Wall Plaque Quotes

There was a soft chuckle beside me, and my heart stopped. "So this is Oberon's famous half-blood," Ash mused as I whirled around. His eyes, cold and inhuman, glimmered with amusement. Up close, he was even more beautiful, with high cheekbones and dark tousled hair falling into his eyes. My traitor hands itched, longing to run my fingers through those bangs. Horrified, I clenched them in my lap, trying to concentrate on what Ash was saying. "And to think," the prince continued, smiling, "I lost you that day in the forest and didn't even know what I was chasing." I shrank back, eyeing Oberon and Queen Mab. They were deep in conversation and did not notice me. I didn't want to interrupt them simply because a prince of the Unseelie Court was talking to me. Besides, I was a faery princess now. Even if I didn't quite believe it, Ash certainly did. I took a deep breath, raised my chin, and looked him straight in the eye. "I warn you," I said, pleased that my voice didn't tremble, "that if you try anything, my father will remove your head and stick it to a plaque on his wall." He shrugged one lean shoulder. "There are worse things." At my horrified look, he offered a faint, self-derogatory smile. "Don't worry, princess, I won't break the rules of Elysium. I have no intention of facing Mab's wrath should I embarrass her. That's not why I'm here." "Then what do you want?" He bowed. "A dance." "What!" I stared at him in disbelief. "You tried to kill me!" "Technically, I was trying to kill Puck. You just happened to be there. But yes, if I'd had the shot, I would have taken it." "Then why the hell would you think I'd dance with you?" "That was then." He regarded me blandly. "This is now. And it's tradition in Elysium that a son and daughter of opposite territories dance with each other, to demonstrate the goodwill between the courts." "Well, it's a stupid tradition." I crossed my arms and glared. "And you can forget it. I am not going anywhere with you." He raised an eyebrow. "Would you insult my monarch, Queen Mab, by refusing? She would take it very personally, and blame Oberon for the offense. And Mab can hold a grudge for a very, very long time." Oh, damn. I was stuck.

On the other hand, winning awards is cool. Aside from the warm fuzzy, it creates publicity, and that helps spread the word about the book. Plus, this award was a plaque of some sort. I could have used that for all sorts of things. Obviously it would be useful for decorating the barren walls of my house and intimidating my enemies, but that's just for starters.

Mr. Buckley, let me explain it this way. And I'll do so very carefully and slowly so that even you will understand it. If I was the sheriff, I would not have arrested him. If I was on the grand jury, I would not have indicted him. If I was the judge, I would not try him. If I was the D.A., I would not prosecute him. If I was on the trial jury, I would vote to give him a key to the city, a plaque to hang on his wall, and I would send him home to his family. And, Mr. Buckley, if my daughter is ever raped, I hope I have the guts to do what he did.

Almost overnight, the streets glow with meaning. She reads inscriptions on coins, on cornerstones and tombstones, on lead seals and buttress piers and marble plaques embedded into the defensive walls—each twisting lane of the city a great battered manuscript in its own right.

You don’t have to call me that, you know,” she said, brushing her hair back from her shoulders. “There was a time when you called me Winter.” He leaned his elbows on the enclosure wall. “There was also a time when I could come visit you without feeling like I was supposed to toss bread crumbs to earn your favor.” “Bread crumbs? Do I look like a goose?” He tilted his head to the side. “You don’t look like an arctic wolf, either, but that’s what the plaque tells me I’m looking at.” Winter leaned back on her hands. “I will not play fetch,” she said, “but I might howl if you ask nicely.” He grinned. “I’ve heard your howl. It’s not very wolf-like, either.” “I’ve been practicing.” “You won’t bite me if I come in there, will you?” “I make no guarantees.” Jacin hopped over the rail and came to sit beside her. She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look like an arctic wolf, either.” “I also don’t howl.” He considered. “Though I might play fetch, depending on the prize.” “The prize is another game of fetch.” “You drive a hard bargain.

Modern man is full of platitudes about living life to its fullest, with catchy keychain phrases and little plaques for kitchen walls. But if you've never retreated to the solitude of a dark room and listened to Beethoven's Ninth from start to finish, you know nothing. For music is a transcendental exploration of human emotion and experience, the very fabric of life in its purest form. And the Ninth our greatest musical achievement.

Often there is no more than a little plaque to reveal that, against all gynaecological probability, someone very famous was born halfway up a wall.

Whoever is born in New York is ill-equipped to deal with any other city: all other cities seem, at best, a mistake, and, at worst, a fraud. No other city is so spitefully incoherent. Whereas other cities flaunt there history - their presumed glory - in vividly placed monuments, squares, parks, plaques, and boulevards, such history as New York has been unable entirely to obliterate is to be found, mainly, in the backwaters of Wall Street, in the goat tracks of Old and West Broadway, in and around Washington Square, and, for the relentless searcher, in grimly inaccessible regions of The Bronx.

It was, in fact, one of those places that exist merely so that people can have come from them. The universe is littered with them: hidden villages, windswept little towns under wide skies, isolated cabins on chilly mountains, whose only mark on history is to be the incredibly ordinary place where something extraordinary started to happen. Often there is no more than a little plaque to reveal that, against all gynecological probability, someone very famous was born halfway up a wall.

Hating L.A. was in my Northern California DNA. We even had a burl plaque that hung on our living room wall that read, “We Don’t Give a Damn How it’s Done in L.A.

Poetic Terrorism WEIRD DANCING IN ALL-NIGHT computer-banking lobbies. Unauthorized pyrotechnic displays. Land-art, earth-works as bizarre alien artifacts strewn in State Parks. Burglarize houses but instead of stealing, leave Poetic-Terrorist objects. Kidnap someone & make them happy. Pick someone at random & convince them they're the heir to an enormous, useless & amazing fortune--say 5000 square miles of Antarctica, or an aging circus elephant, or an orphanage in Bombay, or a collection of alchemical mss. ... Bolt up brass commemorative plaques in places (public or private) where you have experienced a revelation or had a particularly fulfilling sexual experience, etc. Go naked for a sign. Organize a strike in your school or workplace on the grounds that it does not satisfy your need for indolence & spiritual beauty. Graffiti-art loaned some grace to ugly subways & rigid public monuments--PT-art can also be created for public places: poems scrawled in courthouse lavatories, small fetishes abandoned in parks & restaurants, Xerox-art under windshield-wipers of parked cars, Big Character Slogans pasted on playground walls, anonymous letters mailed to random or chosen recipients (mail fraud), pirate radio transmissions, wet cement... The audience reaction or aesthetic-shock produced by PT ought to be at least as strong as the emotion of terror-- powerful disgust, sexual arousal, superstitious awe, sudden intuitive breakthrough, dada-esque angst--no matter whether the PT is aimed at one person or many, no matter whether it is "signed" or anonymous, if it does not change someone's life (aside from the artist) it fails. PT is an act in a Theater of Cruelty which has no stage, no rows of seats, no tickets & no walls. In order to work at all, PT must categorically be divorced from all conventional structures for art consumption (galleries, publications, media). Even the guerilla Situationist tactics of street theater are perhaps too well known & expected now. An exquisite seduction carried out not only in the cause of mutual satisfaction but also as a conscious act in a deliberately beautiful life--may be the ultimate PT. The PTerrorist behaves like a confidence-trickster whose aim is not money but CHANGE. Don't do PT for other artists, do it for people who will not realize (at least for a few moments) that what you have done is art. Avoid recognizable art-categories, avoid politics, don't stick around to argue, don't be sentimental; be ruthless, take risks, vandalize only what must be defaced, do something children will remember all their lives--but don't be spontaneous unless the PT Muse has possessed you. Dress up. Leave a false name. Be legendary. The best PT is against the law, but don't get caught. Art as crime; crime as art.

Often there is no more than a little plaque to reveal that, against all gynecological probability, someone very famous was born halfway up a wall.

Holly took a moment to study a painting that dominated one wall. 'Oh, give me a break,' she said. The picture was in oils. Completely white. There was a brass plaque beneath. It read 'Snow Ghost'.

That’s just the way life is. It can be exquisite, cruel, frequently wacky, but above all utterly, utterly random. Those twin imposters in the bell-fringed jester hats, Justice and Fairness—they aren’t constants of the natural order like entropy or the periodic table. They’re completely alien notions to the way things happen out there in the human rain forest. Justice and Fairness are the things we’re supposed to contribute back to the world for giving us the gift of life—not birthrights we should expect and demand every second of the day. What do you say we drop the intellectual cowardice? There is no fate, and there is no safety net. I’m not saying God doesn’t exist. I believe in God. But he’s not a micromanager, so stop asking Him to drop the crisis in Rwanda and help you find your wallet. Life is a long, lonely journey down a day-in-day-out lard-trail of dropped tacos. Mop it up, not for yourself, but for the guy behind you who’s too busy trying not to drop his own tacos to make sure he doesn’t slip and fall on your mistakes. So don’t speed and weave in traffic; other people have babies in their cars. Don’t litter. Don’t begrudge the poor because they have a fucking food stamp. Don’t be rude to overwhelmed minimum-wage sales clerks, especially teenagers—they have that job because they don’t have a clue. You didn’t either at that age. Be understanding with them. Share your clues. Remember that your sense of humor is inversely proportional to your intolerance. Stop and think on Veterans Day. And don’t forget to vote. That is, unless you send money to TV preachers, have more than a passing interest in alien abduction or recentlypurchased a fish on a wall plaque that sings ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy.’ In that case, the polls are a scary place! Under every ballot box is a trapdoor chute to an extraterrestrial escape pod filled with dental tools and squeaking, masturbating little green men from the Devil Star. In conclusion, Class of Ninety-seven, keep your chins up, grab your mops and get in the game. You don’t have to make a pile of money or change society. Just clean up after yourselves without complaining. And, above all, please stop and appreciate the days when the tacos don’t fall, and give heartfelt thanks to whomever you pray to….

This is a man who has shown a complete disregard for human life, cynicism and hypocrisy, and a willingness to use war and the deaths of thousands of Russian soldiers and innocent civilians as a PR instrument in his election campaign. This is a man who raised a toast on the anniversary of Stalin’s birth, had the plaque commemorating former KGB head Yury Andropov restored to its place on the wall of the Lubyanka—Federal Security Service headquarters—and dreams of seeing the statue of butcher Felix Dzerzhinsky, founder of the Soviet secret police, stand once again in the center of Moscow.

Ellie stops walking and turns to the display in front of her. It’s a bed—four-poster canopy, ornate and curtained with intricate, gold-trimmed, royal-blue and purple fabric. She reads the description off the plaque on the wall. “The bed of His Majesty King Reginald the Second and Queen Margaret Anastasia of Wessco. That’s Queen Lenora’s parents, right?” “Yeah.” She gazes back at the bed with a longing sigh. “Wow. I can’t imagine living like this every day. Servants and castles and crowns—how perfect would that be?” She points at the opulent bed. “Queen Lenora could have been conceived on this bed, right here!” I flinch at the thought. “Let’s not speak of it.

I’ve never in my life had someone put their hands on me and my mind is racing about how to escape. He grabs me tighter and pushes me against the wall, knocking one of the gold plaques off-center. He pins both of my arms against the wall. I’m writhing in his grip but he’s so much stronger than me. “You let him hit it and not me, huh?” His eyes are wide and glassy. “I get you into a good situation and you still want to act like a bougie-ass bitch!

She loved old things. The brown-brick place was a survivor of the 1907 earthquake and fire, and proudly bore a plaque from the historical society. The building had a haunted history- it was the site of a crime of passion- but Tess didn't mind. She'd never been superstitious. The apartment was filled with items she'd collected through the years, simply because she liked them or was intrigued by them. There was a balance between heirloom and kitsch. The common thread seemed to be that each object had a story, like a pottery jug with a bas-relief love story told in pictures, in which she'd found a note reading, "Long may we run. -Gilbert." Or the antique clock on the living room wall, each of its carved figures modeled after one of the clockmaker's twelve children. She favored the unusual, so long as it appeared to have been treasured by someone, once upon a time. Her mail spilled from an antique box containing a pigeon-racing counter with a brass plate engraved from a father to a son. She hung her huge handbag on a wrought iron finial from a town library that had burned and been rebuilt in a matter of weeks by an entire community. Other people's treasures captivated her. They always had, steeped in hidden history, bearing the nicks and gouges and fingerprints of previous owners. She'd probably developed the affinity from spending so much of her childhood in her grandmother's antique shop.

There are now little brass plaques on the ground outside this address. These are Stolpersteine. Tributes to the victims of the Holocaust. There are many of them in Berlin, especially in Charlottenburg. They are not easy to spot. You must walk with your head down, seeking memories between the cobblestones. In front of 15 Wielandstrasse, three names can be read. Paula, Albert, and Charlotte. But on the wall, there is only one commemorative plaque. The one for Charlotte Salomon.

We visit the Launch Control building, where on one wall of the seventies-style lobby are hung the mission patches of every human spaceflight that has ever been launched from here, 149 to date. Beneath each mission patch is a small plaque showing the launch and landing dates. Two of them—Challenger’s STS-51L and Columbia’s STS-107—are missing landing dates, because both of these missions ended in disasters that destroyed the orbiters and killed their crews. The blank spaces on the wall where those landing dates should have been are discolored from the touch of people’s hands. This would be unremarkable if this place were a tourist attraction, or regularly open to the public. But with the rare exception of Family Days, this building is open only to people who work here. In other words, it’s launch controllers, managers, and engineers who have been touching these empty spaces with their hands, on their way to and from doing their jobs. After

You might think lunchtime at Willing would be different from other high schools. That everyone would be welcome at any table, united by the knowledge that we, at Willing, are the Elite, the Chosen, stellar across the board. Um.No.Of course not.High school is high school, regardless of how much it costs or how many kids springboard into the Ivies. And nowhere is social status more evident than in the dining room (freshman and sophomores at noon; upperclassmen at one). Because, of course, Willing doesn't have a cafeteria, or even a lunch hall. It has a dining room, complete with oak tables and paneled walls that are covered with plaques going all the way back to 1869, the year Edith Willing Castoe (Edward's aunt) founded the school to "prepare Philadelphia's finest young ladies for Marriage,for Leadership, and for Service to the World." Really. Until the sixties, the school's boastful slogan was "She's a Willing Girl." Almost 150 years, three first ladies, and one attorney general-not to mention the arrival of boys-later, female members of the student body are still called Willing Girls. You'd think someone in the seventies would have objected to that and changed it. But Willing has survived the seventies of two different centuries. They'll probably still be calling us Willing Girls in 2075. It's a school that believes in Tradition, sometimes regardless of how stupid that Tradition is.

Seventeen years ago, wading aimlessly through one campo after another, a pair of green boots brought me to the threshold of a smallish pink edifice. On its wall I saw a plaque saying that Antonio Vivaldi, prematurely born, was baptized in this church. In those days I was still reasonably red-haired; I felt sentimental about bumping into the place of baptism of that “red cleric” who has given me so much joy on so many occasions and in so many godforsaken parts of the world. And I seemed to recall that it was Olga Rudge who had organized the first-ever Vivaldi settimana in this city - as it happened, just a few days before World War II broke out. It took place, somebody told me, in the palazzo of the Countess Polignac, and Miss Rudge was playing the violin. As she proceeded with the piece, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that a gentleman had entered the salone and stood by the door, since all the seats were taken. The piece was long, and now she felt somewhat worried, because she was approaching a passage where she had to turn the page without interrupting her play. The man in the corner of her eye started to move and soon disappeared from her field of vision. The passage grew closer, and her nervousness grew, too. Then, at exactly the point where she had to turn the page, a hand emerged from the left, stretched to the music stand, and slowly turned the sheet. She kept playing and, when the difficult passage was over, lifted her eyes to the left to acknowledge her gratitude. “And that,” Olga Rudge told a friend of mine, “is how I first met Stravinsky.

Last week, on the fifth anniversary of the ghetto uprising, 12,000 Jews assembled on the spot where the first shots were fired. There they dedicated a monument to the heroes of the ghetto and to the 3,500,000 other Jews killed in Poland. Delegations of Jews from 20 nations, including the U.S., laid wreaths and banners against the monument—a wall built of broken bricks from the ghetto‘s rubble piles. Mounted in a front niche was a bronze plaque showing armed men & women straining toward freedom. These were moving symbols to the Jews of Warsaw. But what they liked best, perhaps, was the shining granite that sheathed the monument’s wall: it was some of the Swedish granite that Adolf Hitler had ordered for his monument in Berlin.

On this site in 1897 Nothing happened

Away from the water, in the plaza behind the World Financial Center, was a small semienclosed space consisting of a fountain, plant beds with rushes, and two marble walls, one higher than the other. The walls were inscribed, and on the lower wall was a plaque: DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE POLICE DEPARTMENT WHO LOST THIER LIVES IN SERVICE TO THE PWOPLE OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK. On the other wall, there was a list, with dozens of names on it. At the very top was the first entry - PTL. JAMES CAHILL. SEPTEMBER 29,1854, It went on like that through the years, one entry after the other, rank, name, date of death; there was the expected, disheartening cluster in the fall of 2001, then a few others who died in the years that followed. Below that was a vast, blank face of polished marble, awaiting those among the living who would die in uniform, and the not yet born, who would be born, grow up to be police officers, and be killed doing that work.

The heart is essentially a muscular pump connected to an elaborate network of branching tubes. Although there are several kinds of cardiovascular disease, almost all arise from something going wrong in either the tubes or the pump. Most problems start with the tubes, primarily the arteries that carry blood from the heart to every nook and cranny of the body. Like the pipes in a building, arteries are vulnerable to getting clogged with unwanted deposits. This hardening of the arteries, termed atherosclerosis, starts with the buildup of plaque—a gloppy mixture of fat, cholesterol, and calcium—within the walls of arteries. Plaques, however, don’t simply accumulate in arteries like crud settling in a pipe. Instead, they are dynamic, changing, growing, shifting, and sometimes breaking. They develop when white blood cells in arteries trigger inflammation by reacting to damage usually caused by a combination of high blood pressure and so-called bad cholesterol that irritates the walls of the artery. In an effort to repair the damage, white blood cells produce a foamy mixture that incorporates cholesterol and other stuff and then hardens. As plaque accumulates, arteries stiffen and narrow, sometimes preventing enough blood from flowing to the tissues and organs that need it and further driving up blood pressure. One potentially lethal scenario is when plaques block an artery completely or detach and obstruct a smaller artery elsewhere. When this happens, tissues are starved of blood (also called ischemia) and die. Plaques can also cause the artery wall to dilate, weaken, and bulge (an aneurysm) or to tear apart (a rupture), which can lead to massive bleeding (a hemorrhage). Blocked and ruptured arteries create trouble anywhere in the body, but the most vulnerable locations are the narrow coronary arteries that supply the heart muscle itself. Heart attacks, caused by blocked coronary arteries, may damage the heart’s muscle, leading to less effective pumping of blood or triggering an electrical disturbance that can stop the heart altogether. Other highly vulnerable arteries are in the brain, which cause strokes when blocked by blood clots or when they rupture and bleed. To this list of more susceptible locations we should also add the retinas, kidneys, stomach, and intestines. The most extreme consequence of coronary artery disease is a heart attack, which, if one survives, leaves behind a weakened heart unable to pump blood as effectively as before, leading to heart failure.

To explore how physical activity helps but doesn’t entirely prevent cardiovascular diseases, let’s return to the trinity of intertwined factors that are the root causes of the problem: high cholesterol, high blood pressure, and inflammation. Cholesterol. A cholesterol test usually measures the levels of three molecules in your blood. The first is low-density lipoprotein (LDL), often termed bad cholesterol. Your liver produces these balloon-like molecules to transport fats and cholesterol throughout your bloodstream, but some LDLs have a harmful tendency to burrow into the walls of arteries, especially when blood pressure is high. These intrusions cause an inflammatory reaction that generates plaques. The second type of cholesterol is high-density lipoprotein (HDL), sometimes called good cholesterol, because these molecules scavenge and return LDLs back to the liver. The third type are triglycerides, fat molecules that are floating freely in the bloodstream and a signpost for metabolic syndrome. To make a long story short, diets rich in sugar and saturated fats contribute to cardiovascular disease because they promote high levels of plaque-forming LDLs. Conversely, physical activity helps prevent cardiovascular disease by lowering triglycerides, raising HDL levels, and to a lesser degree lowering LDL. Blood pressure. A blood pressure test gives you two readings: the higher (systolic) number is the pressure your heart’s main chamber overcomes when it squeezes blood throughout your body; the lower (diastolic) number is the pressure your heart experiences as its main chamber fills with blood. By convention high blood pressure is a reading greater than 130/90 or 140/90. Blood pressures above these values are concerning because, unabated, they damage the walls of arteries, making them vulnerable to invasion by plaque-inducing LDLs. As we already saw, once plaques start to form, blood pressure can rise, potentially stimulating yet more plaques. Chronically high blood pressure also strains the heart, causing it to thicken abnormally and weaken. By forcing more blood to flow more rapidly through arteries, physical activity stimulates the generation of new arteries throughout the body and helps keep existing arteries supple, protecting against high blood pressure. Inflammation. Plaques don’t form out of the blue but instead occur when white blood cells in the bloodstream react to the inflammation caused by LDLs and high blood pressure. Chronic inflammation also increases one’s likelihood of developing plaques from high cholesterol and blood pressure.40 And, as we have previously seen, while inflammation is caused by factors such as obesity, junky diets, excess alcohol, and smoking, it is substantially lowered by physical activity.

Dr. Robert O. Young states, “The exact cause of atherosclerosis is NOW known. It is caused by an acidic lifestyle and diet leading to excess acid retention in the blood and then tissues leading to acid solidification or plaque that builds up on the arterial wall causing poor circulation, cold hands, cold feet, light headedness, dizziness, muddle thinking, forgetfulness, high blood pressure, heart attack, stroke and finally death.

was running out of valuable athletic clichés. Would beach volleyball say much about proposals for federal health care reform? Could I use mumblety-peg comparisons to explain the North American Free Trade Agreement negotiations? Golf, however, is ideal for these purposes. “Christian fundamentalists put a wicked slice in the Republican party platform.” “Somebody should replace the divot on the back of Al Gore’s head.” “Let’s go hit Congress with a stick.” I also wanted a sport with a lot of equipment. All truly American sports are equipment intensive. Basketball was strictly for hoop-over-the-barn-door Hoosiers and Jersey City Y’s until two-hundred-dollar gym shoes were invented. And synchronized swimming will never make it to network prime time because how often do you need new nose plugs? I’m an altruistic guy, in my own Reaganomics way. Sports gear purchases are about all that’s keeping the fragile U.S. economy alive, and you’d have to get into America’s Cup yachting or cross-country airplane racing to find a sport that needs more gear than golf. I’ve bought the shoes, hats, socks, pants, shirts, umbrellas, windbreakers, and plus fours—all in colors that Nirvana fans wouldn’t dye their hair. Then there are the drivers, irons, putters, and the special clubs: parking-lot wedge, back-of-the-tree mashie, nearby highway niblick. MasterCard has installed a plaque on the wall of its headquarters to commemorate my taking up golf.

whose only mark on history is to be the incredibly ordinary place where something extraordinary started to happen. Often there is no more than a little plaque to reveal that, against all gynecological probability, someone very famous was born halfway up a wall.

nodded and told her thanks as I looked around the lobby. Plaques hung along the walls with his many accomplishments and contributions to the community over the years. One that stood out was his donation to a local housing authority. I won't lie and say the shit wasn't dope because it was. I wanted to build a center of sorts for similar kids, so I commend him on the work he's done. Too bad that same

How the hell we lived in a country that expected us to choose what we wanted to do for the rest of our lives before we were even legally old enough to have an alcoholic beverage was beyond me. I’d never wanted to do the life society seemed so intent to push me into. I didn’t care about college or getting some fancy, high-paying job that would allow me to live the same life my parents and Vince did. I didn’t desire a corner office with a gold plaque on the wall with my name on it. I wanted adventure. I wanted limitless options, zero boundaries, and the freedom to make the most of every day I had on this Earth. Of course, I still needed money to survive. So, going to college in order to secure at least a few years of stability? Worth

This one,” he said, stopping me in front of a grand painting that covered the wall. It was a painting of a pale, well-dressed woman. She wore a voluminous dress that overtook her plush chair; seated at a desk in front of a window, she clutched flowers and a note. It breathed of sunlight; each color used in the painting had a yellow or orange hue. Reading the plaque on the wall, it said: “Love Letters” by Jean Honoré Fragonard.

Princeton Newport bought five million shares of old AT&T at about $66 a share for $330 million. We paid for most of this with term financing, which was a special loan from our broker just for this deal, to be paid off from the proceeds when the position was closed out. Meanwhile, we offset the risk of owning old AT&T by simultaneously selling short the shares we were going to receive in exchange for our shares of old AT&T. These so-called when-issued shares consisted of five million shares of new AT&T and five hundred thousand shares of each of the new seven sisters. We did the trade through Goldman Sachs by taking half of each of two successive five million share blocks of about $330 million apiece. I have a gold-colored plaque, a so-called deal toy, on my desk commemorating the December 1, 1983, block as then being the largest dollar amount for a single trade in the history of the New York Stock Exchange. In two and a half months, PNP netted $1.6 million from the AT&T trade after all costs.

how aliens had traveled from distant galaxies, across the vast where-no-man-has-gone-before reaches of space, to visit their B-list Earth, where the wild animals became frequently extinct but the domesticated ones got their own special matching rain boots and slickers, and their own wall plaque

I hung the plaque on the wall, right next to the floss.

the case of arteries, oxidization of LDLs causes an inflammation in the cells that make up the arterial wall, which then triggers white blood cells to come and clean up the mess. Unfortunately, the white blood cells trigger a positive feedback loop because part of their response is to create a foam that traps more small LDLs, which then also get oxidized. Eventually, this foamy mixture coagulates into a stiffened accumulation of crud on the artery wall, known as a plaque. Your body fights plaques primarily with HDLs, which scavenge cholesterol from the plaque and return it to the liver. Plaques thus develop not just when LDL levels (again, mostly the small ones) are high but also when HDL levels are low. If

The universe is littered with them: hidden villages, windswept little towns under wide skies, isolated cabins on chilly mountains, whose only mark on history is to be the incredibly ordinary place where something extraordinary started to happen. Often there is no more than a little plaque to reveal that, against all gynecological probability, someone very famous was born halfway up a wall. Mist

Harvard generally frowned on Aiken’s postwar activities, however, including his close ties with industry, and ultimately the continual struggle for funding drove him to retire from the university at the minimum age in 1961. When he died suddenly at a conference in March 1973 at the age of seventy-three, Aiken left a generous bequest to Harvard. His generosity was not reciprocated. In spring 2000 the new Maxwell Dworkin computer sciences building was ceremonially inaugurated at the northeast corner of Harvard University’s Holmes Field, formerly the site of the Aiken Computation Laboratory. The new building was a gift to the university from Bill Gates and his Microsoft associate and Harvard classmate Steven Ballmer. Instead of continuing to honor the name of Howard Hathaway Aiken, founder of Harvard’s trailblazing computing program, the new center was named for the mothers of the two recent benefactors. A bronze plaque on the wall of the building is all that remains today to remind of Aiken’s original inspiration. Recently a conference room at the computer center was named for Grace Hopper.

A bell jingled over Sunna’s head as she entered the coffee shop, and suddenly, she felt like she was back in Toronto, but ten years earlier. Where the bigger city’s coffee shops had moved on to more modern—Instagram-worthy—design trends and oat milk lattes, this place still had the chalkboard menu behind the counter, a plaque on the wall with a quote about not being able to function without coffee in that once-trendy bridesmaid font. A soft folk song played in the background, and the baristas laughed together as they made drinks.

It was an oblong, two-storey building with crumbling, dirty-red roof tiles and mauve plasterwork on the outside walls that had fallen off in chunks. Across it the faded slogan ‘Long Live the Albanian Communist Party’ was flaking off. It now had a wooden plaque on the door reading ‘Shënomadh Church’: an epitaph for the ideology that had claimed Albania as ‘the world’s first atheist state’, thought Jude.

I had been reading a book by Watchman Nee. It stated that two people can hear the same verse preached (“I am the way, the truth and the life, no man comes unto the Father but by Me” John 4:16), and one person says, “That’s wonderful,” and comes to the Father by Jesus Christ, while another person says, “That’s wonderful—I’m going to make a plaque and put it on the wall.” I

Finally, he said, “Anything. He was capable of anything. The truth is, even though they had his name on a plaque on the wall at Langley, Frenchy sold me to the Russians in 1974, when I was in Kurdistan. There were unpleasant consequences. He had no conscience. He was a great man who was capable of great evil, not that uncommon a combination. Whatever you think he did, he probably did. And worse.

Munching on a second slice of banana bread, I look around Concannon’s house. His career was over. He’d spent the better part of fifty years using public money to alleviate suffering. He’d controlled nearly a trillion dollars in government spending. Yet his home is modest. He drives a ten-year-old Volvo. He had gone from state to state, and each time he had been honored for his public service. The plaques were stacked up in his garage. He didn’t own enough wall space for them all.

Saturated Fat Saturated fats tend to harden at room temperature; lard is an easily recognizable example. The body processes saturated fats differently from monounsaturates and polyunsatu-rates. Excess intake of saturated fats creates an elevated level of LDL (“bad”) cholesterol. By now you are familiar with the threat to cardiovascular health posed by high LDL cholesterol. It can contribute to the accumulation of fatty deposits and plaque on the arterial walls, which leads to damage to the endothelium, impairing your body’s ability to make NO.

Change is a good thing,” Jacey whispered as she stared at the Stanley Cup Championship plaques lining the wall. They were from the eighties and the Cleveland Rockers incarnation of the current team, but still reflected hockey success.

If the wall of an artery gets injured—a common occurrence when arteries are stretched because of stress and high blood pressure, or scratched by toxic and irritating molecules such as nicotine, trans fats, chlorine, additives, and oxidants—your body patches up fissures with cholesterol plaque, a kind of plaster, in an attempt to prevent the artery from further damage and bleeding. The cholesterol plaque also buys time for the cells in the arterial wall to divide and repair the injured area, covering it with new cells under the plaque. Eventually, once the irritating conditions subside, as happens in nature, the cholesterol plaque will be reabsorbed and the artery will look like new again. This is similar to what happens to an injury in your skin under a scab. New cells are growing and covering the area, so when the scab falls, your skin is as intact as it was before the injury.

They had nothing. In their houses, there was nothing. At first. You had to stay in the dark of the huts a long while to make out what was on the walls. In the wife's hut a wavy pattern of broad white and ochre bands. In others - she did not know whether or not she was welcome where they dipped in and out all day from dark to light like swallows - she caught a glimpse of a single painted circle, an eye or target, as she saw it. In one dwelling where she was invited to enter there was the tail of an animal and a rodent skull, dried gut, dangling from the thatch. Commonly there were very small mirrors snapping at the stray beams of light like hungry fish rising. They reflected nothing. An impression - sensation - of seeing something intricately banal, manufactured, replicated, made her turn as if someone had spoken to her from back there. It was in the hut where the yokes and traces for the plough-oxen were. She went inside again and discovered insignia, like war medals, nailed just to the left of the dark doorway. The enamel emblem's Red Cross was foxed and pitted with damp, bonded with dirt to the mud and dung plaster that was slowly incorporating it. The engraved lettering on the brass arm-plaque had filled with rust. The one was a medallion of the kind presented to black miners who pass a First Aid exam on how to treat injuries likely to occur underground, the other was a black miner's badge of rank, the highest open to him. Someone from the mines; someone had gone to the gold mines and come home with these trophies. Or they had been sent home; and where was the owner? No one lived in this hut. But someone had; had had possessions, his treasure displayed. Had gone away, or died - was forgotten or was commemorated by the evidence of these objects left, or placed, in the hut. Mine workers had been coming from out of these places for a long, long time, almost as long as the mines had existed. She read the brass arm-plaque: Boss Boy.

For years, we knew the double-storey at the bottom of Albermarle Street as the Gandhi House. In the decade before the Great War, we'd been told, Gandhi lived here with his family. Now the house has lost its claim on history 9but not its plaque from the National Monuments Council). An enterprising researcher, with nothing to gain by his unmasking except the truth, has shown that Gandhi did not live here after all, but up the road at No. 11. One of Gandhi's descendants, who visited the house as a child, has provided confirmation. The people at No. 11 should have that plaque moved to their wall. Both the Gandhi Houses, the true and the false, are double-storeys set on a promontory between two thoroughfares, but the attitudes of the streets could not differ more. Hillier and Albermarle Streets approach the impostor rather Kindly, cupping it in leafy palms, whereas Albermarle and Johannes grip the genuine article like an egg in a nutcracker. No. 11 has a handsome corrugated-iron roof and a wide, shady balcony. I recall an orante wrought-iron finial, the ECG of a Victorian heartbeat, dancing along the roof ridge, but it must have been removed by the renovators. I cannot remember ever seeing a person on the balcony, perfectly suited though it is to reading the paper or chatting over sundowners, but for a few years there were shop-window mannequins leaning on the parapet. Perhaps they were scarecrows for thieves? At night, with the lighted windows behind them, they always deceived the eye. Something in the atmosphere, a bit of lace around the neck, a reddish tinge of the light from the doorway, made them look like whores. Apparently, the Mahatma used to take his rest on the balcony on summer nights. It is easy to picture him there with sleep in his eyes, buffing his little round glasses on the hem of a bed sheet.

The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall.

They came upon a nook bearing a wall plaque to mark the resting place of the martyred priest Gil Parès; then completing the circle, they were back to the chapel housing Gaudí’s tomb.

Here, too, the furnishings were fine, even expensive. Red velvet armchairs, low walnut side tables and, leaning against the far wall, an enormous radio. Fine cream-colored lacework adorned every table and the back of every chair. Hanging from a wall was a plaque in the shape of a ship, on which was written a prayer.

HDL is often referred to as “good” because it helps remove cholesterol from the blood vessels and carries it back to the liver for processing and elimination from the body. This process of reverse cholesterol transport can help prevent the buildup of plaque in the arteries and reduce the risk of heart disease and stroke. Therefore, high levels of HDL in the bloodstream are considered beneficial for cardiovascular health. Meanwhile, LDL (low-density lipoprotein) is often referred to as “bad” cholesterol because it can deposit cholesterol in the walls of the arteries, leading to the formation of plaque. This process, known as atherosclerosis, can narrow the arteries and increase the risk of heart disease and stroke.