Westwood Quotes

Vivienne Westwood, The Sex Pistols, Seven Stars, coffee with milk and strawberry cake. And Ren flowers. Nana's favorite things never change. It was so cool for someone like me who keeps on changing their mind.

Buy less, choose well & do it yourself!

The young need discipline and a full bookcase.

Intelligence is composed mostly of imagination, insight, things that have nothing to do with reason.

I’m not terribly interested in beauty. What touches me is someone who understands herself.

A status symbol is a book. A very easy book to read is The Catcher in the Rye. Walk around with that under your arm, kids. That is status.

It is not possible for a man to be elegant without a touch of femininity.

You have to go faster than the system.

Fashion is life-enhancing and I think it's a lovely, generous thing to do for other people

I never look at fashion magazines. I find them incredibly boring. To me, reading a fashion magazine is the last thing I need to do. I've got books I need to read. More people should read books. It's the most concentrated experience you can have. You know, all those incredible geniuses concentrated their lifetimes' experiences in books. It's much better than chattering away to somebody who's never read anything and knows nothing at all.

It's just so impressive to see how the women have used making Fair Trade clothes to escape poverty and empower themselves and their children. - Emma Watson

There is no hierarchy of values any more. Real progress is due mainly to human genius, and that's rare, and usually stems from a real elite, from a hierarchy.

There’s a difference between hearing and listening. And that’s our problem. I doubt if Westwood even knows what he’s got. He didn’t listen, and his notes don’t seem to mean much. It’s going to be like picking a lock with spaghetti.

Would an evil man show this much concern for me when I’m upset? Stand up for me? Rescue me in the middle of a concert? That’s who you are now. Not the man who almost killed Colin Westwood. But one who’s sorry for what he did and wants to move on with his life.

i hate being quoted

The stars beckoned. And she had to go.

To the world, they were Hugh Everhart and Simon Westwood. Superheroes. Councilmen. Founding members of the Renegades. But to Adrian, they were mostly just his dads.

She watched a red double-decker bus swaying along beside them. Everyone inside looked tired and bored. "How can you be bored? You live in London! You're breathing the same air as the Queen and Vivienne Westwood!

The sign at the door was written with a backward R, to make it look Russian, which caused a minor echo of panic. Was it a reference to Merchenko? No, surely Westwood knew the difference between Russia and Ukraine. But were there Ukrainian-themed bars, for a pedantic tormentor?

In general: the true artist is always true to his art; the impostor is self-conscious, demonstrating his idea, projecting his theory, his ego, and e.g. the figures of the painter are not borrowed ideas who demonstrate themselves talking, dying, dreaming - they dot it. They are not of themselves and they LIVE! -And the flowers are not showing us how pretty they are, or how weird. They are what they are - Etc.! No invention for the sake of invention! Invention must serve the purpose of art.

If there had been a moment when the hearts of his enemies were softened, when a throb of pity was felt even by Sydney Vane's elder brother, the implacable old General who had vowed that he would pursue Andrew Westwood to the death, it was when the prisoner's little daughter had been put into the witness-box to give evidence against her father.

Culture is necessary for human beings to evolve into better creatures.

Buy less, choose well: that's the maxim. Quality not quantity. That's the most environmentally friendly thing you can do.

Nu este posibil ca un bărbat să fie elegant fără o nuanţă de feminitate.

A bullet is worth a thousand threats. And I shot two.

Having some white blood in her made her appearance not truly black, but not truly white, either. She shrugged. It just was.

The earth is becoming hot with fury. If only people revered trees instead of revering a man nailed to a tree, perhaps it would not come to this,” Sami said.

[On Vivienne Westwood] Vivienne’s scary, for the reason any truthful, plain-talking person is scary – she exposes you. If you haven’t been honest with yourself, this makes you feel extremely uncomfortable, and if you are a con merchant the game is up. She's uncompromising in every way: what she says, what she stands for, what she expects from you and how she dresses. She's direct and judgmental with a strong northern accent that accentuates her sincerity. She has a confidence I haven't seen in any other woman. She’s strong, opinionated and smart. She can’t beat complacency. She’s the most inspiring person I’ve ever met. Sid told me, ‘Vivienne says you’re talented but last.’ I’ve worked at everything twice as hard since he said that.

... the idea that the Art Lover is a freedom fighter for a better world because he thinks, and his exploration of the past gives him a perspective from which to form his own opinions and to act.

They checked in and washed up and met in the restaurant for dinner. It was a pretty room, with plenty of crisp white linen. There were couples and foursomes in there. They were the only threesome. Trysts and deals were going on all around them. Westwood got the internet on his phone and said, “Forty thousand suicides every year in America. One every thirteen minutes. Statistically we’re more likely to kill ourselves than each other. Who knew?

Several times Tam paused to engage one man or another in brief conversation. Since he and Rand had not been off the farm for weeks, everyone wanted to catch up on how things were out that way. Few Westwood men had been in. Tam spoke of damage from winter storms, each one worse than the one before, and stillborn lambs, of brown fields where crops should be sprouting and pastures greening, of ravens flocking in where songbirds had come in years before. Grim talk, with preparations for Bel Tine going on all around them, and much shaking of heads. It was the same on all sides. Most of the men rolled their shoulders and said, “Well, we’ll survive, the Light willing.” Some grinned and added, “And if the Light doesn’t will, we’ll still survive.” That was the way of most Two Rivers people. People who had to watch the hail beat their crops or the wolves take their lambs, and start over, no matter how many years it happened, did not give up easily. Most of those who did were long since gone.

Statistically, maybe. And linguistically. With a little sociology thrown in. Plus a deep and innate understanding of human nature. Think about the number two hundred. Sounds like a nice round figure, but it isn’t, really. No one says two hundred purely at random. People say a hundred, or a thousand. Or hundreds or thousands. Two hundred deaths sounds specific to me. Like a true number. Maybe rounded up from the high 180s or 190s, but it sounds to me like there’s information behind it. Enough to keep me interested, anyway. For instance. Speaking as an investigator.” Westwood said nothing.

Dead on time. Not late at all. He was small, white as a sheet, thin as a specter, always moving, even when he was still. The twenty-nine-year-old veteran. He was dressed all in black. He saw Westwood and headed over. He nodded three ways and sat down. He said, “The Valley likes irony, but you got to agree happy hour in a Soviet shrine is the ultimate contradiction in terms. And speaking of the former USSR, my blog alerts tell me a Ukrainian named Merchenko was a mob hit last night. Which is a happy coincidence. But he will be replaced. The market will fill the void. So I’m still not going public.

They didn’t want to take the crew-cab back to town, because they didn’t want to sit where those guys had sat, so they rode the backhoe, as before, Westwood driving, Reacher and Chang face to face above his head, but this time on the dirt road. Which was slow, but more comfortable. They parked in the dealer’s lot. The salesman came out. The backhoe was examined. It was a little stained by crushed wheat, and a little scratched on the sides. There was a little dirt caked on. And the front bucket had a dimple, where the bullet had struck. Not new anymore. Not exactly. Reacher gave the guy five grand from their leftover money. Easy come, easy go. Then

Then eventually Westwood arrived. He looked nothing like Reacher expected, but the reality fit the bill just as well as the preconceptions had. He was an outdoors type, not a lab rat, and sturdy rather than pencil-necked. He looked like a naturalist or an explorer. He had short but unruly hair, fair going gray, and a beard of the same length and color. He was red in the face from sunburn and had squint lines around his eyes. He was forty-five, maybe. He was wearing clothing put together from high-tech fabrics and many zippers, but it was all old and creased. He had hiking boots on his feet, with speckled laces like miniature mountain-climbing ropes. He was toting a canvas bag about as big as a mail carrier’s.

Maia had thought that having Finn with them would make it easier--at least they could all be miserable together--but it didn’t. Finn had disappeared into himself. He was very quiet and stood hunched up over the rail, looking out at the gray sea. The cold surprised him; he would shiver suddenly in the wind. He had decided that Westwood was to be his fate. “It’s what you said in the museum,” he told Miss Minton. “Come out, Finn Taverner, and be a man.’ I thought I could run away forever, but if Clovis is in trouble, I’ve got to help him.” It was his time with the Xanti which had changed him. They thought that everyone’s life was like a river; you had to flow with the current and not struggle, which wasted breath and made you more likely to drown. And the river of life seemed to be carrying him back to Westwood.

THE OLD ARE LIKE BOOKS The old are like books, crack-spined, Their foxed pages dogeared at favorite paragraphs While whole chapters have been forgotten. Each cover scuffed, dust-jackets lost, Titles alluding to something long out of style, Prose suffering from an overuse of footnotes, Occasional longueurs, over-repetitions of the main theme, But overall, unique and idiosyncratic tales. Of another era, but preface to this.

In Rochester, New York, I was accused of “sexual deviancy,” so I attended the pretrial hearing in a Vivienne Westwood tartan plaid suit that featured penis-and-balls buttons that blended in so well you would have had to really look hard to see them. No one noticed, and I denied being a “sexual deviant,” but indeed that was exactly what they had on their hands. In this case, I was trying to get a girl out of my hotel room by saying she could only stay if she made it with the other girl I’d let in, who just happened to be younger and better-looking. When she wouldn’t, and why not I don’t know, I told her to leave and ended up throwing her out of the room, which was a mistake. I should have called the road manager. Later I would have a security guard, but back then I was on my own. The girl’s case was thrown out, but the fact is, I should have known better.

The theater was less crowded than I worried it would be but it was only nine-forty and it was bound to fill up. I thought as I sat and stared at the massive set of curtains draped in front of the 70-millimiter screen. Writing this now, I can’t believe that I was left to my own devices for twenty minutes, just idly sitting there, thinking about things, about Them and about Susan, waiting without something to distract me. Instead, I took in the theater–my favorite in Westwood and the largest, with over fourteen hundred seats; it was its own vast world I took refuge in and it was one of the few places I was aware I might actually be saved–because movies were a religion in that moment, they could change you, alter your perception, you could rise toward the screen and share a moment of transcendence, all the disappointments and fears would be wiped away for a few hours in that church: movies acted like a drug for me.

The theater was less crowded than I worried it would be but it was only nine-forty and it was bound to fill up. I thought as I sat and stared at the massive set of curtains draped in front of the 70-millimiter screen. Writing this now, I can’t believe that I was left to my own devices for twenty minutes, just idly sitting there, thinking about things, about Thom and about Susan, waiting without something to distract me. Instead, I took in the theater–my favorite in Westwood and the largest, with over fourteen hundred seats; it was its own vast world I took refuge in and it was one of the few places I was aware I might actually be saved–because movies were a religion in that moment, they could change you, alter your perception, you could rise toward the screen and share a moment of transcendence, all the disappointments and fears would be wiped away for a few hours in that church: movies acted like a drug for me.

You can express yourself with clothes. They talk about the body, and express personality and ideas. Clothes also move in a dynamic way and talk about potential. The convention that comfortable clothes should be loose-fitting is a convention of our time. I feel comfortable when I think I look great, and I couldn't bear to put on shapeless, stamped-out , mass-manufactured clothes. I design clothes in the hope of breaking convention. Comfort is to do also with completing a mental image of what you want to look like - what you are and who you are. 

Then eventually Westwood arrived. He looked nothing like Reacher expected, but the reality fit the bill just as well as the preconceptions had. He was an outdoors type, not a lab rat, and sturdy rather than pencil-necked. He looked like a naturalist or an explorer. He had short but unruly hair, fair going gray, and a beard of the same length and color. He was red in the face from sunburn and had squint lines around his eyes. He was forty-five, maybe. He was wearing clothing put together from high-tech fabrics and many zippers, but it was all old and creased. He had hiking boots on his feet, with speckled laces like miniature mountain-climbing ropes. He was toting a canvas bag about as big as a mail carrier’s. He paused inside the door, and identified Chang instantly, because she was the only woman in the place. He slid in opposite, across the worn vinyl, and hauled his bag after him. He put his forearm on the table and said, “I assume your other colleague is still missing. Mr. Keever, was it?” Chang nodded and said, “We hit the wall, as far as he’s concerned. We’re dead-ended. We can trace him so far, but no further.

What does one wear to a ranch early in the morning? I wondered. I was stumped. I had enough good sense, thank God, to know my spiked black boots--the same boots I’d worn on basically every date with Marlboro Man thus far--were out of the question. I wouldn’t want them to get dirty, and besides that, people might look at me funny. I had a good selection of jeans, yes, but would I go for the dark, straight-leg Anne Kleins? Or the faded, boot-cut Gaps with contrast stitching? And what on earth would I wear on top? This could get dicey. I had a couple of nice, wholesome sweater sets, but the weather was turning warmer and the style didn’t exactly scream “ranch” to me. Then there was the long, flax-colored linen tunic from Banana Republic--one I loved to pair with a chunky turquoise necklace and sandals. But that was more Texas Evening Barbecue than Oklahoma Early-Morning Cattle Gathering. Then there were the myriad wild prints with sparkles and stones and other obnoxious adornments. But the last thing I wanted to do was spook the cattle and cause a stampede. I’d seen it happen in City Slickers when Billy Crystal fired up his cordless coffee grinder, and the results weren’t the least bit pretty. I considered cancelling. I had absolutely nothing to wear. Every pair of shoes I owned was black, except for a bright yellow pair of pumps I’d bought on a whim in Westwood one California day. Those wouldn’t exactly work, either. And I didn’t own a single shirt that wouldn’t loudly broadcast *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* I wanted to crawl under my covers and hide.

That settles it,” said Mr. Trapwood. “We’re going back to the pension. We’re going to pack. We’re going to be on the Bishop first thing tomorrow. Sir Aubrey will have to send someone else out. Nothing is worth another day in this hellhole.” Mr. Low did not answer. He had caught a fever and was lying in the bottom of a large canoe owned by the Brothers of the São Gabriel Mission, who had arranged for the crows to be taken back to Manaus. His eyes were closed and he was wandering a little in his mind, mumbling about a boy with hair the color of the belly of the golden toad which squatted on the lily leaves of the Mamari River. There had, of course, been no golden-haired boys; there hadn’t been any boys at all. What there had been was a leper colony, run by the Brothers of Saint Patrick, a group of Irish missionaries to whom the crows had been sent. “They’re good men, the Brothers,” a man on the docks had told them as they set off on their last search for Taverner’s son. “They take in all sorts of strays--orphans, boys with no homes. If anyone knows where Taverner’s lad might be, it’ll be them.” Then he had spat cheerfully into the river because he was a crony of the chief of police and liked the idea of Mr. Low and Mr. Trapwood spending time with the Brothers, who were very holy men indeed and slept on the hard ground, and ate porridge made from manioc roots, and got up four times in the night to pray. The Brothers’ mission was on a swampy part of the river and very unhealthy, but the Brothers thought only about God and helping their fellowmen. They welcomed Mr. Trapwood and Mr. Low and said they could look over the leper colony to see if they could find anyone who might turn out to be the boy they were looking for. “They’re a jolly lot, the lepers,” said Father Liam. “People who’ve suffered don’t have time to grumble.” But the crows, turning green, thought there wouldn’t be much point. Even if there was a boy there the right age, Sir Aubrey probably wouldn’t think that a boy who was a leper could manage Westwood. Later a group of pilgrims arrived who had been walking on foot from the Andes and were on their way to a shrine on the Madeira River, and the Brothers knelt and washed their feet. “We know you’ll be proud to share the sleeping hut with our friends here,” they said to Mr. Low and Mr. Trapwood, and the crows spent the night on the floor with twelve snoring, grunting men--and woke to find two large and hungry-looking vultures squatting in the doorway. By the time they returned to Manaus the crows were beaten men. They didn’t care any longer about Taverner’s son or Sir Aubrey, or even the hundred-pound bonus they had lost. All they cared about was getting onto the Bishop and steaming away as fast as it could be done.

Lamb & Flag 33 Rose St, Covent Garden, WC2E 9EB Lamb & Flag is an old London pub with a long history dating back to 1623. It was frequented by Charles Dickens, a loyal client, as well as other personalities of his times. Not only is the food delicious, but the portions are also surprisingly large for a pub menu. Plenty of fresh ales can be found here, and if you prefer whisky, you can order from a long list with all kinds of whiskies. Lamb & Flag is a historic pub with a warm ambiance and prompt service – all at competitive prices.

Stanford University's Shanto Iyengar and Sean J. Westwood's conclusion is stark. 'Partisans discriminate against opposing partisans, and do so to a degree that exceeds discrimination based on race,' they write. Think about that for a moment: at least under certain experimental conditions, our political identities now trump our racial identities.

Ordinarily, a trip from Westwood to downtown Los Angeles took an hour. But Kate drove with the pedal to the floor, weaving wildly through traffic. She got there in twenty minutes and even managed to eat one of her Bacon, Egg & Cheese Biscuits on the way.

The line went dead as I checked the mirror. The blue Dodge was back, but didn’t stay long. It appeared twice more, never closer than three or four cars, and I never picked out the cars that replaced it. I wouldn’t have known the Dodge was following me if they hadn’t jumped the red. Jumping the red had cost them. I passed UCLA and the National Cemetery in Westwood, and reached Brentwood when Pike texted. HERE Pike, saying he was ready. 12OUT Me, saying I was twelve minutes away. Kenter Canyon was a narrow box canyon in the foothills of Brentwood above Sunset. The canyon was dense with upscale homes, but higher, beyond the houses, the hills were undeveloped, and thick with scrub oak and brush. Unpaved roads and trails had been cut for fire crews, and were open to hikers and runners. Pike and I ran the trails often, and knew the canyon well. A single, innocuous residential street led into the canyon, and appeared to be the only way to enter or leave. Smaller streets branched and re-branched from this larger street as it wound its way higher, but the smaller streets appeared trapped in the canyon. This wasn’t true, but the convoluted route using these smaller back streets wasn’t easily found. Pike and I knew this way, and another, but I was betting the tail cops behind me didn’t, and wouldn’t, until I was already gone. I

Westwood had quoted from his recent research and said old-style wheat grew about four feet tall, but it was being bred down to a brawnier plant with more seeds, just two feet high. In which case the local farmers were still old-style. The wheat was easily four feet tall.

Mary and Fred Blundell.

Compared to that, the way for me has always been muddy. Growing up I confused everyone, including myself. I was ostracised, blamed for not looking or behaving as clearly girl or boy. How could I explain that it felt like I was elements of both, inextricably mixed? I ran from the questions, but more waited around every corner. When

your lot, didn’t they?

Make sure your list of things that you want to change is actually controllable. Don’t put something ridiculous like “I want to be President of the United States” or “I want to win $1 million from the lottery.

forgotten –

Dark chocolates contain approximately 20% sugar content while semi-sweet chocolate is comprised of approximately 35% sugar by volume.

The more negative calorie foods you eat every day, the less empty calories you will consume on a regular basis.   This

The man with the jeans and the hair looked back at Westwood and said, “Mr. Torrance, I guess our first question would be whether you’re wearing a wire.

Westwood said, “They call it anhedonia. The inability to experience pleasure.

Still, Iyengar and Westwood’s research is a fundamental challenge to the way we like to believe American politics works. A world where we won’t give an out-party high schooler with a better GPA a nonpolitical scholarship is not a world in which we’re going to listen to politicians on the other side of emotional, controversial issues—even if they’re making good arguments that are backed by the facts.

[..] there was something new going on at the House of Westwood that was not exactly punk and not exactly culture either - though for Vivienne, the climate revolution is both. "It's like Andreas says, if people made real choices and only bought beautiful things, that's Climate Revolution too, because buying less and choosing well wouldn't hurt the environment so much.

We are dangerously short of culture. Because culture is the antidote to propaganda and consumption.

I am not sure if a passion for the past is altogether satisfying. And sometimes it produces a horror of the present,' Lady Challis to Margaret Steggles in a plum tree

Hindsight's a wonderful thing," her dad said, "and we all wish we had it. The truth is, some missions will succeed and some will fail." "Jack's right," Mattie said, sitting down next to him. "You can't beat yourself up about what's happened. You need to learn from it and move on. It's what I had to do many, many times." Jessica was about to argue back. She stopped herself. She hated to admit it, but spying was one thing that Mattie actually got. "What if I can't let go?" "Then you should quit Westwood," Mattie said bluntly, "because you'll have to make judgement calls all the time. Some will be right, others won't. You have to deal with the fallout.

We can only hope to find someone whose broken pieces align with the cracks in our shattered hearts. - A. V. Valentine

On this particular evening, we had managed to get a hold of some Quaaludes and we were feeling the effects as we approached the intersection of Wilshire and Westwood boulevards. One of us mentioned the trivial fact that this intersection was the busiest in the entire world. We pondered this bit of trivia as the river of cars flowed by in all four directions, and the bigger than life enormous billboard advertising Close Encounters of the Third Kind loomed above. Anthony mentioned that it would be wise if we scaled to the top of this billboard, stood in front of it, and whipped out our cocks and wagged them at the world. So we climbed up there and did it, engulfed by our own laughing hysteria once again. We’d have preferred to have been successfully romancing some Westwood girls, but this was pretty good. Fuck the world anyways.

That is a profound finding: when awarding a college scholarship—a task that should be completely nonpolitical —Republicans and Democrats cared more about the political party of the student than the student’s GPA. As Iyengar and Westwood wrote, “Partisanship simply trumped academic excellence.

Where has Arnold been?’ I said. ‘... the Westwoods get in the papers.’ ‘Patting the orphans.’ ‘Getting homes for the homeless.’ ‘Legs for the legless.’ She was laughing as she said it. ‘Blind dogs,’ I said. ‘Dogs for the blind, that is.’ ‘Patting blind dogs.’ We both laughed and drank. ‘Getting legs for them.’ ‘Homes for legless, blind orphan dogs.’ Maybe we were both a little drunk, on bourbon or on the past.

How did you know? How did you know who I was as soon as you saw me come out of the trapdoor in the museum?” “You’re so like your father. The eyes, the way your voice is pitched. He wasn’t much older than you are now when he ran away from Westwood. And I knew he’d married an Indian woman and had a son; we kept in touch. So when I saw that the crows had caught you, I realized your plan had gone wrong.” “You mean you knew what we were planning?” said Maia--not at all pleased. “More or less. Your acting skills are not very great,” said Miss Minton, “And as a liar you are bottom of the class. I made friends with old Lila, and when she realized that I knew Bernard, she told me about this place. But you seemed to know what you were doing, so I left you to it.” “We did know what we were doing,” said Finn. “But Clovis just went berserk when he got down to the cellar. Some skulls came tumbling out of a packing case, and he saw these eye sockets staring at him. Then he fell over a throwing spear and the lamp kept going out. There was a weird moaning noise, too--it was only the water pipes--but he got hysterical and said he felt sick and he couldn’t go through with it. I suppose it was sort of stage fright--he really thought the crows were going to hurt him. I’d promised Maia I wouldn’t let him get too scared, so I stayed. I meant to make a dash for it when the crows opened the door and lead them away from him. When the sloth fell over he thought it was a bomb!” “Poor Clovis,” said Maia. “She’s always sticking up for him,” said Finn. “Still, he gave a fine performance at the end, you must admit,” said Miss Minton.

One afternoon when the children were on their own, they saw that the macaws on the tree that guarded the entrance had flown up, squawking. But it was not Furo come to fetch Maia. It was Colonel da Silva with his second-in-command, come to take charge of Bernard Taverner’s posessions. “Dios!” he said, paddling up to the hut. “What is this?” So Finn explained, and when he had finished the colonel was laughing so much he looked as if he was going to fall into the water. The idea of the crows bringing a penniless actor to Westwood was the best thing he had heard in ages. “And you, senhorita,” he said to Maia. “A heroine no less.

Oh Finn, thought Maia, I know I should be glad you’re free and happy, and I am glad. Only I really don’t know what to do here anymore. But Finn wasn’t happy. Both he and the boat seemed somehow sluggish, and he couldn’t quite get rid of the knot in his stomach. He had moored by a huge dyewood tree. The water flowed quietly in a deep channel; nowhere better could be found. So why? He’d had his supper of beans and roasted maize; the deck was piled with chopped wood; the dog had gone ashore to find his own supper and came back with a smug expression and blood on his jaws. Everything was fine. A group of howler monkeys came swinging through the trees, making their evening racket, half screech, half laughter, and stopped when they saw the Arabella. Perhaps I should have gone to Westwood, thought Finn. “They’d have knocked all this rubbish out of me. Foreseeing disasters…” What did he think could happen to Maia in the Carters’ bungalow? The whole point about the Carters’ bungalow was that nothing happened in it. It was the most boring house in the world--and the Indians had promised to look after her. “No harm will come to your friend,” Furo had said. So why did the unease get worse all the time? He remembered saying good-bye to Maia. She had come out of the house in her dressing gown; she ran so lightly, but when he’d hugged her she felt wonderfully solid. No, Maia would be all right. “I’m not going back,” said Finn aloud. And in the trees, the monkeys threw back their heads and roared.

One of the things Clovis had been most afraid of was being forced to ride. He had seen the horses in the stables, and they looked large and twitchy. If Sir Aubrey put him in the saddle, Clovis meant to confess straightaway and take the money Finn had given him to run away to his foster mother. But the week after he arrived at Westwood, Sir Aubrey asked Clovis to come into the library because he had some bad news for him. “Now I want you to be brave about this, my boy. I want you to take this like a man and a Taverner.” Clovis’s heart began to thump. Could someone have died--Maia perhaps, or his foster mother--and if so, how did Sir Aubrey know? Or was it just that he had been found out?” “I won’t hide from you the fact that the Basher--your aunt Joan, I mean--disagrees with me. She was all ready to teach you. She had picked out a fine mettlesome filly to start you on; nothing sluggish or second rate. A real Thoroughbred. You’d be going over jumps in a couple of weeks. But I’m afraid I cannot allow it.” “Can’t allow what, sir?” asked Clovis. “Can’t allow you to ride. Can’t allow you to go on a horse. You can imagine what it cost me to come to this decision; the Taverner children have always been up in the saddle from when they were two years old. But after Dudley’s terrible accident…” Tears came into Sir Aubrey’s eyes. He turned away. “If there was anyone else to inherit Westwood, I would let you take your chance, but with Bernard and Dudley both gone…” He pressed Clovis’s shoulder. “You’re taking this very well, my boy. Very well indeed. You’re taking it like a man. I confess I expected arguments, even tantrums.” “Well, it is a disappointment,” said Clovis, wondering whether to break down and cry, a thing all actors learn to do at the drop of a hat. But in the end he just gave a brave gulp instead. “I had, of course, been looking forward…” He looked out of the window to where the Basher, mounted on a bruising chestnut, was galloping across a field. “But I do understand. One must always think of Westwood.

You’re taking this very well, my boy. Very well indeed. You’re taking it like a man. I confess I expected arguments, even tantrums.” “Well, it is a disappointment,” said Clovis, wondering whether to break down and cry, a thing all actors learn to do at the drop of a hat. But in the end he just gave a brave gulp instead. “I had, of course, been looking forward…” He looked out of the window to where the Basher, mounted on a bruising chestnut, was galloping across a field. “But I do understand. One must always think of Westwood.” Sir Aubrey nodded. “You’re a good lad. Of course no one will ever take Dudley’s place, but…” He took out his handkerchief and blew into it fiercely. “There’s another thing. About your schooling. Bernard was very weedy about his school, but then Bernard was weedy about everything. All the same, I think you’re a bit old to be sent away now. Boys usually leave home at about seven or eight, you know, and you’d feel out of it. So I’m going to engage a tutor for you. He’ll come next month when you’re settled in.” “Thank you, sir,” said Clovis. And then: “I’m afraid I’m not very clever.” Sir Aubrey looked shocked. “Good heavens, boy, I should hope not! The Taverners have never been bookish. Except your poor father, and look what happened to him.

He wants to name me officially as heir to Westwood and give me an allowance--quite a big one. And I don’t know what to do. He’s absolutely certain I’m his grandson. There’s a painting of some admiral who’s supposed to have my nose…

Clovis, do you swear that you don’t mind staying here as Master of Westwood? Do you absolutely swear it?” “I swear it.” Finn, as he walked back with his friend to the station, seemed to be made of something quite different. Not muscle and bone--feathers and air…and lightness. He did not actually intend to fly, because that would have been showing off, but he could have done so if he’d wanted to. “You’ll never know what you’ve done for me,” he said as they reached the gates of the level crossing. “If there’s anything you want--” Clovis grinned. “Can I have Maia when she’s grown up?” Finn’s smile vanished in an instant. “No,” he said. “Oh well…

Then a month after Bernard’s sixteenth birthday, Sir Aubrey came down to breakfast, and so did Dudley and so did Joan. They helped themselves to kedgeree and scrambled eggs and kidneys and bacon. Then Sir Aubrey rang for the footman to bring fresh coffee and said, “Where’s Bernard? The wretched boy is late again.” But Bernard wasn’t late--he was gone, and nobody from Westwood ever set eyes on him again.

January 29: A preview in Westwood for a much hipper audience results in uproarious laughter.

if only I had someone who belonged only to me, and didn’t always have to go into other people’s homes and share with them; I want someone for my very own.

I am not sure if a passion for the past is altogether satisfying. And sometimes it produces a horror of the present.’ ‘That’s exactly what it is producing in me! I’m getting to hate everything contemporary. I expect you will say that the poor suffered horribly in the past; I know that, and I don’t care. It was all beautiful; that’s all that matters to me.’ ‘I’m glad to hear you speak with such feeling; it shows enjoyment. Nevertheless, a passion for the past is a form of yearning. It is doomed never to be satisfied, and therefore can never be satisfying.

Andrei perched on the rooftop of the cinema and looked out at Westwood’s nightlife bustling before him. He was mounted on the single, cream, stoned gargoyle built above in the corner of the theatre. He and his gothic animal breathed under the cold moon. Yes. He always felt like the moon—generally unnoticed by the world, that never minds—and navigated richly through his life alone and uninterrupted, like a ghost. Truth is an unobvious color. Those who attempt truth will never make billboards or conversations but usually sift in the background in awkward veritas.

According to the Westwoods, a woman’s place was not to be a leader, but to be the ultimate follower. The best sheep in the herd. The quiet one, bound to please and obey the shepherd according to Christ’s word.

Thankfully I had not heard anything that I could attribute to being aimed at the strange man looking through the window. I guess I was nothing to them, and they were only something to me in my insecurity that asked if I was, actually, important.

Vivienne [Westwood] and Malcolm [McLaren] use clothes to shock, irritate and provoke a reaction but also to inspire change. Mohair jumpers, knitted on big needles, so loosely that you can see all the way through them, T-shirts slashed and written on by hand, seams and labels on the outside, showing the construction of the piece; these attitudes are reflected in the music we make. It’s ok not to be perfect, to show the workings of your life and your mind in your songs and your clothes. And everything you do in life is meaningful on a political level. That’s why we’re all merciless about each other’s failings and why sloppiness is derided.

hacer daño a quienes se ama es más doloroso que cualquier mal que pueda sufrir uno mismo. Que en la vida todos los actos tienen consecuencias y es nuestro deber cargar con ellas.

According to the Westwoods, a woman’s place was not to be a leader, but to be the ultimate follower. The best sheep in the herd. The quiet one, bound to please and obey the shepherd according to Christ’s word. Luckily, my intelligence and determination won me my spot here on the stage.

Cal Westwood is paying a pretty penny to have her vanish without a trace now that the church dropped the ball.

The vengeance I deserved after the hell Callum Westwood had put me through upon the discovery of the bastard-born son who carried his blood.

I used to like this town,” I said, just to be saying something and not to be thinking too hard. “A long time ago. There were trees along Wilshire Boulevard. Beverly Hills was a country town. Westwood was bare hills and lots offering at eleven hundred dollars and no takers. Hollywood was a bunch of frame houses on the interurban line. Los Angeles was just a big dry sunny place with ugly homes and no style, but goodhearted and peaceful. It had the climate they just yap about now. People used to sleep out on porches. Little groups who thought they were intellectual used to call it the Athens of America. It wasn’t that, but it wasn’t a neon-lighted slum either.

niña. —Pero se te declaró —musitó la fantasiosa—. ¿Qué edad tenía él? —No se declaró, solo me hizo una pregunta. —¿Qué pregunta? —Ahora fue Emma la interesada. —No la recuerdo bien… —Vamos, Katherine, sabemos que no lo has olvidado —la azuzó Caroline—. ¿Por qué nunca nos lo habías contado? ¿Pasó algo inapropiado? ¿Un beso, quizá? Su hermana la miró incómoda, lo sucedido aquel día no era algo de lo que se

Dr. Charles Gerba, a microbiologist working at the University of Arizona, explains that the force of flushing the toilet sends water particles (polluted with waste debris) up into the air.   These particles can float around for a few hours before finally settling on all surfaces of the bathroom and even your toothbrush.

I started in our neighborhood, buying a pastrami burrito at Oki Dog and a deluxe gardenburger at Astro Burger and matzoh-ball soup at Greenblatt's and some greasy egg rolls at the Formosa. In part funny, and rigid, and sleepy, and angry. People. Then I made concentric circles outward, reaching first to Canter's and Pink's, then rippling farther, tofu at Yabu and mole at Alegria and sugok at Marouch; the sweet-corn salad at Casbah in Silver Lake and Rae's charbroiled burgers on Pico and the garlicky hummus at Carousel in Glendale. I ate an enormous range of food, and mood. Many favorites showed up- families who had traveled far and whose dishes were steeped with the trials of passageways. An Iranian cafe near Ohio and Westwood had such a rich grief in the lamb shank that I could eat it all without doing any of my tricks- side of the mouth, ingredient tracking, fast-chew and swallow. Being there was like having a good cry, the clearing of the air after weight has been held. I asked the waiter if I could thank the chef, and he led me to the back, where a very ordinary-looking woman with gray hair in a practical layered cut tossed translucent onions in a fry pan and shook my hand. Her face was steady, faintly sweaty from the warmth of the kitchen. Glad you liked it, she said, as she added a pinch of saffron to the pan. Old family recipe, she said. No trembling in her voice, no tears streaking down her face.

Westwood introduced himself and asked who he was talking to. The kid gave a name, no hesitation at all, but said she had never called the LA Times, and knew no private detectives. Westwood asked her if the phone they were on was used by other people, and she said yes, by all the volunteers. She said she was one of them. She said the volunteer room was where they left their coats and took their breaks. There was a phone in there, and time to use it, occasionally. She said the Lincoln Park library was a little ways north of downtown Chicago, and it had dozens of volunteers, always changing, young and old, men and women, all of them fascinating. But no, none of them seemed to be obsessed about anything scientific. Not overtly. Certainly not to the extent of calling distant newspapers. Westwood

You need what I call the Gentle Powers.’ ‘Oh, please tell me what they are!’ ‘Beauty, and Time, and the Past and Pity (their names sound like a band of angels, don’t they?) Laughter, too – you need calming and lifting into the light, not plunging into darkness and struggle.’ She

It's slow at the café so Um-Nadia sends Mirielle and Sirine out to the Wednesday afternoon farmer's market in Westwood. The two women comb the tables and stalls full of gleaming tomatoes, black-eyed sunflowers, pomegranates full of blood-red seeds. The air smells like burst fruit. Heat rolls in across the neighborhoods, emptying the streets, rippling above the cars. The two women fill bags with knobs and globes of squashes and another bag with garlic and another bag with cucumbers. "Best walnuts in town," a tanned young farmhand tells Sirine and Mirielle. "They're fresh, perfect, and they taste like butter." Sirine cocks an eyebrow. "At these prices? They better." He smiles, his teeth impossibly white. "Hey, you gotta pay for the good stuff.

My thoughts are not simply 'messed up' and waiting to be straightened out by learned doctors; they've already been analysed, every step of the way. I live with an internal philosophy lecturer allowing me to take nothing at face value, forcing me to question everything, casting doubt on all aspects of my human condition.

I guess if you want a quick diagnosis then perhaps it's post traumatic stress disorder from having to be born here in the first place.

Empathy is painful, and having too much is a curse.

Anyway; how could I possibly trust or befriend anyone who wanted to associate with the likes of me?

Cutting carbs

Cutting carbs out of your diet can be tough, especially if you are on a tight budget. High carb foods are usually much cheaper than healthy fresh fruits and vegetables.

Personally, I am not a complete skeptic, although perhaps so open minded that I can't wholly believe in anything.