Sti Quotes

Sometimes the man who looks happiest in town, with the biggest smile, is the one carrying the biggest load of sin. There are smiles & smiles; learn to tell the dark variety from the light. The seal-barker, the laugh-shouter, half the time he's covering up. He's had his fun & he's guilty. And all men do love sin, Will, oh how they love it, never doubt, in all shapes, sizes, colors & smells. Times come when troughs, not tables, suit appetites. Hear a man too loudly praising others & look to wonder if he didn't just get up from the sty. On the other hand, that unhappy, pale, put-upon man walking by, who looks all guilt & sin, why, often that's your good man with a capital G, Will. For being good is a fearful occupation; men strain at it & sometimes break in two. I've known a few. You work twice as hard to be a farmer as to be his hog. I suppose it's thinking about trying to be good makes the crack run up the wall one night. A man with high standards, too, the least hair falls on him sometimes wilts his spine. He can't let himself alone, won't let himself off the hook if he falls just a breath from grace.

Trufia de a iubi, de-a te sti vast, acoperit de uralele multimilor din tine. In tine ca un cer de august in ploaia lui de stele.

There will always be those that look down on your station in life and call it a sty, but if you get in there and wallow, that’s on you.

You have a hierarchy of values; pleasure is at the bottom of the ladder, and you speak with a little thrill of self-satisfaction, of duty, charity, and truthfulness. You think pleasure is only of the senses; the wretched slaves who manufactured your morality despised a satisfaction which they had small means of enjoying. You would not be so frightened if I had spoken of happiness instead of pleasure: it sounds less shocking, and your mind wonders from the sty of Epicurus to his garden. But I will speak of pleasure, for I see that men aim at that, and I do not know that they aim at happiness. It is pleasure that lurks in the practice of every one of your virtues. Man performs actions because they are good for him, and when they are good for other people as well they are thought virtuous: if he finds pleasure in giving alms he is charitable; if he finds pleasure in helping others he is benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working for society he is public-spirited; but it is for your private pleasure that you give twopence to a beggar as much as it is for my private pleasure that I drink another whiskey and soda. I, less of a humbug than you, neither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your admiration.

Few realize that political action offers little solution to the world’s major problems. Few understand that the elite have created political parties in order to prevent real change from ever taking place. The political arena is merely the “sty” in which two or more mutually hostile agencies, created by the same hidden hand, get the chance to pummel one another. As alternative researcher Juri Lina so brilliantly put it: When the left wing Freemason is finished, the right-wing Freemason takes over The point has been emphasized by many an insider: The elementary principle of all deception is to attract the enemy’s attention to what you wish him to see and to distract his attention from what you so not wish him to see – General Sir Archibald Wavel The world’s power structures have always ‘divided to conquer’ and have always ‘kept divided to keep conquered.’ As a consequence the power structure has so divided humanity – not only into special function categories but into religious and language and color categories – that individual humans are now helplessly inarticulate in the face of the present crisis. They consider their political representation to be completely corrupted, therefore, they feel almost utterly helpless

How shall I abide In this dull world, which in thy absence is No better than a sty?

De-ai sti cate locuri senine sunt in lume! De ce nu te duci sa cauti unul? Toate drumurile sunt libere! Du-te pe mare, in singuratatea ei o sa gasesti tocmai ce iti lipseste! Ai sa intalnesti alte intelesuri ale vietii, ai sa te vindeci de tot ce ti-a ranit sufletul aici!

I once lay in a white hospital for the dying and the dying self, where some god pissed a rain of reason to make things grow only to die, where on my knees I prayed for LIGHT, I prayed for l*i*g*h*t, and praying crawled like a blind slug into the web where threads of wind stuck against my mind and I died of pity for Man, for myself, on a cross without nails, watching in fear as the pig belches in his sty, farts, blinks and eats.

Any religious expression of truth, however bizzare or uncouth, is more sufficing than any secular one, however elegant and intellectually brilliant. Animistic savages prostrating themselves before a painted stone have always seemed to me to be nearer the truth than any Einstein or Bertrand Russell. As it might be pigs in a crowded sty, jostling and shoving to bury their snouts in the trough; until one of them momentarily lifts his snout upwards in the air, in so doing expressing the hope of all enlightenment to come; breaking off from his guzzling to point with his lifted snout to where the angels and archangels gather round God's throne.

I have been reading three books Dean lent me this week. One was like a rose garden--very pleasant, but just a little too sweet. And one was like a pine wood on a mountain--full of balsam and tang--I loved it, and yet it filled me with a sort of despair. It was written so beautifully--I can never write like that, I feel sure. And one--it was just like a pig-sty. Dean gave me that one by mistake.

Esta es la definición de felicidad: todo un día tendidos, hermoso en sti vacío y simplicidad.

Asadar, si la soldati, nu numai la mine si la Orisan, aceasta neputinta dea îndura necunoscutul, nevoia mortala de a sti ce se petrece înainte. Cred ca acest sentiment era mai curând un derivat al fricii.

Suntem indragostiti pentru ca nu ne cunoastem. Daca am sti ce urmeaza dupa aceea,am trage cat mai mult de indragosteala asta si nu ne-ar mai interesa deloc sa punem intrebari si sa asteptam raspunsuri,am alerga beti,imbatati de noi insine fara nevoia de luciditate si adevar.

I am that careless girl, hands sunk haphazardly into the dough, bedroom a sty, pen stilled against her hand, eyes cast out the window, humming a song, thinking of something else. I am that outspoken witch; I will disagree with any man. I am a firework gone off in the dark, a spectacle of disobedience, a grand finale of orgasms anytime I want.

Omul ordinar este preocupat sa-si omoare timpul, omul de spirit va sti intotdeauna cum sa si-l intrebuinteze. De aceea, jocul de carti a ajuns ocupatia predilecta in orice societate. Neavind idei de schimbat, oamenii schimba cartea la masa si-si cistiga banii unii altora. Cei care nu stiu nici atit, sau sint de-a dreptul prosti, bat darabana cu degetele-n masa. Tigarea inlocuieste, de asemenea, gindirea, atunci cind nu are ce stimula.

I have heard ballads of great battles, and poems about the beauty of a charge and the grace of a leader. But I did not know that war was nothing more than butchery, as savage and unskilled as sticking a pig in the throat and leaving it to bleed to make the meat tender. I did not know that the style and nobility of the jousting arena had nothing to do with this thrust and stab. Just like killing a screaming piglet for bacon after chasing it round the sty. And I did not know that war thrilled men so: they come home laughing like schoolboys after a prank; but they have blood on their hands and a smear of something on their cloaks and the smell of smoke in their hair and a terrible ugly excitement on their faces. I understand now why they break into convents, force women against their will, defy sanctuary to finish the killing chase. They arouse in themselves a wild vicious hunger more like animals than men. I did not know war was like this. I feel I have been a fool not to know, since I was raised in a kingdom at war and am the daughter of a man captured in battle, the widow of a night, the wife of a merciless solider. But I know now.

Sti ppagliacciate 'e ffanno sulo 'e vive: nuje simmo serie... appartenimmo â morte!

AIDS would have claimed fewer lives if we had publicly recommended what I wish to call ‘The Presumption of Sickness,’ i.e., the principle that whomever we are about to sleep with is HIV-positive until proven HIV-negative.

There is nothing like stying at home for real comfort

After I changed a crew, I would watch them scrabbling and crying in the sty, falling over each other, stupid with their horror. They hated it all, their newly voluptuous flesh, their delicate split trotters, their swollen bellies dragging in the earth’s muck. It was a humiliation, a debasement. They were sick with longing for their hands, those appendages men use to mitigate the world. Come, I would say to them, it’s not that bad. You should appreciate a pig’s advantages. Mud-slick and swift, they are hard to catch. Low to the ground, they cannot easily be knocked over. They are not like dogs, they do not need your love. They can thrive anywhere, on anything, scraps and trash. They look witless and dull, which lulls their enemies, but they are clever. They will remember your face. They never listened. The truth is, men make terrible pigs.

Cand ti se vor deschide in fata mai multe cai si nu vei sti pe care sa apuci nu alege la intamplare ci asaza-te si asteapta. Asteapta oricat e nevoie. Nu te misca nu spune nimic asculta-ti inima. Apoi cand o sa-ti vorbeasca ridica-te si urmeaza-i sfatul.

Den lange, lange sti over myrene og inn i skogene hvem har trakket opp den? Mannen, mennesket, den første som var her. Det var ingen sti før ham. Siden fulgte et og annet dyr de svake spor over moer og myrer og gjorde dem tydeligere, og siden igjen begynte en og annen lapp å snuse stien opp og gå den når han skulle fra fjell til fjell og se til sin ren. Slik ble stien til gjennom den store almenning som ingen eiet, det herreløse land.

Am I to be a king, or just a pig?' Gustave writes in his Intimate Notebook. At nineteen, it always looks as simple as this. There is the life, and then there is the not-life; the life of ambition served, or the life of porcine failure. ... What did he learn instead? Instead he learned that life is not a choice between murdering your way to the throne or slopping back in a sty; that there are swinish kings and regal hogs; that the king may envy the pig; and that the possibilities of the not-life will always change tormentingly to fit the particular embarrassments of the lived life.

Asa-zisa „psihologie pentru mase” bate intr-una moneda pe „asumarea responsabilitatii”, dar nu sunt decat vorbe goale: este extraordinar de greu, ba chiar terifiant, sa accepti ideea ca tu si numai tu esti acela care iti construiesti viata, felul in care o traiesti. Ca urmare, problema in psihoterapie consta intotdeauna in a sti cum sa treci de la o apreciere in plan intelectual, care se dovedeste ineficace, a unui adevar despre tine insuti la un mod saul altul de a-l simti in plan emotional. Abia din clipa in care terapia mobilizeaza emotii profunde, incepe sa devina o forta redutabila in favoarea schimbarii.

At its most elemental level the human organism, like crawling life, has a mouth, digestive tract, and anus, a skin to keep it intact, and appendages with which to acquire food. Existence, for all organismic life, is a constant struggle to feed-a struggle to incorporate whatever other organisms they can fit into their mouths and press down their gullets without choking. Seen in these stark terms, life on this planet is a gory spectacle, a science-fiction nightmare in which digestive tracts fitted with teeth at one end are tearing away at whatever flesh they can reach, and at the other end are piling up the fuming waste excrement as they move along in search of more flesh. I think this is why the epoch of the dinosaurs exerts such a strange fascination on us: it is an epic food orgy with king-size actors who convey unmistakably what organisms are dedicated to. Sensitive souls have reacted with shock to the elemental drama of life on this planet, and one of the reasons that Darwin so shocked his time-and still bothers ours-is that he showed this bone crushing, blood-drinking drama in all its elementality and necessity: Life cannot go on without the mutual devouring of organisms. If at the end of each person’s life he were to be presented with the living spectacle of all that he had organismically incorporated in order to stay alive, he might well feel horrified by the living energy he had ingested. The horizon of a gourmet, or even the average person, would be taken up with hundreds of chickens, flocks of lambs and sheep, a small herd of steers, sties full of pigs, and rivers of fish. The din alone would be deafening. To paraphrase Elias Canetti, each organism raises its head over a field of corpses, smiles into the sun, and declares life good.

If [literature] should turn into pure propaganda or pure entertainment, society will slip back into the sty of the immediate -- which is to say, the memoryless existence of hymenoptera and gastropods. None of this is so important, to be sure. The world can get by nicely without literature. But without human beings it can get by better yet.

If I ever find you lurking about in my thoughts again, Vlad, I will be most displeased. You stay out of my mind, and I'll sty out of yours. Agreed?

The inn at Kinlochaline was the most beggarly vile place that ever pigs were styed in, full of smoke, vermin, and silent Highlanders.

Come va il mondo, c'è anzi da stupirsi che tutti 'sti preti non siano sempre ubriachi fradici.

Omul nu va fi perfect decat atunci cand va sti sa creeze si sa distruga ca Dumnezeu. Deja stie sa distruga, deci jumatate din drum e facut.

Viata nu inseamna a trai ci a sti pentru ce traiesti.

Dar oglinda mi-a spus asta:nu poti sti totul,doar privindu-ma.Nu poti sti niciodata totul doar uitandu-te la cineva

Everything in the universe has life and you must always try to sty in contact with that life. It understands your language and the world will begin to take on a different meaning for you.

In theory, of course, abstinence is a foolproof method of preventing pregnancies and STDs and STIs (sexually transmitted diseases and sexually transmitted infections—you can have the latter without the former), just as starvation is a foolproof method of preventing obesity. But in reality the desires to love physically and to bond socially are fundamental to who we are as human beings; and the sex drive is so powerful, and the pleasures and psychological rewards so great, that recommending abstinence as a form of contraception and STI prevention is, in fact, to recommend pregnancy and infection by default.

Ako ti jave da sam pao na razoranim, sleđenim poljima Flandrije, da me je pokosio šrapnel - ti nemoj da budeš tužna i nemoj plakati pred svijetom, jer vrlo dobro znaš da iz mojih grudi ne mogu da niknu suncokreti niti se moje kapi krvi mogu pretvoriti u makove. To je sve jedna obična literarna konstrukcija, a da ne pričamo o tome što ja nikad nisam ni vidio Flandriju niti je ona vidjela mene. Ako ti kažu da sam se u svojim posljednjim časovima junački držao, da sam neustrašivo gledao smrti u oči, da sam je čak i začikavao, da sam svog sudiju prezrivo pljunuo, a da sam dželatu dao kesu dukata uz riječi: "Dobro obavite svoj posao!", a da sam, potom, sam izmaknuo stolicu ispod vješala, ti bi morala znati da je to jedna obična izmišljotina, izmišljotina onih koji ne znaju šta je to život a šta smrt znači. Ti me dobro znaš: znaš kako ja često umirem svakog bogovjetnog dana, kako se trzam na svaki šum, kako mi se čelo često orosi znojem (reklo bi se bez razloga), znaš da se bojim proviriti kroz špijunku na vratima bojeći se ne znam ni sam čega, bojeći se nekoga ko će mi s nadmoćnim osmijehom na licu izrecitirati sti­hove Marine Cvetajeve: Predaj se! Još niko nije našao spasa od onoga što uzima bez ruku! Sjećaš se kako sam se bojao kad si trebala da me predstaviš svo­jim roditeljima, koliko ti je trebalo vremena da me ubijediš da nisam baš toliki kreten koliki izgledam, da se ponekad sa mnom može proći ruku pod ruku kroz prometnu ulicu... Ja pamtim ono veče kad smo otišli kod jedne tvoje prijateljice koja je slavila rođendan, sjećam se svakog vica koji sam ispričao i sjećam se pogleda društva koje je u meni gledalo neku egzotičnu životinju, sjećam se kako su se gurkali laktovima kad smo ulazili, kad sam skidao svoje cipele sa pačijim kljunom (a u modi su bile brukserice), kako sam ispod stola krio onu rupu na ne baš čistim čarapama... Pamtim kako sam to veče, ponesen strahom, popio tri flaše "Fruškogorskog bisera", litar i po domaće rakije (više je nije bilo) i završio sa "Mandarmetom", nekim likerom od mandarina... Od svega toga bi se napilo jedno omanje krdo slonova, ali ja sam bio najtrezniji, bojao sam se da tebi ne napravim neko sranje i to me je držalo. Onda smo izašli na Vilsonovo šetalište i ti si se propela na prste i poljubila me, evo, baš ovdje, pored uha, a ja sam morao da sjed­nem na klupu i da počnem plakati... Prolazila su neka djeca i čuo sam ih kako kažu: "Vidi pedera!!!" Kao i uvijek, ti si me pitala šta mi je najednom, a ja nisam mogao da ti objasnim da to uopšte nije najednom, da je to stalno, da je to neka vrsta mog zaštitnog znaka, nešto po čemu bih sebe poznao među hiljadama meni sličnih, nešto što se i ne trudim da sakrijem, jedan zloćudni tumor s kojim sam se rodio, tumor na mozgu i duši koji se ne da ukloniti nikakvim operativnim putem ni zračenjem, ni činjenicom da te volim i da ti voliš mene... Ako ti jave da večeras hodam po kafanama i olajavam tebe i našu ljubav, da se prodajem za loše vino, da skupljam opuške tuđih simpatija, ljubim ruke nečistih konobarica, ispadam budala u svačijim očima... To ti je živa istina.

Sti picciotti parivano poter assorbiri tutto con 'na facilità che forsi era sulo di superfici, ma di 'na superfici enormi, globali, che era la superfici del munno 'ntero. A lui avivano 'nsignato di scinniri 'n profunnità, loro avevano 'mparato a navicari a mari aperto.

Du er selv den afgrund, der åbner sig under dig, og den bro, du må gå over. Du er selv den sti, du skal følge, og det bjerg, du er nødt til at bestige. Du er den hule, du må finde og træde ind i. Og når du sidder dér, vil du indse, at du er den sky, der svæver på himlen over dig; at du er den Himmelske sang, og at du er regnen, som falder og fordamper på ny; at du dråben, der forener sig med sit hav. du vil ikke have behov for at vide mere, for du vil være selve visheden om Himmerriget, himlen, havet, stjernerne og Altet. Du vil ikke mere være adskilt fra Gud.

It would have pained the immaculate Monty, could he have known that his prospective employer was picturing him at the moment as furtive, shifty-eyed, rat-like person of the gangster, type, liable at the first opportunity to sneak into the sties of innocent pigs and plant pineapple bombs in their bran-mash.

In Ecclesiastul scrie <>;dar neavand nicodata fericirea sa merg la catehism cu ceilalti copii, nu am fost prevenit de pericolele studiului. Crestinii au mare noroc ca sunt de foarte tineri pusi in garda impotriva riscului inteligentei; ei vor sti, toata viata sa se fereasca de ea. Fericiti cei saraci cu duhul.

Ikke som en cæsar gjorde, skal du med et sverd bevæbne deg mot verden, men med ordet; Amor Fati - elsk din skjebne. Denne formel skal du fatte som din sterkeste befrier: Du har valgt din sti i krattet. Ikke skjel mot andre stier! Også smerten er din tjener. Lammet, sønderknust, elendig ser du at den gjenforener deg med det som er nødvendig. Også fallet, også sviket hjelper deg som dine venner. Dine nederlag er rike gaver, lagt i dine hender. Engang skal du, tilfredsstillet av å bli din skjebne verdig vite: Dette har jeg villet. Alt som skjer meg skjer rettferdig. Si da, når din levegledes grønne skog er gjennomvandret: Intet vil jeg anderledes. Intet ønsker jeg forandret.

Some women would not have contracted an STD or STDs had they not been on the pill.

Some people have contracted HIV during their separate endeavours to give someone or some people a curable STD.

Lazy in everything,” said Ross, “but the search for excuses. Like two old pigs in their sty and as slow to move from their own patch of filth.” Prudie

Hear a man too loudly praising others, and look to wonder if he didn’t just get up from the sty.

What Religion has to face in the controversies of to-day is not the unbelief of the sty, but the unbelief of the educated conscience and of the soaring intellect;

There is her sty,’ he said, pointing a reverent finger as they crossed the little meadow dappled with buttercups and daisies. ‘And that is my pigman Wellbeloved standing by it.’ Myra

In Ecclesiastul scrie ca cel ce isi inmulteste stiinta isi sporeste suferinta;dar neavand nicodata fericirea sa merg la catehism cu ceilalti copii, nu am fost prevenit de pericolele studiului. Crestinii au mare noroc ca sunt de foarte tineri pusi in garda impotriva riscului inteligentei; ei vor sti, toata viata sa se fereasca de ea. Fericiti cei saraci cu duhul.

WINTER Puir laboureris and busy husbandmen, Went wet and weary in the fen; The silly sheep and their little herd-groomis Lurkis under lea of bankis, wodes, and broomis, And other dantit greater bestial, Within their stabillis sesyt into stall, Sic as mulis, horsis, oxen and kye, Fed tuskit boaris, and fat swine in sty, Sustainit were by manis governance On harvest and simmeris purveyance.

Who is Nando?" Cesare asked. "Rocco's son," I replied. "A child." Make no mistake, Cesare was a selfish and ruthless man. The entire course of his life proves this. But for all that, he could on ocassion actually be a man - and by that I do not mean that he possessed scrotum and penis, as does the rudest hog rooting in a sty. He had an instinct to care for those weaker than himself, especially children, whom he liked and valued far more than he did most adults. But just then he was very young and lacking in the thin - in Cesare's case, extremely thin - veneer of civilization that most men manage to acquire as they pass through life. That being the case, he gave voice to what was, in all honesty, my own instinctive response to Rocco's news. "Merda." I could not have put it better.

- Și sti de ce îmi este teamă? i-a spus ei într-o zi, în șoaptă. - De ce îți este teamă? - Mi-e teamă că noua inimă nu va mai ști să te iubească. - Nu-i nimic, a spus ea și a zâmbit. O s-o învățăm și pe ea să mă iubească. (...) Dar poate iubirea nu stă în acel organ, cred că îi acordăm mai multe merite decât trebuie. Iubirea stă undeva mai sus,doar că atunci când suferim, creierul se răzbună pe inimă.

In unele zile, cand merg pe Kirstentsrasse si vad douazeci, treizeci de curve aliniate, sunt foarte tentat. Niciuna nu este mai draguta ca Rachel, multe au gonoree si sifilis, si totusi sunt tentat. Daca as sti sigur ca nu m-ar recunoaste nimeni, cine stie? Poate! Toti ne saturam sa mancam acelasi lucru. Stii, Josef, pentru fiecare femeie frumoasa exista cate un biet barbat care a obosit s-o mai reguleze.

I'm tired of waking up at 7 a.m. And I'm tired of making breakfast, getting dressed, brushing my teeth, walking to the bus, coming to school, going to lessons and stying there as the day grows darker. My legs are tired and my hips are tired, and my ankles are aching, and my head always feels like I've just done an exam. I find it hard to keep focused on a thought without thinking about thinking about that thought. And I'm finding it hard even talking to you now. And you know what I'm most tired of? Knowing that this is just the start, that I'll only get more tired as I get older, that I'll have a life of being ___

Remember the parable of the workers in the vineyard, how those who came early in the day complained that those who came later got the same wages. What does the master say? "Take what belongs to you, and go; I choose to give to this last as I give to you. Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or do you begrudge my generosity?" And then Jesus adds, as he does so often, "So the last will be first, and the first last." But one hears the objection, "What's the point of being a Christian if, in the end, everyone is saved?" People who ask that should listen to themselves. What's the point of being first rather than last in serving the Lord whom you love? What's the point of being found rather than lost? What's the point of knowing the truth rather than living in ignorance? What's the point of being welcomed home by the waiting father rather than languishing by the pig sties? What's the point? The question answers itself.

She was the first close friend who I felt like I’d re­ally cho­sen. We weren’t in each other’s lives be­cause of any obli­ga­tion to the past or con­ve­nience of the present. We had no shared his­tory and we had no rea­son to spend all our time to­ gether. But we did. Our friend­ship in­ten­si­fied as all our friends had chil­dren – she, like me, was un­con­vinced about hav­ing kids. And she, like me, found her­self in a re­la­tion­ship in her early thir­ties where they weren’t specif­i­cally work­ing to­wards start­ing a fam­ily. By the time I was thirty-four, Sarah was my only good friend who hadn’t had a baby. Ev­ery time there was an­other preg­nancy an­nounce­ment from a friend, I’d just text the words ‘And an­other one!’ and she’d know what I meant. She be­came the per­son I spent most of my free time with other than Andy, be­cause she was the only friend who had any free time. She could meet me for a drink with­out plan­ning it a month in ad­vance. Our friend­ship made me feel lib­er­ated as well as safe. I looked at her life choices with no sym­pa­thy or con­cern for her. If I could ad­mire her de­ci­sion to re­main child-free, I felt en­cour­aged to ad­mire my own. She made me feel nor­mal. As long as I had our friend­ship, I wasn’t alone and I had rea­son to be­lieve I was on the right track. We ar­ranged to meet for din­ner in Soho af­ter work on a Fri­day. The waiter took our drinks or­der and I asked for our usual – two Dirty Vodka Mar­ti­nis. ‘Er, not for me,’ she said. ‘A sparkling wa­ter, thank you.’ I was ready to make a joke about her un­char­ac­ter­is­tic ab­sti­nence, which she sensed, so as soon as the waiter left she said: ‘I’m preg­nant.’ I didn’t know what to say. I can’t imag­ine the ex­pres­sion on my face was par­tic­u­larly en­thu­si­as­tic, but I couldn’t help it – I was shocked and felt an un­war­ranted but in­tense sense of be­trayal. In a de­layed re­ac­tion, I stood up and went to her side of the ta­ble to hug her, un­able to find words of con­grat­u­la­tions. I asked what had made her change her mind and she spoke in va­garies about it ‘just be­ing the right time’ and wouldn’t elab­o­rate any fur­ther and give me an an­swer. And I needed an an­swer. I needed an an­swer more than any­thing that night. I needed to know whether she’d had a re­al­iza­tion that I hadn’t and, if so, I wanted to know how to get it. When I woke up the next day, I re­al­ized the feel­ing I was ex­pe­ri­enc­ing was not anger or jeal­ousy or bit­ter­ness – it was grief. I had no one left. They’d all gone. Of course, they hadn’t re­ally gone, they were still my friends and I still loved them. But huge parts of them had dis­ap­peared and there was noth­ing they could do to change that. Un­less I joined them in their spa­ces, on their sched­ules, with their fam­i­lies, I would barely see them. And I started dream­ing of an­other life, one com­pletely re­moved from all of it. No more chil­dren’s birth­day par­ties, no more chris­ten­ings, no more bar­be­cues in the sub­urbs. A life I hadn’t ever se­ri­ously con­tem­plated be­fore. I started dream­ing of what it would be like to start all over again. Be­cause as long as I was here in the only Lon­don I knew – mid­dle-class Lon­don, cor­po­rate Lon­don, mid-thir­ties Lon­don, mar­ried Lon­don – I was in their world. And I knew there was a whole other world out there.

I am finally loose as a goose, my wingspan unfolded its full length, my powerful neck raised as I slice into the sky. I am the same woman in the Innenwelt and the Umwelt. I am that careless girl, hands sunk haphazardly into the dough, bedroom a sty, pen stilled against her hand, eyes cast out the window, mouth humming a song, thinking of something else. I am that outspoken witch; I will disagree with any man. I am a firework gone off in the dark, a spectacle of disobedience, a grand finale of orgasms anytime I want.

Many bisexuals might indeed feel comfortable and well represented by [creating images of 'stable, monogamous, appropriately sexual' bisexuals], but what of the many people who don't fit in this standard of the "normal" or "good" bisexual? Some bisexuals are sluts (read: sexually independent women), some bisexuals are just experimenting, some like people of certain genders only sexually and not romantically, some like to have threesomes and perform bisexuality for men, some are HVI and STI carriers, some don't practice safer sex, some are indeed indecisive and confused, some cheat on their partners, some do choose to be bi, as well as many other things that the "myth-busting" [or simplifying/sanitizing] tries to cast off. A very long list of people is being thrown overboard in the effort to "fight biphobia." In this way, the rebuttal in fact imposes biphobic normative standards on the bisexual community itself, drawing a line between "good" and "bad" bisexuals. Either way, benign docility and unthreatening citizenship are not exactly what I would want my bisexuality to be associated with.

Brides, nymphs were called, but that is not really how the world saw us. We were an endless feast laid out upon a table, eautiful and renewing. And so very bad at getting away. The rails of my sty cracked with age and use. From time to time the wood buckled and a pig escaped. Most often, he would throw himself from the cliffs. The seabirds were grateful. They seamed to come from half the world away to feast on the plump bones. I woud stand watching as they strupped the fat and sinew. The small pink scrap of tail-skin dangled from one of their beaks like worm. If it were a man, I wondered if I would pity him but it was not a man. When I passed back by the pen, his friends would stare at me with pleading faces. They moaned and squealed, and pressed they snouts to the earth. We are sorry, we are sorry. Sorry you were caught, I said. Sorry that you thought I was weak, but you were wrong.

Now, look, since when did you think being good meant being happy?” “Since always.” “Since now learn otherwise. Sometimes the man who looks happiest in town, with the biggest smile, is the one carrying the biggest load of sin. There are smiles and smiles; learn to tell the dark variety from the light. The seal-barker, the laugh-shouter, half the time he’s covering up. He’s had his fun and he’s guilty. And men do love sin, Will, oh how they love it, never doubt, in all shapes, sizes, colors, and smells. Times come when troughs, not tables, suit our appetites. Hear a man too loudly praising others, and look to wonder if he didn't just get up from the sty. On the other hand, that unhappy, pale, put-upon man walking by, who looks all guilt and sin, why, often that's your good man with a capital G, Will. For being good is a fearful occupation; men strain at it and sometimes break in two.

Hendes mor er alene hjemme og rydder op i en mappe. Det er den store mappe med papirer, der ligger nederst i stueskabet. Hun trækker den ud på gulvtæppet, sidder på knæ ved siden af. Himlen er meget mørk over Acacia, men hun vil holde op med at give himlen så meget opmærksomhed. Hun er i nattøj, det huer hende ikke. En sky ligner et vandfald. Hænderne ligger i skødet med håndfladerne opad, den ene fod sover. Hun er stærk tilhænger af skråskrift. Hun ser nu, at gulvtæppet har en næsten usynlig sti fra gang til køkken, lyset falder anderledes i luven. Denne sti får hende til at smile, hun fører en hånd op til sin kind.

Hey Blake, how’s it hanging?” She questioned, looking through me at Blake, obviously ignoring my presence. She looked smug at the double meaning in her sentence. Blake furrowed his eyebrows. Brianna only talked to him on rare occasions when she bumped into us at my house. He must have been confused as to why she approached us in public, considering how she and I weren’t friends even in the slightest sense. Ignoring the fact that she was talking to Blake and not me, I spoke. “Longer than anything you’ve ever sucked.” Blake’s eyes widened for a second before he bit his lip to keep from laughing. Brianna turned toward me with cold eyes, her smile gone. “Not like you would know, Virgin Violet.” Her cohorts laughed and smiled like that was the funniest thing they had heard in their entire lives. “You know I really do admire you, Bri Bri.” I smiled sweetly, leaning forward as I placed my hand on her shoulder. “The fact that you’ve had so many fuck buddies this summer and still have not managed to contract some kind of STI or gotten pregnant really does inspire me.” I smirked wickedly. “At least from my knowledge you haven’t.” The look that came to her face made me want to buckle over with laughter. She looked flustered, angry, and embarrassed all at the same time. Maybe I hit a soft spot.

It is a mistake to suppose that, in a country where the usual evidences of civilization exist, the condition of a very large body of inhabitants may not be as degraded as that of savages. I refer to the degraded poor, not now to the degraded rich. To know this I should not need to look farther than to the shanties which everywhere border our railroads, that last improvement in civilization; where I see in my daily walks human beings living in sties, and all winter with an open door, for the sake of light, without any visible, often imaginable, wood-pile, and the forms of both old and young are permanently contracted by the long habit of shrinking from cold and misery, and the development of all their limbs and faculties is checked.... Such too, to a greater or less extent, is the condition of the operatives of every denomination in England, which is the great workhouse of the world. Or I could refer you to Ireland, which is marked as one of the white or enlightened spots on the map. Contrast the physical condition of the Irish with that of the North American Indian, or the South Sea Islander, or any other savage race before it was degraded by contact with the civilized man. Yet I have no doubt that that people's rulers are as wise as the average of civilized rulers. Their condition only proves what squalidness may consist with civilization.

The Drunken Fisherman" Wallowing in this bloody sty, I cast for fish that pleased my eye (Truly Jehovah's bow suspends No pots of gold to weight its ends); Only the blood-mouthed rainbow trout Rose to my bait. They flopped about My canvas creel until the moth Corrupted its unstable cloth. A calendar to tell the day; A handkerchief to wave away The gnats; a couch unstuffed with storm Pouching a bottle in one arm; A whiskey bottle full of worms; And bedroom slacks: are these fit terms To mete the worm whose molten rage Boils in the belly of old age? Once fishing was a rabbit's foot-- O wind blow cold, O wind blow hot, Let suns stay in or suns step out: Life danced a jig on the sperm-whale's spout-- The fisher's fluent and obscene Catches kept his conscience clean. Children, the raging memory drools Over the glory of past pools. Now the hot river, ebbing, hauls Its bloody waters into holes; A grain of sand inside my shoe Mimics the moon that might undo Man and Creation too; remorse, Stinking, has puddled up its source; Here tantrums thrash to a whale's rage. This is the pot-hole of old age. Is there no way to cast my hook Out of this dynamited brook? The Fisher's sons must cast about When shallow waters peter out. I will catch Christ with a greased worm, And when the Prince of Darkness stalks My bloodstream to its Stygian term . . . On water the Man-Fisher walks.

That accounts for his crying so. Poor creature!” ”Well--you must do the sticking--there's no help for it. I'll showyou how. Or I'll do it myself--I think I could. Though as it issuch a big pig I had rather Challow had done it. However, his basketo' knives and things have been already sent on here, and we can use'em.” ”Of course you shan't do it,” said Jude. ”I'll do it, since it mustbe done.” He went out to the sty, shovelled away the snow for the space of acouple of yards or more, and placed the stool in front, with theknives and ropes at hand. A robin peered down at the preparationsfrom the nearest tree, and, not liking the sinister look of thescene, flew away, though hungry. By this time Arabella had joinedher husband, and Jude, rope in hand, got into the sty, and noosed theaffrighted animal, who, beginning with a squeak of surprise, rose torepeated cries of rage. Arabella opened the sty-door, and togetherthey hoisted the victim on to the stool, legs upward, and while Judeheld him Arabella bound him down, looping the cord over his legs tokeep him from struggling. The animal's note changed its quality. It was not now rage, but thecry of despair; long-drawn, slow and hopeless. ”Upon my soul I would sooner have gone without the pig than have hadthis to do!” said Jude. ”A creature I have fed with my own hands.” ”Don't be such a tender-hearted fool! There's the sticking-knife--the one with the point. Now whatever you do, don't stick un toodeep.” ”I'll stick him effectually, so as to make short work of it. That'sthe chief thing.” ”You must not!” she cried. ”The meat must be well bled, and to dothat he must die slow. We shall lose a shilling a score if the meatis red and bloody! Just touch the vein, that's all. I was broughtup to it, and I know. Every good butcher keeps un bleeding long.He ought to be eight or ten minutes dying, at least.” ”He shall not be half a minute if I can help it, however the meat maylook,” said Jude determinedly. Scraping the bristles from the pig'supturned throat, as he had seen the butchers do, he slit the fat;then plunged in the knife with all his might. ”'Od damn it all!” she cried, ”that ever I should say it! You'veover-stuck un! And I telling you all the time--” ”Do be quiet, Arabella, and have a little pity on the creature!

I just helped with a birthing." Amber flames lit his angry dark eyes. "Women have no business doing that kind of work. It's not decent!" Thoroughly provoked by his unreasonable attitude, Willow completely forgot Miriam's presence. "Well, that's a lamebrain thing to say, considering it's us females who do the birthing. All men do is prime their-" "Willow!" Miriam interjected. "That is quite enough!" Seemingly disgusted with both of them, Miriam waved Rider off dismissively. "Mr. Sinclair, you've seen for yourself she's quite all right so I suggest you take yourself elsewear." "Fine! It's a little too whiffy around here for me anyway." He jerked Sultan around and rode off in a monstrous huff. Willow was pricked by his disdain more than she cared to admit. "Did you hear what he said? He said I stink! You'd think I'd just climbed out of a pig sty! Hell, how would he know if I stink? He wasn't even close enough to sniff me." Miriam exhaled a deep sigh and wrinkled her nose. "Well, believe me, I'm close enough!" Miriam bristled but then recognized the teasing twinkle in Miriam's soft hazel eyes and broke into a grin. "It'll never do to stick you in a tub," the landlady observed. "I'd kill myself, filling and dumping it before we got you clean. Stay here and don't move. I'll be right back." Miriam returned, loaded down with towels, soap, and clean clothes. "Lead the way to that swimming hole you were telling me about." The two women silently traipsed down the narrow path to the river, Willow brooding over Rider's sarcasm and Miriam wondering if Willow's clothes could be laundered or if she should just burn them.

When I stayed here, Tea-riffic kind of reminded me of being back at your parents’ shop. It’s a nice spot.” “Tea-riffic?” I echo. He grins. “It’s pretty tea-sty.” I groan, but then I let out a laugh. “Well, you had me at tea.” Tea-riffic Café turns out to be the perfect place to load up on caffeine. I go for a milky hojicha with brown sugar boba, and Jack chooses a winter melon green tea with bits of aloe.

For people already in the together-forever camp—the people who had bought houses together, gotten married, were trying for a baby, had already become parents—my life was a perfect encapsulation of everything they had traded in. I had freedom, I had variety, I had a healthy disregard for my own security. While they planned a babysitter and an evening of bottle-feeds two weeks in advance just so they could spend three hours out of the house eating a dinner they hadn’t cooked, I was rampaging up a dew-wet meadow with someone who might try to undo my bra with his teeth. It was only later, as I sat on their sofas, ashen-faced and nails-bitten, telling them how I’d faked an orgasm or risked an STI or how I’d cried in the night because I’d felt so lonely, that I would catch them looking over at their partner with something like relief.

I once lay in a white hospital for the dying and the dying self, where some god pissed a rain of reason to make things grow only to die, where on my knees I prayed for LIGHT, I prayed for 1*i*g*h*t, and praying crawled like a blind slug into the web where threads of wind stuck against my mind and I died of pity for Man, for myself, on a cross without nails, watching in fear as the pig belches in his sty, farts, blinks and eats.

Cine ma va lecui de cumplitul meu "Bildungstrieb"? Pe cine sa fac vinovat de pasiunea mea pentru "carti",de a acumula,de a sti,de a strange nimicuri despre orice?Prefer,pentru comoditate,sa pun aceste cusururi pe seama originilor mele:iesit dintr-un popor pentru care analfabetismul era realitatea dominanta,nu sunt oare,prin curiozitatea mea insatiabila,un fenomen de reactie? Sau,mai curand,nu trebuie sa platesc pentru toti strabunii mei in ochii carora exista o singura carte,cea numita de ei cartea,adica Biblia? E in acelasi timp placut si umilitor sa ma gandesc ca in urma cu cateva generatii ai mei erau niste salbatici,niste bastinasi.Juridic vorbind,erau niste sclavi,obligati sa nu stie nimic;eu insa ma simt obligat za stiu totul:de aceea citesc orice,pana-ntr-acolo ca nu mai am timp pentru propriile mele elucubratii.Le neglijez ca sa vad ce au spus ceilalti.Consumul de carti nu este egalat la mine decat de consumul de alimente: intr-adevar,mi-e foame permanent si nimic nu ma satura-nici cand mananc,nici cand citesc.Bulimia si abulia merg mana-n mana.Trebuie sa devor ca sa simt ca exist,ca sa fiu.Imi amintesc ca in copilarie,uneori,mi se intampla sa mananc singur cat toata familia.Asadar o veche nevoie de a ma linisti prin hrana,de a gasi certitudini printr-un act bestial,de a scapa prin ceva precis,animalic,de ezitarile,de vagul si indecizia in care traiesc.Cand vad un caine sau un porc repezindu-se la mancare,il inteleg ca pe un frate.Si cand ma gandesc ca de luni de zile lecturile mele au drept tema principala renuntarea si ca,dintre toate cartile,le prefer pe cele de filozofie hindusa. Cartile pe care le citesc cu cel mai mare interes trateaza despre mistica si despre dietetica.Sa fie vreun raport intre ele? Neindoielnic,in masura in care mistica implica asceza-aceasta nefiind in esenta decat o chestiune de regim.

The rails of my sty cracked with age and use. From time to time the wood buckled and a pig escaped. Most often, he would throw himself from the cliffs. The seabirds were grateful; they seemed to come from half the world away to feast on the plump bones. I would stand watching as they stripped the fat and sinew. The small pink scrap of tail-skin dangled from one of their beaks like a worm. If it were a man, I wondered if I would pity him. But it was not a man.

Znasz hi­sto­rię An­dre­ja Żi­ro­va? – Re­wo­lu­cjo­ni­sty? Żirov był ra­dy­ka­łem za cza­sów dziad­ka Ni­ko­ła­ja. Na za­krwa­wio­ne usta Do­mi­ni­ka wy­pły­nął cień uśmie­chu. – Kiedy pró­bo­wa­li po­wie­sić go za zdra­dę, lina urwa­ła się i spadł do rowu, który żoł­nie­rze wy­ko­pa­li na jego grób. Ni­ko­łaj pró­bo­wał się uśmiech­nąć. – Nigdy o tym nie sły­sza­łem. Do­mi­nik ski­nął głową. – „W tym kraju”, krzyk­nął wtedy Żirov, „nie po­tra­fią nawet po­rząd­nie po­wie­sić czło­wie­ka!”.

Lidstvo v každé době plodí ďábelské šílence a svůdné představy útisku. Úkolem státnictví je zabránit tomu, aby se vyšvihli k moci, a udržet funkční mezinárodní uspořádání, které je může – pokud se k moci dostanou – zastrašit. Toxická směs povrchního pacifismu, geopolitické nerovnováhy a nejednoty spojenců však těmto silám v meziválečném období dala volnou ruku. Evropa poučená třemi sty lety konfliktu vybudovala mezinárodní řád – a pak ho odhodila, protože její vůdcové nerozuměli při vstupu do první světové války důsledkům svého počínání, a i když nyní chápali, jaký by byl dopad další hromadné katastrofy, zalekli se závěrů, k nimž je toto nahlédnutí mělo přimět. Kolaps mezinárodního pořádku, k němuž v této době došlo, byl v zásadě rezignací či přímo sebevraždou. Evropa opustila zásady vestfálského urovnání, zdráhala se uplatnit sílu, jež by byla nezbytná k obhajobě deklarované morální alternativy, a nyní ji stravovala nová válka, jejíž konec s sebou znovu přinesl nutnost nově pojmout uspořádání kontinentu.

You rear like a frightened colt, because I use a word to which your Christianity ascribes a deprecatory meaning. You have a hierarchy of values; pleasure is at the bottom of the ladder, and you speak with a little thrill of self-satisfaction, of duty, charity, and truthfulness. You think pleasure is only of the senses; the wretched slaves who manufactured your morality despised a satisfaction which they had small means of enjoying. You would not be so frightened if I had spoken of happiness instead of pleasure: it sounds less shocking, and your mind wanders from the sty of Epicurus to his garden. But I will speak of pleasure, for I see that men aim at that, and I do not know that they aim at happiness. It is pleasure that lurks in the practice of every one of your virtues. Man performs actions because they are good for him, and when they are good for other people as well they are thought virtuous: if he finds pleasure in giving alms he is charitable; if he finds pleasure in helping others he is benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working for society he is public-spirited; but it is for your private pleasure that you give twopence to a beggar as much as it is for my private pleasure that I drink another whiskey and soda. I, less of a humbug than you, neither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your admiration.

Aproape de fiecare data cand se refera la moarte, Socrate repeta, in opera lui Platon, cuvintele lui Euripide. Nimeni nu stie daca viata nu inseamna moarte iar moartea nu inseamna viata. Din cele mai indepartate timpuri, oamenii cei mai intelepti traiesc in aceasta enigmatica ignoranta; numai oamenii de rand stiu prea bine ce este viata, ce este moartea. Cum s-a petrecut, cum s-a putut intampla ca inteleptii sa sovaie acolo unde spiritele de rand nu vad nici o dificultate? Si de ce piedicile cele mai grele, mai complete, sunt intotdeauna rezervate celor mai intelepti? Or, ce poate fi mai cumplit decat neputinta de-a sti de esti mort sau viu? "Justitia" ar pretinde ca aceasta cunoastere ori aceasta ignoranta sa fie apanajul tuturor fapturilor omenesti. Dar, ce spun eu: Justitia! Logica insasi o cere, intrucat e absurd ca unora sa le fie dat a deosebi viata de moarte, in timp ce altii raman lipsiti de aceasta cunoastere; cei care o poseda difera complet, intr-adevar, de cei carora le este refuzata, iar noi nu avem asadar dreptul sa-i socotim pe toti, in mod nediferentiat, ca apartinand speciei umane. E om numai acela care stie ce inseamna viata si ce inseamna moartea. Cel care nu stie, cel care, fie numai si din cand in cand, fie numai si pentru o singura clipa, inceteaza a deosebi limita ce separa viata de moarte, acela inceteaza sa mai fie om, pentru a deveni...pentru a deveni ce? Cine este Oedipul ce poate rezolva aceasta problema si patrunde acest suprem mister?

Parerea lui Iosif Maria: periculoasa intr-un stabiliment. Prea mult caracter. Nu joaca asa cum ii canti. Poate sa strice totul. Atentie daca se indragosteste. Fara indoiala ca bacanul ar fi dat-o afara de la Bear Flag. Nu poti sa te increzi decat in egoisti de teapa ta. Poti sa sti intotdeauna ce va face un egoist, in timp ce nu sti la ce te poti astepta de la o fiinta generoasa. Singura victima intr-adevar sigura este egoistul. Cu el n-ai niciodata neplaceri. Fauna era pe cale sa comita o greseala. Iosif Maria o evalua pe Suzy ca pe o masina de ocazie. Silueta frumoasa, glezne si picioare atragatoare. Draguta la chip, daca era fericita. Starea sufleteasca i se citea pe fata. O tarfa adevarata poarta o masca, este aceeasi pentru toata lumea, adica placuta, si nu-ti mai amintesti de ea a doua zi dimineata. Suzy nu era o fata pe care s-o uiti. Riscai cu ea prea mult. Suzy iubea sau nu iubea oamenii, ceea ce era periculos in sine. [...] Iar pe deasupra, ochii plini de indiferenta nu erau din aceia neinsufletiti, in care nu poti sa te increzi. Nu era smechera si ar fi putut sa lupte chiar impotriva lui Jack Dempsey. Una peste alta, Iosif Maria ar fi doborat-o pe Suzy in mai putin de un minut. Era tocmai genul de fata care s-ar fi putut indragosti de un baiat fara sa se intereseze ce cont are la banca. Genul care creeaza o gramada de necazuri fara a aduce nimic in schimb. Printr-o serie de trasaturi semana cu Doc. Bacanul isi zise ca o va avertiza pe Fauna inca o data. O asemenea fata in stabiliment te duce la faliment.

I still felt a little bit sick for needing the help of a Librarian. It was frustrating. Terribly frustrating. In fact, I don’t think I can accurately—through text—show you just how frustrating it was. But because I love you, I’m going to try anyway. Let’s start by randomly capitalizing letters. “We cAn SenD fOr a draGOn to cArry us,” SinG saId As we burst oUt oF the stAirWeLL and ruSHED tHrough ThE roOm aBovE. “ThAT wILl taKe tOO Long,” BaStiLlE saiD. “We’Ll haVe To graB a VeHiCle oFf thE STrEet,” I sAid. (You know what, that’s not nearly frustrating enough. I’m going to have to start adding in random punctuation marks too.) We c! RoS-Sed thrOu? gH t% he Gra## ND e ` nt < Ry > WaY at “A” de-aD Ru) n. OnC $ e oUts/ iDE, I Co* Uld sEe T ^ haT the suN wa + S nEar to s = Ett = ING—it w.O.u.l.d Onl > y bE a co@ uPle of HoU[ rs unTi ^ L the tR} e} atY RATiF ~ iCATiON ha, pPenEd. We nEeDeD!! to bE QuicK?.? UnFOrTu() nAtelY, tHE! re weRe no C? arriA-ges on tHe rOa ^ D for U/ s to cOmMan > < dEer. Not a ON ~ e ~. THerE w + eRe pe/\ Ople wa | lK | Ing aBoUt, BU? t no caRr# iaGes. (Okay, you know what? That’s not frustrating enough either. Let’s start replacing some random vowels with the letter Q.) I lqOk-eD arO! qnD, dE# sPqrA# te, fRq? sTr/ Ated (like you, hopefully), anD aNn | qYeD. Jq! St eaR& lIer, tHqr ^ E hq.d BeeN DoZen! S of cq? RrIqgEs on The rQA! d! No-W tHqRe wA = Sn’t a SqnGl + e oN ^ q. “ThE_rQ!” I eXclai $ mqd, poIntIng. Mqv = Ing do ~ Wn th_e RqaD! a shoRt diStq + + nCe aWay < wAs > a sTrANgq gLaSs cqnTrAPtion. I waSN’t CqrTain What it wAs >, bUt It w! qs MoV? ing—aND s% qmewhat quIc: =) Kly. “LeT’s G_q gRA? b iT!

Neither that I picked my nose compulsively, daydreamed through my boring classes, masturbated, once in a condom I stole from my father’s drawer, enraptured by its half-chemical, half-organic odor; nor my obsessions with smells in general, earth, dead rats, even my baby sister’s diaper shit, which made me pleasantly retch; nor that I filched money from my mother for candy and so knew early on I was a thief, a sneak, a liar: none of that convinced me I was “bad,” subversive and perverse, so much as that purveyor of morality—parent, teacher, maybe even treacherous friend—who inculcated the unannulable conviction in me that the most egregious wrong, of which I was clearly already despicably, irredeemably guilty, was my abiding involvement with myself. Even now, only rarely am I able to convince myself that my reluctance to pass on my most secret reflections, meditations, theorizings, all the modes by which I manage to distract myself, arises from my belief that out of my appalling inner universe nothing anyway could possibly be extracted, departicularized, and offered as an instance of anything at all to anyone else. An overrefined sense of generosity, I opine; an unwillingness to presume upon others by hauling them into this barn, this sty, where mental vermin gobble, lust, excrete. Not a lack of sensitivity but a specialization of that lobe of it which most appreciates the unspoken wish of others: to stay free of that rank habitation within me I call “me.” Really, though: to consider one’s splendid self-made self as after all benevolent, propelled by secret altruism? Aren’t I, outer mouth and inner masticating self-excusing sublimations, still really back there in my neither-land? Aren’t I still a thief, stealing from some hoard of language trash to justify my inner stink? Maybe let it go, just let it go.

Yes." "It is impossible that they should. You will find as you grow older that the first thing needful to make the world a tolerable place to live in is to recognise the inevitable selfishness of humanity. You demand unselfishness from others, which is a preposterous claim that they should sacrifice their desires to yours. Why should they? When you are reconciled to the fact that each is for himself in the world you will ask less from your fellows. They will not disappoint you, and you will look upon them more charitably. Men seek but one thing in life--their pleasure." "No, no, no!" cried Philip. Cronshaw chuckled. "You rear like a frightened colt, because I use a word to which your Christianity ascribes a deprecatory meaning. You have a hierarchy of values; pleasure is at the bottom of the ladder, and you speak with a little thrill of self-satisfaction, of duty, charity, and truthfulness. You think pleasure is only of the senses; the wretched slaves who manufactured your morality despised a satisfaction which they had small means of enjoying. You would not be so frightened if I had spoken of happiness instead of pleasure: it sounds less shocking, and your mind wanders from the sty of Epicurus to his garden. But I will speak of pleasure, for I see that men aim at that, and I do not know that they aim at happiness. It is pleasure that lurks in the practice of every one of your virtues. Man performs actions because they are good for him, and when they are good for other people as well they are thought virtuous: if he finds pleasure in giving alms he is charitable; if he finds pleasure in helping others he is benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working for society he is public-spirited; but it is for your private pleasure that you give twopence to a beggar as much as it is for my private pleasure that I drink another whiskey and soda. I, less of a humbug than you, neither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your admiration.

Sexual Excitation System (SES). This is the accelerator of your sexual response. It receives information about sexually relevant stimuli in the environment—things you see, hear, smell, touch, taste, or imagine—and sends signals from the brain to the genitals to tell them, “Turn on!” SES is constantly scanning your context (including your own thoughts and feelings) for things that are sexually relevant. It is always at work, far below the level of consciousness. You aren’t aware that it’s there until you find yourself turned on and pursuing sexual pleasure. Sexual Inhibition System (SIS). This is your sexual brake. “Inhibition” here doesn’t mean “shyness” but rather neurological “off” signals. Research has found that there are actually two brakes, reflecting the different functions of an inhibitory system. One brake works in much the same way as the accelerator. It notices all the potential threats in the environment—everything you see, hear, smell, touch, taste, or imagine—and sends signals saying, “Turn off!” It’s like the foot brake in a car, responding to stimuli in the moment. Just as the accelerator scans the environment for turn-ons, the brake scans for anything your brain interprets as a good reason not to be aroused right now—risk of STI transmission, unwanted pregnancy, social consequences, etc. And all day long it sends a steady stream of “Turn off!” messages. This brake is responsible for preventing us from getting inappropriately aroused in the middle of a business meeting or at dinner with our family. It’s also the system that throws the Off switch if, say, in the middle of some nookie, your grandmother walks in the room. The second brake is a little different. It’s more like the hand brake in a car, a chronic, low-level “No thank you” signal. If you try to drive with the hand brake on, you might be able to get where you want to go, but it’ll take longer and use a lot more gas. Where the foot brake is associated with “fear of performance consequences,” the hand brake is associated with “fear of performance failure,” like worry about not having an orgasm.

Sada kada je Erika silnim zahvatima konačno oblikovana u nešto nježno, mora još samo sje¬sti u kolica što se kotrljaju putovima umjetnosti i postati umjetnica. Takva djevojčica nije za grube poslove, npr. za težak ručni rad ili kućanske poslove. Ona je rođenjem predodređena za finese klasičnog plesa i klasične glazbe. Da po¬stane svjetski poznata pijanistica, to bi, eto, bio majčin ideal! Kako bi se dijete moglo u svijetu intriga probijati na svom putu, majka na svakom uglu zabija putokaze, a s njima i Eriku, ako Erika dovoljno ne vježba. Majka upozorava Eriku na za¬vidnu hordu, koja će uvijek pokušavati razoriti ono što netko postigne i koja je gotovo uvijek muškog roda. Ne daj se sme¬sti na svojem putu! Ni na jednoj stubi na koju se popne Eriki nije dopušteno odmoriti se. Ne smije se, onako zadihana, nasloniti na cepin, jer mora nastaviti dalje. Na sljedeću stubu. Životinje iz šume opasno su joj se približile i prijete joj da će i nju pretvoriti u životinju. Na tom putu suparnici Eriku po¬kušavaju navući na hridi pod izgovorom da joj žele pokazati kakav se pogled pruža odatle. Ali kako se samo lako možeš survati s takvih stijena! Majka joj tu provaliju vrlo zorno opi¬suje, kako bi se dijete što bolje čuvalo pada. Svjetska je slava, koju većina neće moći postići, samo gore, na vrhu. Gore puše hladan vjetar koji kao da šumi kako'je umjetnik uvijek sam. Dok je god Erikina majka živa i može određivati njenu bu¬dućnost, za dijete dolazi u obzir samo jedna stvar: svjetski vrhovi. Majka gura odozdo, jer ona čvrsto stoji objema nogama na zemlji. Uskoro Erika više neće imati uporište na majčinim ramenima, već će stajati na leđima nekog drugog, koga su svojim intrigama uklonili s Erikina puta. Ali klimavo je to uporište! Erika stoji na vrhovima prstiju na majčinim leđima i zarila je uvježbane prste u vrh brijega, za koji će se vrlo brzo ispostaviti da je obična mala izbočina u strmoj stijeni i da samo stvara privid vrha. Propinje se tako Erika, isteže mišiće nadlaktica i s mukom se uspinje prema gore. Vrškom je nosa već provirila preko ruba stijene, ali jedino što je ugledala nova je litica, još strmija od prethodne. Tvornica leda u kojoj se proizvodi slava ovdje je već otvorila svoju podružnicu i proiz¬vode slaže u blokovima jedne na druge jer se tako smanjuju troškovi skladištenja. Ispred jednog od tih blokova slave, oblizujući se od sreće, Erika nastupa na srednjoškolskom natjecanju za Chopinovu nagradu. Uvjerena je da joj nedostaje još milimetar do vrha!

May I speak with you for a minute, Frank?” He stopped working. “James, Dan. Keep Janie out of trouble.” “Yes, sir.” Both boys gave a salute. Frank’s long legs consumed the expanse, and he met me in the bright sunlight. We rounded the corner of the barn and moved away from its wall, closer to the pigpen. “Is there a problem?” He bent slightly, resting his arms on the top of the rail fence surrounding the sty, one foot propped up on the lower slat. I picked at the jagged edge of a fingernail and cleared my throat. “I’m going home.” “I know.” He looked almost . . . stricken. But it passed. Worried about not having made arrangement yet for the children, I imagined. He cleared his throat, kicked at a clod of dirt. “At the end of the month.” “This morning, actually. I have my train ticket.” Only his jaw moved, the muscle tightening and loosening and tightening again. I paced behind him, reached the other side of the small enclosure, chewed my lip, waited for him to say something. Anything. But the silence closed in around me. I had to get free of it. “I’ve been here long enough. I know that now. You need to be with your family, Frank. You need to sleep in your own bed, be among your own things. The children are comfortable with you again. Besides”—I grabbed the top rail of the pen to hold me steady—“I have my own life to live.” I stared off into the distance, hoping he thought I gazed happily into the life I desired. The quiet boiled between us until his words spat out like a flash of lightning. “Just like that, you’d abandon us?” I whirled to face him. “Just a few days earlier than you promised to send me home, remember?” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his overalls and looked me over as if I were a possum in the bedroom. “They’ve lost their mother. And Adabelle. Now they’ll lose you, too. You don’t think they’ll feel that?” I shook my head, my heart breaking into tiny shards. “They’re young. They’ll take to whoever you bring in as quickly as they took to me.” His face reddened. He stalked toward the barn, then turned and came back, pointing his finger in my face. “Let’s get this straight. I’ve not asked you to leave. You’ve taken this on yourself.” “It’s for the best, Frank. It really is. But . . .” I hesitated. The intensity of his anger made me unsure of my final request. My voice shrank to nearly a whisper. “Will you tell them for me?” His eyebrows arched. He threw back his head and belched a derisive laugh. “You want to leave? Fine. I can’t stop you. But I’m not going to be the one to tell them. You are.

Am ranit si am fost ranit, Apoi am vrut sa invat si am invatat ca asta nu se termina niciodata daca vrei sa fii om." "...ce-i care-si ascund adevarata natura risca sa uite de ea si sfarsesc prin a fi altcineva." " - Ti-e dor de trecut? - Da. - De ce? - Trecutul e sigur. Acolo nu mi se mai poate intampla nimic. - Eu iubesc prezentul. - De ce? - E imprevizibil. - Vezi? Suntem diferiti... Ce iubesti la mine? - Tot ce nu pot fi eu..." " - Pai si...iertati-ma.. din ce traiti? - Am copii, - Ah.. Misto. Pai si cu ce v-ati ocupat? Ce meserie aveati? - M-am ocupat cu fericirea." "Mama ta este aici si acolo. Mama ta este viata si inainte de viata." "Copiii sunt mai aproape de Dumnezeu, pentru ca ei nu se indoiesc. Indoiala vine cu varsta. ...Oare unde ne pierdem harul? Unde se rupe firul care, odata intrerupt naste indoiala? Sunt multe raspunsuri, stiu. Prea multe corecte, niciunul adevarat." "Nu alergati dupa bani cu orice pret. Banii trebuie sa va fie doar mijloc, nu scop. Scopul vostru trebuie sa fie cunoasterea. Cu cat veti sti mai multe, cu atat veti fi mai inalti. Orice carte citita, orice lectie invatata se va aseza sub voi si va va ridica deasupra celorlalti. Veti domina cu mintea. Nu e nimic mai frumos decat asta." "Poate ca iubirea e atunci cand, dupa ce ai stins lumina la baie si ti-ai vazut ochii obositi in oglinda, alti ochi ii privesc pe ai tai de undeva din intunericul apropiat. Si esti impacat cu asta si nu mai tanjesti dupa nimic altceva." "Intelegerea nevoilor reale ale persoanei iubite, asta este pariul unei relatii. Sa mergi adanc in sufletul celui langa care traiesti si sa nu transformi o relatie intr-o mecanica a sabloanelor..." "Iubirea incepe cu intrebari simple pe care le rostim si sfarseste cu intrebari la fel de simple pe care nu le punem niciodata." " - Da' de ce nu-si spun nimic? Stau asa lipiti si-si amesteca mainile... - Sunt la inceput, astia doi. Abia s-au cunoscut. N-au curaj sa-si spuna lucruri si lasa mainile sa vorbeasca pentru ei." "Cel mai frumos lucru al dumnezeirii este ca Dumnezeu se afla si in sufletele celor care il contesta, fara ca acestia sa i se poata opune." "Ati vazut filmele alea in care oamenii, ca sa se razbune, mai trag niste gloante in cadavrul dusmanului lor, desi stiu ca acesta e mort? Ei bine, oricate gloante ai descarca in cadavrul unei iubiri pierdute, n-o sa-ti potolesti setea..." "Esti singur in vartejul suferintei tale si daca vrei sa iesi trebuie sa tragi aer in piept si sa te scufunzi pana se sfarseste. Mai degraba iubeste-o pana cand iubirea ti se face apa si se scurge prin toti porii. Iubeste-o in absenta. Va fi ca si cum te-ai arunca de nebun intr-un zid. De sute, de mii de ori. Neclintit, zidul iti va rupe oasele, pielea ti-o vei zdreli, iti vei sfasia hainele pana cand te vei fi prelins in praful de la poalele lui. Un somn lung te va cuprinde, apoi te vei trezi ca dupa un cosmar pe care vei incerca sa-l rememorezi. Soarele diminetii nu-ti va da timp si vei uita. Cu fiecare zi care va trece, vei mai fi uitat putin cate putin... Vindeca-te singur. E tot ce poti face pentru tine.

I found Lord Emsworth, Lady Constance, and told him the car was in readiness.’ ‘Oh, thank you, Miss Briggs. Where was he?’ ‘Down at the sty. Would there be anything furthah?’ ‘No thank you, Miss Briggs.’ As the door closed, the Duke exploded with a loud report. ‘Down at the sty!’ he cried. ‘Wouldn’t you have known it! Whenever you want him, he’s down at the sty, gazing at that pig of his, absorbed, like somebody watching a strip-tease act. It’s not wholesome for a man to worship a pig the way he does. Isn’t there something in the Bible about the Israelites worshipping a pig? No, it was a golden calf, but the principle’s the same. I tell you …’ He broke off. The door had opened again. Lord Emsworth stood on the threshold, his mild face agitated. ‘Connie, I can’t find my umbrella.’ ‘Oh, Clarence!’ said Lady Constance with the exasperation the head of the family so often aroused in her, and hustled him out towards the cupboard in the hall where, as he should have known perfectly well, his umbrella had its home. Left alone, the Duke prowled about the room for some moments, chewing his moustache and examining his surroundings with popping eyes. He opened drawers, looked at books, stared at pictures, fiddled with pens and paper-knives. He picked up a photograph of Mr Schoonmaker and thought how right he had been in comparing his head to a pumpkin. He read the letter Lady Constance had been writing. Then, having exhausted all the entertainment the room had to offer, he sat down at the desk and gave himself up to thoughts of Lord Emsworth and the Empress. Every

1. ‘’Astfel, esenta lumanarii nu este ceara care lasa urme, ci lumina.’’ 2. ‘’Cel ce iubeste doar aproprierea dragostei, nu va cunoaste niciodata intalnirea cu ea.’’ 3. ‘’Caci am aflat ca omul este asemenea unei citadele. Rastoarna zidurile pentru a-si gasi libertatea, dar nu mai e decat fortareata nimicita, deschisa inspre stele. Atunci incepe spaima de a nu mai fi.’’ 4. ‘’Si am inteles ca au nevoie de liniste. Caci numai in liniste adevarul fiecaruia se leaga si prinde radacini. Caci ceea ce e important, inainte de toate,…, este timpul.’’ 5. ‘’ …limbajul nu contine nimic care sa fie vrednic de interes. Invata sa asculti nu zarva cuvintelor, nici rationamentele ce le permit sa se insele. Invata sa privesti mai departe.’’ ‘’Iata pentru ce am dispretuit dintotdeauna, ca fiind zadarnica, zarva cuvintelor. Si nu m-am increzut in artificiile limbajului. ‘’ 6. ‘’ Caci abilitatea nu este decat un cuvant gol. In creatie nu exista ocoluri. Creezi ceea ce faci si nimic mai mult. Iar daca pretinzi ca urmarind un scop, te indrepti spre un altul, deosebit de primul, doar cel pe care cuvintele il inseala te va crede abil.’’ 7. ‘’Caci fiecare iubeste in felul sau aceeasi imagine. Doar un limbaj insuficient ii opune pe oameni unii altora, caci dorintele lor nu difera. N-am intalnit niciodata pe cel care sa doreasca dezordinea sau josnicia sau ruina. Imaginea care-i framanta si pe care ar vrea s-o intemeieze se aseamana de la un capat la celalat al universului, dar caile de atingere a ei difera.’’ 8. ‘’ Desigur, cu cat munca pe care o consumi in numele dragostei este mai grea, cu atat mai mult te exalta. Cu cat dai mai mult, cu atat cresti mai mult. Dar trebuie sa existe cineva care sa primeasca. A pierde nu inseamna niciodata a darui.’’ 9. ‘’ Caci, o data mai mult, am aflat ca logica ucide viata. Si ca nu contine nimic prin ea insasi… Dar facatorii de formule s-au inselat asupra omului. Au confundat formula, care este umbra plata a cedrului, cu cedrul, din volumul, greutatea si culoarea lui, cu incarcatura sa de pasari si frunzisul sau, care nu s-ar putea exprima si cuprinde in cuvinte firave…Caci aceia confunda formula care desemneaza, cu obiectul desemnat. Si cum ar putea suporta ceea ce nu se poate formula, sau nu s-a implinit inca, sau intra in contradictie cu un alt adevar? Cum sa stie ca, intr-un limbaj care formuleaza dar nu cuprinde, doua adevaruri se pot opune?’’ 10. ‘’ Dar daca nu te ating, te construiesc ca pe un templu. Si te inalt in lumina. Si tacerea ta inchide in ea campiile. Iar eu te iubesc dincolo de mine sau tine. Si inventez imnuri pentru a-ti celebra imperiul…Nu esti decat o treapta in drumul meu spre eternitate.’’ 11. ‘’ Dar cei pe care ii numesc liberi si hotarand numai pentru ei insisi, inexorabil singuri, aceia nu sunt condusi, plutesc fara vant in panze, iar rezistenta lor nu este decat capriciu incoerent. Cei pe care ii urasc, sunt, mai ales, cei care nu exista cu adevarat. Rasa de caini ce se cred liberi, fiind liberi de a-si schimba opiniile, de a nega (cum ar putea sti ca neaga, de vreme ce ei insisi sunt judecatori?), liberi de a trisa, de a renega si de a se vinde , si pe care ii fac sa-si schimbe parerile doar aratandu-le troaca atunci cand le e foame.’’ 12. ‘’Caci dragostea nu-ti e data ca un cadou al acestui obraz, la fel cum linistea si calmul nu sunt produs al privelistii, ci al ascensiunii reusite, al muntelui dominat, al instalarii tale in cer. La fel- dragostea. Iluzia este ca o intalnesti, cand de fapt se invata.Si se inseala cel care rataceste prin viata, pentru a fi cucerit, cunoscand prin scurte fioruri , gustul tumultului inimii si visand sa intalneasca marea febra ce il va incinge pentru totdeauna, desi ea nu este decat o desarta victorie a inimii sale. De asemenea, nu te odihnesti in dragoste, daca ea nu se transforma din zi in zi, ca in maternitate.

Na zlomeček věčnosti oběma lodím nic nebránilo ve volné střelbě na protivníka a v tom okamžiku dva různé počítače odstartovaly své palebné plány. Žádný lidský smysl nedokázal postřehnout, co se odehrálo potom; žádný lidský mozek by si to neuměl přebrat. Vzájemná vzdálenost činila dvacet tisíc kilometrů a řízené střely, lasery a grasery dštily zkázu přes tu miniaturní propast vakua jako rozzuření démoni. Ahmed zavrávoral, když jeho bočním štítem bez námahy prošel první graserový svazek. Jeho boky byly opatřeny metrovým pancířem z nejtvrdší slitiny keramiky a kompozitu, jakou se člověk doposud naučil odlévat, a přesto se jí graser prodral pohrdavě snadno. Od strašlivé rány se rozlétly obrovské úlomky a vzájemný pohyb lodi změnil to, co by bývalo kruhovým otvorem, v dlouhou zející trhlinu. Paprsek rozpáral bok lodi, jako když vyvrhovací nůž rozpáře žraloka, a z rány vytryskl vířící cyklon vzduchu, trosek a lidských těl. Ale to byl pouze jeden z osmi takových graserů. Všechny do jednoho zaznamenaly přímé zásahy a na bitevním křižníku nikoho ani ve snu nenapadlo, že by přestavěná obchodní loď mohla nést takové zbraně. Zatímco si zuřivý úder Poutníka s křižníkem pohrával, komunikační obvody zahlcovala kakofonie výkřiků bolesti, šoku i hrůzy a potom se přihnaly řízené střely Q lodě a znovu a znovu křižník probodávaly jednorannými lasery, aby dokončily strašlivé dílo graserů. Zbraňová stanoviště se rozlétala na kusy, výboje bláznivě sršely a kabely syčely, pukaly a explodovaly. Příďová místnost gravitoru vybuchla, když jeden graser zasáhl naplno generátory, a tlaková vlna změnila sto metrů pancéřovaného trupu v pokroucené trosky. Všechny tři fúzní jednotky se automaticky nouzově zastavily a po celé lodi se zavírala vzduchotěsná vrata. Ale v příliš mnoha případech neměla ta vrata v čem zadržovat vzduch, neboť grasery Poutníka se propálily naskrz celým trupem a křižník se převaloval v prostoru jako umírající bezmocný vrak. Ale nezahynul sám. Poutník vypálil o zlomek sekundy dříve než Ahmed - ale jen o zlomeček a na rozdíl od Ahmeda neměl žádný pancíř a žádná hermeticky uzavíratelná oddělení. Byla to obchodní loď, jenom tenká slupka kolem obrovského prázdného prostoru pro náklad, a to nemohla žádná přestavba změnit. Zbraně, které přežily, aby se mohly zakousnout do jeho trupu, byly mnohem lehčí než ty, jež rozpáraly Ahmeda, ale proti tak zranitelnému cíli byly děsivě účinné. Celý pravobok od přepážky třicet jedna dozadu po přepážku šedesát pět byl na padrť. Prázdné doky LAC se rozlétly jako rozšlápnuté sklenice. Zásobníky dva a čtyři byly roztrhány na kusy, stejně jako všechny výmetnice kromě čísla dva. Šest z osmi graserových stanovišť vybuchlo a prakticky celá jejich obsluha zahynula. Jeden laser se prořízl až k jádru lodě, zničil fúzní reaktor jedna a prorazil palubní vězení, z něhož už Randy Steilman a jeho druhové nikdy neměli vyjít před soud, a další se prořízl až na samotnou velitelskou palubu. Můstek zametla tlaková vlna, přepážky a podélníky se trhaly jako papír a zuřící hurikán vytrhl Jennifer Hughesovou navzdory tlumícímu postroji z křesla a odnesl ji do prostoru mimo loď. Její tělo už nikdo nikdy nenajde, ale na tom sotva záleželo, protože svištící příval atmosféry s ní udeřil o okraj trhliny v trupu a na místě jí roztříštil přilbu. John Kanehama zaječel do interkomu, když ho jako oštěp probodla dlouhá letící tříska slitiny. Staršího seržanta O’Haleyho přesekl vejpůl plochý úlomek, dlouhý jako on sám, a Aubrey Wanderman se pozvracel do přilby, když tentýž úlomek prolétl mezi osazenstvem jeho stanoviště a roztrhal Carolyn Wolcotovou a poručíka Jansena. Tento výjev z pekla se po obrovském trupu Poutníka opakoval znovu a znovu. Další výbuchy a odletující trosky zasahovaly lidi, které minula palba Ahmeda, jako by se umírající loď mstila posádce za to, do čeho ji přivedla, a HMS Poutník se potácivě převaloval pryč s nefunkčním pohonem, zničeným hypergenerátorem a s osmi sty mrtvými a umírajícími lidmi v rozbitých odděleních.

Daca am sti ca fiind violenti contra altora, aceasta violenta va fi resimtita realmente fizic de catre noi insine, atunci am face sa dispara dintr-un elementar egoism aceasta violenta

Caci a nu mai fi singur inseamna, poate, a sti sa te daruiesti. A sti sa renunti la trufia de a te considera cel mai important adevar al lumii. Rostul singuratatii e sa ne pregateasca pentru aceasta iubire, s-o visam si sa ajungem la ea prin puterile noastre si in cunostinta de cauza, cunoscand ce vrem sa negam.

a good person is a sty in the devil’s eye

The horsemen are: Criticism This is when you pick on the person rather than complain about a specific behaviour.  E.g. “You never clean up after yourself. You must love living in a pig sty.”  When a complaint would be, “I find it really irritating when you leave your dirty clothes on the floor. Could you put them in the laundry?” Contempt Behaviour that indicates disgust with a person – sneering, name calling, mocking, etc. Defensiveness Refusing to accept part of the responsibility or even consider one’s own flaws.  Changing the subject to the other person’s flaws instead or blaming them for starting it somehow.  “You’re the one who…”  Stonewalling Refusing to engage in the discussion.  The silent treatment.  Walking out.  Shutting down the conversation.

A grey pigeon flies with heavy wing beats across the yard. It sits on the low wall bounding the pig-sties and tries to remember what it came for.

«quante, sta 'sti piviri miserabili, erano pirsone capaci di arricchiri il munno con la loro arti? quanti tra i tanti cataferi che oramà erano nell'invisibili cimitero marino sarebbiro stati capaci di scriviri 'na poesia le cui parole avrebbiro consolato, ralligrato, inchiuto il cori di chi stava a liggirla?»

Sa nu crezi ca stii. Sa stii ca tu crezi.

It is a prison for those who fail to recognize socialist reality; for those who think they have the right to err; for those who slow down the march. Traitors,” she concluded briefly. “But what have they done?” “We cannot build communism without doing away with individualism. You cannot plan a great building if some swine builds his sty on your site.

Selene" ringhiò, aff3rr@ndo i miei c@p3lli, mentre l'altra mi schi@ff3ggiav4 una n@t!c4. Soffoc@i un altro url● di pi@cer3, mentre la su@ m4no ris@liva fino ai fi@nch! e si anc●rav@ con le unghie. Era una b3sti@. Un an!m@le che sc●p@v4, che dava pi@cer3.

Løvetannen Der står en liten løvetann blant andre løvetenner i bakken på et åkerland og blomstrer så den brenner. Den har slått ut sitt gule hår på toppen av seg selv. For av en bustet knopp i går er det blitt blomst i kveld. Når er den sterk og sti og vill, en riktig løvetann, og strekker kry sin lille ild mot solens kjempebrann. Hvor stolt og gladelig den gror! Men like nedenfor står en sørgmodig eldre bror og feller hvite hår. Slik, venner, farer livet med all verdens løvetenner. Først blir de ild, så blir de sne, og siden gamle menner.

No matter how out of the ordinary demonic possession was, it was still somehow a smoker's lung cancer, a drunk's pancreatitis, a philanderer's STI - a thing she had brought upon herself by not behaving properly.

If Lister's spotted practically climbing into Prinny's sty, she could be sent home, and though that prospect would have pleased Eliza this morning, somehow things are different now.

Gleevec, the commercial name, is used here because it is more familiar to patients. The scientific name for CGP57148 is imatinib. The drug was also called STI571.

Mike knew that Rosemary was too good for him and that no beautiful woman would fall for a fat, hairy, lonely no-hoper that chose to live in a pig sty of a home. 

Riverstone: Viscount of tine stony grave Alive and well attended to; Deliverance beyond this day: I bid thee well along and thru. Despite the case at hand to see Before my eyes against me say: To rid me of my misery, A desperate call to riverine stay. The cult which led me to that place- A devil hooked on just romance-; My sister bled with solemn grace: A flower sti I I and yet to dance. Whatever for we shan't oblige For mystic chanting let alone The daemons and their just demise The daylight break to Riverstone. And well adhered to firm belief The dudgeon of a higher man Amidst my song of pear and leaf To take thee to a brighter land. A season of the greater arts A life of wealth, and will to bring The pristine health of desperate hearts- The kindness of a Druid king- And let alone the blessed face My own two eyes remember this Alone, beyond the steady race, To dance about the cold abyss. A presence well enchanted in The ways of light yet to demand My sister in the hands of sin A daughter of the ocean-brand. To sea she runs with ample stride The wave alone to render sti I I To peer along her way with pride My darling heart she kindly fills. And like the darling buds of May She dances from around and to Deliverance beyond this day: I bid thee well along and thru

Not everyone's sty is created equal