TERMS STARTING WITH
TERMS ANYWHERE
KEYS (10k)
2 The Mother
1 Sri Ramana Maharshi
1 Rabia al-Adawiyya
1 Mansoor al- Hallaj
1 Galen
1 Aleister Crowley
1 Sri Ramana Maharshi
1 Saint Augustine of Hippo
NEW FULL DB (2.4M)
11 Lisa Kleypas
7 Sherrilyn Kenyon
7 Catherine Anderson
6 Anonymous
5 Rick Riordan
5 Eugene Field
4 Richelle Mead
4 Kelley Armstrong
4 J K Rowling
4 Jack Kerouac
4 Brian Godawa
4 A A Milne
3 William Shakespeare
3 Tom Stoppard
3 Thich Nhat Hanh
3 Richard Bach
3 Rabindranath Tagore
3 Osho
3 Ned Vizzini
3 Kiersten White
1:Who Are You? What do you want? Where Are You Going? Who do you serve and who do you trust? ~ Galen, #KEYS
2:Where are you from?
There.
Where are you headed?
There.
What are you doing?
Grieving. ~ Rabia al-Adawiyya,#KEYS
3:Where are you now if not in the Self? Where should you go? The other activities throw a veil on you. All that is necessary is the stern belief that you are the Self. ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi, #KEYS
4:There is no rest where are you seek for it…. You seek the happy life in the region of death; it is not there. How can there be a happy life where there is not even life? ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo, Confessions, #KEYS
5:
Sweet Mother, I will try to do whatever You wish. Where are You?
Cross beyond the ignorance of a mind that judges without knowing, plunge into the depths of a calm and unassuming silence: there you will find me.
~ The Mother, More Answers From The Mother,#KEYS
6:You do not pass
through imagination
or else we'll know
where You are.
You are He who
is everywhere
Yet You are nowhere.
Where are You?
In my annihilation
is my annihilation's
.... annihilation
And You are found
.... in my annihilation. ~ Mansoor al- Hallaj,#KEYS
7:O Mother, what should I do? I am completely unconscious. Mother, where are You?
In your psychic being - I am always present there. It is there that you can find me and must find me, and when you have found me there, in the depths of your heart, you will also recognise me in my physical form. 31 October 1934
~ The Mother, More Answers From The Mother, [T0],#KEYS
8: Swami Vivekananda summarised Yoga under four headings, and I do not think that one can improve on that classification. His four are: Gnana, Raja, Bhakti and Hatha, and comprise all divisions that it is desirable to make. As soon as one begins to add such sections as Mantra Yoga, you are adding to without enriching the classification, and once you begin Where are you to stop? But I honestly believe that the excessive simplication given in Eight Lectures on Yoga is a practical advantage. Any given type of Yogas is the work of a lifetime and for that reason alone it is desirable to confine oneself from the beginning to an absolutely simple programme.
What then is the difference between Yoga and Magick? Magick is extraversion, the discovery of and subsequently the classification of and finally the control of new worlds on new planes. So far as it concerns the development of the mind its object and method are perfectly simple. What is wanted is exaltation. The aim is to identify oneself with the highest essence of whatever world is under consideration. ~ Aleister Crowley, Magick Without Tears, 1.83 - Epistola Ultima,#KEYS
9:Some young men who had come with an introduction from the Ramakrishna Mission at Madras asked Bhagavan, "Which is the proper path for us to follow?"
Bhagavan: When you speak of a path, where are you now? and where do you want to go? If these are known, then we can talk of the path. Know first where you are and what you are. There is nothing to be reached. You are always as you really are. But you don't realise it. That is all.
A little while after, one of the visitors asked Bhagavan, "I am now following the path of japa. Is that all right?"
Bhagavan: Yes. It is quite good. You can continue in that. The gentleman who asked about creation said, "I never thought I was going to have the good fortune of visiting Bhagavan. But circumstances have brought me here and I find in his presence, without any effort on my part, I am having santi. Apparently, getting peace does not depend on our effort.
It seems to come only as the result of grace!" Bhagavan was silent. Meanwhile, another visitor remarked, "No. Our effort is also necessary, though no one can do without grace." After some time, Bhagavan remarked, "Mantra japa, after a time, leads to a stage when you become Mantra maya i.e., you become that whose name you have been repeating or chanting.
First you repeat the mantra by mouth; later you do it mentally.
First, you do this dhyana with breaks. Later, you do it without any break. At that stage you realise you do dhyana without any effort on your part, that dhyana is your real nature. Till then, effort is necessary." ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi, Day By Day,#KEYS
*** WISDOM TROVE ***
1:Since everything is already the Supreme Buddha Nature, where are you going to find it? ~ adyashanti, @wisdomtrove 2:If you don’t have the time to do something right, where are you going to find the time to fix it? ~ stephen-king, @wisdomtrove 3:Where do you come from? And where are you going? Look up, speak nicely, and don't twiddle your fingers all the time. ~ lewis-carroll, @wisdomtrove 4:Father! father! where are you going? / O do not walk so fast. / Speak, father, speak to your little boy, / Or else I shall be lost. ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove 5:O! Where are you going With beards all a-wagging? No knowing, no knowing What brings Mister Baggins, And Balin and Dwalin down into the valley in June ha! ha! ~ j-r-r-tolkien, @wisdomtrove 6:Actually, all paths lead away from the truth... how's that? All paths. There's no such thing as a path to the truth. The truth's already here, where are you going? ~ adyashanti, @wisdomtrove 7:The simplest questions are the most profound. Where were you born? Where is your home? Where are you going? What are you doing? Think about these once in a while and watch your answers change. ~ richard-bach, @wisdomtrove 8:Where are you getting your affection? Who's touching you? Who's holding you? Who makes you feel alive? Who says, "You are a beautiful person, you are the beloved of God, don't forget it"? That's an important discipline. ~ henri-nouwen, @wisdomtrove 9:Wherever I am, there's always Pooh, There's always Pooh and Me. Whatever I do, he wants to do, "Where are you going today?" says Pooh: "Well, that's very odd & 10:In the ancient recipe, the three antidotes for dullness or boredom are sleep, drink, and travel. It is rather feeble. From sleep you wake up, from drink you become sober, and from travel you come home again. And then where are you? No, the two sovereign remedies for dullness are love or a crusade. ~ d-h-lawrence, @wisdomtrove 11:Where are you now?’ Where was I now? Gripping the receiver, I raised my hand and turned to see what lay beyond the telephone booth. Where was I now? I had no idea. No idea at all. Where was this place? All that flashed into my eyes were the countless shapes of people walking by to nowhere. Again and again, I called out for Midori from the dead center of this place that was no place. ~ haruki-murakami, @wisdomtrove 12:How can a person deal with anxiety? You might try what one fellow did. He worried so much that he decided to hire someone to do his worrying for him. He found a man who agreed to be his hired worrier for a salary of $200,000 per year. After the man accepted the job, his first question to his boss was, "Where are you going to get $200,000 per year?" To which the man responded, "That's your worry. ~ max-lucado, @wisdomtrove *** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***
1:Where are you taking that ass? ~ Apuleius, #NFDB
2:Where are you between two thoughts? ~ L E Modesitt Jr, #NFDB
3:O love, where are you leading me now? ~ Robert Creeley, #NFDB
4:I am reading now "Where Are You Now ~ Mary Higgins Clark, #NFDB
5:It’s Officer, actually. Where are you ~ Michael Connelly, #NFDB
6:Girls, where are you? I can't find you. ~ Alexander Ovechkin, #NFDB
7:Where is he tonight? Where am I? Where are you? ~ Jack Kerouac, #NFDB
8:If this makes me sexier then where are you going? ~ Don DeLillo, #NFDB
9:So where are you sitting in the symphony God conducts? ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
10:anything vital. “Where are you going? That’s the wrong ~ Jill Myles, #NFDB
11:Listen, where are you going?’ ‘What?’ ‘Where ~ Gregory David Roberts, #NFDB
12:Where are you going?” “To get a Coke!” “Would you—” “No! ~ Rachel Caine, #NFDB
13:Where are you, my little object of art? I am here to collect you. ~ Pepe, #NFDB
14:Where are you, bloodsuckers? Here, fangy, fangy, fangy... ~ Jeaniene Frost, #NFDB
15:Where are you?" I wheeze into the floor. "Where did you go? ~ Cynthia Hand, #NFDB
16:You’re a fake. What’s your real name? Where are you really from? ~ Lisa Ko, #NFDB
17:James Carstairs! Jem! Where are you, you disloyal bastard? ~ Cassandra Clare, #NFDB
18:Where are you going?” one demanded. “Home,” she insisted. Her ~ Blake Pierce, #NFDB
19:Ozorne, my precious, where are you?
- Rikash Moonsword ~ Tamora Pierce,#NFDB
20:Being asked, "Where are you REALLY from?" It makes one feel OTHERED. ~ Celeste Ng, #NFDB
21:Little black horse. Where are you taking your dead rider? ~ Federico Garcia Lorca, #NFDB
22:My souls sits in silence, and then asks again, where are you in all of this? ~ Rumi, #NFDB
23:Where are you going?” Turing had asked.
“Nowhere.”
“Me too. ~ David Lagercrantz,#NFDB
24:Where are you going?" he asked. "To break someone's heart," I replied. ~ Richelle Mead, #NFDB
25:Mom, where are you? Silly of me to think you'd be more here than there. ~ Julie Buxbaum, #NFDB
26:Where are you? Here
What time is it? Now
What are you? This moment. ~ Dan Millman,#NFDB
27:Where are you taking me?” Abby asked from the passenger seat of the pickup. ~ B J Daniels, #NFDB
28:Oh lovers, where are you going? Who are you looking for? Your beloved is right here. ~ Rumi, #NFDB
29:When I first went to prison, I was even questioning where, God, where are you? ~ Jim Bakker, #NFDB
30:Where are you going?" he asked.
"To break someone's heart," I replied. ~ Richelle Mead,#NFDB
31:Where are you going?” Jackson asked. “To keep those panties from getting soaked. ~ Ranae Rose, #NFDB
32:Where are you now? How are the nymphs? I suppose they have led you a fine dance. ~ John Keats, #NFDB
33:Where are you? I can still make no sense of my surroundings. Where are you?! ~ Suzanne Collins, #NFDB
34:And where are you going to get these angels who are going to run society for us? ~ Milton Friedman, #NFDB
35:Oh, for the love of Hey-zeus,” he heard her grumbling. “Where are you, motherfucker? ~ Elle Kennedy, #NFDB
36:Since everything is already the Supreme Buddha Nature, where are you going to find it? ~ Adyashanti, #NFDB
37:Where are you supposed to put your arms when you dance? It’s like the Universal Question. ~ Ned Vizzini, #NFDB
38:Chapter 19 Where are you, Aeney? You slip away from me as you always did. Where are you? ~ Niall Williams, #NFDB
39:Noboru Wataya,
Where are you?
Did the wind-up bird
Forget to wind your spring? ~ Haruki Murakami,#NFDB
40:I don’t want to lose my inhibitions.”
“You have inhibitions? Where are you hiding them? ~ Sarah Morgan,#NFDB
41:General: Where are you from? Spike: London. General: Which part? Spike: ... Well, all of me. ~ Spike Milligan, #NFDB
42:Where are you going to find serenity and independence – in something free, or something enslaved? ~ Epictetus, #NFDB
43:Help me, Alex.” He began to panic. “Where are you!” he yelled. “I’m at home. Hurry please. ~ Toye Lawson Brown, #NFDB
44:If you don’t have the time to do something right, where are you going to find the time to fix it? ~ Stephen King, #NFDB
45:Where are you going?” Kaylin stopped. “I’m following you.” “Which is usually done from behind. ~ Michelle Sagara, #NFDB
46:Chris shook his head. “Wow, you are prejudiced. Where are you from, anyway? Selma circa 1954? ~ Adrienne Thompson, #NFDB
47:Where are you going? (Nykyrian) To get a drink and kill Cruel…not necessarily in that order. (Syn) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon, #NFDB
48:General: Where are you from?
Spike: London.
General: Which part?
Spike: ... Well, all of me. ~ Spike Milligan,#NFDB
49:Where are you going? (Nykyrian)
To get a drink and kill Cruel…not necessarily in that order. (Syn) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,#NFDB
50:Cupid," Jason called, "where are you?"
'Where you least expect me,' Cupid answered. 'As love always is. ~ Rick Riordan,#NFDB
51:Where are you going?” said Abram. Mikael looked upriver, a sad distant gaze in his eyes, and said, “Babylon. ~ Brian Godawa, #NFDB
52:Where are you off to now?” “Montreal.” Marie Henebelle had a gift for making you feel guilty with a look. ~ Franck Thilliez, #NFDB
53:This city belongs to ghosts, to murderers, to sleepwalkers. Where are you, in what bed, in what dream? ~ Marguerite Yourcenar, #NFDB
54:Freedom, where are you? Who holds you back? [...] The mother of wit and pleasure, Oh freedom! ~ Manuel Maria Barbosa du Bocage, #NFDB
55:I should be working and not writing you. But this is a missing you, where are you, hello and necessary for my soul. ~ Anne Sexton, #NFDB
56:Do you know where you going to? Do you like the things that life is showing you? Where are you going to? Do you know? ~ Diana Ross, #NFDB
57:So where are you headed if you’re already home?” Jane smiled. “Just ’cause you’re born in a place don’t make it home. ~ Sarah McCoy, #NFDB
58:Hello,” he said. “Tom?” A whoop of joy. “Alice, where are you? Are you all right?” “Never better, Tom. And you? ~ Mary Higgins Clark, #NFDB
59:Well, if you’re a real alcoholic, then where are you stashing it? That's what real alcoholics do, right? Hide bottles? ~ Christa Allan, #NFDB
60:Where are you from, Jews?" asked the rabbi as people used to ask in the old days. An ancient grief glazed his eyes. ~ Aharon Appelfeld, #NFDB
61:Where are you?” She asked. “I have been searching all my life.” “Stop looking for me,” Love replied, “and I will find you. ~ Lang Leav, #NFDB
62:Where do you come from? And where are you going? Look up, speak nicely, and don't twiddle your fingers all the time. ~ Lewis Carroll, #NFDB
63:Where are you sleeping tonight? Face down in the mud? That's a British tradition: Take acid and fall asleep in some field. ~ Thom Yorke, #NFDB
64:And where are you going?"
"I dunno," said the Spangled Boy. "I'm running from, not to."
Book: Wet Magic, Chapter 5. ~ E Nesbit,#NFDB
65:Where are you going?” she asks as I jerk open the door. “To buy some lube.” “Too much information,” she grumbles as I walk out. ~ S T Abby, #NFDB
66:When I was in high school, girls made fun of me for liking vampire movies. Now, I'd be their king. Time machine, where are you? ~ Dana Gould, #NFDB
67:Where are you headed, George?” she asked him. He shouted something unintelligible into the wind. “Have you eaten yet?” she ~ Alice McDermott, #NFDB
68:A women could never be President. A condidate must be over 35, and where are you going to find a woman who will admit she's over 35? ~ E W Howe, #NFDB
69:Where are you? In the past or in the future? It doesn't matter because if you are not in today you are in the wrong place! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan, #NFDB
70:(...) Where are you trying to go?”
Harry hesitated. “I’m not really sure,” he said.
“Then perhaps you are already there. ~ Eliezer Yudkowsky,#NFDB
71:Fluzzy, where are you? Fluzzy, what am I going to tell them if you get lost? How can I get lost when she won’t let me out of the house? ~ Judy Blume, #NFDB
72:A digital wall of masks stared back at him. His finger rolled the mouse in a slow downward scroll.
"Okay, you bastard. Where are you? ~ Lisa Kessler,#NFDB
73:It's funny. You succeed, but now where are you gonna go from there? I've got to keep proving that I can laugh or cry more real each time. ~ Jeff Bridges, #NFDB
74:The lines on the page were pulled tight, like a man screaming, but not “Joe, where are you?” More like Joe, where is anything? ~ Charles Bukowski, #NFDB
75:Where are you going?" she called after me, her voice mocking. "What's waiting for you out there?"
"Nothing!" I shouted at her. "No one! ~ Leigh Bardugo,#NFDB
76:Where are you supposed to put your arms when you dance? It’s like the Universal Question. I guess you’re supposed to put them around someone. ~ Ned Vizzini, #NFDB
77:Where are you going?" she called after him.
"Dinner!" he yelled back, not turning. "I best eat somethin' afore I decide t'devour ye instead! ~ Selena Kitt,#NFDB
78:I’m nothing if not the cure.” Julian dropped his scissors into a tall glass cylinder filled with blue liquid. “Where are you two sluts off to next? ~ A R Wise, #NFDB
79:Where are you all now? I feel lonely and bereft. Ghosts inhabit this house. When I go into the various rooms I feel overcome with a sense of loss. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
80:the young daughter of Sejanus is taken away to be killed. “What have I done?” Tacitus has her say. “Where are you taking me? I won’t do it again. ~ Clive James, #NFDB
81:Where are you going?" I asked.
"The middle of nowhere."
"I thought this was it."
"Nah." You shook your head. "This is just the edge. ~ Lucy Christopher,#NFDB
82:Where are you now, my beloved? Do you hear my weeping From beyond the ocean? Do you understand my need? Do you know the greatness of my patience? ~ Khalil Gibran, #NFDB
83:Can you evade the dying of the brightness?
Or do you evade only its warning?
Where are you left if you miss the message the blue nights bring? ~ Joan Didion,#NFDB
84:Your instant reaction to being scared is to pull out a gun on someone? Damn girl, where are you from? Most girls I know squeal or some shit like that. ~ Abbi Glines, #NFDB
85:All the clothes in my closet are Oakland, California, clothes. You can't wear those anywhere else. The barometric pressure drops and then where are you? ~ Mary Roach, #NFDB
86:Pull yourself together. Where are you right now?” “I’m in the van on the side of the road,” I said. “Are you crazy? Stick to the plan. Drive. Now. ~ Armand Rosamilia, #NFDB
87:You can't really walk anywhere. Where are you going to go? Everything closes at a certain hour and it's a highway with bars on it; that's what it is. ~ John Leguizamo, #NFDB
88:Where are you looking at it from?” “Oh. From above. From outer space.” “What are you doing up there?” “I don’t know.” “Why aren’t you down on the surface? ~ Daniel Quinn, #NFDB
89:Where are you supposed to stay?” He ground out...
“Hendrix, are you kidding me?”
“By me, Reagan. Always, by me,” he answered, ignoring my sarcasm. ~ Rachel Higginson,#NFDB
90:got his first big television role, co-starring in the sitcom Car 54, Where Are You?, and in 1964 the 6'5″ Gwynne landed his best-known role—the ~ Bathroom Readers Institute, #NFDB
91:You are your own leader. Where are you driving yourself to now? You can't afford to go wayward! Rise up and break new territories and live life so well. ~ Israelmore Ayivor, #NFDB
92:You’re standing on the surface of the Earth. You walk one mile south, one mile west, and one mile north. You end up exactly where you started. Where are you? ~ Ashlee Vance, #NFDB
93:Announcer - "And where are you from Pete?"
Pete Townshend - "London, I'm from London."
Announcer - "London where, exactly?"
Pete - "London, England ~ Pete Townshend,#NFDB
94:Get out of our schools God, get out of our textbooks God, get out of our government God, go away God, go away God, go away God, Katrina hits, God, where are you? ~ Brad Stine, #NFDB
95:O! Where are you going With beards all a-wagging? No knowing, no knowing What brings Mister Baggins, And Balin and Dwalin down into the valley in June ha! ha! ~ J R R Tolkien, #NFDB
96:Actually, all paths lead away from the truth...how's that? All paths. There's no such thing as a path to the truth. The truth's already here, where are you going? ~ Adyashanti, #NFDB
97:And where are you going tonight?" Katy asked.
"Cinderella and I are going to the ball. If she loses a glass slipper, I will bring it by tomorrow." He smiled. ~ Carolyn Brown,#NFDB
98:All we ever got in those [early] days was "Where are you from? Liverpool? You'll have to be in London before you can do it. Nobody's ever done it from Liverpool. ~ Paul McCartney, #NFDB
99:From: Kicker5525@yahoo.com
To: TooDamn-Funky@rockin.com
Subject: OMG OMG OMG
I KISSED FINN! I KISSED FINN! OMG I KISSED FINN. WHERE ARE YOU!!!??? ~ Kate Brian,#NFDB
100:Everything about her had two sides to it, one for home and one for anywhere that was not home: ========== Oates, "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?" (Unknown) ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
101:Now the point is, folks,” Mrs. Wiggins went on, “first, that the Webbs are back. Let’s give them a big hand. Webb! Where are you, Webb? Come forward please.” Mr. ~ Walter R Brooks, #NFDB
102:It is the best part of the night. The classic interactive lines are 'Where are you from? What do you do for a living?' I almost always get something interesting. ~ Paula Poundstone, #NFDB
103:Madame Lily Devalier always asked "Where are you?" in a way that insinuated that there were only two places on earth one could be: New Orleans and somewhere ridiculous. ~ Tom Robbins, #NFDB
104:When you think about where are you going to find that big love of your life, you seldom think it's someone you already know. You think it's someone you're yet to meet. ~ Bruce Willis, #NFDB
105:Where are you from? New York?"
"Weird you picked up on that," she said, "I've been gone from there for so long."
Like a couple of decades could dilute that accent. ~ Cathie Beck,#NFDB
106:The constant talking didn't bother her, for cats use their voices to say 'here I am, where are you?' and this seemed to be the primary intention of most human conversation. ~ Kij Johnson, #NFDB
107:When I was in India I met and conversed briefly with Shri Atmananda Guru of Trivandrum, and the question he gave me to ponder was this: 'Where are you between two thoughts? ~ Joseph Campbell, #NFDB
108:Bow down, peons,” Lincoln said. “I’m a king among men.” “Where are you coming up with this?” Cole asked him. Lincoln pointed at Jackson. “Um, hello—Jackson Burke knows my name. ~ Lauren Layne, #NFDB
109:He’d sort of expected the silent treatment. Maybe she wasn’t pissed after all.
“Hey, baby, where are you?”
“Why the fuck do you care?”
No, she was definitely pissed. ~ Suzanne Wright,#NFDB
110:Where are you going?"
"Home," Awa said numbly, getting up and pushing open the door.
"As the devil told the sinner," the necromancer called after her, "you ARE home. ~ Jesse Bullington,#NFDB
111:Cat: Where are you going?
Alice: Which way should I go?
Cat: That depends on where you are going.
Alice: I don’t know.
Cat: Then it doesn’t matter which way you go. ~ Lewis Carroll,#NFDB
112:Now, if you make fun of my plan I'll give you bad coffee for a week, and then where are you, sir?" cried Mrs. Jo, tweaking him by the ear just as if he was one of the boys. ~ Louisa May Alcott, #NFDB
113:Process? What the hell is there to process? Where are you, Izzy? Not asking you again, and I am not fucking doing this text message shit like a goddamn prepubescent little shit. ~ Harper Sloan, #NFDB
114:Where are you getting your material—Portnoy’s Complaint?” “What does an Irish lass named Monaghan know from Portnoy and afikomens? I imagine you reading James Joyce and drinking ~ Laura Lippman, #NFDB
115:FAUSTUS: Where are you damn’d?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: In hell.
FAUSTUS: How comes it, then, that thou art out of hell?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it: ~ Christopher Marlowe,#NFDB
116:Kraunauer jumped in behind the wheel and started the car. It started right up, with a purr like a large cat with a throat full of honey. “All right,” he said. “Where are you staying? ~ Jeff Lindsay, #NFDB
117:If your theories prove to be a floccinaucinihilipilification.” “A flossy…what?” “Sorry. Such an ostentatious, academic word. If your theories prove to be valueless, where are you then? ~ Paul Levine, #NFDB
118:Oh, gentle feelings, soft sounds, the goodness and the gradual stilling of a soul that has been moved; the melting happiness of the first tender, touching joys of love- where are you? ~ Ivan Turgenev, #NFDB
119:TEXAN: “Where are you from?” HARVARD STUDENT: “I am from a place where we do not end our sentences with prepositions.” TEXAN: “OK, where are you from, jackass?” —Variation on an old joke ~ Ammon Shea, #NFDB
120:Tink, where are you going?” Janner asked. Tink was ten steps or so away, picking a path around a boulder that seemed to hover in the fog. “Tink!” Janner yelled, growing angry again. ~ Andrew Peterson, #NFDB
121:Where are you?” “London. A phone booth on Fleet Street.” “The city still has working phone booths?” “It would appear so. Unless this is the Tardis, in which case I’m in serious trouble. ~ Kate Morton, #NFDB
122:a man was on his way to the gallows when he met another, who asked him: where are you going, my friend? and the condemned man replied: i'm not going anywhere. they're taking me by force. ~ Jos Saramago, #NFDB
123:Do humanity and yourself a favor. Never, ever, give just a one-sentence response to the question, "Where are you from?" Give the asker some fuel for his tank, some fodder for his trough. ~ Leil Lowndes, #NFDB
124:Oh, hey, Claire,” she said, and blinked. “Where are you going?”
“Funeral,” Shane said. On-screen, a zombie shrieked and died gruesomely.
“Yeah? Cool! Whose?”
“Hers.” Shane said. ~ Rachel Caine,#NFDB
125:I remember his assertiveness. There was no small talk. Instead, there were questions. Lots of questions. What do you want? Steve asked. Where are you heading? What are your long-term goals? ~ Ed Catmull, #NFDB
126:Mogget’s voice. Sam whirled around. “Mogget? Is that you? Where are you?” “Here, and regretting it as per usual,” replied Mogget, and a small white cat sauntered out from behind a fern tree. ~ Garth Nix, #NFDB
127:Adept Lu spent a night at Stone Date, and the gatekeeper asked: Where are you from? From the House of Confucius, replied Lu. Isn’t he the one who knows it’s hopeless, but keeps trying anyway? ~ Confucius, #NFDB
128:I do accents. Sometimes when I've had a few drinks, I speak in different accents all night long, and then at the end of an evening someone will say to me, 'Seriously, where are you from?' ~ Rebecca Mader, #NFDB
129:Where are you going?” she asked him. “Somewhere beautiful,” he said. “Where all wars cease, where God sees goodness, not religion. Where the grass is as ever green as that I knew in Eire. ~ Heather Graham, #NFDB
130:Where are you from, Hadrian?” “Hintindar originally—a little village south of here in Rhenydd.” “Originally? What’s that supposed to mean? You got yourself born someplace else recently? ~ Michael J Sullivan, #NFDB
131:The simplest questions are the most profound. Where were you born? Where is your home? Where are you going? What are you doing? Think about these once in a while and watch your answers change. ~ Richard Bach, #NFDB
132:Where are you?
You mean where in the house?
Are you in your bedroom?
Yes, I've been reading. Is this some kind of phone sex?
It's just two old people talking in the dark, Addie said. ~ Kent Haruf,#NFDB
133:Where are you originally from?”
“The planet Lorien, three hundred million miles away.”
“Must have been a long trip, John Smith.”
“Took almost a year. Next time I’m bringing a book. ~ Pittacus Lore,#NFDB
134:I barely managed to do the small talk—the what-do-you-do, the where-are-you-from, the what-neighborhood, the what-college, the despair of trying to explain oneself. ~ Catherine Lacey, #NFDB
135:This live action role playing of D and D is going too far, you know. Larps are insane. You might have been killed. Where are you from? Why are you so cold?” Lori "Kiss Of The Dragon Hunter. ~ Ellen Dawn Benefield, #NFDB
136:Where are you from?” I started with what I thought was an easy question.
“Everywhere,” he grumbled.
“Everywhere?” I stared into the blackness of the espresso. “I don’t think I’ve been there. ~ Andrea Cremer,#NFDB
137:She put her hand on her hip. "Where are you going?"
"To the boat. You called me Lord Bill again. That means we're cool."
Cerise slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand and followed him. ~ Ilona Andrews,#NFDB
138:Where are you?
London. A phone booth on Fleet Street.
The city still has working phone booths?
It would appear so. Unless this is the TARDIS, in which case I'm in serious trouble. ~ Kate Morton,#NFDB
139:I’m leaving on a journey.”
“Ah, yes, a journey. Where are you going?”
Hunter ignored the question. It was one thing to surrender to his woman, but quite another to admit it to his brother. ~ Catherine Anderson,#NFDB
140:Where are you going?” Falco yelled after her.
“I can’t tell you,” she said, enjoying the feel of throwing his own words back at him. The truth was, she couldn’t tell him because she honestly had no idea. ~ Fiona Paul,#NFDB
141:Where are you off to in such a hurry?” His stunning green eyes bore through me. “A corpse
convention?” Even sweaty, Trevor was gorgeous.
“What are you running away from?” I retorted. “Your mirror? ~ Ellen Schreiber,#NFDB
142:Hey, where are you going?" His voice, confused yet curious, called after me. "Hey. Why didn't your mother name you Maybe, or We'll see, or What's-Your-Number? That way, we could call our first born Absolutely. ~ Linda Kage, #NFDB
143:Why don't you come with me?"
"Why? Where are you going?"
"Home. I've had enough. I hate England."
"Hate England?" It was too much to grasp, with a head full of searing headache. ~ Geraldine McCaughrean,#NFDB
144:I thought if I were beautiful enough, all my dreams would come true. But you don't steady beautiful forever; one day you wake up and it's gone, and then where are you? Dreams are made with blood and sweat and tears. ~ Ry Murakami, #NFDB
145:When you glance back toward your shoreline, where are you in relationship to where you once were with God? Hebrews 2:1 says, “We must pay more careful attention … to what we have heard, so that we do not drift away. ~ Craig Groeschel, #NFDB
146:She twisted her body to the curtained windows, listening to the night. “Where are you, poor dead thing? Are you right outside?” The voice of the sea drifted on a low wind, like the noise a wolf might make in its sleep. ~ Robert Dunbar, #NFDB
147:What are your goals? Where are you going? Why are you here? What are you? Scientology has answers to these questions, good answers that are true, answers that work for you. For the subject matter of Scientology is you. ~ L Ron Hubbard, #NFDB
148:Where are you getting your affection? Who's touching you? Who's holding you? Who makes you feel alive? Who says, "You are a beautiful person, you are the beloved of God, don't forget it"? That's an important discipline. ~ Henri Nouwen, #NFDB
149:Where are you going?”
"Out. Like you.”
He raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t press for more information. "One should always make one’s own mistakes, instead of the mistakes of others, amira.”
"Out like me, then. ~ Heidi Heilig,#NFDB
150:China doll?” Wade. He spoke softly, coaxing as if she were a timid animal in need of taming. “Where are you, girl? I’ve come for you.” His voice got stronger then faded as he moved around their cabin. “Where are you, doll? ~ Mary Connealy, #NFDB
151:Stop.
Breathe those useless breaths. Drop this piece of life you’re holding to your lips. Where are you? How long have you been here? Stop now. You have to stop.
Squeeze shut your stinging eyes, and take another bite. ~ Isaac Marion,#NFDB
152:What about you three, where are you going?" Even before Halt answered, Will knew what he was going to say. But that didn't make it any less terrifying or blood-chilling when the words were said. "We're going after the Kalkara. ~ John Flanagan, #NFDB
153:The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. Where are you? I would cry out in my mind. Where have you gone? Of course, there was never any answer. ~ Suzanne Collins, #NFDB
154:My column’s not political, it’s human-interest stuff. But if you had to put a political label on yourself, what would it say?” “Disgusted.” He laughed, making notes. “Might be the biggest political party of all. Where are you from? ~ Dean Koontz, #NFDB
155:What about you three, where are you going?"
Even before Halt answered, Will knew what he was going to say. But that didn't make it any less terrifying or blood-chilling when the words were said.
"We're going after the Kalkara. ~ John Flanagan,#NFDB
156:If the journey is the destination, then we must learn how to become better travelers. To become better travelers, we must first learn to orient ourselves. Where are you now? Do you want to be here? If not, why do you want to move on? ~ Ryder Carroll, #NFDB
157:If a dog doesn't put you first where are you both? In what relation? A dog needs God. It lives by your glances, your wishes. It even shares your humor. This happens about the fifth year. If it doesn't happen you are only keeping an animal. ~ Enid Bagnold, #NFDB
158:Wherever I am, there's always Pooh, There's always Pooh and Me. Whatever I do, he wants to do, "Where are you going today?" says Pooh: "Well, that's very odd 'cos I was too. Let's go together," says Pooh, says he. "Let's go together," says Pooh. ~ A A Milne, #NFDB
159:Barack puts on his suit and tie [and] he's out the door — I'm getting my hair, makeup, the kids, I gotta brush their hair. You know, he's always looking like 'where are you? where are you going?' But yeah, you know — it's fun to look pretty. ~ Michelle Obama, #NFDB
160:I'll be fine ' Pen told me a little curtly. 'Where are you going anyway '
'The United States. Alabama.'
'Looking for a change of scene '
'Looking for a dead woman.'
'Get Jenna-Jane Mulbridge to come down here and I'll make you one. ~ Mike Carey,#NFDB
161:What does it cost to lose those weeks, that light, the very nights in the year preferred over all others? Can you evade the dying of the brightness? Or do you evade only its warning? Where are you left if you miss the message the blue nights bring? ~ Joan Didion, #NFDB
162:LINUS: Where are you going for Thanksgiving, Charlie Brown?
CHARLIE: My father, my mother, Sally, and I are all going to my grandmothers for dinner.
SALLY: Do you want to come too, Linus? We can hold hands under the table.
LINUS: BLECH! ~ Charles M Schulz,#NFDB
163:Every country has its cocktail-party question. A simple one-sentence query, the answer to which unlocks a motherlode of information about the person you just met.... In Switzerland it is, Where are you from? That is all you need to know about someone. ~ Eric Weiner, #NFDB
164:Where are you anyway? (Acheron) I don't know. I hear some godawful kind of music from outside, horns blaring, and I'm in a house with a Mohawk cuckoo bird, a transvestite, and a knife-wielding lunatic. (Valerius) Why are you at Tabitha's? (Acheron) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon, #NFDB
165:Where are you taking us?" Nico said. "You should be honored, my boy. You will have the opportunity to join a great army! Just like that silly game you play with cards and dolls." "They're not dolls! They're figurines! And you can take your great army and— ~ Rick Riordan, #NFDB
166:Bring it on, motherfucker! Come on! Come on! Where are you? I’m waiting. ’Cause if you’re here . . . be here. And if you do show up later, I’m gonna kick your ectoplasmic ass!” You gotta talk tough to demons . . . you can’t shilly-shally or they’ll pounce. ~ Steven Tyler, #NFDB
167:Days like this, like your day today.
maybe the rain on the window trying to
get through to you. What do you see today?
what is it? where are you?
the best days are sometimes the first,
sometimes the middle and even sometimes the last ~ Charles Bukowski,#NFDB
168:Where are you going?” she asked. He smiled at her. “I was trying not to wake you,” he said, securing his breeches. “As much as I would love to lounge with you all day, there are a few tasks that require my attention. Go back to sleep if it pleases you. ~ Kathryn Le Veque, #NFDB
169:When I was starting out, science fiction was a little genre over there, which only a few people read. But now -- where are you going to put, for example, Salman Rushdie? Or any of the South American writers? Most people get by calling them magical realists. ~ Doris Lessing, #NFDB
170:Where are you anyway? (Acheron)
I don't know. I hear some godawful kind of music from outside, horns blaring, and I'm in a house with a Mohawk cuckoo bird, a transvestite, and a knife-wielding lunatic. (Valerius)
Why are you at Tabitha's? (Acheron) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,#NFDB
171:
Sweet Mother, I will try to do whatever You wish. Where are You?
Cross beyond the ignorance of a mind that judges without knowing, plunge into the depths of a calm and unassuming silence: there you will find me.
~ The Mother, More Answers From The Mother,#NFDB
172:There is a Zen story about a man and a horse.7 The horse is galloping quickly, and it appears that the rider is urgently heading somewhere important. A bystander along the road calls out, “Where are you going?” and the rider replies, “I don’t know! Ask the horse! ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
173:Wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
Whatever I do, he wants to do,
"Where are you going today?" says Pooh:
"Well, that's very odd 'cos I was too.
Let's go together," says Pooh, says he.
"Let's go together," says Pooh. ~ A A Milne,#NFDB
174:Where are you actually going?” My voice rings down the empty street. “I just told you. I’m going out stalking.” “What, on foot?” I come closer by another six paces. “You were going to walk?” “I was going to run down the middle of the street like the Terminator. ~ Sally Thorne, #NFDB
175:Where are you taking us?" Nico said.
"You should be honored, my boy. You will have the opportunity to join a great army! Just like that silly game you play with cards and dolls."
"They're not dolls! They're figurines! And you can take your great army and— ~ Rick Riordan,#NFDB
176:You know the actor John Garfield? In one movie he walked up to this train station, the ticket booth, and the guy says, 'Yes, where are you going?' And he says, 'I want a ticket to nowhere.' I thought: that's it. The freedom to do that. I want a ticket to nowhere. ~ Wayne Shorter, #NFDB
177:Where are you in your cycle? Oh, WHO CARES? Let's get you two BUMPING right away. We don't want another trimester to go by with a FLAT TUMMY. And not to put any pressure on you or anything, but it would be just BREEDY if you could deliver the goods by next March. ~ Megan McCafferty, #NFDB
178:Where were the peacekeepers? Where was the UN? Why was the entire world ignoring Saddam's attack upon his own people? Were we Kurds considered so unworthy, so disposable? I longed to stand at the top of the mountain and shout out, Where are you, world? Where are you ? ~ Jean Sasson, #NFDB
179:As realization sunk in, Asha screamed her rage - at Elorma, at the Old One, and at the bloodred moon waning above her. And when she was done screaming, the shadow dragon remained. Head tilted. Eyes fixed on her. As if to say: Where are you going? Can I come too? ~ Kristen Ciccarelli, #NFDB
180:I came upon a child of god, He was walking along the road And I asked him, where are you going And this he told me: "I'm going on down to Yasgur's farm I'm going to join in a rock 'n' roll band I'm going to camp out on the land, I'm going to try an' get my soul free. ~ Joni Mitchell, #NFDB
181:What’s the gun for? (Leta) I would lie and say it’s for bears or snakes, but mostly I use it for trespassers. (Aiden) Wow, Dexter, I’m impressed. Since we’re not in Miami and you haven’t a boat to hide the hacked-up bodies at sea, where are you keeping them? (Leta) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon, #NFDB
182:Where are you off to?’ The question rankled Gascoigne. How dreary frontier living could be! Every man was asked to share his private business; it was not like Paris, or London, where one felt the luxury of strangeness on every corner; where one could really be alone. ~ Eleanor Catton, #NFDB
183:Where are you going?" I asked, feeling guilty for not being able to hang out with him.
"To find a faerie to kill me, of course." He winked at us, then pretended to fall straight through when the faerie door opened. Even Arianna laughed as the door closed behind him. ~ Kiersten White,#NFDB
184:I thought of Einstein, and his insistence that no particular point of view was more privileged than any other: in other words his ‘general relativity’, and its claim that the answer to the question ‘What is real?” begins with the question ‘Where are you standing? ~ Robert Charles Wilson, #NFDB
185:O Slave, liberate yourself. Where are you, and where's your home, find it in your lifetime, man. If you fail to wake up now, you'll be helpless when the end comes. Says Kabir, listen, O wise one, the siege of Death is hard to withstand.
~ Kabir, O Slave, liberate yourself
,#NFDB
186:That’s my girl,” she said, her eyes holding a shared pain as she saw my confusion. “Al, where are you going to put her? Not in your room. She’d pull a line through you and kill you when you hog the blankets. I’ll take the waif in. I promise I’ll bring this one up properly. ~ Kim Harrison, #NFDB
187:I used to be a big planner and had to have things figured out ahead of time, but I'm learning to love living in the moment. Last night, I called my friend up randomly and said, 'Where are you? I want to come see you!' It's not a new version of me. I'm just embracing it more. ~ Lily Collins, #NFDB
188:Then I heard a man scream from the next ward, "Joe, where are you? Joe, you said you'd come back! Joe, where are you?" The voice was loud and so sad, so agonized.(...) Joe wasn't coming. It didn't pay to trust another human being. Humans didn't have it, whatever it took. ~ Charles Bukowski, #NFDB
189:What’s the gun for? (Leta)
I would lie and say it’s for bears or snakes, but mostly I use it for trespassers. (Aiden)
Wow, Dexter, I’m impressed. Since we’re not in Miami and you haven’t a boat to hide the hacked-up bodies at sea, where are you keeping them? (Leta) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,#NFDB
190:Death that makes nature quake with dread! today we are gods, tomorrow dust, creatures of poverty and pride, today hope fondly flatters us, tomorrow – man, where are you now? Your hours have barely fled away into the pit of chaos, your time fades like a dream at the new day. ~ Robert Chandler, #NFDB
191:Animula vagula blandula Hospes comesque corporis Quae nunc abibis in loca Pallidula, rigida, nudula, Nec, et ut soles, dabis iocos. Little wandering soul, Guest and companion of my body, Where are you going to now? Away, into bare, bleak places, Never again to share a joke. ~ Elizabeth Speller, #NFDB
192:I'd get suspicious looks from people just walking down the streets. Where are you from? They'd ask. I'd reply in whatever language they'd addressed me in using the same accent that they used. There would be a brief moment of confusion, and then the suspicious look would disappear. ~ Trevor Noah, #NFDB
193:If one day I was taken away...would you wait for me to come back?"
Concerned moved across his face. "Where are you going?"
"Just tell me, please. I need to know, without telling you anything else."
"No."
I swallowed and blinked back tears.
"I'd go after you," he said. ~ Kelly Parra,#NFDB
194:I'm bad at a ton of things. I'm bad at sitting still. I'm bad at basketball. My worst habit is that while people are talking, I will already be thinking three other things. It's rude. Sometimes if the person is very in tune and they notice, they're like "Where are you right now?" ~ Jennifer Lopez, #NFDB
195:She took two more steps forward. "Tristan!" she cried out loud. "Are you there?"
She walked to the edge of the board and stood with her toes at the very edge. "Tristan, where are you?" Her voice echoed back from the concrete walls. "I love you!" she cried. "I love you! ~ Elizabeth Chandler,#NFDB
196:Who is there with you?"
"Raphael"
Kate's voice snapped. "I'll be in Atlanta in three hours. Where are you?"
"I said it's nothing major."
"Bullshit. You wouldn't work with Raphael unless the Apocalypse was imminent and that was the only way to prevent it. ~ Ilona Andrews,#NFDB
197:You do not pass
through imagination
or else we'll know
where You are.
You are He who
is everywhere
Yet You are nowhere.
Where are You?
In my annihilation
is my annihilation's
.... annihilation
And You are found
.... in my annihilation. ~ Mansoor al- Hallaj,#NFDB
198:When you glance back toward your shoreline, where are you in relationship to where you once were with God? Hebrews 2:1 says, “We must pay more careful attention … to what we have heard, so that we do not drift away.” Probably no one thinks, “You know what? I’m tired of pursuing God. ~ Craig Groeschel, #NFDB
199: O mistress mine! Where are you roaming? O, stay and hear: your true love’s coming, That can sing both high and low. 40 Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man’s son doth know. ~ William Shakespeare, #NFDB
200:Hunter bent his head and pressed his face against her hair. The next instant she felt his lips on her neck. She also felt his hand on her posterior. Frustrated by her high neckline and her full skirts, he made a fist in the calico.
“So much wannup. Where are you, Blue Eyes? ~ Catherine Anderson,#NFDB
201:Where are you coming from on this?’ cried Heather, tossing her head back and revealing briefly an embryonic suggestion of what might have been, in the fullness of time, given intensive exercise and a great deal of hugely expensive plastic surgery, the whimsical beginnings of a chin. Ken ~ Caroline Graham, #NFDB
202:Most of the time I ask, "Why have I forsaken God?" I look at myself and ask that question when probably the better question is to say, "Where are you God, and I'll let you in." Instead of thinking that you've abandoned God, push yourself in the other direction like, "God, how can I get closer?" ~ Tim McGraw, #NFDB
203:Where are you going? Won’t you come downstairs and—be with me? There was the most shocking news on TV; Buster Friendly claims that Mercer is a fake. What do you think about that, Rick? Do you think it could be true?”
“Everything is true,” he said. “Everything anybody has ever thought. ~ Philip K Dick,#NFDB
204:Tired of trying to sort them out, you relax for a second, then your head drops and you sit up with a jerk, Where are you? What are you doing here? Oh yes, of course, you are somewhere in the middle of the North Atlantic, with hungry waves below you like vultures impatiently waiting for the end. ~ Amy Johnson, #NFDB
205:Who's there?"
"Me, is all" Foyle said. "You know me".
"Where are you?"
"Here. Where I always been, me."
"But there's no one. I'm alone"
"Got to thank you for helping me."
"Hearing voices is bad," the furious angel murmured. "The first step off the deep end. I've got to stop. ~ Alfred Bester,#NFDB
206:There are two questions: where have you come from, and where are you going? But the brain doesn't have separate regions for the past and future; only the present is differentiated by the brain.
We split time into three parts. The brain, it seems, splits it twice only: now, and not now. ~ Jeanette Winterson,#NFDB
207:Clark. Promise me you won’t spend the rest of your life stuck around this bloody parody of a place mat.” “Promise you? Why?” I tried to make my voice light. “Where are you going?” “I just…can’t bear the thought of you staying around here forever.” He swallowed. “You’re too bright. Too interesting. ~ Jojo Moyes, #NFDB
208:I rose to my knees, mouth dry and heart pounding, and paused to finger a rip in my beautiful Dacron bowling shirt. I pushed my fingertip through the hole and wiggled it at myself. Hello, Dexter, where are you going? Hello, Mr. Finger. I don't know, but I'm almost there. I hear my friends calling. ~ Jeff Lindsay, #NFDB
209:Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze.
Hair: brown. Lips: scarlet.
Age: five thousand three hundred days.
Profession: none, or "starlet".
Where are you hiding, Dolores Haze?
Why are you hiding, darling?
(I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze,
I cannot get out, said the starling). ~ Vladimir Nabokov,#NFDB
210:Gerry?' Laurel had to strain to hear thought the noise on the other end of the line. 'Gerry? Where are you?'
'London. A phone booth on Fleet Street.'
'The city still has working phone booths?'
'It would appear so. Unless this is the Tardis, in which case I'm in serious trouble. ~ Kate Morton,#NFDB
211:Hunter pulled away, rolling her eyes.
“Hey, where are you going?” I murmured. “We’re not done making up.”
“We’re in crisis mode out there,” she answered, reluctantly taking another step back.
“It’s always crisis mode in this house,” I said with disgust."
"Chapter 24 ~ Alyxandra Harvey,#NFDB
212:In the ancient recipe, the three antidotes for dullness or boredom are sleep, drink, and travel. It is rather feeble. From sleep you wake up, from drink you become sober, and from travel you come home again. And then where are you? No, the two sovereign remedies for dullness are love or a crusade. ~ D H Lawrence, #NFDB
213:Where are you going, boys?" he asked.
Boys.
What an idiot.
How could he go around with a perm and imagine it looked good? Did he think he looked tough with the mustache and the perm?
Grow up. Lose twenty kilos. Get rid of the 'stache. Get your hair cut. Then we can start talking. ~ Karl Ove Knausg rd,#NFDB
214:Building discipline, earning respect and overcoming adversity are all parts of a winning game plan. If you don't have a game plan, where are you going? When I'm talking about a game plan, I'm talking about how you go about being the best player you can be and how you go about being successful in life. ~ Walt Frazier, #NFDB
215:depends," said the cat, fixing a sardonic smile on the confused girl.
"On what?" Alice managed to reply.
"It depends on your destination. Where are you going?" the cat asked.
"I don't know," Alice stammered.
"Then," said the cat, his grin spreading wider, "it doesn't matter which way you go. ~ R C Sproul,#NFDB
216:Where are you from, Mr. Pendergast? Can't quite place the accent.” “New Orleans.” “What a coincidence! I went there for Mardi Gras once." “How nice for you. I myself have never attended.” Ludwig paused, the smile frozen on his face, wondering how to steer the conversation onto a more pertinent topic. ~ Douglas Preston, #NFDB
217:Remember, human beings are innately selfish beings. They are first, last and always interested in themselves, in their job, their family, their home town, their ideas. Even a question like, “Where are you from?” shows that you are interested in the other person, and consequently gets him interested in you. ~ Les Giblin, #NFDB
218:Where are you idiots taking me?"
"Patience, Lada," Mehmed said.
"I am going to start sleeping with a knife."
"If you had had a knife, you would have killed me!"
"Yes, exactly. And then I could have gone back to sleep."
Radu snorted. "Nothing like cuddling a corpse to give you sweet dreams. ~ Kiersten White,#NFDB
219:There is a Zen story about a man riding a horse that is galloping very quickly. Another man, standing alongside the road, yells at him, "Where are you going?" and the man on the horse yells back, "I don't know. Ask the horse." I think that is our situation. We are riding many horses that we cannot control. ~ Thich Nhat Hanh, #NFDB
220:All of my favourite actors are American and I grew up watching American movies. It's weird, but I used to do a New Jersey accent in every audition in the States just because I liked to do it, really. It's completely bizarre. Everybody would ask: 'Where are you from?' And I would say, 'Oh, I'm from London.' ~ Robert Pattinson, #NFDB
221:The labyrinth of emotions that I didn’t want to feel, experience, or face—fear, anger, and unbearable loss—enveloped me. I reached out in desperation like a helpless baby who needed her mommy. Hold me. Comfort me. Tell me that everything will be fine. Where are you? By the time the oceans of deep sorrow moved ~ Paulette Mahurin, #NFDB
222:Where are you from, Mr. Pendergast? Can't quite place the accent.”
“New Orleans.”
“What a coincidence! I went there for Mardi Gras once."
“How nice for you. I myself have never attended.”
Ludwig paused, the smile frozen on his face, wondering how to steer the conversation onto a more pertinent topic. ~ Douglas Preston,#NFDB
223:Thank God our time is now when wrong comes up to meet us everywhere never to leave us till we take, the greatest stride of the soul man ever took. affairs are now soul size the enterprise is exploration unto God. Where are you making for? It takes so many thousand years to wake. But will you wake for pity's sake? ~ Christopher Fry, #NFDB
224:According to an article on CNN.com, a new study says people who are bad kissers don't get laid. Where are you supposed to learn how to kiss? If you go to Catholic school, it's from your priest; in public school, you learn from your teacher; and some guys learn from their sisters... if their sister is Angelina Jolie. ~ Chelsea Handler, #NFDB
225:Elizabeth Cady Stanton, nineteenth-century women’s rights reformer and married mother of seven, was wry about the tolls of home life; she joked in a letter after not having heard from Anthony for a while: “Where are you, Susan, and what are you doing? Your silence is truly appalling. Are you dead or married?”4 Common ~ Rebecca Traister, #NFDB
226:I want to be haunted...Haunt me...Come and put your arms around me...Or, if you can't do that, just look at me. That's all I need. Where are you? Not here. But I can't feel you gone either...I keep looking for you. I forget. I feel stupid...Haunt me, find me, come back from wherever you are. Be with me. I'm afraid. ~ Audrey Niffenegger, #NFDB
227:It was not my pain but Ann’s. She was crying, frightened. Because I was hurt. She was afraid for me. I felt her anguish. She was suffering terribly. I tried to will away the shadows but I couldn’t. Tried in vain to speak her name. Don’t cry, I thought. I’ll be all right. Don’t be afraid. I love you, Ann. Where are you? ~ Richard Matheson, #NFDB
228:Mynahs Espied A Small Blackbird
Mynahs espied a small blackbird
and
from afar said:
'Hey, where are you going so early?
Who do you call up this time?'
The blackbird replied:
'You have to hide the booty of autumn,
I have to collect the treasures of spring.'
[Translated by Arvind Gigoo]
~ Dina Nath Nadim,#NFDB
229:Where are you, Adam? According to the book of Genesis, Adam went into hiding after the fall. By trying to be more than human, Adam felt less than human. Before the fall, Adam was not ashamed; after the fall he was. Toxic shame is true agony. It is a pain felt from the inside, in the core of our being. It is excruciatingly painful. ~ John Bradshaw, #NFDB
230:When the railroad trains moaned, and river-winds blew, bringing echoes through the vale, it was as if a wild hum of voices, the dear voices of everybody he had known, were crying: "Peter, Peter! Where are you going, Peter?" And a big soft gust of rain came down. He put up the collar of his jacket, and bowed his head, and hurried along. ~ Jack Kerouac, #NFDB
231:Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod, one night sailed off in a wooden shoe; Sailed off on a river of crystal light into a sea of dew. "Where are you going and what do you wish?" the old moon asked the three. "We've come to fish for the herring fish that live in this beautiful sea. Nets of silver and gold have we," said Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod. ~ Eugene Field, #NFDB
232:When the railroad trains moaned, and river-winds blew, bringing echoes through the vale, it was as if a wild hum of voices, the dear voices of everybody he had known, were crying: "Peter, Peter! Where are you going, Peter?" And a big soft gust of rain came down.
He put up the collar of his jacket, and bowed his head, and hurried along. ~ Jack Kerouac,#NFDB
233:Hey.” He watched me back away as if he was dangerous. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Where are you going?”
“To bed.” Double crap. What if he thought that was an invitation? Was it an invitation? And when, exactly, had I lost my mind? “Uh, I meant to my room. Where my bed is. And—shit.” I forced myself to stop babbling. ~ Alyxandra Harvey,#NFDB
234:Whenever you do a movie, it's a culture shock. Who is it? Where are you? What are you doing? Who are these people? Where are you going now? It's kind of like how somebody describes private flying: It's hours of monotony punctuated by moments of stark terror. That's what it's like anywhere in the world, whether you're in Texas or Bucharest. ~ William Atherton, #NFDB
235:Where are you going?” Rohan asked lazily. “Meeting with your tailor? Going to discuss the latest political events at the local coffeehouse?” “If your goal is to annoy me,” Kev informed him, “there’s no need to make an effort. You annoy me just by breathing.” “Forgive me. I would try to refrain from the habit, but I’ve become rather fond of it. ~ Lisa Kleypas, #NFDB
236:Craig, where are you?” It’s funny how people ask that as soon as they get you on the phone. I think it’s a byproduct of cell phones: people—girls and moms especially—want to nail you down in physical space. The fact is that you could be anywhere on a cell phone and it shouldn’t be important where you are. But it becomes the first thing people ask. ~ Ned Vizzini, #NFDB
237:Frustrated by her high neckline and her full skirts, he made a fist in the calico.
“So much wannup. Where are you, Blue Eyes?”
He started to lift her dress. Loretta reached behind her and caught his hand. “Wha--what’re you doin’?”
He lifted his head, eyes alight with teasing mischief. “I search for my woman. You are in there. ~ Catherine Anderson,#NFDB
238:Jack Noble looked over and saw her standing alone. She looked to be eight or nine years old. He watched people walk by the crying child, paying no attention to her. His first thought was to ignore her like the faceless others who didn't notice or care that a little girl was standing in the middle of the sidewalk alone and lost. "Momma? Where are you? ~ L T Ryan, #NFDB
239:This time it is different. Today I have sought a spiritual teacher, I have read the sutras, and as a result I have now recognized the enemy!” It has been stated: The old days when you could Ruin me at will are now gone; I can see you now, so where are you off to? I shall tear down your arrogance.197 ~ Thupten Jinpa, #NFDB
240:They put spotlights on me standing there in the road in jeans and workclothes, with the big woeful rucksack a-back, and asked:-"Where are you going?" which is precisely what they asked me a year later under Television floodlights in New York, "Where are you going?"-Just as you cant explain to the police, you cant explain to society "Looking for peace. ~ Jack Kerouac, #NFDB
241:Your only obligation in any lifetime is to be true to yourself. Being true to anyone else or anything else is not only impossible, but the mark of a fake messiah. The simplest questions are the most profound. Where were you born? Where is your home? Where are you going? What are you doing? Think about these once in awhile and watch your answers change. ~ Richard Bach, #NFDB
242:Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod, one night sailed off in a wooden shoe;
Sailed off on a river of crystal light into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going and what do you wish?" the old moon asked the three.
"We've come to fish for the herring fish that live in this beautiful sea.
Nets of silver and gold have we," said Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod. ~ Eugene Field,#NFDB
243:Where are you going?” Wesley asked in a semi-sleepy voice.
“Home.” I pulled on my jeans. “I’ve gotta take a shower and get ready for school.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow to look at me. His hair was a mess, brown curls falling into his eyes and sticking up in the back. “You can shower here,” he offered. “I might even join you if you’re lucky. ~ Kody Keplinger,#NFDB
244:And where are you now
My trusted friend
And I'm so sorry
You are not here
I cannot think
I cannot sleep
I need somebody
And always will
This strange sick darkness
Comes creeping on
Haunting, calling me
Swiftly approaching
So come with me
My trusted friend
Lets refight the war
In my dreams ~ Jos N Harris,#NFDB
245:Peter: Where are you two going? Tris: Why aren't you with your attack group eating dinner? Peter: I don't have one. I'm injured. Christina: Yeah right, you are! Peter: Well, I don't want to go to battle with a bunch of factionless. So I'm going to stay here. Christina: Like a coward. Let everyone else clean up the mess for you. Peter: Yep! Have fun dying. ~ Veronica Roth, #NFDB
246:I've never understood it. That is always the first thing someone asks: Where are you from. Not 'What do you like?' or 'What do you believe?' or even 'What is your mother like?' which all have more bearing on the person I am. And if I don't tell them where I'm from, they try to guess.... It drives them mad, as if to know me they need to know where I am from. ~ Meljean Brook, #NFDB
247:But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you know?-I believe; I have faith: I am going to God.-Where is God? What is God?-My maker and yours, who will never destroy what He created. I rely implicitly on His power, and confide wholly in His goodness: I count the hours till that eventful one arrives which shall restore me to Him, reveal Him to me. ~ Charlotte Bronte, #NFDB
248:O Mother, what should I do? I am completely unconscious. Mother, where are You?
In your psychic being - I am always present there. It is there that you can find me and must find me, and when you have found me there, in the depths of your heart, you will also recognise me in my physical form. 31 October 1934
~ The Mother, More Answers From The Mother, [T0],#NFDB
249:-But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you know?
-I believe; I have faith: I am going to God.
-Where is God? What is God?
-My maker and yours, who will never destroy what He created. I rely implicitly on His power, and confide wholly in His goodness: I count the hours till that eventful one arrives which shall restore me to Him, reveal Him to me. ~ Charlotte Bront,#NFDB
250:Toto, Toto! Where are you?” I said, pretending to look for my lost dog in the fearsome storm. The dog froze and played it perfectly. I got laughter and some light applause for my efforts. I had improvised and it had worked. One could argue that it worked because of the dog. A good straight dog can really help sell a joke. Whatever. I have been chasing that high ever since. ~ Amy Poehler, #NFDB
251:He promised he'd return tomorrow. And I wrote everywhere on my floor: "Tomorrow." The morning broke, when they all asked: Now tell us, when will your "Tomorrow" come? Tomorrow, Tomorrow, where are you? I cried and cried, but my Tomorrow never returned! Vidyapati says: O listen, dear! Your Tomorrow became a today with other women.
~ Vidyapati, He promised hed return tomorrow
,#NFDB
252:But life itself is without use. What is the purpose of it? Where are you going? What is the result? No purpose, no result, no goal. Life is a constant ecstasy, moment to moment you can enjoy it but if you start thinking of results you miss enjoying it, your roots are uprooted, you are no longer in it, you have become an outsider. And then you will ask for the meaning, for the purpose. ~ Osho, #NFDB
253:I'm not an L.A. guy. I don't take meetings - you know what I mean? I don't really know how to interact very well with people in L.A. because everybody's got an agenda and everybody's like, "What do you do?" "Where are you going?" Or it's like, "What do you know?" And I'm not on a grind - I was there to make music and to meet people but I wasn't hustling for anything. ~ James Vincent McMorrow, #NFDB
254:Do you know who I am?” she asks.
“I do, Anastasia."
“Where are you taking me?” she finally asks, an uneasy edge to her voice.
“Somewhere safe."
“Am I safe with you?” The question sends a shiver through my body of desire mixed with intrigue. The way she puts her questions is strange. She seems to be angling for something that I can’t put my finger on.
“We’ll see. ~ Alexis Abbott,#NFDB
255:Imagine your customer is a hitchhiker. You pull over to give him a ride, and the one burning question on his mind is simply Where are you going? But as he approaches, you roll down the window and start talking about your mission statement, or how your grandfather built this car with his bare hands, or how your road-trip playlist is all 1980s alternative. This person doesn’t care. ~ Donald Miller, #NFDB
256:Now I must get up and go while they are all quiet. Where are my things? Things have a will of their own in this place and hide where they like. Daylight will strike a sudden blow on the roof startling them all up to their feet; faces will beam asking, Where are you going, What are you doing, What are you thinking, How do you feel, Why do you say such things, What do you mean? ~ Katherine Anne Porter, #NFDB
257:Where are you now?’ Where was I now? Gripping the receiver, I raised my hand and turned to see what lay beyond the telephone booth. Where was I now? I had no idea. No idea at all. Where was this place? All that flashed into my eyes were the countless shapes of people walking by to nowhere. Again and again, I called out for Midori from the dead center of this place that was no place. ~ Haruki Murakami, #NFDB
258:M'amour, m'amour
what do I love and
where are you?
That I lost my center
fighting the world
The Dreams clash
and are shattered-
and that I tried to make a paradiso
terrestre.
I have tried to write Paradise
Do not move
Let the wind speak
that is paradise
Let the Gods forgive what I
have made
Let those I love try to forgive
what I have made. ~ Ezra Pound,#NFDB
259:I am at an impasse, and you, O God, have brought me here...From my earliest days, I have believed in you. I shared in the life of your people: in their prayers, in their work, in their songs...For me your yoke was easy. On me your presence smiled. Noon has darkened...And where are you in this darkness?...Or is it not your absence in which I dwell but your elusive troubling presence? ~ Nicholas Wolterstorff, #NFDB
260:Where are you guys getting all of this?" I asked. "What does it matter if I - oh come on."
We'd reached the lobby and found Eddie and Micah sitting on a bench together. They at least had the decency to look embarrassed.
"Not you guys too," I said.
"I was just here to see Jill," said Micah unconvincingly.
"And I was here to, um..." Eddie faltered, and I held up a hand to stop him. ~ Richelle Mead,#NFDB
261:How can a person deal with anxiety? You might try what one fellow did. He worried so much that he decided to hire someone to do his worrying for him. He found a man who agreed to be his hired worrier for a salary of $200,000 per year. After the man accepted the job, his first question to his boss was, "Where are you going to get $200,000 per year?" To which the man responded, "That's your worry. ~ Max Lucado, #NFDB
262:Hi! Gollum!’ said Sam. ‘Where are you going? Hunting? Well, see here, old noser, you don’t like our food, and I’d not be sorry for a change myself. Your new motto’s always ready to help. Could you find anything fit for a hungry hobbit?’ ‘Yes, perhaps, yes,’ said Gollum. ‘Sméagol always helps, if they asks – if they asks nicely.’ ‘Right!’ said Sam. ‘I does ask. And if that isn’t nice enough, I begs. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
263:On impulse, he asked, “Where are you from, originally?”
“Originally? My mother’s womb,” she replied a little tartly, and his smile grew deeper.
...
"How interesting. We have that in common.”
Through the phone came a very unladylike snort. “Really? You’re from my mother’s womb, too? We must’ve had different fathers because you sure don’t look like you’re from his side of the family. ~ J T Geissinger,#NFDB
264:Where are you going? And you think that somewhere in the future there is some target to be achieved? Life is already here! Why wait for the future? Why postpone if for the future? Postponement is suicidal.Life is slow;that's why you cannot feel it. It is very slow, and you are insensitive,otherwise postponement is the only poison. You go on postponing - and you go on missing the life that is here and now ~ Osho, #NFDB
265:Of course you lose track of where you are sometimes, as you finish a show and ride in a tour bus from anywhere from 3 -12 hours and wake up in another city, and check into a hotel. So, I woke up after a few hours, packed all my stuff up and headed for the bus to depart for that day's show. I get to the lobby and our production person looked at me and said, "where are you headed?" - It was a day off! ~ Eliot Lewis, #NFDB
266:Where are you now?’
Where was I now?
Gripping the receiver, I raised my hand and turned to see what lay beyond the telephone booth. Where was I now? I had no idea. No idea at all. Where was this place? All that flashed into my eyes were the countless shapes of people walking by to nowhere. Again and again, I called out for Midori from the dead center of this place that was no place. ~ Haruki Murakami,#NFDB
267:Where are you heading, if you’ve got the choice?” James lifted an invisible sword. “‘Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart!’ Like my dad.” Snape made a small, disparaging noise. James turned on him. “Got a problem with that?” “No,” said Snape, though his slight sneer said otherwise. “If you’d rather be brawny than brainy —” “Where’re you hoping to go, seeing as you’re neither?” interjected Sirius. ~ J K Rowling, #NFDB
268:Where's he starting?" he finally asked.
"In theater care. Where are you working?"
"Snack bar," he replied tersely.
"Please try to be civil," I begged him. "This is work. We need to be professional."
He snorted. "Whatever, Cami." He shot me a wounded look. "I can imagine he'll love his new job. He's gonna get paid to follow you around through dark rooms. He's probably thrilled. ~ Lacey Weatherford,#NFDB
269:The very last house stood all by itself under a dark green wall of fir-trees, and here the wild country really began. Snufkin walked faster and faster straight into the forst. Then the door of the last house opened a chink and a very old voice cried: 'Where are you off to?'
'I don't know,' Snufkin replied.
The door shut again and Snufkin entered his forest, with a hundred miles of silence ahead of him. ~ Tove Jansson,#NFDB
270:He cocked his head and sent her a dimpled smile. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"
Where am I going? "I don't know. Probably the library."
"On a Friday night?" He made a show of horror. "What the heck are you going to do there?"
"Oh, what most people do at their local library—three way orgy, summon up the dead, if there's time, jam up the copy machine with Canadian quarters. Same old same old. ~ Jennifer Shirk,#NFDB
271:That brings me back to my predicament, and I stare at the closed front door. “Speaking of my new living arrangements, what would be the good answer when someone demands a password before they’ll let you in?”
There’s a long pause, and then he snorts. “Oh my God, where are you going to stay? Is it a sex club? Is it the password for the dungeons?” He starts to laugh. “If that’s the case, I’d go with red botty. ~ Lily Morton,#NFDB
272:Where are you going to put the other one?” asked Daniella.
“Wherever you like,” said Ms. Terwilliger. “I can’t take him with me. The guards saw me come in with one cat. They’ll see me leave with one.”
“What?” My mother-in-law’s voice came out extra shrill to my ears. “That creature’s staying?” It figured. Her daughter-in-law transforming into an animal? No problem. Having to take care of a cat? Crisis. ~ Richelle Mead,#NFDB
273:Get this. So he comes up to me at lunch, right? And he starts asking me all these questions about you. Like, how long have I known you, where are you from, did I ever meet your mom before she skipped town...'
'My mom? That's weird,' Helen interrupted.
'And I start answering him with my usual flair for clever repartee,' Claire said, a bit too innocently.
'Translation: you insulted him. ~ Josephine Angelini,#NFDB
274:You’re hurting. Lie on your stomach and I’ll rub your back.” He tried to look innocent, businesslike. The attempt was only partially successful. She eased upright. “I’ll be fine once I get moving.” “You should have soaked in the tub longer.” Jesse clamped a warm hand on her shoulder, kneading the base of her neck, loosening each knot of pain. It felt entirely too good. “Where are you going? I’m not done yet. ~ Catherine Richmond, #NFDB
275:This is a little awkward," I said, "but my mother just ran over the rabbit."
"Ran over?"
"As in roadkill. We're not sure what to do about it."
"Where are you?"
"Giovichinni's, buying lunch meat."
"And the rabbit?"
"Gone. He was with two other guys. They scooped him up off the road and drove away with him."
There was a long silence on the phone. "I'm fucking speechless," Morelli finally said. ~ Janet Evanovich,#NFDB
276:Like when you pick up a book and you don't realize what type of text it is - it could be an essay, a novel, a biography - and at one point you realize you don't know where, as a reader, you want to be. Where are you going with this text? What is the goal? How are you supposed to interpret what you're reading? And people's responses vary - some dislike it, and are put off by the confusion, the lack of comprehension. ~ Sergio Chejfec, #NFDB
277:Where are you going?” I demanded.
He looked over his shoulder at me with an exasperated sigh. “To my room, of course.”
“Can’t we write the paper down here?” I asked.
The corners of Wesley’s mouth turned slightly upward as he hooked a finger over his belt. “We could, Duffy, but the writing will go much faster if I’m typing, and my computer’s upstairs. You’re the one who said you wanted to get this over with. ~ Kody Keplinger,#NFDB
278:Where are you heading, if you’ve got the choice?”
James lifted an invisible sword.
“‘Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart!’ Like my dad.”
Snape made a small, disparaging noise. James turned on him.
“Got a problem with that?”
“No,” said Snape, though his slight sneer said otherwise. “If you’d rather be brawny than brainy —”
“Where’re you hoping to go, seeing as you’re neither?” interjected Sirius. ~ J K Rowling,#NFDB
279:Lo?” “Zane, where are you flying off to now?” I wrinkled my nose in confusion. “Why are you looking at my Instagram? I literally have pictures of me in a thong on there.” “I’ve noticed,” she said dryly. “In fact, the entire family, as well as your father’s business associates, have noticed.” “Oohh,” I purred, faking a sultry voice when I really wanted to gouge out my own eyeball. “Did they like it?” “Zane.” Interesting ~ Megan Erickson, #NFDB
280:You have this certain about of responsibility to play a fictitious character and you have a script that's guiding you and the other information of the custom department's choices, and the set department, "Where are you," and all those other pieces of information but you have to cull from your imagination the answer to all the unasked questions. And with a real person, there's someone to get that information from, perhaps. ~ Melissa Leo, #NFDB
281:In my job in my country, I had to make some calls to the U.S. for professional purposes. I remember the following conversation: “Hello, we are dealing with office materials. We are interested in representing your company.” “Where are you calling from?” asked the lady at the other end. “Mauritania.” “What state?” asked the lady, seeking more precise information. I was negatively surprised at how small her world was. ~ Mohamedou Ould Slahi, #NFDB
282:O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 'Tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies not plenty; Then, come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure. ~ William Shakespeare, #NFDB
283:Through the stillness they heard the church clock striking five.
"Oh, Ethan, it's time!" she cried.
He drew her back to him. "Time for what? You don't suppose I'm going to leave you now?"
"If I missed my train where'd I go?"
"Where are you going if you catch it?"
She stood silent, her hands lying cold and relaxed in his.
"What's the good of either of us going anywheres without the other one now?" he said. ~ Edith Wharton,#NFDB
284:Baby, honey, hold on. We're almost there."
Aaron blinked. "You're almost where?"
"To Saint Timothy. We're merging onto 94 now. Give us another ten minutes."
"You're coming here?"
"Of course I'm coming there. Kelly too. Where are you? Where should I go to find you?"
The whole world peeled away, strange and hot and off-key. "But you can't come here. You're busy."
"Nothing right now is more important than you. ~ Heidi Cullinan,#NFDB
285:Learning/ is finding out/ what you already know./ Doing is demonstrating that/ you know it./ Teach is reminding others/ that they known just as well as you.
Your only/ obligation in any life time/ is to be true to yourself.
The simplest questions/ are the most profound./ Where were you born? Where is your home?/ Where are you going?/ What are you doing?/ Think about these/ once in a while, and/ watch your answers/ change. ~ Richard Bach,#NFDB
286:Most terrifying were the paintings. Every single one had been cut from its frame and ripped into strips, which were scattered across the floor. It must have been done with a knife—canvas was almost impossible to tear with your bare hands. The empty frames looked like bones picked clean. Clary felt a scream rising up in her chest: “Mom!” she shrieked. “Where are you? Mommy!” She hadn’t called Jocelyn “Mommy” since she was eight. ~ Cassandra Clare, #NFDB
287:The river passes by the side of a tree, saying hello, nourishing the tree, giving water to the tree … and it moves on, dances on. It does not cling to the tree. And the tree does not say, “Where are you going? We are married! And before you can leave me you will need a divorce—at least a separation! Where are you going? And if you were going to leave me, why did you dance so beautifully around me? Why did you nourish me in the first place? ~ Osho, #NFDB
288:So much wannup. Where are you, Blue Eyes?”
He started to lift her dress. Loretta reached behind her and caught his hand. “Wha--what’re you doin’?”
He lifted his head, eyes alight with teasing mischief. “I search for my woman. You are in there.”
“I’m not your woman yet. Have you no shame? It’s broad daylight. People might see.”
“They will see you are my woman.”
“They’ll see my drawers, that’s what they’ll see! ~ Catherine Anderson,#NFDB
289:The Last Question
New love, new love, where are you to lead me?
All along a narrow way that marks a crooked line.
How are you to slake me, and how are you to feed me?
With bitter yellow berries, and a sharp new wine.
New love, new love, shall I be forsaken?
One shall go a-wandering, and one of us must sigh.
Sweet it is to slumber, but how shall we awakenWhose will be the broken heart, when dawn comes by?
~ Dorothy Parker,#NFDB
290:From: TooDamn-Funky@yahoo.com
To: Kicker5525@yahoo.com
Re: OMG OMG OMG
you kissed FINN??? not evan…FINN??? WHEN? WHY? FOR HOW LONG? HOW CAN YOU E-MAIL ME WITH THIS NEWS AND NOT ELABORATE AT ALL? And forget me, where the hell are YOU!!???
---Original Message---
From: Kicker5525@yahoo.com
To: TooDamn-Funky@rockin.com
Subject: OMG OMG OMG
I KISSED FINN! I KISSED FINN! OMG I KISSED FINN. WHERE ARE YOU!!!??? ~ Kate Brian,#NFDB
291:Where are you? Touch me.”
I slip my hand into his, and for a moment he just stands there, looking down at where I am, then he closes his eyes and laces strong fingers with mine. I hear exactly what he’s not saying in them: You better bring your ass back to me, woman.
I reply with mine, Always.
He laughs softly then somehow finds my face and kisses me, light and fast, and I taste him on my lips, need him again, hard and fast and soon. ~ Karen Marie Moning,#NFDB
292:There’s a story about a man riding a horse, galloping quickly. It appears that he’s going somewhere very important. A man standing along the roadside shouts, “Where are you going?” The rider replies, “I don’t know. Ask the horse!” This is the story of most people’s lives; they’re riding the horse of their habits, with no idea where they’re headed. It’s time to take control of the reins, and move your life in the direction of where you really want to go. ~ Darren Hardy, #NFDB
293:...and I kept thinking about the questions the border patrolman had asked. Are those types of questions able to define us as people? Measure our worth, our goodness, and whether or not we are safe visitors? Where are you going? What do you do for a living? Business or pleasure? Do the answers prove whether our lives matter and whether we're worthy of being admitted into Canada? If we're dangerous? What was the point of asking any questions whatsoever... ~ Matthew Quick, #NFDB
294:Lillian frowned up at him. “Before you start to criticize, Wes’cliff, I should like to point out that I am not the first person ever to get her finger stuck in a bottle. It happens to people all the time.”
“Does it? You must be referring to Americans. Because I’ve never seen an Englishman with a bottle stuck on his finger. Even a foxed one.”
“I’m not foxed, I’m only— where are you going?”
“Stay there,” Marcus muttered, striding from the room. ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
295:O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies not plenty;
Then, come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure. ~ William Shakespeare,#NFDB
296:There is a story in Zen circles about a man and a horse. The horse is galloping quickly, and it appears that the man on the horse is going somewhere important. Another man standing alongside the road, shouts, «Where are you going?» and the first man replies, «I don't know! Ask the horse!» This is also our story. We are riding a horse, and we don't know where we are going and we can't stop. The horse is our habit energy pulling us along, and we are powerless. ~ Nhat Hanh, #NFDB
297:And where are you going, Admiral? . . . Don’t you ever sleep?” She sensed him kneeling down beside her, felt his breath on her cheek as he lovingly absorbed every detail of her face and smoothed the wispy hair that had come loose from the braid. “Sleep? Not when my lovely Queen is under my protection. I am an officer, Majesty, and I have my sworn duty.” An officer. Guarding the lives of those he loved. “I love you, Maeve,” he said softly, and kissed her. ~ Danelle Harmon, #NFDB
298:A ripe suggestion," I said. "Where are you meeting her? At the Ritz?"
"Near the Ritz."
He was geographically accurate. About fifty yards east of the Ritz there is one of those blighted tea-and-bun shops you see dotted about all over London and into this, if you'll believe me, young Bingo dived like a homing rabbit; and before I had time to say a word we were wedged in at a table, on the brink of a silent pool of coffee left there by an early luncher. ~ P G Wodehouse,#NFDB
299:So, Taylor, with the list from Boston—”
“I never told you I was from Boston.”
“You’re on a flight from Boston. Call it a wild guess.”
“Well, you’re on a flight from Boston, but you’re not from Boston.” I don’t know why I’m being so obtuse. But being this way with him is kinda fun.
“My English accent gave it away, huh?” He smirks. “Okay, so, Taylor, with the list, who isn’t from Boston—where are you from?”
“Boston.” I grin. ~ Samantha Towle,#NFDB
300:Where are you hearing this stuff? I’ve never said anything about having a baby. We can’t even manage to get married, so I’m hardly gunning for offspring. I don’t know if that’s something I ever want to do.” She looked out the window, watched the edge of downtown Nashville slip away like a veil was lifted. Brick and cement became foliage. They were on West End, heading out to Hillwood. A bucolic drive through the suburbs. Was that prompting Fitz’s question? “Okay, ~ J T Ellison, #NFDB
301:Saying Good-bye to the God of Disease (2) Thousands of willow branches in a spring wind. Six hundred million of China, land of the gods, and exemplary like the emperors Shun and Yao. A scarlet rain of peach blossoms turned into waves and emerald mountains into bridges. Summits touch the sky. We dig with silver shovels and iron arms shake the earth and the Three Rivers. God of plagues, where are you going? We burn paper boats and bright candles to light his way to heaven. ~ Mao Zedong, #NFDB
302:Redd's face contorted with a sudden realization. "How could I have been so stupid?"
The Cat was trying to decide if this was a rhetorical question when she roared, "It's a construct!"
With a dismiissive swing of Redd's arm, Alyss and her army began to shimmer, the billon points of engery that formed them monentarily visible before exploding apart into nothing. Redd scoped the queendom with her imagination's eye. "Where are you, Alyss? Where is my dear little niece? ~ Frank Beddor,#NFDB
303:The quirt landed on her ass, just above her anus, for five hard blows. Her finger and hand moved faster. The scream that surged up couldn’t be contained. “Please don’t! Stop!” “Where are you, Savi?” “With a sadistic bastard!” Thump! She opened her eyes, letting her hand still. “Why did you sting me? I was talking to you, Sir.” He grinned. “Thank you, savita. My apologies. I thought you were screaming at someone from your past.” His grin widened with smug satisfaction ~ Kallypso Masters, #NFDB
304:Where are you taking me?” she asked, then realized she had just given him tacit permission to take her somewhere. She pulled Siena’s cloak tighter around her thin nightgown and added quickly, “I haven’t even agreed to go anywhere with you.”
“And yet here you are, stumbling alongside me like we’re in a race.” Falco’s voice had a lilting, laughing quality to it, despite the fact that they were surrounded by ghostly white clouds, in the middle of a pitch-dark night. ~ Fiona Paul,#NFDB
305:My grandfather would pet the dog, and, in a voice that made him sound like some kind of children's program puppet, he would say: "You're a dog! You're a dog! Where are you? You're a dog!" and the dog's tongue would drop out of its mouth and it would start keening.
After a few hours of this, I said, "Jesus Grandpa, I get it, he's a dog," not knowing that, just a few years later, I would be reminding every dog I met on the street that it was a dog, and asking it where it was. ~ T a Obreht,#NFDB
306:One of us hadn’t finished, why did the other one go? And why without warning? Even death after long illness is without warning. The moment you had prepared for so carefully took you by storm. The troops broke through the window and snatched the body and the body is gone. The day before the Wednesday last, this time a year ago, you were here and now you’re not. Why not? Death reduces us to the baffled logic of a small child. If yesterday why not today? And where are you? ~ Jeanette Winterson, #NFDB
307:She was pulling her cargo pants on, her shirt, fuck her bra and panties. “Where are you going?” Laurence was still naked. “I have to go.” She put her shoes on. “Find Ernesto. Find the others. We can fix this. We can make them pay. We can save them.” “I’ll go with you.” Laurence leapt for his pants. “You can’t,” Patricia said. “I’m sorry, you can’t.” And then she was gone, without saying goodbye or anything. Laurence heard the front door slamming and Isobel trying to say ~ Charlie Jane Anders, #NFDB
308:We know Satan will attack weak spots first. Forty days of fasting left Jesus famished, so Satan began with the topic of bread. Jesus' stomach was empty, so to the stomach Satan turned.
Where are you empty? Are you hungry for attention, craving success, longing for intimacy? Be aware of your weaknesses. Bring them to God before Satan brings them to you. Satan will tell you to turn stones into bread (Matt 4:3). In other words, meet your own needs, take matters into your own hands. ~ Max Lucado,#NFDB
309:Someone left a daisy on my back porch just now. I want to make sure it wasn’t him.” “Okayyyy, let me find the bastard.” I heard her walking around the frat house, opening doors. Someone yelled at her in the background and she giggled. “Oops. Sorry. Go back to fornicating.” A door shut. And so I waited. A few minutes later, she ventured out to the dance floor, and I heard her pushing and shoving her way through couples dancing to an Adele song. “Bart the Asshole! Where are you? ~ Ilsa Madden Mills, #NFDB
310:Adam, where are you?” In every respect, where are you, man? Where are you, woman? Come out of that hiding place and face the truth, for you have to. You are in God’s world. You are God’s creature, and you cannot avoid him. You cannot evade him. You have to deal with him. And if you do not listen to him in life, you will have to listen to him in death. When your name is called out at the great judgment throne in eternity, you will have to step forward and listen to the verdict. ~ D Martyn Lloyd Jones, #NFDB
311:Gilgamesh, where are you hurrying to? You will never find that life for which you are looking. When the gods created man they allotted to him death, but life they retained in their own keeping. As for you, Gilgamesh, fill your belly with good things; day and night, night and day, dance and be merry, feast and rejoice. Let your clothes be fresh, bathe yourself in water, cherish the little child that holds your hand, and make your wife happy in your embrace; for this too is the lot of man. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
312:Imagine, [Kriezler] said, that you enter a large, somewhat crumbling hall that echoes with the sounds of people mumbling and talking repetitively to themselves. All around you these people fall into prostrate positions, some of them weeping. Where are you? Sara’s answer was immediate: in an asylum. Perhaps, Kreizler answered, but you could also be in a church. In the one place the behavior would be considered mad; in the other, not only sane, but as respectable as any human activity can be. ~ Caleb Carr, #NFDB
313:And suddenly it grew clear to him that what had been oppressing him and would not leave him was all dropping away at once from two sides, from ten sides, and from all sides. He was sorry for them, he must act so as not to hurt them: release them and free himself from these sufferings. 'How good and how simple!' he thought. 'And the pain?' he asked himself. 'What has become of it? Where are you, pain?'
He turned his attention to it.
'Yes, here it is. Well, what of it? Let the pain be ~ Leo Tolstoy,#NFDB
314:My dreams tend to be like dog dreams. I'm usually so tired that I hardly dream at all. In a way, I do think that the zone one performs in - without getting too ooga-booga about it - it's like that moment when you wake up in the morning and you're emerging from a dream state but you're not quite up. Where are you? Can you hear the birds? Or is that the traffic? It's that zone in which I perform. It’s like one foot in reality and one foot in a dream state. I spend most of my life in that state! ~ Cate Blanchett, #NFDB
315:I was still wrapped in my pink cloud of satisfaction a little before ten o’clock, when the phone on my desk rang. I stepped over and picked it up with a cheerful, “Hello, Morgan!” and was rewarded with the surly voice of my sister, Deborah. “Where are you?” she said, rather unnecessarily, I thought. If I was talking to her from a phone attached to my desk by a long wire, where would I be? Maybe cell phones really do destroy brain tissue. “I’m right here, on the other end of the telephone,” I said. ~ Jeff Lindsay, #NFDB
316:Where are you going?" I asked,feeling guilty for not being able to hang out with him.
"To find a faerie to kill me,of course." He winked at us,then pretended to fall straight through when the faerie door opened. Even Arianna laughed as the door closed behind him.
"Where did you find that one?"
"I have no idea.I'm a magnet for crazies, I guess."
"They must be able to sense a kindred spirit."
"You're one to talk.Don't you have more hordes of the undead to lead in a glorious revolution? ~ Kiersten White,#NFDB
317:And then, just as Wilbur was settling down for his morning nap, he heard again the thin voice that had addressed him the night before.
"Salutations!" said the voice.
Wilbur jumped to his feet. "Salu-what?" he cried.
"Salutations!" repeated the voice.
"What are they, and where are you?" screamed Wilbur. "Please, please, tell me where you are. And what are salutations?"
"Salutations are greetings," said the voice. "When I say 'salutations,' it's just my fancy way of saying hello or good morning. ~ E B White,#NFDB
318:I don't hate you. I love you."
"I love you, too. God, it's hell!"
They decided to be more sensible. The next day they didn't meet in Widener. Elgin stayed in his room, and at three o'clock the phone rang.
"It's me--Caroline."
"Oh God, you called. I was praying you would. Where are you?"
"In the drugstore on the corner." There was silence. "Elgin," she said at last, "did you have any orange juice today?"
He ran, down the stairs, along the sidewalk, to the drugstore to have his orange juice. ~ Harold Brodkey,#NFDB
319:As her brother turned to walk away, she asked with mild exasperation, “Where are you going? Leo, you can’t leave when there’s so much to be done.”
He stopped and glanced back at her with a raised brow. “You’ve been pouring unsweetened tea down my throat for days. If you have no objection, I’d like to go out for a piss.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I can think of at least a dozen polite euphemisms you could have used.”
Leo continued on his way. “I don’t use euphemisms.”
“Or politeness,” she said, making him chuckle. ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
320:As her brother turned to walk away, she asked with mild exasperation, “Where are you going? Leo, you can’t leave when there’s so much to be done.”
He stopped and glanced back at her with a raised brow. “You’ve been pouring unsweetened tea down my throat for days. If you have no objection, I’d like to go out for a piss.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I can think of at least a dozen polite euphemisms you could have used.”
Leo continued on his way. “I don���t use euphemisms.”
“Or politeness,” she said, making him chuckle. ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
321:I witnessed my Maker with my heart's eye. I asked, 'Who are You?' He answered, 'You!' For You one cannot ask, Where? Because where is Where for You? You do not pass through the imagination Or else we'll know where You are. You are He who is everywhere Yet You are nowhere. Where are You? In my annihilation is my annihilation's annihilation And You are found in my annihilation. [2469.jpg] -- from Islamic Mystical Poetry: Sufi Verse from the Early Mystics to Rumi, Translated by Mahmood Jamal
~ Mansur al-Hallaj, I Witnessed My Maker
,#NFDB
322:Again, after his fall, God gave him an occasion to repent and to receive mercy but he kept his stiff-neck held high. He came to him and said "Adam, Where are you?" instead of saying "What glory you have left and what dishonor you have arrived at?" After that, He asked him "Why did you sin? Why did you transgress the commandment?" By asking these questions, He wanted to give him the opportunity to say, "Forgive me." However, he did not ask for forgiveness. There was no humility, there was no repentance, but indeed the opposite. ~ Dorotheus of Gaza, #NFDB
323:Rabbi, where are you going?” After an uncomfortable silence, Jesus finally said, “Back to camp,” and he turned and walked away. The disciples caught up with him on the path along the other side of the river. Demas and Gestas overheard Jesus explaining to them, “We must prepare to go to Jerusalem soon. It will be a time of great suffering for me.” “What do you mean?” asked Peter. “I will be killed there. But the twelve of you should not despair. This was ordained and spoken of in the prophets. But on the third day, I will be raised. ~ Brian Godawa, #NFDB
324:He reached for her, slipping his fingers into the front pocket of her pants and tugging her between his thighs where he rested against the bike. “It’ll be fun. You’ve never ridden until you’ve ridden with me.”
“I’ve ridden you before.”
He coughed and choked on a laugh. “Well played,” he said, his voice thick. He sucked on her bottom lip. Just a tiny tug. A hint of things to come. “You ready?”
“Where are you taking me?”
“I’m going to abscond with you to the wilds of central Texas and have my way with you in the mesquite brush. ~ Jessica Scott,#NFDB
325:It's noon, Valerius. We both should be asleep?" Acheron paused. "Where are you anyways?"
"I don't know," Valerius said. "I hear some godawful kind of music from outside, horns blaring, and I'm in a house with a mohawk cuckoo bird, a transvestite, and a knife-wielding lunatic."
"Why are you at Tabitha's?" Acheron asked.
"Excuse me?"
"Relax," Acheron said with a yawn. "You're in good hands. Tabby won't hurt you."
"She stabbed me!"
"Damn," Ash said. "I told her not to stab any more Hunters. I hate it when she does that. ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,#NFDB
326:There is a Zen story about a man and a horse.7 The horse is galloping quickly, and it appears that the rider is urgently heading somewhere important. A bystander along the road calls out, “Where are you going?” and the rider replies, “I don’t know! Ask the horse!” This is also our life story. Many of us are riding a horse, but we don’t know where we are going, and we can’t stop. The horse is our “habit energy,” the relentless force of habit that pulls us along, that we are often unaware of and feel powerless to change. We are always running. ~ Thich Nhat Hanh, #NFDB
327:Where are the young who must dedicate their roseate hours, their illusions and enthusiasm to the good of the country? Where are they who must generously spill their blood to wash away so much shame, so many crimes, so much abomination? Pure and spotless must be the victim for the holocaust to be acceptable. Where are you, you children who must embody the vigor of life that has fled from your veins, the purity of ideas that has become in our minds and the fire of enthusiasm that has gone out in our hearts? We await you, Oh youth! Come, we await you! ~ Jos Rizal, #NFDB
328:Not one of them fails to ask me the same loaded question ... 'So, where are you from?' A question as mundane as it is predictable. It feels like an obligatory rite-of-passage, before the relationship can develop any further. My skin - the colour of caramel - must explain itself by offering up its pedigree. 'I'm a human being' My answer rankles with them. Not that I'm trying to be provocative. Any more than I want to appear pedantic or philosophical. But when I was just knee-high to a locust, I had already made up my mind never to define myself again. ~ Ga l Faye, #NFDB
329:There was a fairly big difference between Detroit and Beverly Hills. I remember this. Detroit actually was a prosperous bustling city when we moved here in 1941. But the first day in Detroit, you always wore a shirt and a tie to school. And I wore a shirt and a tie to Beverly Hills High School, and a girl came up to me and said, "Where are you from?" And I said, "Detroit." And she said, "And you won't be wearing a tie tomorrow, will you?" And I said, "You're absolutely correct." So that was my first adjustment to a slightly more casual environment. ~ Roger Corman, #NFDB
330:Where are you hiding my love?
Each day without you will never come again.
Even today you missed a sunset on the ocean,
A silver shadow on yellow rocks I saved for you,
A squirrel that ran across the road,
A duck diving for dinner.
My God! There may be nothing left to show you
Save wounds and weariness
And hopes grown dead,
And wilted flowers I picked for you a lifetime ago,
Or feeble steps that cannot run to hold you,
Arms too tired to offer you to a roaring wind,
A face too wrinkled to feel the ocean's spray. ~ James Kavanaugh,#NFDB
331:One week? One week was your limit? You said as long as it takes, so where are you?” She swallowed around the tightness in her throat. “You said I was your pain in the ass. Well, get your ass over here so I can be a pain in it. Maybe you gave up after one week, but I haven’t. I miss you, okay? I miss you, and you’re supposed to be outside.”
“Ruby,” he broke in. “Look out your window.” She spun around in time to see him pull up at the curb and get out of his car, still holding the phone to his ear. “I just hit a little traffic. ~ Tessa Bailey,#NFDB
332:On the surface, we may look polished and “perfect,” but hiding our true self in all its dimensions saps our life energy and robs us of the freedom to express ourselves genuinely, from the heart. Hiding leaves you with the experience of feeling splintered and having lost yourself. You can have the fabulous yoga outfit; know the name of every pose in Sanskrit; and even have a beautiful, super-flexible, strong practice. But the real question to ask is “Where are you in all of that?” And, even more, “What is hiding behind all those trappings costing you?” So ~ Baron Baptiste, #NFDB
333:Really, Tichy. Don’t be so demonic. Ours is simply a world in which more than twenty billion people live. Did you read today’s Herald? The government of Pakistan claims that in this year’s famine only 970,000 perished, while the opposition gives a figure of six million. In such a world where are you going to find Chablis, pheasants, tenderloin with sauce béarnaise? The last pheasant died a quarter of a century ago. That bird is a corpse, only excellently preserved, for we have become masters of its mummification—or rather: we have learned how to hide its death. ~ Stanis aw Lem, #NFDB
334:The cornflowers shuttered. "This ring is none of your business." "It is if you intend to carry it aboard my ship. That's no mean trinket you have there. Where are you going with it?" She stuffed it back into her dress. "I am traveling to a house near Saint-Nazaire to take up a new position at which I must report before the first of September. And what do you think you're doing, reaching down a helpless woman's gown? You should be ashamed of yourself, Captain." "If you are helpless, madam, then I've something yet to learn about women."
-Arabella & Luc ~ Katharine Ashe,#NFDB
335:Fantasy is escapism, but wait... Why is this wrong? What are you escaping from, and where are you escaping to? Is the story opening windows or slamming doors? The British author G.K. Chesterton summarized the role of fantasy very well. He said its purpose was to take the everyday, commonplace world and lift it up and turn it around and show it to us from a different perspective, so that once again we see it for the first time and realize how marvelous it is. Fantasy - the ability to envisage the world in many different ways - is one of the skills that make us human. ~ Terry Pratchett, #NFDB
336:Please don’t! Stop!” “Where are you, Savi?” “With a sadistic bastard!” Thump! She opened her eyes, letting her hand still. “Why did you sting me? I was talking to you, Sir.” He grinned. “Thank you, savita. My apologies. I thought you were screaming at someone from your past.” His grin widened with smug satisfaction. “What’s your pain level?” Her eyes opened wider. “Oh, God, Sir. I feel a six!” He chuckled and bent to place another kiss on her burning ass cheek, then the other. She closed her eyes at the pain. “I’m your sadistic bastard, Savi. Don’t you ever forget that. ~ Kallypso Masters, #NFDB
337:Where’s here, Tommy? I’m going to need a little more information than that.” ‘In the apartment, where are you?’ “Tommy, you’re right here. I can hear you…how is this happening?” I was more than a little confused. Which in itself isn’t all that difficult a thing to do. ‘We’re family now, Mr. Dad.’ “Holy crap! You can talk to me in my head? How long have you known?” I asked in amazement. ‘As soon as you adopted me, geez don’t you know anything?’ I wanted to ask him how in the hell would I know. This kind of thing usually didn’t happen to me – or any other person for that matter. ~ Mark Tufo, #NFDB
338:Sheila left her hand outstretched for another moment, cold eyes locked on his face. Then she slowly pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “I should have assumed as much from your clothing. Tell me, Khalid: Where are you from?”
“Toronto,” Khalid answered. His face flamed beneath his thick beard; he didn’t know where to look.
“No,” Sheila laughed lightly. “I mean where are you from originally?”
“Toronto,” Khalid responded again, and this time his voice was resigned.
Clara shifted, looking tense and uncomfortable. “I’m originally from Newfoundland,” she said brightly. ~ Uzma Jalaluddin,#NFDB
339:People say, “I wouldn’t have done that.” But they haven’t been exposed to any of the things, culturally, that might have made them do it. And the warning I take is that the number of people in a group who will stand out against these cultural forces are much smaller than you think, and you’re probably not one of them. In fact, I think you can probably tell if you are because you’re pretty bolshie already. If you’ve got a good career, and you’re pretty sociable and you’re going up the hierarchy and all the rest of it, where are you going to get your sudden revolutionary spurt from? ~ Will Storr, #NFDB
340:When I was in the second grade, one of my teachers said, "Where are you going to find a husband? How are you going to find someone darker than you?" I was mortified. I remember seeing a commercial where a woman goes for an interview and doesn't get the job. Then she puts a cream on her face to lighten her skin, and she gets the job! This is the message: that dark skin is unacceptable. I definitely wasn't hearing this from my immediate family - my mother never said anything to that effect - but the voices from the television are usually much louder than the voices of your parents. ~ Lupita Nyong o, #NFDB
341:You are so terribly nimble, so clever. I distrust your cleverness. You make a wonderful pattern, everything is in its place, it looks convincingly clear, too clear. And meanwhile, where are you? Not on the clear surface of your ideas, but you have already sunk deeper, into darker regions, so that one only thinks one has been given all your thoughts, one only imagines you have emptied yourself in that clarity. But there are layers and layers - you're bottomless, unfathomable. Your clearness is deceptive. You are the thinker who arouses most confusion in me, most doubt, most disturbance. ~ Anais Nin, #NFDB
342:You are so terribly nimble, so clever. I distrust your cleverness. You make a wonderful pattern, everything is in its place, it looks convincingly clear, too clear. And meanwhile, where are you? Not on the clear surface of your ideas, but you have already sunk deeper, into darker regions, so that one only thinks one has been given all your thoughts, one only imagines you have emptied yourself in that clarity. But there are layers and layers -- you're bottomless, unfathomable. Your clearness is deceptive. You are the thinker who arouses most confusion in me, most doubt, most disturbance. ~ Ana s Nin, #NFDB
343:Where are you going?"
"Nowhere special. I just have some... things to do."
"Why did you pause?'
"I'm sorry?"
"You paused. You have 'some... things to do.'
"No reason, I just--"
"You're up to something."
"No--"
"Then why'd you pause?"
"Get in the car."
She got in. He got in.
"Seat belt," he said.
Why'd you pause?"
His head drooped. "Because I'm up to somthing."
"And why can't I come with you?"
"Because it's something sneaky."
"Do you promise to tell me later?"
"I do."
"Well all right then." She clicked her seat belt into place. "Let's go. ~ Derek Landy,#NFDB
344:Adonai and Elohim were walking toward them within the Ruach. What so recently had been a rushing wind of affection now sounded like a fiery raging tempest. Terrified, they climbed into the tree. “They are hiding their disobedience, ashamed of being found.” Han-el sang his grief to Lilith. “They are trying to disappear by blending into Good and Evil.” But it was not a terror who pursued them, it was a broken heart. And it was not fury and outrage in the Wind, but a plaintive melody. Standing at the clearing’s edge, Elohim and Adonai called from inside the wind of Ruach, “Adam! Where are you? ~ William Paul Young, #NFDB
345:Wait," I said as Noah slipped a book from a shelf and headed toward the door. "Where are you going?"
"To read?"
But I don't want you to.
"But I need to go home," I said, my eyes meeting his. "My parents are going to kill me."
"Taken care of. You're at Sophie's house."
I loved Sophie.
"So I'm...staying here?"
"Daniel's covering for you."
I loved Daniel.
"Where's Katie?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"Eliza's house."
I loved Eliza.
"And your parents?" I asked.
"Some charity thing."
I loved charity.
"So why are you going to read when I'm right here? ~ Michelle Hodkin,#NFDB
346:next shout of anguish filled the grotto.
“It’s okay, honey. I’m here.“
“Dad? Where are you? Where’s Diana? Is she all right? Oh, Christ. Dad, she’s having the baby.“
“Trust Diana to try to do this on her own.“ But Colby’s voice was infinitely gentle and soothing as he kneeled
beside her. “Everything’s going to be all right now, little amazon. I knew you would take good care of our baby until I
got here. I knew I could count on you.“
Diana let go, giving herself up to the urgent, overwhelming need to push that was suddenly hitting her. Everything
would be all right now. Colby was here ~ Jayne Ann Krentz,#NFDB
347:On A Theme By Thomas Merton
"Adam, where are you?"
God's
hands
palpate darkness, the void
that is Adam's inattention,
his confused attention to everything,
impassioned by multiplicity, his despair.
Multiplicity, his despair;
God's
hands
enacting blindness. Like a child
at a barbaric fairgrounds -noise, lights, the violent odors -Adam fragments himself. The whirling rides!
Fragmented Adam stares.
God's
hands
unseen, the whirling rides
dazzle, the lights blind him. Fragmented,
he is not present to himself. God
suffers the void that is his absence.
~ Denise Levertov,#NFDB
348:the Riddle: “You’re standing on the surface of the Earth. You walk one mile south, one mile west, and one mile north. You end up exactly where you started. Where are you?” One answer to that is the North Pole, and most of the engineers get it right away. That’s when Musk will follow with “Where else could you be?” The other answer is somewhere close to the South Pole where, if you walk one mile south, the circumference of the Earth becomes one mile. Fewer engineers get this answer, and Musk will happily walk them through that riddle and others and cite any relevant equations during his explanations. He tends to care less about ~ Ashlee Vance, #NFDB
349:Cooshay avec ma sirswar!’ said Jenny. ‘That’s French.’ ‘What?’ ‘Cooshay – avec – ’ repeated Jenny slowly, ‘ma – sirswar.’ ‘What does that mean, Jen?’ asked Prunella. ‘That means “Where are you goin’, deary?” – or “Hullo, darling” – or somethin’ like that.’ ‘No it don’t,’ said Bob. ‘Yes it do,’ said Jenny. ‘That’s what it means. “Where are you goin’, deary?”’ ‘No,’ said Bob, ‘not literally.’ ‘Well, what do it mean, then?’ ‘It means “Sleep with me to-night,”’ said Bob, ‘literally.’ ‘Well, that’s the same, ain’t it?’ ‘Yes,’ said Bob, ‘I suppose it is.’ ‘Only a bit more business-like,’ said Prunella. And the matter was dropped. ~ Patrick Hamilton, #NFDB
350:Simon appeared at the doorway behind Tori and Derek. He waved to me and mouthed "run while you can."
Not a bad idea. I snuck around them and zipped out the door to where Simon waited. Then I glanced back at Tori.
"Don't worry about her," he said. "Probably the most fun she's had in days." He led me into the next room. "Sadly, I can't say the same for Derek, and as soon as he stops arguing long enough to notice you're gone—"
"Hey!" Derek called. "Where are you two going?"
Simon took my elbow and steered me at a jog through the house as Derek's footsteps pounded behind us. ~ Kelley Armstrong,#NFDB
351:At The Last
Where are you--you whose loving breath
Alone can stay my soul from death?
The world's so wide, I seek it through,
Yet--dare I dream to win to you?
Perhaps your dear desired feet
Pass me in this grey muddy street.
Your face, it may be, has its shrine
In that dull house that's next to mine.
But I believe, O Life, O Fate,
That when I call on Death and wait
One moment at the unclosing gate
I shall turn back for one last gaze
Along the trampled, sordid ways,
And in the sunset see at last,
Just as the barred gate holds me fast,
Your face, your face, too late.
~ Edith Nesbit,#NFDB
352:The story is told that when Joe was a child his cousins emptied his Christmas stocking and replaced the gifts with horse manure. Joe took one look and bolted for the door, eyes glittering with excitement. 'Wait, Joe, where are you going? What did ol' Santa bring you?' According to the story Joe paused at the door for a piece of rope. 'Brought me a bran'-new pony but he got away. I'll catch 'em if I hurry.' And ever since then it seemed that Joe had been accepting more than his share of hardship as good fortune, and more than his share of shit as a sign of Shetland ponies just around the corner, Thoroughbred stallions just up the road. ~ Ken Kesey, #NFDB
353:That sounds great,” Marcus said, trying to marshal enthusiasm, leading with the expression of a desired sentiment and hoping that the sensation might obediently follow. It was a strategy that he had used for most of his life, and it had failed him innumerable times. He didn’t know what it was that tied him to it, what held him fast to this magical idea—even now, after all the pain it had caused recently—that a feeling could be pre- arranged, ordered in advance and then calmly anticipated. One day, surely, it would arrive, like a phone call from a long-absent lover, confiding I miss you, where are you, come home, please, come home. ~ Panio Gianopoulos, #NFDB
354:Now I must get up and go while they are all quiet. Where are my things? Things have a will of their own in this place and hide where they like. Daylight will strike a sudden blow on the roof startling them all up to their feet; faces will beam asking, Where are you going, What are you doing, What are you thinking, How do you feel, Why do you say such things, What do you mean? No more sleep. Where are are my boots and what horse shall I ride? Fiddler or Graylie or Miss Lucy with the long nose and the wicked eye? How I have loved this house in the morning before we are all awake and tangled together like badly cast fishing lines. ~ Katherine Anne Porter, #NFDB
355:On-yez, where are you from, dear?' asked a black-slacked, frosted-haired woman whose skin was papery and melanomic with suntan. 'Originally.' She eyed Agnes's outfit as if it might be what in fact it was: a couple of blue things purchased in a department store in Cedar Rapids.
Where am I from?' Agnes said it softly. 'Iowa.' She had a tendency not to speak up.
Where?' the woman scowled, bewildered.
Iowa,' Agnes repeated loudly.
The woman in black touched Agnes's wrist and leaned in confidentially. She moved her mouth in a concerned and exaggerated way, like an exercise. 'No, dear,' she said. 'Here we say O-hi-o. ~ Lorrie Moore,#NFDB
356:Where are you going?”
“Out. Like you.”
He raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t press for more information. “One should always make one’s own mistakes, instead of the mistakes of others, amira.”
“Out like me, then.”
“Dressed like that?”
“And what’s wrong with it?”
“It looks like you chose the pieces by throwing darts. And you are terrible at darts. Besides, it’s much too short.” He pointed vaguely toward my ankles and winked. “The whole world can see the top of your foot. You look like a hussy.”
I grabbed my skirt and flashed him my knees. He pretended to swoon. “Don’t worry. This is late Victorian, not early. More permissive. ~ Heidi Heilig,#NFDB
357:How long your closet held a whiff of you,
Long after hangers hung austere and bare.
I would walk in and suddenly the true
Sharp sweet sweat scent controlled the air
And life was in that small still living breath.
Where are you? since so much of you is here,
Your unique odour quite ignoring death.
My hands reach out to touch, to hold what's dear
And vital in my longing empty arms.
But other clothes fill up the space, your space,
And scent on scent send out strange false alarms.
Not of your odour there is not a trace.
But something unexpected still breaks through
The goneness to the presentness of you. ~ Madeleine L Engle,#NFDB
358:I dialed the number slowly, wanting to get it right. Two rings, and he picked up.
"Yes," I said after his hello.
"Mclean?" he asked. "Is that you?"
"Yeah," I said, swallowing and looking out my open door, at the ocean. "The answer's yes."
"The answer . . ." he said slowly.
"You asked me to go out with you. I know you probably changed your mind. But you should know, the answer was yes. It's always been yes when it comes to you."
He was very quiet for a moment. "Where are you?"
I started crying again, my voice ragged. He told me to calm down. He told me it was going to be all right. And then, he told he'd be there soon. ~ Sarah Dessen,#NFDB
359:My dearest friend, for your tryst
You have chosen this stormy night
The sky is hopelessly crying
I have no sleep in my eyes
Opening my door
Again and again I am looking outside
I see nothing
My mind is full of worries
Where runs your way
Is it along the bank of the river
Or along the verge of the deep dark forest?
And in this darkness
Where are you crossing the stream?
Transcreation of one of the sweetest love songs Aji jhorer rate tomar abhisar by Rabindranath Tagore. Sung like a plain song it has been recorded by Debabrata Biswas. Transcreation by Kumud Biswas.
~ Rabindranath Tagore, Waiting For The Beloved
,#NFDB
360:Where are you going?” Quentin asks. “To do my job. You need to start thinking about whether you’ve got what it takes to do yours.” “Hey, don’t—” I slam the door and hurry down the hall. The Brightside Manor Apartments stand like a visual reprimand to every liberal fantasy of government-subsidized housing. The dilapidated buildings look like sets built for a Blaxploitation flick from the seventies, like you could walk up and push them down with your foot. Thirteen big saltboxes grouped on the edge of St. Catherine’s Creek, all centered around a massive square of asphalt crowded with one of the strangest collections of motor transportation in the nation. ~ Greg Iles, #NFDB
361:Now I had to find the right person. When I was out, I tried to keep an eye out for someone who could be relationship material. At first I had no luck, but then I had lunch with a friend who put it in perspective.
“I want to settle down, but I don’t ever meet anyone I really like,” I said.
“Well, where are you meeting these girls?” he asked.
“Bars and clubs,” I replied.
“So you’re going to horrible places and meeting horrible people and you’re complaining about it? Live your life like a decent person. Go to the grocery store, buy your own food, take care of yourself. If you live a responsible life, you’ll run into responsible people,” he said. ~ Aziz Ansari,#NFDB
362:I could try composing wonderful musical works, or day-long entertainment epics, but what would that do? Give people pleasure? My wiping this table gives me pleasure. And people come to a clean table, which gives them pleasure. And anyway" - the man laughed - "people die; stars die; universes die. What is any achievement, however great it was, once time itself is dead? Of course, if all I did was wipe tables, then of course it would seem a mean and despicable waste of my huge intellectual potential. But because I choose to do it, it gives me pleasure. And," the man said with a smile, "it's a good way of meeting people. So where are you from, anyway? ~ Iain M Banks, #NFDB
363:Sam started to move away, and she pulled him closer.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Shhh," he said. "I'm just going to grab the blanket and turn out the light. I'll be right back."
Bella chuckled sleepily and waved her right hand. The blanket lifted off the back of the chair where she'd left it and came slowly sailing across the room to drape itself over their entwined bodies. A snap of her fingers and the single lamp in the kitchen went out.
Sam blinked in the sudden darkness. "You're a very handy woman to have around," he said.
"You have no idea," she replied, and proceeded to demonstrate that she wasn't quite as tired as he'd thought. ~ Deborah Blake,#NFDB
364:She felt his absence, his loss, immediately. Knew that the vital force, the confident, larger-than-life energy that was Captain Ruaidri O’ Devir was no more. A buzzing started in her ears and the numbness began to take over. A Royal Navy officer was talking to her but she never heard the words, only saw his mouth moving. Never in her life had she felt more suddenly alone, as if someone had reached into her chest, wrapped cold fingers around her heart, and ripped it, still beating, out of her chest. Bile rose in her throat and she began to shake. Ruaidri? Ruaidri, where are you? She didn’t want to look for him amongst the bodies; she could not not look for him. ~ Danelle Harmon, #NFDB
365:There is a story in Zen circles about a man and a horse. The horse is galloping quickly, and it appears that the man on the horse is going somewhere important. Another man, standing alongside the road, shouts, "Where are you going?"and the first man replies, "I don't know! Ask the horse!" This is also our story. We are riding a horse, we don't know where we are going, and we can't stop. The horse is our habit energy pulling us along, and we are powerless. We are always running,and it has become a habit. We struggle all the time, even during our sleep. We are at war within ourselves, and we can easily start a war with others. We have to learn the art of stopping. ~ Thich Nhat Hanh, #NFDB
366:Corbin… will I ever see you again?” He shook his head briefly. “No one will.” “What is that supposed to mean? Where are you going?” “Someplace very unpleasant, I assure you,” he snapped. “Addison, please—” “Are you thirsty? Is that it?” I came around the desk to stand in front of him and held out my wrist. “Drink,” I said. “If… if you want to.” For a moment he just looked at me and then he took my hand in his. I was surprised at how cold his skin was. Despite being a vampire, Corbin had always seemed to run hot but now, touching him was like touching a block of ice. “Addison,” he said softly. “I’m touched—truly I am. But what I need, you cannot give me. No one can. ~ Evangeline Anderson, #NFDB
367:Oh, Issyk-Kul, my Issyk-Kul--my unfinished song! Why did I have to remember that day when I came here with Asel and stopped on the same rise, right above the water? Everything was the same. The blue-and-white waves ran up the yellow shore holding hands. The sun was setting behind the mountains, and at the far end of the lake the water was tinged with pink. The swans wheeled over the water with excited, exultant cries. They soared up and dropped down on outspread wings that seemed to hum. They whipped up the water and started wide, foaming circles. Everything was the same, only there was no Asel with me. Where are you, my slender poplar in a red kerchief, where are you now? ~ Chingiz Aitmatov, #NFDB
368:Are you ready for dessert?” I finally asked.
“Where are you from?”
“I moved around a lot growing up.”
“Family in the military?”
“No.”
“Why New Hampton?”
“I’m a big fan of pork. Are you ready for dessert?”
Cooper smiled softly, but his gaze was dark. “Did you bring a boyfriend with you to town?”
“No,” I said, stepping back. “I’m focused on school.”
Nodding, Cooper gave me a little grin. “Message received,” he muttered, taking the dessert menu and glancing at it. “For now anyway.”
“I can come back.”
“Nope. Bring me the brownie. Extra whip cream.”
“I don’t think that comes with whip cream.”
“It does now. Extra whip cream in fact. ~ Bijou Hunter,#NFDB
369:Welcome back, Ben,” Erica said. I started in surprise before realizing the voice was coming from inside my head. Alexander had slipped a two-way radio into my ear. There were lots of people out and about. The enemy had taken my cell phone, but I put my hand to my ear and pretended to be talking on one anyhow. No one gave me a second glance. Virtually everyone else was on a cell phone themselves. “Can you hear me?” I asked. “Loud and clear,” Erica replied. “Where are you?” “Still on campus, looking into things. But I need you to tail someone for me.” “Chip?” “No. I think he’s clean.” “What? But—” “I’ll explain later. Right now I need you to go after Tina. She’s the mole . . . and she’s on the move. ~ Stuart Gibbs, #NFDB
370:He didn’t even bother to keep a physical hold on me; he knew he had me where it counted. He had Eve and that was enough to make me comply without hesitation. I slid into the passenger seat of his car and ignored the burn radiating down my arms from being restrained. He rounded the hood and settled into the driver’s seat. “Where are you taking me?” “The airport, and if you promise to behave, I’ll free your hands.” “Fuck you.” With a sigh, he started the ignition and pulled onto the street. “Have it your way.” “My way? How about you bring my daughter back and leave us the hell alone?” He clenched his jaw. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he unzipped his pants with the other. “Get your head in my lap. ~ Gemma James, #NFDB
371:Hey, who are you?” he quacked. “Where are you? What’s going on and is there any way of stopping it?” “Please relax,” said the voice pleasantly, like a stewardess in an airliner with only one wing and two engines, one of which is on fire, “you are perfectly safe.” “But that’s not the point!” raged Ford. “The point is that I am now a perfectly safe penguin, and my colleague here is rapidly running out of limbs!” “It’s all right, I’ve got them back now,” said Arthur. “Two to the power of fifty thousand to one against and falling,” said the voice. “Admittedly,” said Arthur, “they’re longer than I usually like them, but …” “Isn’t there anything,” squawked Ford in avian fury, “you feel you ought to be telling us? ~ Douglas Adams, #NFDB
372:O-kay…where does one go to people-watch lovers?” “Places you’d go on a date. Movies, dinner, the park, the beach, the mall.” “Seriously?” he gaped incredulously. “If you were gonna ask someone out, you’d take them to the mall? Dude. Even I know that’s lame.” “Okay, but I’m not writing about only things I like. I want to write in a language everyone understands. Get it?” “But the mall?” I sighed in mock defeat. “Pretend you just landed a hot date with the guy or girl of your dreams. Where are you gonna go?” “Somewhere free. I’m on a tight budget.” “The mall is free.” “And boring,” he countered. “And what’s the point of going someplace where you can’t afford anything?” “You can window shop,” I suggested cheerily. ~ Lane Hayes, #NFDB
373:Where are you going?” “Back to the market.” “You’re just going to leave me?” “Now that I feel better, I have things to do.” Friedrich muttered about headstrong females as he squinted up at the sun. “Friedrich.” “What?” he grumbled. “Thank you,” Cinderella said. She smiled, a gesture that transformed her already pretty features into a vision of gentleness and beauty. “Thank you for coming, and thank you for cheering me up.” Friedrich nodded dumbly. “Until tomorrow,” she said. He shook himself out of his momentary stupor. “Until tomorrow, my love!” he called. “Don’t push your luck.” “If I didn’t, I’d be ashamed of myself,” Friedrich shouted as Cinderella left the gardens, a smile on her face and a spring in her steps. ~ K M Shea, #NFDB
374:Minnesota
Going go spinning around the earth
on your back spinning around earth on back
back to Minnesota, Iowa, Boston, California
& New York Open your eyes Close them Open Close Open
Where to now What's your name Where are you
spinning off to Once there was a girl I went to her house
for tea He closed the eyes He opened them
the lids that is She was a
Some kind of girl & was put in her place
See what was that you're spinnin on A journey too On
Off and on the center of the radio I see No two
are two Except when they are speaking No, two are two
No two & two No two and no Two and two
no And two & two And no Two too And two,
no, you two and, no, two.
~ Bernadette Mayer,#NFDB
375:A writer's will is the winds of dead calm in the Western Lands. Point way out he can start stirring of the sail. Writer, where are you going? To write. Here we are in texts already written on the sky. Where he doesn't need to write anymore. A slight seismic with the cat book. Always remember, the work is the mainsail to reach the Western Lands. The texts sing. Everything is grass and bushes, a desert or a maze of texts. Here you are ... never use the same door twice. Sky in all directions ... on the word for word. The word for word is word. The western sail stirs candles on 1920 country club table. Each page is a door to everything is permitted. The fragile lifeboat between this and that. Your words are the sails. ~ William S Burroughs, #NFDB
376:Fiver
fiver fiver where art thou fiver
friend to me
individual to self
valuable team player as a whole
enviormentalist to the world
and risk taker at the core
you exemplify these qualities
you live them evryday
your trustworthy and compassionate
a team player no doubt
enviormentalist and respectful
responsible and a community builder
learner and creative such a magic touch
peacemaker self confident and corageous
you show me the way to be a great leader
indeed but where are you now
oh! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
thats right your at summer camp
showing others how to be a leader
fiver your a great friend at the very
least you are my best friend
~ david bailey,#NFDB
377:This is the epiphany, the gift, from those who have crossed over to the realm beyond the veil: We don’t have to carry around the pain, the shame, or the belief that somehow what happened to us was our fault or that we are unworthy of what we desire—love, joy, acceptance, expression, and belonging. We are powerful co-creators with Spirit. We no longer have to go by the old, familiar maps that were etched into being by those experiences. When we’re lost, we all want a map—but maps can only tell us where we’ve been. They can only reflect the past and our memories of experiences. But we are headed into places uncharted, into an unknown future that has not yet been imagined. Where are you going? What do you want to co-create? ~ Colette Baron Reid, #NFDB
378:Jennifer," he said, his voice sharp with dawning alarm, "where are you going?"
A moment later, Aunt Elinor looked down from the gallery above and cheerfully replied, "She is going to have your baby, your grace."
The serfs in the hall turned to exchange smiling glances, and one of them dashed off to spread the news to the scullions in the kitchen.
"Do not," Aunt Elinor warned in direst tones when Royce started up the stairs, "come up here. I am not inexperienced in these matters, and you will only be in the way. And do not worry," she added breezily, noting Royce's draining color. "The fact that Jenny's mother died in childbirth is nothing to be concerned about." Royce's tankard crashed to the stone floor. ~ Judith McNaught,#NFDB
379:But where are you? Maybe we can find you in your thoughts. René Descartes, a great philosopher, once said, “I think, therefore I am.” But is that really what’s going on? The dictionary defines the verb “to think” as “to form thoughts, to use the mind to consider ideas and make judgments” (Microsoft Encarta 2007). The question is, who is using the mind to form thoughts and then manipulate them into ideas and judgments? Does this experiencer of thoughts exist even when thoughts are not present? Fortunately, you don’t have to think about it. You are very aware of your presence of being, your sense of existence, without the help of thoughts. When you go into deep meditation, for example, the thoughts stop. You know that they’ve stopped. ~ Michael A Singer, #NFDB
380:YOU don’t know her secret,” Win said to me. “Should I?” Win shrugged. “It’s bad?” I asked. “Very,” Win said. “Then maybe I don’t want to know.” Two days before I learned the secret she’d kept buried for a decade—the seemingly personal secret that would not only devastate the two of us but change the world forever—Terese Collins called me at five AM, pushing me from one quasi-erotic dream into another. She simply said, “Come to Paris.” I had not heard her voice in, what, seven years maybe, and the line had static and she didn’t bother with hello or any preamble. I stirred and said, “Terese? Where are you?” “In a cozy hotel on the Left Bank called d’Aubusson. You’ll love it here. There’s an Air France flight leaving tonight at seven.” I ~ Harlan Coben, #NFDB
381:Christian Grey: [answers phone] Anastasia.
Anastasia Steele: Yeah, this is me. I'm sending back your expensive books because I already have copies of those. Thanks though for the kind gesture.
Christian Grey: You're welcome. Where are you?
Anastasia Steele: Oh, I'm in line because I have to pee really bad.
Christian Grey: Anastasia, have you been drinking?
Anastasia Steele: [laughs] Yeah! I have, Mr. Fancy Pants. You hit... you hit the hail on the nead. I mean the head right on the nail.
Christian Grey: Listen to me. I want you to go home right now.
Anastasia Steele: You're so bossy! Ana, let's go for a coffee. No, stay away from me Ana! I don't want you! Get away. Come here, come here! Go away! ~ E L James,#NFDB
382:The Ob opened her eyes with shock. She sat up, pulled her robe to cover herself more, as if she was a modest woman. She was herself again. The woman looked into Jesus’s eyes and she knew everything. She knew that he knew everything about her. She knew he was her savior, and that he had cast out seven demons from her. She began to cry and crawled over to him to kiss his feet. His hands stopped her and pulled her face up to his level. “What is your name, woman?” “Mary,” she said. “Where are you originally from?” “I grew up in Magdala.” “Well, Mary Magdalene,” he said, “I have need for someone of your gratitude in our little community. My disciples seem to think they are entitled to everything.” He smiled. She smiled back at him, and hugged him again. ~ Brian Godawa, #NFDB
383:Come on, come on, you’re wasting time. Just jump up here.” I surveyed the scene carefully. I knew I would have to get a running start since there was just a tiny spot left for me and I would never be able to fit into it if I pulled myself up slowly. Apparently, I was taking too long for Chester’s liking. “Will you get up here?” he hissed. Okay, if that’s what you want. I ran and jumped onto the chair, landing with a great kerplop. “Chester, where are you?” I cried. I couldn’t see anything but the back of the chair. I’d forgotten to turn myself around. “I’m here, you great oaf!” I turned my head. “What are you doing on the floor?” I asked. “You knocked me off the chair. Now just stay put. I’m coming back up.” I moved to the back of the chair, and Chester ~ Deborah Howe, #NFDB
384:Carlson felt his head doing a double spin. How the hell …? “Anything else?” “That’s it,” Stone said. “Say, where are you?” “I’ll talk to you later, Tom.” Carlson hung up the phone and pressed in another number. A voice answered, “National Tracing Center.” “Working late, Donna?” “And I’m trying to get out of here, Nick. What do you want?” “A really big favor.” “No,” she said. Then with a big sigh, “What?” “You still have that thirty-eight we found in the Sarah Goodhart safety-deposit box?” “What about it?” He told her what he wanted. When he finished, she said, “You’re kidding, right?” “You know me, Donna. No sense of humor.” “Ain’t that truth.” She sighed. “I’ll put in a request, but there’s no way it’ll get done tonight.” “Thanks, Donna. You’re the best.” When ~ Harlan Coben, #NFDB
385:As he said it, the girl’s door opened and Larkin stepped out. She was puffy with sleep, and still wore only the bra and the tiny green thong. She didn’t look so wild. Pike touched his lips with a finger. Shh. Larkin blinked sleepily at him, then went into the bathroom. Bud said, “You’re killing me, Joe. Jesus, where are you?” “We’re good. Why is everyone so upset?” Pike, having fun. “You dropped off the world, is why! You’re supposed to take care of her, yes, but you can’t just disappear. The feds, they’re—” Pike interrupted. “How many people know I have her?” “What are you asking? What are you saying, asking that?” “You, your boys in their nice silk suits, the feds, her family? Someone hit my home this morning, Bud, so your leak is still leaking. Trust is in short supply. ~ Robert Crais, #NFDB
386:When Alex leaves a little later, Carlos steps forward. “Need help?”
I shake my head.
“Are you ever gonna talk to me again? Dammit, Kiara, enough with the silent treatment. I’d rather have you say your little two-word sentences than stop talkin’ altogether. Hell, just flip
me off again.”
I toss my backpack in the backseat and start the engine.
“Where are you goin’?” Carlos asks, stepping in front of my car.
I beep.
“I’m not movin’,” he says.
My response is another beep. It’s not an intimidating, deep beep like most cars, but it’s the best my car can give.
He places both hands on the hood.
“Move,” I say.
He moves all right. With pantherlike quickness, Carlos jumps through the open passenger window, feet first.
“You should get the door fixed,” he says. ~ Simone Elkeles,#NFDB
387:As the four young women proceeded to a hallway leading toward the morning room, they encountered Lord St. Vincent, who was strolling in the opposite direction.
Elegant and dazzling in his formal clothes, he paused and regarded Evie with a caressing smile. “You appear to be escaping from something,” he remarked.
“We are,” Evie told her husband.
St. Vincent slid his arm around Evie’s waist and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “Where are you going?”
Evie thought for a moment. “Somewhere to powder Daisy’s nose.”
The viscount gave Daisy a dubious glance. “It takes all four of you? But it’s such a little nose.”
“We’ll only be a few minutes, my lord,” Evie said. “Will you make excuses for us?”
St. Vincent laughed gently. “I have an endless supply, my love,” he assured her. ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
388:And what does he feel?"
"He feels uneasy. A little afaid. Angry. Oddly, a hint of pride."
"Good," Henry said. "ANd where are you?"
"Backstage."
Henry shook his head gravely. "THere's no such thing as backstage. The play begins, and there's only the world it dramatizes. Now, where are you?"
"With my father, the president. In his chambers."
"Right. With me. Your father. And now--this is important--do you love me?"
Nelson considered this; or rather, Nelson, as Alejo, considered this.
"Yes," he said after a moment. "I do."
"Good. Remember that. In every scene--even when you hate me, you also love me. That's why it hurts. Got it?"
Nelson said that he did.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Good. Because it does hurt," Henry said. "DOn't forget that. It's supposed to. Always. ~ Daniel Alarc n,#NFDB
389:After a few moments, her eyes became as glossy as his and she also spoke in complete nonsense. “Who are you?” Mother Goose asked the caterpillar. “What I am,” he said. “Where are you?” she said. “Here with you,” the caterpillar said. “And if this were the Castle of Hearts?” Mother Goose asked. “We’d be there,” he said. “But where?” she asked. “In the castle,” he said. “Ah, so there would be here,” she said, and they nodded together. “Here would be what’s left.” The caterpillar nodded. “Am I what’s left?” she asked. “You’re what’s right, of course.” “But what’s right is wrong.” “And what’s left is right.” “I understand completely,” Mother Goose said. “Thank you so much, Mr. Caterpillar.” The others stared at them absolutely dumbfounded. Mother Goose hopped down from the mushroom and moseyed back to them. ~ Chris Colfer, #NFDB
390:I didn’t know how to answer that. I looked toward Ema. She said, “We’re his friends.” “From the Farnsworth School?” “No, ma’am,” I said. “Then where are you from?” “Kasselton, New Jersey,” Ema replied. A look of horror crossed the woman’s face. She leaned toward us, baring her teeth like a feral dog. Her eyes were wide. “Get out of here!” she screamed. “Get off this island and never come back!” She slammed the door so hard that we nearly fell off the stoop. Ema and I stood there, trying unsuccessfully not to look flabbergasted. After some time had passed, Ema said, “What the heck was that?” “I have no idea.” “Did you see how she reacted when she heard where we’re from?” I nodded. “What could that have to do with my online relationship with her son?” “Same answer,” I said. “You have no idea?” “Bingo.” “So ~ Harlan Coben, #NFDB
391:A couple months after school started that year, I just plain stopped going to see the Maje. I remember coming home one day and checking the answering machine in my bedroom. The first message was from the Maje. He was waiting for me to come over. He sounded feeble and desperate: "Steve, where are you? I need you? Are you coming? Please . . ." I deleted it. The next message was also from the Maje and said pretty much the same thing. Delete. There must have been a dozen messages on that machine from the Maje, all begging me, pleading with me, to come help him. I deleted every single one of them. To this day, I have no idea what happened to the Maje, no idea if he ever got that cataract surgery. That's how our relationship ended. It still makes me feel horrible to think about now: I just deleted the Maje. ~ Stephen Steve O Glover, #NFDB
392:O Fish
The city is asleep.
Midnight. The enormous sky is full of stars.
Only a bright fish is coming out of the mirror.
My eyes see only him.
With silence unbroken my eyes say:
O fish, are you Harun ar-Rashid, in your nightgown
Are you wandering- from the palace to the thatched cottage,
Watching how the wheel of stars is whirling round and round?
O fish, where are you going?
The city is asleep.
Only a born-blind singer along with thieves, harlots, and police is awake,
And a strange silent fish. O moving fish.
My eyes see only him.
With silence unbroken my eyes say:
O fish, are you the very eyes of mine?
Midnight. The wheel of nature is whirling round and round on the waterfall.
O fish, where are you going?
Translation by S M Maniruzzaman
~ Abdul Mannan Syed,#NFDB
393:he was out playing and heard Molly calling him. “Richard! Supper!” Instead of answering “Coming!” and running to her, he dodged under a hedge, scraping his knees. “Richard! Richard!” Molly sounded frantic this time, but he remained silent, crouched. “Richard! Where are you, Dicky?” A rabbit stopped and watched him, and he locked eyes with the rabbit and, for those short moments, only he and the rabbit knew where he was. Then the rabbit leaped out and Molly peered under the bushes and saw him. She smacked him. She told him to stay in his room for the rest of the day. She said she was very upset and would tell Mr. and Mrs. Churchill. But those short moments had made it all worthwhile, those moments of pure plenary abandon, when he felt as if he, and he alone, were in control of the universe of his childhood. ~ Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, #NFDB
394:The dream where he was standing alone with a gun to his head, finger to the trigger. “God, please no,” she whispered. It took her some time to steady her breathing. The panic that locked up her chest was hard to shake. “It was just a dream. That’s it.” She told herself; but damn if it didn’t feel like so much more. Morgan and Messiah had created a bond that transcended space. She had no idea just how real her dreams were, but as she pulled the cover up over her shoulder, she took a deep breath and whispered, “Bring yo’ ass home…” “I can’t, shorty.” Morgan flipped the covers off her, suddenly, because she heard that shit. She felt it, and suddenly, everything he had ever told her played back in her head. “Something’s wrong…” she whispered, as tears came to her eyes. “Oh my god, Messiah. Where are you?” To be continued… ~ Ashley Antoinette, #NFDB
395:It’s only a region. A few scattered dwellings at most. We’re farmers there. Mostly farmers. And you? Where are you from?” A nameless region? Maybe. And he was strong, fit, tanned from the sun like a farmer might be, but there was also so much that seemed very unfarmerish about him—the way he spoke, even the way he carried himself—and especially his unnerving blue eyes. They were fierce, like a warrior’s. They weren’t the eyes of a content farmer passing his days turning the soil. I took the berry still poised in his fingers and popped it in my mouth. Where was I from? I narrowed my eyes and smiled. “A small town in the northernmost part of Morrighan. Mostly farmers. Only a region, really. A few scattered dwellings. At most. No name.” He couldn’t restrain a chuckle. “Then we come from opposite but similar worlds, don’t we?” I ~ Mary E Pearson, #NFDB
396:Right now, I am in Fallujah. I am in Darfur. I am on Sixty-third and Park having dinner with Ellen Barkin and Ron Perelman... Right now, I'm on Lafayette and Astor waiting to hit you up for change so I can get high. I'm taking a walk through the Rose Garden with George Bush. I'm helping Donald Rumsfeld get a good night's sleep...I was in that cave with Osama, and on that plane with Mohamed Atta...And what I want you to know is that your work has barely begun. And what I want you to trust is the efficacy of divine love if practiced consciously. And what I need you to believe is that if you hate who I love, you do not know me at all. And make no mistake, "Who I Love" is every last one. I am every last one. People ask of me: Where are you? Where are you?...Verily I ask of you to ask yourself: Where are you? Where are you? ~ Stephen Adly Guirgis, #NFDB
397:Woe!
It is true, our tribe is similar to the bees,
It gathers honey of wisdom, carries it, stores it in honeycombs.
I am able to roam for hours
Through the labyrinth of the main library, floor to floor.
But yesterday, looking for the words of masters and prophets,
I wandered into high regions
That are visited by practically no one.
I would open a book and could decipher nothing.
For letters faded and disappeared from the pages.
Woe! I exclaimed-so it comes to this?
Where are you, venerable ones, with your beards and wigs,
Your nights spent by a candle, griefs of your wives?
So a message saving the world is silenced forever?
At your home it was the day of making preserves.
And your dog, sleeping by the fire, would wake up,
Yawn, and look at you, as if knowing.
~ Czeslaw Milosz,#NFDB
398:I’m sure you’re just dying to tell me all the campus gossip about me. Right?”
“I do have a life. Maybe I’ve been too busy to listen to rumors,” he huffed, pretending to have hurt feelings.
I looked at him.
He sighed. “Okay, you win. I’m bored out of my skull. Second Magician is busy playing detective, and Gelsi is neck-deep in some project and I never see her anymore.” Dax paused dramatically. “My life is so boring that I have to live vicariously through your adventures.”
“And since the rumors are so accurate—”
“Your adventures have turned into legends.” He swept his arms wide, laughing. “So where are you off to now? Going to slay a dragon? Can Itag along as your lowly squire? I’ll polish your staff of power every night with my shirt. I promise.”
“I’m glad my problems are keeping you entertained, ~ Maria V Snyder,#NFDB
399:The pirates would kiss Hayden, and sometimes they would cut off a hank of hair - 'as a reminder of yer kisses, me lad' - and one of them even cut off a piece of his earlobe.
This particular pirate was Bill McGregor, and he was the one Hayden feared the most. Bill McGregor was the worst of them - and at night when everyone else was asleep, Bill McGregor would come looking for Hayden, his step slow and hollow on the planks of the deck, his voice a deep whisper.
Boy,' he would murmur. 'where are you, boy?'
After Bill McGregor cut off the piece of Hayden's earlobe, he decided that he wanted more. Every time he caught Hayden, he would cut a small piece off of him. The skin of an elbow, the tip of a finger, a piece of his lip. He would grip the squirming Hayden and cut a piece off of him, and then Bill McGregor would eat the piece of flesh. ~ Dan Chaon,#NFDB
400:Where are you going?"
"To get my Bible."
"Right now? You can't get your Bible out right now! I'm, I'm, we're just about to..."
She'd never be able to go through with this if he got out his Bible. She wiped all humor from her face.
"I believe you. Proverbs 5:18. Rejoice, relish, and romp with your husband."
He chuckled. "I'm serious, Connie, and I won't have you feeling ashamed or unclean over anything we do in that bed, tonight or any other night."
"I won't. I feel unashamed and very clean. I promise. But please don't get out that Bible."
"What? Think you that God can't see us right now?"
Groaning, she slid off his lap and covered her face with her hands. He sunk to his knees in front of her, drawing her hands down.
"I love you. You love me. We are man and wife. God is watching, Connie, and He is very, very pleased. ~ Deeanne Gist,#NFDB
401:Then she called Matthew.
He answered, "Where the fuck are you? I've been calling you for hours."
She said, "I was asleep. Just woke up. What's the problem?"
"Don't tell me you're still in your hotel room in your bed."
"Didn't I say I just woke up? Still in bed. Needed some sleep. Just waking up. . . ."
"Is that right?"
. . . "Where are you right now?"
"Antigua motherfucking Yacht Club. Room twenty-fucking-nine. Sitting on a . . . four-poster bed that has a damn mosquito net pulled back so I know I can see what the fuck I see. And I see an empty four-poster bed . . . But hell, maybe I'm wrong, because I know I didn't marry a goddamn liar. So I guess if I'm in your room and you're in the goddamn bed, just waking up, then either I am as blind as a fucking bat or you must be fucking invisible. ~ Eric Jerome Dickey,#NFDB
402:Where are you going?" he asked as she clomped down the bleachers in her heavy black boots. "I don't know." "I'll walk you," he said as he stood and followed her. "No." "I'm not going to let you walk alone at this time at night." She stepped off the last bleacher and walked across the track to the football field. She looked over her shoulder. "Stop following me." Once she reached the middle of the field, she looked back again. "I said, stop following me." "I'm' not letting you walk alone." That made her stop and turn to him. "What is the matter with you? Stop being so...so...." "What?" "Nice to me." She lowered herself to the ground and sat cross-legged. " I'm sitting here until you go away." This didn't exactly have the effect she wanted. "Don't sit beside me. Don't..." She sighed when Sawyer sat beside her, right there on the fifty yard line. ~ Sarah Addison Allen, #NFDB
403:Last Words Of Saul (Extract From Saul)
Now let me die, for I indeed was slain
With my three sons. Where are ye, sons? Oh let me
Find ye, that I may perish with you; dying,
Cover you with my form, as doth the fowl
Cover her chickens! Oh, Philistia
Thou now art compensated,--now are getting
Rich with this crimson, hot, and molten tide;
That waits not patient to be coined in drops,
But rushes, in an ingot-forming stream,
Out of the mine and mintage of my heart!
Oh my three poor dead sons, where are you? Ye
Have gone before me into the hereafter
Upon such innocently-flighted steps.
That I, with feet cumbered with clots of blood,
Shall lose of you all glimpse, and then my soul
Shall drop to the abyss. Gush faster, blood,
And gallop with my soul towards Hades,
That yawns obscure.
~ Charles Heavysege,#NFDB
404:I have been traveling long
My way is also long
When I had first started it was early dawn.
From planet to planet, from star to star
I have left my footprints along a winding path
Through so many hills and dales
Through so many lands.
To come close one has to travel far
It is very difficult indeed
But not to one who is straight at heart.
Traversing many alien countries
The traveler comes to his own land at last
Only after wandering in the outside world
One can find ones own inner God.
To say, Here you are,
I looked in so many places, so many ways I walked
But you are there everywhere in this world
Which we flood with tears
Crying, Where are you, O where!
Transcreation of poem 14 from the collection Gitimalya. Transcreation by Kumud Biswas.
Translated by Kumud Biswas
~ Rabindranath Tagore, Meeting
,#NFDB
405:The Bunkhouse
The bunkhouse on the cattle ranch
Was lowly, but at night
When its small window was aglow
We hurried in that light,
And merrily we trooped within
And flung our saddles down,
And there were tales for all to hear
Told by the plainsmen brown.
The bunkhouse walls were papered o’er
With scraps from everywhere —
With pictures of great battleships
And ladies who were fair;
And all could read strange bits of news,
While many comrades’ scrawls
Were written there, illegibly,
Upon the bunkhouse walls.
I’ve traveled many miles since then
But oft, when sets the sun,
I think about the bunkhouse, low,
Where cowboys, one by one,
Came strolling in to chat and smoke
And play a game of cards;
I’d even stand for their long snores —
Where are you, good old pards.
~ Arthur Chapman,#NFDB
406:What do you intend for us to do with the pig once it’s full-grown?” she demanded.
West considered that. “Eat it?”
She let out an exasperated huff. “The girls have already named it Hamlet. Would you have us eat a family pet, Mr. Ravenel?”
“I would if it turned into bacon.” West smiled at her expression. “I’ll return the pig to the farmer when it’s weaned,” he offered.
“You can’t--”
He forestalled her by lifting his hand in a staying motion. “You’ll have to badger me later; I’ve no time for it now. I’m leaving for Alton Station, and I can’t miss the afternoon train.”
“Train? Where are you going?”
West dodged around her, heading to the front door. “I told you yesterday. I knew you weren’t listening.”
Kathleen glowered and followed him, thinking it would serve him right if bacon were eventually declared off-limits in the Ravenel household. ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
407:Love Her, Mind; She can ferry you across the sea of birth and death. Taxes must be paid in this worthless marketplace, but it's stupid to trust in wealth and family. Have you forgotten your past? Where were you? Where have you come to? Where are you going? You wear nothing but a costume in the world. The Enchantress makes illusion dance, so you dance. And you sit on Her lap in Her prison. Egotism, hatred, love, attachment to pleasing things -- why did you share your kingdom with these? Tell me that! What you've done can't be helped; the day is almost over. On a jeweled island Siva sits in Siva's house. Contemplate Her always. Prasad says, Durga's ambrosial name liberates. Repeat it without ceasing; drench your tongue in nectar. [1770.jpg] -- from Singing to the Goddess: Poems to Kali and Uma from Bengal, Translated by Rachel Fell McDermott
~ Ramprasad, Love Her, Mind
,#NFDB
408:Me: Did you get your tree yet?
Ken: I'm a Jew, I don't decorate Christmas trees.
Me: So you're going to go with a wreath instead?
Ken: I just told you, I'm a Jew.
Me: Oh, I get it. You're looking for a cheap wreath.
Ken: I'm not looking for a wreath at all. Leave me alone, will you.
Me: You're probably just tense because you haven't finished your Christmas shopping.
Ken: I don't Christmas shop.
Me: What are you telling me? That you make all of your presents.
Ken: I don't give Christmas presents period. Goddamit, I told you, I'm a Jew.
Me: Well, don't you at least need to buy something for your parents?
Ken: They're Jews, too, idiot. That's what makes me one. It's hereditary. Do you understand?
Me: Sure.
Ken: Say the words "I understand."
Me: I understand. So where are you going to hang your stocking? ~ David Sedaris,#NFDB
409:There was once a Cossack who saw a rabbi walking through the town square nearly every day at about the same time. One day he asked curiously: “Where are you going, rabbi?” The rabbi answered: “I am not sure.” “You pass this way every day at this time. Surely, you know where you’re going.” When the rabbi insisted that he did not know, the Cossack became irritated, then suspicious, and finally took the rabbi to jail. Just as he was locking the cell, the rabbi faced him and said gently: “You see, I didn’t know.” Before the Cossack interrupted him, the rabbi knew where he was going, but afterward, he no longer knew. The interruption (we can call it a measurement) offered new possibilities. This is the message of quantum mechanics. The world is not determined by initial conditions, once and for all. Every event of measurement is potentially creative and may open new possibilities. ~ Amit Goswami, #NFDB
410:When I leaned out, trying to see it, I noticed a faint figure about thirty feet away, watching us. Before I could warn Daniel, the figure waved frantically, and I realized it was Rafe.
He pointed to show us where the ATV was. Daniel nodded and whispered, “About ten feet away in that direction.”
“Too close,” I whispered back.
“I know.”
Rafe motioned that there were two ATVs. I waved for him to take off--he was far enough to get away safely. He shook his head…and stepped out from his hiding spot.
“What the hell is he--?”
“Hey!” Rafe yelled, looking in the opposite direction. “Maya! Daniel! Where are you guys?”
He stopped and slowly turned, as if just noticing the ATV. Then he took off, barreling through the brush. The ATVs followed.
Daniel caught my arm before I could run after Rafe. “He gave us a chance to get away. It won’t do us any good to blow it. ~ Kelley Armstrong,#NFDB
411:The world outside of me has no meaning independent of my thinking it. (pauses to look) I look out of the window. A garden. Trees. Grass. A young woman in a chair reading a book. I think: chair. So she is sitting. I think: book. So she is reading. Now the young woman touches her hair where it's come undone. But how can we be sure there is a world of phenomena, a woman reading in a garden? Perhaps the only thing that's real is my sensory experience, which has the form of a woman reading- in a universe which is in fact empty! But Immanuel Kant says- no! Because what I perceive as reality includes concepts which I cannot experience through the senses. Time and space. Cause and effect. Relations between things. Without me there is something wrong with this picture. The trees, the grass, the woman are merely- oh, she's coming! (nervously)- she's coming in here-! I say, don't leave!-where are you going? ~ Tom Stoppard, #NFDB
412:Will my eyes adjust to this darkness? Will I find you in the dark – not in the streaks of light which remain, but in the darkness? Has anyone ever found you there? Did they love what they saw? Did they see love? And are there songs for singing when the light has gone dim? Or in the dark, is it best to wait in silence?
Noon has darkened. As fast as they could say, ‘He’s dead,’ the light dimmed. And where are you in the darkness? I learned to spy you in the light. Here in this darkness, I cannot find you. If I had never looked for you, or looked but never found, I would not feel this pain of your absence. Or is not your absence in which I dwell, but your elusive troubling presence?
It’s the neverness that is so painful. Never again to be here with us – never to sit with us at the table…. All the rest of our lives we must live without him. Only our death can stop the pain of his death. ~ Nicholas Wolterstorff,#NFDB
413:Tom wasn’t just mad. No, the bastard was planning on getting even. Prophet could sense the fuck out of that shit. Two days later, he was waiting on Tom to get home from the EE offices when Tom called him instead. Sounding, if not a little drunk, then definitely loose. “Hey, Proph. What’s up?” “You called me, Tom. Where are you?” “Club.” “Club?” Prophet echoed suspiciously. “Place you took Mal, I think.” What the fuck? “Jesus, T.” Tommy and a BDSM club was trouble. The kind that made his dick hard. “Come meet me for a drink,” Tom demanded belligerently. Pissed and a little drunk. Not a good combo. “Get in a cab and come home.” “Nope. You’ll have to come for a drink.” Fuck me. “Fine. Make it a shot. And then I’m dragging you home.” “And putting me over your knee?” Tommy’s deep, slightly drunk drawl jolted Prophet. How had Tommy wrapped him so thoroughly around his finger? “I’m coming.” “Yeah, you are.” “Tommy, Christ. ~ S E Jakes, #NFDB
414:Cooper tugged me down the walkway to the other end of the hall and a small bedroom. “This can be the baby’s room. We could stick a few kids in here. That way they’re close to us and away from Tawny.”
“This is nice, but I want to see where we’ll make those babies.”
Cooper gave me his horny expression then nudged me to the next room. “Imagine it with new floors, paint, less trash on the floor.”
“I’m imagining the bed right here,” I said, grinning. “Us on top of it… Hey, where are you going?”
Cooper disappeared into a closet then returned with a box. “We’re trying out the house tonight to make sure we like it. Food and drink are in the kitchen. We’ll sleep on this inflatable bed. I’m not interested in sleeping right now though.”
“I haven’t seen the whole house,” I said as he tugged off his tee.
“There’s a basement, a big yard, a few toilets. It’s awesome. Here, let me help you with your pants. ~ Bijou Hunter,#NFDB
415:Where are you now? What roads are you treading? We have so many new roads now, right across the steppe all the way to the Altai and Siberia. Many brave souls are toiling there. Perhaps you're among them? You left, my Jamilia, across the wide steppe without a backward glance. Perhaps you are weary, perhaps you have lost faith in your self? Just lean on Daniyar's shoulder. Have him sing to you his song of love, of life, of the earth. May the steppe come alive and blossom in all its glory. May you recall that August night. Keep on, Jamilia, have no regrets; you've found your hard-sought happiness.
When I gaze at them long enough I can hear Daniyar's voice. He is calling to me, too, to take the highroad, which means it is time for me to get ready. I shall cross the steppe back to my village and find fresh colours there.
May Daniyar's song resound and may Jamilia's heart beat with every stroke of my brush. ~ Chingiz Aitmatov,#NFDB
416:But in the end, it’s still just cleaning a table.” “And therefore does not really signify on the cosmic scale of events?” the man suggested. He smiled in response to the man’s grin, “Well, yes.” “But then, what does signify? My other work? Is that really important, either? I could try composing wonderful musical works, or day-long entertainment epics, but what would that do? Give people pleasure? My wiping this table gives me pleasure. And people come to a clean table, which gives them pleasure. And anyway” — the man laughed — “people die; stars die; universes die. What is any achievement, however great it was, once time itself is dead? Of course, if all I did was wipe tables, then of course it would seem a mean and despicable waste of my huge intellectual potential. But because I choose to do it, it gives me pleasure. And,” the man said with a smile, “it’s a good way of meeting people. So where are you from, anyway? ~ Iain M Banks, #NFDB
417:He leaned in. This was it. His first kiss. His first k -
"BOY!" yelled a distant voice. "WHERE ARE YOU, BOY!"
Grace drew back abruptly. "Your granny is calling you."
"She can wait," he said.
"IT'S TIME FOR YOUR MEDICINE!" Gran called out.
Gracie jumped to her feet. "You should go in."
"BOY!"
She hastily brushed off her trousers. "Besides, I just remembered some chores your sister wanted me to get done. Some very important chores. Full of ... tasks."
"Tasks?" Edward said, doubtful.
"Yes, tasks. Lots of them."
"Gracie," he started as she backed away from him. "Wait."
"GET IN HERE, BOY!"
He watched helplessly as Gracie set off toward the keep, almost at a run.
"BOY!"
At the moment we should confess that Edward briefly considered murdering his dear sweet grandmother. And he might have gotten away with it too, on account of the rest of the world thinking the old lady was already dead. ~ Cynthia Hand,#NFDB
418:There aren't many berry bushes where I'm from."
"And just where would that be?"
His hand paused on a berry like it was a monumental decision whether to pluck it or not. He finally pulled and explained he was from a small town in the southernmost part of Morringhan. When I asked the name, he said it was very small and had no name....
"A town with no name? Really? How very odd." I waited for him to scramble, and he didn't disappoint me.
"It's only a region. A few scattered dwellings at most. We're farmers there. Mostly farmers. And you? Where are you from?"...
I took the berry still poised in his fingers and popped it in my mouth. Where was I from? I narrowed my eyes and smiled. "A small town in the northernmost part of Morrighan. Mostly farmers. Only a regions, really. A few scattered dwellings. At most. No name."
He couldn't restrain a chuckle. "Then we come from opposite but similar worlds, don't we? ~ Mary E Pearson,#NFDB
419:Look at your list of bad habits. For each one you’ve written down, identify what triggers it. Figure out what I call “The Big 4’s”—the “who,” the “what,” the “where,” and the “when” underlying each bad behavior. For example: • Are you more likely to drink too much when you’re with certain people? • Is there a particular time of day when you just have to have something sweet? • What emotions tend to provoke your worst habits—stress, fatigue, anger, nervousness, boredom? • When do you experience those emotions? Who are you with, where are you, or what are you doing? • What situations prompt your bad habits to surface—getting in your car, the time before performance reviews, visits with your in-laws? Conferences? Social settings? Feeling physically insecure? Deadlines? • Take a closer look at your routines. What do you typically say when you wake up? When you’re on a coffee or lunch break? When you’ve gotten home from a long day? ~ Darren Hardy, #NFDB
420:Zombie!” Sammy calls. “I knew it was you.”
Zombie?
“Where are you taking him?” Ben says to me in a deep voice. I don’t remember it being that deep. Is my memory bad or is he lowering it on purpose, to sound older?
“Zombie, that’s Cassie,” Sam chides him. “You know—Cassie.”
“Cassie?” Like he’s never heard the name before.
“Zombie?” I say, because I really haven’t heard that name before.
I pull off the cap, thinking it might help him recognize me, then immediately regret it. I know what my hair must look like.
“We go to the same high school,” I say, drawing my fingers hastily through my chopped-off locks. “I sit in front of you in Honors Chemistry.”
Ben shakes his head like he’s clearing out the cobwebs.
Sammy goes, “I told you she was coming.”
“Quiet, Sam,” I scold him.
“Sam?” Ben asks.
“My name is Nugget now, Cassie,” Sam informs me.
“Well, sure it is.” I turn to Ben. “You know my brother. ~ Rick Yancey,#NFDB
421:Where are you sleeping?"
A wicked black brow rose. "Why? Are you inviting me into your bed?"
The words stung with their rudeness. Penelope stiffened as though she had received a physical blow. She waited a beat, sure he would apologize.
Silence.
"You've changed."
"Perhaps you should remember that the next time you decide to go on a midnight adventure."
He was nothing like the Michael she had once known.
She spun on her heel, heading into the blackness, toward the place where Needham Manor stood. She'd gone only a few feet before she turned back to face him. He had not moved.
"I really was happy to see you." She turned and headed away, back to her home, the cold seeping deep into her bones before she turned back, unable to resist a final barb. Something to hurt him as he'd hurt her. "And Michael?"
She couldn't see his eyes, but she knew undeniably that he was watching her, listening.
"You're on my land. ~ Sarah MacLean,#NFDB
422:missions expert Miriam Adeney relates a story told to her by an African Christian friend: Elephant and Mouse were best friends. One day Elephant said, “Mouse, let’s have a party!” Animals gathered from far and near. They ate. They drank. They sang. And they danced. And nobody celebrated more and danced harder than Elephant. After the party was over, Elephant exclaimed, “Mouse, did you ever go to a better party? What a blast!” But Mouse did not answer. “Mouse, where are you?” Elephant called. He looked around for his friend, and then shrank back in horror. There at Elephant’s feet lay Mouse. His little body was ground into the dirt. He had been smashed by the big feet of his exuberant friend, Elephant. “Sometimes, that is what it is like to do mission with you Americans,” the African storyteller commented. “It is like dancing with an Elephant.”2 Elephant did not mean to do harm, but he did not understand the effects he was having on Mouse. The ~ Steve Corbett, #NFDB
423:It was your first time?"
Her head snapped up, eyes stabbing her sister.
"Of course it was," Lisa backtracked at once, and then said, "Well, Fanny must have been wrong then. Or perhaps it is different for everyone."
Suzette shook her head with disgust. "If you, who have known me all my life and know I have not been keeping company with men before this, doubts me, why would he not? He probably thinks I have been with half the royal navy."
"Why would he think that? We live nowhere near the near the coast," Lisa said with confusion.
Suzette glared at her and then shifted to get off the bed,crawling around her to do so.
"Where are you going?" Lisa asked, standing up.
"For a walk."
"But I was going to read to you to cheer you up," Lisa protested.
"I don't want to be read to," Suzette said grimly as she slipped her shoes on.
"I could tell you a story," Lisa offered.
"No."
"I could sing,or-"
"I want to be alone. ~ Lynsay Sands,#NFDB
424:Where are you going?” Millie whispered, although why she was whispering was a bit of a mystery since the sound of yelling, along with a lot of cursing, was flowing into the house. “I’m not just going to sit here while everyone else is fighting my battle.” She made it all the way to the door, crawling on her stomach, no less, before she was forced to stop when she encountered a pair of shoes. They were nice shoes, a little dusty, and unfortunately, they belonged to none other than Bram. “You weren’t trying to sneak out to help, were you?” he asked, squatting down next to her. “I might have been.” “There’s no need. Silas has been secured.” Lucetta frowned. “He came down here on his own?” Holding out a hand, Bram helped her to her feet before he smiled. “Apparently, yes. I imagine those women he hired weren’t too keen to travel the country with him. Aiding and abetting men on the run usually results in a stint behind bars, and they must have decided he wasn’t worth that.” “I ~ Jen Turano, #NFDB
425:Come on!' he muttered, staring about. 'Where are you? Dad, come on--"
But no one came. Harry raised his head to look at the circle of dementors across the lake. One of them was lowering its hood. It was time for the rescuer to appear--but no one was coming to help this time--
And then it hit him--he understood. He hadn't seen his father--he had seen himself--
...
'It was stupid, thinking it was him,' he (Harry) muttered. 'I mean, I knew he was dead.'
'You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don't recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble? Your father is alive in you, Harry, and shows himself most plainly when you have need of him. How else could you produce that particular Patronus? Prongs rode again last night.'
...
'You know, Harry, in a way, you did see your father last night...You found him inside yourself.'
And Dumbledore left the office, leaving Harry to his very confused thoughts. ~ J K Rowling,#NFDB
426:I was coming down Seventh Avenue one morning. It must have been in December or January. I had just come from the little church of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and from Communion, and was going to get some breakfast at a lunch wagon near Loew's Sheridan Theater. I don't know what I was thinking of, but as I walked along I nearly bumped into Mark who was on his way to the subway, going to Columbia for his morning classes.
'Where are you going?' he said. The question surprised me, as there did not seem to be any reason to ask where I was going, and all I could answer was: 'To breakfast.'
Later on, Mark referred again to the meeting and said:
'What made you look so happy, on the street, there?'
So that was what had impressed him, and that was why he had asked me where I was going. It was not where I was going that made me happy, but where I was coming from. Yet, as I say, this surprised me too, because I had not really paid any attention to the fact that I was happy - which indeed I was. ~ Thomas Merton,#NFDB
427:Marlboro Man answered, “Hello?” He must have been almost asleep.
“Um…um…hi,” I said, squinting in shame.
“Hey there,” he replied.
“This is Ree,” I said. I just wanted to make sure he knew.
“Yeah…I know,” he said.
“Um, funniest thing happened,” I continued, my hands in a death grip on the steering wheel. “Seems I got a little turned around and I’m kinda sorta maybe perhaps a little tiny bit lost.”
He chuckled. “Where are you?”
“Um, well, that’s just it,” I replied, looking around the utter darkness for any ounce of remaining pride. “I don’t really know.”
Marlboro Man assumed control, telling me to drive until I found an intersection, then read him the numbers on the small green county road sign, numbers that meant absolutely nothing to me, considering I’d never even heard the term “county road” before, but that would help Marlboro Man pinpoint exactly where on earth I was. “Okay, here we go,” I called out. “It says, um…CR 4521.”
“Hang tight,” he said. “I’ll be right there. ~ Ree Drummond,#NFDB
428:Where are you? And why did you go? I guess I'll never know this. Was it because I made you mad? Because I tried to help? Because I didn't answer when you threw rocks at my window? What if I had answered? What would you have said to me? Would I have been able to talk you into staying or talk you out of doing what you did? Or would that have happened anyway? Do you know my life is forever changed now? I used to think that was true because you came into it and, in doing that, forced me out of my room and into the world. Even when we weren't wandering, even from the floor of your closet, you showed the world to me. I didn't know that my life forever changing would be because you loved me and then left, in such a final way. So I guess there was no Great Manifesto after all, even though you made me believe there was. I guess there was only a school project. I'll never forgive you for leaving me. I just wish you could forgive me. You saved my life. And, finally, I simply write: Why couldn't I save yours? ~ Jennifer Niven, #NFDB
429:Wait,” Lacey calls. I turn back, filled with hope. Does she want me to stay? We could kick everyone out and go back to what we were doing. I could kiss the girl that I want more than anything or anyone. I could make her mine. I could pour my heart out to her. I could tell her that I love her and always will. “What?” I ask quietly. “Are you coming to my booth?” she asks. “For the results of the contest?” And watch another man kiss her? I don’t think so. “I have a lot of laundry to do,” I say. She inhales quickly and blinks even faster. “Are you going to meet us for dinner after?” she asks, her voice quivering. “Where are you going?” If I go, I’ll have to see her with her lipstick sucked off her face, and I really don’t want to. She picks up a sticky pad and writes something down. I take it from her hand, which is shaking ever so slightly. “Are you all right?” She nods, looking everywhere but at me. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she says. I shove the note into my pocket, not even bothering to look at it. I ~ Tammy Falkner, #NFDB
430:Regan?"
"Where are you?"
"You called." He was so relieved to hear her voice ti took him a few seconds to catch up with the question. "I'm in Tennessee." Where else would he be?
"No, really? And here I thought you'd flown to the moon in the last week." She took a shuddering breath, some of the strength leaving her voice. "So, did you know you live in the woods? Like way out there. What the hell is wrong with you? Who chooses to live surrounded by rabid animals who are only too happy to eat your face off?"
How the hell did she know... Brock slammed on his brakes and nearly fishtailed off the highway. Thank God no one else was on the road or he would have caused a wreck. "Where are you?"
"I'd think that was obvious. I'm in your front yard, engaged in a staring contest with a squirrel."
"Do not move." He jerked the wheel and flipped a bitch in the middle of the road. "I'm coming."
"I'm not moving. I'm pretty sure this little beast will go for my throat the second I do. So... hurry. ~ Katee Robert,#NFDB
431:Where are you taking me?” Andrew demanded, whirling on the Ferryman. His muscles tensed, hands curling in and out of fists.
“To my master.” The voice was ghostly, whispers of black ash and death, words cold and detached.
He had an idea who that was but asked anyway: “And who is your master?”
No answer came.
Andrew’s insatiable rage rose up and swallowed his grief like a yawning ocean mouth, the darkest depths surging to the surface to form a mighty tidal wave. He closed the distance and seized the Ferryman’s gaunt wrist. There was no substance, no life beneath the cloak. The Ferryman slowly turned his hooded head, and Andrew found himself looking into the black hole of a self-contained night. The olfactory of decay was a punch in the face. Andrew released the Ferryman’s wrist and hastily stepped back, rocking the boat as he put distance between him and the unnatural wind spilling from the gaping orifice. Andrew shivered, the tiny hairs on his neck saluting. The cloaked head faced forward again, and the wind died away. ~ Laura Kreitzer,#NFDB
432:Okay, I’ll just go on to the next card.” He picks one up, pretending to read. “It says here, ‘Darling, is there life on Mars? Yes or no.’ ”
Mack has gone back to thinking about the paintings. “I say no,” he says absently.
“Hmmm,” says Quilty, putting the card down. “I think the answer is yes. Look at it this way: they’re sure there are ice crystals. And where there is ice, there is water. And where there is water, there is waterfront property. And where there is waterfront property, there are Jews!” He claps his hands and sinks back onto the acrylic quilting of the bedspread. “Where are you?” he asks finally, waving his arms out in the air.
“I’m here,” says Mack. “I’m right here.” But he doesn’t move.
“You’re here? Well, good. At least you’re not at my cousin Esther’s Martian lake house with her appalling husband, Howard. Though sometimes I wonder how they’re doing. How are they? They never come to visit. I frighten them so much.” He pauses. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Okay.”
“What do I look like? ~ Lorrie Moore,#NFDB
433:Madonna Of The Evening Flowers
All day long I have been working,
Now I am tired
I call: "Where are you?"
But there is only the oak-tree rustling in the wind.
The house is very quiet,
The sun shines in on your books,
On your scissors and thimble just put down,
But you are not there.
Suddenly I am lonely:
Where are you? I go about searching.
Then I see you,
Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur,
With a basket of roses on your arm.
You are cool, like silver,
And you smile.
I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes.
You tell me that the peonies need spraying,
That the columbines have overrun all bounds,
That the pyrus japonica should be cut back and rounded.
You tell me all these things.
But I look at you, heart of silver,
White heart-flame of polished silver,
Burning beneath the blue steeples of the larkspur,
And I long to kneel instantly at your feet,
While all about us peal the loud, sweet, Te Deums of the Canterbury bells.
~ Amy Lowell,#NFDB
434:MADONNA OF THE EVENING FLOWERS
All day long I have been working
Now I am tired.
I call: “Where are you?”
But there is only the oak tree rustling in the wind.
The house is very quiet,
The sun shines in on your books,
On your scissors and thimble just put down,
But you are not there.
Suddenly I am lonely:
Where are you?
I go about searching.
Then I see you,
Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur,
With a basket of roses on your arm.
You are cool, like silver,
And you smile.
I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes,
You tell me that the peonies need spraying,
That the columbines have overrun all bounds,
That the pyrus japonica should be cut back and rounded.
You tell me these things.
But I look at you, heart of silver,
White heart-flame of polished silver,
Burning beneath the blue steeples of the larkspur,
And I long to kneel instantly at your feet,
While all about us peal the loud, sweet Te Deums of the Canterbury bells ~ Amy Lowell,#NFDB
435:Ash!” I called, squinting through the rain and darkness, through the glow of the streetlamps that made it impossible to see more than a few feet. “Ash, I’m here! Where are you?”
“You’ll wake everyone up if you keep shouting like that.”
I whirled around. He stood where the portal had been, hands in his pockets, the rain drumming his shoulders and making his hair run into his eyes. Lamplight fell around him, shining off his slick coat, surrounding him with a faint nimbus of light. But to me, he’d never looked so real.
“You came after me,” he murmured, sounding awed, incredulous, and relieved at the same time. I walked up to him, smiling through my tears.
“You didn’t think I’d let you go off alone, did you?”
“I was hoping.” Ash stepped forward and hugged me, pulling me close with desperate relief. I slid my arms beneath his coat and held him tight, closing my eyes. The rain pounded us, and a lone car passed us on the road, spraying us with gutter water, but I felt no urge to move. As long as Ash held me, I could stay here forever. ~ Julie Kagawa,#NFDB
436:The Captain wouldn’t know donkeys from trained baboons. How can a sailor know of good breeding?” She narrowed her eyes and studied them again as if discovering something new this time. “But, then again, their posture is exceptional. They stare at me as if I were beneath them. But they’re filthy and smell like pigs. They need cleaning up, that’s for certain. A hot bath and scrubbed several times. Fresh clothes and clean hair… perhaps they might shape up into something presentable. You there.” She pointed at Rikar. “You look greatly displeased. Where are you from? Tell me your story.” Rikar raised his haughty eyes to the woman. “Who rules this place? We’re no slaves.“ The soldier cuffed Rikar. “Answer the lady!” “None of that violence is needed. Get out of here, I can handle them. Go on, now.” She shooed the soldier away and turned back to Rikar as if measuring his worth. “A young prince? The lot of you from royalty… I can see it in your eyes. The arrogance and the irritation. No slave would ever dare hold such feelings. What are you doing here in ~ John Forrester, #NFDB
437:Two amber eyes watched from the woods. Blinking against the sunshine, Thunder unsheathed his claws. He smelled tom. Tasting the air, he detected the odd scent of frost and stone. This cat wasn’t from around here. He narrowed his eyes, glimpsing the dark shape of a black cat, and growled as the stranger’s gaze flicked toward the sparrow. “Catch your own prey,” he warned. “That was my prey.” The tom padded forward, his paws clumsily scuffing the sandy earth as he stepped from the trees. Thunder’s pelt pricked. “What do you mean?” “I was stalking it when you caught it.” Unease flashed through Thunder. He hadn’t even realized he was being watched. He needed to be more careful on this new territory. But the tom did not seem angry. Thunder suddenly saw how his pelt hung off his skinny frame, and how his shoulders jutted like twigs beneath his fur. He recognized the look of hunger hollowing the cat’s eyes and glanced guiltily at the sparrow. “I didn’t realize.” Should he give up his catch? What about Thistle and Clover? They were hungry too. “Where are you from? ~ Erin Hunter, #NFDB
438:So you were checking up on me?" I aks
"No," Noah says. He puts a faux-shocked look on his face, then turns back to his magazine, pretending to be engrossed. I take the magazine our of his hand and toss it back onto the table.
"That's good," I say, "That you weren't checking up on me. Because I'm totally fine."
"I know." He shrugs.
"And I don't need to be checked up on."
"Definitely not."
"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."
"Perfectly."
"So we agree."
"Yup."
"So then where are you clothes?"
"What?"
"Your clothes," I say. "Where are your clothes? You came to the Laundromat so you must have some clothes." I fold my arms across my chest and wait,
"Oh, my clothes," he says, giving me an easy grin. "I didn't come here to do laundry."
"Oh, really?" I say. "The what were you here to do?"
"I was here," he says, rolling his eyes like it should be obvious, "so I could go across the street to Cooley's and check my schedule for the week."
"And you just happened to see me coming into the Laundromat?"
"Exactly, ~ Lauren Barnholdt,#NFDB
439:My head is throbbing. I need coffee. Leaving the marbled papers in a state of controlled chaos, I walk through the office and past the page's desk in the Reading Room. I am halted by Isabelle's voice saying, "Perhaps Mr. DeTamble can help you," by which she means "Henry, you weasel, where are you slinking off to?" and this astoundingly beautiful amber-haired tall slim girl turns around and looks at me as through I am her personal Jesus. My stomach lurches. Obviously she knows me, and I don't know her. Lord only knows what I've said, done, or promised to this luminous creature, so I am forced to say in my best librarianese, "Is there something I can help you with?" The girl sort of breathes "Henry!" in this very evocative way that convinces me that at some point in time we have a really amazing thing together. This makes it worse that I don't know anything about her, not even her name. I say "Have we met?" and Isabelle givs me a look that says You asshole. But the girl says, "I'm Claire Abshire. I knew you when I was a little girl," and invites me out to dinner. I accept, stunned. ~ Audrey Niffenegger, #NFDB
440:As the four young women proceeded to a hallway leading toward the morning room, they encountered Lord St. Vincent, who was strolling in the opposite direction. Elegant and dazzling in his normal clothes, he paused and regarded Evie with a caressing smile.
"You appear to be escaping from something," he remarked.
"We are," Evie told her husband.
St. Vincent slid his arm around Evie's waist and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, "Where are you going?"
Evie thought for a moment. 'Somewhere to powder Daisy's nose."
The viscount gave Daisy a dubious glance. "It takes all four of you? But it's such a little nose."
"We'll only be a few minutes, my lord," Evie said. "Will you make excuses for us?"
St. Vincent laughed gently. "I have an endless supply, my love," he assured her. Before he let go of his wife, he turned her to face him and kissed her forehead. For the briefest of moments, his graceful hand touched low on her midriff. The subtle gesture went unnoticed by the others.
But Daisy saw, and she knew at once what it meant. 'Evie has a secret,' she thought, and smiled. ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
441:After a few moments, her eyes became as glossy as his and she also spoke in complete nonsense. “Who are you?” Mother Goose asked the caterpillar. “What I am,” he said. “Where are you?” she said. “Here with you,” the caterpillar said. “And if this were the Castle of Hearts?” Mother Goose asked. “We’d be there,” he said. “But where?” she asked. “In the castle,” he said. “Ah, so there would be here,” she said, and they nodded together. “Here would be what’s left.” The caterpillar nodded. “Am I what’s left?” she asked. “You’re what’s right, of course.” “But what’s right is wrong.” “And what’s left is right.” “I understand completely,” Mother Goose said. “Thank you so much, Mr. Caterpillar.” The others stared at them absolutely dumbfounded. Mother Goose hopped down from the mushroom and moseyed back to them. “The caterpillar said to go back to the fork and take a left,” she said. “He did?” Alex asked. “It’s all about the keywords,” Mother Goose said. “I used to be friends with a sultan who enjoyed the hookah, too. Lester, I’m going to need you to carry me the rest of the way – I’m awfully tired. ~ Chris Colfer, #NFDB
442:As I exclaimed 'Jane! Jane! Jane!' a voice- I cannot tell whence the voice came, but I know whose voice it was- replied, 'I am coming: wait for me;' and a moment after, went whispering on the wind the words- 'Where are you?' "I'll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture these words opened to my mind: yet it is difficult to express what I want to express. Ferndean is buried, as you see, in a heavy wood, where sound falls dull, and dies unreverberating. 'Where are you?' seemed spoken amongst mountains; for I heard a hill-sent echo repeat the words. Cooler and fresher at the moment the gale seemed to visit my brow: I could have deemed that in some wild, lone scene, I and Jane were meeting. In spirit, I believe we must have met. You no doubt were, at that hour, in unconscious sleep, Jane: perhaps your soul wandered from its cell to comfort mine; for those were your accents- as certain as I live- they were yours!" Reader, it was on Monday night- near midnight- that I too had received the mysterious summons: those were the very words by which I replied to it.
(Mr. Rochester and Jane Eyre) ~ Charlotte Bront,#NFDB
443:However, DROs as a whole really need to keep track of people who have opted out of the entire DRO system, since those people have clearly signaled their intention to go rogue and live “off the grid.” Thus if you cancel your DRO insurance, your name goes into a database available to all DROs. If you sign up with another DRO, no problem, your name is taken out. However, if you do not sign up with any other DRO, red flags pop up all over the system. What happens then? Remember – there is no public property in a stateless society. If you’ve gone rogue, where are you going to go? You can’t take a bus – bus companies will not take rogues, because their DRO will require that they take only DRO-covered passengers, in case of injury or altercation. Want to fill up on gas? No luck, for the same reason. You can try hitchhiking, of course, which might work, but what happens when you get to your destination and try to rent a motel room? No DRO card, no luck. Want to sleep in the park? Parks are privately owned, so keep moving. Getting hungry? No groceries, no restaurants – no food! What are you going to do? ~ Stefan Molyneux, #NFDB
444:The fundamental text of the Hindu tradition is, of course, the Bhagavad Gītā; and there four basic yogas are described. The word yoga itself, from a Sanskrit verbal root yuj, meaning “to yoke, to link one thing to another,” refers to the act of linking the mind to the source of mind, consciousness to the source of consciousness; the import of which definition is perhaps best illustrated in the discipline known as knowledge yoga, the yoga, that is to say, of discrimination between the knower and the known, between the subject and the object in every act of knowing, and the identification of oneself, then, with the subject. “I know my body. My body is the object. I am the witness, the knower of the object. I, therefore, am not my body.” Next: “I know my thoughts; I am not my thoughts.” And so on: “I know my feelings; I am not my feelings.” You can back yourself out of the room that way. And the Buddha then comes along and adds: “You are not the witness either. There is no witness.” So where are you now? Where are you between two thoughts? That is the way known as jñāna yoga, the way of sheer knowledge. ~ Joseph Campbell, #NFDB
445:If we don’t get in your car and start driving, right now, I’m going to be tempted to take you into that alcove, right over there” – he paused to turn his chin toward the small, bricked archway leading up to the bakery’s side door, cloaked by just enough shadow to keep it hidden to anyone passing by on the street – “undo this infernal sweater of yours, and put my mouth on you until you come so hard, you can’t stand up. So, please. Can we get out of here?”
“Mmm.” Charlie arched against him for just a split second before using the leverage of her hands on his shoulders to swing him around. But rather than head toward her car, now a dozen paces from where they stood on the sidewalk, she turned in the other direction, away from the street.
“Where are you going?” Parked asked, his confusion turning to shock a beat later as her destination became clear.
Charlie paused in front of the archway leading into the shadows. “I’ve been dying for you to make me come all night,” she said over one shoulder, a sweetly wicked gleam in her eyes. “If you think I’m going to turn down a promise like that, you’re out of your mind. ~ Kimberly Kincaid,#NFDB
446:If we don’t get in your car and start driving, right now, I’m going to be tempted to take you into that alcove, right over there” – he paused to turn his chin toward the small, bricked archway leading up to the bakery’s side door, cloaked by just enough shadow to keep it hidden to anyone passing by on the street – “undo this infernal sweater of yours, and put my mouth on you until you come so hard, you can’t stand up. So, please. Can we get out of here?”
“Mmm.” Charlie arched against him for just a split second before using the leverage of her hands on his shoulders to swing him around. But rather than head toward her car, now a dozen paces from where they stood on the sidewalk, she turned in the other direction, away from the street.
“Where are you going?” Parked asked, his confusion turning to shock a beat later as her destination became clear.
Charlie paused in front of the archway leading into the shadows. “I’ve been dying for you to make me come all night,” she said over one shoulder, a sweetly wicked gleam in her eyes. “If you think I’m going to turn down a promise like that, you’re out of your mind. ~ Kimberly Kincaid,#NFDB
447:Desire radiated from him. It radiated out into the darkness and seemed to find the four walls of this enclosing place, and he turned around waiting, waiting.
"Love you?" came Guido's voice. It was so low Tonio strained forward, as if yearning for it. "Love you?"
Yes..."Tonio answered.
"I am in a hell of desire for you! Have you never guessed? Have you never looked beneath the coldness? Are you so blind to this suffering? In all my life I have never wooed and suffered as I have over you. But there is love and love, and I am spent trying to separate the one from the other..."
"Dont' separate them!" Tonio whispered. And he reached out like a child, grasping for what he wanted. "Give it to me! Where are you? Maestro, where are you?"
There seemed a rush of air, a soft shuffling of garments and steps, and he felt the near smarting touch of Guido's hands hands that in the past had only struck him, and then those arms enclosing him. And in this moment, he understood everything.
But that was but the last glimmer of thought, and he knew just how it had been and how it would be, and he felt Guido's chest, and then Guido's mouth tore at him. ~ Anne Rice,#NFDB
448:You want to stay here and sleep your life away? That's it?"
"If you knew what would make you happy, wouldn't you do it?" I asked her.
"See, you do want to be happy. Then why did you tell me that being happy is dumb?" she asked. "You said that to me more than once."
"Let me be dumb," I said, glugging the NyQuil. "You go be smart and tell me how great it is. I'll be here, hibernating."
Reva rolled her eyes.
"It's natural," I told her. "People used to hibernate all the time."
"People never hibernated. Where are you getting this?"
She could look really pathetic when she was outraged. She got up and stood there holding her stupid knockoff Kate Spade bag or whatever it was, her hair pulled back into a ponytail and crowned with a useless, plastic, tortoiseshell headband. She was always getting her hair blown out, her eyebrows waxed into thin, arched, parentheses, her fingernails painted various shades of pink and purple, as though all of this made her a wonderful person.
"It's not up for discussion, Reva. This is what I'm doing. If you can't accept it, then you don't have to. ~ Ottessa Moshfegh,#NFDB
449:Where are you going?”
“Uh,” said Kami, eyeballing her wildly. “I’m going to buy some drugs.”
Lillian stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“This is a really stressful time for everyone,” said Kami. “So I thought maybe I could buy a little weed, take the edge off. I might be a while. This is a very clean-living town, apart from all the murders, so I don’t actually know any drug dealers. I realize Jared kind of looks like one, but he’s not, which is a shame because I think the drug dealer’s girlfriend gets her drugs free.”
“I realize you are attempting to be humorous,” said Lillian, after a pause during which she stared some more. “I don’t understand it.”
“Hey, you’re not the only family with a legacy. ‘Glass’ rhymes with ‘sass.’ Have you met my dad?”
“I have had that dubious pleasure,” said Lillian. “He is, in fact, meant to be meeting me in order to, and I quote, ‘teach me to integrate better with society, display leadership skills, win over the populace, and stop acting like a robot princess from space.’ I admit that the humor in his humor escapes me as well.” She paused and suddenly looked determined. “I’m going to start without him. ~ Sarah Rees Brennan,#NFDB
450:Patience
Patience and Love agreed to meet at a set time and place; beneath the twenty-third tree in the olive orchard. Patience arrived promptly and waited. She checked her watch every so often but still, there was no sign of Love.
Was it the twenty-third tree or the fifty-sixth? She wondered and decided to check, just in case. As she made her way over to the fifty-sixth tree, Love arrived at twenty-three, where Patience was noticeably absent.
Love waited and waited before deciding he must have the wrong tree and perhaps it was another where they were supposed to meet.
Meanwhile, Patience had arrived at the fifty-sixth tree, where Love was still nowhere to be seen.
Both begin to drift aimlessly around the olive orchard, almost meeting but never do.
Finally, Patience, who was feeling lost and resigned, found herself beneath the same tree where she began. She stood there for barely a minute when there was a tap on her shoulder.
It was Love.
..................................
“Where are you?” She asked. “I have been searching all my life.” “Stop looking for me,” Love replied, “and I will find you. ~ Lang Leav,#NFDB
451:To her surprise, Linc was waiting around the first curve on the road, listening to the radio. She could see his hand tapping a beat on the back of the other seat. Kenzie slowed her car to a stop when their windows lined up.
He rolled his down. “Hey. How’d it go?”
“No big deal. I handed the papers to his temp assistant. What the hell are you doing here?”
Linc studied her face. “I wanted to see if the beacon I put on your car was working.”
She should have known. “Is that necessary?”
“The readout is on this.” He tapped the face of his watch.
“I can’t see. And I don’t believe you.” Kenzie put her car into park, got out, and walked around.
He turned his wrist to show her. “Check it out. Your dot merged into my dot.”
“Isn’t that sweet.”
He grinned. “It’s not a problem to remove the beacon if you don’t like it.”
“No. It’s all right. You’re the only person who knows where I am most of the time now.”
That didn’t seem to have occurred to him. “Really?”
She nodded.
“So where are you off to?”
Kenzie shot him a mocking look. “You don’t have to ask, do you?”
Linc laughed. “The beacon can’t read your mind.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thank God for that. ~ Janet Dailey,#NFDB
452:Yo, Y.T.," Roadkill says, " 'sup?"
"'Sup with you?"
"Surfing the Tura. 'Sup with you?"
"Maxing The Clink."
"Whoa! Who popped you?"
"MetaCops. Affixed me to the gate of White Columns with a loogie gun."
"Whoa, how very! When you leaving?"
"Soon. Can you swing by and give me a hand?"
"What do you mean?"
Men. "You know, give me a hand. You're my boyfriend," she says, speaking very
simply and plainly. "If I get popped, you're supposed to come around and help
bust me out." Isn't everyone supposed to know this stuff? Don't parents teach
their kids anything anymore?
"Well, uh, where are you?"
"Buy 'n' Fly number 501,762."
"I'm on my way to Bernie with a super-ultra."
As in San Bernardino. As in super-ultra-high-priority delivery. As in, you're
out of luck.
"Okay, thanks for nothing."
"Awwww," he begins.
"Surfing safety," Y.T. says, in the traditional sarcastic sign off.
"Keep breathing," Roadkill says. The roaring noise snaps off.
What a jerk. Next date, he's really going to have to grovel. But in the
meantime, there's one other person who owes her one. The only problem is that
he might be a spaz. But it's worth a try. ~ Neal Stephenson,#NFDB
453:I’m so sad,” I tell her. “I miss him.” “This self-pity isn’t doing you any favors. Where are you?” “In my neighborhood.” “Want to get a manicure?” She picks me up in her car and we drive to Long Island, where she’s from and manicures are really cheap. I choose orange. On the way home, we stop for iced coffee. “Hannah.” She talks fast. I know she speaks from love. “As we recover, we change. We learn to respect ourselves. We learn to live with integrity. I used to date the most awful men.” “Like Nick?” “Oh, I’ve had my share of Nicks.” “So how do you stop the Nicks?” I think of Corey, Ari, Josh. Something is different with Nick. He has gotten way under my skin. Just thinking of him makes my heart feel mangled. “Time. Recovery. Kindness. Honesty.” She makes it sound so simple. “I know he’s a mess. But he really loves me.” “Oh, girl.” Faith takes a long sip of her iced coffee. “Men are going to love you. People are going to love you. Do you know why?” “I have no idea.” “Because you are lovable. You might not know that yet, but the sooner you know it, the better.” “I don’t feel particularly lovable.” “Trust me,” she says. “You are plenty lovable. The trick is finding the person you want to love back. ~ Hannah Howard, #NFDB
454:Clarisse would have ignored him if it were not for the fact that as she passed, he took something long, white and oddly familiar from his coat and proceeded to chew on it, as on a peppermint stick. Its end devoured, his extraordinary tongue darted within the white confection, sucking out the filling, making contented noises. He was still crunching his goody as she proceeded up the sidewalk to her house, turned the doorknob and walked in. "Darling?" she called, smiling around. "Darling, where are you?" She shut the door, walked down the hall and into the living room. "Darling. . ." She stared at the floor for twenty seconds, trying to understand. She screamed. Outside in the sycamore darkness, the little man pierced a long white stick with intermittent holes; then, softly, sighing, his lips puckered, played a little sad tune upon the improvised instrument to accompany the shrill and awful singing of Clarisse's voice as she stood in the living room. Many times as a little girl Clarisse had run on the beach sands, stepped on a jellyfish and screamed. It was not so bad, finding an intact, gelatin-skinned jellyfish in one's living room. One could step back from it. It was when the jellyfish called you by name . . . ~ Ray Bradbury, #NFDB
455:We arrived from New York after a daylong slog through airports and planes and traffic. It was 10: 00 p.m. local time, but my body had no idea if it was night or day. Krishna was hungry, so I found some leftover dosa batter in the kitchen and started making one for her. Next thing I knew, my grandmother was by my side, commandeering the griddle. “Let me do it,” she said. “You don’t know where anything is.” I insisted, but she won, even though by then she cooked with only one arm, the other still paralyzed from the stroke. Then my aunt Papu came in and yelped, “You’re making your grandma cook?” She was appalled. “It’s ten at night!” Papu took over, my grandmother wouldn’t leave, and my uncle Ravi entered the fray. “Look at you,” he said. “You’re supposed to be this famous food person and you’re making these women cook at ten o’clock!” I quickly remembered how it felt to live with so many people. Every move you make is scrutinized. You get up and it’s “Where are you going?” You come back and it’s “Why are you wearing that blouse? I like the other one better.” You walk outside and someone calls from the veranda, “Don’t go that way, there’s too much sun!” It was exasperating and suffocating and God, I had missed it. ~ Padma Lakshmi, #NFDB
456:O where are you going with your love-locks flowing
On the west wind bellowing along this valley track?”
“The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,
We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.”
So they two went together in glowing August weather,
The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right;
And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float on
The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.
“Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven,
Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?”
“Oh, that’s a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous,
An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt>”
“Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly,
Their scent comes rich and sickly?” “A scaled and hooded worm.”
”Oh, what’s that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?”
“Oh, that’s a thin dead body which waits the eternal term.”
“Turn again, O my sweetest,--turn again, false and fleetest:
This beaten way thou beatest, I fear is hell’s own track.”
“Nay, too steep for hill mounting; nay, too late for cost counting:
This downhill path is easy, but there’s no turning back. ~ Christina Rossetti,#NFDB
457:A loud bang brought Harry back to where he stood: Disoriented, he raised his wand, but the witch before him was already falling forward; she hit the ground so hard that the glass in the bookcases tinkled.
“I’ve never Stunned anyone except in our D.A. lessons,” said Luna, sounding mildly interested. “That was noisier than I thought it would be.”
And sure enough, the ceiling had begun to tremble. Scurrying, echoing footsteps were growing louder from behind the door leading to the dormitories: Luna’s spell had woken Ravenclaws sleeping above.
“Luna, where are you? I need to get under the Cloak!”
Luna’s feet appeared out of nowhere; he hurried to her side and she let the Cloak fall back over them as the door opened and a stream of Ravenclaws, all in their nightclothes, flooded into the common room. There were gasps and cries of surprise as they saw Alecto lying there unconscious. Slowly they shuffled in around her, a savage beast that might wake at any moment and attack them. Then one brave little first-year darted up to her and prodded her backside with his big toe.
“I think she might be dead!” he shouted with delight.
“Oh, look,” whispered Luna happily, as the Ravenclaws crowded in around Alecto. “They’re pleased! ~ J K Rowling,#NFDB
458:SUPPOSING I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?
You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.
When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading Ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading.
But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child?
When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
"Where have you been, you naughty child?"
"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say then.
~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Champa Flower
,#NFDB
459:He glances over his shoulder, no doubt hearing my insanely loud shoes stop in their tracks. Then he looks again. It’s a double take for the record books.
“I’m out stalking,” I call. It doesn’t come out the way I’d intended. It’s not lighthearted or funny. It comes out like a warning. I’m one scary bitch right now. I hold my hands up to show I’m not armed. My heart is racing.
“Me too,” he replies. Another cab cruises past like a shark.
“Where are you actually going?” My voice rings down the empty street.
“I just told you. I’m going out stalking.”
“What, on foot?” I come closer by another six paces. “You were going to walk?”
“I was going to run down the middle of the street like the Terminator.”
The laugh blasts out of me like bah.I’m breaking one of my rules by grinning at him, but I can’t seem to stop.
“You’re on foot, after all. Stilts.” He gestures at my sky-high shoes.
“It gives me a few extra inches of height to look through your garbage.”
“Find anything of interest?” He strolls closer and stops until we have maybe ten paces between us. I can almost pick up the scent of his skin.
“Pretty much what I was expecting. Vegetable scraps, coffee grounds, adult diapers. ~ Sally Thorne,#NFDB
460:Puppy And I
I met a Man as I went walking:
We got talking,
Man and I.
'Where are you going to, Man?' I said
(I said to the Man as he went by).
'Down to the village, to get some bread.
Will you come with me?' 'No, not I.'
I met a horse as I went walking;
We got talking,
Horse and I.
'Where are you going to, Horse, today?'
(I said to the Horse as he went by).
'Down to the village to get some hay.
Will you come with me?' 'No, not I.'
I met a Woman as I went walking;
We got talking,
Woman and I.
'Where are you going to, Woman, so early?'
(I said to the Woman as she went by).
'Down to the village to get some barley.
Will you come with me?' 'No, not I.'
I met some Rabbits as I went walking;
We got talking,
Rabbits and I.
'Where are you going in your brown fur coats?'
(I said to the Rabbits as they went by).
'Down to the village to get some oats.
Will you come with us?' 'No, not I.'
I met a Puppy as I went walking;
We got talking,
Puppy and I.
'Where are you going this nice fine day?'
(I said to the Puppy as he went by).
'Up to the hills to roll and play.'
'I'll come with you, Puppy,' said I.
34
~ Alan Alexander Milne,#NFDB
461:Daniel saw dancing lights, and thought they were Cleo, but the lights raced toward him, right up to his face, then tromboned away fast as a gunshot, then snapped into hyper-sharp focus. Daniel saw branches. Branches, pine needles, twisted gnarled deformed warped scrub oak branches like arthritic fingers with leaves. Tobey cried, “Daniel?” Cleo whimpered, “Daniel?” Daniel felt himself shrinking, like the world was growing larger and he was getting smaller, and Tobey and Cleo were farther away. Daniel said, “Guys?” Tobey said, “We’re looking, dude, where are you?” Cleo said, “Daniel, aniel?” Daniel struggled to get up. He fought like a werewolf with a zombie eating its neck, but the zombie was winning. “Tobey? Cleo? Where are you, you, you?” Daniel tried to keep his eyes open, but the light grew so bright it turned black. Tobey screamed, “Daniel, come back!” Cleo shrieked, “Where is he, is he, is he?” Daniel tried to answer, but could not, and knew the boys heard only silence. Tobey said, “Cleo?” Cleo said, “Tobey?” “Going?” “Gone.” “. . .” “. . .” Daniel no longer felt his body, or the earth beneath him, or the air that kissed his skin. He felt like nothing within nothing, and knew he would miss the guys, Cleo and Tobey, his only true and dear friends. ~ Robert Crais, #NFDB
462:I scrambled off the water buffalo, biting back a wince as I struggled for some balance. Catching my breath, I backed away from Amar. In the shadows, the hood over his face glinted sinister.
“Do not come near me!” I hissed.
Amar halted.
“Let me explain,” he began. “I understand that this is not--”
I lunged for a stick and brandished it at him.
“Who are you?”
Amar laughed. “A stick? I’ve brought you to the Night Bazaar; do you really think a stick would protect you?” I gripped the stick harder. “Not that you need protection from me,” he added quickly.
“Who are you?”
“Amar.”
“Where are you from?”
“Akaran.”
I gave him a hard look, but I wasn’t sure how much he could see through his covering. “What are you?”
He drew himself up. “A raja and your husband.”
There was no hesitation in his voice.
“Why have you brought me here?” My voice shook. I couldn’t stop staring at the Night Bazaar. There it was. And here I was. Standing on the same plot of land shared with beings that--until now--had only existed in stories. “What do you want from me?”
He stopped. The smile was gone from his lips.
“I want your perspective and honesty,” he said, before adding in a softer voice, “I want to be humbled by you. ~ Roshani Chokshi,#NFDB
463:Amor Mundi
'Oh, where are you going with your love-locks flowing
On the west wind blowing along this valley track?'
'The downhill path is easy, come with me an' it please ye,
We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.'
So they two went together in glowing August weather,
The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right;
And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float on
The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.
'Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven,
Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?'
'Oh, that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous,—
An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt.'
'Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly,
Their scent comes rich and sickly?'—'A scaled and hooded worm.'
'Oh, what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?'
'Oh, that's a thin dead body which waits th' eternal term.'
'Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest:
This way whereof thou weetest I fear is hell's own track.'
'Nay, too steep for hill-mounting,—nay, too late for cost-counting:
This downhill path is easy, but there's no turning back.'
~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,#NFDB
464:Hunter bent his head and pressed his face against her hair. The next instant she felt his lips on her neck. She also felt his hand on her posterior. Frustrated by her high neckline and her full skirts, he made a fist in the calico.
“So much wannup. Where are you, Blue Eyes?”
He started to lift her dress. Loretta reached behind her and caught his hand. “Wha--what’re you doin’?”
He lifted his head, eyes alight with teasing mischief. “I search for my woman. You are in there.”
“I’m not your woman yet. Have you no shame? It’s broad daylight. People might see.”
“They will see you are my woman.”
“They’ll see my drawers, that’s what they’ll see!”
He abandoned his hold on her skirt to run his palm up her back. “No bones. That is good.”
Loretta’s face flamed when she realized he was referring to the whale bones of a corset. A decent man didn’t mention such things. “You haven’t brought me Amy,” she reminded him. “Our bargain doesn’t start until you do.”
“I have spoken it. It is done.”
“Amy first.”
Before she realized what he was about to do, he swept her off her feet and put her on the horse, then leaped up behind her. Cinching an arm around her waist, he bent his head and said, “This Comanche will sure enough find her quick. ~ Catherine Anderson,#NFDB
465:We probably won’t arrive home in time for your wedding.”
She pictured the wedding gown hanging in her closet. The veil. The shoes. Even the strands of pearls, all laid out awaiting her return. Return. The heavy word weighed on her as Ira continued to snore and Oscar continued to study her in a way that made her feel captivating and beautiful.
Camille stood up, not sure if she’d been inching toward him. His lips had certainly seemed to be getting closer.
“Randall will understand, I’m sure. He’s a very reasonable person,” she said, her voice rapid.
Oscar started to stand. “Where are you going?”
“No, please, sit,” she said. “I…I just need to, um, use the trees.” Camille jiggled her nearly empty canteen to strengthen her excuse. She turned in a circle until she spotted a copse of trees. She had to be somewhere other than hidden in the flowers with Oscar, somewhere she could try and convince herself that Randall might one day be able to look at her with the same intensity Oscar had just displayed.
Oscar sat back down, and Camille trampled the grass on the way to the safety of the trees. Another attack of guilt snuck up on her as she glanced back at Oscar, who was watching her walk away. Camille would miss her own wedding-and she didn’t care one bit. ~ Angie Frazier,#NFDB
466:Going For A Drive
The watchman waves. The garage door
stutters open. It’s dark inside, dark. Grope for a switch.
‘Where are you going?’ We’re going somewhere not dark,
somewhere clear and sunlit,
where the frank wind touches our faces. The watchman
brushes open the gate by habit.
Leaves—wrinkled, yellow tongues—pastiche
the driveway by habit. When you turn the key, the car
throbs, and there’s a sharp, bitter aura of petrol.
Then light a cigarette. A point glows
like an ache for the past. When was I last with you in this car,
in this closed space?
Outside, wind and dust glaze the windows. Young, I loved
that smell
of fuel washing the car-intestine, its suddenness,
vits spontaneous personality.
I grew intimate with its bitter exactness. In every derelict
service station, or among ruined despondent engines,
or bleary pools in dumps
with rainbows
in their eyes,
I inspired that fragrance. It was everywhere, it was
a wise spirit, a timeless,
unromantic, amor mundi spirit,
haunting the dark cogs and the pistons
like despair, or love,
or one of those emotions I wouldn’t experience with clarity
until long after,
and not even then.
[From St Cyril Road and other poems]
~ Amit Chaudhuri,#NFDB
467:Then he started fucking, his hips pistoning in a relentless tempo, his long thick cock plunging and withdrawing from root to tip in rapid-fire thrusts. Supporting his weight entirely with his arms and the tips of his toes, he powered into me, his rigid penis nailing me straight into the mattress. I came so hard my vision went black, my body seized with pleasure so intense I was locked in it, suspended in the powerful waves of erotic sensation. I was inundated by the ferocious surge of my climax. My skin tingled from head to toe. Gideon paused on a downstroke, grinding into me, giving my body the steely length of his penis to grasp. My sex spasmed ecstatically around that delicious hardness, gripping him hungrily. “Fuck,” Gideon bit out, “you’re milking my dick so hard.” I shook violently, fighting to breathe. The moment I sagged into the mattress, replete, Gideon pulled his cock out of my trembling slit and left the bed. Bereft, I lifted a hand to him. “Where are you going?” “Hang on.” He shoved his boxer briefs all the way off. He was still hard, his cock rising high and proud, slick from my orgasm—but I wasn’t wet with his. “You didn’t come.” I was too languid to help when he stripped me of my underwear. Sliding a hand beneath my back, he lifted me and whipped my shirt over my head. His ~ Sylvia Day, #NFDB
468:We don't have to do this," I said.
His jaw set in a way that reminded me of how he'd look some times back in grade school, standing around the fringes of s kickball game or on that bench by Mr. Lloyd's room. "We do, though."
I shook my head, staring at the house. Right then, a woman walked out, carrying a bag of trash. "Let's ask her if we can go in," Cameron said.
"Go in?"
He turned to me. "Yeah."
I lowered my voice to a whisper. "Shouldn't we, like, talk about it first? About what happened?"
"Why? We know what happened."
"I can't."
"But I'm with you. We're together."
My eyes filled. He looked out the window. The woman went back in the house and closed the door. "We can come back some other time," I said, "after we've talked." I put the car in drive. "Let's go somewhere. Coffee. Something."
"Doesn't matte." His jaw was set again, his voice dead flat.
"It does matter, Cameron. That's the point. If it didn't matter I could just go in right now. I'm not ready. You can't just show up after all these years and expect me to be ready." He opened the door and started to get out. "Wait, where are you going?"
"Sorry I came here and messed up your life."
"That's not what I said!" But he was out of the car, walking down the block, away from me. ~ Sara Zarr,#NFDB
469:Ieronym took hold of the cable with both hands, curved himself into a question mark, and grunted. The ferry creaked and lurched. The silhouette of the peasant in the tall hat slowly began to recede from me--which meant that the ferry was moving. Soon Ieronym straightened up and began working with one hand. We were silent and looked at the bank towards which we were now moving. There the "lumination" which the peasant had been waiting for was already beginning. At the water's edge, barrels of pitch blazed like huge bonfires. Their reflection, crimson as the rising moon, crept to meet us in long, wide stripes. The burning barrels threw light on their own smoke and on the long human shadows that flitted about the fire; but further to the sides and behind them, where the velvet ringing rushed from, was the same impenetrable darkness. Suddenly slashing it open, the golden ribbon of a rocket soared skywards; it described an arc and, as if shattering against the sky, burst and came sifting down in sparks. On the bank a noise was heard resembling a distant "hoorah."
"How beautiful," I said.
"It's even impossible to say how beautiful!" sighed Ieronym. "It's that kind of night, sir! At other times you don't pay attention to rockets, but now any vain thing makes you glad. Where are you from? ~ Anton Chekhov,#NFDB
470:MY WOMAN
My woman came with me as far as Brest,
she got off the train and stayed on the platform,
she grew smaller and smaller,
she became a kernel of wheat in the infinite blue,
then all I could see were the tracks.
Then she called out from Poland, but I couldn't answer,
I couldn't ask, "Where are you, my rose, where are you?"
"Come," she said, but I couldn't reach her,
the train was going like it would never stop,
I was choking with grief.
Then patches of snow were rotting on sandy earth,
and suddenly I knew my woman was watching :
"Did you forget me," she asked, "did you forget me?"
Spring marched with muddy bare feet on the sky.
Then stars lighted on the telegraph wires,
darkness dashed the train like rain,
my woman stood under the telegraph poles,
her heart pounding as if she were in my arms,
the poles kept disappearing, she didn't move,
the train was going like it would never stop,
I was choking with grief.
Then suddenly I knew I'd been on that train for years
- I'm still amazed at how or why I knew it -
and always singing the same great song of hope,
I'm forever leaving the cities and women I love,
and carrying my losses like wounds opening inside me,
I'm getting closer, closer to somewhere. ~ N z m Hikmet Ran,#NFDB
471:seven months that she had gone without him had just been a haze and those precious moments with him were her clarity. She remembered all too clearly what it felt like to walk through the world feeling as if she had walked out of Technicolor into black and white. That was life with and without Brady. By the time she was supposed to meet with Savannah for dinner, Liz was just happy to have an excuse not to have to be around Hayden. He knew she was off. Her focus was shot, and half of the time it felt as if she were listening to him underwater. She told him that she was having dinner with Savannah, which got her raised eyebrows from Hayden. “Where are you going?” Hayden asked curiously. Liz shrugged. “I don’t know. She just asked if I wanted to go.” “Strange.” “Is it?” Liz asked, wrapping her arms around her middle. She couldn’t seem to get herself straight. “I mean, I know y’all are friends, but I didn’t think you guys really hung out like that.” Liz shrugged again. She didn’t know what else to do. “She asked me. I said I’d go.” “Are y’all meeting anyone else?” he asked. He seemed to be trying for casual, but they had been together too long for her not to get what he was asking. “I don’t think so.” She really had no idea. “Not her brother?” Liz’s eyes bulged. There was no fucking way that was happening. “No. Why ~ K A Linde, #NFDB
472:There passed a child of four, a small girl on a footpath over the fields, going home in the evening to Erl. They looked at each other with round eyes.
"Hullo," said the child.
"Hullo, child of men," said the troll.
. . . "What are you?" said the child.
"A troll of Elfland," answered the troll.
"So I thought," said the child.
"Where are you going, child of men?" the troll asked.
"To the houses," the child replied.
"We don't want to go there," said the troll.
"N-no," said the child.
"Come to Elfland," the troll said.
The child thought for a while. Other children had gone, and the elves always sent a changeling in their place, so that nobody quite missed them and nobody really knew. She thought awhile of the wonder and wildness of Elfland, and then of her own house.
"N-no," said the child.
"Why not?" said the troll.
"Mother made a jam roll this morning," said the child. And she walked on gravely home. Had it not been for that chance jam roll she had gone to Elfland.
"Jam!" said the troll contemptuously and thought of the tarns of Elfland, the great lily-leaves lying flat upon their solemn waters, the huge blue lilies towering into the elf-light above the green deep tarns: for jam this child had forsaken them! ~ Lord Dunsany,#NFDB
473:DJ, are you awake?
Freaking elf. “Go home, Rand.”
I am home. Where are you?
I frowned and burrowed my face into the soft down pillow. Which wasn’t my pillow.
Holy crap. What had happened?
I sat up and took in several observations at once, none of which made sense and all of which sent my heart rate jack-rabbiting hard enough to send my blood pressure into the ozone.
First, I was lying beneath a heavy bedspread woven in a rich blue-and-cream print. The bed was an elaborate confection made to look like an antique half-tester, and a brass chandelier hung overhead.
I recognized the Hotel Monteleone. I recognized Jean Lafitte’s bedroom in the posh Eudora Welty Suite in the Monteleone. I didn’t have a clue as to how I got here.
Second, I wore only underwear. My clothes were thrown across a chair in the corner. I had no recollection of removing them.
Third, the pillow next to mine still held the clear indentation of a head, and there was water running behind the closed bathroom door.
What in God’s name had I done?
Rand! Where are you? So help me, if that elf was behind this, I’d splay him open like a catfish and watch his guts fall on the floor. Then I’d batter and deep-fry him.
God, Dru. Stop shrieking like an elven shrew. I think you got too cold and went into a survival state. ~ Suzanne Johnson,#NFDB
474:Hey,” Marlboro Man said. “Where are you?”
Like I knew. I was somewhere between my house and his. “Oh…somewhere between my house and yours,” I said, copping to my directional cluelessness.
He chuckled. “Okay, let me put it this way: are you more than halfway to my house? Or have you not gone that far?” He was already learning to speak my language.
“Umm…,” I said, looking around and trying to remember what time I’d left my house. “I would say…I would say…I’m exactly halfway there.”
“Okay,” he said, his smile evident through the phone. “When you get somewhere in the vicinity of the ranch, I want you to meet me at my brother’s house.”
Gulp. Your brother’s house? You mean, we actually have to introduce other people into our relationship? You mean, there are other people in the world besides us? I’m sorry. I forgot.
“Oh, okay!” I said, enthusiastically, checking my makeup in the rearview mirror. “Um…how do I get there?” I felt butterflies in my gut.
“Okay, about a mile and a half before my turnoff, you’ll see a white gate on the north side of the highway,” he instructed. “You’ll need to turn and head down that road a half mile or so, and his house is right there.”
“Okay…,” I said tentatively.
“Make sense?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied, pausing. “But…um…which way is north?”
I was only halfway kidding. ~ Ree Drummond,#NFDB
475:STANKEVICH The world outside of me has no meaning independent of my thinking it. (pauses to look) I look out of the window. A garden. Trees. Grass. A young woman in a chair reading a book. I think: chair. So she is sitting. I think: book. So she is reading. Now the young woman touches her hair where it's come undone. But how can we be sure there is a world of phenomena, a woman reading in a garden? Perhaps the only thing that's real is my sensory experience, which has the form of a woman reading- in a universe which is in fact empty! But Immanuel Kant says- no! Because what I perceive as reality includes concepts which I cannot experience through the senses. Time and space. Cause and effect. Relations between things. Without me there is something wrong with this picture. The trees, the grass, the woman are merely- oh, she's coming! (nervously)- she's coming in here-! I say, don't leave!-where are you going?
MICHAEL Father's looking for me anyway. . .(gloomily) I've had to ask him to settle a few debts here and there in the world of appearances, so now he's been busy getting me a job.
Liubov enters from the garden, with her book.
LIUBOV Oh!-(noticing Stankevich) Excuse me-
MICHAEL Nobody seems to understand Stankevich and I are engaged in a life-or-death struggle over material forces to unite our spirit with the Universal ~ Tom Stoppard,#NFDB
476:I can’t be alone with you. This can’t happen again.” This, Win decided with a surge of anger, was an impossible situation. Merripen refused to acknowledge his feelings for her and wouldn’t explain why. Surely she deserved more trust from him than that. “Very well,” she said stiffly, struggling to her feet. As Merripen stood and reached for her, she pushed impatiently at his hand. “No, I don’t want help.” She began to shake out her skirts. “You are absolutely right, Merripen. We should not be alone together, since the result is always a foregone conclusion: you make an advance, I respond, and then you push me away. I am no child’s toy to be pulled back and forth on a string, Kev.” He found her bonnet and handed it to her. “I know you’re not—” “You say I don’t know you,” she said furiously. “Apparently it hasn’t occurred to you that you don’t know me, either. You’re quite certain of who I am, aren’t you? But I’ve changed during the past two years. You might at least make an effort to find out what kind of woman I’ve become.” She went to the end of the fabric corridor, peeked out to make certain the coast was clear, and she stepped out into the main part of the court. Merripen followed. “Where are you going?” Glancing at him, Win was satisfied to see that he looked as rumpled and exasperated as she felt. “I’m leaving. I’m too cross to enjoy any of the displays now. ~ Lisa Kleypas, #NFDB
477:STANKEVICH The world outside of me has no meaning independent of my thinking it. (pauses to look) I look out of the window. A garden. Trees. Grass. A young woman in a chair reading a book. I think: chair. So she is sitting. I think: book. So she is reading. Now the young woman touches her hair where it's come undone. But how can we be sure there is a world of phenomena, a woman reading in a garden? Perhaps the only thing that's real is my sensory experience, which has the form of a woman reading- in a universe which is in fact empty! But Immanuel Kant says- no! Because what I perceive as reality includes concepts which I cannot experience through the senses. Time and space. Cause and effect. Relations between things. Without me there is something wrong with this picture. The trees, the grass, the woman are merely- oh, she's coming! (nervously)- she's coming in here-! I say, don't leave!-where are you going?
MICHAEL Father's looking for me anyway. . .(gloomily) I've had to ask him to settle a few debts here and there in the world of appearances, so now he's been busy getting me a job.
Liubov enters from the garden, with her book.
LIUBOV Oh!-(noticing Stankevich) Excuse me-
MICHAEL Nobody seems to understand Stankevich and I are engaged in a life-or-death struggle over material forces to unite our spirit with the Universal- and he has to go to Moscow tomorrow! ~ Tom Stoppard,#NFDB
478:Tonight
Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight?
Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight?
Those “Fabrics of Cashmere—” “to make Me beautiful—”
“Trinket”—to gem—“Me to adorn—How tell”—tonight?
I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates—
A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.
God’s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar—
All the archangels—their wings frozen—fell tonight.
Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken;
Only we can convert the infidel tonight.
Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexities
multiply me at once under your spell tonight.
He’s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven.
He’s left open—for God—the doors of Hell tonight.
In the heart’s veined temple, all statues have been smashed.
No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight.
God, limit these punishments, there’s still Judgment Day—
I’m a mere sinner, I’m no infidel tonight.
Executioners near the woman at the window.
Damn you, Elijah, I’ll bless Jezebel tonight.
The hunt is over, and I hear the Call to Prayer
fade into that of the wounded gazelle tonight.
My rivals for your love—you’ve invited them all?
This is mere insult, this is no farewell tonight.
And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee—
God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.
32
~ Agha Shahid Ali,#NFDB
479:But they still did not know for what purpose David was being anointed. There were few offices that such consecration was used for: elders of Israel, prophet, priest or king. David was too young to be an elder. Could he be a prophet? He was not a Levite, so priesthood was not a possibility. Kingship was out of the question. Saul was clearly Yahweh’s chosen one for warrior king. The people murmured and debated amongst themselves. Jesse gathered up the courage to ask Samuel what everyone else was wondering. “Pray tell, Seer Samuel, for what purpose is my son being anointed?” Samuel gave a long hard stare at David, who felt his skin crawl with the holiness. “Yahweh will reveal in his own good time.” Suddenly, a rushing wind blew through the town square. David felt a gust enter him like a breath, and he knew everything had changed. Everything was different. Samuel capped the horn, and drew his servants near him and walked away through the crowd. David and the others were confused. David called to Samuel. Samuel just kept walking. David ran after him. “Samuel! Samuel! Where are you going?” “Back to Ramah.” He kept walking. David had to keep up. “What am I supposed to do?” “I have told you everything I know. Yahweh will let you know more when he is good and ready.” “What am I supposed to do until then?” “What do you do now?” “I shepherd. Play music. Train for battle.” “That sounds good. Keep it up. ~ Brian Godawa, #NFDB
480:Where are you going this hot day, Mis’ DeJong?”
Selina sat up very straight. “To Bagdad, Mrs. Pool.”
“To — Where’s that? What for?”
“To sell my jewels, Mrs. Pool. And to see Aladdin, and Harun-al-Rashid and Ali Baba. And the Forty Thieves.”
Mrs. Pool had left her rocker and had come down the steps. The wagon creaked on past her gate. She took a step or two down the path, and called after them. “I never heard of it. Bag — How do you get there?”
Over her shoulder Selina called out from the wagon seat. “You just go until you come to a closed door. And you say ‘Open Sesame!’ and there you are.”
Bewilderment shadowed Mrs. Pool’s placid face. As the wagon lurched on down the road it was Selina who was smiling and Mrs. Pool who was serious.
The boy, round eyed, was looking up at his mother. “That’s out of Arabian Nights, what you said. Why did you say that?” Suddenly excitement tinged his voice. “That’s out of the book. Isn’t it? Isn’t it! We’re not really ——”
She was a little contrite, but not very. “Well, not really, perhaps. But ’most any place is Bagdad if you don’t know what will happen in it. And this is an adventure, isn’t it, that we’re going on? People in disguise in the Haymarket. Caliphs, and princes, and slaves, and thieves, and good fairies, and witches.”
“In the Haymarket! That Pop went to all the time! That is just dumb talk. ~ Edna Ferber,#NFDB
481:It’ll Get Worse Before It Gets Worse"
For Alexander Moysaenko
The black heart of the moon’s visible
through the trees from here.
Where are you?
I’m alone on the road
with a dead phone.
The birds are flapping overhead
but there’s not much light to be guided by.
If any horizon becomes visible enough to follow.
Forget the rain’s smear,
the chafe of fabric at the calf.
The money ran out. The diners are stuffed
and back for more.
Each terrible thing I said to the child
will get repeated hopefully as a joke.
And like language, these gestures, or a certain way of nodding
one’s head, it all eases in with less than a breath.
Forget the song’s words, the order of the band’s set tonight.
The black moon’s heart’s
got that sinister bent
and I want to get
touched at by the snakes.
One of the students in my class
used to go bear hunting with his two uncles.
They played recordings of distressed animals
to lure in tentative animals to kill.
This practice is illegal in many places.
Because it’s so very effective.
I split open the apple
and hand the good half to a child on the bus
nestled in under the arm of her sleeping mother.
Love from here is a long way to go.
Get on your bike and ride
through the lights.
Poetry (March 2019) ~ Joshua Marie Wilkinson,#NFDB
482:Us Two
Wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
Whatever I do, he wants to do,
"Where are you going today?" says Pooh:
"Well, that's very odd 'cos I was too.
Let's go together," says Pooh, says he.
"Let's go together," says Pooh.
"What's twice eleven?" I said to Pooh.
("Twice what?" said Pooh to Me.)
"I think it ought to be twenty-two."
"Just what I think myself," said Pooh.
"It wasn't an easy sum to do,
But that's what it is," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what it is," said Pooh.
"Let's look for dragons," I said to Pooh.
"Yes, let's," said Pooh to Me.
We crossed the river and found a few"Yes, those are dragons all right," said Pooh.
"As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.
That's what they are," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what they are," said Pooh.
"Let's frighten the dragons," I said to Pooh.
"That's right," said Pooh to Me.
"I'm not afraid," I said to Pooh,
And I held his paw and I shouted "Shoo!
Silly old dragons!"- and off they flew.
"I wasn't afraid," said Pooh, said he,
"I'm never afraid with you."
So wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
"What would I do?" I said to Pooh,
"If it wasn't for you," and Pooh said: "True,
It isn't much fun for One, but Two,
Can stick together, says Pooh, says he. "That's how it is," says Pooh.
67
~ Alan Alexander Milne,#NFDB
483: "Maya..."
"Where are you?" I called.
"Over here. I'm..." A sharp intake of breath. "Hurt."
"Okay, stay where you are. I'm coming."
I broke into a jog. Only no matter how fast I ran, his scent and his voice didn't get any stronger. I kept going until I tripped over a root and hit the ground hard.
"Maya..."
"Just—"
"Maya? Is that you?"
I pushed to my feet, wincing as I flexed my stinging hands. "I'm—"
"Maya! I need you."
His voice seemed to come from all around me. I spun, trying to pinpoint it, but he kept yelling, more panicking with every shout, my own panic rising until I flung myself forward—
Hands grabbed me and yanked me back. For a moment, all I saw was the darkness of night. Then it fell away, dawn light filtering through the trees, and I was standing in front of Daniel, his fingers wrapped around my wrist. Kenji was beside me, whimpering.
"Maya—"
"I have to go," I said, wrenching from his grasp. "It's Rafe. He's out here. He's hurt and..."
...
My eyes filled with tears.
"I—" I swallowed. "I—"
Daniel took both my wrists and turned me to face him. "You were sleepwalking, Maya."
"It just...I could hear Rafe and he was hurt and I was trying to get to him and—" My breath hitched. "It seemed real."
Daniel pulled me into a hug and I let myself collapse against his shoulder. ~ Kelley Armstrong,#NFDB
484:But I suppose if you're friends of Magnus's ..." He went completely still. His runes faded. Then he leaped out of my hand and flew towards Annabeth, his blade twitching as if he was stiffing the air. "Where is she? Where are you hiding the babe?"
Annabeth backed towards the rail. "Whoa, there, sword. Personal space?"
"Jack, behave," Alex said. "What are you doing?"
"She's around here somewhere," Jack insisted. He flew to Percy. "Aha! What's in your pocket, sea boy?"
"Excuse me?" Percy looked a bit nervous about the magical sword hovering at his waistline.
Alex lowered his Ray-Bans. "Okay, now I'm curious. What do you have in your pocket, Percy? Enquiring swords want to know."
Percy pulled a plain-looking ballpoint pen from his jeans. "You mean this?"
"BAM!" Jack said. "Who is this vision of loveliness?"
"Jack," I said. "It's a pen."
"No, it's not! Show me! Show me!"
"Uh ... sure." Percy uncapped the pen.
Immediately it transformed into a three-foot-long sword with a leaf-shaped blade of glowing bronze.. Compared to Jack, the weapon looked delicate, almost petite, but from the way Percy wielded it I had no doubt he'd be able to hold his own on the battlefields of Valhalla with that thing.
Jack turned his point towards me, his runes flashing burgundy. "See Magnus? I told you it wasn't stupid to carry a sword disguised as a pen!"
"Jack, I never said that!" I protested. "You did. ~ Rick Riordan,#NFDB
485:John Evereldown
"Where are you going to-night, to-night, -Where are you going, John Evereldown?
There's never the sign of a star in sight,
Nor a lamp that's nearer than Tilbury Town.
Why do you stare as a dead man might?
Where are you pointing away from the light?
And where are you going to-night, to-night, -Where are you going, John Evereldown?"
"Right through the forest, where none can see,
There's where I'm going, to Tilbury Town.
The men are asleep, -- or awake, may be, -But the women are calling John Evereldown.
Ever and ever they call for me,
And while they call can a man be free?
So right through the forest, where none can see,
There's where I'm going, to Tilbury Town."
"But why are you going so late, so late, -Why are you going, John Evereldown?
Though the road be smooth and the path be straight,
There are two long leagues to Tilbury Town.
Come in by the fire, old man, and wait!
Why do you chatter out there by the gate?
And why are you going so late, so late, -Why are you going, John Evereldown?"
"I follow the women wherever they call, -That's why I'm going to Tilbury Town.
God knows if I pray to be done with it all,
But God is no friend to John Evereldown.
So the clouds may come and the rain may fall,
The shadows may creep and the dead men crawl, -But I follow the women wherever they call,
And that's why I'm going to Tilbury Town."
~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,#NFDB
486:Well I'll be damned
Here comes your ghost again
But that's not unusual
It's just that the moon is full
And you happened to call
And here I sit
Hand on the telephone
Hearing a voice I'd known
A couple of light years ago
Heading straight for a fall
As I remember your eyes
Were bluer than robin's eggs
My poetry was lousy you said
Where are you calling from?
A booth in the midwest
Ten years ago
I bought you some cufflinks
You brought me something
We both know what memories can bring
They bring diamonds and rust
Well you burst on the scene
Already a legend
The unwashed phenomenon
The original vagabond
You strayed into my arms
And there you stayed
Temporarily lost at sea
The Madonna was yours for free
Yes the girl on the half-shell
Could keep you unharmed
Now I see you standing
With brown leaves falling all around
And snow in your hair
Now you're smiling out the window
Of that crummy hotel
Over Washington Square
Our breath comes out white clouds
Mingles and hangs in the air
Speaking strictly for me
We both could have died then and there
Now you're telling me
You're not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague
'Cause I need some of that vagueness now
It's all come back too clearly
Yes I loved you dearly
And if you're offering me diamonds and rust
I've already paid ~ Joan Baez,#NFDB
487:It took two hours to read the report, which was more thorough than Devon would have ever expected--and it didn’t appear to be finished by half. Apparently West was visiting every tenant farm on the estate, making detailed notes about each family’s problems and concerns, the conditions of their property, their knowledge and views of farming techniques.
Sensing a movement, Devon turned in his chair and saw Kathleen in the doorway.
She was dressed in widow’s weeds again, her hair pinned in a braided coil, her wrists encircled with demure white cuffs. Her cheeks were very pink.
Devon could have devoured her in one bite. Instead, he gave her a neutral glance as he rose to his feet. “Skirts,” he said in a tone of mild surprise, as if it were a novelty to see her in a dress. “Where are you going?”
“To the library for a lesson with the girls. But I noticed that you were in here, and I wondered if you’d read Mr. Ravenel’s report.”
“I have. I’m impressed by his dedication. Also rather astonished, since West advised me to sell the estate, lock, stock, and barrel, just before he left London.”
Kathleen smiled and studied him with those tip-tilted eyes. He could see tiny rays in the light brown irises, like gold threads. “I’m very glad you didn’t,” she said softly. “I think perhaps he might be too.”
All the heat from their earlier encounter came rushing back so fast that it hurt, his flesh rising with a swift ache beneath the layers of his clothes. Devon was profoundly grateful for the concealment of his suit coat. ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
488:So where are you two headed?”
Linc put the kitten down. Tiny tail waving, it sauntered between Truck’s furry legs. The dog didn’t seem to mind.
“Oh--out and about,” Kenzie said.
She and Linc exchanged a look. “You tell him,” he said.
“We stopped by to see Christine first. You were next on the list.”
“Beg pardon? What list?”
“Friends and family.” Kenzie stretched out her left hand and wiggled her fingers. An oval diamond set in platinum caught the sun.
Jim’s eyes widened.
“Way to go.” He beamed at both of them. “That’s one hell of a rock. You didn’t waste any time.” He gave Linc a nod of masculine approval. “So when’s the big day?”
“We haven’t decided,” Kenzie answered.
She didn’t want to say that they were keeping a low profile for as long as possible. The media furor over SKC had died down, but they were helping with the ongoing investigation.
Life went on. Love had amazing power to heal.
Truck picked up on the excitement and edged between the three of them, blocking the hug about to happen.
“Routine stuff, Linc. He has final say,” Jim teased.
The black-and-white dog took his time about it. Then he sat down in front of Linc, brushing his tail across the floor in wide waves.
“He approves,” Kenzie said.
“Never argue with a good dog.” Jim laughed. “All right, you two. Get out of here. I have work to do.”
Kenzie got a hug in before he went back to his desk.
“Congratulations.” He nodded toward the picture of his wife. “From me and Josie. She’ll be over the moon when she hears. ~ Janet Dailey,#NFDB
489:You make a God promise? You will lie with me in my buffalo robes?”
Loretta closed her eyes. The words stuck in her throat. She was sacrificing her self-respect. Her own people would forever scorn her if they knew. But what choice did she have?
“Yes, I’ll lie with you.”
“You will see into me when you speak.”
She lifted her lashes. His eyes burned with an intensity she’d never seen before. “I’ll lie with you, I swear to God.”
“You will not fight the big fight when I put my hands upon you?”
“No.”
“And you will eat? You will stay beside me? Forever into the horizon?”
“Yes.”
He brushed his thumb across her mouth, remembering how sweet her lips had tasted. A slow smile creased his dark face. “You will say it before your God.”
Loretta blinked and met his gaze. “I swear it before God--I’ll eat and I’ll stay beside you, forever into the horizon.”
“You will not fight the great fight?”
“No, I won’t fight.”
He slipped an arm around her waist and drew her against him. “Ah, Blue Eyes, it is a good bargain this Comanche has made.”
“You’ll go find her?”
“I will find her, and I will bring her to you, eh?”
Loretta hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled in a rush, so relieved that she felt weak. Hunter bent his head and pressed his face against her hair. The next instant she felt his lips on her neck. She also felt his hand on her posterior. Frustrated by her high neckline and her full skirts, he made a fist in the calico.
“So much wannup. Where are you, Blue Eyes? ~ Catherine Anderson,#NFDB
490:Lyman, Frederick, And Jim
(FOR THE FELLOWSHIP CLU
Lyman and Frederick and Jim, one day,
Set out in a great big ship-Steamed to the ocean adown the bay
Out of a New York slip.
"Where are you going and what is your game?"
The people asked those three.
"Darned if we know; but all the same
Happy as larks are we;
And happier still we're going to be!"
Said Lyman
And Frederick
And Jim.
The people laughed "Aha, oho!
Oho, aha!" laughed they;
And while those three went sailing so
Some pirates steered that way.
The pirates they were laughing, too-The prospect made them glad;
But by the time the job was through
Each of them pirates, bold and bad,
Had been done out of all he had
By Lyman
And Frederick
And Jim.
Days and weeks and months they sped,
Painting that foreign clime
A beautiful, bright vermilion red-And having a ---- of a time!
'T was all so gaudy a lark, it seemed
As if it could not be,
And some folks thought it a dream they dreamed
Of sailing that foreign sea,
But I 'll identify you these three-Lyman
And Frederick
212
And Jim.
Lyman and Frederick are bankers and sich
And Jim is an editor kind;
The first two named are awfully rich
And Jim ain't far behind!
So keep your eyes open and mind your tricks,
Or you are like to be
In quite as much of a Tartar fix
As the pirates that sailed the sea
And monkeyed with the pardners three,
Lyman
And Frederick
And Jim!
~ Eugene Field,#NFDB
491:The Mysterious Visitor
Spirit, lovely guest, who are you?
Whence have you flown down to us?
Taciturn and without a sound
Why have you abandoned us?
Where are you? Where is your dwelling?
What are you, where did you go?
Why did you appear,
Heavenly, upon the Earth?
Mayhap you are youthful Hope,
Who arrives from time to time
Cloaked in magic
From a land unknown?
Merciless as Hope,
Sweetest joy you show us
For a moment, then
Take it back and fly away.
Was it Love that you enacted
For us all in mystery? . . .
Days of love, when one beloved
Rendered this world beautiful
Ah! then, sighted through the veil
Earth did seem unearthly...
Now the veil has lifted; Love is gone;
Life is empty, joy - a dream.
Was it Thought, enchanting
You embodied for us here?
Far removed from every worry,
With a dreamy finger pointing
To her lips, she sallies forth
Just like you, from time to time,
Ushers us without a sound
Back to bygone days.
Or within you dwells the sacred spirit
Of Dame Poetry? . . .
Just like you, she came from Heaven
Veiling us twofold:
Using azure for the skies,
And clear white for earth;
What lies near is lovely through her;
All that's distant - known.
Or perhaps 'twas premonition
That descended in your guise
And to us with clarity described
All that's sacred and divine?
Thus it often happens in this life:
Something brilliant flies to meet us,
Raises up the veil
And then beckons us beyond. ~ Vasily Zhukovsky,#NFDB
492:Dutch Lullaby
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,-Sailed on a river of misty light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sung a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,
But never afeard are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
For the fish in the twinkling foam,
Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home;
'T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 't was a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
120
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock on the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,-Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
~ Eugene Field,#NFDB
493:Antique Foundation
Here I built the ruin in
My voice on either side of me
In the temple the ocean could
Not be a crowd I mined
The shore with fog the sun dries
These bricks I built the vision in
The cinder block that is the city
Wall this grave
Tone I speak with a picture
Of myself in my wallet
•
Don’t be fooled by grass and these words
Grass whispers
Because they are real they are
Ruinous Here, the gossip is in the dust
Not the sea cloud enters the open
Child’s window dimming the silver
Flute’s sheen Where is he
Who hears inside the brick those notes?
There is a rumor in the city we’ll exist
If he plays his song no one knows
•
Follow that shadow don’t tell me it’s mine
Here there is no being alone
Here are my hands which tore the leaves so
Quietly in the temple the god
Emerging from marble points at the chisel
At the base of his stone Did I tell you
Where I’m going? To the old man
Who sings the margin
Where on wave-tip swords turn edge over edge
Wound us and the shore with foam
•
My face on either side of my face I tore
My picture in half to show the gate
You must climb inside your breath to leave
As fog the wind will bear you—
If you’re lovely—away In the spare clouds
The children’s chorus Do you hear?—
Where were you, and where are you going?
Here I built the ruin in the stone-crushed
Sage leaves my hands scented as long ago
When I liked to press the desert against my head to think ~ Dan Beachy Quick,#NFDB
494:Some young men who had come with an introduction from the Ramakrishna Mission at Madras asked Bhagavan, “Which is the proper path for us to follow?”
Bhagavan: When you speak of a path, where are you now? and where do you want to go? If these are known, then we can talk of the path. Know first where you are and what you are. There is nothing to be reached. You are always as you really are. But you don’t realise it. That is all.
A little while after, one of the visitors asked Bhagavan, “I am now following the path of japa. Is that all right?”
Bhagavan: Yes. It is quite good. You can continue in that. The gentleman who asked about creation said, “I never thought I was going to have the good fortune of visiting Bhagavan. But circumstances have brought me here and I find in his presence, without any effort on my part, I am having santi. Apparently, getting peace does not depend on our effort.
It seems to come only as the result of grace!” Bhagavan was silent. Meanwhile, another visitor remarked, “No. Our effort is also necessary, though no one can do without grace.” After some time, Bhagavan remarked, “Mantra japa, after a time, leads to a stage when you become Mantra maya i.e., you become that whose name you have been repeating or chanting.
First you repeat the mantra by mouth; later you do it mentally.
First, you do this dhyana with breaks. Later, you do it without any break. At that stage you realise you do dhyana without any effort on your part, that dhyana is your real nature. Till then, effort is necessary.” ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi, Day By Day, ,#NFDB
495:Wynken, Blynken, And Nod
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,-Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,-Never afraid are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam,-Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
447
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:-Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
~ Eugene Field,#NFDB
496:I bumped into something and was knocked to the ground. It took me several breaths to gather myself together, at first I thought I’d walked into a tree, but then that tree became a person, who was also recovering on the ground, and then I saw that it was her, and she saw that it was me, ‘Hello,’ I said, brushing myself off, ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘This is so funny.’ ‘Yes.’ How could it be explained? ‘Where are you going?’ I asked. ‘Just for a walk,’ she said, ‘and you?’ ‘Just for a walk.’ We helped each other up, she brushed leaves from my hair, I wanted to touch her hair, ‘That’s not true,’ I said, not knowing what the next words out of my mouth would be, but wanting them to be mine, wanting, more than I’d ever wanted anything, to express the center of me and be understood. ‘I was walking to see you.’ I told her, ‘I’ve come to your house each of the last six days. For some reason I needed to see you again.’ She was silent, I had made a fool of myself, there’s nothing wrong with not understanding yourself and she started laughing, laughing harder than I’d ever felt anyone laugh, the laughter brought on tears, and the tears brought on more tears, and then I started laughing, out of the most deep and complete shame, ‘I was walking to you,’ I said again, as if to push my nose into my own shit, ‘because I wanted to see you again,’ she laughed and laughed, ‘That explains it,’ she said when she was able to speak. ‘It?’ ‘That explains why, each of the last six days, you weren’t at your house.’ We stopped laughing, I took the world into me, rearranged it, and sent it back out as a question: ‘Do you like me? ~ Jonathan Safran Foer, #NFDB
497:I open the books on Right and on ethics; I listen to the professors and jurists; and, my mind full of their seductive doctrines, I admire the peace and justice established by the civil order; I bless the wisdom of our political institutions and, knowing myself a citizen, cease to lament I am a man. Thoroughly instructed as to my duties and my happiness, I close the book, step out of the lecture room, and look around me. I see wretched nations groaning beneath a yoke of iron. I see mankind ground down by a handful of oppressors, I see a famished mob, worn down by sufferings and famine, while the rich drink the blood and tears of their victims at their ease. I see on every side the strong armed with the terrible powers of the Law against the weak.
And all this is done quietly and without resistance. It is the peace of Ulysses and his comrades, imprisoned in the cave of the Cyclops and waiting their turn to be devoured. We must groan and be silent. Let us for ever draw a veil over sights so terrible. I lift my eyes and look to the horizon. I see fire and flame, the fields laid waste, the towns put to sack. Monsters! where are you dragging the hapless wretches? I hear a hideous noise. What a tumult and what cries! I draw near; before me lies a scene of murder, ten thousand slaughtered, the dead piled in heaps, the dying trampled under foot by horses, on every side the image of death and the throes of death. And that is the fruit of your peaceful institutions! Indignation and pity rise from the very bottom of my heart. Yes, heartless philosopher! come and read us your book on a field of battle! ~ Jean Jacques Rousseau,#NFDB
498:The Daisies
In the great green park with the wooden palings The wooden palings so hard to climb,
There are fern and foxglove, primrose and violet,
And green things growing all the time;
And out in the open the daisies grow,
Pretty and proud in their proper places,
Millions of white-frilled daisy faces,
Millions and millions--not one or two.
And they call to the bluebells down in the wood:
'Are you out--are you in? We have been so good
All the school-time winter through,
But now it's playtime,
The gay time, the May time;
We are out and at play. Where are you?'
In the gritty garden inside the railings,
The spiky railings all painted green,
There are neat little beds of geraniums and fuchsia
With never a happy weed between.
There's a neat little grass plot, bald in places,
And very dusty to touch;
A respectable man comes once a week
To keep the garden weeded and swept,
To keep it as we don't want it kept.
He cuts the grass with his mowing-machine,
And we think he cuts it too much.
But even on the lawn, all dry and gritty,
The daisies play about.
They are so brave as well as so pretty,
You cannot keep them out.
I love them, I want to let them grow,
But that respectable man says no.
He cuts off their heads with his mowing-machine
Like the French Revolution guillotine.
He sweeps up the poor little pretty faces,
The dear little white-frilled daisy faces;
Says things must be kept in their proper places
He has no frill round his ugly face I wish I could find his proper place!
271
~ Edith Nesbit,#NFDB
499:I’m pouring salted peanuts into a heart-shaped crystal bowl (a contribution from Alicia, who brought it out of storage, along with her ice tongs) when John Ambrose McClaren walks into the room in a light blue Oxford shirt and navy sport coat, not dissimilar to Nelson’s! I nearly scream out loud. Clapping my hands to my mouth, I drop to the floor, behind the table. If he sees me, he might run off. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but this is my perfect chance to take him out. I crouch behind the table, running through options in my head.
And then the piano music stops and I hear Stormy call out, “Lara Jean? Lara Jean, where are you? Come out from behind the table. I want to introduce you to someone.”
Slowly, I rise to my feet. John McClaren is staring at me. “What are you doing here?” he asks me, tugging on his shirt collar like it’s choking him.
“I volunteer here,” I say, still keeping a safe distance. Don’t want to spook him.
Stormy claps her hands. “You two know each other?”
John says, “We’re friends, Grandma. We used to live in the same neighborhood.”
“Stormy’s your grandma?” My mind is blown. So John is her grandson she wanted to set me up with! Of all the nursing homes in all the towns in all the world! My grandson looks like a young Robert Redford. He does; he really does.
“She’s my great-grandmother by marriage,” John says.
Stormy’s eyes dart around the room. “Hush up! I don’t want people knowing you’re my great-anything.”
John lowers his voice. “She was my great-grandpa’s second wife.”
“My favorite of all my husbands,” Stormy says. “May he rest in peace, that old buzzard. ~ Jenny Han,#NFDB
500:Hunter found Warrior down by the river, teaching Pony Girl to swim. Sitting beneath a cottonwood, Hunter pressed his back to the trunk and rested his forearm on his upraised knee. “Warrior, I must make a short trip,” he began. “Will you watch my woman and her sister while I’m gone?”
Distracted by the question, Warrior forgot to watch his niece and turned. “Another trip? You’ve only just returned.”
Hunter’s gaze dropped to Pony Girl, and his eyes widened in alarm. Shooting to his feet, he yelled, “Warrior, she’s going under!”
Warrior snatched a handful of the child’s dripping hair and pulled her up for air. Giving his head a shake, he moved toward shore. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s too young. Maiden insists she isn’t, but I don’t recall the other two being this hard to teach.”
“I taught Turtle, and Maiden taught Blackbird,” Hunter reminded him.
Warrior squatted in front of the whining, coughing child, trying to comfort her with body-shaking pats on her lower back. Hunter thanked the Great Ones that Pony Girl’s burns had healed. “Maybe that’s what the problem is, eh?” Warrior mused. “I’m a lousy teacher. Hunter, why don’t you teach her?”
“I’m leaving on a journey.”
“Ah, yes, a journey. Where are you going?”
Hunter ignored the question. It was one thing to surrender to his woman, but quite another to admit it to his brother. “Maybe I’ll teach her when I return. A swap, yes?”
Warrior looked relieved. “That sounds like a fair trade. I’ll gladly watch your woman if I can get out of this swimming chore Maiden has pressed upon me. At the rate I’m going, I’ll have to change this one’s name to Pebble. She sure enough sinks like one. ~ Catherine Anderson,#NFDB
501:Statue Of A Couple
Your hand, my wonder, is now icy cold.
The purest light of the celestial dome
has burned me through. And now we are
as two still plams lying in darlmess,
as two black banks of a frozen stream
in the chasm of the world.
Our hair combed back is carved in wood,
the moon walks over our ebony shoulders.
A distant cockcrow, the night goes by, silent.
Rich is the rime of love, withered the dowry.
Where are you, living in what depths of time,
love, stepping down into what waters,
now, when the frost of our voiceless lips
does not fend off the divine fires?
In a forest of clouds, of fcam, and of silver
we live, caressing lands under our
And we are wielding the might of a dark scepter
to earn oblivion.
My love, your breast cut through by a clinel
knows nothing anymore of what it was.
Of clouds at dawn, of angers at daybreak,
of shallows in springtime it has no remembrance.
And you have led me, as once an angel led
Tobias, onto the rusty mashes of Lombardy.
But a day came when a sign frightened you,
a stinma of golden measure.
With a scream, with inunobile fear in your thin hands
you fell into a pit that ashes lie over,
where neither northern firs nor Italian yews
could protect our andent bed of lovers.
What was it. what is it, what will it be
we filled the world with our cry and calling.
81
The dawn is back, the red moon set,
do we know now? In a heavy ship
A helmman comes, throws a silken rope
and binds w tightly to eaah other,
then he pours on friends, once enemies,
a handful of snow.
~ Czeslaw Milosz,#NFDB
502:Alex was so confused, she shook her head. The others felt their sanity slipping from their brains just by being in proximity to the caterpillar.
This is going great," Conner said with a massive eye roll. "This worm is clearly insane; let's find someone who can actually help us."
"Let me handle this one, kids," Mother Goose said. "He's not crazy, the hookah is just making his brain sleepy. I might understand him if I get on his level."
Mother Goose walked up to the caterpillar and had a bouncy seat on the mushroom beside him.
"May I?" she asked, and gestured to the hookah.
The caterpillar passed it to her and Mother Goose smoked it. After a few moments, her eyes became as glossy as his and she also spoke in complete nonsense.
"Who are you?" Mother Goose asked the caterpillar.
"What I am," he said.
"Where are you?" she said.
"Here with you," the caterpillar said.
"And if this were the Castle of Hearts?" Mother Goose asked.
"We'd be there," he said.
"But where?" she asked.
"In the castle," he said.
"Ah, so there would be here,: she said, and they nodded together.
"Here would be what's left." The caterpillar nodded.
"Am I what's left?" she asked.
"You're what's right, of course."
"But what's right is wrong."
"And what's left is right."
"I understand completely," Mother Goose said. "Thank you so much, Mr. Caterpillar."
The others stared at them absolutely dumbfounded. Mother Goose hopped down from the mushroom and moseyed back to them.
:The caterpillar said to go back to the fork and take a left," she said.
"He did?" Alex asked.
"It's all about the keywords," Mother Goose said. ~ Chris Colfer,#NFDB
503:Carter: "Dude, I don't know why it works, it just does. [...] Just pretend you're not into 'em and then ask a question. What's the worst that could happen?"
EJ makes eye contact with the smallest one, off to the side. [...]
She looks up at EJ and gives him the nicest smile. He pulls the trigger and yells, "You think you're hot stuff, don't you?"
What the...? Where are you going with this?
"Excuse me?" she replies, kind of sweetly.
EJ asks, "You think you're cool, don't you? Where did you get that shirt, the Salvation Army? What the hell is with your hair?
My eyes are as big as basketballs as he fires one mean-ass question after another at her.
"You don't have a boyfriend, do you?" he continues.
It's like he's armed with self-esteem killer.
"Did your parents have any kids that lived?" EJ asks.
The girls starts to buckle, and tears are on the way.
"Are these your friends, or are they like, counselors here to observe you?" EJ shouts. [...]
He asks, "Does your grandma know you borrowed her shoes?" as I drag him away. The girl is crying pretty hard, and her friends are trying to console her. [...]
"Man, that didn't do very well. What do you think I did wrong?" EJ asks.
"Are you serious?" I ask
"I was just doing what you told me to," he replies.
"I-I-I told you to go up to that girl and start abusing her?" I ask.
"You said to ask her questions and pretend I didn't like her!" he yells back.
"Pretend YOU'RE NOT INTO HER!" I clarify. "Not that you hate her and wish she would die! Good God, that girl thought she was gonna get a boyfriend when you walked up, not years of therapy."
"Do you think I still have a shot?" he asks
"NO, I don't!" I bark ~ Brent Crawford,#NFDB
504:When you are walking down the road in Bali and your pass a stranger, the very first question he or she will ask you is, "Where are you going?" The second question is, "Where are you coming from?" To a Westerner, this can seem like a rather invasive inquiry from a perfect stranger, but they're just trying to get an orientation on you, trying to insert you into the grid for the purposes of security and comfort. If you tell them that you don't know where you're going, or that you're just wandering about randomly, you might instigate a bit of distress in the heart of your new Balinese friend. It's far better to pick some kind of specific direction -- anywhere -- just so everybody feels better.
The third question a Balinese will almost certainly ask you is, "Are you married?" Again, it's a positioning and orienting inquiry. It's necessary for them to know this, to make sure that you are completely in order in your life. They really want you to say yes. it's such a relief to them when you say yes. If you're single, it's better not to say so directly. And I really recommend that you not mention your divorce at all, if you happen to have had one. It just makes the Balinese so worried. The only thing your solitude proves to them is your perilous dislocation from the grid. If you are a single woman traveling through Bali and somebody asks you, "Are you married?" the best possible answer is: "Not yet." This is a polite way of saying, "No," while indicating your optimistic intentions to get that taken care of just as soon as you can.
Even if you are eighty years old, or a lesbian, or a strident feminist, or a nun, or an eighty-year-old strident feminist lesbian nun who has never been married and never intends to get married, the politest possible answer is still: "Not yet. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,#NFDB
505:I slap the paper down on his desk and hold my flat palm over it. “What the fuck is this?” He looks down at it. “That was a perfectly good invitation, until somebody fucked it up with hearts,” he growls. I look down at it. “I kind of like the hearts,” I admit. “Next time, I’ll use hearts,” he says. He smiles. “You’re looking for a roommate?” I ask. I toy with my lip piercing until his gaze lands there, and then I force myself to stop. “Since when?” “Since I found out you’re homeless,” he says. “I’m not homeless,” I protest. “Where are you living after today?” he asks. I’m not at all sure about that, but he doesn’t need to know it. “Shut up,” I say instead. He pushes the paper toward me. “I have an extra room. You need a place to stay. Let’s not make it more than it is, okay?” “That’s all you’d expect?” I ask, hating how quiet my voice suddenly gets. “You could be pregnant, Friday,” he says. “What else would I want from you?” My breath catches. He is so right. I have been looking at this like it’s all about us, but it’s not. It’s all about this baby I have to protect for nine months, a baby he’s now fully aware of, even if he’s not aware of the details. “How much?” I ask. “How much can you afford?” he asks. He knows full well how much money I make; he pays me. But he isn’t aware of the money I make doing commissioned portraits and other artwork. He waves a hand in the air. “Don’t worry about what it costs,” he says. “Pay me whatever you can. The room is just sitting there empty. And if you live with me, I won’t have to worry about you being homeless.” I snort. “Like you’d worry anyway.” His brow rises. “I worry. I worry about you all the fucking time. But if you live with me, I won’t have to. So take pity on me and just take the fucking room, dammit.” “Okay.” He looks surprised. “Okay?” “Yes.” He grins. “Okay. ~ Tammy Falkner, #NFDB
506:Isn't that the tie Lily bought for your birthday?"
Evan looked down to examine it. It was paisley, a kaleidoscope of color. "Yes it is, as a matter of fact. Good memory. What do you think? Too much?"
"It doesn't matter what I think."
"But you don't like it."
"I think that if you want to wear it, you should wear it."
Evan seemed momentarily undecided. "Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Refuse to answer a simple question."
"Because my opinion is irrelevant. You should wear what you want."
"Just tell me, okay?"
"I don't like your tie."
"Really? Why not?"
"Because it's ugly."
"It's not ugly."
Colin nodded. "Okay."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Probably."
"You don't even wear ties."
"You're right."
"So why do I care what you think?"
"I don't know."
Evan scowled. "Talking to you can be infuriating, you know."
"I know. You've said that before."
"Of course I've said it before! Because it's true! Didn't we just talk about this the other night? You don't have to say whatever pops into your head."
"But you asked."
"Just ... Oh, forget it." He turned and started back toward the house. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"
"Where are you going?"
Evan walked a couple of steps before answering without turning around. "To change my damn tie. And by the way Margolis was right. Your face still looks like it was run through a meat grinder."
Colin smiled. "Hey, Evan!"
Evan stopped and turned. "What?"
"Thanks."
"For what?"
"For everything."
"Yeah, yeah. You're just lucky I won't tell Lily what you said."
"You can if you'd like. I already told her."
Evan starred. "Of course you did. ~ Nicholas Sparks,#NFDB
507:My Darling,
Where are you? And why, I wonder, have we been forced apart?
I don’t know the answer to these questions, no matter how hard I try to understand. The reason is plain, but my mind forces me to dismiss it and I am torn by anxiety in all my waking hours. I am lost without you. I am soulless, a drifter without a home, a solitary bird in a flight to nowhere. I am all these things, and I am nothing at all. This, my darling, is my life without you. I long for you to show me how to live again.
I try to remember the way we once were, It was times like those that I understood the meaning of true happiness. I would know in my heart that we’d be together forever. Is it always that way, I wonder, when two people are in love? I don’t know, but if my life since you were taken from me is any indication, then I think I know the answers. From now on, I know I will be alone.
I think of you, I dream of you, I conjure you up when I need you most. This is all I can do, but to me it isn’t enough. It will never be enough, this I know, yet what else is there for me to do? If you were here, you would tell me, but I have been cheated of even that. You always knew the proper words to ease the pain I felt. You always knew how to make me feel good inside.
Is it possible that you know how I feel without you? When I dream, I like to think you do. Before we came together, I moved through life without meaning, without reason. I know that somehow, every step I took since the moment I could walk was a step toward finding you. We were destined to be together.
But now, alone, I have come to realize that destiny can hurt a person as much as it can bless them, and I find myself wondering why—out of all the people in all the world I could ever have loved—I had to fall in love with someone who was taken away from me. ~ Nicholas Sparks,#NFDB
508:warmth of the day was making her sleepy, too. “Then you can go and do whatever it is you apprentices do,” she murmured. When Firepaw had cleared away Yellowfang’s dirt, he left her dozing and made his way to the gorse tunnel. He was keen to get to the stream and rinse his paws. “Firepaw!” a voice called from the side of the clearing. Firepaw turned. It was Halftail. “Where are you off to?” meowed the old cat curiously. “You ought to be helping with the preparations.” “I’ve just been putting mouse bile on Yellowfang’s ticks,” replied Firepaw. Amusement flickered through Halftail’s whiskers. “So now you’re off to the nearest stream! Well, don’t come back without fresh-kill. We need as much as we can find.” “Yes, Halftail,” Firepaw replied. He made his way out of the camp and up the side of the ravine. He trotted down to the stream where he and Graypaw had hunted on the day he had found Yellowfang. Without hesitating he jumped down into the cold, clear water. It came up to his haunches, and wet his belly fur. The shock made him gasp, and he shivered. A rustle in the bushes above him made him look up, although the familiar scent that reached his nose told him there was nothing to be alarmed about. “What are you doing in there?” Graypaw and Ravenpaw were standing looking at him as if he were mad. “Mouse bile.” Firepaw grimaced. “Don’t ask! Where are Lionheart and Tigerclaw?” “They’ve gone to join the next patrol,” answered Graypaw. “They ordered us to spend the rest of the afternoon hunting.” “Halftail told me the same thing,” Firepaw mewed, flinching as a chilly current of water rushed around his paws. “Everyone’s busy back at camp. You’d think we were about to be attacked at any moment.” He climbed up onto the bank, dripping. “Who says we won’t be?” mewed Ravenpaw, his eyes flicking from side to side as if he expected an enemy patrol to leap ~ Erin Hunter, #NFDB
509:You'll get over it...' It's the cliches that cause the trouble. To lose someone you love is to alter your life for ever. You don't get over it because 'it' is the person you loved. The pain stops, there are new people, but the gap never closes. How could it? The particularness of someone who mattered enough to greive over is not made anodyne by death. This hole in my heart is in the shape of you and no-one else can fit it. Why would I want them to?
I've thought a lot about death recently, the finality of it, the argument ending in mid-air. One of us hadn't finished, why did the other one go? And why without warning? Even death after long illness is without warning. The moment you had prepared for so carefully took you by storm. The troops broke through the window and snatched the body and the body is gone. The day before the Wednesday last, this time a year ago, you were here and now you're not. Why not? Death reduces us to the baffled logic of a small child. If yesterday why not today? And where are you?
Fragile creatures of a small blue planet, surrounded by light years of silent space. Do the dead find peace beyond the rattle of the world? What peace is there for us whose best love cannot return them even for a day? I raise my head to the door and think I will see you in the frame. I know it is your voice in the corridor but when I run outside the corridor is empty. There is nothing I can do that will make any difference. The last word was yours.
The fluttering in the stomach goes away and the dull waking pain. Sometimes I think of you and I feel giddy. Memory makes me lightheaded, drunk on champagne. All the things we did. And if anyone had said this was the price I would have agreed to pay it. That surprises me; that with the hurt and the mess comes a shaft of recognition. It was worth it. Love is worth it. ~ Jeanette Winterson,#NFDB
510:Moses
Come.
When?
Now. This way. I will guide you.
Wait! Not so fast.
Hurry. You. I said you.
Who am I?
Certainly I will be with thee.
Is nothing, then, what it is? I had rather the rod had
stayed a rod and not become a serpent.
Come. Quickly. While the blast of my breath opens the sea.
Stop. I'm thirsty.
Drink water from this rock.
But the rock moves on before us.
Go with it and drink.
I'm tired. Can't you stop for a while?
You have already tarried too long.
But if I am to follow you I must know your name.
I will be that I will be.
You have set the mountain on fire.
Come. Climb.
I will be lost in the terror of your cloud.
You are stiff-necked and of a stiff-necked people.
YOUR poeple, Lord,
Indubitably.
Your wrath waxes hot. I burn.
Thus to become great.
Show me, then, they glory.
No man may see my face and live. But I will cover you with my hand while I pass by.
My people turn away and cry because the skin of my
face shines
Did you not expect this?
I cannot enter the tent of the congregation while your
cloud covers it and your glory fills the tabernacle.
Look. It moves before us again. Can you not stay still?
Come. Follow.
But this river is death. The waters are dark and deep.
Swim.
Now will I see your face? Where are you taking me
now?
Up the mountain with me before I die.
But death
bursts into light.
The death is
what it will be.
These men: they want to keep us here in three
tabernacles. But the cloud moves. The water springs
from a rock that journeys on.
You are contained in me.
But how can we contain you in ark or tabernacle or
You cannot.
Where, then?
In your heart. Come.
Still?
I will be with thee.
Who am I?
You are that I will be. Come. ~ Madeleine L Engle,#NFDB
511:The year was 1987, but it might as well have been the Summer of Love: I was twenty, had hair down to my shoulders, and was dressed like an Indian rickshaw driver. For those charged with enforcing our nation’s drug laws, it would have been only prudent to subject my luggage to special scrutiny. Happily, I had nothing to hide. “Where are you coming from?” the officer asked, glancing skeptically at my backpack. “India, Nepal, Thailand…” I said. “Did you take any drugs while you were over there?” As it happens, I had. The temptation to lie was obvious—why speak to a customs officer about my recent drug use? But there was no real reason not to tell the truth, apart from the risk that it would lead to an even more thorough search of my luggage (and perhaps of my person) than had already commenced. “Yes,” I said. The officer stopped searching my bag and looked up. “Which drugs did you take? “I smoked pot a few times… And I tried opium in India.” “Opium?” “Yes.” “Opium or heroin? “It was opium.” “You don’t hear much about opium these days.” “I know. It was the first time I’d ever tried it.” “Are you carrying any drugs with you now?” “No.” The officer eyed me warily for a moment and then returned to searching my bag. Given the nature of our conversation, I reconciled myself to being there for a very long time. I was, therefore, as patient as a tree. Which was a good thing, because the officer was now examining my belongings as though any one item—a toothbrush, a book, a flashlight, a bit of nylon cord—might reveal the deepest secrets of the universe. “What is opium like?” he asked after a time. And I told him. In fact, over the next ten minutes, I told this lawman almost everything I knew about the use of mind-altering substances. Eventually he completed his search and closed my luggage. One thing was perfectly obvious at the end of our encounter: We both felt very good about it. ~ Sam Harris, #NFDB
512:I just realized I know nothing about you. Do you have a family? Where are you from?” The idea that I just invited a relative stranger, who owns nothing, to live in my apartment gave me a stomachache, but the weird thing was that I felt like I had known him forever.
“I’m from Detroit; my entire family still lives there. My mom works in a bakery at a grocery store and my dad is a retired electrician. I have twelve brothers and sisters.”
“Really? I’m an only child. I can’t imagine having a huge family like that—it must have been awesome!”
Relaxing his stance, he leaned his tattooed forearm onto the dresser and crossed his feet. Jackson came over and sat next to him. Will unconsciously began petting Jackson’s head. It made my heart warm. “Actually, I don’t have twelve brothers and sisters. I have one brother and eleven sisters.” He paused. “I’m dead serious. My brother Ray is the oldest and I’m the youngest with eleven girls in between. I swear my parents just wanted to give Ray a brother, so they kept having more babies. By the time I was born, Ray was sixteen and didn’t give a shit. On top of it, they all have R names except me. It’s a f**king joke.”
“You’re kidding? Name ‘em,” I demanded.
In a super-fast voice Will recited, “Raymond, Reina, Rachelle, Rae, Riley, Rianna, Reese, Regan, Remy, Regina, Ranielle, Rebecca, and then me, Will.”
“Surely they could have figured out another R name?”
“Well my brother was named after my dad, so my mom felt like I should be named after someone too, being the only other boy and all. So I was named after my grandfather… Wilbur Ryan.”
“Oh my god!” I burst into laughter. “Your name is Wilbur?”
“Hey, woman, that’s my poppy’s name, too.”
Still giggling, I said, “I’m sorry, I just expected William.”
“Yeah, it’s okay. Everyone does.” He smiled and winked at me again. ~ Renee Carlino,#NFDB
513:Sara and I are both leaving within the hour. In my carriage."
"Together?" Lily looked startled, and then shook her head. "You can't. Don't you realize what people would say when they discovered that both of you were gone?"
"Nothing they haven't said already." He slid a proprietary arm around Sara's shoulders.
Lily drew her slight frame up as tall as possible, adopting the brisk tone of a chaperone defending her charge. "Where are you planning to go?"
Derek smiled slowly. "None of your damn business, gypsy." Ignoring Lily's sputtering protests, he stared down at his fiancée and raised his brows mockingly.
As she met his glinting green eyes, Sara realized he intended to take her to London and keep her with him for the night. Her nerves jangled with alarm. "I'm not certain it's advisable-" she began diplomatically, but he cut her off.
"Go pack your things."
Oh, the arrogance. But it was part of why she loved him, his single-minded determination to get what he wanted. Only blind, bullying stubbornness had enabled him to climb from the gutter. Now that the prospect of marrying her was within his reach, he planned to ensure it by well and truly compromising her. After tonight there would be no turning back. Sara stared at the broad expanse of his chest, conscious of the weight of his arm across her shoulders, the gentle stroke of his thumb and forefinger against her neck. Well... reprehensible as it was, she wanted the same thing.
"Derek," Lily said in a steely voice, "I won't allow you to force this poor child into something she's not prepared for-"
"She's not a child." His fingers tightened on the back of Sara's neck. "Tell her what you want, Sara."
Helplessly Sara raised her head and looked at Lily, her face turning a deep shade of crimson. "I... I'm leaving with Mr. Craven." She didn't have to look at Derek to know that he was smiling in satisfaction. ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
514:My, my, have you ever seen such a nauseatingly tender, sickeningly domestic, scene?" drawled a voice that was, despite the words, ripe with amusement. Turning, Charles saw Lucien, with Gareth, Nerissa, and Juliet standing beside him. "Congratulations. And what will our newest de Montforte be named, eh?" "Mary," said Charles, getting to his feet. "After both our mothers." "Mary Elizabeth," Amy added, gazing at her husband and daughter. "A girl, then," murmured Lucien. "A girl." Charles came forward, holding a fold of the blanket back so that everyone could see his daughter. He was beaming with excitement. Bursting with pride. "Isn't she just beautiful? Have you ever seen anything so precious? Look at her little fingers! Look at that head of black hair! Look how perfect, how sweet, how exquisite she is —" Lucien shook his head, secretly amused that something so tiny could reduce not only a de Montforte, but an army major, to this. With a heavy sigh, he raised a brow and looked at the Wild One. "It would seem, my dear Gareth, that I owe you ten pounds after all," he murmured, with a rueful smile that could not disguise his delight in having yet another niece to spoil. "Though how you knew it would be a girl is beyond me." A sudden gust of wind lashed the window, peppering it with rain. "That's how I knew," said Gareth, handing Gabriel to Juliet and picking up a squirming Charlotte. "With a storm on the make, how could we have expected anything but a female!" Laughter rang around the room at his wry observation. Congratulations and well-wishes were said, and Mary Elizabeth de Montforte was passed around so that all could see her. After inspecting his new niece, Lucien, feeling more than a little smug for his part in getting yet another brother safely married off, moved to the door. "I say, Luce, where are you going?" Charles asked. Lucien smiled. "Well, someone's got to tell Andrew, ~ Danelle Harmon, #NFDB
515:Where are you going, Albert?”
Albert said nothing. How rare, Quinn thought: Albert speechless.
“Not really your concern, Quinn,” Albert said finally.
“You’re running out.”
Albert sighed. To his three companions he said, “Go ahead and get in the boat. The Boston Whaler. Yes, that one.” Turning back to Quinn he said, “It’s been good doing business with you. If you want, you can come with us. We have room for one more. You’re a good guy.”
“And my crews?”
“Limited resources, Quinn.”
Quinn laughed a little. “You’re a piece of work, aren’t you, Albert?”
Albert didn’t seem bothered. “I’m a businessman. It’s about making a profit and surviving. It so happens that I’ve kept everyone alive for months. So I guess I’m sorry if you don’t like me, Quinn, but what’s coming next isn’t about business. What’s coming next is craziness. We’re going back to the days of starvation. But in the dark this time. Craziness. Madness.”
His eyes glinted when he said that last word. Quinn saw the fear there. Madness. Yes, that would terrify the eternally rational businessman.
“All that happens if I stay,” Albert continued, “is that someone decides to kill me. I’ve already come too close to being dead once.”
“Albert, you’re a leader. You’re an organizer. We’re going to need that.”
Albert waved an impatient hand and glanced over to see that the Boston Whaler was ready. “Caine’s a leader. Sam’s a leader. Me?” Albert considered it for a second and shook the idea off. “No. I’m important, but I’m not a leader. Tell you what, though, Quinn: in my absence you speak for me. If that helps, good for you.”
Albert climbed down into the Boston Whaler. Pug started the engine and Leslie-Ann cast off the ropes. Some of the last gasoline in Perdido Beach sent the boat chugging out of the marina.
“Hey, Quinn!” Albert shouted back. “Don’t come to the island without showing a white flag. I don’t want to blow you up! ~ Michael Grant,#NFDB
516:...he asked, "Where are you today, right now?"
Eagerly, I started talking about myself. However, I noticed that I was still being sidetracked from getting answers to my questions. Still, I told him about my distant and recent past and about my inexplicable depressions. He listened patiently and intently, as if he had all the time in the world, until I finished several hours later.
"Very well," he said. "But you still have not answered my question about where you are."
"Yes I did, remember? I told you how I got to where I am today: by hard work."
"Where are you?"
"What do you mean, where am I?"
"Where Are you?" he repeated softly.
"I'm here."
"Where is here?"
"In this office, in this gas station!" I was getting impatient with this game.
"Where is this gas station?"
"In Berkeley?"
"Where is Berkeley?"
"In California?"
"Where is California?"
"In the United States?"
"On a landmass, one of the continents in the Western Hemisphere. Socrates, I..."
"Where are the continents?
I sighed. "On the earth. Are we done yet?"
"Where is the earth?"
"In the solar system, third planet from the sun. The sun is a small star in the Milky Way galaxy, all right?"
"Where is the Milky Way?"
"Oh, brother, " I sighed impatiently, rolling my eyes. "In the universe." I sat back and crossed my arms with finality.
"And where," Socrates smiled, "is the universe?"
"The universe is well, there are theories about how it's shaped..."
"That's not what I asked. Where is it?"
"I don't know - how can I answer that?"
"That is the point. You cannot answer it, and you never will. There is no knowing about it. You are ignorant of where the universe is, and thus, where you are. In fact, you have no knowledge of where anything is or of What anything is or how is came to be. Life is a mystery.
"My ignorance is based on this understanding. Your understanding is based on ignorance. This is why I am a humorous fool, and you are a serious jackass. ~ Dan Millman,#NFDB
517:Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze.
Hair: brown. Lips: scarlet.
Age: five thousand three hundred days.
Profession: none, or "starlet"
Where are you hiding, Dolores Haze?
Why are you hiding, darling?
(I Talk in a daze, I walk in a maze
I cannot get out, said the starling).
Where are you riding, Dolores Haze?
What make is the magic carpet?
Is a Cream Cougar the present craze?
And where are you parked, my car pet?
Who is your hero, Dolores Haze?
Still one of those blue-capped star-men?
Oh the balmy days and the palmy bays,
And the cars, and the bars, my Carmen!
Oh Dolores, that juke-box hurts!
Are you still dancin', darlin'?
(Both in worn levis, both in torn T-shirts,
And I, in my corner, snarlin').
Happy, happy is gnarled McFate
Touring the States with a child wife,
Plowing his Molly in every State
Among the protected wild life.
My Dolly, my folly! Her eyes were vair,
And never closed when I kissed her.
Know an old perfume called Soliel Vert?
Are you from Paris, mister?
L'autre soir un air froid d'opera m'alita;
Son fele -- bien fol est qui s'y fie!
Il neige, le decor s'ecroule, Lolita!
Lolita, qu'ai-je fait de ta vie?
Dying, dying, Lolita Haze,
Of hate and remorse, I'm dying.
And again my hairy fist I raise,
And again I hear you crying.
Officer, officer, there they go--
In the rain, where that lighted store is!
And her socks are white, and I love her so,
And her name is Haze, Dolores.
Officer, officer, there they are--
Dolores Haze and her lover!
Whip out your gun and follow that car.
Now tumble out and take cover.
Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze.
Her dream-gray gaze never flinches.
Ninety pounds is all she weighs
With a height of sixty inches.
My car is limping, Dolores Haze,
And the last long lap is the hardest,
And I shall be dumped where the weed decays,
And the rest is rust and stardust. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,#NFDB
518:Look for a moment at someone in your life who bothers you. Describe three things about this person that you don’t like, things that you want him or her to change. Now, look deeply inside of you and ask yourself, “Where am I like that, and when do I do the same things?” Close your eyes and give yourself the time to do this. Then ask yourself if you ARE WILLING TO CHANGE. When you remove these patterns, habits, and beliefs from your thinking and behavior, either the other person will change or he or she will leave your life. If you have a boss who is critical and impossible to please, look within. Either you do that on some level or you have a belief that “bosses are always critical and impossible to please.” If you have an employee who won’t obey or doesn’t follow through, look to see where you do that and clean it up. Firing someone is too easy; it doesn’t clear your pattern. If there is a co-worker who won’t cooperate and be part of the team, look to see how you could have attracted this. Where are you noncooperative? If you have a friend who is undependable and lets you down, turn within. Where in your life are you undependable, and when do you let others down? Is that your belief? If you have a lover who is cold and seems unloving, look to see if there is a belief within you that came from watching your parents in your childhood that says, “Love is cold and undemonstrative.” If you have a spouse who is nagging and nonsupportive, again look to your childhood beliefs. Did you have a parent who was nagging and nonsupportive? Are you that way? If you have a child who has habits that irritate you, I will guarantee that they are your habits. Children learn only by imitating the adults around them. Clear it within you, and you’ll find that they change automatically. This is the only way to change others — change ourselves first. Change your patterns, and you will find that “they” are different, too. Blame is useless. Blaming only gives away our power. Keep your power. Without power, we cannot make changes. The helpless victim cannot see a way out. ~ Louise L Hay, #NFDB
519:What were you looking for over here?” Jim asked again.
“I wonder if you can exorcise hands…hmm? Oh, where on the wall was that place I sent you through before. Do you remember?”
Jim shook its head. “Why are you looking for that particular spot? It have fond memories for you or something?”
“Hardly. You told me that it was easier to tear the fabric of existence in a spot where it had previously been rent. And I know I sent you through it from this room, but I don’t remember where, exactly.” I glanced at the clock on the mantel, leaping to my feet when I saw the time. “Oh my god. Oh my god! Tell me that clock isn’t right!”
“That clock isn’t right.”
Relief made me sag a bit as I dug through my purse looking for my cell phone. “Thank god. I was worried there for a minute that I’d missed the wedding.”
“You have,” Jim said complacently, snuffling around behind the fainting couch.
“What? You just told me the clock was wrong!”
“Yuh-uh. And who ordered me to tell her that?”
“Gah!” I screamed, punching a speed-dial number into the phone. “Talk about your day from hell…Jim, look around and find the weak spot. I’m not going to let something like a deranged Guardian ruin my day.”
“Sooo many things I could say to that,” Jim said, shaking its head. “I’ll confine myself to pointing out that even if I found the spot, it wouldn’t do you any good.”
“It wouldn’t? Why not?”
Inside my head, a dark, sinuous voice whistled a peppy little tune.
I ground my teeth. “Don’t tell me—I’d have to use the dark power in order to push us through.”
“Yup.”
Smirk.
“Bloody he—Drake!”
“Aisling?” I held the phone away from my ear at the sound of Drake’s roar.
“Hi, sweetie. Um. I guess we’re even on the whole jilting-at-the-altar thing, huh?”
“Where are you? Where have you been? Why have you not answered my calls?” Drake growled. “Rene and your uncle said you just disappeared on the street. Have you been harmed?”
“I’m fine. Jim’s here with me. I’m in…er…oh, hell.”
“Abaddon,” Jim corrected. ~ Katie MacAlister,#NFDB
520:He walked for days, stopping at bars and restaurants whenever he felt thirsty, hungry or tired; mostly they were automatic and he was served by little floating trays, though a few were staffed by real people. They seemed less like servants and more like customers who’d taken a notion to help out for a while. “Of course I don’t have to do this,” one middle-aged man said, carefully cleaning the table with a damp cloth. He put the cloth in a little pouch, sat down beside him. “But look, this table’s clean.” He agreed that the table was clean. “Usually,” the man said. “I work on alien — no offense — alien religions; Directional Emphasis In Religious Observance; that’s my speciality . . . like when temples or graves or prayers always have to face in a certain direction; that sort of thing? Well, I catalog, evaluate, compare; I come up with theories and argue with colleagues, here and elsewhere. But . . . the job’s never finished; always new examples, and even the old ones get reevaluated, and new people come along with new ideas about what you thought was settled . . . but” — he slapped the table — “when you clean a table you clean a table. You feel you’ve done something. It’s an achievement.” “But in the end, it’s still just cleaning a table.” “And therefore does not really signify on the cosmic scale of events?” the man suggested. He smiled in response to the man’s grin, “Well, yes.” “But then, what does signify? My other work? Is that really important, either? I could try composing wonderful musical works, or day-long entertainment epics, but what would that do? Give people pleasure? My wiping this table gives me pleasure. And people come to a clean table, which gives them pleasure. And anyway” — the man laughed — “people die; stars die; universes die. What is any achievement, however great it was, once time itself is dead? Of course, if all I did was wipe tables, then of course it would seem a mean and despicable waste of my huge intellectual potential. But because I choose to do it, it gives me pleasure. And,” the man said with a smile, “it’s a good way of meeting people. So where are you from, anyway? ~ Iain M Banks, #NFDB
521:Did you know sometimes it frightens me--
when you say my name and I can't see you?
will you ever learn to materialize before you speak?
impetuous boy, if that's what you really are.
how many centuries since you've climbed a balcony
or do you do this every night with someone else?
you tell me that you'll never leave
and I am almost afraid to believe it.
why is it me you've chosen to follow?
did you like the way I look when I am sleeping?
was my hair more fun to tangle?
are my dreams more entertaining?
do you laugh when I'm complaining that I'm all alone?
where were you when I searched the sea
for a friend to talk to me?
in a year where will you be?
is it enough for you to steal into my mind
filling up my page with music written in my hand
you know I'll take the credit for I must have made you come to me somehow.
but please try to close the curtains when you leave at night,
or I'll have to find someone to stay and warm me.
will you always attend my midnight tea parties--
as long as I set it at your place?
if one day your sugar sits untouched
will you have gone forever?
would you miss me in a thousand years--
when you will dry another's tears?
but you say you'll never leave me
and I wonder if you'll have the decency
to pass through my wall to the next room
while I dress for dinner
but when I'm stuck in conversation
with stuffed shirts whose adoration
hurts my ears,
where are you then?
can't you cut in when I dance with other men?
it's too late not to interfere with my life
you've already made me a most unsuitable wife
for any man who wants to be the first his bride has slept with
and you can't just fly into people's bedrooms
then expect them to calmly wave goodbye
you've changed the course of history
and didn't even try
where are you now--
standing behind me,
taking my hand?
come and remind me
who you are
have you traveled far
are you made of stardust too
are the angels after you
tell me what I am to do
but until then I'll save your side of the bed
just come and sing me to sleep ~ Emilie Autumn,#NFDB
522:I guess I’m left with only one option.” She spun out of the kitchen into the pantry. “I’ll have to be the one to go and get her.” She stomped toward the back door and banged it open. As she rushed outside, a gust of wind slapped her cheeks. “Where are you going?” Connell caught the door before it slammed shut, and he followed her outside. A hill of dark clouds had pushed in with the growing darkness. She pulled her coat tighter and started toward the front of the hotel, trying to ignore the long shadows of the evening that reached out to haunt her. “I’m heading to the Stockade to see if Frankie’s there.” “You can’t go up there by yourself,” he called after her. “I’m certain God would want me to do whatever I can to rescue the girl, even if it means going by myself.” She picked up her pace, and her boots sloshed through the muddy snow that remained after the past week. She made it only a half a dozen more steps before Connell’s hand gripped her upper arm and dragged her to a stop. “I won’t let you go.” He spun her around so that she had no choice but to face him. “How dare you? What right do you have to stop me?” She jerked her arm and tried to break away. But his hold didn’t budge. “I probably don’t have any right to stop you.” She tugged again, this time harder. “Then leave me alone.” He wavered, almost as if he would let her go, but then with a growl he yanked her against his body. The strength of his grip held her captive. But the hard width of his chest against hers and the nearness of his face—only inches away—held her in greater captivity. For a long moment she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The crashing thud of her heartbeat and the soft rasp of his breath filled the space between them. His gaze lingered upon her cheek, her chin, her other cheek before moving to her lips. Spring butterflies awakened in her stomach, and she couldn’t keep from studying his mouth, so close, so warm, so firm. But the boldness of such an inspection sent embarrassed heat through her, making her want to duck her head. “Lily,” he whispered. His eyes turned into a forest at midnight. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you. I can’t let you go up to the Stockade. It’s too dangerous. ~ Jody Hedlund, #NFDB
523:The waves lapped onto the shore in quiet, relentless ripples. A seagull screeched from somewhere down the shoreline, and another bird replied. She missed home, the comfort of her padded swing, her tall shade trees and scented lilac bushes. If she closed her eyes and blocked out the sound of the waves, she could almost imagine that she was back home in her garden, dozing on her swing under the tall oak— “Hey, Meri!” Jake’s voice shattered the illusion. She craned her head around, following the sound of his voice to an upstairs window. His elbows perched lazily on the ledge. She glared up at him. “Meridith.” “Wanna come take a look?” She’d rather beat the smug grin off his face. “Be right there.” Her bones ached as she climbed the main stairway, a repercussion of her night on the hard floor. Just beyond the guest loft, Jake stood in front of the doorway, making some final adjustment to the latch. It looked different with the area closed off from the hall. The smell of wood and some kind of chemical hung in the air. “What do you think?” He’d already hung the drywall, and the patching was drying, which explained the smell. He swung the door open, showing her the thumb-turn on the other side, then closed the door and demonstrated the lock with the key. Thank you, Vanna. “Are both doors keyed the same?” “Yep.” He threw her the new set of keys, and she caught it clumsily. She’d keep one set in her room and find a hiding spot in the kitchen for the other. He gathered his tools and supplies. Now that he was finished, maybe she could take the kids to the driving range. She could teach them how to tee off. Jake capped the drywall compound, then walked through the new doorway toward the family suite. “Where are you going?” Meridith followed him down the hall. “Patching up the other partition.” “I thought you were done.” “If I get them both patched, they’ll be ready to sand and paint on Monday. You got any more of this green?” “What? I don’t know.” He trotted down the back stairway and unlocked the new door’s thumb-turn. Meridith stopped at the top of the steps, sighing. The sooner he finished, the sooner he’d be out of her life. Out of the house, she corrected herself. That man was not in her life. ~ Denise Hunter, #NFDB
524:Question 2: How Do You Want to Grow? When you watch how young children soak up information, you realize how deeply wired we are to learn and grow. Personal growth can and should happen throughout life, not just when we’re children. In this section, you’re essentially asking yourself: In order to have the experiences above, how do I have to grow? What sort of man or woman do I need to evolve into? Notice how this question ties to the previous one? Now, consider these four categories from the Twelve Areas of Balance: 5.YOUR HEALTH AND FITNESS. Describe how you want to feel and look every day. What about five, ten, or twenty years from now? What eating and fitness systems would you like to have? What health or fitness systems would you like to explore, not because you think you ought to but because you’re curious and want to? Are there fitness goals you’d like to achieve purely for the thrill of knowing you accomplished them (whether it’s hiking a mountain, learning to tap dance, or getting in a routine of going to the gym)? 6.YOUR INTELLECTUAL LIFE. What do you need to learn in order to have the experiences you listed above? What would you love to learn? What books and movies would stretch your mind and tastes? What kinds of art, music, or theater would you like to know more about? Are there languages you want to master? Remember to focus on end goals—choosing learning opportunities where the joy is in the learning itself, and the learning is not merely a means to an end, such as a diploma. 7.YOUR SKILLS. What skills would help you thrive at your job and would you enjoy mastering? If you’d love to switch gears professionally, what skills would it take to do that? What are some skills you want to learn just for fun? What would make you happy and proud to know how to do? If you could go back to school to learn anything you wanted just for the joy of it, what would that be? 8.YOUR SPIRITUAL LIFE. Where are you now spiritually, and where would you like to be? Would you like to move deeper into the spiritual practice you already have or try out others? What is your highest aspiration for your spiritual practice? Would you like to learn things like lucid dreaming, deep states of meditation, or ways to overcome fear, worry, or stress? ~ Vishen Lakhiani, #NFDB
525:From inside the Contuzzi apartment I heard the phone ring. Once, twice, three times. “Bolitar?” It stopped after six rings. “We know you’re still in London. Where are you?” I hung up and looked at Mario’s door. The ringing phone—ringing like a phone used to, not like some ringtone on a cell—had sounded very much like a landline. Hmm. I put my hand on the door. Thick and sturdy. I pressed my ear against the cool surface, hit Mario’s cell phone number, watched the LCD display on my mobile. It took a moment or two before the connection went through. When I heard the faint chime of Mario’s cell phone through the door—the landline had been loud; this was not—dread flooded my chest. True, it may be nothing, but most people nowadays do not travel even the shortest of distances, including bathroom visits, without the ubiquitous cell phone clipped or carried upon their person. You can bemoan this fact, but the chances that a guy working in television news would leave his cell phone behind while heading to his office seemed remote. “Mario?” I shouted. I started pounding on the door. “Mario?” I didn’t expect him to answer, of course. I pressed my ear against the door again, listening for I’m not sure what—a groan maybe. A grunt. Calling out. Something. No sound. I wondered about my options. Not many. I reared back, lifted my heel, and kicked the door. It didn’t budge. “Steel-enforced, mate. You’ll never kick it down.” I turned toward the voice. The man wore a black leather vest without any sort of shirt underneath, and sadly, he didn’t have the build to pull it off. His physique, on too clear a display, managed to be both scrawny and soft. He had a cattle-ring piercing in his nose. He was balding but the little hair he had left was done up in what might be called a comb-over Mohawk. I placed his age at early fifties. It looked like he had gone out to a gay bar in 1979 and had just gotten home. “Do you know the Contuzzis?” I asked. The man smiled. I expected another dental nightmare, but while the rest of him might be in various stages of decay, his teeth were gleaming. “Ah,” he said. “You’re an American.” “Yes.” “Friends with Mario, are we?” No reason to go into a long answer here: “Yes.” “Well, what can I tell you, mate? Normally they’re a quiet couple, but you know what they say—when the wife’s away, the mouse will play. ~ Harlan Coben, #NFDB
526:Where are you?” she shouted. “Don’t you see us?” taunted the woman’s voice. “I thought Hecate chose you for your skill.” Another bout of queasiness churned through Hazel’s gut. On her shoulder, Gale barked and passed gas, which didn’t help. Dark spots floated in Hazel’s eyes. She tried to blink them away, but they only turned darker. The spots consolidated into a twenty-foot-tall shadowy figure looming next to the Doors. The giant Clytius was shrouded in the black smoke, just as she’d seen in her vision at the crossroads, but now Hazel could dimly make out his form—dragon-like legs with ash-colored scales; a massive humanoid upper body encased in Stygian armor; long, braided hair that seemed to be made from smoke. His complexion was as dark as Death’s (Hazel should know, since she had met Death personally). His eyes glinted cold as diamonds. He carried no weapon, but that didn’t make him any less terrifying. Leo whistled. “You know, Clytius…for such a big dude, you’ve got a beautiful voice.” “Idiot,” hissed the woman. Halfway between Hazel and the giant, the air shimmered. The sorceress appeared. She wore an elegant sleeveless dress of woven gold, her dark hair piled into a cone, encircled with diamonds and emeralds. Around her neck hung a pendant like a miniature maze, on a cord set with rubies that made Hazel think of crystallized blood drops. The woman was beautiful in a timeless, regal way—like a statue you might admire but could never love. Her eyes sparkled with malice. “Pasiphaë,” Hazel said. The woman inclined her head. “My dear Hazel Levesque.” Leo coughed. “You two know each other? Like Underworld chums, or—” “Silence, fool.” Pasiphaë’s voice was soft, but full of venom. “I have no use for demigod boys—always so full of themselves, so brash and destructive.” “Hey, lady,” Leo protested. “I don’t destroy things much. I’m a son of Hephaestus.” “A tinkerer,” snapped Pasiphaë. “Even worse. I knew Daedalus. His inventions brought me nothing but trouble.” Leo blinked. “Daedalus…like, the Daedalus? Well, then, you should know all about us tinkerers. We’re more into fixing, building, occasionally sticking wads of oilcloth in the mouths of rude ladies—” “Leo.” Hazel put her arm across his chest. She had a feeling the sorceress was about to turn him into something unpleasant if he didn’t shut up. “Let me take this, okay? ~ Rick Riordan, #NFDB
527:sounded calm when she answered the phone. Which meant that Jody had probably left. They had begun the day with the two women arguing about whose phone the government had legal and moral authority to tap. Pearl and her daughter could discuss such subjects until they were all talked out and Quinn had long since fled to wherever it might be legal and moral to smoke a cigar. “Still reeling from the Minnie Miner show?” Pearl asked him. “Not per se,” Quinn said. “That sounds like something Winston Castle would say. He must have gotten to you with his member-of-parliament persona.” “I suppose that’s why I’m calling,” Quinn said. “There’s something familiar about Winston Castle’s act. It reminds me of a magician’s patter, designed to get you looking at one hand while he’s doing something with the other. Just when everybody’s attention is distracted, Presto! Out of the hat pops the rabbit.” “Or the right card,” “Never play poker with them,” Quinn said. “Rabbits?” “People. Like the ones in Winston Castle’s whack-job family, or whatever it is. They have their patter.” “Meaning?” “Maybe somebody has a real Michelangelo up a sleeve.” “Magicians,” Pearl said, not quite understanding. “I’ve always kind of liked them.” “Their act wouldn’t work if you didn’t.” “I still like them.” “They cut people in half, you know.” “Only beautiful girls. And it doesn’t seem to hurt.” “I wouldn’t want to see you proved wrong.” “Where are you going with this,” Pearl asked with a sigh. Jody had apparently worn her down. “We are going to stake out the Far Castle’s Garden.” “I thought we were concentrating on D.O.A.” “Maybe we are,” Quinn said. “My guess is he’s not one of the many people who think Bellazza isn’t in the garden, just because an imitation has already been found there.” “Are we among the many, Quinn?” “On one hand, yes.” “But on the other?” “Presto!” 78 The searcher came by night, as Quinn had suspected he would, and hours after the restaurant had closed. Quinn was slouching low behind the steering wheel in the black Lincoln. He’d parked where he had a catty-corner view across the intersection and the Far Castle’s outdoor dining area. Beyond the stacked and locked tables and chairs loomed the shadowed topiary forms of the garden. Beginning several feet behind the flower beds was the larger garden, wilder and less arranged than the beds, with a variety of ~ John Lutz, #NFDB
528:Lost
You left me with the autumn time;
When the winter stripped the forest bare,
Then dressed it in his spotless rime;
When frosts were lurking in the air
You left me here and went away.
The winds were cold; you could not stay.
You sought a warmer clime, until
The south wind, artful maid, should break
The winter's trumpets, and should fill
The air with songs of birds; and wake
The sleeping blossoms on the plain
And make the brooks to flow again.
I thought that the winter desolate,
And all times felt a sense of loss.
I taught my longing heart to wait,
And said, 'When Spring shall come across
The hills, with blossoms in her track,
The she, our loved one, will come back.'
And now the hills with grass and moss
The spring with cunning hands has spread,
And yet I feel my grievous loss.
My heart will not be comforted,
But crieth daily, 'Where is she
You promised should come back to me? '
Oh, love! where are you? day by day
I seek to find you, but in vain.
Men point me to a grave, and say:
'There is her bed upon the plain.'
But though I see no trace of you,
I cannot thiink their words are true.
You were too sweet to wholly pass
Away from earth, and leave no trace;
You were to fair to let the grass
Grow rank and tall above your face.
372
Your voice, that mocked the robin's trill,
I cannot think is hushed and still.
I thought I saw your golden hair
One day, and reached to touch a strand;
I found but yellow sunbeams there The bright rays fell aslant my hand,
And seemed to mock, with lights and shades,
The silken meshes of your braids.
Again, I thought I saw your hand
Wave, as if beckoning to me;
I found 'twas but a lily, fanned
By the cool zephyrs from the sea.
Oh, love! I find no trace of you I wonder if their words were true?
One day I heard a singing voice;
A burst of music, trill on trill.
It made my very soul rejoice;
My heart gave and exultant thrill.
I cried, 'Oh heart, we've found her - hush! '
But no - 'twas the silver-throated thrush.
And once I thought I saw your face,
And wild with joy I ran to you;
But found, when I had reached the place,
'Twas a blush rose, bathed in dew.
Ah, love! I think you must be dead;
And I believe the words they said.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,#NFDB
529:Where is everyone?” Cat asked, looking around the deserted ship.
“Shore leave,” he said laconically.
“What about us?”
“If it’s urgent, we’ll just have to swim.”
Cat yawned and stretched languidly, feeling boneless from Travis’s loving and a long, wonderful nap. “Swim? Ha. I’d go down like a brick. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
Travis tilted her face up and kissed her swiftly. “Remember that, witch. You’re mine.”
Her eyes widened into misty silver pools. She looked up at him through dense lashes that glinted red and gold.
He smiled.
“You really are a pirate, aren’t you?” Cat muttered.
“Where you’re concerned, yes.”
The sensual rasp in Travis’s voice sent echoes of ecstasy shimmering through her. His smile was rakish and utterly male, reminding her of what it was like to have him deep inside her.
It was all Cat could do not to simply stand and stare at her lover. In the slanting afternoon light his eyes had a jewel-like purity of color. His skin was taught, deeply bronzed, and his beard was spun from dark gold. Beneath his faded black T-shirt and casual shorts, his body radiated ease and power.
“Don’t move,” Cat ordered, heading back to the cabin.
“Where are you going?”
“Don’t move!”
She raced below deck, grabbed the two camera cases she used most often, and ran back on deck. While Travis watched her with a lazy, sexy gleam in his eyes, she pulled out a camera and a small telephoto lens. When she retreated a few feet back along the deck, he moved as though to follow.
“No,” she said. “Stay right where you are. You’re perfect.”
“Cat,” he said, amusement curling in his voice, “what are you doing?”
“Taking pictures of an off-duty buccaneer.”
The motor drive surged quickly, pulling frame after frame of film through the camera.
“You’re supposed to be taking pictures of the Wind Warrior,” Travis pointed out.
“I am. You’re part of the ship. The most important part. Creator, owner, soul.”
She caught the sudden intensity of his expression, an elemental recognition of her words. The motor drive whirred in response to her command. After a few more frames she lowered the camera and walked back to him.
“Get used to looking into a camera lens.” Cat warned Travis. “I’ve been itching to photograph you since the first time I looked into those gorgeous, sea-colored eyes of yours.”
Laughing softly, he snaked one arm around her and pulled her snugly against his side. ~ Elizabeth Lowell,#NFDB
530:You’re good at this,” said Ronan.
“What?”
He leaned to touch the baby’s head. “Being a mother.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Ronan looked awkward. Then he said glibly, “Nothing, if you don’t like it.” He glanced at Benix, Faris, and the others, but they were discussing thumbscrews and nooses. “It didn’t mean anything. I take it back.”
Kestrel set the baby on the grass next to Faris. “You cannot take it back.”
“Just this once,” he said, echoing her earlier words during the game.
She stood and walked away.
He followed. “Come, Kestrel. I spoke only the truth.”
They had entered the shade of thickly grown laran trees, whose leaves were a bloody color. They would soon fall.
“It’s not that I wouldn’t want to have a child someday,” Kestrel told Ronan.
Visibly relieved, he said, “Good. The empire needs new life.”
It did. She knew this. As the Valorian empire stretched across the continent, it faced the problem of keeping what it had won. The solutions were military prowess and boosting the Valorian population, so the emperor prohibited any activities that unnecessarily endangered Valorian lives--like dueling and the bull-jumping games that used to mark coming-of-age ceremonies. Marriage became mandatory by the age of twenty for anyone who was not a soldier.
“It’s just--” Kestrel tried again: “Ronan, I feel trapped. Between what my father wants and--”
He held up his hands in flat-palmed defense. “I am not trying to trap you. I am your friend.”
“I know. But when you are faced with only two choices--the military or marriage--don’t you wonder if there is a third, or a fourth, or more, even, than that?”
“You have many choices. The law says that in three years you must marry, but not whom. Anyway, there is time.” His should grazed hers in the teasing push of children starting a mock fight. “Time enough for me to convince you of the right choice.”
“Benix, of course.” She laughed.
“Benix.” Ronan made a fist and shook it at the sky. “Benix!” he shouted. “I challenge you to a duel! Where are you, you great oaf?” Ronan stormed from the laran trees with all the flair of a comic actor.
Kestrel smiled, watching him go. Maybe his silly flirtations disguised something real. People’s feelings were hard to know for certain. A conversation with Ronan resembled a Bite and Sting game where Kestrel couldn’t tell if the truth looked like a lie, or a lie like the truth.
If it was true, what then? ~ Marie Rutkoski,#NFDB
531:Lost
"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss.
He only went to the Two-mile -- he ought to be back by this.
He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way;
And, here, he's not back at sundown -- and what will his mother say?
"He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;
And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.
But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away
He hasn't got strength to hold her -- and what will his mother say?"
The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track,
And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;
And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:
"What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?"
Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,
The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;
For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,
And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.
And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,
Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;
And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey
Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.
And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,
"Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply;
And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,
God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!
Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;
For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by,
And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.
But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.
169
"I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said.
But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead.
And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
Was an angel smile of gladness -- she had found the boy at last.
~ Banjo Paterson,#NFDB
532:Lie on your back and close your eyes. Let me chase your fear away. With nothing to fear, there is no need to die, eh?”
“No.” She tried to push him away. “No.”
He slipped an arm under her knees and drew her down the bed onto her back. She propped herself up on her elbows, trying to evade his lips as they nibbled their way down her neck to her collarbone. And lower. Panic welled within her. She couldn’t fight him. Not when she trembled like this. Not when the world tipped sideways. He slid the tip of his tongue under the leather to trace wet circles on her chest--just above her breasts. Her nipples sprang taut, sensitized to the soft leather that grazed them when she oved.
Never before had Loretta actually felt the blood drain from her face; she did now. Sucking in a draft of air, she tried to twist sideways, but his arm, roped with muscle and tensed against her, blocked her escape. As she shifted position, his lips found her ear and, in unison with his teeth and tongue, learned its texture, its taste, its shape, discovering with unerring accuracy the sensitive places. His warm breath made chills run over her.
“Habbe…” Her voice trailed off. She wanted desperately to distract him, but instead it was she who couldn’t seem to concentrate. “Your name, wha--what was it? Habbe what? What does it mean?”
“Habbe Esa, Road to the Wolf, Hunter of the Wolf. My brother the wolf showed his face in my name dream.”
“Y-your name dream?” She wriggled away and shoved the heel of her hand against his chin so she could sit up. “Wh-what’s a name dream?”
His eyes gleamed down at her as he drew back his head. “A dream a man seeks when he becomes a warrior. In the dream, he learns his name. A woman has no need. She is named by others.”
He dipped his head and captured her thumb between his teeth. Mesmerized, Loretta felt his tongue flick across her knuckles. Dear God, she was going to faint. And while she was unconscious, he would--he would…She felt herself tip sideways. His arm caught her from falling.
He released her thumb. “Blue Eyes?”
Loretta licked her bottom lip, trying desperately to right herself, to stay conscious. She couldn’t pass out--she just couldn’t. His face blurred. And his voice seemed distant.
“Hah-ich-ka ein, where are you, Blue Eyes?”
Loretta blinked, but it did no good. Was this how it felt to die? All floaty and distant from everything? Hah-ich-ka ein, where are you, Blue Eyes? She tried to answer. Couldn’t. ~ Catherine Anderson,#NFDB
533:Reagan,” Dad barks. I blow out a quick breath and say very nicely, “Yes, Dad.” “Chase Gerald’s father just called.” He looks at where my hand is tangled with Pete’s, and if death rays that shoot from the eyes existed, then Pete would be a puddle of ashes on the ground. “Is that the guy from the drugstore?” Pete whispers. I nod, slicing my eyes toward Pete for a second. “What did he want?” I can already guess, and my heart sinks at the very thought of it. “He said Chase came home talking about you being at the drugstore with some thug.” He glares at Pete, and Pete stiffens, his hand tightening on mine. “Did you explain who Pete is?” I ask. I don’t want to leave anyone with a misconception about Pete. “I told him that he’s someone my daughter is crushing on, but that I wasn’t worried about it because she’s a smart girl with her head on straight.” His voice rises on the last words, and his glare at Pete grows even fiercer. “I’m not crushing,” I protest. But I so am. Dad faces me. “Then what would you call it?” I don’t know what to call it because I don’t know what it is. I shrug. Pete stiffens more when I do that than he has since Dad came through the gate. “Chase wanted to know if you might want to go to the party at the country club tomorrow.” “I already told him no,” I say. But I can already see the look on my dad’s face. That’s not going to work. “I told him you’d love to.” He opens the gate and stops, looking at me from over his shoulder. “He’s picking you up at six.” I growl under my breath. Mainly because there’s not much more I can do since Dad is gone. The gate slams shut behind him. I pull my hand from Pete’s. “Where are you going?” Pete asks. “To catch my dad so I can tell him I’m not going.” “Do you want to go?” he asks. He watches me closely, his blue eyes blinking slowly. “If I wanted to go, I wouldn’t have told him no.” I heave a sigh. He steps back from me and takes all the warmth I was basking in a minute ago with him. “I think you should go,” he says quietly. “Why?” I ask softly. Something is really, really wrong. He doesn’t usually distance himself like this. “Your dad wants you to go,” he says with a shrug. “You don’t want to piss him off.” He starts to walk down the length of the pool. He signs to the boys, and they all start to put away the balls and the floats and they line up by the door. “I’ll see you later,” he calls quietly. Then he leads the boys from the pool area back toward their cabins. What did I do wrong? I seriously have no idea. ~ Tammy Falkner, #NFDB
534:I came to another passageway and paused to examine the scene. I saw myself dead and lying on the ground with Ren kneeling beside me. He leaned over my inert body investigating. I heard him whisper, “Kelsey? Is it you? Kelsey, please. Talk to me. I need to know if it’s really you.”
He picked my body up and cradled it lovingly in his arms. I checked to make sure he had the gada and the backpack, which he did, but I’d been fooled before. Then he said, “Don’t leave me, Kells.”
I closed my eyes and listened to his voice begging me to live. My heart started thumping wildly, a different reaction than I’d had in the past visions. I took a step closer and hit a barrier again.
I spoke to him softly, “Ren? I’m here. Don’t give up.”
He raised his head as if he’d heard me.
“Kelsey? I can hear you, but I can’t see you. Where are you?” He lowered me, or the body that looked like me, to the ground, and it disappeared.
I told him, “Close your eyes and feel your way to me.” He stood slowly and closed his eyes.
I closed my eyes too, and tried to focus not on his voice but on his heart. I imagined my hand on his chest, feeling the strong thump of his heart beneath my fingers. My body seemed to move of its own volition, and I took several steps forward. I concentrated on Ren, his laugh, his smile, how I felt being near him, then, suddenly, my hand touched his chest, and I could feel his heart beating. He was there. I opened my eyes slowly and looked at him.
He reached out a hand to touch my hair, but then he pulled it back. “Is it really you this time, Kells?”
“Well, I’m no maggoty corpse, if that’s what you mean.”
He grinned. “That’s a relief. No maggoty corpse would be that sarcastic.”
I countered, “Well, how do I know it’s really you?”
He considered my question for a moment and then ducked his head to kiss me. He tugged me flush up against his chest, pulling me closer than I even thought possible, and then his lips touched mine. His kiss started out warm and soft, but quickly turned hungry and demanding. His hands ran up my arms, to my shoulders, and then cupped my neck. I wrapped my arms around his waist and luxuriated in the kiss. When he finally pulled back, my heart was pounding in response.
When the power of speech returned, I quipped, “Well, even if it isn’t really you, I’ll take this version.”
He laughed and relief flooded both of us. “Kells, I think you’d better hold my hand the rest of the way.”
I smiled gaily back at him. “No problem. ~ Colleen Houck,#NFDB
535:How do you think people are going to feel when they find out you’ve deceived them?” he asked. “When they find out you’ve been playing them all for fools for weeks on end?”
I didn’t answer until we were safely out in the parking lot. Then I turned to face him.
“Gee, I don’t know, Mark. I imagine they’ll be furious and hate me for it. Is that the point you’re trying to make? I get it. Though, for the record, I never wanted to deceive anyone.”
“Then why pretend to be dead in the first place?”
“I already told you I can’t tell you.”
“Then let me tell you something, Calloway--O’Connor--whatever your name is,” Mark said in a furious voice. “I am going to write the tell-all article of your nightmares.”
“Gee,” I said. “Now there’s a surprise.”
I began to walk quickly through the parking lot in the direction of the street. If I didn’t get away from him soon, I was going to do something completely disgusting, like disgrace myself and cry.
“Don’t walk away from me. Where are you going?” Mark said.
“To the bus stop.”
“What do you mean to the bus stop? Nobody leaves the prom on the bus.”
“Now the heck do you think I got here?” I all but shouted, rounding on him as a flood of frustration overcame my desire to cry. “In a carriage that will turn into a pumpkin at midnight?”
“Why didn’t Crawford pick you up?”
“Because I wasn’t his date,” I said succinctly. “Elaine was. Is.”
Mark dragged a hand through his hair. “My car’s right over there,” he said. “I’ll drive you home.”
“No way,” I said. “And listen to you tell me what a lying jerk I am all the way across town? I think I’d rather walk.”
Before I could take so much as a step back, Mark crossed the distance between us and yanked me into his arms. In the next moment, his mouth crashed down onto mine. Twice before I’d thought he was going to kiss me, but he hadn’t. I guess he must have figured he had nothing to lose now.
The kiss was full of frustration, almost as full of frustration as of desire. It was a kiss that begged for mercy, took no prisoners, searched for answers, and made promises it could never keep, all at the same time.
In other words, it would have knocked my socks off if I’d been wearing any at the time. It certainly made my knees weak, a thing that probably would have annoyed the hell out of me if it hadn’t been quite so exhilarating.
“That’s the last thing I’m ever going to say to you,” Mark said when the kiss was over.
In a silence that felt like a blackout at the end of the world, I let him drive me home. ~ Cameron Dokey,#NFDB
536:A Pastoral
on the wall the dense ivy of executions
—ZBIGNIEW HERBERT
We shall meet again, in Srinagar,
by the gates of the Villa of Peace,
our hands blossoming into fists
till the soldiers return the keys
and disappear. Again we'll enter
our last world, the first that vanished
in our absence from the broken city.
We'll tear our shirts for tourniquets
and bind the open thorns, warm the ivy
into roses. Quick, by the pomegranate—
the bird will say—Humankind can bear
everything. No need to stop the ear
to stories rumored in branches: We'll hear
our gardener's voice, the way we did
as children, clear under trees he'd planted:
"It's true, my death, at the mosque entrance,
in the massacre, when the Call to Prayer
opened the floodgates"—Quick, follow the silence—
"and dawn rushed into everyone's eyes."
Will we follow the horned lark, pry
open the back gate into the poplar groves,
go past the search post into the cemetery,
the dust still uneasy on hurried graves
with no names, like all new ones in the city?
"It's true" (we'll hear our gardener
again). "That bird is silent all winter.
Its voice returns in spring, a plaintive cry.
That's when it saw the mountain falcon
rip open, in mid-air, the blue magpie,
then carry it, limp from the talons."
Pluck the blood: My words will echo thus
at sunset, by the ivy, but to what purpose?
In the drawer of the cedar stand,
white in the verandah, we'll find letters:
When the post offices died, the mailman
knew we'd return to answer them. Better
if he'd let them speed to death,
blacked out by Autumn's Press Trust
not like this, taking away our breath,
holding it with love's anonymous
scripts: "See how your world has cracked.
Why aren't you here? Where are you? Come back.
Is history deaf there, across the oceans?"
Quick, the bird will say. And we'll try
the keys, with the first one open the door
into the drawing room. Mirror after mirror,
textiled by dust, will blind us to our return
as we light oil lamps. The glass map of our country,
still on the wall, will tear us to lace—
We'll go past our ancestors, up the staircase,
holding their wills against our hearts. Their wish
was we return—forever!—and inherit(Quick, the bird
will say) that to which we belong, not like this—
to get news of our death after the world's.
(for Suvir Kaul)
~ Agha Shahid Ali,#NFDB
537:The Romantic
'Silly girl, listen!'
But she doesn't listen
While the village roofs glisten,
Bright in the sun.
'Silly girl, what do you do there,
As if there were someone to view there,
A face to gaze on and greet there,
A live form warmly to meet there,
When there is no one, none, do you hear?'
But she doesn't hear.
Like a dead stone
She stands there alone,
Staring ahead of her, peering around
For something that has to be found
Till, suddenly spying it,
She touches it, clutches it,
Laughing and crying.
Is it you, my Johnny, my true love, my dear?
I knew you would never forget me,
Even in death! Come with me, let me
Show you the way now!
Hold your breath, though,
And tiptoe lest stepmother hear!
What can she hear? They have made him
A grave, two years ago laid him
Away with the dead.
Save me, Mother of God! I'm afraid.
But why? Why should I flee you now?
What do I dread?
Not Johnny! My Johnny won't hurt me.
It is my Johnny! I see you now,
Your eyes, your white shirt.
But it's pale as linen you are,
Cold as winter you are!
Let my lips take the cold from you,
20
Kiss the chill o f the mould from you.
Dearest love, let me die with you,
In the deep earth lie with you,
For this world is dark and dreary,
I am lonely and weary!
Alone among the unkind ones
Who mock at my vision,
My tears their derision,
Seeing nothing, the blind ones!
Dear God! A cock is crowing,
Whitely glimmers the dawn.
Johnny! Where are you going?
Don't leave me! I am forlorn!
So, caressing, talking aloud to her
Lover, she stumbles and falls,
And her cry of anguish calls
A pitying crowd to her.
'Cross yourselves! It is, surely,
Her Johnny come back from the grave:
While he lived, he loved her entirely.
May God his soul now save!'
Hearing what they are saying,
I, too, start praying.
'The girl is out of her senses!'
Shouts a man with a learned air,
'My eye and my lenses
Know there's nothing there.
Ghosts are a myth
Of ale-wife and blacksmith.
Clodhoppers! This is treason
Against King Reason!'
'Yet the girl loves,' I reply diffidently,
'And the people believe reverently:
21
Faith and love are more discerning
Than lenses or learning.
You know the dead truths, not the living,
The world of things, not the world of loving.
Where does any miracle start?
Cold eye, look in your heart!'
~ Adam Mickiewicz,#NFDB
538:Yankunytjatjara Love Poems
1.
I walk to the south I walk to the north
where are you my Warrior?
I sit with the desert I sit with the ocean
where are you my Warrior?
I sing to the trees I sing to the rocks
where are you my Warrior?
I dance with the birds I dance with the animals
where are you my Warrior?
Heaven is everywhere
where are You?
2.
I will show you a field of zebra finch Dreaming in the shadow of the stony hill
ochre
when the soft blanket of language hums and kinship campfires flavour windswept
hair
little girls stack single twigs on embers under Grandfathers skin of painted love
the dance of emu feathers will sweep the red earth with your smile
do not look at me in daylight; that gift comes in the night
tomorrow I will show Mother our marriage proposal in my smile
3.
in the cave she rolls the big rock for table, for the desert wildflowers they pick
each another
she carries many coolamons filled with river sand to soften the hard rock floor
she makes shelf from braided saplings to hold all the feathers given by the
message birds
when he sleeps she polishes his weapons with goanna and emu fat till they
glisten in fire light
he tells the story of the notches on his spear, the story of the maps on his
20
woomera
their eyes fill with spot fires lit on his return
the other women laugh “get over yourself” they laugh “he’s not that good”
she smiles she knows him in the night
4.
there is love in the wind by the singing rock
down the river by the ancient tree
love in kangaroo goanna and emu
love when spirits speak no human voice
at the sacred sites eyes unblemished
watch wedge tail eagle soar over hidden water
find the love
5.
Survival Day
I hear you as you sit
in silence your eyes search the Dreamtime
crammed in a modern world
Ah! there are the children of the Dreamtime
hands on thighs dancing
black legs beat drum and didgeridoo
Ah! there are the Grandmothers of the Dreamtime
quiet under shade trees alert for dangers
ready to fight protect and die
Ah! husbands and wives of the Dreamtime
share soul celebrations beyond the cultures
another baby of the Dreamtime will be born soon
Ah! all the Grandfathers sit silent
unmoving become rock face and sacred tree
the gibar magic man one with the earth
Ah! I see you on the horizon
in silence you search the Dreamtime
your eyes meet my silence
you reveal your presence with your smile
21
~ Ali Eckermann,#NFDB
539:Jim Biggers looked down at the puppy playing tug-of-war with one of his bootlaces. “Quit it,” he growled, gently shaking it off.
The puppy yapped and scampered away, bumping into Truck’s furry side and bouncing off. The big dog didn’t bat an eye, but he raised his head when he heard a car door slam outside. Another puppy tumbled off his back as he got up.
Jim rose too, looking out the window.
“She’s here,” he announced, throwing down his pencil.
In another minute Kenzie and Linc walked in. One of the puppies ran to her and she squatted down to say hi. “Oh my gosh. You are so cute!”
“I can’t compete,” Jim grumbled to Linc.
The puppy yapped and ran away. Kenzie went around to the other side of the desk to kiss her boss on the cheek. “Sorry.”
Jim grinned. “You’re forgiven. How are you doing, Linc?”
He’d noticed that the younger man was still limping. There wasn’t any need to mention it specifically.
“Better every day, thanks. How did Truck get stuck with babysitting?”
“I promised him half a steak,” Jim said. “He fell for it.”
An eager puppy chomped down hard on Truck’s ear, then put his head and paws down in play position, wagging his stubby tail.
“Poor Truck,” Kenzie said sympathetically. She looked back to Jim. “Why are they here? I mean, they’re cute but way too young to start with us.”
“Merry Jenkins is fostering them for me. But she’s gone for the next two days, so I have them. It’s been fun. I’m seeing plenty of potential.” He glanced at the floor, frowning. “And a few puddles.”
He unrolled several sheets from the paper towel dispenser on his desk and let them drift to the floor. A puppy pounced on the white stuff and dragged it away.
Jim rolled his eyes. He unrolled more paper towels, and this time he put his boot down on them.
“I can’t wait to come back full-time,” Kenzie said.
“When you’re ready. Not a minute before,” Jim said sternly. “Everything’s under control. No rush.”
Linc looked down. “Am I seeing things?”
A tiny kitten was clawing its way up his jeans.
Jim harrumphed. “That’s a stray. Buddy and Wells started feeding it, and now it won’t go away.”
“Aww,” Kenzie exclaimed. “It’s adorable.”
Linc detached the kitten from his front pocket and held it up. The warmth of his hands calmed it, but only for a minute. The kitten stared at him, bug-eyed, then batted at his nose. “Doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything.”
“Reminds me of Kenzie. I guess I’ll have to keep it. So where are you two headed?”
Linc put the kitten down. Tiny tail waving, it sauntered between Truck’s furry legs. The dog didn’t seem to mind. ~ Janet Dailey,#NFDB
540:The Interrogatio
The bright sun is hidden, the night shows its face
The night's hair is spread on shoulders of the earth
This black dress is preparation for some one's mourning
Perhaps the Nature's assemblage for the sun is mourning
The sky is casting a spell over the talking lip
The night's magician is watching the awakened eye
The wind current is submerged in the river of silence
However, the tolling bell's sound comes from the distance
Heart which in love's turmoil is evading the world
Has dragged me here far from the maddening crowd
I am the spectator of the spectacle of disappointments
I am the associate of those sleeping in solitude's corner
O My restlessness! Wait and let me rest awhile
And let me shed a few tears at this habitation
O those steeped in a swoon, 'Where are you?
Tell me something of the land where you live
Is that world also one of prevarication?
Is that world also one of denizens' struggle?
Is Man engulfed by sorrow in that land also?
Is Man's heart suppressed and helpless in that land also?
Does the moth burn itself in candle's love in that land also?
Does the tale of flower and nightingale exist in that garden also?
In this world a single hemistich perturbs the heart
Does there also the warmth of verse soften the heart?
This world's relations and alliances life's woes are
Are similar sharp thorns present in that garden also?
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The daily bread and a million calamities this world has
Does the soul freedom from anxieties in that world has?
Are the thunder, the farmer, the harvest there also?
Are the caravan and the robber's fear there also?
Do birds collect bits of straw for nests there also?
Is the search for bricks and clay for house there also?
Are the humans unaware of their reality there also? 1
Are they after nations' and customs' discrimination there also
Does garden not cry at the nightingale's wail there also?
Like this world is there no sympathy in that world also?
Does the Paradise a garden or a restful mansion constitute?
Or does the Eternal Beauty's Unveiled Face it constitute? 2
Does hell a method of burning away sins constitute?
Or it in flames of fire a way of discipline constitute?
Has walking given way to speedy flying in that world?
What is the secret of what is called death by denizens of this world?
Life eases the heart's restlessness in this world
Is human knowledge also restricted in that world?
Does the separated heart get satisfaction by sight there also?
Are 'Lan Tar
~ Allama Muhammad Iqbal,#NFDB
541:The four women came to see them at the house later in the afternoon. Alexander and Tatiana were playing soccer. Actually Tatiana had just gotten the ball away from him and, squealing, was trying to hold on to it, while he was behind her, trying to kick it from under her. He had lifted her off the ground and was pressing himself hard into her while she was shrieking. All he was wearing was his skivvies, and all she was wearing was his ribbed top and her underwear. Flummoxed, Tatiana stood in front of Alexander, trying to shield his near-naked body from four pairs of wide eyes. He stood behind her, his arms on her shoulders, and Tatiana heard him say, “Tell them—No, forget it, I will,” and before she could utter a sound, he came forward, walked up to them, twice their size, bare and unrelentingly himself, and said, “Ladies, in the future you might want to wait for us to come and see you.” “Shura,” Tatiana muttered, “go and get dressed.” “Soccer is probably the least of what you’ll see,” Alexander said into the women’s stunned faces before going inside the house. When he came back out, suitably covered, he told Tatiana he was going to the village to get a couple of things they needed, like ice and an ax. “What an odd combination,” she remarked. “Where are you going to get ice from?” “The fish plant. They have to refrigerate their fish, don’t they?” “Ax?” “From that nice man Igor,” Alexander yelled, walking up the clearing, blowing her a kiss. She gazed after him. “Hurry back,” she called. Naira Mikhailovna apologized hastily. Dusia was mouthing a prayer. Raisa shook. Axinya beamed at Tatiana, who invited them all for a bit of kvas. “Come inside. See how nicely Alexander cleaned the house. And look, he repaired the door. Remember, the top hinge was broken?” The four women looked around for a place to sit. “Tanechka,” said Naira nervously, “there is no furniture in here.” Axinya whooped. Dusia crossed herself. “I know, Naira Mikhailovna. We don’t need much.” She looked down on the floor. “We have some things, we have my trunk. Alexander said he will make us a bench. I’ll bring my desk with the sewing machine…we’ll be fine.” “But how—” “Oh, Naira,” said Axinya, “leave the girl alone, will you?” Dusia glared at the rumpled bedsheets on top of the stove. A flustered Tatiana smiled. Alexander was right. It was better to go and visit them. She asked when would be a good time to come for dinner. Naira said, “Come tonight, of course. We’ll celebrate. But you come every night. Look, you won’t be able to eat here at all. There’s nowhere even to sit or cook. You’ll starve. Come every night. That’s not too much to ask, is it? ~ Paullina Simons, #NFDB
542:She thought she was getting out of the Water Rising clean, because she didn’t see her father anywhere around: there was only Ash and Lillian sitting at a table, and a few other patrons at as much of a distance from Ash and Lillian as they could get. She made for the door, at which point Lillian caught her arm.
“Where are you going?”
“Uh,” said Kami, eyeballing her wildly. “I’m going to buy some drugs.”
Lillian stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“This is a really stressful time for everyone,” said Kami. “So I thought maybe I could buy a little weed, take the edge off. I might be a while. This is a very clean-living town, apart from all the murders, so I don’t actually know any drug dealers. I realize Jared kind of looks like one, but he’s not, which is a shame because I think the drug dealer’s girlfriend gets her drugs free.”
“I realize you are attempting to be humorous,” said Lillian, after a pause during which she stared some more. “I don’t understand it.”
“Hey, you’re not the only family with a legacy. ‘Glass’ rhymes with ‘sass.’ Have you met my dad?”
“I have had that dubious pleasure,” said Lillian. “He is, in fact, meant to be meeting me in order to, and I quote, ‘teach me to integrate better with society, display leadership skills, win over the populace, and stop acting like a robot princess from space.’ I admit that the humor in his humor escapes me as well.” She paused and suddenly looked determined. “I’m going to start without him.”
She climbed off the stool and headed toward the group of people in the corner. Kami and Ash watched as they collectively shrank away.
“Come on, quick,” said Kami, and as if summoned by some spirit warning him of his child’s intended reckless behavior, her dad appeared through the inn doors.
He looked distracted. “Where’s Lillian?’
Kami checked over her shoulder. “Appears to be trying to wrest a screaming baby from the arms of her frightened mother in order to kiss it.”
“Oh no no no,” murmured Jon, and raised his voice as he made his way over. “Libba, we’ve talked about this!”
“The good news is the grown-ups are distracted by politics,” said Kami.
You mean that your poor father is distracted by my awful mother, said Ash, who was far too polite to say such a thing out loud and looked vaguely embarrassed to be thinking it.
Kami grinned. “Why quibble when we have the results we want!”
I wish I could ask you what you’re planning, but I know what you’re planning, said Ash. Lucky me. I know this is important information, but going to Aurimere at all is a huge risk.
“See, the thing is, if I ran a business it would probably be called Risky Business, ~ Sarah Rees Brennan,#NFDB
543:The House Of Dust: Part 04: 02: Death: And A
Derisive Chorus
The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office,
And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly
Towards the dazzling street.
Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing.
The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet.
Here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting
To tear her secret out . . . We laugh, we hurry,
We go our way, revolving, sinister, slow.
She blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward.
We whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow.
Where have you been, old lady? We know your secret!—
Voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . .
She trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes.
Tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been?
She turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries.
Look at the old fool tremble! She's been paying,—
Paying good money, too,—to talk to spirits. . . .
She thinks she's heard a message from one dead!
What did he tell you? Is he well and happy?
Don't lie to us—we all know what he said.
He said the one he murdered once still loves him;
He said the wheels in wheels of time are broken;
And dust and storm forgotten; and all forgiven. . . .
But what you asked he wouldn't tell you, though,—
Ha ha! there's one thing you will never know!
That's what you get for meddling so with heaven!
Where have you been, old lady? Where are you going?
We know, we know! She's been to gab with spirits.
Look at the old fool! getting ready to cry!
What have you got in an envelope, old lady?
A lock of hair? An eyelash from his eye?
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How do you know the medium didn't fool you?
Perhaps he had no spirit—perhaps he killed it.
Here she comes! the old fool's lost her son.
What did he have—blue eyes and golden hair?
We know your secret! what's done is done.
Look out, you'll fall—and fall, if you're not careful,
Right into an open grave. . . .but what's the hurry?
You don't think you will find him when you're dead?
Cry! Cry! Look at her mouth all twisted,—
Look at her eyes all red!
We know you—know your name and all about you,
All you remember and think, and all you scheme for.
We tear your secret out, we leave you, go
Laughingly down the street. . . .Die, if you want to!
Die, then, if you're in such a hurry to know!—
. . . .She falls. We lift her head. The wasted body
Weighs nothing in our hands. Does no one know her?
Was no one with her when she fell? . . .
We eddy about her, move away in silence.
We hear slow tollings of a bell.
~ Conrad Potter Aiken,#NFDB
544:A PICTURE AT FANO.
I.
Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave
That child, when thou hast done with him, for me!
Let me sit all the day here, that when eve
Shall find performed thy special ministry,
And time come for departure, thou, suspending
Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending,
Another still, to quiet and retrieve.
II.
Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more,
From where thou standest now, to where I gaze,
-And suddenly my head is covered o'er
With those wings, white above the child who prays
Now on that tomb-and I shall feel thee guarding
Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding
Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.
III.
I would not look up thither past thy head
Because the door opes, like that child, I know,
For I should have thy gracious face instead,
Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low
Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together,
And lift them up to pray, and gently tether
Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread?
IV.
If this was ever granted, I would rest
My bead beneath thine, while thy healing hands
Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast,
Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands,
Back to its proper size again, and smoothing
Distortion down till every nerve had soothing,
And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.
V.
How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired!
I think how I should view the earth and skies
And sea, when once again my brow was bared
After thy healing, with such different eyes.
O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:
And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.
What further may be sought for or declared?
VI.
Guercino drew this angel I saw teach
(Alfred, dear friend!)-that little child to pray,
Holding the little hands up, each to each
Pressed gently,-with his own head turned away
Over the earth where so much lay before him
Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him,
And he was left at Fano by the beach.
VII.
We were at Fano, and three times we went
To sit and see him in his chapel there,
And drink his beauty to our soul's content
-My angel with me too: and since I care
For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power
And glory comes this picture for a dower,
Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)-
VIII.
And since he did not work thus earnestly
At all times, and has else endured some wrong-
I took one thought his picture struck from me,
And spread it out, translating it to song.
My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend?
How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end?
This is Ancona, yonder is the sea.
~ Robert Browning, The Guardian-Angel
,#NFDB
545:I thought we were meeting by the field house,” I call out as I make my way over.
He doesn’t even turn around. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I said the parking lot.”
“You definitely said the field house,” I argue. Why can’t he ever just admit that he’s wrong?
“Geez, field house, parking lot. What difference does it make?” Mason asks. “Give it a rest, why don’t you.”
I shoot him a glare. “Oh, hey, Mason. Remember when your hair was long and everyone thought you were a girl?”
Ryder chuckles as he releases a perfect spiral in Mason’s direction. “She’s got you there.”
“Hey, whose side are you on, anyway?” Mason catches the ball and cradles it against his chest, then launches it toward Ben. I just stand there watching as they continue to toss it back and forth between the three of them. Haven’t they had enough football for one day?
I pull out my cell to check the time. “We should probably get going.”
“I guess,” Ryder says with an exaggerated sigh, like I’m putting him out or something. Which is particularly annoying since he’s the one who insisted on going with me.
Ben jogs up beside me, the football tucked beneath his arm. “Where are you two off to? Whoa, you’re sweaty.”
I fold my arms across my damp chest. “Hey, southern girls don’t sweat. We glow.”
Ben snorts at that. “Says who?”
“Says Ryder’s mom,” I say with a grin. It’s one of Laura Grace’s favorite sayings--one that always makes Ryder wince.
“The hardware store,” Ryder answers, snatching the ball back from Ben. “Gotta pick up some things for the storm--sandbags and stuff like that. Y’all want to come?”
“Nah, I think I’ll pass.” Mason wrinkles his nose. “Pretty sure I don’t want to be cooped up in the truck with Jemma glowing like she is right now.”
“Everybody thought you and Morgan were identical twin girls,” I say with a smirk. “Remember, Mason? Isn’t that just so cute?”
“I’ll go,” Ben chimes in. “If you’re getting sandbags, you’ll need some help carrying them out to the truck.”
“Thanks, Ben. See, someone’s a gentleman.”
“Don’t look now, Ryder, but your one-woman fan club is over there.” Mason tips his head toward the school building in the distance. “I think she’s scented you out. Quick. You better run.”
I glance over my shoulder to find Rosie standing on the sidewalk by the building’s double doors, looking around hopefully.
“Hey!” Mason calls out, waving both arms above his head. “He’s over here.”
Ryder’s cheeks turn beet-red. He just stares at the ground, his jaw working furiously.
“C’mon, man,” Ben says, throwing an elbow into Mason’s side. “Don’t be a dick.” He grabs the football and heads toward Ryder’s Durango. “We better get going. The hardware store probably closes at six.”
Silently, Ryder and I hurry after him and hop inside the truck--Ben up front, me in the backseat. We don’t look back to see if Rosie’s following. ~ Kristi Cook,#NFDB
546:She was sitting on a bench, her skirts bunched up on her thighs and her elbows resting on her knees as she tried to slow her breathing, when she heard a male voice.
“Um, I think I should tell you I’m here.”
Jane sat upright, quickly pulling her skirts back down to her ankles. She had been wearing drawers, of course, but it still felt absurdly immodest to sit that way in 1816 attire. She looked around, seeing no one.
“Where are you?” she asked.
Theodore, her dance partner of late, stood from behind the bush directly in front of her. His impressive height made it seem that he was slowly expanding while standing up, like stretched taffy.
“What were you doing back there?”
“I’m a gardener,” he said, raising the shovel and pick like a show of evidence. “I was just working here, I wasn’t trying to spy.”
“You, uh, caught me there at an unladylike moment. Mrs. Wattlesbrook would probably box my ears.”
“That’s why I spoke. I wanted to let you know you were not alone before you did something--something worse.”
“Like what?”
“Whatever women do when they think they’re alone.” He laughed. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m talking about, you surprised me and I’m just--” His smile dropped. “Sorry, I shouldn’t talk…I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“Well, you already have. We may as well meet for real this time, without old Wattlesbrook spying. I’m Jane.”
“Theodore the gardener,” he said, wiping off his hand and then offering it to her. She shook it, wondered if they should be bowing and curtsying, but is that what you do with a gardener? The entire conversation felt forbidden, like a secret Austen chapter that she discovered longhand in some forgotten file.
“The gardens look lovely.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Ma’am? she thought.
“So,” he said, his eyes taking in everything but her face, “you’re from the former colonies?”
She looked hard at him to detect if he was serious. He glanced at her, then down again, and sort of bowed. She laughed.
He tossed his pick into the ground. “I can’t play this. I sound completely daft.”
“Why would you have to play anything?”
“I’m supposed to be invisible. You don’t know all the lectures we heard on the matter--stay out of the way, look down, don’t bother the guests. I shouldn’t have said a word, but I was afraid of getting stuck behind that shrub all day trying not to make a peep. Or worse, you discovering me after a time and thinking I was a lecherous lunatic trying to peek up your skirt. So, anyhow, how do you do, the name’s Martin Jasper, originally from Bristol, raised in Sheffield, enjoy seventies rock and walks in the rain, and please don’t tell Mrs. Wattlesbrook. I need this job.”
“I didn’t exactly find Mrs. Wattlesbrook the kind of lady I’d be tempted to confide in. Don’t worry, Martin.”
“Thanks. Guess I should leave you to your lady stuff.” He picked up his tools and walked away. ~ Shannon Hale,#NFDB
547:Clay, did you ever love me?"
I'm studying a billboard and say that I didn't hear what she said.
"I asked if you ever loved me?"
On the terrace the sun bursts into my eyes and for one blinding moment I see myself clearly. I remember the first time we made love, in the house in Palm Springs, her body tan and wet, lying against cool, white sheets.
"Don't do this, Blair," I tell her.
"Just tell me."
I don't say anything.
"Is it such a hard question to answer?"
I look at her straight on.
"Yes or no?"
"Why?"
"Damnit, Clay," she sighs.
"Yeah, sure, I guess."
"Don't lie to me."
"What in the fuck do you want to hear?"
"Just tell me," she says, her voice rising.
"No," I almost shout. "I never did." I almost start to laugh.
She draws in a breath and says, "Thank you. That's all I wanted to know." She sips her wine.
"Did you ever love me?" I ask her back, though by now I can't even care.
She pauses. "I thought about it and yeah, I did once. I mean I really did. Everything was all right for a while. You were kind." She looks down and then goes on. "But it was like you weren't there. Oh shit, this isn't going to make any sense." She stops.
I look at her, waiting for her to go on, looking up at the billboard. Disappear Here.
"I don't know if any other person I've been with has been really there, either ... but at least they tried."
I finger the menu; put the cigarette out.
"You never did. Other people made an effort and you just ... It was just beyond you." She takes another sip of her wine. "You were never there. I felt sorry for you for a little while, but then I found it hard to. You're a beautiful boy, Clay, but that's about it."
I watch the cars pass by on Sunset.
"It's hard to feel sorry for someone who doesn't care."
"Yeah?" I ask.
"What do you care about? What makes you happy?"
"Nothing. Nothing makes me happy. I like nothing," I tell her.
"Did you ever care about me, Clay?"
I don't say anything, look back at the menu.
"Did you ever care about me?" she asks again.
"I don't want to care. If I care about things, it'll just be worse, it'll just be another thing to worry about. It's less painful if I don't care."
"I cared about you for a little while."
I don't say anything.
She takes off her sunglasses and finally says, "I'll see you later, Clay." She gets up.
"Where are you going?" I suddenly don't want to leave Blair here. I almost want to take her back with me.
"Have to meet someone for lunch."
"But what about us?"
"What about us?" She stands there for a moment, waiting. I keep staring at the billboard until it begins to blur and when my vision becomes clearer I watch as Blair's car glides out of the parking lot and becomes lost in the haze of traffic on Sunset. The waiter comes over and asks, "Is everything okay, sir?"
I look up and put my sunglasses on and try to smile. "Yeah. ~ Bret Easton Ellis,#NFDB
548:Where are you from?" She asked without thinking.
"I was born in the mountains." Runach said with a shrug. "The place doesn't matter."
"Do you have siblings?"
"Yes, several. Not all are still living. He smiled faintly. "You are full of questions this afternoon."
"The library was a bad influence on me."
Runach smiled briefly. "And I believe that was three questions you asked me, which leaves me with three of my own for you to answer."
"That was two."
"I don't count very well."
"I think you count very well," she said grimly.
He only smiled again. "I'll contemplate which answers I'll have and let you know." Aisling thought she just might be dreading them, but couldn't bring herself to say as much.
"What was your home like?" she asked.
"Another question."
"You look distracted."
He smiled and a dimple peeked out at her from his unscarred cheek. "You are more devious than I give you credit for being. I am keeping a tally, you know. I will expect a like number of answers from you."
She stared at him for a moment or two. It was difficult not to, but he didnt seem to mind. "Why?" She asked finally.
"Beacause you are a mystery."
"And do you care for a mystery?"
"I am obsessed by a good mystery," he said frankly. "More than enough to pry a few answers out of you, however I am able."
"And what if I am not inclined to give them?" She asked, her mouth suddenly dry.
"Then I will wonder about you silently."
"In truth?" she asked, surprised.
Runach smiled, looking just as surprised. "What else would I do? Beat the answers from you?"
"I don't know." She said slowly. "I don't know what soldiers do."
He shook his head. "Hedge all you like, if you like."
"Your mother must have been a well-bred lady." She said, frowning.
"Why do you say that?"
"She seems to have taught you decent manners, for your being a mere soldier."
"She tried," he agreed, looking out over the sea.
Aisling turned and looked at him. "How long ago did you lose her?"
Runach took a deep breath and dragged his hand through his hair, before he bowed his head and slid her a look. "That answer will cost you dearly."
Her first instinct, as always, was to say nothing. But the truth was, she lived and breathed still. She could tell him perhaps a bit about herself, without bringing the curse down upon her head. Aisling took her own deep breath. "Very well."
"My mother died twenty years ago, though I vow it feels like yesterday."
"How did she die?"
Runach was very still. "My father slew her and half my siblings. Time has done the rest of that terrible work I suppose.
She shut her mouth, and put her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry."
"I am too," he agreed. Runach shook his head, then reached for her hand to draw it through his arm. "Let's walk whilst you spew out the answers you owe me. You'll be more comfortable that way, I'm sure."
"I'm not sure you should worry about my comfort" Aisling managed, "not after those questions."
"But I do. And now that I have bared my soul, I think you should worry about my comfort and do the same. ~ Lynn Kurland,#NFDB
549:I kept driving for a while, then stopped on the side of the road. Shining my brights on the road in front of me, I watched out for Leatherface while dialing Marlboro Man on my car phone. My pulse was rapid out of sheer terror and embarrassment; my face was hot. Lost and helpless on a county road the same night I’d emotionally decompensated in his kitchen--this was not exactly the image I was dying to project to this new man in my life. But I had no other option, short of continuing to drive aimlessly down one generic road after another or parking on the side of the road and going to sleep, which really wasn’t an option at all, considering Norman Bates was likely wandering around the area. With Ted Bundy. And Charles Manson. And Grendel.
Marlboro Man answered, “Hello?” He must have been almost asleep.
“Um…um…hi,” I said, squinting in shame.
“Hey there,” he replied.
“This is Ree,” I said. I just wanted to make sure he knew.
“Yeah…I know,” he said.
“Um, funniest thing happened,” I continued, my hands in a death grip on the steering wheel. “Seems I got a little turned around and I’m kinda sorta maybe perhaps a little tiny bit lost.”
He chuckled. “Where are you?”
“Um, well, that’s just it,” I replied, looking around the utter darkness for any ounce of remaining pride. “I don’t really know.”
Marlboro Man assumed control, telling me to drive until I found an intersection, then read him the numbers on the small green county road sign, numbers that meant absolutely nothing to me, considering I’d never even heard the term “county road” before, but that would help Marlboro Man pinpoint exactly where on earth I was. “Okay, here we go,” I called out. “It says, um…CR 4521.”
“Hang tight,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”
Marlboro Man was right there, in less than five minutes. Once I determined the white pickup pulling beside my car was his and not that of Jason Voorhees, I rolled down my window. Marlboro Man did the same and said, with a huge smile, “Having trouble?” He was enjoying this, in the exact same way he’d enjoyed waking me from a sound sleep when he’d called at seven a few days earlier. I was having no trouble establishing myself as the clueless pansy-ass of our rapidly developing relationship.
“Follow me,” he said. I did. I’ll follow you anywhere, I thought as I drove in the dust trail behind his pickup. Within minutes we were back at the highway and I heaved a sigh of relief that I was going to survive. Humiliated and wanting to get out of his hair, I intended to give him a nice, simple wave and drive away in shame. Instead, I saw Marlboro Man walking toward my car. Staring at his Wranglers, I rolled down my window again so I could hear what he had to say.
He didn’t say anything at all. He opened my car door, pulled me out of the car, and kissed me as I’d never been kissed before.
And there we were. Making out wildly at the intersection of a county road and a rural highway, dust particles in the air mixing with the glow of my headlights to create a cattle ranch version of London fog.
It would have made the perfect cover of a romance novel had it not been for the fact that my car phone, suddenly, began ringing loudly. ~ Ree Drummond,#NFDB
550:To her surprise, Linc was waiting around the first curve on the road, listening to the radio. She could see his hand tapping a beat on the back of the other seat. Kenzie slowed her car to a stop when their windows lined up.
He rolled his down. “Hey. How’d it go?”
“No big deal. I handed the papers to his temp assistant. What the hell are you doing here?”
Linc studied her face. “I wanted to see if the beacon I put on your car was working.”
She should have known. “Is that necessary?”
“The readout is on this.” He tapped the face of his watch.
“I can’t see. And I don’t believe you.” Kenzie put her car into park, got out, and walked around.
He turned his wrist to show her. “Check it out. Your dot merged into my dot.”
“Isn’t that sweet.”
He grinned. “It’s not a problem to remove the beacon if you don’t like it.”
“No. It’s all right. You’re the only person who knows where I am most of the time now.”
That didn’t seem to have occurred to him. “Really?”
She nodded.
“So where are you off to?”
Kenzie shot him a mocking look. “You don’t have to ask, do you?”
Linc laughed. “The beacon can’t read your mind.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thank God for that. If you want to know, I was heading to the drugstore to print out some of the photos for Mrs. Corelli. Where are you going?”
“Just running errands,” he said. “Need anything from the electronics store?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay. I’m just picking up a couple of components.”
Kenzie gave a little yelp. “Yikes--that reminds me. Yesterday my boss asked me to pick something up for him out in the boondocks. I forgot until you said that. So if my dot falls off your watch, you’ll know why.”
He smiled at her warmly as he bent his arm and rested it on the bottom of the window frame. The bicep under the flannel rounded up very nicely as he lifted a hand and chucked her gently under the chin. “Funny.”
The friendly touch was unexpectedly intimate.
In fact, it triggered a dangerous sensation of giving in. She smiled at him, feeling weak. His brown eyes were dark and warm. She felt herself blush under his steady gaze.
Linc was the real deal. Maybe she didn’t have to be so tough all the time. It was okay to be protected. More than okay.
Back when she’d had Tex at her side, she’d actually liked the feeling. Like all military working dogs, he’d been trained to maintain an invisible six-foot circle around her, and woe to anyone who crossed into it without her permission. Including guys she was dating.
“Kenzie?”
She snapped out of it. “Sorry. You knocked on my stupid spot.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
She shook her head in mock dismay. “Please don’t. Let’s touch base around four or five o’clock.”
He nodded and turned the key in the ignition. “Works for me.” His gaze stayed on her a moment longer. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I will. Thanks.” She glanced back at the gray monolith a little distance behind them and her mouth tightened. But when her green gaze met Linc’s brown eyes, she managed a quick smile.
He raised his left hand in a quick good-bye wave and eased his car ahead of hers, rolling up the window again. She watched him go, then got back into hers and drove on, turning off on the road to the firing range. ~ Janet Dailey,#NFDB
551:I turn on my heel, which is no easy feat in a gravel parking lot. Not losing eye contact with Galen, I stare him down until I get to the door he's opened for me. He seems unconcerned. In fact, he seems downright emotionless. "This better be good," I tell him as I plop down.
"You should have returned my calls. Or my texts," he says, his voice tight.
As he backs out of the parking space, I yank my cell out of my purse, perusing the texts. "Well, doesn't look like anyone died, so why the hell did you ruin my date?" It's the first time I've ever cursed at royalty and it's liberating. "Or is this a kidnapping? Is Grom in the trunk? Are you taking us on our honeymoon?"
You're supposed to be hurting him, not yourself, moron. My lip trembles like the traitor it is. Even though I'm looking away, I can tell Galen's impassive expression has softened because of the way he says, "Emma."
"Leave me alone, Galen." He pulls my chin to face him. I knock his hand away. "You can't go forty miles an hour on the interstate, Galen. You need to speed up.”
He sighs and presses the gas. By the time we reach a less-embarrassing speed, I’ve abandoned my hurt for rage-o-plenty, struck by the realization that I’ve turned into “that girl.” Not the one who exchanges her doctorate for some kids and a three-bedroom two-bath, but the other kind. That girl who exchanges her dignity and chances for happiness for some possessive loser who beats her when she makes eye contact with some random guy working the hot dog stand.
Not that Galen beats me, but after his little show, what will people think? He acted like a lunatic tonight, stalking me to Atlantic City, blowing up my phone, and threatening my date with physical violence. He made serial-killer eyes, for crying out loud. That might be acceptable in the watery grave, but by dry-land standards, it’s the ingredients for a restraining order. And why are we getting off the interstate?
“Where are you taking me? I told you I want to go home.”
“We need to talk,” he says quietly, taking a dark road just off the exit. “I’ll take you home after I feel you understand.”
“I don’t want to talk. You might have realized that when I didn’t answer your calls.”
He pulls over on the shoulder of Where-Freaking-Are-We Street. Shutting off the engine, he turns to me, putting his arm around the back of my seat. “I don’t want to break up.”
One Mississippi…two Mississippi…”You followed me like a crazy person to tell me that? You ruined my date for that? Mark is a nice guy. I deserve a nice guy, don’t I, Galen?”
“Absolutely. But I happen to be a nice guy, too.”
Three Mississippi…four Mississippi…”Don’t you mean Grom? And you’re not a nice guy. You threatened Mark with physical pain.”
“You threw Rayna through a window. Call it even?”
“When are you going to get over that? Besides, she provoked me!”
“Mark provoked me, too. He put his hand on your leg. We won’t even talk about the kiss on your cheek. Don’t think I didn’t hear you give him permission either.”
“Oh, now that’s rich,” I snort, getting out of the car. Slamming the door, I scream at him. “Now you’re acting jealous on behalf of your brother,” I say, spinning in place. “Can Grom do anything without the almighty Galen helping him? ~ Anna Banks,#NFDB
552:Guilt. Torment. Sorrow. Shock. Which?” she asked against his chest.
“I’m trying,” he murmured on a weary chuckle. “But all I can manage is pride,” he added softly. “I satisfied you completely, didn’t I?”
“More than completely,” she murmured against his damp shoulder. Her hand traced his chest, feeling the coolness of his skin, the ripple of muscle. “Hold me close.”
He wrapped both arms around her and drew her on top of him, holding her hungrily to him, their legs lazily entwined. “I seduced you.”
She pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone. “Mmm-hmm.”
He caught his breath as the tiny, insignificant movement produced a sudden, raging arousal.
She lifted her head. “Did I do something wrong?”
He lifted an eyebrow and nodded toward his flat stomach. She followed his amused glance and caught her breath.
He drew her mouth down over his and kissed her ferociously before he sat up and moved off the bed.
“Where are you going?” she asked, startled.
He drew on his briefs and his slacks, glancing down at her with amused delight. “One of us has to be sensible,” he told her. “Colby’s probably on his way back right now.”
“But he just left…”
“Almost an hour ago,” he finished for her, nodding toward the clock on the bedside table.
She sat up, her eyes wide with surprise.
“I took a long time with you,” he said gently. “Didn’t you notice?”
She laughed self-consciously. “Well, yes, but I didn’t realize it was that long.”
He drew her off the bed and bent to kiss her tenderly, nuzzling her face with his. “Was I worth waiting for?” he asked.
She smiled. “What a silly question.”
He kissed her again, but when he lifted his head he wasn’t smiling. “I loved what we did together,” he said quietly. “But I should have been more responsible.”
She knew what he was thinking. He hadn’t used anything, and he surely knew that she wasn’t. She flattened her hand against his bare chest. “There’s a morning-after pill. I’ll drive into the city tomorrow and get one,” she said, lying like a sailor. She had no intention of doing that, but it would comfort him.
He found that he didn’t like that idea. It hurt something deeply primitive in him. He scowled. “That could be dangerous.”
“No, it’s not.
He traced her fingernails while he tried to think. It seemed like a fantasy, a dream. He’d never had such an experience with a woman in his life.
She closed her eyes and moved closer to him. “I could never have done that with anyone else,” she whispered. “It was more beautiful than my dreams.”
His heart jumped. That was how it felt to him, too. He tilted her face so that he could search her soft eyes. She was radiant; she almost glowed. “Kiss me,” he murmured softly.
She did. But he wasn’t smiling. She could almost see the thoughts in his face. “You didn’t force me, Tate,” she said gently. “I made a conscious decision. I made a choice. I needed to know if what had happened to me had destroyed me as a woman. I found out in the most wonderful way that it hadn’t. I’m not ashamed of what we did together.”
“Neither am I.” He turned, his face still tormented. “But it wasn’t my right.”
“To be the first?” She smiled gently. “It would have been you eight years ago or eight years from now. I don’t want anyone else-not that way. I never did.”
He actually winced. “Cecily…”
“I’m not asking for declarations of undying love. I won’t cling. I’m not the type. ~ Diana Palmer,#NFDB
553:No,” I hear myself say. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
She’s sitting on my bed. She’s leaning back on her elbows, legs outstretched in front of her, crossed at the ankles. And while some part of me understands I must be dreaming, there’s another, overwhelmingly dominant part of me that refuses to accept this. Part of me wants to believe she’s really here, inches away from me, wearing this short, tight black dress that keeps slipping up her thighs. But everything about her looks different, oddly vibrant; the colors are all wrong. Her lips are a richer, deeper shade of pink; her eyes seem wider, darker. She’s wearing shoes I know she’d never wear. And strangest of all: she’s smiling at me.
“Hi,” she whispers.
It’s just one word, but my heart is already racing. I’m inching away from her, stumbling back and nearly slamming my skull against the headboard, when I realize my shoulder is no longer wounded. I look down at myself. My arms are both fully functional. I’m wearing nothing but a white T-shirt and my underwear.
She shifts positions in an instant, propping herself up on her knees before crawling over to me. She climbs onto my lap. She’s now straddling my waist. I’m suddenly breathing too fast.
Her lips are at my ear. Her words are so soft. “Kiss me,” she says.
“Juliette—”
“I came all the way here.” She’s still smiling at me. It’s a rare smile, the kind she’s never honored me with. But somehow, right now, she’s mine. She’s mine and she’s perfect and she wants me, and I’m not going to fight it.
I don’t want to.
Her hands are tugging at my shirt, pulling it up over my head. Tossing it to the floor. She leans forward and kisses my neck, just once, so slowly. My eyes fall closed.
There aren’t enough words in this world to describe what I’m feeling.
I feel her hands move down my chest, my stomach; her fingers run along the edge of my underwear. Her hair falls forward, grazing my skin, and I have to clench my fists to keep from pinning her to my bed.
Every nerve ending in my body is awake. I’ve never felt so alive or so desperate in my life, and I’m sure if she could hear what I’m thinking right now, she’d run out the door and never come back.
Because I want her.
Now.
Here.
Everywhere.
I want nothing between us.
I want her clothes off and the lights on and I want to study her. I want to unzip her out of this dress and take my time with every inch of her. I can’t help my need to just stare; to know her and her features: the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, the line of her jaw. I want to run my fingertips across the soft skin of her neck and trace it all the way down. I want to feel the weight of her pressed against me, wrapped around me.
I can’t remember a reason why this can’t be right or real. I can’t focus on anything but the fact that she’s sitting on my lap, touching my chest, staring into my eyes like she might really love me.
I wonder if I’ve actually died.
But just as I lean in, she leans back, grinning before reaching behind her, never once breaking eye contact with me. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “It’s almost over now.”
Her words seem so strange, so familiar. “What do you mean?”
“Just a little longer and I’ll leave.”
“No.” I’m blinking fast, reaching for her. “No, don’t go—where are you going—”
“You’ll be all right,” she says. “I promise.”
“No—”
But now she’s holding a gun.
And pointing it at my heart. ~ Tahereh Mafi,#NFDB
554:This is the definition of peace.
The definition is interrupted by Toraf's ringtone. Why did Rachel get Toraf a phone? Does she hate me? Fumbling behind him in the sand, Galen puts a hand on it right before it stops ringing. He waits five seconds and...Yep, he's calling again.
"Hello?" he whispers.
"Galen, it's Toraf."
Galen snorts. "You think?"
"Rayna's ready to leave. Where are you?"
Galen sighs. “We’re on the beach. Emma’s still sleeping. We’ll walk back in a few minutes.” Emma braved her mom’s wrath by skipping curfew again last night to be with him. Grom’s mating ceremony is tomorrow, and Galen and Rayna’s attendance is required. He’ll have to leave her in Toraf’s care until he gets back.
“Sorry, Highness. I told you, Rayna’s ready to go. You have about two minutes of privacy. She’s heading your way. “The phone disconnects.
Galen leans down and sweeps his lips over her sweet neck. “Emma,” he whispers.
She sighs. “I heard him,” she groans drowsily. “You should tell Toraf that he doesn’t have to yell into the phone. And if he keeps doing it, I’m going to accidentally break it.”
Galen grins. “He’ll get the hang of it soon. He’s not a complete idiot.”
At this, Emma opens one eye.
He shrugs. “Well, three quarters maybe. But not a complete one.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” she says, sitting up and stretching.
“You know I do. But I think this mating ceremony will be interesting enough without introducing my Half-Breed girlfriend, don’t you think?”
Emma laughs and pulls her hair to one side, draping it over her shoulder. “This is our first time away from each other. You know, as a couple. We’ve only been really dating for two weeks now. What will I do without you?”
He pulls her to him, leaning her back against his chest. “Well, I’m hoping that this time when I come back, it won’t be to the sight of you kissing Toraf.”
The snickers beside them let them know their two minutes of privacy are up. “Yeah. Or someone’s gonna die,” Rayna says cordially.
Galen helps Emma up and swats the leftover sand out of her sundress. He takes her hands into his. “Could I please just ask one thing without you getting all mad about it?”
She scowls. “Let me guess. You don’t want me to get in the water while you’re gone.”
“But I’m not ordering you to stay out of it. I’m asking, no begging, very politely, and with all my heart for you not to get in. It’s your choice. But it would make me the happiest man-fish on the coast if you wouldn’t.” They sense the stalker almost daily now. That and the fact that Dr. Milligan blew his theory about Emma’s dad being a Half-Breed out of the water makes Galen more nervous than he can say. It means they still don’t have any answers about who could know about Emma. Or why they keep hanging around.
Emma rewards him with a breathtaking smile. “I won’t. Because you asked.”
Toraf was right. I just had to ask. He shakes his head. “Now I can sleep tonight.”
“That makes one of us. Don’t stay gone too long. Or Mark will sit by me at lunch.”
He grimaces. “I’ll hurry.” He leans down to kiss her. Behind them, he hears Rayna’s initial splash.
“She’s leaving without you,” Emma whispers on his lips.
“She could have left hours ago and I’d still catch her. Good-bye, angelfish. Be good.” He places a forceful kiss on her forehead, then gets a running start and dives in.
And he misses her already. ~ Anna Banks,#NFDB
555:Touching the copper of the ankh reminded me of another necklace, a necklace long since lost under the dust of time. That necklace had been simpler: only a string of beads etched with tiny ankhs. But my husband had brought it to me the morning of our wedding, sneaking up to our house just after dawn in a gesture uncharacteristically bold for him.
I had chastised him for the indiscretion. "What are you doing? You're going to see me this afternoon... and then every day after that!"
"I had to give you these before the wedding." He held up the string of beads. "They were my mother's. I want you to have them, to wear them today.”
He leaned forward, placing the beads around my neck. As his fingers brushed my skin, I felt something warm and tingly run through my body. At the tender age of fifteen, I hadn't exactly understood such sensations, though I was eager to explore them. My wiser self today recognized them as the early stirrings of lust, and . . . well, there had been something else there too. Something else that I still didn't quite comprehend. An electric connection, a feeling that we were bound into something bigger than ourselves. That our being together was inevitable.
"There," he'd said, once the beads were secure and my hair brushed back into place. "Perfect.” He said nothing else after that. He didn't need to. His eyes told me all I needed to know, and I shivered. Until Kyriakos, no man had ever given me a second glance. I was Marthanes' too-tall daughter after all, the one with the sharp tongue who didn't think before speaking. (Shape-shifting would eventually take care of one of those problems but not the other.) But Kyriakos had always listened to me and watched me like I was someone more, someone tempting and desirable, like the beautiful priestesses of Aphrodite who still carried on their rituals away from the Christian priests.
I wanted him to touch me then, not realizing just how much until I caught his hand suddenly and unexpectedly. Taking it, I placed it around my waist and pulled him to me. His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't pull back. We were almost the same height, making it easy for his mouth to seek mine out in a crushing kiss. I leaned against the warm stone wall behind me so that I was pressed between it and him. I could feel every part of his body against mine, but we still weren't close enough. Not nearly enough.
Our kissing grew more ardent, as though our lips alone might close whatever aching distance lay between us. I moved his hand again, this time to push up my skirt along the side of one leg. His hand stroked the smooth flesh there and, without further urging, slid over to my inner thigh. I arched my lower body toward his, nearly writhing against him now, needing him to touch me everywhere.
"Letha? Where are you at?”
My sister's voice carried over the wind; she wasn't nearby but was close enough to be here soon.
Kyriakos and I broke apart, both gasping, pulses racing. He was looking at me like he'd never seen me before. Heat burned in his gaze.
"Have you ever been with anyone before?" he asked wonderingly.
I shook my head.
"How did you ... I never imagined you doing that...”
"I learn fast.”
He grinned and pressed my hand to his lips. "Tonight," he breathed. "Tonight we ...”
"Tonight," I agreed.
He backed away then, eyes still smoldering. "I love you. You are my life.”
"I love you too." I smiled and watched him go. ~ Richelle Mead,#NFDB
556:Bold prayers honor God, and God honors bold prayers. God isn’t offended by your biggest dreams or boldest prayers. He is offended by anything less. If your prayers aren’t impossible to you, they are insulting to God.
Prayers are prophecies. They are the best predictors of your spiritual future. Who you become is determined by how you pray. Ultimately, the transcript of your prayers becomes the script of your life.
The greatest tragedy in life is the prayers that go unanswered because they go unasked.
God does not answer vague prayers. The more specific your prayers are, the more glory God receives.
Most of us don’t get what we want because we quit praying. We give up too easily. We give up too soon. We quit praying right before the miracle happens.
If you don’t take the risk, you forfeit the miracle.
Take a step of faith when God gives you a vision because you trust that the One who gave you the vision is going to make provision. And for the record, if the vision is from God, it will most definitely be beyond your means.
We shouldn’t seek answers as much as we should seek God. If you seek answers you won’t find them, but if you seek God, the answers will find you.
If your plans aren’t birthed in prayer and bathed in prayer, they won’t succeed.
Are your problems bigger than God, or is God bigger than your problems? Our biggest problem is our small view of God. That is the cause of all lesser evils. And it’s a high view of God that is the solution to all other problems.
Because you know He can, you can pray with holy confidence.
Persistence is the magic bullet. The only way you can fail is if you stop praying. 100 percent of the prayers I don’t pray won’t get answered.
Where are you most proficient, most sufficient? Maybe that is precisely where God wants you to trust Him to do something beyond your ability.
What we perceive as unanswered prayers are often the greatest answers. Our heavenly Father is far too wise and loves us far too much to give us everything we ask for. Someday we’ll thank God for the prayers He didn’t answer as much or more than the ones He did.
You can’t pray for open doors if you aren’t willing accept closed doors, because one leads to the other.
Just as our greatest successes often come on the heels of our greatest failures, our greatest answers often come on the heels of our longest and most boring prayers.
The biggest difference between success and failure, both spiritually and occupationally, is your waking-up time on your alarm clock. We won’t remember the things that came easy; we’ll remember the things that came hard.
It’s not just where you end up that’s important; it’s how you get there. Goal setting begins and ends with prayer.
The more you have to circle something in prayer, the more satisfying it is spiritually. And, often, the more glory God gets.
I don’t want easy answers or quick answers because I have a tendency to mishandle the blessings that come too easily or too quickly. I take the credit or take them for granted. So now I pray that it will take long enough and be hard enough for God to receive all of the glory. Change your prayer approach from as soon as possible to as long as it takes.
Go home. Lock yourself in your room. Kneel down in the middle of the floor, and with a piece of chalk draw a circle around yourself. There, on your knees, pray fervently and brokenly that God would start a revival within that chalk circle. ~ Mark Batterson,#NFDB
557:The Frays had never been a religiously observant family, but Clary loved Fifth Avenue at Christmas time. The air smelled like sweet roasted chestnuts, and the window displays sparkled with silver and blue, green and red. This year there were fat round crystal snowflakes attached to each lamppost, sending back the winter sunlight in shafts of gold. Not to mention the huge tree at Rockefeller Center. It threw its shadow across them as she and Simon draped themselves over the gate at the side of the skating rink, watching tourists fall down as they tried to navigate the ice.
Clary had a hot chocolate wrapped in her hands, the warmth spreading through her body. She felt almost normal—this, coming to Fifth to see the window displays and the tree, had been a winter tradition for her and Simon for as long as she could remember.
“Feels like old times, doesn’t it?” he said, echoing her thoughts as he propped his chin on his folded arms.
She chanced a sideways look at him. He was wearing a black topcoat and scarf that emphasized the winter pallor of his skin. His eyes were shadowed, indicating that he hadn’t fed on blood recently. He looked like what he was—a hungry, tired vampire.
Well, she thought. Almost like old times. “More people to buy presents for,” she said. “Plus, the always traumatic what-to-buy-someone-for-the-first-Christmas-after-you’ve-started-dating question.”
“What to get the Shadowhunter who has everything,” Simon said with a grin.
“Jace mostly likes weapons,” Clary sighed. “He likes books, but they have a huge library at the Institute. He likes classical music …” She brightened. Simon was a musician; even though his band was terrible, and was always changing their name—currently they were Lethal Soufflé—he did have training. “What would you give someone who likes to play the piano?”
“A piano.”
“Simon.”
“A really huge metronome that could also double as a weapon?”
Clary sighed, exasperated.
“Sheet music. Rachmaninoff is tough stuff, but he likes a challenge.”
“Now you’re talking. I’m going to see if there’s a music store around here.” Clary, done with her hot chocolate, tossed the cup into a nearby trash can and pulled her phone out. “What about you? What are you giving Isabelle?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” Simon said. They had started heading toward the avenue, where a steady stream of pedestrians gawking at the windows clogged the streets.
“Oh, come on. Isabelle’s easy.”
“That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.” Simon’s brows drew together. “I think. I’m not sure. We haven’t discussed it. The relationship, I mean.”
“You really have to DTR, Simon.”
“What?”
“Define the relationship. What it is, where it’s going. Are you boyfriend and girlfriend, just having fun, ‘it’s complicated,’ or what? When’s she going to tell her parents? Are you allowed to see other people?”
Simon blanched. “What? Seriously?”
“Seriously. In the meantime—perfume!” Clary grabbed Simon by the back of his coat and hauled him into a cosmetics store that had once been a bank. It was massive on the inside, with rows of gleaming bottles everywhere. “And something unusual,” she said, heading for the fragrance area. “Isabelle isn’t going to want to smell like everyone else. She’s going to want to smell like figs, or vetiver, or—”
“Figs? Figs have a smell?” Simon looked horrified; Clary was about to laugh at him when her phone buzzed. It was her mother.
where are you? It’s an emergency. ~ Cassandra Clare,#NFDB
558:It’s dark as a tomb in here,” she said, unable to see more than shadows. “Will you light the candles, please,” she asked, “assuming there are candles in here?”
“Aye, milady, right there, next to the bed.” His shadow crossed before her, and Elizabeth focused on a large, oddly shaped object that she supposed could be a bed, given its size.
“Will you light them, please?” she urged. “I-I can’t see a thing in here.”
“His lordship don’t like more’n one candle lit in the bedchambers,” the footman said. “He says it’s a waste of beeswax.”
Elizabeth blinked in the darkness, torn somewhere between laughter and tears at her plight. “Oh,” she said, nonplussed. The footman lit a small candle at the far end of the room and left, closing the door behind him. “Milady?” Berta whispered, peering through the dark, impenetrable gloom. “Where are you?”
“I’m over here,” Elizabeth replied, walking cautiously forward, her arms outstretched, her hands groping about for possible obstructions in her path as she headed for what she hoped was the outside wall of the bedchamber, where there was bound to be a window with draperies hiding its light.
“Where?” Berta asked in a frightened whisper, and Elizabeth could hear the maid’s teeth chattering halfway across the room.
“Here-on your left.”
Berta followed the sound of her mistress’s voice and let out a terrified gasp at the sight of the ghostlike figure moving eerily through the darkness, arms outstretched. “Raise your arm,” she said urgently, “so I’ll know ‘tis you.”
Elizabeth, knowing Berta’s timid nature, complied immediately. She raised her arm, which, while calming poor Berta, unfortunately caused Elizabeth to walk straight into a slender, fluted pillar with a marble bust upon it, and they both began to topple. “Good God!” Elizabeth burst out, wrapping her arms protectively around the pillar and the marble object upon it. “Berta!” she said urgently. “This is no time to be afraid of the dark. Help me, please. I’ve bumped into something-a bust and its stand, I think-and I daren’t let go of them until I can see how to set them upright. There are draperies over here, right in front of me. All you have to do is follow my voice and open them. Once we do, ‘twill be bright as day in here.”
“I’m coming, milady,” Berta said bravely, and Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ve found them!” Berta cried softly a few minutes later. “They’re heavy-velvet they are, with another panel behind them.” Berta pulled one heavy panel back across the wall, and then, with renewed urgency and vigor, she yanked back the other and turned around to survey the room.
“Light as last!” Elizabeth said with relief. Dazzling late-afternoon sunlight poured into the windows directly in front of her, blinding her momentarily. “That’s much better,” she said, blinking. Satisfied that the pillar was quite sturdy enough to stand without her aid, Elizabeth was about to place the bust back upon it, but Berta’s cry stopped her.
“Saints preserve us!”
With the fragile bust clutched protectively to her chest Elizabeth swung sharply around. There, spread out before her, furnished entirely in red and gold, was the most shocking room Elizabeth had ever beheld: Six enormous gold cupids seemed to hover in thin air above a gigantic bed clutching crimson velvet bed draperies in one pudgy fist and holding bows and arrows in the other; more cupids adorned the headboard. Elizabeth’s eyes widened, first in disbelief, and a moment later in mirth. “Berta,” she breathed on a smothered giggle, “will you look at this place! ~ Judith McNaught,#NFDB
559:Ella.”
The sound was so quiet, I barely heard it through the blood-rush in my ears. I turned to look down the hallway.
A man was coming toward me, his lean form clad in a pair of baggy scrub pants and a loose T-shirt. His arm was bandaged with silver-gray burn wrap.
I knew the set of those shoulders, the way he moved.
Jack.
My eyes blurred, and I felt my pulse escalate to a painful throbbing. I began to shake from the effects of trying to encompass too much feeling, too fast.
“Is it you?” I choked.
“Yes. Yes. God, Ella . . .”
I was breaking down, every breath shattering. I gripped my elbows with my hands, crying harder as Jack drew closer. I couldn’t move. I was terrified that I was hallucinating, conjuring an image of what I wanted most, that if I reached out I would find nothing but empty space. But Jack was there, solid and real, reaching around me with hard, strong arms. The contact with him was electrifying. I flattened against him, unable to get close enough.
He murmured as I sobbed against his chest. “Ella . . . sweetheart, it’s all right. Don’t cry. Don’t . . .”
But the relief of touching him, being close to him, had caused me to unravel. Not too late. The thought spurred a rush of euphoria. Jack was alive, and whole, and I would take nothing for granted ever again. I fumbled beneath the hem of his T-shirt and found the warm skin of his back. My fingertips encountered the edge of another bandage. He kept his arms firmly around me as if he understood that I needed the confining pressure, the feel of him surrounding me as our bodies relayed silent messages.
Don’t let go.
I’m right here.
Tremors kept running along my entire frame.
My teeth chattered, making it hard to talk. “I th-thought you might not come back.”
Jack’s mouth, usually so soft, was rough and chapped against my cheek, his jaw scratchy with bristle. “I’ll always come back to you.” His voice was hoarse.
I hid my face against his neck, breathing him in. His familiar scent had been obliterated by the antiseptic pungency of antiseptic burn dressings, and heavy saltwater brine.
“Where are you hurt?” Sniffling, I reached farther over his back, investigating the extent of the bandage.
His fingers tangled in the smooth, soft locks of my hair. “Just a few burns and scrapes. Nothing to worry about.” I felt his cheek tauten with a smile. “All your favorite parts are still there.”
We were both quiet for a moment. I realized he was trembling, too. “I love you, Jack,” I said, and that started a whole new rush of tears, because I was so unholy glad to be able to say it to him. “I thought it was too late . . . I thought you’d never know, because I was a coward, and I’m so—”
“I knew.” Jack sounded shaken. He drew back to look down at me with glittering bloodshot eyes.
“You did?” I sniffled.
He nodded. “I figured I couldn’t love you as much as I do, without you feeling something for me, too.”
He kissed me roughly, the contact between our mouths too hard for pleasure. I put my fingers to Jack’s bristled jaw and eased his face away to look at him. He was battered and scraped and sun-scorched. I couldn’t begin to imagine how dehydrated he was. I pointed an unsteady finger at the waiting room. “Your family’s in there. Why are you in the hallway?”
My bewildered gaze swept down his body to his bare feet. “They’re . . . they’re letting you walk around like this?”
Jack shook his head. “They parked me in a room around the corner to wait for a couple more tests. I asked if anyone had told you I was okay, and nobody knew for sure. So I came to find you.”
“You just left when you’re supposed to be having more tests?”
“I had to find you.” His voice was quiet but unyielding. ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
560:Ella.”
The sound was so quiet, I barely heard it through the blood-rush in my ears. I turned to look down the hallway.
A man was coming toward me, his lean form clad in a pair of baggy scrub pants and a loose T-shirt. His arm was bandaged with silver-gray burn wrap.
I knew the set of those shoulders, the way he moved.
Jack.
My eyes blurred, and I felt my pulse escalate to a painful throbbing. I began to shake from the effects of trying to encompass too much feeling, too fast.
“Is it you?” I choked.
“Yes. Yes. God, Ella . . .”
I was breaking down, every breath shattering. I gripped my elbows with my hands, crying harder as Jack drew closer. I couldn’t move. I was terrified that I was hallucinating, conjuring an image of what I wanted most, that if I reached out I would find nothing but empty space. But Jack was there, solid and real, reaching around me with hard, strong arms. The contact with him was electrifying. I flattened against him, unable to get close enough.
He murmured as I sobbed against his chest. “Ella . . . sweetheart, it’s all right. Don’t cry. Don’t . . .”
But the relief of touching him, being close to him, had caused me to unravel. Not too late. The thought spurred a rush of euphoria. Jack was alive, and whole, and I would take nothing for granted ever again. I fumbled beneath the hem of his T-shirt and found the warm skin of his back. My fingertips encountered the edge of another bandage. He kept his arms firmly around me as if he understood that I needed the confining pressure, the feel of him surrounding me as our bodies relayed silent messages.
Don’t let go.
I’m right here.
Tremors kept running along my entire frame.
My teeth chattered, making it hard to talk. “I th-thought you might not come back.”
Jack’s mouth, usually so soft, was rough and chapped against my cheek, his jaw scratchy with bristle. “I’ll always come back to you.” His voice was hoarse.
I hid my face against his neck, breathing him in. His familiar scent had been obliterated by the antiseptic pungency of antiseptic burn dressings, and heavy saltwater brine.
“Where are you hurt?” Sniffling, I reached farther over his back, investigating the extent of the bandage.
His fingers tangled in the smooth, soft locks of my hair. “Just a few burns and scrapes. Nothing to worry about.” I felt his cheek tauten with a smile. “All your favorite parts are still there.”
We were both quiet for a moment. I realized he was trembling, too. “I love you, Jack,” I said, and that started a whole new rush of tears, because I was so unholy glad to be able to say it to him. “I thought it was too late . . . I thought you’d never know, because I was a coward, and I’m so—”
“I knew.” Jack sounded shaken. He drew back to look down at me with glittering bloodshot eyes.
“You did?” I sniffled.
He nodded. “I figured I couldn’t love you as much as I do, without you feeling something for me, too.”
He kissed me roughly, the contact between our mouths too hard for pleasure. I put my fingers to Jack’s bristled jaw and eased his face away to look at him. He was battered and scraped and sun-scorched. I couldn’t begin to imagine how dehydrated he was. I pointed an unsteady finger at the waiting room. “Your family’s in there. Why are you in the hallway?”
My bewildered gaze swept down his body to his bare feet. “They’re . . . they’re letting you walk around like this?”
Jack shook his head. “They parked me in a room around the corner to wait for a couple more tests. I asked if anyone had told you I was okay, and nobody knew for sure. So I came to find you.”
“You just left when you’re supposed to be having more tests?”
“I had to find you.” His voice was quiet but unyielding ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
561:Perspective - Use It or Lose It. If you turned to this page, you're forgetting that what is going on around you is not reality. Think about that.
Remember where you came from, where you're going, and why you created the mess you got yourself into in the first place.
You are led through your lifetime by the inner learning creature, the playful spiritual being that is your real self. Don't turn away from possible futures before you're certain you don't have anything to learn from them.
Learning is finding out what you already know. Doing is demonstrating that you know it. Teaching is reminding others that they know just as well as you. You are all learners, doers, and teachers.
Your only obligation in any lifetime is to be true to yourself. Being true to anyone else or anything else is not only impossible, but the mark of a false messiah.
Your conscience is the measure of the honesty of your selfishness. Listen to it carefully.
The simplest questions are the most profound.
Where were you born?
Where is your home?
Where are you going?
What are you doing?
Think about these once in awhile, and watch your answers change.
Your friends will know you better in the first minute you meet than your acquaintances will know you in a thousand years.
The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other's life.
Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.
There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in its hands. You seek problems because you need their gifts.
Imagine the universe beautiful and just and perfect.
Then be sure of one thing:
The Is has imagined it quite a bit better than you have.
The original sin is to limit the Is. Don't.
A cloud does not know why it moves in just such a direction and at such a speed, it feels an impulsion....this is the place to go now.
But the sky knows the reason and the patterns behind all clouds, and you will know, too, when you lift yourself high enough to see beyond horizons.
You are never given a wish without being given the power to make it true. You may have to work for it, however.
Argue for your limitations, and sure enough, they're yours.
If you will practice being fictional for a while, you will understand that fictional characters are sometimes more real than people with bodies and heartbeats.
The world is your exercise-book, the pages on which you do your sums.
It is not reality, although you can express reality there if you wish. You are also free to write nonsense, or lies, or to tear the pages.
Every person, all the events of your life, are there because you have drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you.
In order to live free and happily, you must sacrifice boredom. It is not always an easy sacrifice.
The best way to avoid responsibility is to say, "I've got responsibilities."
The truth you speak has no past and no future. It is, and that's all it needs to be.
Here is a test to find whether your mission on earth is finished: If you're alive, it isn't.
Don't be dismayed at good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again.
And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends.
The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.
You're going to die a horrible death, remember. It's all good training, and you'll enjoy it more if you keep the facts in mind.
Take your dying with some seriousness, however. Laughing on the way to your execution it not generally understood by less advanced lifeforms, and they'll call you crazy.
Everything above may be wrong! ~ Richard Bach,#NFDB
562:I don’t want to die.” I say, defiantly.
“Bright Side, what?” He’s confused.
Of course he’s confused. No one starts a conversation like that.
I repeat, “I don’t want to fucking die.”
“Oh, shit, Bright Side.” I hear him take a deep breath, a primer for the conversationthat’s about to unfold. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I’m fucking dying, Gus. I don’t want to die. That’s what’s fucking going on.” I hit the steering wheel with my palms. “Goddammit!” I scream... Gus doesn’t deserve this, but I know he’ll deal with it better than anyone else would.
“Calm down, dude. Where are you?”
“I don’t know. I’m sitting in my car in a fucking parking garage in the middle of motherfucking Minneapolis, Minnesota.” That was hostile.
“Are you by yourself?”
“Yes,” I snap.
“You’re not supposed to be driving while you’re on your pain meds.”
I don’t want his fatherly tone. “I know that.”
“Are you in danger or hurt?”
I burst out laughing, surprised that I can’t even laugh without sounding angry. The question is absurd to me though. I’m dying.
“Bright Side, shut up for a second and talk to me. Do I need to call 911? What the fuck is going on?” He sounds scared.
I shake my head like he can see me. “No, no. I’m just ... I’m fucking mad, Gus. That’s all.” And at a loss for words because my mind is jumbled up into this bitter, resentful ball. I don’t know what else to say so I repeat myself. “I’m really fucking mad.”
“Well shit, by all means, there’s plenty of room at my table for anger.” He gets it. That’s why I called him, after all. “I’ve been dishing out heaping servings of fury for the past month. I feel better knowing I’m not the only one in this whole debacle with some rage issues. So fire away. Fucking give it to me.”
I do. An explosive, steady stream of expletives flows out of me. I’m cursing it all, shouting out questions, pounding the steering wheel, and wiping away hot, angry tears. Occasionally Gus joins in, yelling affirmations. Sometimes he waits for a pause on my part and takes his turn and sometimes he just steamrolls over the top of me...
Eventually, my tears stop, and I’m able to take normal breaths. My throat feels tight and my head hurts a little, but I’m calm. On the other end of the line, Gus gets quiet, too. Silence falls between us...
My voice is raspy when I decide to break the silence. “Gus?”
“Yeah, Bright Side.” He sounds like himself again. Calm.
“Thanks.” I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off of me. And now I need to apologize. “Sorry, dude.”
He laughs. “No worries. You feel better?”
I can actually smile now. “Yeah, I really do.”
“Good, me too. I think we should’ve done this weeks ago.”
“I think I should’ve done it months ago.” I mean it. It felt so good to let it all out.
“Bright Side, you know I love you all happy and adorable in your little world of sunshine and rainbows, but you’re kinda hot when you’re angry. I dig aggressive chicks. And that was crazy aggressive.”
He knows I’m going to say it, but I can’t help myself. “Whatever.” I even roll my eyes.
“I think I’m gonna rename you Demon Seed.”
“What? I show you my dark side and now I have to be the fucking antichrist? I don’t like that. Why can’t I just be Angry Bitch?”
He laughs hard and my heart swellsbecause I haven’t heard this laugh out of Gus in a month. And I love this laugh.
“Well dude, since it seems my therapysession has wrapped up, I’d better get going. I need to get home.”
“Sure. Drive slowly and text me when you get there so I know you made it. And no more driving after this trip.”
“Yes sir. I love you, Gus.”
“Love you, too, Angry Bitch,” his voice low and dramatic. He pauses because he knows I’m not going to hang up to that. “I was just trying it out,” he says innocently. ~ Kim Holden,#NFDB
563:As I trod down the hall, I made and discarded plausible excuses. When I reached the tapestry I decided against speaking at all. I’d just take a quick peek, and if the livery was Merindar, then I’d have to hire someone to ride back and warn the Renselaeuses.
I pulled my soggy cloak up around my eyes, stuck out my gloved finger, and poked gently at the edge of the tapestry.
Remember the surmise I recorded on my arrival at the Residence that day in early spring--that if anyone were to know everyone’s business, it would be the servants?
I glanced inside in time to see a pale, familiar face jerk up.
And for a long, amazing moment, there we were, Meliara and Shevraeth, mud-spattered and wet, just like last year, looking at one another in silence. Then I snatched my hand back, now thoroughly embarrassed, and spun around intending retreat. But I moved too fast for my tired head and fell against the wall, as once again the world lurched around me.
I heard the faint metallic ching of chain mail, and suddenly he was there, his hand gripping my arm. Without speaking, he drew me inside the bare little parlor and pointed silently at a straw-stuffed cushion. My legs folded abruptly, and I plopped down.
“Azmus--” I croaked. “How could you--I sent him--”
“Drink.” Shevraeth put a mug into my hands. “Then we can talk.”
Obediently I took a sip, felt sweet coffee burn its way pleasantly down my throat and push back the fog threatening to enfold my brain. I took a longer draught, then sighed.
The Marquis looked back at me, his face tense and tired, his eyes dark with an intensity that sent a complexity of emotions chasing through me like darting starlings.
“How did you get ahead of me so fast?” I said. “I don’t understand.”
His eyes widened in surprise, as if he’d expected to hear anything but that. “How,” he asked slowly, “did you know I was here? We told no one when I was leaving, or my route, outside of two servants.”
“I didn’t know you were here,” I said. “I sent Azmus to you. With the news. About the Merindars. You mean you already knew?”
“Let us backtrack a little,” he said, “if you will bear with my lamentable slowness. I take it, then, that you were not riding thus speedily to join me?” With his old sardonic tone he added, “Because if you were, your retreat just now is somewhat puzzling, you’ll have to admit.”
I said indignantly, “I peeked in because I thought you might be one of the Merindars, and if so, I’d send a warning back to you. I mean, you if you were there. Does that make sense?” I frowned, shook my head, then gulped down the rest of the coffee.
He smiled just slightly, but the intensity had not left his eyes.
The serving maid came in, carrying a bowl of food and some fresh bread. “Will you have some as well?” she said to me.
“Please,” Shevraeth said before I could speak. “And more coffee.” He waited until she went out, then said, “Now, begin again, please. What is it you’re trying to tell me, and where are you going?”
“I’m going to Orbanith,” I said, and forced myself to look away from the steam curling up from the stew at his elbow. My mouth watered. I swallowed and turned my attention to pulling off my sodden gloves. “I guess I am trying to tell you what you already seem to know--that the Merindars are going on the attack, with hired mercenaries from Denlieff. But--why do you want me to tell you when you do already know all this?” I looked up from wringing out my gloves.
“I am trying,” he said with great care, “to ascertain what your place is in the events about to transpire, and to act accordingly. From whom did you get your information?”
The world seemed to lurch again, but this time it was not my vision. A terrible sense of certainty pulled at my heart and mind as I realized what he was striving so heroically not to say--nevertheless, what he meant.
He thought I was on the other side. ~ Sherwood Smith,#NFDB
564:When he reached the doorman, he stopped.
“Did you see Miss Christian come in a few minutes ago?”
The doorman nodded. “Yes, sir. She got here just before you arrived.”
Relief staggered him. He bolted for the elevator. A few moments later, he strode into the apartment.
“Kelly? Kelly, honey, where are you?”
Not waiting for an answer, he hurried into the bedroom to see her sitting on the edge of the bed, her face pale and drawn in pain. When she heard him, she looked up and he winced at the dullness in her eyes.
She’d been crying.
“I thought I could do it,” she said in a raw voice, before he could beg her forgiveness. “I thought I could just go on and forget and that I could accept others thinking the worst of me as long as you and I were okay again. I did myself a huge disservice.”
“Kelly…”
Something in her look silenced him and he stood several feet away, a feeling of helplessness gripping him as he watched her try to compose herself.
“I sat there tonight while your friends and your mother looked at me in disgust, while they looked at you with a mixture of pity and disbelief in their eyes. All because you took me back. The tramp who betrayed you in the worst possible manner. And I thought to myself I don’t deserve this. I’ve never deserved it. I deserve better.”
She raised her eyes to his and he flinched at the horrible pain he saw reflected there. Then she laughed. A raw, terrible sound that grated across his ears.
“And earlier tonight you forgave me. You stood there and told me it no longer mattered what happened in the past because you forgave me and you wanted to move forward.”
She curled her fingers into tight balls and rage flared in her eyes. She stood and stared him down even as tears ran in endless streams down her cheeks.
“Well, I don’t forgive you. Nor can I forget that you betrayed me in the worst way a man can betray the woman he’s supposed to love and be sworn to protect.”
He took a step back, reeling from the fury in her voice. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t forgive me?”
“I told you the truth that day,” she said hoarsely, her voice cracking under the weight of her tears. “I begged you to believe me. I got down on my knees and begged you. And what did you do? You wrote me a damn check and told me to get out.”
He took another step back, his hand going to his hair. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. So much of that day was a blur. He remembered her on her knees, her tear-stained face, how she put her hand on his leg and whispered, “Please don’t do this.”
It made him sick. He never wanted to go back to the way he felt that day, but somehow this was worse because there was something terribly wrong in her eyes and in her voice. “Your brother assaulted me. He forced himself on me. I didn’t invite his attentions. I wore the bruises from his attack for two weeks. Two weeks. I was so stunned by what he’d done that all I could think about was getting to you. I knew you’d fix it. You’d protect me. You’d take care of me. I knew you’d make it right. All I could think about was running to you. And, oh God, I did and you looked right through me.”
The sick knot in his stomach grew and his chest tightened so much he couldn’t breathe.
“You wouldn’t listen,” she said tearfully. “You wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say. You’d already made your mind up.”
He swallowed and closed the distance between them, worried that she’d fall if he didn’t make her sit. But she shook him off and turned her back, her shoulders heaving as her quiet sobs fell over the room.
“I’m listening now, Kelly,” he forced out. “Tell me what happened. I’ll believe you. I swear.”
But he knew. He already knew. So much of that day was replaying over and over in his head and suddenly he was able to see so clearly what he’d refused to see before.
And it was killing him.
His brother had lied to him after all. Not just lied but he’d carefully orchestrated the truth and twisted it so cleverly that Ryan had been completely deceived. ~ Maya Banks,#NFDB
565:The Bombardment
Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment
on the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and trickling
over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a gargoyle,
and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral square.
Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep about in the sky?
Boom! The sound swings against the rain. Boom, again! After it, only water
rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of the gargoyle.
Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom!
The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about from the firelight.
The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of rubies
leap in the bohemian glasses on the `etagere'. Her hands are restless,
but the white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom! Will it never cease
to torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration shatters a glass
on the `etagere'. It lies there, formless and glowing,
with all its crimson gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red,
blood-red. A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks.
The old lady speaks: 'Victor, clear away that broken glass.' 'Alas!
Madame, the bohemian glass!' 'Yes, Victor, one hundred years ago
my father brought it -' Boom! The room shakes, the servitor quakes.
Another goblet shivers and breaks. Boom!
It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is shut
within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his table, his ink,
his pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls are pierced with
beams of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain tosses itself
up at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin he can see
copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp in a cedar-tree
grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, bubbled, iridescent,
shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and higher. Boom!
The flame-flowers snap on their slender stems. The fountain rears up
in long broken spears of dishevelled water and flattens into the earth. Boom!
And there is only the room, the table, the candle, and the sliding rain.
Again, Boom! - Boom! - Boom! He stuffs his fingers into his ears.
He sees corpses, and cries out in fright. Boom! It is night,
and they are shelling the city! Boom! Boom!
246
A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What has made
the bed shake? 'Mother, where are you? I am awake.' 'Hush, my Darling,
I am here.' 'But, Mother, something so queer happened, the room shook.'
Boom! 'Oh! What is it? What is the matter?' Boom! 'Where is Father?
I am so afraid.' Boom! The child sobs and shrieks. The house
trembles and creaks. Boom!
Retorts, globes, tubes, and phials lie shattered. All his trials
oozing across the floor. The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent,
goaded by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory,
that is his story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes.
Diseases like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime.
Wails from people burying their dead. Through the window, he can see
the rocking steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof,
and the sky tears apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire,
behind the lacings of stone, zigzagging in and out of the carved tracings,
squirms the fire. It spouts like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round
the head of Saint John, and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the night
and hisses against the rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white,
wet night.
Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch.
Boom! The bohemian glass on the `etagere' is no longer there.
Boom! A stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains.
The old lady cannot walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts.
Boom! - Boom! - Boom!
The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of silver.
But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The city burns.
Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the flames.
Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on the sky,
the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and chuckles
along the floors.
The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower
flickering at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along
the ceiling beams.
247
The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at
the burning Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people.
They seek shelter and crowd into the cellars. They shout and call,
and over all, slowly and without force, the rain drops into the city.
Boom! And the steeple crashes down among the people. Boom! Boom, again!
The water rushes along the gutters. The fire roars and mutters. Boom!
~ Amy Lowell,#NFDB
566:THE
OTHER DANCING
SONG
1
Into your eyes I looked recently, 0 life: I saw gold
blinking in your night-eye; my heart stopped in delight:
a golden boat I saw blinking on nocturnal waters, a
golden rocking-boat, sinking, drinking, and winking
again. At my foot, frantic to dance, you cast a glance, a
laughing, questioning, melting rocking-glance: twice
only you stirred your rattle with your small hands, and
my foot was already rocking with dancing frenzy.
My heels twitched, then my toes hearkened to understand you, and rose: for the dancer has his ear in his
toes.
I leaped toward you, but you fled back from my leap,
and the tongue of your fleeing, flying hair licked me in
its sweep.
Away from you I leaped, and from your serpents' ire;
and already you stood there, half turned, your eyes full
of desire.
225
With crooked glances you teach me-crooked ways;
on crooked ways my foot learns treachery.
I fear you near, I love you far; your flight lures me,
your seeking cures me: I suffer, but what would I not
gladly suffer for you?
You, whose coldness fires, whose hatred seduces,
whose flight binds, whose scorn inspires:
Who would not hate you, you great binder, entwiner,
temptress, seeker, and finder? Who would not love you,
you innocent, impatient, wind-swift, child-eyed sinner?
Whereto are you luring me now, you never-tame extreme? And now you are fleeing from me again, you
sweet wildcat and ingratel
I dance after you, I follow wherever your traces
linger. Where are you? Give me your hand! Or only one
finger
Here are caves and thickets; we shall get lost. Stop!
Stand still Don't you see owls and bats whirring past?
You owll You batl Intent to confound Where are we?
Such howling and yelping you have learned from a
hound.
Your lovely little white teeth are gnashing at me; out
of a curly little mane your evil eyes are flashing at me.
That is a dance up high and down low: I am the
hunter; would you be my dog or my doe?
Alongside me nowl And swift, you malicious leaping
belle! Now up and over there Alas, as I leaped I fell.
Oh, see me lying there, you prankster, suing for
grace. I should like to walk with you in a lovelier place.
Love's paths through silent bushes, past many-hued
plants. Or there along that lake: there goldfish swim
and dance.
You are weary now? Over there are sunsets and
sheep: when shepherds play on their flutes-is it not
lovely to sleep?
226
You are so terribly weary? I'll carry you there; just
let your arms sink. And if you are thirsty-I have got
something, but your mouth does not want it to drink.
Oh, this damned nimble, supple snake and slippery
witch! Where are you? In my face two red blotches
from your hand itch.
I am verily weary of always being your sheepish
shepherd. You witch, if I have so far sung to you, now
you shall cry.
Keeping time with my whip, you shall dance and cryl
Or have I forgotten the whip? Not II
2
Then life answered me thus, covering up her delicate
ears: "O Zarathustra, don't crack your whip so frightfullyl After all, you know that noise murders thoughtand just now such tender thoughts are coming to me. We
are both two real good-for-nothings and evil-for-nothings. Beyond good and evil we found our island and
our green meadow-we two alone. Therefore we had
better like each other. And even if we do not love each
other from the heart-need we bear each other a
grudge if we do not love each other from the heart?
And that I like you, often too well, that you know; and
the reason is that I am jealous of your wisdom. Oh, this
mad old fool of a wisdom! If your wisdom ever ran
away from you, then my love would quickly run away
from you too."
Then life looked back and around thoughtfully and
said softly: "O Zarathustra, you are not faithful enough
to me. You do not love me nearly as much as you say;
I know you are thinking of leaving me soon. There is
an old heavy, heavy growl-bell that growls at night all
the way up to your cave; when you hear this bell strike
the hour at midnight, then you think between one and
227
twelve-you think, 0 Zarathustra, I know it, of how you
want to leave me soon."
"Yes," I answered hesitantly, "but you also know-"
and I whispered something into her ear, right through
her tangled yellow foolish tresses.
"You know that, 0 Zarathustra? Nobody knows that."
And we looked at each other and gazed on the green
meadow over which the cool evening was running just
then, and we wept together. But then life was dearer to
me than all my wisdom ever was.
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
3
One!
0 man, take care
Two!
What does the deep midnight declare?
Three
"I was asleepFour!
"From a deep dream I woke and swear:
Five!
"The world is deep,
Six!
"Deeper than day had been aware.
Seven!
"Deep is its woe;
Eight!
"Joy-deeper yet than agony:
Nine!
"Woe implores: Gol
Ten!
"But all joy wants eternity-
228
Eleven!
'Wants deep, wants deep eternity."
Twelve!
~ Friedrich Nietzsche, THE OTHER DANCING SONG
,#NFDB
567:Prothalamion
"little soul, little flirting,
little perverse one
where are you off to now?
little wan one, firm one
little exposed one...
and never make fun of me again."
Now I must betray myself.
The feast of bondage and unity is near,
And none engaged in that great piety
When each bows to the other, kneels, and takes
Hand in hand, glance and glance, care and care,
None may wear masks or enigmatic clothes,
For weakness blinds the wounded face enough.
In sense, see my shocking nakedness.
I gave a girl an apple when five years old,
Saying, Will you be sorry when I am gone?
Ravenous for such courtesies, my name
Is fed like a raving fire, insatiate still.
But do not be afraid.
For I forget myself. I do indeed
Before each genuine beauty, and I will
Forget myself before your unknown heart.
I will forget the speech my mother made
In a restaurant, trapping my father there
At dinner with his whore. Her spoken rage
Struck down the child of seven years
With shame for all three, with pity for
The helpless harried waiter, with anger for
The diners gazing, avid, and contempt
And great disgust for every human being.
I will remember this. My mother's rhetoric
Has charmed my various tongue, but now I know
Love's metric seeks a rhyme more pure and sure.
For thus it is that I betray myself,
59
Passing the terror of childhood at second hand
Through nervous, learned fingertips.
At thirteen when a little girl died,
I walked for three weeks neither alive nor dead,
And could not understand and still cannot
The adult blind to the nearness of the dead,
Or carefully ignorant of their own death.
--This sense could shadow all the time's curving fruits,
But we will taste of them the whole night long,
Forgetting no twelfth night, no fete of June,
But in the daylight knowing our nothingness.
Let Freud and Marx be wedding guests indeed!
Let them mark out masks that face us there,
For of all anguish, weakness, loss and failure,
No form is cruel as self-deception, none
Shows day-by-day a bad dream long lived
And unbroken like the lies
We tell each other because we are rich or poor.
Though from the general guilt not free
We can keep honor by being poor.
The waste, the evil, the abomination
Is interrupted. the perfect stars persist
Small in the guilty night,
and Mozart shows
The irreducible incorruptible good
Risen past birth and death, though he is dead.
Hope, like a face reflected on the windowpane,
Remote and dim, fosters a myth or dream,
And in that dream, I speak, I summon all
Who are our friends somehow and thus I say:
"Bid the jewellers come with monocles,
Exclaiming, Pure! Intrinsic! Final!
Summon the children eating ice cream
To speak the chill thrill of immediacy.
Call for the acrobats who tumble
The ecstasy of the somersault.
Bid the self-sufficient stars be piercing
In the sublime and inexhaustible blue.
60
"Bring a mathematician, there is much to count,
The unending continuum of my attention:
Infinity will hurry his multiplied voice!
Bring the poised impeccable diver,
Summon the skater, precise in figure,
He knows the peril of circumstance,
The risk of movement and the hard ground.
Summon the florist! And the tobacconist!
All who have known a plant-like beauty:
Summon the charming bird for ignorant song.
"You, Athena, with your tired beauty,
Will you give me away? For you must come
In a bathing suit with that white owl
Whom, as I walk, I will hold in my hand.
You too, Crusoe, to utter the emotion
Of finding Friday, no longer alone;
You too, Chaplin, muse of the curbstone,
Mummer of hope, you understand!"
But this is fantastic and pitiful,
And no one comes, none will, we are alone,
And what is possible is my own voice,
Speaking its wish, despite its lasting fear;
Speaking of its hope, its promise and its fear,
The voice drunk with itself and rapt in fear,
Exaggeration, braggadocio,
Rhetoric and hope, and always fear:
"For fifty-six or for a thousand years,
I will live with you and be your friend,
And what your body and what your spirit bears
I will like my own body cure and tend.
But you are heavy and my body's weight
Is great and heavy: when I carry you
I lift upon my back time like a fate
Near as my heart, dark when I marry you.
"The voice's promise is easy, and hope
Is drunk, and wanton, and unwilled;
In time's quicksilver, where our desires grope,
The dream is warped or monstrously fulfilled,
In this sense, listen, listen, and draw near:
61
Love is inexhaustible and full of fear."
This life is endless and my eyes are tired,
So that, again and again, I touch a chair,
Or go to the window, press my face
Against it, hoping with substantial touch,
Colorful sight, or turning things to gain once more
The look of actuality, the certainty
Of those who run down stairs and drive a car.
Then let us be each other's truth, let us
Affirm the other's self, and be
The other's audience, the other's state,
Each to the other his sonorous fame.
Now you will be afraid, when, waking up,
Before familiar morning, by my mute side
Wan and abandoned then, when, waking up,
You see the lion or lamb upon my face
Or see the daemon breathing heavily
His sense of ignorance, his wish to die,
For I am nothing because my circus self
Divides its love a million times.
I am the octopus in love with God,
For thus is my desire inconclusible,
Until my mind, deranged in swimming tubes,
Issues its own darkness, clutching seas
---O God of my perfect ignorance,
Bring the New Year to my only sister soon,
Take from me strength and power to bless her head,
Give her the magnitude of secular trust,
Until she turns to me in her troubled sleep,
Seeing me in my wish, free from self-wrongs.
~ Delmore Schwartz,#NFDB
568:Enkidu sits in front of her.
[The next 30 lines are missing; some of the fragmentary lines from 35 on are restored
from parallels in the Old Babylonian.]
"Why"(?)
His own counsel
At his instruction
Who knows his heart
Shamhat pulled off her clothing,
and clothed him with one piece
while she clothed herself with a second.
She took hold of him as the gods do'
and brought him to the hut of the shepherds.
The shepherds gathered all around about him,
they marveled to themselves:
"How the youth resembles Gilgamesh
tall in stature, towering up to the battlements over the wall!
Surely he was born in the mountains;
his strength is as mighty as the meteorite(!) of Anu!"
They placed food in front of him,
they placed beer in front of him;
Enkidu knew nothing about eating bread for food,
and of drinking beer he had not been taught.
The harlot spoke to Enkidu, saying:
"Eat the food, Enkidu, it ii the way one lives.
Drink the beer, as is the custom of the land."
Enkidu ate the food until he was sated,
he drank the beer-seven jugs! and became expansive and sang with joy!
He was elated and his face glowed.
He splashed his shaggy body with water,
and rubbed himself with oil, and turned into a human.
He put on some clothing and became like a warrior(!).
He took up his weapon and chased lions so that the shepherds could eat
He routed the wolves, and chased the lions.
With Enkidu as their guard, the herders could lie down.
A wakeful man, a singular youth, he was twice as tall (?) (as normal men
[The next 33 lines are missing in the Standard Version; lines 57-86 are taken from the
Old Babylonian.]
Then he raised his eyes and saw a man.
He said to the harlot:
"Shamhat, have that man go away!
Why has he come'? I will call out his name!"
The harlot called out to the man
and went over to him and spoke with him.
"Young man, where are you hurrying!
Why this arduous pace!"
The young man spoke, saying to Enkidu:
"They have invited me to a wedding,
as is the custom of the people.
the selection(!) of brides(!) ..
I have heaped up tasty delights for the wedding on the ceremonial(!) platter.
For the King of Broad-Marted Uruk,
open is the veil(!) of the people for choosing (a girl).
For Gilgamesh, the King of Broad-Marted Uruk,
open is the veil(?) of the people for choosing.
He will have intercourse with the 'destined wife,'
he first, the husband afterward.
This is ordered by the counsel of Anu,
from the severing of his umbilical cord it has been destined
for him."
At the young man's speech his (Enkidu's) face flushed (with anger).
[Several lines are missing.]
Enkidu walked in front, and Shamhat after him.
[The Standard Version resumes.]
He (Enkidu) walked down the street of Uruk-Haven,
mighty
He blocked the way through Uruk the Sheepfold.
The land of Uruk stood around him,
the whole land assembled about him,
the populace was thronging around him,
the men were clustered about him,
and kissed his feet as if he were a little baby(!).
Suddenly a handsome young man
For Ishara the bed of night(?)/marriage(?) is ready,
for Gilgamesh as for a god a counterpart(!) is set up.
Enkidu blocked the entry to the marital chamber,
and would not allow Gilgamreh to be brought in.
They grappled with each other at the entry to the marital chamber,
in the street they attacked each other, the public square of the land.
The doorposts trembled and the wall shook,
[About 42 lines are missing from the Standard Version; lines 103-129 are taken from
the Old Babylonian version.]
Gilgamesh bent his knees, with his other foot on the ground,
his anger abated and he turned his chest away.
After he turned his chest Enkidu said to Gilgamesh:
"Your mother bore you ever unique(!),
the Wild Cow of the Enclosure, Ninsun,
your head is elevated over (other) men,
Enlil has destined for you the kingship over the people."
[19 lines are missing here.]
They kissed each other and became friends.
[The Old Babylonian becomes fragmentary. The Standard Version resumes]
"His strength is the mightiest in the land!
His strength is as mighty as the meteorite(?) of Anu,
The mother of Gilgamesh spoke to Gilgamesh, saying;
Rimat-Ninsun said to her son:
"(I!), Rimar-Ninsun
My son
Plaintively
She went up into his (Shamash's) gateway,
plaintively she implored:
"Enkidu has no father or mother,
his shaggy hair no one cuts.
He was horn in the wilderness, no one raised him."
Enkidu was standing there, and heard the speech.
He and sat down and wept,
his eyes filled with tears,
his arms felt limp, his strength weakened.
They took each other by the hand,
and.., their hands like
Enkidu made a declaration to (Gilgamesh').
[32 lines are missing here.]
"in order to protect the Cedar Forest
Enlil assigned (Humbaba) as a terror to human beings,
Humbaba's roar is a Flood, his mouth is Fire, and his breath is Death!
He can hear 100 leagues away any rustling(?) in his forest!
Who would go down into his forest!
Enlil assigned him as a terror to human beings,
and whoever goes down into his forest paralysis(?) will strike!"
Gilgamesh spoke to Enkidu saying:
"What you say .. ."
[About 42 lines are missing here in the Standard Version; lines 228-249 are taken from
the Old Babylonian.]
"Who, my Friend, can ascend to the heavens!"
(Only) the gods can dwell forever with Shamash.
As for human beings, their days are numbered,
and whatever they keep trying to achieve is but wind!
Now you are afraid of death
what has become of your bold strength!
I will go in front of you,
and your mouth can call out: 'Go on closer, do not be afraid!'
Should I fall, I will have established my fame.
(They will say 'It was Gilgamesh who locked in battle with Humbaba the Terrible!'
You were born and raised in the wilderness,
a lion leaped up on you, so you have experienced it all!'
[5 lines are fragmentary]
I will undertake it and I will cut down the Cedar.
It is I who will establish fame for eternity!
Come, my friend, I will go over to the forge
and have them cast the weapons in our presence!"
Holding each other by the hand they went over to the forge.
[The Standard Version resumes at this point.]
The craftsmen sat and discussed with one another.
"We should fashion the axe
The hatchet should he one talent in weight
Their swords should be one talent
Their armor one talent, their armor"
Gilgamesh said to the men of Uruk:
"Listen to me, men
[5 lines are missing here.
You, men of Uruk, who know
I want to make myself more mighty, and will go on a distant(!) journey!
I will face fighting such as I have never known,
I will set out on a road I have never traveled!
Give me your blessings!
I will enter the city gate of Uruk
I will devote(?) myself to the New Year's Festival.
I will perform the New Year's (ceremonies) in
The New Year's Festival will take place, celebrations
They will keep shouting 'Hurrah!' in""
Enkidu spoke to the Elders:
"What the men of Uruk
Say to him that he must not go to the Cedar Forest
the journey is not to be made!
A man who
The Guardian of the Cedar Forest
The Noble Counselors of Uruk arose and
delivered their advice toGilgamesh:
"You are young, Gilgamesh, your heart carries you off
you do not know what you are talking about!
gave birth to you.
Humbaba's roar is a Flood,
his mouth is Fire, his breath Death!
He can hear any rustling(!) in his forest 100 leagues away!
Who would go down into his forest!
Who among (even!) the Igigi gods can confront him?
In order to keep the Cedar safe, Enlil assigned him as a terror
to human beings."
Gilgamesh listened to the statement of his Noble Counselors.
[About 5 lines are missing to the end of Tablet II.]
~ Anonymous, The Epic of Gilgamesh Tablet II
,#NFDB
569:Requiem
Not under foreign skies
Nor under foreign wings protected I shared all this with my own people
There, where misfortune had abandoned us.
[1961]
INSTEAD OF A PREFACE
During the frightening years of the Yezhov terror, I
spent seventeen months waiting in prison queues in
Leningrad. One day, somehow, someone 'picked me out'.
On that occasion there was a woman standing behind me,
her lips blue with cold, who, of course, had never in
her life heard my name. Jolted out of the torpor
characteristic of all of us, she said into my ear
(everyone whispered there) - 'Could one ever describe
this?' And I answered - 'I can.' It was then that
something like a smile slid across what had previously
been just a face.
[The 1st of April in the year 1957. Leningrad]
DEDICATION
Mountains fall before this grief,
A mighty river stops its flow,
But prison doors stay firmly bolted
Shutting off the convict burrows
And an anguish close to death.
Fresh winds softly blow for someone,
Gentle sunsets warm them through; we don't know this,
We are everywhere the same, listening
To the scrape and turn of hateful keys
And the heavy tread of marching soldiers.
Waking early, as if for early mass,
Walking through the capital run wild, gone to seed,
We'd meet - the dead, lifeless; the sun,
Lower every day; the Neva, mistier:
But hope still sings forever in the distance.
The verdict. Immediately a flood of tears,
62
Followed by a total isolation,
As if a beating heart is painfully ripped out, or,
Thumped, she lies there brutally laid out,
But she still manages to walk, hesitantly, alone.
Where are you, my unwilling friends,
Captives of my two satanic years?
What miracle do you see in a Siberian blizzard?
What shimmering mirage around the circle of the moon?
I send each one of you my salutation, and farewell.
[March 1940]
INTRODUCTION
[PRELUDE]
It happened like this when only the dead
Were smiling, glad of their release,
That Leningrad hung around its prisons
Like a worthless emblem, flapping its piece.
Shrill and sharp, the steam-whistles sang
Short songs of farewell
To the ranks of convicted, demented by suffering,
As they, in regiments, walked along Stars of death stood over us
As innocent Russia squirmed
Under the blood-spattered boots and tyres
Of the black marias.
You were taken away at dawn. I followed you
As one does when a corpse is being removed.
Children were crying in the darkened house.
A candle flared, illuminating the Mother of God. . .
The cold of an icon was on your lips, a death-cold
sweat
On your brow - I will never forget this; I will gather
To wail with the wives of the murdered streltsy (1)
Inconsolably, beneath the Kremlin towers.
[1935. Autumn. Moscow]
II
63
Silent flows the river Don
A yellow moon looks quietly on
Swanking about, with cap askew
It sees through the window a shadow of you
Gravely ill, all alone
The moon sees a woman lying at home
Her son is in jail, her husband is dead
Say a prayer for her instead.
III
It isn't me, someone else is suffering. I couldn't.
Not like this. Everything that has happened,
Cover it with a black cloth,
Then let the torches be removed. . .
Night.
IV
Giggling, poking fun, everyone's darling,
The carefree sinner of Tsarskoye Selo (2)
If only you could have foreseen
What life would do with you That you would stand, parcel in hand,
Beneath the Crosses (3), three hundredth in
line,
Burning the new year's ice
With your hot tears.
Back and forth the prison poplar sways
With not a sound - how many innocent
Blameless lives are being taken away. . .
[1938]
For seventeen months I have been screaming,
Calling you home.
I've thrown myself at the feet of butchers
For you, my son and my horror.
Everything has become muddled forever I can no longer distinguish
64
Who is an animal, who a person, and how long
The wait can be for an execution.
There are now only dusty flowers,
The chinking of the thurible,
Tracks from somewhere into nowhere
And, staring me in the face
And threatening me with swift annihilation,
An enormous star.
[1939]
VI
Weeks fly lightly by. Even so,
I cannot understand what has arisen,
How, my son, into your prison
White nights stare so brilliantly.
Now once more they burn,
Eyes that focus like a hawk,
And, upon your cross, the talk
Is again of death.
[1939. Spring]
VII
THE VERDICT
The word landed with a stony thud
Onto my still-beating breast.
Nevermind, I was prepared,
I will manage with the rest.
I have a lot of work to do today;
I need to slaughter memory,
Turn my living soul to stone
Then teach myself to live again. . .
But how. The hot summer rustles
Like a carnival outside my window;
I have long had this premonition
Of a bright day and a deserted house.
[22 June 1939. Summer. Fontannyi Dom (4)]
VIII
65
TO DEATH
You will come anyway - so why not now?
I wait for you; things have become too hard.
I have turned out the lights and opened the door
For you, so simple and so wonderful.
Assume whatever shape you wish. Burst in
Like a shell of noxious gas. Creep up on me
Like a practised bandit with a heavy weapon.
Poison me, if you want, with a typhoid exhalation,
Or, with a simple tale prepared by you
(And known by all to the point of nausea), take me
Before the commander of the blue caps and let me
glimpse
The house administrator's terrified white face.
I don't care anymore. The river Yenisey
Swirls on. The Pole star blazes.
The blue sparks of those much-loved eyes
Close over and cover the final horror.
[19 August 1939. Fontannyi Dom]
IX
Madness with its wings
Has covered half my soul
It feeds me fiery wine
And lures me into the abyss.
That's when I understood
While listening to my alien delirium
That I must hand the victory
To it.
However much I nag
However much I beg
It will not let me take
One single thing away:
Not my son's frightening eyes A suffering set in stone,
Or prison visiting hours
Or days that end in storms
66
Nor the sweet coolness of a hand
The anxious shade of lime trees
Nor the light distant sound
Of final comforting words.
[14 May 1940. Fontannyi Dom]
CRUCIFIXION
Weep not for me, mother.
I am alive in my grave.
1.
A choir of angels glorified the greatest hour,
The heavens melted into flames.
To his father he said, 'Why hast thou forsaken me!'
But to his mother, 'Weep not for me. . .'
[1940. Fontannyi Dom]
2.
Magdalena smote herself and wept,
The favourite disciple turned to stone,
But there, where the mother stood silent,
Not one person dared to look.
[1943. Tashkent]
EPILOGUE
1.
I have learned how faces fall,
How terror can escape from lowered eyes,
How suffering can etch cruel pages
Of cuneiform-like marks upon the cheeks.
I know how dark or ash-blond strands of hair
Can suddenly turn white. I've learned to recognise
The fading smiles upon submissive lips,
The trembling fear inside a hollow laugh.
That's why I pray not for myself
But all of you who stood there with me
Through fiercest cold and scorching July heat
Under a towering, completely blind red wall.
67
2.
The hour has come to remember the dead.
I see you, I hear you, I feel you:
The one who resisted the long drag to the open window;
The one who could no longer feel the kick of familiar
soil beneath her feet;
The one who, with a sudden flick of her head, replied,
'I arrive here as if I've come home!'
I'd like to name you all by name, but the list
Has been removed and there is nowhere else to look.
So,
I have woven you this wide shroud out of the humble
words
I overheard you use. Everywhere, forever and always,
I will never forget one single thing. Even in new
grief.
Even if they clamp shut my tormented mouth
Through which one hundred million people scream;
That's how I wish them to remember me when I am dead
On the eve of my remembrance day.
If someone someday in this country
Decides to raise a memorial to me,
I give my consent to this festivity
But only on this condition - do not build it
By the sea where I was born,
I have severed my last ties with the sea;
Nor in the Tsar's Park by the hallowed stump
Where an inconsolable shadow looks for me;
Build it here where I stood for three hundred hours
And no-one slid open the bolt.
Listen, even in blissful death I fear
That I will forget the Black Marias,
Forget how hatefully the door slammed and an old woman
Howled like a wounded beast.
Let the thawing ice flow like tears
From my immovable bronze eyelids
And let the prison dove coo in the distance
While ships sail quietly along the river.
[March 1940. Fontannyi Dom]
68
FOOTNOTES
1 An elite guard which rose up in rebellion
against Peter the Great in 1698. Most were either
executed or exiled.
2 The imperial summer residence outside St
Petersburg where Ahmatova spent her early years.
3 A prison complex in central Leningrad near the
Finland Station, called The Crosses because of the
shape of two of the buildings.
4 The Leningrad house in which Ahmatova lived.
~ Anna Akhmatova,#NFDB
570:The House Of Dust: Part 03: 12: Witches' Sabbath
Now, when the moon slid under the cloud
And the cold clear dark of starlight fell,
He heard in his blood the well-known bell
Tolling slowly in heaves of sound,
Slowly beating, slowly beating,
Shaking its pulse on the stagnant air:
Sometimes it swung completely round,
Horribly gasping as if for breath;
Falling down with an anguished cry . . .
Now the red bat, he mused, will fly;
Something is marked, this night, for death . . .
And while he mused, along his blood
Flew ghostly voices, remote and thin,
They rose in the cavern of his brain,
Like ghosts they died away again;
And hands upon his heart were laid,
And music upon his flesh was played,
Until, as he was bidden to do,
He walked the wood he so well knew.
Through the cold dew he moved his feet,
And heard far off, as under the earth,
Discordant music in shuddering tones,
Screams of laughter, horrible mirth,
Clapping of hands, and thudding of drums,
And the long-drawn wail of one in pain.
To-night, he thought, I shall die again,
We shall die again in the red-eyed fire
To meet on the edge of the wood beyond
With the placid gaze of fed desire . . .
He walked; and behind the whisper of trees,
In and out, one walked with him:
She parted the branches and peered at him,
Through lowered lids her two eyes burned,
He heard her breath, he saw her hand,
Wherever he turned his way, she turned:
Kept pace with him, now fast, now slow;
Moving her white knees as he moved . . .
This is the one I have always loved;
This is the one whose bat-soul comes
271
To dance with me, flesh to flesh,
In the starlight dance of horns and drums . . .
The walls and roofs, the scarlet towers,
Sank down behind a rushing sky.
He heard a sweet song just begun
Abruptly shatter in tones and die.
It whirled away. Cold silence fell.
And again came tollings of a bell.
This air is alive with witches: the white witch rides
Swifter than smoke on the starlit wind.
In the clear darkness, while the moon hides,
They come like dreams, like something remembered . .
Let us hurry! beloved; take my hand,
Forget these things that trouble your eyes,
Forget, forget! Our flesh is changed,
Lighter than smoke we wreathe and rise . . .
The cold air hisses between us . . . Beloved, beloved,
What was the word you said?
Something about clear music that sang through water . . .
I cannot remember. The storm-drops break on the leaves.
Something was lost in the darkness. Someone is dead.
Someone lies in the garden and grieves.
Look how the branches are tossed in this air,
Flinging their green to the earth!
Black clouds rush to devour the stars in the sky,
The moon stares down like a half-closed eye.
The leaves are scattered, the birds are blown,
Oaks crash down in the darkness,
We run from our windy shadows; we are running alone.
The moon was darkened: across it flew
The swift grey tenebrous shape he knew,
Like a thing of smoke it crossed the sky,
The witch! he said. And he heard a cry,
And another came, and another came,
272
And one, grown duskily red with blood,
Floated an instant across the moon,
Hung like a dull fantastic flame . . .
The earth has veins: they throb to-night,
The earth swells warm beneath my feet,
The tips of the trees grow red and bright,
The leaves are swollen, I feel them beat,
They press together, they push and sigh,
They listen to hear the great bat cry,
The great red bat with the woman's face . . .
Hurry! he said. And pace for pace
That other, who trod the dark with him,
Crushed the live leaves, reached out white hands
And closed her eyes, the better to see
The priests with claws, the lovers with hooves,
The fire-lit rock, the sarabands.
I am here! she said. The bough he broke—
Was it the snapping bough that spoke?
I am here! she said. The white thigh gleamed
Cold in starlight among dark leaves,
The head thrown backward as he had dreamed,
The shadowy red deep jasper mouth;
And the lifted hands, and the virgin breasts,
Passed beside him, and vanished away.
I am here! she cried. He answered 'Stay!'
And laughter arose, and near and far
Answering laughter rose and died . . .
Who is there? in the dark? he cried.
He stood in terror, and heard a sound
Of terrible hooves on the hollow ground;
They rushed, were still; a silence fell;
And he heard deep tollings of a bell.
Look beloved! Why do you hide your face?
Look, in the centre there, above the fire,
They are bearing the boy who blasphemed love!
They are playing a piercing music upon him
With a bow of living wire! . . .
The virgin harlot sings,
She leans above the beautiful anguished body,
273
And draws slow music from those strings.
They dance around him, they fling red roses upon him,
They trample him with their naked feet,
His cries are lost in laughter,
Their feet grow dark with his blood, they beat and
beat,
They dance upon him, until he cries no more . . .
Have we not heard that cry before?
Somewhere, somewhere,
Beside a sea, in the green evening,
Beneath green clouds, in a copper sky . . .
Was it you? was it I?
They have quenched the fires, they dance in the darkness,
The satyrs have run among them to seize and tear,
Look! he has caught one by the hair,
She screams and falls, he bears her away with him,
And the night grows full of whistling wings.
Far off, one voice, serene and sweet,
Rises and sings . . .
'By the clear waters where once I died,
In the calm evening bright with stars. . . .'
Where have I heard these words? Was it you who sang them?
It was long ago.
Let us hurry, beloved! the hard hooves trample;
The treetops tremble and glow.
In the clear dark, on silent wings,
The red bat hovers beneath her moon;
She drops through the fragrant night, and clings
Fast in the shadow, with hands like claws,
With soft eyes closed and mouth that feeds,
To the young white flesh that warmly bleeds.
The maidens circle in dance, and raise
From lifting throats, a soft-sung praise;
Their knees and breasts are white and bare,
They have hung pale roses in their hair,
Each of them as she dances by
Peers at the blood with a narrowed eye.
See how the red wing wraps him round,
274
See how the white youth struggles in vain!
The weak arms writhe in a soundless pain;
He writhes in the soft red veiny wings,
But still she whispers upon him and clings. . . .
This is the secret feast of love,
Look well, look well, before it dies,
See how the red one trembles above,
See how quiet the white one lies! . . . .
Wind through the trees. . . .and a voice is heard
Singing far off. The dead leaves fall. . . .
'By the clear waters where once I died,
In the calm evening bright with stars,
One among numberless avatars,
I wedded a mortal, a mortal bride,
And lay on the stones and gave my flesh,
And entered the hunger of him I loved.
How shall I ever escape this mesh
Or be from my lover's body removed?'
Dead leaves stream through the hurrying air
And the maenads dance with flying hair.
The priests with hooves, the lovers with horns,
Rise in the starlight, one by one,
They draw their knives on the spurting throats,
They smear the column with blood of goats,
They dabble the blood on hair and lips
And wait like stones for the moon's eclipse.
They stand like stones and stare at the sky
Where the moon leers down like a half-closed eye. . .
In the green moonlight still they stand
While wind flows over the darkened sand
And brood on the soft forgotten things
That filled their shadowy yesterdays. . . .
Where are the breasts, the scarlet wings? . . . .
They gaze at each other with troubled gaze. . . .
And then, as the shadow closes the moon,
Shout, and strike with their hooves the ground,
And rush through the dark, and fill the night
With a slowly dying clamor of sound.
275
There, where the great walls crowd the stars,
There, by the black wind-riven walls,
In a grove of twisted leafless trees. . . .
Who are these pilgrims, who are these,
These three, the one of whom stands upright,
While one lies weeping and one of them crawls?
The face that he turned was a wounded face,
I heard the dripping of blood on stones. . . .
Hooves had trampled and torn this place,
And the leaves were strewn with blood and bones.
Sometimes, I think, beneath my feet,
The warm earth stretches herself and sighs. . . .
Listen! I heard the slow heart beat. . . .
I will lie on this grass as a lover lies
And reach to the north and reach to the south
And seek in the darkness for her mouth.
Beloved, beloved, where the slow waves of the wind
Shatter pale foam among great trees,
Under the hurrying stars, under the heaving arches,
Like one whirled down under shadowy seas,
I run to find you, I run and cry,
Where are you? Where are you? It is I. It is I.
It is your eyes I seek, it is your windy hair,
Your starlight body that breathes in the darkness there.
Under the darkness I feel you stirring. . . .
Is this you? Is this you?
Bats in this air go whirring. . . .
And this soft mouth that darkly meets my mouth,
Is this the soft mouth I knew?
Darkness, and wind in the tortured trees;
And the patter of dew.
Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance!
Dance till the brain is red with speed!
Dance till you fall! Lift your torches!
Kiss your lovers until they bleed!
Backward I draw your anguished hair
276
Until your eyes are stretched with pain;
Backward I press you until you cry,
Your lips grow white, I kiss you again,
I will take a torch and set you afire,
I will break your body and fling it away. . . .
Look, you are trembling. . . .Lie still, beloved!
Lock your hands in my hair, and say
Darling! darling! darling! darling!
All night long till the break of day.
Is it your heart I hear beneath me. . . .
Or the far tolling of that tower?
The voices are still that cried around us. . . .
The woods grow still for the sacred hour.
Rise, white lover! the day draws near.
The grey trees lean to the east in fear.
'By the clear waters where once I died . . . .'
Beloved, whose voice was this that cried?
'By the clear waters that reach the sun
By the clear waves that starward run. . . .
I found love's body and lost his soul,
And crumbled in flame that should have annealed. . .
How shall I ever again be whole,
By what dark waters shall I be healed?'
Silence. . . .the red leaves, one by one,
Fall. Far off, the maenads run.
Silence. Beneath my naked feet
The veins of the red earth swell and beat.
The dead leaves sigh on the troubled air,
Far off the maenads bind their hair. . . .
Hurry, beloved! the day comes soon.
The fire is drawn from the heart of the moon.
The great bell cracks and falls at last.
The moon whirls out. The sky grows still.
Look, how the white cloud crosses the stars
And suddenly drops behind the hill!
Your eyes are placid, you smile at me,
277
We sit in the room by candle-light.
We peer in each other's veins and see
No sign of the things we saw this night.
Only, a song is in your ears,
A song you have heard, you think, in dream:
The song which only the demon hears,
In the dark forest where maenads scream . . .
'By the clear waters where once I died . . .
In the calm evening bright with stars . . . '
What do the strange words mean? you say,—
And touch my hand, and turn away.
~ Conrad Potter Aiken,#NFDB
571:S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.
Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years,
The swift innumerable spears,
The horsemen with their floating hair,
And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,
Those merry couples dancing in tune,
And the white body that lay by mine;
But the tale, though words be lighter than air.
Must live to be old like the wandering moon.
Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,
When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.
With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
And passing the Firbolgs' burial-moteds,
Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill
Where passionate Maeve is stony-still;
And found On the dove-grey edge of the sea
A pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rode
On a horse with bridle of findrinny;
And like a sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed ships;
A citron colour gloomed in her hair,
But down to her feet white vesture flowed,
And with the glimmering crimson glowed
Of many a figured embroidery;
And it was bound with a pearl-pale shell
That wavered like the summer streams,
As her soft bosom rose and fell.
S. Patrick. You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.
Oisin. 'Why do you wind no horn?' she said
'And every hero droop his head?
The hornless deer is not more sad
That many a peaceful moment had,
More sleek than any granary mouse,
In his own leafy forest house
Among the waving fields of fern:
The hunting of heroes should be glad.'
'O pleasant woman,' answered Finn,
'We think on Oscar's pencilled urn,
And on the heroes lying slain
On Gabhra's raven-covered plain;
But where are your noble kith and kin,
And from what country do you ride?'
'My father and my mother are
Aengus and Edain, my own name
Niamh, and my country far
Beyond the tumbling of this tide.'
'What dream came with you that you came
Through bitter tide on foam-wet feet?
Did your companion wander away
From where the birds of Aengus wing?'
Thereon did she look haughty and sweet:
'I have not yet, war-weary king,
Been spoken of with any man;
Yet now I choose, for these four feet
Ran through the foam and ran to this
That I might have your son to kiss.'
'Were there no better than my son
That you through all that foam should run?'
'I loved no man, though kings besought,
Until the Danaan poets brought
Rhyme that rhymed upon Oisin's name,
And now I am dizzy with the thought
Of all that wisdom and the fame
Of battles broken by his hands,
Of stories builded by his words
That are like coloured Asian birds
At evening in their rainless lands.'
O Patrick, by your brazen bell,
There was no limb of mine but fell
Into a desperate gulph of love!
'You only will I wed,' I cried,
'And I will make a thousand songs,
And set your name all names above,
And captives bound with leathern thongs
Shall kneel and praise you, one by one,
At evening in my western dun.'
'O Oisin, mount by me and ride
To shores by the wash of the tremulous tide,
Where men have heaped no burial-mounds,
And the days pass by like a wayward tune,
Where broken faith has never been known
And the blushes of first love never have flown;
And there I will give you a hundred hounds;
No mightier creatures bay at the moon;
And a hundred robes of murmuring silk,
And a hundred calves and a hundred sheep
Whose long wool whiter than sea-froth flows,
And a hundred spears and a hundred bows,
And oil and wine and honey and milk,
And always never-anxious sleep;
While a hundred youths, mighty of limb,
But knowing nor tumult nor hate nor strife,
And a hundred ladies, merry as birds,
Who when they dance to a fitful measure
Have a speed like the speed of the salmon herds,
Shall follow your horn and obey your whim,
And you shall know the Danaan leisure;
And Niamh be with you for a wife.'
Then she sighed gently, 'It grows late.
Music and love and sleep await,
Where I would be when the white moon climbs,
The red sun falls and the world grows dim.'
And then I mounted and she bound me
With her triumphing arms around me,
And whispering to herself enwound me;
He shook himself and neighed three times:
Caoilte, Conan, and Finn came near,
And wept, and raised their lamenting hands,
And bid me stay, with many a tear;
But we rode out from the human lands.
In what far kingdom do you go'
Ah Fenians, with the shield and bow?
Or are you phantoms white as snow,
Whose lips had life's most prosperous glow?
O you, with whom in sloping valleys,
Or down the dewy forest alleys,
I chased at morn the flying deer,
With whom I hurled the hurrying spear,
And heard the foemen's bucklers rattle,
And broke the heaving ranks of battle!
And Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
Where are you with your long rough hair?
You go not where the red deer feeds,
Nor tear the foemen from their steeds.
S. Patrick. Boast not, nor mourn with drooping head
Companions long accurst and dead,
And hounds for centuries dust and air.
Oisin. We galloped over the glossy sea:
I know not if days passed or hours,
And Niamh sang continually
Danaan songs, and their dewy showers
Of pensive laughter, unhuman sound,
Lulled weariness, and softly round
My human sorrow her white arms wound.
We galloped; now a hornless deer
Passed by us, chased by a phantom hound
All pearly white, save one red ear;
And now a lady rode like the wind
With an apple of gold in her tossing hand;
And a beautiful young man followed behind
With quenchless gaze and fluttering hair.
'Were these two born in the Danaan land,
Or have they breathed the mortal air?'
'Vex them no longer,' Niamh said,
And sighing bowed her gentle head,
And sighing laid the pearly tip
Of one long finger on my lip.
But now the moon like a white rose shone
In the pale west, and the sun'S rim sank,
And clouds atrayed their rank on rank
About his fading crimson ball:
The floor of Almhuin's hosting hall
Was not more level than the sea,
As, full of loving fantasy,
And with low murmurs, we rode on,
Where many a trumpet-twisted shell
That in immortal silence sleeps
Dreaming of her own melting hues,
Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,
Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.
But now a wandering land breeze came
And a far sound of feathery quires;
It seemed to blow from the dying flame,
They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.
The horse towards the music raced,
Neighing along the lifeless waste;
Like sooty fingers, many a tree
Rose ever out of the warm sea;
And they were trembling ceaselessly,
As though they all were beating time,
Upon the centre of the sun,
To that low laughing woodland rhyme.
And, now our wandering hours were done,
We cantered to the shore, and knew
The reason of the trembling trees:
Round every branch the song-birds flew,
Or clung thereon like swarming bees;
While round the shore a million stood
Like drops of frozen rainbow light,
And pondered in a soft vain mood
Upon their shadows in the tide,
And told the purple deeps their pride,
And murmured snatches of delight;
And on the shores were many boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns, and fish-eating stoats,
And swans with their exultant throats:
And where the wood and waters meet
We tied the horse in a leafy clump,
And Niamh blew three merry notes
Out of a little silver trump;
And then an answering whispering flew
Over the bare and woody land,
A whisper of impetuous feet,
And ever nearer, nearer grew;
And from the woods rushed out a band
Of men and ladies, hand in hand,
And singing, singing all together;
Their brows were white as fragrant milk,
Their cloaks made out of yellow silk,
And trimmed with many a crimson feather;
And when they saw the cloak I wore
Was dim with mire of a mortal shore,
They fingered it and gazed on me
And laughed like murmurs of the sea;
But Niamh with a swift distress
Bid them away and hold their peace;
And when they heard her voice they ran
And knelt there, every girl and man,
And kissed, as they would never cease,
Her pearl-pale hand and the hem of her dress.
She bade them bring us to the hall
Where Aengus dreams, from sun to sun,
A Druid dream of the end of days
When the stars are to wane and the world be done.
They led us by long and shadowy ways
Where drops of dew in myriads fall,
And tangled creepers every hour
Blossom in some new crimson flower,
And once a sudden laughter sprang
From all their lips, and once they sang
Together, while the dark woods rang,
And made in all their distant parts,
With boom of bees in honey-marts,
A rumour of delighted hearts.
And once a lady by my side
Gave me a harp, and bid me sing,
And touch the laughing silver string;
But when I sang of human joy
A sorrow wrapped each merry face,
And, patrick! by your beard, they wept,
Until one came, a tearful boy;
'A sadder creature never stept
Than this strange human bard,' he cried;
And caught the silver harp away,
And, weeping over the white strings, hurled
It down in a leaf-hid, hollow place
That kept dim waters from the sky;
And each one said, with a long, long sigh,
'O saddest harp in all the world,
Sleep there till the moon and the stars die!'
And now, still sad, we came to where
A beautiful young man dreamed within
A house of wattles, clay, and skin;
One hand upheld his beardless chin,
And one a sceptre flashing out
Wild flames of red and gold and blue,
Like to a merry wandering rout
Of dancers leaping in the air;
And men and ladies knelt them there
And showed their eyes with teardrops dim,
And with low murmurs prayed to him,
And kissed the sceptre with red lips,
And touched it with their finger-tips.
He held that flashing sceptre up.
'Joy drowns the twilight in the dew,
And fills with stars night's purple cup,
And wakes the sluggard seeds of corn,
And stirs the young kid's budding horn,
And makes the infant ferns unwrap,
And for the peewit paints his cap,
And rolls along the unwieldy sun,
And makes the little planets run:
And if joy were not on the earth,
There were an end of change and birth,
And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die,
And in some gloomy barrow lie
Folded like a frozen fly;
Then mock at Death and Time with glances
And wavering arms and wandering dances.
'Men's hearts of old were drops of flame
That from the saffron morning came,
Or drops of silver joy that fell
Out of the moon's pale twisted shell;
But now hearts cry that hearts are slaves,
And toss and turn in narrow caves;
But here there is nor law nor rule,
Nor have hands held a weary tool;
And here there is nor Change nor Death,
But only kind and merry breath,
For joy is God and God is joy.'
With one long glance for girl and boy
And the pale blossom of the moon,
He fell into a Druid swoon.
And in a wild and sudden dance
We mocked at Time and Fate and Chance
And swept out of the wattled hall
And came to where the dewdrops fall
Among the foamdrops of the sea,
And there we hushed the revelry;
And, gathering on our brows a frown,
Bent all our swaying bodies down,
And to the waves that glimmer by
That sloping green De Danaan sod
Sang, 'God is joy and joy is God,
And things that have grown sad are wicked,
And things that fear the dawn of the morrow
Or the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'
We danced to where in the winding thicket
The damask roses, bloom on bloom,
Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom.
And bending over them softly said,
Bending over them in the dance,
With a swift and friendly glance
From dewy eyes: 'Upon the dead
Fall the leaves of other roses,
On the dead dim earth encloses:
But never, never on our graves,
Heaped beside the glimmering waves,
Shall fall the leaves of damask roses.
For neither Death nor Change comes near us,
And all listless hours fear us,
And we fear no dawning morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'
The dance wound through the windless woods;
The ever-summered solitudes;
Until the tossing arms grew still
Upon the woody central hill;
And, gathered in a panting band,
We flung on high each waving hand,
And sang unto the starry broods.
In our raised eyes there flashed a glow
Of milky brightness to and fro
As thus our song arose: 'You stars,
Across your wandering ruby cars
Shake the loose reins: you slaves of God.
He rules you with an iron rod,
He holds you with an iron bond,
Each one woven to the other,
Each one woven to his brother
Like bubbles in a frozen pond;
But we in a lonely land abide
Unchainable as the dim tide,
With hearts that know nor law nor rule,
And hands that hold no wearisome tool,
Folded in love that fears no morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'
O Patrick! for a hundred years
I chased upon that woody shore
The deer, the badger, and the boar.
O patrick! for a hundred years
At evening on the glimmering sands,
Beside the piled-up hunting spears,
These now outworn and withered hands
Wrestled among the island bands.
O patrick! for a hundred years
We went a-fishing in long boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns and fish-eating stoats.
O patrick! for a hundred years
The gentle Niamh was my wife;
But now two things devour my life;
The things that most of all I hate:
Fasting and prayers.
S. Patrick. Tell on.
Oisin. Yes, yes,
For these were ancient Oisin's fate
Loosed long ago from Heaven's gate,
For his last days to lie in wait.
When one day by the tide I stood,
I found in that forgetfulness
Of dreamy foam a staff of wood
From some dead warrior's broken lance:
I turned it in my hands; the stains
Of war were on it, and I wept,
Remembering how the Fenians stept
Along the blood-bedabbled plains,
Equal to good or grievous chance:
Thereon young Niamh softly came
And caught my hands, but spake no word
Save only many times my name,
In murmurs, like a frighted bird.
We passed by woods, and lawns of clover,
And found the horse and bridled him,
For we knew well the old was over.
I heard one say, 'His eyes grow dim
With all the ancient sorrow of men';
And wrapped in dreams rode out again
With hoofs of the pale findrinny
Over the glimmering purple sea.
Under the golden evening light,
The Immortals moved among the fountains
By rivers and the woods' old night;
Some danced like shadows on the mountains
Some wandered ever hand in hand;
Or sat in dreams on the pale strand,
Each forehead like an obscure star
Bent down above each hooked knee,
And sang, and with a dreamy gaze
Watched where the sun in a saffron blaze
Was slumbering half in the sea-ways;
And, as they sang, the painted birds
Kept time with their bright wings and feet;
Like drops of honey came their words,
But fainter than a young lamb's bleat.
'An old man stirs the fire to a blaze,
In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother.
He has over-lingered his welcome; the days,
Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other;
He hears the storm in the chimney above,
And bends to the fire and shakes with the cold,
While his heart still dreams of battle and love,
And the cry of the hounds on the hills of old.
But We are apart in the grassy places,
Where care cannot trouble the least of our days,
Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces,
Or love's first tenderness die in our gaze.
The hare grows old as she plays in the sun
And gazes around her with eyes of brightness;
Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done
She limps along in an aged whiteness;
A storm of birds in the Asian trees
Like tulips in the air a-winging,
And the gentle waves of the summer seas,
That raise their heads and wander singing,
Must murmur at last, "Unjust, unjust";
And "My speed is a weariness," falters the mouse,
And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust,
And the roof falls in of his tunnelled house.
But the love-dew dims our eyes till the day
When God shall come from the Sea with a sigh
And bid the stars drop down from the sky,
And the moon like a pale rose wither away.'
~ William Butler Yeats, The Wanderings Of Oisin - Book I
,#NFDB
572:SCENE 1.PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN. THE LORD AND THE HOST OF HEAVEN. ENTER THREE ARCHANGELS.
RAPHAEL:
The sun makes music as of old
Amid the rival spheres of Heaven,
On its predestined circle rolled
With thunder speed: the Angels even
Draw strength from gazing on its glance,
Though none its meaning fathom may:--
The worlds unwithered countenance
Is bright as at Creations day.
GABRIEL:
And swift and swift, with rapid lightness,
The adorned Earth spins silently,
Alternating Elysian brightness
With deep and dreadful night; the sea
Foams in broad billows from the deep
Up to the rocks, and rocks and Ocean,
Onward, with spheres which never sleep,
Are hurried in eternal motion.
MICHAEL:
And tempests in contention roar
From land to sea, from sea to land;
And, raging, weave a chain of power,
Which girds the earth, as with a band.--
A flashing desolation there,
Flames before the thunders way;
But Thy servants, Lord, revere
The gentle changes of Thy day.
CHORUS OF THE THREE:
The Angels draw strength from Thy glance,
Though no one comprehend Thee may;--
Thy worlds unwithered countenance
Is bright as on Creation's day.
The sun sounds, according to ancient custom,
In the song of emulation of his brother-spheres.
And its fore-written circle
Fulfils with a step of thunder.
Its countenance gives the Angels strength
Though no one can fathom it.
The incredible high works
Are excellent as at the first day.
GABRIEL:
And swift, and inconceivably swift
The adornment of earth winds itself round,
And exchanges Paradise--clearness
With deep dreadful night.
The sea foams in broad waves
From its deep bottom, up to the rocks,
And rocks and sea are torn on together
In the eternal swift course of the spheres.
MICHAEL:
And storms roar in emulation
From sea to land, from land to sea,
And make, raging, a chain
Of deepest operation round about.
There flames a flashing destruction
Before the path of the thunderbolt.
But Thy servants, Lord, revere
The gentle alternations of Thy day.
CHORUS:
Thy countenance gives the Angels strength,
Though none can comprehend Thee:
And all Thy lofty works
Are excellent as at the first day.
[ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES.]
MEPHISTOPHELES:
As thou, O Lord, once more art kind enough
To interest Thyself in our affairs,
And ask, How goes it with you there below?
And as indulgently at other times
Thou tookest not my visits in ill part,
Thou seest me here once more among Thy household.
Though I should scandalize this company,
You will excuse me if I do not talk
In the high style which they think fashionable;
My pathos certainly would make You laugh too,
Had You not long since given over laughing.
Nothing know I to say of suns and worlds;
I observe only how men plague themselves;--
The little god o the world keeps the same stamp,
As wonderful as on creations day:--
A little better would he live, hadst Thou
Not given him a glimpse of Heavens light
Which he calls reason, and employs it only
To live more beastlily than any beast.
With reverence to Your Lordship be it spoken,
Hes like one of those long-legged grasshoppers,
Who flits and jumps about, and sings for ever
The same old song i the grass. There let him lie,
Burying his nose in every heap of dung.
THE LORD:
Have you no more to say? Do you come here
Always to scold, and cavil, and complain?
Seems nothing ever right to you on earth?
MEPHISTOPHELES:
No, Lord! I find all there, as ever, bad at best.
Even I am sorry for mans days of sorrow;
I could myself almost give up the pleasure
Of plaguing the poor things.
THE LORD:
Knowest thou Faust?
MEPHISTOPHELES:
The Doctor?
THE LORD:
Ay; My servant Faust.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
In truth
He serves You in a fashion quite his own;
And the fools meat and drink are not of earth.
His aspirations bear him on so far
That he is half aware of his own folly,
For he demands from Heaven its fairest star,
And from the earth the highest joy it bears,
Yet all things far, and all things near, are vain
To calm the deep emotions of his breast.
THE LORD:
Though he now serves Me in a cloud of error,
I will soon lead him forth to the clear day.
When trees look green, full well the gardener knows
That fruits and blooms will deck the coming year.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
What will You bet?--now am sure of winning--
Only, observe You give me full permission
To lead him softly on my path.
THE LORD:
As long
As he shall live upon the earth, so long
Is nothing unto thee forbiddenMan
Must err till he has ceased to struggle.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Thanks.
And that is all I ask; for willingly
I never make acquaintance with the dead.
The full fresh cheeks of youth are food for me,
And if a corpse knocks, I am not at home.
For I am like a cat--I like to play
A little with the mouse before I eat it.
THE LORD:
Well, well! it is permitted thee. Draw thou
His spirit from its springs; as thou findst power
Seize him and lead him on thy downward path;
And stand ashamed when failure teaches thee
That a good man, even in his darkest longings,
Is well aware of the right way.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Well and good.
I am not in much doubt about my bet,
And if I lose, then tis Your turn to crow;
Enjoy Your triumph then with a full breast.
Ay; dust shall he devour, and that with pleasure,
Like my old paramour, the famous Snake.
THE LORD:
Pray come here when it suits you; for I never
Had much dislike for people of your sort.
And, among all the Spirits who rebelled,
The knave was ever the least tedious to Me.
The active spirit of man soon sleeps, and soon 100
He seeks unbroken quiet; therefore I
Have given him the Devil for a companion,
Who may provoke him to some sort of work,
And must create forever.--But ye, pure
Children of God, enjoy eternal beauty;--
Let that which ever operates and lives
Clasp you within the limits of its love;
And seize with sweet and melancholy thoughts
The floating phantoms of its loveliness.
[HEAVEN CLOSES; THE ARCHANGELS EXEUNT.]
MEPHISTOPHELES:
From time to time I visit the old fellow,
And I take care to keep on good terms with Him.
Civil enough is the same God Almighty,
To talk so freely with the Devil himself.
SCENE 2.MAY-DAY NIGHT. THE HARTZ MOUNTAIN, A DESOLATE COUNTRY. FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Would you not like a broomstick? As for me
I wish I had a good stout ram to ride;
For we are still far from the appointed place.
FAUST:
This knotted staff is help enough for me,
Whilst I feel fresh upon my legs. What good
Is there in making short a pleasant way?
To creep along the labyrinths of the vales,
And climb those rocks, where ever-babbling springs,
Precipitate themselves in waterfalls,
Is the true sport that seasons such a path.
Already Spring kindles the birchen spray,
And the hoar pines already feel her breath:
Shall she not work also within our limbs?
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Nothing of such an influence do I feel.
My body is all wintry, and I wish
The flowers upon our path were frost and snow.
But see how melancholy rises now,
Dimly uplifting her belated beam,
The blank unwelcome round of the red moon,
And gives so bad a light, that every step
One stumbles gainst some crag. With your permission,
Ill call on Ignis-fatuus to our aid:
I see one yonder burning jollily.
Halloo, my friend! may I request that you
Would favour us with your bright company?
Why should you blaze away there to no purpose?
Pray be so good as light us up this way.
IGNIS-FATUUS:
With reverence be it spoken, I will try
To overcome the lightness of my nature;
Our course, you know, is generally zigzag.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Ha, ha! your worship thinks you have to deal
With men. Go straight on, in the Devils name,
Or I shall puff your flickering life out.
IGNIS-FATUUS:
Well,
I see you are the master of the house;
I will accommodate myself to you.
Only consider that to-night this mountain
Is all enchanted, and if Jack-a-lantern
Shows you his way, though you should miss your own,
You ought not to be too exact with him.
FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, AND IGNIS-FATUUS, IN ALTERNATE CHORUS:
The limits of the sphere of dream,
The bounds of true and false, are past.
Lead us on, thou wandering Gleam,
Lead us onward, far and fast,
To the wide, the desert waste.
But see, how swift advance and shift
Trees behind trees, row by row,--
How, clift by clift, rocks bend and lift
Their frowning foreheads as we go.
The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho!
How they snort, and how they blow!
Through the mossy sods and stones,
Stream and streamlet hurry down
A rushing throng! A sound of song
Beneath the vault of Heaven is blown!
Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones
Of this bright day, sent down to say
That Paradise on Earth is known,
Resound around, beneath, above.
All we hope and all we love
Finds a voice in this blithe strain,
Which wakens hill and wood and rill,
And vibrates far oer field and vale,
And which Echo, like the tale
Of old times, repeats again.
To-whoo! to-whoo! near, nearer now
The sound of song, the rushing throng!
Are the screech, the lapwing, and the jay,
All awake as if twere day?
See, with long legs and belly wide,
A salamander in the brake!
Every root is like a snake,
And along the loose hillside,
With strange contortions through the night,
Curls, to seize or to affright;
And, animated, strong, and many,
They dart forth polypus-antennae,
To blister with their poison spume
The wanderer. Through the dazzling gloom
The many-coloured mice, that thread
The dewy turf beneath our tread,
In troops each others motions cross,
Through the heath and through the moss;
And, in legions intertangled,
The fire-flies flit, and swarm, and throng,
Till all the mountain depths are spangled.
Tell me, shall we go or stay?
Shall we onward? Come along!
Everything around is swept
Forward, onward, far away!
Trees and masses intercept
The sight, and wisps on every side
Are puffed up and multiplied.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Now vigorously seize my skirt, and gain
This pinnacle of isolated crag.
One may observe with wonder from this point,
How Mammon glows among the mountains.
FAUST:
Ay--
And strangely through the solid depth below
A melancholy light, like the red dawn,
Shoots from the lowest gorge of the abyss
Of mountains, lightning hitherward: there rise
Pillars of smoke, here clouds float gently by;
Here the light burns soft as the enkindled air,
Or the illumined dust of golden flowers;
And now it glides like tender colours spreading;
And now bursts forth in fountains from the earth;
And now it winds, one torrent of broad light,
Through the far valley with a hundred veins;
And now once more within that narrow corner
Masses itself into intensest splendour.
And near us, see, sparks spring out of the ground,
Like golden sand scattered upon the darkness;
The pinnacles of that black wall of mountains
That hems us in are kindled.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Rare: in faith!
Does not Sir Mammon gloriously illuminate
His palace for this festival?--it is
A pleasure which you had not known before.
I spy the boisterous guests already.
FAUST:
How
The children of the wind rage in the air!
With what fierce strokes they fall upon my neck!
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Cling tightly to the old ribs of the crag.
Beware! for if with them thou warrest
In their fierce flight towards the wilderness,
Their breath will sweep thee into dust, and drag
Thy body to a grave in the abyss.
A cloud thickens the night.
Hark! how the tempest crashes through the forest!
The owls fly out in strange affright;
The columns of the evergreen palaces
Are split and shattered;
The roots creak, and stretch, and groan;
And ruinously overthrown,
The trunks are crushed and shattered
By the fierce blasts unconquerable stress.
Over each other crack and crash they all
In terrible and intertangled fall;
And through the ruins of the shaken mountain
The airs hiss and howl--
It is not the voice of the fountain,
Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl.
Dost thou not hear?
Strange accents are ringing
Aloft, afar, anear?
The witches are singing!
The torrent of a raging wizard song
Streams the whole mountain along.
CHORUS OF WITCHES:
The stubble is yellow, the corn is green,
Now to the Brocken the witches go;
The mighty multitude here may be seen
Gathering, wizard and witch, below.
Sir Urian is sitting aloft in the air;
Hey over stock! and hey over stone!
'Twixt witches and incubi, what shall be done?
Tell it who dare! tell it who dare!
A VOICE:
Upon a sow-swine, whose farrows were nine,
Old Baubo rideth alone.
CHORUS:
Honour her, to whom honour is due,
Old mother Baubo, honour to you!
An able sow, with old Baubo upon her,
Is worthy of glory, and worthy of honour!
The legion of witches is coming behind,
Darkening the night, and outspeeding the wind--
A VOICE:
Which way comest thou?
A VOICE:
Over Ilsenstein;
The owl was awake in the white moonshine;
I saw her at rest in her downy nest,
And she stared at me with her broad, bright eyne.
VOICES:
And you may now as well take your course on to Hell,
Since you ride by so fast on the headlong blast.
A VOICE:
She dropped poison upon me as I passed.
Here are the wounds--
CHORUS OF WITCHES:
Come away! come along!
The way is wide, the way is long,
But what is that for a Bedlam throng?
Stick with the prong, and scratch with the broom.
The child in the cradle lies strangled at home,
And the mother is clapping her hands.--
SEMICHORUS OF WIZARDS 1:
We glide in
Like snails when the women are all away;
And from a house once given over to sin
Woman has a thousand steps to stray.
SEMICHORUS 2:
A thousand steps must a woman take,
Where a man but a single spring will make.
VOICES ABOVE:
Come with us, come with us, from Felsensee.
VOICES BELOW:
With what joy would we fly through the upper sky!
We are washed, we are nointed, stark naked are we;
But our toil and our pain are forever in vain.
BOTH CHORUSES:
The wind is still, the stars are fled,
The melancholy moon is dead;
The magic notes, like spark on spark,
Drizzle, whistling through the dark. Come away!
VOICES BELOW:
Stay, Oh, stay!
VOICES ABOVE:
Out of the crannies of the rocks
Who calls?
VOICES BELOW:
Oh, let me join your flocks!
I, three hundred years have striven
To catch your skirt and mount to Heaven,--
And still in vain. Oh, might I be
With company akin to me!
BOTH CHORUSES:
Some on a ram and some on a prong,
On poles and on broomsticks we flutter along;
Forlorn is the wight who can rise not to-night.
A HALF-WITCH BELOW:
I have been tripping this many an hour:
Are the others already so far before?
No quiet at home, and no peace abroad!
And less methinks is found by the road.
CHORUS OF WITCHES:
Come onward, away! aroint thee, aroint!
A witch to be strong must anoint--anoint--
Then every trough will be boat enough;
With a rag for a sail we can sweep through the sky,
Who flies not to-night, when means he to fly?
BOTH CHORUSES:
We cling to the skirt, and we strike on the ground;
Witch-legions thicken around and around;
Wizard-swarms cover the heath all over.
[THEY DESCEND.]
MEPHISTOPHELES:
What thronging, dashing, raging, rustling;
What whispering, babbling, hissing, bustling;
What glimmering, spurting, stinking, burning,
As Heaven and Earth were overturning.
There is a true witch element about us;
Take hold on me, or we shall be divided:--
Where are you?
FAUST [FROM A DISTANCE]:
Here!
MEPHISTOPHELES:
What!
I must exert my authority in the house.
Place for young Voland! pray make way, good people.
Take hold on me, doctor, an with one step
Let us escape from this unpleasant crowd:
They are too mad for people of my sort.
Just there shines a peculiar kind of light--
Something attracts me in those bushes. Come
This way: we shall slip down there in a minute.
FAUST:
Spirit of Contradiction! Well, lead on--
Twere a wise feat indeed to wander out
Into the Brocken upon May-day night,
And then to isolate oneself in scorn,
Disgusted with the humours of the time.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
See yonder, round a many-coloured flame
A merry club is huddled altogether:
Even with such little people as sit there
One would not be alone.
FAUST:
Would that I were
Up yonder in the glow and whirling smoke,
Where the blind million rush impetuously
To meet the evil ones; there might I solve
Many a riddle that torments me.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Yet
Many a riddle there is tied anew
Inextricably. Let the great world rage!
We will stay here safe in the quiet dwellings.
Tis an old custom. Men have ever built
Their own small world in the great world of all.
I see young witches naked there, and old ones
Wisely attired with greater decency.
Be guided now by me, and you shall buy
A pound of pleasure with a dram of trouble.
I hear them tune their instruments--one must
Get used to this damned scraping. Come, Ill lead you
Among them; and what there you do and see,
As a fresh compact twixt us two shall be.
How say you now? this space is wide enough--
Look forth, you cannot see the end of it--
An hundred bonfires burn in rows, and they
Who throng around them seem innumerable:
Dancing and drinking, jabbering, making love,
And cooking, are at work. Now tell me, friend,
What is there better in the world than this?
FAUST:
In introducing us, do you assume
The character of Wizard or of Devil?
MEPHISTOPHELES:
In truth, I generally go about
In strict incognito; and yet one likes
To wear ones orders upon gala days.
I have no ribbon at my knee; but here
At home, the cloven foot is honourable.
See you that snail there?she comes creeping up,
And with her feeling eyes hath smelt out something.
I could not, if I would, mask myself here.
Come now, well go about from fire to fire:
Ill be the Pimp, and you shall be the Lover.
[TO SOME OLD WOMEN, WHO ARE SITTING ROUND A HEAP OF GLIMMERING COALS.]
Old gentlewomen, what do you do out here?
You ought to be with the young rioters
Right in the thickest of the revelry--
But every one is best content at home.
General.
Who dare confide in right or a just claim?
So much as I had done for them! and now--
With women and the people tis the same,
Youth will stand foremost ever,--age may go
To the dark grave unhonoured.
MINISTER:
Nowadays
People assert their rights: they go too far; 280
But as for me, the good old times I praise;
Then we were all in all--twas something worth
Ones while to be in place and wear a star;
That was indeed the golden age on earth.
PARVENU:
We too are active, and we did and do
What we ought not, perhaps; and yet we now
Will seize, whilst all things are whirled round and round,
A spoke of Fortunes wheel, and keep our ground.
AUTHOR:
Who now can taste a treatise of deep sense
And ponderous volume? tis impertinence
To write what none will read, therefore will I
To please the young and thoughtless people try.
MEPHISTOPHELES [WHO AT ONCE APPEARS TO HAVE GROWN VERY OLD]:
I find the people ripe for the last day,
Since I last came up to the wizard mountain;
And as my little cask runs turbid now,
So is the world drained to the dregs.
PEDLAR-WITCH:
Look here,
Gentlemen; do not hurry on so fast;
And lose the chance of a good pennyworth.
I have a pack full of the choicest wares
Of every sort, and yet in all my bundle
Is nothing like what may be found on earth;
Nothing that in a moment will make rich
Men and the world with fine malicious mischief--
There is no dagger drunk with blood; no bowl
From which consuming poison may be drained
By innocent and healthy lips; no jewel,
The price of an abandoned maidens shame;
No sword which cuts the bond it cannot loose,
Or stabs the wearers enemy in the back;
No--
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Gossip, you know little of these times.
What has been, has been; what is done, is past,
They shape themselves into the innovations
They breed, and innovation drags us with it.
The torrent of the crowd sweeps over us:
You think to impel, and are yourself impelled.
FAUST:
What is that yonder?
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Mark her well. It is
Lilith.
FAUST:
Who?
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Lilith, the first wife of Adam.
Beware of her fair hair, for she excels
All women in the magic of her locks;
And when she winds them round a young mans neck,
She will not ever set him free again.
FAUST:
There sit a girl and an old woman--they
Seem to be tired with pleasure and with play.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
There is no rest to-night for any one:
When one dance ends another is begun;
Come, let us to it. We shall have rare fun.
[FAUST DANCES AND SINGS WITH A GIRL, AND MEPHISTOPHELES WITH AN OLD WOMAN.]
FAUST:
I had once a lovely dream
In which I saw an apple-tree,
Where two fair apples with their gleam
To climb and taste attracted me.
THE GIRL:
She with apples you desired
From Paradise came long ago:
With you I feel that if required,
Such still within my garden grow.
...
PROCTO-PHANTASMIST:
What is this cursed multitude about?
Have we not long since proved to demonstration
That ghosts move not on ordinary feet?
But these are dancing just like men and women.
THE GIRL:
What does he want then at our ball?
FAUST:
Oh! he
Is far above us all in his conceit:
Whilst we enjoy, he reasons of enjoyment;
And any step which in our dance we tread,
If it be left out of his reckoning,
Is not to be considered as a step.
There are few things that scandalize him not:
And when you whirl round in the circle now,
As he went round the wheel in his old mill,
He says that you go wrong in all respects,
Especially if you congratulate him
Upon the strength of the resemblance.
PROCTO-PHANTASMIST:
Fly!
Vanish! Unheard-of impudence! What, still there!
In this enlightened age too, since you have been
Proved not to exist!--But this infernal brood
Will hear no reason and endure no rule.
Are we so wise, and is the POND still haunted?
How long have I been sweeping out this rubbish
Of superstition, and the world will not
Come clean with all my pains!--it is a case
Unheard of!
THE GIRL:
Then leave off teasing us so.
PROCTO-PHANTASMIST:
I tell you, spirits, to your faces now,
That I should not regret this despotism
Of spirits, but that mine can wield it not.
To-night I shall make poor work of it,
Yet I will take a round with you, and hope
Before my last step in the living dance
To beat the poet and the devil together.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
At last he will sit down in some foul puddle;
That is his way of solacing himself;
Until some leech, diverted with his gravity,
Cures him of spirits and the spirit together.
[TO FAUST, WHO HAS SECEDED FROM THE DANCE.]
Why do you let that fair girl pass from you,
Who sung so sweetly to you in the dance?
FAUST:
A red mouse in the middle of her singing
Sprung from her mouth.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
That was all right, my friend:
Be it enough that the mouse was not gray.
Do not disturb your hour of happiness
With close consideration of such trifles.
FAUST:
Then saw I--
MEPHISTOPHELES:
What?
FAUST:
Seest thou not a pale,
Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away?
She drags herself now forward with slow steps,
And seems as if she moved with shackled feet:
I cannot overcome the thought that she
Is like poor Margaret.
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Let it be--pass on--
No good can come of it--it is not well
To meet itit is an enchanted phantom,
A lifeless idol; with its numbing look,
It freezes up the blood of man; and they
Who meet its ghastly stare are turned to stone,
Like those who saw Medusa.
FAUST:
Oh, too true!
Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse
Which no beloved hand has closed, alas!
That is the breast which Margaret yielded to me--
Those are the lovely limbs which I enjoyed!
MEPHISTOPHELES:
It is all magic, poor deluded fool!
She looks to every one like his first love.
FAUST:
Oh, what delight! what woe! I cannot turn
My looks from her sweet piteous countenance.
How strangely does a single blood-red line,
Not broader than the sharp edge of a knife,
Adorn her lovely neck!
MEPHISTOPHELES:
Ay, she can carry
Her head under her arm upon occasion;
Perseus has cut it off for her. These pleasures
End in delusion.Gain this rising ground,
It is as airy here as in a...
And if I am not mightily deceived,
I see a theatre.What may this mean?
ATTENDANT:
Quite a new piece, the last of seven, for tis
The custom now to represent that number.
Tis written by a Dilettante, and
The actors who perform are Dilettanti;
Excuse me, gentlemen; but I must vanish.
I am a Dilettante curtain-lifter.
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Scenes From The Faust Of Goethe
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573:Pickthorn Manor
How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day!
A steely silver, underlined with blue,
And flashing where the round clouds, blown away,
Let drop the yellow sunshine to gleam through
And tip the edges of the waves with shifts
And spots of whitest fire, hard like gems
Cut from the midnight moon they were, and sharp
As wind through leafless stems.
The Lady Eunice walked between the drifts
Of blooming cherry-trees, and watched the rifts
Of clouds drawn through the river's azure warp.
II
Her little feet tapped softly down the path.
Her soul was listless; even the morning breeze
Fluttering the trees and strewing a light swath
Of fallen petals on the grass, could please
Her not at all. She brushed a hair aside
With a swift move, and a half-angry frown.
She stopped to pull a daffodil or two,
And held them to her gown
To test the colours; put them at her side,
Then at her breast, then loosened them and tried
Some new arrangement, but it would not do.
III
A lady in a Manor-house, alone,
Whose husband is in Flanders with the Duke
Of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, she's grown
Too apathetic even to rebuke
Her idleness. What is she on this Earth?
No woman surely, since she neither can
Be wed nor single, must not let her mind
Build thoughts upon a man
Except for hers. Indeed that were no dearth
174
Were her Lord here, for well she knew his worth,
And when she thought of him her eyes were kind.
IV
Too lately wed to have forgot the wooing.
Too unaccustomed as a bride to feel
Other than strange delight at her wife's doing.
Even at the thought a gentle blush would steal
Over her face, and then her lips would frame
Some little word of loving, and her eyes
Would brim and spill their tears, when all they saw
Was the bright sun, slantwise
Through burgeoning trees, and all the morning's flame
Burning and quivering round her. With quick shame
She shut her heart and bent before the law.
He was a soldier, she was proud of that.
This was his house and she would keep it well.
His honour was in fighting, hers in what
He'd left her here in charge of. Then a spell
Of conscience sent her through the orchard spying
Upon the gardeners. Were their tools about?
Were any branches broken? Had the weeds
Been duly taken out
Under the 'spaliered pears, and were these lying
Nailed snug against the sunny bricks and drying
Their leaves and satisfying all their needs?
VI
She picked a stone up with a little pout,
Stones looked so ill in well-kept flower-borders.
Where should she put it? All the paths about
Were strewn with fair, red gravel by her orders.
No stone could mar their sifted smoothness. So
She hurried to the river. At the edge
She stood a moment charmed by the swift blue
Beyond the river sedge.
She watched it curdling, crinkling, and the snow
175
Purfled upon its wave-tops. Then, 'Hullo,
My Beauty, gently, or you'll wriggle through.'
VII
The Lady Eunice caught a willow spray
To save herself from tumbling in the shallows
Which rippled to her feet. Then straight away
She peered down stream among the budding sallows.
A youth in leather breeches and a shirt
Of finest broidered lawn lay out upon
An overhanging bole and deftly swayed
A well-hooked fish which shone
In the pale lemon sunshine like a spurt
Of silver, bowed and damascened, and girt
With crimson spots and moons which waned and played.
VIII
The fish hung circled for a moment, ringed
And bright; then flung itself out, a thin blade
Of spotted lightning, and its tail was winged
With chipped and sparkled sunshine. And the shade
Broke up and splintered into shafts of light
Wheeling about the fish, who churned the air
And made the fish-line hum, and bent the rod
Almost to snapping. Care
The young man took against the twigs, with slight,
Deft movements he kept fish and line in tight
Obedience to his will with every prod.
IX
He lay there, and the fish hung just beyond.
He seemed uncertain what more he should do.
He drew back, pulled the rod to correspond,
Tossed it and caught it; every time he threw,
He caught it nearer to the point. At last
The fish was near enough to touch. He paused.
Eunice knew well the craft - 'What's got the thing!'
She cried. 'What can have caused Where is his net? The moment will be past.
176
The fish will wriggle free.' She stopped aghast.
He turned and bowed. One arm was in a sling.
The broad, black ribbon she had thought his basket
Must hang from, held instead a useless arm.
'I do not wonder, Madam, that you ask it.'
He smiled, for she had spoke aloud. 'The charm
Of trout fishing is in my eyes enhanced
When you must play your fish on land as well.'
'How will you take him?' Eunice asked. 'In truth
I really cannot tell.
'Twas stupid of me, but it simply chanced
I never thought of that until he glanced
Into the branches. 'Tis a bit uncouth.'
XI
He watched the fish against the blowing sky,
Writhing and glittering, pulling at the line.
'The hook is fast, I might just let him die,'
He mused. 'But that would jar against your fine
Sense of true sportsmanship, I know it would,'
Cried Eunice. 'Let me do it.' Swift and light
She ran towards him. 'It is so long now
Since I have felt a bite,
I lost all heart for everything.' She stood,
Supple and strong, beside him, and her blood
Tingled her lissom body to a glow.
XII
She quickly seized the fish and with a stone
Ended its flurry, then removed the hook,
Untied the fly with well-poised fingers. Done,
She asked him where he kept his fishing-book.
He pointed to a coat flung on the ground.
She searched the pockets, found a shagreen case,
Replaced the fly, noticed a golden stamp
Filling the middle space.
Two letters half rubbed out were there, and round
177
About them gay rococo flowers wound
And tossed a spray of roses to the clamp.
XIII
The Lady Eunice puzzled over these.
'G. D.' the young man gravely said. 'My name
Is Gervase Deane. Your servant, if you please.'
'Oh, Sir, indeed I know you, for your fame
For exploits in the field has reached my ears.
I did not know you wounded and returned.'
'But just come back, Madam. A silly prick
To gain me such unearned
Holiday making. And you, it appears,
Must be Sir Everard's lady. And my fears
At being caught a-trespassing were quick.'
XIV
He looked so rueful that she laughed out loud.
'You are forgiven, Mr. Deane. Even more,
I offer you the fishing, and am proud
That you should find it pleasant from this shore.
Nobody fishes now, my husband used
To angle daily, and I too with him.
He loved the spotted trout, and pike, and dace.
He even had a whim
That flies my fingers tied swiftly confused
The greater fish. And he must be excused,
Love weaves odd fancies in a lonely place.'
XV
She sighed because it seemed so long ago,
Those days with Everard; unthinking took
The path back to the orchard. Strolling so
She walked, and he beside her. In a nook
Where a stone seat withdrew beneath low boughs,
Full-blossomed, hummed with bees, they sat them down.
She questioned him about the war, the share
Her husband had, and grown
Eager by his clear answers, straight allows
178
Her hidden hopes and fears to speak, and rouse
Her numbed love, which had slumbered unaware.
XVI
Under the orchard trees daffodils danced
And jostled, turning sideways to the wind.
A dropping cherry petal softly glanced
Over her hair, and slid away behind.
At the far end through twisted cherry-trees
The old house glowed, geranium-hued, with bricks
Bloomed in the sun like roses, low and long,
Gabled, and with quaint tricks
Of chimneys carved and fretted. Out of these
Grey smoke was shaken, which the faint Spring breeze
Tossed into nothing. Then a thrush's song
XVII
Needled its way through sound of bees and river.
The notes fell, round and starred, between young leaves,
Trilled to a spiral lilt, stopped on a quiver.
The Lady Eunice listens and believes.
Gervase has many tales of her dear Lord,
His bravery, his knowledge, his charmed life.
She quite forgets who's speaking in the gladness
Of being this man's wife.
Gervase is wounded, grave indeed, the word
Is kindly said, but to a softer chord
She strings her voice to ask with wistful sadness,
XVIII
'And is Sir Everard still unscathed? I fain
Would know the truth.' 'Quite well, dear Lady, quite.'
She smiled in her content. 'So many slain,
You must forgive me for a little fright.'
And he forgave her, not alone for that,
But because she was fingering his heart,
Pressing and squeezing it, and thinking so
Only to ease her smart
Of painful, apprehensive longing. At
179
Their feet the river swirled and chucked. They sat
An hour there. The thrush flew to and fro.
XIX
The Lady Eunice supped alone that day,
As always since Sir Everard had gone,
In the oak-panelled parlour, whose array
Of faded portraits in carved mouldings shone.
Warriors and ladies, armoured, ruffed, peruked.
Van Dykes with long, slim fingers; Holbeins, stout
And heavy-featured; and one Rubens dame,
A peony just burst out,
With flaunting, crimson flesh. Eunice rebuked
Her thoughts of gentler blood, when these had duked
It with the best, and scorned to change their name.
XX
A sturdy family, and old besides,
Much older than her own, the Earls of Crowe.
Since Saxon days, these men had sought their brides
Among the highest born, but always so,
Taking them to themselves, their wealth, their lands,
But never their titles. Stern perhaps, but strong,
The Framptons fed their blood from richest streams,
Scorning the common throng.
Gazing upon these men, she understands
The toughness of the web wrought from such strands
And pride of Everard colours all her dreams.
XXI
Eunice forgets to eat, watching their faces
Flickering in the wind-blown candle's shine.
Blue-coated lackeys tiptoe to their places,
And set out plates of fruit and jugs of wine.
The table glitters black like Winter ice.
The Dartle's rushing, and the gentle clash
Of blossomed branches, drifts into her ears.
And through the casement sash
She sees each cherry stem a pointed slice
180
Of splintered moonlight, topped with all the spice
And shimmer of the blossoms it uprears.
XXII
'In such a night -' she laid the book aside,
She could outnight the poet by thinking back.
In such a night she came here as a bride.
The date was graven in the almanack
Of her clasped memory. In this very room
Had Everard uncloaked her. On this seat
Had drawn her to him, bade her note the trees,
How white they were and sweet
And later, coming to her, her dear groom,
Her Lord, had lain beside her in the gloom
Of moon and shade, and whispered her to ease.
XXIII
Her little taper made the room seem vast,
Caverned and empty. And her beating heart
Rapped through the silence all about her cast
Like some loud, dreadful death-watch taking part
In this sad vigil. Slowly she undrest,
Put out the light and crept into her bed.
The linen sheets were fragrant, but so cold.
And brimming tears she shed,
Sobbing and quivering in her barren nest,
Her weeping lips into the pillow prest,
Her eyes sealed fast within its smothering fold.
XXIV
The morning brought her a more stoic mind,
And sunshine struck across the polished floor.
She wondered whether this day she should find
Gervase a-fishing, and so listen more,
Much more again, to all he had to tell.
And he was there, but waiting to begin
Until she came. They fished awhile, then went
To the old seat within
The cherry's shade. He pleased her very well
181
By his discourse. But ever he must dwell
Upon Sir Everard. Each incident
XXV
Must be related and each term explained.
How troops were set in battle, how a siege
Was ordered and conducted. She complained
Because he bungled at the fall of Liege.
The curious names of parts of forts she knew,
And aired with conscious pride her ravelins,
And counterscarps, and lunes. The day drew on,
And his dead fish's fins
In the hot sunshine turned a mauve-green hue.
At last Gervase, guessing the hour, withdrew.
But she sat long in still oblivion.
XXVI
Then he would bring her books, and read to her
The poems of Dr. Donne, and the blue river
Would murmur through the reading, and a stir
Of birds and bees make the white petals shiver,
And one or two would flutter prone and lie
Spotting the smooth-clipped grass. The days went by
Threaded with talk and verses. Green leaves pushed
Through blossoms stubbornly.
Gervase, unconscious of dishonesty,
Fell into strong and watchful loving, free
He thought, since always would his lips be hushed.
XXVII
But lips do not stay silent at command,
And Gervase strove in vain to order his.
Luckily Eunice did not understand
That he but read himself aloud, for this
Their friendship would have snapped. She treated him
And spoilt him like a brother. It was now
'Gervase' and 'Eunice' with them, and he dined
Whenever she'd allow,
In the oak parlour, underneath the dim
182
Old pictured Framptons, opposite her slim
Figure, so bright against the chair behind.
XXVIII
Eunice was happier than she had been
For many days, and yet the hours were long.
All Gervase told to her but made her lean
More heavily upon the past. Among
Her hopes she lived, even when she was giving
Her morning orders, even when she twined
Nosegays to deck her parlours. With the thought
Of Everard, her mind
Solaced its solitude, and in her striving
To do as he would wish was all her living.
She welcomed Gervase for the news he brought.
XXIX
Black-hearts and white-hearts, bubbled with the sun,
Hid in their leaves and knocked against each other.
Eunice was standing, panting with her run
Up to the tool-house just to get another
Basket. All those which she had brought were filled,
And still Gervase pelted her from above.
The buckles of his shoes flashed higher and higher
Until his shoulders strove
Quite through the top. 'Eunice, your spirit's filled
This tree. White-hearts!' He shook, and cherries spilled
And spat out from the leaves like falling fire.
XXX
The wide, sun-winged June morning spread itself
Over the quiet garden. And they packed
Full twenty baskets with the fruit. 'My shelf
Of cordials will be stored with what it lacked.
In future, none of us will drink strong ale,
But cherry-brandy.' 'Vastly good, I vow,'
And Gervase gave the tree another shake.
The cherries seemed to flow
Out of the sky in cloudfuls, like blown hail.
183
Swift Lady Eunice ran, her farthingale,
Unnoticed, tangling in a fallen rake.
XXXI
She gave a little cry and fell quite prone
In the long grass, and lay there very still.
Gervase leapt from the tree at her soft moan,
And kneeling over her, with clumsy skill
Unloosed her bodice, fanned her with his hat,
And his unguarded lips pronounced his heart.
'Eunice, my Dearest Girl, where are you hurt?'
His trembling fingers dart
Over her limbs seeking some wound. She strove
To answer, opened wide her eyes, above
Her knelt Sir Everard, with face alert.
XXXII
Her eyelids fell again at that sweet sight,
'My Love!' she murmured, 'Dearest! Oh, my Dear!'
He took her in his arms and bore her right
And tenderly to the old seat, and 'Here
I have you mine at last,' she said, and swooned
Under his kisses. When she came once more
To sight of him, she smiled in comfort knowing
Herself laid as before
Close covered on his breast. And all her glowing
Youth answered him, and ever nearer growing
She twined him in her arms and soft festooned
XXXIII
Herself about him like a flowering vine,
Drawing his lips to cling upon her own.
A ray of sunlight pierced the leaves to shine
Where her half-opened bodice let be shown
Her white throat fluttering to his soft caress,
Half-gasping with her gladness. And her pledge
She whispers, melting with delight. A twig
Snaps in the hornbeam hedge.
A cackling laugh tears through the quietness.
184
Eunice starts up in terrible distress.
'My God! What's that?' Her staring eyes are big.
XXXIV
Revulsed emotion set her body shaking
As though she had an ague. Gervase swore,
Jumped to his feet in such a dreadful taking
His face was ghastly with the look it wore.
Crouching and slipping through the trees, a man
In worn, blue livery, a humpbacked thing,
Made off. But turned every few steps to gaze
At Eunice, and to fling
Vile looks and gestures back. 'The ruffian!
By Christ's Death! I will split him to a span
Of hog's thongs.' She grasped at his sleeve, 'Gervase!
XXXV
What are you doing here? Put down that sword,
That's only poor old Tony, crazed and lame.
We never notice him. With my dear Lord
I ought not to have minded that he came.
But, Gervase, it surprises me that you
Should so lack grace to stay here.' With one hand
She held her gaping bodice to conceal
Her breast. 'I must demand
Your instant absence. Everard, but new
Returned, will hardly care for guests. Adieu.'
'Eunice, you're mad.' His brain began to reel.
XXXVI
He tried again to take her, tried to twist
Her arms about him. Truly, she had said
Nothing should ever part them. In a mist
She pushed him from her, clasped her aching head
In both her hands, and rocked and sobbed aloud.
'Oh! Where is Everard? What does this mean?
So lately come to leave me thus alone!'
185
But Gervase had not seen
Sir Everard. Then, gently, to her bowed
And sickening spirit, he told of her proud
Surrender to him. He could hear her moan.
XXXVII
Then shame swept over her and held her numb,
Hiding her anguished face against the seat.
At last she rose, a woman stricken - dumb And trailed away with slowly-dragging feet.
Gervase looked after her, but feared to pass
The barrier set between them. All his rare
Joy broke to fragments - worse than that, unreal.
And standing lonely there,
His swollen heart burst out, and on the grass
He flung himself and wept. He knew, alas!
The loss so great his life could never heal.
XXXVIII
For days thereafter Eunice lived retired,
Waited upon by one old serving-maid.
She would not leave her chamber, and desired
Only to hide herself. She was afraid
Of what her eyes might trick her into seeing,
Of what her longing urge her then to do.
What was this dreadful illness solitude
Had tortured her into?
Her hours went by in a long constant fleeing
The thought of that one morning. And her being
Bruised itself on a happening so rude.
XXXIX
It grew ripe Summer, when one morning came
Her tirewoman with a letter, printed
Upon the seal were the Deane crest and name.
With utmost gentleness, the letter hinted
His understanding and his deep regret.
But would she not permit him once again
To pay her his profound respects? No word
186
Of what had passed should pain
Her resolution. Only let them get
Back the old comradeship. Her eyes were wet
With starting tears, now truly she deplored
XL
His misery. Yes, she was wrong to keep
Away from him. He hardly was to blame.
'Twas she - she shuddered and began to weep.
'Twas her fault! Hers! Her everlasting shame
Was that she suffered him, whom not at all
She loved. Poor Boy! Yes, they must still be friends.
She owed him that to keep the balance straight.
It was such poor amends
Which she could make for rousing hopes to gall
Him with their unfulfilment. Tragical
It was, and she must leave him desolate.
XLI
Hard silence he had forced upon his lips
For long and long, and would have done so still
Had not she - here she pressed her finger tips
Against her heavy eyes. Then with forced will
She wrote that he might come, sealed with the arms
Of Crowe and Frampton twined. Her heart felt lighter
When this was done. It seemed her constant care
Might some day cease to fright her.
Illness could be no crime, and dreadful harms
Did come from too much sunshine. Her alarms
Would lessen when she saw him standing there,
XLII
Simple and kind, a brother just returned
From journeying, and he would treat her so.
She knew his honest heart, and if there burned
A spark in it he would not let it show.
But when he really came, and stood beside
Her underneath the fruitless cherry boughs,
He seemed a tired man, gaunt, leaden-eyed.
187
He made her no more vows,
Nor did he mention one thing he had tried
To put into his letter. War supplied
Him topics. And his mind seemed occupied.
XLIII
Daily they met. And gravely walked and talked.
He read her no more verses, and he stayed
Only until their conversation, balked
Of every natural channel, fled dismayed.
Again the next day she would meet him, trying
To give her tone some healthy sprightliness,
But his uneager dignity soon chilled
Her well-prepared address.
Thus Summer waned, and in the mornings, crying
Of wild geese startled Eunice, and their flying
Whirred overhead for days and never stilled.
XLIV
One afternoon of grey clouds and white wind,
Eunice awaited Gervase by the river.
The Dartle splashed among the reeds and whined
Over the willow-roots, and a long sliver
Of caked and slobbered foam crept up the bank.
All through the garden, drifts of skirling leaves
Blew up, and settled down, and blew again.
The cherry-trees were weaves
Of empty, knotted branches, and a dank
Mist hid the house, mouldy it smelt and rank
With sodden wood, and still unfalling rain.
XLV
Eunice paced up and down. No joy she took
At meeting Gervase, but the custom grown
Still held her. He was late. She sudden shook,
And caught at her stopped heart. Her eyes had shown
Sir Everard emerging from the mist.
His uniform was travel-stained and torn,
His jackboots muddy, and his eager stride
188
Jangled his spurs. A thorn
Entangled, trailed behind him. To the tryst
He hastened. Eunice shuddered, ran - a twist
Round a sharp turning and she fled to hide.
XLVI
But he had seen her as she swiftly ran,
A flash of white against the river's grey.
'Eunice,' he called. 'My Darling. Eunice. Can
You hear me? It is Everard. All day
I have been riding like the very devil
To reach you sooner. Are you startled, Dear?'
He broke into a run and followed her,
And caught her, faint with fear,
Cowering and trembling as though she some evil
Spirit were seeing. 'What means this uncivil
Greeting, Dear Heart?' He saw her senses blur.
XLVII
Swaying and catching at the seat, she tried
To speak, but only gurgled in her throat.
At last, straining to hold herself, she cried
To him for pity, and her strange words smote
A coldness through him, for she begged Gervase
To leave her, 'twas too much a second time.
Gervase must go, always Gervase, her mind
Repeated like a rhyme
This name he did not know. In sad amaze
He watched her, and that hunted, fearful gaze,
So unremembering and so unkind.
XLVIII
Softly he spoke to her, patiently dealt
With what he feared her madness. By and by
He pierced her understanding. Then he knelt
Upon the seat, and took her hands: 'Now try
To think a minute I am come, my Dear,
Unharmed and back on furlough. Are you glad
To have your lover home again? To me,
189
Pickthorn has never had
A greater pleasantness. Could you not bear
To come and sit awhile beside me here?
A stone between us surely should not be.'
XLIX
She smiled a little wan and ravelled smile,
Then came to him and on his shoulder laid
Her head, and they two rested there awhile,
Each taking comfort. Not a word was said.
But when he put his hand upon her breast
And felt her beating heart, and with his lips
Sought solace for her and himself. She started
As one sharp lashed with whips,
And pushed him from her, moaning, his dumb quest
Denied and shuddered from. And he, distrest,
Loosened his wife, and long they sat there, parted.
Eunice was very quiet all that day,
A little dazed, and yet she seemed content.
At candle-time, he asked if she would play
Upon her harpsichord, at once she went
And tinkled airs from Lully's `Carnival'
And `Bacchus', newly brought away from France.
Then jaunted through a lively rigadoon
To please him with a dance
By Purcell, for he said that surely all
Good Englishmen had pride in national
Accomplishment. But tiring of it soon
LI
He whispered her that if she had forgiven
His startling her that afternoon, the clock
Marked early bed-time. Surely it was Heaven
He entered when she opened to his knock.
The hours rustled in the trailing wind
Over the chimney. Close they lay and knew
Only that they were wedded. At his touch
190
Anxiety she threw
Away like a shed garment, and inclined
Herself to cherish him, her happy mind
Quivering, unthinking, loving overmuch.
LII
Eunice lay long awake in the cool night
After her husband slept. She gazed with joy
Into the shadows, painting them with bright
Pictures of all her future life's employ.
Twin gems they were, set to a single jewel,
Each shining with the other. Soft she turned
And felt his breath upon her hair, and prayed
Her happiness was earned.
Past Earls of Crowe should give their blood for fuel
To light this Frampton's hearth-fire. By no cruel
Affrightings would she ever be dismayed.
LIII
When Everard, next day, asked her in joke
What name it was that she had called him by,
She told him of Gervase, and as she spoke
She hardly realized it was a lie.
Her vision she related, but she hid
The fondness into which she had been led.
Sir Everard just laughed and pinched her ear,
And quite out of her head
The matter drifted. Then Sir Everard chid
Himself for laziness, and off he rid
To see his men and count his farming-gear.
LIV
At supper he seemed overspread with gloom,
But gave no reason why, he only asked
More questions of Gervase, and round the room
He walked with restless strides. At last he tasked
Her with a greater feeling for this man
Than she had given. Eunice quick denied
The slightest interest other than a friend
191
Might claim. But he replied
He thought she underrated. Then a ban
He put on talk and music. He'd a plan
To work at, draining swamps at Pickthorn End.
LV
Next morning Eunice found her Lord still changed,
Hard and unkind, with bursts of anger. Pride
Kept him from speaking out. His probings ranged
All round his torment. Lady Eunice tried
To sooth him. So a week went by, and then
His anguish flooded over; with clenched hands
Striving to stem his words, he told her plain
Tony had seen them, 'brands
Burning in Hell,' the man had said. Again
Eunice described her vision, and how when
Awoke at last she had known dreadful pain.
LVI
He could not credit it, and misery fed
Upon his spirit, day by day it grew.
To Gervase he forbade the house, and led
The Lady Eunice such a life she flew
At his approaching footsteps. Winter came
Snowing and blustering through the Manor trees.
All the roof-edges spiked with icicles
In fluted companies.
The Lady Eunice with her tambour-frame
Kept herself sighing company. The flame
Of the birch fire glittered on the walls.
LVII
A letter was brought to her as she sat,
Unsealed, unsigned. It told her that his wound,
The writer's, had so well recovered that
To join his regiment he felt him bound.
But would she not wish him one short 'Godspeed',
He asked no more. Her greeting would suffice.
He had resolved he never should return.
192
Would she this sacrifice
Make for a dying man? How could she read
The rest! But forcing her eyes to the deed,
She read. Then dropped it in the fire to burn.
LVIII
Gervase had set the river for their meeting
As farthest from the farms where Everard
Spent all his days. How should he know such cheating
Was quite expected, at least no dullard
Was Everard Frampton. Hours by hours he hid
Among the willows watching. Dusk had come,
And from the Manor he had long been gone.
Eunice her burdensome
Task set about. Hooded and cloaked, she slid
Over the slippery paths, and soon amid
The sallows saw a boat tied to a stone.
LIX
Gervase arose, and kissed her hand, then pointed
Into the boat. She shook her head, but he
Begged her to realize why, and with disjointed
Words told her of what peril there might be
From listeners along the river bank.
A push would take them out of earshot. Ten
Minutes was all he asked, then she should land,
He go away again,
Forever this time. Yet how could he thank
Her for so much compassion. Here she sank
Upon a thwart, and bid him quick unstrand
LX
His boat. He cast the rope, and shoved the keel
Free of the gravel; jumped, and dropped beside
Her; took the oars, and they began to steal
Under the overhanging trees. A wide
Gash of red lantern-light cleft like a blade
Into the gloom, and struck on Eunice sitting
Rigid and stark upon the after thwart.
193
It blazed upon their flitting
In merciless light. A moment so it stayed,
Then was extinguished, and Sir Everard made
One leap, and landed just a fraction short.
LXI
His weight upon the gunwale tipped the boat
To straining balance. Everard lurched and seized
His wife and held her smothered to his coat.
'Everard, loose me, we shall drown -' and squeezed
Against him, she beat with her hands. He gasped
'Never, by God!' The slidden boat gave way
And the black foamy water split - and met.
Bubbled up through the spray
A wailing rose and in the branches rasped,
And creaked, and stilled. Over the treetops, clasped
In the blue evening, a clear moon was set.
LXII
They lie entangled in the twisting roots,
Embraced forever. Their cold marriage bed
Close-canopied and curtained by the shoots
Of willows and pale birches. At the head,
White lilies, like still swans, placidly float
And sway above the pebbles. Here are waves
Sun-smitten for a threaded counterpane
Gold-woven on their graves.
In perfect quietness they sleep, remote
In the green, rippled twilight. Death has smote
Them to perpetual oneness who were twain.
~ Amy Lowell,#NFDB
574:The Great Adventure Of Max Breuck
A yellow band of light upon the street
Pours from an open door, and makes a wide
Pathway of bright gold across a sheet
Of calm and liquid moonshine. From inside
Come shouts and streams of laughter, and a snatch
Of song, soon drowned and lost again in mirth,
The clip of tankards on a table top,
And stir of booted heels. Against the patch
Of candle-light a shadow falls, its girth
Proclaims the host himself, and master of his shop.
This is the tavern of one Hilverdink,
Jan Hilverdink, whose wines are much esteemed.
Within his cellar men can have to drink
The rarest cordials old monks ever schemed
To coax from pulpy grapes, and with nice art
Improve and spice their virgin juiciness.
Here froths the amber beer of many a brew,
Crowning each pewter tankard with as smart
A cap as ever in his wantonness
Winter set glittering on top of an old yew.
Tall candles stand upon the table, where
Are twisted glasses, ruby-sparked with wine,
Clarets and ports. Those topaz bumpers were
Drained from slim, long-necked bottles of the Rhine.
The centre of the board is piled with pipes,
Slender and clean, the still unbaptized clay
Awaits its burning fate. Behind, the vault
Stretches from dim to dark, a groping way
Bordered by casks and puncheons, whose brass stripes
326
And bands gleam dully still, beyond the gay tumult.
'For good old Master Hilverdink, a toast!'
Clamoured a youth with tassels on his boots.
'Bring out your oldest brandy for a boast,
From that small barrel in the very roots
Of your deep cellar, man. Why here is Max!
Ho! Welcome, Max, you're scarcely here in time.
We want to drink to old Jan's luck, and smoke
His best tobacco for a grand climax.
Here, Jan, a paper, fragrant as crushed thyme,
We'll have the best to wish you luck, or may we choke!'
Max Breuck unclasped his broadcloth cloak, and sat.
'Well thought of, Franz; here's luck to Mynheer Jan.'
The host set down a jar; then to a vat
Lost in the distance of his cellar, ran.
Max took a pipe as graceful as the stem
Of some long tulip, crammed it full, and drew
The pungent smoke deep to his grateful lung.
It curled all blue throughout the cave and flew
Into the silver night. At once there flung
Into the crowded shop a boy, who cried to them:
'Oh, sirs, is there some learned lawyer here,
Some advocate, or all-wise counsellor?
My master sent me to inquire where
Such men do mostly be, but every door
Was shut and barred, for late has grown the hour.
I pray you tell me where I may now find
One versed in law, the matter will not wait.'
'I am a lawyer, boy,' said Max, 'my mind
Is not locked to my business, though 'tis late.
327
I shall be glad to serve what way is in my power.
Then once more, cloaked and ready, he set out,
Tripping the footsteps of the eager boy
Along the dappled cobbles, while the rout
Within the tavern jeered at his employ.
Through new-burst elm leaves filtered the white moon,
Who peered and splashed between the twinkling boughs,
Flooded the open spaces, and took flight
Before tall, serried houses in platoon,
Guarded by shadows. Past the Custom House
They took their hurried way in the Spring-scented night.
Before a door which fronted a canal
The boy halted. A dim tree-shaded spot.
The water lapped the stones in musical
And rhythmic tappings, and a galliot
Slumbered at anchor with no light aboard.
The boy knocked twice, and steps approached. A flame
Winked through the keyhole, then a key was turned,
And through the open door Max went toward
Another door, whence sound of voices came.
He entered a large room where candelabra burned.
An aged man in quilted dressing gown
Rose up to greet him. 'Sir,' said Max, 'you sent
Your messenger to seek throughout the town
A lawyer. I have small accomplishment,
But I am at your service, and my name
Is Max Breuck, Counsellor, at your command.'
'Mynheer,' replied the aged man, 'obliged
Am I, and count myself much privileged.
I am Cornelius Kurler, and my fame
328
Is better known on distant oceans than on land.
10
My ship has tasted water in strange seas,
And bartered goods at still uncharted isles.
She's oft coquetted with a tropic breeze,
And sheered off hurricanes with jaunty smiles.'
'Tush, Kurler,' here broke in the other man,
'Enough of poetry, draw the deed and sign.'
The old man seemed to wizen at the voice,
'My good friend, Grootver, --' he at once began.
'No introductions, let us have some wine,
And business, now that you at last have made your choice.'
11
A harsh and disagreeable man he proved to be,
This Grootver, with no single kindly thought.
Kurler explained, his old hands nervously
Twisting his beard. His vessel he had bought
From Grootver. He had thought to soon repay
The ducats borrowed, but an adverse wind
Had so delayed him that his cargo brought
But half its proper price, the very day
He came to port he stepped ashore to find
The market glutted and his counted profits naught.
12
Little by little Max made out the way
That Grootver pressed that poor harassed old man.
His money he must have, too long delay
Had turned the usurer to a ruffian.
'But let me take my ship, with many bales
Of cotton stuffs dyed crimson, green, and blue,
Cunningly patterned, made to suit the taste
Of mandarin's ladies; when my battered sails
Open for home, such stores will I bring you
329
That all your former ventures will be counted waste.
13
Such light and foamy silks, like crinkled cream,
And indigo more blue than sun-whipped seas,
Spices and fragrant trees, a massive beam
Of sandalwood, and pungent China teas,
Tobacco, coffee!' Grootver only laughed.
Max heard it all, and worse than all he heard
The deed to which the sailor gave his word.
He shivered, 'twas as if the villain gaffed
The old man with a boat-hook; bleeding, spent,
He begged for life nor knew at all the road he went.
14
For Kurler had a daughter, young and gay,
Carefully reared and shielded, rarely seen.
But on one black and most unfriendly day
Grootver had caught her as she passed between
The kitchen and the garden. She had run
In fear of him, his evil leering eye,
And when he came she, bolted in her room,
Refused to show, though gave no reason why.
The spinning of her future had begun,
On quiet nights she heard the whirring of her doom.
15
Max mended an old goosequill by the fire,
Loathing his work, but seeing no thing to do.
He felt his hands were building up the pyre
To burn two souls, and seized with vertigo
He staggered to his chair. Before him lay
White paper still unspotted by a crime.
'Now, young man, write,' said Grootver in his ear.
'`If in two years my vessel should yet stay
From Amsterdam, I give Grootver, sometime
330
A friend, my daughter for his lawful wife.' Now swear.'
16
And Kurler swore, a palsied, tottering sound,
And traced his name, a shaking, wandering line.
Then dazed he sat there, speechless from his wound.
Grootver got up: 'Fair voyage, the brigantine!'
He shuffled from the room, and left the house.
His footsteps wore to silence down the street.
At last the aged man began to rouse.
With help he once more gained his trembling feet.
'My daughter, Mynheer Breuck, is friendless now.
Will you watch over her? I ask a solemn vow.'
17
Max laid his hand upon the old man's arm,
'Before God, sir, I vow, when you are gone,
So to protect your daughter from all harm
As one man may.' Thus sorrowful, forlorn,
The situation to Max Breuck appeared,
He gave his promise almost without thought,
Nor looked to see a difficulty. 'Bred
Gently to watch a mother left alone;
Bound by a dying father's wish, who feared
The world's accustomed harshness when he should be dead;
18
Such was my case from youth, Mynheer Kurler.
Last Winter she died also, and my days
Are passed in work, lest I should grieve for her,
And undo habits used to earn her praise.
My leisure I will gladly give to see
Your household and your daughter prosperous.'
The sailor said his thanks, but turned away.
He could not brook that his humility,
So little wonted, and so tremulous,
331
Should first before a stranger make such great display.
19
'Come here to-morrow as the bells ring noon,
I sail at the full sea, my daughter then
I will make known to you. 'Twill be a boon
If after I have bid good-by, and when
Her eyeballs scorch with watching me depart,
You bring her home again. She lives with one
Old serving-woman, who has brought her up.
But that is no friend for so free a heart.
No head to match her questions. It is done.
And I must sail away to come and brim her cup.
20
My ship's the fastest that owns Amsterdam
As home, so not a letter can you send.
I shall be back, before to where I am
Another ship could reach. Now your stipend --'
Quickly Breuck interposed. 'When you once more
Tread on the stones which pave our streets. -- Good night!
To-morrow I will be, at stroke of noon,
At the great wharf.' Then hurrying, in spite
Of cake and wine the old man pressed upon
Him ere he went, he took his leave and shut the door.
21
'Twas noon in Amsterdam, the day was clear,
And sunshine tipped the pointed roofs with gold.
The brown canals ran liquid bronze, for here
The sun sank deep into the waters cold.
And every clock and belfry in the town
Hammered, and struck, and rang. Such peals of bells,
To shake the sunny morning into life,
And to proclaim the middle, and the crown,
Of this most sparkling daytime! The crowd swells,
332
Laughing and pushing toward the quays in friendly strife.
22
The 'Horn of Fortune' sails away to-day.
At highest tide she lets her anchor go,
And starts for China. Saucy popinjay!
Giddy in freshest paint she curtseys low,
And beckons to her boats to let her start.
Blue is the ocean, with a flashing breeze.
The shining waves are quick to take her part.
They push and spatter her. Her sails are loose,
Her tackles hanging, waiting men to seize
And haul them taut, with chanty-singing, as they choose.
23
At the great wharf's edge Mynheer Kurler stands,
And by his side, his daughter, young Christine.
Max Breuck is there, his hat held in his hands,
Bowing before them both. The brigantine
Bounces impatient at the long delay,
Curvets and jumps, a cable's length from shore.
A heavy galliot unloads on the walls
Round, yellow cheeses, like gold cannon balls
Stacked on the stones in pyramids. Once more
Kurler has kissed Christine, and now he is away.
24
Christine stood rigid like a frozen stone,
Her hands wrung pale in effort at control.
Max moved aside and let her be alone,
For grief exacts each penny of its toll.
The dancing boat tossed on the glinting sea.
A sun-path swallowed it in flaming light,
Then, shrunk a cockleshell, it came again
Upon the other side. Now on the lee
It took the 'Horn of Fortune'. Straining sight
333
Could see it hauled aboard, men pulling on the crane.
25
Then up above the eager brigantine,
Along her slender masts, the sails took flight,
Were sheeted home, and ropes were coiled. The shine
Of the wet anchor, when its heavy weight
Rose splashing to the deck. These things they saw,
Christine and Max, upon the crowded quay.
They saw the sails grow white, then blue in shade,
The ship had turned, caught in a windy flaw
She glided imperceptibly away,
Drew farther off and in the bright sky seemed to fade.
26
Home, through the emptying streets, Max took Christine,
Who would have hid her sorrow from his gaze.
Before the iron gateway, clasped between
Each garden wall, he stopped. She, in amaze,
Asked, 'Do you enter not then, Mynheer Breuck?
My father told me of your courtesy.
Since I am now your charge, 'tis meet for me
To show such hospitality as maiden may,
Without disdaining rules must not be broke.
Katrina will have coffee, and she bakes today.'
27
She straight unhasped the tall, beflowered gate.
Curled into tendrils, twisted into cones
Of leaves and roses, iron infoliate,
It guards the pleasance, and its stiffened bones
Are budded with much peering at the rows,
And beds, and arbours, which it keeps inside.
Max started at the beauty, at the glare
Of tints. At either end was set a wide
Path strewn with fine, red gravel, and such shows
334
Of tulips in their splendour flaunted everywhere!
28
From side to side, midway each path, there ran
A longer one which cut the space in two.
And, like a tunnel some magician
Has wrought in twinkling green, an alley grew,
Pleached thick and walled with apple trees; their flowers
Incensed the garden, and when Autumn came
The plump and heavy apples crowding stood
And tapped against the arbour. Then the dame
Katrina shook them down, in pelting showers
They plunged to earth, and died transformed to sugared food.
29
Against the high, encircling walls were grapes,
Nailed close to feel the baking of the sun
From glowing bricks. Their microscopic shapes
Half hidden by serrated leaves. And one
Old cherry tossed its branches near the door.
Bordered along the wall, in beds between,
Flickering, streaming, nodding in the air,
The pride of all the garden, there were more
Tulips than Max had ever dreamed or seen.
They jostled, mobbed, and danced. Max stood at helpless stare.
30
'Within the arbour, Mynheer Breuck, I'll bring
Coffee and cakes, a pipe, and Father's best
Tobacco, brought from countries harbouring
Dawn's earliest footstep. Wait.' With girlish zest
To please her guest she flew. A moment more
She came again, with her old nurse behind.
Then, sitting on the bench and knitting fast,
She talked as someone with a noble store
Of hidden fancies, blown upon the wind,
335
Eager to flutter forth and leave their silent past.
31
The little apple leaves above their heads
Let fall a quivering sunshine. Quiet, cool,
In blossomed boughs they sat. Beyond, the beds
Of tulips blazed, a proper vestibule
And antechamber to the rainbow. Dyes
Of prismed richness: Carmine. Madder. Blues
Tinging dark browns to purple. Silvers flushed
To amethyst and tinct with gold. Round eyes
Of scarlet, spotting tender saffron hues.
Violets sunk to blacks, and reds in orange crushed.
32
Of every pattern and in every shade.
Nacreous, iridescent, mottled, checked.
Some purest sulphur-yellow, others made
An ivory-white with disks of copper flecked.
Sprinkled and striped, tasselled, or keenest edged.
Striated, powdered, freckled, long or short.
They bloomed, and seemed strange wonder-moths new-fledged,
Born of the spectrum wedded to a flame.
The shade within the arbour made a port
To o'ertaxed eyes, its still, green twilight rest became.
33
Her knitting-needles clicked and Christine talked,
This child matured to woman unaware,
The first time left alone. Now dreams once balked
Found utterance. Max thought her very fair.
Beneath her cap her ornaments shone gold,
And purest gold they were. Kurler was rich
And heedful. Her old maiden aunt had died
Whose darling care she was. Now, growing bold,
She asked, had Max a sister? Dropped a stitch
336
At her own candour. Then she paused and softly sighed.
34
Two years was long! She loved her father well,
But fears she had not. He had always been
Just sailed or sailing. And she must not dwell
On sad thoughts, he had told her so, and seen
Her smile at parting. But she sighed once more.
Two years was long; 'twas not one hour yet!
Mynheer Grootver she would not see at all.
Yes, yes, she knew, but ere the date so set,
The 'Horn of Fortune' would be at the wall.
When Max had bid farewell, she watched him from the door.
35
The next day, and the next, Max went to ask
The health of Jufvrouw Kurler, and the news:
Another tulip blown, or the great task
Of gathering petals which the high wind strews;
The polishing of floors, the pictured tiles
Well scrubbed, and oaken chairs most deftly oiled.
Such things were Christine's world, and his was she
Winter drew near, his sun was in her smiles.
Another Spring, and at his law he toiled,
Unspoken hope counselled a wise efficiency.
36
Max Breuck was honour's soul, he knew himself
The guardian of this girl; no more, no less.
As one in charge of guineas on a shelf
Loose in a china teapot, may confess
His need, but may not borrow till his friend
Comes back to give. So Max, in honour, said
No word of love or marriage; but the days
He clipped off on his almanac. The end
Must come! The second year, with feet of lead,
337
Lagged slowly by till Spring had plumped the willow sprays.
37
Two years had made Christine a woman grown,
With dignity and gently certain pride.
But all her childhood fancies had not flown,
Her thoughts in lovely dreamings seemed to glide.
Max was her trusted friend, did she confess
A closer happiness? Max could not tell.
Two years were over and his life he found
Sphered and complete. In restless eagerness
He waited for the 'Horn of Fortune'. Well
Had he his promise kept, abating not one pound.
38
Spring slipped away to Summer. Still no glass
Sighted the brigantine. Then Grootver came
Demanding Jufvrouw Kurler. His trespass
Was justified, for he had won the game.
Christine begged time, more time! Midsummer went,
And Grootver waxed impatient. Still the ship
Tarried. Christine, betrayed and weary, sank
To dreadful terrors. One day, crazed, she sent
For Max. 'Come quickly,' said her note, 'I skip
The worst distress until we meet. The world is blank.'
39
Through the long sunshine of late afternoon
Max went to her. In the pleached alley, lost
In bitter reverie, he found her soon.
And sitting down beside her, at the cost
Of all his secret, 'Dear,' said he, 'what thing
So suddenly has happened?' Then, in tears,
She told that Grootver, on the following morn,
Would come to marry her, and shuddering:
'I will die rather, death has lesser fears.'
338
Max felt the shackles drop from the oath which he had sworn.
40
'My Dearest One, the hid joy of my heart!
I love you, oh! you must indeed have known.
In strictest honour I have played my part;
But all this misery has overthrown
My scruples. If you love me, marry me
Before the sun has dipped behind those trees.
You cannot be wed twice, and Grootver, foiled,
Can eat his anger. My care it shall be
To pay your father's debt, by such degrees
As I can compass, and for years I've greatly toiled.
41
This is not haste, Christine, for long I've known
My love, and silence forced upon my lips.
I worship you with all the strength I've shown
In keeping faith.' With pleading finger tips
He touched her arm. 'Christine! Beloved! Think.
Let us not tempt the future. Dearest, speak,
I love you. Do my words fall too swift now?
They've been in leash so long upon the brink.'
She sat quite still, her body loose and weak.
Then into him she melted, all her soul at flow.
42
And they were married ere the westering sun
Had disappeared behind the garden trees.
The evening poured on them its benison,
And flower-scents, that only night-time frees,
Rose up around them from the beamy ground,
Silvered and shadowed by a tranquil moon.
Within the arbour, long they lay embraced,
In such enraptured sweetness as they found
Close-partnered each to each, and thinking soon
339
To be enwoven, long ere night to morning faced.
43
At last Max spoke, 'Dear Heart, this night is ours,
To watch it pale, together, into dawn,
Pressing our souls apart like opening flowers
Until our lives, through quivering bodies drawn,
Are mingled and confounded. Then, far spent,
Our eyes will close to undisturbed rest.
For that desired thing I leave you now.
To pinnacle this day's accomplishment,
By telling Grootver that a bootless quest
Is his, and that his schemes have met a knock-down blow.'
44
But Christine clung to him with sobbing cries,
Pleading for love's sake that he leave her not.
And wound her arms about his knees and thighs
As he stood over her. With dread, begot
Of Grootver's name, and silence, and the night,
She shook and trembled. Words in moaning plaint
Wooed him to stay. She feared, she knew not why,
Yet greatly feared. She seemed some anguished saint
Martyred by visions. Max Breuck soothed her fright
With wisdom, then stepped out under the cooling sky.
45
But at the gate once more she held him close
And quenched her heart again upon his lips.
'My Sweetheart, why this terror? I propose
But to be gone one hour! Evening slips
Away, this errand must be done.' 'Max! Max!
First goes my father, if I lose you now!'
She grasped him as in panic lest she drown.
Softly he laughed, 'One hour through the town
By moonlight! That's no place for foul attacks.
340
Dearest, be comforted, and clear that troubled brow.
46
One hour, Dear, and then, no more alone.
We front another day as man and wife.
I shall be back almost before I'm gone,
And midnight shall anoint and crown our life.'
Then through the gate he passed. Along the street
She watched his buttons gleaming in the moon.
He stopped to wave and turned the garden wall.
Straight she sank down upon a mossy seat.
Her senses, mist-encircled by a swoon,
Swayed to unconsciousness beneath its wreathing pall.
47
Briskly Max walked beside the still canal.
His step was firm with purpose. Not a jot
He feared this meeting, nor the rancorous gall
Grootver would spit on him who marred his plot.
He dreaded no man, since he could protect
Christine. His wife! He stopped and laughed aloud.
His starved life had not fitted him for joy.
It strained him to the utmost to reject
Even this hour with her. His heart beat loud.
'Damn Grootver, who can force my time to this employ!'
48
He laughed again. What boyish uncontrol
To be so racked. Then felt his ticking watch.
In half an hour Grootver would know the whole.
And he would be returned, lifting the latch
Of his own gate, eager to take Christine
And crush her to his lips. How bear delay?
He broke into a run. In front, a line
Of candle-light banded the cobbled street.
Hilverdink's tavern! Not for many a day
341
Had he been there to take his old, accustomed seat.
49
'Why, Max! Stop, Max!' And out they came pell-mell,
His old companions. 'Max, where have you been?
Not drink with us? Indeed you serve us well!
How many months is it since we have seen
You here? Jan, Jan, you slow, old doddering goat!
Here's Mynheer Breuck come back again at last,
Stir your old bones to welcome him. Fie, Max.
Business! And after hours! Fill your throat;
Here's beer or brandy. Now, boys, hold him fast.
Put down your cane, dear man. What really vicious whacks!'
50
They forced him to a seat, and held him there,
Despite his anger, while the hideous joke
Was tossed from hand to hand. Franz poured with care
A brimming glass of whiskey. 'Here, we've broke
Into a virgin barrel for you, drink!
Tut! Tut! Just hear him! Married! Who, and when?
Married, and out on business. Clever Spark!
Which lie's the likeliest? Come, Max, do think.'
Swollen with fury, struggling with these men,
Max cursed hilarity which must needs have a mark.
51
Forcing himself to steadiness, he tried
To quell the uproar, told them what he dared
Of his own life and circumstance. Implied
Most urgent matters, time could ill be spared.
In jesting mood his comrades heard his tale,
And scoffed at it. He felt his anger more
Goaded and bursting; -- 'Cowards! Is no one loth
To mock at duty --' Here they called for ale,
And forced a pipe upon him. With an oath
342
He shivered it to fragments on the earthen floor.
52
Sobered a little by his violence,
And by the host who begged them to be still,
Nor injure his good name, 'Max, no offence,'
They blurted, 'you may leave now if you will.'
'One moment, Max,' said Franz. 'We've gone too far.
I ask your pardon for our foolish joke.
It started in a wager ere you came.
The talk somehow had fall'n on drugs, a jar
I brought from China, herbs the natives smoke,
Was with me, and I thought merely to play a game.
53
Its properties are to induce a sleep
Fraught with adventure, and the flight of time
Is inconceivable in swiftness. Deep
Sunken in slumber, imageries sublime
Flatter the senses, or some fearful dream
Holds them enmeshed. Years pass which on the clock
Are but so many seconds. We agreed
That the next man who came should prove the scheme;
And you were he. Jan handed you the crock.
Two whiffs! And then the pipe was broke, and you were freed.'
54
'It is a lie, a damned, infernal lie!'
Max Breuck was maddened now. 'Another jest
Of your befuddled wits. I know not why
I am to be your butt. At my request
You'll choose among you one who'll answer for
Your most unseasonable mirth. Good-night
And good-by, -- gentlemen. You'll hear from me.'
But Franz had caught him at the very door,
'It is no lie, Max Breuck, and for your plight
343
I am to blame. Come back, and we'll talk quietly.
55
You have no business, that is why we laughed,
Since you had none a few minutes ago.
As to your wedding, naturally we chaffed,
Knowing the length of time it takes to do
A simple thing like that in this slow world.
Indeed, Max, 'twas a dream. Forgive me then.
I'll burn the drug if you prefer.' But Breuck
Muttered and stared, -- 'A lie.' And then he hurled,
Distraught, this word at Franz: 'Prove it. And when
It's proven, I'll believe. That thing shall be your work.
56
I'll give you just one week to make your case.
On August thirty-first, eighteen-fourteen,
I shall require your proof.' With wondering face
Franz cried, 'A week to August, and fourteen
The year! You're mad, 'tis April now.
April, and eighteen-twelve.' Max staggered, caught
A chair, -- 'April two years ago! Indeed,
Or you, or I, are mad. I know not how
Either could blunder so.' Hilverdink brought
'The Amsterdam Gazette', and Max was forced to read.
57
'Eighteen hundred and twelve,' in largest print;
And next to it, 'April the twenty-first.'
The letters smeared and jumbled, but by dint
Of straining every nerve to meet the worst,
He read it, and into his pounding brain
Tumbled a horror. Like a roaring sea
Foreboding shipwreck, came the message plain:
'This is two years ago! What of Christine?'
He fled the cellar, in his agony
344
Running to outstrip Fate, and save his holy shrine.
58
The darkened buildings echoed to his feet
Clap-clapping on the pavement as he ran.
Across moon-misted squares clamoured his fleet
And terror-winged steps. His heart began
To labour at the speed. And still no sign,
No flutter of a leaf against the sky.
And this should be the garden wall, and round
The corner, the old gate. No even line
Was this! No wall! And then a fearful cry
Shattered the stillness. Two stiff houses filled the ground.
59
Shoulder to shoulder, like dragoons in line,
They stood, and Max knew them to be the ones
To right and left of Kurler's garden. Spine
Rigid next frozen spine. No mellow tones
Of ancient gilded iron, undulate,
Expanding in wide circles and broad curves,
The twisted iron of the garden gate,
Was there. The houses touched and left no space
Between. With glassy eyes and shaking nerves
Max gazed. Then mad with fear, fled still, and left that place.
60
Stumbling and panting, on he ran, and on.
His slobbering lips could only cry, 'Christine!
My Dearest Love! My Wife! Where are you gone?
What future is our past? What saturnine,
Sardonic devil's jest has bid us live
Two years together in a puff of smoke?
It was no dream, I swear it! In some star,
Or still imprisoned in Time's egg, you give
Me love. I feel it. Dearest Dear, this stroke
345
Shall never part us, I will reach to where you are.'
61
His burning eyeballs stared into the dark.
The moon had long been set. And still he cried:
'Christine! My Love! Christine!' A sudden spark
Pricked through the gloom, and shortly Max espied
With his uncertain vision, so within
Distracted he could scarcely trust its truth,
A latticed window where a crimson gleam
Spangled the blackness, and hung from a pin,
An iron crane, were three gilt balls. His youth
Had taught their meaning, now they closed upon his dream.
62
Softly he knocked against the casement, wide
It flew, and a cracked voice his business there
Demanded. The door opened, and inside
Max stepped. He saw a candle held in air
Above the head of a gray-bearded Jew.
'Simeon Isaacs, Mynheer, can I serve
You?' 'Yes, I think you can. Do you keep arms?
I want a pistol.' Quick the old man grew
Livid. 'Mynheer, a pistol! Let me swerve
You from your purpose. Life brings often false alarms --'
63
'Peace, good old Isaacs, why should you suppose
My purpose deadly. In good truth I've been
Blest above others. You have many rows
Of pistols it would seem. Here, this shagreen
Case holds one that I fancy. Silvered mounts
Are to my taste. These letters `C. D. L.'
Its former owner? Dead, you say. Poor Ghost!
'Twill serve my turn though --' Hastily he counts
The florins down upon the table. 'Well,
346
Good-night, and wish me luck for your to-morrow's toast.'
64
Into the night again he hurried, now
Pale and in haste; and far beyond the town
He set his goal. And then he wondered how
Poor C. D. L. had come to die. 'It's grown
Handy in killing, maybe, this I've bought,
And will work punctually.' His sorrow fell
Upon his senses, shutting out all else.
Again he wept, and called, and blindly fought
The heavy miles away. 'Christine. I'm well.
I'm coming. My Own Wife!' He lurched with failing pulse.
65
Along the dyke the keen air blew in gusts,
And grasses bent and wailed before the wind.
The Zuider Zee, which croons all night and thrusts
Long stealthy fingers up some way to find
And crumble down the stones, moaned baffled. Here
The wide-armed windmills looked like gallows-trees.
No lights were burning in the distant thorps.
Max laid aside his coat. His mind, half-clear,
Babbled 'Christine!' A shot split through the breeze.
The cold stars winked and glittered at his chilling corpse.
~ Amy Lowell,#NFDB
575:A SATYRIC DRAMA TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF EURIPIDES.
SILENUS.
ULYSSES.
CHORUS OF SATYRS.
THE CYCLOPS.
SILENUS:
O Bacchus, what a world of toil, both now
And ere these limbs were overworn with age,
Have I endured for thee! First, when thou fledst
The mountain-nymphs who nursed thee, driven afar
By the strange madness Juno sent upon thee;
Then in the battle of the Sons of Earth,
When I stood foot by foot close to thy side,
No unpropitious fellow-combatant,
And, driving through his shield my winged spear,
Slew vast Enceladus. Consider now,
Is it a dream of which I speak to thee?
By Jove it is not, for you have the trophies!
And now I suffer more than all before.
For when I heard that Juno had devised
A tedious voyage for you, I put to sea
With all my children quaint in search of you,
And I myself stood on the beaked prow
And fixed the naked mast; and all my boys
Leaning upon their oars, with splash and strain
Made white with foam the green and purple sea,--
And so we sought you, king. We were sailing
Near Malea, when an eastern wind arose,
And drove us to this waste Aetnean rock;
The one-eyed children of the Ocean God,
The man-destroying Cyclopses, inhabit,
On this wild shore, their solitary caves,
And one of these, named Polypheme. has caught us
To be his slaves; and so, for all delight
Of Bacchic sports, sweet dance and melody,
We keep this lawless giants wandering flocks.
My sons indeed on far declivities,
Young things themselves, tend on the youngling sheep,
But I remain to fill the water-casks,
Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering
Some impious and abominable meal
To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it!
And now I must scrape up the littered floor
With this great iron rake, so to receive
My absent master and his evening sheep
In a cave neat and clean. Even now I see
My children tending the flocks hitherward.
Ha! what is this? are your Sicinnian measures
Even now the same, as when with dance and song
You brought young Bacchus to Althaeas halls?
CHORUS OF SATYRS:
STROPHE:
Where has he of race divine
Wandered in the winding rocks?
Here the air is calm and fine
For the father of the flocks;--
Here the grass is soft and sweet,
And the river-eddies meet
In the trough beside the cave,
Bright as in their fountain wave.--
Neither here, nor on the dew
Of the lawny uplands feeding?
Oh, you come!a stone at you
Will I throw to mend your breeding;--
Get along, you horned thing,
Wild, seditious, rambling!
EPODE:
An Iacchic melody
To the golden Aphrodite
Will I lift, as erst did I
Seeking her and her delight
With the Maenads, whose white feet
To the music glance and fleet.
Bacchus, O beloved, where,
Shaking wide thy yellow hair,
Wanderest thou alone, afar?
To the one-eyed Cyclops, we,
Who by right thy servants are,
Minister in misery,
In these wretched goat-skins clad,
Far from thy delights and thee.
SILENUS:
Be silent, sons; command the slaves to drive
The gathered flocks into the rock-roofed cave.
CHORUS:
Go! But what needs this serious haste, O father?
SILENUS:
I see a Grecian vessel on the coast,
And thence the rowers with some general
Approaching to this cave.About their necks
Hang empty vessels, as they wanted food,
And water-flasks.Oh, miserable strangers!
Whence come they, that they know not what and who
My master is, approaching in ill hour
The inhospitable roof of Polypheme,
And the Cyclopian jaw-bone, man-destroying?
Be silent, Satyrs, while I ask and hear 85
Whence coming, they arrive the Aetnean hill.
ULYSSES:
Friends, can you show me some clear water-spring,
The remedy of our thirst? Will any one
Furnish with food seamen in want of it?
Ha! what is this? We seem to be arrived
At the blithe court of Bacchus. I observe
This sportive band of Satyrs near the caves.
First let me greet the elder.--Hail!
SILENUS:
Hail thou,
O Stranger! tell thy country and thy race.
ULYSSES:
The Ithacan Ulysses and the king
Of Cephalonia.
SILENUS:
Oh! I know the man,
Wordy and shrewd, the son of Sisyphus.
ULYSSES:
I am the same, but do not rail upon me.--
SILENUS:
Whence sailing do you come to Sicily?
ULYSSES:
From Ilion, and from the Trojan toils.
SILENUS:
How, touched you not at your paternal shore?
ULYSSES:
The strength of tempests bore me here by force.
SILENUS:
The self-same accident occurred to me.
ULYSSES:
Were you then driven here by stress of weather?
SILENUS:
Following the Pirates who had kidnapped Bacchus.
ULYSSES:
What land is this, and who inhabit it?--
SILENUS:
Aetna, the loftiest peak in Sicily.
ULYSSES:
And are there walls, and tower-surrounded towns?
SILENUS:
There are not.--These lone rocks are bare of men.
ULYSSES:
And who possess the land? the race of beasts?
SILENUS:
Cyclops, who live in caverns, not in houses.
ULYSSES:
Obeying whom? Or is the state popular?
SILENUS:
Shepherds: no one obeys any in aught.
ULYSSES:
How live they? do they sow the corn of Ceres?
SILENUS:
On milk and cheese, and on the flesh of sheep.
ULYSSES:
Have they the Bromian drink from the vines stream?
SILENUS:
Ah! no; they live in an ungracious land.
ULYSSES:
And are they just to strangers?hospitable?
SILENUS:
They think the sweetest thing a stranger brings
Is his own flesh.
ULYSSES:
What! do they eat mans flesh?
SILENUS:
No one comes here who is not eaten up.
ULYSSES:
The Cyclops now--where is he? Not at home?
SILENUS:
Absent on Aetna, hunting with his dogs.
ULYSSES:
Knowst thou what thou must do to aid us hence?
SILENUS:
I know not: we will help you all we can.
ULYSSES:
Provide us food, of which we are in want.
SILENUS:
Here is not anything, as I said, but meat.
ULYSSES:
But meat is a sweet remedy for hunger.
SILENUS:
Cows milk there is, and store of curdled cheese.
ULYSSES:
Bring out:--I would see all before I bargain.
SILENUS:
But how much gold will you engage to give?
ULYSSES:
I bring no gold, but Bacchic juice.
SILENUS:
Oh, joy!
Tis long since these dry lips were wet with wine.
ULYSSES:
Maron, the son of the God, gave it me.
SILENUS:
Whom I have nursed a baby in my arms.
ULYSSES:
The son of Bacchus, for your clearer knowledge.
SILENUS:
Have you it now?or is it in the ship?
ULYSSES:
Old man, this skin contains it, which you see.
SILENUS:
Why, this would hardly be a mouthful for me.
ULYSSES:
Nay, twice as much as you can draw from thence.
SILENUS:
You speak of a fair fountain, sweet to me.
ULYSSES:
Would you first taste of the unmingled wine?
SILENUS:
Tis justtasting invites the purchaser.
ULYSSES:
Here is the cup, together with the skin.
SILENUS:
Pour: that the draught may fillip my remembrance.
ULYSSES:
See!
SILENUS:
Papaiapax! what a sweet smell it has!
ULYSSES:
You see it then?--
SILENUS:
By Jove, no! but I smell it.
ULYSSES:
Taste, that you may not praise it in words only.
SILENUS:
Babai! Great Bacchus calls me forth to dance!
Joy! joy!
ULYSSES:
Did it flow sweetly down your throat?
SILENUS:
So that it tingled to my very nails.
ULYSSES:
And in addition I will give you gold.
SILENUS:
Let gold alone! only unlock the cask.
ULYSSES:
Bring out some cheeses now, or a young goat.
SILENUS:
That will I do, despising any master.
Yes, let me drink one cup, and I will give
All that the Cyclops feed upon their mountains.
...
CHORUS:
Ye have taken Troy and laid your hands on Helen?
ULYSSES:
And utterly destroyed the race of Priam.
...
SILENUS:
The wanton wretch! she was bewitched to see
The many-coloured anklets and the chain
Of woven gold which girt the neck of Paris,
And so she left that good man Menelaus.
There should be no more women in the world
But such as are reserved for me alone.--
See, here are sheep, and here are goats, Ulysses,
Here are unsparing cheeses of pressed milk;
Take them; depart with what good speed ye may;
First leaving my reward, the Bacchic dew
Of joy-inspiring grapes.
ULYSSES:
Ah me! Alas!
What shall we do? the Cyclops is at hand!
Old man, we perish! whither can we fly?
SILENUS:
Hide yourselves quick within that hollow rock.
ULYSSES:
Twere perilous to fly into the net.
SILENUS:
The cavern has recesses numberless;
Hide yourselves quick.
ULYSSES:
That will I never do!
The mighty Troy would be indeed disgraced
If I should fly one man. How many times
Have I withstood, with shield immovable.
Ten thousand Phrygians!if I needs must die,
Yet will I die with glory;--if I live,
The praise which I have gained will yet remain.
SILENUS:
What, ho! assistance, comrades, haste, assistance!
[THE CYCLOPS, SILENUS, ULYSSES; CHORUS.]
CYCLOPS:
What is this tumult? Bacchus is not here,
Nor tympanies nor brazen castanets.
How are my young lambs in the cavern? Milking
Their dams or playing by their sides? And is
The new cheese pressed into the bulrush baskets?
Speak! Ill beat some of you till you rain tears--
Look up, not downwards when I speak to you.
SILENUS:
See! I now gape at Jupiter himself;
I stare upon Orion and the stars.
CYCLOPS:
Well, is the dinner fitly cooked and laid?
SILENUS:
All ready, if your throat is ready too.
CYCLOPS:
Are the bowls full of milk besides?
SILENUS:
Oer-brimming;
So you may drink a tunful if you will.
CYCLOPS:
Is it ewes milk or cows milk, or both mixed?--
SILENUS:
Both, either; only pray dont swallow me.
CYCLOPS:
By no means.--
...
What is this crowd I see beside the stalls?
Outlaws or thieves? for near my cavern-home
I see my young lambs coupled two by two
With willow bands; mixed with my cheeses lie
Their implements; and this old fellow here
Has his bald head broken with stripes.
SILENUS:
Ah me!
I have been beaten till I burn with fever.
CYCLOPS:
By whom? Who laid his fist upon your head?
SILENUS:
Those men, because I would not suffer them
To steal your goods.
CYCLOPS:
Did not the rascals know
I am a God, sprung from the race of Heaven?
SILENUS:
I told them so, but they bore off your things,
And ate the cheese in spite of all I said,
And carried out the lambsand said, moreover,
Theyd pin you down with a three-cubit collar,
And pull your vitals out through your one eye,
Furrow your back with stripes, then, binding you,
Throw you as ballast into the ships hold,
And then deliver you, a slave, to move
Enormous rocks, or found a vestibule.
CYCLOPS:
In truth? Nay, haste, and place in order quickly
The cooking-knives, and heap upon the hearth,
And kindle it, a great **** of wood.--
As soon as they are slaughtered, they shall fill
My belly, broiling warm from the live coals,
Or boiled and seethed within the bubbling caldron.
I am quite sick of the wild mountain game;
Of stags and lions I have gorged enough,
And I grow hungry for the flesh of men.
SILENUS:
Nay, master, something new is very pleasant
After one thing forever, and of late
Very few strangers have approached our cave.
ULYSSES:
Hear, Cyclops, a plain tale on the other side.
We, wanting to buy food, came from our ship
Into the neighbourhood of your cave, and here
This old Silenus gave us in exchange
These lambs for wine, the which he took and drank,
And all by mutual compact, without force.
There is no word of truth in what he says,
For slyly he was selling all your store.
SILENUS:
I? May you perish, wretch--
ULYSSES:
If I speak false!
SILENUS:
Cyclops, I swear by Neptune who begot thee,
By mighty Triton and by Nereus old,
Calypso and the glaucous Ocean Nymphs,
The sacred waves and all the race of fishes--
Be these the witnesses, my dear sweet master,
My darling little Cyclops, that I never
Gave any of your stores to these false strangers;--
If I speak false may those whom most I love,
My children, perish wretchedly!
CHORUS:
There stop!
I saw him giving these things to the strangers.
If I speak false, then may my father perish,
But do not thou wrong hospitality.
CYCLOPS:
You lie! I swear that he is juster far
Than Rhadamanthus--I trust more in him.
But let me ask, whence have ye sailed, O strangers?
Who are you? And what city nourished ye?
ULYSSES:
Our race is Ithacan--having destroyed
The town of Troy, the tempests of the sea
Have driven us on thy land, O Polypheme.
CYCLOPS:
What, have ye shared in the unenvied spoil
Of the false Helen, near Scamanders stream?
ULYSSES:
The same, having endured a woful toil.
CYCLOPS:
Oh, basest expedition! sailed ye not
From Greece to Phrygia for one womans sake?
ULYSSES:
Twas the Gods workno mortal was in fault.
But, O great Offspring of the Ocean-King,
We pray thee and admonish thee with freedom,
That thou dost spare thy friends who visit thee,
And place no impious food within thy jaws.
For in the depths of Greece we have upreared
Temples to thy great Father, which are all
His homes. The sacred bay of Taenarus
Remains inviolate, and each dim recess
Scooped high on the Malean promontory,
And aery Suniums silver-veined crag,
Which divine Pallas keeps unprofaned ever,
The Gerastian asylums, and whateer
Within wide Greece our enterprise has kept
From Phrygian contumely; and in which
You have a common care, for you inhabit
The skirts of Grecian land, under the roots
Of Aetna and its crags, spotted with fire.
Turn then to converse under human laws,
Receive us shipwrecked suppliants, and provide
Food, clothes, and fire, and hospitable gifts;
Nor fixing upon oxen-piercing spits
Our limbs, so fill your belly and your jaws.
Priams wide land has widowed Greece enough;
And weapon-winged murder leaped together
Enough of dead, and wives are husbandless,
And ancient women and gray fathers wail
Their childless age;if you should roast the rest--
And tis a bitter feast that you prepare--
Where then would any turn? Yet be persuaded;
Forgo the lust of your jaw-bone; prefer
Pious humanity to wicked will:
Many have bought too dear their evil joys.
SILENUS:
Let me advise you, do not spare a morsel
Of all his flesh. If you should eat his tongue
You would become most eloquent, O Cyclops.
CYCLOPS:
Wealth, my good fellow, is the wise mans God,
All other things are a pretence and boast.
What are my fathers ocean promontories,
The sacred rocks whereon he dwells, to me?
Stranger, I laugh to scorn Joves thunderbolt,
I know not that his strength is more than mine.
As to the rest I care not.When he pours
Rain from above, I have a close pavilion
Under this rock, in which I lie supine,
Feasting on a roast calf or some wild beast,
And drinking pans of milk, and gloriously
Emulating the thunder of high Heaven.
And when the Thracian wind pours down the snow,
I wrap my body in the skins of beasts,
Kindle a fire, and bid the snow whirl on.
The earth, by force, whether it will or no,
Bringing forth grass, fattens my flocks and herds,
Which, to what other God but to myself
And this great belly, first of deities,
Should I be bound to sacrifice? I well know
The wise mans only Jupiter is this,
To eat and drink during his little day,
And give himself no care. And as for those
Who complicate with laws the life of man,
I freely give them tears for their reward.
I will not cheat my soul of its delight,
Or hesitate in dining upon you:--
And that I may be quit of all demands,
These are my hospitable gifts;fierce fire
And yon ancestral caldron, which oer-bubbling
Shall finely cook your miserable flesh.
Creep in!--
...
ULYSSES:
Ai! ai! I have escaped the Trojan toils,
I have escaped the sea, and now I fall
Under the cruel grasp of one impious man.
O Pallas, Mistress, Goddess, sprung from Jove,
Now, now, assist me! Mightier toils than Troy
Are these;I totter on the chasms of peril;--
And thou who inhabitest the thrones
Of the bright stars, look, hospitable Jove,
Upon this outrage of thy deity,
Otherwise be considered as no God!
CHORUS (ALONE):
For your gaping gulf and your gullet wide,
The ravin is ready on every side,
The limbs of the strangers are cooked and done;
There is boiled meat, and roast meat, and meat from the coal,
You may chop it, and tear it, and gnash it for fun,
An hairy goats-skin contains the whole.
Let me but escape, and ferry me oer
The stream of your wrath to a safer shore.
The Cyclops Aetnean is cruel and bold,
He murders the strangers
That sit on his hearth,
And dreads no avengers
To rise from the earth.
He roasts the men before they are cold,
He snatches them broiling from the coal,
And from the caldron pulls them whole,
And minces their flesh and gnaws their bone
With his cursed teeth, till all be gone.
Farewell, foul pavilion:
Farewell, rites of dread!
The Cyclops vermilion,
With slaughter uncloying,
Now feasts on the dead,
In the flesh of strangers joying!
ULYSSES:
O Jupiter! I saw within the cave
Horrible things; deeds to be feigned in words,
But not to be believed as being done.
CHORUS:
What! sawest thou the impious Polypheme
Feasting upon your loved companions now?
ULYSSES:
Selecting two, the plumpest of the crowd,
He grasped them in his hands.--
CHORUS:
Unhappy man!
...
ULYSSES:
Soon as we came into this craggy place,
Kindling a fire, he cast on the broad hearth
The knotty limbs of an enormous oak,
Three waggon-loads at least, and then he strewed
Upon the ground, beside the red firelight,
His couch of pine-leaves; and he milked the cows,
And pouring forth the white milk, filled a bowl
Three cubits wide and four in depth, as much
As would contain ten amphorae, and bound it
With ivy wreaths; then placed upon the fire
A brazen pot to boil, and made red hot
The points of spits, not sharpened with the sickle
But with a fruit tree bough, and with the jaws
Of axes for Aetnean slaughterings.
And when this God-abandoned Cook of Hell
Had made all ready, he seized two of us
And killed them in a kind of measured manner;
For he flung one against the brazen rivets
Of the huge caldron, and seized the other
By the foots tendon, and knocked out his brains
Upon the sharp edge of the craggy stone:
Then peeled his flesh with a great cooking-knife
And put him down to roast. The others limbs
He chopped into the caldron to be boiled.
And I, with the tears raining from my eyes,
Stood near the Cyclops, ministering to him;
The rest, in the recesses of the cave,
Clung to the rock like bats, bloodless with fear.
When he was filled with my companions flesh,
He threw himself upon the ground and sent
A loathsome exhalation from his maw.
Then a divine thought came to me. I filled
The cup of Maron, and I offered him
To taste, and said:Child of the Ocean God,
Behold what drink the vines of Greece produce,
The exultation and the joy of Bacchus.
He, satiated with his unnatural food,
Received it, and at one draught drank it off,
And taking my hand, praised me:Thou hast given
A sweet draught after a sweet meal, dear guest.
And I, perceiving that it pleased him, filled
Another cup, well knowing that the wine
Would wound him soon and take a sure revenge.
And the charm fascinated him, and I
Plied him cup after cup, until the drink
Had warmed his entrails, and he sang aloud
In concert with my wailing fellow-seamen
A hideous discordand the cavern rung.
I have stolen out, so that if you will
You may achieve my safety and your own.
But say, do you desire, or not, to fly
This uncompanionable man, and dwell
As was your wont among the Grecian Nymphs
Within the fanes of your beloved God?
Your father there within agrees to it,
But he is weak and overcome with wine,
And caught as if with bird-lime by the cup,
He claps his wings and crows in doting joy.
You who are young escape with me, and find
Bacchus your ancient friend; unsuited he
To this rude Cyclops.
CHORUS:
Oh my dearest friend,
That I could see that day, and leave for ever
The impious Cyclops.
...
ULYSSES:
Listen then what a punishment I have
For this fell monster, how secure a flight
From your hard servitude.
CHORUS:
O sweeter far
Than is the music of an Asian lyre
Would be the news of Polypheme destroyed.
ULYSSES:
Delighted with the Bacchic drink he goes
To call his brother Cyclops--who inhabit
A village upon Aetna not far off.
CHORUS:
I understand, catching him when alone
You think by some measure to dispatch him,
Or thrust him from the precipice.
ULYSSES:
Oh no;
Nothing of that kind; my device is subtle.
CHORUS:
How then? I heard of old that thou wert wise.
ULYSSES:
I will dissuade him from this plan, by saying
It were unwise to give the Cyclopses
This precious drink, which if enjoyed alone
Would make life sweeter for a longer time.
When, vanquished by the Bacchic power, he sleeps,
There is a trunk of olive wood within,
Whose point having made sharp with this good sword
I will conceal in fire, and when I see
It is alight, will fix it, burning yet,
Within the socket of the Cyclops eye
And melt it out with fireas when a man
Turns by its handle a great auger round,
Fitting the framework of a ship with beams,
So will I, in the Cyclops fiery eye
Turn round the brand and dry the pupil up.
CHORUS:
Joy! I am mad with joy at your device.
ULYSSES:
And then with you, my friends, and the old man,
Well load the hollow depth of our black ship,
And row with double strokes from this dread shore.
CHORUS:
May I, as in libations to a God,
Share in the blinding him with the red brand?
I would have some communion in his death.
ULYSSES:
Doubtless: the brand is a great brand to hold.
CHORUS:
Oh! I would lift an hundred waggon-loads,
If like a wasps nest I could scoop the eye out
Of the detested Cyclops.
ULYSSES:
Silence now!
Ye know the close deviceand when I call,
Look ye obey the masters of the craft.
I will not save myself and leave behind
My comrades in the cave: I might escape,
Having got clear from that obscure recess,
But twere unjust to leave in jeopardy
The dear companions who sailed here with me.
CHORUS:
Come! who is first, that with his hand
Will urge down the burning brand
Through the lids, and quench and pierce
The Cyclops eye so fiery fierce?
SEMICHORUS 1 [SONG WITHIN]:
Listen! listen! he is coming,
A most hideous discord humming.
Drunken, museless, awkward, yelling,
Far along his rocky dwelling;
Let us with some comic spell
Teach the yet unteachable.
By all means he must be blinded,
If my counsel be but minded.
SEMICHORUS 2:
Happy thou made odorous
With the dew which sweet grapes weep,
To the village hastening thus,
Seek the vines that soothe to sleep;
Having first embraced thy friend,
Thou in luxury without end,
With the strings of yellow hair,
Of thy voluptuous leman fair,
Shalt sit playing on a bed!--
Speak! what door is opened?
CYCLOPS:
Ha! ha! ha! Im full of wine,
Heavy with the joy divine,
With the young feast oversated;
Like a merchants vessel freighted
To the waters edge, my crop
Is laden to the gullets top.
The fresh meadow grass of spring
Tempts me forth thus wandering
To my brothers on the mountains,
Who shall share the wines sweet fountains.
Bring the cask, O stranger, bring!
CHORUS:
One with eyes the fairest
Cometh from his dwelling;
Some one loves thee, rarest
Bright beyond my telling.
In thy grace thou shinest
Like some nymph divinest
In her caverns dewy:--
All delights pursue thee,
Soon pied flowers, sweet-breathing,
Shall thy head be wreathing.
ULYSSES:
Listen, O Cyclops, for I am well skilled
In Bacchus, whom I gave thee of to drink.
CYCLOPS:
What sort of God is Bacchus then accounted?
ULYSSES:
The greatest among men for joy of life.
CYCLOPS:
I gulped him down with very great delight.
ULYSSES:
This is a God who never injures men.
CYCLOPS:
How does the God like living in a skin?
ULYSSES:
He is content wherever he is put.
CYCLOPS:
Gods should not have their body in a skin.
ULYSSES:
If he gives joy, what is his skin to you?
CYCLOPS:
I hate the skin, but love the wine within.
ULYSSES:
Stay here now: drink, and make your spirit glad.
CYCLOPS:
Should I not share this liquor with my brothers?
ULYSSES:
Keep it yourself, and be more honoured so.
CYCLOPS:
I were more useful, giving to my friends.
ULYSSES:
But village mirth breeds contests, broils, and blows.
CYCLOPS:
When I am drunk none shall lay hands on me.--
ULYSSES:
A drunken man is better within doors.
CYCLOPS:
He is a fool, who drinking, loves not mirth.
ULYSSES:
But he is wise, who drunk, remains at home.
CYCLOPS:
What shall I do, Silenus? Shall I stay?
SILENUS:
Stayfor what need have you of pot companions?
CYCLOPS:
Indeed this place is closely carpeted
With flowers and grass.
SILENUS:
And in the sun-warm noon
Tis sweet to drink. Lie down beside me now,
Placing your mighty sides upon the ground.
CYCLOPS:
What do you put the cup behind me for?
SILENUS:
That no one here may touch it.
CYCLOPS:
Thievish One!
You want to drink;--here place it in the midst.
And thou, O stranger, tell how art thou called?
ULYSSES:
My name is Nobody. What favour now
Shall I receive to praise you at your hands?
CYCLOPS:
Ill feast on you the last of your companions.
ULYSSES:
You grant your guest a fair reward, O Cyclops.
CYCLOPS:
Ha! what is this? Stealing the wine, you rogue!
SILENUS:
It was this stranger kissing me because
I looked so beautiful.
CYCLOPS:
You shall repent
For kissing the coy wine that loves you not.
SILENUS:
By Jupiter! you said that I am fair.
CYCLOPS:
Pour out, and only give me the cup full.
SILENUS:
How is it mixed? let me observe.
CYCLOPS:
Curse you!
Give it me so.
SILENUS:
Not till I see you wear
That coronal, and taste the cup to you.
CYCLOPS:
Thou wily traitor!
SILENUS:
But the wine is sweet.
Ay, you will roar if you are caught in drinking.
CYCLOPS:
See now, my lip is clean and all my beard.
SILENUS:
Now put your elbow right and drink again.
As you see me drink--...
CYCLOPS:
How now?
SILENUS:
Ye Gods, what a delicious gulp!
CYCLOPS:
Guest, take it;--you pour out the wine for me.
ULYSSES:
The wine is well accustomed to my hand.
CYCLOPS:
Pour out the wine!
ULYSSES:
I pour; only be silent.
CYCLOPS:
Silence is a hard task to him who drinks.
ULYSSES:
Take it and drink it off; leave not a dreg.
Oh that the drinker died with his own draught!
CYCLOPS:
Papai! the vine must be a sapient plant.
ULYSSES:
If you drink much after a mighty feast,
Moistening your thirsty maw, you will sleep well;
If you leave aught, Bacchus will dry you up.
CYCLOPS:
Ho! ho! I can scarce rise. What pure delight!
The heavens and earth appear to whirl about
Confusedly. I see the throne of Jove
And the clear congregation of the Gods.
Now if the Graces tempted me to kiss
I would notfor the loveliest of them all
I would not leave this Ganymede.
SILENUS:
Polypheme,
I am the Ganymede of Jupiter.
CYCLOPS:
By Jove, you are; I bore you off from Dardanus.
...
[ULYSSES AND THE CHORUS.]
ULYSSES:
Come, boys of Bacchus, children of high race,
This man within is folded up in sleep,
And soon will vomit flesh from his fell maw;
The brand under the shed thrusts out its smoke,
No preparation needs, but to burn out
The monsters eye;but bear yourselves like men.
CHORUS:
We will have courage like the adamant rock,
All things are ready for you here; go in,
Before our father shall perceive the noise.
ULYSSES:
Vulcan, Aetnean king! burn out with fire
The shining eye of this thy neighbouring monster!
And thou, O Sleep, nursling of gloomy Night,
Descend unmixed on this God-hated beast,
And suffer not Ulysses and his comrades,
Returning from their famous Trojan toils,
To perish by this man, who cares not either
For God or mortal; or I needs must think
That Chance is a supreme divinity,
And things divine are subject to her power.
CHORUS:
Soon a crab the throat will seize
Of him who feeds upon his guest,
Fire will burn his lamp-like eyes
In revenge of such a feast!
A great oak stump now is lying
In the ashes yet undying.
Come, Maron, come!
Raging let him fix the doom,
Let him tear the eyelid up
Of the Cyclopsthat his cup
May be evil!
Oh! I long to dance and revel
With sweet Bromian, long desired,
In loved ivy wreaths attired;
Leaving this abandoned home--
Will the moment ever come?
ULYSSES:
Be silent, ye wild things! Nay, hold your peace,
And keep your lips quite close; dare not to breathe,
Or spit, or een wink, lest ye wake the monster,
Until his eye be tortured out with fire.
CHORUS:
Nay, we are silent, and we chaw the air.
ULYSSES:
Come now, and lend a hand to the great stake
Withinit is delightfully red hot.
CHORUS:
You then command who first should seize the stake
To burn the Cyclops eye, that all may share
In the great enterprise.
SEMICHORUS 1:
We are too far;
We cannot at this distance from the door
Thrust fire into his eye.
SEMICHORUS 2:
And we just now
Have become lame! cannot move hand or foot.
CHORUS:
The same thing has occurred to us,--our ankles
Are sprained with standing here, I know not how.
ULYSSES:
What, sprained with standing still?
CHORUS:
And there is dust
Or ashes in our eyes, I know not whence.
ULYSSES:
Cowardly dogs! ye will not aid me then?
CHORUS:
With pitying my own back and my back-bone,
And with not wishing all my teeth knocked out,
This cowardice comes of itselfbut stay,
I know a famous Orphic incantation
To make the brand stick of its own accord
Into the skull of this one-eyed son of Earth.
ULYSSES:
Of old I knew ye thus by nature; now
I know ye better.I will use the aid
Of my own comrades. Yet though weak of hand
Speak cheerfully, that so ye may awaken
The courage of my friends with your blithe words.
CHORUS:
This I will do with peril of my life,
And blind you with my exhortations, Cyclops.
Hasten and thrust,
And parch up to dust,
The eye of the beast
Who feeds on his guest.
Burn and blind
The Aetnean hind!
Scoop and draw,
But beware lest he claw
Your limbs near his maw.
CYCLOPS:
Ah me! my eyesight is parched up to cinders.
CHORUS:
What a sweet paean! sing me that again!
CYCLOPS:
Ah me! indeed, what woe has fallen upon me!
But, wretched nothings, think ye not to flee
Out of this rock; I, standing at the outlet,
Will bar the way and catch you as you pass.
CHORUS:
What are you roaring out, Cyclops?
CYCLOPS:
I perish!
CHORUS:
For you are wicked.
CYCLOPS:
And besides miserable.
CHORUS:
What, did you fall into the fire when drunk?
CYCLOPS:
Twas Nobody destroyed me.
CHORUS:
Why then no one
Can be to blame.
CYCLOPS:
I say twas Nobody
Who blinded me.
CHORUS:
Why then you are not blind.
CYCLOPS:
I wish you were as blind as I am.
CHORUS:
Nay,
It cannot be that no one made you blind.
CYCLOPS:
You jeer me; where, I ask, is Nobody?
CHORUS:
Nowhere, O Cyclops.
CYCLOPS:
It was that stranger ruined me:--the wretch
First gave me wine and then burned out my eye,
For wine is strong and hard to struggle with.
Have they escaped, or are they yet within?
CHORUS:
They stand under the darkness of the rock
And cling to it.
CYCLOPS:
At my right hand or left?
CHORUS:
Close on your right.
CYCLOPS:
Where?
CHORUS:
Near the rock itself.
You have them.
CYCLOPS:
Oh, misfortune on misfortune!
Ive cracked my skull.
CHORUS:
Now they escape you--there.
CYCLOPS:
Not there, although you say so.
CHORUS:
Not on that side.
CYCLOPS:
Where then?
CHORUS:
They creep about you on your left.
CYCLOPS:
Ah! I am mocked! They jeer me in my ills.
CHORUS:
Not there! he is a little there beyond you.
CYCLOPS:
Detested wretch! where are you?
ULYSSES:
Far from you
I keep with care this body of Ulysses.
CYCLOPS:
What do you say? You proffer a new name.
ULYSSES:
My father named me so; and I have taken
A full revenge for your unnatural feast;
I should have done ill to have burned down Troy
And not revenged the murder of my comrades.
CYCLOPS:
Ai! ai! the ancient oracle is accomplished;
It said that I should have my eyesight blinded
By your coming from Troy, yet it foretold
That you should pay the penalty for this
By wandering long over the homeless sea.
ULYSSES:
I bid thee weepconsider what I say;
I go towards the shore to drive my ship
To mine own land, oer the Sicilian wave.
CYCLOPS:
Not so, if, whelming you with this huge stone,
I can crush you and all your men together;
I will descend upon the shore, though blind,
Groping my way adown the steep ravine.
CHORUS:
And we, the shipmates of Ulysses now,
Will serve our Bacchus all our happy lives.
Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824; dated 1819. Amongst the Shelley manuscripts at the Bodleian there is a copy, 'practically complete,' which has been collated by Mr. C.D. Locock. See Examination, etc., 1903, pages 64-70. 'Though legible throughout, and comparatively free from corrections, it has the appearance of being a first draft' (Locock).
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cyclops
,#NFDB
576:Cold Calls: War Music, Continued
Many believe in the stars.
Take Quinamid
The son of a Dardanian astrologer
Who disregarded what his father said
And came to Troy in a taxi.
Gone.
Odysseus to Greece:
“Hector has never fought this far from Troy.
We want him further out. Beyond King Ilus’ tower.
So walk him to the centre of the plain and, having killed him,
Massacre the Trojans there.”
“Ave!”
Immediately beyond the ridge is Primrose Hill
Where Paris favoured Aphrodité.
“Take it,” said Hector.
Greece shouted: “Hurry up!”
Troy shouted: “Wait for us!”
See,
Far off,
Masts behind the half-built palisade.
Then
Nearer to yourselves
Scamánder’s ford
From which the land ascends
Then merges with the centre of the plain—
The tower (a ruin) its highest point.
Heaven.
Bad music.
Queen Hera is examining her gums.
Looking in through a window
Teenaged Athena says:
“Trouble for Greece.”
They leave.
Sea.
Sky.
The sunlit snow.
Two armies on the plain.
Hector, driven by Lutie,
His godchild and his nephew,
Going from lord to Trojan lord:
“The ships by dark.”
The ruined tower.
In front of it—
Their banners rising one by one.
One after one, and then another one—
50,000 Greeks.
And on a rise in front of Greece
Two hero lords:
Ajax the Great of Salamis
Behind his shield—
As fifty Trojan shields
Topped with blue plumes, swivelling their points,
Come up the rise—
Lord Teucer (five feet high and five feet wide)
Loading his bow,
Peering round Ajax’ shield,
Dropping this Trojan plume or that,
Ordering his archers to lie flat,
Promising God as many sheep as there are sheep to count
If he can put a shaft through Hector’s neck.
Prosperity!
Beneath the blue, between the sea, the snow, there
Hector is
Surrendering the urn of one he has just killed
To one who thought that he had killed the same.
Lord Teucer’s eye/Prince Hector’s throat.
But God would not. The bowstring snaps.
Outside God’s inner court.
Queen Hera and Athena still in line.
Hera so angry she can hardly speak.
A voice:
“The Wife, the Daughter.”
“You go. His face will make me
heave.”
“Serene and Dignified Grandee.”
“Papa to you.”
“Papa”—His hand—
“I know you do not want the Holy Family
visiting the plain.
But some of us would like to help the Greeks.
They lost their champion she.
Thousands of them have died. Now they are in retreat.
Please look.”
The plain.
“You will come back the moment that I call?”
“Of course, Papa.”
“Then . . . yes. Encourage Greece.
But voices only.
Words. Shouts. That sort of thing. A move—and home you come.”
“Of course, Papa.”
The plain.
Lord Teucer’s archers hidden in its grass.
Chylábborak, Lord Hector’s brother-in-law, to his blue plumes:
“Move!”
“Move!”
And on their flanks, between the sea and snow,
Led by Teléspiax’ silver yard
All Ilium’s masks
“Down came their points. Out came their battle cry.
And our cool Mr 5 x 5 called: ‘Up.’ And up we got
And sent our arrows into them,
That made them pirouette,
Topple back down the rise, leaving their dead
For some of us to strip, and some, the most,
To pause, to point, to plant, a third, a fourth
Volley into their naked backs. Pure joy!”
Chylábborak,
Holding his ground:
“Centre on me.
More die in broken than in standing ranks.
Apollo! Aphrodité! Our gods are here!
You taste the air, you taste their breath!
The Greek fleet, ours, by dark!”
Then he is ringed.
See an imperial pig harassed by dogs.
How, like a masterchef his crêpes,
He tosses them; and on their way back down
Eviscerates, then flips them back into the pack.
Likewise Chylábborak the Greeks who rushed.
Hector has seen it. As—
Beneath the blue, the miles of empty air,
Him just one glitter in that glittering mass—
The hosts begin to merge.
Fine dust clouds mixed with beams of light.
The Prince, down from his plate.
Either sides’ arrows whingeing by:
“Cover my back.”
Finding a gap
Dismissing blows as gales do slates,
Then at a run, leaping into the ring,
Taking Chylábborak’s hand:
“If you don’t mind?”
Agamemnon:
“Our time has come. God keeps his word.
Fight now as you have never fought.
We will be at Troy’s gates by dusk,
Through them by dark,
By dawn, across our oars,
As we begin our journey home,
Watching the windmills on its Wall
Turn their sails in flames.”
Heaven. The Wife. The Daughter.
Hands release black lacquer clasps inlaid with particles of gold.
Silk sheaths—with crashing waves and fishscales woven on a
navy ground—
Flow on the pavement.
Hands take their hands
While other hands supply
Warwear,
Their car,
And put the reins into Athena’s hands.
“. . . Troy’s gates by dusk,
Through them by dark . . .”
The Hours, the undeniable,
Open the gates of Paradise.
Beyond
The wastes of space.
Before
The blue.
Below
Now near
The sea, the snow.
All time experts in hand-to-hand action—
Friecourt, Okinawa, Stalingrad West—
Could not believe the battle would gain.
But it did.
10
Chylábborak’s ring is ringed. And then no ring at all.
Some Trojans raise their hands in prayer;
Some Panachéans shout for joy and wait to drag the corpses off.
Lutie, alone, the reins in one, his other hand
Hacking away the hands that grab his chariot’s bodywork,
Rearing his horses, Starlight and Bertie, through,
To,
Yes,
Chylábborak up; rescued;
Prince Hector covering. Then:
“Zoo-born wolf! Front for a family of thieves!”
Lord Diomed, on foot, with Sethynos.
My Lutie answering:
“Be proud Prince Hector is your Fate.”
(Which will be so,
Though Lutie will not see it.)
Chylábborak and Hector do not want to disappoint this oily pair:
“Here come the Sisters Karamazof, Spark,”
Chylábborak said. “Let’s send them home in halves.”
And jumped back down.
Around the tower, 1000 Greeks, 1000 Ilians, amid their swirl,
His green hair dressed in braids, each braid
Tipped with a little silver bell, note
Nyro of Simi—the handsomest of all the Greeks, save A.
The trouble was, he had no fight. He dashed from fight to fight,
Struck a quick blow, then dashed straight out again.
Save that this time he caught,
As Prince Aenéas caught his breath,
That Prince’s eye; who blocked his dash,
And as Lord Panda waved and walked away,
Took his head off his spine with a backhand slice—
Beautiful stuff . . . straight from the blade . . .
Still, as it was a special head,
Mowgag, Aenéas’ minder—
Bright as a box of rocks, but musical—
11
Spiked it, then hoisted it, and twizzling the pole
Beneath the blue, the miles of empty air,
Marched to the chingaling of its tinklers,
A knees high majorette
Towards the Greeks, the tower.
A roar of wind across the battlefield.
A pause.
And then
Scattering light,
The plain turned crystal where their glidepath stopped,
The Queen of Heaven shrills: “Typhoid for Troy!”
And through poor Nyro’s wobbling mouth
Athena yells:
“Slew of assiduous mediocrities!
Meek Greeks!”
It is enough.
Centre-plain wide,
Lit everywhere by rays of glorious light,
They rushed their standards into Ilium,
Diomed (for once) swept forward;
Converting shame to exaltation with his cry:
“Never—to Helen’s gold without her self!
Never—to Helen’s self
without her gold!”
Mowgag well slain.
Hewn through his teeth, his jaw slashed off,
And Nyro’s head beside him in the grass.
When Nyro’s mother heard of this
12
She shaved her head; she tore her frock; she went outside
Ripping her fingernails through her cheeks:
Then down her neck; her chest; her breasts;
And bleeding to her waist ran round the shops,
Sobbing:
“God, kill Troy.
Console me with its death.
Revenge is all I have.
My boy was kind. He had his life to live.
I will not have the chance to dance in Hector’s blood,
But let me hear some have before I die.”
“I saw her running round.
I took the photograph.
It summed the situation up.
He was her son.
They put it out in colour. Right?
My picture went around the
world.”
Down the shaft of the shot in his short-staved bow
Lord Panda has been follow-spotting Diomed.
Between “her self ” / “her gold” he shoots.
It hits. And as its barbs protrude through Dio’s back
Aenéas hears Lord Panda shout:
“He bleeds! The totem Greek! Right-shoulder-front!
How wise of Artemis to make
Panda her matador! Her numero uno! Moi!”
Diomed hit,
The heart went out of those who followed him
And they fell back.
Shields all round
Diomed on his knees
13
Lifting his hands:
“Sister and wife of God”
As Sethynos breaks off the arrowhead
“Eliminate my pain.”
Settles his knee beneath his hero’s shoulderblades
“Let me kill that oaf who claims my death”
Bridges his nape with one hand
“Before it comes with honour to my name.”
Then with his other hand
In one long strong slow pull
Drew the shank back, and out.
She heard his prayer.
Before their breathless eyes
His blood ran back into the pout the shank had left,
And to complete her miracle
Lord Diomed rose up between them, stood in the air,
Then hovered down onto his toes
Brimming with homicidal joy,
Imparting it to Greece.
Then Troy was driven back,
Trampling the half-stripped still-masked carcasses
Hatching the centre of the plain.
Aenéas / Panda.
“Get him.”
14
“Get him! I got him. He is dead. But there he is.”
And Diomed has spotted them.
“Calm down,” Aenéas said. “Perhaps he is possessed.”
“What god would visit him?”
“So pray to yours—and try another shot.”
“Huntress,” Lord Panda prays,
Bright-ankled god of nets and lines,
Of tangled mountains, ilex groves and dark cascades . . .”
But Artemis was bored with him
And let him rise, still praying hard,
Into the downflight of the javelin
Diomed aired at Prince Aenéas.
Sunlit, it went through Panda’s lips, out through his neck, and then
Through Biblock’s neck.
And so they fell; the lord, face up; the friend, face down
Gripping the blood-smeared barb between his teeth,
Between the sea and snow.
Aenéas covers them.
Eyeing his plate
—Technology you can enjoy—
Diomed found, and threw, a stone
As heavy as a cabbage made of lead,
That hit, and split, Aenéas’ hip.
Who went down on one knee
And put his shield hand on the grass
And with his other hand covered his eyes.
Dido might have become a grandmother
And Rome not had its day, except
As Diomed came on to lop his top
Aenéas’ mama, Aphrodité (dressed
In grey silk lounge pyjamas piped with gold
And snake-skin flip-flops) stepped
15
Between him and the Greek.
A glow came from her throat, and from her hair
A fragrance that betokened the divine.
Stooping, she kissed him better, as
Queen Hera whispered: “Greek, cut that bitch.”
And, Diomed, you did; nicking Love’s wrist.
Studying the ichor as
It seeped across her pulse into her palm
Our Lady of the Thong lifted her other hand
Removed a baby cobra from her hair
And dropped it, Diomed, onto your neck,
And saw its bite release its bane into your blood.
Then nobody could say
Who Diomed fought for, or for what he fought.
Rapt through the mass
Now shouting at the sky, now stomping on the plain,
He killed and killed and killed, Greek, Trojan, Greek,
Lord/less, shame/fame, both gone; and gone
Loyalty nurtured in the face of death,
The duty of revenge, the right to kill,
To jeer, to strip, to gloat, to be the first
To rally but the last to run, all gone—
And gone, our Lady Aphrodité, giggling.
While everywhere,
Driving your fellow Greeks
Back down the long incline that leads to the Scamánder’s ford,
Surely as when
Lit from the dark part of the sky by sudden beams,
A bitter wind
Detonates line by line of waves against the shore.
No mind. Even as Teucer backed away
He kept his eyes on you.
“You feel the stress? You feel the fear?
Behold your enemy! the Prince God loves!”
See Teucer’s bow. Hear Teucer’s: “This time lucky.”
16
His—
But this time it was not our Father, God,
Who saved your life, my Prince.
As Agamemnon cried:
“The ships are safe.
Stand at the riverside’s far bank.”
Teléspiax heard the rustle of Lord Teucer’s shot
And stood between yourself and it.
His head was opened, egglike, at the back,
Mucked with thick blood, blood trickling from his mouth.
His last words were:
“Prince, your trumpeter has lost his breath.”
“Our worst fear was his face would fade,”
Teléspiax’s father said.
“But it did not. We will remember it until we die.”
“Give his instrument to Hogem,” Hector said, and went—
Lutie on reins—between the sea and snow,
Throwing his chariots wide, Scamánderwards,
As easily as others might a cloak.
Diomed among this traffic, on his own,
Among his dead,
Their pools of blood, their cut-off body-parts,
Their cut-off heads,
Ashamed as his head cleared
To see Odysseus, Idomeneo, the Ajax—Big and Small—
Whipping away downslope, shouting towards Odysseus:
“Where are you going with your back to the battle?”
Who shouted back, although he did not turn:
“Look left!”
And there was Lutie driving Hector onto him,
Sure they would trample him, for sure
Queen Hera’s human, Diomed,
Would stand and die, except:
“Arms up, young king—” Nestor, full tilt,
Reins round his tummy, leaning out “—and
17
Jump . . .” wrists locked “. . . You young are just . . .”
Swinging him up onto the plate “. . . too much.”
“With your permission, Da?”
Nod. Drew. Then threw the chariot’s javelin
As Lutie spun his wheels, and Hector threw—
Those skewers trading brilliance as they passed—
And missed—both vehicles slither-straightening,
Regaining speed, close, close, then driven apart
By empty cars careering off the incline,
Or stationary cars, their horses cropping grass.
“Daddy, go slow. Hector will say I ran.”
“But not the widows you have made.”
And slow
And low
Cruising the blue above this mix
Heaven’s Queen and Ringsight-eyed Athena
Trumpeting down huge worms of sound
As Hector’s car rereached king Nestor’s, and:
“What kept you, Prince?” Diomed offered as they came abreast:
“You went for a refreshing towel?”
And threw his axe, that toppled through the air, and, oh,
Hector, my Hector, as you thought:
“If Heaven helps me Heaven shows it loves the best,”
Parted your Lutie’s mesh and smashed into his heart.
What did you say as God called you to death
Dear Lutie?
“King Prince, I leave you
driverless.”
And put the reins into his hands, and fled
Into oblivion
As Hector with his other hand
Held what his Lutie was, upright, face forwards, in between
The chariot’s basket and himself,
Shouting as he drove after them:
“Loathsome Greek,
18
Your loathsome hair, your loathsome blood,
Your loathsome breath, your loathsome heart,
Jump in your loathsome ships,
I will come after you,
Come over the Aegean after you,
And find you though you hide inside
Your loathsome father’s grave
And with my bare hands twist your loathsome head
Off your loathsome neck.”
There was a Greek called Themion.
Mad about armour. If not armour, cars.
Of course he went to Troy. And Troy
Saw a stray spear transfix him as he drove.
Companionably, his horses galloped up
On Starlight’s side, and muddled Starlight down,
And Bertie down, and brought the Prince
(Still holding Lutie) down, as all the world
Hurried, as if by windheads, on towards Scamánder’s ford.
hether you reach it from the palisade
Or through the trees that dot the incline’s last stretch
You hear Scamánder’s voice before you see
What one may talk across on quiet days
Its rippling sunspangled breadth
Streaming across the bars of pebbly sand
That form its ford
—Though on the Fleet’s side deeper, darkly bright.
And here
Tiptoeing from this bar to that,
Settling the cloudy sunshine of her hair,
Her towel retained by nothing save herself,
The god of Tops and Thongs
Our Lady Aphrodité came,
Her eyes brimfull with tears.
Scamánder is astonished by his luck.
19
“Beauty of Beauties, why are you weeping?”
“I have been hurt, Scamánder.”
“No . . .”
“Humiliated.”
“No . . .”
“Me. A god. Just like yourself. Touched . . .”
“Touched!”
“By a man.”
“A man!”
“A Greek.”
“Death to all Greeks!”
“He cut me!”
“Sacrilege!
. . . But where?”
“I need your healing touch.”
“How can I help you if you do not show me where?”
“Moisten its lips and my wound will be healed.”
“You must say where!”
“Well . . .”
The towel has slipped an inch.
“I am afraid you will be disappointed.”
“Never.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
“You will not criticize me?”
“No!”
Her wrist upturned.
Out-turned.
Her opened palm.
Fanning the fingers of her other hand,
Stroking his spangles with her fingertips.
“Goddess, I love you.
I have always loved you.
Say that you love me. Even a little.
I beg you. God grant it.”
“I need your help, Scamánder.”
“Take pity on me. Come into me.”
“You have your nymphs.”
“Bores! Bores!”
“I might be nibbled by an eel!”
“Death to all eels!”
The towel is down.
20
“Step into me . . .
I love your toes . . . please let me kiss your toes . . .
Your little dinkum-inkum toes . . .”
“No one has kissed them so nicely, Scamánder.”
“And now your knees . . .”
“You tickle me . . .”
“And now your thighs!”
“Oh, oh, go on . . .”
“And now your bum!
Your Holy Bum! Your Sacred Bum!
The Bum of Paradise!”
“Oh, my Scamánder, I must have your help . . .”
“Anything!”
The towel goes curling off,
And as she floated on his stream
Our Lady Aphrodité said:
“At any moment now the Greeks will reach your
Troy-side bank . . .”
Recall those sequences
When horsemen ride out of the trees and down into a
Somewhere in Kansas or Missouri, say.
So—save they were thousands—Greece
Into Scamánder’s ford.
stream
Coming downstream,
A smallish wave
That passes
But
Scamánder’s flow does not relapse.
Indeed
Almost without a sound
Its murmuring radiance rose
Into a dark, torrential surge,
Clouded with boulders, crammed with trees, as clamorous
21
as if it were a sea,
That lifted Greece, then pulled Greece down,
Cars gone, masks gone, gone under, reappearing, gone:
“Onto your knees! Praise Hector for this flood!
The Prince God loves!” Prince Hector claims
As he comes through the trees.
They do.
Then up and run, run, thousands of them,
To hold those Greeks who got back out
Under until their bubbles stopped; while those swept off
Turned somersaults amid Scamánder’s undertow.
The flat—
1000 yards of it between the river and the palisade.
The King:
“The Lord has not abandoned us.
To cross will be as bad for them.”
But it was not to be as bad for them.
Indeed,
As Hector drove towards Scamánder’s brink,
And as—their banners rising one by one,
One after one and then another one—
He and all Ilium began to enter it,
The river reassumed its softly-spoken, smooth, sunspangled way.
And Agamemnon cried:
“God, what are You for?
What use are You to me?”
As Hector cries:
22
“Two miracles!
Your Prince is close to God!”
And Hera to Athena:
“Fog?”
And fog came down.
And most of Greece got out.
Troy holding hands midstream.
An army peering through its masks.
Miss Tops and Thongs to God:
“Your Hera has . . .”
And with a wish He turned the fog to light
And with a word He called them back to Heaven.
Sky.
Snow.
The 1000 yards.
The palisade.
Hector:
“I am your Prince.
My name means He-Who-Holds.
Troy. And the plain. And now the ships.
For Troy!” his battle cry,
Rising into a common cry, that cry
Into a clamour, and that clamour to
Bayings of hatred.
23
800 yards.
The Child:
“We are the Greeks. We fight to win. If one is lost,
Close his eyes, step over him, and kill his enemy.”
800 yards.
The Greeks are tiring.
Nestor is on his knees:
“God of all Gods, Most Holy and Most High,
If Greece has ever sacrificed fresh blood to you,
Protect our ships.”
Heaven.
Soft music. Summertime. Queen Hera and Athena? Yes . . .
Some lesser gods
Observing their approach, approach,
Salaam, and then
Lead them—
Now both in black wraparound tops—
To God:
“Darling Daddy, here we are.”
“And” (Hera) “here we stay
Until you stop that worthless Hector killing Greeks.”
Up steps Love.
Hera: “Why is she wearing a tent?”
Love: “Father, see this.” (Her wrist.)
“Human strikes god! Communism! The end of everything!”
“Darlings,” He said,
“You know that being a god means being blamed.
Do this—no good. Do that—the same. The answer is:
Avoid humanity.
Remember—I am God.
I see the bigger picture.”
24
“And I am Hera, Heaven’s Queen,
Greece worships me.”
“Stuff Greece,” Love said.
“Your blubber-bummed wife with her gobstopper nipples
Hates Troy because Troy’s Paris put her last
When we stripped off for him.
As for the Ithacan boat-boy’s undercurved preceptatrix,
She hates Troy because my statue stands on its acropolis.”
Hera: “The cities’ whores were taxed to pay for it.”
Love (Dropping onto her knees before Himself):
“Please . . . stop them harming Troy. The greatest city
in the world.”
While Hera and Athena sang:
“Cleavage! Cleavage!
Queen of the Foaming Hole.
Mammoth or man or midge
She sucks from pole to pole.”
And God has had enough of it.
Lifting His scales He said:
“Hector will have his day of victory.”
Then crashed them to the ground.
700 yards.
The palisade.
Its gate.
Late sunlight on gilt beaks.
“There’s no escape from Troy.”
“Or from the plain at Troy.”
25
Begging for ransom, Trojan Hoti,
His arms around King Menelaos’ knees.
King Agamemnon: “Off.”
Then he punched Hoti in the face.
Then punched him in the face again.
And then again. And when he fell
King Agamemnon kicked him in the groin.
Kicking him in the groin with so much force
It took a step to follow up each kick.
Then pulled him up,
Then dragged him by his hair
This way and that,
Then left him, calling:
“Finish him off.”
And someone did.
“I was sixteen. I said: ‘Where is Achilles?’
Hard as it is to share another’s troubles when your own are pressing
Great Ajax took my hands in his and said:
‘He loves us. He is with us. He will come.’”
But he did not.
Then Ajax to himself:
“Dear Lord, you made me straight.
Give me the strength to last till dark.”
The Prince: “I get past
Their war is lost.”
everything I see.
It was.
Aenéas, Ábassee, Sarpédon, Gray,
Calling to one another down the line.
Then, with a mighty wall of sound,
As if a slope of stones
Rolled down into a lake of broken glass
26
We ran at them.
And now the light of evening has begun
To shawl across the plain:
Blue gray, gold gray, blue gold,
Translucent nothingnesses
Readying our space,
Within the deep, unchanging sea of space,
For Hesper’s entrance, and the silver wrap.
Covered with blood, mostly their own,
Loyal to death, reckoning to die
Odysseus, Ajax, Diomed,
Idomeneo, Nestor, Menelaos
And the King:
“Do not die because others have died.”
“Do not show them the palms of your hands.”
“Achil!”
“Achil!”
“If he won’t help us, Heaven help us.”
“Stand still and fight.”
“Feel shame in one another’s eyes.”
“I curse you, God. You are a liar, God.
Troy will be yours by dark—immortal lies.”
“Home!”
“Home!”
“There’s no such place.”
“You can’t launch burning ships.”
“More men survive if no one runs.”
But that is what Greece did.
Dropping their wounded,
Throwing down their dead,
Their shields, their spears, their swords,
They ran.
27
Leaving their heroes tattered, filthy, torn
And ran
And ran
Above their cries:
“I am the Prince! The victory is mine!”
Chylábborak:
“Do not take cowardice for granted.”
Scarce had he said it, when
His son, Kykéon, standing next to him
Took Ajax’ final spear cast in his chest.
“I shall not wear your armour, Sir,” he said.
And died.
“My son is dead.”
The Prince:
“Hector is loved by God.”
And Greece, a wall of walking swords,
But walking backwards,
Leaving the plain in silence
And in tears.
Idomeneo,
Running back out at those Trojans who came too close:
“You know my name. Come look for me. And boy,
The day you do will be the day you die.”
28
Hector to Troy:
“Soldiers!—
Unmatched my force, unconquerable my will.
After ten years of days, in one long day
To be remembered for as many days
As there are days to come, this is my day,
Your Hector’s day. Troy given back to Troy.
My day of victory!”
And when the cheering died:
“Some say: destroy Greece now. But I say no.
Out of your cars. Eat by your fires.
Two hundred fires! Around each fire
Five hundred men!
“The sound of grindstones turning through the night,
The firelight that stands between our blades,
So let King Agamemnon’s Own hold hands
And look into each other’s frightened eyes.
“True God! Great Master of the Widespread Sky!
If only you would turn
Me into a god,
As you, through me,
Tomorrow by their ships
Will see Greece die.”
Silence.
A ring of lights.
Within
Immaculate
In boat-cloaks lined with red
King Agamemnon’s lords—
The depression of retreat.
29
The depression of returning to camp.
Him at the centre of their circle
Sobbing,
Then shouting:
“We must run for it!”
Dark glasses in parked cars.
“King Agamemnon of Mycenae,
God called, God raised, God recognized,
You are a piece of shit,” Diomed said.
Silence again.
“Let us praise God,” Lord Ajax said,
“That Hector stopped before he reached the ships.”
Silence again.
Then
Nestor
(Putting his knee back in):
“Paramount Agamemnon, King of Kings,
Lord of the Shore, the Islands and the Sea
I shall begin, and end, with you.
Greece needs good words. Like them or not, the credit
will be yours.
Determined. Keen to fight, that is our Diomed—
As I should know. When just a boy of ten I fought
Blowback of Missolonghi, a cannibal, drank blood,
He captured you, he buggered you, you never walked again.
But Diomed lacks experience.
God has saved us, momentarily.
God loves Achilles.
You took, and you have kept, Achilles’ ribband she.”
“I was a fool!”
30
“And now you must appease him, Agamemnon.
Humble words. Hands shaken. Gifts.”
The King—wiping his eyes:
“As usual,
Pylos has said the only things worth hearing.
I was mad to take the she.
I shall pay fitting damages.
Plus her, I offer him
The Corfiot armour that my father wore.”
Silence.
The sea.
Its whispering.
“To which I add: a set of shields.
Posy, standard, ceremonial.
The last, cut from the hide of a one ton Lesbian bull.”
Silence.
The sea.
“And . . . a chariot!
From my own équipe!
They smoke along the ground . . .
They ride its undulations like a breeze . . .”
The sea.
“Plus: six horses—saddled, bridled and caparisoned,
Their grooms and veterinarians . . .
. . . And six tall shes:
Two good dancers, two good stitchers, two good cooks.
All capable of bearing boys . . .
“Oh, very well then: twenty loaves of gold,
31
The same of silver, and the same of iron.”
Masks. Lights.
Behind the lords
Some hundreds from the army have walked up.
Lord Nestor smiles.
Lord Menelaos smiles.
“Plus—
Though it may well reduce your King to destitution:
A’kimi’kúriex,
My summer palace by the Argive sea,
Its lawns, its terraces, its curtains in whose depths
Larks dive above a field of waving lilies
And fishscale-breakers shatter on blue rocks.
Then, as he draws their silky heights aside,
Standing among huge chests of looted booty,
Long necked, with lowered lids, but candid eyes,
My living daughter, Íphaniss, a diamond
Big as a cheeseball for her belly stud.
His wife to be! minus—I need not say—her otherwise huge
bride-price.”
“More!”
“More!”
“More!”
Lord Ajax almost has to hold him up.
“The whole of eastern Pel’po’nesia—
An area of outstanding natural beauty—
Its cities, Epi’dávros, Trów’é’zen,
Their fortresses, their harbours and their fleets,
Their taxpayers—glad to accept his modest ways—
All this, the greatest benefaction ever known,
If he agrees to fight. And he admits I am his King.”
Instantly, Nestor:
“An offer God himself could not refuse.
All that remains to say is:
Who shall take it to Achilles?”
32
Agamemnon: “You will.”
Starlight.
The starlight on the sea.
The sea.
Its whispering
Mixed with the prayers
Of Ajax and of Nestor as they walk
Along the shore towards Achilles’ gate.
“My lords?”
“Your lord.”
“This way.”
They find him, with guitar,
Singing of Gilgamesh.
“Take my hands. Here they are.”
You cannot take your eyes away from him.
His own so bright they slow you down.
His voice so low, and yet so clear.
You know that he is dangerous.
“Patroclus?
33
Friends in need.
Still,
Friends.
That has not changed,
I think.
Autómedon? Wine.
“Dear Lord and Master of the Widespread Sky,
Accept ourselves, accept our prayers.”
Their cups are taken.
“Father friend?”
King Nestor (for his life):
“You know why we are here.
We face death.
The mass choose slavery.
Mycenae has admitted he was wrong to wrong yourself.
In recompense he offers you
The greatest benefaction ever known.
Take it, and fight. Or else Hector will burn the ships
Then kill us randomly.
Remember what your Father said
The day when Ajax and myself drove up to ask
If you could come with us to Troy?
That you should stand among the blades where honour grows.
And secondly, to let your anger go.
Spirit, and strength, and beauty have combined
Such awesome power in you
A vacant Heaven would offer you its throne.
Think of what those who will come after us will say.
Save us from Hector’s god, from Hector, and from Hector’s force.
I go down on my knees to you, Achilles.”
“I must admire your courage, father friend,
For treating me as if I was a fool.
34
I shall deal with Hector as I want to.
You and your fellow countrymen will die
For how your King has treated me.
I have spent five years fighting for your King.
My record is: ten coastal and ten inland cities
Burnt to the ground. Their males, massacred.
Their cattle, and their women, given to him.
Among the rest, Briseis the Beautiful, my ribband she.
Not that I got her courtesy of him.
She joined my stock in recognition of
My strength, my courage, my superiority,
Courtesy of yourselves, my lords.
I will not fight for him.
He aims to personalise my loss.
Briseis taken from Achilles—standard practice:
Helen from Menelaos—war.
Lord Busy Busy, building his palisade, mounting my she,
One that I might have picked to run my house,
Raising her to the status of a wife.
Do I hate him? Yes, I hate him. Hate him.
And should he be afraid of me? He should.
I want to harm him. I want him to feel pain.
In his body, and between his ears.
I must admit,
Some of the things that you have said are true.
But look what he has done to me! To me!
The king on whom his kingliness depends!
I will not fight for him.
Hearing your steps, I thought: at last,
My friends have come to visit me.
They took their time about it, true—
After he took my she none of you came—
Now, though—admittedly they are in trouble,
Serious trouble—they have arrived as friends,
And of their own accord.
But you have not come here as friends.
And you have not come of your own accord.
You came because your King told you to come.
You came because I am his last resort.
And, incidentally, your last resort.
35
At least he offers stuff.
All you have offered is advice:
‘Keep your temper . . .
Mind your tongue . . .
Think what the world will say . . .’
No mention of your King’s treatment of me.
No sign of love for me behind your tears.
I will not fight for him.
I can remember very well indeed
The day you two grand lords came visiting my father’s house,
How I ran out to you, and took your hands—
The greatest men that I had ever seen:
Ajax, my fighting cousin, strong, brave, unafraid to die;
Nestor, the King of Sandy Pylos, wisdom’s sword.
And then, when all had had enough to eat and drink
And it was sealed that I should come to Troy,
Then my dear father said that lordship knows
Not only how to fight, and when to hold its tongue,
But of the difference between a child enraged
And honour bound lords.
I will not fight for him.
There is a King to be maintained. You are his lords.
My fighting powers prove my inferiority.
Whatever he, through you, may grant,
I must receive it as a favour, not of right,
Go back to him with downcast looks, a suppliant tone,
Acknowledge my transgressions—I did not
Applaud his sticky fingers on my she’s meek flesh.
My mother says I have a choice:
Live as a happy backwood king for aye
Or give the world an everlasting murmur of my name,
And die.
Be up tomorrow sharp
To see me sacrifice to Lord Poseidon and set sail.
Oh, yes, his gifts:
‘The greatest benefaction ever known.’
If he put Heaven in my hand I would not want it.
His offers magnify himself.
Likewise his child.
I do not want to trash the girl.
She is like me. Bad luck to have poor friends.
Bad luck to have his Kingship as your sire.
36
My father will select my wife.
Each spring a dozen local kings drive up
And lead their daughters naked round our yard.
Some decent local girl. My father’s worth
Is all the wealth we will require.
You Greeks will not take Troy.
You have disintegrated as a fighting force.
Troy is your cemetery. Blame your King.
The man who you say has done all he can.
The man who has admitted he was wrong.
But he has not done all he can.
And he has not admitted he was wrong.
Or not to me.
I want him here, your King.
His arms straight down his sides, his shoulders back,
Announcing loud and clear that he was wrong to take my she.
Apologising for that wrong, to me, the son of Péleus.
Before my followers, with you, Pylos and Salamis,
Crete. Sparta. Tyrins, Argos, Calydon, the Islands, here,
Stood to attention on either side of him.
That is my offer. Take it, or die.
Nestor may stay the night.
You, dear cousin Ajax, tell your King what I have said.
Preferably, in front of everyone.”
Who said,
As my Achilles lifted his guitar:
“Lord, I was never so bethumped with words
Since first I called my father Dad.”
The sea.
Their feet along the sand to Agamemnon’s gate.
And in starlit air
The Trojans singing:
“I love my wife, I love her dearly,
I love the hole she pisses through,
37
I love her lily-white tits
And her nut-brown arsehole,
I could eat her shit with a wooden spoon.”
~ Christopher Logue,#NFDB
577:BOOK THE EIGHTH
The Story of Nisus and Scylla
Now shone the morning star in bright array,
To vanquish night, and usher in the day:
The wind veers southward, and moist clouds arise,
That blot with shades the blue meridian skies.
Cephalus feels with joy the kindly gales,
His new allies unfurl the swelling sails;
Steady their course, they cleave the yielding main,
And, with a wish, th' intended harbour gain.
Mean-while King Minos, on the Attick strand,
Displays his martial skill, and wastes the land.
His army lies encampt upon the plains,
Before Alcathoe's walls, where Nisus reigns;
On whose grey head a lock of purple hue,
The strength, and fortune of his kingdom, grew.
Six moons were gone, and past, when still from far
Victoria hover'd o'er the doubtful war.
So long, to both inclin'd, th' impartial maid
Between 'em both her equal wings display'd.
High on the walls, by Phoebus vocal made,
A turret of the palace rais'd its head;
And where the God his tuneful harp resign'd.
The sound within the stones still lay enshrin'd:
Hither the daughter of the purple king
Ascended oft, to hear its musick ring;
And, striking with a pebble, wou'd release
Th' enchanted notes, in times of happy peace.
But now, from thence, the curious maid beheld
Rough feats of arms, and combats of the field:
And, since the siege was long, had learnt the name
Of ev'ry chief, his character, and fame;
Their arms, their horse, and quiver she descry'd,
Nor cou'd the dress of war the warriour hide.
Europa's son she knew above the rest,
And more, than well became a virgin breast:
In vain the crested morion veils his face,
She thinks it adds a more peculiar grace:
His ample shield, embost with burnish'd gold,
Still makes the bearer lovelier to behold:
When the tough jav'lin, with a whirl, he sends,
His strength and skill the sighing maid commends;
Or, when he strains to draw the circling bow,
And his fine limbs a manly posture show,
Compar'd with Phoebus, he performs so well,
Let her be judge, and Minos shall excell.
But when the helm put off, display'd to sight,
And set his features in an open light;
When, vaulting to his seat, his steed he prest,
Caparison'd in gold, and richly drest;
Himself in scarlet sumptuously array'd,
New passions rise, and fire the frantick maid.
O happy spear! she cries, that feels his touch;
Nay, ev'n the reins he holds are blest too much.
Oh! were it lawful, she cou'd wing her way
Thro' the stern hostile troops without dismay;
Or throw her body to the distant ground,
And in the Cretans happy camp be found.
Wou'd Minos but desire it! she'd expose
Her native country to her country's foes;
Unbar the gates, the town with flames infest,
Or any thing that Minos shou'd request.
And as she sate, and pleas'd her longing sight,
Viewing the king's pavilion veil'd with white,
Shou'd joy, or grief, she said, possess my breast,
To see my country by a war opprest?
I'm in suspense! For, tho' 'tis grief to know
I love a man that is declar'd my foe;
Yet, in my own despite, I must approve
That lucky war, which brought the man I love.
Yet, were I tender'd as a pledge of peace,
The cruelties of war might quickly cease.
Oh! with what joy I'd wear the chains he gave!
A patient hostage, and a willing slave.
Thou lovely object! if the nymph that bare
Thy charming person, were but half so fair;
Well might a God her virgin bloom desire,
And with a rape indulge his amorous fire.
Oh! had I wings to glide along the air,
To his dear tent I'd fly, and settle there:
There tell my quality, confess my flame,
And grant him any dowry that he'd name.
All, all I'd give; only my native land,
My dearest country, shou'd excepted stand,
For, perish love, and all expected joys,
E're, with so base a thought, my soul complies.
Yet, oft the vanquish'd some advantage find,
When conquer'd by a noble, gen'rous mind.
Brave Minos justly has the war begun,
Fir'd with resentment for his murder'd son:
The righteous Gods a righteous cause regard,
And will, with victory, his arms reward:
We must be conquer'd; and the captive's fate
Will surely seize us, tho' it seize us late.
Why then shou'd love be idle, and neglect
What Mars, by arms and perils, will effect?
Oh! Prince, I dye, with anxious fear opprest,
Lest some rash hand shou'd wound my charmer's breast:
For, if they saw, no barb'rous mind cou'd dare
Against that lovely form to raise a spear.
But I'm resolv'd, and fix'd in this decree,
My father's country shall my dowry be.
Thus I prevent the loss of life and blood,
And, in effect, the action must be good.
Vain resolution! for, at ev'ry gate
The trusty centinels, successive, wait:
The keys my father keeps; ah! there's my grief;
'Tis he obstructs all hopes of my relief.
Gods! that this hated light I'd never seen!
Or, all my life, without a father been!
But Gods we all may be; for those that dare,
Are Gods, and Fortune's chiefest favours share.
The ruling Pow'rs a lazy pray'r detest,
The bold adventurer succeeds the best.
What other maid, inspir'd with such a flame,
But wou'd take courage, and abandon shame?
But wou'd, tho' ruin shou'd ensue, remove
Whate'er oppos'd, and clear the way to love?
This, shall another's feeble passion dare?
While I sit tame, and languish in despair:
No; for tho' fire and sword before me lay,
Impatient love thro' both shou'd force its way.
Yet I have no such enemies to fear,
My sole obstruction is my father's hair;
His purple lock my sanguine hope destroys,
And clouds the prospect of my rising joys.
Whilst thus she spoke, amid the thick'ning air
Night supervenes, the greatest nurse of care:
And, as the Goddess spreads her sable wings,
The virgin's fears decay, and courage springs.
The hour was come, when Man's o'er-labour'd breast
Surceas'd its care, by downy sleep possest:
All things now hush'd, Scylla with silent tread
Urg'd her approach to Nisus' royal bed:
There, of the fatal lock (accursed theft!)
She her unwitting father's head bereft.
In safe possession of her impious prey,
Out at a postern gate she takes her way.
Embolden'd, by the merit of the deed
She traverses the adverse camp with speed,
'Till Minos' tent she reach'd: the righteous king
She thus bespoke, who shiver'd at the thing.
Behold th' effect of love's resistless sway!
I, Nisus' royal seed, to thee betray
My country, and my Gods. For this strange task,
Minos, no other boon but thee I ask.
This purple lock, a pledge of love, receive;
No worthless present, since in it I give
My father's head.- Mov'd at a crime so new,
And with abhorrence fill'd, back Minos drew,
Nor touch'd th' unhallow'd gift; but thus exclaim'd
(With mein indignant, and with eyes inflam'd),
Perdition seize thee, thou, thy kind's disgrace!
May thy devoted carcass find no place
In earth, or air, or sea, by all out-cast!
Shall Minos, with so foul a monster, blast
His Cretan world, where cradled Jove was nurst?
Forbid it Heav'n!- away, thou most accurst!
And now Alcathoe, its lord exchang'd,
Was under Minos' domination rang'd.
While the most equal king his care applies
To curb the conquer'd, and new laws devise,
The fleet, by his command, with hoisted sails,
And ready oars, invites the murm'ring gales.
At length the Cretan hero anchor weigh'd,
Repaying, with neglect, th' abandon'd maid.
Deaf to her cries, he furrows up the main:
In vain she prays, sollicits him in vain.
And now she furious grows in wild despair,
She wrings her hands, and throws aloft her hair.
Where run'st thou? (thus she vents her deep distress)
Why shun'st thou her that crown'd thee with success?
Her, whose fond love to thee cou'd sacrifice
Her country, and her parent, sacred ties!
Can nor my love, nor proffer'd presents find
A passage to thy heart, and make thee kind?
Can nothing move thy pity? O ingrate,
Can'st thou behold my lost, forlorn estate,
And not be soften'd? Can'st thou throw off one
Who has no refuge left but thee alone?
Where shall I seek for comfort? whither fly?
My native country does in ashes lye:
Or were't not so, my treason bars me there,
And bids me wander. Shall I next repair
To a wrong'd father, by my guilt undone?-
Me all Mankind deservedly will shun.
I, out of all the world, my self have thrown,
To purchase an access to Crete alone;
Which, since refus'd, ungen'rous man, give o'er
To boast thy race; Europa never bore
A thing so savage. Thee some tygress bred,
On the bleak Syrt's inhospitable bed;
Or where Charybdis pours its rapid tide
Tempestuous. Thou art not to Jove ally'd;
Nor did the king of Gods thy mother meet
Beneath a bull's forg'd shape, and bear to Crete.
That fable of thy glorious birth is feign'd;
Some wild outrageous bull thy dam sustain'd.
O father Nisus, now my death behold;
Exult, o city, by my baseness sold:
Minos, obdurate, has aveng'd ye all;
But 'twere more just by those I wrong'd to fall:
For why shou'dst thou, who only didst subdue
By my offending, my offence pursue?
Well art thou matcht to one whose am'rous flame
Too fiercely rag'd, for human-kind to tame;
One who, within a wooden heifer thrust,
Courted a low'ring bull's mistaken lust;
And, from whose monster-teeming womb, the Earth
Receiv'd, what much it mourn'd, a bi-form birth.
But what avails my plaints? the whistling wind,
Which bears him far away, leaves them behind.
Well weigh'd Pasiphae, when she prefer'd
A bull to thee, more brutish than the herd.
But ah! Time presses, and the labour'd oars
To distance drive the fleet, and lose the less'ning shores.
Think not, ungrateful man, the liquid way
And threat'ning billows shall inforce my stay.
I'll follow thee in spite: My arms I'll throw
Around thy oars, or grasp thy crooked prow,
And drag thro' drenching seas. Her eager tongue
Had hardly clos'd the speech, when forth she sprung
And prov'd the deep. Cupid with added force
Recruits each nerve, and aids her wat'ry course.
Soon she the ship attains, unwelcome guest;
And, as with close embrace its sides she prest,
A hawk from upper air came pouring down
('Twas Nisus cleft the sky with wings new grown).
At Scylla's head his horny bill he aims;
She, fearful of the blow, the ship disclaims,
Quitting her hold: and yet she fell not far,
But wond'ring, finds her self sustain'd in air.
Chang'd to a lark, she mottled pinions shook,
And, from the ravish'd lock, the name of Ciris took.
The Labyrinth
Now Minos, landed on the Cretan shore,
Performs his vows to Jove's protecting pow'r;
A hundred bullocks of the largest breed,
With flowrets crown'd, before his altar bleed:
While trophies of the vanquish'd, brought from far
Adorn the palace with the spoils of war.
Mean-while the monster of a human-beast,
His family's reproach, and stain, increas'd.
His double kind the rumour swiftly spread,
And evidenc'd the mother's beastly deed.
When Minos, willing to conceal the shame
That sprung from the reports of tatling Fame,
Resolves a dark inclosure to provide,
And, far from sight, the two-form'd creature hide.
Great Daedalus of Athens was the man
That made the draught, and form'd the wondrous plan;
Where rooms within themselves encircled lye,
With various windings, to deceive the eye.
As soft Maeander's wanton current plays,
When thro' the Phrygian fields it loosely strays;
Backward and forward rouls the dimpl'd tide,
Seeming, at once, two different ways to glide:
While circling streams their former banks survey,
And waters past succeeding waters see:
Now floating to the sea with downward course,
Now pointing upward to its ancient source,
Such was the work, so intricate the place,
That scarce the workman all its turns cou'd trace;
And Daedalus was puzzled how to find
The secret ways of what himself design'd.
These private walls the Minotaur include,
Who twice was glutted with Athenian blood:
But the third tri bute more successful prov'd,
Slew the foul monster, and the plague remov'd.
When Theseus, aided by the virgin's art,
Had trac'd the guiding thread thro' ev'ry part,
He took the gentle maid, that set him free,
And, bound for Dias, cut the briny sea.
There, quickly cloy'd, ungrateful, and unkind,
Left his fair consort in the isle behind,
Whom Bacchus saw, and straining in his arms
Her rifled bloom, and violated charms,
Resolves, for this, the dear engaging dame
Shou'd shine for ever in the rolls of Fame;
And bids her crown among the stars be plac'd,
With an eternal constellation grac'd.
The golden circlet mounts; and, as it flies,
Its diamonds twinkle in the distant skies;
There, in their pristin form, the gemmy rays
Between Alcides, and the dragon blaze.
The Story of Daedalus and Icarus
In tedious exile now too long detain'd,
Daedalus languish'd for his native land:
The sea foreclos'd his flight; yet thus he said:
Tho' Earth and water in subjection laid,
O cruel Minos, thy dominion be,
We'll go thro' air; for sure the air is free.
Then to new arts his cunning thought applies,
And to improve the work of Nature tries.
A row of quils in gradual order plac'd,
Rise by degrees in length from first to last;
As on a cliff th' ascending thicket grows,
Or, different reeds the rural pipe compose.
Along the middle runs a twine of flax,
The bottom stems are joyn'd by pliant wax.
Thus, well compact, a hollow bending brings
The fine composure into real wings.
His boy, young Icarus, that near him stood,
Unthinking of his fate, with smiles pursu'd
The floating feathers, which the moving air
Bore loosely from the ground, and wasted here and there.
Or with the wax impertinently play'd,
And with his childish tricks the great design delay'd.
The final master-stroke at last impos'd,
And now, the neat machine compleatly clos'd;
Fitting his pinions on, a flight he tries,
And hung self-ballanc'd in the beaten skies.
Then thus instructs his child: My boy, take care
To wing your course along the middle air;
If low, the surges wet your flagging plumes;
If high, the sun the melting wax consumes:
Steer between both: nor to the northern skies,
Nor south Orion turn your giddy eyes;
But follow me: let me before you lay
Rules for the flight, and mark the pathless way.
Then teaching, with a fond concern, his son,
He took the untry'd wings, and fix'd 'em on;
But fix'd with trembling hands; and as he speaks,
The tears roul gently down his aged cheeks.
Then kiss'd, and in his arms embrac'd him fast,
But knew not this embrace must be the last.
And mounting upward, as he wings his flight,
Back on his charge he turns his aking sight;
As parent birds, when first their callow care
Leave the high nest to tempt the liquid air.
Then chears him on, and oft, with fatal art,
Reminds the stripling to perform his part.
These, as the angler at the silent brook,
Or mountain-shepherd leaning on his crook,
Or gaping plowman, from the vale descries,
They stare, and view 'em with religious eyes,
And strait conclude 'em Gods; since none, but they,
Thro' their own azure skies cou'd find a way.
Now Delos, Paros on the left are seen,
And Samos, favour'd by Jove's haughty queen;
Upon the right, the isle Lebynthos nam'd,
And fair Calymne for its honey fam'd.
When now the boy, whose childish thoughts aspire
To loftier aims, and make him ramble high'r,
Grown wild, and wanton, more embolden'd flies
Far from his guide, and soars among the skies.
The soft'ning wax, that felt a nearer sun,
Dissolv'd apace, and soon began to run.
The youth in vain his melting pinions shakes,
His feathers gone, no longer air he takes:
Oh! Father, father, as he strove to cry,
Down to the sea he tumbled from on high,
And found his Fate; yet still subsists by fame,
Among those waters that retain his name.
The father, now no more a father, cries,
Ho Icarus! where are you? as he flies;
Where shall I seek my boy? he cries again,
And saw his feathers scatter'd on the main.
Then curs'd his art; and fun'ral rites confer'd,
Naming the country from the youth interr'd.
A partridge, from a neighb'ring stump, beheld
The sire his monumental marble build;
Who, with peculiar call, and flutt'ring wing,
Chirpt joyful, and malicious seem'd to sing:
The only bird of all its kind, and late
Transform'd in pity to a feather'd state:
From whence, O Daedalus, thy guilt we date.
His sister's son, when now twelve years were past,
Was, with his uncle, as a scholar plac'd;
The unsuspecting mother saw his parts,
And genius fitted for the finest arts.
This soon appear'd; for when the spiny bone
In fishes' backs was by the stripling known,
A rare invention thence he learnt to draw,
Fil'd teeth in ir'n, and made the grating saw.
He was the first, that from a knob of brass
Made two strait arms with widening stretch to pass;
That, while one stood upon the center's place,
The other round it drew a circling space.
Daedalus envy'd this, and from the top
Of fair Minerva's temple let him drop;
Feigning, that, as he lean'd upon the tow'r,
Careless he stoop'd too much, and tumbled o'er.
The Goddess, who th' ingenious still befriends,
On this occasion her asssistance lends;
His arms with feathers, as he fell, she veils,
And in the air a new made bird he sails.
The quickness of his genius, once so fleet,
Still in his wings remains, and in his feet:
Still, tho' transform'd, his ancient name he keeps,
And with low flight the new-shorn stubble sweeps,
Declines the lofty trees, and thinks it best
To brood in hedge-rows o'er its humble nest;
And, in remembrance of the former ill,
Avoids the heights, and precipices still.
At length, fatigu'd with long laborious flights,
On fair Sicilia's plains the artist lights;
Where Cocalus the king, that gave him aid,
Was, for his kindness, with esteem repaid.
Athens no more her doleful tri bute sent,
That hardship gallant Theseus did prevent;
Their temples hung with garlands, they adore
Each friendly God, but most Minerva's pow'r:
To her, to Jove, to all, their altars smoak,
They each with victims, and perfumes invoke.
Now talking Fame, thro' every Grecian town,
Had spread, immortal Theseus, thy renown.
From him the neighb'ring nations in distress,
In suppliant terms implore a kind redress.
The Story of Meleager and Atalanta
From him the Caledonians sought relief;
Though valiant Meleagros was their chief.
The cause, a boar, who ravag'd far and near:
Of Cynthia's wrath, th' avenging minister.
For Oeneus with autumnal plenty bless'd,
By gifts to Heav'n his gratitude express'd:
Cull'd sheafs, to Ceres; to Lyaeus, wine;
To Pan, and Pales, offer'd sheep and kine;
And fat of olives, to Minerva's shrine.
Beginning from the rural Gods, his hand
Was lib'ral to the Pow'rs of high command:
Each deity in ev'ry kind was bless'd,
'Till at Diana's fane th' invidious honour ceas'd.
Wrath touches ev'n the Gods; the Queen of Night,
Fir'd with disdain, and jealous of her right,
Unhonour'd though I am, at least, said she,
Not unreveng'd that impious act shall be.
Swift as the word, she sped the boar away,
With charge on those devoted fields to prey.
No larger bulls th' Aegyptian pastures feed,
And none so large Sicilian meadows breed:
His eye-balls glare with fire suffus'd with blood;
His neck shoots up a thick-set thorny wood;
His bristled back a trench impal'd appears,
And stands erected, like a field of spears;
Froth fills his chaps, he sends a grunting sound,
And part he churns, and part befoams the ground,
For tusks with Indian elephants he strove,
And Jove's own thunder from his mouth he drove.
He burns the leaves; the scorching blast invades
The tender corn, and shrivels up the blades:
Or suff'ring not their yellow beards to rear,
He tramples down the spikes, and intercepts the year:
In vain the barns expect their promis'd load,
Nor barns at home, nor recks are heap'd abroad:
In vain the hinds the threshing-floor prepare,
And exercise their flail in empty air.
With olives ever-green the ground is strow'd,
And grapes ungather'd shed their gen'rous blood.
Amid the fold he rages, nor the sheep
Their shepherds, nor the grooms their bulls can keep.
From fields to walls the frighted rabble run,
Nor think themselves secure within the town:
'Till Meleagros, and his chosen crew,
Contemn the danger, and the praise pursue.
Fair Leda's twins (in time to stars decreed)
One fought on foot, one curb'd the fiery steed;
Then issu'd forth fam'd Jason after these,
Who mann'd the foremost ship that sail'd the seas;
Then Theseus join'd with bold Perithous came;
A single concord in a double name:
The Thestian sons, Idas who swiftly ran,
And Ceneus, once a woman, now a man.
Lynceus, with eagle's eyes, and lion's heart;
Leucippus, with his never-erring dart;
Acastus, Phileus, Phoenix, Telamon,
Echion, Lelix, and Eurytion,
Achilles' father, and great Phocus' son;
Dryas the fierce, and Hippasus the strong;
With twice old Iolas, and Nestor then but young.
Laertes active, and Ancaeus bold;
Mopsus the sage, who future things foretold;
And t' other seer, yet by his wife unsold.
A thousand others of immortal fame;
Among the rest, fair Atalanta came,
Grace of the woods: a diamond buckle bound
Her vest behind, that else had flow'd upon the ground,
And shew'd her buskin'd legs; her head was bare,
But for her native ornament of hair;
Which in a simple knot was ty'd above,
Sweet negligence! unheeded bait of love!
Her sounding quiver, on her shoulder ty'd,
One hand a dart, and one a bow supply'd.
Such was her face, as in a nymph display'd
A fair fierce boy, or in a boy betray'd
The blushing beauties of a modest maid.
The Caledonian chief at once the dame
Beheld, at once his heart receiv'd the flame,
With Heav'ns averse. O happy youth, he cry'd;
For whom thy fates reserve so fair a bride!
He sigh'd, and had no leisure more to say;
His honour call'd his eyes another way,
And forc'd him to pursue the now-neglected prey.
There stood a forest on a mountain's brow,
Which over-look'd the shaded plains below.
No sounding ax presum'd those trees to bite;
Coeval with the world, a venerable sight.
The heroes there arriv'd, some spread around
The toils; some search the footsteps on the ground:
Some from the chains the faithful dogs unbound.
Of action eager, and intent in thought,
The chiefs their honourable danger sought:
A valley stood below; the common drain
Of waters from above, and falling rain:
The bottom was a moist, and marshy ground,
Whose edges were with bending oziers crown'd:
The knotty bulrush next in order stood,
And all within of reeds a trembling wood.
From hence the boar was rous'd, and sprung amain,
Like lightning sudden, on the warrior train;
Beats down the trees before him, shakes the ground.
The forest echoes to the crackling sound;
Shout the fierce youth, and clamours ring around.
All stood with their protended spears prepar'd,
With broad steel heads the brandish'd weapons glar'd.
The beast impetuous with his tusks aside
Deals glancing wounds; the fearful dogs divide:
All spend their mouths aloof, but none abide.
Echion threw the first, but miss'd his mark,
And stuck his boar-spear on a maple's bark.
Then Jason; and his javelin seem'd to take,
But fail'd with over-force, and whiz'd above his back.
Mopsus was next; but e'er he threw, address'd
To Phoebus, thus: O patron, help thy priest:
If I adore, and ever have ador'd
Thy pow'r divine, thy present aid afford;
That I may reach the beast. The God allow'd
His pray'r, and smiling, gave him what he cou'd:
He reach'd the savage, but no blood he drew:
Dian unarm'd the javelin, as it flew.
This chaf'd the boar, his nostrils flames expire,
And his red eye-balls roul with living fire.
Whirl'd from a sling, or from an engine thrown,
Amid the foes, so flies a mighty stone,
As flew the beast: the left wing put to flight,
The chiefs o'er-born, he rushes on the right.
Eupalamos and Pelagon he laid
In dust, and next to death, but for their fellows' aid.
Onesimus far'd worse, prepar'd to fly,
The fatal fang drove deep within his thigh,
And cut the nerves: the nerves no more sustain
The bulk; the bulk unprop'd, falls headlong on the plain.
Nestor had fail'd the fall of Troy to see,
But leaning on his lance, he vaulted on a tree;
Then gath'ring up his feet, look'd down with fear,
And thought his monstrous foe was still too near.
Against a stump his tusk the monster grinds,
And in the sharpen'd edge new vigour finds;
Then, trusting to his arms, young Othrys found,
And ranch'd his hips with one continu'd wound.
Now Leda's twins, the future stars, appear;
White were their habits, white their horses were:
Conspicuous both, and both in act to throw,
Their trembling lances brandish'd at the foe:
Nor had they miss'd; but he to thickets fled,
Conceal'd from aiming spears, not pervious to the steed.
But Telamon rush'd in, and happ'd to meet
A rising root, that held his fastned feet;
So down he fell, whom, sprawling on the ground,
His brother from the wooden gyves unbound.
Mean-time the virgin-huntress was not slow
T' expel the shaft from her contracted bow:
Beneath his ear the fastned arrow stood,
And from the wound appear'd the trickling blood.
She blush'd for joy: but Meleagros rais'd
His voice with loud applause, and the fair archer prais'd.
He was the first to see, and first to show
His friends the marks of the successful blow.
Nor shall thy valour want the praises due,
He said; a virtuous envy seiz'd the crew.
They shout; the shouting animates their hearts,
And all at once employ their thronging darts:
But out of order thrown, in air they joyn,
And multitude makes frustrate the design.
With both his hands the proud Ancaeus takes,
And flourishes his double-biting ax:
Then, forward to his fate, he took a stride
Before the rest, and to his fellows cry'd,
Give place, and mark the diff'rence, if you can,
Between a woman warrior, and a man,
The boar is doom'd; nor though Diana lend
Her aid, Diana can her beast defend.
Thus boasted he; then stretch'd, on tiptoe stood,
Secure to make his empty promise good.
But the more wary beast prevents the blow,
And upward rips the groin of his audacious foe.
Ancaeus falls; his bowels from the wound
Rush out, and clotted blood distains the ground.
Perithous, no small portion of the war,
Press'd on, and shook his lance: to whom from far
Thus Theseus cry'd; O stay, my better part,
My more than mistress; of my heart, the heart.
The strong may fight aloof; Ancaeus try'd
His force too near, and by presuming dy'd:
He said, and while he spake his javelin threw,
Hissing in air th' unerring weapon flew;
But on an arm of oak, that stood betwixt
The marks-man and the mark, his lance he fixt.
Once more bold Jason threw, but fail'd to wound
The boar, and slew an undeserving hound,
And thro' the dog the dart was nail'd to ground.
Two spears from Meleager's hand were sent,
With equal force, but various in th' event:
The first was fix'd in earth, the second stood
On the boar's bristled back, and deeply drank his blood.
Now while the tortur'd savage turns around,
And flings about his foam, impatient of the wound,
The wound's great author close at hand provokes
His rage, and plies him with redoubled strokes;
Wheels, as he wheels; and with his pointed dart
Explores the nearest passage to his heart.
Quick, and more quick he spins in giddy gires,
Then falls, and in much foam his soul expires.
This act with shouts heav'n-high the friendly band
Applaud, and strain in theirs the victor's hand.
Then all approach the slain with vast surprize,
Admire on what a breadth of earth he lies,
And scarce secure, reach out their spears afar,
And blood their points, to prove their partnership of war.
But he, the conqu'ring chief, his foot impress'd
On the strong neck of that destructive beast;
And gazing on the nymph with ardent eyes,
Accept, said he, fair Nonacrine, my prize,
And, though inferior, suffer me to join
My labours, and my part of praise, with thine:
At this presents her with the tusky head
And chine, with rising bristles roughly spread.
Glad she receiv'd the gift; and seem'd to take
With double pleasure, for the giver's sake.
The rest were seiz'd with sullen discontent,
And a deaf murmur through the squadron went:
All envy'd; but the Thestyan brethren show'd
The least respect, and thus they vent their spleen aloud:
Lay down those honour'd spoils, nor think to share,
Weak woman as thou art, the prize of war:
Ours is the title, thine a foreign claim,
Since Meleagrus from our lineage came.
Trust not thy beauty; but restore the prize,
Which he, besotted on that face, and eyes,
Would rend from us: at this, enflam'd with spite,
From her they snatch the gift, from him the giver's right.
But soon th' impatient prince his fauchion drew,
And cry'd, Ye robbers of another's due,
Now learn the diff'rence, at your proper cost,
Betwixt true valour, and an empty boast.
At this advanc'd, and sudden as the word,
In proud Plexippus' bosom plung'd the sword:
Toxeus amaz'd, and with amazement slow,
Or to revenge, or ward the coming blow,
Stood doubting; and while doubting thus he stood,
Receiv'd the steel bath'd in his brother's blood.
Pleas'd with the first, unknown the second news;
Althaea to the temples pays their dues
For her son's conquest; when at length appear
Her grisly brethren stretch'd upon the bier:
Pale at the sudden sight, she chang'd her cheer,
And with her cheer her robes; but hearing tell
The cause, the manner, and by whom they fell,
'Twas grief no more, or grief and rage were one
Within her soul; at last 'twas rage alone;
Which burning upwards in succession, dries
The tears, that stood consid'ring in her eyes.
There lay a log unlighted on the hearth,
When she was lab'ring in the throws of birth
For th' unborn chief; the fatal sisters came,
And rais'd it up, and toss'd it on the flame:
Then on the rock a scanty measure place
Of vital flax, and turn'd the wheel apace;
And turning sung, To this red brand and thee,
O new born babe, we give an equal destiny;
So vanish'd out of view. The frighted dame
Sprung hasty from her bed, and quench'd the flame:
The log, in secret lock'd, she kept with care,
And that, while thus preserv'd, preserv'd her heir.
This brand she now produc'd; and first she strows
The hearth with heaps of chips, and after blows;
Thrice heav'd her hand, and heav'd, she thrice repress'd:
The sister and the mother long contest,
Two doubtful titles, in one tender breast:
And now her eyes, and cheeks with fury glow,
Now pale her cheeks, her eyes with pity flow:
Now low'ring looks presage approaching storms,
And now prevailing love her face reforms:
Resolv'd, she doubts again; the tears she dry'd
With burning rage, are by new tears supply'd;
And as a ship, which winds and waves assail
Now with the current drives, now with the gale,
Both opposite, and neither long prevail:
She feels a double force, by turns obeys
Th' imperious tempest, and th' impetuous seas:
So fares Althaea's mind, she first relents
With pity, of that pity then repents:
Sister, and mother long the scales divide,
But the beam nodded on the sister's side.
Sometimes she softly sigh'd, then roar'd aloud;
But sighs were stifled in the cries of blood.
The pious, impious wretch at length decreed,
To please her brothers' ghost, her son should bleed:
And when the fun'ral flames began to rise,
Receive, she said, a sister's sacrifice;
A mother's bowels burn: high in her hand,
Thus while she spoke, she held the fatal brand;
Then thrice before the kindled pile she bow'd,
And the three Furies thrice invok'd aloud:
Come, come, revenging sisters, come, and view
A sister paying her dead brothers due:
A crime I punish, and a crime commit;
But blood for blood, and death for death is fit:
Great crimes must be with greater crimes repaid,
And second fun'rals on the former laid.
Let the whole houshold in one ruin fall,
And may Diana's curse o'ertake us all.
Shall Fate to happy Oenus still allow
One son, while Thestius stands depriv'd of two?
Better three lost, than one unpunish'd go.
Take then, dear ghosts (while yet admitted new
In Hell you wait my duty), take your due:
A costly off'ring on your tomb is laid,
When with my blood the price of yours is paid.
Ah! whither am I hurry'd? Ah! forgive,
Ye shades, and let your sister's issue live;
A mother cannot give him death; tho' he
Deserves it, he deserves it not from me.
Then shall th' unpunish'd wretch insult the slain,
Triumphant live, nor only live, but reign?
While you, thin shades, the sport of winds, are tost
O'er dreary plains, or tread the burning coast.
I cannot, cannot bear; 'tis past, 'tis done;
Perish this impious, this detested son:
Perish his sire, and perish I withal;
And let the house's heir, and the hop'd kingdom fall.
Where is the mother fled, her pious love,
And where the pains with which ten months I strove!
Ah! had'st thou dy'd, my son, in infant years,
Thy little herse had been bedew'd with tears.
Thou liv'st by me; to me thy breath resign;
Mine is the merit, the demerit thine.
Thy life by double title I require;
Once giv'n at birth, and once preserv'd from fire:
One murder pay, or add one murder more,
And me to them who fell by thee restore.
I would, but cannot: my son's image stands
Before my sight; and now their angry hands
My brothers hold, and vengeance these exact;
This pleads compassion, and repents the fact.
He pleads in vain, and I pronounce his doom:
My brothers, though unjustly, shall o'ercome.
But having paid their injur'd ghosts their due,
My son requires my death, and mine shall his pursue.
At this, for the last time, she lifts her hand,
Averts her eyes, and, half unwilling, drops the brand.
The brand, amid the flaming fewel thrown,
Or drew, or seem'd to draw, a dying groan;
The fires themselves but faintly lick'd their prey,
Then loath'd their impious food, and would have shrunk away.
Just then the heroe cast a doleful cry,
And in those absent flames began to fry:
The blind contagion rag'd within his veins;
But he with manly patience bore his pains:
He fear'd not Fate, but only griev'd to die
Without an honest wound, and by a death so dry.
Happy Ancaeus, thrice aloud he cry'd,
With what becoming fate in arms he dy'd!
Then call'd his brothers, sisters, sire around,
And, her to whom his nuptial vows were bound,
Perhaps his mother; a long sigh she drew,
And his voice failing, took his last adieu.
For as the flames augment, and as they stay
At their full height, then languish to decay,
They rise and sink by fits; at last they soar
In one bright blaze, and then descend no more:
Just so his inward heats, at height, impair,
'Till the last burning breath shoots out the soul in air.
Now lofty Calidon in ruins lies;
All ages, all degrees unsluice their eyes,
And Heav'n, and Earth resound with murmurs, groans, and cries.
Matrons and maidens beat their breasts, and tear
Their habits, and root up their scatter'd hair:
The wretched father, father now no more,
With sorrow sunk, lies prostrate on the floor,
Deforms his hoary locks with dust obscene,
And curses age, and loaths a life prolong'd with pain.
By steel her stubborn soul his mother freed,
And punish'd on her self her impious deed.
Had I a hundred tongues, a wit so large
As could their hundred offices discharge;
Had Phoebus all his Helicon bestow'd
In all the streams, inspiring all the God;
Those tongues, that wit, those streams, that God in vain
Would offer to describe his sisters' pain:
They beat their breasts with many a bruizing blow,
'Till they turn livid, and corrupt the snow.
The corps they cherish, while the corps remains,
And exercise, and rub with fruitless pains;
And when to fun'ral flames 'tis born away,
They kiss the bed on which the body lay:
And when those fun'ral flames no longer burn
(The dust compos'd within a pious urn),
Ev'n in that urn their brother they confess,
And hug it in their arms, and to their bosoms press.
His tomb is rais'd; then, stretch'd along the ground,
Those living monuments his tomb surround:
Ev'n to his name, inscrib'd, their tears they pay,
'Till tears, and kisses wear his name away.
But Cynthia now had all her fury spent,
Not with less ruin than a race content:
Excepting Gorge, perish'd all the seed,
And her whom Heav'n for Hercules decreed.
Satiate at last, no longer she pursu'd
The weeping sisters; but With Wings endu'd,
And horny beaks, and sent to flit in air;
Who yearly round the tomb in feather'd flocks repair.
The Transformation of the Naiads
Theseus mean-while acquitting well his share
In the bold chace confed'rate like a war,
To Athens' lofty tow'rs his march ordain'd,
By Pallas lov'd, and where Erectheus reign'd.
But Achelous stop'd him on the way,
By rains a deluge, and constrain'd his stay.
O fam'd for glorious deeds, and great by blood,
Rest here, says he, nor trust the rapid flood;
It solid oaks has from its margin tore,
And rocky fragments down its current bore,
The murmur hoarse, and terrible the roar.
Oft have I seen herds with their shelt'ring fold
Forc'd from the banks, and in the torrent roul'd;
Nor strength the bulky steer from ruin freed,
Nor matchless swiftness sav'd the racing steed.
In cataracts when the dissolving snow
Falls from the hills, and floods the plains below;
Toss'd by the eddies with a giddy round,
Strong youths are in the sucking whirlpools drown'd.
'Tis best with me in safety to abide,
'Till usual bounds restrain the ebbing tide,
And the low waters in their channel glide.
Theseus perswaded, in compliance bow'd:
So kind an offer, and advice so good,
O Achelous, cannot be refus'd;
I'll use them both, said he; and both he us'd.
The grot he enter'd, pumice built the hall,
And tophi made the rustick of the wall;
The floor, soft moss, an humid carpet spread,
And various shells the chequer'd roof inlaid.
'Twas now the hour when the declining sun
Two thirds had of his daily journey run;
At the spread table Theseus took his place,
Next his companions in the daring chace;
Perithous here, there elder Lelex lay,
His locks betraying age with sprinkled grey.
Acharnia's river-God dispos'd the rest,
Grac'd with the equal honour of the feast,
Elate with joy, and proud of such a guest.
The nymphs were waiters, and with naked feet
In order serv'd the courses of the meat.
The banquet done, delicious wine they brought,
Of one transparent gem the cup was wrought.
Then the great heroe of this gallant train,
Surveying far the prospect of the main:
What is that land, says he, the waves embrace?
(And with his finger pointed at the place);
Is it one parted isle which stands alone?
How nam'd? and yet methinks it seems not one.
To whom the watry God made this reply;
'Tis not one isle, but five; distinct they lye;
'Tis distance which deceives the cheated eye.
But that Diana's act may seem less strange,
These once proud Naiads were, before their change.
'Twas on a day more solemn than the rest,
Ten bullocks slain, a sacrificial feast:
The rural Gods of all the region near
They bid to dance, and taste the hallow'd cheer.
Me they forgot: affronted with the slight,
My rage, and stream swell'd to the greatest height;
And with the torrent of my flooding store,
Large woods from woods, and fields from fields I tore.
The guilty nymphs, oh! then, remembring me,
I, with their country, wash'd into the sea;
And joining waters with the social main,
Rent the gross land, and split the firm champagne.
Since, the Echinades, remote from shore
Are view'd as many isles, as nymphs before.
Perimele turn'd into an Island
But yonder far, lo, yonder does appear
An isle, a part to me for ever dear.
From that (it sailors Perimele name)
I doating, forc'd by rape a virgin's fame.
Hippodamas's passion grew so strong,
Gall'd with th' abuse, and fretted at the wrong,
He cast his pregnant daughter from a rock;
I spread my waves beneath, and broke the shock;
And as her swimming weight my stream convey'd,
I su'd for help divine, and thus I pray'd:
O pow'rful thou, whose trident does comm and
The realm of waters, which surround the land;
We sacred rivers, wheresoe'er begun,
End in thy lot, and to thy empire run.
With favour hear, and help with present aid;
Her whom I bear 'twas guilty I betray'd.
Yet if her father had been just, or mild,
He would have been less impious to his child;
In her, have pity'd force in the abuse;
In me, admitted love for my excuse.
O let relief for her hard case be found,
Her, whom paternal rage expell'd from ground,
Her, whom paternal rage relentless drown'd.
Grant her some place, or change her to a place,
Which I may ever clasp with my embrace.
His nodding head the sea's great ruler bent,
And all his waters shook with his assent.
The nymph still swam, tho' with the fright distrest,
I felt her heart leap trembling in her breast;
But hardning soon, whilst I her pulse explore,
A crusting Earth cas'd her stiff body o'er;
And as accretions of new-cleaving soil
Inlarg'd the mass, the nymph became an isle.
The Story of Baucis and Philemon
Thus Achelous ends: his audience hear
With admiration, and admiring, fear
The Pow'rs of Heav'n; except Ixion's Son,
Who laugh'd at all the Gods, believ'd in none:
He shook his impious head, and thus replies.
These legends are no more than pious lies:
You attri bute too much to heav'nly sway,
To think they give us forms, and take away.
The rest of better minds, their sense declar'd
Against this doctrine, and with horror heard.
Then Lelex rose, an old experienc'd man,
And thus with sober gravity began;
Heav'n's pow'r is infinite: Earth, Air, and Sea,
The manufacture mass, the making Pow'r obey:
By proof to clear your doubt; in Phrygian ground
Two neighb'ring trees, with walls encompass'd round,
Stand on a mod'rate rise, with wonder shown,
One a hard oak, a softer linden one:
I saw the place, and them, by Pittheus sent
To Phrygian realms, my grandsire's government.
Not far from thence is seen a lake, the haunt
Of coots, and of the fishing cormorant:
Here Jove with Hermes came; but in disguise
Of mortal men conceal'd their deities;
One laid aside his thunder, one his rod;
And many toilsome steps together trod:
For harbour at a thousand doors they knock'd,
Not one of all the thousand but was lock'd.
At last an hospitable house they found,
A homely shed; the roof, not far from ground,
Was thatch'd with reeds, and straw, together bound.
There Baucis and Philemon liv'd, and there
Had liv'd long marry'd, and a happy pair:
Now old in love, though little was their store,
Inur'd to want, their poverty they bore,
Nor aim'd at wealth, professing to be poor.
For master, or for servant here to call,
Was all alike, where only two were all.
Command was none, where equal love was paid,
Or rather both commanded, both obey'd.
From lofty roofs the Gods repuls'd before,
Now stooping, enter'd through the little door:
The man (their hearty welcome first express'd)
A common settle drew for either guest,
Inviting each his weary limbs to rest.
But ere they sate, officious Baucis lays
Two cushions stuff'd with straw, the seat to raise;
Coarse, but the best she had; then rakes the load
Of ashes from the hearth, and spreads abroad
The living coals; and, lest they should expire,
With leaves, and bark she feeds her infant fire:
It smoaks; and then with trembling breath she blows,
'Till in a chearful blaze the flames arose.
With brush-wood, and with chips she streng thens these,
And adds at last the boughs of rotten trees.
The fire thus form'd, she sets the kettle on
(Like burnish'd gold the little seether shone),
Next took the coleworts which her husb and got
From his own ground (a small well-water'd spot);
She stripp'd the stalks of all their leaves; the best
She cull'd, and them with handy care she drest.
High o'er the hearth a chine of bacon hung;
Good old Philemon seiz'd it with a prong,
And from the sooty rafter drew it down,
Then cut a slice, but scarce enough for one;
Yet a large portion of a little store,
Which for their sakes alone he wish'd were more.
This in the pot he plung'd without delay,
To tame the flesh, and drain the salt away.
The time beween, before the fire they sat,
And shorten'd the delay by pleasing chat.
A beam there was, on which a beechen pail
Hung by the handle, on a driven nail:
This fill'd with water, gently warm'd, they set
Before their guests; in this they bath'd their feet,
And after with clean towels dry'd their sweat.
This done, the host produc'd the genial bed,
Sallow the feet, the borders, and the sted,
Which with no costly coverlet they spread,
But coarse old garments; yet such robes as these
They laid alone, at feasts, on holidays.
The good old housewife, tucking up her gown,
The table sets; th' invited Gods lie down.
The trivet-table of a foot was lame,
A blot which prudent Baucis overcame,
Who thrusts beneath the limping leg a sherd,
So was the mended board exactly rear'd:
Then rubb'd it o'er with newly gather'd mint,
A wholsom herb, that breath'd a grateful scent.
Pallas began the feast, where first was seen
The party-colour'd olive, black, and green:
Autumnal cornels next in order serv'd,
In lees of wine well pickled, and preserv'd.
A garden-sallad was the third supply,
Of endive, radishes, and succory:
Then curds, and cream, the flow'r of country fare,
And new-laid eggs, which Baucis' busie care
Turn'd by a gentle fire, and roasted rare.
All these in ear then ware were serv'd to board;
And next in place, an ear then pitcher stor'd,
With liquor of the best the cottage could afford.
This was the table's ornament and pride,
With figures wrought: like pages at his side
Stood beechen bowls; and these were shining clean,
Varnish'd with wax without, and lin'd within.
By this the boiling kettle had prepar'd,
And to the table sent the smoaking lard;
On which with eager appetite they dine,
A sav'ry bit, that serv'd to relish wine:
The wine itself was suiting to the rest,
Still working in the must, and lately press'd.
The second course succeeds like that before,
Plums, apples, nuts, and of their wintry store
Dry figs, and grapes, and wrinkled dates were set
In canisters, t' enlarge the little treat:
All these a milk-white honey-comb surround,
Which in the midst the country-banquet crown'd:
But the kind hosts their entertainment grace
With hearty welcome, and an open face:
In all they did, you might discern with ease,
A willing mind, and a desire to please.
Mean-time the beechen bowls went round, and still,
Though often empty'd, were observ'd to fill;
Fill'd without hands, and of their own accord
Ran without feet, and danc'd about the board.
Devotion seiz'd the pair, to see the feast
With wine, and of no common grape, increas'd;
And up they held their hands, and fell to pray'r,
Excusing, as they could, their country fare.
One goose they had ('twas all they could allow),
A wakeful centry, and on duty now,
Whom to the Gods for sacrifice they vow:
Her with malicious zeal the couple view'd;
She ran for life, and limping they pursu'd:
Full well the fowl perceiv'd their bad intent,
And would not make her master's compliment;
But persecuted, to the Pow'rs she flies,
And close between the legs of Jove she lies:
He with a gracious ear the suppliant heard,
And sav'd her life; then what he has declar'd,
And own'd the God. The neighbourhood, said he,
Shall justly perish for impiety:
You stand alone exempted; but obey
With speed, and follow where we lead the way:
Leave these accurs'd; and to the mountain's height
Ascend; nor once look backward in your flight.
They haste, and what their tardy feet deny'd,
The trusty staff (their better leg) supply'd.
An arrow's flight they wanted to the top,
And there secure, but spent with travel, stop;
Then turn their now no more forbidden eyes;
Lost in a lake the floated level lies:
A watry desart covers all the plains,
Their cot alone, as in an isle, remains.
Wondring, with weeping eyes, while they deplore
Their neighbours' fate, and country now no more,
Their little shed, scarce large enough for two,
Seems, from the ground increas'd, in height and bulk to grow.
A stately temple shoots within the skies,
The crotches of their cot in columns rise:
The pavement polish'd marble they behold,
The gates with sculpture grac'd, the spires and tiles of gold.
Then thus the sire of Gods, with looks serene,
Speak thy desire, thou only just of men;
And thou, o woman, only worthy found
To be with such a man in marriage bound.
A-while they whisper; then, to Jove address'd,
Philemon thus prefers their joint request:
We crave to serve before your sacred shrine,
And offer at your altars rites divine:
And since not any action of our life
Has been polluted with domestick strife;
We beg one hour of death, that neither she
With widow's tears may live to bury me,
Nor weeping I, with wither'd arms may bear
My breathless Baucis to the sepulcher.
The Godheads sign their suit. They run their race
In the same tenour all th' appointed space:
Then, when their hour was come, while they relate
These past adventures at the temple gate,
Old Baucis is by old Philemon seen
Sprouting with sudden leaves of spritely green:
Old Baucis look'd where old Philemon stood,
And saw his leng then'd arms a sprouting wood:
New roots their fasten'd feet begin to bind,
Their bodies stiffen in a rising rind:
Then, ere the bark above their shoulders grew,
They give, and take at once their last adieu.
At once, Farewell, o faithful spouse, they said;
At once th' incroaching rinds their closing lips invade.
Ev'n yet, an ancient Tyanaean shows
A spreading oak, that near a linden grows;
The neighbourhood confirm the prodigy,
Grave men, not vain of tongue, or like to lie.
I saw my self the garlands on their boughs,
And tablets hung for gifts of granted vows;
And off'ring fresher up, with pious pray'r,
The good, said I, are God's peculiar care,
And such as honour Heav'n, shall heav'nly honour share.
The Changes of Proteus
He ceas'd in his relation to proceed,
Whilst all admir'd the author, and the deed;
But Theseus most, inquisitive to know
From Gods what wondrous alterations grow.
Whom thus the Calydonian stream address'd,
Rais'd high to speak, the couch his elbow press'd.
Some, when transform'd, fix in the lasting change;
Some with more right, thro' various figures range.
Proteus, thus large thy privilege was found,
Thou inmate of the seas, which Earth surround.
Sometimes a bloming youth you grac'd the shore;
Oft a fierce lion, or a furious boar:
With glist'ning spires now seem'd an hissing snake,
The bold would tremble in his hands to take:
With horns assum'd a bull; sometimes you prov'd
A tree by roots, a stone by weight unmov'd:
Sometimes two wav'ring contraries became,
Flow'd down in water, or aspir'd in flame.
The Story of Erisichthon
In various shapes thus to deceive the eyes,
Without a settled stint of her disguise,
Rash Erisichthon's daughter had the pow'r,
And brought it to Autolicus in dow'r.
Her atheist sire the slighted Gods defy'd,
And ritual honours to their shrines deny'd.
As fame reports, his hand an ax sustain'd,
Which Ceres' consecrated grove prophan'd;
Which durst the venerable gloom invade,
And violate with light the awful shade.
An ancient oak in the dark center stood,
The covert's glory, and itself a wood:
Garlands embrac'd its shaft, and from the boughs
Hung tablets, monuments of prosp'rous vows.
In the cool dusk its unpierc'd verdure spread,
The Dryads oft their hallow'd dances led;
And oft, when round their gaging arms they cast,
Full fifteen ells it measu'rd in the waste:
Its height all under standards did surpass,
As they aspir'd above the humbler grass.
These motives, which would gentler minds restrain,
Could not make Triope's bold son abstain;
He sternly charg'd his slaves with strict decree,
To fell with gashing steel the sacred tree.
But whilst they, lingring, his commands delay'd,
He snatch'd an Ax, and thus blaspheming said:
Was this no oak, nor Ceres' favourite care,
But Ceres' self, this arm, unaw'd, shou'd dare
Its leafy honours in the dust to spread,
And level with the earth its airy head.
He spoke, and as he poiz'd a slanting stroak,
Sighs heav'd, and tremblings shook the frighted oak;
Its leaves look'd sickly, pale its acorns grew,
And its long branches sweat a chilly dew.
But when his impious hand a wound bestow'd,
Blood from the mangled bark in currents flow'd.
When a devoted bull of mighty size,
A sinning nation's grand atonement, dies;
With such a plenty from the spouting veins,
A crimson stream the turfy altars stains.
The wonder all amaz'd; yet one more bold,
The fact dissuading, strove his ax to hold.
But the Thessalian, obstinately bent,
Too proud to change, too harden'd to repent,
On his kind monitor, his eyes, which burn'd
With rage, and with his eyes his weapon turn'd;
Take the reward, says he, of pious dread:
Then with a blow lopp'd off his parted head.
No longer check'd, the wretch his crime pursu'd,
Doubled his strokes, and sacrilege renew'd;
When from the groaning trunk a voice was heard,
A Dryad I, by Ceres' love preferr'd,
Within the circle of this clasping rind
Coeval grew, and now in ruin join'd;
But instant vengeance shall thy sin pursue,
And death is chear'd with this prophetick view.
At last the oak with cords enforc'd to bow,
Strain'd from the top, and sap'd with wounds below,
The humbler wood, partaker of its fate,
Crush'd with its fall, and shiver'd with its weight.
The grove destroy'd, the sister Dryads moan,
Griev'd at its loss, and frighted at their own.
Strait, suppliants for revenge to Ceres go,
In sable weeds, expressive of their woe.
The beauteous Goddess with a graceful air
Bow'd in consent, and nodded to their pray'r.
The awful motion shook the fruitful ground,
And wav'd the fields with golden harvests crown'd.
Soon she contriv'd in her projecting mind
A plague severe, and piteous in its kind
(If plagues for crimes of such presumptuous height
Could pity in the softest breast create).
With pinching want, and hunger's keenest smart,
To tear his vitals, and corrode his heart.
But since her near approach by Fate's deny'd
To famine, and broad climes their pow'rs divide,
A nymph, the mountain's ranger, she address'd,
And thus resolv'd, her high commands express'd.
The Description of Famine
Where frozen Scythia's utmost bound is plac'd,
A desart lies, a melancholy waste:
In yellow crops there Nature never smil'd,
No fruitful tree to shade the barren wild.
There sluggish cold its icy station makes,
There paleness, frights, and aguish trembling shakes,
Of pining famine this the fated seat,
To whom my orders in these words repeat:
Bid her this miscreant with her sharpest pains
Chastise, and sheath herself into his veins;
Be unsubdu'd by plenty's baffled store,
Reject my empire, and defeat my pow'r.
And lest the distance, and the tedious way,
Should with the toil, and long fatigue dismay,
Ascend my chariot, and convey'd on high,
Guide the rein'd dragons thro' the parting sky.
The nymph, accepting of the granted carr,
Sprung to the seat, and posted thro' the air;
Nor stop'd 'till she to a bleak mountain came
Of wondrous height, and Caucasus its name.
There in a stony field the fiend she found,
Herbs gnawing, and roots scratching from the ground.
Her elfelock hair in matted tresses grew,
Sunk were her eyes, and pale her ghastly hue,
Wan were her lips, and foul with clammy glew.
Her throat was furr'd, her guts appear'd within
With snaky crawlings thro' her parchment skin.
Her jutting hips seem'd starting from their place,
And for a belly was a belly's space,
Her dugs hung dangling from her craggy spine,
Loose to her breast, and fasten'd to her chine.
Her joints protuberant by leanness grown,
Consumption sunk the flesh, and rais'd the bone.
Her knees large orbits bunch'd to monstrous size,
And ancles to undue proportion rise.
This plague the nymph, not daring to draw near,
At distance hail'd, and greeted from afar.
And tho' she told her charge without delay,
Tho' her arrival late, and short her stay,
She felt keen famine, or she seem'd to feel,
Invade her blood, and on her vitals steal.
She turn'd, from the infection to remove,
And back to Thessaly the serpents drove.
The fiend obey'd the Goddess' comm and
(Tho' their effects in opposition stand),
She cut her way, supported by the wind,
And reach'd the mansion by the nymph assign'd.
'Twas night, when entring Erisichthon's room,
Dissolv'd in sleep, and thoughtless of his doom,
She clasp'd his limbs, by impious labour tir'd,
With battish wings, but her whole self inspir'd;
Breath'd on his throat and chest a tainting blast,
And in his veins infus'd an endless fast.
The task dispatch'd, away the Fury flies
From plenteous regions, and from rip'ning skies;
To her old barren north she wings her speed,
And cottages distress'd with pinching need.
Still slumbers Erisichthon's senses drown,
And sooth his fancy with their softest down.
He dreams of viands delicate to eat,
And revels on imaginary meat,
Chaws with his working mouth, but chaws in vain,
And tires his grinding teeth with fruitless pain;
Deludes his throat with visionary fare,
Feasts on the wind, and banquets on the air.
The morning came, the night, and slumbers past,
But still the furious pangs of hunger last;
The cank'rous rage still gnaws with griping pains,
Stings in his throat, and in his bowels reigns.
Strait he requires, impatient in demand,
Provisions from the air, the seas, the land.
But tho' the land, air, seas, provisions grant,
Starves at full tables, and complains of want.
What to a people might in dole be paid,
Or victual cities for a long blockade,
Could not one wolfish appetite asswage;
For glutting nourishment increas'd its rage.
As rivers pour'd from ev'ry distant shore,
The sea insatiate drinks, and thirsts for more;
Or as the fire, which all materials burns,
And wasted forests into ashes turns,
Grows more voracious, as the more it preys,
Recruits dilate the flame, and spread the blaze:
So impious Erisichthon's hunger raves,
Receives refreshments, and refreshments craves.
Food raises a desire for food, and meat
Is but a new provocative to eat.
He grows more empty, as the more supply'd,
And endless cramming but extends the void.
The Transformations of Erisichthon's Daughter
Now riches hoarded by paternal care
Were sunk, the glutton swallowing up the heir.
Yet the devouring flame no stores abate,
Nor less his hunger grew with his estate.
One daughter left, as left his keen desire,
A daughter worthy of a better sire:
Her too he sold, spent Nature to sustain;
She scorn'd a lord with generous disdain,
And flying, spread her hand upon the main.
Then pray'd: Grant, thou, I bondage may escape,
And with my liberty reward thy rape;
Repay my virgin treasure with thy aid
('Twas Neptune who deflower'd the beauteous maid).
The God was mov'd, at what the fair had su'd,
When she so lately by her master view'd
In her known figure, on a sudden took
A fisher's habit, and a manly look.
To whom her owner hasted to enquire;
O thou, said he, whose baits hide treach'rous wire;
Whose art can manage, and experienc'd skill
The taper angle, and the bobbing quill,
So may the sea be ruffled with no storm,
But smooth with calms, as you the truth inform;
So your deceit may no shy fishes feel,
'Till struck, and fasten'd on the bearded steel.
Did not you standing view upon the strand,
A wand'ring maid? I'm sure I saw her stand;
Her hair disorder'd, and her homely dress
Betray'd her want, and witness'd her distress.
Me heedless, she reply'd, whoe'er you are,
Excuse, attentive to another care.
I settled on the deep my steady eye;
Fix'd on my float, and bent on my employ.
And that you may not doubt what I impart,
So may the ocean's God assist my art,
If on the beach since I my sport pursu'd,
Or man, or woman but my self I view'd.
Back o'er the sands, deluded, he withdrew,
Whilst she for her old form put off her new.
Her sire her shifting pow'r to change perceiv'd;
And various chapmen by her sale deceiv'd.
A fowl with spangled plumes, a brinded steer,
Sometimes a crested mare, or antler'd deer:
Sold for a price, she parted, to maintain
Her starving parent with dishonest gain.
At last all means, as all provisions, fail'd;
For the disease by remedies prevail'd;
His muscles with a furious bite he tore,
Gorg'd his own tatter'd flesh, and gulph'd his gore.
Wounds were his feast, his life to life a prey,
Supporting Nature by its own decay.
But foreign stories why shou'd I relate?
I too my self can to new forms translate,
Tho' the variety's not unconfin'd,
But fix'd, in number, and restrain'd in kind:
For often I this present shape retain,
Oft curl a snake the volumes of my train.
Sometimes my strength into my horns transfer'd,
A bull I march, the captain of the herd.
But whilst I once those goring weapons wore,
Vast wresting force one from my forehead tore.
Lo, my maim'd brows the injury still own;
He ceas'd; his words concluding with a groan.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
~ Ovid, BOOK THE EIGHTH
,#NFDB
12 Poetry
9 Yoga
3 Philosophy
3 Mysticism
3 Integral Yoga
3 Fiction
1 Occultism
1 Mythology
1 Islam
1 Hinduism
9 Sri Ramakrishna
3 The Mother
3 Sri Ramana Maharshi
2 Rabindranath Tagore
2 Percy Bysshe Shelley
8 The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna
6 Talks
2 The Red Book Liber Novus
2 Tagore - Poems
2 Shelley - Poems
0.00 - INTRODUCTION, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
Contact with the Brahmos increased Sri Ramakrishna's longing to encounter aspirants who would be able to follow his teachings in their purest form. "There was no limit", he once declared, "to the longing I felt at that time. During the day-time I somehow managed to control it. The secular talk of the worldly-minded was galling to me, and I would look wistfully to the day when my own beloved companions would come. I hoped to find solace in conversing with them and relating to them my own realizations. Every little incident would remind me of them, and thoughts of them wholly engrossed me. I was already arranging in my mind what I should say to one and give to another, and so on. But when the day would come to a close I would not be able to curb my feelings. The thought that another day had gone by, and they had not come, oppressed me. When, during the evening service, the temples rang with the sound of bells and conch-shells, I would climb to the roof of the kuthi in the garden and, writhing in anguish of heart, cry at the top of my voice: 'Come, my children! Oh, Where are you? I cannot bear to live without you.' A mother never longed so intensely for the sight of her child, nor a friend for his companions, nor a lover for his sweetheart, as I longed for them. Oh, it was indescribable! Shortly after this period of yearning the devotees1 began to come."
In the year 1879 occasional writings about Sri Ramakrishna by the Brahmos, in the Brahmo magazines, began to attract his future disciples from the educated middle-class Bengalis, and they continued to come till 1884. But others, too, came, feeling the subtle power of his attraction. They were an ever shifting crowd of people of all castes and creeds: Hindus and Brahmos, Vaishnavas and Saktas, the educated with university degrees and the illiterate, old and young, maharajas and beggars, journalists and artists, pundits and devotees, philosophers and the worldly-minded, jnanis and yogis, men of action and men of faith, virtuous women and prostitutes, office-holders and vagabonds, philanthropists and self-seekers, dramatists and drunkards, builders-up and pullers-down. He gave to them all, without stint, from his illimitable store of realization. No one went away empty-handed. He taught them the lofty .knowledge of the Vedanta and the soul
0.01 - Letters from the Mother to Her Son, #Some Answers From The Mother, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
It is no use lamenting, however, saying: Where are you
headed! The final collapse, the general bankruptcy seems obvious enough... unless... There is always an "unless" in the history
1.00 - The way of what is to come, #The Red Book Liber Novus, #unset, #Zen
[I] 34 My soul, Where are you? Do you hear me? I speak, I call you-are you there? I have returned, I am here again. I have shaken the dust of all the lands from my feet, and I have come to you, I am with you. After long years of long wandering, I have come to you again. Should I tell you everything I have seen, experienced, and drunk in? Or do you not want to hear about all the noise of life and the world? But one thing you must know: the one thing I have learned is that one must live this life.
This life is the way, the long sought-after way to the unfathomable, which we call divine. 35 There is no other way, all other ways are false paths. I found the right way, it led me to you, to my soul. I return, tempered and purified. Do you still know me?
1.04 - THE RABBIT SENDS IN A LITTLE BILL, #Alice in Wonderland, #Lewis Carroll, #Fiction
Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--"Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then, I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honor!"
"Here! Come and help me out of this! Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?"
1.05 - Splitting of the Spirit, #The Red Book Liber Novus, #unset, #Zen
Gods who mean the most to us. My soul, Where are you? Have I entrusted myself to a stupid animal, do I stagger like a drunkard to the grave, do I stammer stupidities like a lunatic? Is this your way, my soul? The blood boils in me and I would strangle you if I could seize you. You weave the thickest darknesses and I am like a madman caught in your net. But I yearn, teach me.
The Red Book
1.07 - Raja-Yoga in Brief, #Raja-Yoga, #Swami Vivkenanda, #unset
There was a great god-sage called Nrada. Just as there are sages among mankind, great Yogis, so there are great Yogis among the gods. Narada was a good Yogi, and very great. He travelled everywhere. One day he was passing through a forest, and saw a man who had been meditating until the white ants had built a huge mound round his body so long had he been sitting in that position. He said to Narada, " Where are you going?" Narada replied, "I am going to heaven." "Then ask God when He will be merciful to me; when I shall attain freedom." Further on Narada saw another man. He was jumping about, singing, dancing, and said, "Oh, Narada, Where are you going?" His voice and his gestures were wild. Narada said, "I am going to heaven." "Then, ask when I shall be free." Narada went on. In the course of time he came again by the same road, and there was the man who had been meditating with the ant-hill round him. He said, "Oh, Narada, did you ask the Lord about me?" "Oh, yes." "What did He say?" "The Lord told me that you would attain freedom in four more births." Then the man began to weep and wail, and said, "I have meditated until an ant-hill has grown around me, and I have four more births yet!" Narada went to the other man. "Did you ask my question?" "Oh, yes. Do you see this tamarind tree? I have to tell you that as many leaves as there are on that tree, so many times, you shall be born, and then you shall attain freedom." The man began to dance for joy, and said, "I shall have freedom after such a short time!" A voice came, "My child, you will have freedom this minute." That was the reward for his perseverance. He was ready to work through all those births, nothing discouraged him. But the first man felt that even four more births were too long. Only perseverance, like that of the man who was willing to wait aeons brings about the highest result.
1.081 - The Rolling, #Quran, #unset, #Zen
26. So Where are you heading?
27. It is only a Reminder to all mankind.
1.08 - BOOK THE EIGHTH, #Metamorphoses, #Ovid, #Poetry
Ho Icarus! Where are you? as he flies;
Where shall I seek my boy? he cries again,
1.13 - THE MASTER AND M., #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
"Another day it was revealed to me that I had devotees-my intimate companions, my very own. Thereafter I would climb to the roof of the kuthi as soon as the bells and the conchshells of the evening service sounded in the temples, and cry out with a longing heart: 'Oh, Where are you all? Come here! I am dying to see you!'
(To M.) "Well, what do you think of these visions?"
1.19 - THE MASTER AND HIS INJURED ARM, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
MASTER (to the devotees): "The Mother has put me in such a state of mind that I cannot hide anything from anyone. Mine is the condition of a child. Rkhl doesn't understand it. He covers my injured arm, wrapping my body with a cloth lest others should see my injury and criticize me. He took Dr. Madhu aside and reported my illness. But I shouted and said: 'Hello! Where are you, Madhusudan? Come and see. My arm is broken!'
"I used to sleep in the same room with Mathur and his wife. They took care of me as if I were their own child. I was then passing through a state of divine madness. Mathur would ask me, 'Father, do you hear our conversation?' 'Yes', I would reply.
1.23 - FESTIVAL AT SURENDRAS HOUSE, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
Radha's friend says: "I don't have to call Krishna. He Himself will come to me." But none the less, she follows the woman of Mathura and goes to Krishna's palace. In the street she weeps overcome with grief, and prays to Krishna: "O Hari, Where are you? O Life of the gopis! O Enchanter of our hearts! O Beloved of Radha! O Hari, Remover of Your devotees' shame! Come to us once more! With great pride I said to the people of Mathura that You Yourself would come to me. Please do not humiliate me."
In scorn says the woman of Mathura:
--
Soul of the gopis! Oh, Where are you?
Come to me here and save my life.
--
Ah, Where are you, Beloved of Radha?
Lord of our hearts and Friend of our souls!
1.240 - 1.300 Talks, #Talks, #Sri Ramana Maharshi, #Hinduism
M.: Where are you going? You are not going anywhere. Even supposing you are the body, has your body come from Lucknow to
Tiruvannamalai? You had simply sat in the car and one conveyance or another had moved; and finally you say that you have come here.
--
M.: How can you get it? It is not apart from you. Leave alone not finding it. Where are you now? Do you mean to say "I am not"?
D.: What or how am I?
1.240 - Talks 2, #Talks, #Sri Ramana Maharshi, #Hinduism
M.: Where are you going? You are not going anywhere. Even supposing you are the body, has your body come from Lucknow to
Tiruvannamalai? You had simply sat in the car and one conveyance or another had moved; and finally you say that you have come here.
--
M.: How can you get it? It is not apart from you. Leave alone not finding it. Where are you now? Do you mean to say I am not?
D.: What or how am I?
--
M.: We have become rooted in forms and so we require a concrete form for meditating upon. Only that which we contemplate will in the end remain over. When you contemplate the other thoughts disappear. So long as you need to contemplate there are other thoughts, Where are you? You contemplate because you exist. For the contemplator must contemplate.
The contemplation can only be where he is. Contemplation wards off all other thoughts. You should merge yourself in the source. At times we merge in the source unconsciously, as in sleep, death, swoon, etc.
--
A location is however given to it with reference to the body. You know that you are. Where are you? You are in the body and not out of it. Yet not the whole body. Though you pervade the whole body still you admit of a centre where from all your thoughts start and wherein they subside. Even when the limbs are amputated you are there but with defective senses. So a centre must be admitted.
That is called the Heart. The Heart is not merely the centre but the
--
M.: It is wrong to say so. Where are you now if not in the Self? Where should you go?
All that is necessary is the stern belief that you are the Self. Say rather that the other activities throw a veil on you.
--
M.: Where are you now? Where should you go?
D.: I know I am; but I do not know what I am.
1.300 - 1.400 Talks, #Talks, #Sri Ramana Maharshi, #Hinduism
M.: We have become rooted in forms and so we require a concrete form for meditating upon. Only that which we contemplate will in the end remain over. When you contemplate the other thoughts disappear. So long as you need to contemplate there are other thoughts, Where are you? You contemplate because you exist. For the contemplator must contemplate.
The contemplation can only be where he is. Contemplation wards off all other thoughts. You should merge yourself in the source. At times we merge in the source unconsciously, as in sleep, death, swoon, etc.
1.400 - 1.450 Talks, #Talks, #Sri Ramana Maharshi, #Hinduism
A location is however given to it with reference to the body. You know that you are. Where are you? You are in the body and not out of it. Yet not the whole body. Though you pervade the whole body still you admit of a centre where from all your thoughts start and wherein they subside. Even when the limbs are amputated you are there but with defective senses. So a centre must be admitted.
That is called the Heart. The Heart is not merely the centre but the
--
M.: It is wrong to say so. Where are you now if not in the Self? Where should you go?
All that is necessary is the stern belief that you are the Self. Say rather that the other activities throw a veil on you.
--
M.: Where are you now? Where should you go?
D.: I know 'I am'; but I do not know what I am.
1.439, #Talks, #Sri Ramana Maharshi, #Hinduism
M.: Yes. It is Bhagavan that says, Become independent and solve the riddle yourself. It is for you to do it. Again: Where are you now that you ask this question? Are you in the world, or is the world within
Talks with Sri Ramana Maharshi you? You must admit that the world is not perceived in your sleep although you cannot deny your existence then. The world appears when you wake up. So where is it? Clearly the world is your thought.
--
M.: You should stay just where you are now. But Where are you now?
Are you in the house, or is the house in you? Is there any house
1.450 - 1.500 Talks, #Talks, #Sri Ramana Maharshi, #Hinduism
M.: Yes. It is Bhagavan that says, "Become independent and solve the riddle yourself. It is for you to do it." Again: Where are you now that you ask this question? Are you in the world, or is the world within
447
1.83 - Epistola Ultima, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Philosophy
Swami Vivekananda summarised Yoga under four headings, and I do not think that one can improve on that classification. His four are: Gnana, Raja, Bhakti and Hatha, and comprise all divisions that it is desirable to make. As soon as one begins to add such sections as Mantra Yoga, you are adding to without enriching the classification, and once you begin Where are you to stop? But I honestly believe that the excessive simplication given in Eight Lectures on Yoga is a practical advantage. Any given type of Yogas is the work of a lifetime and for that reason alone it is desirable to confine oneself from the beginning to an absolutely simple programme.
What then is the difference between Yoga and Magick? Magick is extraversion, the discovery of and subsequently the classification of and finally the control of new worlds on new planes. So far as it concerns the development of the mind its object and method are perfectly simple. What is wanted is exaltation. The aim is to identify oneself with the highest essence of whatever world is under consideration.
1929-05-26 - Individual, illusion of separateness - Hostile forces and the mental plane - Psychic world, psychic being - Spiritual and psychic - Words, understanding speech and reading - Hostile forces, their utility - Illusion of action, true action, #Questions And Answers 1929-1931, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
If you look from one plane of consciousness, the individual will appear to you as if he were not only an instrument and recorder, but a creator. But look from another and higher plane of consciousness with a wider view of things and you will see that this is only an appearance. In the workings of the universe whatever happens is the result of all that has happened before. How do you propose to separate one being from the integral play of the manifestation or one movement from the whole mass of movements? Where are you going to put the origin of a thing or its beginning? The whole play is a rigidly connected chain; one link merges imperceptibly into another. Nothing can be taken out of the chain and explained by itself as if it were its own source and beginning.
And what do you mean when you say that the individual creates or originates a movement? Does he do it all out of himself or out of nothing as it were? If a being were able to create in that way a thought or feeling or action or anything else, he would be the creator of the world. It is only if the individual goes back in his consciousness into the greater Consciousness which is the origin of things, that he can be an originator; he can initiate a movement only by identifying himself with the conscious Power which is the ultimate source of all movements.
1953-07-29, #Questions And Answers 1953, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
"If you look from one plane of consciousness, the individual will appear to you as if he were not only an instrument and recorder, but a creator. But look from another and higher plane of consciousness with a wider view of things and you will see that this is only an appearance. In the workings of the universe whatever happens is the result of all that has happened before. How do you propose to separate one being from the integral play of the manifestation or one movement from the whole mass of movements? Where are you going to put the origin of a thing or its beginning? The whole play is a rigidly connected chain; one link merges imperceptibly into another. Nothing can be taken out of the chain and explained by itself as if it were its own source and beginning."
Questions and Answers 1929-1931 (26 May 1929)
1.anon - The Epic of Gilgamesh Tablet II, #Anonymous - Poems, #unset, #Zen
"Young man, Where are you hurrying!
Why this arduous pace!"
1f.lovecraft - The Mystery of the Grave-Yard, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
men in the graveyard shouting Bell! Bell! Where are you old man!? and
acting very suspiciously. He then followed them, and they entered The
1.kbr - O Slave, liberate yourself, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
English version by Sunil Uniyal Original Language Hindi O Slave, liberate yourself. Where are you, and where's your home, find it in your lifetime, man. If you fail to wake up now, you'll be helpless when the end comes. Says Kabir, listen, O wise one, the siege of Death is hard to withstand. <
1.mah - I Witnessed My Maker, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
English version by Mahmood Jamal Original Language Arabic I witnessed my Maker with my heart's eye. I asked, 'Who are You?' He answered, 'You!' For You one cannot ask, Where? Because where is Where for You? You do not pass through the imagination Or else we'll know where You are. You are He who is everywhere Yet You are nowhere. Where are you? In my annihilation is my annihilation's annihilation And You are found in my annihilation. [2469.jpg] -- from Islamic Mystical Poetry: Sufi Verse from the Early Mystics to Rumi, Translated by Mahmood Jamal <
1.pbs - Oedipus Tyrannus or Swellfoot The Tyrant, #Shelley - Poems, #Percy Bysshe Shelley, #Fiction
My dear friend, Where are your wits? as if
She does not always toast a piece of cheese
1.pbs - The Cyclops, #Shelley - Poems, #Percy Bysshe Shelley, #Fiction
Detested wretch! Where are you?
ULYSSES:
1.rb - The Guardian-Angel, #Browning - Poems, #Robert Browning, #Poetry
My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend?
How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end?
1.rt - Meeting, #Tagore - Poems, #Rabindranath Tagore, #Poetry
Crying, Where are you, O where!
Transcreation of poem 14 from the collection Gitimalya. Transcreation by Kumud Biswas.
1.rt - The Champa Flower, #Tagore - Poems, #Rabindranath Tagore, #Poetry
You would call, "Baby, Where are you?" and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
1.vpt - He promised hed return tomorrow, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
English version by Azfar Hussain Original Language Maithili He promised he'd return tomorrow. And I wrote everywhere on my floor: "Tomorrow." The morning broke, when they all asked: Now tell us, when will your "Tomorrow" come? Tomorrow, Tomorrow, Where are you? I cried and cried, but my Tomorrow never returned! Vidyapati says: O listen, dear! Your Tomorrow became a today with other women. <
1.wby - The Wanderings Of Oisin - Book I, #Yeats - Poems, #William Butler Yeats, #Poetry
But Where are your noble kith and kin,
And from what country do you ride?'
2.14 - AT RAMS HOUSE, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
"Once Lakshmi and Narayana were seated in Vaikuntha, when Narayana suddenly stood up. Lakshmi had been stroking His feet. She said, 'Lord, Where are you going?' Narayana answered: 'One of My devotees is in great danger. I must save him.' With these words He went out. But He came back immediately. Lakshmi said, 'Lord, why have You returned so soon?' Narayana smiled and said: The devotee was going along the road overwhelmed with love for Me. Some washermen were drying clothes on the grass, and the devotee walked over the clothes. At this the washermen chased him and were going to beat him with their sticks. So I ran out to protect him.' 'But why have You come back?' asked Lakshmi. Narayana laughed and said: 'I saw the devotee himself picking up a brick to throw at them. (All laugh.) So I came back.'
"I said to Keshab, 'You must renounce your ego.' Keshab replied, 'If I do, how can I keep my organization together?'
2.17 - THE MASTER ON HIMSELF AND HIS EXPERIENCES, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
"At the time of the evening service I used to cry out from the roof of the kuthi, weeping: 'Oh, Where are you all? Come to me!' You see, they are all gathering here, one by one.
"God Himself dwells in this body. It is He who, of His own accord, is working with these devotees.
2.22 - THE MASTER AT COSSIPORE, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
"At the hour of the evening worship in the Kali temple I would climb to the roof of the kuthi and cry out: 'O devotees, Where are you all? Come to me soon! I shall die of the company of worldly people!' I told all this to the 'Englishmen'. They said it was all an illusion of my mind. 'Perhaps it is', I said to myself, and became calm. But now it is all coming true; the devotees are coming.
"The Divine Mother also showed me in a vision the five suppliers of my needs; first, Mathur Babu, and second, Sambhu Mallick, whom I had not then met. I had a vision of a fair-skinned man with a cap on his head. Many days later, when I first met Sambhu, I recalled that vision; I realized that it was he whom I had seen in that ecstatic state. I haven't yet found out the three other suppliers of my wants. But they were all of a fair complexion. Surendra looks like one of them.
2.25 - AFTER THE PASSING AWAY, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
"He said to me: 'I used to climb to the roof of the kuthi and cry: "O devotees, Where are you all? Come to me, O devotees! I am about to die. I shall certainly die if I do not see you." And the Divine Mother told me, "The devotees will come." You see, everything is turning out to be true.'
"What else could I say? I kept quiet.
3.15 - THE OTHER DANCING SONG, #Thus Spoke Zarathustra, #Friedrich Nietzsche, #Philosophy
linger. Where are you? Give me your hand! Or only one
finger
--
witch! Where are you? In my face two red blotches
from your hand itch.
Aeneid, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
From what coasts have you come? Where are you going?"
To these her questions he replied with sighs;
--
to try these unknown ways? Where are you heading?
What is your tribe? Your home? Do you bring peace
--
cries out: "And Where are you retreating to?
What other walls, what ramparts lie beyond?
Sayings of Sri Ramakrishna (text), #Sayings of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
"O brother Krishna, Where are you? Come to me and protect me. I am frightened." Hearing the call of
the child, so full of faith, Krishna could no longer remain away. He appeared in the form of a young boy
Talks 100-125, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
M.: Where are you now that you want to reach the Heart? Are you standing apart from the Self?
D.: I am in my body.
Talks 600-652, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
M.: You should stay just where you are now. But Where are you now?
Are you in the house, or is the house in you? Is there any house apart from you? If you get fixed in your own place, you will see all things have merged into you, and there will be no cause for such questions as these.
The Pilgrims Progress, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
{30} PLI. Then said Pliable; Ah! neighbour Christian, Where are you now?
CHR. Truly, said Christian, I do not know.
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https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Scooby-Doo,_Where_Are_You!
Funky Phantom (1971 - 1974) - The Funky Phantom was a Saturday morning cartoon, produced by Hanna-Barbera Productions in 1971 for ABC. Similar to Hanna-Barbera's successful Scooby-Doo, Where Are You!, The Funky Phantom featured three teenagers; Skip (voiced by Micky Dolenz), April (Kristina Holland), Augie (Tommy Cook) and their...
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kids (1973 - 1974) - Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kids was a Saturday morning cartoon produced by Hanna-Barbera Productions in 1973 for NBC. Very similar to both Scooby-Doo, Where Are You! and Josie and the Pussycats, the show depicted the adventures of a team of teenage intelligence agents (Butch, Merilee, Stephanie,...
What's New, Scooby-Doo? (2002 - 2006) - "What's New, Scooby-Doo?" is a more realistic modern version of "Scooby-Doo, Where Are You?" The show lacks a laugh track and uses new, original sound effects. The theme song is performed by Simple Plan.
Car 54, Where Are You? (1961 - 1963) - The misadventures of two of New York's finest (a Mutt and Jeff pair) in the mythical 53rd precinct in the Bronx.
Scooby-Doo, Where Are You! (1969 - 1976) - The very first (and flagship) series of Hanna-Barbera's Scooby Doo series. Scooby-Doo, Where Are You! was the result of CBS and Hanna-Barbera's plans to create a non-violent Saturday morning program which would appease the parent watch groups that had protested the superhero-based programs of the mi...
Pontoffel Pock, Where Are You?(1980) - A young man wishes he could get away and his wish is granted in a globetrotting, song singing way.
Scooby Doo, Where Are You! ::: TV-G | 22min | Animation, Adventure, Comedy | TV Series (19691970) -- A group of teenage friends and their Great Dane (Scooby-Doo) travel in a bright green van solving strange and hilarious mysteries, while returning from or going to a regular teenage function. Creators:
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Car 54, Where Are You?
FloopaLoo, Where Are You?
List of Car 54, Where Are You? episodes
List of Scooby-Doo, Where Are You! episodes
Mrs. Dery Where Are You?
Old World Underground, Where Are You Now?
Pontoffel Pock, Where Are You?
Scooby-Doo, Where Are You!
So Where Are You?
Where Are You
Where Are You? (1937 song)
Where Are You Baby?
Where Are You Christmas?
Where Are You Dying Tonight?
Where Are You Going?
Where Are You Going, Alfonso XII?
Where Are You Going All Naked?
Where Are You Going Mosh?
Where Are You Going on Holiday?
Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?
Where Are You? I'm Here
Where Are You My Brothers?
Where Are You My Love?
Where Are You My Love, That I Cannot Find You?
Where Are You Now
Where Are You Now (Jimmy Harnen song)
Where Are You Now (My Love)
Where Are Your Keys?
Where Are You Tonight? (Journey Through Dark Heat)
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