Store Keeper Quotes

There was a strange but universal understanding among women. On some level all women knew, they all understood, the fear of being outnumbered, of being helpless. It throbbed in their chests when they thought about the times they left stores and were followed. The knocks on their car windows as they were sitting alone at red lights, and strangers asking for rides. Having too much to drink and losing their ability to be forceful enough to just say no. Smiling at strange men coming on to them, not wanting to hurt their feelings, not wanting to make a scene. All women remembered these things, even if they had never happened to them personally. It was a part of their collective unconscious.

Helena dreamed about the keepers of the fire. The poorest old women had stored it away in suburban kitchens and had only to blow very gently on their palms to rekindle the flame

I used to wonder about the fake pictures that came in frames you buy at the store—ladies with smooth brown hair and show-me smiles, grapefruit-headed babies on their sibling's knees—people who in real life probably were strangers brought together by a talent scout to be a phony family. Maybe it's not so different from real photos, after all.

…Amongst these legends of dragon hoards, Where secret, precious things are stored, There golden nugget and diamond shard, There treasure-keeper hoped to guard. As bolted doorway securely braced, hoping its treasures to ever hold, hoping beyond when time grows old, So stood the keeper in its place. A statue of unrelenting stance Still stands victim to happenstance, For treasure-keeper did not bargain on a bit of chance and a bit of dwargen…” - Dwenzuak the dwargen

It’s the only unique building on the isle, painted twenty different colors with topsy-turvy architecture and a sign that reads SLURPS AND BURPS: YOUR MERRY APOTHECARY. The door also belches when people enter or exit. And the inside of the store is a veritable maze of shelves filled with colorful vials in all different shapes and sizes, labeled with names like Fuzzy Fizz and Hush Slush. It also tends to smell of burning hair or dirty feet or some other strange byproduct of Kesler’s constant experiments—and all of this “quirkiness” is intentional. Kesler has made it abundantly clear that he designed the store specifically to make “the stuffy nobles” uncomfortable.

Joe alone was the keeper of those memories, and so many more like them, Tess thought. It was a great responsibility, holding all that history inside one’s head. An important vigil. Maybe that was why newer experiences faded as one neared the end of a long life. The brain simply couldn’t hold the lifetime of memories it had stored, and the most precious took precedence over those that came after. Who cared what he had for lunch the day before? His mind was otherwise occupied.

Everywhere I looked, I saw how seeds were holding the world together. They planted forests, covered meadows with wildflowers, sprouted in the cracks of sidewalks, or lay dormant until the long-awaited moment came, signaled by fire or rain or warmth. They filled the produce aisle in grocery stores. Seeds breathed and spoke in a language all their own. Each one was a miniature time capsule, capturing years of stories in its tender flesh. How ignorant I felt compared to the brilliance contained in a single seed.

Right after Matt died, I was afraid to do basically everything. I couldn’t even bite my nails or sniff my shirt to see if I needed deodorant without feeling like he was watching me. I willed and prayed and begged him to give me a sign that he was watching, that he was with me, so I would know. But he never did. Time moved on. And I stopped being afraid. Until right now, vulnerable and insecure and a little bit drunk. Lying in the sand and falling in crazy love with someone I just met. Matt is watching me. Observing. Possibly judging. And the worst part of it is, I don’t want to wake up under his landslide of sad rocks anymore. I don’t want to taste the marzipan frosting and the clove cigarettes. I don’t want to think about the blue glass necklace or the books he read to me on his bed or the piles of college stuff or some random boy in the grocery store wearing his donated clothes. I don’t want to be the dead boy’s best-friend-turned-something-else. Or the really supportive neighbor friend. Or the lifelong keeper of broken-hearted secrets.

DEX’S FAIL-PROOF ALCHEMY TIPS! (EVEN FOR YOU, SOPHIE!) TRUST THE DIZZNEE METHOD. WE’RE THE BEST! WHAP MEANS “WASH HANDS AND PRESENT.” (DO NOT “WHIP” THE ELIXIR INSTEAD! I KNOW YOU KNOW THIS, BUT IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD REMINDER.) ONLY PRACTICE ALCHEMY IN A FIREPROOF LOCATION. (WE, UH, BOTH KNOW WHY THIS ONE’S SO IMPORTANT.…) ALWAYS POUR IN AMARALLITINE FROM A SAFE DISTANCE—AND USE A TIMER TO ENSURE YOU’RE ADDING IT AT THE EXACT SECOND THE ELIXIR IS READY FOR IT. DON’T GET ANY RUCKLEBERRY JUICE ON YOUR SKIN—IT’LL MAKE YOU SMELL LIKE STINKY FEET. AND YOUR SKIN WILL GET ALL WEIRD AND WRINKLY LIKE FORKLE. YEAH, A LOT OF THE INGREDIENTS FOR ELIXIRS ARE SUPER DISGUSTING. IT’S PROBABLY BETTER IF YOU DON’T THINK ABOUT IT. (AND PLUG YOUR NOSE! ) REMEMBER: LADY GALVIN HATES EVERYBODY—IT’S NOT JUST YOU. (ALTHOUGH MAYBE TRY NOT TO DESTROY HER CAPE AGAIN?) ALKAHEST IS THE UNIVERSAL SOLVENT AND CAN ONLY BE STORED IN A BUBBLE OF ITSELF. (WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT TOUCH IT.) IF YOU BOTTLE QUINTESSENCE (ACCIDENTALLY OR ON PURPOSE), DO NOT BRING THE BOTTLE TO FOXFIRE. IF YOU SUDDENLY REMEMBER ANY COMPLICATED FORMULAS, DON’T TRY MAKING THEM. THE BLACK SWAN WAY OVERESTIMATED YOUR ALCHEMY SKILLS!

Men have worked as essentially shop keepers and store clerks for a lot longer than they have worked on assembly lines. There have been waiters forever. Lawyers are the world's second oldest profession. Teaching was a male-only profession for centuries. The idea that men are and ought to be unreflective, grunting, two-fisted louts is a class thing, not a gender thing, and it is imposed upon working class men by a system that needs them to be beasts of burden.

In the store the old men gathered, occupying for endless hours the creaking milkcases, speaking slowly and with conviction upon matters of profound inconsequence, eying the dull red bulb of the stove with their watery vision. Shrouded in their dark coats they had a vulturuous look about them, their faces wasted and thin, their skin dry and papery as a lizard's. John Shell, looking like nothing so much as an ill-assembled manikin of bones on which clothes were hung in sagging dusty folds, his wrists protruding like weathered sticks from his flapping prelate sleeves, John Shell unhinged his toothless jaw with effort, a slight audible creaking sound, to speak his one pronouncement: It ain't so much that as it is one thing'n another.

Here is the recipe to blow something up: a Pyrex bowl; potassium chloride—found at health food stores, as a salt substitute. A hydrometer. Bleach. Take the bleach and pour it into the Pyrex, put it onto a stove burner. Meanwhile, weigh out your potassium chloride and add to the bleach. Check it with the hydrometer and boil until you get a reading of 1.3. Cool to room temperature, and filter out the crystals that form. This is what you will save. [...] You need 56 grams of these reserved crystals. Mix with distilled water. Heat to a boil and cool again, saving the crystals, pure potassium chlorate. Grind these to the consistency of face powder, and heat gently to dry. Melt five parts Vaseline with five parts wax. Dissolve in gasoline and pour this liquid onto 90 parts potassium chlorate crystals in a plastic bowl. Knead. Allow the gasoline to evaporate. Mold into a cube and dip in wax to make it waterproof. This explosive requires a blasting cap of at least a grade A3.

People have wracked their brains for an explanation of benzene and how the celebrated man, August Kekulé, managed to come up with the concept of the benzene theory. With regard to the last point especially, a friend of mine who is a farmer and has a lively interest in chemistry has asked me a question which I would like to share with you. My 'agricultural friend' apparently believes he has traced the origins of the benzene theory. 'Has Kekulé,' so ran the question, 'once been a bee-keeper? You certainly know that bees too build hexagons; they know well that they can store the greatest amount of honey that way with the least amount of wax. I always liked it,' my agricultural friend went on, 'When I received a new issue of the Berichte; admittedly, I don't read the articles, but I like the pictures very much. The patterns of benzene, naphthalene and especially anthracene are indeed wonderful. When I look at the pictures I always have to think of the honeycombs of my bee hives.

Fitz and Biana were right behind him, with Keefe a few steps farther back. They froze when they spotted Coiffe. “Is this guy bothering you?” Fitz asked. “Is that a guy?” Dex added. “He says he’s with the Black Swan,” Sophie told them. “Couldn’t anyone say that?” Fitz asked. Coiffe rolled his eyes and pulled a monocle pendant like theirs out of the curls of his fur. “Happy now?” “Just when I thought this place couldn’t get any weirder,” Biana mumbled. Dex moved closer to Coiffe and squinted at his fur. “What’d you do, mix a bunch of Curly-dew with Macho-Macho and a couple drops of Body Warmer?” “I don’t know. But I wouldn’t be surprised if your father’s ridiculous store was involved,” Coiffe muttered. “Only Kesler Dizznee would waste time figuring out how to give someone a fur coat.” Yeah . . . Sophie definitely wasn’t going to be a fan of Coiffe. “My father is one of the most talented alchemists in our world,” Dex snapped. “He is,” Coiffe agreed. “But even you must admit he gravitates toward the absurd.” “That’s intentional,” Sophie told him. Kesler kept Slurps and Burps strange to make the stuck-up nobility uncomfortable. “So wait,” Keefe jumped in. “Are you naked right now? Because I think I speak for everyone when I say: Yuck.

Root Chakra Gemstones •       With the utmost care and devotion, BLACK TOURMALINE guards its keeper and her property. It is the mineral-kingdom's most protective stone. Place four pieces at your home or property's four corners to protect your home and land, and keep one piece in your car to prevent theft. •       JET is a wood component which is decayed under high pressure and deoxygenated. Though light in weight, when it comes to defense, jet packs a heavy punch, eliminating curses or hexes, and extracting dark magic that originates from past ages or lifetimes. Our ancestors claimed that holding a piece of jet, including the Plague, would help protect them from illness. •       ONYX helps empathy by absorbing and transmuting low vibrations in people or places as a working tool. Having the bearer physically powerful and formidable, and gaining good luck and a great harvest, is believed. •       RED AVENTURINE purifies and detoxifies energy frequencies to help clear the trauma stored, promoting a deeper connection with energy source. It helps to promote strong body ventilation, remove accumulated toxins, and increase blood flow. •       RED JASPER is a battle-stone of resilience and reminds the carrier of her personal strength and ability to overcome challenges. Native Americans claimed red jasper would reinforce warriors going into combat. The red color, because of the protective properties of the stone, reflected the blood they would not have spilled.

Yeah, I thought it would be something like that.” Her wheelchair, which was cherry-red with thick velvet armrests, had the turning-circle of a doughnut. She spun it on the spot and led Lamb into a long room lined with upright cabinets which were set on tracks like tramlines, so they could be pushed together when not in use: one huge accordion structure, each row containing file after file of dusty information, some of it so ancient that the last to consult it had long since faded to dust himself. Here were Regent’s Park’s older secrets. Which could all be stored on the head of a pin, of course, if the budget were there to squeeze it into shape. Upstairs, the queens of the database ruled their digital universe. Down here, Molly Doran was the keeper of overlooked history.

The President's objection to this was, that it was his bounden duty to preserve and protect the property of the United States. To this I replied, with all the earnestness the occasion demanded, that I would pledge my life that, if an inventory were taken of all the stores and munitions in the fort, and an ordnance-sergeant with a few men left in charge of them, they would not be disturbed. As a further guarantee, I offered to obtain from the Governor of South Carolina full assurance that, in case any marauders or lawless combination of persons should attempt to seize or disturb the property, he would send from the citadel of Charleston an adequate guard to protect it and to secure its keepers against molestation.

A number of the keepers of knowledge, myself included, put little store in asceticism. How can the spirit soar freely if we keep our bodies in chains?

FORTUNE COOKIE THE BLACK WIDOW SPIDER MYSTERY THE RADIO MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF THE RUNAWAY GHOST THE FINDERS KEEPERS MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF THE HAUNTED BOXCAR THE CLUE IN THE CORN MAZE THE GHOST OF THE CHATTERING BONES THE SWORD OF THE SILVER KNIGHT THE GAME STORE MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF THE ORPHAN TRAIN THE VANISHING PASSENGER THE GIANT YO-YO MYSTERY THE CREATURE IN OGOPOGO LAKE THE ROCK ’N’ ROLL MYSTERY THE SECRET OF THE MASK THE SEATTLE PUZZLE THE GHOST IN THE FIRST ROW THE BOX THAT WATCH FOUND A HORSE NAMED DRAGON THE GREAT DETECTIVE RACE T

When I thought of archives-documents stored and studied-I though of poets, writers, politicians, scientists. But why shouldn't the archives of the eaters also have avid keepers?

If there was ever a capitalist finger up Lenin's waxy ass, it was the opening of the ultra-luxurious GUM store on the eastern border of the square, just a stone's throw from the mausoleum.

Holly Berries A Confederate Christmas Story by Refugitta There was, first, behind the clear crystal pane, a mammoth turkey, so fat that it must have submitted to be killed from sheer inability to eat and move, hung all around with sausage balls and embowered in crisp white celery with its feathered tops. Many a belated housekeeper or father of a family, passing by, cast loving glances at the monster bird, and turned away with their hands on depleted purses and arms full of brown paper parcels. Then there were straw baskets of eggs, white and shining with the delightful prospect of translation into future eggnogs; pale yellow butter stamped with ears of corn, bee hives, and statuesque cows with their tails in an attitude. But these were all substantials, and the principal attraction was the opposition window, where great pyramids of golden oranges, scaly brown pineapples, festoons of bananas, boxes of figs and raisins with their covers thrown temptingly aside, foreign sauces and pickles, cheeses, and gilded walnuts were arranged in picturesque regularity, jut, as it seemed, almost within reach of one’s olfactories and mouth, until a closer proximity realized the fact of that thick plate glass between. Inside it was just the same: there were barrels and boxes in a perfect wilderness; curious old foreign packages and chests, savory of rare teas and rarer jellies; cinnamon odors like gales from Araby meeting you at every turn; but yet everything, from the shining mahogany counter under the brilliant gaslight, up to the broad, clean, round face of the jolly grocer Pin, was so neat and orderly and inviting that you felt inclined to believe yourself requested to come in and take off things by the pocketful, without paying a solitary cent. I acknowledge that it was an unreasonable distribution of favors for Mr. Pin to own, all to himself, this abundance of good things. Now, in my opinion, little children ought to be the shop keepers when there are apples and oranges to be sold, and I know they will all agree with me, for I well remember my earliest ambition was that my papa would turn confectioner, and then I could eat my way right through the store. But our friend John Pin was an appreciative person, and not by any means forgetful of his benefits. All day long and throughout the short afternoon, his domain had been thronged with busy buyers, old and young, and himself and his assistant (a meager-looking young man of about the dimensions of a knitting needle) constantly employed in supplying their demands. From the Southern Illustrated News.

But deep down, I knew the truth: I needed her—not as a son needs a mother, but as a sinner needs the devil. I needed a scapegoat, someone I could point at and say, “You're responsible for this, not me.” I needed to feed my delusion that I was not my brother's keeper, that such a duty fell to our mother. I needed a place where I could store Jeremy's life, his care, a box that I could shut tight and tell myself it was where Jeremy belonged—even if I knew, deep down, that it was all a lie. I needed that thin plausibility to ease my conscience. That would be the only way I could leave Austin. I

Ferguson, Missouri. When riots broke out over the August shooting death of Michael Brown, armed members of the Oath Keepers took to the city’s rooftops, appearing out of the smoke and shattered glass of ransacked buildings. Their supposed duty was to secure the local businesses from looting. In the first days of the protests, demonstrators had broken out windows of storefronts, set arson fires, and torched a beauty supply store. ABC News reported that a number of business owners embraced the Oath Keepers’ armed presence. Group members boarded up storefronts and kept buckets of water and fire extinguishers handy in case nearby arson attacks escalated. This was the vigilante group’s moment in the media sun. Still, rumors flew. Some protestors thought the armed men in camouflaged fatigues were members of the Ku Klux Klan. The St. Louis County police ordered the Oath Keepers to leave the rooftops of Ferguson, threatening them with arrest for acting as a security force without a license. This only added fuel to the right-wing group’s conspiracy that the government is not protecting its people. The volunteer security force packed up and left Ferguson, leaving people wondering exactly who these heavily armed mystery men were.

I walked past several open doors and tried not to look into any, no matter what odd noises I heard. I didn't want to see anything. I already had too many bad visions stored in my "I wish I hadn't seen that" mental album.

Religious rites were not the only things that Keepers stored in their uncanny memories; their metalminds contained vast wealths of information on culture, philosophy, and science.

It can of course be suggested that it takes little courage for two strong eighteen-year old hoodlums, let us say, to beat in the brains of a candy-store keeper, and indeed the act—even by the logic of the psychopath—is not likely to prove very therapeutic for the victim is not an immediate equal. Still, courage of a sort is necessary, for one murders not only a weak fifty-year old man but an institution as well, one violates private property, one enters into a new relation with the police and introduces a dangerous element into one’s life. The hoodlum is therefore daring the unknown, and so no matter how brutal the act it is not altogether cowardly.

The monkey puzzle tree has absorbed your bad memories. It’s heard your words and read your thoughts. It will keep your memories, just like history is stored with words in a book. The monkey puzzle tree feeds off history good and bad, happy or sad. Trees are record keepers and this particular tree has more records than any other living tree. If trees disappeared, there will be no records to tell that we even existed. There will be no present, no past and therefore no future,” explained Petucan.

These are someone else’s clothes—someone else’s style. You must find your own.” “What if I don’t have one?” “Don’t be silly. Everyone has a style. Most women just never bother to find it. It’s easier to open a magazine or turn on Dynasty and copy someone else. That’s why everything in the stores looks the same. Because everybody is trying to look like everybody else. They’re happy being vanilla. But you’re not vanilla, Rory. You’re lovely and exceptional, with a flavor all your own.

Don’t be silly. Everyone has a style. Most women just never bother to find it. It’s easier to open a magazine or turn on Dynasty and copy someone else. That’s why everything in the stores looks the same. Because everybody is trying to look like everybody else. They’re happy being vanilla. But you’re not vanilla, Rory. You’re lovely and exceptional, with a flavor all your own. But you’ve been hiding in those boyish clothes for so long that you can’t see yourself anymore.

The Federal Writers not only documented the natural wonders of the country, but the hidden lives of minorities, working women, immigrant laborers, sharecroppers, and others typically ignored by the history books. Their writings helped to inspire Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, among other classics. Sadly, much of the Federal Writers’ work was stored away as the Red Scare heated up, congressional committees held hearings to search for communist infiltrators on American soil, and World War II gripped the nation.

The Mortuary Committee would be burdened with many unenviable tasks, but the first was straightforward: instead of storing the corpses at a half dozen locations around town, which made it more difficult for soldiers to transport the bodies and record-keepers and families to find them, they needed to select a single building to house an official, temporary morgue. They quickly settled on the Chebucto Road School, which, despite its broken windows, had a lot to recommend it: it was large, it could be quickly cleared out and converted to its new purpose, and it was close to Pier 6, minimizing the transport of corpses and travel for their relatives. The committee also needed a place that could keep bodies for as long as possible, giving them the best chance of being identified. They designated the upper floors for offices and the wide-open, cooler basement for the bodies, which they planned to lay in rows and cover with sheets. The Royal Engineers quickly fixed up the damaged school, covered its windows, and cleaned the space. As soon as people learned of the location, bodies began to pile up outside the building, stacked two and three high until morgue workers could retrieve them. The Relief Committee also dispatched crews of volunteers to put out fires and turn off water mains, faucets, and spigots, and to pick up the dead—tagging their names, when they knew them, to the victims’ wrists, or simply attaching a number when they didn’t—loading them onto rudimentary flat wagons dozens at a time. They soon learned to conduct this dispiriting job late at night so as not to offend the friends and relatives of the deceased. But because everyone could hear the horses’ hooves each night, the rolling midnight morgue was a poorly kept secret, one that woke many Haligonians whose homes still lacked windows.

Nobody else knew it, but the creek was magic. There was one bend in particular where the banks widened to form a craggy circle; the bed beneath had been formed millions of years ago when the earth sighed and shifted and great rock slabs were brought together jaggedly, so what was shallow at the rims deepened and darkened suddenly at its center. And that's where Vivien had made her discovery. She'd been fishing with the glass jars she'd pilfered from Mum's kitchen and kept now in the rotten log behind the ferns. Vivien stored all her treasures inside that log. There was always something to find within the creek's waters: eels and tadpoles, rusted old buckets from the gold-rush days. Once, she'd even found a set of false teeth.

The fragrance started off bright and happy, fresh-cut grass and sunshine, iced hibiscus tea, the best of a Sunday afternoon. Lavender and rose released their sweetness into the air so serenely you knew there was not a weed within ten yards of them. The scents filtered out through the store, and as Victoria and I watched, the customers began putting down their phones, looking about with greater interest, smiling at one another. "Well, you certainly made them friendly," Victoria said. I just smiled. The fragrance began to deepen. Vanilla, the clarion call of mothers in aprons and after-school cookies warm from the oven. The women's expressions softened. Your life can be like this, the fragrance said. Your children will love you. Then, slowly, lazily, in came the scent of jasmine. Victoria tilted her head. "Hello, troublemaker," she said. It floated out across the room, heavy and sensual, the essence of beautiful, younger women. Women who birthed children and wore bikinis within a month, or worse yet, never had children at all, their stomachs taut, their breasts ripe. Women who drew the wandering eyes of husbands. Then, even as the customers began shifting away from each other with polite, nervous smiles, there came another scent, lurking inside the jasmine, where it always waited- a touch of indole. A trail that led you downward, into the dirt. But not enough- the fragrance was still too sweet. It hovered in the store, off-kilter. "Hmm," Victoria said, her eyebrows pulling together. "Wait," I said. The want of balance was like an ache in the air. The fragrance reached out, searching, begging for completion. It didn't want sweet. It didn't want nice. And then, out of the skin, the sweat, the very heat of the women's thoughts, came the missing base note. Keen edged as a knife, it rose to meet the sweetness. Jealousy. As we watched, one of the women picked up a cashmere throw and clutched it to her chest. Another sat down on a leather couch, her arms spread out like a claim jumper. Mine. "Brilliant," Victoria said, stifling a laugh. "Absolutely brilliant.

Michael went out of his way during those years to be solicitous with Roy and show him deference and respect. This wasn’t easy to do. Roy could be very difficult at times. He viewed himself as the keeper of the Disney legacy. He lived and breathed and bled Disney, operating as if any break from tradition was a violation of some sacred pact he’d made with Walt himself (who supposedly never showed his nephew much respect). Roy tended to revere the past instead of respecting it, and as a result he had a difficult time tolerating change of any sort. He hated Michael’s acquisition of Capital Cities/ABC, because it meant introducing non-Disney brands into the company’s bloodstream. On a lesser but maybe more illustrative note, he got very angry one Christmas season when we decided to sell pure white Mickey Mouse plush dolls in our Disney stores. “Mickey is only these colors, black and white and red and yellow, and that’s it!” Roy raged in emails to Michael and me. He wanted the “albino Mickeys,” as he called them, taken from the shelves, which we didn’t do, but it was a huge distraction.

Want Could Kill Me Xandria Phillips for Dominique I know this from looking into store fronts taste buds voguing alight from the way treasure glows when I imagine pressing its opulence into your hand I want to buy you a cobalt velvet couch all your haters’ teeth strung up like pearls a cannabis vineyard and plane tickets to every island on earth but my pockets are filled with lint and love alone touch these inanimate gods to my eyelids when you kiss me linen leather gator skin silk satin lace onyx marble gold ferns leopard crystal sandalwood mink pearl stiletto matte nails and plush lips glossed in my 90s baby saliva pour the glitter over my bare skin I want a lavish life us in the crook of a hammock incensed by romance the bowerbird will forgo rest and meals so he may prim and anticipate amenity for his singing lover call me a gaunt bird a keeper of altars shrines to the tactile how they shine for you fold your wings around my shoulders promise me that should I drown in want-made waste the dress I sink in will be exquisite

Chunee, a once docile Asian elephant who lived at Exeter Change in London in the mid-nineteenth century, was killed when his annual attacks of sexual excitability made him too violent for the comfort of his keepers. His execution in March 1826 was gory and went on far too long. Chunee refused arsenic, three rifle shots only made him more upset, and repeated volleys of military muskets by a group of soldiers called in at the last minute couldn't finish the job. Eventually a keeper delivered the final blow with a sword. Gunda too was once an approachable star elephant at the Bronx Zoo just after the turn of the twentieth century. But he became, upon sexual maturity, most troublesome and dangerous, according to William Hornaday of the New York Zoological Society. His repeated, six-month bouts of erotic frenzy made him so violent that he was put under extreme restraints for half of every year. Debates over what to do with him captivated New Yorkers, and articles and editorials about his fate, the ethics of chaining him in place, and his possible execution peppered the New York press on the eve of World War I. In the end Gunda was shot point-blank in the elephant house by the famed elephant hunter and taxidermist Carl Akeley. His folded, dehydrated hide was taken to the American Museum of Natural History in New York, where it remains today, stored on a large metal shelf underneath the Planetarium. Gunda's execution for mad behavior was representative of many other elephants experiences, their rights to life hinging on how their sanity was perceived by the humans charged with caring for and confining them.

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