Tan Color Quotes

Lo perdido tuvo color pero ahora es incoloro. Los latidos del gastado corazón invaden nuestra noche, pero el insomnio actual tiene otra partitura. Lo perdido es también un par o dos de labios que probaron el sabor de los míos, y que ahora tan sólo puedo besar en mi memoria.

I don’t care what color your hair is, if you’re pale or tan, if you have makeup on or just woke up all I care about is that when I look at you, you always look back and see me.  You’re beautiful inside and out and if you wanted to tattoo all that pretty white skin from head to toe I would be honored to put it there for you but if not I’ll take you all smooth and milky white any chance I get.

If I wore any color other than black, tan, or gray, I looked like an asylum escapee.

La realidad no es solo como se percibe en la superficie, también tiene una dimensión mágica y, si a uno se le antoja, es legítimo exagerarla y ponerle color para que el tránsito por esta vida no resulte tan aburrido.

When she comes to retrieve me [in the nursing home], after the tan-colored pudding with edible oil topping has sat for a while and been removed...

Melanin is the black pigment which permits skins to appear other than white (black, brown, red and yellow). Melanin pigment coloration is the norm for the hue-man family. If there are non-white readers who disagree with this presentation of white rejection of the white-skinned self, may I refer you to the literature on the currently developing sun-tanning parlors.

It's funny how these days, when every household has its own inter-continental ballistic missile, you hardly even think about them. . . . A lot of us, though, have started painting the missiles different colors, even decorating them with our own designs, like butterflies or stenciled flowers. They take up so much space in the backyard, they might as well look nice, and the government leaflets don't say that you have to use the paint they supply.

en algún lugar al que nunca he viajado, gozosamente más allá de cualquier experiencia, tus ojos tienen su silencio: en tu gesto más frágil hay cosas que me abarcan, o que no puedo tocar porque están demasiado cerca tu mirada más leve me abrirá fácilmente aunque me haya cerrado como dedos, siempre me abres pétalo tras pétalo como la Primavera abre (tocando hábilmente, misteriosamente) su primera rosa o si tu deseo fuera cerrarme, yo y mi vida nos cerraremos muy bellamente, súbitamente, como cuando el corazón de esta flor imagina la nieve cayendo cuidadosa por doquier; nada que hayamos de percibir en este mundo iguala la fuerza de tu intensa fragilidad: cuya textura me domina con el color de sus campos, trayendo muerte y eternidad con cada respiro (yo no sé qué hay en ti que puede cerrar y abrir; apenas algo en mí comprende que la voz de tus ojos es más profunda que todas las rosas) nadie, ni siquiera la lluvia, tiene manos tan pequeñas

She was with me the day I went to the paint store to pick out the color. I had a nice tan color in mind, but May latched on to this sample called Caribbean Pink. She said it made her feel like dancing a Spanish flamenco. I thought, "Well, this is the tackiest color I've ever seen, and we'll have half the town talking about us, but if it can lift May's heart like that, I guess she ought to live inside it." "All this time I just figured you liked pink," I said. She laughed again. "You know, some things don't matter that much, Lily.. Like the color of a house. How big is that in the over-all scheme of life? But lifting a person's heart-now, that matters. The whole problem with people is-" "They don't know what matters and what doesn't," I said, filling in her sentence and feeling proud of myself for doing so. "I was gonna say, The problem is they know what matters, but they don't choose it. You know how hard that is, Lily? I love May, but it was still so hard to choose Caribbean Pink. The hardest thing on earth is choosing what matters.

My sisters and I stand, arms around each other, laughind and wiping the tears from each others eyes. The flash of the Polaroid goes off and my family hands me the snapshot. My sisters and I watch quietly together, eager to see what develops. Ghe grey-greensurface changes to the bright colors of our three images, sharpening and deepening all at once. And although we don't speak, I know we all see it: Together we look like our mother. Her same eyes, her same mouth, open in suprise to see, her long-cherished wish.

What is true about a person? Would I change in the same way the river changes color but still be the same person?... And then I realized it was the first time I could see the power of the wind. I couldn't see the wind itself, but I could see it carried water that filled the rivers and shaped the countryside.

What do you think was the first sound to become a word, a meaning?... I imagined two people without words, unable to speak to each other. I imagined the need: The color of the sky that meant 'storm.' The smell of fire taht meant 'Flee.' The sound of a tiger about to pounce. Who would worry about these things? And then I realized what the first word must have been: ma, the sound of a baby smacking its lips in search of her mother's breast. For a long time, that was the only word the baby needed. Ma, ma, ma. Then the mother decided that was her name and she began to speak, too. She taught the baby to be careful: sky, fire, tiger. A mother is always the beginning. She is how things begin.

Las palabras son gratis, decía y se las apropiaba, todas eran suyas. ella sembró en mi cabeza la idea de que la realidad no es sólo como se percibe en la superficie, también tiene una dimensión mágica y, si a uno se le antoja, es legítimo esagerarla y ponerle color para que el tránsito por esta vida no resulte tan aburrido. --Eva Luna

I open my arms wide and let the wind flow over me. I love the universe and the universe loves me. That’s the one-two punch right there, wanting to love and wanting to be loved. Everything else is pure idiocy—shiny fancy outfits, Geech-green Cadillacs, sixty-dollar haircuts, schlock radio, celebrity-rehab idiots, and most of all, the atomic vampires with their de-soul-inators, and flag-draped coffins. Goodbye to all that, I say. And goodbye to Mr. Asterhole and the Red Death of algebra and to the likes of Geech and Keeeevin. Goodbye to Mom’s rented tan and my sister’s chargecard boobs. Goodbye to Dad for the second and last time. Goodbye to black spells and jagged hangovers, divorces, and Fort Worth nightmares. To high school and Bob Lewis and once-upon-a-time Ricky. Goodbye to the future and the past and, most of all, to Aimee and Cassidy and all the other girls who came and went and came and went. Goodbye. Goodbye. I can’t feel you anymore. The night is almost too beautifully pure for my soul to contain. I walk with my arms spread open under the big fat moon. Heroic “weeds rise up from the cracks in the sidewalk, and the colored lights of the Hawaiian Breeze ignite the broken glass in the gutter. Goodbye, I say, goodbye, as I disappear little by little into the middle of the middle of my own spectacular now

Homesickness is a great teacher. It taught me, during an endless rainy fall, that I came from the arid lands, and like where I came from. I was used to dry clarity and sharpness in the air. I was used to horizons that either lifted into jagged ranges or rimmed the geometrical circle of the flat world. I was used to seeing a long way. I was used to earth colors--tan, rusty red, toned white--and the endless green of Iowa offended me. I was used to a sun that came up over mountains and went down behind other mountains. I missed the color and smell of sagebrush, and the sight of bare ground.

The color of the sun when rises Your skin when shines, just tanned The stars raveled on a clear blue sky Your favorite dress of mine, fallen on the floor... (fragment from "Yellow", chapter Hope)

Sentía que se me iba el aire mientras me perdía en aquel color tan celeste, sentía que había algo en ella que realmente necesitaba y realmente era absurdo lo que sentía, no tenía ningún sentido, y sin embargo sabía que de alguna manera todo iba a salir bien si yo me mantenía a su lado.

I'm not looking at them, Jamie says softly. "I'm looking at you." When I bring up my eyes, I'm looking at him too. Like, really looking at him. It's hard to breathe when all the colors of his face are so rich and intoxicating-pale blue eyes, a honey tan, and dark chocolate hair. How could someone so beautiful be looking at me the way he is, with half of a smile and affection in his gaze? What does he see? And then I realize. He sees the same thing I see when I look at him. He sees something beautiful.

I asked myself, what is true about a person? Would I change in the same way the river changes color but still be the same person?

Eso siempre me ha parecido tan ridículo, que la gente quisiera estar alrededor de alguien porque es bello. Es como elegir tus cereales del desayuno basados en el color en lugar del sabor.

Al igual que tenéis ojos para ver la luz y oídos para escuchar los sonidos, también tenéis un corazón para percibir el tiempo. Y todo el tiempo que no se percibe con el corazón está tan perdido como los colores del arco iris para un ciego o el canto de un pájaro para un sordo. Pero, por desgracia, existen corazones ciegos y sordos que no perciben nada, aunque tengan latido.

I had to admit there was one good thing about staying in the south. Instead of being the only person with tan skin, I finally looked as if I belonged. Living in the north with the pale-skinned Ixians for so long, though, had not prepared me for such a variety of brown skin tones. Much to my embarrassment, I had found myself gawking at the deeper mahogany skin colors when we first entered Sitia.

Las notas musicales son sólo cinco, pero sus melodías son tan numerosas que no podemos oírlas todas. Los colores primarios son sólo cinco, pero sus combinaciones son tan infinitas que no podemos verlas todas. Los gustos son sólo cinco, pero sus mezclas son tan variadas que no podemos saborearlas todas.

»Una cosa que pienso... Escuche. ¿Cuántos años duró la guerra? Cuatro años. Es mucho tiempo... No recuerdo ni pájaros, ni colores. Claro que estaban presentes, pero no los recuerdo. Sí... Es extraño, ¿verdad? ¿Acaso las películas sobre la guerra pueden ser de color? Allí todo es negro. Tan solo la sangre es de otro color, solo la sangre es roja...

Looking up, I stare into the most unique and beautiful shade of blue that a pair of eyes has ever possessed. Of that I am certain. Blue just shouldn’t be that multi-faceted and twinkling. There should be a law or something. Or at least a warning label: Caution, these eyes may cause female knees to tremble. Looking up, I stare into the most unique and beautiful shade of blue that a pair of eyes has ever possessed. Of that I am certain. Blue just shouldn’t be that multi-faceted and twinkling. There should be a law or something. Or at least a warning label: Caution, these eyes may cause female knees to tremble. Before I can help it, I scan the rest of him. Sweet Mary. This guy had lucked out in the gene department. Tall, slender, beautiful. Honey colored hair that had natural highlights that could even catch the crappy airport light, broad shoulders, slim hips, long legs. He is tan and golden with a bright, white smile. I am surely staring at Apollo, the god of the sun.

Hay muchas clases de soledad, pero Momo vivía una que muy pocos hombres conocen, y menos con tanta fuerza. Le parecía estar encerrada en una caverna rodeada de riquezas incontables que se hacían cada vez más y mayores y amenazaban asfixiarla. Y no había salida. Nadie podía llegar hasta ella y ella no se podía hacer notar a nadie, tan aplastada estaba bajo una montaña de tiempo. Incluso llegaron horas en que deseaba no haber oído nunca la música ni haber visto los colores. No obstante, si la hubiesen dado a elegir, no habría renunciado a ese recuerdo por nada del mundo. Aunque se hubiera muerto por ello. Pues eso era lo que vivía ahora: que hay riquezas que lo matan a uno si no puede compartirlas.

I was blessed with suck in the form of the traditional Snow White coloring: skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as coal. In the cartoons and the storybooks, they make it look almost cute. Of course, when artists and animators design a Snow White, they essentially give their incarnation of my story a spray tan and some neutral lip liner. A true seven-oh-nine was nowhere near as marketable as those animated darlings. We’re too pale, and our lips are too red, and we look like something out of a horror movie that didn’t have the decency to stay on the screen.

Abajo hay miedo, sufrimiento y muerte. Hay guerra. Y todo parece ser tan normal que podríamos olvidarlo. Así es nuestro mundo. Todo parece ser normal, a pesar de que se están cometiendo crímenes todos los días, en grande o pequeña escala, junto a nosotros, en medio de nosotros o por medio de nosotros.

Maybe it started soon after his arrival during one of those grinding lunches when he sat next to me and it finally dawned on me that, despite a light tan acquired during his brief stay in Sicily earlier that summer, the color on the palms of his hands was the same as the pale, soft skin of his soles, of his throat, of the bottom of his forearms, which hadn’t really been exposed to much sun. Almost a light pink, as glistening and smooth as the underside of a lizard’s belly. Private, chaste, unfledged, like a blush on an athlete’s face or an instance of dawn on a stormy night. It told me things about him I never knew to ask.

Honor miró por la ventana... y vio la sobrecogedora imagen de un ángel con alas de color azul plateado aterrizando en la zona verde del césped. -Es... -Se quedó sin aliento. Había visto fotos, incluso imágenes de televisión, que mostraban a aquel ángel de alas azules, pero ninguna de ellas le hacía justicia. Nada podría hacérsela. Resultaba mucho más impactante de cerca. No le quitó la vista de encima mientras se reunían con él junto al coche. Tenía los ojos del color del oro veneciano, el cabello negro con matices azules, y un rostro de una belleza tan pura que resultaba casi demasiado hermoso. Casi. Era, sencillamente, la criatura más hermosa que había visto en su vida. -Soy Illium -dijo el ángel mirándola a los ojos. Honor estuvo a punto de esbozar una sonrisa al ver la curiosidad pintada en sus iris dorados. -Yo soy Honor.

At the Sugar Oaks Plantation, there are lawn jockeys at attention on the clipped lawn in front of the clubhouse. They are not black so much as they are tan—not exactly white, but rather some reassuring shade of brown, the universal color of good service. They are meant as a reminder that somebody, somewhere, is working harder than you.

En toda mi vida, nunca me ha preocupado lo que la gente pensara de mí, le digo. Pero, en el fondo de mi corazón, me preocupaba mucho lo que pensara Dios. Y ahora veo que no piensa. Sólo está allí sentado, tan contento de ser sordo. Pero no creas que es fácil tratar de pasar sin Dios. Aunque una sepa que no existe, es duro darle la espalda.

After living in Smokey Hollow these three months my bearded face was darkened to a tan, and for more than a moment, I couldn't tell what color I was. Black is what I saw and what I expected to see. I grabbed a towel and rubbed to get a clear look. No, I was white. At least my skin was. I had been through so much with my family here, and all I had seen was black faces, that I forgot for a split second that I wasn't black too. For weeks after the flood in the bathroom, I remembered the morning I forgot my skin color.

Su piel blanca, que no me digan que el blanco es la falta de color, porque es el color más hermoso y es el color de la pureza, y por supuesto que el blanco no es la falta de color: los profesores de física han descubierto a todo el mundo que en un copo de nieve, alineados en un blanco inmaculado están ocultos sin embargo el violeta de los lirios, o sea la tristeza, la melancolía, pero también está presente el azul que significa la calma de contemplar reflejado en un charco de la calle el cielo que nos espera, porque el azul está al lado del verde que es la límpida esperanza, y después viene el amarillo de las margaritas del campo, que florecen sin que nadie las plante y se presentan sin buscarlas, como buenas noticias cuando menos se las espera, y el color de las naranjas que ya están maduras por el verano se llama muy apropiadamente anaranjado, el azahar dio un fruto que el verano madura a causa del calor, qué goce saber que germinó la semilla, creció la planta que es la adolescencia y se va a entrar en la juventud del fruto que da el goce anaranjado, el fruto jugoso y refrescante de las tardes calurosas. El rojo también está oculto en el blanco, también está en ella, en Carla, que es tan blanca.

[Sonnet] You jerk you didn't call me up" You jerk you didn't call me up I haven't seen you in so long You probably have a fucking tan & besides that instead of making love tonight You're drinking your parents to the airport I'm through with you bourgeois boys All you ever do is go back to ancestral comforts Only money can get—even Catullus was rich but Nowadays you guys settle for a couch By a soporific color cable t.v. set Instead of any arc of love, no wonder The G.I. Joe team blows it every other time Wake up! It's the middle of the night You can either make love or die at the hands of the Cobra Commander _________________ To make love, turn to page 121. To die, turn to page 172.

Following Peabody's distracted gaze, Eve had her first view of Jess Barrow. He was beautiful. A painting in motion with a long, shining mane of hair the color of polished oak. His eyes were nearly silver, thickly lashed, intensely focused, as he worked the controls of an elaborate console. His complexion was flawless, tanned to bronze set off by rounded cheekbones and a strong chin. His mouth was full and firm, and his hands, as they flew over the controls, were as finely sculptured as marble. "Roll up your tongue, Peabody," Eve suggested, "before you step on it." "God. Holy God. He's better in person. Don't you just want to bite him?" "Not particularly, but you go ahead." Catching herself, Peabody flushed to the roots of her hair. She shifted on her sturdy legs. This was, she reminded herself, her superior. "I admire his talent." "Peabody, you're admiring his chest. It's a pretty good one, so I can't hold it against you." "I wish he would," she murmured, then cleared her throat as Big Mary stomped back with two dark brown bottles.

Entro Kriztina y aquel salon oscuro se inundo de luz. No solamente irradiaba juventud, no. Irradiaba pasion y orgullo, la conciencia soberana de unos sentimientos incondicionales. No he conocido a ninguna otra persona que fuera capaz de responder asi, de una manera tan plena, a todo lo que el mundo y la vida le daban: a la musica, a un paseo matutino por el bosque, al color y al perfume de una flor, a la palabra justa y sabia de otra persona. Nadie sabia tocar como ella una tela exquisita o un animal, de esa manera suya que lo abarcaba todo. No he conocido a nadie que fuera capaz de alegrarse como ella de las cosas sencillas de la vida: personas y animales, estrellas y libros, todo le interesaba, y su interes no se basaba en la altivez, en la pretension de convertirse en experta, sino que se aproximaba a todo lo que la vida le daba con la alegria incondicional de una criatura que ha nacido al mundo para disfrutarlo todo. Como si estuviera en conexion intima con cada criatura, con cada fenomenos del universo... comprendes lo que quiero decir? Claro, seguramente lo comprendes. Era directa, espontanea y ecuanime, y tambien habia en ella humildad, como si sintiera constantemente que la vida es un regalo lleno de gracia.

Either the color on the TV set was off or he had used too much fake tan; his face was orange, the whites of his eyes spookily bright.

Cress se dio cuenta de que el mundo a su alrededor no era tan negro, sino teñido de un color plata débil.

«No hay nada tan peligroso como la impunidad, amigo mío, es entonces cuando la gente enloquece y se cometen las peores bestialidades, no importa el color de la piel, todos son iguales.

You look … ,” Gavriel breathed, sinking into his chair. “You look so much like her.” Aedion knew Gavriel didn’t mean Aelin. Even Fenrys looked at the Lion now, at the grief rippling in those tawny eyes. But Aedion barely remembered his mother. Barely recalled anything more than her dying, wrecked face. So he said, “She died so your queen wouldn’t get her claws on me.” He wasn’t sure his father was breathing. Lysandra stepped closer, a solid rock in the thrashing sea of his rage. Aedion pinned his father with a look, not sure where the words came from, the wrath, but there they were, snapping from his lips like whips. “They could have cured her in the Fae compounds, but she wouldn’t go near them, wouldn’t let them come for fear of Maeve”—he spat the name—“knowing I existed. For fear I’d be enslaved to her as you were.” His father’s tan face had drained of all color. Whatever Gavriel had suspected until now, Aedion didn’t care. The Wolf snarled at the Lion, “She was twenty-three years old. She never married, and her family shunned her. She refused to tell anyone who’d sired me, and took their disdain, their humiliation, without an ounce of self-pity. She did it because she loved me, not you.” And he suddenly wished he’d asked Aelin to come, so he could tell her to burn this warrior into ashes like that commander in Ilium, because looking at the face—his face … he hated him. He hated him for the twenty-three-year-old his mother had been, younger than he now was when she’d died, alone and sorrowful. Aedion growled, “If your bitch of a queen tries to take me, I’ll slit her throat. If she hurts my family any more than she already has, I’ll slit yours, too.

No podía creerlo. Y es que Albert tenía que saber tan bien como yo que hacía falta amar mucho para quererse como nosotros. Nuestro amor era de esa clase que no cabe mejor. Eso pensaba yo.

Late Echo" Alone with our madness and favorite flower We see that there really is nothing left to write about. Or rather, it is necessary to write about the same old things In the same way, repeating the same things over and over For love to continue and be gradually different. Beehives and ants have to be re-examined eternally And the color of the day put in Hundreds of times and varied from summer to winter For it to get slowed down to the pace of an authentic Saraband and huddle there, alive and resting. Only then can the chronic inattention Of our lives drape itself around us, conciliatory And with one eye on those long tan plush shadows That speak so deeply into our unprepared knowledge Of ourselves, the talking engines of our day.

The green painted concrete out in front of the house, which at first seemed like a novel way to save money on lawn-moving, was now just plain depressing. The hot water came reluctantly to the kitchen sink as if from miles away, and even then without conviction, and sometimes a pale brownish color. Many of the windows wouldn't open properly to let flies out. Others wouldn't shut properly to stop them getting in. The newly planted fruit trees died in the sandy soil of a too-bright backyard and were left like grave-markers under the slack laundry lines, a small cemetery of disappointment. It appeared to be impossible to find the right kinds of food, or learn the right way to say even simple things. The children said very little that wasn't a complaint.

Poema de un Recuerdo Dime por favor donde no estás en qué lugar puedo no ser tu ausencia dónde puedo vivir sin recordarte, y dónde recordar, sin que me duela. Dime por favor en que vacío, no está tu sombra llenando los centros; dónde mi soledad es ella misma, y no el sentir que tú te encuentras lejos. Dime por favor por qué camino, podré yo caminar, sin ser tu huella; dónde podré correr no por buscarte, y dónde descanzar de mi tristeza. Dime por favor cuál es la noche, que no tiene el color de tu mirada; cuál es el sol, que tiene luz tan solo, y no la sensación de que me llamas. Dime por favor donde hay un mar, que no susurre a mis oídos tus palabras. Dime por favor en qué rincón, nadie podrá ver mi tristeza; dime cuál es el hueco de mi almohada, que no tiene apoyada tu cabeza. Dime por favor cuál es la noche, en que vendrás, para velar tu sueño; que no puedo vivir, porque te extraño; y que no puedo morir, porque te quiero

She came through the door the moment my beer arrived. Fortyish, salon-blonde, spray tan, fake boobs and real diamonds. Anywhere else it would be a bimbo alert, but in Florida it was just protective coloration.

As he reached the river, Oswald suddenly felt as if he were walking around in a painting. Then it dawned on him. Everywhere he looked was a painting! Everything was alive with color: the water, the sky, the boathouses that lined the rivermwith red tin roofs, silver tin roofs, and rusted orange tin roofs. Red boat in a yellow boathouse. Green, pink, blue, tan, yellow, and white boathouses. The wooden pilings sticking out of the water were a thousand different shades of graym and each individual piling was encrusted with hundreds of chalk-white barnacles and black woodpecker holes. Even the grain of the wood and the knots on each post differed from inch to inch and pole to pole.

Si tengo que definir la poesía y no las tengo todas conmigo, si no me siento demasiado seguro, digo algo como: «poesía es la expresión de la belleza por medio de palabras artísticamente entretejidas». Esta definición podría valer para un diccionario o para un libro de texto, pero a nosotros nos parece poco convincente. Hay algo mucho más importante: algo que nos animaría no sólo a seguir ensayando la poesía, sino a disfrutarla y a sentir que lo sabemos todo sobre ella. Esto significa que sabemos qué es la poesía. Lo sabemos tan bien que no podemos definirla con otras palabras, como somos incapaces de definir el sabor del café, el color rojo o amarillo o el significado de la ira, el amor, el odio, el amanecer, el atardecer o el amor por nuestro país. Estas cosas están tan arraigadas en nosotros que sólo pueden ser expresadas por esos símbolos comunes que compartimos. ¿Y por qué habríamos de necesitar más palabras?

¿A dónde habrían ido a parar sus horas de trabajo, sus preocupaciones pequeñas y cotidianas, sus proyectos? Aún estaban sus trajes colgados en el armario, bamboleándose cuando se abría bruscamente.¿Qué se hizo de sus recuerdos, de sus secretos? No murió sólo su cuerpo. Un cortejo de luces y sombras, de sonidos, de deseos, de color, de luchas y de recompensas terminaba con él. Se piensa a veces en la muerte. Tal vez se piensa siempre en la muerte y no se cree que pueda ser tan breve, tan simple, tan rotunda.

Sus ojos, de un color castaño pálido, no muy grandes, eran levemente bizcos, el izquierdo más que el derecho. No eran tan estrábicos como para desfigurarlo, ni siquiera para llamar la atención a primera vista. Eran sólo lo bastante bizcos como para mencionarlo, y sólo en relación con el hecho de que uno tenía que pensarlo larga y seriamente antes de desear que fueran más derechos, o más profundos, o más oscuros, o más separados. Su cara, tal cual era, transmitía la sensación, aunque oblicua y lenta, de la verdadera belleza.

All April and May, the stock-pots exuded the fragrance of the crushed bones and marrow of cattle and fowl, seasoned with the crispate herbs and vegetables from her own luxuriant garden. The smells coalesced into a dark perfume that felt like a layer of silk on the tongue. My nose grew kingly at the approach of my home. There would be the redolent brown stocks the color of tanned leather, the light and chipper white stocks, and the fish stocks brimming with the poached heads of trout smelling like an edible serving of marsh.

It’s like I’ve always had a painted musical sound track playing background to my life. I can almost hear colors and smell images when music is played. Mom loves classical. Big, booming Beethoven symphonies blast from her CD player all day long. Those pieces always seem to be bright blue as I listen, and they smell like fresh paint. Dad is partial to jazz, and every chance he gets, he winks at me, takes out Mom’s Mozart disc, then pops in a CD of Miles Davis or Woody Herman. Jazz to me sounds brown and tan, and it smells like wet dirt.

The gray-green surface changes to the bright colors of our three images, sharpening and deepening all at once. And although we don’t speak, I know we all see it: Together we look like our mother. Her same eyes, her same mouth, open in surprise to see, at last, her long-cherished wish.

At first Alexander could not believe it was his Tania. He blinked and tried to refocus his eyes. She was walking around the table, gesturing, showing, leaning forward, bending over. At one point she straightened out and wiped her forehead. She was wearing a short-sleeved yellow peasant dress. She was barefoot, and her slender legs were exposed above her knee. Her bare arms were lightly tanned. Her blonde hair looked bleached by the sun and was parted into two shoulder-length braids tucked behind her ears. Even from a distance he could see the summer freckles on her nose. She was achingly beautiful. And alive. Alexander closed his eyes, then opened them again. She was still there, bending over the boy’s work. She said something, everyone laughed loudly, and Alexander watched as the boy’s arm touched Tatiana’s back. Tatiana smiled. Her white teeth sparkled like the rest of her. Alexander didn’t know what to do. She was alive, that was obvious. Then why hadn’t she written him? And where was Dasha? Alexander couldn’t very well continue to stand under a lilac tree. He went back out onto the main road, took a deep breath, stubbed out his cigarette, and walked toward the square, never taking his eyes off her braids. His heart was thundering in his chest, as if he were going into battle. Tatiana looked up, saw him, and covered her face with her hands. Alexander watched everyone get up and rush to her, the old ladies showing unexpected agility and speed. She pushed them all away, pushed the table away, pushed the bench away, and ran to him. Alexander was paralyzed by his emotion. He wanted to smile, but he thought any second he was going to fall to his knees and cry. He dropped all his gear, including his rifle. God, he thought, in a second I’m going to feel her. And that’s when he smiled. Tatiana sprang into his open arms, and Alexander, lifting her off her feet with the force of his embrace, couldn’t hug her tight enough, couldn’t breathe in enough of her. She flung her arms around his neck, burying her face in his bearded cheek. Dry sobs racked her entire body. She was heavier than the last time he felt her in all her clothes as he lifted her into the Lake Ladoga truck. She, with her boots, her clothes, coats, and coverings, had not weighed what she weighed now. She smelled incredible. She smelled of soap and sunshine and caramelized sugar. She felt incredible. Holding her to him, Alexander rubbed his face into her braids, murmuring a few pointless words. “Shh, shh…come on, now, shh, Tatia. Please…” His voice broke. “Oh, Alexander,” Tatiana said softly into his neck. She was clutching the back of his head. “You’re alive. Thank God.” “Oh, Tatiana,” Alexander said, hugging her tighter, if that were possible, his arms swaddling her summer body. “You’re alive. Thank God.” His hands ran up to her neck and down to the small of her back. Her dress was made of very thin cotton. He could almost feel her skin through it. She felt very soft. Finally he let her feet touch the ground. Tatiana looked up at him. His hands remained around her little waist. He wasn’t letting go of her. Was she always this tiny, standing barefoot in front of him? “I like your beard,” Tatiana said, smiling shyly and touching his face. “I love your hair,” Alexander said, pulling on a braid and smiling back. “You’re messy…” He looked her over. “And you’re stunning.” He could not take his eyes off her glorious, eager, vivid lips. They were the color of July tomatoes— He bent to her—

No existe,realmente, el Arte. Tan sólo hay artistas. Éstos eran en otros tiempos hombres que cogían tierra coloreada y dibujaban toscamente las formas de un bisonte sobre las paredes de una cueva; hoy, compran sus colores y trazan carteles para las estaciones del metro. No hay ningún mal en llamar arte a todas estas actividades, mientras tengamos en cuenta que tal palabra puede significar muchas cosas distintas, en épocas y lugares diversos, y mientras advirtamos que el arte, escrita con A mayúscula, no existe, pues el Arte con a mayúscula tiene por esencia ser un fantasma y un ídolo.

con su amante, hacia lejanas comarcas llenas de color, donde a espléndidas ciudades de catedrales de mármol blanco y aguzados campanarios suceden bosques de limoneros, deliciosas aldeas de pescadores y una cabaña tropical rodeada de palmeras: el paisaje y el clima son allí tan torrenciales como la pasión.

I imagined two people without words, unable to speak to each other. I imagined the need: The color of the sky that meant 'storm'. The smell of fire that meant 'flee'. The sound of a tiger about to pounce. Who would worry about such things? And then I realized what the first word must have been: ma, the sound of a baby smacking its lips in search of her mother's breast. For a long time, that was the only word the baby needed. Ma, ma, ma. Then the mother decided that was her name and she began to speak, too. She taught the baby to be careful: sky,fire,tiger. A mother is always the beginning. She is how things begin.

I am going to describe her life from the inside outward, from its core, the house as well, rooms in which life was gathered, rooms in which the morning sunlight, the floors spread with Oriental rugs that had been her mother-in-law’s, apricot, rough and tan, rugs which though worn seemed to drink the sun, to collect its warmth; books, potpourris, cushions in colors of Matisse, objects glistening like evidence, many which might had they been possessed by ancient people, have been placed in the tombs for another life: clear crystal dice, pieces of staghorn, amber beads, boxes, sculptures, wooden balls, magazines in which were photographs of women to whom she compared herself.

As he reached the river, Oswald suddenly felt as if he were walking around in a painting. Then it dawned on him. Everywhere he looked was a painting! Everything was alive with color: the water, the sky, the boathouses that lined the river with red tin roofs, silver tin roofs, and rusted orange tin roofs. Red boat in a yellow boathouse. Green, pink, blue, tan, yellow, and white boathouses. The wooden pilings sticking out of the water were a thousand different shades of gray and each individual piling was encrusted with hundreds of chalk-white barnacles and black woodpecker holes. Even the grain of the wood and the knots on each post differed from inch to inch and pole to pole.

[...] Eso es muy corto, joven; yo os abono que podíais variar bastante el tono. Por ejemplo: Agresivo: «Si en mi cara tuviese tal nariz, me la amputara.» Amistoso: «¿Se baña en vuestro vaso al beber, o un embudo usáis al caso?» Descriptivo: «¿Es un cabo? ¿Una escollera? Mas ¿qué digo? ¡Si es una cordillera!» Curioso: «¿De qué os sirve ese accesorio? ¿De alacena, de caja o de escritorio?» Burlón: «¿Tanto a los pájaros amáis, que en el rostro una alcándara les dais?» Brutal: «¿Podéis fumar sin que el vecino —¡Fuego en la chimenea!— grite?» Fino: «Para colgar las capas y sombreros esa percha muy útil ha de seros.» Solícito: «Compradle una sombrilla: el sol ardiente su color mancilla.» Previsor: «Tal nariz es un exceso: buscad a la cabeza contrapeso.» Dramático: «Evitad riñas y enojos: si os llegara a sangrar, diera un Mar Rojo.» Enfático: «¡Oh nariz!… ¡Qué vendaval te podría resfriar? Sólo el mistral.» Pedantesco: «Aristófanes no cita más que a un ser sólo que con vos compita en ostentar nariz de tanto vuelo: El Hipocampelephantocamelo.» Respetuoso: «Señor, bésoos la mano: digna es vuestra nariz de un soberano.» Ingenuo: «¿De qué hazaña o qué portento en memoria, se alzó este monumento?» Lisonjero: «Nariz como la vuestra es para un perfumista linda muestra.» Lírico: «¿Es una concha? ¿Sois tritón?» Rústico: «¿Eso es nariz o es un melón?» Militar: «Si a un castillo se acomete, aprontad la nariz: ¡terrible ariete!» Práctico: «¿La ponéis en lotería? ¡El premio gordo esa nariz sería!» Y finalmente, a Píramo imitando: «¡Malhadada nariz, que, perturbando del rostro de tu dueño la armonía, te sonroja tu propia villanía!» Algo por el estilo me dijerais si más letras e ingenio vos tuvierais; mas veo que de ingenio, por la traza, tenéis el que tendrá una calabaza y ocho letras tan sólo, a lo que infiero: las que forman el nombre: Majadero. Sobre que, si a la faz de este concurso me hubieseis dirigido tal discurso e, ingenioso, estas flores dedicado, ni una tan sólo hubierais terminado, pues con más gracia yo me las repito y que otro me las diga no permito.

Podía haber negado tantas cosas: que deseaba tocarle las rodillas y las muñecas cuando lucían al sol con aquel viscoso lustre que he visto en tan poca gente; que me encantaba cómo sus pantalones de tenis, cortos y blancos, parecían poseer, de forma permanente, el color del barro y que mientras transcurrían las semanas se convirtió en el color de su piel; que su pelo, cada día más y más rubio, atrapaba al sol antes incluso de que saliese del todo; que su camisa azul ondulada se volvía más ondulada cuando se le ponía en días borrascosos en el patio junto a la piscina, con la promesa de impregnarse de un aroma a piel y sudor que me la ponía dura con tan solo pensarlo. Podía haber negado todo esto. Y haberme creído mis mentiras.

Y Brando nunca se había reído tanto en toda su vida, al grado de verter lágrimas histéricas y de tener que sujetarse de las paredes y de sus amigos para no caer al piso, con el cerebro arrebolado por la mota y la cerveza y el vientre adolorido de tanto carcajearse del espectáculo que ofrecían las locas, la legión de maricas, vestidas y travoltas venidas de todos los rincones de la república nomás a desatarse al famoso carnaval de Villagarbosa, a jotear libremente en las calles del pueblo embutidas en apretadas mallas de ballerina, disfrazadas de hadas con alas de mariposa, de sensuales enfermeras de la Cruz Roja, de porristas y gimnastas musculosas, policías manfloras y gatúbelas ventrudas con botas de tacón de aguja; locas bien locas vestidas de novia persiguiendo a los muchachos por los callejones; locas bufonescas con nalgas y tetas gargantuescas tratando de besar a los rancheros en la boca; locas empolvadas como geishas, con antenas de alienígenas y garrotes cavernícolas, locas capuchinas y escocesas; locas disfrazadas de batos bien machines, tan hombres como cualquiera, hasta que se alzaban los lentes oscuros y les notabas la depilada de ceja, los párpados espolvoreados con brillantina de colores, la mirada braguetera; locas que pagaban las cervezas si bailabas con ellas; locas que se peleaban a puñetazo limpio por tus favores, que se arrancaban las pelucas y las tiaras y rodaban por el suelo entre alaridos, dejando sangre y lentejuelas regadas mientras la turba reía. Total

Al examinar nuevamente la cara, pensó que había aprendido algo que le serviría toda la vida. Contemplar deliberadamente esa cara, cuya lengua cambiaba de color en el punto en que rozaba el vidrio, no era tan horrendo como soñar con Miggs engulléndose la suya. Pensó que se sentía capaz de mirar cualquier cosa, siempre y cuando tuviese algo positivo que hacer respecto de lo que miraba. Starling era joven.

Every square inch of the wood-paneled walls is covered with photographs of cops, some black-and-white, some in color. Red-and-white Ws and America's Dairyland, old flaking signs for Lake Monona, Lake Mendota, and the U.P. Posters, with all kinds of beer, half-nude women holding giant mugs of it. All the color, words, images, the vibrant clutter of them, such a stark contrast to the spare tans, beiges, and wood of our home, our church, the school. My life.

Cuando salga de aquí, si alguna vez soy capaz de dejar constancia de ello, de la manera que sea, incluso relatándoselo a alguien, también será una reconstrucción e incluso otra versión. Es imposible contar una cosa exactamente tal como ocurrió, porque lo que uno dice nunca puede ser exacto, siempre se deja algo, hay muchas partes, aspectos, contracorrientes, matices; demasiados detalles que podrían significar esto o aquello, demasiadas formas que no pueden ser totalmente descritas, demasiados aromas y sabores en el aire, en la lengua, demasiados colores. Pero si alguna vez, en el futuro, te conviertes en adulto, si logras llegar tan lejos, por favor recuerda esto: nunca estarás tan atado como una mujer a la tentación de perdonar a un hombre. Es difícil resistirse, créeme. Pero recuerda también que el perdón es un signo de poder. Implorarlo es un signo de poder, y negarlo o concederlo es un signo de poder, tal vez el más grande.

I asked myself, What is true about a person? Would I change in the same way the river changes color but still be the same person? And then I saw the curtains blowing wildly, and outside rain was falling harder, causing everyone to scurry and shout. I smiled. And then I realized it was the first time I could see the power of the wing. I couldn't see the wind itself, but I could see it carried the water that filled the rivers and shaped the countryside. It caused men to yelp and dance.

I asked myself, What is true about a person? Would I change in the same way the river changes color but still be the same person? And then I saw the curtains blowing wildly, and outside the rain was falling harder, causing everyone to scurry and shout. I smiled. And then I realized it was the first time I could see the power of the wind. I couldn't see the wind itself, but I could see it carried the water that filled the rivers and shaped the countryside. It caused me to yelp and dance. I wiped my eyes and looked in the mirror. I was surprised at what I saw. I had on a beautiful red dress, but what I saw was even more valuable. I was strong. I was pure. I had genuine thoughts inside that no one could see, that no one could ever take away from me. I was like the wind. I threw my head back and smiled proudly to myself. And then I draped the large embroidered red scarf over my face and covered those thoughts up. But underneath the scarf I still knew who I was. I made a promise to myself. I would always remember my parent's wishes, but I would never forget myself

Barbara and I had arrived early, so I got to admire everyone’s entrance. We were seated at tables around a dance floor that had been set up on the lawn behind the house. Barbara and I shared a table with Deborah Kerr and her husband. Deborah, a lovely English redhead, had been brought to Hollywood to play opposite Clark Gable in The Hucksters. Louis B. Mayer needed a cool, refined beauty to replace the enormously popular redhead, Greer Garson, who had married a wealthy oil magnate and retired from the screen in the mid-fifties. Deborah, like her predecessor, had an ultra-ladylike air about her that was misleading. In fact, she was quick, sharp, and very funny. She and Barbara got along like old school chums. Jimmy Stewart was also there with his wife. It was the first time I’d seen him since we’d worked for Hitchcock. It was a treat talking to him, and I felt closer to him than I ever did on the set of Rope. He was so genuinely happy for my success in Strangers on a Train that I was quite moved. Clark Gable arrived late, and it was a star entrance to remember. He stopped for a moment at the top of the steps that led down to the garden. He was alone, tanned, and wearing a white suit. He radiated charisma. He really was the King. The party was elegant. Hot Polynesian hors d’oeuvres were passed around during drinks. Dinner was very French, with consommé madrilène as a first course followed by cold poached salmon and asparagus hollandaise. During dessert, a lemon soufflé, and coffee, the cocktail pianist by the pool, who had been playing through dinner, was discreetly augmented by a rhythm section, and they became a small combo for dancing. The dance floor was set up on the lawn near an open bar, and the whole garden glowed with colored paper lanterns. Later in the evening, I managed a subdued jitterbug with Deborah Kerr, who was much livelier than her cool on-screen image. She had not yet done From Here to Eternity, in which she and Burt Lancaster steamed up the screen with their love scene in the surf. I was, of course, extremely impressed to be there with Hollywood royalty that evening, but as far as parties go, I realized that I had a lot more fun at Gene Kelly’s open houses.

The name Schifanoia, derived from the phrase schivar la noia, or, to escape boredom. A pleasure palace on the outskirts of Ferrara where Borso d’Este, the eccentric ruler of an influential duchy, had an entire banquet hall painted with scenes from the zodiac. There was a procession of Venus being drawn on a carriage by swans. Beneath her, a resplendent Taurus, a tan-colored bull whose flanks were dotted with gold stars, blessed her passage. Borso had designed the hall to impress his guests—astrology as a performance of power, as a totem of good fortune.

Querido, a esa anciana le sucedió una cosa sumamente peculiar, le sucedió un poco antes de morir. Le creció barba. Comenzó a salirle en la cara, pelos bastante largos. Eran de color amarillo y fuertes como alambres. Yo la afeitaba, ella estaba paralítica de la cabeza a los pies, su piel era como la de un muerto. Pero aquella barba le crecía tan de prisa que casi no podía mantenerle la cara limpia, y cuando murió, Miss Amy le dijo al barbero del pueblo que viniera. Bueno, señor, el hombre echó un vistazo, volvió a bajar las escaleras y salió por la puerta delantera.

Recordó la vez que pescó a la hembra de una pareja de peces espada. El macho siempre deja que la hembra coma primero, y ella, al morder el anzuelo, se debatió en una batalla salvaje, desesperada y llena de pánico que pronto la agotó. Todo el tiempo el macho se quedó con ella, cruzando el sedal y haciendo círculos en torno de su pareja en la superficie. Se hallaba tan próximo que el viejo había tenido temor de que cortara la cuerda con la cola, que era afilada como guadaña y casi de esa forma y tamaño. El viejo le metió el garfio, le dio golpes, la prendió de la espada, de borde como lija y la aporreó en la punta de la cabeza hasta que su color se volvió casi como el del respaldo de un espejo, y entonces, con la ayuda del muchacho, la elevó para ponerla a bordo. El macho se quedó a un costado del bote. Después, cuando el viejo limpiaba los cordeles y preparaba el arpón, el macho saltó muy alto en el aire, junto al bote, para ver dónde había quedado su pareja, y finalmente se sumergió en lo más profundo, con las alas azul-rojizas, que eran sus aletas pectorales, desplegadas a lo ancho y con todas las franjas del mismo color a la vista. "Era hermoso-recordó el viejo- y se quedó hasta el final".

legitimación de todas las prácticas que emplean las mujeres en todas las épocas para consolidar y divinizar, por así decir, su frágil belleza. Enumerarlas todas sería interminable; pero, para restringirnos a lo que nuestra época llama vulgarmente maquillaje, ¿quién no ve que el uso de polvo de arroz, que los cándidos filósofos anatematizan tan neciamente, tiene por efecto ocultar las manchas que la naturaleza ha sembrado de manera ultrajante en la tez, y crear una unidad abstracta en el grano y el color de la piel, unidad que, como la que produce la malla, acerca al ser humano a la estatua, es decir a un ser divino y superior?

De pronto Elizabeth se siente no sola, sino aislada, apartada. No recuerda la última vez que alguien que no fuesen las niñas le ayudó a hacer algo. Sabe que en China llueve, aunque no llueva en los cuadros. Sabe que la gente no sonríe invariablemente y que no todos tienen dientes tan blancos ni mejillas tan sonrosadas. Por debajo de los colores de los carteles, primarios como los del dibujo de un niño, hay maldad, codicia, desesperación, odio, muerte. ¿Cómo no iba a saberlo? China no es el paraíso; el paraíso no existe. Hasta los chinos lo saben, tienen que saberlo, viven allí. Igual que los hombres de las cavernas, no pintan lo que ven sino lo que anhelan.

Y entonces apareciste tú. Apareciste y amenazaste todas las cosas que yo quería. Amenazaste el negocio que había ayudado a construir, el que había planeado dirigir. Amenazaste el futuro que había planificado tan cuidadosamente. Pero lo peor de todo es que me hiciste desear todo lo demás. Todas las cosas que me había dicho a mí misma que no quería. Hiciste que las quisiera. Y no con cualquiera. Hiciste que las quisiera contigo. No en lugar de. Además de. Todo. Cada pedazo de vida que pueda tener. Vibrante y salvaje y llena de mañanas en el mercado de Covent Garden y tardes en los muelles y noches en tus hermosas habitaciones, rodeada de velas y libros y cojines de todos los colores" - Hattie.

Tomé gusto por esta recreación de los ojos que en el infortunio descansa, distrae, divierte al espíritu y suspende el sentido de las cuitas. La naturaleza de los objetos ayuda mucho a esta diversión y la hace más seductora. Los suaves olores, los colores vivos, las más elegantes formas parecen disputarse a porfía el derecho a fijar nuestras atención. Para entregarse a tan dulces sensaciones, tan sólo hace falta amar el placer, y si este efecto no se produce en todos aquellos que son impresionados por ellas, es por falta de sensibilidad natural en unos, y en la mayoría porque, demasiado ocupado su espíritu en otras ideas, no se entrega sino a hurtadillas a los objetos que impresionan sus sentidos.

No hay ninguna droga tan pura como la testosterona en gel. No tiene olor alguno. Sin embargo, un día después de la administración, mi sudor se hace más ácido y más dulzón. Emana de mí un olor a muñeco de plástico calentado al sol o de licor de manzana olvidado en el fondo de un vaso. Es mi cuerpo el que reacciona a la molécula. La testosterona no tiene sabor. No tiene color. No deja huella. La molécula de testosterona se disuelve, en la piel como un fantasma atraviesa un muro. Entra sin llamar. Penetra sin marcar. No es necesario ni fumarla, ni esnifarla, ni inyectarla, ni tan siquiera tragarla. Basta con acercarla a la piel y así, por simple vecindad con el cuerpo, desaparece para diluirse en mi sangre.

A President J.G., F.C. who said he wasn’t going to stand here and ask us to make some tough choices because he was standing here promising he was going to make them for us. Who asked us simply to sit back and enjoy the show. Who handled wild applause from camouflage-fatigue- and sandal-and-poncho-clad C.U.S.P.s with the unabashed grace of a real pro. Who had black hair and silver sideburns, just like his big-headed puppet, and the dusty brick-colored tan seen only among those without homes and those whose homes had a Dermalatix Hypospectral personal sterilization booth. Who declared that neither Tax & Spend nor Cut & Borrow comprised the ticket into a whole new millennial era (here more puzzlement among the Inaugural audience, which Mario represents by having the tiny finger-puppets turn rigidly toward each other and then away and then toward). Who alluded to ripe and available Novel Sources of Revenue just waiting out there, unexploited, not seen by his predecessors because of the trees (?). Who foresaw budgetary adipose trimmed with a really big knife. The Johnny Gentle who stressed above all—simultaneously pleaded for and promised—an end to atomized Americans’ fractious blaming of one another for our terrible 151 internal troubles. Here bobs and smiles from both wealthily green-masked puppets and homeless puppets in rags and mismatched shoes and with used surgical masks, all made by E.T.A.’s fourth- and fifth-grade crafts class, under the supervision of Ms. Heath, of match-sticks and Popsicle-stick shards and pool-table felt with sequins for eyes and painted fingernail-parings for smiles/frowns, under their masks. The Johnny Gentle, Chief Executive who pounds a rubber-gloved fist on the podium so hard it knocks the Seal askew and declares that Dammit there just must be some people besides each other of us to blame. To unite in opposition to. And he promises to eat light and sleep very little until he finds them—in the Ukraine, or the Teutons, or the wacko Latins. Or—pausing with that one arm up and head down in the climactic Vegas way—closer to right below our nose. He swears he’ll find us some cohesion-renewing Other. And then make some tough choices. Alludes to a whole new North America for a crazy post-millennial world.

It was 2 a.m. in Harlem and it was hot. Even if you couldn’t feel it, you could tell it by the movement of the people. Everybody was limbered up, glands lubricated, brains ticking over like a Singer sewing-machine. Everybody was ahead of the play. There wasn’t but one square in sight. He was a white man. He stood well back in the recessed doorway of the United Tobacco store at the northwest corner of 125th Street and Seventh Avenue, watching the sissies frolic about the lunch counter in the Theresa building on the opposite corner. The glass doors had been folded back and the counter was open to the sidewalk. The white man was excited by the sissies. They were colored and mostly young. They all had straightened hair, conked like silk, waving like the sea; long false eyelashes fringing eyes ringed in mascara; and big cushiony lips painted tan. Their eyes looked naked, brazen, debased, unashamed; they had the greedy look of a sick gourmet. They wore tight-bottomed pastel pants and short-sleeved sport shirts revealing naked brown arms. Some sat to the counter on the high stools, others leaned on their shoulders. Their voices trilled, their bodies moved, their eyes rolled, they twisted their hips suggestively. Their white teeth flashed in brown sweaty faces, their naked eyes steamed in black cups of mascara. They touched one another lightly with their fingertips, compulsively, exclaiming in breathless falsetto, “Girl.…” Their motions were wanton, indecent, suggestive of an orgy taking place in their minds. The hot Harlem night had brought down their love.

At a thirty-foot distance she was a very attractive, ripe-bodied young girl. At close range the coarseness, and the sleaziness of the materials used in construction were all too evident. Her tanned hide had a coarse and grainy look. Her crinkle of putty-colored hair looked lifeless as a Dynel wig. The strictures of the bottom half of the bikini cut into the belly-softness of too many beers and shakes, hamburger rolls and french fries. The meat of her thighs had a sedentary looseness. Her throat and her ankles and the underside of her wrists were faintly shadowed with grime. There was a coppery stubble in her armpits, and a bristle of unshaven hair on her legs, cracked red enamel on her toenails. The breast band of the bikini was just enough askew to reveal a brown new-moon segment of the nipple of her right breast.

The male staff all wore gorgeous colored loin cloths that always seem to be about to fall off they’re wonderful hips. Their upper bodies were tanned sculpted and naked. The female staff wore short shorts and silky flowing tops that almost but didn’t expose their young easy breasts. I noticed we only ever encountered male staff, and the men walking through the lobby were always greeted by the female staff. Very ingenious, as Rebecca said later - if we had ticked Lesbians on the form I wonder what would have happened? -There was a place to tick for Lesbians, I said ? -Sexual Persuasion- it was on all the forms -Really. And, how many options were there? -You’re getting the picture, said Jillian. This was not your basic check in procedure as at say a Best Western. Our Doormen/Security Guards , held out our chairs for us to let us sit at the elegant ornate table. Then they poured us tea, and placed before each of us a small bowl of tropical fruit, cut into bite size pieces. Wonderful! Almost immediately a check in person came and sat opposite us at the desk. Again a wonderful example of Island Male talent. (in my mind anyway) We signed some papers, and were each handed an immense wallet of information passes, electronic keys, electronic ID’s we would wear to allow us to move through the park and its ‘worlds’ and a small flash drive I looked at it as he handed it to me, and given the mindset of the Hotel and the murals and the whole ambiance of the place, I was thinking it might be a very small dildo for, some exotic move I was unaware of. -What’s this? I asked him -Your Hotel and Theme Park Guide I looked at it again, huh, so not a dildo.

Owen felt his mouth curve into a grin as he heard the familiar clap, clap, clap behind him. That was one of his favorite sounds—high heels on the wooden dock of the Boys of the Bayou swamp boat tour company. He took his time turning and once he did, he started at the shoes. They were black and showed off bright red toenails. The straps wrapped sexily around trim ankles and led the eye right up to smooth, toned calves. The heels matched the black polka dots on the white skirt that thankfully didn’t start until mid-thigh, and showed off more tanned skin. He straightened from his kneeling position in one of the boats as his eyes kept moving up past the skirt to the bright red belt that accentuated a narrow waist and then to the silky black tank that molded to a pair of perfect breasts. He was fully anticipating her lips being bright red to go with that belt and her toenail polish. God, he loved red lipstick. And high heels. In any color. But before he could get to those lips, she used them, to say, “Oh, dammit, it’s you.” Owen’s gaze bypassed her mouth to fly to her eyes. Because he’d know that voice anywhere. Madison Allain was home. A day early. Not that an extra day would have helped him prepare. He’d been thinking about her visit for a week and was still as wound tight about it as he’d been when Sawyer, his business partner and cousin, had told him that she was coming home. For a month. Owen stood just watching her, fighting back all of the first words that he was tempted to say. Like, “Damn, you’re even more gorgeous than the last time I saw you.” Or, “I haven’t put anyone in the hospital lately.” Or, “I’ve missed you so fucking much.” Just for instance.

She throws away the inedible toast and looks at me, her blue eyes sad. “I'm a bad cook.” My first inclination is to say, “You're just realizing this now?”, but I don't. Instead I shrug. “You're good at a lot of other things.” “I can't crochet either.” I purse my lips to keep from agreeing. “Well...you—” “And I can't sing. I don't even remember the shade of my natural hair color and I've had this outfit since the eighties.” I glance at her red top and tan pants. Yeah. Those should really go—along with a lot of other things in the house. “You're sort of making it hard for me to make you feel better when you keep tossing all the things you aren't good at, at me.” I brighten. “You can dance! You're a great dancer.” “I'm having a mid-life crisis.” “You're forty-six,” I scoff. “You're too young for that. I mean, maybe in four years...

Janitorial" All morning he drifts the spacious lawns like a gleaner, picking up this and that, the summer clouds immense and building toward afternoon, when the heat drives him under the shade of the oak trees in the quad and then along cool corridors inside to pull down last term's flyers For the chamber recital, the poetry reading, the lecture on the ethics of cloning, the dinner with some ambassador, the debate between Kant and Heidegger, the frat party, the sorority party, the kegger, the weekend Bergman festival, the Wednesday screening of Dumb and Dumber. He says hello to fine young ladies, and tries not to dwell on their halter tops, their tanned thighs, shorts up to here. At five he climbs into an old, dumpster-colored olds, lights up and heads home across the barge-ridden river in its servitude to East St. Louis, where you know this poem—glib, well-meaning, trivial-- grows tongue-tied, and cannot follow.

Hizo como yo, pensó la mujer del médico, le ha dejado el sitio más protegido, débiles murallas seríamos, sólo una piedra en medio del camino, sin otra esperanza que la de que en ella tropiece el enemigo, enemigo, qué enemigo, aquí no va a venir nadie a atacarnos, podríamos haber robado y asesinado ahí fuera y no vendrían a detenernos, nunca ese que robó el coche estuvo tan seguro de su libertad, tan lejos estamos del mundo que pronto empezaremos a no saber quiénes somos, ni siquiera se nos ha ocurrido preguntarnos nuestros nombres, y para qué, ningún perro reconoce a otro perro por el nombre que le pusieron, identifica por el olor y por él se da a identificar, nosotros aquí somos como otra raza de perros, nos conocemos por la manera de ladrar, por la manera de hablar, lo demás, rasgos de la cara, color de los ojos, de la piel, del pelo, no cuenta, es como si nada de eso existiera, yo veo, todavía veo, pero hasta cuándo.

Tenien a les mans una cosa rigorosament prohibida a Auschwitz i si els descobreixen els poden condemnar a mort. Aquests objectes, tan perillosos que la seva possessió és motiu de pena màxima, no es disparen ni serveixen per punxar, tallar o colpejar. Això que tant temen els implacables guàrdies del Reich simplement són llibres: vells, desenquadernats, amb els fulls deslligats, pràcticament desfets. Però els nazis els busquen, els persegueixen, els veten de manera obsessiva. Al llarg de la història tots els dictadors, tirans i repressors, tant si eren aris, negres, orientals, àrabs, eslaus com de qualsevol color de pell, tant si defensaven la revolució popular, els privilegis de les classes patrícies, el manament de Déu com la disciplina sumària dels militars, fos quina fos la seva ideologia, tots s'han caracteritzat per una cosa en comú: sempre han perseguit els llibres amb acarnissament. Són molt perillosos, fan pensar.

My first reaction was that someone had fused a person and a deer together. The creature had a head and shoulders and arms that were more or less where they should have been, though the skin was a pale shade of blue. But below that he had fur, a mix of blue and tan, covering a four-legged body that really did look like it belonged to a deer, or maybe a small horse. He ducked his head out the doorway and I could see that even the fairly normal-looking parts of him weren’t all that normal. For a start, he had no mouth, just three vertical slits. And then there were his eyes. Two of them were where they should have been, although they were a glittery green color that was kind of shocking. But the real shock was the other eyes. He had what seemed like horns, only on the top of each horn was an eye. The horns could move, twisting to point the eyes front and back or up and down. I thought the eyes were bad, until I saw the tail. It was like a scorpion’s tail, thick and powerful-looking. On the end was a wickedly curved, very sharp-looking horn or stinger.

Pienso en mi corazón humano, que de repente late tan rápido, demasiado rápido, y en la arruga entre las cejas de Elian mientras espera mi petición. -¿Alguna vez vas a besarme? Lentamente, Elian dice: -Eso no es un favor. Su mano se mueve y siento una ausencia repentina. Y luego está en mi mejilla, sosteniendo mi rostro entre sus manos, acariciando mi labio con el pulgar. Se siente como lo peor que he hecho y lo mejor que he podido hacer, y lo extraño es que ambas cosas son lo mismo. Que extraño que en lugar de coger su corazón, esté esperando a que coja el mío. -¿Recuerdas cuando nos conocimos? -pregunta. -Dijiste que era más encantadora cuando estaba inconsciente -Elian ríe y está tan cerca que siento que su cuerpo se estremece contra el mío. Puedo ver cada cicatriz y peca de su piel. Cada veta de color en sus ojos. Me lamo los labios. Casi puedo saborearlo. -Pregúntamelo otra vez -dice. Presiona su frente contra la mía, su aliento se rompe en mis labios. Cierro los ojos y lo inhalo. Regaliz y sal marina y, si me muevo, si respiro, entonces este frágil instante entre nosotros desaparecerá con el viento. -Sólo hazlo ya -digo. Y lo hace.

The song just started again, and now I sang it, too. "These strong hands belong to you..." I found a place between two men. The first was about my age, maybe a little younger, with high cheekbones and small eyes. The other was middle-aged, with a wide forehead and bulb nose, and beside him was a man with a striking face, a square, dimpled chin and high cheekbones... and then there was another, and another--all the kinds of faces in all the colors the world calls black: brown and tan and yellow and orange, copper and bronze and gold. "These strong hands belong to you..." They sang--we sang--with no enthusiasm or joy. We used to sing at Bell's, crossing the yard or working on the pile, just like slaves used to sing in Old Slavery, spirituals and work songs, sly lyrics, silly lyrics, yearning for freedom or roasting Massa in nonsense words he couldn't understand. This, though--this was a different kind of singing. I looked from man to man, and they were singing mechanically, eyes front, mouths moving like puppets. Singing this dumb refrain about how much they loved their bosses and loved their work. Nothing spiritual about this. This was something else altogether.

These axons can shuttle information around so quickly because they’re fatter than normal axons, and because they’re sheathed in a fatty substance called myelin. Myelin acts like rubber insulation on wires and prevents the signal from petering out: in whales, giraffes, and other stretched creatures, a sheathed neuron can send a signal multiple yards with little loss of fidelity. (In contrast, diseases that fray myelin, like multiple sclerosis, destroy communication between different nodes in the brain.) In sum, you can think about the gray matter as a patchwork of chips that analyze different types of information, and about the white matter as cables that transmit information between those chips. (And before we go further, I should point out that “gray” and “white” are misnomers. Gray matter looks pinkish-tan inside a living skull, while white matter, which makes up the bulk of the brain, looks pale pink. The white and gray colors appear only after you soak the brain in preservatives. Preservatives also harden the brain, which is normally tapioca-soft. This explains why the brain you might have dissected in biology class way back when didn’t disintegrate between your fingers.)

Aquella alcoba chiquita, tan alta de techo, que se alzaba en forma de pirámide, ocupando la altura de dos pisos, revestida en parte de caoba y en donde me sentí desde el primer momento moralmente envenenado por el olor nuevo, desconocido para mí, de la petiveria, y convencido de la hostilidad de las cortinas moradas y de la insolente indiferencia del reloj de péndulo, que se pasaba las horas chirriando, como si allí no hubiera nadie; cuarto en donde un extraño e implacable espejo, sostenido en cuadradas patas, se atravesaba oblicuamente en uno de los rincones de la habitación, abriéndose a la fuerza en la dulce plenitud de mi campo visual acostumbrado, un lugar que no estaba previsto y en donde mi pensamiento sufrió noches muy crueles afanándose durante horas y horas por dislocarse, por estirarse hacia lo alto para poder tomar cabalmente la forma de la habitación y llenar hasta arriba su gigantesco embudo, mientras yo estaba echado en mi cama, con los ojos mirando al techo, el oído avizor, las narices secas y el corazón palpitante; hasta que la costumbre cambió el color de las cortinas, enseñó al reloj a ser silencioso y al espejo, sesgado y cruel, a ser compasivo; disimuló, ya que no llegara a borrarlo por completo, el olor de la petiveria, e introdujo notable disminución en la altura aparente del techo.

Cuando salga de aquí, si alguna vez soy capaz de dejar constancia de ello, de la manera que sea, incluso relatándoselo a alguien, también será una reconstrucción e incluso otra versión. Es imposible contar una cosa exactamente tal como ocurrió, porque lo que uno dice nunca puede ser exacto, siempre se deja algo, hay muchas partes, aspectos, contracorrientes, matices; demasiados detalles que podrían significar esto o aquello, demasiadas formas que no pueden ser totalmente descritas, demasiados aromas y sabores en el aire, en la lengua, demasiados colores. Pero si alguna vez, en el futuro, te conviertes en adulto, si logras llegar tan lejos, por favor recuerda esto: nunca estarás tan atado como una mujer a la tentación de perdonar a un hombre. Es difícil resistirse, créeme. Pero recuerda también que el perdón es un signo de poder. Implorarlo es un signo de poder, y negarlo o concederlo es un signo de poder, tal vez el más grande. Quizá nada de esto sea verificable. Quizá no se trate en realidad de quién puede poseer a quién, de quién puede hacer qué a quién, incluso matarlo, sin ser castigado. Quizá no se trate de quién puede sentarse y quién tiene que arrodillarse o estar de pie o acostarse con las piernas abiertas. Quizá se trate de quién puede hacer qué a quién y ser perdonado por ello. No me digáis que significa lo mismo.

In a therapy session, the only labels the horses get are the ones the client gives them.” “So you wouldn’t want me to notice that the Palomino horse, the one with the white mane and the tan body, looks like you and that she’s always making a nuisance of herself?” “Sackett?” I was outraged on Sackett’s behalf more than my own. “Sackett isn’t annoying! And Sackett’s a he, which just proves my point about pre-conceived ideas. If you knew he was a he and not a she, you wouldn’t be able to label him as Georgia and say mean things. Sackett is wise! Whenever things get really deep, you can always count on Sackett being right in the thick of things.” I heard the affront in my voice and I glowered at Moses for a moment before launching my own attack. “And Lucky is just like you!” I said. Moses just stared at me blandly, but I could tell he was enjoying himself. “Because he’s black?” “No, stupid. Because he’s in love with me, and he tries to pretend every day like he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me,” I shot back. Moses choked, and I punched him hard in the stomach, making him gasp and grab for my hands. “So you want the clients to not pay any attention to the color of the horse. That’s not even human nature, you know.” Moses pinned my hands over my head and stared down into my flushed face. When he could see I wasn’t going to continue punching he relaxed his hold, but he looked back toward the horses and continued talking.

To the delight of visiting American sailors, the British still had a military base there, Changi, and shared it with those stout lads from Down Under, the Australians, who naturally came supplied with Down Under lassies. Australian women were the glory of Singapore. These tall, lithe creatures with tanned, muscular legs and striking white teeth that were forever being displayed in dazzling smiles somehow completed the picture, made it whole. You ran into them at Raffles, the old hotel downtown with ceiling fans and rattan chairs and doddery old gentlemen in white suits sipping gin. You ran into them in the lobbies and restaurants of the new western hotels and in the bazaars and emporiums. You saw them strolling the boulevards and haggling with small Chinese women in baggy trousers for sapphires and opals. You saw them everywhere, young, tan, enjoying life, the center of attention wherever they were. It helped that their colorful tropical frocks contrasted so vividly with the drab trousers and white shirts that seemed to be the Singaporean national costume. They were like songbirds surrounded by sparrows. “If Qantas didn’t bring them here, the United Nations should supply them as a gesture of good will to all human kind.” Flap Le Beau stated this conclusion positively to Jake Grafton and the Real McCoy as they stood outside Raffles Hotel surveying the human parade on the sidewalk. “I think I’m in love,” the Real McCoy told his companions. “I want one of those for my very own.

As we had agreed, I met Jack downstairs in the lobby. I was a few minutes late, having lingered to give a few last-minute instructions to Teena. “Sorry.” I quickened my stride as I walked toward Jack, who was standing by the concierge desk. “I didn’t mean to be late.” “It’s fine,” Jack said. “We still have plenty of—” He broke off as he got a good look at me, his jaw slackening. Self-consciously I reached up and tucked a lock of my hair behind my right ear. I was wearing a slim-fitting black suit made of summer-weight wool, and black high-heeled pumps with delicate straps that crossed over the front. I had put on some light makeup: shimmery brown eye shadow, a coat of black mascara, a touch of pink blush, and lip gloss. “Do I look okay?” I asked. Jack nodded, his gaze unblinking. I bit back a grin, realizing he had never seen me dressed up before. And the suit was flattering, cut to show my curves to advantage. “I thought this was more appropriate for church than jeans and Birkenstocks.” I wasn’t certain Jack heard me. It looked like his mind was working on another track altogether. My suspicion was confirmed when he said fervently, “You have amazing legs.” “Thanks.” I gave a modest shrug. “Yoga.” That appeared to set off another round of thoughts. I thought Jack’s color seemed a little high, although it was difficult to tell with that rosewood tan. His voice sounded strained as he asked, “I guess you’re pretty flexible?” “I wasn’t the most flexible in class by any means,” I said, pausing before adding demurely, “but I can put my ankles behind my head.” I repressed a grin when I heard a hitch in his breathing. Seeing that his SUV was out in front, I walked past him. He was at my heels immediately. -Ella & Jack

Joan era dura en el exterior, pero tenía una verdadera vulnerabilidad cuando llegabas a conocerla. Casi desde el momento en que me uní a The Runaways, había habido un lazo especial entre nosotras. La gente nos había comenzado a llamar “Sal y Pimienta”, no sólo por los contrastantes colores de cabello, sino porque siempre parecíamos estar juntas. En Joan, encontré una amistad mucho más intensa, y mucho más profunda, de lo que había conocido hasta ese punto en mi vida. Éramos niñas: Joan sólo era un año mayor que yo, y me aferraba más a ella que a cualquiera en la banda, y ella hacía lo mismo conmigo. Cuando pienso en Joan y nuestra relación, todavía puedo sentir un distante temblor por dentro. Nuestra amistad fue un regalo de Dios para mí. Era profunda, y por momentos ella era la única que me mantenía cuerda. Joan era perceptiva. Casi como si pudiera leer mi mente. Dios, cómo necesitaba esa clase de conexión. Especialmente cuando me sentía tan desconectada. Creía en ella, y en el sueño que la había conducido tan lejos. Me sentía segura cuando me quedaba cerca de ella, como si fuera arrastrada por la red de seguridad de su resuelta visión de lo que estábamos haciendo. A veces nos mirábamos y yo sentía un cosquilleo en mi estómago. Su sonrisa era tibia y su actitud de amor a la diversión me hacía olvidar cuán extraño y bizarro este mundo nuevo y loco realmente era. Ella era mi ancla. ¿Cómo explico a una persona que era mi mejor amiga, alguien en quien podía confiar como una hermana, alguien que para mí se volvió una fuerte atracción sexual? Bueno, es fácil. Tan fácil como era estar con ella. Podría dejarlo en que tuve momentos con una amiga que aún hoy me hacen temblar. Y fueron algunos de los momentos más satisfactorios de mi joven vida.

Vio la senda que había seguido por la pared del palacio, las ramitas rotas de enredadera que había usado para trepar y luego bajar. En algunas partes, las ramas eran gruesas como su muñeca.Vio dónde habían sostenido el peso del ladrón y dónde no y casi se había caído. Salió y siguió el rastro hacia su guarida.Uno podría decir que,en cuanto la joven cruzó el umbral, el ladrón supo lo que sostenía con fuerza en el puño.Uno podría decir que debería haberlo sabido mucho antes. El corazón se estremeció en su fría cajita blanca. Retumbó dentro de su mano. Al muchacho se le ocurrió que la porcelana (sedosa, de tono cremoso, tan delicada que lo enfureció) podría hacerse añicos.Entonces se encontraría con un puñado de fragmentos ensangrentados.Pero no la soltó. Uno podría imaginarse lo que sintió al verla erguirse en la destartalada puerta, plantar los pies en el suelo de la tierra, iluminar la habitación como si fuera una terrible llama.Uno podría hacer todo eso. Pero esta historia no va sobre él.La dama vio al ladrón.Vio lo poco que tenía.Vio sus ojos del color del hierro. Las pestañas oscuras, las cejas negras, más negras que su cabello. La adusta línea de la boca. Entonces, si la dama hubiera sido sincera, habría admitido que antes, mientras yacía en la cama, había despertado durante tres latidos (los había contado mientras resonaban con fuerza en la silenciosa habitación). Había visto la mano del ladrón sobre su corazón cubierto de blanco.Había vuelto a cerrar sus ojos. Se había apoderado de ella una dulce somnolencia.Pero la sinceridad requiere coraje.Mientras acorralaba al ladrón en su guarida, la joven descubrió que no estaba tan segura de si misma.Solo estaba segura de una cosa.Algo que la hizo retroceder levemente. Alzó el mentón.Su corazón latía con un ritmo inestable, que ambos podían oír, cuando le dijo al ladrón que podía conservar lo que había robado.

Estas cosas son fáciles de decir, pues las palabras no sienten vergüenza y nunca se sorprenden (14) Imágenes del pasado remoto se agolpan en mi cabeza, y la mitad de las veces soy incapaz de distinguir si son recuerdos o invenciones. Tampoco es que haya mucha diferencia, si es que hay alguna (14) Hay quien afirma, que sin darnos cuenta, nos lo vamos inventando todo, adornándolo y embelleciéndolo, y me inclino a creerlo, pues Madame Memoria es una gran y sutil fingidora (14) Me la debo de estar inventando (14) En mi opinión, los nombres de las mujeres casadas nunca suenan bien. ¿Es porque todas se casan con los nombres equivocados, o, en cualquier caso, con los apellidos equivocados? (17) …y en mi oído resonaban los tins y los plofs de sus tripas en su incesante labor de transubstanciación (18) Ahora me pregunto si ella también estaba enamorada de mí, y esas muestras de gracioso desdén eran una manera de ocultarlo ¿O todo esto no es más que vanidad por mi parte? (25) …y al presenciar todas aquellas cosas sentí el dolor dulce y agudo de la nostalgia, sin objeto pero definida, como el dolor fantasma de un miembro amputado (27) …permanecimos echados boca arriba durante mucho tiempo, como si practicáramos para ser los cadáveres que seríamos algún día (34) …y yo me quedé en medio de la sala, sin ser gran cosa, a duras penas yo mismo. Había momentos como ése, en los que uno estaba en punto muerto, por así decir, sin preocuparse de nada, a menudo sin fijarse en nada, a menudo sin ser realmente en ningún sentido vital (42) El Tiempo y la Memoria son una quisquillosa empresa de decoradores de interiores, siempre cambiando los muebles y rediseñando y reasignando habitaciones (43) En lugar de los tonos de color rosa y melocotón que había esperado –Rubens es en gran parte responsable de ello-, su cuerpo, de manera desconcertante, mostraba una variedad de tonos apagados que iban del blanco magnesio al plata y al estaño, un matiz mate de amarillo, ocre pálido, e incluso una especie de verde en algunos lugares y, en los recovecos, una sombra de malva musgoso (45) ¿Era eso estar enamorado, me pregunté, ese repentino y plañidero viento que te atravesaba el corazón? (62) …no estaba acostumbrado todavía al abismo que se abre entre la comisión de un hecho y el recuerdo de lo cometido (65) …la noche del último día ella ya me había dejado para siempre (75) No todo significa algo (100) Cómo anhelábamos en aquellos años, pasar aunque sólo fuera un día normal, un día en el que pudiéramos levantarnos por la mañana y desayunar sin preocuparnos por nada, leernos fragmentos del periódico el uno al otro y planear hacer cosas, y luego dar un paseo, y contemplar las vistas con una mirada inocente, y luego compartir un vaso de vino y por la noche irnos juntos a la cama (102) Debe de ser difícil acostumbrarse a que no haya nada que hacer (107) A lo largo de los años, los vagabundos, los auténticos vagabundos, han disminuido constantemente en calidad y cantidad (107) Qué frágil resulta este absurdo oficio en el que me he pasado la vida fingiendo ser otras personas, y sobre todo fingiendo no ser yo mismo (119) …tan sólo vulgarmente humana (123) El quinto de los seis cigarrillos que según ella son su ración diaria (143) …participar en una película es algo extraño, y al mismo tiempo no lo es en absoluto; se trata de una intensificación, una diversificación de lo conocido, una concentración en el yo ramificado; y todo eso es interesante, y confuso, y emocionante y perturbador (143) El hecho es que me echó a perder a otras (157) Era, como ya he dicho, todo un género en sí misma (158) Los cisnes, con su belleza estrafalaria y sucia, siempre me dan la impresión de mantener una fachada de indiferencia tras la cual realmente viven una tortura de timidez y duda (173)

A pirate! A black patch covered her rescuer's left eye. The elastic holding it in place drew a thin line between his dark brows and across his forehead. His dark hair was wet, and slicked back off his lean face. His strong jaw was hazed with dark bristle. His face bore the austere lines of a man hounded by demons and comfortable with danger. He looked scruffy, unkempt, and strangely appealing. Tally attributed her reaction to being delirious with shock. "Seen enough?" he asked dryly as she continued to stare. "Or do you want me to turn around?" By all means, do. "Sorry. I wasn't really looking looking-I zoned out there for a second." Very smooth, Tallulah. "I wasn't looking looking"? Oh, brother. She blew out a sigh. He wasn't quite a giant, but he was solidly built, and towered over her own not insubstantial five foot nine by a good five or six inches. Six foot four of sheer power, hard muscle, and sex appeal. His broad, darkly tanned shoulders gleamed with moisture. Salt water glittered like tiny diamonds in the hair on his chest and on the silky dark hair on his thickly muscled legs. His hands and feet were enormous. "Understandable." His mocking and enigmatic gaze took in her clinging clothes, bare feet, and grim hold on the railing as his boat rode the swells. There wasn't a thing she could do about her appearance, so she didn't bother fiddling. Besides, she didn't want to draw attention to the wet transparency of her blouse. Not that he looked the type to be crazed by lust. Especially for a woman like her. Perversely disappointed, she realized that far from being crazed with lust at the sight of her size A boobs, the pirate hadn't even noticed he could see right through her shirt. That one, piercing, whiskey-colored eye locked onto her, and Tally's stomach did a weird little somersault. Adrenaline still raced through her body at a furious clip. She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Tally Cruise." Pleased she sounded coherent under the circumstances, she thrust out her hand and smiled. "Michael Wright." He took her hand, not with his right, but his left. His thumb brushed the back of her knuckles. Little zings of electricity shot up her arm.

Lejos, desde mi colina. A veces sólo era un llamado de arena en las ventanas, una hierba que de pronto temblaba en la pradera quieta, un cuerpo transparente que cruzaba los muros con blandura dejándome en los ojos un resplandor helado, o el ruido de una piedra recorriendo la indecible tiniebla de la medianoche; a veces, sólo el viento. Reconocía en ellos distantes mensajeros de un país abismado con el mundo bajo las altas sombras de mi frente. Yo los había amado, quizás, bajo otro cielo, pero la soledad,las ruinas y el silencio eran siempre los mismos. Más tarde, en la creciente noche, miraba desde arriba la cabeza inclinada de una mujer vestida de congoja que marchaba a través de todas sus edades como por un jardín antiguamente amado. Al final del sendero, antes de comenzar la durmiente planicie, un brillo memorable, apenas un color pálido y cruel, la despedía; y más allá no conocía nada. ¿Quién eras tú, perdida entre el follaje como las anteriores primaveras, como alguien que retorna desde el tiempo a repetir los llantos, los deseos, los ademanes lentos con que antaño entreabría sus días? Sólo tú, alma mía. Asomada a mi vida lo mismo que a una música remota, para siempre envolvente, escuchabas, suspendida quién sabe de qué muro de tierno desamparo, el rumor apagado de las hojas sobre la juventud adormecida, y elegías lo triste, lo callado, lo que nace debajo del olvido. ¿En qué rincón de ti, en qué desierto corredor resuenan los pasos clamorosos de una alegre estación, el murmullo del agua sobre alguna pradera que prolongaba el cielo, el canto esperanzado con que el amanecer corría a nuestro encuentro y también las palabras, sin duda tan ajenas al sitio señalado, en las que agonizaba lo imposible? Tú no respondes nada, porque toda respuesta de ti ha sido dada. Acaso hayas vivido solamente aquello que al arder no deja más que polvo de tristeza inmortal, lo que saluda en ti, a través del recuerdo, una eterna morada que al recibirnos se despide. Tú no preguntas nada, nunca, porque no hay nadie ya que te responda. Pero allá, sobre las colinas, tu hermana, la memoria, con una rama joven aún entre las manos, relata una vez más la leyenda inconclusa de un brumoso país.

Sophia counted six clangs of the bell before Mr. Grayson jolted fully awake. He looked up at her, startled and flushed. As though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. She smiled. Rubbing his eyes, he rose to his feet. “Will I shock you, Miss Turner, if I remove my coat?” Sophia felt a twinge of disappointment. When would he stop treating her with this forced politesse, maintaining this distance between them? How many tales of passionate encounters must she spin before he finally understood that she was no less wicked than he, only less experienced? Perhaps it was time to take more aggressive measures. “By all means, remove your coat.” She tilted her eyes to cast him a saucy look. “Mr. Grayson, I’m not an innocent schoolgirl. You will have to try harder than that to shock me.” His lips curved in a subtle smile. “I’ll take that under advisement.” She watched as he shook the heavy topcoat from his shoulders and peeled it down his arms. He draped the coat over the back of a chair before sitting back down. The damp lawn of his shirt clung to his shoulders and arms. A pleasant shiver rippled down to Sophia’s toes. “It doesn’t suit you anyway,” she said, loading her brush with paint. He gave her a bemused look as he unknotted his cravat and pulled it loose. She inwardly rejoiced. Now, if only she could convince him to do away with his waistcoat…” “The coat,” she explained, when his eyebrows remained raised. “It doesn’t suit you.” “Why not? Is the color wrong?” The sudden seriousness in his tone surprised her. “No, the color is perfectly fine. It’s the cut that’s unflattering. That style is tailored to gentlemen of leisure, lean and slender. But as you are so fond of telling me, Mr. Grayson, you are no gentleman. Your shoulders are too broad for fashion.” “Is that so?” He chuckled as he undid his cuffs. Sophia stared as he turned up his sleeves, baring one tanned muscled forearm, then the other. “What style of garments would best suit me, then?” “Other than a toga?” He rewarded her jest with an easy smile. Sophia dabbed at her canvas, pleased to be making progress at last. “I think you need something less restrictive. Something like a sailor’s garb. Or perhaps a captain’s.” “Truly?” His gaze became thoughtful, then searching. “And even dressed in plain seaman’s clothes, would you still find me handsome enough? In my own way?” “No.” She allowed his brow to crease a moment before continuing. “I should find you surpassingly handsome. In every way.” She mixed paint slowly on her palette and gave him a coy look. “And what of my attire? If you had your way, how would you dress me?” “If I had my way…I wouldn’t.” A thrill raced through Sophia’s body. Her cheeks burned, and her eyes dropped to her lap. She forced her gave back up to meet his. Now was not the moment to lose courage. Nothing held sway over a man’s intentions like jealousy. “Gervais once kept me naked for an entire day so he could paint me.” He blinked. “He painted a nude study of you?” “No. He painted me. I took off my clothes and stretched out on the bed while he dressed me in pigment. Gervais called me his perfect, blank canvas. He painted lavender orchids here”-she traced a small circle just above her breast-“and little vines twining down…” She slid her hand down and noted with delight how his eyes followed its path. “I feigned the grippe and refused to bathe for a week.” Desire and jealous rage warred in his countenance, yet he remained as immobile as one of Lord Elgin’s marble sculptures. What would it take to spur the man into action?