Winter Jacket Quotes

The woman was putting her purse in the drawer and settling down behind the desk, and I realized I had never seen her before in my life. Her face was as wrinkled as one of those forgotten apples you sometimes find in the pocket of last year's winter jacket. Yes?" she said, peering over her spectacles. They teach them to do that at the Royal Academy of Library Science.

I was trying to drown my sorrows,” I explained, looking down into the bottom of my glass, “but my sorrows learned to swim.

Boots and leather jackets were strewn on her bed, and what looked like a new knife set. She’d taken a class last winter and was dying to try them out legally on someone.

I’m not a boob girl; I’m a word girl.

You turn the book over in your hands, you scan the sentences on the back of the jacket, generic phrases that don't say a great deal. So much the better, there is no message that indiscreetly outshouts the message that the book itself must communicate directly, that you must extract from the book, however much or little it may be. Of course, this circling of the book, too, this reading around it before reading inside it, is a part of the pleasure in a new book, but like all preliminary pleasures, it has its optimal duration if you want it to serve as a thrust toward the more substantial pleasure of the consummation of the act, namely the reading of the book.

Where did you wash? the boy thought. The village water supply was two streets down the road. I must have water here for him, the boy thought, and soap and a good towel. Why am I so thoughtless? I must get him another shirt and a jacket for the winter and some sort of shoes and another blanket.

The light bounced off the water and shimmered against the buildings on the other side of the river. Joseph walked, listening to the sound of what was beneath his feet, and soon he noticed he was alone. He turned and saw Frankie had stopped beside Albert and filled her jacket pockets. Looking at the two of them, Joseph wondered for a moment if Leo had ever come down here to go mudlarking, his red hair shining in the sun. the vision seemed so vivid, but then Joseph remembered that Leo wasn't real, and the boy dissolved like smoke into the winter sky.

The man in the doorway nodded, filling the frame with his large bulk and brown leather jacket. The stitching of his MC glittered with the words ‘Prez’ and ‘Pure Corruption.

Sally lent Meg and me some proper winter fleece jackets, however. Mine was blue, with the word BLOFIS written inside the neckline. Perhaps that was an arcane ward against evil spirits.

There is a dignity about the social intercourse of old Indians which reminds me of a stroll through a winter forest .” — Frederick Remington

Losing myself for hours in worlds that only existed in the confines of a paper jacket was my only escape from a life I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.

Of that day in which everything was just too beautiful in the transparent winter air, what I remember most is the sight, when I turned back to look, of Hitoshi's black jacket melting into the darkness.

I was from Texas. We had two seasons: fifty weeks of summer and two weeks of something between a semi-brutal winter and a crappy spring. If it were less than seventy degrees, you would never see me without a jacket on.

The Patty Winters Show I taped this morning hasn't been watched yet. It's sixty minutes about women who've had mastectomies, which at seven-thirty, over breakfast, before the office, I couldn't bear to sit through, but after today - hanging out at the office, where the air-conditioning broke down, a tedious lunch with Cunningham at Odeon, my fucking Chinese cleaners unable to get bloodstains out of another Soprani jacket, four videotapes overdue that ended up costing me a fortune, a twenty-minute wait at the Stairmasters - I've adapted; these events have toughened me and I'm prepared to deal with this particular topic.

Thought I saw you on the beach this morning...Thought I saw you standing on the white strand, your back to the wind. The rain had stopped and there was a brisk clarity in the air. You watched me over your left shoulder, head tucked in coyly. Seabirds flying low in the sky, and the grey-green waves at your foot. A whole panorama thrown up behind you. I was on the coast road coming back from the shops. I stopped walking once I caught sight of you. You were wearing a reefer jacket with the collar turned up against the weather. It might have been navy, but it looked black in the distance. As did your trousers. As did your shoes. All of you was black except your face and hair. You wore no hat...Never once saw you in Winter clothes, yet there you were as clear as day for a whole moment. Only your eyes were visible above the upturned collar. Your hair was in your eyes. You watched me through those pale strands. And I watched you. Intently. The man from down the road drove by in his faded red car. He was going the other way, so he didn't offer a lift. He just waved. I waved back. And then I turned to you again, and we looked at each other a little longer. Very calm. Heart barely shifted. Too far away to see your features. No matter. There was salt on your face. Sea salt. It was in your hair. It was on your mouth. It was all over you, as though you gazed at me through ice. And it was all over me. It tingled on my skin. After a time I moved off, and you broke into two. You realigned yourself into driftwood and stone. I came inside and lit a fire. Sat in front of it and watched it burn. The window fogged up as my clothes and hair dried out. That was hours ago. The fire is nearly gone. But I can still taste the salt on my lips. It is a dry and stinging substance and it is everywhere now. It has touched everything that is left. Coated every surface with its sparkling silt. I will always be thirsty.

I draw myself up next to her and look at her profile, making no effort to disguise my attention, here, where there is only Puck to see me. The evening sun loves her throat and her cheekbones. Her hair the color of cliff grass rises and falls over her face in the breeze. Her expression is less ferocious than usual, less guarded. I say, “Are you afraid?” Her eyes are far away on the horizon line, out to the west where the sun has gone but the glow remains. Somewhere out there are my capaill uisce, George Holly’s America, every gallon of water that every ship rides on. Puck doesn’t look away from the orange glow at the end of the world. “Tell me what it’s like. The race.” What it’s like is a battle. A mess of horses and men and blood. The fastest and strongest of what is left from two weeks of preparation on the sand. It’s the surf in your face, the deadly magic of November on your skin, the Scorpio drums in the place of your heartbeat. It’s speed, if you’re lucky. It’s life and it’s death or it’s both and there’s nothing like it. Once upon a time, this moment — this last light of evening the day before the race — was the best moment of the year for me. The anticipation of the game to come. But that was when all I had to lose was my life. “There’s no one braver than you on that beach.” Her voice is dismissive. “That doesn’t matter.” “It does. I meant what I said at the festival. This island cares nothing for love but it favors the brave.” Now she looks at me. She’s fierce and red, indestructible and changeable, everything that makes Thisby what it is. She asks, “Do you feel brave?” The mare goddess had told me to make another wish. It feels thin as a thread to me now, that gift of a wish. I remember the years when it felt like a promise. “I don’t know what I feel, Puck.” Puck unfolds her arms just enough to keep her balance as she leans to me, and when we kiss, she closes her eyes. She draws back and looks into my face. I have not moved, and she barely has, but the world feels strange beneath me. “Tell me what to wish for,” I say. “Tell me what to ask the sea for.” “To be happy. Happiness.” I close my eyes. My mind is full of Corr, of the ocean, of Puck Connolly’s lips on mine. “I don’t think such a thing is had on Thisby. And if it is, I don’t know how you would keep it.” The breeze blows across my closed eyelids, scented with brine and rain and winter. I can hear the ocean rocking against the island, a constant lullaby. Puck’s voice is in my ear; her breath warms my neck inside my jacket collar. “You whisper to it. What it needs to hear. Isn’t that what you said?” I tilt my head so that her mouth is on my skin. The kiss is cold where the wind blows across my cheek. Her forehead rests against my hair. I open my eyes, and the sun has gone. I feel as if the ocean is inside me, wild and uncertain. “That’s what I said. What do I need to hear?” Puck whispers, “That tomorrow we’ll rule the Scorpio Races as king and queen of Skarmouth and I’ll save the house and you’ll have your stallion. Dove will eat golden oats for the rest of her days and you will terrorize the races each year and people will come from every island in the world to find out how it is you get horses to listen to you. The piebald will carry Mutt Malvern into the sea and Gabriel will decide to stay on the island. I will have a farm and you will bring me bread for dinner.” I say, “That is what I needed to hear.” “Do you know what to wish for now?” I swallow. I have no wishing-shell to throw into the sea when I say it, but I know that the ocean hears me nonetheless. “To get what I need.

In those days there was no money to buy books. Books you borrowed from the rental library of Shakespeare and Company, which was the library and bookstore of Sylvia Beach at 12 rue de l’Odéon. On a cold windswept street, this was a lovely, warm, cheerful place with a big stove in winter, tables and shelves of books, new books in the window, and photographs on the wall of famous writers both dead and living. The photographs all looked like snapshots and even the dead writers looked as though they had really been alive. Sylvia had a lively, very sharply cut face, brown eyes that were as alive as a small animal’s and as gay as a young girl’s, and wavy brown hair that was brushed back from her fine forehead and cut thick below her ears and at the line of the collar of the brown velvet jacket she wore. She had pretty legs and she was kind, cheerful and interested, and loved to make jokes and gossip. No one that I ever knew was nicer to me. I was very shy when I first went into the bookshop and I did not have enough money on me to join the rental library. She told me I could pay the deposit any time I had the money and made me out a card and said I could take as many books as I wished. There was no reason for her to trust me. She did not know me and the address I had given her, 74 rue Cardinal Lemoine, could not have been a poorer one. But she was delightful and charming and welcoming and behind her, as high as the wall and stretching out into the back room which gave onto the inner court of the building, were the shelves and shelves of the richness of the library.

November evenings are often cold and dry. It is a season of loss and a season of despair. The world is brown and yellow and naked. The bears had hibernated and the migrants from the north had moved to the south. It was a time of no harvest – and a time of no plantation. All that the people around knew were to sit around the warmth of the bukharis and spend family time with their loved ones. It was the beginning of the spell of despondency. It was the parallel of summer and the heart the autumn-winter transitions. It was a season of sweaters and yathras and jackets. The earth around was cold and barren.

WHY THE FUCK do you like this icebox, Mars?” Donny mutters from beneath his down jacket, two scarves, and a hat he’s pulled so low, it might as well be a face mask.   “Donny. You live in New York. Geography wasn’t my strongest subject, but I’m pretty sure they don’t have the warmest of winters.”   “It’s different. The cold isn’t so cold.”   “You’re right. It’s worse because Manhattan is on the water, so it’s straight-to-your-bones cold. Colorado is a dry cold.”   “Oh my god.” Naomi cuts in between us. “Will you two stop it already? Cold is cold is cold.”   “Who pissed in your Cheerios?” Donny is nothing if not a man of beautiful, poignant words.

In a moment a world will lose its focus and become a different place. They say that blind people have been struck by their affliction without warning, and that Helen Keller found language and light in a word. For me, I suddenly knew, viscerally at least, a number of things about my town that I’d only ever suspected. The dog was a girl. The dog was a native girl. I dug her out of the snow with more care than I’d ever lifted a porcupine or a snapping rat, and feeling that she was still somewhat warm, that her wrappings of rags had protected her from the cold of a Manitoba winter, I placed my jacket around her and covered her head with my hat. Then I set a pace back to the farm that left a taste of blood in my mouth, freezing my lungs by running at minus thirty.

My friends, I have been asked to show you my heart. I am glad to have a chance to do so. I want the white people to understand my people. Some of you think an Indian is like a wild animal. This is a great mistake. I will tell you all about our people, and then you can judge whether an Indian is a man or not. I believe much trouble would be saved if we opened our hearts more. I will tell you in my way how the Indian sees things. The white man has more words to tell you how they look to him, but it does not require many words to speak the truth. What I have to say will come straight from my heart, and I will speak with a straight tongue. The Great Spirit is looking at me, and will hear me. My name is In-mut-too-yah-lat-lat [Thunder Traveling over Mountains]. I am chief of the Wal-lamwat- kin band of the Chute-pa-lu, or Nez Perce. I was born in eastern Oregon, thirty-eight winters ago. My father was chief before me. When a young man, he was called Joseph by Mr. Spaulding, a missionary. He died a few years ago. He left a good name on earth. He advised me well for my people. Our fathers gave us many laws, which they had learned from their fathers. These laws were good. They told us to treat all men as they treated us, that we should never be the first to break a bargain, that it was a disgrace to tell a lie, that we should speak only the truth, that it was a shame for one man to take from another his wife or his property without paying for it. We were taught to believe that the Great Spirit sees and hears everything, and that He never forgets; that hereafter

He jumped up, pulled out the suitcase he stored under his bed, and began to pack everything he would need for the journey ahead. Two sweaters, two pairs of pants, a couple of T-shirts, and some underwear. As many pairs of socks as he owned. A pair of dress shoes, a dress jacket, and two ties. Then he put on his usual shoes, tied up the laces, put on a black sweater and a winter coat, and sat on the bed, waiting for his father—or better yet, his uncle—to knock on the door and say it was time to leave. Ten minutes went by. Then fifteen. Then twenty. Unable to stand it any longer, Jacob got up, quietly went over to his door, unlocked it, and tried to open it without any creaking. He held his breath and listened for yelling, for voices, for any sign of life and movement. He heard nothing.

I excused myself from the conversation, walked away, and stuck my hands in my jacket pockets. I had no drink. I didn’t fidget. I kept my head down and headed for the door. It wasn’t that far. I just had to get by some people who wouldn’t suspect a thing, because I didn’t know any of them. I didn’t have to grab my coat because it was still on my shoulders. If Shawn saw me, I would say I was just going for air or a smoke or something. I had been trying to quit, and he knew this, so maybe going out for air was a better excuse. Sure, it was probably eleven below, but it was crowded and he’d buy it because I’d made him believe that I’m shy. I could be out in the midnight winter chill and home within an hour. It would have been safe, and I would have been warm, and no Chinook would have hit me.

Jethro had a scar near one of his eyes, an angry tear that scraped through his eyebrow and reached up to his forehead where it disappeared beneath his hairline. In winter he wore black motorcycle boots and a checked sheepskin jacket that was orange and brown. He had sideburns like a man and the other kids said his eyes were like laser beams in comics, that your face would explode if he even looked at you. That was why he wore those steel-rimmed reflective sunglasses, they said, as he cruised around in his car with his hairy arm out the window, fingers spread wide on the door. Jethro Sands was like the scariest crackers on Guy Fawkes Night. He was the loudest thunder, the meanest dog. Out of everyone she was scared of Jethro Sands the most. She imagined buildings and trees bursting into flame on either side of the road as he drove along, turning his head slowly from side to side. He was threatening, noxious. Dark.

He will give every man a spirit-home according to his deserts: If he has been a good man, he will have a good home; if he has been a bad man, he will have a bad home. This I believe, and all my people believe the same. We did not know there were other people besides the Indian until about one hundred winters ago, when some men with white faces came to our country. They brought many things with them to trade for furs and skins. They brought tobacco, which was new to us. They brought guns with flint stones on them, which frightened our women and children. Our people could not talk with these white-faced men, but they used signs which all people understand. These men were called Frenchmen, and they called our people “Nez Perce,” because they wore rings in their noses for ornaments. Although very few of our people wear them now, we are still called by the same name. These French trappers said a great many things to our fathers, which have been planted in our hearts. Some were good for us, but some were bad. Our

These men were very kind. They made presents to our chiefs and our people made presents to them. We had a great many horses, of which we gave them what they needed, and they gave us guns and tobacco in return. All the Nez Perce made friends with Lewis and Clark, and agreed to let them pass through their country, and never to make war on white men. This promise the Nez Perce have never broken. No white man can accuse them of bad faith and speak with a straight tongue. It has always been the pride of the Nez Perce that they were the friends of the white men. When my father was a young man there came to our country a white man [Rev. Henry H. Spaulding] who talked spirit law. He won the affections of our people because he spoke good things to them. At first he did not say anything about white men wanting to settle on our lands. Nothing was said about that until about twenty winters ago, when a number of white people came into our country and built houses and made farms. At first our people made no complaint. They thought there was room

Melinda Pratt rides city bus number twelve to her cello lesson, wearing her mother's jean jacket and only one sock. Hallo, world, says Minna. Minna often addresses the world, sometimes silently, sometimes out loud. Bus number twelve is her favorite place for watching, inside and out. The bus passes cars and bicycles and people walking dogs. It passes store windows, and every so often Minna sees her face reflection, two dark eyes in a face as pale as a winter dawn. There are fourteen people on the bus today. Minna stands up to count them. She likes to count people, telephone poles, hats, umbrellas, and, lately, earrings. One girl, sitting directly in front of Minna, has seven earrings, five in one ear. She has wisps of dyed green hair that lie like forsythia buds against her neck. There are, Minna knows, a king, a past president of the United States, and a beauty queen on the bus. Minna can tell by looking. The king yawns and scratches his ear with his little finger. Scratches, not picks. The beauty queen sleeps, her mouth open, her hair the color of tomatoes not yet ripe. The past preside of the United States reads Teen Love and Body Builder's Annual. Next to Minna, leaning against the seat, is her cello in its zippered canvas case. Next to her cello is her younger brother, McGrew, who is humming. McGrew always hums. Sometimes he hums sentences, though most often it comes out like singing. McGrew's teachers do not enjoy McGrew answering questions in hums or song. Neither does the school principal, Mr. Ripley. McGrew spends lots of time sitting on the bench outside Mr. Ripley's office, humming. Today McGrew is humming the newspaper. First the headlines, then the sports section, then the comics. McGrew only laughs at the headlines. Minna smiles at her brother. He is small and stocky and compact like a suitcase. Minna loves him. McGrew always tells the truth, even when he shouldn't. He is kind. And he lends Minna money from the coffee jar he keeps beneath his mattress. Minna looks out the bus window and thinks about her life. Her one life. She likes artichokes and blue fingernail polish and Mozart played too fast. She loves baseball, and the month of March because no one else much likes March, and every shade of brown she has ever seen. But this is only one life. Someday, she knows, she will have another life. A better one. McGrew knows this, too. McGrew is ten years old. He knows nearly everything. He knows, for instance, that his older sister, Minna Pratt, age eleven, is sitting patiently next to her cello waiting to be a woman.

Elizabeth, we’re going to have to stop.” Elizabeth’s swirling senses began to return to reality, slowly at first, and then with a sickening plummet. Passion gave way to fear and then to anguished shame as she realized she was lying in a man’s arms, her shirt unfastened, her flesh exposed to his gaze and touch. Closing her eyes, she fought back the sting of tears and shoved his hand away, lurching into an upright position. “Let me rise, please,” she whispered, her voice strangled with self-revulsion. Her skin flinched as he began to fasten her shirt, but in order to do it he had to release his hold on her, and the moment he did, she scrambled to her feet. Turning her back to him, she fastened her shirt with shaking hands and snatched her jacket from the peg beside the fire. He moved so silently that she had no idea he’d stood until his hands settled on her stiff shoulders. “Don’t be frightened of what is between us. I’ll be able to provide for you-“ All of Elizabeth’s confusion and anguish exploded in a burst of tempestuous, sobbing fury that was directed at herself, but which she hurtled at him. Tearing free of his grasp, she whirled around. “Provide for me,” she cried. “Provide what? A-a hovel in Scotland where I’ll stay while you dress the part of an English gentleman so you can gamble away everything-“ “If things go on as I expect,” he interrupted her in a voice of taut calm, “I’ll be one of the richest men in England within a year-two at the most. If they don’t, you’ll still be well provided for.” Elizabeth snatched her bonnet and backed away from him in a fear that was partly of him and partly of her own weakness. “This is madness. Utter madness.” Turning, she headed for the door. “I know,” he said gently. She reached for the door handle and jerked the door open. Behind her, his voice stopped her in midstep. “If you change your mind after we leave in the morning, you can reach me at Hammund’s town house in Upper Brook Street until Wednesday. After that I’d intended to leave for India. I’ll be gone until winter.” “I-I hope you have a safe voyage,” she said, too overwrought to wonder about the sharp tug of loss she felt at the realization he was leaving. “If you change your mind in time,” he teased, “I’ll take you with me.” Elizabeth fled in sheer terror from the gentle confidence she’d heard in his smiling voice. As she galloped through the thick fog and wet underbrush she was no longer the sensible, confident young lady she’d been before; instead she was a terrified, bewildered girl with a mountain of responsibilities and an upbringing that convinced her the wild attraction she felt for Ian Thornton was sordid and unforgivable.

When my best friend came to say goodbye the day before I went into exile—we embraced thinking we would never see each other again because I would never be allowed to return to Romania and she would never be able to leave the country—we couldn't bear to let go of each other. She walked out of the door three times and returned each time. Only after the third time did she leave me, walking straight down the street. I could see her pale jacket getting smaller and smaller and, in a strange way, brighter and brighter the more distant it became. I don't know if it was the winter sunshine of that February day, or the tears making my eyes glisten, or perhaps her jacket was made of some shiny fabric, but one thing I know for sure: as I watched her walk away her back glittered like a silver spoon. In this way, intuitively, I was able to put our parting into words. And that is also the best description of that moment. But what does a silver spoon have to do with a jacket? Nothing at all. Nor does it have anything to do with parting. Yet as a poetic image the spoon and the jacket need one another. That is why I am mistrustful of language. I know from my own experience that to be accurate, language must always usurp something that doesn't belong to it. I keep asking myself what makes verbal images such thieves, why the most apt comparison appropriates qualities that don't belong to it. To get closer to reality we need to catch the imagination unawares. Only when one perception plunders another, when an object snatches material that belongs to another and starts to exploit it—only when things that in reality are mutually exclusive become plausible in a sentence can the sentence hold its own against reality. I am happy when I succeed in doing that.

Winnie’s silver-and-black jacket might be too dressy. She wore a

high school. A figure walked on the side of the road, his dark gray jacket and black backpack blending into the early winter twilight. “Is that Derek?” Ethan slowed the truck. Zeus whined and stuck his head over the front seat. “Yes,” Abby said. “He must have stayed after school and missed the late bus.” Ethan pulled over in front of the boy. In the rearview mirror, he saw the kid stop. His posture said he was

That jacket Noelle had packed for me wouldn’t have been enough. He

YOU ARE PRECIOUS   A young woman named June volunteered at a church agency that served the poor and homeless of her city. One day June met George, who had come in to receive some help. Winter was coming and he needed a jacket and some shoes to help keep him warm. He took a seat in the chapel because the waiting room was crowded and noisy. When he indicated he wanted a Bible, June went to get one for him while he waited his turn in the clothing room. When she returned with a Bible, she sat down to talk to him for a while. George looked like he was in his late ’50s or early ’60s. June noticed his thin hair beginning to gray and the deep lines which marked his face. His hands were stiff and he had lost part of one finger. Although it was 1:30 in the afternoon, he smelled slightly of alcohol. He was a short, slight man, and he spoke softly. He had come into the agency alone, and June wondered if he had any family—anyone who cared that he existed. June wrote George’s name in the front of his Bible along with the date. Then she showed him the study helps in the back, which would help him find key passages. As they talked, the thought occurred to June: George is one of God’s very precious creatures. She wondered if George knew that. She wondered how long it had been since someone had told him. What if no one had ever told him he was precious to God—and to all God’s other children as well? George had very little influence or stature, but God spoke to June through him that day, “My children need to know they are precious to Me. Please tell them that.” Since then, she has made that message a part of every encounter she has at the church agency. Ask the Lord how you might share the message, “You are precious to God,” with others today through your words and actions.   SINCE THOU WAST PRECIOUS IN MY SIGHT, THOU HAST BEEN HONOURABLE, AND I HAVE LOVED THEE. ISAIAH 43:4 KJV

A story came to mind of a guy who picked up a snake. He came upon a snake lying beside the road on a cold winter’s day. The snake, nearly frozen, asked if the man would be willing to place him inside his jacket until he was warm again. “Do you promise not to bite me?” the man asked. The snake promised. However, a short way down the road, he bit the man anyway. The man dropped the snake and yelled, “You promised not to bite me!” “Yes,” said the snake. “But, you knew what I was when you picked me up.” I

Don’t forget your jacket.

Just as our hunger is not that feeling of missing a meal, so our way of being cold has need of a new word. We say 'hunger', we say 'tiredness', 'fear', 'pain', we say 'winter' and they are different things. They are free words, created and used by free men who lived in comfort and suffering in their homes. If the Lagers had lasted longer a new, harsh language would have been born; and only this language could express what it means to toil the whole day in the wind, with the temperature below freezing, wearing only a shirt, underpants, cloth jacket and trousers, and in one's body nothing but weakness, hunger, and knowledge of the end drawing nearer.

Huh?” she said. “What’s this?” “I think you have a fever. Might be from damn near freezing to death, might be from something else. First we try aspirin.” “Yeah,” she said, taking them in her small hand. “Thanks.” While Marcie took the aspirin with water, he fixed up the tea. They traded, water cup for mug of tea. He stayed across the room at his table while she sipped the tea. When she was almost done, he said, “Okay, here’s the deal. I have to work this morning. I’ll be gone till noon or so—depends how long it takes. When I get back, you’re going to be here. After we’re sure you’re not sick, then you’ll go. But not till I tell you it’s time to go. I want you to sleep. Rest. Use the pot, don’t go outside. I don’t want to stretch this out. And I don’t want to have to go looking for you to make sure you’re all right. You understand?” She smiled, though weakly. “Aw, Ian, you care.” He snarled at her, baring his teeth like an animal. She laughed a little, which turned into a cough. “You get a lot of mileage out of that? The roars and growls, like you’re about to tear a person to pieces with your teeth?” He looked away. “Must keep people back pretty good. Your old neighbor said you were crazy. You howl at the moon and everything?” “How about you don’t press your luck,” he said as meanly as he could. “You need more tea?” “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll nap. I don’t want to be any trouble, but I’m awful tired.” He went to her and took the cup out of her hand. “If you didn’t want to be any trouble, why didn’t you just leave me the hell alone?” “Gee, I just had this wild urge to find an old friend…” She lay back on the couch, pulling that soft quilt around her. “What kind of work do you do?” “I sell firewood out of the back of my truck.” He went to his metal box, which was nailed to the floor from the inside so it couldn’t be stolen if someone happened by his cabin, which was unlikely. He unlocked it and took out a roll of bills he kept in there and put it in his pocket, then relocked it. “First snowfall of winter—should be a good day. Maybe I’ll get back early, but no matter what, I want you here until I say you go. You get that?” “Listen, if I’m here, it’s because it’s where I want to be, and you better get that. I’m the one who came looking for you, so don’t get the idea you’re going to bully me around and scare me. If I wasn’t so damn tired, I might leave—just to piss you off. But I get the idea you like being pissed off.” He stood and got into his jacket, pulled gloves out of the pockets. “I guess we understand each other as well as we can.” “Wait—it’s

We walk past a clown who is painting kids’ faces, and I suddenly stop, something catching my eye. “I like that unicorn,” I say, pointing to the bright pink stuffed animal hanging from the ceiling of a game booth. Travis looks from the unicorn to me. “Is that a hint?” “I didn’t think I was being subtle,” I say, batting my eyelashes at him. “How much is it?” Travis asks the man in charge of the game, reaching for his wallet. “One dart for three dollars, four for ten. You just pop a balloon with the dart and you get a prize,” he says, perking up at the prospect of a new customer. “Oh, that sounds easy!” I say, clapping my hands together. “How many times do you have to pop a balloon to get the unicorn?” Travis asks. “Five,” the man answers brightly. “I could buy you a unicorn for cheaper than that!” Travis says, turning to me. My face falls. “But that’s not the point,” I argue. Travis looks at my pout before he lifts his eyes up to the ceiling, shaking his head. “Okay, I will take five darts.” I immediately perk up again, and reach out for his arm. “You’ll do great!” I say. Travis takes the first dart from the man and throws it at the wall. It doesn’t even make it all the way and falls pitifully to the floor. “Must have been a bad dart,” I argue. He frowns, picks up the second dart and this time takes a little more aim before throwing it. This time it makes it to the wall but doesn’t manage to stick. “That’s okay, it−” Before I can finish my thought, Travis is handing me his jacket to hold so he has both hands free. He picks up the next dart, his face all business, and plants his feet, ready for action. None of the five darts pop any balloons, and before I can offer him any words of consolation he has slapped down a twenty on the ledge and rolled up his sleeves. “Travis, you don’t have to−” but I can tell he isn’t listening to a word I’m saying. He throws another dart and it actually connects to the side of a balloon, but it only serves to pin the balloon to the wall more. Is that even possible? These are like miracle balloons. “This is obviously rigged!” I argue, picking up one of the darts. I throw it at the wall, my back leg kicking up from the effort and it connects with a bright yellow balloon, popping it instantly. “We have a winner!” The operator yells. I look up at Travis who is just staring at the popped balloon. “That was just beginner’s luck,” I assure Travis, picking up another dart and trying to throw it at the wall a little higher than before, aiming for above the balloons. It quickly curves down in the air and pops a blue balloon. Honestly, I tried out for my high school’s baseball team and got laughed off the diamond. If it wasn’t so inappropriate I would have Travis take a video so I could post it on my Facebook page. That would show Shannon Winters and all her baseball friends. “Another winner!” the operator yells. “Three more, pretty lady, and you’ve got your unicorn.” I shoot my eyes to Travis, but he’s still staring at the wall in disbelief. I have no problem popping the other three balloons and I stand gleefully with my arms outstretched, waiting for my unicorn. “You have three more darts,” the operator points out. “Did you want to try and win your boyfriend something?” I clamp my lips together while Travis stands beside me, completely silent. “We’re going to try something else,” I say, holding my unicorn in one hand and grabbing Travis’s hand with the other. Travis walks away shaking his head. “I played football in university. I was on the provincial lacrosse team.” “I know,” I say, wrapping my arm around his middle as we walk away. “You were so close.” I try and hide the smile from my face. There is hardly anything I’m able to beat Travis at and now I know whenever I challenge him it should definitely include darts

River Rafting in Rishikesh is one of the most thrilling water based adventure sports that gives you an up close splatter of untamed nature in a world where the royal river is what you are up adjacent to. Aboard a raft, when the water wave hits your face for the first time; you be familiar with that it will take a little more than a few ounces of bravery to tame the river beast and indeed this duel next to mother nature will enrich your life forever, even if tried only once in a life time…The modern raft is a boat that is inflated comprising of a very durable and thick coated rubberized or vinyl fabric and also has a number of air chambers. The chief apparatus required for rafting are a life jacket ,Safety helmet, Safety Helmet, Paddles, River guide and a Self-Bailing Raft, etc. It is a very daring activity and it may appear a very perilous sport, but once you knowledge it, you will certainly realize the actual thrill of rafting. The best time for water river rafting is spiral summer to February to May and in winter September to November. You probably think that there is completely no way to extreme sports such as rafting can be fun at all. This is false, because all you need for a great sport like this is fun to be an expert to take manages of all rafting. It is a fun place to take part in all the summer sports, when it's nice and warm and all you need is a movement related to the water to take temperatures down. It is also a thrilling sport that many people can participate at the same time. Friends and family can get together and everybody can have a brilliant day of fun. As you begin your boat journey, you will encounter a number of rapids, which you will be necessary to sail over. Uttarakhand adventure is well known rafting company in Rishikesh. This excursion will roughly be two hours long, and will make you use all your power and skill to keep the boat under control. Water will stay splash all over you, and will keep you invigorated and bouncing if you start feeling tired due to the corporeal work that you will do. As an extreme sport, rafting certainly has its drawbacks, but not all make games? The best way to take safety measures so that you can avoid fatal accidents is to acquire a knowledgeable scout who is qualified for the chore and the best gear for rafting. For example, you should always have a life jacket on the obverse rafting, in the unfortunate event that the boat capsize; you'll be able to stay afloat and hope to swim to defense. Also, if you are unsure of your rafting skills, rapids and waterfalls stay away from very high.

I’ve only ever seen Dan in a T-shirt and jeans. He has no coat or blazer that I know of. In the winter he wears this sort of windbreaker-type blue jacket that can’t possibly be warm enough, but if you ever ask him if he’s cold, he says no, he’s fine.

I saw a golden girl in the sun her lips red cherry like the winter rush of snow my heart cold so far, but she bled me into the truth I know, I know I can be silenter than the light than the darkness that I breathe in you, when I am with you my heart flutters like the sun that needs to rise, I know, I know I am nothing without a song like you, I am nothing without a song like you grief steals my thunder, your love sings me into wonder, I know I can be an idiot a foolish man I can be insane this love gives me the rain I know I have stood further from you I stood further you threw away the jacket in the shadows of the moon I sing and wonder where are you this love, this affection this beautiful truth of you I saw a golden girl it was you and I can't go on without you.

Nila snapped, “Have you forgotten my promise so soon, Mr. Hawk?” The table froze; men looked from the skinny seamstress to their leather-jacketed leader. Cut tensed. “No, I haven’t forgotten.” “I meant what I said,” Nila growled. “I will kill you. You can pretend you’re kind and keep me in good health, but I will never forget what you’ve done.” I stood up, slapping my palms loudly on the table. “Ms. Weaver!” Her head snapped in my direction, her dark eyes blazing. “Was I talking to you? You’re as bad as he is. I have a good mind to kill you, too.

We hear more about dignity and “pensive luster” from cultures where the patina of age is highly valued, from the shutaku (soil from handling) in Chinese culture or the Japanese concept of nare that garners a reverence over “shallow brilliance,” objects with too much finish. 12 In France, low radiance, the mere shine off a coin, was once enough to mark the start and end of the workday in winter, it was “the moment when there was not enough light to distinguish a denier [a small coin] of Tours from a denier of Paris.” 13 The light that begins and ends these uncommon journeys requires a similar sensitivity to their sheen. It often takes a blaze to see things anew. So age upon age has had its icons who went unsung during their lifetime. When Herman Melville died as a customs agent at the Port of New York in 1891, his widow complained that the copyright of White Jacket (1850) and Moby-Dick (1851) had no worth; they “give no income and have no market value.” 14 It took nearly seventy years for Moby-Dick to receive its critical acclaim. In the final months of writing the book, Melville suspected as much, and acrimoniously foretold his fate: “though I wrote the Gospels in this century, I should die in the gutter.” 15 Our lodestars often shine a few foot-candles below the level we are prepared to see.

Above all, he loathed and detested the vision which the word "den" always conjured up to him. This was a vision of the door of a typical den being opened by a wife, and of the wife saying in a mincing voice, "This is George in his den," and of boarding-house females peering over the wife's shoulder and smiling fatuously at the denizen who, in an old shooting jacket and slippers, grinned vacuously back at them. To Mark this was a horrible and unspeakable vision.

He traced a groove in the melamine counter. "I had some of the best times sitting around your table, throwing out math problems for you to solve or talking hockey with Sanjay and your dad." He pointed to the dent. "Do you remember this?" Daisy put the pastries in the microwave and took down two mugs from the cupboard. "What is it?" "It's where I dropped a bowl of pakoras when you walked into the kitchen wearing a tight green dress that Layla had bought for you because she was dragging you to a school dance. You were sixteen, and you looked amazing. Your dad and Sanjay went crazy. Sanjay insisted you wear a winter jacket. Layla had to run interference. That was the day I realized you weren't a little girl anymore and I couldn't treat you like you were.

For many years Cavedagna has followed books as they are made, bit by bit, he sees books be born and die every day, and yet the true books for him remain others, those of the time when for him they were like messages from other worlds. And so it is with authors; he deals with them every day, he knows their fixations, indecisions, susceptibilities, egocentricities, and yet the true authors remain those for him were only a name on a jacket, a word that was part of the title, authors who had the same reality as their characters, as the places mentioned in the books, who existed and didn’t exist at the same time, like those characters and countries. The author was the invisible point from which the books came, a void traveled by ghosts, an underground tunnel that put other worlds in communication with the chicken coop of his boyhood.

In the shop window you have promptly identified the cover with the title you were looking for. Following this visual trail, you have forced your way through the shop past the thick barricade of Books You Haven't Read, which were frowning at you from the tables and shelves, trying to cow you. But you know you must never allow yourself to be awed, that among them there extend for acres and acres the Books You Needn't Read, the Books Made For Purposes Other Than Reading, Books Read Even Before You Open Them Since They Belong To The Category Of Books Read Before Being Written. And thus you pass the outer girdle of ramparts, but then you are attacked by the infantry of the Books That If You Had More Than One Life You Would Certainly Also Read But Unfortunately Your Days Are Numbered. With a rapid maneuver you bypass them and move into the phalanxes of the Books You Mean To Read But There Are Others You Must Read First, the Books Too Expensive Now And You'll Wait Till They're Remaindered, the Books ditto When They Come Out In Paperback, Books You Can Borrow From Somebody, Books That Everybody's Read So It's As If You Had Read Them, Too. Eluding these assaults, you come up beneath the towers of the fortress, where other troops are holding out: the Books Dealing With Something You're Working On At The Moment, the Books You Want To Own So They'll Be Handy Just In Case, the Books You Could Put Aside Maybe To Read This Summer, the Books You Need To Go With Other Books On Your Shelves, the Books That Fill You With Sudden, Inexplicable Curiosity, Not Easily Justified. Now you have been able to reduce the countless embattled troops to an array that is, to be sure, very large but still calculable in a finite number; but this relative relief is then undermined by the ambush of the Books Read Long Ago Which It's Now Time To Reread and the Books You've Always Pretended To Have Read And Now It's Time To Sit Down And Really Read Them. With a zigzag and a dash you shake them off and leap straight into the citadel of the New Books Whose Author or Subject Appeals To You. Even inside this stronghold you can make some breaches in the ranks of the defenders, dividing them into New (for you in general) and New Books By Authors Or On Subjects Completely Unknown (at least to you), and defining the attraction they have for you on the basis of your desires and needs for the new and the not new (for the new you seek in the not new and for the not new you seek in the new). All this means that, having rapidly glanced over the titles of the volumes displayed in the bookshop, you turn toward a stack of If on a winter’s night a traveler fresh off the press, you have grasped a copy, and you have carried it to the cashier so that your right to own it can be established. You cast another bewildered look at the books around you (or, rather: it was the books that looked at you, with the bewildered gaze of dogs who, from their cages in the city pound, see a former companion go off on the leash of his master, come to rescue him), and out you went. You derive a special pleasure from a just-published book, and it isn’t only a book you are taking with you but the novelty as well, which could also merely be that of an object fresh from the factory, the youthful bloom of new books, which lasts until the dust jacket begins to yellow, until a veil of smog settles on the top edge, until the bindings become dog-eared, in the rapid autumn of libraries. No, you hope always to encounter true newness, which having been new once, will continue to be so. Having read the freshly published book, you will take possession of this newness at the first moment, without having to pursue, to chase it. Will it happen this time? You can never tell. Let’s see how it begins.

You derive a special pleasure from a just-published book, and it isn’t only a book you are taking with you but the novelty as well, which could also merely be that of an object fresh from the factory, the youthful bloom of new books, which lasts until the dust jacket begins to yellow, until a veil of smog settles on the top edge, until the bindings become dog-eared, in the rapid autumn of libraries. No, you hope always to encounter true newness, which having been new once, will continue to be so. Having read the freshly published book, you will take possession of this newness at the first moment, without having to pursue, to chase it.

It's always the same with relationships: like a fancy sheepskin jacket you would get yourself some to stay warm on cold winter nights and show them off a bit. At first, they would fit you perfectly until they would suddenly become too loose, too tight, too long, too short and from then on you would just not look after them any more. You would stop taking care of them, throw up all over them on the next binge and when you would wake up in the morning, the whole house would smell like wet sheep and stomach acid. Sooner rather than later, they would end up in the old clothes container and although you would promise yourself that next time you'd buy the expensive care product that the saleswoman with the fake smile has tried to sell you, you still won't do it, as it sounds like a lot effort and who would put any into something they end up losing, anyway?

Learning basic skills like how to install a shelf or pick out a jacket that will last more than one New York winter has done more for me financially than any raise on a biweekly paycheck.

It's always the same with relationships: as if they were a fancy sheepskin jacket, you would get yourself some in order to stay warm on cold winter nights and show them off a bit. At first, they would fit perfectly until they would suddenly become too loose, too tight, too long, too short and from then on you wouldn't look after them any more. You would stop taking care of them, throw up all over them on the next binge and when you'd wake up in the morning, the whole house would stink like wet sheep and stomach acid. Sooner rather than later, they would end up in the old clothes container and although you'd promise yourself that next time you'd buy the expensive care product that the saleswoman with the fake smile tried to sell you last time, you'd still not do it, because it sounds effort and who would put any into something which they would end up losing, anyway? ~ As the moon began to rust

Winter Puppy Jacket The Best Jacket For It's The Best Way To Keep Your Dog Warm, Hurry up and grab one now as the winter's fast approaching! We bet nobody will be cooler than your pet wearing it... Because it'll be freezing out there! Comfortable And Easy To Wear. will allow your pet to feel comfortable walking around the house or lounging around! With the choice of fleece fabric and a hood design, these will ensure warmth for your pet on cold and gloomy days.

In hindsight, I now understand why I went straight to the Fred Meyer department store to buy a BB gun and a Nintendo console. Clearly, I was indulging in the childhood luxuries that I had fantasized about having when I was young but never received. Not to say that I was an unhappy or deprived child, but any spare money in my household was saved for more practical things like new shoes or winter jackets (there once may have been a fifty-dollar minibike, but that’s another story). My

You really are a shithead,” he told her. “Check it,” she said, digging into her jacket pocket. “I dreamt myself a better dreaming mask.” The mask dangling in her fingers had an intricate pattern like threads through marble, or like lace. Ronan shook his head, and for several long minutes, they sat there in the grass, listening to the sounds of the city around them. The sun was very good. Winter was not yet over, but one could tell that it would be over, which was nearly as good.

But it was a longer journey than that. A journey that had started four years ago, on a warm winter afternoon, when a kind German officer with sky-blue eyes first gazed down at Feliciano in the sunlight. A journey Feliciano had remembered and recreated so many times it seemed almost fantastical. Speeches of flying and lavender and loyalty; words spoken in too-lyrical German and too-strong Italian. Stolen glances and songs of resistance, language lessons and soccer games beneath a gnarled old oak tree. Falling against Ludwig's military jacket in a narrow alley that echoed with gunshots; wearing that very same jacket, studded with green leaves and rosemary, during a simple, calm, beautiful walk into the hills. Every day of waiting, every hour of not knowing, every endless second of being without the person Feliciano needed more than anything else in the entire world. All of it had led him here. Every step Feliciano had taken for the last four years had led him here.

Browning plopped onto the ground, breathing hard and covered in... winter clothes? Alistair’s jaw fell open as he finally noted the warm jacket wrapped around the toad like he was a child, the mittens on all four of his feet, and the hat shaped like a lily pad that had been tied around his thick neck.

It's always the same with relationships: As if they were a fancy sheepskin jacket, you get yourself one to stay warm on cold winter nights and show it off a bit. At first, it fits you perfectly until suddenly it becomes too loose, too tight, too long, too wide and from then on you just don't look after it anymore. You stop taking care of it, throw up all over it on the next binge, and when you wake up in the morning the whole house smells of wet sheep and stomach acid. That's how, sooner rather than later, it ends up in the old clothes container and even though you promise yourself that next you'll buy the expensive care product that the saleswoman with the fake smile has tried to sell you, you still won't do it, as it sounds like effort and who would put any work into something they end up losing, anyway?

It's always the same with relationships: As if they were a fancy sheepskin jacket, you get yourself one to stay warm on cold winter nights and show it off a bit. At first, it fits you perfectly until suddenly it becomes too loose, too tight, too long, too wide and from then on you don't look after it anymore. You stop taking care of it, throw up all over it on the next binge, and when you wake up in the morning the whole house smells of wet sheep and stomach acid. That's how, sooner rather than later, it ends up in the old clothes container and even though you promise yourself that next time you'll buy the expensive care product that the saleswoman with the fake smile has tried to sell you, you still won't do it, because it sounds like effort and who would put any into something they'll end up losing anyway?

PACKING CHECKLIST Light, khaki, or neutral-color clothes are universally worn on safari and were first used in Africa as camouflage by the South African Boers, and then by the British Army that fought them during the South African War. Light colors also help to deflect the harsh sun and are less likely than dark colors to attract mosquitoes. Don’t wear camouflage gear. Do wear layers of clothing that you can strip off as the sun gets hotter and put back on as the sun goes down. Smartphone or tablet to check emails, send texts, and store photos (also handy as an alarm clock and flashlight), plus an adapter. If electricity will be limited, you may wish to bring a portable charger. Three cotton T-shirts Two long-sleeve cotton shirts preferably with collars Two pairs of shorts or two skirts in summer Two pairs of long pants (three pairs in winter)—trousers that zip off at the knees are worth considering Optional: sweatshirt and sweatpants, which can double as sleepwear One smart-casual dinner outfit Underwear and socks Walking shoes or sneakers Sandals/flip-flops Bathing suit and sarong to use as a cover-up Warm padded jacket and sweater/fleece in winter Windbreaker or rain poncho Camera equipment, extra batteries or charger, and memory cards; a photographer’s vest and cargo pants are great for storage Eyeglasses and/or contact lenses, plus extras Binoculars Small flashlight Personal toiletries Malaria tablets and prescription medication Sunscreen and lip balm with SPF 30 or higher Basic medication like antihistamine cream, eye drops, headache tablets, indigestion remedies, etc. Insect repellent that is at least 20% DEET and is sweat-resistant Tissues and/or premoistened wipes/hand sanitizer Warm hat, scarf, and gloves in winter Sun hat and sunglasses (Polaroid and UV-protected ones) Documents and money (cash, credit cards, etc.). A notebook/journal and pens Travel and field guide books A couple of large white plastic garbage bags Ziplock bags to keep documents dry and protect electronics from dust

Kyosuke was right on time, as usual. He was dressed in winter-white flannel trousers, a black turtleneck sweater, and a gray-and-black herringbone tweed jacket. An oyster-colored silk scarf was slung carelessly around his neck. Kenzo, who had thrown on some wrinkled khaki slacks and an old tan sweater, stared admiringly at his friend’s dashing getup.

These are the 57 PIECES FOR THE INITIAL BASIC WARDROBE IN TRANS-SEASONAL FABRIC (best if KNITTED with stretch) See the List below in linear order with Cycles. The 27 for Cycle 2 are starred [*] with details listed for each. Later you can add 2 more seasons to this INITIAL WARDROBE FOR YOUR WORK & FULL LIFESTYLE. 6 - (3 SETS) UNDER SHAPERS of stretch to hold the body tight. (Cycle 1) *2 - JACKET LONG AND LEAN, 2 for each season, plus Holiday and Resort. (Cycle 1 & 2) *2 - TROUSERS (easy fit) flattering on your shape either:fitted, flared or straight. 2 for each season plus Holiday and Resort (Cycles 1 & 2) *1 - PENCIL SKIRT or a fitted, flared, or stitched-down-pleats, flattering Silhouette. (Cycle 1 & 2) *1 - JEAN, dark navy denim or black knit, both with stretch. (Cycle 1 & 2) 7 - TANKS, for the bottom necessary layer (Cycle 1) *3 - TOPS/BLOUSES/SHIRTS (Cycle 1 & 2) *1 - DAY-DRESS (Cycle 1 & 2) 1 – L.B.D. (Cycle 1, then as needed) 1 - EVENING BLACK JERSEY GOWN (Cycle 1, then as needed) 2 - RAINCOAT WITH ZIP OUT LINING AND AN UMBRELLA THAT IS FOLDABLE (Cycle 1 = 2) then, a WINTER COAT (Cycle 2 = 1, other Cycles select a jacket/sweater coat/art piece coat)

La cachucha, is that for us, maestro? Will it be danced across the tottering floorboards of the cavaliers' wing, between cramped walls, blackened with smoke and greasy with grime, under its low ceiling? Curse you, the way you play! La cachucha, is that for us, for us cavaliers? Outside the snowstorm howls. Do you mean to teach the snowflakes to dance in rhythm, are you playing for the light-footed children of the blizzard? Female bodies, which tremble under the pulse beat of hot blood, small sooty hands, which have thrown aside the cooking pot to grasp the castanets, naked feet under tucked-up skirts, yard coated with flakes of marble, crouching gypsies with bagpipe and tambourine, Moorish arcades, moonlight and black eyes, do you have those, maestro? If not, let the fiddle rest! Cavaliers are drying their wet clothes by the fire. Should they swirl around in their tall boots with iron-shod heels and thumb-thick soles? They have waded through the ell-deep snow the whole day to reach the bear's winter lair. Do you think they should dance in their wet, steaming homespun clothes, with the shaggy bruin as a partner? Evening sky, glittering with stars, red roses in dark female hair, tormenting sweetness in the evening air, untaught grave in the movements, love rising out of the earth, raining from the sky, hovering in the air, do you have this, maestro? If not, why force us to long for such things? Cruelest of men, are you sounding the attack for a tethered warhorse? Rutger von Orneclou is lying in his bed, imprisoned by gout pains. Spare him the torment of sweet memories, maestro! He too has worn a sombrero and a gaudy hairnet, he too has owned a velvet jacket and a sash with a dagger tucked in it. Spare old Orneclou, maestro!

Dressed for the minus-thirty-degree temperatures at high altitude (wool underwear, two pairs of wool socks, a wool sweater, a brown leather jacket lined with sheep’s wool, and heavy trousers), Roane crossed the cold, fog-ridden airfield and gathered with the other pilots and aircrews in the huge Nissen hut used for briefings.

But with the books read, the hymns sung, the prayers recited, and the warm, fleece-thick hugs lingered over, there is peace. A peace that comes when after months of struggle, and darkness, and chill, the sun breaks through the clouds, and reveals a glittering beneath the shadows. A peace that infuses the air when you realize, with the clarity of crystal, the depth to which God loves you (John 3:16), and blesses you richly, even while you're perseverating over your own myopic view of the world. The sky closed up again within twenty-four hours. But for a day, a seldom sun lifted mist from puddles and coaxed jackets from limbs. It brushed back winter's dreary countenance. Across dappled earth it revealed the great mercy God has shown us in guiding us down this path, a path we had never planned, a world of glimmers we would otherwise never have known. Not what if, but even if.

Any Palestinian prisoner will tell you that the bosta journey is one of the most difficult parts of their experience of being incarcerated. To call it hell on wheels is an understatement. To help you picture it, imagine a bus divided into narrow cells. The interior is all metal, including the seats. Many of the cells, like the one I was in, are barely big enough to fit one person. My cell was essentially as wide as the seat I was in, making it impossible for me to move at all. Never mind the fact that I was also shackled at the wrists and ankles. The cell was so tight that my knees hit the metal door in front of me, and if the driver accelerated or swerved, my body would bang into the sides. Other than forcing prisoners to sit in an extremely uncomfortable physical position for hours, the bosta was poorly ventilated, and its odors were revolting. It often reeked of vomit from passengers who had thrown up on themselves or of urine from inmates who had peed themselves, unable to hold it in any longer. The stench of the police dogs who patrolled the bus was also always in the air. The temperature in the bosta was another major hardship. In the winter, which is when I was arrested, it was freezing. The cold metal chair made it feel like I was sitting on a giant block of ice—for hours. I later learned that layering two pairs of pants, three shirts, and a jacket would help me survive, and I began to dress accordingly. But despite all the layers, each time I returned to the prison, my hands would be swollen and blue and it would take hours for them to regain normal sensation.

Rønneberg was suddenly lifted up and back, as if a giant had grabbed the back of his jacket. Then he was flying, head over heels off the roof, tossed away by a gust of wind. He landed in a snowbank. When he staggered to his feet, the cabin had vanished. All was white, swirling white, around him. Heading into the wind that had knocked him away, he eventually found the cabin. Climbing onto the roof a second time, he managed to fix the chimney pot, only to be hit by another gust of wind that sent him flying into the snow.

In fact, everyone else was pretty much bundled up in winter coats, scarves, and the like (although in Li’s case the heavy clothing was less functional and more of an accessory to make sure he fit in). I, on the other hand, in my mid- length leather jacket, had not dressed as warmly as the others, but I didn’t have to. With the ability to raise my core body temperature, I could have walked through a blizzard in a pair of swimming trunks and been fine. Like Li, however, it was important that I keep up appearances, so I chose to go out dressed somewhat appropriately for the weather rather than as a member of the local Polar Bear Club.

Realizing that she was clad only in the fur, she pulled it tight around her, trying to cover her legs, her shoulders, and her breasts all at the same time. “You monster!” she said. “You promised me you’d call out before you came back. You tricked me.” She grabbed her shift and retreated to the shadows in the back of the cave. “I did call you,” he said. “You were sleeping like a bear in winter. I killed the turkey, plucked it, and cooked it. Still you slept. I think Simon Brandt has a lazy woman for a wife.” Rebecca sputtered, too angry for words, as she struggled to get into her shift without dropping the wolfskin. She did notice that not only was she dry, but her garment was dry as well. She had been asleep, and not just for a few moments. “You seem to have lost your dress,” he said, “so I brought you the Huron’s French coat instead. I think it will fit you if you tie his belt around your waist.” He reached over and held up a blue men’s military jacket. “You expect me to wear a dead man’s coat?” “You will wear it, woman, or I will take your last garment and leave you only the wolf pelt to wear.” “Go to hell!” she shouted. “If the English are right about their god, I will. But what if the Shawnee are right, and you are wrong. Have you thought of that?” “No.” “Think of it while you eat my turkey and sit at my fire. Perhaps it will help you to be properly grateful to a man who has gone to great lengths to keep you from harm.” “I’ll never be grateful to you.” He smiled. “But you will eat my turkey.” She nodded. “Only to have enough strength to live long enough to see you hanged for the savage you are.

People in winter, Wears jackets and hats in 45 degree weather.

For some reason, possibly known only to my therapist, I decided that Dippy looked so adorable this morning, as she lay gently snoozing on my jacket, that she just had to allow me to cuddle her. This was an error of a magnitude found somewhere between "invade Poland in the winter" and "hold my beer and watch this.

During the year before Shara and I got married, I managed to persuade the owners of a small island, situated in Poole Harbor, to let me winter house-sit the place in return for free lodging. It was a brilliant deal. Chopping logs, keeping an eye on the place, doing a bit of maintenance, and living like a king on a beautiful twenty-acre island off the south coast of England. Some months earlier, I had been walking along a riverbank outside of London when I had spotted a little putt-putt fishing boat with an old 15 hp engine on the back. She was covered in mold and looked on her last legs, but I noticed her name, painted carefully on the side. She was called Shara. What were the chances of that? I bought her on the spot, with what was pretty well my last £800. Shara became my pride and joy. And I was the only person who could get the temperamental engine to start! I used the boat, though, primarily, as my way of going backward and forward to the small island. I had done some properly dicey crossings in Shara during the middle of that winter. Often done late at night, after an evening out, the three-mile crossing back to the island could be treacherous in bad weather. Freezing waves would crash over the bows, threatening to swamp the boat, and the old engine would often start cutting in and out. I had no nav-lights, no waterproofs, no life jacket, and no radio. And that meant no backup plan--which is bad. Totally irresponsible. But totally fun. I held my stag weekend over there with my best buddies--Ed, Mick, Neil, Charlie, Nige (one of Shara’s uni friends who has become such a brilliant buddy), Trucker, Watty, Stan, and Hugo--and it was a wild one. Charlie ended up naked on a post in the middle of the harbor, we got rescued twice having broken down trying to water-ski behind the underpowered Shara, and we had a huge bonfire while playing touch-rugby by firelight. Perfect.

kinds of disguises and dance to all sorts of tunes to make myself Harry’s addiction. If he had not been fatally flawed, early corrupted by the brutality of his school, I should never have been able to keep him from Celia. I knew I was a hundred times more beautiful than she, a hundred times stronger. But I could not always remember that, when I saw the quiet strength she drew on when she believed she was morally right. And I could not be certain that every man would prefer me, when I remembered how Harry had looked at her with such love when we came back from France. I would never forgive Celia for that summer. Even though it was the summer when I cared nothing for Harry but rode and danced day and night with John, I would not forget that Celia had taken my lover from me without even making an effort at conquest. And now my husband bent to kiss her hand as if she were a queen in a romance and he some plighted knight. I might give a little puff of irritation at this scene played out before my very window. Or I might measure the weakness in John and think how I could use it. But use it I would. Even if I had felt nothing else for John I should have punished him for turning his eyes to Celia. Whether I wanted him or not was irrelevant. I did not want my husband loving anyone else. For dinner that afternoon I dressed with extra care. I had remodelled the black velvet gown that I had worn for the winter after Papa’s death. The Chichester modiste knew her job and the deep plush folds fitted around my breasts and waist like a tight sheath, flaring out in lovely rumpled folds over the panniers at my hips. The underskirt was of black silk and whispered against the thick velvet as I walked. I made sure Lucy powdered my hair well, and set in it some black ribbon. Finally, I took off my pearl necklace and tied a black ribbon around my throat. With the coming of winter, my golden skin colour was fading to cream, and against the black of the gown I looked pale and lovely. But my eyes glowed green, dark-lashed and heavy-lidded, and I nipped my lips to make them red as I opened the parlour door. Harry and John were standing by the fireplace. John was as far away from Harry as he could be and still feel the fire. Harry was warming his plump buttocks with his jacket caught up, and drinking sherry. John, I saw in my first sharp glance, was sipping at lemonade. I had been right. Celia was trying to save my husband. And he was hoping to get his unsteady feet back on the road to health. Harry gaped openly when he saw me, and John put a hand on the mantelpiece as if one smile from me might destroy him. ‘My word, Beatrice, you’re looking very lovely tonight,’ said Harry, coming forward

Strangely enough, the Japanese base most of their traditional desserts on beans. Called an, this smooth chocolatey-looking paste is made from azuki beans boiled in sugar and water. I encountered it for the first time one afternoon when I helped myself to a traditional Kyoto sweet resembling a triangular ravioli stuffed with fudge. What a shock to find a center made from azuki beans, instead of cocoa beans! Sometimes sweet makers choose chestnuts or white kidney beans to make the an, which they craft into dainty flowers, leaves, and fruits that look just like marzipan. Using special tools and food coloring, they fashion such masterpieces as prickly green-jacketed chestnuts with dark brown centers, winter white camellias with red stamens, and pale pink cherry blossoms with mint-colored leaves to commemorate the flower's arrival in April. The bean fudge also fills and frosts other confections, including pounded glutinous rice taffy called mochi and bite-size cakes, made from flour, water, and eggs that are baked until golden. These moist confections go by the name of namagashi and are always served before the thick whipped green tea at the tea ceremony.

No, I’m going to see this man for myself. Make sure he’s acceptable.” What was Etienne’s idea of acceptable? Etienne reached the heavily carved front door before Cian and before Winter was even halfway down the right side of the sweeping staircase. He pulled the door open and there stood Alerich—low, black boots; tight, black jeans; a midnight-blue silk shirt that brought out his gorgeous eyes; and his tailored, black leather jacket. Behind him in the circle drive was a red sports car of the sort to give young men palpitations. He gave Etienne a pleasant smile. Etienne frowned. Hard. “Oh, hell no.” And with that, he slammed the door shut.

Lake Placid was alive with cars and campers and people. It was still early spring yet it felt like an Ontario tourist town at the height of the season. Traffic barely moved, shoppers wove through the cars as if the street were a parking lot and the stoplights meaningless. It felt like summer to Travis after a winter of heavy boots and thick jackets and shoveling snow.

Growing up, things like love and trust and healthy, functional relationships were foreign concepts to me. My parents never once told me they loved me. I didn’t have friends because, let’s face it, no kids wanted to hang out with the girl with greasy hair and smelly clothes that fit funny. We weren’t close with extended family. So I mostly kept to myself. Being alone was all I knew. I was all I had, really. That and books. Losing myself for hours in worlds that only existed in the confines of a paper jacket was my only escape from a life I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. Shunning contemporary stories in favor of classics, I always felt like I was the only one, but I wasn’t interested in reading books that felt like a present-day reality when I wanted nothing to do with my own. Anyway, my point is, I never knew what true happiness and fulfillment felt like until you. We had a connection that I know in my heart I’m never going to have with anyone else. You made me laugh. You made me smile. You made me cry (much as I hate to admit). You showed me I was still capable of giving love despite the fact that I’d never learned what it meant to accept it.Our time together may have been brief and tragically fleeting, but it left a lasting mark on my heart. I’m the woman I am today because of you, Kerouac. And for that reason alone, I’ll always hold you dear, and I’ll forever regret that it never worked out for us. Thank you for everything. I wish you all good things. Love, Absinthe PS – I think you should know that I never stopped loving you, not once. For whatever it’s worth, I just wanted you to know that you were loved

What makes you think I'm not from here?" "Sweetie, no one's actually from Hollywood. We're all transplants looking for a piece of the American Dream.

were of a later era than those on the other shelves and did have dust jackets. There was John Masefield’s The Box of Delights; and the C. S. Lewis Narnia books; and Patricia Lynch’s The Turf-Cutter’s Donkey; The Winter of Enchantment by Victoria Walker; Black Hearts in Battersea by Joan Aiken; several of Rosemary Sutcliff’s historical novels, including Susan’s favorite, The Silver Branch; Power of Three by Diana Wynne Jones; The Weirdstone of Brisingamen by Alan Garner; Five Children and It by E. Nesbit; and