Young Ma Quotes

One word, Ma'am," he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain. "One word. All you've been saying is quite right, I shouldn't wonder. I'm a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won't deny any of what you said. But there's one more thing to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things-trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that's a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That's why I'm going to stand by the play world. I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we're leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that's a small loss if the world's as dull a place as you say.

It's easy to remember, because dating rhymes with mating, and they're almost the same [...] So your mom thinks we're ma-- Uh, dating?

Ma chère, I serve a man who multiplied the loaves and fishes”—he smiled, nodding at the pool, where the swirls of the carps’ feeding were still subsiding—“who healed the sick and raised the dead. Shall I be astonished that the master of eternity has brought a young woman through the stones of the earth to do His will?” Well, I reflected, it was better than being denounced as the whore of Babylon.

Kya remembered, those many years ago, Ma warning her older sisters about young men who overrevved their rusted-out pickups or drove jalopies around with radios blaring. “Unworthy boys make a lot of noise,” Ma had said. She read a consolation for females. Nature is audacious enough to ensure that the males who send out dishonest signals or go from one female to the next almost always end up alone.

and I looked and looked at her, and knew as clearly as I know I am to die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else. She was only the faint violet whiff and dead leaf echo of the nymphet I had rolled myself upon with such cries in the past; an echo on the brink of a russet ravine, with a far wood under a white sky, and brown leaves choking the brook, and one last cricket in the crisp weeds... but thank God it was not that echo alone that I worshipped. What I used to pamper among the tangled vines of my heart, mon grand pch radieux, had dwindled to its essence: sterile and selfish vice, all that I cancelled and cursed. You may jeer at me, and threaten to clear the court, but until I am gagged and halfthrottled, I will shout my poor truth. I insist the world know how much I loved my Lolita, this Lolita, pale and polluted, and big with another’s child, but still gray-eyed, still sooty-lashed, still auburn and almond, still Carmencita, still mine; Changeons de vie, ma Carmen, allons vivre quelque, part o nous ne serons jamais spars; Ohio? The wilds of Massachusetts? No matter, even if those eyes of hers would fade to myopic fish, and her nipples swell and crack, and her lovely young velvety delicate delta be tainted and torneven then I would go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of your dear wan face, at the mere sound of your raucous young voice, my Lolita.

Then the great old, young, beautiful princess turned to Curdie. 'Now, Curdie, are you ready?' she said. 'Yes ma'am,' answered Curdie. 'You do not know what for.' 'You do, ma'am. That is enough.

Don’t rush, my dear. It is not fitting for a ma’hana, and only makes you look guilty.

Rosa Parks turned to me sweetly and asked, 'Now, Bryan, tell me who you are and what you're doing.' I looked at Ms. Carr to see if I had permission to speak, and she smiled and nodded at me. I then gave Ms. Parks my rap. 'Yes, ma'am. Well, I have a law project called the Equal Justice Initiative, and we're trying to help people on death row. We're trying to stop the death penalty, actually. We're trying to do something about prison conditions and excessive punishment. We want to free people who've been wrongly convicted. We want to end unfair sentences in criminal cases and stop racial bias in criminal justice...Ms. Parks leaned back smiling. 'Ooooh, honey, all that's going to make you tired, tired, tired.' We all laughed. I looked down, a little embarrassed. Then Ms. Carr leaned forward and put her finger in my face and talked o me just like my grandmother used to talk to me. She said, 'That's why you've got to be brave, brave, brave.' All three women nodded in silent agreement and for just a little while, they made me feel like a young prince.

Very good, Mr.—?” “Robinson,” the boy supplied. Ms. Terwilliger produced a clipboard and scanned a list. “Ah, there you are. Robinson. Stephanie.” “Stephan,” corrected the boy, flushing as some of his friends giggled. Ms. Terwilliger pushed her glasses up her nose and squinted. “So you are. Thank goodness. I was just thinking how difficult your life must be with such a name. My apologies. I broke my glasses in a freak croquet accident this weekend, forcing me to bring my old ones today. So, Stephan-not-Stephanie, you’re correct. It’s a temple. Can you be more specific?” ... “Indeed it is,” she said. “And your name is?” “Sydney.” “Sydney …” She checked the clipboard and looked up in astonishment. “Sydney Melbourne? My goodness. You don’t sound Australian.” “Er, it’s Sydney Melrose, ma’am,” I corrected. Ms. Terwilliger scowled and handed the clipboard to Trey, who seemed to think my name was the funniest thing ever. “You take over, Mr. Juarez. Your youthful eyes are better than mine. If I keep at this, I’ll keep turning boys into girls and perfectly nice young ladies into the descendants of criminals.

Ma knows everything except the things she doesn’t remember right, or sometimes she says I’m too young for her to explain a thing.

what is amazing in nature is that the female, because of their role to protect their young and to protect their family or social group, are the ones with the keener sense of awareness. Yet this is the opposite with humans where the females are less aware of danger and less able to personally defend and protect themselves as well as their young. - Raising A Strong Daughter: What Fathers Should Know by Finlay Gow JD and Kailin Gow MA

Ma warning her older sisters about young men who overrevved their rusted-out pickups or drove jalopies around with radios blaring. “Unworthy boys make a lot of noise,” Ma had said.

She's on the stairs, ma'am, getting her breath,' said the young servant, who had not been long up from the country, where my mother had the excellent habit of getting all her servants. Often she had seen them born. That's the only way to get really good ones. And they're the rarest of luxuries.

What’s your name?” I ask again. “Chris,” he says. “Chris Young.” I exhale dramatically, blowing my bangs out of my eyes. “I can take you,” I reply. “But if you try anything, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes. Seriously.” He almost smiles. “Yes, ma’am.

You will be the one chosen to reach out to embrace man once again as the heart. So that all will be as it should. ‘Fatu-ma-le-ele-ele’ You will give your fire so that Man may live. And he will give his heart so that earth may live. Thus it has been spoken.

But fidelity to language is often infidelity to thought.

When they arrived at the palace she had a word with Grant, the young footman in charge, who said it was security and that while ma'am had been in the Lords the sniffer dogs had been round and security had confiscated the book. He though it had probably been exploded. 'Exploded?' said the Queen. 'But it was Anita Brookner.

I insist the world know how much I loved my Lolita, this Lolita, pale and polluted, and big with another's child, but still gray-eyed, still sooty-lashed, still auburn and almond, still Carmencita, still mine; Changeons de vie, ma Carmen, allons vivre quelque part oы nous ne serons jamais sиparиs; Ohio? The wilds of Massachusetts? No matter, even if those eyes of hers would fade to myopic fish, and her nipples swell and crack, and her lovely young velvety delicate delta be tainted and torn--even then I would go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of your dear wan face, at the mere sound of your raucous young voice, my Lolita.

but what was surprising and difficult of explanation was the fact that sex—woman, that is to say—also attracts agreeable essayists, light-fingered novelists, young men who have taken the M.A. degree; men who have taken no degree; men who have no apparent qualification save that they are not women.

You young but I’ma tell you anyway. Never leave a man bleeding and breathing if the beef ain’t over. He’ll come back for you. They always do.

warning her older sisters about young men who overrevved their rusted-out pickups or drove jalopies around with radios blaring. “Unworthy boys make a lot of noise,” Ma had said.

A day off meant we could do things we’d always meant to do. Like go to the Botanical Garden, the Frick Collection, or something. Read some fiction. Leisure, the problem with the modern condition was the dearth of leisure. And finally, it took a force of nature to interrupt our routines. We just wanted to hit the reset button. We just wanted to feel flush with time to do things of no quantifiable value, our hopeful side pursuits like writing or drawing or something, something other than what we did for money. Like learn to be a better photographer. And even if we didn’t get around to it on that day, our free day, maybe it was enough just to feel the possibility that we could if we wanted to, which is another way of saying that we wanted to feel young, though many of us were that if nothing else.

They were big and black and rubber—the kind of boots you might be wearing as you came in the kitchen door, shaking off your rain slicker and saying, Grab the young’uns, Ma. Crick’s a-rising.

Sex and its nature might well attract doctors and biologists; but what was surprising and difficult of explanation was the fact that sex—woman, that is to say—also attracts agreeable essayists, light-fingered novelists, young men who have taken the M.A. degree; men who have taken no degree; men who have no apparent qualification save that they are not women.

It is safe to say that poetry cannot be translated.

Once I asked Ma who’d taken the picture, but she couldn’t remember. Maybe Ma’s death took it, I thought. Maybe it was laughing back at her, knowing everything that would happen, as she posed in happy ignorance. In Ma’s young face there was no trace that Anthony Jr. would strangle himself inside her. That her husband would leave, that her daughter would become me.

I had a moment to wonder just what he did at David Emerson's, which really was where Libertyville's elite bought. Was he a salesman? I could see him showing some smart young lady around, saying, Here's one fuck of a nice couch, ma'am, and look at this goddam settee, we sure didn't have nothing like that on Guadalcanal when those fucking stoned-out Japs came at us with their Maxwell House swords.

I despised Judge Lambert with every fiber of my being, the way he addressed me as ma’am and The Defendant as young man, then later as cowboy, compadre, partner. I was twenty-three years old to The Defendant’s thirty-two. I had earned top marks in my first year of law school. I was the young woman, the compadre, closer to his equal than The Defendant, but you never would have known it by the way the judge spoke to him.

Stay young as long as you can. This world can be mighty cruel to a grown up.

Kya remembered, those many years ago, Ma warning her older sisters about young men who overrated their rusted-out pickups or drove jalopies around with radios blaring. “Unworthy boys make a lot of noise,” Ma had said.

Kya remembered, those many years ago, Ma warning her older sisters about young men who overrevved their rusted-out pickups or drove jalopies around with radios blaring. “Unworthy boys make a lot of noise,” Ma had said.

I’d been there not six weeks, Dust Bowl dirt still coating my young rowdy’s lungs—and despite my God-fearing ma, that’s what I was, a dirt-farm rowdy, pure as a cow pie, cunning as a wild hog, and already well acquainted with the county sheriff, the dust layering my every breath leaving little room for the Holy Spirit to breathe on me.

Laura knew then that she was not a little girl any more. Now she was alone; she must take care of herself. When you must do that, then you do it and you are grown up. Laura was not very big, but she was almost thirteen years old, and no one was there to depend on. Pa and Jack had gone, and Ma needed help to take care of Mary and the little girls, and somehow to get them all safely to the west on a train.

I’m getting thirstier every minute. If it didn’t hurt you, it won’t hurt me. If my papa was here, he’d let me have some.” “You’re not going to tell him about it, are you?” said Jesse. His face had gone very pale under its sunburn. He stood up and put a bare foot firmly on the pile of pebbles. “I knew this would happen sooner or later. Now what am I going to do?” As he said this, there was a crashing sound among the trees and a voice called, “Jesse?” “Thank goodness!” said Jesse, blowing out his cheeks in relief. “Here comes Ma and Miles. They’ll know what to do.” And sure enough, a big, comfortable-looking woman appeared, leading a fat old horse, and at her side was a young man almost as beautiful as Jesse. It was Mae Tuck with her other son, Jesse’s older brother. And at once, when she saw the two of them, Jesse with his foot on the pile of pebbles and Winnie on her knees beside him, she seemed to understand. Her hand flew to her bosom, grasping at the old brooch that fastened her shawl, and her face went bleak. “Well, boys,” she said, “here it is. The worst is happening at last.

People here say that there is something strange, but only about Dawn. The other girls, they are normal, polite young women. They all look alike, like tiny replicas of their Ma. But Dawn, she looks nothing like them and she acts nothing like them.

For a moment, I was perfectly relaxed, and I began enjoying the sight of this beautifully candlelit room full of well-dressed people. Then Mr. Merchant made a grab for my décolletage from behind, and I almost spilled the punch. “One of those dear, pretty little roses slipped out of place,” he claimed, with an insinuating grin. I stared at him, baffled. Giordano hadn’t prepared me for a situation like this, so I didn’t know the proper etiquette for dealing with Rococo gropers. I looked at Gideon for help, but he was so deep in conversation with the young widow that he didn’t even notice. If we’d been in my own century, I’d have told Mr. Merchant to keep his dirty paws to himself or I’d hit back, whether or not any little roses had really slipped. But in the circumstances, I felt that his reaction was rather—discourteous. So I smiled at him and said, “Oh, thank you, how kind. I never noticed.” Mr. Merchant bowed. “Always glad to be of service, ma’am.” The barefaced cheek of it! But in times when woman had no vote, I suppose it wasn’t surprising if they didn’t get any other kind of respect either. The talking and laughter gradually died away as Miss Fairfax, a thin-nosed lady wearing a reed-green dress, went over to the pianoforte, arranged her skirts, and placed her hands on the keys. In fact, she didn’t play badly. It was her singing that was rather disturbing. It was incredibly . . . well, high-pitched. A tiny bit higher, and you’d have thought she was a dog whistle.

Sometimes he dreamt he held her; that he would turn in bed and she would be there. But she was gone and he was old. Nearly seventy. Only cool paint met his fingers. “Ma très chère . . .” Darkness started to fall, dimming the paintings. He felt the crumpled letter in his pocket. “I loved you so,” he said. “I never would have had it turn out as it did. You were with all of us when we began, you gave us courage. These gardens at Giverny are for you but I’m old and you’re forever young and will never see them. . . .

You know, if it wasn't for all those tattoos and piercings, you turned into an attractive young man." "Thank you ma'am," I smiled, deciding not to tell her that I got boatloads of pussy that liked the look of my tattoos and liked the feel of one particular piercing of mine.

What a pity it wouldn't stay!' sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter 'Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose YOUR temper!' 'Hold your tongue, Ma!' said the young Crab, a little snappishly. 'You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!

Young man.” They all swiveled to face the old lady propped up in the bed nearby. “Your young woman has been through a lot, and it appears she loves you very much.” The woman smiled. “Humor an old lady and kiss her again.” Axel barked out a laugh. “Yes, ma’am,” Lachlan said. “And please don’t do your shirt up yet, either.” The old lady winked.

Is something funny, Lord Marce?” asked a young woman, standing in front of a desk. She was wearing imperial green. This was clearly the emperox, and equally clearly he’d just blown his entrance. He bowed. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he said. “I was surprised by your office.” “How so?” “I … well. Ma’am. It looks like a museum exploded inside of it.

Intanto si sentivano all’inizio, alla vigilia di ogni cosa. Domani, tutto sarebbe stato ancora meglio! Ma i giorni passavano, la vita passava, e il meglio non arrivava.

Si possono cancellare i ricordi, forse, ma ciò che abbiamo vissuto ritorna sempre a tormentarci, in una forma o nell'altra

Pensavo che bisognava nascondersi e cacciavo invece nella borsa le cose più assurde. Ma non me ne rammarico, ci tengo di più ai ricordi che ai vestiti.

Listen son, at ma age love is a nuisance of a thing. What ye want is some easy company on a Tuesday night, a bit of help runnin’ the hoose, and if yer lucky a bit of nookie as long as ye can both lie on yer side while ye’re at it.” Mungo didn’t laugh at the joke. Jocky dropped his dout into his mug. “What ye want is an easy life. There’s nothin’ easy about love.

Ma had been talking in elaborate detail about how she patched up that major Kevin-shaped crisis with SYS; apparently, she’d done some stalking, pulled a few strings, reached out in private to the son of the company head (“a very polite young man, and quite easily flattered too; I do hope he ends up taking over the company”) and smoothed the whole situation over.

Help young people. Help small guys. Because small guys will be big. Young people will have the seeds you bury in their minds, and when they grow up, they will change the world.” – Jack Ma

I was like everyone else. We all hoped the storm would knock things over, fuck things up enough but not too much. We hoped the damage was bad enough to cancel work the next morning but not so bad that we couldn’t go to brunch instead. Brunch? he echoed skeptically. Okay, maybe not brunch, I conceded. If not brunch, then something else. A day off meant we could do things we’d always meant to do. Like go to the Botanical Garden, the Frick Collection, or something. Read some fiction. Leisure, the problem with the modern condition was the dearth of leisure. And finally, it took a force of nature to interrupt our routines. We just wanted to hit the reset button. We just wanted to feel flush with time to do things of no quantifiable value, our hopeful side pursuits like writing or drawing or something, something other than what we did for money. Like learn to be a better photographer. And even if we didn’t get around to it on that day, our free day, maybe it was enough just to feel the possibility that we could if we wanted to, which is another way of saying that we wanted to feel young, though many of us were that if nothing else.

Thank yuh, ma’am, but don’t say you’se ole. You’se uh lil girl baby all de time. God made it so you spent yo’ ole age first wid somebody else, and saved up yo’ young girl days to spend wid me.

For hero-worship often defeats its own ends; the boy who "cannot tell a lie," the boy who kept his finger in the hole in the dike, tend to become myths, admired perhaps but to be neither imitated nor equalled.

Ma raised her eyes to the girl’s face. Ma’s eyes were patient, but the lines of strain were on her forehead…. “When you’re young, Rosasharn, ever’thing that happens is a thing all by itself. It’s a lonely thing. I know, I ‘member, Rosasharn.” Her mouth loved the name of her daughter. “You’re gonna have a baby, Rosasharn, and that’s somepin to you lonely and away. That’s gonna hurt you, an’the hurt’ll be lonely hurt, an’ this here tent is alone in the worl’, Rosasharn.” She whipped the air for a moment to drive a buzzing blow fly on, and the big shining fly circled the tent twice and zoomed out into the blinding sunlight. And Ma went on, “They’s a time of change, and when that comes, dyin’ is a piece of all dyin’, and bearin’ is a piece of all bearin’, an bearin’ an’ dyin’ is two pieces of the same thing. An’ then things ain’t lonely any more. An’ then a hurt don’t hurt so bad, ’cause it ain’t a lonely hurt no more, Rosasharn. I wisht I could tell you so you’d know, but I can’t.” And her voice was so soft, so full of love, that tears crowded into Rose of Sharon’s eyes, and flowed over eyes and blinded her.

Il fango ti può nutrire, mentre il fuoco ti ridurrà in cenere, ma i folli, i bambini e le fanciulle scelgono sempre il fuoco. Mud would nourish you, where fire would only consume you, but fools and children and young girls would choose fire every time.

I can only imagine what goes on in that head of yours…” he teased. “I assure you I haven’t taken up black magic, ritualistic sacrifice, or—” “Plushophilia?” I tagged on. “Excuse me?…” came his half-confused, half-intrigued reaction. “An obsession with stuffed animals,” I clarified. “I mean, you are a young one…” “Where did you come up with that?” He kept his hands firmly covering my eyes, but I could hear the amused smile in his voice. “Is that even a real word?” “I’m a doctor, I know these things,” I shrugged.

So many of the men who came to the West were southerners— men looking for work and a new life after the Civil War—that chivalrousness and strict codes of honor were soon thought of as western traits. There were very few women in Wyoming during territorial days, so when they did arrive (some as mail-order brides from places like Philadelphia) there was a standoffishness between the sexes and a formality that persists now. Ranchers still tip their hats and say, "Howdy, ma'am" instead of shaking hands with me. Even young cowboys are often evasive with women. It's not that they're Jekyll and Hyde creatures—gentle with animals and rough on women—but rather, that they don't know how to bring their tenderness into the house and lack the vocabulary to express the complexity of what they feel.

something funny, Lord Marce?” asked a young woman, standing in front of a desk. She was wearing imperial green. This was clearly the emperox, and equally clearly he’d just blown his entrance. He bowed. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he said. “I was surprised by your office.” “How so?” “I … well. Ma’am. It looks like a museum exploded inside of it.” Obelees Atek sucked in her breath and apparently was now waiting for the emperox to sentence him to a beheading. Instead she laughed, openly, loudly. “Thank you,” she said, with emphasis.

Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose your temper!' 'Hold your tongue, Ma!' said the young Crab, a little snappishly. 'You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!' 'I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!' said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular.

Voi siete così giovine, così al di qua d’ogni inizio, e io vi vorrei pregare quanto posso, caro signore, di aver pazienza verso quanto non è ancora risolto nel vostro cuore, e tentare di aver care le domande stesse come stanze serrate e libri scritti in una lingua molto straniera. Non cercate ora risposte che non possono venirvi date perché non le potreste vivere. E di questo si tratta, di vivere tutto. Vivete ora le domande. Forse v’insinuate così a poco a poco, senz’avvertirlo, a vivere un giorno lontano la risposta. Forse portate in voi la possibilità di formare e creare, quale una maniera di vita singolarmente beata e pura; educatevi a questo compito, - ma accogliete in grande fiducia quanto vi accade e se solo vi accade dal vostro volere, da qualche necessità del vostro intimo, prendetelo su voi stesso e non odiate nulla.

Sigmund Freud disse che non sapeva cosa vogliono le donne. Io sono così intelligente che non solo ho capito cosa c'è che non va nel mondo, il Codice di Hammurabi, ma anche cosa vogliono le donne. Le donne vogliono un sacco di persone con cui parlare. Di cosa vogliono parlare? Vogliono parlare di tutto

Leisure, the problem with the modern condition was the dearth of leisure. And finally, it took a force of nature to interrupt our routines. We just wanted to hit the reset button. We just wanted to feel flush with time to do things of no quantifiable value, our hopeful side pursuits like writing or drawing or something, something other than what we did for money. Like learn to be a better photographer. And even if we didn't get around to it on that day, our free day, maybe it was enough just to feel the possibility that we could if we wanted to, which is another way of saying that we wanted to feel young, though many of us were that if nothing else.

Ma was isolated and alone. Under those circumstances people behave differently. Kya made a soft groan. “Please don't talk to me about isolation. No one has to tell me how it changes a person. I have lived it. I am isolation," Kya whispered with a slight edge. "I forgive Ma for leaving. But I don't understand why she didn't come back- why she abandoned me. You probably don't remember, but after she walked away, you told me that a she-fox will sometimes leave her kits if she's starving or under some other extreme stress. The kits die- as they probably would have anyway- but the vixen lives to breed again when conditions are better, when she can raise a new litter to maturity. "I've read a lot about this since. In nature- out yonder where the crawdads sing- these ruthless-seeming behaviors actually increase the mother's number of young over her lifetime, and thus her genes for abandoning offspring in times of stress are passed on to the next generation. And on and on. It happens in humans, too. Some behaviors that seem harsh to us now ensured the survival of early man in whatever swamp he was in at the time. Without them, we wouldn't be here. We still store those instincts in our genes, and they express themselves when certain circumstances prevail. Some parts of us will always be what we were, what we had to be to survive- way back yonder.

Che la vita di un uomo sia soltanto un sogno è già stato affermato da molti, e tale sentimento si è impadronito anche di me. Quando considero i limiti entro cui sono prigioniere le forze attive e speculative dell'uomo, quando vedo che ogni attività mira all'unico scopo di soddisfare i bisogni, i quali, a loro volta, servono soltanto a prolungare la misera esistenza, e poi comprendo che l'appagamento su certi punti delle nostre speculazioni non è altro che sognante rassegnazione perché dipingiamo soltanto variopinte figure e luminosi panorami sulle pareti fra le quali siamo prigionieri, tutto ciò, Guglielmo, mi ammutolisce. Rientro in me stesso e trovo un universo! Ma formato più di presentimenti e di oscuri desideri che di immagini e di forze viventi. Allora tutto si confonde davanti ai miei sensi, e io sorrido e continuo a sognare nel mondo.

I can take you,” I reply. “But if you try anything, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes. Seriously.” He almost smiles. “Yes, ma’am.

But “ma’am” doesn’t translate in the North, where it just startles and offends.

Yes, ma’am, but can I get a piece of the chocolate cake to go?” She gave me a long look. “You that hungry?” Laughing, I shook my head and decided to go for it. She wasn’t going to let it drop, anyway. “No, Cooper’s waiting for us at their house”—I gestured to a wide-eyed Sawyer—“because he had to work late, so this will be a nice surprise.” The wily old woman gave me a knowing look. “Nice to think of his roommate.” “No, he’s our other boyfriend.” And it was out. Sawyer was waiting for the ceiling to come crashing down, but she grinned. “I got a book like that at home. I’ll get you boys a big piece to take to your fella.” Alice walked off, still grinning and mumbling something about how she wished things had been different back in her day. I had to laugh. She’d have been hell on wheels when she was young no matter what the social norms had been then. Shaking his head and clearly trying to figure out what had happened, Sawyer watched her walk away. He and Cooper must have had a difficult time growing up, but I was glad he was getting to see that there were people out there who wouldn’t care. And then there were dirty old ladies who were going to have entirely too much fun caring.

Negli esseri giovani il desiderio si nasconde dapprima sotto la maschera del gioco, poi sotto quella della lotta. Disprezzo, crudeltà, sofferenza costituivano le loro più segrete delizie, ma ne erano a malapena consapevoli. Non conoscevano la tenerezza, non volevano conoscerla: la giudicavano indegna di loro; provavano piacere a dilaniarsi. I loro cuori erano nuovi; le ferite si rimarginavano facilmente.

Mr St. John entered the little telegraph office, gave in his message, and was exchanging a few words with the clerk, when a female voice was heard speaking in hurried accents. Frederick at the moment was behind the partition unseen by the newcomer. 'Young man, can I send a telegram off at once? It's in a hurry?' 'You can send a telegram,' responded the clerk. 'Where's it to?' 'Paris.' 'What's the message?' 'I've written it down, so that there may be no mistake. It's quite private, and must be kept so: a little matter that concerns nobody. And be particular, for it's from Castle Wafer. Will it reach Paris tonight?' 'Yes,' said the clerk, confidentially, as he counted the words. 'How much to pay?' 'Twelve-and-sixpence.' 'Twelve-and-sixpence! What a swindle.' 'You needn't pay it if you don't like.' 'But then the telegram would not go?' 'Of course it wouldn't.' The sound of silver dashed down on the counter was heard. 'I can't stop to argue the charge, so I must pay it,' grumbled the voice. 'But it's a shame, young man.' 'The charges ain't of my fixing,' responded the young man. 'Good afternoon, ma'am.' She bustled out again as hurriedly as she had come in, not having suspected that the wooden partition had any one behind it.

Tutto è portare a termine e poi generare. Lasciar compiersi ogni impressione e ogni germe d’un sentimento dentro di sé, nel buio, nell’indicibile, nell’inconscio irraggiungibile alla propria ragione, e attendere con profonda umiltà e pazienza l’ora del parto d’una nuova chiarezza: questo solo si chiama vivere da artista: nel comprender come nel creare. Qui non si misura il tempo, qui non vale alcun termine e dieci anni son nulla. Essere artisti vuol dire: non calcolare e contare; maturare come l’albero, che non incalza i suoi succhi e sta sereno nelle tempeste di primavera senz’apprensione che l’estate non possa venire. Ché l’estate viene. Ma viene solo ai pazienti, che attendono e stanno come se l’eternità giacesse avanti a loro, tanto sono tranquilli e vasti e sgombri d’ogni ansia. Io l’imparo ogni giorno, l’imparo tra i dolori, cui sono riconoscente: pazienza è tutto!

L'amore è la forza più grande. Quando amiamo qualcuno, saremmo pronti a qualunque cosa per proteggerlo. Anche a rischiare la nostra vita. Ma è quando non abbiamo più nessuno da amare che diventiamo invulnerabili. Perché non abbiamo nulla da perdere.

This lady, ma’am,” he answered, “turned out to be Mr. Rochester’s wife! The discovery was brought about in the strangest way. There was a young lady, a governess at the Hall, that Mr. Rochester fell in—” “But the fire,” I suggested. “I’m coming to that, ma’am—that Mr. Edward fell in love with. The servants say they never saw anybody so much in love as he was: he was after her continually. They used to watch him—servants will, you know, ma’am—and he set store on her past everything: for all, nobody but him thought her so very handsome.

The Christmas I was sixteen, my ma and I were poorer than church mice. My pa died when I was two, taking her heart with him." A smile curved his lips. "She could have remarried for a more comfortable life. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. We were happy, though, her and I. Just when I was getting old enough to do odd jobs, bring in some money to make her life easier, she got sick. I stayed home to nurse her. She had no strength left. But somehow she'd scraped together the last of her red yarn and made me a pair of stockings. My Christmas gift that year." Sensing his thoughts lingered in the past, Louisa brushed a finger over the scrap in her palm. "She died several weeks later." Louise caught her breath, aching for the pain of that young man. "I took a lot of ribbing for wearing red stockings. But I didn't give them up, even when I could afford to. I felt like they kept my ma close. Like she was with me." Tears welled up in Louisa's eyes. One dripped over. He caught the drop on the tip of his finger. "They brought me luck." "That's why you're called Red. I wondered.

Debra pointed her purses lips in Max’s direction. “Overnight guests are forbidden. No exceptions.” “Did you just have the audacity to judge me?” Gina blocked the nurse’s route to the door. “Without knowing the least little thing about me?” Debra lifted an eyebrow. “Well, I have seen your underwear, dear.” “Exactly,” Gina said. “You’ve seen my underwear—not my personality profile, or my resume, or my college transcript, or—” “If you think for one second,” the nurse countered, “that anything about this situation is even remotely unique—” “That’s enough,” Max said. Gina, of course, ignored him. “I don’t just think it, I know it,” she said. “It’s unique because I’m unique, because Max is unique, because—” Debra finally laughed. “Oh, honey, you are so . . . young. Here’s a tip I don’t usually bother to tell girls like you: If I find one pair of panties on the floor, it’s only a matter of time before I find another. And I hate to break it to you, hon, but the girl who comes out of the bathroom next time, well . . . She isn’t going to be you.” “First of all,” Gina said grimly, “I’m a woman, not a girl. And second, Grandma . . . You want to bet it’s not going to be me?” “I said, that’s enough,” Max repeated, and they both turned to look at him. About time. He was used to clearing his throat and having an entire room jump to full attention. “Ms. Forsythe, you took my blood pressure—you have the information you needed, good day to you, ma’am. Gina . . .” He wanted to tell her to untwist her panties and put them back on, but he didn’t dare. “Sit,” he ordered instead, motioning to the desk chair that could be pulled beside the bed. “Please,” he added when Nurse Evil smirked on her way out the door.

Eve turned away as a whispered “yes, ma'am” reached her ears. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Why was she saving this asshole? Eve opened her eyes and unlocked the heavy steel bolt securing the five-by-two slab of oak. She looked back, ready to give him the signal to haul ass, when all the air punched from her lungs. Naked. It was the only word her stunned mind could form. Eve spun in place, and her rear bumped against the door. Guerin stood there, completely nude, with his briefs and coat in his grip. “W-wh-what are you doing?” Dear God, she was stuttering like a young girl who'd never seen “boy parts” before.

One article on reproductive strategies was titled "Sneaky Fuckers." Kya laughed. As is well known, the article began, in nature, usually the males with the most prominent secondary sexual characteristics, such as the biggest antlers, deepest voices, broadest chests, and superior knowledge secure the best territories because they have fended off weaker males. The females choose to mate with these imposing alphas and are thereby inseminated with the best DNA around, which is passed on to the female's offspring- one of the most powerful phenomena in the adaptation and continuance of life. Plus, the females get the best territory for their young. However, some stunted males, not strong, adorned, or smart enough to hold good territories, possess bags of tricks to fool the females. They parade their smaller forms around in pumped-up postures or shout frequently- even if in shrill voices. By relying on pretense and false signals, they manage to grab a copulation here or there. Pint-sized male bullfrogs, the author wrote, hunker down in the grass and hide near an alpha male who is croaking with great gusto to call in mates. When several females are attracted to his strong vocals at the same time, and the alpha is busy copulating with one, the weaker male leaps in and mates one of the others. The imposter males were referred to as "sneaky fuckers." Kya remembered, those many years ago, Ma warning her older sisters about young men who overrevved their rusted-out pickups or drove jalopies around with radios blaring. "Unworthy boys make a lot of noise," Ma had said. She read a consolation for females. Nature is audacious enough to ensure that the males who send out dishonest signals or go from one female to the next almost always end up alone. Another article delved into the wild rivalries between sperm. Across most life-forms, males compete to inseminate females. Male lions occasionally fight to the death; rival bull elephants lock tusks and demolish the ground beneath their feet as they tear at each other's flesh. Though very ritualized, the conflicts can still end in mutilations. To avoid such injuries, inseminators of some species compete in less violent, more creative methods. Insects, the most imaginative. The penis of the male damselfly is equipped with a small scoop, which removes sperm ejected by a previous opponent before he supplies his own. Kya dropped the journal on her lap, her mind drifting with the clouds. Some female insects eat their mates, overstressed mammal mothers abandon their young, many males design risky or shifty ways to outsperm their competitors. Nothing seemed too indecorous as long as the tick and the tock of life carried on. She knew this was not a dark side to Nature, just inventive ways to endure against all odds. Surely for humans there was more.

«Quando ami qualcuno, questo qualcuno diventa parte di ciò che sei. È in tutto quello che fai. È nell’aria che respiri, nell’acqua che bevi, nel sangue che ti scorre nelle vene. Il suo tocco ti resta sulla pelle, la sua voce ti resta nelle orecchie, i suoi pensieri ti restano nella mente. Conosci i suoi sogni perché quelli brutti ti trafiggono il cuore e quelli belli sono anche i tuoi. E non pensi che sia perfetto, ma conosci i suoi difetti, la verità profonda dentro al suo cuore, le ombre di tutti i suoi segreti, che però non ti spaventano: anzi, te lo fanno amare ancora di più, perché tu non vuoi la perfezione. Vuoi quella persona. Vuoi…»” “Signora della mezzanotte (Italian Edition)”. iBooks.

The boys are barely old enough To grow a beard. But here’s something interesting, Maybe even a little weird. One of those boys Has volunteered! You’re familiar with the type. Good shoulders. Good teeth. Believes his own hype. And now, just to add a little fun, Some folks say That he’s my son! I guess it’s possible, you know. I’ve had so many one-night stands, So many whams and bams and thank-me-ma’ams, I can’t keep track of every mademoiselle. Plus, I’m not the type to kiss and tell. Well, if I’m honest, I’m not the type to kiss. But truth is, his mother, Aethra, was in a mess — A sweet young thing, courted, prized. Next thing you know she’s spermatized By Aegeus, who is King of Athens. Of course. None other.

Ekaterin glanced back over her shoulder. “He didn’t look very well this morning, Pym. You really shouldn’t have let him get out of bed.” “Oh, I know it, ma’am,” Pym agreed morosely. “But what’s a mere armsman to do? I haven’t the authority to countermand his orders. What he really needs, is looking after by someone who won’t stand his nonsense. A proper Lady Vorkosigan would do the trick. Not one of those shy, simpering ingénues all the young lords seem to be looking to these days—he’d just ride right over her. He needs a woman of experience, to stand up to him.” He smiled apologetically down at her. “I suppose so,” sighed Ekaterin. She hadn’t really thought about the Vor mating scene from the armsmen’s point of view. Was Pym hinting that his lord had such an ingénue in his eye, and his staff was worried it was some sort of mismatch?

Era molto stressante stare a vedere quali sarebbero state le reazioni: se l’avrebbero rifiutato, o se sarebbero riusciti anche solo a capire cosa significava quando un ragazzo trans dichiarava di essere gay. Ma non per Julian. Lui l’aveva detto quasi in tono di sfida. In un modo che diceva che non gli importava cosa pensassero gli altri al riguardo. Era una cosa che lo intimidiva e lo riempiva di ammirazione al tempo stesso.

When I moved to the U.S. at six, I was unrecognizable to my mother. I was angry, chronically dissatisfied, bratty. On my second day in America, she ran out of the room in tears after I angrily demanded that she buy me a pack of colored pencils. You're not you! she sputtered between sobs, which brought me to a standstill. She couldn't recognize me. That's what she told me later, that this was not the daughter she had last seen. Being too young, I didn't know enough to ask: But what did you expect? Who am I supposed to be to you? But if I was unrecognizable to her, she was also unrecognizable to me. In this new country, she was disciplinarian, restrictive, prone to angry outbursts, easily frustrated, so fascist with arbitrary rules that struck me, even as a six-year-old, as unreasonable. For most of my childhood and adolescence, my mother was my antagonist. Whenever she'd get mad, she'd take her index finger and poke me in the forehead. You you you you you, she'd say, as if accusing me of being me. She was quick to blame me for the slightest infractions, a spilled glass, a way of sitting while eating, my future ambitions (farmer or teacher), the way I dressed, what I ate, even the way I practiced English words in the car..She was the one to deny me: the extra dollar added to my allowance; an extra hour to my curfew; the money to buy my friends' birthday presents, so that I was forced to gift them, no matter what the season, leftover Halloween candy. In those early days, we lived so frugally that we even washed, alongside the dishes in the sink, used sheets of cling wrap for reuse. She was the one to punish me, sending me to kneel in the bathtub of the darkened bathroom, carrying my father's Casio watch with an alarm setting to account for when time was up. Yet it was I who would kneel for even longer, going further and further, taking more punishment just to spite her, just to show that it meant nothing. I could take more. The sun moved across the bathroom floor, from the window to the door.

Finding the right mentor is not always easy. But we can locate role models in a more accessible place: the stories of great originals throughout history. Human rights advocate Malala Yousafzai was moved by reading biographies of Meena, an activist for equality in Afghanistan, and of Martin Luther King, Jr. King was inspired by Gandhi as was Nelson Mandela. In some cases, fictional characters can be even better role models. Growing up, many originals find their first heroes in their most beloved novels where protagonists exercise their creativity in pursuit of unique accomplishments. When asked to name their favorite books, Elon Musk and Peter Thiel each chose “Lord of the Rings“, the epic tale of a hobbit’s adventures to destroy a dangerous ring of power. Sheryl Sandberg and Jeff Bezos both pointed to “A Wrinkle in Time“ in which a young girl learns to bend the laws of physics and travels through time. Mark Zuckerberg was partial to “Enders Game“ where it’s up to a group of kids to save the planet from an alien attack. Jack Ma named his favorite childhood book as “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves“, about a woodcutter who takes the initiative to change his own fate. … There are studies showing that when children’s stories emphasize original achievements, the next generation innovates more.… Unlike biographies, in fictional stories characters can perform actions that have never been accomplished before, making the impossible seem possible. The inventors of the modern submarine and helicopters were transfixed by Jules Vern’s visions in “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea” and “The Clippership of the Clouds”. One of the earliest rockets was built by a scientist who drew his motivation from an H.G. Wells novel. Some of the earliest mobile phones, tablets, GPS navigators, portable digital storage desks, and multimedia players were designed by people who watched “Star Trek” characters using similar devices. As we encounter these images of originality in history and fiction, the logic of consequence fades away we no longer worry as much about what will happen if we fail… Instead of causing us to rebel because traditional avenues are closed, the protagonist in our favorite stories may inspire originality by opening our minds to unconventional paths.

Instead, their only daughter was only going to Kerala, just a dodgy neighbouring state, doing one of those five-year integrated MA degrees that held no charm, required no intellectual prowess, and did not even further one’s job prospects. ‘Everyone from Kerala comes here to study, but our unique daughter decides to go there. What can I do?’ My father’s intermittent grumbling was amplified by my mother who spoke non-stop about sex-rackets, ganja, alcoholism and foreign tourists, making Kerala – a demure land of lagoons and forty rivers – appear more and more like Goa.

Mrs. Indianapolis was in town again. She looked like a can of Sprite in her green and yellow outfit. She always likes to come down to the front desk just to chat. It was 4:04 am and thankfully I was awake and at the front desk when she got off the elevator and walked towards me. 
 “Good morning, Jacob,” she said.
 “My name is Jarod,” I replied.
 “When did you change your name?” “I was born Jarod, and I’ll probably die. Maybe.”
 “You must be new here. You look like a guy named Jacob that used to work at the front desk.”
 “Nope, I’m not new. And there’s no Jacob that’s worked the front desk, nor anybody who looks or looked like me. How can I assist you, Mrs. Indianapolis?”
 “I’d like to inform you that the pool is emitting a certain odor.”
 “What sort of odor?”
 “Bleach.”
 “Ah, that’s what we like to call chlorine. It’s the latest craze in the sanitation of public pools. Between you and me, though, I think it’s just a fad.”
 “Don’t get sassy with me, young man. I know what chlorine is. I expect a clean pool when I go swimming. But what I don’t expect is enough bleach to get the grass stain out of a shirt the size of Kentucky.”
 “That’s not our policy, ma’am. We only use about as much chlorine as it would take to remove a coffee stain the size of Seattle from a light gray shirt the size of Washington.” “Jerry, I don’t usually give advice to underlings, but I’m feeling charitable tonight. So I’ll tell you that if you want to get ahead in life, you have to know when to talk and when not to talk. And for a guy like you, it’d be a good idea if you decided not to talk all the time. Or even better, not to talk at all.”
 “Some people say some people talk too much, and some people, the second some people, say the first some people talk to much and think too little. Who is first and who is second in this case? Well, the customer—that’s you, lady—always comes first.”
 “There you go again with the talking. I’d rather talk to a robot than to you.”
 “If you’d rather talk to a robot, why don’t you just find your husband? He’s got all the personality and charm of a circuit board. Forgive me, I didn’t mean that.”
 “I should hope not!”
 “What I meant to say was fried circuit board. It’d be quite absurd to equate your husband’s banter to a functioning circuit board.”
 “I’m going to have a talk to your manager about your poor guest service.”
 “Go ahead. Tell him that Jerry was rude and see what he says. And by the way, the laundry room is off limits when no lifeguard is on duty.

Avrebbe voluto parlarle. Lo vedeva per chi era realmente? Anche se era una cosa che la sua stessa famiglia non riusciva a fare? Yadriel aveva passato molti anni della sua vita sentendosi incompreso da tutti tranne che da Maritza. Quando le aveva detto di essere trans, tre anni prima, lei non aveva battuto ciglio. «Ay, finalmente!» aveva detto, esasperata ma sorridente. «Avevo capito che c’era qualcosa sotto. Stavo aspettando che sputassi il rospo.» Durante quel periodo, Maritza aveva mantenuto religiosamente il segreto, alternando l’uso dei generi senza fare una piega, passando da quello maschile quando erano da soli, a quello femminile quando erano in compagnia, finché Yadriel non si era sentito pronto.

Even if there is no connection between diversity and international influence, some people would argue that immigration brings cultural enrichment. This may seem to be an attractive argument, but the culture of Americans remains almost completely untouched by millions of Hispanic and Asian immigrants. They may have heard of Cinco de Mayo or Chinese New Year, but unless they have lived abroad or have studied foreign affairs, the white inhabitants of Los Angeles are likely to have only the most superficial knowledge of Mexico or China despite the presence of many foreigners. Nor is it immigrants who introduce us to Cervantes, Puccini, Alexander Dumas, or Octavio Paz. Real high culture crosses borders by itself, not in the back pockets of tomato pickers, refugees, or even the most accomplished immigrants. What has Yo-Yo Ma taught Americans about China? What have we learned from Seiji Ozawa or Ichiro about Japan? Immigration and the transmission of culture are hardly the same thing. Nearly every good-sized American city has an opera company, but that does not require Italian immigrants. Miami is now nearly 70 percent Hispanic, but what, in the way of authentic culture enrichment, has this brought the city? Are the art galleries, concerts, museums, and literature of Los Angeles improved by diversity? Has the culture of Detroit benefited from a majority-black population? If immigration and diversity bring cultural enrichment, why do whites move out of those very parts of the country that are being “enriched”? It is true that Latin American immigration has inspired more American school children to study Spanish, but fewer now study French, German, or Latin. If anything, Hispanic immigration reduces what little linguistic diversity is to be found among native-born Americans. [...] [M]any people study Spanish, not because they love Hispanic culture or Spanish literature but for fear they may not be able to work in America unless they speak the language of Mexico. Another argument in favor of diversity is that it is good for people—especially young people —to come into contact with people unlike themselves because they will come to understand and appreciate each other. Stereotyped and uncomplimentary views about other races or cultures are supposed to crumble upon contact. This, of course, is just another version of the “contact theory” that was supposed to justify school integration. Do ex-cons and the graduates—and numerous dropouts—of Los Angeles high schools come away with a deep appreciation of people of other races? More than half a century ago, George Orwell noted that: 'During the war of 1914-18 the English working class were in contact with foreigners to an extent that is rarely possible. The sole result was that they brought back a hatred of all Europeans, except the Germans, whose courage they admired.

Gli esseri che ne hanno la possibilità - è vero che si tratta degli artisti, e io ero convinto da tempo che non lo sarei mai stato - hanno anche il dovere di vivere per sé; ora, l'amicizia è una dispensa da questo dovere, un'abdicazione a se stessi. Persino la conversazione, che dell'amicizia è il modo d'esprimersi, è una divagazione superficiale, che non ci fa acquistare nulla. Possiamo conversare tutta una vita senza far altro che ripetere all'infinito il vuoto di un minuto, mentre il cammino del pensiero, nel lavoro solitario della creazione artistica, si snoda in profondità, l'unica direzione che non ci sia preclusa, e nella quale ci sia dato anzi dl progredire - sebbene con maggior fatica - verso un risultato di verità. E l'amicizia non soltanto è priva, come la conversazione, di qualsiasi virtù; è anche funesta. Infatti l'impressione di noia cui non possono sottrarsi, quando rimangono accanto agli amici - cioè alla superficie di se stessi - anziché proseguire nel profondo il loro itinerario di scoperte, quelli fra noi la cui legge dl sviluppo sia puramente interna, questa impressione di noia, quando poi ci ritroviamo soli, l'amicizia ci persuade a rettificarla, a ricordare con emozione le parole dell'amico, a considerarle come un apporto prezioso, mentre noi non siamo come costruzioni cui si possano aggiungere pietre dall'esterno, ma come alberi che traggono dalla propria Iinfa il nodo successivo del loro fusto, il piano superiore della loro fogliazione.

The children crowded about the women in the houses. What we going to do Ma? Where we going to go? The women said, We don’t know, yet. Go out and play. But don’t go near your father. He might whale you if you go near him. And the women went on with the work, but all the time they watched the men squatting in the dust–perplexed and figuring. The tractors came over the roads and into the fields, great crawlers moving like insects, having the incredible strength of insects. They crawled over the ground, laying the track and rolling on it and picking it up. Diesel tractors, puttering while they stood idle; they thundered when they moved, and then settled down to a droning roar. Snub-nosed monsters, raising the dust and sticking their snouts into it, straight down the country, across the country, through fences, through dooryards, in and out of gullies in straight lines. They did not run on the ground, but on their own roadbeds. They ignored hills and gulches, water courses, fences, houses. The man sitting in the iron seat did not look like a man; gloved, goggled, rubber dust mask over nose and mouth, he was part of the monster, a robot in the seat. The thunder of the cylinders sounded through the country, became one with the air and the earth, so that earth and air muttered in sympathetic vibration. The driver could not control it–straight across country it went, cutting through a dozen farms and straight back. A twitch at the controls could swerve the cat’, but the driver’s hands could not twitch because the monster that built the tractor, the monster that sent that tractor out, had somehow got into the driver’s hands, into his brain and muscle, had goggled him and muzzled him–goggled his mind, muzzled his speech, goggled his perception, muzzled his protest. He could not see the land as it was, he could not smell the power of the earth. He sat in an iron seat and stepped on iron pedals. He could not cheer or beat or curse or encourage the extension of his power, and because of this he could not cheer or whip or curse or encourage himself. He did now know or own or trust or beseech the land. If a seed dropped did not germinate, it was no skin off his ass. If the young thrusting plant withered in drought or drowned in a flood of rain, it was no more to the driver than to the tractor. He loved the land no more than the bank loved the land. He could admire the tractor–its machined surfaces, its surge of power, the roar of its detonating cylinders; but it was not his tractor. Behind the tractor rolled the shining disks, cutting the earth with its blades–not plowing but surgery, pushing the cut earth to the right where the second row of disks cut it and pushed it to the left; slicing blades shining, polished by the cut earth. And behind the disks, the harrows combing with iron teeth so that the little clods broke up and the earth lay smooth. Behind the harrows, the long seeders–twelve curved iron penes erected in the foundry, orgasms set by gear, raping methodically, raping without passion. The driver sat in his iron seat and he was proud of the straight lines he did not will, proud of the tractor he did not own or love, proud of the power he could not control. And when that crop grew, and was harvested, no man had crumbled a hot clod in his fingers and let the earth sift past his fingertips. No man had touched the seed, or lusted for the growth. Men ate what they had not raised, and had no connection to the bread. The land bore under iron, and under iron gradually died; for it was not love or hated, it had no prayers or curses.

THE OBEDIENCE GAME DUGGAR KIDS GROW UP playing the Obedience Game. It’s sort of like Mother May I? except it has a few extra twists—and there’s no need to double-check with “Mother” because she (or Dad) is the one giving the orders. It’s one way Mom and Dad help the little kids in the family burn off extra energy some nights before we all put on our pajamas and gather for Bible time (more about that in chapter 8). To play the Obedience Game, the little kids all gather in the living room. After listening carefully to Mom’s or Dad’s instructions, they respond with “Yes, ma’am, I’d be happy to!” then run and quickly accomplish the tasks. For example, Mom might say, “Jennifer, go upstairs to the girls’ room, touch the foot of your bed, then come back downstairs and give Mom a high-five.” Jennifer answers with an energetic “Yes, ma’am, I’d be happy to!” and off she goes. Dad might say, “Johannah, run around the kitchen table three times, then touch the front doorknob and come back.” As Johannah stands up she says, “Yes, sir, I’d be happy to!” “Jackson, go touch the front door, then touch the back door, then touch the side door, and then come back.” Jackson, who loves to play army, stands at attention, then salutes and replies, “Yes, sir, I’d be happy to!” as he goes to complete his assignment at lightning speed. Sometimes spotters are sent along with the game player to make sure the directions are followed exactly. And of course, the faster the orders can be followed, the more applause the contestant gets when he or she slides back into the living room, out of breath and pleased with himself or herself for having complied flawlessly. All the younger Duggar kids love to play this game; it’s a way to make practicing obedience fun! THE FOUR POINTS OF OBEDIENCE THE GAME’S RULES (MADE up by our family) stem from our study of the four points of obedience, which Mom taught us when we were young. As a matter of fact, as we are writing this book she is currently teaching these points to our youngest siblings. Obedience must be: 1. Instant. We answer with an immediate, prompt “Yes ma’am!” or “Yes sir!” as we set out to obey. (This response is important to let the authority know you heard what he or she asked you to do and that you are going to get it done as soon as possible.) Delayed obedience is really disobedience. 2. Cheerful. No grumbling or complaining. Instead, we respond with a cheerful “I’d be happy to!” 3. Thorough. We do our best, complete the task as explained, and leave nothing out. No lazy shortcuts! 4. Unconditional. No excuses. No, “That’s not my job!” or “Can’t someone else do it? or “But . . .” THE HIDDEN GOAL WITH this fun, fast-paced game is that kids won’t need to be told more than once to do something. Mom would explain the deeper reason behind why she and Daddy desired for us to learn obedience. “Mom and Daddy won’t always be with you, but God will,” she says. “As we teach you to hear and obey our voice now, our prayer is that ultimately you will learn to hear and obey what God’s tells you to do through His Word.” In many families it seems that many of the goals of child training have been lost. Parents often expect their children to know what they should say and do, and then they’re shocked and react harshly when their sweet little two-year-old throws a tantrum in the middle of the grocery store. This parental attitude probably stems from the belief that we are all born basically good deep down inside, but the truth is, we are all born with a sin nature. Think about it: You don’t have to teach a child to hit, scream, whine, disobey, or be selfish. It comes naturally. The Bible says that parents are to “train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it” (Proverbs 22:6).

She told him the origins of the “buck dance,” when “white people would come up and say ‘N____r, dance’, and then start shooting around the feet of blacks so that they would dance like everything.” 45 Big Ma was an important presence in Jimmy’s childhood and adolescence, and he credited her with giving him a unique and powerful sense of historical change. “When she talked about slavery,” he recalled, “she always talked not about how they freed the slaves, but about how [slaveholders] surrendered. There was a big difference. She saw the change as something that had been won by somebody, not something that had been given. She realized that there had been a struggle and that somebody had to lose.” 46 It would not take much for young Jimmy to see a historical connection and a continuity in struggle between these two moments—the buck dance that Big Ma witnessed in her childhood and the marauding Selma sheriff who came to town “shooting and raising Cain to see the colored folks run” during his childhood. Big Ma lived until the mid-1930s, when Jimmy was in his teens. By this time he could see new spaces of struggle emerging from shifts in the region’s economy and black people’s employment patterns. These shifts had impacted his family, specifically through his father’s work opportunities, and would shape his own prospects. Cotton continued to be an important part of the economy, both in the state and in the Black Belt region, but its significance declined relative to Alabama’s growing industrial economy. African Americans saw expanded employment opportunities, as labor shortages, strikes, and union organizing during the first two decades of the century led companies to open up jobs previously unavailable to black workers. The steel industry, which had previously satisfied its need for cheap labor with immigrant workers, came to rely heavily on black labor after World War I. 47

I heard the fear in the first music I ever knew, the music that pumped from boom boxes full of grand boast and bluster. The boys who stood out on Garrison and Liberty up on Park Heights loved this music because it told them, against all evidence and odds, that they were masters of their own lives, their own streets, and their own bodies. I saw it in the girls, in their loud laughter, in their gilded bamboo earrings that announced their names thrice over. And I saw it in their brutal language and hard gaze, how they would cut you with their eyes and destroy you with their words for the sin of playing too much. “Keep my name out your mouth,” they would say. I would watch them after school, how they squared off like boxers, vaselined up, earrings off, Reeboks on, and leaped at each other. I felt the fear in the visits to my Nana’s home in Philadelphia. You never knew her. I barely knew her, but what I remember is her hard manner, her rough voice. And I knew that my father’s father was dead and that my uncle Oscar was dead and that my uncle David was dead and that each of these instances was unnatural. And I saw it in my own father, who loves you, who counsels you, who slipped me money to care for you. My father was so very afraid. I felt it in the sting of his black leather belt, which he applied with more anxiety than anger, my father who beat me as if someone might steal me away, because that is exactly what was happening all around us. Everyone had lost a child, somehow, to the streets, to jail, to drugs, to guns. It was said that these lost girls were sweet as honey and would not hurt a fly. It was said that these lost boys had just received a GED and had begun to turn their lives around. And now they were gone, and their legacy was a great fear. Have they told you this story? When your grandmother was sixteen years old a young man knocked on her door. The young man was your Nana Jo’s boyfriend. No one else was home. Ma allowed this young man to sit and wait until your Nana Jo returned. But your great-grandmother got there first. She asked the young man to leave. Then she beat your grandmother terrifically, one last time, so that she might remember how easily she could lose her body. Ma never forgot. I remember her clutching my small hand tightly as we crossed the street. She would tell me that if I ever let go and were killed by an onrushing car, she would beat me back to life. When I was six, Ma and Dad took me to a local park. I slipped from their gaze and found a playground. Your grandparents spent anxious minutes looking for me. When they found me, Dad did what every parent I knew would have done—he reached for his belt. I remember watching him in a kind of daze, awed at the distance between punishment and offense. Later, I would hear it in Dad’s voice—“Either I can beat him, or the police.” Maybe that saved me. Maybe it didn’t. All I know is, the violence rose from the fear like smoke from a fire, and I cannot say whether that violence, even administered in fear and love, sounded the alarm or choked us at the exit. What I know is that fathers who slammed their teenage boys for sass would then release them to streets where their boys employed, and were subject to, the same justice. And I knew mothers who belted their girls, but the belt could not save these girls from drug dealers twice their age. We, the children, employed our darkest humor to cope. We stood in the alley where we shot basketballs through hollowed crates and cracked jokes on the boy whose mother wore him out with a beating in front of his entire fifth-grade class. We sat on the number five bus, headed downtown, laughing at some girl whose mother was known to reach for anything—cable wires, extension cords, pots, pans. We were laughing, but I know that we were afraid of those who loved us most. Our parents resorted to the lash the way flagellants in the plague years resorted to the scourge.

That's all well and good,but my concern is for Willow. I think she's beginning to realize that she both needs and wants the respect and companionship of the women in this town. And frankly, a man with your reputation can only hurt her. Not that I think you'd deliberately cause her harm. I don't. But the girl already has several black marks against her and your attentions could very well add to her problems.Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?" Rider plowed his fingers through his jet hair. "Yes, you'd like me to stay clear of her. I understand,but I'm afraid I can't do that. Look, I know it's asking a lot,but you'll have to trust me where Willow Vaughn is concerned. I promise you that she'll come to no harm from me." "Trust,Mr. Sinclair,is something to be earned." "I know,and I hope you'll give me time to earn yours. But if you want me to pack up and find another place to stay, I'll understand." She considered that a moment. "No," she finally answered. "It would serve no purpose. This town has become a haven for every outlaw in the country and if every boarding house and hotel in Tombstone emptied out the disreputables, they'd soon go broke. I doubt I'll be held accountable for housing one more. Besides, at least this way,I can keep an eye on you." Rider smiled and stood, politely helping her to her feet. "Thanks. And by the way, for what it's worth, I'm not an outlaw." "If I truly believed you were, young man, you'd know it." "I'm very sorry for any trouble I might have caused you, Mrs. Brigham. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to change my clothes and saddle the horses." Rider walked to the parlor doors, glancing back over his shoulder as Miriam added, "You've asked me to trust you,Mr. Sinclair. Don't disappoint me or I guarantee you'll be sorry. I may be a woman, and not a young one at that, but I still have a few good tricks up my sleeve. If Willow suffers so much as a broken fingernail on your account, you'll have me to answer to." Rider inclined his head and opened the door to leave. "I'll do my best, ma'am, but much depends on the young lady." Knowing he'd already said more than he should, he turned and left.

My dear boys, what are you thinking about?” exclaimed Mrs. Lynn. “I cannot possibly countenance any such inconsistent proceeding,” chimed in the Dowager Ingram. “Indeed, mama, but you can—and will,” pronounced the haughty voice of Blanche, as she turned round on the piano-stool; where till now she had sat silent, apparently examining sundry sheets of music. “I have a curiosity to hear my fortune told: therefore, Sam, order the beldame forward.” “My darling Blanche! recollect—” “I do—I recollect all you can suggest; and I must have my will—quick, Sam!” “Yes—yes—yes!” cried all the juveniles, both ladies and gentlemen. “Let her come—it will be excellent sport!” The footman still lingered. “She looks such a rough one,” said he. “Go!” ejaculated Miss Ingram, and the man went. Excitement instantly seized the whole party: a running fire of raillery and jests was proceeding when Sam returned. “She won’t come now,” said he. “She says it’s not her mission to appear before the ‘vulgar herd’ (them’s her words). I must show her into a room by herself, and then those who wish to consult her must go to her one by one.” “You see now, my queenly Blanche,” began Lady Ingram, “she encroaches. Be advised, my angel girl—and—” “Show her into the library, of course,” cut in the “angel girl.” “It is not my mission to listen to her before the vulgar herd either: I mean to have her all to myself. Is there a fire in the library?” “Yes, ma’am—but she looks such a tinkler.” “Cease that chatter, blockhead! and do my bidding.” Again Sam vanished; and mystery, animation, expectation rose to full flow once more. “She’s ready now,” said the footman, as he reappeared. “She wishes to know who will be her first visitor.” “I think I had better just look in upon her before any of the ladies go,” said Colonel Dent. “Tell her, Sam, a gentleman is coming.” Sam went and returned. “She says, sir, that she’ll have no gentlemen; they need not trouble themselves to come near her; nor,” he added, with difficulty suppressing a titter, “any ladies either, except the young, and single.” “By Jove, she has taste!” exclaimed Henry Lynn. Miss Ingram rose solemnly: “I go first,” she said, in a tone which might have befitted the leader of a forlorn hope, mounting a breach in the van of his men.

The Osage had been assured by the U.S. government that their Kansas territory would remain their home forever, but before long they were under siege from settlers. Among them was the family of Laura Ingalls Wilder, who later wrote Little House on the Prairie based on her experiences. “Why don’t you like Indians, Ma?” Laura asks her mother in one scene. “I just don’t like them; and don’t lick your fingers, Laura.” “This is Indian country, isn’t it?” Laura said. “What did we come to their country for, if you don’t like them?” One evening, Laura’s father explains to her that the government will soon make the Osage move away: “That’s why we’re here, Laura. White people are going to settle all this country, and we get the best land because we get here first and take our pick.” Though, in the book, the Ingallses leave the reservation under threat of being removed by soldiers, many squatters began to take the land by force. In 1870, the Osage—driven from their lodges, their graves plundered—agreed to sell their Kansas lands to settlers for $1.25 an acre. Nevertheless, impatient settlers massacred several of the Osage. An Indian Affairs agent said, “The question will suggest itself, which of these people are the savages?

Wilhelm, que serait pour notre cœur le monde sans l’amour ? Ce qu’une lanterne magique est sans lumière. A peine la petite lampe est-elle introduite, que les images les plus variées apparaissent sur la muraille blanche. Et ne fussent-elles que des fantômes passagers, cela fait pourtant notre bonheur, lorsque nous nous arrêtons devant, comme des enfants joyeux, nous extasiant sur ces apparitions merveilleuses. Aujourd’hui je n’ai pu aller voir Charlotte : une société inévitable m’a retenu. Que faire ? J’ai envoyé chez elle mon domestique, uniquement pour avoir quelqu’un près de moi qui eût approché d’elle aujourd’hui. Avec quelle impatience je l’attendais ! avec quelle joie je l’ai revu ! Je l’aurais embrassé, si j’avais osé m’en croire. On conte que la pierre de Bologne, si on l’expose au soleil, en absorbe les rayons, et qu’elle éclaire quelque temps pendant la nuit. Il en était de même pour moi de ce garçon. L’idée que les yeux de Charlotte s’étaient arrêtés sur son visage, sur ses joues, sur les boutons de son habit et le collet de son surtout, me rendait tout cela précieux et sacré. Dans ce moment, je n’aurais pas donné mon valet pour mille écus. Sa présence nie faisait du bien…. Dieu te garde d’en rire ! Wilhelm, sont-ce là des fantômes, si nous sommes heureux ?

cap to scratch his bald head. ‘Well, you won’t miss the veg because I’ll be bringing you some every week now. I’ve always got plenty left over and I’d rather give it to you than see it waste.’ He gave a rumbling laugh. ‘I caught that young Tommy Barton digging potatoes from Percy’s plot this mornin’. Give ’im a cuff round ’is ear but I let him take what he’d dug. Poor little bugger’s only tryin’ to keep his ma from starvin’; ain’t ’is fault ’is old man got banged up for robbin’, is it?’ Tilly Barton, her two sons Tommy and Sam and her husband, lived almost opposite the Pig & Whistle. Mulberry Lane cut across from Bell Lane and ran adjacent to Spitalfields Market, and the folk of the surrounding lanes were like a small community, almost a village in the heart of London’s busy East End. Tilly and her husband had been good customers for Peggy until he lost his job on the Docks. It had come as a shock when he’d been arrested for trying to rob a little corner post office and Peggy hadn’t seen Tilly to talk to since; she’d assumed it was because the woman was feeling ashamed of what her husband had done. ‘No, of course not.’ Peggy smiled at him. A wisp of her honey-blonde hair had fallen across her face, despite all her efforts to sweep it up under a little white cap she wore for cooking. ‘I didn’t realise Tilly Barton was in such trouble. I’ll take her a pie over later – she won’t be offended, will she?’ ‘No one in their right mind would be offended by you, Peggy love.’ ‘Thank you, Jim. Would you like a cup of coffee and a slice of apple pie?’ ‘Don’t mind a slice of that pie, but I’ll take it for my docky down the allotment if that’s all right?’ Peggy assured him it was and wrapped a generous slice of her freshly cooked pie in greaseproof paper. He took it and left with a smile and a promise to see her next week just as her husband entered the kitchen. ‘Who was that?’ Laurence asked as he saw the back of Jim walking away. ‘Jim Stillman, he brought the last of the stuff from Percy’s allotment.’ Peggy’s eyes brimmed and Laurence frowned. ‘I don’t know what you’re upset for, Peggy. Percy was well over eighty. He’d had a good life – and it wasn’t even as if he was your father…’ ‘I know. He was a lot older than Mum but…Percy was a good stepfather to me, and wonderful to Mum when she was so ill after we lost Walter.’ Peggy’s voice faltered, because it still hurt her that her younger brother had died in the Great War at the tender age of seventeen. The news had almost destroyed their mother and Peggy thought of those dark days as the worst of her

16 luglio. Quale brivido mi corre nelle vene quando per caso le mie dita toccano le sue, quando i nostri piedi s'incontrano sotto la tavola! Mi ritiro come dal fuoco, una segreta forza mi spinge avanti di nuovo, e tutti i miei sensi sono presi da vertigine. E la sua innocenza, la sua anima ignara non le lasciano comprendere come queste piccole familiarità mi fanno male. Se, parlando, lei posa la sua mano sulla mia, se nel calore della conversazione si avvicina a me in modo che il suo alito divino sfiori le mie labbra, io credo di morire, come percosso dal fulmine. E se una volta, Guglielmo, quell'anima celeste e fiduciosa io osassi... tu mi capisci? No, il mio cuore non è così corrotto! Ma è debole, molto debole, e questa non è forse corruzione? Lei mi è sacra. Ogni desiderio tace alla sua presenza. Non posso dire quello che succede in me quando le sono vicino; mi pare che tutta l'anima si riversi nei miei nervi. Carlotta sa una melodia che suona al pianoforte con un'angelica espressione, con grande semplicità e spirito. E' la sua aria preferita, e appena suona la prima nota, fuggono lontano da me pene, preoccupazioni, capricci. Sono così preso da quella semplice melodia che non mi pare inverosimile niente di quel che si racconta del fascino della musica antica. E come lei sa cominciarla al momento opportuno, proprio quando starei per tirarmi una palla nella testa. Il cupo turbamento della mia anima si dissipa, e io di nuovo respiro liberamente.

During the season, they saw each other and played together almost every day. At the aunt's request, seconded by Professor Valérius, Daaé consented to give the young viscount some violin lessons. In this way, Raoul learned to love the same airs that had charmed Christine's childhood. They also both had the same calm and dreamy little cast of mind. They delighted in stories, in old Breton legends; and their favorite sport was to go and ask for them at the cottage-doors, like beggars: "Ma'am..." or, "Kind gentleman... have you a little story to tell us, please?" And it seldom happened that they did not have one "given" them; for nearly every old Breton grandame has, at least once in her life, seen the "korrigans" dance by moonlight on the heather. But their great treat was, in the twilight, in the great silence of the evening, after the sun had set in the sea, when Daaé came and sat down by them on the roadside and in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should frighten the ghosts whom he loved, told them the legends of the land of the North. And, the moment he stopped, the children would ask for more. There was one story that began: "A king sat in a little boat on one of those deep still lakes that open like a bright eye in the midst of the Norwegian mountains..." And another: "Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was golden as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music." While the old man told this story, Raoul looked at Christine's blue eyes and golden hair; and Christine thought that Lotte was very lucky to hear the Angel of Music when she went to sleep. The Angel of Music played a part in all Daddy Daaé's tales; and he maintained that every great musician, every great artist received a visit from the Angel at least once in his life. Sometimes the Angel leans over their cradle, as happened to Lotte, and that is how their are little prodigies who play the fiddle at six better than fifty, which, you must admit, is very wonderful. Sometimes, the Angel comes much later, because the children are naughty and won't learn their lessons or practice their scales. And, sometimes, he does not come at all, because the children have a bad heart or a bad conscience. No one ever sees the Angel; but he is heard by those who are meant to hear him. He often comes when they least expect him, when they are sad or disheartened. Then their ears suddenly perceive celestial harmonies, a divine voice, which they remember all their lives. Persons who are visited by the Angel quiver with a thrill unknown to the rest of mankind. And they can not touch an instrument, or open their mouths to sing, without producing sounds that put all other human sounds to shame. Then people who do not know that the Angel has visited those persons say that they have genius. Little Christine asked her father if he had heard the Angel of Music. But Daddy Daaé shook his head sadly; and then his eyes lit up, as he said: "You will hear him one day, my child! When I am in Heaven, I will send him to you!" Daddy was beginning to cough at that time.

Cependant, au milieu de ces circonstances, la résolution de quitter la vie avait pris toujours plus de force dans l’urne de Werther. Depuis son retour auprès de Charlotte, cette résolution avait toujours été sa perspective et son espérance suprême ; mais il s’était dit que ce ne devait pas être une action soudaine, précipitée ; qu’il voulait faire ce pas avec la plus sérieuse conviction, avec la résolution la plus calme. Ses doutes, ses combats intérieurs se révèlent dans un petit billet, qui paraît être le commencement d’une lettre à Wilhelm, et qui s’est trouvé, sans date, parmi ses papiers. « Sa présence, sa destinée, l’intérêt qu’elle prend à la mienne, expriment la dernière larme de mon cerveau calciné. « Lever le rideau et passer derrière…. voilà tout ! Et pourquoi craindre et balancer ? Parce qu’on ne sait pas ce qu’il y a derrière ? parce qu’on n’en revient pas ? et que c’est le propre de notre esprit d’imaginer que tout est confusion et ténèbres, aux lieux dont nous ne savons rien de certain ? » Enfin il s’accoutuma et se familiarisa toujours plus avec cette triste pensée, et l’on trouve un témoignage de sa résolution ferme et irrévocable dans cette lettre ambiguë, qu’il écrivait à son ami : 20 décembre. « Je rends grice à ton amitié, Wilhelm, d’avoir entendu ce mot comme tu l’as fait. Oui, tu as raison : le meilleur pour moi serait de partir. La proposition que tu me fais de retourner auprès de vous ne me plaît pas tout à fait ; du moins je voudrais faire encore un détour, d’autant plus que nous pouvons espérer une gelée soutenue et de bons chemins. Il m’est aussi trèsagréable que tu veuilles venir me chercher : seulement, laisse encore passer quinze jours, et attends encore une lettre de moi avec d’autres avis. Il ne faut rien cueillir avant qu’il soit mûr, et quinze jours de plus ou de moins font beaucoup. Tu diras à ma mère de prier pour son fils, et de vouloir bien me pardonner tous les chagrins que je lui ai faits. C’était ma destinée d’affliger ceux que le devoir m’appelait à rendre heureux. Adieu, mon très-cher ami. Que le ciel répande sur toi toutes ses bénédictions ! Adieu. »

13 juillet. Non, je ne me trompe pas ; je lis dans ses yeux noirs un véritable intérêt pour ma personne et pour mon sort. Je le sens, et, là-dessus, j’ose me fier à mon cœur, elle…. Oh ! pourrai-je, oserai-je exprimer en ces mots le bonheur céleste ?… Je sens que je suis aimé. Je suis aimé !… Et combien je me deviens cher à moi-même, combien…. J’ose te le dire, tu sauras me comprendre. Combien je suis relevé à mes propres yeux.depuis que j’ai son amour !…. Est-ce de la présomption ou le sentiment de ce que nous sommes réellement l’un pour l’autre ?… Je ne connais pas d’homme dont je craigne quelque chose dans le cœur de Charlotte, et pourtant, lorsqu’elle parle de son fiancé, qu’elle en parle avec tant de chaleur, tant d’amour…. je suis comme le malheureux que l’on dépouille de tous ses honneurs et ses titres, et à qui l’on retire son épée. 16 juillet. Ah ! quel frisson court dans toutes mes veines, quand, par mégarde, mes doigts touchent les siens, quand nos pieds se rencontrent sous la table ! Je me retire comme du feu, et une force secrète m’attire de nouveau…. Le vertige s’empare de tous mes sens. Et son innocence, son âme candide, ne sent pas combien ces petites familiarités me font souffrir. Si, dans la conversation, elle pose sa main sur la mienne, et si, dans la chaleur de l’entretien, elle s’approche de moi, en sorte que son haleine divine vienne effleurer mes lèvres…. je crois mourir, comme frappé de la foudre…. Wilhelm, et ce ciel, cette confiance, si j’ose jamais…. Tu m’entends…. Non, mon cœur n’est pas si corrompu. Faible ! bien faible !…. Et n’est-ce pas de la corruption ? Elle est sacrée pour moi. Tout désir s’évanouit en sa présence. Je ne sais jamais ce que j’éprouve, quand je suis auprès d’elle. Je crois sentir mon âme se répandre dans tous mes nerfs…. Elle a une mélodie, qu’elle joue sur le clavecin avec l’expression d’un ange, si simple et si charmante !… C’est son air favori : il chasse loin de moi troubles, peines, soucis, aussitôt qu’elle attaque la première note. De tout ce qu’on rapporte sur l’antique magie de la musique, rien n’est invraisemblable pour moi. Comme ce simple chant me saisit ! et comme souvent elle sait le faire entendre, à l’instant même où je m’enverrais volontiers une balle dans la tête !… le trouble et les ténèbres de mon âme se dissipent, et je respire plus librement.

Il faut que je vous écrive, mon aimable Charlotte, ici, dans la chambre d’une pauvre auberge de village, où je me suis réfugié contre le mauvais temps. Dans ce triste gîte de D., où je me traîne au milieu d’une foule étrangère, tout à fait étrangère à mes sentiments, je n’ai pas eu un moment, pas un seul, où le cœur in’ait dit de vous écrire : et maintenant, dans cette cabane, dans cette solitude, dans cette prison, tandis que la neige et la grêle se déchaînent contre ma petite fenêtre, ici, vous avez été ma première pensée. Dès que je fus entré, votre image, ô Charlotte, votre pensée m’a saisi, si sainte, si vivante ! Bon Dieu, c’est le premier instant de bonheur que je retrouve. Si vous me voyiez, mon amie, dans ce torrent de dissipations ! Comme toute mon âme se dessèche ! Pas un moment où le cœur soit plein ! pas une heure fortunée ! rien, rien ! Je suis là comme devant une chambre obscure : je vois de petits hommes et de petits chevaux tourner devant moi, et je me demande souvent si ce n’est pas une illusion d’optique. Je m’en amuse, ou plutôt on s’amuse de moi comme d’une ma"rionnette ; je prends quelquefois mon voisin par sa main de bois, et je recule en frissonnant. Le soir, je fais le projet d’aller voir lever le soleil, et je reste au lit ; le jour, je me promets le plaisir du clair de lune, et je m’oublie dans ma chambre. Je ne sais trop pourquoi je me lève, pourquoi je me coucha. Le levain qui faisait fermenter ma vie, je ne l’ai plus ; le charme qui me tenait éveillé dans les nuits profondes s’est évanoui ; l’enchantement qui, le matin, m’arrachait au sommeil a fui loin de moi. Je n’ai trouvé ici qu’une femme, une seule, Mlle de B. Elle vous ressemble, ô Charlotte, si l’on peut vous ressembler. «.Eh quoi ? direz-vous, le voilà qui fait de jolis compliments ! » Cela n’est pas tout à fait imaginaire : depuis quelque temps je suis très-aimable, parce que je ne puis faire autre chose ; j’ai beaucoup d’esprit, at les dames disent que personne ne sait louer aussi finement…. «Ni mentir, ajouterez-vous, car l’un ne va pas sans l’autre, entendez-vous ?… » Je voulais parler de Mlle B. Elle a beaucoup d’âme, on le voit d’abord à la flamme de ses yeux bleus. Son rang lui est à charge ; il ne satisfait aucun des vœux de son cœur. Elle aspire à sortir de ce tumulte, et nous rêvons, des heures entières, au mijieu de scènes champêtres, un bonheur sans mélange ; hélas ! nous rêvons à vous, Charlotte ! Que de fois n’est-elle pas obligée de vous rendre hommage !… Non pas obligée : elle le fait de bon gré ; elle entend volontiers parler de vous ; elle vous aime. Oh ! si j’étais assis à vos pieds, dans la petite chambre, gracieuse et tranquille ! si nos chers petits jouaient ensemble autour de moi, et, quand leur bruit vous fatiguerait, si je pouvais les rassembler en cercle et les calmer avec une histoire effrayante ! Le soleil se couche avec magnificence sur la contrée éblouissante de neige ; l’orage est passé ; et moi…. il faut que je rentre dans ma cage…. Adieu. Albert est-il auprès de vous ? Et comment ?… Dieu veuille me pardonner cette question !

Wilhelm, on deviendrait furieux de voir qu’il y ait des hommes incapables de goûter et de sentir le peu de biens qui ont encore quelque valeur sur la terre. Tu connais les noyers sous lesquels je me .suis assis avec Charlotte, à St…, chez le bon pasteur, ces magnifiques noyers, qui, Dieu le sait, me remplissaient toujours d’une joie calme et profonde. Quelle paix, quelle fraîcheur ils répandaient sur le presbytère ! Que les rameaux étaient majestueux ! Et le souvenir enfin des vénérables pasteurs qui les avaient plantés, tant d’années auparavant !… Le maître d’école nous a dit souvent le nom de l’un d’eux, qu’il avait appris de son grand-père. Ce fut sans doute un homme vertueux, et, sous ces arbres, sa mémoire me fut toujours sacrée. Eh bien, le maître d’école avait hier les larmes aux yeux, comme nous parlions ensemble de ce qu’on les avait abattus. Abattus ! j’en suis furieux, je pourrais tuer le chien qui a porté le premier coup de hache. Moi, qui serais capable de prendre le deuil, si, d’une couple d’arbres tels que ceux-là, qui auraient existé dans ma cour, l’un venait à mourir de vieillesse, il faut que je voie une chose pareille !… Cher Wilhelm, il y a cependant une compensation. Chose admirable que l’humanité ! Tout le village murmure, et j’espère que la femme du pasteur s’apercevra au beurre, aux œufs et autres marques d’amitié, de la blessure qu’elle a faite à sa paroisse. Car c’est elle, la femme du nouveau pasteur (notre vieux est mort), une personne sèche, maladive, qui fait bien de ne prendre au monde aucun intérêt, attendu que personne n’en prend à elle. Une folle, qui se pique d’être savante ; qui se mêle de l’étude du canon ; qui travaille énormément à la nouvelle réformation morale et critique du christianisme ; à qui les rêveries de Lavater font lever les épaules ; dont la santé est tout à fait délabrée, et qui ne goûte, par conséquent, aucune joie sur la terre de Dieu ! Une pareille créature était seule capable de faire abattre mes noyers. Vois-tu, je n’en reviens pas. Figure-toi que les feuilles tombées lui rendent la cour humide et malpropre ; les arbres interceptent le jour à madame, et, quand les noix sont mûres, les enfants y jettent des pierres, et cela lui donne sur les nerfs, la trouble dans ses profondes méditations, lorsqu’elle pèse et met en parallèle Kennikot, Semler et Michaëlis. Quand j’ai vu les gens du village, surtout les vieux, si mécontents, je leur ai dit : « Pourquoi l’avez-vous souffert ?— A la campagne, m’ontils répondu, quand le maire veut quelque chose, que peut-on /aire ? * Mais voici une bonne aventure. : le- pasteur espérait aussi tirer quelque avantage des caprices de sa femme, qui d’ordinaire ne rendent pas sa soupe plus grasse, et il croyait partager le produit avec le maire ; la chambre des domaines en fut avertie et dit : « A moi, s’il vous plaît ! » car elle avait d’anciennes prétentions sur la partie du presbytère où les arbres étaient plantés, et elle les a vendus aux enchères. Ils sont à bas ! Oh ! si j’étais prince, la femme du pasteur, le maire, la chambre des domaines, apprendraient…. Prince !… Eh ! si j’étais prince, que m’importeraient les arbres de mon pays ?

J’ai fait ma visite au lieu natal avec toute la piété d’un pèlerin, et bien des sentiments inattendus m’ont saisi. Je fis arrêter près du grand tilleul qui se trouve à un quart de lieue de la ville du côté de S… ; je quittai la voiture, et je l’envoyai en avant, afin de cheminer à pied et de savourer à mon gré chaque souvenir, dans toute sa vie et sa nouveauté. Je m’arrêtai sous le tilleul, qui avait été, dans mon enfance, le but et le terme de mes promenades. Quelle différence ! Alors, dans une heureuse ignorance, je m’élançais avec ardeur vers ce monde inconnu, où j’espérais pour mon cœur tant de nourriture, tant de jouissances, qui devaient combler et satisfaire l’ardeur de mes désirs. Maintenant, j’en reviens de ce vaste monde…. O mon ami, avec combien d’espérances déçues, avec combien de plans renversés !… Les voilà devant moi les montagnes qui mille fois avaient été l’objet de mes vœux. Je pouvais rester des heures assis à cette place, aspirant à franchir ces hauteurs, égarant ma pensée au sein des bois et des vallons, qui s’offraient à mes yeux dans un gracieux crépuscule, et, lorsqu’au moment fixé il me fallait revenir, avec quel regret ne quittais-je pas cette place chérie !… J’approchai de la ville : je saluai tous les anciens pavillons de jardin ; les nouveaux me déplurent, comme tous les changements qu’on avait faits. Je franchis la porte de la ville, et d’abord je me retrouvai tout à fait. Mon ami, je ne veux pas m’arrêter au détail : autant il eut de charme pour moi, autant il serait monotone dans le récit. J’avais résolu de me loger sur la place, tout à côté de notre ancienne maison. Je remarquai, sur mon passage, que la chambre d’école, où une bonne vieille femme avait parqué notre enfance, s’était transformée en une boutique de détail. Je me rappelai l’inquiétude, les chagrins, l’étourdissement, l’angoisse que j’avais endurés dans ce trou…. Je ne pouvais faire un pas qui ne m’offrît quelque chose de remarquable. Un pèlerin ne trouve pas en terre sainte autant de places consacrées par de religieux souvenirs, et je doute que son ame soit aussi remplie de saintes émotions…. Encore un exemple sur mille : je descendis le long de la rivière, jusqu’à une certaine métairie. C’était aussi mon chemin autrefois, et la petite place où les enfants s’exerçaient à qui ferait le plus souvent rebondir les pierres plates à la surface de l’eau. Je me rappelai vivement comme je m’arrêtais quelquefois à suivre des yeux le cours de la rivière ; avec quelles merveilleuses conjectures je l’accompagnais ; quelles étranges peintures je me faisais des contrées où elle allait courir ; comme je trouvais bientôt les bornes de mon imagination, et pourtant me sentais entraîné plus loin, toujours plus loin, et finissais par me perdre dans la contemplation d’un vague lointain…. Mon ami, aussi bornés, aussi heureux, étaient les vénérables pères du genre humain ; aussi enfantines, leurs impressions, leur poésie. Quand Ulysse parle de la mer immense et de la terre infinie, cela est vrai, humain, intime, saisissant et mystérieux. Que me sert maintenant de pouvoir répéter, avec tous les écoliers, qu’elle est ronde ? Il n’en faut à l’homme que quelques mottes pour vivre heureux dessus, et moins encore pour dormir dessous…