Stiles Quotes

Get out of the lab occasionally, Stiles." "Why? There are people out there. Nothing fucks things up faster than people.

Non badavo granché a tematiche o felicità di stile, e saltavo le descrizioni minute di tempo atmosferico, paesaggi e interni. Volevo personaggi in cui potessi credere, e volevo provare curiosità per ciò che avrebbero vissuto. […] Romanzi a sensazione, alta letteratura e tutto ciò che stava nel mezzo: a ognuno riservavo lo stesso rude trattamento.

You desire to know something of my Religion. It is the first time I have been questioned upon it: But I do not take your Curiosity amiss, and shall endeavour in a few Words to gratify it... I have, with most of the present Dissenters in England, some Doubts as to his [Jesus'] divinity; tho' it is a question I do not dogmatize upon, having never studied it, and I think it needless to busy myself with it now, when I expect soon an Opportunity of knowing the Truth with less Trouble. [Letter to Ezra Stiles, March 9, 1790]

Do either of you even play baseball?

Can I control Stiles? No, he can over power me easily

Are we going to go through this every time, really?" Peter tilts his head on an angle. His smile inches up a few degrees. "I want you, Stiles. And from where I’m sitting, it looks like I’ve got you.

May two fields be bridged by a stile And two hearts by the tilting footbridge of a glance

Melissa McCall: I have to ground you. I am grounding you. You are grounded. Scott McCall: What about work? Melissa McCall: Fine. Other than work. And no TV. Scott McCall: My TV's broken. Melissa McCall: Then no computer. Scott McCall: I need the computer for school. Melissa McCall: Then no... uh... [Glances at Stiles] Melissa McCall: No Stiles. Stiles: What? No Stiles? Melissa McCall: NO STILES!

Edward: «Be'...». Fece una pausa, e poi riprese di slancio a parlare. «Ho pensato che se proprio devo andare all'inferno, tanto vale andarci in grande stile».

But I had no mind for these smooth things; instead, fear worked like yeast in my thoughts, and the fermentation brought to the surface, in great gobs of scum, the images of disaster; a loaded gun held carelessly at a stile, a horse rearing and rolling over, a shaded pool with a submerged stake, an elm bough falling suddenly on a still morning, a car at a blind corner; all the catalogue of threats to civilized life rose and haunted me; I even pictured a homicidal maniac mouthing in the shadows, swinging a length of lead pipe.

You wanna play Catwoman, I'll be your Batman.

His legs may have been firmly rooted to the study floor, but his heart had just leaped the stile and was running down the lane.

Along the field as we came by A year ago, my love and I, The aspen over stile and stone Was talking to itself alone. 'Oh who are these that kiss and pass? A country lover and his lass; Two lovers looking to be wed; And time shall put them both to bed, But she shall lie with earth above, And he beside another love.' And sure enough beneath the tree There walks another love with me, And overhead the aspen heaves Its rainy-sounding silver leaves; And I spell nothing in their stir, But now perhaps they speak to her, And plain for her to understand They talk about a time at hand When I shall sleep with clover clad, And she beside another lad.

Il suo stile [di Milano, n.d.r.] lo sintetizzerei con tre D: discrezione, disciplina, dovere. In un mondo che tende alla cialtroneria, all’anarchia dei comportamenti e alla furberia, ben venga il calvinismo milanese! Giovanni Iozzi, Class, marzo 1998

jog on, jog on the footpath way, / And merrily hent the stile-a; / A jovial heart goes all the day, / Your sad tires in a mile-a

Stiles doesn't even know how short of a leash he's on, because he never even tests it.

I thought not. And so you were waiting for your people when you sat on that stile?” “For whom, sir?

Ho pensato che se proprio devo andare all'inferno, tanto vale andarci in grande stile.

You must never be embarrassed when you are moved by music?' [“Madame” Lilian Stiles-Allen] counseled. 'It shows that you are a sensitive human being, capable of much feeling.

Never lift your foot till you come to the stile.

If you do not know how to teach the gospel, you may not truly understand it. And if you do not understand it, you may not be a true Christian.

If there be any among those common objects of hatred which I can safely say I doe contemn and laugh at, it is that great enemy of reason, vertue and religion, the multitude, that numerous piece of monstrosity, which taken asunder seeme men, and the reasonable creatures of God; but confused together, make but one great beast, & a monstrosity more prodigious than Hydra; it is no breach of Charity to call these fooles; it is the stile all holy Writers have afforded them, set down by Solomon in canonicall Scripture, and a point of our faith to beleeve so.

Derek turned to face Stiles, his expression falling into a very familiar stare of utter disgruntled bitchiness. "Would you like more water?" Stiles squinted, resisting the urge to mutter, ' not sure if angry, or just emotionally constipated,' under his breath. Instead, he pursed his lips and attempted to lay on the old Stilinski charm by blurting out, "I could do with something a little... harder." It was almost disturbing how Derek was able to stare back at Stiles without blinking once. "I have beer," he said slowly, cautiously. Stiles narrowed his eyes, echoing the tone of Derek's voice, "...harder." ".... pudding?" Derek ventured, as if pudding was actually a viable option when Stiles was demanding something harder than beer.

The fact is, most people come to faith through the influence of family members, small-group Bible studies, or a conversation with a friend after a church service: Christians intentionally talking about the gospel.

One reason many people never see God working in their lives is because they never hang in long enough for God to show his power.

Das war ein seltsamer Raum, hergerichtet in einem einzigen Stile: bizarre Künstlerlaune. Etrurische und japanische Vasen, spanische Fächer und Dolche, chinesische Schirme und italienische Mandolinen, afrikanische Muschelhörner und kleine antike Statuen, bunte Rokkoko-Nippes und wächserne Madonnen, alte Kupferstiche und Arbeiten aus Meysenberg eigenem Pinsel, - das alles war im ganzen Raum auf Tischen, Etagèren, Konsolen und an den Wänden, welche überdies gleich dem Fußboden mit dicken orientalischen Teppichen und verblichenen gestickten Seidenstoffen bedeckt waren, in schreienden Zusammenstellungen arrangiert, welche gleichsam auf sich selbst mit Fingern wiesen.

I treasure ruefully some memories of W.H. Auden that go back to the middle 1960s, when he arrived in New Haven to give a reading of his poems at Ezra Stiles College. We had met several times before, in New York City and at Yale, but were only acquaintances. The earlier Auden retains my interest, but much of the frequently devotional poetry does not find me. Since our mutual friend John Hollander was abroad, Auden phoned to ask if he might stay with my wife and me, remarking of his dislike of college guest suites. The poet arrived in a frayed, buttonless overcoat, which my wife insisted on mending. His luggage was an attache case containing a large bottle of gin, a small one of vermouth, a plastic drinking cup, and a sheaf of poems. After being supplied with ice, he requested that I remind him of the amount of his reading fee. A thousand dollars had been the agreed sum, a respectable honorarium more than forty years ago. He shook his head and said that as a prima donna he could not perform, despite the prior arrangement. Charmed by this, I phoned the college master - a good friend - who cursed heartily but doubled the sum when I assured him that the poet was as obdurate as Lady Bracknell in 'The Importance of Being Earnest'. Informed of this yielding, Auden smiled sweetly and was benign and brilliant at dinner, then at the reading, and as he went to bed after we got home.

Stiles: [Discussing who could be controlling the Kanima] Hey. What if it's Matt? I mean, this whole thing comes back to the video, right? Scott McCall: Danny said that Matt was the one who found the two hours of footage missing. Stiles: Exactly! He's trying to throw suspicion off himself. Scott McCall: So he makes Jackson kill Isaac's dad, one of Argent's hunters, and the mechanic working on your jeep? Stiles: Yes! Scott McCall: Why? Stiles: Because... He's evil. Scott McCall: You just don't like him. Stiles: The guy - Bugs me. I don't know what it is. Just look at his face.

Emphasizing the body as art, these artists amplified the role of process over product and shifted from representation objects to presentational modes of action.

He did have his beliefs, chiefly in his own genius.

I think there’s a pretty good chance that things are never going back to normal.

Eat like you love yourself. Move like you love yourself. Speak like you love yourself. Act like you love yourself.

Some of us have to make mistakes. Some of us have to get our hands a little bloody sometimes. Some of us are human.

Ma l'ultimissimo giro di pista della sua vita era stato felice e gli aveva dimostrato come la morte non sia altro che una questione di stile.

Eccomi da poche ore a New York, in questa città molto intima e geometrica, costruita in stile babilonese e abitata da americani

Be it then known that I was born on the family Estate in Devonshire, of the 10th day of August, 1690 (or in the new Gregorian Stile of Reckoning, the 20th of August),

Listen, was I born gay, or did Julia Stiles in '10 Things I Hate About You' make me gay? It's literally impossible to know.

On a frosty winter afternoon, I rode in sight of Thornfield Hall. On a stile in Hay Lane I saw a quiet little figure sitting by itself. I had no presentiment of what it would be to me; no inward warning that the arbitress of my life--my genius for good or evil--waited there in humble guise. When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, something new--a fresh sap and sense--stole into my frame. It was well I had learnt that this elf must return to me--that it belonged to my house down below- -or I could not have felt it pass away from under my hand, and seen it vanish behind the dim hedge, without singular regret. I heard you come home that night, Jane, though probably you were not aware that I thought of you or watched for you.

So how do we know if we've assumed the gospel? Mack Stiles days so aptly that the way to know if we've assumed the gospel is this: you don't hear it anymore. Everyone talks to themselves.

Mi interessano solo gli scrittori che hanno uno stile; se non hanno uno stile, non mi interessano. Ed è raro, lo stile, è raro. Ma le storie, ne è piena la strada: tutto è pieno di storie, ne sono pieni i commissariati, pieni i tribunali, piena la vostra vita. Tutti hanno una storia, mille storie. [...] Uno stile? Ah! Sì, signore. Ce ne sono uno, due, tre per generazione. Ci sono migliaia di scrittori, ma sono dei poveri pasticcioni… borbottano nelle loro frasi, ripetono quello che qualcun altro ha già detto. Scelgono una storia, una buona storia, e poi la raccontano. Per me questo non è per nulla interessante. Ho smesso di essere uno scrittore, nevvero, per diventare un cronista. Ho messo la mia pelle in gioco, perché, non dimenticate una cosa, la grande ispiratrice, è la morte. Se non mettete la vostra pelle sul tavolo, non avete nulla. Uno deve pagare! Quello che è fatto senza pagare, non conta nulla, vale meno del nulla. Allora, avete scrittori gratuiti. Al giorno d’oggi, ci sono solo scrittori gratuiti. E quello che è gratuito, puzza di gratuito.

But hereto is replied that the poets give names to men they write of, which argueth a conceit of an actual truth, and so, not being true, proveth a falsehood. And doth the lawyer lie then, when, under the names of John of the Stile, and John of the Nokes, he putteth his case? But that is easily answered: their naming of men is but to make their picture the more lively, and not to build any history. Painting men, they cannot leave men nameless. We see we cannot play at chess but that we must give names to our chess-men; and yet, me thinks, he were a very partial champion of truth that would say we lied for giving a piece of wood the reverend title of a bishop.

I thought not.  And so you were waiting for your people when you sat on that stile?” “For whom, sir?” “For the men in green: it was a proper moonlight evening for them.  Did I break through one of your rings, that you spread that damned ice on the causeway?” I shook my head.  “The men in green all forsook England a hundred years ago,” said I, speaking as seriously as he had done.  “And not even in Hay Lane, or the fields about it, could you find a trace of them.  I don’t think either summer or harvest, or winter moon, will ever shine on their revels more.” Mrs. Fairfax had dropped her knitting, and, with raised eyebrows, seemed wondering what sort of talk this was.

Something creaked beneath me! A soft step on rotting wood! I jumped startled, scared, and turned, expecting to see-God knows what! Then I sighed, for it was only Chris standing in the gloom, silently staring at me. Why? Did I look prettier than usual? Was it the moonlight, shining through my airy clothes? All random doubts were cleared when he said in a voice gritty and low, "You look beautiful sitting there like that." He cleared the frog in his throat. "The moonlight is etching you with silver-blue, and I can see the shape of your body through your clothes." Then, bewilderingly, he seized me by the shoulders, digging in his fingers, hard! They hurt. "Damn you, Cathy! You kissed that man! He could have awakened and seen you, and demanded to know who you were! And not thought you only a part of his dream!" Scary the way he acted, the fright I felt for no reason at all. "How do you know what I did? You weren't there; you were sick that night." He shook me, glaring his eyes, and again I thought he seemed a stranger. "He saw you, Cathy-he wasn't soundly asleep!" "He saw me?" I cried, disbelieving. It wasn't possible . . . wasn't! "Yes!" he yelled. This was Chris, who was usually in such control of his emotions. "He thought you a part of his dream! But don't you know Momma can guess who it was, just by putting two and two together-just as I have? Damn you and your romantic notions! Now they're on to us! They won't leave money casually about as they did before. He's counting, she's counting, and we don't have enough-not yet!" He yanked me down from the widow sill! He appeared wild and furious enough to slap my face-and not once in all our lives had he ever struck me, though I'd given him reason to when I was younger. But he shook me until my eyes rolled, until I was dizzy and crying out: "Stop! Momma knows we can't pass through a looked door!" This wasn't Chris . . . this was someone I'd never seen before . . . primitive, savage. He yelled out something like, "You're mine, Cathy! Mine! You'll always be mine! No matter who comes into your future, you'll always belong to me! I'll make you mine . . . tonight . . . now!" I didn't believe it, not Chris! And I did not fully understand what he had in mind, nor, if I am to give him credit, do I think he really meant what he said, but passion has a way of taking over. We fell to the floor, both of us. I tried to fight him off. We wrestled, turning over and over, writhing, silent, a frantic strug- gle of his strength against mine. It wasn't much of a battle. I had the strong dancer's legs; he had the biceps, the greater weight and height . . . and he had much more determination than i to use something hot, swollen and demanding, so much it stile reasoning and sanity from him. And I loved him. I wanted what he wanted-if he wanted it that much, right and wrong. Somehow we ended up on that old mattress-that filthy, smelly, stained mattress that must have known lovers long before this night. And that is where he took me, and forced in that swollen, rigid male sex part of him that had to be satisfied. It drove into my tight and resisting flesh which tore and bled. Now we had done what we both swore we'd never do.

Gemo e mi irrigidisco di lussuria quando i suoi occhi saettano nei miei. «Anche tu dovresti tornare a casa e optare per una camicia e un paio di jeans» ansimo, la gola d’improvviso secca. «Lo stile da James Bond non ti si addice molto.»

A boat was a place where no one could reach you, a place where some boy couldn't slide into your path to make you a prop in his joke. Even when the boys rowed past us, all we'd do was holler or chant; we didn't have to drop everything to watch them, which was the usual expectation. (Do you remember, for instance, the fake Woodstock that Marco Washington and Mike Stiles set up on the quad? They hauled couches from the dorms, used extension cords for guitars and stand mics. I joined the audience to listen to their terrible playing because it was the thing to do. Just as Open Dorm nights were for girls to feign interest in boys playing video games. Just as the only sporting events with full stands were for boys' teams. At the time, what rankled was the idea that we were supposed to see these boys as the stars, to fall at their sweaty feet. What bothers me now is those boys internalizing girls as audience, there only to act as mirrors, to make their accomplishments realer.)

Mr. Rochester had sometimes read my unspoken thoughts with an acumen to me incomprehensible: in the present instance he took no notice of my abrupt vocal response; but he smiled at me with a certain smile he had of his own, and which he used but on rare occasions.  He seemed to think it too good for common purposes: it was the real sunshine of feeling—he shed it over me now. “Pass, Janet,” said he, making room for me to cross the stile: “go up home, and stay your weary little wandering feet at a friend’s threshold.” All

L’arte danese dell’hygge consiste nell’assaporare i semplici piaceri quotidiani e godersi i momenti di quiete, mentre lo svedese lagom (pronunciato lah-gom) definisce la scelta di uno stile di vita che ruota attorno a equilibrio, semplicità, rilassatezza e serenità.

Non sono tipo da messaggi o da idee io… Le idee, ne è piena l’enciclopedia… Io sono uno stilista. Un maniaco dello stile. Oh una cosa da nulla, una certa musichetta introdotta nello stile, tutto qui. Sono l’ultimo musicista del romanzo! Il resto, immaginazione, creatività e roba del genere, non mi interessa. La lingua, nient’altro che la lingua, ecco l’importante. La foto non è il vero: il vero lo si fa barando al modo giusto. Se prendi un bastone e vuoi farlo apparire diritto nell’acqua, devi prima curvarlo sennò sembra rotto. Bisogna romperlo prima di immergerlo. È un vero lavoro, è il lavoro dello stilista. Ci vuole un enorme respiro, grande sensibilità, è difficilissimo da fare, perché bisogna girarle attorno. Attorno a che? All’emozione! Perché in principio non era il verbo, era l’emozione. L’argot non si fa con il dizionario, ma con immagini nate dall’odio; è l’odio che fa l’argot! Tutti hanno voluto imitarmi, nessuno c’è riuscito… Mi prendono per un primitivo, un rozzo… Io invece sono un raffinato, un aristocratico, e quei cretini credono che improvvisi… Io so far ballare i tavolini e loro no, ecco la verità! I miei libri moriranno anche loro, e presto, si capisce, ma almeno avranno vissuto! Tanto i posteri saranno i cinesi… E quelli se ne fregheranno altamente della mia letteratura fessa e del mio stile vacca e dei miei tre puntini…

There is much room for humility when it comes to evangelism. We need to acknowledge that God is sovereign and can do as he wills to bring people to himself. There is no formula that dictates how God must work in evangelism. And though we may disagree with the evangelistic practices of individuals, ministries, or churches, we must also recognize that when people develop good-hearted commitments to evangelism, God can produce true fruit. I, for one, will take people practicing evangelism as best they can over those who forgo evangelism until they have the perfect practice.

Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of exercise.

Sentì la voce di Jesse nella propria testa e provò a mandarla via. La sua vita era vuota, o meglio, piena. Piena di cose sbagliate: troppe droghe, troppo alcool, troppe avventure da una notte e senza nome. Tutte quelle stronzate che facevano parte delle fantasie sulle rockstar, ciò che ogni ragazzo desidera quando sogna la fama, quello che tutti si aspettavano da lui eppure, chissà come mai, l’ultima maledetta cosa che lui desiderava. Shane non ci aveva messo molto a capire che quello stile di vita non faceva per lui. Ma a quel punto non aveva più importanza: Jesse se n’era andato

While we sit bousin, at the nappy, And gettin fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

Sonnet I am no stranger in the house of pain; I am familiar with its every part, From the low stile, then up the crooked lane To the dark doorway, intimate to my heart. Here did I sit with grief and eat his bread, Here was I welcomed as misfortune’s guest, And there’s no room but where I’ve laid my head On misery’s accomodating breast. So, sorrow, does my knocking rouse you up? Open the door, old mother; it is I. Bring grief’s good goblet out, the sad, sweet cup; Fill it with wine of silence, strong and dry. For I’ve a story to amuse your ears, Of youth and hope, of middle age and tears.

You know, I don’t believe in churches and parsons and all that,” she said, “but I believe in God, and I don’t believe He minds much about what you do as long as you keep your end up and help a lame dog over a stile when you can. And I think people on the whole are very nice, and I’m sorry for those who aren’t.

When Paul says that we should see people through the eyes of Christ, he means for us to have a gospel view of people. So we see people as beautiful, valuable creatures made in the image of God. Each and every one of us carries God’s mark. That is why Christians believe all people have dignity, worth, and value.

Newspapers printed stories of variable accuracy, beginning with a twenty-six-line account in the loyalist Boston News-Letter on April 20, deploring “this shocking introduction to all the miseries of a civil war.” The New-Hampshire Gazette’s headline read, “Bloody News.” In barely three weeks, the first reports of the day’s action would reach Charleston and Savannah. Lurid rumors spread quickly: of grandfathers shot in their beds, of families burned alive, of pregnant women bayoneted. Americans in thirteen colonies were alarmed, aroused, angry. “The times are very affecting,” Reverend Ezra Stiles told his diary in Rhode Island on April 23.

spesso succede che le vere tragedie della vita accadono in modo tanto poco artistico che la loro violenza nuda e cruda, la loro assoluta incoerenza, la loro totale mancanza di significato e la loro assenza di stile ci urtano. [...] A volte però nelle nostre vite avviene una tragedia che ha in sé degli elementi artistici di bellezza.

In a culture of evangelism, there is an understanding that everyone is engaged. Have you ever heard someone say, “Evangelism is not my gift,” as if that excused him from sharing his faith? That’s a kindergarten understanding of evangelism. All Christians are called to share their faith as a point of faithfulness, not gifting (Matt. 28:19).

I just miss it. Reading. I miss reading." Stiles' face is turned in the other direction now. Away from Derek. Derek, who has never contemplated that reading isn't a given for everyone in this country. Up until now, he has assumed that some people love to read and those who don't like it deserve longer jail sentences if they ever commit a crime.

an old mother with whom he shares the thirty or forty francs allocated to him per month. “If he’s a man, why do you call him ‘old greatcoat’?” said Simonnin, with the expression of a schoolboy catching his teacher out. And he went back to eating his bread and cheese, leaning his shoulder against the stile of the window, since he took his rest standing up, like the cab-horses of Paris, with one of his legs bent and propped on his other shoe’s toe. “Think of the fun we could have with that old codger!” muttered the third clerk, Godeschal by name, as he paused in the middle of a line of argument he was developing in a petition to be copied out in a fair hand by the fourth clerk, the draft copies of which were

The Lord was with Joseph, and Joseph remained forgotten for two years. Both were equally true.

Our greatest need from God isn’t for Him to change our circumstances but for Him to use our circumstances to change us.

God seldom gives us all we need in order to understand, but He always gives us all we need to obey.

Our brief, little life here on Earth represents the only time in all of eternity when we can glorify God in the midst of struggle.

I don't want to be able to see thestrals, Scott. You don't understand the SITUATION. HERE.

Thank you for always being there, Seth. I’ve always felt your presence around me, even when it was through a letter or a computer screen. Thank you,

Mom, I’m so sorry. You were right, this isn’t something I should have ever seen. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you.

If he had learned anything from his parents, he learned that business was a matter of relationships.

What we call men, are the subjects, the individual Stiles and Nokes; not the qualities by which their humanity is constituted. The name, therefore, is said to signify the subjects directly , the attributes indirectly ; it denotes the subjects, and implies, or involves, or indicates, or as we shall say henceforth connotes, the attributes. It is a connotative name.

Light, so low upon earth, You send a flash to the sun. Here is the golden close of love, All my wooing is done. Oh, all the woods and the meadows, Woods, where we hid from the wet, Stiles where we stayed to be kind, Meadows in which we met! Light, so low in the vale You flash and lighten afar, For this is the golden morning of love, And you are his morning star. Flash, I am coming, I come, By meadow and stile and wood, Oh, lighten into my eyes and my heart, Into my heart and my blood! Heart, are you great enough For a love that never tires? O heart, are you great enough for love? I have heard of thorns and briers. Over the thorns and briers, Over the meadows and stiles, Over the world to the end of it Flash of a million miles.

After watching too many scary movies it was hard not to have an overactive imagination, along with an inherent distrust of seemingly benevolent (and sometimes inanimate) things, like lawn gnomes.

Now to judge by this rule, ancient eloquence, that is, the sublime and passionate, is of a much juster taste than the modern, or the argumentative and rational; and, if properly executed, will always have more command and authority over mankind. We are satisfied with our mediocrity, because we have had no experience of any thing better: But the ancients had experience of both, and, upon comparison, gave the preference to that kind, of which they have left us such applauded models. For, if I mistake not, our modern eloquence is of the same stile or species with that which ancient critics denominated ATTIC eloquence, that is, calm, elegant, and subtile, which instructed the reason more than affected the passions, and never raised its tone above argument or common discourse.

I can say it, but it doesn’t seem convincing to most people. I can call it an ‘injustice,’ but that doesn’t always sink in either. You have to understand the nature of the culture in New York. Words that are equal to the pain of the poor are pretty easily discredited. A quarter of the truth, stated with lots of indirection, is regarded as more seemly. Even when people do accept the idea of ‘injustice,’ there are ways to live with it without it causing you to change a great deal in your life. A mildly embarrassed toleration of injustice is an elemental part of cultural sophistication here. the stile is, ‘Oh yes. We know all that. So tell us something new.’ There’s a kind of cultivated weariness in this. Talking about injustice, I am told, is ‘tiresome’ unless you do it in a way that sounds amusing.

Thanks in large part to reduced transportation costs, San Francisco matured from a dust-blown, mud-lined tent camp with gambling saloons into a brick-walled, warehouse-filled commercial center with gambling saloons.

A partire da domani mattina, niente più sarà come prima. Tutto cambierà, perché l'inevitabile è lì: la fine di questo viaggio è vicina e nessuno potrà fare diversamente. Non ho trovato il coraggio di affrontare “L'argomento”. E anche Travis fugge la domanda, come io fuggo le risposte. Ho paura di fargli la domanda. Paura di sapere quello che vuole fare, paura di sapere quello che vorrà per l'avvenire. Paura di dovergli dire quello che non ho voglia di confidargli. Ho semplicemente paura di essermi impegnato troppo, pur sapendo che muoio dal desiderio di fare di più. Ma non posso. Non posso dargli di più, con il rischio che vada tutta all'aria. Perché anche se giro in tutti i sensi, le due persone che siamo, ciascuno con la propria personalità, i propri difetti e il proprio stile di vita, non sono mai caduto su due casi così tanto complicati, come siamo noi due.

Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo's part, for how could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness of heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to grow for her sake—how touching that was, to be sure! "I agree with Mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we were so foolish as to..." Jo paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression.

To all to whom these Presents shall come, we the undersigned Delegates of the States affixed to our Names send greeting. Articles of Confederation and perpetual Union between the states of New Hampshire, Massachusetts-bay Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina and Georgia. Article I The Stile of this Confederacy shall be "The United States of America".

Sometimes when our faith is too weak to trust God, He puts us in a place where our weakness forces us to surrender. Not to trust, but to surrender. Surrender then lays the groundwork for trust, because God always shows Himself faithful.

Sono stata ammaliata dal fascino sfacciato e intrigante della Belle Epoque. Sfacciato perché, per la prima volta, in quell’epoca le distinzioni di classe perdevano d’importanza davanti all’irrompere dei tempi moderni. In effetti lo stile di vita borghese si evolve raggiungendo e talvolta superando in splendore, classe e mondanità l’aristocrazia medesima. Intrigante in quanto l’umanità accoglie unanime un rinnovamento sociale, culturale, tecnico, artistico senza precedenti.

We must remember in our struggles that our duty lies outside of trying to understand God’s plan. He never asks that of us. Instead, He wants to see our trust in Him, through simple daily obedience, even in a land of affliction and confusion.

By learning to relax and easing excessive effort, you stimulate neurons to find new awareness pathways. Proprioception is stimulated. This is an awareness of where the body is in space that does not rely on visual cues. Grace is the natural result of making the right use of effort and will. The body begins to move in a naturally gracious manner in all activities, for the training is not limited to the time spent on the yoga mat. The training affects all motions that the anatomy makes.

Non amava né il giardino né la villa. Era arduo sopportare la presenza del suocero. Era il più "presente" degli esseri. Se anche tentava di infiammare l'immaginazione ripetendo: «Questa casa un giorno sarà mia», non riusciva a entusiasmarsi. «Sì, è bel tempo, pensava con distacco, la villa ha dello stile... le rose... Simone... sì... Ma tutto ciò cosa giova a me, alla mia più intima natura?... Del resto, quando per un'ora vedo lo stesso orizzonte penso alla morte. Il disgusto tipico di ogni uomo che non si accontenta di vivere, che talvolta pensa alla propria vita... Sono stanco del successo, sono stanco dei processi brillanti, degli affari fortunati o sfortunati, delle relazioni utili, stanco anche troppo della presidenza del collegio forense. Soprattutto, pensava, sono stanco del matrimonio, e si ricordava dell'inverno passato, che si riaffacciava alla memoria come un lungo e cupo stato di collera, interrotto da schiarite di appassionata concordia, sempre più rare queste ultime, sempre più frequenti i diverbi... Perché?... Ah! certi matrimoni, certe donne erano così... Certe unioni sembrano generare nell'anima un dolore sordo, proprio come quello del basto che percuote il fianco delle bestie appaiate... Sospirò: «Non chiedo grandi cose, eppure... Che mi lasci partire per due mesi, è tutto ciò che desidero. Quando tornerò sarò dolce come un agnello... Ero forse fatto per il matrimonio? Per non importa quale matrimonio? No, sono ingiusto... Questo non è un matrimonio qualunque... L'ho amata... Lei m'ispira ancora una specie di nervoso affetto... La disgrazia è che si comincia ad amare una persona con tutto ciò che l'attornia... (quando l'ho amata tutto ciò che mi faceva pensare a lei mi era caro: la città in cui l'ho conosciuta; l'italiano che parlavano attorno a me...). Quando si finisce di amare, ci si slega anche da tutto. Così, questa villa, suo padre, perfino la bambina e questo cielo, tutto mi sfinisce e mi irrita...».

«Lolly non comprende il potere che il suo fascino ha sugli altri. Quando l’ho visto per la prima volta, ho avuto quasi la sensazione di essere travolto dagli arcobaleni di uno degli orsetti del cuore.» «Potresti ripeterlo?» chiese una giovane donna molto bella, prendendo il cellulare per fare un video. Dusk scoppiò a ridere e aprì la bocca quando Lolly lo imboccò con un cucchiaio di gelato. Sentire il suo peso sul grembo gli ricordò quando adorasse il contrasto tra il suo stile così adorabilmente colorato e i suoi lineamenti del tutto maschili. «Cosa?» chiese Dusk dopo aver mandato giù il gelato. «Che il carisma di Lolly mi ha sopraffatto? Che è l’unicorno che mi ha toccato con il suo corno, sebbene non fossi vergine?» Ridacchiò e stuzzicò Lolly con un pizzicotto. Lolly rise e spinse un altro cucchiaio di gelato contro il naso di Dusk. Era così freddo che fece una smorfia, ma poi Lolly si abbassò e lo leccò con la sua lingua calda. I fan si godettero tutta la dolcezza di quel momento

The incident had occurred and was gone for me: itwasan incident of no moment, no romance, no interest in a sense; yet it marked with change one single hour of a monotonous life. (...) The new face, too, was like a new picture introduced to the gallery of memory; and it was dissimilar to all the others hanging there: firstly, because it was masculine; and, secondly, because it was dark, strong, and stern. I had it still before me when I entered Hay, and slipped the letter into the post-office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hill all the way home. When I came to the stile, I stopped a minute, looked round and listened, with an idea that a horse's hoofs might ring on the causeway again, and that a rider in a cloak, and a Gytrash-like Newfoundland dog, might be again apparent: I saw only the hedge and a pollard willow before me, rising up still and straight to meet the moonbeams; I heard only the faintest waft of wind roaming fitful among the trees round Thornfield, a mile distant; and when I glanced down in the direction of the murmur, my eye, traversing the hall-front, caught a light kindling in a window: it reminded me that I was late, and I hurried on. I did not like re-entering Thornfield. To pass its threshold was to return to stagnation; (...) to quell wholly the faint excitement wakened by my walk, - to slip again over my faculties the viewless fetters of an uniform and too still existence; of an existence whose very privileges of security and ease I was becoming incapable of appreciating.

Problems never just go away or take care of themselves, especially when God allows them in order to shape our character. God will patiently wait and allow the circumstances to compel us to do what we should have done at the beginning: surrender all control to God.

You’re my first love, and I never had the courage to tell you. My love for you is pure, ageless. I knew it the first time I saw you bob for apples at your ninth birthday party. I’ve known it all of our lives, and my love for you has grown as we’ve grown together, apart and back together again.

Smotyn didn’t come. She always came to the stile for her slice of bread. Always. As I looked around the fields for her, I already knew what I was going to find. In her favourite spot under the beech trees, her head laid out on the grass as if she was sleeping. She knew. She knew she couldn’t leave her field, her place, and had simply died. Put her head on the grass, closed her eyes, and died. As I stroked her hairy face, passing my hand one last time over the bent horn, it came like a contraction. All-consuming and uncontrollable. I curled on the grass next to her and sobbed. Crying until my body stopped, spent, drained of tears, dried out by loss.

L'anima non ha cultura. L'anima non ha nazione. L'anima non ha colore, accento stile di vita. L'anima è per sempre. L'anima è una. E quando il cuore prova un momento di verità, di dolore, l'anima non sa restare immobile. Uno dei motivi per cui abbiamo un terribile bisogno d'amore, e lo cerchiamo disperatamente, è perchè l'amore è l'unica cura per la solitudine, per la vergogna e la sofferenza. Ma alcuni sentimenti si nascondono così profondamenrte nel cuore che solo la solitudine può aiutarti a ritrovarli. Alcune verità sono così dolorose che solo la vergogna può aiutarti a sopportarle. E alcune circostanze sono così tristi che solo la tua anima può riuscire a urlare di dolore.

A suo parere si poteva a buon diritto assimilare il trucco ai preparativi militari. La Finlandia, ad esempio, si era trovata davanti alla guerra d'Inverno praticamente acqua e sapone, come una contadinella ingenua che, gettata in città alla mercé di ricchi signori, perde la castità. Per la guerra di Continuazione, invece, la Finlandia si era preparata anche troppo; era pesantemente trccata con colori di guerra sgargianti e aggressivi... Aveva trascurato l'igiene mascherando l'odore di sudore con un pesante profumo tedesco da ragazza di marciapiede. Sia nel riarmo che nel trucco, alle nazioni e a lle donne conveniva mostrare un certo stile, per non perdere la verginità o l'indipendenza e per non dovere versare invano sangue o lacrime amare, quando il gioco si faceva duro.

The grass in the meadow is wet and the ground gives a little beneath her feet. The herd of alpacas that have taken up residence in the meadow graze in the far distance. Maggie cuts a path towards the distant stile, watching as a flock of starlings take flight, swooping up from the earth and across the bone-colored sky until they come to settle in the treetops. Stepping into the woods, Maggie senses the shift in atmosphere; here the air is a little cleaner, the light a little softer, glancing off the smooth, silver-grey trunks and dancing in the green canopy. She breathes the trees' exhalation, takes it in and makes it her own, inhales the moist-earth scent rising up beneath her boots and fills her lungs. The leaves rustle in the breeze, dripping the last of the raindrops in a steady beat.

L'uomo è cattivo. Non nasce così, ma lo diventa perché il suo stile di vita è dettato dalla legge del più forte. Dovunque passa, l'uomo deve essere il migliore, il più ricco, il più bello, il più intelligente e tutto questo per cosa? È più felice una volta che ha un corpo da sogno, una Ferrari o che il suo ambiente lo reputi il migliore in tutto quello che fa? Sono queste cose a renderlo felice? Oppure è la superficialità di questa vita in cui tutto è falso e apparenza, a renderlo veramente felice? Non credo. L'immagine, i desideri di cui non si ha consapevolezza e che sono superflui… tutto questo, io adesso lo evito. Vivere davvero non è questo. La ricerca continua della felicità non si ottiene schiacciando gli altri per arricchirsi, né credendo di essere il migliore. La vita è realizzarsi da soli, senza tanti fronzoli, e cercarsi fino in fondo, una volta che ci si è liberati da tutti quegli strati di inutilità che ci mangiano fino al midollo. Guardarsi allo specchio e vedersi davvero fino in fondo all'anima, è a questo che serve la vita, secondo me, e per arrivarci, l'uomo dovrebbe vivere da solo e non in gruppo come fa, contando sugli altri per ottenere un'immagine di felicità che è solo una menzogna. Mack crede nella bellezza dell'umanità, ma l'umanità non crede in Mack. Lei se ne fotte e continuerà il suo lavoro da formica per essere ancora più stupida e distruggere tutto quello che la circonda per averne sempre di più, senza rendersi conto che alla fine non avrà più niente. L'umanità è stupida e lo resterà. Forse potrebbe rendersene conto prima che sia troppo tardi, che sta solo correndo verso il baratro, ma questo sarebbe dare prova di buonsenso, e non ce l’ha

Waiting is a very active part of living. Waiting on God, if we do it correctly, is anything but passive. Waiting works its way out in very deliberate actions, very intentionally searching the Scriptures and praying, intense moments of humility, and self-realization of our finiteness. With the waiting comes learning. I can’t think of much I’ve learned that’s positive from the times I’ve plowed ahead without waiting on God.

The old woman was not a quitter. She had her story goal – to get home – and I the reader had my story question: Would she get home that night? So she kept moving along intent on her story goal, and soon came to a pool of water. “Water, water, quench fire,” she urged. “Fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat dog, dog won’t bite pig, pig won’t jump over the stile, and I won’t get home tonight!” But – you guessed it – the water wouldn’t. So – but you’ve begun to get the idea, I’m sure. As a small child, I was not only fascinated with this story, but can still recall a certain degree of worry and tension in me as my mother read the tale to me over and over again. It was only many years later that it dawned on me that the story worked because all the scenes worked so well, all relating very clearly to the story question, and all ending in a disaster.

What could Dr. Slop do?—he crossed himself +—Pugh!—but the doctor, Sir, was a Papist.—No matter; he had better have kept hold of the pummel.—He had so;—nay, as it happened, he had better have done nothing at all; for in crossing himself he let go his whip,—and in attempting to save his whip betwixt his knee and his saddle’s skirt, as it slipped, he lost his stirrup,—in losing which he lost his seat;—and in the multitude of all these losses (which, by the bye, shews what little advantage there is in crossing) the unfortunate doctor lost his presence of mind. So that without waiting for Obadiah’s onset, he left his pony to its destiny, tumbling off it diagonally, something in the stile and manner of a pack of wool, and without any other consequence from the fall, save that of being left (as it would have been) with the broadest part of him sunk about twelve inches deep in the mire.

The values and assumptions of that household I took in without knowing when or how it happened, and I have them to this day: The pleasure in sharing pleasure. The belief that is is only proper to help lame dogs to get over stiles and young men to put one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. An impatient disregard for small sums of money. The belief that it is a sin against Nature to put sugar in one's tea. The preference for being home over being anywhere else. The belief that generous impulses should be acted on, whether you can afford to do this or not. The trust in premonitions and the knowledge of what is in wrapped packages. The willingness to go to any amount of trouble to make yourself comfortable. The tendency to take refuge in absolutes. The belief that you don't have to apologize for tears; that consoling words should never be withheld; that what somebody wants very much they should, if possible, have.

In ambito pubblico vige il comune senso dell’estetica, vale a dire quel potentissimo inibitore sociale rubricato alla vaga ma inconfondibile voce «Pare Brutto». La caratteristica peculiare del Pare Brutto è che si manifesta all’improvviso sotto forma di dubbio, per cui una cosa (un gesto, un’affermazione, una domanda) anche se non pare ancora brutta ma c’è una minima possibilità che lo diventi, ti fa astenere automaticamente dal farla. É un canone estetico estremamente mobile il Pare Brutto. Non si sa in cosa esattaemtne consista, ma accidenti se funziona. [...] É una specie di censore invisibile, che cerca di preservarti da figure di merda non gravissime. Semplificando, il Pare Brutto, ovvero il comune senso dell’estetica, potrebbe essere definito come il timore di fare o dire qualcosa di cui potresti perntirti. Per opporti alla sua dittatura devi avere stile, e saperlo, Devi, insomma, avere una gran fiducia in te stsso. Ho appena spiegato la ragione per cui non riesco a oppormi alla dittatura del Pare Brutto.

Day after day we were on the list, for a trip to Berlin or Nancy or Munich or somewhere. We weren’t meeting any new people, or learning anything constructive, or deepening our understanding or cementing any friendships. We just went up there and over, to knock hell out of some city with the vague hope that some day that city will be rebuilt for some people we can get along with. Offhand it always seemed like a sort of sick way of doing things, and when the day turns up that we can start using other methods, I’m going to be one of the gladder people in the world.

Osservò con attenzione i mobili intorno a sé; non capiva quel sottile dolore. Individuò così la nostalgia tra le venature del legno di un tavolino in stile Luigi XV. Da qualche parte, in quella città, riposava la collezione del signor Smith. Le statue di Venere e Marte giacevano l’una sull’altra, frantumate e dimenticate. Rovine su rovine; e poi la nostalgia della pace e delle sue stupide e infine piacevoli assurdità. Si stava meglio quando si stava peggio, ma no, non era vero; quello era il peggio e non aveva nulla di piacevole. Solo l’eroismo di una morte silenziosa, quindi vana. Graham percepì una profonda sfiducia nell’umanità. Forse nei singoli individui sopravviveva la speranza, nella loro capacità di essere giusti e di saper costruire un loro microcosmo perfetto. E le connessioni sarebbero venute da sé, un seme dà la vita a decine di altri semi e la battaglia tra luce e tenebre non ha mai fine. Nonostante tutto fosse ormai tenebra, il cuore della terra pulsava e sotto l’apparenza sterile prometteva di rinascere. Dietro le nuvole, dietro il nero fumo delle esplosioni, le stelle continuavano a brillare ignare dei destini di miliardi di vite.

Pray, don't fly into a passion. I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven't the least idea of loving him or anybody else." "But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?" "You'll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this trouble." "I can't love anyone else, and I'll never forget you, Jo, Never! Never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words. "What shall I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more unmanagable than she expected. "You haven't heard what I wanted to tell you. Sit down and listen, for indeed I want to do right and make you happy," she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothing about love. Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo's part, for how could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness

The Christian faith has no category for believers who are not members of a local congregation.