Toto Quotes

Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.

Toto did not really care whether he was in Kansas or the Land of Oz so long as Dorothy was with him; but he knew the little girl was unhappy, and that made him unhappy too.

Caine tried to roll to his feet, but something was jabbing him in the crouch. He shook off the stars and saw Edilio standing over him. Edilio had the business end of his automatic rifle in a very sensitive place. "If you move, Caine, I will shoot your balls off," Edilio said. "Toto?" "He will," Toto said, "Although he's not sure it will be just your balls.

He is my dog, Toto," answered Dorothy. "Is he made of tin, or stuffed?" asked the Lion. "Neither. He's a-- a-- a meat dog," said the girl.

I think our job--maybe even our 'duty'--is to--To bear the burden of the mystery with as much grace as we can.

To know what this world could look like, what humanity could be, if only we all chose to do our best, to help others, to...to be, well, heroes.

We don’t need to play her witch’s games. They always want to get you and your little dog, too." "I knew I never should have let you watch The Wizard of Oz." "Toto didn’t deserve that kind of trauma. He was so tiny.

I wasn't saying you were heartbroken." I sound like English is a new language for me, the way I stutter out the words. "I just meant it was hard for me to...to watch." He neither confirms nor denies that he might or might not have been even a teeny bit heartbroken.

It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray as her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly.

Remember…you always have a choice to be better. You always have a choice to…to pick the right path.” She smiled sadly. “Even if that choice comes a little late.

Who sent you?” O’Ryan asked. “What was your purpose here?” “To...to tell you...” The words didn’t sound nearly as furious coming out of my mouth as they did in my head. The camp controller leaned forward, eyes narrowing into slits. “To go...fuck yourself.

What the fuck is that?” Thomas asked. “Oh! It’s Toto! I’m babysittin’,

No, when the time comes, I’m sure I’ll kill just like everybody else. I can’t go down without a fight. Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to…to show the Capitol they don’t own me.

So Oz finally became home; the imagined world became the actual world, as it does for us all, because the truth is that once we have left our childhood places and started out to make our own lives, armed only with what we have and are, we understand that the real secret of the ruby slippers is not that "there's no place like home," but rather that there is no longer such a place as home: except, of course, for the homes we make, or the homes that are made for us, in Oz, which is anywhere and everywhere, except the place from which we began. In the place from which I began, after all, I watched the film from the child's - Dorothy's point of view. I experienced, with her, the frustration of being brushed aside by Uncle Henry and Auntie Em, busy with their dull grown-up counting. Like all adults, they couldn't focus on what was really important to Dorothy: namely, the threat to Toto. I ran away with Dorothy and then ran back. Even the shock of discovering that the Wizard was a humbug was a shock I felt as a child, a shock to the child's faith in adults. Perhaps, too, I felt something deeper, something I couldn't articulate; perhaps some half-formed suspicion about grown-ups was being confirmed. Now, as I look at the movie again, I have become the fallible adult. Now I am a member of the tribe of imperfect parents who cannot listen to their children's voices. I, who no longer have a father, have become a father instead, and now it is my fate to be unable to satisfy the longings of a child. This is the last and most terrible lesson of the film: that there is one final, unexpected rite of passage. In the end, ceasing to be children, we all become magicians without magic, exposed conjurers, with only our simply humanity to get us through. We are the humbugs now.

Aiden smirked. "Wonder what this one is called?" The hellhound's ears twitched as the massive body lowered preparing for attack. I slid my hand to the middle of the blade, feeling my heart pound and the adrenaline kick my system into overdrive. In the pit of my stomach, the cord started to unravel. I swallowed. "Let's call this one... Toto." Three mouths opened in a growl that sent a cold chill down my spine, and a wave of hot, fetid breath smacked into us. Bile burned the back of my throat. "I guess it doesn't like the name," I said, moving slowly to the right. Aiden's powerful body tensed. "Here, Toto..." One head snapped in his direction. "That's a good Toto." I slipped around the ancient cross, creeping up on the hellhound from the right. The middle and left head focused on me, snapping and growlying. Aiden clucked his tongue. "Come on, Toto, I'm pretty tasty.

Thanks for staying with me last night,” I said, stroking Toto’s soft fur. “You didn’t have to sleep on the bathroom floor.” “Last night was one of the best nights of my life.” I turned to see his expression. When I saw that he was serious, I shot him a dubious look. “Sleeping in between the toilet and the tub on a cold, hard tile floor with a vomiting idiot was one of your best nights? That’s sad, Trav.” “No, sitting up with you when you’re sick, and you falling asleep in my lap was one of my best nights. It wasn’t comfortable, I didn’t sleep worth a shit, but I brought in your nineteenth birthday with you, and you’re actually pretty sweet when you’re drunk.” “I’m sure between the heaving and purging I was very charming.” He pulled me close, patting Toto who was snuggled up to my neck. “You’re the only woman I know that still looks incredible with your head in the toilet. That’s saying something.

Things had changed between them nevertheless. They were children of a time and culture which mistrusted love, 'in love', romantic love, romance in toto, and which nevertheless in revenge proliferated sexual language, linguistic sexuality, analysis, dissection, deconstruction, exposure. They were theoretically knowing: they knew about phallocracy and penisneid, punctuation, puncturing and penetration, about polymorphous and polysemous perversity, orality, good and bad breasts, clitoral tumescence, vesicle persecution, the fluids, the solids, the metaphors for these, the systems of desire and damage, infantile greed and oppression and transgression, the iconography of the cervix and the imagery of the expanding and contracting Body, desired, attacked, consumed, feared.

Even though the place looked like Kansas, I didn´t need to tell Toto that my Facebook Places status wasnñt anywhere on the planet Earth, much less Kansas.

From the Land of Oz,” said Dorothy, gravely. “And here is Toto, too. And oh, Aunt Em! I’m so glad to be at home again!

His accensa super, iactatos aequore toto Troas, reliquias Danaum atque immitis Achilli, arcebat longe Latio, multosque per annos errabant, acti fatis, maria omnia circum. Tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem!

I've lived here ... my whole life. It's where I lost all my baby teeth. Where tiny hamster, gerbil, and bird skeletons lie in rotted-out cardboard coffins beneath the oak tree in our backyard. Also where, if some future archaeologist goes digging, they'll find the remains of a plush toy: a gray terrier named Toto I buried after the accident.

The only permanent thing in this world is change.

People must do what they must do. We all don't think alike or act alike and it's wrong to–to judge others by ourselves.

I hate him.” “You   hate   everyone you don’t like,” Toto reminded him.

Toto was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose.

The number seven is magical, they say. Seven years ’til our cells completely regenerate. Seven years ’til Jacob possesses Rachel, no, Leah, and seven more for Rachel. Seven days in a week. Post traumatic stress often resolves itself in toto only after seven full years have passed. Such is the case for some brain trauma patients too. Seven. It’s a number worth remembering.

When the power goes out, we jump up to...To what? It's weird. We're so used to electricity, when it's gone, we don't know what to do. So we jump up or squeal or start jabbering like idiots. We panic. It's like someone cut off our oxygen.

I don't know how to say it exactly. Only... I want to die as myself. I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not. I keep wishing I could think of a way to...to show the Capitol that they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games

was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly.

People used to think that learning to read evidenced human progress; they still celebrate the decline of illiteracy as a great victory; they condemn countries with a large proportion of illiterates; they think that reading is a road to freedom. All this is debatable, for the important thing is not to be able to read, but to understand what one reads, to reflect on and judge what one reads. Outside of that, reading has no meaning (and even destroys certain automatic qualities of memory and observation). But to talk about critical faculties and discernment is to talk about something far above primary education and to consider a very small minority. The vast majority of people, perhaps 90 percent, know how to read, but do not exercise their intelligence beyond this. They attribute authority and eminent value to the printed word, or, conversely, reject it altogether. As these people do not possess enough knowledge to reflect and discern, they believe—or disbelieve—in toto what they read. And as such people, moreover, will select the easiest, not the hardest, reading matter, they are precisely on the level at which the printed word can seize and convince them without opposition. They are perfectly adapted to propaganda.

As soon as forever is through, I'll be over you.

there, barking loudly; but Dorothy sat quite still on the floor and waited to see what would happen. Once Toto got too near the open trap door, and fell in; and at

Tum vero Teucri incumbunt, et litore celsas deducunt toto naves:  natat uncta carina; frondentisque ferunt remos et robora silvis infabricata, fugae studio.

Toto did not like this addition to the party at first. He smelled around the stuffed man as if he suspected there might be a nest

With Poppy, it was too easy to forget who I really was. It was too easy to lose myself in her, let go of all the nasty shit that had brought me to her. It was too damn easy to…to live right alongside Poppy. And, gods, I wanted that. Badly.

She was awakened by a shock, so sudden and severe that if Dorothy had not been lying on the soft bed she might have been hurt. As it was, the jar made her catch her breath and wonder what had happened; and Toto put his cold little nose into her face and whined dismally. Dorothy sat up and noticed that the house was not moving; nor was it dark, for the bright sunshine came in at the window, flooding the little room. She sprang from her bed and with Toto at her heels ran and opened the door.

I endorse Hillary Clinton for president. She is the second-worst thing that could happen to America. Dorothy and Toto’s house fell on Hillary. I endorse her. Munchkins endorse her. Donald Trump is a flying monkey. Except that what the flying monkeys have to say—“oreoreoreo”—makes more sense than Trump’s pronouncements.

I didn’t want to … to have to ask him to defend me.” He stared at her, his face blank with incomprehension. He shook his head slowly, not taking his eyes away from her. “What in God’s name d’ye think a man is for?” he asked at last.

Neither. He's a—a—a meat dog.

Magic carpet rides, rune magic, Ali Baba and visions of the Holy Mother, astral travel and the future in the dregs of a glass of red wine. Buddha. Frodo's journey into Mordor. The transubstantiation of the sacrament. Dorothy and Toto. The Easter Bunny. Space aliens. The Thing in the closet. The Resur-rection and the Life at the turn of a card ... I've believed them all at one time or another. Or pretended to. Or pretended not to. And now? What do I believe right now? 'I believe that being happy is the only important thing,' I told him at last. Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the hear. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.

Didn't he come to—to ask you for some magic?" "No, he came to enjoy the view of the Wood," the Dragon said. "Of course he came for magic, and I sent him about his business, which is hacking at enemy knights and not meddling in things he scarcely understands.

Membangun ekosistem belajar jauh lebih penting daripada sibuk dengan teknik-teknik belajar yang kini marak sebagai komoditi sekolah bagi para siswa dan orang tua yang keblinger pada dorongan 'kesuksesan'.

Mr Mowett,' called Stephen in the pause while the table was clearing to make room for the pudding, and pudding-wine—in this case Frontignan and Canary—was handing about, 'you were telling me about your publishers.'    'Yes, sir: I was about to say that they were the most hellish procrastinators—'    'Oh how dreadful,' cried Fanny. 'Do they go to—to special houses, or do they ...'    'He means they delay,' said Babbington.    'Oh.

Toto sits up, holding tight to the bar and staring out at the world. He drops a new toy that came with the pram and starts crying. Jimmy picks it up and crouches, looking into his caramel eyes. ‘I’m Jimmy,’ he whispers, ‘and you’re the first thing I’ve ever sort of owned and I don’t want to get this wrong.

It took Caine a few beats to get it. “No. Go kill yourself. Eat your own gun. No. No no no.” “You’re happy here counting fish and nagging kids to work?” Edilio asked. “He’s not,” Virtue said, beating Toto to the punch and earning an annoyed glance from Caine. “He’s only done it for two days since the battle, and he’s already bored.

I couldn’t bear to—to just stop doing things and do nothing. You might as well die now and get it over.

But look after yourself - there will be great dangers on the way. Remember, the right road is never the easy road.

life s too short so make the best of everyday you live

Tiga tahap dalam pendidikan dasar: pertama, mengalami sebab akibat; kedua, memahami sebab akibat; dan ketiga, merancang sebab akibat.

Yeah, and we're not in Kansas, and I'm not Toto, so just drop your pants and let me blow you like a tornado.

You were the one who left for London. You were the one who decided to-to tup another woman. You were the one who turned away from me. From us. Who is the greater sinner? I will no longer—urp!

24. Home Again Aunt Em had just come out of the house to water the cabbages when she looked up and saw Dorothy running toward her. "My darling child!" she cried, folding the little girl in her arms and covering her face with kisses. "Where in the world did you come from?" "From the Land of Oz," said Dorothy gravely. "And here is Toto, too. And oh, Aunt Em! I'm so glad to be at home again!

Pero miniaturizar es también ocultar. Duchamp, por ejemplo, se sintió también atraído siempre por lo extremadamente pequeño, es decir, por todo lo que exigiera ser descifrado: emblemas, manuscritos, anagramas. Para él, miniaturizar significaba también hacer inservible: «Lo que está reducido se halla en cierto modo liberado de su significado. Su pequeñez es, al mismo tiempo, un toto y un fragmento [...]»

She only did—did what she felt she had to do. And our men did what they felt they had to do. People must do what they must do. We don’t all think alike or act alike and it’s wrong to—to judge others by ourselves.

Mary looked at her gratefully. “Well, that’s what I think. I mean, I couldn’t bear to—to just stop doing things and do nothing. You might as well die now and get it over.” Moira nodded. “If what they say is right, we’re none of us going to have time to do all that we planned to do. But we can keep on doing it as long as we can.

Harap maklum, sekali lagi, terutama dalam rangka membuat orang tersenyum dan tertawa itulah maksud utama buku kecil ini disajikan ke hadapan anda semua. Kalau ada banyak di antara pembaca nanti yang menyelewengkan, sengaja atau tidak sengaja, maksud utama itu –misalnya saja anda lantas berkerut dahi sambil mengangguk-angguk dan berkhayal bahwa memang ada sesuatu yang tidak beres dengan dunia pendidikan kita, lantas anda berencana melakukan sesuatu untuk merombaknya habis-habisan– maka itu menjadi tanggungjawab anda sendiri.

Aestus erat, mediamque dies exegerat horam; adposui medio membra levanda toro. pars adaperta fuit, pars altera clausa fenestrae; quale fere silvae lumen habere solent, qualia sublucent fugiente crepuscula Phoebo, aut ubi nox abiit, nec tamen orta dies. illa verecundis lux est praebenda puellis, qua timidus latebras speret habere pudor. ecce, Corinna venit, tunica velata recincta, candida dividua colla tegente coma— qualiter in thalamos famosa Semiramis isse dicitur, et multis Lais amata viris. Deripui tunicam—nec multum rara nocebat; pugnabat tunica sed tamen illa tegi. quae cum ita pugnaret, tamquam quae vincere nollet, victa est non aegre proditione sua. ut stetit ante oculos posito velamine nostros, in toto nusquam corpore menda fuit. quos umeros, quales vidi tetigique lacertos! forma papillarum quam fuit apta premi! quam castigato planus sub pectore venter! quantum et quale latus! quam iuvenale femur! Singula quid referam? nil non laudabile vidi et nudam pressi corpus ad usque meum. Cetera quis nescit? lassi requievimus ambo. proveniant medii sic mihi saepe dies!

If you can feel it on your face, it’s about three to five. Leaves in constant motion, six to eight or so. Small tree branches in constant motion, about ten. Large branches in constant motion, twelve to fifteen. Dorothy and Toto hurtling past thirty feet off the ground, time to go home.

All the same, without being morbid, and giving way to—to memories and so on, I must confess that there does seem to me something sad in life. It is hard to say what it is. I don’t mean the sorrow that we all know, like illness and poverty and death. No, it is something different. It is there, deep down, deep down, part of one, like one’s breathing. However hard I work and tire myself I have only to stop to know it is there, waiting. I often wonder if everybody feels the same. One can never know. But isn’t it extraordinary that under his sweet, joyful little singing it was just this—sadness?—Ah, what is it?—that I heard.

if one keeps climbing upward in the chain of command within the brain, one finds at the very top those over-all organizational forces and dynamic properties of the large patterns of cerebral excitation that are correlated with mental states or psychic activity…. Near the apex of this command system in the brain…. we find ideas. Man over the chimpanzee has ideas and ideals. In the brain model proposed here, the causal potency of an idea, or an ideal, becomes just as real as that of a molecule, a cell, or a nerve impulse. Ideas cause ideas and help evolve new ideas. They interact with each other and with other mental forces in the same brain, in neighboring brains, and, thanks to global communication, in far distant, foreign brains. And they also interact with the external surroundings to produce in toto a burst-wise advance in evolution that is far beyond anything to hit the evolutionary scene yet, including the emergence of the living cell. Who

Popular authors do not and apparently cannot appreciate the fact that true art is obtainable only by rejecting normality and conventionality in toto, and approaching a theme purged utterly of any usual or preconceived point of view. Wild and “different” as they may consider their quasi-weird products, it remains a fact that the bizarrerie is on the surface alone; and that basically they reiterate the same old conventional values and motives and perspectives. Good and evil, teleological illusion, sugary sentiment, anthropocentric psychology—the usual superficial stock in trade, and all shot through with the eternal and inescapable commonplace…. Who ever wrote a story from the point of view that man is a blemish on the cosmos, who ought to be eradicated? As an example—a young man I know lately told me that he means to write a story about a scientist who wishes to dominate the earth, and who to accomplish his ends trains and overdevelops germs … and leads armies of them in the manner of the Egyptian plagues. I told him that although this theme has promise, it is made utterly commonplace by assigning the scientist a normal motive. There is nothing outré about wanting to conquer the earth; Alexander, Napoleon, and Wilhelm II wanted to do that. Instead, I told my friend, he should conceive a man with a morbid, frantic, shuddering hatred of the life-principle itself, who wishes to extirpate from the planet every trace of biological organism, animal and vegetable alike, including himself. That would be tolerably original. But after all, originality lies with the author. One can’t write a weird story of real power without perfect psychological detachment from the human scene, and a magic prism of imagination which suffuses theme and style alike with that grotesquerie and disquieting distortion characteristic of morbid vision. Only a cynic can create horror—for behind every masterpiece of the sort must reside a driving demonic force that despises the human race and its illusions, and longs to pull them to pieces and mock them.

For rough practical purposes, pleasures may be divided into those that have their primary basis in the senses, and those that are mainly of the mind. The traditional moralist praises the latter at the expense of the former; or rather, he tolerates the latter because he does not recognise them as pleasures. His classification is, of course, not scientifically defensible, and in many cases he is himself in doubt. Do the pleasures of art belong to the senses or to the mind? If he is really stern, he will condemn art in toto, like Plato and the Fathers: if he is more or less latitudinarian, he will tolerate art if it has a ‘spiritual purpose’, which generally means that it is bad art.

Nemohol som povedať, že som šťastný. Nebolo to také jednoduché ako šťastie. Bol som len prítomný, azda prvý raz za svoju dospelosť. Tá chvíľa nebola ničím výnimočná. Ale mal som tu chvíľu a mal som ju úplne. Prebývala vo mne. Uvedomil som si, že aj keď umriem, aspoň som spoznal toto:spojenie s vlastným životom, s jeho chybami a ironickými úspechmi.

I was wondering—I mean—could there be some mistake? Because nobody called me and Scrubb, you know. It was we who asked to come here. Scrubb said we were to call to—to Somebody—it was a name I wouldn’t know—and perhaps the Somebody would let us in. And we did, and then we found the door open.” “You would not have called to me unless I had been calling to you,

I want to be both for you: simple and a spectacle. I want to—to put on a show. But I need you to see me underneath. Whatever I wear or do or say, I want you to see me.

He really doesn’t. He thinks of me as his. He likes to…to make sure everyone knows I’m his. But he doesn’t want me damaged.” He’d

That’s the other thing people do when the power goes out. They jump up to…To what? It’s weird. We’re so used to electricity, when it’s gone, we don’t know what to do. So

HAMM: And yet I hesitate, I hesitate to...to end. Yes, there it is, it's time it ended and yet I hesitate to - [he yawns] - to end.

As for my own answers to any of this? I have none. I'm far more confused than before I first went. I've had no great epiphanies, no profound realisations, but since returning home I've resigned myself to this one thing: that, putting the economics and politics of it all aside - naive as that may be - what it all boils down to is individuals. It's a simple interaction between just two people: one, a person with opportunities and choices, and who could get a flight out tomorrow should they choose; the other, a person with few options - if any. If nothing else, it's a gesture. An attempt. Food and a tent for Toto. Burns dressing for Jose. A little operating theatre with car batteries and boiled instruments, where Roberto can ply his trade. Free HIV treatment for Elizabeth, who'll never be cured and will always live in a hut anyway, but who'll have a longer, healthier life because of it. And sometimes it's little more than a bed in which to die peacefully, attended to by family and health workers... but hey, that's no small thing in some parts. My head says it's futile. My heart knows differently.

I’m sure of one thing,” she said earnestly. “It hurts to—to let go of anything beautiful. But something will come to take its place, something different, of course, but better. The future’s always better than we can possibly think it will be . . . We ought to live confidently. Because whatever’s ahead, it’s going to be better than we’ve had.” Rose Wilder Lane Diverging Roads

The war was not won by any single individual, be it Abraham Lincoln or Ulysses S. Grant. The Union, as a whole, triumphed. The national army, fielding over two million men in toto, led by legions of staff, company, field, and general officers; a correspondingly potent navy; and a far more powerful economy than its adversary were all needed to ultimately subdue the Confederacy.

Go on from here, Ada, please. (She). Billions of boys. Take one fairly decent decade. A billion of Bills, good, gifted, tender and passionate, not only spiritually but physically well-meaning Billions, have bared the jillions of their no less tender and brilliant Jills during that decade, at stations and under conditions that have to be controlled and specified by the worker, lest the entire report be choked up by the weeds of statistics and waist-high generalizations. No point would there be, if we left out, for example, the little matter of prodigious individual awareness and young genius, which makes, in some cases, of this or that particular gasp an unprecedented and unrepeatable event in the continuum of life or at least a thematic anthemia of such events in a work of art, or a denouncer’s article. The details that shine through or shade through: the local leaf through the hyaline skin, the green sun in the brown humid eye, tout ceci, vsyo eto, in tit and toto, must be taken into account, now prepare to take over (no, Ada, go on, ya zaslushalsya: I’m all enchantment and ears), if we wish to convey the fact, the fact, the fact—that among those billions of brilliant couples in one cross section of what you will allow me to call spacetime (for the convenience of reasoning), one couple is a unique super-imperial couple, sverhimperator-skaya cheta, in consequence of which (to be inquired into, to be painted, to be denounced, to be put to music, or to the question and death, if the decade has a scorpion tail after all), the particularities of their love-making influence in a special unique way two long lives and a few readers, those pensive reeds, and their pens and mental paintbrushes. Natural history indeed! Unnatural history—because that precision of senses and sense must seem unpleasantly peculiar to peasants, and because the detail is all: The song of a Tuscan Firecrest or a Sitka Kinglet in a cemetery cypress; a minty whiff of Summer Savory or Yerba Buena on a coastal slope; the dancing flitter of a Holly Blue or an Echo Azure—combined with other birds, flowers and butterflies: that has to be heard, smelled and seen through the transparency of death and ardent beauty. And the most difficult: beauty itself as perceived through the there and then. The males of the firefly (now it’s really your turn, Van).

On one hand, I’d like a man who makes a good living and wants a family someday. On the other, I’d like to be manhandled once in a while. Just sort of thrown down and told who is boss, you know? Is that so much to ask? But on the three occasions I’ve dated a man long enough to…to do…it, they insisted on treating me with respect in bed. It was incredibly disappointing. Zero stars. Would not recommend.

If you need to fall apart, then do it. If you want to be angry, then yell at me.” She shook her head. “I know it’s been a shit day for you, and I’m sorry that you have to…to see my old life, but this is my life now. Please don’t be upset about this.” “I’m not.” She wasn’t. And at the same time,she was. She didn’t have a clue what she was supposed to feel anymore. “Then don’t shut down on me now. Don’t walk away

I need you to know that. I want to…to… show you how much this is forever….” Matt’s expression went from concerned to amused to a sweet reddening on his cheeks that Evan found to be his favorite reaction, ever.

How strange and beautiful—it must be one of the few real reasons for remaining alive, of desiring to—to dance with your daughter, your son, and your wife; touching, really digging it, laughing, and keeping the beat, free

I am fully done with other people telling me what to do with my history. My past made me who I am. There is no way to wipe it clean. I am the evidence. If you look at me and see track marks and too-skinny arms and hands that know how to hold a gun and a brain that is sharper and faster than yours, then that is not my problem. Do you hear me? I have regrets, and I have made mistakes, but I am who I am. I’m done pretending that I’ve wholly remade myself, that I’m going to…to hide myself away in some lecture hall for the next four years to make you all comfortable. If you want to stop seeing it, you’ll have to stop seeing me, and I am not going to disappear.

Gadis Peminta-minta Setiap kali bertemu, gadis kecil berkaleng kecil Senyummu terlalu kekal untuk kenal duka Tengadah padaku, pada bulan merah jambu Tapi kotaku jadi hilang, tanpa jiwa Ingin aku ikut, gadis kecil berkaleng kecil Pulang ke bawah jembatan yang melulur sosok Hidup dari kehidupan angan-angan yang gemerlapan Gembira dari kemayaan riang Duniamu yang lebih tinggi dari menara katedral Melintas-lintas di atas air kotor, tapi yang begitu kau hafal Jiwa begitu murni, terlalu murni Untuk bisa membagi dukaku Kalau kau mati, gadis kecil berkaleng kecil Bulan di atas itu, tak ada yang punya Dan kotaku, ah kotaku Hidupnya tak lagi punya tanda

The clerks at the bank who turned over our information. The fake attorney. The man who gave me free hot chocolate at Hertzoon’s fake office. I destroyed them all, one by one, brick by brick. And Rollins will be the last. These things don’t wash away with prayer, Wraith. There is no peace waiting for me, no forgiveness, not in this life, not in the next.” Inej shook her head. How could she still look at him with kindness in her eyes? “You don’t ask for forgiveness, Kaz. You earn it.” “Is that what you intend to do? By hunting slavers?” “By hunting slavers. By rooting out the merchers and Barrel bosses who profit off of them. By being something more than just the next Pekka Rollins.” It was impossible. There was nothing more. He could see the truth even if she couldn’t. Inej was stronger than he would ever be. She’d kept her faith, her goodness, even when the world tried to take it from her with greedy hands. His eyes scanned her face as they always had, closely, hungrily, snatching at the details of her like the thief he was—the even set of her dark brows, the rich brown of her eyes, the upward tilt of her lips. He didn’t deserve peace and he didn’t deserve forgiveness, but if he was going to die today, maybe the one thing he’d earned was the memory of her—brighter than anything he would ever have a right to—to take with him to the other side.

The British claim that this tea has a negligible amount of caffeine. Don't you believe it. A couple of months after moving to London, convinced I was having panic attacks, I realized it was simply overcaffeination at the hands of generous friends and colleagues. Every cup of tea I was offered, I took–it seemed rude not to–to the tune of five of seven per day. The cumulative effects were heart-pounding, hand-sweating jitters that abated as soon as I learned my limits.

I know-that things exist beyond our reasoning. They DO exist. We may not understand them but that doesn't mean they can't BE. You find people so ready to-to scoff at anything they can't figure out, can't reason, and those same people will turn straight round and tell you that they believe in God. Is HE understandable? Is that belief backed up by reasoning, scientific logic? We live with mysteries all day long, all our lives, but because they're familiar mysteries, we accept them. Well, you'd have to-or go mad. Who understands LIFE? Yet we live it. We hang on to it. We accept it just as we accept the inevitability of death. Life and death: the only two absolute certainties we're aware of, but we can't even BEGIN to explain them.

Worse yet, he blundered from the start, asking her why she felt she needed to be hurt. “Why are people gay?” she shot back, suddenly unshy. “Why does anyone have a foot fetish? One of my earlier memories is of looking up words related to—to this, in the dictionary. It just happens, you know?

Yes. All the worth-while things in life. All mixed up. Rooms in candle-light. Leisure. Colour. Travel. Books. Music. Pictures. People—all kinds of people. Work that you love. And growth—growth and watching people grow. Feeling very strongly about things and then developing that feeling to—to make

In every tomorrow I had imagined, this was never one of them. There were never any prospects beyond the life of a scholarly old maid, but that was a fate I had looked forward to—to live among parchments and sink into the compressed universes stitched into lines and lines of writing. To answer to no one. There was another sorrow, tucked beneath my surprise. Although I had never envisioned marriage, I had thought of love. Not the furtive love I heard muffled in the corners or rooms of some of the harem wives. What I wanted was a connection, a shared heartbeat that kept rhythm across oceans and worlds. Not some alliance cobbled out of war. I didn’t want the prince from the folktales or some milk-skinned, honey-eyed youth who said his greetings and proclaimed his love in the same breath. I wanted a love thick with time, as inscrutable as if a lathe had carved it from night and as familiar as the marrow in my bones. I wanted the impossible, which made it that much easier to push out of my mind.

Please, what task, Sir?' said Jill. 'The task for which I called you and him here out of your own world.' This puzzled Jill very much. 'It's mistaking me for someone else,' she thought. She didn't dare to tell the Lion this, though she felt things would get into a dreadful muddle unless she did. 'Speak your thought, Human Child,' said the Lion. 'I was wondering—I mean—could there be some mistake? Because nobody called me and Scrubb, you know. It was we who asked to come here. Scrubb said we were to call to—to Somebody—it was a name I wouldn't know—and perhaps the Somebody would let us in. And we did, and then we found the door open.' 'You would not have called to me unless I had been calling to you,' said the Lion.

The loudness of tone in Jane Eyre is undoubtedly effective in communicating tension and frustration, but the style does of course have its related limitations. It precludes the use of the small suggestive detail or the quiet but telling observation that Mrs Gaskell and George Eliot are so good at. In such a fortissimo performance as this, the pianissimo gets drowned out, or noted only as an incongruity (which helps to account for the book's moments of unintended comic bathos). Again, it makes the whole question of modulation of tone a difficult one,6 and it is also hard to manage irony elegantly, as the Brocklehurst and Ingram portraits show. There is unconscious ambiguity but little deliberate irony in Jane Eyre. Hence the remarkable unity of critical interpretation of the book—the reader knows all too well what he is meant to think about the heroine and the subsidiary characters. The novel does not merely request our judicious sympathy for the heroine, it demands that we see with her eyes, think in her terms, and hate her enemies, not just intermittently (as in David Copperfield) but in toto. It was, incidentally, because James Joyce recognised the similar tendency of Stephen Hero that he reshaped his autobiographical material as A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, retaining the 'first-person effect' but building in stylistic and structural irony that would guard against the appearance of wholesale authorial endorsement of Stephen.

Pahlawan Tak Dikenal Sepuluh tahun yang lalu dia terbaring Tetapi bukan tidur, sayang Sebuah lubang peluru bundar di dadanya Senyum bekunya mau berkata, kita sedang perang Dia tidak ingat bilamana dia datang Kedua lengannya memeluk senapan Dia tidak tahu untuk siapa dia datang Kemudian dia terbaring, tapi bukan tidur sayang Wajah sunyi setengah tengadah Menangkap sepi padang senja Dunia tambah beku di tengah derap dan suara menderu Dia masih sangat muda Hari itu 10 November, hujan pun mulai turun Orang-orang ingin kembali memandangnya Sambil merangkai karangan bunga Tapi yang nampak, wajah-wajahnya sendiri yang tak dikenalnya Sepuluh tahun yang lalu dia terbaring Tetapi bukan tidur, sayang Sebuah lubang peluru bundar di dadanya Senyum bekunya mau berkata: aku sangat muda

I-I would have wanted to-to court you first. To take you driving, with a chaperon.' 'A chaperon?' Tessa laughed despite herself. He went on determinedly. 'To tell you my feelings first, before I showed them. To write poetry for you-' 'You don't even like poetry,' Tessa said, her voice catching on a half laugh of relief. 'No. But you make me want to write it. Does that not count for anything?

You use more than thirty pounds of ATP during a one-hour walk and more than your entire body weight of ATP over the course of a typical day—an obviously impossible amount to lug around in reserve.15 Consequently, a human body stores in toto only about a hundred grams of ATPs at any given moment.16 Fortunately, before our first few steps deplete the leg muscles’ scant supply of ATPs, they quickly tap into another ATP-like molecule known as creatine phosphate that also binds to phosphates and stores energy.17 Unfortunately, those creatine phosphate reserves are also limited, becoming 60 percent depleted after ten seconds of sprinting and exhausted after thirty seconds.18 Even so, the precious short burst of fuel they provide gives muscles time to fire up a second energy recharging process: breaking down sugar.

Imagine the fear the first men must have felt when they saw the sun setting on the horizon and the dark night beginning to rise—They must have felt such hopelessness within their hearts as the darkness descended, only for it to spark back to life as the stars began to shine through. However, the stars do not burn like the sun, do they? They provide little light for the land, which makes one wonder, that perhaps conquering the dark was not their purpose. Maybe the creators of the world intended when they made them, not to bring light into the world, but instead for them to serve as something else. That is the great mystery of our world, is it not? Why would the creators, the gods who shaped the land and the heavens with their hands, forge something so stunning, so dazzling, only to then hide them away during the day and allow men to gaze upon their beauty only when darkness is present—this must mean something, right? Maybe that was their intention all along. Perhaps they knew they could not eliminate the darkness of the night, so instead, they created these beautiful glowing lights in the sky—a small light for the people to cling to—to serve as a constant reminder to all that looked up, that no matter how dark the world seemed, there would always be light. Maybe that is why they created you as well

Our respect for the individual as a unique phenomenon, not to be suppressed in his idiosyncrasies, but to be cultivated and brought to fulfillment as a gift to the world such as never before was seen on earth, nor will ever appear again, is contrary, toto caelo, to the spirit not only of Oriental art but also of Oriental life. And in keeping with this turn of mind, the individual is expected not to innovate or invent, but to perfect himself in the knowledge and rendition of norms. Accordingly, the Oriental artist must not only address himself to standard themes, but also have no interest in any such thing as we understand by self-expression. Accounts, such as abound in the biographies of Western masters, of an artist’s solitary agony in long quest of his own special language to bring forward his personal message, we shall search for long and in vain in the annals of Oriental art. Such ego-oriented thinking is alien completely to Eastern life, thought, and religiosity, which are concerned, on the contrary, precisely with the quenching of ego and of all interest in this evanescent thing that is merely the “I” of a passing dream.

L’Ur-Fascismo si basa su un “populismo qualitativo”. In una democrazia i cittadini godono di diritti individuali, ma l’insieme dei cittadini è dotato di un impatto politico solo dal punto di vista quantitativo (si seguono le decisioni della maggioranza). Per l’Ur-Fascismo gli individui in quanto individui non hanno diritti, e il “popolo” è concepito come una qualità, un’entità monolitica che esprime la “volontà comune”. Dal momento che nessuna quantità di esseri umani può possedere una volontà comune, il leader pretende di essere il loro interprete. Avendo perduto il loro potere di delega, i cittadini non agiscono, sono solo chiamati pars pro toto, a giocare il ruolo del popolo. Il popolo è così solo una finzione teatrale. Per avere un buon esempio di populismo qualitativo, non abbiamo più bisogno di Piazza Venezia o dello stadio di Norimberga. Nel nostro futuro si profila un populismo qualitativo TV o Internet, in cui la risposta emotiva di un gruppo selezionato di cittadini può venire presentata e accettata come la “voce del popolo”. A ragione del suo populismo qualitativo, l’Ur-Fascismo deve opporsi ai “putridi” governi parlamentari.

Pokud v člověku dominuje materialistický pohled na svět, jeho vědomí je omezeno a chybí v něm duchovní Znalosti, pak ve vědomí dochází k mnoha změnám. To znamená, že Osobnost využije sílu ne pro duchovní rozvoj, ale pro realizaci svých materiálních přání. Síla jediného duchovního pocitu se ve vědomí rozmělňuje na velké množství přání Materiální podstaty. Ve výsledku je to tak, že člověk místo toho, aby toužil po Věčnosti, začíná se jí panicky bát a považovat trojrozměrný svět za jedinou realitu svého bytí. Vyčerpává síly svého života na to, aby v materiálním světě dosáhl uspokojení svého vlastního Ega, aby získal moc nad sobě podobnými, aby nahromadil pozemské bohatství. Ale se smrtí těla člověk toto všechno ztrácí a ze svého bývalého života mu v jeho posmrtném osudu zbývá jen shluk negativní energie, který mu pak přináší trápení a neklid. Ale pokud v člověku dominuje duchovní pohled na svět, a on nejen že má Znalosti o světě a o sobě samém, ale také je cíleně, podle jejich určení využívá a pracuje na sobě, tak se kvalitativně mění. Pohybuje se po duchovním vektoru svého života díky hlubokým pocitům vycházejícím z jeho Duše. Pro duchovně zralého člověka znamená fyzická smrt v podstatě vysvobození. Je to pouze přechod do kvalitativně jiného stavu, stavu opravdové svobody ve Věčnosti.

build it had to be carried by wagon many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one room; and this room contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. Uncle Henry and Aunt Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar--except a small hole dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to crush any building in its path. It was reached by a trap door in the middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark hole. When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see nothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree nor a house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of the sky in all directions. The sun had baked the plowed land into a gray mass, with little cracks running through it. Even the grass was not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere. Once the house had been painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains washed it away, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else. When Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife. The sun and wind had changed her, too. They had taken the sparkle from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never smiled now. When Dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, Aunt Em had been so startled by the child's laughter that she would scream and press her hand upon her heart whenever Dorothy's merry voice reached her ears; and she still looked at the little girl with wonder that she could find anything to laugh at. Uncle Henry never laughed. He worked hard from morning till night and did not know what joy was. He was gray also, from his long beard to his rough boots, and he looked stern and solemn, and rarely spoke. It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray as her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly. Today, however, they were not playing. Uncle Henry sat upon the doorstep and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even grayer than usual. Dorothy stood in the door with Toto in her arms, and looked at the sky too. Aunt Em was washing the

Having experimented in both poetry and prose, I can say that the two are such loaded words. But neither are quite as weighted as the word “poet”. I think some people can write poetry their whole lives, and never truly BE a “poet”. Whereas I see poets in the wanderers I encounter, the baristas who serve me, and the truckers I, so, love to talk to.To be a poet in my humble opinion is to be a muse of the human experience. I love that I love the idea, that anything can be poetry, it can’t be defined. It’s a feeling, like punk rock. I’m not one for form or structure. I say if your words are visceral and honest, it’s poetry. If you see the beauty of the world and humanity, and you preach it, you’re a poet.

Tell me something else instead. Tell me what you’re looking forward to most about going to school here.” “You go first. What are you most excited about?” Right away, Peter says, “That’s easy. Streaking the lawn with you.” “That’s what you’re looking forward to more than anything? Running around naked?” Hastily I add, “I’m never doing that, by the way.” He laughs. “It’s a UVA tradition. I thought you were all about UVA traditions.” “Peter!” “I’m just kidding.” He leans forward and puts his arms around my shoulders, rubbing his nose in my neck the way he likes to do. “Your turn.” I let myself dream about it for a minute. If I get in, what am I most looking forward to? There are so many things, I can hardly name them all. I’m looking forward to eating waffles every day with Peter in the dining hall. To us sledding down O-Hill when it snows. To picnics when it’s warm. To staying up all night talking and then waking up and talking some more. To late-night laundry and last-minute road trips. To…everything. Finally I say, “I don’t want to jinx it.” “Come on!” “Okay, okay…I guess I’m most looking forward to…to going to the McGregor Room whenever I want.” People call it the Harry Potter room, because of the rugs and chandeliers and leather chairs and the portraits on the wall. The bookshelves go from the floor to the ceiling, and all of the books are behind metal grates, protected like the precious objects they are. It’s a room from a different time. It’s very hushed--reverential, even. There was this one summer--I must have been five or six, because it was before Kitty was born--my mom took a class at UVA, and she used to study in the McGregor Room. Margot and I would color, or read. My mom called it the magic library, because Margot and I never fought inside of it. We were both quiet as church mice; we were so in awe of all the books, and of the older kids studying. Peter looks disappointed. I’m sure it’s because he thought I would name something having to do with him. With us. But for some reason, I want to keep those hopes just for me for now. “You can come with me to the McGregor Room,” I say. “But you have to promise to be quiet.” Affectionately Peter says, “Lara Jean, only you would look forward to hanging out in a library.

Eddie: Why do police lieutenants wear belts? The lights in the Barony coach began to flicker. An odd thing was happening to the walls, as well; they began to fade in and out of true, lunging toward transparency, perhaps, and then opaquing again. Seeing this phenomenon even out of the corner of his eye made Eddie feel a bit whoopsie. Eddie: Blaine? Answer. Roland: (agreeably) Answer. Answer, or I declare the contest at an end and hold you to your promise. Blaine: TO...TO HOLD UP THEIR PANTS? (repeating as a statement) TO HOLD UP THEIR PANTS. A RIDDLE BASED UPON THE EXAGGERATED SIMPLICITY OF-- Eddie: Right. Good one, Blaine, but never mind trying to kill time--it won't work. Next-- Blaine: I INSIST YOU STOP ASKING THESE SILLY-- Eddie: Then stop the mono. If you're that upset, stop right here, and I will. Blaine: NO. Eddie: Okay, then, on we go. What's Irish and stays out in back of the house, even in the rain? Blaine: (clicking his tongue deafeningly and gratingly; a long pause) PADDY O'FURNITURE.

Kat sighed. “Well, the first thing you’re going to need to do is keep in contact with both of them. Touch them a lot—and I do mean a lot—or you’re going to start getting sick.” “What? But I can’t,” Becca protested. “That’s what got me into this in the first place. And besides, every time I touch them, especially together, I keep wanting to…to…” She broke off, blushing. “Get down and dirty again?” Kat said sympathetically. “Yeah, I get it. Your body wants the full bonding experience. In fact, that’s probably what you ought to do.” “I don’t want to,” Becca said stubbornly. “I mean, Truth is on board with it and Far has always wanted the three of us together. But what happens when I have to tell my parents?” “Ask yourself this—who would you rather spend the rest of your life with?” Kat said. “Your parents or your guys? If you’d really rather move back home and never see Truth and Far again…” “No, I…” Becca put a hand to her throat. “I couldn’t. That…that would be awful.” “See?” Kat said. “Your heart knows who to choose even if your brain doesn’t.

My dear, dear ladies,” Sir Francis effused as he hastened forward, “what a long-awaited delight this is!” Courtesy demanded that he acknowledge the older lady first, and so he turned to her. Picking up Berta’s limp hand from her side, he presed his lips to it and said, “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Sir Francis Belhaven.” Lady Berta curtsied, her fear-widened eyes fastened on his face, and continued to press her handkerchief to her lips. To his astonishment, she did not acknowledge him at all; she did not say she was charmed to meet him or inquire after his health. Instead, the woman curtsied again. And once again. “There’s hardly a need for all that,” he said, covering his puzzlement with forced jovially. “I’m only a knight, you know. Not a duke or even an earl.” Lady Berta curtsied again, and Elizabeth nudged her sharply with her elbow. “How do!” burst out the plump lady. “My aunt is a trifle-er-shy with strangers,” Elizabeth managed weakly. The sound of Elizabeth Cameron’s soft, musical voice made Sir Francis’s blood sing. He turned with unhidden eagerness to his future bride and realized that it was a bust of himself that Elizabeth was clutching so protectively, so very affectionately to her bosom. He could scarcely contain his delight. “I knew it would be this way between us-no pretense, no maidenly shyness,” he burst out, beaming at her blank, wary expression as he gently took the bust of himself from Elizabeth’s arms. “But, my lovely, there’s no need for you to caress a hunk of clay when I am here in the flesh.” Momentarily struck dumb, Elizabeth gaped at the bust she’d been holding as he first set it gently upon its stand, then turned expectantly to her, leaving her with the horrifying-and accurate-thought that he now expected her to reach out and draw his balding head to her bosom. She stared at him, her mind in paralyzed chaos. “I-I would ask a favor of you, Sir Francis,” she burst out finally. “Anything, my dear,” he said huskily. “I would like to-to rest before supper.” He stepped back, looking disappointed, but then he recalled his manners and reluctantly nodded. “We don’t keep country hours. Supper is at eight-thirty.” For the first time he took a moment to really look at her. His memories of her exquisite face and delicious body had been so strong, so clear, that until then he’d been seeing the Lady Elizabeth Cameron he’d met long ago. Now he belatedly registered the stark, unattractive gown she wore and the severe way her hair was dressed. His gaze dropped to the ugly iron cross that hung about her neck, and he recoiled in shock. “Oh, and my dear, I’ve invited a few guests,” he added pointedly, his eyes on her unattractive gown. “I thought you would want to know, in order to attire yourself more appropriately.” Elizabeth suffered that insult with the same numb paralysis she’d felt since she set eyes on him. Not until the door closed behind him did she feel able to move. “Berta,” she burst out, flopping disconsolately onto the chair beside her, “how could you curtsy like that-he’ll know you for a lady’s maid before the night is out! We’ll never pull this off.” “Well!” Berta exclaimed, hurt and indignant. “Twasn’t I who was clutching his head to my bosom when he came in.” “We’ll do better after this,” Elizabeth vowed with an apologetic glance over her shoulder, and the trepidation was gone from her voice, replaced by steely determination and urgency. “We have to do better. I want us both out of here tomorrow. The day after at the very latest.” “The butler stared at my bosom,” Berta complained. “I saw him!” Elizabeth sent her a wry, mirthless smile. “The footman stared at mine. No woman is safe in this place. We only had a bit of-of stage fright just now. We’re new to playacting, but tonight I’ll carry it off. You’ll see. No matter what if takes, I’ll do it.

Peter Hargraves asked me to…to be his wife last night. And I agreed.” A stunned expression spread over his face before anger replaced it. Planting his hands on either side of her hips, he bent his head until his face was inches from hers. “He’s not one of my crew. Is that why you accepted his proposal—because he’s not one of my men? Or do you claim to have some feeling for him?” He sneered the last words, and shame spread through her. It would be hard to claim she had feelings for Petey when she’d just been on the verge of giving herself to Gideon. But that was the only answer that would put him off. Her hands trembled against his immovable chest. “I…I like him, yes.” “The way you ‘like’ me?” When she glanced away, uncertain what to say to that, he caught her chin and forced her to look at him. Despite the dim light, she could tell that desire still held him. And when he spoke again, his voice was edged with the tension of his need. “I don’t care what you agreed to last night. Everything has changed. You can’t possibly still want to marry him after the way you just responded to my touch.” “That was a mistake,” she whispered, steeling herself to ignore the flare of anger in his eyes. “Petey and I are well suited. I knew him from before, from the Chastity. I know he’s an honorable man, which is why I still intend to marry him.” A muscle ticked in Gideon’s jaw. “He’s not a bully, you mean. He’s not a wicked pirate like me, out to ‘rape and pillage.’” He pushed away from the trunk with an oath, then spun toward the steps. “Well, he’s not for you, Sara, no matter what you may think. And I’m going to put a stop to his courtship of you right now!