and the soul within is fixed at seven. The process of encapsulation goes on, to reach its peak in the glossy shell of adolescence, when all softness then is hidden under the nacreous layers of the multiple new personalities that teenagers try on to guard themselves. In the next years, the hardening spreads from the center, as one finds and fixes the facets of the soul, until "I am" is set, delicate and detailed as an insect in amber.

As for the Republicans -- how can one regard seriously a frightened, greedy, nostalgic huddle of tradesmen and lucky idlers who shut their eyes to history and science, steel their emotions against decent human sympathy, cling to sordid and provincial ideals exalting sheer acquisitiveness and condoning artificial hardship for the non-materially-shrewd, dwell smugly and sentimentally in a distorted dream-cosmos of outmoded phrases and principles and attitudes based on the bygone agricultural-handicraft world, and revel in (consciously or unconsciously) mendacious assumptions (such as the notion that real liberty is synonymous with the single detail of unrestricted economic license or that a rational planning of resource-distribution would contravene some vague and mystical 'American heritage'...) utterly contrary to fact and without the slightest foundation in human experience? Intellectually, the Republican idea deserves the tolerance and respect one gives to the dead.

There were two ways of forgetting. For many years, he had envisioned (unimaginatively) a vault, and at the end of the day, he would gather the images and sequences and words that he didn’t want to think about again and open the heavy steel door only enough to hurry them inside, closing it quickly and tightly. But this method wasn’t effective: the memories seeped out anyway. The important thing, he came to realize, was to eliminate them, not just to store them. So he had invented some solutions. For small memories—little slights, insults—you relived them again and again until they were neutralized, until they became near meaningless with repetition, or until you could believe that they were something that had happened to someone else and you had just heard about it. For larger memories, you held the scene in your head like a film strip, and then you began to erase it, frame by frame. Neither method was easy: you couldn’t stop in the middle of your erasing and examine what you were looking at, for example; you couldn’t start scrolling through parts of it and hope you wouldn’t get ensnared in the details of what had happened, because you of course would. You had to work at it every night, until it was completely gone. Though they never disappeared completely, of course.

Steele could be so completely still, it felt like he could disappear. His energy would get so low that you could forget he was in your space. He never missed anything when he was like that. He took in the smallest detail.

It seems logical to suppose that history's pattern reflects innate differences among people themselves. Of course, we're taught that it's not polite to say so in public. We see in our daily lives that some of the conquered peoples continue to form an underclass, centuries after the conquests or slave imports took place. We're told that this too is to be attributed not to any biological shortcomings but to social disadvantages and limited opportunities. Nevertheless, we have to wonder. We keep seeing all those glaring, persistent differences in peoples' status. We're assured that the seemingly transparent biological explanation for the world's inequalities as of A.D. 1500 is wrong, but we're not told what the correct explanation is. Until we have some convincing, detailed, agreed-upon explanation for the broad pattern of history, most people will continue to suspect that the racist biological explanation is correct after all. That seems to me the strongest argument for writing this book.

In order for us to live within this finely balanced constellation of complex systems, in order for the Earth to show resilience and last for centuries into the future as an environment of human life, we have to embody three things: a respect for Earth systems and their details in balance; a commitment to discovering and sharing the truth and only the truth at all times about all things; and a commitment to doing no harm.

I love you, Harper. Everything else is details.

Information could be spread far more widely, more accurately, and in more detail by writing than it could be transmitted by mouth.

Too often we only identify the crucial points in our lives in retrospect. At the time we are too absorbed in the fetid detail of the moment to spot where it is leading us. But not this time. I was experiencing one of my dad’s deafening moments. If my life could be understood as a meal of many courses (and let’s be honest, much of it actually was), then I had finished the starters and I was limbering up for the main event. So far, of course, I had made a stinking mess of it. I had spilled the wine. I had dropped my cutlery on the floor and sprayed the fine white linen with sauce. I had even spat out some of my food because I didn’t like the taste of it. “But it doesn’t matter because, look, here come the waiters. They are scraping away the debris with their little horn and steel blades, pulled with studied grace from the hidden pockets of their white aprons. They are laying new tablecloths, arranging new cutlery, placing before me great domed wine glasses, newly polished to a sparkle. There are more dishes to come, more flavors to try, and this time I will not spill or spit or drop or splash. I will not push the plate away from me, the food only half eaten. I am ready for everything they are preparing to serve me. Be in no doubt; it will all be fine.” (pp.115-6)

Sophie raised her head. Light filtering through the trees dappled her face. “Hawk.” Charlotte looked up as well. A bird of prey soared above the treetops, circling around them. “It’s dead,” Sophie said. “George is guiding it. He is very powerful.”The realization washed over Charlotte in a cold gush of embarrassment. “Is George spying on Richard and me?” “Always,” Sophie said. “All those perfect manners are a sham. He spies on everyone and everything. Declan hasn’t been able to conduct a single business meeting in the past year without George’s knowing all the details. He does let go when you make love. He is a prude.” “‘Prude’ is a coarse word. He has a sense of tact,” Charlotte corrected before she caught herself. “A sense of tact,” Sophie repeated, tasting the words. “Thank you. The other one is somewhere around here, too.” “The other one?” Sophie surveyed the woods. “I can smell you, Jack!” “No, you can’t,” a distant voice answered

Sometimes it was better not to ever live the fantasy. Because when reality descended, it outlined in stark detail just how much the real world sucked.

Yet I have reflected on the fact that for most of use, there is a hard, impassable barrier between the most imaginatively detailed depravity and its real-life execution. It's the same solid steel wall that inserts itself between a kinife and my wrist even when I'm at my most disconsolate. So how was Kevin able to raise that crossbow, point it at Laura's breastbone, and then really, actually, in time and space, squeeze the release? I can only assume that he discovered what I never wish to. That there is no barrier. That like my trips abroad or this ludicrous scheme of bike locks and invitations on school stationaery, the very squeezing of that release can be broken down into a series of simple constituent parts. It may be no more miraculous to pull the trigger of a bow or a gun than it is to reach for a glass of water. I fear that crossing into the "unthinkable" turns out to be no more athletic than stepping across the threshold of an ordinary room; and that, if you will, is the trick. The secret. As ever, the secret is that there is no secret. He must almost have wanted to giggle, though that is not his style; those Columbine kids did giggle. And once you have found out that there is nothing to stop you—that the barrier, so seemingly uncrossable, is all in your head—it must be possible to step back and forth across that threshold again and again, shot after shot, as if an unintimidating pipsqueak has drawn a line across the carpet that you must not pass and you launch tauntingly over it, back and over it, in a mocking little dance.

Knowledge brings power. Hence writing brings power to modern societies, by making it possible to transmit knowledge with far greater accuracy and in far greater quantity and detail, from more distant lands and more remote times.

Knowledge brings power. Hence writing brings power to modern societies, by making it possible to transmit knowledge with far greater accuracy and in far greater quantity and detail, from more distant lands and more remote times. Of

One way was Taylorism. Frederick W. Taylor had been a steel company foreman who closely analyzed every job in the mill, and worked out a system of finely detailed division of labor, increased mechanization, and piecework wage systems, to increase production and profits. In 1911, he published a book on “scientific management” that became powerfully influential in the business world. Now management could control every detail of the worker’s energy and time in the factory. As Harry Braverman said (Labor and Monopoly Capital), the purpose of Taylorism was to make workers interchangeable, able to do the simple tasks that the new division of labor required—like standard parts divested of individuality and humanity, bought and sold as commodities.

Something about his hands suggested brutality...he had interesting hands and an incredible smile.In a powerful ,almost frightning way he was handsome.kezia found herself watching hinm probing hungry for details.He held her long and grasped of his eyes and let his glance move away.It had been a strange sensation,like biengbacked against a wall with a hand at your throat,another stroking your hair ..you wanted to cringe in fear and melt with pleasure..and then it dawned on her.This was whom she was afraid to meet.This was lucas johns!

But from the very start, there is that small streak of steel within each child. That thing that says “I am,” and forms the core of personality. In the second year, the bone hardens and the child stands upright, skull wide and solid, a helmet protecting the softness within. And “I am” grows, too. Looking at them, you can almost see it, sturdy as heartwood, glowing through the translucent flesh. The bones of the face emerge at six, and the soul within is fixed at seven. The process of encapsulation goes on, to reach its peak in the glossy shell of adolescence, when all softness then is hidden under the nacreous layers of the multiple new personalities that teenagers try on to guard themselves. In the next years, the hardening spreads from the center, as one finds and fixes the facets of the soul, until “I am” is set, delicate and detailed as an insect in amber.

There were two ways of forgetting. For many years, he had envisioned (unimaginatively) a vault, and at the end of the day, he would gather the images and sequences and words that he didn’t want to think about again and open the heavy steel door only enough to hurry them inside, closing it quickly and tightly. But this method wasn’t effective: the memories seeped out anyway. The important thing, he came to realize, was to eliminate them, not just to store them. So he had invented some solutions. For small memories—little slights, insults—you relived them again and again until they were neutralized, until they became near meaningless with repetition, or until you could believe that they were something that had happened to someone else and you had just heard about it. For larger memories, you held the scene in your head like a film strip, and then you began to erase it, frame by frame. Neither method was easy: you couldn’t stop in the middle of your erasing and examine what you were looking at, for example; you couldn’t start scrolling through parts of it and hope you wouldn’t get ensnared in the details of what had happened, because you of course would. You had to work at it every night, until it was completely gone. Though they never disappeared completely, of course. But they were at least more distant—they weren’t things that followed you, wraithlike, tugging at you for attention, jumping in front of you when you ignored them, demanding so much of your time and effort that it became impossible to think of anything else. In fallow periods—the moments before you fell asleep; the minutes before you were landing after an overnight flight, when you weren’t awake enough to do work and weren’t tired enough to sleep—they would reassert themselves, and so it was best to imagine, then, a screen of white, huge and light-lit and still, and hold it in your mind like a shield.

He slammed his cup down. Coffee splashed over the rim and puddled around the base. “What on earth gave you the idea I want space? I want you here. With me. All the time. I want to come home and hear the shower running and get excited because I know you’re in it. I want to struggle every morning to get up and go to the gym because I hate the idea of leaving your warm body behind in bed. I want to hear a key turn in the lock and feel contented knowing you’re home. I don’t want fucking space, Harper.” Harper laughed. “What’s funny?” “I didn’t mean space. I meant space, like closet space, a drawer in the bedroom, part of the counter in the bathroom.” Trent’s mouth twitched, a slight smile making its way to his lips. “Like a compromise. A commitment that I want more. I seem to recall you telling me in the car about something being a step in the right direction to a goal we both agreed on. Well, I want all those things you just said, with you, eventually. And if we start to leave things at each other’s places, it’s a step, right?” Trent reached up, flexing his delicious tattooed bicep, and scratched the side of his head. Without speaking, he leapt to his feet, grabbing Harper and pulling her into a fireman’s lift. “Trent,” she squealed, kicking her feet to get free. “What are you doing?” He slapped her butt playfully and laughed as he carried her down the hallway. Reaching the bedroom, Trent threw her onto the bed. “We’re doing space. Today, right now.” He started pulling open his drawers, looking inside each one before pulling stuff out of the top drawer and dividing it between the others. “Okay, this is for your underwear. I need to see bras, panties, and whatever other girly shit you have in here before the end of the day.” Like a panther on the prowl, Trent launched himself at the bed, grabbing her ankle and pulling her to the edge of the bed before sweeping her into his arms to walk to the bathroom. He perched her on the corner of the vanity, where his stuff was spread across the two sinks. “Pick one.” “Pick one what?” “Sink. Which do you want?” “You’re giving me a whole sink? Wait … stop…” Trent grabbed her and started tickling her. Harper didn’t recognize the girly giggles that escaped her. Pointing to the sink farthest away from the door, she watched as he pushed his toothbrush, toothpaste, and styling products to the other side of the vanity. He did the same thing with the vanity drawers and created some space under the sink. “I expect to see toothbrush, toothpaste, your shampoo, and whatever it is that makes you smell like vanilla in here.” “You like the vanilla?” It never ceased to surprise her, the details he remembered. Turning, he grabbed her cheeks in both hands and kissed her hard. He trailed kisses behind her ear and inhaled deeply before returning to face her. “Absolutely. I fucking love vanilla,” he murmured against her lips before kissing her again, softly this time. “Oh and I’d better see a box of tampons too.” “Oh my goodness, you are beyond!” Harper blushed furiously. “I want you for so much more than just sex, Harper.

The cultural Left has contributed to the formation of this politically useless unconscious not only by adopting “power” as the name of an invisible, ubiquitous, and malevolent presence, but by adopting ideals which nobody is yet able to imagine being actualized. Among these ideals are participatory democracy and the end of capitalism. Power will pass to the people, the Sixties Left believed only when decisions are made by all those who may be affected by the results. This means, for example, that economic decisions will be made by stakeholders rather than by shareholders, and that entrepreneurship and markets will cease to play their present role. When they do, capitalism as we know it will have ended, and something new will have taken its place. […] Sixties leftists skipped lightly over all the questions which had been raised by the experience of non market economies in the so-called socialist countries. They seemed to be suggesting that once we were rid of both bureaucrats and entrepreneurs, “the people” would know how to handle competition from steel mills or textile factories in the developing world, price hikes on imported oil, and so on. But they never told us how “the people” would learn how to do this. The cultural Left still skips over such questions. Doing so is a consequence of its preference for talking about “the system” rather than about specific social practices and specific changes in those practices. The rhetoric of this Left remains revolutionary rather than reformist and pragmatic. Its insouciant use of terms like “late capitalism” suggests that we can just wait for capitalism to collapse, rather than figuring out what, in the absence of markets, will set prices and regulate distribution. The voting public, the public which must be won over if the Left is to emerge from the academy into the public square, sensibly wants to be told the details. It wants to know how things are going to work after markets are put behind us. It wants to know how participatory democracy is supposed to function. The cultural Left offers no answers to such demands for further information, but until it confronts them it will not be able to be a political Left. The public, sensibly, has no interest in getting rid of capitalism until it is offered details about the alternatives. Nor should it be interested in participatory democracy –– the liberation of the people from the power of technocrats –– until it is told how deliberative assemblies will acquire the same know-how which only the technocrats presently possess. […] The cultural Left has a vision of an America in which the white patriarchs have stopped voting and have left all the voting to be done by members of previously victimized groups, people who have somehow come into possession of more foresight and imagination than the selfish suburbanites. These formerly oppressed and newly powerful people are expected to be as angelic as the straight white males were diabolical. If I shared this expectation, I too would want to live under this new dispensation. Since I see no reason to share it, I think that the left should get back into the business of piecemeal reform within the framework of a market economy. This was the business the American Left was in during the first two-thirds of the century. Someday, perhaps, cumulative piecemeal reforms will be found to have brought about revolutionary change. Such reforms might someday produce a presently unimaginable non market economy, and much more widely distributed powers of decision making. […] But in the meantime, we should not let the abstractly described best be the enemy of the better. We should not let speculation about a totally changed system, and a totally different way of thinking about human life and affairs, replace step-by-step reform of the system we presently have.

By day I taught Sahjara, who brought me unceasing small presents ranging from orange flower cakes to bouquets of jolly red berries; by night, I imagined my employer making the sort of inappropriate advances which would have made most governesses flee the estate forthwith, and in graphic detail, complete with bare thighs and calloused fingers and the diagonal notches which rest so sweetly above the hipbones when a gentleman is in training, as I had no doubt whatsoever Mr. Thornfield was.

Whenever I arrive in my garden, I Make The Tour. Is this a personal idiosyncrasy, or do all good gardeners do it? It would be interesting to know. By Making The Tour, I mean only that I step from the front window, turn to the right, and make an infinitely detailed examination of every foot of ground, every shrub and tree, walking always over an appointed course. There are certain very definite rules to be observed when you are Making The Tour. The chief rule is that you must never take anything out of its order. You may be longing to see if a crocus has come out in the orchard, but it is strictly forbidden to look before you have inspected all the various beds, bushes and trees that lead up to the orchard. You must not look at the bed ahead before you have finished with the bed immediately in front of you. You may see, out of the corner of your eye, a gleam of strange and unsuspected scarlet in the next bed but one, but you must steel yourself against rushing to this exciting blaze, and you must stare with cool eyes at the earth in front, which is apparently blank, until you have made certain that it is not hiding anything. Otherwise you will find that you rush wildly round the garden, discover one or two sensational events, and then decide that nothing else has happened. Which means that you miss all the thrill of tiny shoots, the first lifting of the lids of wallflowers, the first precious gold of the witch-hazel, the early spear of the snowdrop.

These results are completely lopsided: it was not the case that 51 percent of the Americas, Australia, and Africa was conquered by Europeans, while 49 percent of Europe was conquered by Native Americans, Aboriginal Australians, or Africans. The whole modern world has been shaped by lopsided outcomes. Hence they must have inexorable explanations, ones more basic than mere details concerning who happened to win some battle or develop some invention on one occasion a few thousand years ago.

Business is all about people, Miss Steele, and I’m very good at judging people. I know how they tick , what makes them flourish , what doesn’t, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well. My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is it’s always down to good people.

Thomas Edison was testing wax and sound. Edison’s phonograph was first developed using a steel needle and tinfoil to capture the audio impressions of his voice. Tin tore easily and produced a muted recording, so Edison turned to beeswax, aware of its ability to capture detailed impressions. He substituted a wax cylinder for the tinfoil and recorded tiny scratches and grooves of sound. Applying the ancient technique of lost wax, he applied a micro-thin layer of gold atop the wax so that heavier layers of metal could then be added to create a mold. When the wax was lost and vinyl was added to the mold, the permanent record of sound was gained. Wax

Don't you think Rycca would like to hear about Hadding, the warrior Odin rescued from his enemies? Indeed, so would I for as I recall, the last time I asked about him, you told the story in great haste without the scantiest details." There was a gleam in her eyes that Rycca had come to understand meant she was up to something, but she had no idea what might lurk behind so seemingly innocent a suggestion. Dragon grinned and looked at his brother, who leaned back in his chair and laughed. When Rycca appeared puzzled, Cymbra said, "I confess, when I noticed how attentive you are to Dragon's stories I was reminded of myself. At Wolf's and my wedding feast, I persuaded Dragon to tell a great many tales. He was the soul of patience." "He was?" Wolf interjected. "I was the one with the patience. My dear brother knew perfectly well I was sitting there contemplating various possibilities for doing away with him and he enjoyed every moment of it." "Now how could I have known that, brother?" Dragon challenged. "Just because the wine goblet you were holding was twisted into a very odd shape?" "It was that or your neck, brother," Wolf replied pleasantly. He looked at Rycca reassuringly. "Don't worry, if I hadn't already forgiven him, that sword he gave me would force me to." "It is a magnificent blade," Dragon agreed. "They both are. Every smithy in Christendom is trying to work out what the Moors are doing but..." "It's got something to do with the temperature of the steel," Wolf said. "And with the folding. They fold more than we do, possibly hundreds of times." "Hundreds,really? Then the temperature has to be very high or they couldn't pound that thin. I wonder how much carbon they're adding-" Cymbra sighed. To Rycca, she said, "We might as well retire.They can talk about this for hours." Wolf heard her and laughed. He draped an arm over her chair, pulling her closer. Into her ear, he said something that made the redoubtable Cymbra blush. She cleared her throat. "Oh, well, in that case, you might as well retire, too." Standing up quickly, she took her husband's rugged hand in her much smaller and fairer one. "Good night, Rycca, good night, Dragon. Sleep well." This last was said over her shoulder as she tugged Wolf from the hall. Her obvious intent startled Rycca, who even now could not think herself as being so bold, but it made both the Hakonson brothers laugh. "As you may gather," Dragon said in the aftermath of the couple's departure, "my brother and his wife are happily wed.

My own heartbeat was slowing under my hand, under the deep rose silk, the color of a baby’s sleep-flushed cheek. When you hold a child to your breast to nurse, the curve of the little head echoes exactly the curve of the breast it suckles, as though this new person truly mirrors the flesh from which it sprang. Babies are soft. Anyone looking at them can see the tender, fragile skin and know it for the rose-leaf softness that invites a finger’s touch. But when you live with them and love them, you feel the softness going inward, the round-checked flesh wobbly as custard, the boneless splay of the tiny hands. Their joints are melted rubber, and even when you kiss them hard, in the passion of loving their existence, your lips sink down and seem never to find bone. Holding them against you, they melt and mold, as though they might at any moment flow back into your body. But from the very start, there is that small streak of steel within each child. That thing that says “I am,” and forms the core of personality. In the second year, the bone hardens and the child stands upright, skull wide and solid, a helmet protecting the softness within. And “I am” grows, too. Looking at them, you can almost see it, sturdy as heartwood, glowing through the translucent flesh. The bones of the face emerge at six, and the soul within is fixed at seven. The process of encapsulation goes on, to reach its peak in the glossy shell of adolescence, when all softness then is hidden under the nacreous layers of the multiple new personalities that teenagers try on to guard themselves. In the next years, the hardening spreads from the center, as one finds and fixes the facets of the soul, until “I am” is set, delicate and detailed as an insect in amber.

The gesture is the incarnation of the verb, that is, an action is a thought made manifest. A small gesture betrays us, so we must polish everything, think about details, learn the technique in such a way that it becomes intuitive. Intuition has nothing to do with routine, but with a state of mind that is beyond technique. So, after much practising, we no longer think about the necessary movements, they become part of our own existence. But for this to happen, you must practise and repeat. And if that isn’t enough, you must repeat and practise. Look at the skilled farrier working steel. To the untrained eye, he is merely repeating the same hammer blows. But anyone who knows the way of the bow knows that each time he lifts the hammer and brings it down, the intensity of the blow is different. The hand repeats the same gesture, but as it approaches the metal, it understands that it must touch it with more or less force. So it is with repetition, although it may appear to be the same thing, it is always different.

She looked at the strong hand holding hers. “Oh my goodness, what did you do?” Harper asked, eyebrows raised and mouth open as she studied the cuts and bruises. “Had a conversation with a streetlight once you got into the cab,” he said, pulling her closer to him. “I’m sorry, Trent. I really am. If I blew you and me because of all this, I get it and I don’t blame you. I’m done running. I’m done being scared. I’m done doubting whether you and your friends will help me if I need it. I am done with everything except being in love with you. I—” Harper was flipped onto her back and underneath Trent in the blink of an eye. “Say it again.” His dark eyes were fierce as he held each side of her face in his big, safe hands. “I’m sorry, I—” “No.” He cut her off. “Not that part. The ‘I love you’ part.” “I love you.” Harper had barely gotten the words out of her mouth before Trent’s lips descended on hers. Their mouths clashed together, banging teeth before soothing bitten lips with soft tongues. Trent pulled away, taking a deep breath before staring deep into her eyes. Harper could feel his very soul merging with hers. “I love you, Harper. Everything else is details. A lot of fucking details, granted, but just details.

Pixie was still looking a little shell-shocked when they walked over to the desk. “This is Pixie, our studio manager. She’ll take your details when you’re ready.” “Hey, Pixie, pleased to meet you.” Trent had never seen Pixie so inanimate. She didn’t move to take the hand Dred had offered. “Pix?” Trent smirked as she quickly collected herself with a shake of her head, reaching her hand out. “Sorry. Miles away. Welcome to Second Circle.” “Nice tattoo you got there, Pixie. What are those?” “Flowers,” she mumbled. What the hell was up with Pixie? They’d had famous people in the studio before. Dred laughed. “I can see that. I was curious what kind.” The phone rang and Pixie jumped all over it, effectively cutting Dred off. “Sorry,” Trent apologized. “Fortunately, we’re generally pretty busy here. Want to take a seat and we can figure out what you’re looking for?” Trent started to walk to one of the beds toward the back of the studio. “We have a setup in the room back here if you want a bit more privacy.” Realizing Dred was no longer with him, he turned to see him still staring at Pixie’s back. “Hey dude,” he whispered, “we charge extra for checking out the staff’s asses.” “What? Oh … right, yeah. How much? I’d definitely pay extra for a closer view.

For the Fertile Crescent, the answer is clear. Once it had lost the head start that it had enjoyed thanks to its locally available concentration of domesticable wild plants and animals, the Fertile Crescent possessed no further compelling geographic advantages. The disappearance of that head start can be traced in detail, as the westward shift in powerful empires. After the rise of Fertile Crescent states in the fourth millennium B.C., the center of power initially remained in the Fertile Crescent, rotating between empires such as those of Babylon, the Hittites, Assyria, and Persia. With the Greek conquest of all advanced societies from Greece east to India under Alexander the Great in the late fourth century B.C., power finally made its first shift irrevocably westward. It shifted farther west with Rome’s conquest of Greece in the second century B.C., and after the fall of the Roman Empire it eventually moved again, to western and northern Europe. The major factor behind these shifts becomes obvious as soon as one compares the modern Fertile Crescent with ancient descriptions of it. Today, the expressions “Fertile Crescent” and “world leader in food production” are absurd. Large areas of the former Fertile Crescent are now desert, semidesert, steppe, or heavily eroded or salinized terrain unsuited for agriculture. Today’s ephemeral wealth of some of the region’s nations, based on the single nonrenewable resource of oil, conceals the region’s long-standing fundamental poverty and difficulty in feeding itself.

A striking example from the history of writing is the origin of the syllabary devised in Arkansas around 1820 by a Cherokee Indian named Sequoyah, for writing the Cherokee language. Sequoyah observed that white people made marks on paper, and that they derived great advantage by using those marks to record and repeat lengthy speeches. However, the detailed operations of those marks remained a mystery to him, since (like most Cherokees before 1820) Sequoyah was illiterate and could neither speak nor read English. Because he was a blacksmith, Sequoyah began by devising an accounting system to help him keep track of his customers’ debts. He drew a picture of each customer; then he drew circles and lines of various sizes to represent the amount of money owed. Around 1810, Sequoyah decided to go on to design a system for writing the Cherokee language. He again began by drawing pictures, but gave them up as too complicated and too artistically demanding. He next started to invent separate signs for each word, and again became dissatisfied when he had coined thousands of signs and still needed more. Finally, Sequoyah realized that words were made up of modest numbers of different sound bites that recurred in many different words—what we would call syllables. He initially devised 200 syllabic signs and gradually reduced them to 85, most of them for combinations of one consonant and one vowel. As one source of the signs themselves, Sequoyah practiced copying the letters from an English spelling book given to him by a schoolteacher. About two dozen of his Cherokee syllabic signs were taken directly from those letters, though of course with completely changed meanings, since Sequoyah did not know the English meanings. For example, he chose the shapes D, R, b, h to represent the Cherokee syllables a, e, si, and ni, respectively, while the shape of the numeral 4 was borrowed for the syllable se. He coined other signs by modifying English letters, such as designing the signs , , and to represent the syllables yu, sa, and na, respectively. Still other signs were entirely of his creation, such as , , and for ho, li, and nu, respectively. Sequoyah’s syllabary is widely admired by professional linguists for its good fit to Cherokee sounds, and for the ease with which it can be learned. Within a short time, the Cherokees achieved almost 100 percent literacy in the syllabary, bought a printing press, had Sequoyah’s signs cast as type, and began printing books and newspapers. Cherokee writing remains one of the best-attested examples of a script that arose through idea diffusion. We know that Sequoyah received paper and other writing materials, the idea of a writing system, the idea of using separate marks, and the forms of several dozen marks. Since, however, he could neither read nor write English, he acquired no details or even principles from the existing scripts around him. Surrounded by alphabets he could not understand, he instead independently reinvented a syllabary, unaware that the Minoans of Crete had already invented another syllabary 3,500 years previously.

Our cities have constructed elaborate expressways and elevated skyways, and white Americans speed from suburb to inner city through vast pockets of black deprivation without ever getting a glimpse of the suffering and misery in their midst. But while so many white Americans are unaware of conditions inside the ghetto, there are very few ghetto dwellers who are unaware of the life outside. Their television sets bombard them day by day with the opulence of the larger society. From behind the ghetto walls they see glistening towers of glass and steel springing up almost overnight. They hear jet liners speeding over their heads at six hundred miles an hour. They hear of satellites streaking through outer space and revealing details of the moon. Then they begin to think of their own conditions. They know that they are always given the hardest, ugliest, most menial work to do. They look at these impressive buildings under construction and realize that almost certainly they cannot get those well-paying construction jobs, because building trade unions reserve them for whites only. They know that people who built the bridges, the mansions and docks of the South could build modern buildings if they were only given a chance for apprenticeship training. They realize that it is hard, raw discrimination that shuts them out. It is not only poverty that torments the Negro; it is the fact of poverty amid plenty. It is a misery generated by the gulf between the affluence he sees in the mass media and the deprivation he experiences in his everyday life.

Before taking the discipline for the first time, Brother Martin spent considerable time in prayer. Then he lashed himself with an iron chain armed with hooks of steel until the blood flowed copiously; to increase the pain and at the same time to staunch the flow of blood, he rubbed the wounds with salt and vinegar, in this way hoping to make reparation for his faults and failings. Then Martin would spend a long period of time in the chapter room, meditating on the sufferings of Our Divine Lord, with his eyes often fixed upon the crucifix. Filled with a longing to participate in the sorrows and pains endured by Christ, Martin made preparations for the second nightly flagellation by ripping off his garments, which were matted with blood and glued fast to his shoulders. The instrument of torture now was a leather whip, and Martin inflicted an even more severe punishment upon his back and shoulders, begging Almighty God to take pity upon sinners and especially to open wide the gates of heaven by the conversion of infidels. It was zeal for souls, for those for whom Christ had shed His own Precious Blood, that urged Blessed Martin to lash himself mercilessly with this leather whip. He was only too happy to share in the bitter Passion of Christ, on the details of which he had just lovingly meditated; and he would only too gladly endure any physical pain, any agony however terrifying, if only thereby he could win souls to Christ. Martin now permitted his weary body to snatch brief rest which we have mentioned previously. With the approach of dawn, before four o'clock, he arose and ran to the bell tower, where he greeted the dawn in honor of the Mother of God, as was his regular custom. It was at this time that the holy Negro took the third and most severe of his scourgings. Again, it was preceded by prayer and the cruel removal of the rough tunic which was stuck fast to his flesh. This third scourging was administered with the branch of a wild quince tree, and sometimes Martin would enlist the assistance of an Indian or a Negro in whom he could confide and who was indebted to Blessed Martin for some outstanding kindness. Mercilessly the lash was applied by strong and powerful hands. In the midst of his sufferings Martin would urge on his friend to greater vigor and to be utterly brutal in applying this instrument for penance. This third and last scourging was for the relief of the Poor Souls abandoned in the fires of Purgatory.

They gave the garda on duty all the details they could, showed them photos and old documents from her missing person case. And then the Dignams went home to continue doing the very thing they had spent the last two decades doing – wait.

Revelation Chapter 18 details the many goods which are sold through the Daughter of Babylon’s ports. The lengthy list appears in Revelation 18:11-13. Take any one of those goods listed by John two thousand years ago and ask this question: is any other nation the center for world trade in those commodities, except for the United States? Where else does one find exchanges as important as the New York Stock Exchange, the American Stock Exchange, the New York Mercantile Exchange, the New York Cotton Exchange, the Chicago Board of Trade, the Chicago Mercantile Exchange and numerous other exchanges for currency, coffee, sugar, tea, cocoa, soybeans, oats, wheat, cattle, hogs, lumber, diamonds, iron, ivory, marble, spices, cosmetics, steel, tin, zinc, rubber, etc. Those exchanges, through which the world’s commerce is passed daily, are all located in one country. They’re not in Iraq, nor in Rome.

Everyone knows what a time machine looks like: something like a steampunk sled with a red velvet chair, flashing lights, and a giant spinning wheel on the back. For those of a younger generation, a souped-up stainless-steel sports car is an acceptable substitute; our British readers might think of a 1950s-style London police box.76 Details of operation vary from model to model,

What exactly is going on?” Resignation clouded Mary Beth’s cute face. “You know men, always looking out for us.” Anger lit like a match inside Maddie as she turned narrowed eyes on Mitch through the windows. She didn’t know what was going on, but she was in the mood for a fight, and this was the perfect excuse to have one. He gave her a sheepish look, and Maddie wanted to throttle him. She turned away. Her veins practically raced with adrenaline. She’d been tamping down her temper so long she’d forgotten how intoxicating it was to let it rise to the surface. How much effort did she spend repressing her emotions? The better question was, why did she continue? She stiffened her spine. Not anymore. Through gritted teeth she said, “Yes, I know.” Mary Beth’s expression turned consoling and she made some motherly “tsk” noises, even though she couldn’t be much older than Maddie. “They can’t help themselves. It’s in their nature, but obviously execution is not their strong suit.” Maddie turned her attention to the woman. She’d deal with Mitch Riley later.     “What in the hell is going on in there?” Mitch cursed. This was the worst thought-out plan in the world. Why did he leave the details up to Tommy? He knew better. He scowled at the mechanic. “You can’t lie for shit.” Tommy shot him a droll look. “What about you? You could have jumped in any time, but no, you just stood there like an idiot.” “I hired you to lie to her so I wouldn’t have to, dumbass.” With his jaw clenched, the words came out like a growl. Tommy jabbed a finger in his direction. “Ha! I knew you were pussy-whipped.” “I’m not pussy-whipped.” One had to have sex to be pussy-whipped. Not that Mitch was about to volunteer that information. “I just don’t want to lie to her.” “Same difference, dickhead.” Irrational anger flared hot in his blood. God, he wanted to take someone out. He was so fucked. “If you’d thought of a halfway decent story, this wouldn’t be happening.” “How in the hell was I supposed to know she’d know anything about cars?” “She has brothers.” “Yeah, well, you could have mentioned that.” Through the glass window, Maddie shot him a death glare. Yep, totally fucked. He shouldn’t have told her about his past; it was another strike against him, one he knew from experience couldn’t be overlooked. Between tarnishing his knight-in-shining-armor image and the subterfuge, somehow he didn’t think he’d be granted a third strike. They watched the women. Mitch tried to decipher the expressions playing across Maddie’s features and finally gave up, resigned to his fate. Ten excruciating minutes later, the door opened, and Mitch steeled himself for the fight that was sure to come. He didn’t care how he managed it, but she wasn’t leaving. Maddie walked across the dark gray, grease-stained floor, and unable to stand it any longer, he said, “Now, Maddie, I can explain.” “There’s no need.” Her voice held no trace of emotion. Not good. “But—” he started, but before he could say any more, Maddie flung herself into his arms. Shocked, he caught her and held tight. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Mary Beth, and a satisfied smirk curled over her lips. “I told Maddie how her transmission blew,” Mary Beth said in a pleased tone. “And how it cost twenty-five hundred dollars, but Tommy knows this guy over in Shelby who can trade him for a sixty-five Corvette carburetor so it would only cost her around four hundred. Unfortunately, I had to explain how Tommy was doing you a huge, gigantic favor so you agreed to represent Luke in his legal troubles.” While

Trent,” Harper choked, “Is … Is Anton okay?” Her voice was hoarse, reminding her of the red marks that the doctor had told her covered the outside of her throat. “He’s fine, Harper. A bit shook up— he’s a hero. Ran straight to Frankie’s. Gave the police all kinds of details.” Trent squeezed her hand hard. “Christ, Harper, when Frankie called and told me Nathan had abducted … abducted…” The word stuck, and Harper’s resolve not to cry wavered as tears filled Trent’s eyes. He dropped his head gently onto Harper’s stomach and wrapped his arms around her, softly, and she was filled with gratitude that she was still here with him. “I’m fine, Trent,” she soothed, running her fingers through his hair. “I was scared shitless, but I had something to live for.” “I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner. I love you, sweetheart. More than you can possibly know.” “I know, baby,” she cried, finally letting go in front of him. “I love you, too.” When her tears turned into full-blown sobs, Trent gathered her gently into his arms so they could comfort each other.

After working my way through three security guards and a busy but very dignified outer office, I was finally handed off to a gray-haired woman at an enormous desk of steel and walnut. She looked like a member of MENSA who had been a supermodel in her youth before moving on to a career as a Marine Corps drill instructor. She looked me over with a steely, unflinching eye, and then nodded, stood up, and led me to the end of a hall, where a massive door stood open. She waved a hand to indicate that I might have the great boon of passing through the portal and into the Presence. I bowed to her formally and stepped into a large office, and found Frank Kraunauer standing by the window looking down at the beach. The window was actually a floor-to-ceiling wall of thick and tinted glass, but in spite of the huge expanse of window I didn’t think he could see very much detail from this high up. Still, the light from the window lit him with what looked like a full-body halo, the perfect effect for the Attorney Messiah. I wondered whether it was on purpose.

For formality sake, they usually ask how your day has been like, but you can give them the shock by giving a well detailed answer and reasons why day has been fine. They always usually ask if you have questions at the end of the interview, this will come with the expectation that you might ask about work hours or salary. This

In the daylight that followed my arrival, the pale grey Trappe resembled not so much an abbey as a hospital, an asylum or a reformatory. It dwindled off into farm buildings, and came to an end in the fields where thousands of turnips led their secret lives and reared into the air their little frostbitten banners. Among the furrows an image mouldered on its pedestal; and, under a sky of clouded steel, the rooks cawed and wheeled and settled. Across the December landscape, flat and waterlogged with its clumps of drizzling coppice and barren-looking pasture-land, ran a rutted path which disappeared beneath an avenue of elm-trees. Willows, blurred and colourless as the detail of an aquatint, receded in the mist; and, here and there, the pallor of the woods was interrupted by funereal clumps of pine. Isolated monks, all of them hooded and clogged, at work in the fields, ploughing or chopping wood, dotted this sodden panorama and the report of their falling axes reached the ear long seconds after the visual impact. Others were driving slow herds of cattle to graze.

Within a year, food production was inadequate to support the communes as agricultural workers focused on producing steel rather than farming. It is estimated that twenty to thirty million people starved to death, although detailed statistics were not kept. Sadly, reports later found that more than twenty million tons of grain were being held by the government to be exported abroad at the height of the famine. Deng Xiaoping was at the heart of the disaster. Frank Dikötter, in his book Mao’s Great Famine, blames Deng specifically for ordering the extraction of grain from starving peasants despite the domestic need.

Gideon Spilett was tall. He was rather more than forty years of age. Light whiskers bordering on red surrounded his face. His eye was steady, lively, rapid in its changes. It was the eye of a man accustomed to take in at a glance all the details of a scene. Well built, he was inured to all climates, like a bar of steel hardened in cold water.

The men know there’s no leave this first week-end. But there’s a chap here wants to make a special application for leave. Personal grounds, he says. I told him no show, but he has asked to see you. Determined sort of beggar.’ ‘All right,’ the Colonel said. ‘The sooner I get to know them the better. Send him in. Who is he, anyway?’ ‘His name’s Upham. In A Company. I’ll get him.’ Charles Upham was brought in, uneasy at the formality of his intrusion. ‘All right, stand at ease, Upham,’ Kippenberger said. ‘The R.S.M. tells me you are asking for leave. There’s no leave being granted, you know, except in special circumstances. What’s your trouble?’ ‘Well,’ Upham replied hesitantly, ‘it’s not exactly trouble. I just want to get leave for personal reasons.’ And he looked straight ahead at the wall behind Kippenberger’s head. Adjutant Davis studied the man as he stood there. Rather an unkempt individual, he thought. Hardly the usual product of Christ’s College. A rugged-looking face. He noticed the eyes too—intense, rather chilling eyes. The C.O. said: ‘Well, I’m sorry, Upham, but you’ll have to tell me the personal reasons before I can consider it. What’s the matter?’ Upham hesitated again; then spoke suddenly: ‘I want to give a chap a hiding; that’s all.’ There was a short, rather surprised pause. Kippenberger found it necessary to adopt a more than usually solemn tone to control his startled amusement. ‘I think that’s the first time I’ve heard that one,’ he said. ‘But go on, Upham. Tell me more about it.’ Upham turned his eyes on the Colonel. ‘I sold a man a car,’ he said. ‘He owes me £12 10s. on it and he says he’s not going to pay it. If I don’t get my money I’m going to take it out of his hide.’ The Colonel looked interested. ‘Do you know where he is?’ Yes, at the Grosvenor Hotel in Timaru.’ Kippenberger looked hard at Upham. Then he decided. ‘Yes, Upham,’ he said, ‘you can have your leave. There’ll be only one tag to it—when you get back I want you to report personally to me. Understand?’ Upham nodded shortly. ‘Yes, sir. And thank you, sir.’ R.S.M. Steele marched him out. Kippenberger chuckled, then thumbed through the cards again till he found Upham’s. He re-read the details on it. ‘You know,’ he said to Davis, ‘that chap’s got something. But he’s not a bit like his father. Old Johnny Upham is a very respectable sort of family lawyer. This chap looks as if he’d be happier in the mountains than a lawyer’s office.

1930s Functionalism/Modernism Exterior •Facade: Cube shapes and light-color plaster facades, or thin, standing wood panels. •Roof: Flat roof, sometimes clad in copper or sheet metal. •Windows: Long horizontal window bands often with narrow—or no—architraves; large panes of glass without mullions or transoms. Emphasis on the horizontal rather than on the vertical. Windows run around corners to allow more light and to demonstrate the new possibilities of construction and materials. •Outside door: Wooden door with circular glass window. •Typical period details: Houses positioned on plots to allow maximum access to daylight. Curving balconies, often running around the corner; corrugated-iron balcony frontage. Balcony flooring and fixings left visible. The lines of the building are emphasized. Interior •Floors: Parquet flooring in various patterns, tongue-and-groove floorboards, or linoleum. •Interior doors: Sliding doors and flush doors of lamella construction (vaulted, with a crisscross pattern). Masonite had a breakthrough. •Door handles: Black Bakelite, wood, or chrome. •Fireplaces: Slightly curved, brick/stone built. Light-color cement. •Wallpaper/walls: Smooth internal walls and light wallpapers, or mural wallpaper that from a distance resembled a rough, plastered wall. Internal wall and woodwork were light in color but rarely completely white—often muted pastel shades. •Furniture: Functionalism, Bauhaus, and International style influences. Tubular metal furniture, linear forms. Bakelite, chrome, stainless steel, colored glass. •Bathroom: Bathrooms were simple and had most of today’s features. External pipework. Usually smooth white tiles on the walls or painted plywood. Black-and-white chessboard floor. Lavatories with low cisterns were introduced. •Kitchen: Flush cupboard doors with a slightly rounded profile. The doors were partial insets so that only about a third of the thickness was visible on the outside—this gave them a light look and feel. Metal-sprung door latches, simple knobs, metal cup handles on drawers. Wall cabinets went to ceiling height but had a bottom section with smaller or sliding doors. Storage racks with glass containers for dry goods such as salt and flour became popular. Air vents were provided to deal with cooking smells.

Babies are soft. Anyone looking at them can see the tender, fragile skin and know it for the rose-leaf softness that invites a finger’s touch. But when you live with them and love them, you feel the softness going inward, the round-checked flesh wobbly as custard, the boneless splay of the tiny hands. Their joints are melted rubber, and even when you kiss them hard, in the passion of loving their existence, your lips sink down and seem never to find bone. Holding them against you, they melt and mold, as though they might at any moment flow back into your body. But from the very start, there is that small streak of steel within each child. That thing that says “I am,” and forms the core of personality. In the second year, the bone hardens and the child stands upright, skull wide and solid, a helmet protecting the softness within. And “I am” grows, too. Looking at them, you can almost see it, sturdy as heartwood, glowing through the translucent flesh. The bones of the face emerge at six, and the soul within is fixed at seven. The process of encapsulation goes on, to reach its peak in the glossy shell of adolescence, when all softness then is hidden under the nacreous layers of the multiple new personalities that teenagers try on to guard themselves. In the next years, the hardening spreads from the center, as one finds and fixes the facets of the soul, until “I am” is set, delicate and detailed as an insect in amber.

Summary Fifty Shades of Grey Anastasia Rose Steele, a young literature student,

It was Rogers who hurried to the carpenter shop beneath the forecastle and reappeared triumphantly, holding a hacksaw. He insisted on taking the first turn at cutting through the forged steel link. Soon, he tired of the task and handed the saw to a seaman. Then he wandered off, whistling to himself. Psychiatrists who later examined Rogers or studied his own account of these events have been struck by the marked disturbance of his thinking. A disturbed or psychotic personality suffering from this “thought disorder” has tremendous difficulty separating the relevant from the irrelevant, recalls and remembers everything, describes events in almost incredible detail. Rogers’ description of what happened to him when he left the bridge clearly displays this condition: “There had been a canary down in the hold of the ship. It belonged to the boatswain. I had seen the canary there. I was looking for a pair of shoes. I had lost mine overboard. “I got the canary and put a towel around the bird and came up. He was the only living thing down there. I got halfway up and the heat was terrific. I went all the way with the flashlight and I noticed there was a space of about four feet on the bulkhead that was beginning to glow, turning red.” Clutching the canary, he shuffled back to the deck and delivered the “news that the place was glowing hot down there and it’s a shame to use a five-and-ten-cent method to saw through the chain.” Suddenly the steel link snapped. In all, five hours had passed since the Tampa first offered help.

A part war drama, part coming-of-age story, part spiritual pilgrimage, Surviving Hitler, Evading Stalin is the story of a young woman who experienced more hardships before graduating high school than most people do in a lifetime. Yet her heartaches are only half the story; the other half is a story of resilience, of leaving her lifelong home in Germany to find a new home, a new life, and a new love in America. Mildred Schindler Janzen has given us a time capsule of World War II and the years following it, filled with pristinely preserved memories of a bygone era. Ken Gire New York Times bestselling author of All the Gallant Men The memoir of Mildred Schindler Janzen will inform and inspire all who read it. This is a work that pays tribute to the power and resiliency of the human spirit to endure, survive, and overcome in pursuit of the freedom and liberty that all too many take for granted. Kirk Ford, Jr., Professor Emeritus, History Mississippi College Author of OSS and the Yugoslav Resistance, 1943-1945 A compelling first-person account of life in Germany during the rise of Adolph Hitler and the Nazi Party. A well written, true story of a young woman overcoming the odds and rising above the tragedies of loss of family and friends during a savage and brutal war, culminating in her triumph in life through sheer determination and will. A life lesson for us all. Col. Frank Janotta (Retired), Mississippi Army National Guard Mildred Schindler Janzen’s touching memoir is a testimony to God’s power to deliver us from the worst evil that men can devise. The vivid details of Janzen’s amazing life have been lovingly mined and beautifully wrought by Sherye Green into a tender story of love, gratitude, and immeasurable hope. Janzen’s rich, post-war life in Kansas serves as a powerful reminder of the great promise of America. Troy Matthew Carnes, Author of Rasputin’s Legacy and Dudgeons and Daggers World War II was horrific, and we must never forget. Surviving Hitler, Evading Stalin is a must-read that sheds light on the pain the Nazis and then the Russians inflicted on the German Jews and the German people. Mildred Schindler Janzen’s story, of how she and her mother and brother survived the war and of the special document that allowed Mildred to come to America, is compelling. Mildred’s faith sustained her during the war's horrors and being away from her family, as her faith still sustains her today. Surviving Hitler, Evading Stalin is a book worth buying for your library, so we never forget. Cynthia Akagi, Ph.D. Northcentral University I wish all in the world could read Mildred’s story about this loving steel magnolia of a woman who survived life under Hitler’s reign. Mildred never gave up, but with each suffering, grew stronger in God’s strength and eternal hope. Beautifully written, this life story will captivate, encourage, and empower its readers to stretch themselves in life, in love, and with God, regardless of their circumstances. I will certainly recommend this book. Renae Brame, Author of Daily Devotions with Our Beloved, God’s Peaceful Waters Flow, and Snow and the Eternal Hope How utterly inspiring to read the life story of a woman whose every season reflects God’s safe protection and unfailing love. When young Mildred Schindler escaped Nazi Germany, only to have her father taken by Russians and her mother and brother hidden behind Eastern Europe’s Iron Curtain, she courageously found a new life in America. Surviving Hitler, Evading Stalin is her personal witness to God’s guidance and provision at every step of that perilous journey. How refreshing to view a full life from beginning to remarkable end – always validating that nothing is impossible with God. Read this book and you will discover the author’s secret to life: “My story is a declaration that choosing joy and thankfulness over bitterness and anger, even amid difficult circumsta

The logistics and assembly of the parts, as directed by Eken, were a testament to the way Starrett Bros. & Eken got things done. The components that made up the building came from factories, foundries, and quarries from far and wide—the limestone from Indiana, steel girders from Pittsburgh, cement and mortar from upper New York State, marble from Italy, France, and England, wood from northern and Pacific Coast forests, hardware from New England. Hundreds of other things from equally distant points of manufacture or origin were delivered to the building site and assembled into one great structure, each fitting into its proper place as detailed in the architect’s plans.

Within its pages were row-upon-row of dark impressions; marked one-by-one by an array of blows arising from a basket of clustered steel typebars cast with embossed slugs upon their tips ‒ striking in sequential forward arcs, as if inhabited by a crew of nether-situated Lilliputians sitting side-by-side; wielding slender embossed hammers, forged character-by-character to smash against pigment-impregnated woven black ribbons; poised in turn overtop a seemingly endless succession of lily-white storyteller's leaves; each a direct byproduct of majestically beautiful, seasonally fragrant, faintly audible, partly edible, often climbable; utterly tangible trees ‒ its outer layer of fifteen pages having chronicled the antecedent evoked by this very beginning more than 400 billion harvested timber ago. So then to be more succinct, Nate’s story began again with yet another scurrying rat… In truth such recurrences aren't so terribly peculiar, though it may be altogether unsurprising if one were inclined to suppose otherwise. All things being equal, it would be no more and no less improbable than if each lad had been party to analogous cat encounters across this same interval of time. And ‒ as further happenstance would have it ‒ this is likewise, indeed one more similarly entwined detail connecting these distinct yet equally primal matters. Conceding that all things are rarely equal, of course. For instance it may be instructive to consider that rattus norvegicus tend toward predictable timidity while in striking contrast the felines in question were both tomcats ‒ often being prone to flouncing about in the manner of plumeless peacocks; if not pouncing onto the nearest familiar lap like typical felis catus. Nevertheless ‒ particularly given its generation spanning interlude ‒ such dual coincidence might be more fittingly viewed as a long past due inevitability. This owing to a perpetual abundance within the local feline population; the billions upon billions of rats that are right now scurrying to and fro in more places on this planet than you have likely imagined to exist; as well as an innate magnetism drawing the former to the latter ‒ as earnestly as that of a type hammer chasing a blank page. Then at last, to acknowledge that myriad and unstated goings-on must precede each beginning of every story.

The government offers a really useful website...mypyramidtrackerDOTgov...after you enter your daily food intake and physical activity, it generates wonderfully detailed charts... The site has its peculiarities. The fitness tracker, which wants you to account for all 24 hours of your day, has no entry for writing a movie review, had entries for "orange grove worker" and "steel mill: removing slag" and one category that integrates "forklift operator" with "yoga instruction." Not since Jennifer Beals in "Flashdance"--welder by day, exotic dancer by night--has there been such an intriguing job combo. Under "hone activities," the limited choices include "butchering animals" and "cooking Indian bread on an outside stove"; I'm happy to try just as soon as I remove some slag and get my degree in forklift/yoga." page. 221-222

Much has also been written about a reverse manifestation of exponential change, about the impressively declining cost of solar photovoltaic cells leading to near-miraculous breakthroughs in solar electricity generation. The latter claim has been particularly popular: I encourage you to check those breathless reports of constantly and rapidly falling photovoltaic (PV) cell prices, and you will see how, if they were the only determinant of the actual cost of PV generation, we would soon be arriving at almost the same place where nuclear generation claims began in the mid-1950s, with solar generation being too cheap to meter, indeed, being absolutely a free give-away. In reality, detailed US data for residential PV systems (twenty-two panels) show that the module cost is now only about 15 percent of the total investment. The rest is needed to cover structural and electrical components (panels must be mounted on supports on roofs or on prepared ground), inverters (to change the direct current to alternating current), labor costs, and other soft costs. Obviously, none of these components, from steel and aluminum to transmission lines, permitting, inspection, and sales taxes, is tending to zero, and hence the overall costs of installation (dollars per watt of direct current delivered by the panels) show a distinctly declining rate of improvement: between 2010 and 2015 they fell by 55 percent, between 2015 and 2020 by 20 percent. And these costs do not include the additional outlays that will have to be made with the increasing share of intermittent sources (solar and wind) in overall electricity generation.

She doubted the girl would know much, but over the last year or so of sleuthing with Jack, Flora had learned that the seemingly unimportant small details could prove vital. It was having the patience to discover those details and then the patience to wait for them to make sense

As cadets, we constantly hammered, scraped and wire brushed rusting steel, before applying red lead paint. Most of the paint we used was Navy surplus or a concoction made up of fish oil, lampblack and china dryer. We found that by mixing all different color paints, we would wind up with a paint we called “Sh-t Grindle Brown.” Inventiveness was key as we repaired, replaced, and painted the State of Maine from stem to stern. This work, being in addition to our studies, consumed all of our time. How we managed to fit all of this into the time we had, is still a mystery. The conversion of the ship was labor intensive and expensive, but the U.S. Maritime Commission contributed to the Academy’s financial needs where possible. The mounting expenses remained a challenge but we didn’t give up. We never did finish the entire conversion prior to our first cruise, but one thing we managed to do was paint over the name “USS Comfort” and hand letter in her new name “State of Maine.” If you looked carefully, you could still see her previous name outlined by a welded bead, but this was a minor detail that would eventually be taken care of. Perhaps because of my experience with the letters on the front of “Richardson Hall,” the task of lettering her name and her new homeport on the stern became mine. Much of the ship’s superstructure was still covered with a sticky preservative made up of paint and crank case oil, which never really dried and indelibly got onto our working uniforms. However, from a distance, you couldn’t tell the difference and it looked all right, but more importantly it prevented further rusting. One bulkhead at a time, using a mixture of gasoline and paint remover, we scraped the gunk off and repainted it. The engineers had been busy rebuilding the pumps and generators, as well as repacking steam pipes with asbestos wrapping. We finally got the ship to where we could sail her to Portland under her own power. The twin Babcock and Wilcox heater-type boilers had to be repaired and re-bricked there. After this, we would continue on to the dry dock in Boston for additional work and the hull inspection that was required below the water line.

As cadets, we constantly hammered, scraped and wire brushed rusting steel, before applying red lead paint. Most of the paint we used was Navy surplus or a concoction made up of fish oil, lampblack and china dryer. We found that by mixing all different color paints, we would wind up with a paint we called “Shit Brindle Brown.” Inventiveness was key as we repaired, replaced, and painted the “TS State of Maine” from stem to stern. This work, being in addition to our studies, consumed all of our time. How we managed to fit all of this into the time we had, is still a mystery. The conversion of the ship was labor intensive and expensive, but the U.S. Maritime Commission contributed to the Academy’s financial needs where possible. The mounting expenses remained a challenge but we didn’t give up. We never did finish the entire conversion prior to our first cruise, but one thing we managed to do was paint over the name “USS Comfort” and hand letter in her new name “TS State of Maine.” If you looked carefully, you could still see her previous name outlined by a welded bead, but this was a minor detail that would eventually be taken care of. Perhaps because of my experience… the task of lettering her name and her new homeport on the stern became mine.

In 1613, a pass was issued to the King of Bijapur for a voyage from Dabhol to Jiddah, it laid down in detail what weapon could be carried, and forbade the ship to transport Turks, Abyssinians, cinnamon, pepper, ginger, iron, steel, copper, lead, tin, brass, timber, tabado(?), coir, saltpetre, sulphur, or bamboo, or anything else forbidden. Nor could this ship transport any Portuguese, or horses unless they were licenced, or slaves, unless they were native of Bijapur and not Christians. The ship was to be searched by the Royal Factor at Dabhol before it left.

It was huge, stretching out in multiple corridors, with cell doors lining both sides of each passageway on multiple levels, interconnected by stairs and suspended ramps. The reception hall’s ceiling was made entirely out of glass, giving us a clear view of Purgatory’s cell rows. It was all stark and gray, with black metal and stainless steel bars and architectural details. It was a Brutalist’s dream, a recipe for emptiness and depression.

I'm sure that you will see that I have the best funeral the Corps can afford. Now, would you care to squeeze out a few details or would you prefer to blindfold me and shoot me out in a one-way cargo rocket?

The steel that is printed with a pattern comes in a variety of designs. In recent times, due to its attractive appearance, ease of use, and excellent corrosion resistance It has been extensively utilized for household appliances, furniture, and building decorations. Wanzhi Steel, a professional supplier of color-coated sheets, can offer many patterns to meet your needs. The pattern, color, and even the painting can be made to order. Here are a few products we've produced. Applications of Steel Pattern Prepainted 1. Home appliances, including the shells of air conditioners and microwaves, as well as video equipment. 2. Constructions, such as ceilings, walls as well as partition walls, fireproof doors, and sandwich panels. They are often used for interior decoration. 3. Transportation, for instance, the trim panel inside the vehicle, marine bulkhead, etc. 4. Windows & Doors include door panels, garage doors, and security doors, as well as window or door frames. What is the reason for the pattern Printed Steel? 1. Different Colors and Patterns The color-coated steel comes in many designs and colors. It makes the structures appear stunning. Additionally, it has a smooth surface which means there's no need for additional decoration. 2. Light in weight The color-coated coil is simple to install and transport because of its lightweight. This speeds up construction time. One in three is as weighty as brick walls. 3. Fantastic Corrosion Resistance Steel sheet with patterns printed on them uses zinc-coated steel sheets, also known as AL-ZN, as the base metal. This is the reason why the sheet has great resistance to corrosion and rust. In addition, its impact on the heat insulation properties is fantastic. 4. High Strength It preserves the tensile and yield strength of steel so that it has a high strength to withstand breakage and crushing. 5. Environmental-friendly Prefabricated homes made of prepainted printed steel sheets can be recycled and produce less pollution. Besides, it greatly reduces human labor, which makes it more environmentally friendly. The pattern-printed steel is a cost-effective but useful product. Wanzhi Steel offers quality products for a reasonable cost. We can help you select the right patterns for your design. Contact us if you need more details.

Galvalume sheets can be used in a variety of applications, including agricultural, residential, and commercial. It has an aluminum-zinc alloy coating that gives it better heat resistance and corrosion resistance. It is a popular choice among homeowners, contractors, and architects. Wanzhi Steel provides a variety of galvalume roof sheet sizes and shapes that will suit your needs. Welcome to contact us for more details!