Trench Coats Quotes

The last time I wore an animal hide; but this time I settled for this." Eric had been wearing a long trench coat. Now he threw it off dramatically, and I could only stand and stare. Normally, Eric was a blue-jeans-and-T-shirt kind of guy. Tonight, he wore a pink tank top and Lycra leggings[...]They were pink and aqua, like the swirls down the side of Jason's truck.

He crossed the street toward the man in the trench coat, which left me with two choices: follow my dad and see what was going on, or do what I was told. I decided on the slightly less dangerous path. I went to retrieve my sister

jace's clothes had been clean,stylish,ordinary. Sebastian had been wearing a long black wool trench coat that had looked expensive. Like an evil Burbeery ad, Simon said when she was done.

I will never, ever regret stopping you from walking out of my life a second time, Kyle," she said in an emotional voice. "And I can prove it." She reached for the buttons on her trench coat and undid them, one at a time. Then she opened the coat and let it drop to the floor. And even if she didn't say a single word more, Kyle knew he would never again doubt the way Rylann felt about him. She was wearing his flannel shirt. "You kept it," he said softly. "All this time." She nodded. "For nine years, I've held on to this darn shirt, literally dragging it across the country and back." Kyle touched her cheek, gently brushing away a tear with his thumb. "Why?" She paused hesitantly, and then with a tender smile, finally put it all on the line, too. "I guess I always hoped you'd come back for it someday.

I’ve always been a sort of self-imposed outsider, not a geeky outsider or a snobby outsider but, I just have a natural desire to live on the fringe. I’m not like a weirdo with a trench-coat but I just prefer to be alone or minimally surrounded by people.

I’m pretty healthy and I don’t mind the idea of dying, but I also don’t want to get mowed down by some freaky high school kid in a trench coat who’s high on Zoloft and has traded in his Xbox for a semiautomatic.

Collars, trench coats or jackboots – uniforms allow us to exercise our cruelty without ever feeling guilt.

As if sensing the oncoming theatre, the pigeons arrived from nowhere, and dug in close on the powerlines. They were perched on TV aerials, and, God forbid, on the trees. There was also a single crow, fat-feathered and plump, like a pigeon disguised in a trench coat.

She tried not to slip her arms beneath his trench coat, or spread her palms across his broad, muscular back, or inhale the delicious scent of him, or rest her cheek against his hard, warm chest. She tried. And failed.

Just do whatever feels natural. If you want to call him, call him. If you want him to call you, wait. If you want to show up at his office wearing nothing but a trench coat, send me pictures.

House of Krahr!" the vampire with the banner barked quietly. "Krahr," the other four vampires exhaled and glared at me. Usually they roared their house name at the top of their lungs, trying to intimidate... Oh. They were trying to be inconspicuous. I bit my lip to keep from laughing. I'd never had an attempt at intimidation whispered at me before. "My lord, why are you wearing trench coats?" "We must blend in," he said. "This is a covert operation." Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh..."It's very hot," I said. "Trench coats are a cold-weather garment.

Seven drunk ferrets in a trench coat?

It’s like watching a James Bond movie. Morpheus—in a black trench-coat-style blazer that hangs to his thighs, gray tweed pants, a dark gray vest, skinny red tie, and black pin-striped dress shirt—could pass for a punk-fae secret agent who’s captured his villain. His thick blue waves touch his shoulders from under a gray tweed flat cap, and his wings drape down his back and across the floor, fluttering sporadically as he keeps his balance against Jeb’s resistance.

Addiction was like a man in a dark trench coat, stalking me, waiting for me to get off the well-lit sidewalk and step into an alley. I had seen the alley. I had watched Nana walk into the alley and I had watched my mother go after him, and I was so angry at them for not being strong enough to stay in the light.

The pastor walked through Clement Park and sniffed the air. Satan. The pastor could smell him wafting through the park. It was an acrid odor—had it been a little stronger, it might have singed his nose hairs. The Enemy had swept in with this madness on Tuesday, but the real battle was only now under way. “I smell the presence of Satan,” Reverend Oudemolen thundered from the pulpit Sunday morning. “What we saw Tuesday came from Satan’s home office. Satan had a plan. Satan wants us to live in fear in Littleton. He wants us to see black trench coats or people in Goth attire and makeup and here’s what he wants us to feel: Look how powerful and scary Satan is!

We are probably this far from donning trench coats, smoking Lucky Strikes, and slinking furtively around town, taking notes in a little black book. Which doesn't actually sound all that bad, truth be told.

Writers fish for the right words like fishermen fish for, um, whatever those aquatic creatures with fins and gills are called.

Size-eighteen women weren’t supposed to show off their legs, which I did. They weren’t supposed to show off their cleavage, which I did. Size-eighteen women were supposed to wear trench coats in the winter, long sleeves in the summer, and somebody better cancel Christmas if they wore a dress that showed off some cleavage. Size-eighteen women were supposed to dress like they were apologizing for taking up too much space. Fuck all that noise. I took up space. I

Reporters quickly keyed on the darker force behind the attack: this spooky Trench Coat Mafia. It grew more bizarre by the minute. In the first two hours, witnesses on CNN described the TCM as Goths, gays, outcasts, and a street gang. “A lot of the time they’ll, like, wear makeup and paint their nails and stuff,” a Columbine senior said. “They’re kind of—I don’t know, like Goth, sort of, like, and they’re, like, associated with death and violence a lot.” None of that would prove to be true. That student did not, in fact, know the people he was describing. But the story grew.

Will you help me strategize?” “Sure,” Becca said, her voice cheery. “First. Remove all your clothes, and then borrow my trench coat. If a hottie like Leo Trevi called me the love of his life, I wouldn’t be eating takeout on the living room floor with my roommate. At least one of us should be having sex with someone who doesn’t require batteries.

Why bother taking a DNA Test to discover your genealogy? Just go buy a lottery ticket, and if you win, all your distant relatives will find you.

Unsolicited dick pics would be better if they were wearing tiny hats.

He lets go of my face. Becomes Mr. Intensely Sincere. Christian Slater with the bomb in his trench coat pocket. Christian Slater with the baboon heart.

Eric Dutro, Chris Morris, and a handful of other boys were pretty much the core of the TCM, but a dozen more were often associated with the TCM as well, whether they sported trench coats or not. Eric and Dylan were not among them. Each of them knew some of the TCM kids, and Eric, especially, would become buddies with Chris. That was as close as they came. Eventually, after the TCM heyday was over, Eric got himself a trench coat. Dylan followed. They wore them to the massacre, for both fashion and functional considerations. The choice would cause tremendous confusion.

Every girl likes a man in uniform,” said Ernst. “Every girl, perhaps,” remarked Beatrix. “But not every uniform.” “You know why people wear uniforms, don’t you, Pierrot?” continued the chauffeur. The boy shook his head. “Because a person who wears one believes he can do anything he likes.” “Ernst,” said Beatrix quietly. “He can treat others in a way he never would while wearing normal clothes. Collars, trench coats, or jackboots, uniforms allow us to exercise our cruelty without ever feeling guilt.

Hollywood raised us. Your mind processes the world through a filter formed by comic books and action movies on Cinemax. That's why kids put on trench coats and take guns to school. The Devil knows how to control us.

Being hungry is just being food horny.

The secret, my friend? Everything is an addiction. Just some addictions get called hobbies.

People would look at teachers differently if they had to wear the uniform for their second job when on the clock

We remember Columbine as a pair of outcast Goths from the Trench Coat Mafia snapping and tearing through their high school hunting down jocks to settle a long-running feud. Almost none of that happened. No Goths, no outcasts, nobody snapping. No targets, no feud, and no Trench Coat Mafia. Most of those elements existed at Columbine—which is what gave them such currency. They just had nothing to do with the murders. The lesser myths are equally unsupported: no connection to Marilyn Manson, Hitler’s birthday, minorities, or Christians.

Straining to hear, I can make out something acoustic. Coming from...the backyard? I glance down from my bedroom window and feel my jaw fall open. Matt Finch is standing below my window, guitar strapped across his chest. I pull my window up, and I expect the song from that old movie - the one about a guy with a trench coat and the big radio and his heart on his sleeve. But it's not that. It's not anything I recognise, and I strain to make out the lyrics: Stop being ridiculous, stop being ridiculous, Reagan. What an asshole. The mesh screen and two floors between us don't seem like enough to protect him from my anger. "Nice apology," I call down to him. "I've apologised thirteen times," he yells back, "and so far you haven't called me back." I open my mouth to say it doesn't matter, but he's already redirecting the song. "Now I'm gonna stand here until you forgive me," he sings loudly, "or at least until you hear me out, la-la, oh-la-la. I drove seven hours overnight, and I won't leave until you come out here." (...) "This is private property!" My throat feel coarse from how loudly I'm yelling. "And that doesn't even rhyme!" The guitar chord continues as he sings, "Then call the cops, call the cops, call the cops..." I storm downstairs, my feet pounding against the staircase. When I turn the corner, my dad looks almost amused from his seat in the recliner. Noticing my expression, he stares back at his newspaper, as if I won't notice him. (...) "Dad. How did Matt know which window was mine?" "Well..." he peeks over the sports section. "I reckon I told him." "You talked to him?" My voice is no longer a voice. It's a shriek. "God, Dad!" He juts out his chin, defensive. "How was I supposed to know you had some sort of drama with him? He shows up, lookin' to serenade my daughter. Thought it seemed innocent enough. Sweet, even. Old-fashioned." "It's not any of those things! I hate him!

Why is my mother texting me about how hot you are?" "Weird. Think it has anything to do with the fact I just went to the bookstore in nothing but a patent leather trench coat?" Charlie replies with a screenshot of some texts between him and his mom. "Cottage guest is very pretty", Sally writes, then separately, "No ring." Charlie replied: "Oh? Thinking of leaving Dad?" She ignored his comment and instead said, "Tall. You always liked tall girls." "What are you talking about" Charlie wrote back, no question mark. "Remember your homecoming date? Lilac Walter-Hixton? She was practically a giant" "That was the eighth-grade formal" he said "it was before my growth spurt." "Well this girl's very pretty and tall but not too tall." "Tall but not TOO tall," I tell Charlie, "can also be added to my headstone. He says "I'll make a note." I say, "She told me you would bring wood over to the cottage for me." He says "Please swear to me you didn't make a 'too late for that' joke.

When it's raining, I like to drive like a Monet painting, as I turn off my wipers and let the lights blur the shapes. Makes traveling more romantic.

You don't want to be on Electric Avenue when it rains.

Livia went to the front closet to find a coat for her sister. After some shuffling, Livia found the white trench coat Kyle had nicknamed “The Romantical.

I don’t really make mistakes so much as date them. The last guy I went out with was basically a pile of red flags in a trench coat.

Because I have to be honest, I'm having trouble reading you, and I'm usually great at that kind of thing." I finish my beer and try not to show how overjoyed I am that none of my need and loathing have come across. "You're kind of aloof," he says, and all the kids stacked underneath my trench coat rejoice. Aloof is a casual lean, is a choice. It is not a girl in Bushwick, licking clean a can of tuna.

When giving instructions, or evaluating a proposal, it helps to be a specific and not to assume the other side understands what we mean. We must always be prepared for the fact that the listener may be stupid.

When someone asked me what communism was, i opened my mouth to answer, then realized i didn’t have the faintest idea. My image of a communist came from a cartoon. It was a spy with a black trench coat and a black hat pulled down over his face, slinking around corners. In school, we were taught that communists worked in salt mines, that they weren’t free, that everybody wore the same clothes, and that no one owned anything.

One of the biggest things I miss is the internet used to be an escape from meatspace. Now "internet" is so ingrained everywhere there is no longer that sense of escape. People don't say "g2g" or "ttyl" anymore because they never sign off.

No, Pasha,” whispered Alexander. “No.” He felt Pasha’s head. He closed Pasha’s eyes. For a few moments he stood over Pasha, and then he sank to the ground. Wrapping him tightly with the trench coat, Alexander took Pasha’s body into his arms and, cradling him from the cold, closed his own eyes. For the rest of the night Alexander sat on an empty road, his back against the tree, not moving, not opening his eyes, not speaking, holding Tatiana’s brother in his arms. If Ouspensky spoke to him, he did not hear. If he slept, he did not feel it, not the cold air, nor the hard ground, nor the rough bark of the tree against his back, against his head. When morning broke, and gray close light rose over Saxony, Alexander opened his eyes. Ouspensky was sleeping on his side, wrapped in his trench coat next to them. Pasha’s body was rigid, very cold. Alexander got up from under Pasha, washed his own face with whisky, rinsed out his mouth with whisky, and then got his titanium trench tool and started to carve a hole in the ground. Ouspensky woke up, helped him. It took them three hours of scraping at the earth, to make a hole a meter deep. Not deep enough, but it would have to do. Alexander covered Pasha’s face with the trench coat so the earth wouldn’t fall on it. With two small branches and a piece of string, Alexander made a cross and laid it on top of Pasha’s chest, and then they lifted him and lowered him into the hole, and Alexander, his teeth grit the entire time, filled the shallow grave with fresh dirt. On a wide thick branch, he carved out the name PASHA METANOV, and the date, Feb 25, 1945, and tying it to another longer branch made another cross and staked it into the ground. Alexander and Ouspensky

According to the Stanford encyclopedia of Philosophy, Socrates never wore shoes, could bench twice his weight, and was impervious to the effects of alcohol and cold. He did not care for fashion and his gait was that of one who truly did not give a shit.

When I first read The Rebel, this splendid line came leaping from the page like a dolphin from a wave. I memorized it instantly, and from then on Camus was my man. I wanted to write like that, in a prose that sang like poetry. I wanted to look like him. I wanted to wear a Bogart-style trench coat with the collar turned up, have an untipped Gauloise dangling from my lower lip, and die romantically in a car crash. At the time, the crash had only just happened. The wheels of the wrecked Facel Vega were practically still spinning, and at Sydney University I knew exiled French students, spiritually scarred by service in Indochina, who had met Camus in Paris: one of them claimed to have shared a girl with him. Later on, in London, I was able to arrange the trench coat and the Gauloise, although I decided to forgo the car crash until a more propitious moment. Much later, long after having realized that smoking French cigarettes was just an expensive way of inhaling nationalized industrial waste, I learned from Olivier Todd's excellent biography of Camus that the trench coat had been a gift from Arthur Koestler's wife and that the Bogart connection had been, as the academics say, no accident. Camus had wanted to look like Bogart, and Mrs. Koestler knew where to get the kit. Camus was a bit of an actor--he though, in fact, that he was a lot of an actor, although his histrionic talent was the weakest item of his theatrical equipment--and, being a bit of an actor, he was preoccupied by questions of authenticity, as truly authentic people seldom are. But under the posturing agonies about authenticity there was something better than authentic: there was something genuine. He was genuinely poetic. Being that, he could apply two tests simultaneously to his own language: the test of expressiveness, and the test of truth to life. To put it another way, he couldn't not apply them.

Dance critics all over the world have called my body moves, “Sculpturesque,” “As full of motion as a Rodin statue,” and “Like watching Helen Keller eat Jell-O with her elbows.” My dancing is so still and silent that it belongs on a shelf in a library, next to other great literature.

The church door creaked, and Cole stood to greet the ladies. The air left the church in a whoosh as Kyle entered. Kyle. She waited in the doorway, her white sundress and trench coat fluttering like flags in the breeze. She ran a hand through her hair, all soft and wild. She looked like a heavenly messenger.

In the end, no matter what obstacles a company faces in the Thank You Economy, the solution will always be the same. Competitors are bigger? Outcare them. They’re cheaper? Outcare them. They’ve got celebrity status and you don’t? Outcare them. Social media gives you the tools to touch your consumer and create an emotion where before there might not have been one. It doesn’t matter if you’re not small or cool or sexy—people can get pumped up about the craziest stuff. I mean, really, who could have predicted the guy in a trench coat pulverizing iPhones in a blender? (Seriously, if you haven’t seen it, check out willitblend.com. It’s fantastic!)

He wore a tiny trench coat, and a top hat was set between his eyes. He said it was his disguise, but it did little. It’d been his idea, and Linus hadn’t felt like arguing, especially when Chauncey had exclaimed quite loudly that he couldn’t go to the village nude, even though that was how he spent most of his time on the island. Linus had never thought about it that way. And now he couldn’t not. “You look fine,” Linus said. “Dashing, even.” “Like a spy hidden in the shadows about to reveal a big secret,” Sal told him. “Or like he’s going to open his coat and flash us,” Talia muttered. “Hey! I wouldn’t do that! Only if you asked!” Zoe was no longer trying to hide her laughter.

Ah, the days when your desktop had less than half the memory on your current phone.

Contra prepared me for Metal Slug. Thanks Konami.

Back in the early 2000s you were called a freak, loser, virgin, nerd or weirdo by women for using the internet. Now look at them.

Meatspace and the internet were almost completely separate things, and now its mutated into this horrifying semi-permanent hyperreality.

Do you remember how people talked about the internet 15 years ago? It was this weird place full of scammers and fucked up shit, now its totally casualized.

There are moments in life that fracture through an existence hard enough to not allow itself to be compartmentalized, rising above "I had fun once, and it was awful".

I lost a keyboard from the racing mission in Mafia.

I'm sure I wasn't the only one who had like 15 Juno emails just to keep the free dial-up.

If you die while tweeting you go to Twitter heaven where you write 72 bangers a day on heaven Twitter.

Toilet paper is like an unreliable bridge, you are gonna have to walk across mud valley from time to time.

When slightly open, a door is ajar, but when slightly open, is a jar adoor?

What are words worth if you write like Wordsworth? Not as much as a man named Wordsandpicturesworth. That's so long, so I just call him Memesworth.

History is now being documented in the moment through memes, and they shape our memories. I make them as if to say, "I was here, and I mocked this time and place.

I once worked in a glass shop. We manufactured ceilings to keep women out of upper management.

If being forgetful is a sign of high intelligence, then people with Alzheimer's are like Isaac Whatshisname. You know, that one guy who did that one thing. Or was it two things?

The cat hair floated in the air like a sound vibration, and I plucked it like a guitar string. Sometimes I can be so musical I’m like a living love song.

The sign in the forest said, “Closed For Repairs.” I wrote it and nailed it on a tree myself. I’m a farmer of parking lots, and I grow them like 1980s mall culture.

Here's five energy drinks, go clean the universe.

Everyone is flammable at least once.

1976. Remember when Stretch Armstrong was the pinnacle of human achievement?

Be kind (of an asshole). The funny thing about assholes is they always end up covered in shit.

Everyone goes through enough shit that we all look like turds in the end.

Future brain chips will be bootlegged to include the "heroin" option.

If I left you I'd leave a letter full of lyrics But you wouldn't know me well enough To get it.

If you start Forrest Gump at exactly 10:38:57 PM on New Years Eve, you can ring in the new year with Lieutenant Dan.

I'd commit war crimes for horchata, you don't wanna know what I'd do to never return to the office.

Do you enjoy being out in nature? By 2030, when you're living in your 20 by 30 cement stacked box in the city, you'll probably be able to rent walks in the park for ONLY $19.95 per month.

In 2005 software actually had designs. Now everything is flat, colorless, without icons, without borders, gradients, just horrible. Mobile ruined everything, everything is just practical now.

Google hit such a degree of control in their operation of YouTube that they can tweak the algorithms just right to recommend very peculiar kinds of videos to suit economic and social changes.

I often can't remember where I'm at. I'm like that all the time. Not so much forgetful, but more futureful. For me, today is always tomorrow. To all the people who live in the moment I say: Stop living in the past.

I don't know how to play these guitar strings But I know how to play these heart stings, Play until my fingers bleed Doctors tell me the incision should only sting But even with only a memory I feel compelled to scream

Watches and clocks are round, like the product Brick Oven serves with five-star flavor, because it's always pizza time. But I'm always split over what to order, because I make their wings disappear like I'm Amelia Earhart.

So if you'll excuse me I'm going to yell at phantom children to stay off my non-existent lawn. I will tell them how arcade games were the original multiplayer if they make nice and choose not to get help from the bottle kids.

El Lindo tastes like the line from that famous murder mystery movie “Rambo,” when Nicolas Cage rips off his tuxedo and says, “I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t a man to call Taco Bell Mexican cuisine." I love a good romance.

Harrison Salisbury When Amor Towles was ten years old, he threw a bottle containing a short note he had written into the Atlantic Ocean. A few weeks later he received a letter from the man who found it: Harrison Salisbury, the managing editor of The New York Times. From this childhood incident, a correspondence developed between Salisbury and Towles and they eventually met. In his earlier career, Harrison Salisbury was the real-life chief correspondent for The New York Times in Moscow. The author of an important history of the Russian Revolution, Black Nights, White Snow, his memoirs were the source of some of the detail Towles uses in A Gentleman in Moscow. Salisbury’s cameo appearance in the novel, along with the mention of his fedora and trench coat (stolen by the Count as a disguise) pay tribute to Salisbury’s literary legacy on early twentieth century Russia as well as the author’s serendipitous connection with him.

The brain is in the body, and memories are in the brain. Are my memories therefore not physical extensions of me, and able to be frozen for all of eternity, so that someone in the future can dethaw them and laugh at all the jokes I once enjoyed?

Frisland is a country that's so powerful it had itself removed off all world maps, so it could stealthily gain influence. It has an ancient ruler named King Anthony, better known as Susan B. Anthony. Susan really do be Anthony. King Anthony began to reign over Frisland just as soon as Susan B. Anthony "died." At first, King Anthony was kept alive through crude cloning techniques, but over the last century, technology has advanced so far that now King Anthony exists as a spirit embedded in a hologram.

Everyone loves the smell of gasoline, but do you think it would make a good scent in a soap? Gasoline-scented soap is a great idea that’s a terrible idea. Plus, if I made soap that smelled like petroleum, The US Military would invade my shower and kill me.

Fishing tip #11: To make your fish look fresher, stick those plastic googly eyes on them—even if your fish are still alive and swimming. Fish are natural clowns, they will find your sense of humor endearing, and they will appreciate you more when you eat them.

For me, publishing books in hardback format is a protest against The World Economic Forum's decree that we will own nothing and be happy about it. In an economy that's subscription based, where we stream or rent everything as a service, this is my tiny, tangible fuck you.

The internet has more or less been in its present form, technology just had to catch up. Trolls, death threats, porn, riveting discussion, free multimedia, art, fandoms, hacking, crimes against humanity and lonely people at your fingertips even on AOL, Compuserve or Prodigy.

Somewhere a girl is working as a waitress in a new city, clean break and sees a guy who got stood up on a blind date. She never tells him why the clean break, why the move, they date and then the wedding is called off years later. This happens once a week somewhere in America.

It used to be you'd search for something and find tons of good results. Now you type "hamburger" anywhere on your phone or computer and now advertising cartels serve you up some ads for hamburgers for the next week. Hell just say it aloud near your phone, it'll just take longer.

There were actual online communities, and the lack of free options prevented people from forming their own personal hugboxes and fiefdoms. There was no discord or free voice servers for the most part. Someone in your crew had to pay for TeamSpeak or Ventrilo server. This meant people had to cooperate and get along.

As we were heading down Mass Ave toward campus, a man stepped out of a doorway. “I’m selling books,” he said. Instinctively I averted my eyes, picked up my pace, and changed course slightly to give him a wider berth—just as Ivan did the opposite, slowing down right in front of the man, looking right at him, right into his eyes. “Books, really?” I was overcome by the sudden sense of Ivan’s freedom. I realized for the first time that if you were a guy, if you were some tall guy who looked like Ivan, you could pretty much stop to look at anything you wanted, whenever you felt like it. And because I was walking with him now, for just this moment, I had a special dispensation, I could look at whatever he was looking at, too. So I, too, looked at the man—at the lines etched into his face, at his crafty and reproachful expression, at his cloudy eye and his piercing eye, overhung by a wilderness of eyebrows. The man opened one flap of his trench coat. Strapped to the inside, contraband-style, was an array of paperbacks: The Fountainhead, Dr. Atkins’ Diet Revolution, an introduction to the philosophy of Heidegger, The Communist Manifesto, a Dear Abby anthology, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, and a Spanish-English dictionary. The man looked awkwardly down over the titles, apparently deciding which one to offer Ivan.

After two weeks came the first letter from Alexander. Tatiasha, Can there be anything harder than this? Missing you is a physical aching that grips me early in the morning and does not leave me, not even as I draw my last waking breath. My solace in these waning empty summer days is the knowledge that you’re safe, and alive, and healthy, and that the worst that you have to go through is serfdom for four well-meaning old women. The wood piles I’ve left are the lightest in the front. The heaviest ones are for the winter. Use them last, and if you need help carrying them, God help me, ask Vova. Don’t hurt yourself. And don’t fill the water pails all the way to the top. They’re too heavy. Getting back was rough, and as soon as I came back, I was sent right out to the Neva, where for six days we planned our attack and then made a move in boats across the river and were completely crushed in two hours. We didn’t stand a chance. The Germans bombed the boats with the Vanyushas, their version of my rocket launcher, the boats all sank. We were left with a thousand fewer men and were no closer to crossing the river. We’re now looking at other places we can cross. I’m fine, except for the fact that it’s rained here for ten days straight and I’ve been hip deep in mud for all that time. There is nowhere to sleep, except in the mud. We put our trench coats down and hope it stops raining soon. All black and wet, I almost felt sorry for myself until I thought of you during the blockade. I’ve decided to do that from now on. Every time I think I have it so tough, I’m going to think of you burying your sister in Lake Ladoga. I wish you had been given a lighter cross than Leningrad to carry through your life. Things are going to be relatively quiet here for the next few weeks, until we regroup. Yesterday a bomb fell in the commandant’s bunker. The commandant wasn’t there at the time. Yet the anxiety doesn’t go away. When is it going to come again? I play cards and soccer. And I smoke. And I think of you. I sent you money. Go to Molotov at the end of August. Don’t forget to eat well, my warm bun, my midnight sun, and kiss your hand for me, right in the palm and then press it against your heart. Alexander Tatiana read Alexander’s letter a hundred times, memorizing every word. She slept with her face on the letter, which renewed her strength.

It was astonishing how loudly one laughed at tales of gruesome things, of war’s brutality-I with the rest of them. I think at the bottom of it was a sense of the ironical contrast between the normal ways of civilian life and this hark-back to the caveman code. It made all our old philosophy of life monstrously ridiculous. It played the “hat trick” with the gentility of modern manners. Men who had been brought up to Christian virtues, who had prattled their little prayers at mothers’ knees, who had grown up to a love of poetry, painting, music, the gentle arts, over-sensitized to the subtleties of half-tones, delicate scales of emotion, fastidious in their choice of words, in their sense of beauty, found themselves compelled to live and act like ape-men; and it was abominably funny. They laughed at the most frightful episodes, which revealed this contrast between civilized ethics and the old beast law. The more revolting it was the more, sometimes, they shouted with laughter, especially in reminiscence, when the tale was told in the gilded salon of a French chateau, or at a mess-table. It was, I think, the laughter of mortals at the trick which had been played on them by an ironical fate. They had been taught to believe that the whole object of life was to reach out to beauty and love, and that mankind, in its progress to perfection, had killed the beast instinct, cruelty, blood-lust, the primitive, savage law of survival by tooth and claw and club and ax. All poetry, all art, all religion had preached this gospel and this promise. Now that ideal had broken like a china vase dashed to hard ground. The contrast between That and This was devastating. It was, in an enormous world-shaking way, like a highly dignified man in a silk hat, morning coat, creased trousers, spats, and patent boots suddenly slipping on a piece of orange-peel and sitting, all of a heap, with silk hat flying, in a filthy gutter. The war-time humor of the soul roared with mirth at the sight of all that dignity and elegance despoiled. So we laughed merrily, I remember, when a military chaplain (Eton, Christ Church, and Christian service) described how an English sergeant stood round the traverse of a German trench, in a night raid, and as the Germans came his way, thinking to escape, he cleft one skull after another with a steel-studded bludgeon a weapon which he had made with loving craftsmanship on the model of Blunderbore’s club in the pictures of a fairy-tale. So we laughed at the adventures of a young barrister (a brilliant fellow in the Oxford “Union”) whose pleasure it was to creep out o’ nights into No Man’s Land and lie doggo in a shell-hole close to the enemy’s barbed wire, until presently, after an hour’s waiting or two, a German soldier would crawl out to fetch in a corpse. The English barrister lay with his rifle ready. Where there had been one corpse there were two. Each night he made a notch on his rifle three notches one night to check the number of his victims. Then he came back to breakfast in his dugout with a hearty appetite.

Like God, you hover above the page staring down on a small town. Outside a window some scenery loafs in a sleepy hammock of pastoral prose and here is a mongrel loping and here is a train approaching the station in three long sentences and here are the people in galoshes waiting. But you know this story about the galoshes is really About Your Life, so, like a diver climbing over the side of a boat and down into the ocean, you climb, sentence by sentence, into this story on this page. You have been expecting yourself as a woman who purrs by in a dress by Patou, and a porter manacled to the luggage, and a man stalking across the page like a black cloud in a bad mood. These are your fellow travelers and you are a face behind or inside these faces, a heartbeat in the volley of these heartbeats, as you choose, out of all the journeys, the journey of a man with a mustache scented faintly with Prince Albert. "He must be a secret sensualist," you think and your awareness drifts to his trench coat, worn, softened, and flabby, a coat with a lobotomy, just as the train pulls into the station. No, you would prefer another stop in a later chapter where the climate is affable and sleek. But the passengers are disembarking, and you did not choose to be in the story of the woman in the white dress which is as cool and evil as a glass of radioactive milk. You did not choose to be in the story of the matron whose bosom is like the prow of a ship and who is launched toward lunch at the Hotel Pierre, or even the story of the dog-on-a-leash, even though this is now your story: the story of the person-who-had-to-take-the-train-and-walk- the-dark-road described hurriedly by someone sitting at the tavern so you could discover it, although you knew all along the road would be there, you, who have been hovering above this page, holding the book in your hands, like God, reading.

Playing the maze game on Microsoft Encarta, downloading Simpsons episodes on IRC, geocities and angelfire websites so shitty it was beyond hilarious, violent stick figure animations made with Macromedia Flash on StickDeath, StickSuicide and SFDT, no moderation on forums, what was a place for elitists and sophisticated outcasts primarily from western countries became streamlined starting with kids getting cellphones around 2000 and texting each other on a keypad that wasn't made for it. By 2003 or 4 hardly any kids went outside during summer.

If a guy has a thing for black women - jungle fever. If a guy has a thing for asian women - yellow fever. If a guy has a thing for indian women - curry craving. Is there a term for having a thing for white women? What about latina woman? For white women: Calcium deficiency? White delight? Snowburn? Mayo madness? Reverse-colonialism? Racism? The other white meat? Empanada ecstacy? Guacamole grip? Tostones temptation? Arepa amor? Cafe con leche? A taste for churros? Sofrito satisfaction? Cortez' revenge? Catholocism? Arroz con pussy? Chile con culo?

This is the girl in the borrowed trench-coat, moving across the bridge with the river Seine underneath. She pulls something from the jacket's pocket and hits the button, not answering when the man without his coat catches up with her at that moment, calling her name. Pull back fifty metres, and here is the burning apartment, debris floating softly through the air that is filled with screams. Here is the man again, gripping the shoulders of the girl with his coat and yelling into her ears, 'What have you done?' And here is that playful smile that creeps upon her lips as she disappears, the air rushing to fill the space where she had just been.

Multi-generational sexual child abuse is such a common cause of the proliferation of pedophilia that Hitler/Himmler research focused on this genetic trait for mind control purposes. While I personally could not relate to the idea of sex with a child, I had parents and brothers and sisters who did. I still believe that George Bush revealed today’s causation of the rapid rise in pedophilia through justifications I heard him state. The rape of a child renders them compliant and receptive to being led without question. This, Bush claims, would cause them to intellectually evolve at a rate rapid enough to “bring them up to speed” to grasp the artificial intelligence emanating from DARPA. He believed that this generation conditioned with photographic memory through abuse was necessary for a future he foresaw controlled by technology. Since sexual abuse enhanced photographic memory while decreasing critical analysis and free thought, there would ultimately be no free will soul expression controlling behavior. In which case, social engineering was underway to create apathy while stifling spiritual evolution. Nevertheless, to short sighted flat thinking individuals such as Bush, spiritual evolution was not a consideration anyway. Instead, controlling behavior in a population diminished by global genocide of ‘undesirables’ would result in Hitler’s ‘superior race’ surviving to claim the earth. Perceptual justifications such as these that were discussed at the Bohemian Grove certainly did not provide me with the complete big picture. It did, however, provide a view beyond the stereotyped child molester in a trench coat that helped in understanding the vast crimes and cover-ups being discussed at this seminar in Houston.

We had something real,” Nobley said, starting to sound a little desperate. “You must have felt it, seeping through the costumes and pretenses.” The brunette nodded. “Seeping through the pretenses? Listen to him, he’s still acting.” Martin turned to the brunette in search of an ally. “Do I detect any jealousy there, my flagpole-like friend?” Nobley said. “Still upset that you weren’t cast as a gentleman? You do make a very good gardener.” Martin took a swing. Nobley ducked and rammed into his body, pushing them both to the ground. The brunette squealed and bounced on the balls of her feet. “Stop it!” Jane pulled at Nobley, then slipped. He put out an arm and caught her midfall across her middle. “Here, let me…” Nobley tried to give her a hand up and push Martin away at the same time. “Get off me,” Martin said. “I’ll help her.” He kicked Nobley in the rear, followed by some swatting of hands. Jane planted her feet, grabbed Nobley’s arm, and pulled him off. Martin was still swiping at Nobley from the ground. Nobley’s cap fell off, then his trench coat twisted up around Martin, who batted at it crazily. “Cut it out!” Jane said, pushing Nobley back and putting herself between them. She felt more like a teacher stopping a schoolboy scuffle than an ingénue with two brawling beaus. “M-m-martin’s gay!” Nobley said. “I am not! You’re thinking of Edgar.” “Who the hell is Edgar?” “You know, that other gardener who always smells of fish.” “Oh, right.” Jane raised her hands in exasperation. “Would you two…” A stuffed-up voice over the PA announced preboarding for Jane’s flight. The brunette made an audible moan of disappointment. Martin struggled to his feet with a hand up from Nobley, and they both stood before Jane, silent, pathetic as wet dogs who want to be let back in the house. She felt very sure of herself just then, tall and sleek and confident. “Well, they’re playing my song, boys,” she said melodically.