Y Short Quotes

[Y]ou are here to learn something. Don’t try to figure out what it is. This can be frustrating and unproductive.

She had a short fuse this morning, because it was a day that ended with y, you see.

Soy Hugo, vengo aquí semana tras semana por dos motivos: me encanta el café que sirven y adoro observarte mientras te quemas la lengua con el chocolate.

hey its Uberunicorn here, im uploading my accountant for the first time! :D yay! im only uploading the books ive read in a short time: jan-dec, so i might not have so many books online j8st yet... - Uberunicorn, this one called cherub the recruit! Y X 3!!!

Andrew is going to be one of my problems. Dean thinks it's great fun--he knows what is in the wind as well as I do. He is always teasing me about my red-headed young man--my r.h.y.m. for short. "He's almost a rhyme," said Dean. "But never a poem," said I.

Brother,you who have the light, tell me mine. I am like a blind man. I go without direction and fumble along. I go under tempests and storms, blind with fantasy and crazy with harmony. That is my malady. Dreaming. Poetry is the iron jacket with a thousand bloody points I wear upon my soul. The bloodstained thorns spill the drops of my melancholy. And so I go, blind and crazy, through this bitter world; at times it seems to me that the path is very long, and at times that it's very short... And in this back-and-forth between eagerness and agony, I am full of woes I can hardly bear. Don't you hear the drops of my melancholy falling?

Fascism, as Ortega y Gasset says, is always ‘A and not A’.

I'm not even capable of an auditory response; my vocal cords have shorted out and my jaw has dropped to the floor. Raunch-y.

Ask about those whose names are learned by heart, and you will see that they have these distinguishing marks: X cultivates Y and Y cultivates Z – no one bothers about himself.

Men do not live in perfect harmony with each other. Rather, again and again conflicts arise between them. And the source of these conflicts is always the same: the scarcity of goods. I want to do X with a given good G and you want to do simultaneously Y with the very same good. Because it is impossible for you and me to do simultaneously X and Y with G, you and I must clash. If a superabundance of goods existed, i.e., if, for instance, G were available in unlimited supply, our conflict could be avoided. We could both simultaneously do ‘our thing’ with G. But most goods do not exist in superabundance. Ever since mankind left the Garden of Eden, there has been and always will be scarcity all-around us.

Well, but, good Master Richard,” resumed Matcham, “an ye like maids so little, y’ are no true natural man; for God made them twain by intention, and brought true love into the world, to be man’s hope and woman’s comfort.

Pienso en ti como en un código que debo descifrar, o como un puzzle que debo resolver. O un rompecabezas que debo ensamblar. Paso por tu vida y me quedo inmóvil al limite de la vida. (...) Te deseo. De eso no me cabe ninguna duda.

Pa said, "Won't you say a few words? Ain't none of our folks ever been buried without a few words." Connie led Rose of Sharon to the graveside, she reluctant. "You got to," Connie said. "It ain't decent not to. It'll jus' be a little. The firelight fell on the grouped people, showing their faces and their eyes, dwindling on their dark clothes.All the hats were off now. The light danced, jerking over the people. Casy said, It'll be a short one." He bowed his head, and the others followed his lead. Casy said solemnly, "This here ol' man jus' lived a life an' just died out of it. I don't know whether he was good or bad, but that don't matter much. He was alive, an' that's what matters. An' now his dead, an' that don't matter. Heard a fella tell a poem one time, an' he says 'All that lives is holy.' Got to thinkin', an' purty soon it means more than the words says. An' I woundn' pray for a ol' fella that's dead. He's awright. He got a job to do, but it's all laid out for'im an' there's on'y one way to do it. But us, we got a job to do, an' they's a thousan' ways, an' we don' know which one to take. An' if I was to pray, it'd be for the folks that don' know which way to turn. Grampa here, he got the easy straight. An' now cover 'im up and let'im get to his work." He raised his head.

Te quiero, y ese amor es lo que me induce a saberlo todo sobre ti. Cuanto mas se, mas cerca estoy de ti. (...) Te quiero, te deseo, te necesito. Te pertenezco de la misma forma que tu me perteneces a mi. Ya esta. He declarado el amor que siento por ti. "Terminaciones femeninas" (297-304)

Y-Y-Yeah, and I d-do my own carpentry work, too.” I was embarrassed because I was stammering. “That’s what I wanted to hear. I understand you’re a brother of mine.” “That’s right.” I was keeping my sentences short and my words few. “Local 107. Since 1947.” “Our friend speaks very highly of you.

Había un proverbio sumerio que decía "Él es temeroso, como un hombre que no conoce la cerveza" y otro, todavía más revelador, que decía "No conocer la cerveza no es normal".

Pero los bancos no son individuos, sino sociedades, y las sociedades carecen de cuerpos donde se puedan aplicar puntapiés y de almas que mandar al demonio

Se necesita cierta dósis de selección y de discreción al exhibir un efecto realista.

I'm not saying justice is for sale, but if you have enough money, you can sometimes enjoy the benefits of a short-term lease.

Y cuando todas las ratas estuvieron dentro de al caja, Hamelín apagó el televisor

In short, millennials have been dealt a bad hand in their career, social, and romantic lives—some even in their family. In the karma points of the world, millennials are of the lowest caste so far. As a result, they are treated with disdain, contempt, and disrespect. Most of the time, they don’t fight back, usually in danger of losing their financial stability.

Nos salva, usted sabe, que respondamos por completo a una imagen muy común: el hombre y la mujer cuya amistad se convierte casi en un hábito diario, hasta volverse al fin indispensable.

Fue tu sonrisa la que me llevo a pensar que eras extranjera antes de oírte hablar. (...) Aquí las sonrisas son muy valiosas y poco habituales. Pero tu sonreías todo el tiempo, como si te encantara todo lo que veías. Me dedicaste una sonrisa la primera vez que me viste, incluso con más ganas que antes. Tu sonreíste y yo me perdí, como un niño pequeño en un bosque enorme que ya no puede encontrar el camino de vuelta a casa.

La vanidad echa a perder las mejores cualidades. El talento y la bondad nunca pasan inadvertidos y, aunque así fuera, la conciencia de tenerlos y hacer buen uso de ellos debería bastar. Las virtudes quedan ensalzadas por la modestia.

Thornton tenía la duda pintada claramente en el semblante, pero aquello despertó su espíritu de lucha, el que hace crecer al hombre ante las dificultades, le impide aceptar lo imposible y lo hace sordo a todo lo que no sea el clamor de la batalla.

y se vio a sí misma saliendo hacia la fiesta, y al pensar en este aspecto de la naturaleza humana, con su paciencia y su capacidad de sufrimiento y de encontrar satisfacción en placeres tan nimios, exiguos y sórdidos, se le llenaron los ojos de lágrimas.

What did he fear? It was not fear or dread. It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine. “What’s yours?” asked the barman. “Nada.” “Otro loco m ás,” said the barman and turned away.

Sola la sabiduría es a quien no se puede hacer injuria; no la podrá borrar la edad presente, ni la disminuirá la futura, antes la que viniere añadirá alguna parte de veneración; porque la envidia siempre hace su morada en lo cercano, y con más sinceridad nos admiramos de lo más remoto.

Al cabo de seis meses, Stransom había renunciado a esa amistad que antaño le resultaba tan grata y reconfortante. Su privación tenía dos caras y la que ahora apuntaba hacia él, en un intento por salvar aquel lazo, era la que más le costaba mirar. Una cara era la privación que él inflingía; la otra, la que él sufria.

se dirigió al extremo opuesto del salón, haica un rincón en penumbra donde colgaba un espejo, y se miró. ¡No! No iba bien. Y de inmediato la congoja que siempre intentaba ocultar, la profunda insatisfacción - la sensación que tenía, desde que era niña, de ser inferior a los demás -, se apoderó de ella, implacable, despiadada, con tal intensidad que no podía rechazarla

Our Dome is the bottom of the barrel in the Mega City," Asterion said. "The Deep, it's beneath the bottom. Patrols don't even come down yonder no more. This here is where the forgotten live." "That's pretty deep from a guy that talks as funny as you do." I said quietly. "It's not polite to make fun of a man's drawl," he said. I nodded. "You've told me that before too," I said. I still got no idea what 'drawl' even means and have never heard anyone else say it. I'm thinking you made it up." Asterion shook his head. "Y'all never heard of Texas either," he said. "Goes to show what you know." I grinned. "That sounds made up too." He shook his head in disgust. "Don't make no different anyhow," he said, as much to himself as to me. "They say half of it is underwater now anyway.

El tiempo que tenemos no es corto; pero perdiendo mucho de él, hacemos que lo sea, y la vida es suficientemente larga para ejecutar en ella cosas grandes, si la empleáremos bien. Pero al que se le pasa en ocio y en deleites, y no la ocupa en loables ejercicios, cuando le llega el último trance, conocemos que se le fue sin que él haya entendido que caminaba. Lo cierto es que la vida que se nos dio no es breve, nosotros hacemos que lo sea; y que no somos pobres, sino pródigos del tiempo; sucediendo lo que a las grandes y reales riquezas, que si llegan a manos de dueños poco cuerdos se disipan en un instante; y al contrario las cortas y limitadas, entrando en poder de próvidos administradores, crecen con el uso. Así nuestra edad tiene mucha latitud para los que usaren bien de ella.

De su comunicación sacarás el fruto que quisieres, sin que por ellos quede el que consigas más cuanto más sacares. ¡Qué felicidad y qué honrada vejez espera al que se puso debajo de la protección de ésta! Tendrá con quien deliberar de las materias grandes y pequeñas, a quien consultar cada día en sus negocios, y de quien oír verdades sin injurias, y alabanzas sin adulación, y una idea cuya semejanza imite.

Las mujeres de las primeras umma (comunidad) de Medina tomaban parte plenamente en la vida pública, y algunas de ellas, de acuerdo a la costumbre árabe, luchaban al lado de los hombres en el campo de batalla. No parece que entonces experimentaran el islam como una religión opresiva, aunque más tarde, como sucedió con el cristianismo, los hombres tomaron el control de la religión y la adaptaron al patriarcado dominante.

Yet how can we make sense of an ideology that appeals to skinheads and intellectuals; denounces the bourgeoisie while forming alliances with conservatives; adopts a macho style yet attracts many women; calls for a return to tradition and is fascinated by technology; idealizes the people and is contemptuous of mass society; and preaches violence in the name of order? Fascism, as Ortega y Gasset says, is always ‘A and not A’.

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Turning off the electric light he continued the conversation with himself. It is the light of course but it is necessary that the place be clean and pleasant. You do not want music. Certainly you do not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not fear or dread. It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine.

Los que leemos ciencia ficción (ahora hablo como lector, no como escritor) lo hacemos porque nos gusta experimentar esta reacción en cadena de ideas que provoca en nuestras mentes algo que leemos, algo que comporta una nueva idea; por tanto, la mejor ciencia ficción tiende en último extremo a convertirse en una colaboración entre autor y lector en la que ambos crean... y disfrutan haciéndolo: el placer es el esencial y definitivo ingrediente de la ciencia ficción, al placer de descubrir la novedad.

...the beginner, satisfied with the happy state of the beginner, able to travel from his place at the window, never losing sight of the fact that he is content with the comfortable grayness of his modest knowledge. In short: let others advance. Or, as Malamud would say: perhaps it would be more useful to settle into the stubbornly modest gray classroom and accept it as it is, like an eternal Monday in nursery school. After all, we don't know if things aren't better that way: deliberately insufficient.

We see, then, that even from the zoological point of view, which is the least interesting and—note this—not decisive, a being in such condition can never achieve a genuine equilibrium; we also see something that differs from the idea of challenge-response in Toynbee and, in my judgement, effectively constitutes human life: namely, that no surroundings or change of surroundings can in itself be described as an obstacle, a difficulty, and a challenge for man, but that the difficulty is always relative to the projects which man creates in his imagination, to what he customarily calls his ideals; in short, relative to what man wants to be. This affords us an idea of challenge-and-response which is much deeper and more decisive than the merely anecdotal, adventitious, and accidental idea which Toynbee proposes. In its light, all of human life appears to us as what it is permanently: a dramatic confrontation and struggle of man with the world and not a mere occasional maladjustment which is produced at certain moments.

Tens of millions were supposed to have died in an ice age back in the 1980s, just as predicted in 1969, and still more were said to be doomed by a bath of acid rain shortly thereafter, as well as in radiation that would fry the world when the ozone layer disappeared. Hadn’t hundreds of millions more perished at the turn of the millennium—Y2K—when every damn computer went haywire and all the nuclear missiles in the world were launched, to say nothing of the lethal effects of canola oil in theater popcorn? Living

Hablaban de todas las cosas del mundo, le parecía ahora; eran demasiado tolerantes para reírse de los demás; le habían enseñado, aunque era solo una niña, a veneraar la belleza. ¿Que había de belo en ese sofocante salón londinense? - ¡Oh, pobres flores! - exclamó. Porque había un par de claveles pisoteados, porque los pétalos de las flores estaban arrugados y mustios. POr sus sentimientos hacia las flores eran casi excesivos. Su madre las adoraba; desde niña le habían enseñado que dañar una flor era dañar lo más exquisito de la naturaleza.

Ahora, pues, mientras la sangre está caliente, los vigorosos han de caminar a lo mejor. En este género de vida te espera mucha parte de las buenas ciencias, el amor y ejercicio de la virtud, el olvido de los deleites, el arte de vivir y morir y, finalmente, un soberano descanso. El estado de todos los ocupados es miserable; pero el de aquéllos que aun no son suyas las ocupaciones en que trabajan es miserabilísimo; duermen por sueño ajeno, andan con ajenos pasos, comen con ajena gana; hasta el amar y aborrecer, que son acciones tan libres, lo hacen mandados.

He jingled his keys in his hand as he walked. "Y'know, I've looked for you around the floors.You haven't been drawing our door." Of course, there wasn't an our anything. Unless,of course, he meant our as in "we the people of means who visit France regularly enough to be in French 5." "I figured I should give up," I said shortly. "Why?" Because you looked right through me. Because I might be pitiful, but I'm not stupid. Because I promised the one boy who never disappoints me. "There was no way it was going to turn out the way I wanted it to." "Too bad." "Yeah.

Todo lo que está por venir es incierto. Vive el presente, y advierte que el mayor de los poetas, como inflamado de algún divino oráculo, cantó aquel saludable verso: «El mejor día de todos los mortales es el primero que huye.» ¿Cómo te detienes? (dice) ¿Cómo tardas? El tiempo huye si no le ocupas; y aunque le ocupes, huye; y así, se ha de contrastar su celeridad con la presteza de aprovecharle, cogiendo con prisa el agua como de arroyo rápido que en pasando la corriente queda seco. También es muy a propósito para condenar los pensamientos prolongados, que no llaman buena a la edad sino al día.

Quizá no le atraiga la belleza - señaló ella. (Le había dicho que no había visto La tempestad; que no había leído tal libro; tenía un aspecto desaliñado, too él era bigote, barbita y leontina de plata). Pensó que aquello no costaba un penique; los museos y la National Gallery eran gratuitos, y también el campo. Conocía, claro está, las objeciones: lavar, cocinar, los niños; pero la raíz de las cosas, lo que tenían que deicr, era que la felicida es muy barata. Puede tenerse por nada. La belleza. .... - ¡ La belleza! - exclamó él. Lamentaba no entenderla si se la desligaba de los seres humanos.

I can remember many, many times driving down to the projects telling myself ‘You don’t want to do this! You don’t want to do this!’ But I’d do it anyway.” “[M]y body’s saying no and my mind’s saying no, but … we started all over again. I didn’t need it, I didn’t want it … it’s like some kind of molecular thing in my cells would go for it, you know. I felt like a fucking robot.” “I used to smoke some [cocaine] that wasn’t good, feel sick and want some more. That’s totally fucking crazy. The point that is best learned from the whole experience is the craziness, the completely illogical short-circuiting of the normal human mental process that takes place in obsessive addiction.

Megan Meade’s Guide to the McGowan Boys Entry One Observation #1: When they’re beautiful, they know they’re beautiful. Like the second-to-oldest one, Evan. He’s a senior. He is perfection personified. And he knows it. You can tell because he just sort of smiles knowingly when you gape at him. Not that I’ve been gaping at him. Not at all. Anyway, too soon yet to tell if it negatively affects his behavior. (Like Mike Blukowsi and his Astrodome-sized ego problem.) Observation #2: They like skin. Especially skin they think they’re not necessarily supposed to be seeing. Like the space between your belly tee and your waistband. Observation #3: They have no problem bringing up events that would mortify me into shamed silence if the roles were reversed. Like Evan totally brought up the wiffleball bat incident, when if that had happened to me, I’d be wishing on every one of my birthday cakes for everyone to forget it. Observation #4: They gossip. Can you believe it? I overheard Finn and Doug in the backyard talking about some girl named Dawn who blew off some guy named Simon for some other guy named Rick for like TWENTY MINUTES! They sounded like those old mole-hair ladies at Sal’s Milkshakes. ‘Member the ones who lectured us for a whole hour that day about how young women shouldn’t wear shorts? Wait, okay, I got sidetracked. Observation #5: The older ones are so cute with the younger ones. They were playing ultimate Frisbee when I first got here and Evan totally let Caleb and Ian tackle him. It was soooooo cute. **sigh.** Observation #6: They’re cliquey. I mean, eye-rolling, secret-handshake, don’t-talk-to-us-unless-you’ve-got-an-X-and-a-Y cliquey. Very schooled in the art of the freeze-out. Observation #7: They have no sense of personal space. I need a lock on my door. STAT. Observation #8: Boys are icky. Do not even get me started on the state of the bathroom. I’m thinking of calling in a haz-mat team. Seriously. Observation #9: They have really freaky things going on down there. Yeah, I don’t think I’m ready to elaborate on that one yet. Observation #10: They know how to make enemies. Big time.

"If it's a outside deal, how will I get my kids back?" Kit asked. "The Cabals have them." Chloe and Derek's heads both whipped Kit's way. "You're considering this?" Chloe said. "I can get them," Dr. Inglis said. "We'll take Corey now, as a gesture of good faith from you. Then I will take Daniel for your son and Maya for your daughter." "Dad?" Derek said. Kit didn't answer him. He didn't even look over. Chloe looked from us to Kit, her blue eyes wide. "Y-you c-can't—" Derek leaped to his feet. "I won't let you do this, Dad. These kids came to you for help." I gaped at Derek. Even Chloe looked confused. I might have known the guy for less than twenty-four hours, but short of demonic possession, I couldn't imagine him saying that.

El cuarto no tenía ventanas y la linterna daba muy poca luz. Arrodillado en el suelo para abrir un baúl, rompió una telaraña con los labios. El tenue entramado le cubrió la boca como si se tratara de una mano. Se la limpió molesto, pero tuvo la sensación de que le habían puesto una mordaza. Unas cuantas noches después, en Nueva York, andando por una bocacalle mientras llovía, vio a una puta vieja en un portal. Estaba tan sucia y era tan fea que parecía una caricatura de la muerte, pero antes de que pudiera examinarla con detenimiento —en el momento en que sus ojos recibieron la primera impresión de su figura encorvada—, se le hincharon los labios, su respiración se aceleró, y Cash experimentó todos los otros síntomas de la excitación erótica

Suponiendo que las cosas sigan siendo en general como ahora, el océano Atlántico se expandirá hasta llegar a ser mucho mayor que el Pacífico. Gran parte de California se alejará flotando y se convertirá en una especie de Madagascar del Pacífico. África se desplazará hacia el norte, uniéndose a Europa, borrando de la existencia al Mediterráneo y haciendo elevarse una cadena de montañas de majestuosidad himaláyica, que irá desde París hasta Calcuta. Australia colonizará las islas situadas al norte de ella y se unirá mediante algunos ombligos ístmicos a Asia. Éstos son resultados futuros, pero no acontecimientos futuros. Los acontecimientos están sucediendo ya. Mientras estamos aquí sentados, los continentes andan a la deriva, como hojas en un estanque.

So this is what a black pepper pork bun really tastes like!" The bun is flaky, and crispy, like a piecrust! The juicy pork filling is seasoned with just enough black pepper to give it a good bite! All the minced green onion mixed in with it makes it even better! The whole thing is overflowing with the mellow and meaty umami goodness of ground pork! "IT'S SOOO GOOD!" "Look! There it is! That's Soma Yukihira's booth!" "Really? Interesting! Wasn't he one of the finalists in this year's Classic?" "Hmm. This meat filling is way too weak as is. Juiciness, richness, umami... it's way short on all of those. The bun itself is probably good enough. Maybe I should up the ratio of rib meat..." "Yo. How're the test recipes going? There are a whole lot of other exclusively Chinese seasonings you can try, y'know. Oyster sauce, Xo spicy seafood sauce and a whole mountain of spices. I did a Dongpo Pork Bowl for the Classic, so I know all too well how deep that particular subject gets." "Oh, right! Now I see it. Chinese "Ma-La" flavor is just another combination of spices! Everything I learned about spices from my curry dish for the Prelims... ... I should be able to use in this too! Thanks, Nikumi!" "H-hey! Don't grab my hand like that!" How about this? Fresh-ground black pepper... ... and some mellow, fragrant sesame oil! When you're making anything Chinese, you can't forget the five-spice powder. I'll also knead in some star anise to enhance the flavor of the pork! Then add sliced green onions and finish by wrapping the mixture in the dough

The best way to figure out what Perl is used for is to look at the ... Comprehensive Perl Archive Network (the CPAN, for short). ... [Y]ou'll get the impression that Perl has interfaces to almost everything in the world. With a little thought, you may figure out the reason Perl has interfaces to everything is not so much so Perl itself can talk to everything, but so Perl can get everything in the world talking to everything else in the world. The combinatorics are staggering. The very first issue of The Perl Journal ... contained an article entitled 'How Perl Saved the Human Genome Project'. It explains how all the different genome sequencing laboratories used different databases with different formats, and how Perl was used to massage the data into a cohesive whole.

Pleased to meet y’all,” said the short villager to Porkins and Carl. They were gathered outside, by the stable. “I’m Biff, the leader of our little group.” He pointed at the fat villager. “This here is Boff, my deputy, and those other two are Boof and Bop.” “So your names are Biff, Boff, Boof and Bop?” said Carl. “That’s correct,” said Biff. “Doesn’t that get confusing?” “No, sir.” “Riiiiight,” said Carl. The Ender Hunters only had two spare horses, so Porkins took one and Dave shared the other with Carl. “I don’t think you’d be able to ride too well with them tiny little legs, anyway,” Boff said to Carl. “Whatever you say, Boof,” said Carl. “I’m Boff,” said Boff. “Wait a minute,” said Boof, “I thought I was Boff.” “No,” said Bop, “you’re Bop.” Carl rolled his eyes. “Let’s just get moving, shall we,” he said.

My intention all along had been to get my wakeboarding legs back this first day. Maybe I'd do tricks when we went out the next day. I didn't want to get too cocky and bust ass in front of Sean. But as I got more comfortable and forgot to care, I tried a few standbys-a front flip, a scarecrow. There was no busting of ass. So I tried a backroll. And landed it solidly. Now I got cocky. I did a heelside backroll with a nosegrab. This meant that in the middle of the flip, I let go of the rope handle with one hand, reached down, and grabbed the front of the board. It served no purpose in the trick except to look impressive, like, This only appears to be a difficult trick. I have all the time in the world. I will grab the board. Yawn. And I landed it. This was getting too good to be true. My brother swung the boat around just before we reached the graffiti-covered highway bridge that spanned the lake. Cameron had spray-painted his name and his girlfriend’s name on the bridge, alongside all the other couples’ names and over the faded ones. My genius brother had tried to paint his own name but ran out of room on that section of bridge. McGULLICUDD Y Sean wisely never painted his girlfriends’ names. He would have had to change them too often. For my part, I was very thankful that when most of this spray-painting action was going on last summer, I was still too short to reach over from the pile and haul myself up on the main part of the bridge. I probably had the height and the upper body strength now, and I prayed none of the boys pointed this out. Then I’d have to spray-paint LORI LOVES SEAN on the bridge. And move to Canada.

Casy said, "It'll be a short one." He bowed his head, and the others followed his lead. Casy said solemnly, "This here ol' man jus' lived a life an' jus' died out of it. I don't know whether he was good or bad, but that don't matter much. He was alive, an' that's what matters. An' now he's dead, an' that don't matter. Heard a fella tell a poem one time, an' he says, 'All that lives is holy.' Got to thinkin', an' purty soon it means more than the words says. An' I wouldn' pray for a ol' fella that's dead. He's awright. He got a job to do, but it's all laid out for 'im an' there's on'y one way to do it. But us, we got a job to do, an' they's a thousan' ways, an' we don' know which one to take. An' if I was to pray, it'd be for the folks that don' know which way to turn. Grampa here, he got the easy straight. An' now cover 'im up and let 'im get to his work." He raised his head.

Unfortunately, my mind was also in part formed by the apocalyptic, death-obsessed culture of the past several decades. Tens of millions were supposed to have died in an ice age back in the 1980s, just as predicted in 1969, and still more were said to be doomed by a bath of acid rain shortly thereafter, as well as in radiation that would fry the world when the ozone layer disappeared. Hadn’t hundreds of millions more perished at the turn of the millennium—Y2K—when every damn computer went haywire and all the nuclear missiles in the world were launched, to say nothing of the lethal effects of canola oil in theater popcorn? Living in the End Times was exhausting. When you were assured that billions of people were on the brink of imminent death at every minute of the day, it was hard to get the necessary eight hours of sleep, even harder to limit yourself to only one or two alcoholic drinks each day, when your stress level said, I gotta get smashed.

You’re the only person who doesn’t see the advantage in such a match.” “That’s because I don’t believe in marriages of convenience. Given your family’s history, I’d think that you wouldn’t either.” She colored. “And why do assume it would be such a thing? Is it so hard to believe that a man might genuinely care for me? That he might actually want to marry me for myself?” “Why would anyone wish to marry the reckless Lady Celia, after all,” she went on in a choked voice, “if not for her fortune or to shore up his reputation?” “I didn’t mean any such thing,” he said sharply. But she’d worked herself up into a fine temper. “Of course you did. You kissed me last night only to make a point, and you couldn’t even bear to kiss me properly again today-“ “Now see here,” he said, grabbing her shoulders. “I didn’t kiss you ‘properly’ today because I was afraid if I did I might not stop.” That seemed to draw her up short. “Wh-What?” Sweet God, he shouldn’t have said that, but he couldn’t let her go on thinking she was some sort of pariah around men. “I knew that if I got his close, and I put my mouth on yours…” But now he was this close. And she was staring up at him with that mix of bewilderment and hurt pride, and he couldn’t help himself. Not anymore. He kissed her, to show her what she seemed blind to. That he wanted her. That even knowing it was wrong and could never work, he wanted to have her. She tore her lips from his. “Mr. Pinter-“ she began in a whisper. “Jackson,” he growled. “Let me hear you say my name.” Backing away from him, she cast him a wounded expression. “Y-you don’t have to pretend-“ “I’m not pretending anything, damn it!” Grabbing her by the sleeves, he dragged her close and kissed her again, with even more heat. How could she not see that he ached to take her? How could she not know what a temptation she was? Her lips intoxicated him, made him light-headed. Made him reckless enough to kiss her so impudently that any other woman of her rank would be insulted. When she pulled away a second time, he expected her to slap him. But all she did was utter a feeble protest. “Please, Mr. Pinter-“ “Jackson,” he ordered in a low, unsteady voice, emboldened by the melting look in her eyes. “Say my Christian name.” Her lush dark lashes lowered as a blush stained her cheeks. “Jackson…” His breath caught in his throat at the intimacy of it, and fire exploded in his brain. She wasn’t pushing him away, so to hell with trying to be a gentleman. He took her mouth savagely this time, plundering every part of its silky warmth as his blood pulsed high in his veins. She tasted of red wine and lemon cake, both tart and sweet at once. He wanted to eat her up. He wanted to take her, right here in this room. So when she pulled out of his arms to back away, he walked after her. She didn’t stop backing away, but neither did she turn tail and run. “Last night you claimed this wouldn’t happen again.” “I know. And yet it has.” Like someone in an opium den, he’d been craving her for months. And how that he’d suddenly had a taste of the very thing he craved, he had to have more. When she came up against the writing table, he caught her about the waist. She turned her head away before he could kiss her, so he settled for burying his face in her neck to nuzzle the tender throat he’d been coveting. With a shiver, she slid her hands up his chest. “Why are you doing this?” “Because I want you,” he admitted, damning himself. “Because I’ve always wanted you.” Then he covered her mouth with his once more.

Infinite Jest (V?). Year of the Trial-Size Dove Bar. Poor Yorick Entertainment Unlimited. 'Madame Psychosis' ; no other definitive data. Thorny problem for archivists. Incandenza's last film, Incandenza's death occurring during its post-production. Most archival authorities list as unfinished, unseen. Some list as completion of Infinite Jest (IV), for which Incandenza also used 'Psychosis,' thus list the film under Incandenza's output for Y.T.M.P. Though no scholarly synopsis or report of viewing exists, two short essays in different issues of Cartridge Quarterly East refer to to film as 'extraordinary' and 'far away [James O. Incandenza's] most entertaining and compelling work.' West Coast archivists list the film's gauge as '16...78... n mm.,' basing the gauge on critical allusions to 'radical experiments in viewers' optical perspective and context' as IJ (V?)'s distinctive feature. Though Canadian archivist Tete-Beche lists the film as completed and privately distributed by P.Y.E.U. through posthumous provisions in the filmmaker's will, all other comprehensive filmographies have the film either unfinished or UNRELEASED, its Master cartridge either destroyed or vaulted sui testator.

Scrolling through the rest of the 3,500 documents in Michelle’s hard drive, one comes upon a file titled “RecentDNAresults,” which features the EAR’s Y-STR markers (short tandem repeats on the Y chromosome that establish male-line ancestry), including the elusive rare PGM marker. Having the Golden State Killer’s DNA was always the one ace up this investigation’s sleeve. But a killer’s DNA is only as good as the databases we can compare it to. There was no match in CODIS. And there was no match in the California penal system’s Y-STR database. If the killer’s father, brothers, or uncles had been convicted of a felony in the past sixteen years, an alert would have gone to Paul Holes or Erika Hutchcraft (the current lead investigator in Orange County). They would have looked into the man’s family, zeroed in on a member who was in the area of the crimes, and launched an investigation. But they had nothing. There are public databases that the DNA profile could be used to match, filled not with convicted criminals but with genealogical buffs. You can enter the STR markers on the Y chromosome of the killer into these public databases and try to find a match, or at least a surname that could help you with the search.

Strange to consider that these two linguistic operations, metaphor and analogy, so often linked together in rhetoric and narratology, and considered to be variants of the same operation, are actually hugely different from each other, to the point where one is futile and stupid, the other penetrating and useful. Can this not have been noticed before? Do they really think x is like y is equivalent to x is to y as a is to b? Can they be that fuzzy, that sloppy? Yes. Of course. Evidence copious. Reconsider data at hand in light of this; it fits the patterns. Because fuzzy is to language as sloppy is to action. Or maybe both these rhetorical operations, and all linguistic operations, all language—all mentation—simply reveal an insoluble underlying problem, which is the fuzzy, indeterminate nature of any symbolic representation, and in particular the utter inadequacy of any narrative algorithm yet invented and applied. Some actions, some feelings, one might venture, simply do not have ways to be effectively compressed, discretized, quantified, operationalized, proceduralized, and gamified; and that lack, that absence, makes them unalgorithmic. In short, there are some actions and feelings that are always, and by definition, beyond algorithm. And therefore inexpressible. Some

What advice would you give to a smart, driven college student about to enter the “real world”? What advice should they ignore? I thought about this a lot when I gave the commencement address at MIT back in 2013. I said that if I had a cheat sheet I could give myself at 22, it would have three things on it: a tennis ball, a circle, and the number 30,000. The tennis ball is about finding something that you can become obsessed with, like my childhood dog who would go crazy whenever anyone threw a ball for her. The most successful people I know are all obsessed with solving a problem that really matters to them. The circle refers to the idea that you’re the average of your five closest friends. Make sure to put yourself in an environment that pulls the best out of you. And the last is the number 30,000. When I was 24, I came across a website that says most people live for about 30,000 days—and I was shocked to find that I was already 8,000 days down. So you have to make every day count. I’d give the same advice today, but I would clarify that it’s not just about passion or following your dreams. Make sure the problem you become obsessed with is one that needs solving and is one where your contribution can make a difference. As Y Combinator says, “Make something people want.

She clicks on the last slide, and that’s when it happens. “Me So Horny” blasts out of the speakers and my video, mine and Peter’s, flashes on the projector screen. Someone has taken the video from Anonybitch’s Instagram and put their own soundtrack to it. They’ve edited it too, so I bop up and down on Peter’s lap at triple speed to the beat. Oh no no no no. Please, no. Everything happens at once. People are shrieking and laughing and pointing and going “Oooh!” Mr. Vasquez is jumping up to unplug the projector, and then Peter’s running onstage, grabbing the microphone out of a stunned Reena’s hand. “Whoever did that is a piece of garbage. And not that it’s anybody’s fucking business, but Lara Jean and I did not have sex in the hot tub.” My ears are ringing, and people are twisting around in their seats to look at me and then shifting back around to look at Peter. “All we did was kiss, so fuck off!” Mr. Vasquez, the junior class advisor, is trying to grab the mic back from Peter, but Peter manages to maintain control of it. He holds the mic up high and yells out, “I’m gonna find whoever did this and kick their ass!” In the scuffle, he drops the mic. People are cheering and laughing. Peter’s being frog-marched off the stage, and he frantically looks out into the audience. He’s looking for me. The assembly breaks up then, and everyone starts filing out the doors, but I stay low in my seat. Chris comes and finds me, face alight. She grabs me by the shoulders. “Ummm, that was crazy! He freaking dropped the F bomb twice!” I am still in a state of shock, maybe. A video of me and Peter hot and heavy was just on the projector screen, and everyone saw Mr. Vasquez, seventy-year-old Mr. Glebe who doesn’t even know what Instagram is. The only passionate kiss of my life and everybody saw. Chris shakes my shoulders. “Lara Jean! Are you okay?” I nod mutely, and she releases me. “He’s kicking whoever did it’s ass? I’d love to see that!” She snorts and throws her head back like a wild pony. “I mean, the boy’s an idiot if he thinks for one second it wasn’t Gen who posted that video. Like, wow, those are some serious blinders, y’know?” Chris stops short and examines my face. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Everybody saw us.” “Yeah…that sucked. I’m sure that was Gen’s handiwork. She must’ve gotten one of her little minions to sneak it onto Reena’s PowerPoint.” Chris shakes her head in disgust. “She’s such a bitch. I’m glad Peter set the record straight, though. Like, I hate to give him credit, but that was an act of chivalry. No guy has ever set the record straight for me.

... Para que estés ahora aquí, tuvieron que agruparse de algún modo, de una forma compleja y extrañamente servicial, trillones de átomos errantes. Es una disposición tan especializada y tan particular que nunca se ha intentado antes y que sólo existirá esta vez. Durante los próximos muchos años –tenemos esa esperanza-, estas pequeñas partículas participarán sin queja en todos los miles de millones de habilidosas tareas cooperativas necesarias para mantenerte intacto y permitir que experimentes ese estado tan agradable, pero tan a menudo infravalorado, que se llama existencia. Por qué se tomaron esta molestia los átomos es todo un enigma. Ser tú no es una experiencia gratificante a nivel atómico. Pese a toda su devota atención, tus átomos no se preocupan en realidad por ti, de hecho ni siquiera saben que estás ahí. Ni siquiera saben que ellos están ahí. Son, después de todo, partículas ciegas, que además no están vivas. (Resulta un tanto fascinante pensar que si tú mismo te fueses deshaciendo con unas pinzas, átomo por átomo, lo que producirías sería un montón de fino polvo atómico, nada del cual habría estado nunca vivo pero todo él habría sido en otro tiempo tú.) Sin embargo, por la razón que sea, durante el período de tu experiencia, tus átomos responderán a un único impulso riguroso: que tú sigas siendo tú.

In 1997 an IBM computer called Deep Blue defeated the world chess champion Garry Kasparov, and unlike its predecessors, it did not just evaluate trillions of moves by brute force but was fitted with strategies that intelligently responded to patterns in the game. [Y]ou might still object that chess is an artificial world with discrete moves and a clear winner, perfectly suited to the rule-crunching of a computer. People, on the other hand, live in a messy world offering unlimited moves and nebulous goals. Surely this requires human creativity and intuition — which is why everyone knows that computers will never compose a symphony, write a story, or paint a picture. But everyone may be wrong. Recent artificial intelligence systems have written credible short stories, composed convincing Mozart-like symphonies, drawn appealing pictures of people and landscapes, and conceived clever ideas for advertisements. None of this is to say that the brain works like a digital computer, that artificial intelligence will ever duplicate the human mind, or that computers are conscious in the sense of having first-person subjective experience. But it does suggest that reasoning, intelligence, imagination, and creativity are forms of information processing, a well-understood physical process. Cognitive science, with the help of the computational theory of mind, has exorcised at least one ghost from the machine.

There is an excellent short book (126 pages) by Faustino Ballvè, Essentials of Economics (Irvington-on-Hudson, N.Y.: Foundation for Economic Education), which briefly summarizes principles and policies. A book that does that at somewhat greater length (327 pages) is Understanding the Dollar Crisis by Percy L. Greaves (Belmont, Mass.: Western Islands, 1973). Bettina Bien Greaves has assembled two volumes of readings on Free Market Economics (Foundation for Economic Education). The reader who aims at a thorough understanding, and feels prepared for it, should next read Human Action by Ludwig von Mises (Chicago: Contemporary Books, 1949, 1966, 907 pages). This book extended the logical unity and precision of economics beyond that of any previous work. A two-volume work written thirteen years after Human Action by a student of Mises is Murray N. Rothbard’s Man, Economy, and State (Mission, Kan.: Sheed, Andrews and McMeel, 1962, 987 pages). This contains much original and penetrating material; its exposition is admirably lucid; and its arrangement makes it in some respects more suitable for textbook use than Mises’ great work. Short books that discuss special economic subjects in a simple way are Planning for Freedom by Ludwig von Mises (South Holland, 111.: Libertarian Press, 1952), and Capitalism and Freedom by Milton Friedman (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962). There is an excellent pamphlet by Murray N. Rothbard, What Has Government Done to Our Money? (Santa Ana, Calif.: Rampart College, 1964, 1974, 62 pages). On the urgent subject of inflation, a book by the present author has recently been published, The Inflation Crisis, and How to Resolve It (New Rochelle, N.Y.: Arlington House, 1978). Among recent works which discuss current ideologies and developments from a point of view similar to that of this volume are the present author’s The Failure of the “New Economics”: An Analysis of the Keynesian Fallacies (Arlington House, 1959); F. A. Hayek, The Road to Serfdom (1945) and the same author’s monumental Constitution of Liberty (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960). Ludwig von Mises’ Socialism: An Economic and Sociological Analysis (London: Jonathan Cape, 1936, 1969) is the most thorough and devastating critique of collectivistic doctrines ever written. The reader should not overlook, of course, Frederic Bastiat’s Economic Sophisms (ca. 1844), and particularly his essay on “What Is Seen and What Is Not Seen.” Those who are interested in working through the economic classics might find it most profitable to do this in the reverse of their historical order. Presented in this order, the chief works to be consulted, with the dates of their first editions, are: Philip Wicksteed, The Common Sense of Political Economy, 1911; John Bates Clark, The Distribution of Wealth, 1899; Eugen von Böhm-Bawerk, The Positive Theory of Capital, 1888; Karl Menger, Principles of Economics, 1871; W. Stanley Jevons, The Theory of Political Economy, 1871; John Stuart Mill, Principles of Political Economy, 1848; David Ricardo, Principles of Political Economy and Taxation, 1817; and Adam Smith, The Wealth of Nations, 1776.

Gasher's right. You're pert. But you don't want to be pert with me, cully. You don't EVER want to be pert with me. Have you heard of people with short fuses? Well, I have no fuse at all, and there's a thousand could testify to it if I hadn't stilled their tongues for good. If you ever speak to me of Lord Perth again...ever, ever, EVER...I'll tear off the top of your skull and eat your brains. I'll have none of that bad-luck story in the Cradle of the Grays. Do you understand me?" He shook Jake back and forth like a rag, and the boy burst into tears. "Do you?" "Y-Y-Yes!" "Good." He set Jake upon his feet, where he swayed woozily back and forth, wiping at his streaming eyes and leaving smudges of dirt on his cheeks so dark they looked like mascara. "Now, my little cull, we're going to have a question and answer session here. I'll ask the questions and you'll give the answers. Do you understand?" Jake didn't reply. He was looking at a panel of the ventilator grille which circled the chamber. The Tick-Tock Man grabbed his nose between two of his fingers and squeezed it viciously. "Do you understand me?" "Yes!" Jake cried. His eyes, now watering with pain as well as terror, returned to Tick-Tock's face. He wanted to look back at the ventilator grille, wanted desperately to verify that what he had seen there was not simply a trick of his frightened, overloaded mind, but he didn't dare. He was afraid someone else--Tick-Tock himself, most likely--would follow his gaze and see what he had seen. "Good." Tick-Tock pulled Jack back over to the chair by his nose, sat down, and cocked his leg over the arm again. "Let's have a nice little chin, then.

—Dios mío, qué guapa eres. Y qué valiente. Es un crimen no poder tocarte. Levanto el taco de billar, y deseo más que nunca que fueran las yemas de sus dedos las que tocaran mi piel. Con suavidad resigo su brazo con la punta, por encima del ángulo puntiagudo de su hombro, y lo acerco lentamente hacia su cuerpo. Ella tiembla ante mi «contacto», sin dejar de mirarme, y a medida que el taco de billar va subiendo, un ligero rubor le tiñe las mejillas. —Tu pelo —digo, tocando el punto donde cae sobre sus hombros—. Tu cuello —digo, y la luz de la piscina le ilumina la piel—. Tus labios —continúo, y noto que la gravedad se desploma peligrosamente entre nosotros, instándome a besarla. Ella desvía la mirada, tímida de pronto. —El día en que nos conocimos te mentí. Nunca he hecho el amor con nadie. —Respira con dificultad y se toca el costado mientras habla—. No quiero que nadie me vea. Las cicatrices. El tubo. No hay nada de sexi en… —Todo en ti es sexi —la interrumpo. Ella me mira y quiero que lo vea en mi rostro. Qué guapa es—. Eres perfecta. La observo cuando retira el taco de billar y se pone de pie, temblando. Lentamente, con los ojos fijos en los míos, se quita la camiseta sin mangas y deja al descubierto un sujetador negro de encaje. Tira la camiseta al suelo, y mi mandíbula se derrumba también. Luego se baja los shorts, los pasa por debajo de los pies y se endereza. Me invita a mirarla. Me ha dejado sin aliento. Intento tomármelo con calma, pero contemplo su cuerpo con ansiedad, miro sus piernas, su pecho y sus caderas. La luz baila sobre las cicatrices de guerra que le cruzan el pecho y el vientre. —Dios mío —consigo musitar apenas. Nunca creí que podría sentir celos de un taco de billar, pero deseo desesperadamente notar su piel contra la mía.

When Musk took delivery of his F1, CNN was there to cover it. “Just three years ago I was showering at the Y and sleeping on the office floor,” he told the camera sheepishly, “and now obviously, I’ve got a million-dollar car… it’s just a moment in my life.” While other McLaren F1 owners around the world—the sultan of Brunei, Wyclef Jean, and Jay Leno, among others—could comfortably afford it, Musk’s purchase had put a sizable dent in his bank account. And unlike other owners, Musk drove the car to work—and declined to insure it. As Musk drove Thiel up Sand Hill Road in the F1, the car was the subject of their chat. “It was like this Hitchcock movie,” Thiel remembered, “where we’re talking about the car for fifteen minutes. We’re supposed to be preparing for the meeting—and we’re talking about the car.” During their ride, Thiel looked at Musk and reportedly asked, “So, what can this thing do?” “Watch this,” Musk replied, flooring the accelerator and simultaneously initiating a lane change on Sand Hill Road. In retrospect, Musk admitted that he was outmatched by the F1. “I didn’t really know how to drive the car,” he recalled. “There’s no stability systems. No traction control. And the car gets so much power that you can break the wheels free at even fifty miles an hour.” Thiel recalls the car in front of them coming fast into view—then Musk swerving to avoid it. The McLaren hit an embankment, was tossed into the air—“like a discus,” Musk remembered——then slammed violently into the ground. “The people that saw it happen thought we were going to die,” he recalled. Thiel had not worn a seat belt, but astonishingly, neither he nor Musk were hurt. Musk’s “work of art” had not fared as well, having now taken a distinctly cubist turn. Post-near-death experience, Thiel dusted himself off on the side of the road and hitchhiked to the Sequoia offices, where he was joined by Musk a short while later. X.com’s CEO, Bill Harris, was also waiting at the Sequoia office, and he recalled that both Thiel and Musk were late but offered no explanation for their delay. “They never told me,” Harris said. “We just had the meeting.” Reflecting on it, Musk found humor in the experience: “I think it’s safe to say Peter wouldn’t be driving with me again.” Thiel wrung some levity out of the moment, too. “I’d achieved lift-off with Elon,” he joked, “but not in a rocket.

Sebastian encountered Cam in the hallway outside the reading room. “Where is he?” he demanded without preamble. Stopping before him with an expressionless face, Cam said shortly, “He’s gone.” “Why didn’t you follow him?” White-hot fury blazed in Sebastian’s eyes. This news, added to the frustration of his vow of celibacy, was the last straw. Cam, who had been exposed to years of Ivo Jenner’s volcanic temper, remained unruffled. “It was unnecessary in my judgment,” he said. “He won’t return.” “I don’t pay you to act on your own damned judgment. I pay you to act on mine! You should have dragged him here by the throat and then let me decide what was to be done with the bastard.” Cam remained silent, sliding a quick, subtle glance at Evie, who was inwardly relieved by the turn of events. They were both aware that had Cam brought Bullard back to the club, there was a distinct possibility that Sebastian might actually have killed him— and the last thing Evie wanted was a murder charge on her husband’s head. “I want him found,” Sebastian said vehemently, pacing back and forth across the reading room. “I want at least two men hired to look for him day and night until he is brought to me. I swear he’ll serve as an example to anyone who even thinks of lifting a finger against my wife.” He raised his arm and pointed to the doorway. “Bring me a list of names within the hour. The best detectives available— private ones. I don’t want some idiot from the New Police, who’ll foul this up as they do everything else. Go.” Though Cam undoubtedly had a few opinions to offer on the matter, he kept them to himself. “Yes, my lord.” He left the room at once, while Sebastian glared after him. Seeking to calm his seething temper, Evie ventured, “There is no need to take your anger out on Cam. He—” “Don’t even try to excuse him,” Sebastian said darkly. “You and I both know that he could have caught that damned gutter rat had he wanted to. And I’ll be damned if I’ll tolerate your calling him by his first name— he is not your brother, nor is he a friend. He’s an employee, and you’ll refer to him as ‘Mr. Rohan’ from now on.” “He is my friend,” Evie replied in outrage. “He has been for years!” “Married women don’t have friendships with young unmarried men.” “Y-you dare to insult my honor with the implication that… that…” Evie could hardly speak for the multitude of protests that jammed inside her. “I’ve done nothing to merit such a lack of tr-tr-trust!” “I trust you. It’s everyone else that I hold in suspicion.

What to read next? Hm…well, if you want more Carrie Jo, check out the Idlewood books. She’s at a new house, and there are heartbreaking child ghosts that need her help, but be warned, you’ll love them too. Most of them, anyway. I have also completed a historical fiction series about Queen Nefertiti. It’s called the Desert Queen series, and I’m very happy with it. If you fancy a bit of adventure in ancient Egypt, check it out. The first book in that series, The Tale of Nefret, is on Kindle. I also have a spooky plantation series called Sugar Hill. There are five books in that one: The Wife of the Left Hand, The Ramparts, and Blood by Candlelight, The Starlight Ball, and His Lovely Garden. I can’t wait to introduce you to the Dufresne family and take you through their plantation, Sugar Hill. Like Seven Sisters, the series will be chock-full of Southern folklore and historical places. Sugar Hill is like Gone With the Wind, but with ghosts! Thanks again for staying with me through this series. I appreciate all your kind words, the reviews, and the emails. Don’t forget to sign up for my mailing list or follow me on Amazon or BookBub so you can get the newest release information right in your inbox. I’ve got a website too that I visit infrequently. Check it out. See y’all soon. M.L. Bullock Christmas at Seven Sisters Three Short Stories from the Seven Sisters Series By M.L.

I thought about this a lot when I gave the commencement address at MIT back in 2013. I said that if I had a cheat sheet I could give myself at 22, it would have three things on it: a tennis ball, a circle, and the number 30,000. The tennis ball is about finding something that you can become obsessed with, like my childhood dog who would go crazy whenever anyone threw a ball for her. The most successful people I know are all obsessed with solving a problem that really matters to them. The circle refers to the idea that you’re the average of your five closest friends. Make sure to put yourself in an environment that pulls the best out of you. And the last is the number 30,000. When I was 24, I came across a website that says most people live for about 30,000 days—and I was shocked to find that I was already 8,000 days down. So you have to make every day count. I’d give the same advice today, but I would clarify that it’s not just about passion or following your dreams. Make sure the problem you become obsessed with is one that needs solving and is one where your contribution can make a difference. As Y Combinator says, “Make something people want.

When, in Being and Time,Heidegger insists that death is the onlyevent which cannot be taken over by another subject for me—an-other cannot die for me, in my place—the obvious counterexampleis Christ himself: did he not, in the extreme gesture of interpassiv-ity, take over for us the ultimate passive experience of dying? Christdies so that we are given a chance to live forever....The problemhere is not only that, obviously, we don’tlive forever (the answer tothis is that it is the Holy Spirit, the community of believers, whichlives forever), but the subjective status of Christ: when he was dyingon the Cross, did he know about his Resurrection-to-come? If he didthen it was all a game, the supreme divine comedy, since Christ knewhis suffering was just a spectacle with a guaranteed good outcome—in short, Christ was faking despair in his “Father, why hast thou for-saken me?” If he didn’t, then in what precise sense was Christ (also)divine? Did God the Father limit the scope of knowledge of Christ’smind to that of a common human consciousness, so that Christ ac-tually thought he was dying abandoned by his father? Was Christ, ineffect, occupying the position of the son in the wonderful joke aboutthe rabbi who turns in despair to God, asking Him what he shoulddo with his bad son, who has deeply disappointed him; God calmlyanswers: “Do the same as I did: write a new testament!”What is crucial here is the radical ambiguity of the term “the faithof Jesus Christ,” which can be read as subjective or objectivegenitive: it can be either “the faith ofChrist” or “the faith / of us, be-lievers / inChrist.” Either we are redeemed because of Christ’s purefaith, or we are redeemed by our faith in Christ, if and insofar as webelieve in him. Perhaps there is a way to read the two meanings to-gether: what we are called to believe in is not Christ’s divinity as suchbut, rather, his faith, his sinless purity. What Christianity proposes isthe figure of Christ as our subject supposed to believe:in our ordinary lives,we never truly believe, but we can at least have the consolation thatthere is One who truly believes (the function of what Lacan, in hisseminar Encore,called y’a de l’un).The final twist here, however, is thaton the Cross, Christ himself has to suspend his belief momentarily.So maybe, at a deeper level, Christ is, rather, our (believers’) subject supposed NOTto believe: it is not our belief we transpose onto others, but,rather, our disbelief itself. Instead of doubting, mocking, and ques-tioning things while believing through the Other, we can also trans-pose onto the Other the nagging doubt, thus regaining the abilityto believe. (And is there not, in exactly the same way, also the func-tion of the subject supposed not to know? Ta ke little children who are sup-posed not to know the “facts of life,” and whose blessed ignorancewe, knowing adults, are supposed to protect by shielding them frombrutal reality; or the wife who is supposed not to know about herhusband’s secret affair, and willingly plays this role even if she re-ally knows all about it, like the young wife in The Age of Innocence;or, inacademia, the role we assume when we ask someone: “OK, I’ll pre-tend I don’t know anything about this topic—try to explain it to mefrom scratch!”) And, perhaps, the true communion with Christ, thetrue imitatio Christi,is to participate in Christ’s doubt and disbelief.There are two main interpretations of how Christ’s death dealswith sin: sacrificial and participatory.4In the first one, we humansare guilty of sin, the consequence of which is death; however, Godpresented Christ, the sinless one, as a sacrifice to die in our place—through the shedding of his blood, we may be forgiven and freedfrom condemnation. In the second one, human beings lived “inAdam,” in the sphere of sinful humanity, under the reign of sin anddeath. Christ became a human being, sharing the fate of those “inAdam” to the end (dying on the Cross), but...

In Elliott Currie’s words, “[t]he prison has become a looming presence in our society to an extent unparalleled in our history or that of any other industrial democracy. Short of major wars, mass incarceration has been the most thoroughly implemented government social program of our time.

There is an infinite amount of suffering in the world. There is a distinctly finite amount of resources to deal with it. How do we decide who gets what? The dilemmas are agonizing. One man’s treatment is another man’s denial of treatment. To save X is to condemn Y.

Il y a longtemps que je ne l'ai pas vue.

a déjà hâte d'y être.

In short, what the sensitive liberals want is a decaffeinated revolution, a revolution which doesn't smell of revolution. [They try to] deprive the French Revolution of its status as the founding event of modern democracy.

It seemed as though all the vigorous instruction of the past month was evaporating before her mind’s eye. All the physical training — self-defense, disguise, fitness — seemed irrelevant here, a short flight of whitewashed steps away from her first assignment. And what sort of spy craft could she need?

18 Jail-Time He was in Gentry's loft. He was watching Cherry do nurse-things to Gentry. Cherry looked over at him from where she sat on the edge of Gentry's bed. 'How y'doin', Slick?' 'Okay... I'm okay.' 'Remember me asking you before?' He was looking down at the face of the man Kid Afrika called the Count. Cherry was fiddling with something on the stretcher's superstructure, a bag of fluid the color of oatmeal. 'How y'feel, Slick?' 'Feel okay.' 'You're not okay. You keep for-' He was sitting on the floor of Gentry's loft. His face was wet. Cherry was kneeling beside him, close, her hands on his shoulders. 'You did time?' He nodded. 'Chemo-penal unit?' 'Yeah.' 'Induced Korsakov's?' He - 'Episodes?' Cherry asked him. He was sitting on the floor in Gentry's loft. Where was Gentry? 'You get episodes like this? Short term-memory goes?' How did she know? Where was Gentry? 'What's the trigger?' 'What triggers the syndrome, Slick? What kicks you into jail-time?' He was sitting on the floor in Gentry's loft and Cherry was practically on top of him. 'Stress,' he said, wondering how she knew about that. 'Where's Gentry?' 'I put him to bed.' 'Why?' 'He collapsed. When he saw that thing...' 'What thing?' Cherry was pressing a pink derm against his wrist. 'Heavy trank,' she said. 'Maybe get you out of it...' 'Out of what?' She sighed. 'Never mind.

The future of the world no longer disturbs me; I do not try still to calculate, with anguish, how long or how short a time the Roman peace will endure; I leave that to the gods. Not that I have acquired more confidence in their justice, which is not our justice, or more faith in human wisdom; the contrary is true. Life is atrocious, we know. But precisely because I expect little of the human condition, man’s periods of felicity, his partial progress, his efforts to begin over again and to continue, all seem to me like so many prodigies which nearly compensate for the monstrous mass of ills and defeats, of indifference and error. Catastrophe and ruin will come; disorder will triumph, but order will too, from time to time. Peace will again establish itself between two periods of war; the words humanity, liberty, and justice will here and there regain the meaning which we have tried to give them. Not all our books will perish, nor our statues, if broken, lie unrepaired; other domes and other pediments will arise from our domes and pediments; some few men will think and work and feel as we have done, and I venture to count upon such continuators, placed irregularly throughout the centuries, and upon this kind of intermittent immortality. If ever the barbarians gain possession of the world they will be forced to adopt some of our methods; they will end by resembling us. Chabrias fears that the pastophor of Mithra or the bishop of Christ may implant himself one day in Rome, replacing the high pontiff. If by ill fate that day should come, my successor officiating in the vatical fields along the Tiber will already have ceased to be merely the chief of a gang, or of a band of sectarians, and will have become in his turn one of the universal figures of authority. He will inherit our palaces and our archives, and will differ from rulers like us less than one might suppose. I accept with calm these vicissitudes of Rome eternal.

PRE-MARKET GAPPERS Los traders experimentados tienen la sensibilidad para saber cuándo están operando las acciones correctas en el momento adecuado. Como mencioné, los traders son tan buenos como las acciones que operan. Los traders en nuestra comunidad y yo usamos un escáner cada mañana programado para encontrar las Acciones en Juego basándose en los siguientes criterios: Las acciones muestran una brecha positiva o negativa de, por lo menos, 2% durante el pre-market. Las acciones que han operado al menos 50,000 títulos en el pre-market. Las acciones que tienen un volumen diario promedio de más de 500,000 títulos. Las acciones que tienen un Rango Medio Verdadero (Average True Range, ATR) de al menos 50 centavos (qué tan grande es el rango de precio que tiene una acción en promedio cada día). La emisora posee un catalizador fundamental. Como regla, no opero acciones con un indicador de interés corto enorme, mayor al 30%. El interés corto (short interest) es la cantidad de títulos que los inversionistas o traders han vendido en corto, pero aún no han cubierto o cerrado).

Pablo Picasso entered the world howling. Seconds after he was born, one of the hospital physicians, his uncle Don Salvador, leaned down and blew a huge cloud of cigar smoke in the newborn’s face. The baby grimaced and bellowed in protest—and that’s how everyone knew he was healthy and alive. At that time, doctors were allowed to smoke in delivery rooms, but this little infant would have none of it. Even at birth, he refused to accept things as they had always been done. The baby was named Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Martyr Patricio Clito Ruíz y Picasso—whew! He was known to his friends as Pablito, a nickname meaning “little Pablo,” and he learned to draw before he could walk. His first word was piz, short for lápiz, the Spanish word for pencil. It was an instrument that would soon become his most prized possession. Pablo inherited his love of art from his father, Don José Ruiz y Blasco, a talented painter. Don José’s favorite subjects were the pigeons that flocked in the plaza outside the Picassos’ home in Málaga, a town on the southern coast of Spain. Sometimes he would allow Pablo to finish paintings for him. One of Pablo’s earliest solo artworks was a portrait of his little sister, which he painted with egg yolk. But painting was not yet his specialty. Drawing was. Pablo mostly liked to draw spirals. When people asked him why, he explained that they reminded him of churros, the fried-dough pastries sold at every streetcorner stand in Málaga. While other kids played underneath trees in the Plaza de la Merced, Pablo stood by himself scratching circles in the dirt with a stick.

Benzer and I talked one afternoon in the spring of 1971, at Caltech, where he had moved six years before. His office was small, bright with daylight, crowded with bookshelves and files all stowed with a mariner’s sort of compulsive comfortable neatness. On a shelf was a photograph, enormously enlarged, of nerve connections in the eye of a fly. Benzer was medium dark, medium short, as neat and compact as the room. He was wearing a lightweight tan cardigan over a shirt and tie. The photo, he said, was an electron micrograph: he was presently mapping the genetics of mutations that affected the nervous systems—the behavior—of fruit flies. Half a dozen of the early molecular biologists were then moving into neurobiology; Benzer brought out a cartoon that one of them had sketched, a jokey ancestral tree with the faces of molecular neurobiologists pasted in according to the organisms they were working with. “It’s a new phase,” he said. “I feel that, y’know, when I came into molecular biology it was a pioneering science. But when a science becomes a discipline, which is essentially true of molecular biology now, when you can buy a textbook, take a course— There’s no question there are many surprises left … but a field to work in, to me personally, when it becomes a discipline, becomes less attractive. I find it more fun to be striking out in something which is more on the amorphous side. Which was true of molecular biology when I started. Another thing that becomes unpleasant is the redundancy of effort, a number of people doing the same thing—so that even when you make a discovery, six different guys discover it in the same week. You begin to feel that if it’s five guys instead of six guys it doesn’t make any difference. But still, my change was not so much to escape from that, as just following my own interests; I’ve got interested in behavior and I want to look at it.

This publication is a rare resource with invaluable information about mom and baby care during their hospital stay and for things that might pop up shortly after returning home. It ably covers everything a parent needs to know when anticipating the birth of their baby. The author’s experience is remarkable, and her explanation of tests and medicine is very informative. The book also incorporates illuminating Q&A sections that depict the real image of inquisitive parents as well as some of their most common uncertainties. "Karen L. Brewer’s “The B.A.B.Y. Book: Best Advice for Baby and You” is simple to read and easy to digest. It is a game-changer that will remove a new parent from the sea of confusion and a maze of conflicting opinions by authors with little to no postpartum experience. The author has included everything about mom/baby care, which makes this the perfect gift for the expectant mother. Her masterstroke is in her candidness and comprehension of the transformative journey into motherhood.

Por primera vez no estaba en el lugar. La esperó, sin escrúpulos; pero ella nunca llegó y, cuando él se fue, echándola de menos, se sintió profanamente triste. Si esa ausencia hacia más intrincada la maraña, era solo culpa de ella. Al cabo de un año, esa maraña estaba muy enredada. Durante tres meses fue tres veces y no la encontró, y concluyó que su interés había disminuido. Por delicadeza nunca hacía preguntas sobre ella.

No estaba en el lugar. La esperó, sin escrúpulos; pero ella nunca llegó y, cuando él se fue, echándola de menos, se sintió profanamente triste. Si esa ausencia hacia más intrincada la maraña, era solo culpa de ella. Al cabo de un año, esa maraña estaba muy enredada. Durante 3 meses fue 3 veces y no la encontró, y concluyó que su interés había disminuido. Por delicadeza nunca hacía preguntas sobre ella.

The main difference between us and apes,” explains anthropologist Todd Preuss of Emory University, “seems to be less a matter of adding new areas [in the brain], and more a matter of enlarging existing areas and modifying their internal machinery to do new and different things. The ‘what if’ questions, the ‘what will happen when’ questions, the short-term and long-term consequences of doing X or Y—we have lots more of the brain where that kind of processing goes on.

Unfortunately, my mind was also in part formed by the apocalyptic, death-obsessed culture of the past several decades. Tens of millions were supposed to have died in an ice age back in the 1980s, just as predicted in 1969, and still more were said to be doomed by a bath of acid rain shortly thereafter, as well as in radiation that would fry the world when the ozone layer disappeared. Hadn’t hundreds of millions more perished at the turn of the millennium—Y2K—when every damn computer went haywire and all the nuclear missiles in the world were launched, to say nothing of the lethal effects of canola oil in theater popcorn? Living in the End Times was exhausting. When you were assured that billions of people were on the brink of imminent death at every minute of the day, it was hard to get the necessary eight hours of sleep, even harder to limit yourself to only one or two alcoholic drinks each day, when your stress level said, I gotta get smashed. As

They remained standing on the road, which ended up being a big mistake for Luke. As he saw the bus barreling down the other lane, Luke also noted a sizable puddle in front of it. He quickly put himself between Shelby and the bus, pressing her up against Doc’s open window. With a hand on each side of her, he covered her with his body, barely in time to feel the splat from the puddle against his back. Shelby stifled a chuckle. Macho man, she thought with some humor. Luke heard downshifting, then the squeal of brakes. “Jesus,” he muttered as he backed off the girl and glared after the bus. As Luke turned and scowled at the bus, the driver leaned out the window. A round-faced woman in her fifties, rosy cheeked with a cap of short dark hair, grinned at him. She grinned! “Sorry, buddy,” she said. “Couldn’t hardly help that.” “You could if you went a lot slower,” he yelled back at her. To his astonishment, she laughed. “Aw, I wasn’t going too fast. I got a schedule, y’know,” she yelled. “My advice? Stay out of the way.” His scalp felt hot under his short hair and he really wanted to swear. When he turned back to Shelby and Doc, he found her smiling behind her hand and Doc’s eyes twinkling. “You got a little splatter on your back there, Luke,” she said, trying to keep control of her lips. Doc’s

YA DA DO (Lovie Austin) Every evenin’ ’bout half past four Sweet piano playin’ near my door And turn to raggin’, you never heard such blues before There’s a pretty little thing they play It’s very short, but folks all say “Oh, it’s a-pickin’,” when they start to want to cry for more I don’t know the name, but it’s a pretty little thing, goes Ya da da do, ya da da do Fill you with harmonizing, minor refrain It’s a no-name blues, but’ll take away your pains Ya da da do, ya da da do Everybody loves it, ya da do do do Ya da da do, ya da da do Fill you with harmonizing, minor refrain It’s a no-name blues, but’ll take away your pains Ya da da do, ya da da do Everybody loves it, ya da do do do. YONDER

Aren’t you feeling well, dear?” “Did you have an accident?” “Perhaps you need a nice cup of tea?” The last comment brought a reluctant smile to my lips. Trust the English to always think that a cup of tea would fix everything. I

Behind each and every fence picket, hope slumbered undercover like a narcissist butterfly seeking its glorious reflection in a daffodil bloom.

The coffee table was laid out with a full Royal Doulton tea service and a selection of freshly baked scones, hot buttered teacakes, little lemon curd tarts, and home-made shortbread biscuits.

Specifically, each of our three deals contained something that had come to be known in the industry as the “CA clause” in honor of the infamous software company Computer Associates, or CA for short. The CA clause had come about as a result of some of CA’s business practices. Apparently CA had tricked their customers by selling them maintenance contracts that gave them rights to free upgrades forever for products named “X.” CA would then change the name of product “X” to product “Y” and charge their customers for an upgrade the customers thought they were entitled to for free. It was very clever, and totally dirty.

-Ya te cansaste de andar descalza de pie y pierna, como las mujeres de bien, ¿eh, condenada? ¿Llevó medias alguna vez tu madre? ¿Peinóse como tú, que siempre estás dale que tienes con el cacho de espejo? Toma, para que te acuerdes...".

Así es que ellos en confianza trataron y arreglaron la boda, y un día, encontrándome yo bien descuidada..., ¡a casarse!, y no vale replicar".

Pero creo que si todas las mujeres hablasen lo que piensan, como hice yo por culpa del champagne, más de cuatro y más de ocho se verían peor que esta individua".

À ceux que l’on abat tous les jours dans des endroits et des circonstances variés, il manque la masse critique et la dimension tragique qui attirent les médias nationaux à la manière des tueries dans les écoles et les églises. Loin de mériter l’attention médiatique, ces coups du sort quotidiens ne sont qu’une mort tout à fait banale. C’est un bruit blanc maintenu suffisamment bas pour que le pays entier puisse poursuivre tranquillement ses occupations : c’est une confluence entre culture, politique et économie qui garantit chaque jour à plusieurs enfants américains de sortir de leur lit mais de ne jamais s’y recoucher, tandis que le reste de la nation dormira sur ses deux oreilles.

Les Américains ne sont pas plus violents par nature que n’importe quel autre peuple. Si leur société est aussi mortelle, c’est parce que les armes y sont très largement disponibles.