Um Ok Quotes

I couldn’t breathe. She was so beautiful that it was unreal. All I could do was stare at her like an idiot. Oh crap, I’m staring! OK come on, Liam, say something. Say anything. Liam, freaking say SOMETHING. “Um… Hi, Angel,” I mumbled, my voice sounding tight. Wow, that was real smooth, Liam! God, I’m such a dick!

Tell me he’s not talking to Brandon,” Claire said. “Um… Ok. He’s not talking to Brandon.” “You’re lying.” “Yeah. He’s talking to Brandon. Look, let Shane do his thing, okay? He’s not as stupid as he looks, mostly.

We kissed again. It grew deeper; Alex wrapped his arms around me, drawing me close against him. His back was smooth and warm. I ran my hands over it as we kissed, loving the feel of his skin, and almost went faint as his lips moved briefly to my neck and then found my mouth again. In my entire life, nothing had ever felt as good as Alex kissing me like that. When we finally pulled apart, both our hearts were pounding. I cleared my throat, skimming my fingers along his forearm. "Alex, you, um...you know that I've never--" "I know," he broke in softly. He reached for my hand, linking his fingers through mine. "Willow, it's OK. We'll do whatever you want. I just want to be with you; I don't care.

He bailed on football practice.” As soon as the words left me, my stomach pitched. This wasn’t any of Phil’s business. He chuckled. “So, the Golden Boy isn’t so golden after all.” He lifted his arm toward my house. “Walk you home?” “Um . . . OK,” I heard myself agree.

What the...? "Holy S***! You're 250 years old!?" He gives me a wink of his beautiful eye in response. "Surprised?" "Um, hell yeah. Ok, that's pretty much disgusting. Chester the Molester. I've been screwing an ancient artefact!" Dorian & Gabriella

Last week we went to the museum. A whole whale is hanging from the ceiling. Bigger than big! OK, have you seen a Volkswagon car that's like a bug? Um huh, you know what I'm talking about. That's how big the heart of a blue whale is. I know it's not possible, but if that heart was in me, could I love more?...I would like to.

So, I paid you a compliment,” Joanna said. “Yeah.” Joanna laughed. “So do I get one back?” she asked. “Oh, sure,” James said. “You’re really like . . . nice.” “Can’t I get any better than nice?” “Beautiful,” James said. “You’re beautiful.” “That’s more like it,” Joanna said. “Want to kiss me?” “Um, OK,” James said.

O.K., then, all right, they would adopt a white-trash dog. Ha ha. They could name it Zeke, buy it a little corncob pipe and a straw hat. She imagined the puppy, having crapped on the rug, looking up at her, going, Cain’t hep it. But no. Had she come from a perfect place? Everything was transmutable. She imagined the puppy grown up, entertaining some friends, speaking to them in a British accent: My family of origin was, um, rather not, shall we say, of the most respectable... Ha ha, wow, the mind was amazing, always cranking out these—

DFW: I think there are different people on the page than in real life. I do six to eight drafts of everything that I do. Um, I am probably not the smartest writer going. But I also--and I know, OK, this is gonna fit right into the persona--I work really really hard. I'm really--you give me twenty-four hours? If we'd done this interview through the mail? I could be really really really smart. I'm not all that fast. And I'm really self-conscious. And I get confused really easily. When I'm in a room by myself alone, and have enough time, I can be really really smart. And people are different that way. You know what I mean? I may not--I don't think I'm quite as smart, one-on-one with people, when I'm self-conscious, and I'm really really confused. And it's like, My dream would be for you to write this up, and then to send it to me, and I get to rewrite all my quotes to you. Which of course you'll never do...

OK. How to start? All right. I’m going to be very blunt, so here it goes,’ he says. ‘I can see the future.’ 'Um. Yeah. Sure you can, Dad,’ I say.

Ok come on Madd let's think clearly right now. Um, puppies, kittens, kittens that purr, lions and tigers that growl, Isabelle growling . . . Ok not helping at all!

She pushed the car. But I was so distracted that i forgot to push the button on the timer, so we had to do the whole thing again. Which Lindsey found hilarious. "Ok" she said. "Are you ready NOW, or do we have to send you back to Button Pushing one-oh-one?" "Um, what's Button Pushing One-oh-one?" I was wearing a button down shirt that day. Lindsey reached out and poked one of the buttons into my chest. "There, that's how you push a button. Any questions?

It's not life or death, the labyrinth.'' ''Um, OK. So what is it?'' ''Suffering,'' she said. ''Doing wrong and having wrong things happen to you. That's the problem. Bolivar was talking about the pain, not about the living or dying. How do you get out of the labyrinth of suffering?

Where do you live, Kaznim?" "In the star tent beside the Moon Pool, beneath the long dune." Marwick looked puzzled. "So, where's that?" he asked. "Um. In the desert," said Kaznim. "The Desert of the Singing Sands." "OK... and whereabouts is that." Kaznim shook her head. "I ... I don't know.

Hagrid!’ Hermione shouted, pounding on his front door. ‘Hagrid, that’s enough! We know you’re in there! Nobody cares if your mum was a giantess, Hagrid! You can’t let that foul Skeeter woman do this to you! Hagrid, get out here, you’re just being –’ The door opened. Hermione said ‘About t–!’ and then stopped, very suddenly, because she had found herself face to face, not with Hagrid, but with Albus Dumbledore. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said pleasantly, smiling down at them. ‘We – er – we wanted to see Hagrid,’ said Hermione in a rather small voice. ‘Yes, I surmised as much,’ said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. ‘Why don’t you come in?’ ‘Oh … um … OK,’ said Hermione.

Her daddy had brought her a package of Twinkies, and she was so proud that as soon as she got on the bus she forgot everything she knew and yelled to another first grader, “Guess what I got in my lunch today, Billy Jean?” “What?” “Twinkies!” she shouted so loud you could have heard her in the back seat even if you were deaf in both ears. Out of the corner of his eye, Jess thought he saw Janice Avery perk up. When they sat down, May Belle was still screeching about her dadgum Twinkies over the roar of the motor. “My daddy brung ’um to me from Washington!” Jess threw another look at the back seat. “You better shut up about those dang Twinkies,” he said in her ear. “You just jealous ’cause Daddy didn’t bring you none.” “OK.” He shrugged across her head at Leslie to say I warned her, didn’t I? and Leslie nodded back. Neither of them was too surprised to see May Belle come screaming toward them at recess time. “She stole my Twinkies!” Jess sighed. “May Belle, didn’t I tell you?” “You gotta kill Janice Avery. Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!” “Shhh,” Leslie said, stroking May Belle’s head, but May Belle didn’t want comfort, she wanted revenge. “You gotta beat her up into a million pieces!

— Nossa, Alan! Que ótima notícia! — Eu me empolgo e abraço-o. Ele me aperta com força e eu me sinto protegida em seus braços. Ok, ele não é forte como o Danny, sua estrutura é magra, mas ainda assim é musculoso. Tento me afastar e ele me aperta um pouco mais. — Adoro essa sua espontaneidade. E seu perfume. E seu gosto. — Ele fala, dá um beijo e uma lambida no meu pescoço. MEU DEUS!! Esse homem quer me deixar louca! Vocês viram isso??

What are you doing after this?” Yaz asked, still smiling, “Fancy a walk?” “Er… my friend Mary’s outside…” Yaz shrugged, “You see her all the time. Come for a walk with me.” “Um. Yes. Ok.” Oh wow. Now it was happening, she had no idea what to do at all. “The… bruise?” “Oh yeah,” Yaz laughed, tossing back her head and touching a finger to her jaw line, “Just here…” Marlene leaned forward to see, and Yaz turned her head smoothly, catching her in a kiss, full in the lips. Butterflies.

- OK, suponhamos que vai à copa - disse ela -, e duas pessoas que quem gosta estão lá, suponhamos que uma das pessoas está a contar uma história divertida, você ri-se um pouco, sente-se incluído, toda a gente tem tanta graça, e volta para a sua secretária com uma espécie de, não sei, brilho, mas depois às quatro ou cinco da tarde o dia transformou-se em apenas mais um, e continua assim, a ansiar pelas cinco da tarde e depois pelo fim de semana e depois pelas duas ou três semanas de férias pagas anuais, dia após dia, e é isso que acontece à sua vida.

Smoke-ccss-b85b07: Tell me about a time when you did something evil. ABlum: oh gee well sometimes i work too hard is that evil? Smoke-ccssb85b07: Sarcasm ignored. ABlum: ok um when i started college, my brother raph pressured me to join the ut austin chapter of his fraternity and i joined, only to discover that fraternities are the stupidest forms of social organization ever invented so, live and learn but at the end of the fall semester, one of my frat brothers offered to pay me to write his final history paper and i did it but i didn't want to get caught, so i read his earlier papers and put a lot of work into imitating his shitty writing which made the paper a d+ at best so he failed the class and i wouldn't give the money back so they made up an honor code violation and kicked me out of the frat and at the time i remember thinking "this has worked out surprisingly well" so, i don't know what you consider "evil" but i'm sure you can find it somewhere in there

James finished his curry and wandered off on his own. He noticed a girl leaning against a tree smoking. Long hair, baggy jeans. She was about James’s age, nice looking. He didn’t remember her from any of the intelligence files. “Hey, can I have a drag?” James said, trying to sound cool. “Sure,” the girl said. She passed James the cigarette. James had never tried one before and hoped he wasn’t about to make an idiot of himself. He gave it a little suck. It burned his throat, but he managed not to cough. “Not seen you here before,” the girl said. “I’m Ross,” James said. “Staying here with my aunt for a bit.” “Joanna,” the girl said. “I live in Craddogh.” “Haven’t been there yet,” James said. “It’s a dump, two shops and a post office. Where you from?” “London.” “I wish I was,” Joanna said. “You like it here?” “I’m always covered in mud. I want to go to bed, but there’s a guy playing guitar three meters from where I sleep. I wish I could go home, have a warm shower, and see my mates.” Joanna smiled. “So why are you staying with your aunt?” “Long story: Parents are getting divorced. Mum freaking out. Got expelled from school.” “So you’re good-looking and you’re a rebel,” Joanna said. James was glad it was quite dark because he felt himself blush. “You want the last puff, Ross?” “No, I’m cool,” James said. Joanna flicked the cigarette butt into the night. “So, I paid you a compliment,” Joanna said. “Yeah.” Joanna laughed. “So do I get one back?” she asked. “Oh, sure,” James said. “You’re really like . . . nice.” “Can’t I get any better than nice?” “Beautiful,” James said. “You’re beautiful.” “That’s more like it,” Joanna said. “Want to kiss me?” “Um, OK,” James said. James was nervous. He’d never had the courage to ask a girl out. Now he was about to kiss someone he’d known for three minutes. He pecked her on the cheek. Joanna shoved James against the tree and started kissing his face and neck. Her hand went in the back pocket of James’s jeans, then she jumped backwards.

This was the big advantage of “Oriental“ campaign excavations: whereas in Europe they were forced by their budgets to dig them selves, archaeologists in Syria, like their glorious predecessors, could delegate the lowly tasks. As Bilger said, quoting The Good, the Bad and the Ugly”: “you see, in this world there’s two kinds of people, my friend: those with loaded guns and those who dig.” So the European archaeologists had acquired an extremely specialized and technical Arabic vocabulary: dig here, clear there, with a shovel, a pickax, a small pick, a trowel — the brush was the privilege of Westerners. Dig gently, clear quickly, and it was not rare to overhear the following dialogue: “Go one meter down here.” “Yes boss. With an excavation shovel?” “Um, big shovel… Big shovel no. Instead pickax.” “With the big pickax?” “Big pickax no. Little pick.” “So, we should dig down to  one meter with the little pick?” “Na’am, na’am. Shwia shwia, Listen, don’t go smashing in the whole world to finish more quickly, OK?” In these circumstances there were obviously misunderstandings that led to irreparable losses for science: a number of walls and stylobates fell victim to the perverse alliance of linguistics and capitalism, but on the whole the archaeologists were happy with their personnel, whom they trained, so to speak, season after season....[I am] curious to know what these excavations represent, for these workers. Do they have the feeling that we are stripping them of their history, that Europeans are stealing something from them, once again? Bilger had a theory: he argued that for these workmen whatever came before Islam does not belong to them, is of another order, another world, which falls into the category of the qadim jiddan, the “very old”; Bilger asserted that for a Syrian, the history of the world is divided into three periods: jadid, recent; qadim, old; qadim jiddan, very old, without it being very clear if it was simply his own level of Arabic that was the cause for such a simplification: even if his workers talked to him about the succession of Mesopotamian dynasties, they would have had to resort, lacking a common language that he could understand, to the qadim jiddan. 

This was the big advantage of “Oriental“ campaign excavations: whereas in Europe they were forced by their budgets to dig themselves, archaeologists in Syria, like their glorious predecessors, could delegate the lowly tasks. As Bilger said, quoting The Good, the Bad and the Ugly”: “you see, in this world there’s two kinds of people, my friend: those with loaded guns and those who dig.” So the European archaeologists had acquired an extremely specialized and technical Arabic vocabulary: dig here, clear there, with a shovel, a pickax, a small pick, a trowel — the brush was the privilege of Westerners. Dig gently, clear quickly, and it was not rare to overhear the following dialogue: “Go one meter down here.” “Yes boss. With an excavation shovel?” “Um, big shovel… Big shovel no. Instead pickax.” “With the big pickax?” “Big pickax no. Little pick.” “So, we should dig down to  one meter with the little pick?” “Na’am, na’am. Shwia shwia, Listen, don’t go smashing in the whole world to finish more quickly, OK?” In these circumstances there were obviously misunderstandings that led to irreparable losses for science: a number of walls and stylobates fell victim to the perverse alliance of linguistics and capitalism, but on the whole the archaeologists were happy with their personnel, whom they trained, so to speak, season after season....[I am] curious to know what these excavations represent, for these workers. Do they have the feeling that we are stripping them of their history, that Europeans are stealing something from them, once again? Bilger had a theory: he argued that for these workmen whatever came before Islam does not belong to them, is of another order, another world, which falls into the category of the qadim jiddan, the “very old”; Bilger asserted that for a Syrian, the history of the world is divided into three periods: jadid, recent; qadim, old; qadim jiddan, very old, without it being very clear if it was simply his own level of Arabic that was the cause for such a simplification: even if his workers talked to him about the succession of Mesopotamian dynasties, they would have had to resort, lacking a common language that he could understand, to the qadim jiddan. 

What are you going to do if you can’t challenge him?” I asked, ashamed of the pathetic tone of misery in my voice. Drake smiled. His lips curled up, and his eyes went dragon as the smile grew in a way that made me thankful he was on my side. “I am wyvern of the green dragons.” “Yeah, so?” “Such a look of confusion in your beautiful face. What do green dragons do best?” “You’re not going to make love to him,” I said, scandalized for a moment even though I knew Drake couldn’t mean that. He gave me a long-suffering look. “Hardly.” “Well, good. Because I told you once I don’t share, not even with another guy, although I have to admit that…um…never mind.” One of Drake’s eyebrows rose. “Such unplumbed depths to you. I’m afraid that particular fantasy will never be fulfilled. I hold what is mine. No others will have you.” I smiled at the slightly outraged glint in his eyes. “Don’t worry, it’s not a fantasy. I always kind of wondered what it would be like to have so much attention, but then I met you, and, well, I don’t think I could survive more attention than what you give me.” “That was the correct answer,” he said, his voice rich with smugness. “Uh-huh. OK, so back to Fiat…” I pulled my mind from the delightful sensations Drake’s hands and mouth were giving me, and thought hard. If he couldn’t challenge Fiat, what could he do? Drake was a man of many talents, but I couldn’t think of one that would help him get me back without some sort of fight between him and Fiat. And then the penny dropped. I started laughing, causing Drake to pause as he unbuttoned my shirt. “Figured it out, did you?” “I’m allowed to be a bit slow. I’ve had a hell of a day. So, my darling green dragon…what treasure of Fiat’s are you going to steal?

In all my years I’ve never heard of these strange creatures,” said Spidroth. “Hey, who are you calling ‘strange creatures’?” said Kayla. Finally they got back to the giant mushroom where the Council of Meep were. “Um, do you mind if I go in alone?” Dave asked Carl and Spidroth, when they reached the doorway that led up into the mushroom. “There’s something that I need to speak to the Council of Meep about.” “Sure, whatever,” said Carl. “I might go and buy some food from the market. I swear I smelled something that smelled just like a baked potato.” So Dave left Carl and Spidroth, and went back up into the mushroom with Kayla. When he got to the top, the council was waiting. “It is good to see you back,” said Father Meepo. “You managed to rescue your friends then?” “I did,” said Dave. “Father Meepo, I want to talk to you about our deal. About me becoming the next Farmer.” “I knew it!” said a female meep. “He wants to renege on our deal!” “You know that the deal we made is eternally binding?” said Father Meepo darkly. “It cannot be broken.” “I know,” said Dave, “but I was wondering if it could be… delayed?” “Delayed for how long?” asked Father Meepo. “There’s this bad guy named Herobrine,” said Dave, “he’s escaped and slain one of my friends, and now I think he’s coming for me. I need to be around to stop him.” “We know of Herobrine,” said Father Meepo. “The human who betrayed his own kind.” It was news to Dave that Herobrine was a human, but that was of little interest to him right now. All he cared about was convincing the meeps to give him more time. “Can I just hold off on becoming the new Farmer until Herobrine has been dealt with?” Dave asked. “And… it’s ok with you… could I also wait until after I’ve been to the End and defeated the ender dragon? I set off on my quest to defeat the dragon, and I’d like to still do that if I can.

I’ll tell you,” said Vimes. “A monarch’s an absolute ruler, right? The head honcho—” “Unless he’s a queen,” said Carrot. Vimes glared at him, and then nodded. “OK, or the head honchette—” “No, that’d only apply if she was a young woman. Queens tend to be older. She’d have to be a…a honcharina? No, that’s for very young princesses. No. Um. A honchesa, I think.

So, can you tell all the jerks at school that I have a boyfriend? And that you and I are just friends? Maybe that’ll get the guys off my back and the girls won’t hate me so much.” “What? They don’t hate you.” “Yes they do.” “Why would they hate you?” “Um, maybe because you and I are friends now?” I swear, he can be so oblivious sometimes. “We’ve always been friends.” “OK, well, they hate me now that you’ve made our friendship public.” “That’s a ridiculous reason to hate someone.” “Jensen, if you haven’t figured out by now that most girls are shallow, shallow creatures, then there’s no hope for you. They hate other girls for far less than that. Trust me.” “That’s messed up.” “Tell me about it.

[…] Depois de algum tempo, de ter perguntado pelo Tô Manel a várias pessoas, lembrei-me de ir tentar a sorte no ponto de encontro. Meti-me na bicha e fui escutando os apelos que as pessoas iam fazendo em busca dos seus familiares: “me chamo Fololinda Gouveia, estou a precurar meu filho que desapareceu em oitenta e nove, nome dele mais conhecido é Joãozinho Gouveia, peço só nas pessoas que estão a me ouvir favor só de lhe falarem que mãe dele está lhe precurar, moro no Cazenga”; “Meu nome é André Sapanjo, estou a precurar minha mulher que fugiu com outro homem em noventa e dois, uma grande cabra!, perdão!, não era isso que queria dizer, faz só favor de cortar nesta parte, cabra era no antigamente, agora que estou com a palavra do Senhor no coração não lhe posso chamar nem de cabra nem de puta, ai! ai! ai!, corta, corta, corta só também nesta palavra de puta que é muito feia, já cortou?, hã, ok…, nome dela da minha santinha é Madalena, quero que ela volta, volta só mana Lena, minha fofinha, agora estou bem na vida, mijo forte, tenho carros nas lundas, aqui em Luanda tenho várias lojas e carros, vou te dar cama e mesa, vais ver só no amor que vou te dar, moro na Mabor!”; “Meu nome que me pusseram com ele no baptismo é Mana Maria Teresinha do Menino Jesus, diga?, juro mesmo é esse nome que me pusseram com ele!, me chamam também mana Teté, estou só a precurar no pai das crianças que ele me deixou quando quando foi na tropa em oitenta e nove, o nome dele?, o nome dele mesmo é Zeca, Zeca quê?, Zeca só!, o outro nome dele nunca lhe perguntei, mas está aqui foto dele, peço só para me falarem onde é que ele está, vivo ou morto!, Zeca vem só na casa, as crianças estão te chorar todos dias!, moro no Golfe perto da paragem dos autocarros.” Uma velha, de panos, falando umbundo, olhava atentamente para cãmera da TPA que fazia o registo dos apelos e gesticula como se estivesse a ver a imagem da pessoa que procurava reflectida no olhp da câmera: “ Onde é que andas meu Neto?, desde que foste na tropa não voltaste mais porquê?, te mataram nos bandidos ou quê?, fala só meu neto, fala, não faz mais sofrer na tua mãe e na tua avó, ouviste? Vem só na casa, estamos a morar na mesma casa aqui em Luanda, ele me ouviu né?, só logo a noite no Nação Coragem?, não faz mal, mas tenho certeza que está hora ele já me viu falar”. Quando chegou a minha vez exibi foto dele que dona Marília me tinha enviado com a carta, era uma foto muito antiga tirada nos anos sessenta que, talvez por isso, era capaz de não ajudar nada, o Tô hoje deve ter mais ou menos a minha idade, mas pronto, deixei a foto e a filiação dele, e acrescentei que ele devia de estar na província da Huíla, e a única forma de eu puder ser contactodo caso alguém soubesse do Tô era só memso na portária da Rádio. Pessoas que estvam por perto ainda se admiraram por um preto vir procurar paradeiro de um branco, por isso me olharam só dessas – as dúvidas. Sei que a foto dele passou várias vezes no Nação Coragem e depois, cerca de quarenta dias após minha ida no Ponto de Encontro, a Rádio pela mesma via mandou-me chamar: o Tô manel tinha morrido naufragado ao largo sudoeste da africano.[…] — Noites de Vigília, de Boaventura Cardoso

Oliver Quiteculo > My Quotes (showing 1-2 of 2) sort by Remove this quote from your collection “[…] Depois de algum tempo, de ter perguntado pelo Tô Manel a várias pessoas, lembrei-me de ir tentar a sorte no ponto de encontro. Meti-me na bicha e fui escutando os apelos que as pessoas iam fazendo em busca dos seus familiares: “me chamo Fololinda Gouveia, estou a precurar meu filho que desapareceu em oitenta e nove, nome dele mais conhecido é Joãozinho Gouveia, peço só nas pessoas que estão a me ouvir favor só de lhe falarem que mãe dele está lhe precurar, moro no Cazenga”; “Meu nome é André Sapanjo, estou a precurar minha mulher que fugiu com outro homem em noventa e dois, uma grande cabra!, perdão!, não era isso que queria dizer, faz só favor de cortar nesta parte, cabra era no antigamente, agora que estou com a palavra do Senhor no coração não lhe posso chamar nem de cabra nem de puta, ai! ai! ai!, corta, corta, corta só também nesta palavra de puta que é muito feia, já cortou?, hã, ok…, nome dela da minha santinha é Madalena, quero que ela volta, volta só mana Lena, minha fofinha, agora estou bem na vida, mijo forte, tenho carros nas lundas, aqui em Luanda tenho várias lojas e carros, vou te dar cama e mesa, vais ver só no amor que vou te dar, moro na Mabor!”; “Meu nome que me pusseram com ele no baptismo é Mana Maria Teresinha do Menino Jesus, diga?, juro mesmo é esse nome que me pusseram com ele!, me chamam também mana Teté, estou só a precurar no pai das crianças que ele me deixou quando quando foi na tropa em oitenta e nove, o nome dele?, o nome dele mesmo é Zeca, Zeca quê?, Zeca só!, o outro nome dele nunca lhe perguntei, mas está aqui foto dele, peço só para me falarem onde é que ele está, vivo ou morto!, Zeca vem só na casa, as crianças estão te chorar todos dias!, moro no Golfe perto da paragem dos autocarros.” Uma velha, de panos, falando umbundo, olhava atentamente para cãmera da TPA que fazia o registo dos apelos e gesticula como se estivesse a ver a imagem da pessoa que procurava reflectida no olhp da câmera: “ Onde é que andas meu Neto?, desde que foste na tropa não voltaste mais porquê?, te mataram nos bandidos ou quê?, fala só meu neto, fala, não faz mais sofrer na tua mãe e na tua avó, ouviste? Vem só na casa, estamos a morar na mesma casa aqui em Luanda, ele me ouviu né?, só logo a noite no Nação Coragem?, não faz mal, mas tenho certeza que está hora ele já me viu falar”. Quando chegou a minha vez exibi foto dele que dona Marília me tinha enviado com a carta, era uma foto muito antiga tirada nos anos sessenta que, talvez por isso, era capaz de não ajudar nada, o Tô hoje deve ter mais ou menos a minha idade, mas pronto, deixei a foto e a filiação dele, e acrescentei que ele devia de estar na província da Huíla, e a única forma de eu puder ser contactodo caso alguém soubesse do Tô era só memso na portária da Rádio. Pessoas que estvam por perto ainda se admiraram por um preto vir procurar paradeiro de um branco, por isso me olharam só dessas – as dúvidas. Sei que a foto dele passou várias vezes no Nação Coragem e depois, cerca de quarenta dias após minha ida no Ponto de Encontro, a Rádio pela mesma via mandou-me chamar: o Tô manel tinha morrido naufragado ao largo sudoeste da africano.[…]

Toque na caixa de seleção próxima ao título de um item para adicioná-lo à biblioteca Kindle FreeTime (biblioteca do Kindle for Kids no Reino Unido) da criança e toque em OK. Para adicionar ou remover eBooks da lista de leitura da criança mais tarde, toque no ícone do perfil próximo ao nome da criança na tela principal do Kindle FreeTime (Kindle for Kids no Reino Unido) e selecione Biblioteca. Configurar o Acesso a conquistas para ligado para permitir que a criança visualize conquistas alcançadas. Use a opção Objetivo diário de leitura

coughed. Granny, you know I love Meg very much, and I’ve decided that I would like to ask her to marry me, and I’ve been told that, er, that I have to ask your permission before I can propose. You have to? Um. Well, yes, that’s what your staff tell me, and my staff as well. That I have to ask your permission. I stood completely still, as motionless as the birds in my hands. I stared at her face but it was unreadable. At last she replied: Well, then, I suppose I have to say yes. I squinted. You feel you have to say yes? Does that mean you are saying yes? But that you want to say no? I didn’t get it. Was she being sarcastic? Ironic? Deliberately cryptic? Was she indulging in a bit of wordplay? I’d never known Granny to do any wordplay, and this would be a surpassingly bizarre moment (not to mention wildly inconvenient) for her to start, but maybe she just saw the chance to play off my unfortunate use of the word “have” and couldn’t resist? Or else, perhaps there was some hidden meaning beneath the wordplay, some message I wasn’t comprehending? I stood there squinting, smiling, asking myself over and over: What is the Queen of England saying to me right now? At long last I realized: She’s saying yes, you muppet! She’s granting permission. Who cares how she words it, just know when to take yes for an answer. So I sputtered: Right. OK, Granny! Well. Fabulous. Thank you! Thank you so much. I wanted to hug her. I longed to hug her. I didn’t hug her. I saw her into the Range Rover, then marched back to Pa and Willy.

Ok, that’s cool,” said Dave, “but as I was saying— “I am Guyjack!” said another ninja, jumping up and doing a flip in the air. He was wearing light blue robes. “I am the leader of the Ninja Squad, and master of ice!” “And I am Ash,” said another ninja. “I want to be the very best—like no-one ever was! I am the leader of the Ninja Squad!” “Listen,” said Dave, “you don’t all need to—” “I am Chase!” yelled another ninja, doing a double backflip and then pulling a pose. “I am an agile, sneaky and strong elf, and the noble leader of the Ninja Squad!” Dave noticed that Chase had pointy ears. Although something about them didn’t look quite right... “I’m Knight Swagger!” said a huge ninja with muscles bulging through his black robes. “I’m a pro fighter and…” “Let me guess,” said Dave, “the leader of the Ninja Squad?” “Um, yes,” said Knight Swagger. A ninja in armour stepped forward. At first Dave thought, to his surprise, that the armour was made of bedrock, but then he looked closer and saw that it was just painted wood. “Behold,” said the ninja, “it is I, Knight Galaxy, the master of bedrock and slayer of lies. Also, I’m the leader of the Ninja Squad.” Dave was just about to say something when another ninja ran forward, flipping through the air and swirling two wooden swords around. “I am Oof!” he said. “The leader of the Ninja Squad! No foe can survive my swift sword attack ninjutsu!” “Do you fear the dark?” asked another ninja. This one was clad in black robes but without an eye slit, so he looked like a shadow. “I am Darkest Night, the master of the darkness and leader of the Ninja Squad!” “Flame on!” yelled another ninja, running forward and striking a pose. He was wearing red robes. “I am Jolt Flame, the leader of the Ninja Squad and Master of the Sacred Fire!” “I am the leader of the Ninja Squad too!” said another ninja. He had a white skull painted on the front of his hood and bones painted on the rest of his body. “I am Segid the Skeleton!” “But… you’re not a skeleton?” said Dave. “One day I will be,” said Segid. “I am Jackson,” said another ninja. “The Ninja in the Iron Mask and the leader of the Ninja Squad.”  True to his name, Jackson was wearing a helmet made of iron that covered his whole face, leaving only holes for his eyes.

What can I get for you chaps?” a pigman in a chefs hat asked them. “We have rabbit stew, mushroom stew or baked po—” “BAKED POTATO!” said Carl. “Um, ok,” said the pigman. “Er, and for you two?” “Rabbit stew for me, please,” said Dave. “And I want the head of my father on a golden plate,” said Spidroth darkly, staring at Heroprime.

Stay back!” I yelled. “This nerd is under my protection!” “Um, did you just call me a nerd?” asked the author. “Quiet, nerd,” I said. “Um, ok then,” said the author.

I only wanted to be rich,” said Elder Gray miserably. “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.” “Um, you ordered your golems to kill us,” said Carl. “Ok, ok, geez,” said Elder Gray.

What can I get for you chaps?” a pigman in a chefs hat asked them. “We have rabbit stew, mushroom stew or baked po—” “BAKED POTATO!” said Carl. “Um, ok,” said the pigman. “Er, and for you two?

I’m not getting close to the bears!” whimpered Captain Nitwit. “FOOL, YOU WILL DO AS YOU’RE TOLD!” yelled Spidroth. “NOW FIGHT!” “Um, ok then,

If she knew I went out again,' he said, 'I could get youth custody.' 'If she shopped you, you mean?' He nodded. 'But... sod it... to cut a foot off a horse...' Perhaps the better nature was somewhere there after all. Stealing cars was OK, maiming racehorses wasn't. He wouldn't have blinded those ponies: he wasn't that sort of lout. 'If I fix it with your aunt, will you tell me?' I asked. 'Make her promise not to tell Archie. He's worse.' 'Er,' I said, 'who is Archie?' 'My uncle. Aunt Betty's brother. He's Establishment, man. He's the flogging classes.' I made no promises. I said, 'Just spill the beans.' 'In three weeks I'll be sixteen.' He looked at me intently for reaction, but all he'd caused in me was puzzlement. I thought the cut-off age for crime to be considered 'juvenile' was two years older. He wouldn't be sent to an adult jail. Jonathan saw my lack of understanding. He said impatiently, 'You can't be underage for sex if you're a man, only if you're a girl.' 'Are you sure?' 'She says so.' 'Your Aunt Betty?' I felt lost. 'No, stupid. The woman in the village.' 'Oh... ah.' 'Her old man's a long-distance truck driver. He's away for nights on end. He'd kill me. Youth custody would be apple pie,' 'Difficult,' I said. 'She wants it, see? I'd never done it before. I bought her a gin in the pub.' Which, at fifteen, was definitely illegal to start with. 'So... um...,' I said, 'last night you were coming back from the village... When, exactly?' 'It was dark. Just before dawn. There had been more moon light earlier, but I'd left it late. I was running. She-Aunt Betty-she wakes with the cocks. She lets the dogs out before six.' His agitation, I thought, was producing what sounded like truth. I thought, and asked, 'Did you see any ramblers?' 'No. It was earlier than them.' I held my breath. I had to ask the next question, and dreaded the answer.

Há apenas três razões para um homem ser evasivo: ou é pescador, ou é leiteiro ou é padre. (...) Um pescador sabe que há muito peixe no mar e não quer passar a vida a comer bacalhau, quando ainda não provou atum nem robalo. (...) Ok. Então talvez seja leiteiro. Tem uma boa mulher em casa, mas continua a fazer entregas a donas de casa incautas. (...) Então é um padre. (...) Não quer dizer que não goste de despir as calças de vez em quando. Um padre é alguém que se sacrifica em benefício dos outros. Abdicam da sua própria felicidade para proteger os membros do seu rebanho.

Yes, there are dark forces, but there are also good forces. Um… paranoia… to… solely concentrate on just the dark forces is… negative and is… self-destructive. It is… OK to be cautious… but it is not good to be paranoid. It is OK to… seek the truth, but it is… not good… to concentrate on… just the bad. There is good; there is bad. And yes, right now… bad seems to outweigh the good… as far as the human race is concerned, but...(slowly) Stan’s words… the pendulum swings both ways. DON M: Well, I’m confident that the good will win over the bad, but it is a fact that there is a criminal element in control of governments, in control of the currency, in control of universities, in control of the media… GRANDPA: We understand this. We know this. Just— DON M: So, it’s a fact; it’s truth. GRANDPA: It is true, but… to concentrate solely on this is unhealthy. It is unhealthy from… it is unhealthy for humans mentally. It’s good to be wary, but… to a point it becomes an obsession… and you cannot concentrate on...what your real goals should be… and what your gifts are.