classes ::: Language, grammer, media,
children ::: strings (all)
branches ::: strings

bookmarks: Instances - Definitions - Quotes - Chapters - Wordnet - Webgen


object:strings
object:sentences
class:Language

--- PROBLEM
  strings or sentences? different objects link to either, so they kinda need their own page?

--- JEWELLED STRINGS
  My child, every day you are going to read Savitri
  Her look, her smile awoke celestial sense
  Her smile could persuade a dead lacerated heart
  But like a shining answer from the gods
Approached through sun-bright spaces Savitri.

--- SAVITRI
  All that denies must be torn out and slain
  There all the truths unite in a single Truth,
  And all ideas rejoin Reality.

--- SIMPLE STRINGS
  blindly groping
  reminded of the endless need in things
  the temple of light (the noun of noun)
  the temple of time
  the place where visions come from
  the sky grew wider (the noun verb
  the layered generations of fallen leaves
  the lotus of the eternal Knowledge and the eternal perfection
  God's debt to Mankind
  dispels all darkness

  think only of the Divine and
  structures of consciousness
  radiant structures

--- JOSH OR FRIENDS
  daily minimum offering
  go deep
  the thing which is all the things
  the things which are all the things
  grants immunity to
  the Book of ...... (sw in Library for like 30 examples)
(analyze sentence structure of aboves)
(sss "" \| lc = 7735)
the lord of falsehood

--- EXPERIMENTAL STRINGS FOR ANALYSIS
  You enter a dungeon
  You stand in front of a large, stone door - the entrance to the ancient Temple of Riddles. Do you choose to enter?
  You wake up in the side of the road
  You enter the town of Einnentrau
  You see before you
  You arrive at the floating Citadel of Damocles
    The annual Contest is underway, with mages gathering from all over the world, from the Wastelands to the Empire, to the Kingdoms of the North. The city is busy with merchants peddling their ingredients and trinkets, nobles looking to expand their retinue, and mercenaries recruiting for their next campaign. You are received by a stocky, spectacled man. The runes running up his arm glow, but grow ever dimmer as the residual magic pours out into the air. The colossal gates to the citadel stand closed, and the walls seem impossibly tall.
    "Welcome to Damocles, neutral city of the Conclave. My name is Aticus, keeper of the Gate. Why are you here, and how may I help you?"
In the center of the room is a low, circular stone platform

--- EXPERIMENTAL PARAGRAPHS
  In the middle this round room the floor protrudes up a step and in the center sits a shimmering portal that looks to contain warping space-time. Around you cold white marble surves upwards from the floor to give the room a the shape of a hollowed hemisphere. To the east what looks like a thick black door lay buried in a carved recess.
  
  Looking at the portal, from the glimmering and swirling reflected forms dancing in the object, you suppose that wherever the portal leads seems like an open space, you see mixes of green, white and blue but cannot quite tell what it is.
  You awake to what looks to be a modest room at an inn. The room seems furnished with the wooden bed on which you lay, a small wooden bed-side cabinet and to your right the wall rests a door.

--- FROM SENTENCES
a study of sentence structure for sentence generation
analysis of favorite sentences, which are very close to what I consider a string.


--- OTHER SENTENCES

a study of sentence structure for sentence generation
analysis of favorite sentences, which are very close to what I consider a string.


---FOOTER
class:grammer
class:media

see also ::: quotes
see also ::: mantras
see also ::: random


see also ::: mantras, quotes, random

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now begins generated list of local instances, definitions, quotes, instances in chapters, wordnet info if available and instances among weblinks


OBJECT INSTANCES [1] - TOPICS - AUTHORS - BOOKS - CHAPTERS - CLASSES - SEE ALSO - SIMILAR TITLES

TOPICS
Above_all
Acknowledge_the_Immaculate_Splendor_of_Savitri
all_is_the_Lord
ask_God
from_a_lower
God_alone
God_is
I_am
I_am_Brahman
I_am_He
I_am_with_you
I_dont_know_what_to_do
if_you_can_grasp_The_Life_Divine...
In_the_Beginning
In_the_end
I_want_to_die,_I_want_to_flee
More_Than
more_than_you
Name_of_the_Beloved
Names_of
Night_of_God
Only_God
Only_The_Divine
repeat_my
strings_(all)
the_need_for
the_need_for_concentration
the_need_for_consecration
the_need_for_mental_purity
the_need_for_power
the_need_for_purification
the_need_for_self-discipline
the_need_for_vital_purity
the_need_for_will
the_Object
the_Place_where_Inspiration_comes_from
the_return_to_the_Light
the_world_of
to_the_eyes_that_see
Wanting_Only
Want_Only
What_I_must_do
What_Name
What_usually_happens
SEE ALSO

mantras
quotes
random

AUTH

BOOKS
Faust
Life_without_Death
The_Act_of_Creation
the_Book_of_God
The_Book_of_Secrets__Keys_to_Love_and_Meditation
The_Divine_Milieu
The_Essential_Songs_of_Milarepa
The_Republic
The_Use_and_Abuse_of_History
Three_Books_on_Occult_Philosophy

IN CHAPTERS TITLE

IN CHAPTERS CLASSNAME

IN CHAPTERS TEXT
0.00_-_INTRODUCTION
01.03_-_The_Yoga_of_the_King_-_The_Yoga_of_the_Souls_Release
0_1960-10-08
0_1963-12-07_-_supramental_ship
0_1964-05-02
0_1966-08-24
0_1966-09-21
0_1968-03-23
0_1968-09-07
0_1969-04-09
0_1972-05-27
02.01_-_The_World-Stair
02.06_-_Boris_Pasternak
02.13_-_In_the_Self_of_Mind
03.03_-_A_Stainless_Steel_Frame
03.03_-_The_House_of_the_Spirit_and_the_New_Creation
04.03_-_The_Call_to_the_Quest
04.04_-_The_Quest
05.02_-_Satyavan
05.06_-_Physics_or_philosophy
06.01_-_The_Word_of_Fate
07.03_-_The_Entry_into_the_Inner_Countries
07.05_-_The_Finding_of_the_Soul
07.06_-_Nirvana_and_the_Discovery_of_the_All-Negating_Absolute
07.07_-_The_Discovery_of_the_Cosmic_Spirit_and_the_Cosmic_Consciousness
07.40_-_Service_Human_and_Divine
08.28_-_Prayer_and_Aspiration
09.01_-_Towards_the_Black_Void
10.01_-_The_Dream_Twilight_of_the_Ideal
10.14_-_Night_and_Day
1.01_-_BOOK_THE_FIRST
1.01_-_Economy
1.01_-_On_Love
1.01_-_On_renunciation_of_the_world
1.01_-_Principles_of_Practical_Psycho_therapy
10.20_-_Short_Notes_-_3-_Emptying_and_Replenishment
10.23_-_Prayers_and_Meditations_of_the_Mother
1.02_-_BOOK_THE_SECOND
1.02_-_MAPS_OF_MEANING_-_THREE_LEVELS_OF_ANALYSIS
1.02_-_Meditating_on_Tara
1.02_-_The_Necessity_of_Magick_for_All
1.02_-_The_Three_European_Worlds
10.31_-_The_Mystery_of_The_Five_Senses
1.03_-_APPRENTICESHIP_AND_ENCULTURATION_-_ADOPTION_OF_A_SHARED_MAP
1.03_-_Sympathetic_Magic
1.03_-_THE_EARTH_IN_ITS_EARLY_STAGES
1.03_-_VISIT_TO_VIDYASAGAR
1.04_-_ADVICE_TO_HOUSEHOLDERS
1.04_-_BOOK_THE_FOURTH
1.04_-_GOD_IN_THE_WORLD
1.04_-_Magic_and_Religion
1.04_-_ON_THE_DESPISERS_OF_THE_BODY
1.04_-_Sounds
1.04_-_The_Divine_Mother_-_This_Is_She
1.05_-_BOOK_THE_FIFTH
1.05_-_Christ,_A_Symbol_of_the_Self
1.05_-_Dharana
1.05_-_The_Magical_Control_of_the_Weather
1.05_-_THE_MASTER_AND_KESHAB
1.06_-_BOOK_THE_SIXTH
1.06_-_Definition_of_Tragedy.
1.06_-_LIFE_AND_THE_PLANETS
1.06_-_The_Ascent_of_the_Sacrifice_2_The_Works_of_Love_-_The_Works_of_Life
1.07_-_Savitri
1.07_-_The_Literal_Qabalah_(continued)
1.07_-_THE_MASTER_AND_VIJAY_GOSWAMI
1.08_-_RELIGION_AND_TEMPERAMENT
1.08_-_The_Depths_of_the_Divine
1.08_-_The_Four_Austerities_and_the_Four_Liberations
1.08_-_THE_MASTERS_BIRTHDAY_CELEBRATION_AT_DAKSHINESWAR
1.098_-_The_Transformation_from_Human_to_Divine
1.09_-_ADVICE_TO_THE_BRAHMOS
1.09_-_Sri_Aurobindo_and_the_Big_Bang
1.09_-_The_Worship_of_Trees
11.01_-_The_Eternal_Day__The_Souls_Choice_and_the_Supreme_Consummation
1.10_-_BOOK_THE_TENTH
1.10_-_Relics_of_Tree_Worship_in_Modern_Europe
1.10_-_The_Scolex_School
1.11_-_BOOK_THE_ELEVENTH
1.11_-_GOOD_AND_EVIL
1.11_-_Higher_Laws
1.11_-_Woolly_Pomposities_of_the_Pious_Teacher
1.12_-_The_Superconscient
1.14_-_INSTRUCTION_TO_VAISHNAVS_AND_BRHMOS
1.15_-_LAST_VISIT_TO_KESHAB
1.16_-_WITH_THE_DEVOTEES_AT_DAKSHINESWAR
1.17_-_Geryon._The_Violent_against_Art._Usurers._Descent_into_the_Abyss_of_Malebolge.
1.17_-_M._AT_DAKSHINEWAR
1.17_-_The_Transformation
1.18_-_The_Perils_of_the_Soul
1.19_-_Tabooed_Acts
1.19_-_The_Act_of_Truth
12.09_-_The_Story_of_Dr._Faustus_Retold
1.20_-_Tabooed_Persons
1.21_-_A_DAY_AT_DAKSHINESWAR
1.21_-_Tabooed_Things
1.22_-_ADVICE_TO_AN_ACTOR
1.22_-_Tabooed_Words
1.23_-_FESTIVAL_AT_SURENDRAS_HOUSE
1.240_-_1.300_Talks
1.240_-_Talks_2
1.24_-_PUNDIT_SHASHADHAR
1.25_-_ADVICE_TO_PUNDIT_SHASHADHAR
1.26_-_FESTIVAL_AT_ADHARS_HOUSE
1.28_-_The_Killing_of_the_Tree-Spirit
1.2_-_Katha_Upanishads
1.300_-_1.400_Talks
1.36_-_Human_Representatives_of_Attis
1.3_-_Mundaka_Upanishads
1.40_-_The_Nature_of_Osiris
1.44_-_Serious_Style_of_A.C.,_or_the_Apparent_Frivolity_of_Some_of_my_Remarks
1.45_-_The_Corn-Mother_and_the_Corn-Maiden_in_Northern_Europe
1.47_-_Lityerses
1.49_-_Ancient_Deities_of_Vegetation_as_Animals
1.53_-_The_Propitation_of_Wild_Animals_By_Hunters
1.54_-_On_Meanness
1.58_-_Human_Scapegoats_in_Classical_Antiquity
1.60_-_Between_Heaven_and_Earth
1.67_-_The_External_Soul_in_Folk-Custom
1.69_-_Original_Sin
1.76_-_The_Gods_-_How_and_Why_they_Overlap
18.04_-_Modern_Poems
1913_11_29p
1929-04-07_-_Yoga,_for_the_sake_of_the_Divine_-_Concentration_-_Preparations_for_Yoga,_to_be_conscious_-_Yoga_and_humanity_-_We_have_all_met_in_previous_lives
1929-06-23_-_Knowledge_of_the_Yogi_-_Knowledge_and_the_Supermind_-_Methods_of_changing_the_condition_of_the_body_-_Meditation,_aspiration,_sincerity
1951-02-03_-_What_is_Yoga?_for_what?_-_Aspiration,_seeking_the_Divine._-_Process_of_yoga,_renouncing_the_ego.
1951-03-26_-_Losing_all_to_gain_all_-_psychic_being_-_Transforming_the_vital_-_physical_habits_-_the_subconscient_-_Overcoming_difficulties_-_weakness,_an_insincerity_-_to_change_the_world_-_Psychic_source,_flash_of_experience_-_preparation_for_yoga
1951-04-05_-_Illusion_and_interest_in_action_-_The_action_of_the_divine_Grace_and_the_ego_-_Concentration,_aspiration,_will,_inner_silence_-_Value_of_a_story_or_a_language_-_Truth_-_diversity_in_the_world
1953-06-03
1953-07-01
1955-11-09_-_Personal_effort,_egoistic_mind_-_Man_is_like_a_public_square_-_Natures_work_-_Ego_needed_for_formation_of_individual_-_Adverse_forces_needed_to_make_man_sincere_-_Determinisms_of_different_planes,_miracles
1958-01-08_-_Sri_Aurobindos_method_of_exposition_-_The_mind_as_a_public_place_-_Mental_control_-_Sri_Aurobindos_subtle_hand
1.ac_-_On_-_On_-_Poet
1.bsv_-_Make_of_my_body_the_beam_of_a_lute
1.bsv_-_The_pot_is_a_God
1.bts_-_The_Bent_of_Nature
1f.lovecraft_-_Old_Bugs
1f.lovecraft_-_Out_of_the_Aeons
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Challenge_from_Beyond
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Colour_out_of_Space
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Electric_Executioner
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Hound
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Last_Test
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Terrible_Old_Man
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Trap
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Whisperer_in_Darkness
1f.lovecraft_-_Till_A_the_Seas
1.fs_-_Elysium
1.fs_-_Melancholy_--_To_Laura
1.fs_-_Shakespeare's_Ghost_-_A_Parody
1.fs_-_The_Alpine_Hunter
1.fs_-_The_Celebrated_Woman_-_An_Epistle_By_A_Married_Man
1.fs_-_The_Count_Of_Hapsburg
1.fs_-_The_Eleusinian_Festival
1.fs_-_The_Gods_Of_Greece
1.fs_-_The_Knight_Of_Toggenburg
1.fs_-_The_Walk
1.hs_-_Lady_That_Hast_My_Heart
1.hs_-_The_Secret_Draught_Of_Wine
1.jk_-_Apollo_And_The_Graces
1.jk_-_A_Prophecy_-_To_George_Keats_In_America
1.jk_-_Endymion_-_Book_I
1.jk_-_Endymion_-_Book_II
1.jk_-_Endymion_-_Book_III
1.jk_-_Fancy
1.jk_-_Fragment_Of_The_Castle_Builder
1.jk_-_Hyperion,_A_Vision_-_Attempted_Reconstruction_Of_The_Poem
1.jk_-_Hyperion._Book_I
1.jk_-_Hyperion._Book_II
1.jk_-_Hyperion._Book_III
1.jk_-_Isabella;_Or,_The_Pot_Of_Basil_-_A_Story_From_Boccaccio
1.jk_-_Lamia._Part_II
1.jk_-_Ode_To_Apollo
1.jk_-_On_Receiving_A_Curious_Shell
1.jk_-_Otho_The_Great_-_Act_IV
1.jk_-_Robin_Hood
1.jk_-_Sonnet_XII._On_Leaving_Some_Friends_At_An_Early_Hour
1.jk_-_The_Cap_And_Bells;_Or,_The_Jealousies_-_A_Faery_Tale_.._Unfinished
1.jlb_-_The_Other_Tiger
1.jr_-_Like_This
1.jr_-_On_Love
1.jr_-_Rise,_Lovers
1.jr_-_Shall_I_tell_you_our_secret?
1.kbr_-_I_have_been_thinking
1.kbr_-_The_Light_of_the_Sun
1.kbr_-_The_light_of_the_sun,_the_moon,_and_the_stars_shines_bright
1.lb_-_The_River_Song
1.lb_-_Yearning
1.ltp_-_My_heart_is_the_clear_water_in_the_stony_pond
1.ltp_-_The_Hundred_Character_Tablet_(Bai_Zi_Bei)
1.mm_-_Effortlessly
1.mm_-_Of_the_voices_of_the_Godhead
1.nmdv_-_He_is_the_One_in_many
1.nmdv_-_The_drum_with_no_drumhead_beats
1.pbs_-_Alastor_-_or,_the_Spirit_of_Solitude
1.pbs_-_Despair
1.pbs_-_Fragments_Of_An_Unfinished_Drama
1.pbs_-_Fragment_-_Supposed_To_Be_An_Epithalamium_Of_Francis_Ravaillac_And_Charlotte_Corday
1.pbs_-_Hymn_to_Intellectual_Beauty
1.pbs_-_Lines_-_The_cold_earth_slept_below
1.pbs_-_Mutability
1.pbs_-_Orpheus
1.pbs_-_Prometheus_Unbound
1.pbs_-_Queen_Mab_-_Part_I.
1.pbs_-_Queen_Mab_-_Part_VIII.
1.pbs_-_The_Cenci_-_A_Tragedy_In_Five_Acts
1.pbs_-_The_Cyclops
1.pbs_-_The_Revolt_Of_Islam_-_Canto_I-XII
1.pbs_-_The_Zucca
1.pbs_-_To_Constantia-_Singing
1.pbs_-_To_Jane_-_The_Keen_Stars_Were_Twinkling
1.pc_-_Lute
1.poe_-_In_Youth_I_have_Known_One
1.poe_-_Israfel
1.poe_-_Romance
1.poe_-_To_M--
1.rb_-_Cleon
1.rb_-_Fra_Lippo_Lippi
1.rb_-_In_A_Gondola
1.rb_-_Master_Hugues_Of_Saxe-Gotha
1.rb_-_One_Way_Of_Love
1.rb_-_Paracelsus_-_Part_II_-_Paracelsus_Attains
1.rb_-_Paracelsus_-_Part_V_-_Paracelsus_Attains
1.rb_-_Porphyrias_Lover
1.rb_-_Rhyme_for_a_Child_Viewing_a_Naked_Venus_in_a_Painting_of_'The_Judgement_of_Paris'
1.rb_-_Sordello_-_Book_the_Second
1.rb_-_Sordello_-_Book_the_Sixth
1.rb_-_Sordello_-_Book_the_Third
1.rb_-_The_Englishman_In_Italy
1.rb_-_The_Italian_In_England
1.rmpsd_-_In_the_worlds_busy_market-place,_O_Shyama
1.rmr_-_Elegy_I
1.rmr_-_Elegy_X
1.rmr_-_Love_Song
1.rt_-_Fireflies
1.rt_-_Gitanjali
1.rt_-_Lord_Of_My_Life
1.rt_-_Lost_Star
1.rt_-_Ocean_Of_Forms
1.rt_-_Song_Unsung
1.rt_-_The_Gardener_XXVIII_-_Your_Questioning_Eyes
1.rt_-_The_Kiss(2)
1.rt_-_The_Lost_Star
1.rt_-_Unyielding
1.rt_-_Waiting
1.rwe_-_May-Day
1.rwe_-_Merlin_I
1.rwe_-_Monadnoc
1.rwe_-_Saadi
1.rwe_-_The_Titmouse
1.rwe_-_Woodnotes
1.tm_-_Aubade_--_The_City
1.wby_-_A_Dramatic_Poem
1.wby_-_Among_School_Children
1.wby_-_Another_Song_Of_A_Fool
1.wby_-_Another_Song_of_a_Fool
1.wby_-_A_Woman_Young_And_Old
1.wby_-_Baile_And_Aillinn
1.wby_-_Cuchulains_Fight_With_The_Sea
1.wby_-_From_A_Full_Moon_In_March
1.wby_-_Her_Vision_In_The_Wood
1.wby_-_I_Am_Of_Ireland
1.wby_-_Parnells_Funeral
1.wby_-_The_Old_Age_Of_Queen_Maeve
1.wby_-_The_Players_Ask_For_A_Blessing_On_The_Psalteries_And_On_Themselves
1.wby_-_The_Shadowy_Waters_-_The_Harp_Of_Aengus
1.wby_-_The_Shadowy_Waters_-_The_Shadowy_Waters
1.wby_-_The_Statesmans_Holiday
1.wby_-_The_Two_Kings
1.wby_-_The_Wanderings_Of_Oisin_-_Book_I
1.wby_-_The_Wanderings_Of_Oisin_-_Book_II
1.wby_-_The_Wanderings_Of_Oisin_-_Book_III
1.wby_-_To_A_Friend_Whose_Work_Has_Come_To_Nothing
1.wby_-_Under_The_Moon
1.whitman_-_American_Feuillage
1.whitman_-_Proud_Music_Of_The_Storm
1.whitman_-_Salut_Au_Monde
1.whitman_-_Song_of_Myself
1.whitman_-_Song_Of_Myself-_XIII
1.whitman_-_Song_Of_The_Broad-Axe
1.whitman_-_Warble_Of_Lilac-Time
1.ww_-_1-_The_White_Doe_Of_Rylstone,_Or,_The_Fate_Of_The_Nortons
1.ww_-_7-_The_White_Doe_Of_Rylstone,_Or,_The_Fate_Of_The_Nortons
1.ww_-_Book_Eighth-_Retrospect--Love_Of_Nature_Leading_To_Love_Of_Man
1.ww_-_Book_Fifth-Books
1.ww_-_Book_Seventh_[Residence_in_London]
1.ww_-_Minstrels
1.ww_-_The_Excursion-_II-_Book_First-_The_Wanderer
1.ww_-_The_Idiot_Boy
1.ww_-_The_Morning_Of_The_Day_Appointed_For_A_General_Thanksgiving._January_18,_1816
1.ww_-_Translation_Of_Part_Of_The_First_Book_Of_The_Aeneid
1.ww_-_Vernal_Ode
20.01_-_Charyapada_-_Old_Bengali_Mystic_Poems
2.01_-_The_Road_of_Trials
2.01_-_The_Two_Natures
2.02_-_Habit_2__Begin_with_the_End_in_Mind
2.03_-_Atomic_Forms_And_Their_Combinations
2.03_-_DEMETER
2.05_-_Habit_3__Put_First_Things_First
2.05_-_VISIT_TO_THE_SINTHI_BRAMO_SAMAJ
2.07_-_BANKIM_CHANDRA
2.09_-_THE_MASTERS_BIRTHDAY
2.09_-_The_Release_from_the_Ego
2.1.02_-_Love_and_Death
2.1.03_-_Man_and_Superman
2.11_-_The_Boundaries_of_the_Ignorance
2.17_-_THE_MASTER_ON_HIMSELF_AND_HIS_EXPERIENCES
2.18_-_January_1939
2.18_-_SRI_RAMAKRISHNA_AT_SYAMPUKUR
2.19_-_THE_MASTER_AND_DR._SARKAR
2.21_-_1940
2.21_-_IN_THE_COMPANY_OF_DEVOTEES_AT_SYAMPUKUR
2.2.3_-_The_Aitereya_Upanishad
2.23_-_THE_MASTER_AND_BUDDHA
2.2.4_-_Sentimentalism,_Sensitiveness,_Instability,_Laxity
2_-_Other_Hymns_to_Agni
3.00.2_-_Introduction
30.05_-_Rhythm_in_Poetry
30.14_-_Rabindranath_and_Modernism
30.17_-_Rabindranath,_Traveller_of_the_Infinite
3.05_-_SAL
3.08_-_The_Mystery_of_Love
3.09_-_Of_Silence_and_Secrecy
31.05_-_Vivekananda
3.1.3_-_Difficulties_of_the_Physical_Being
31_Hymns_to_the_Star_Goddess
3.2.09_-_The_Teachings_of_Some_Modern_Indian_Yogis
3.2.3_-_Dreams
33.11_-_Pondicherry_II
3-5_Full_Circle
37.04_-_The_Story_Of_Rishi_Yajnavalkya
3.7.1.02_-_The_Reincarnating_Soul
38.04_-_Great_Time
3_-_Commentaries_and_Annotated_Translations
4.03_-_The_Senses_And_Mental_Pictures
4.06_-_Purification-the_Lower_Mentality
5.1.01.1_-_The_Book_of_the_Herald
5.1.01.3_-_The_Book_of_the_Assembly
5.1.01.4_-_The_Book_of_Partings
5.1.01.6_-_The_Book_of_the_Chieftains
5.1.01.7_-_The_Book_of_the_Woman
5.1.01.8_-_The_Book_of_the_Gods
5.1.01.9_-_Book_IX
5.4.01_-_Notes_on_Root-Sounds
6.09_-_Imaginary_Visions
7.6.03_-_Who_art_thou_that_camest
7_-_Yoga_of_Sri_Aurobindo
9.99_-_Glossary
Aeneid
Appendix_4_-_Priest_Spells
Big_Mind_(ten_perfections)
BOOK_II._--_PART_II._THE_ARCHAIC_SYMBOLISM_OF_THE_WORLD-RELIGIONS
BOOK_I._--_PART_I._COSMIC_EVOLUTION
BOOK_I._--_PART_III._SCIENCE_AND_THE_SECRET_DOCTRINE_CONTRASTED
Book_of_Genesis
Book_of_Psalms
BOOK_XIV._-_Of_the_punishment_and_results_of_mans_first_sin,_and_of_the_propagation_of_man_without_lust
BOOK_XVI._-_The_history_of_the_city_of_God_from_Noah_to_the_time_of_the_kings_of_Israel
Chapter_II_-_WHICH_TREATS_OF_THE_FIRST_SALLY_THE_INGENIOUS_DON_QUIXOTE_MADE_FROM_HOME
COSA_-_BOOK_III
ENNEAD_03.02_-_Of_Providence.
ENNEAD_03.06_-_Of_the_Impassibility_of_Incorporeal_Entities_(Soul_and_and_Matter).
ENNEAD_03.06_-_Of_the_Impassibility_of_Incorporeal_Things.
ENNEAD_04.04_-_Questions_About_the_Soul.
ENNEAD_04.07_-_Of_the_Immortality_of_the_Soul:_Polemic_Against_Materialism.
ENNEAD_06.03_-_Plotinos_Own_Sense-Categories.
ENNEAD_06.05_-_The_One_and_Identical_Being_is_Everywhere_Present_In_Its_Entirety.345
Guru_Granth_Sahib_first_part
Liber_71_-_The_Voice_of_the_Silence_-_The_Two_Paths_-_The_Seven_Portals
Meno
Phaedo
r1917_01_30
Ragnarok
Sayings_of_Sri_Ramakrishna_(text)
Sophist
Talks_With_Sri_Aurobindo_1
The_Act_of_Creation_text
Theaetetus
The_Book_of_the_Prophet_Isaiah
The_Dwellings_of_the_Philosophers
The_Gold_Bug
The_Pilgrims_Progress
Thus_Spoke_Zarathustra_text
Timaeus

PRIMARY CLASS

grammer
Language
media
strings
SIMILAR TITLES
strings
strings (all)

DEFINITIONS


TERMS STARTING WITH


TERMS ANYWHERE

1.* Fig. The deepest feelings of love, affection or compassion. *heart-strings".

Accent "language" A very high level interpreted language from {CaseWare, Inc.} with strings and tables. It is {strongly typed} and has remote function calls. (1994-11-08)

Accent ::: (language) A very high level interpreted language from CaseWare, Inc. with strings and tables. It is strongly typed and has remote function calls. (1994-11-08)

ALGOL W "language" A derivative of {ALGOL 60}. It introduced {double precision}, {complex numbers}, bit strings and dynamic data structures. It is {parsed} entirely by {operator precedence} and used the {call-by-value-result} calling convention. ["A Contribution to the Development of Algol", N. Wirth, CACM 9(6):413-431, June 1966]. ["ALGOL W Implementation", H. Bauer et al, TR CS98, Stanford U, 1968]. (1994-11-24)

ALGOL W ::: (language) A derivative of ALGOL 60. It introduced double precision, complex numbers, bit strings and dynamic data structures. It is parsed entirely by operator precedence and used the call-by-value-result calling convention.[A Contribution to the Development of Algol, N. Wirth, CACM 9(6):413-431, June 1966].[ALGOL W Implementation, H. Bauer et al, TR CS98, Stanford U, 1968]. (1994-11-24)

Also fuzzy string searching. ::: The technique of finding strings that match a pattern approximately (rather than exactly). The problem of approximate string matching is typically divided into two sub-problems: finding approximate substring matches inside a given string and finding dictionary strings that match the pattern approximately.

AMBIT/S "language" {AMBIT} for strings.

AMBIT/S ::: (language) AMBIT for strings.

Analogy: Originally a mathematical term, Analogia, meaning equality of ratios (Euclid VII Df. 20, V. Dfs. 5, 6), which entered Plato's philosophy (Republic 534a6), where it also expressed the epistemological doctrine that sensed things are related as their mathematical and ideal correlates. In modern usage analogy was identified with a weak form of reasoning in which "from the similarity of two things in certain particulars, their similarity in other particulars is inferred." (Century Dic.) Recently, the analysis of scientific method has given the term new significance. The observable data of science are denoted by concepts by inspection, whose complete meaning is given by something immediately apprehendable; its verified theory designating unobservable scientific objects is expressed by concepts by postulation, whose complete meaning is prescribed for them by the postulates of the deductive theory in which they occur. To verify such theory relations, termed epistemic correlations (J. Un. Sc. IX: 125-128), are required. When these are one-one, analogy exists in a very precise sense, since the concepts by inspection denoting observable data are then related as are the correlated concepts by postulation designating unobservable scientific objects. -- F.S.C.N. Analogy of Pythagoras: (Gr. analogia) The equality of ratios, or proportion, between the lengths of the strings producing the consonant notes of the musical scale. The discovery of these ratios is credited to Pythagoras, who is also said to have applied the principle of mathematical proportion to the other arts, and hence to have discovered, in his analogy, the secret of beauty in all its forms. -- G.R.M.

angel Israfel, whose heart strings are a lute, and

apron strings

apron ::: n. --> An article of dress, of cloth, leather, or other stuff, worn on the fore part of the body, to keep the clothes clean, to defend them from injury, or as a covering. It is commonly tied at the waist by strings.
Something which by its shape or use suggests an apron;
The fat skin covering the belly of a goose or duck.
A piece of leather, or other material, to be spread before a person riding on an outside seat of a vehicle, to defend him from the


archilute ::: n. --> A large theorbo, or double-necked lute, formerly in use, having the bass strings doubled with an octave, and the higher strings with a unison.

array 1. "programming" A collection of identically typed data items distinguished by their indices (or "subscripts"). The number of dimensions an array can have depends on the language but is usually unlimited. An array is a kind of {aggregate} data type. A single ordinary variable (a "{scalar}") could be considered as a zero-dimensional array. A one-dimensional array is also known as a "{vector}". A reference to an array element is written something like A[i,j,k] where A is the array name and i, j and k are the indices. The {C} language is peculiar in that each index is written in separate brackets, e.g. A[i][j][k]. This expresses the fact that, in C, an N-dimensional array is actually a vector, each of whose elements is an N-1 dimensional array. Elements of an array are usually stored contiguously. Languages differ as to whether the leftmost or rightmost index varies most rapidly, i.e. whether each row is stored contiguously or each column (for a 2D array). Arrays are appropriate for storing data which must be accessed in an unpredictable order, in contrast to {lists} which are best when accessed sequentially. Array indices are {integers}, usually {natural numbers}, whereas the elements of an {associative array} are identified by strings. 2. "architecture" A {processor array}, not to be confused with an {array processor}. (2007-10-12)

ASCIIbonics ::: (chat) (From ASCII and Ebonics) A style of text communication in English which is most common on talk systems such as irc. Its notable characteristics are:Typing all in lowercase (and occasionally all in uppercase).Copious use of abbreviations of the sort u for you 1 for one (and therefore some1 for someone, ne1 for anyone), 2 for to, r for are, etc.A general lack of punctuation, except for strings of question marks and exclamation marks.Common use of the idiom m or f?, meant to elicit a statement of the listener's gender.Typical extended discourse in ASCIIbonics: hey wasup ne1 want 2 cyber? m or f?ASCIIbonics is similar to the way B1FF talked, although B1FF used more punctuation (lots more), and used all uppercase, rather than all lowercase. What's more, B1FF was only interested in warez, and so never asked m or f?.It has been widely observed that some of the purest examples of ASCIIbonics come from non-native speakers of English.The phenomenon of ASCIIbonics predates by several years the use of the word ASCIIbonics, as the word could only have been coined in or after late 1996, when Ebonics was first used in the US media to denote the US English dialects known in the linguistic literature as Black Vernacular English. (1997-06-21)

ASCIIbonics "chat" (From {ASCII} and Ebonics) A style of text communication in English which is most common on {talk} systems such as {irc}. Its notable characteristics are: Typing all in lowercase (and occasionally all in uppercase). Copious use of abbreviations of the sort "u" for "you" "1" for "one" (and therefore "some1" for "someone", "ne1" for "anyone"), "2" for "to", "r" for "are", etc. A general lack of punctuation, except for strings of question marks and exclamation marks. Common use of the idiom "m or f?", meant to elicit a statement of the listener's gender. Typical extended discourse in ASCIIbonics: "hey wasup ne1 want 2 {cyber}?" "m or f?" ASCIIbonics is similar to the way {B1FF} talked, although B1FF used more punctuation (lots more), and used all uppercase, rather than all lowercase. What's more, B1FF was only interested in {warez}, and so never asked "m or f?". It has been widely observed that some of the purest examples of ASCIIbonics come from non-native speakers of English. The phenomenon of ASCIIbonics predates by several years the use of the word "ASCIIbonics", as the word could only have been coined in or after late 1996, when "Ebonics" was first used in the US media to denote the US English dialects known in the linguistic literature as "Black Vernacular English". (1997-06-21)

associative array ::: (programming) An array where the indices are not just integers but may be arbitrary strings.awk and its descendants (e.g. Perl) have associative arrays which are implemented using hash coding. (1995-02-16)

associative array "programming" (Or "hash", "map", "dictionary") An {array} where the {indices} are not just {integers} but may be arbitrary strings. {awk} and its descendants (e.g. {Perl}) have associative arrays which are implemented using {hash coding} for faster look-up. (2007-10-02)

backslash "character" "\" {ASCII} code 92. Common names: escape (from C/Unix); reverse slash; slosh; backslant; backwhack. Rare: bash; {ITU-T}: reverse slant; reversed virgule; {INTERCAL}: backslat. Backslash is used to separate components in {MS-DOS} {pathnames}, and to introduce special character sequence in {C} and {Unix} strings, e.g. "\n" for newline. (2000-02-21)

backslash ::: (character) \ ASCII code 92. Common names: escape (from C/Unix); reverse slash; slosh; backslant; backwhack. Rare: bash; ITU-T: reverse slant; reversed virgule; INTERCAL: backslat.Backslash is used to separate components in MS-DOS pathnames, and to introduce special character sequence in C and Unix strings, e.g. \n for newline.(2000-02-21)

banding plane ::: --> A plane used for cutting out grooves and inlaying strings and bands in straight and circular work.

banister ::: n. --> A stringed musical instrument having a head and neck like the guitar, and its body like a tambourine. It has five strings, and is played with the fingers and hands.

bīja. (T. sa bon; C. zhongzi; J. shuji; K. chongja 種子). In Sanskrit, "seed," a term used metaphorically in two important contexts: (1) in the theory of KARMAN, an action is said to plant a "seed" or "potentiality" in the mind, where it will reside until it fructifies as a future experience or is destroyed by wisdom; (2) in tantric literature, many deities are said to have a "seed syllable" or seed MANTRA that is visualized and recited in liturgy and meditation in order to invoke the deity. In the Chinese FAXIANG (YOGACARA) school, based on similar lists found in Indian Buddhist texts like the MAHAYANASAMGRAHA, a supplement to the YOGACARABHuMI, various lists of two different types of seeds are mentioned. (1) The primordial seeds (BENYOU ZHONGZI) and the continuously (lit. newly) acquired seeds (XINXUN ZHONGZI). The former are present in the eighth "storehouse consciousness" (ALAYAVIJNANA) since time immemorial, and are responsible for giving rise to a sentient being's basic faculties, such as the sensory organs (INDRIYA) and the aggregates (SKANDHA). The latter are acquired through the activities and sense impressions of the other seven consciousnesses (VIJNANA), and are stored within the eighth storehouse consciousness as pure, impure, or indeterminate seeds that may become activated again once the right conditions are in place for it to fructify. (2) Tainted seeds (youlou zhongzi) and untainted seeds (wulou zhongzi). The former are sowed whenever unenlightened activities of body, speech, and mind and the contaminants (ASRAVA) of mental defilements take place. The latter are associated with enlightened activities that do not generate such contaminants. In all cases, "full emergence" (SAMUDACARA, C. xiangxing) refers to the sprouting of those seeds as fully realized action. ¶ In tantric Buddhism the buddha field (BUDDHAKsETRA) is represented as a MAndALA with its inhabitant deities (DEVATA). The sonic source of the mandala and the deities that inhabit it is a "seed syllable" (bīja). In tantric practices (VIDHI; SADHANA) the meditator imagines the seed syllable emerging from the expanse of reality, usually on a lotus flower. The seed syllable is then visualized as transforming into the mandala and its divine inhabitants, each of which often has its own seed syllable. At the end of the ritual, the process is reversed and collapsed back into the seed syllable that then dissolves back into the nondual original expanse. Seed syllables in tantric Buddhism are connected with DHARAnĪ, mnemonic codes widespread in MahAyAna sutras that consist of strings of letters, often the first letter of profound terms or topics. These strings of letters in the dhAranĪ anticipate the MANTRAs found in tantric ritual practices. The tantric "seed syllable" is thought to contain the essence of the mantra, the letters of which are visualized as standing upright in a circle around the seed syllable from which the letters emerge and to which they return.

Blavatsky states that Sanskrit has never been known nor spoken in its true systematized form except by the initiated Brahmins. This form of Sanskrit was called — as well as by other names — Vach, the mystic speech, which resides in the sounds of the mantra. “The chanting of a Mantra is not a prayer, but rather a magical sentence in which the law of Occult causation connects itself with, and depends on, the will and acts of its singer. It is a succession of Sanskrit sounds, and when its strings of words and sentences is pronounced according to the magical formulae in the Atharva Veda, but understood by the few, some Mantras produce an instantaneous and very wonderful effect” (BCW 14:428n). This Vach, or the mystic self of Sanskrit, was the sacerdotal speech of the initiated Brahmins and was studied by initiates from all over the world.

bridge ::: n. --> A structure, usually of wood, stone, brick, or iron, erected over a river or other water course, or over a chasm, railroad, etc., to make a passageway from one bank to the other.
Anything supported at the ends, which serves to keep some other thing from resting upon the object spanned, as in engraving, watchmaking, etc., or which forms a platform or staging over which something passes or is conveyed.
The small arch or bar at right angles to the strings of a


bridge: Transitional passage connecting two sections of a composition, also transition. Also the part of a stringed instrument that holds the strings in place and transmits their vibrations to the resonant body of the instrument.

bsdus grwa. (dudra). A distinctively Tibetan genre of monastic textbook (used widely in DGE LUGS monasteries) that introduces beginners to the main topics in PRAMAnA (T. tshad ma) and ABHIDHARMA. The genre probably originated with the summaries (bsdus pa) of important pramAna texts composed by the translator RNGOG BLO LDAN SHES RAB of GSANG PHU NE'U THOG monastery. PHYWA PA CHOS KYI SENG GE is credited with originating the distinctively Tibetan dialectical form that strings together a chain of consequences linked by a chain of reasons that distinguishes bsdus grwa. Beginners are introduced to the main topics in abhidharma and pramAna using this formal language, a language that has been heard in Tibetan debate institutions (RTSOD GRWA) down to the present day.

BUAF [alt.fan.warlord] Big Ugly ASCII Font. A special form of {ASCII art}. Various programs exist for rendering text strings into block, {bloob}, and pseudo-script fonts in cells between four and six character cells on a side; this is smaller than the letters generated by older {banner} programs. These are sometimes used to render one's name in a {sig block}, and are critically referred to as "BUAF"s. See {warlording}. [{Jargon File}]

BUAF ::: [alt.fan.warlord] Big Ugly ASCII Font. A special form of ASCII art. Various programs exist for rendering text strings into block, bloob, and pseudo-script render one's name in a sig block, and are critically referred to as BUAFs. See warlording.[Jargon File]

catgut ::: n. --> A cord of great toughness made from the intestines of animals, esp. of sheep, used for strings of musical instruments, etc.
A sort of linen or canvas, with wide interstices.


cdr ::: /ku'dr/ or /kuh'dr/ [LISP] To skip past the first item from a list of things (generalised from the LISP operation on binary tree structures, which returns a down, to trace down a list of elements: Shall we cdr down the agenda? Usage: silly. See also loop through.Historical note: The instruction format of the IBM 7090 that hosted the original LISP implementation featured two 15 bit fields called the address and decrement parts. The term cdr was originally Contents of Decrement part of Register. Similarly, car stood for Contents of Address part of Register.The cdr and car operations have since become bases for formation of compound metaphors in non-LISP contexts. GLS recalls, for example, a programming project in which strings were represented as linked lists; the get-character and skip-character operations were of course called CHAR and CHDR.[Jargon File](2001-06-22)

Cedar A superset of {Mesa}, from {Xerox PARC}, adding {garbage collection}, {dynamic types} and a universal pointer type (REF ANY). Cedar is a large complex language designed for custom Xerox hardware and the Cedar {operating system}/environment. Data types are {atoms}, lists, ropes ("industrial strength" strings), conditions. Multi-processing features include {threads}, {monitors}, {signals} and catch phrases. It was used to develop the Cedar integrated programming environment. ["A Description of the Cedar Language", Butler Lampson, Xerox PARC, CSL-83-15 (Dec 1983)]. ["The Structure of Cedar", D. Swinehart et al, SIGPLAN Notices 20(7):230-244 (July 1985)]. (1995-01-26)

channel "chat" (Or "chat room", "room", depending on the system in question) The basic unit of group discussion in {chat} systems like {IRC}. Once one joins a channel, everything one types is read by others on that channel. Channels can either be named with numbers or with strings that begin with a "

character set ::: (character) 1. A particular mapping between characters and byte strings, i.e. the combination of a particular character encoding (which maps between byte strings and integers) and a particular coded character set (which maps between integers and characters).For example: ASCII (the ASCII coded character set, encoded directly as single-byte values), or UTF-8 (the Unicode coded character set, encoded with an 8-bit transformation method).2. Occasionally: a character repertoire; or a coded character set. (1998-12-17)

character set "character" A particular {mapping} between {characters} and {byte strings}, i.e. the combination of a particular {character encoding} (which maps between byte strings and {integers}) and a particular {coded character set} (which maps between integers and characters). For example: {ASCII} (the ASCII coded character set, encoded directly as single-byte values), or {UTF-8} (the {Unicode} coded character set, encoded with an 8-bit transformation method). The {character repertoire} is the complete set of all characters in the character set. (2015-11-29)

clavichord ::: an early keyboard instrument producing a soft sound by means of metal blades attached to the inner ends of the keys gently striking the strings.

col legno: with the wood; i.e., the strings (for example, of a violin) are to be struck with the wood of the bow, making a percussive sound; also battuta col legno: beaten with the wood

COMIT "language" The first string-handling and {pattern-matching} language, designed in 1957-8 for applications in {natural language} translation. The user has a workspace organised into shelves. Strings are made of constituents (words), accessed by {subscript}. A program is a set of rules, each of which has a pattern, a replacement and goto another rule. ["COMIT Programmer's Reference Manual", V.H. Yngve, MIT Press 1961]. [Sammet 1969, pp. 416-436]. (1994-11-30)

compression 1. "application" (Or "compaction") The coding of data to save storage space or transmission time. Although data is already coded in digital form for computer processing, it can often be coded more efficiently (using fewer bits). For example, {run-length encoding} replaces strings of repeated characters (or other units of data) with a single character and a count. There are many compression {algorithms} and utilities. Compressed data must be decompressed before it can be used. The standard {Unix} compression utilty is called {compress} though {GNU}'s superior {gzip} has largely replaced it. Other compression utilties include {pack}, {zip} and {PKZIP}. When compressing several similar files, it is usually better to join the files together into an {archive} of some kind (using {tar} for example) and then compress them, rather than to join together individually compressed files. This is because some common compression {algorithms} build up tables based on the data from their current input which they have already compressed. They then use this table to compress subsequent data more efficiently. See also {TIFF}, {JPEG}, {MPEG}, {Lempel-Ziv Welch}, "{lossy}", "{lossless}". {Compression FAQ (ftp://rtfm.mit.edu/pub/usenet/news.answers/compression-faq/)}. {Web Content Compression FAQ (http://perl.apache.org/docs/tutorials/client/compression/compression.html)}. {Usenet} newsgroups: {news:comp.compression}, {news:comp.compression.research}. 2. "multimedia" Reducing the dynamic range of an audio signal, making quiet sounds louder and loud sounds quieter. Thus, when discussing digital audio, the preferred term for reducing the total amount of data is "compaction". Some advocate this term in all contexts. (2004-04-26)

concertmeister ::: n. --> The head violinist or leader of the strings in an orchestra; the sub-leader of the orchestra; concert master.

cryptography "cryptography" The practise and study of {encryption} and {decryption} - encoding data so that it can only be decoded by specific individuals. A system for encrypting and decrypting data is a cryptosystem. These usually involve an {algorithm} for combining the original data ("{plaintext}") with one or more "keys" - numbers or strings of characters known only to the sender and/or recipient. The resulting output is known as "{ciphertext}". The security of a cryptosystem usually depends on the secrecy of (some of) the keys rather than with the supposed secrecy of the {algorithm}. A strong cryptosystem has a large range of possible keys so that it is not possible to just try all possible keys (a "{brute force}" approach). A strong cryptosystem will produce ciphertext which appears random to all standard statistical tests. A strong cryptosystem will resist all known previous methods for breaking codes ("{cryptanalysis}"). See also {cryptology}, {public-key encryption}, {RSA}. {Usenet} newsgroups: {news:sci.crypt}, {news:sci.crypt.research}. {FAQ} {MIT (ftp://rtfm.mit.edu/pub/usenet/news.answers/cryptography-faq/)}. {Cryptography glossary (http://io.com/~ritter/GLOSSARY.HTM

cryptography ::: (cryptography) The practise and study of encryption and decryption - encoding data so that it can only be decoded by specific individuals. A system - numbers or strings of characters known only to the sender and/or recipient. The resulting output is known as ciphertext.The security of a cryptosystem usually depends on the secrecy of (some of) the keys rather than with the supposed secrecy of the algorithm. A strong A strong cryptosystem will resist all known previous methods for breaking codes (cryptanalysis).See also cryptology, public-key encryption, RSA.Usenet newsgroups: sci.crypt, sci.crypt.research.FAQ . . . .(2000-01-16)

dade ::: v. t. --> To hold up by leading strings or by the hand, as a child while he toddles. ::: v. i. --> To walk unsteadily, as a child in leading strings, or just learning to walk; to move slowly.

damaru. (T. da ma ru). In Sanskrit, the name of an hourglass-shaped, two-sided hand drum, used in tantric liturgy. Two small strikers are attached to strings at the drum's waist, making a rattling sound as they strike the alternate faces when the drum is rotated back and forth in the upraised right hand. This type of drum appears in pictograms from as early as the Indus Valley civilization and is commonly used by street performers in India. The saivite damaru, slightly extended in the middle, is called cang te'u in Tibetan. The Buddhist damaru comes in a number of sizes, from the small drum about four inches in diameter, up to the large drum used in GCOD (severance) practice, which is up to sixteen inches in diameter. The true KAPALA (skull) damaru used by tAntrikas is fashioned from two human craniums facing outward and joined together by human bone; an ornate tail made of brocade with the five colors signifying the PANCATATHAGATA is attached to the waist of the drum and hangs down when the drum is played. The large gcod rnga used in gcod practice is made of wood; it is shaken slowly and rhythmically while chanting, accompanied by intermittent blasts through a rkang gling (kangling), a trumpet-like instrument ideally fashioned from a human leg bone. See also DRUM.

decachordon ::: n. --> An ancient Greek musical instrument of ten strings, resembling the harp.
Something consisting of ten parts.


delete 1. "operating system" (Or "erase") To make a file inaccessible. Usually this operation only deletes information from the tables the {file system} uses to locate named files; the file's contents still exist on {disk} and can sometimes be recovered by scanning the whole disk for strings which are known to have been in the file. Files created subsequently on the same disk are quite likely to reuse the same blocks and thus overwrite the deleted file's data permanently. 2. "character" The {control character} with {ASCII} code 127. Usually entering this character from the keyboard deletes the last character typed from the {input buffer}. Sadly there is great confusion between {operating systems} and keyboard manufacturers as to whether this function should be assigned to the delete or {backspace} key/character. The choice of code 127 (binary 1111111) is not arbitrary but dates back to the use of {paper tape} for input. The delete key rewound the tape by one character and punched out all seven holes, thus obliterating whatever character was there before. The tape reading software ignored any delete characters in the input. (1996-12-01)

Diapason Harmony (Greek) e dia pason chordon symphonia The harmony throughout the whole range of the seven strings of the ancient Greek heptachord or seven-stringed lyre — the octave. The Pythagoreans, teaching that numbers and their ratios underlie manifestation, traced the analogy between the seven-stringed lyre and the heavenly heptachord of the seven manifested planets of the ancients. Numbers were assigned to express the relative distances of the planets from the central body (sun or earth); and numbers were assigned to denote the lengths of the strings or their pitch (SD 2:601). It is impracticable to reach an exact judgment as to the details of this analogy; the stringing of the lyre differed in different times and places, and it is difficult to adapt the Greek scale to the diatonic scale. But details apart, the important point is that the universal harmony, based on numbers, prevails throughout cosmos and expressed in the phrase music of the spheres.

Digital Lempel Ziv 1 "algorithm" (DLZ1) A {Lempel-Ziv compression} {algorithm} which maps variable length input strings to variable length output symbols. During compression, the algorithm builds a dictionary of strings which is accessed by means of a {hash table}. Compression occurs when input data matches a string in the table and is replaced with the output symbol. DLZ1 is used on {Digital Linear Tape}. (1997-04-05)

Digital Lempel Ziv 1 ::: (algorithm) (DLZ1) A Lempel-Ziv compression algorithm which maps variable length input strings to variable length output symbols. During compression, the table. Compression occurs when input data matches a string in the table and is replaced with the output symbol.DLZ1 is used on Digital Linear Tape. (1997-04-05)

Dilruba Stringed instrument with four strings and seven sympathising strings, played with a bow.

double quote "character" '"' {ASCII} character 34. Often used in programming languages to delimit strings. In {Unix} {shells} and {Perl} it delimits a string inside which variable substitution may occur. Common names: quote. Rare: literal mark; double-glitch; {ITU-T}: quotation marks; {ITU-T}: dieresis; dirk; {INTERCAL}: rabbit-ears; double prime. (1995-03-28)

double quote ::: (character) '' ASCII character 34. Often used in programming languages to delimit strings. In Unix shells and Perl it delimits a string inside which variable substitution may occur.Common names: quote. Rare: literal mark; double-glitch; ITU-T: quotation marks; ITU-T: dieresis; dirk; INTERCAL: rabbit-ears; double prime. (1995-03-28)

DYSTAL ::: DYnamic STorage ALlocation.Adds lists, strings, sorting, statistics and matrix operations to Fortran. Sammet 1969, p.388. DYSTAL: Dynamic Storage Allocation Language in FORTRAN, J.M. Sakoda, in Symbol Manipulation Languages and Techniques, D.G. Bobrow ed, N-H 1971, pp.302- 311. (1995-03-17)

DYSTAL DYnamic STorage ALlocation. Adds lists, strings, sorting, statistics and matrix operations to Fortran. Sammet 1969, p.388. "DYSTAL: Dynamic Storage Allocation Language in FORTRAN", J.M. Sakoda, in Symbol Manipulation Languages and Techniques, D.G. Bobrow ed, N-H 1971, pp.302- 311. (1995-03-17)

EOL ::: 1. End Of Line.2. Expression Oriented Language. A low-level language for strings. Versions: EOL-1, EOL-2, EOL-3. [EOL - A Symbol Manipulation Language, L. Lukaszewicz, Computer J 10(1):53 (May 1967)].[Jargon File]

EOL 1. {End Of Line}. 2. Expression Oriented Language. A low-level language for strings. Versions: EOL-1, EOL-2, EOL-3. ["EOL - A Symbol Manipulation Language", L. Lukaszewicz, Computer J 10(1):53 (May 1967)]. [{Jargon File}]

EPSILON ::: (language) A macro language with high level features including strings and lists, developed by A.P. Ershov at Novosibirsk in 1967. EPSILON was used to implement ALGOL 68 on the M-220.[Application of the Machine-Oriented Language Epsilon to Software Development, I.V. Pottosin et al, in Machine Oriented Higher Level Languages, W. van der Poel, N-H 1974, pp. 417-434].[Jargon File] (1995-05-10)

EPSILON "language" A {macro} language with high level features including strings and lists, developed by A.P. Ershov at Novosibirsk in 1967. EPSILON was used to implement {ALGOL 68} on the {M-220}. ["Application of the Machine-Oriented Language Epsilon to Software Development", I.V. Pottosin et al, in Machine Oriented Higher Level Languages, W. van der Poel, N-H 1974, pp. 417-434]. [{Jargon File}] (1995-05-10)

Extended Pascal ::: A superset of ANSI and ISO Pascal with many enhancements, including modules, separate compilation, type schemata, variable-length strings, direct-access files, complex numbers, initial values, constant expressions. ANSI/IEEE770X3.160-1989 and ISO 10206. (1994-12-12)

Extended Pascal A superset of {ANSI} and {ISO Pascal} with many enhancements, including {modules}, {separate compilation}, {type schema}ta, variable-length strings, direct-access files, complex numbers, initial values, constant expressions. ANSI/IEEE770X3.160-1989 and ISO 10206. (1994-12-12)

Extension Language Kit ::: (language) (Elk) A Scheme interpreter by Oliver Laumann and Carsten Bormann all artificial limitations removed; generational/incremental garbage collector; Unix system call extensions; Records (structures) and bit strings.Version: 2.2 is mostly R3RS compatible and runs on Unix, Ultrix, VAX, Sun-3, Sun-4, 68000, i386, MIPS, IBM PC RT, RS/6000, HP700, SGI, Sony, MS-DOS (gcc+DJGPP or go32). . . (1994-12-15)

Extension Language Kit ::: (language) (Elk) A Scheme interpreter by Oliver Laumann and Carsten Bormannall artificial limitations removed; generational/incremental garbage collector; Unix system call extensions; Records (structures) and bit strings.Version: 2.2 is mostly R3RS compatible and runs on Unix, Ultrix, VAX, Sun-3, Sun-4, 68000, i386, MIPS, IBM PC RT, RS/6000, HP700, SGI, Sony, MS-DOS (gcc+DJGPP or go32). . . (1994-12-15)

Extension Language Kit "language" (Elk) A {Scheme} {interpreter} by Oliver Laumann "net@cs.tu-berlin.de" and Carsten Bormann "cabo@cs.tu-berlin.de" of the {Technical University of Berlin}. Elk was designed to be used as a general extension language. New {types} and {primitive} procedures can easily be added. It has {first-class environments}, {dynamic-wind}, {fluid-let}, {macros}, {autoload}ing and a {dump}. It provides interfaces to {Xlib}, {Xt} and various {widget} sets; {dynamic loading} of extensions and {object files}; almost all artificial limitations removed; {generational}/{incremental garbage collector}; {Unix} {system call} extensions; {Records} (structures) and {bit strings}. Version: 2.2 is mostly {R3RS} compatible and runs on {Unix}, {Ultrix}, {VAX}, {Sun-3}, {Sun-4}, {68000}, {i386}, {MIPS}, {IBM PC RT}, {RS/6000}, {HP700}, {SGI}, {Sony}, {MS-DOS} ({gcc}+{DJGPP} or {go32}). {Germany (ftp://ftp.fu-berlin.de/pub/Unix/languages/scheme/elk-2.2.tar.gz)}. {US (ftp://ftp.x.org/contrib/elk-2.2.tar.gz)}. {US (ftp://gatekeeper.dec.com/pub/comp.sources.misc/volume8/elk)}. (1994-12-15)

fence ::: 1. A sequence of one or more distinguished (out-of-band) characters (or other data items), used to delimit a piece of data intended to be treated as a unit 0000000) character that terminates strings in C is a fence. Hex FF is also (though slightly less frequently) used this way. See zigamorph.2. An extra data value inserted in an array or other data structure in order to allow some normal test on the array's contents also to function as a termination without having to check at each pass whether the end of the array had been reached.3. [among users of optimising compilers] Any technique, usually exploiting knowledge about the compiler, that blocks certain optimisations. Used when a dummy procedure there to force a flush of the optimiser's register-colouring info can be expressed by the shorter That's a fence procedure.[Jargon File] (1999-01-08)

fence 1. A sequence of one or more distinguished ({out-of-band}) characters (or other data items), used to delimit a piece of data intended to be treated as a unit (the computer-science literature calls this a "sentinel"). The NUL (ASCII 0000000) character that terminates strings in C is a fence. {Hex} FF is also (though slightly less frequently) used this way. See {zigamorph}. 2. An extra data value inserted in an array or other data structure in order to allow some normal test on the array's contents also to function as a termination test. For example, a highly optimised routine for finding a value in an array might artificially place a copy of the value to be searched for after the last slot of the array, thus allowing the main search loop to search for the value without having to check at each pass whether the end of the array had been reached. 3. [among users of optimising compilers] Any technique, usually exploiting knowledge about the compiler, that blocks certain optimisations. Used when explicit mechanisms are not available or are overkill. Typically a hack: "I call a dummy procedure there to force a flush of the optimiser's register-colouring info" can be expressed by the shorter "That's a fence procedure". [{Jargon File}] (1999-01-08)

fgrep "tool" A variant of the {Unix} {grep} command which searches for fixed (uninterpreted) strings rather than {regular expressions}. Surprisingly, this is not always faster. (1996-10-27)

fgrep ::: (tool) A variant of the Unix grep command which searches for fixed (uninterpreted) strings rather than regular expressions. Surprisingly, this is not always faster. (1996-10-27)

fibrillose ::: a. --> Covered with hairlike appendages, as the under surface of some lichens; also, composed of little strings or fibers; as, fibrillose appendages.

fiddle ::: n. --> A stringed instrument of music played with a bow; a violin; a kit.
A kind of dock (Rumex pulcher) with fiddle-shaped leaves; -- called also fiddle dock.
A rack or frame of bars connected by strings, to keep table furniture in place on the cabin table in bad weather. ::: v. i.


fiddlestring ::: n. --> One of the catgut strings of a fiddle.

Formula ALGOL ::: An ALGOL extension for symbolic mathematics, strings and lists, developed by A.J. Perlis and R. Iturriaga at Carnegie for the CDC G-20 in 1962.[An Extension of ALGOL for Manipulating Formulae, A.J. Perlis et al, CACM 7(2):127-130 (Feb 1964)].[Sammet 1969, p. 583]. (1995-02-15)

Formula ALGOL An {ALGOL} extension for {symbolic mathematics}, strings and lists, developed by A.J. Perlis and R. Iturriaga at {Carnegie} for the {CDC G-20} in 1962. ["An Extension of ALGOL for Manipulating Formulae", A.J. Perlis et al, CACM 7(2):127-130 (Feb 1964)]. [Sammet 1969, p. 583]. (1995-02-15)

Fortran 77 ::: A popular version of Fortran with Block IF, PARAMETER and SAVE statements added, but still no WHILE. It has fixed-length character strings, format-free I/O, and arrays with lower bounds.[ANSI X3.9-1978]. . . (1994-12-16)

Fortran 77 A popular version of {Fortran} with Block IF, PARAMETER and SAVE statements added, but still no WHILE. It has fixed-length character strings, format-free I/O, and {arrays} with lower bounds. [ANSI X3.9-1978]. {GNU version (ftp://gnu.org/pub/gnu/g77)}. {Amiga version (ftp://ftp.cso.uiuc.edu/amiga/fish/ff470/BCF)}. (1994-12-16)

ganying. (J. kanno; K. kamŭng 感應). In Chinese, "sympathetic resonance," or "stimulus and response," a seminal concept in traditional Chinese philosophy, which is appropriated in early Chinese Buddhism to explain the Buddhist concepts of action (KARMAN) and grace (i.e., the "response" of a buddha or BODHISATTVA to a supplicant's invocation, or "stimulus"). Ganying is a mode of seemingly spontaneous (although not "uncaused") response that occurs naturally in a universe conceived holistically in terms of pattern or "principle" (LI) and interdependent order. The notion itself is deceptively simple: objects belonging to the same category or class are conceived as resonating spontaneously with each other, just as would two identically tuned strings on a pair of zithers. The notion of resonance was used in traditional Chinese philosophy to explain or rationalize the mechanism behind the elaborate system of correlated categories generally known as five-phase (wuxing) thought-viz., the primary elements of metal, wood, water, fire, and soil. According to early Chinese cosmology, the underlying principles and patterns of the universe seemingly give rise to, or resonate spontaneously with, correlative manifestations in the physical world. The Chinese conception of the universe as an interconnected harmonious whole finds expression in theories concerning the cyclic progression of the five phases and yin (dark) and yang (light), as well as in elaborate prescriptions pertaining to the ritual life of the court. The universe, according to this view, is in a state of continual motion and flux. The patterns of change are the result of the cyclic interactions between the five phases and the forces (or vital energies, C. qi) of yin and yang, which tend naturally in the direction of rhythmic balance and harmony. Humans do not stand apart from the natural universe but rather constitute a fundamental and integral part of this whole. Early Buddhist thinkers in China adapted the mechanism of sympathetic resonance to explain in Chinese terms how an action (karman) performed in one time period could evoke a corresponding response, or fruition (VIPĀKA), in another. In addition, sympathetic resonance was used by early Chinese Buddhist thinkers to make sense of the notion of grace. In this later sense, sentient beings' faith (sRADDHĀ) and/or roots of virtue (KUsALAMuLA) would invoke a "sympathetic response" in the minds of the buddhas and bodhisattvas, which prompts them to respond accordingly with salvific grace. In the PURE LAND traditions, sentient beings' recitation of the name of AMITĀBHA (see NIANFO) creates a sympathetic response in the mind of that buddha, which prompts him in turn to bring them to his pure land, where they may become enlightened. The rubric of ganying is just as prevalent in popular religious tracts in China, where it refers to the principle of moral retribution-the belief that one's good and evil deeds will result in corresponding rewards and punishments. While the Chinese notion of moral retribution (bao) meted out in this life or the next was indebted to Buddhist notions of karman and rebirth, in the premodern period, such retribution emerged as a fundamental principle of Chinese popular religious belief and practice, irrespective of one's specific religious affiliation. This doctrine was propagated through innumerable tales of miraculous retribution-such as "numinous attestation" (lingyan), "responsive attestation" (yingyan), or "numinous response" (lingying), and so on-that "attested" (yan) to the reality of the "numinous" or "supernatural" (ling) and the inevitability of divine justice.

gloriously bright,” etc. Poe’s Israfel, “Whose heart-strings are a lute,” was (or is) an Islamic

Graphical User Interface "operating system" (GUI) The use of pictures rather than just words to represent the input and output of a program. A program with a GUI runs under some {windowing system} (e.g. The {X Window System}, {MacOS}, {Microsoft Windows}, {Acorn} {RISC OS}, {NEXTSTEP}). The program displays certain {icons}, {buttons}, {dialogue boxes}, etc. in its {windows} on the screen and the user controls it mainly by moving a {pointer} on the screen (typically controlled by a {mouse}) and selecting certain objects by pressing buttons on the mouse while the pointer is pointing at them. This contrasts with a {command line interface} where communication is by exchange of strings of text. Windowing systems started with the first {real}-time graphic display systems for computers, namely the {SAGE} Project [Dates?] and {Ivan Sutherland}'s {Sketchpad} (1963). {Douglas Engelbart}'s {Augmentation of Human Intellect} project at {SRI} in the 1960s developed the {On-Line System}, which incorporated a mouse-driven cursor and multiple windows. Several people from Engelbart's project went to Xerox PARC in the early 1970s, most importantly his senior engineer, {Bill English}. The Xerox PARC team established the {WIMP} concept, which appeared commercially in the {Xerox 8010} (Star) system in 1981. Beginning in 1980(?), led by {Jef Raskin}, the {Macintosh} team at {Apple Computer} (which included former members of the Xerox PARC group) continued to develop such ideas in the first commercially successful product to use a GUI, the Apple Macintosh, released in January 1984. In 2001 Apple introduced {Mac OS X}. {Microsoft} modeled the first version of {Windows}, released in 1985, on Mac OS. Windows was a GUI for {MS-DOS} that had been shipped with {IBM PC} and compatible computers since 1981. Apple sued Microsoft over infringement of the look-and-feel of the MacOS. The court case ran for many years. [Wikipedia]. (2002-03-25)

Graphical User Interface ::: (operating system) (GUI) The use of pictures rather than just words to represent the input and output of a program. A program with a GUI runs under This contrasts with a command line interface where communication is by exchange of strings of text.Windowing systems started with the first real-time graphic display systems for computers, namely the SAGE Project [Dates?] and Ivan Sutherland's Sketchpad Xerox PARC team established the WIMP concept, which appeared commercially in the Xerox 8010 (Star) system in 1981.Beginning in 1980(?), led by Jef Raskin, the Macintosh team at Apple Computer (which included former members of the Xerox PARC group) continued to develop such ideas in the first commercially successful product to use a GUI, the Apple Macintosh, released in January 1984. In 2001 Apple introduced Mac OS X.Microsoft modeled the first version of Windows, released in 1985, on Mac OS. Windows was a GUI for MS-DOS that had been shipped with IBM PC and compatible computers since 1981. Apple sued Microsoft over infringement of the look-and-feel of the MacOS. The court case ran for many years.[Wikipedia].(2002-03-25)

grep "tool, information science" "tool" A {Unix} command for searching files for lines matching a given {regular expression} (RE). Named after the {qed}/{ed} editor subcommand "g/re/p", where re stands for a regular expression, to Globally search for the Regular Expression and Print the lines containing matches to it. There are two other variants, fgrep which searches only for fixed strings and {egrep} which accepts extended REs but is usually the fastest of the three. Used by extension to mean "to look for something by pattern". When browsing through a large set of files, one may speak of "grepping around". "Grep the bulletin board for the system backup schedule, would you?" See also {vgrep}. [{Jargon File}]

grep ::: (tool, information science) tool> A Unix command for searching files for lines matching a given regular expression (RE). Named after the qed/ed editor There are two other variants, fgrep which searches only for fixed strings and egrep which accepts extended REs but is usually the fastest of the three.Used by extension to mean to look for something by pattern. When browsing through a large set of files, one may speak of grepping around. Grep the bulletin board for the system backup schedule, would you? See also vgrep.[Jargon File]

Gsang phu ne'u thog. (Sangphu Ne'utok). A monastery associated with the BKA' GDAMS sect established south of LHA SA in 1073 by RNGOG LEGS PA'I SHES RAB; for many centuries one of the premier institutions of learning in central Tibet. The abbacy passed to the scholar and translator RNGOG BLO LDAN SHES RAB, Legs pa'i shes rab's nephew, on his thirty-fifth birthday. Blo ldan shes rab's translations and summaries (bsdus don) of all the major works of DHARMAKĪRTI, together with the commentaries of DHARMOTTARA, as well as his two major commentaries (rnam bshad) established Gsang phu as the unchallenged center for the study of epistemology (T. tshad ma; S. PRAMĀnA) until SA SKYA PAndITA's masterly presentation of Dharmakīrti's thought in about 1219 in his TSHAD MA RIGS GTER; it criticized some aspects of the Gtsang phu tradition. Most illustrious of the line of pramāna scholars after Rngog at GSANG PHU was PHYWA PA CHOS KYI SENG GE who is credited with originating the distinctively Tibetan BSDUS GRWA genre of textbook (used widely in DGE LUGS monasteries) that introduces beginners to the main topics in ABHIDHARMA in a particular dialectical form that strings together a chain of consequences linked by a chain of reasons. Gtsang phu was also the center of PRAJNĀPĀRAMITĀ studies based on the ABHISAMAYĀLAMKĀRA, originating again with Blo ldan shes rab's translation, summary, and a major commentary. It attracted great masters of various sectarian affiliations including DUS GSUM MKHYEN PA, the first KARMA PA. The monastery divided into two colleges in the twelfth century; Gnyal [alt. Mnyal] zhig 'Jam pa'i rdo rje (fl. c. 1200) was abbot during Sa skya Pandita's early years. Gnyal zhig's students passed on the traditions down to ZHWA LU monastery and to BU STON RIN CHEN GRUB and his followers. Like many former Bka' gdams institutions, it faded into obscurity with the rise of the DGE LUGS sect.

gtor ma. (torma). The Tibetan translation of the Sanskrit term bali (offering, tribute), an offering of food to propitiate a deity. There are ritual texts (S. balividhi) for constructing and offering gtor ma, differing based on the purpose of the offering and the status of the recipient. In Tibet the gtor ma is always a distinctive conical shape, and became a canvas for extremely ornate butter sculpture. The spectacular gtor ma ritual culminated in the gtor bzlog (tordok) or gtor rgyag (torgyak) on the last day of the Tibetan year, during which the monastic assembly would march out with the gtor ma. All negativities and bad spirits of the departing year are drawn to the offering, which is then hurled into a blazing pyre accompanied by a cacophony of instruments and the loud bangs of firecrackers. On the last of the fifteen days of festivities celebrating lo gsar (new year) in LHA SA, the bco lnga mchod pa competition to judge the best gtor ma was held; it is reported that some gtor ma were so high that ladders had to be used to reach the top; they were decorated with extremely ornate butter sculptures, including figures manipulated like puppets with hidden strings. There are a variety of gtor mas in Tibet, usually made of barley flour with butter if they are expected to last and be eaten, or with water if they are to be thrown out; they may be painted red if the recipient protector or deity is wrathful, and clear or whitish in color if in a peaceful form.

guilloche ::: n. --> An ornament in the form of two or more bands or strings twisted over each other in a continued series, leaving circular openings which are filled with round ornaments.

guitar ::: n. --> A stringed instrument of music resembling the lute or the violin, but larger, and having six strings, three of silk covered with silver wire, and three of catgut, -- played upon with the fingers.

harp ::: a usually large musical instrument which is held upright, and which has many strings of varying length which are plucked with the fingers. harp"s, harps.

harp ::: n. --> A musical instrument consisting of a triangular frame furnished with strings and sometimes with pedals, held upright, and played with the fingers.
A constellation; Lyra, or the Lyre.
A grain sieve.
To play on the harp.
To dwell on or recur to a subject tediously or monotonously in speaking or in writing; to refer to something repeatedly or


harpsichord ::: n. --> A harp-shaped instrument of music set horizontally on legs, like the grand piano, with strings of wire, played by the fingers, by means of keys provided with quills, instead of hammers, for striking the strings. It is now superseded by the piano.

hash function "programming" A {hash coding} {function} which assigns a data item distinguished by some "key" into one of a number of possible "hash buckets" in a hash table. The hash function is usually combined with another more precise function. For example a program might take a string of letters and put it in one of twenty six lists depending on its first letter. Ideally, a hash function should distribute items evenly between the buckets to reduce the number of {hash collisions}. If, for example, the strings were names beginning with "Mr.", "Miss" or "Mrs." then taking the first letter would be a very poor hash function because all names would hash the same. (1997-08-03)

heart-strings

hurdy-gurdy ::: n. --> A stringled instrument, lutelike in shape, in which the sound is produced by the friction of a wheel turned by a crank at the end, instead of by a bow, two of the strings being tuned as drones, while two or more, tuned in unison, are modulated by keys.
In California, a water wheel with radial buckets, driven by the impact of a jet.


HyperTalk ::: A verbose semicompiled language by Bill Atkinson and Dan Winkler, with loose syntax and high readability.HyperTalk uses HyperCard as an object management system, development environment and interface builder. Programs are organised into stacks of cards, each of strings in fields, local, or global variables; all data references are through chunk expressions of the form: 'last item of background fieldName List of card ID 34217'. that are attached to stack, background, card, field and button objects.Apple Computer has taken back distribution and maintenance of HyperCard from Claris Corporation[HyperTalk Language Reference Manual, A-W 1988]. (1994-11-17)

HyperTalk A verbose semicompiled language by Bill Atkinson and Dan Winkler, with loose {syntax} and high readability. HyperTalk uses {HyperCard} as an object management system, development environment and interface builder. Programs are organised into "stacks" of "cards", each of which may have "buttons" and "fields". All data storage is in zero-terminated strings in fields, local, or global variables; all data references are through "chunk expressions" of the form: 'last item of background field "Name List" of card ID 34217'. Flow of control is {event-driven} and uses message-passing among scripts that are attached to stack, background, card, field and button objects. {Apple Computer} has taken back distribution and maintenance of HyperCard from {Claris} Corporation ["HyperTalk Language Reference Manual", A-W 1988]. (1994-11-17)

Icon "language" A descendant of {SNOBOL4} with {Pascal}-like syntax, produced by Griswold in the 1970's. Icon is a general-purpose language with special features for string scanning. It has dynamic types: records, sets, lists, strings, tables. If has some {object oriented} features but no {modules} or {exceptions}. It has a primitive {Unix} interface. The central theme of Icon is the generator: when an expression is evaluated it may be suspended and later resumed, producing a result sequence of values until it fails. Resumption takes place implicitly in two contexts: iteration which is syntactically loop-like ('every-do'), and goal-directed evaluation in which a conditional expression automatically attempts to produce at least one result. Expressions that fail are used in lieu of Booleans. Data {backtracking} is supported by a reversible {assignment}. Icon also has {co-expressions}, which can be explicitly resumed at any time. Version 8.8 by Ralph Griswold "ralph@cs.arizona.edu" includes an {interpreter}, a compiler (for some {platforms}) and a library (v8.8). Icon has been ported to {Amiga}, {Atari}, {CMS}, {Macintosh}, {Macintosh/MPW}, {MS-DOS}, {MVS}, {OS/2}, {Unix}, {VMS}, {Acorn}. See also {Ibpag2}. {(ftp://cs.arizona.edu/icon/)}, {MS-DOS FTP (ftp://bellcore.com norman/iconexe.zip)}. {Usenet} newsgroup: {news:comp.lang.icon}. E-mail: "icon-project@cs.arizona.edu", "mengarini@delphi.com". Mailing list: icon-group@arizona.edu. ["The Icon Programmming Language", Ralph E. Griswold and Madge T. Griswold, Prentice Hall, seond edition, 1990]. ["The Implementation of the Icon Programmming Language", Ralph E. Griswold and Madge T. Griswold, Princeton University Press 1986]. (1992-08-21)

kin ::: --> A diminutive suffix; as, manikin; lambkin. ::: n. --> A primitive Chinese instrument of the cittern kind, with from five to twenty-five silken strings.
Relationship, consanguinity, or affinity; connection by birth or marriage; kindred; near connection or alliance, as of those having


kussier ::: n. --> (Mus.) A Turkish instrument of music, with a hollow body covered with skin, over which five strings are stretched.

Lempel-Ziv Welch compression (LZW) The {algorithm} used by the {Unix} {compress} command to reduce the size of files, e.g. for archival or transmission. LZW was designed by Terry Welch in 1984 for implementation in hardware for high-performance disk controllers. It is a variant of {LZ78}, one of the two {Lempel-Ziv compression} schemes. The LZW algorithm relies on reoccurrence of byte sequences (strings) in its input. It maintains a table mapping input strings to their associated output codes. The table initially contains mappings for all possible strings of length one. Input is taken one byte at a time to find the longest initial string present in the table. The code for that string is output and then the string is extended with one more input byte, b. A new entry is added to the table mapping the extended string to the next unused code (obtained by incrementing a counter). The process repeats, starting from byte b. The number of bits in an output code, and hence the maximum number of entries in the table is usually fixed and once this limit is reached, no more entries are added. LZW compression and decompression are licensed under {Unisys} Corporation's 1984 U.S. Patent 4,558,302 and equivalent foreign patents. This kind of patent isn't legal in most coutries of the world (including the UK) except the USA. Patents in the UK can't describe {algorithms} or mathematical methods. [A Technique for High Performance Data Compression, Terry A. Welch, IEEE Computer, 17(6), June 1984, pp. 8-19] [J. Ziv and A. Lempel, "A Universal Algorithm for Sequential Data Compression," IEEE Transactions on Information Theory, Vol. IT-23, No. 3, May 1977, pp. 337-343].

Lempel-Ziv Welch compression ::: (LZW) The algorithm used by the Unix compress command to reduce the size of files, e.g. for archival or transmission. LZW was designed by Terry Welch in 1984 for implementation in hardware for high-performance disk controllers. It is a variant of LZ78, one of the two Lempel-Ziv compression schemes.The LZW algorithm relies on reoccurrence of byte sequences (strings) in its input. It maintains a table mapping input strings to their associated output output code, and hence the maximum number of entries in the table is usually fixed and once this limit is reached, no more entries are added.LZW compression and decompression are licensed under Unisys Corporation's 1984 U.S. Patent 4,558,302 and equivalent foreign patents. This kind of patent isn't legal in most coutries of the world (including the UK) except the USA. Patents in the UK can't describe algorithms or mathematical methods.[A Technique for High Performance Data Compression, Terry A. Welch, IEEE Computer, 17(6), June 1984, pp. 8-19][J. Ziv and A. Lempel, A Universal Algorithm for Sequential Data Compression, IEEE Transactions on Information Theory, Vol. IT-23, No. 3, May 1977, pp. 337-343].

lexeme "grammar" A minimal lexical unit of a language. {Lexical analysis} converts strings in a language into a list of lexemes. For a programming language these word-like pieces would include {keywords}, {identifiers}, {literals} and punctuation. The lexemes are then passed to the {parser} for syntactic analysis. (1996-04-06)

lexeme ::: (grammar) A minimal lexical unit of a language. Lexical analysis converts strings in a language into a list of lexemes. For a programming language these word-like pieces would include keywords, identifiers, literals and punctutation. The lexemes are then passed to the parser for syntactic analysis. (1996-04-06)

Liana "language" A {C}-like, interpretive, {object-oriented programming} language, {class} library, and integrated development environment designed specifically for development of {application programs} for {Microsoft Windows} and {Windows NT}. Designed by Jack Krupansky "Jack@BaseTechnology.com" of {Base Technology}, Liana was first released as a commercial product in August 1991. The language is designed to be as easy to use as {BASIC}, as concise as {C}, and as flexible as {Smalltalk}. The {OOP} {syntax} of {C++} was chosen over the less familiar syntax of {Smalltalk} and {Objective-C} to appeal to {C} programmers and in recognition of C++ being the leading OOP language. The syntax is a simplified subset of {C/C++}. The {semantics} are also a simplified subset of C/C++, but extended to achieve the flexibility of Smalltalk. Liana is a typeless language (like {Lisp}, {Snobol} and {Smalltalk}), which means that the datatypes of variables, function parameters, and function return values are not needed since values carry the type information. Hence, variables are simply containers for values and function parameters are simply pipes through which any type of value can flow. {Single inheritance}, but not {multiple inheritance}, is supported. {Memory management} is automatic using {reference counting}. The library includes over 150 {classes}, for {dynamic arrays}, {associative lookup} tables, windows, menus, dialogs, controls, bitmaps, cursors, icons, mouse movement, keyboard input, fonts, text and graphics display, {DDE}, and {MDI}. Liana provides flexible OOP support for Windows programming. For example, a {list box} automatically fills itself from an associated {object}. That object is not some sort of special object, but is merely any object that "behaves like" an array (i.e., has a "size" member function that returns the number of elements, a "get" function that returns the ith element, and the text for each element is returned by calling the "text" member function for the element). A related product, C-odeScript, is an embeddable application scripting language. It is an implementation of Liana which can be called from C/C++ applications to dynamically evaluate expressions and statement sequences. This can be used to offer the end-user a macro/scripting capability or to allow the C/C++ application to be customized without changing the C/C++ source code. Here's a complete Liana program which illustrates the flexibility of the language semantics and the power of the class library: main {  // Prompt user for a string.  // No declaration needed for "x" (becomes a global variable.)  x = ask ("Enter a String");  // Use "+" operator to concatenate strings. Memory  // management for string temporaries is automatic. The  // "message" function displays a Windows message box.  message ("You entered: " + x);  // Now x will take on a different type. The "ask_number"  // function will return a "real" if the user's input  // contains a decimal point or an "int" if no decimal  // point.  x = ask_number ("Enter a Number");  // The "+" operator with a string operand will  // automatically convert the other operand to a string.  message ("You entered: " + x);  // Prompt user for a Liana expression. Store it in a  // local variable (the type, string, is merely for  // documentation.)  string expr = ask ("Enter an Expression");  // Evaluate the expression. The return value of "eval"  // could be any type. The "source_format" member function  // converts any value to its source format (e.g., add  // quotes for a string.) The "class_name" member function  // return the name of the class of an object/value.  // Empty parens can be left off for member function calls.  x = eval (expr);  message ("The value of " + expr + " is " + x.source_format +    " its type is " + x.class_name); } The author explained that the "Li" of Liana stands for "Language interpreter" and liana are vines that grow up trees in tropical forests, which seemed quite appropriate for a tool to deal with the complexity of MS Windows! It is also a woman's name. ["Liana for Windows", Aitken, P., PC TECHNIQUES, Dec/Jan 1993]. ["Liana: A Language For Writing Windows Programs", Burk, R., Tech Specialist (R&D Publications), Sep 1991]. ["Liana v. 1.0." Hildebrand, J.D., Computer Language, Dec 1992]. ["Liana: A Windows Programming Language Based on C and C++", Krupansky, J., The C Users Journal, Jul 1992]. ["Writing a Multimedia App in Liana", Krupansky, J., Dr. Dobb's Journal, Winter Multimedia Sourcebook 1994]. ["The Liana Programming Language", R. Valdes, Dr Dobbs J Oct 1993, pp.50-52]. (1999-06-29)

Lightweight Directory Access Protocol "protocol" (LDAP) A {protocol} for accessing on-line {directory services}. LDAP was defined by the {IETF} in order to encourage adoption of {X.500} directories. The {Directory Access Protocol} (DAP) was seen as too complex for simple {internet clients} to use. LDAP defines a relatively simple protocol for updating and searching directories running over {TCP/IP}. LDAP is gaining support from vendors such as {Netscape}, {Novell}, {Sun}, {HP}, {IBM}/Lotus, {SGI}, {AT&T}, and {Banyan} An LDAP directory entry is a collection of attributes with a name, called a distinguished name (DN). The DN refers to the entry unambiguously. Each of the entry's attributes has a {type} and one or more values. The types are typically mnemonic strings, like "cn" for common name, or "mail" for {e-mail address}. The values depend on the type. For example, a mail attribute might contain the value "donald.duck@disney.com". A jpegPhoto attribute would contain a photograph in binary {JPEG}/{JFIF} format. LDAP directory entries are arranged in a {hierarchical} structure that reflects political, geographic, and/or organisational boundaries. Entries representing countries appear at the top of the tree. Below them are entries representing states or national organisations. Below them might be entries representing people, organisational units, printers, documents, or just about anything else. {RFC 1777}, {RFC 1778}, {RFC 1959}, {RFC 1960}, {RFC 1823}. {LDAP v3 (http://kingsmountain.com/LDAPRoadmap/CurrentState.html)}. [Difference v1, v2, v3?] (2003-09-27)

LISP 2 ::: LISP 1.5 with an ALGOL 60-like surface syntax. Also optional type declarations, new data types including integer-indexed arrays and character strings, partial-word extraction/insertion operators and macros. A pattern-matching facility similar to COMIT was proposed. Implemented for the Q-32 computer.[The LISP 2 Programming Language and System, P.W. Abrahams et al, Proc FJCC 29:661-676, AFIPS (Fall 1966).]

LISP 2 {LISP 1.5} with an {ALGOL 60}-like surface syntax. Also optional type declarations, new data types including integer-indexed {arrays} and character strings, partial-word extraction/insertion operators and {macros}. A {pattern-matching} facility similar to {COMIT} was proposed. Implemented for the {Q-32} computer. ["The LISP 2 Programming Language and System", P.W. Abrahams et al, Proc FJCC 29:661-676, AFIPS (Fall 1966).]

live data 1. Data that is written to be interpreted and takes over program flow when triggered by some un-obvious operation, such as viewing it. One use of such hacks is to break security. For example, some smart terminals have commands that allow one to download strings to program keys; this can be used to write live data that, when listed to the terminal, infects it with a security-breaking {virus} that is triggered the next time a hapless user strikes that key. For another, there are some well-known bugs in {vi} that allow certain texts to send arbitrary commands back to the machine when they are simply viewed. 2. In {C}, data that includes pointers to functions (executable code). 3. An object, such as a {trampoline}, that is constructed on the fly by a program and intended to be executed as code. 4. Actual real-world data, as opposed to "test data". For example, "I think I have the record deletion module finished." "Have you tried it out on live data?" This usage usually carries the connotation that live data is more fragile and must not be corrupted, or bad things will happen. So a more appropriate response to the above claim might be: "Well, make sure it works perfectly before we throw live data at it." The implication here is that record deletion is something pretty significant, and a haywire record-deletion module running amok on live data would probably cause great harm. [{Jargon File}]

LOGOL ::: Strings are stored on cyclic lists or 'tapes', which are operated upon by finite automata. J. Mysior et al, LOGOL, A String manipulation Language, in Symbol Manipulations Languages and Techniques, D.G. Bobrow ed, N-H 1968, pp.166-177.

LOGOL Strings are stored on cyclic lists or 'tapes', which are operated upon by finite automata. J. Mysior et al, "LOGOL, A String manipulation Language", in Symbol Manipulations Languages and Techniques, D.G. Bobrow ed, N-H 1968, pp.166-177.

lyre ::: a musical instrument of ancient Greece consisting of a sound box made typically from a turtle shell, with two curved arms connected by a yoke from which strings are stretched to the body, used especially to accompany singing and recitation. lyres.

machine code "language" The representation of a {computer program} that is read and interpreted by the computer hardware (rather than by some other machine code program). A program in machine code consists of a sequence of "instructions" (possibly interspersed with data). An instruction is a {binary string}, (often written as one or more {octal}, {decimal} or {hexadecimal} numbers). Instructions may be all the same size (e.g. one 32-bit word for many modern {RISC} {microprocessors}) or of different sizes, in which case the size of the instruction is determined from the first {word} (e.g. {Motorola} {68000}) or {byte} (e.g. {Inmos} {transputer}). The collection of all possible instructions for a particular computer is known as its "{instruction set}". Each instruction typically causes the {Central Processing Unit} to perform some fairly simple operation like loading a value from memory into a {register} or adding the numbers in two registers. An instruction consists of an {op code} and zero or more {operands}. Different processors have different {instruction sets} - the collection of possible operations they can perform. Execution of machine code may either be {hard-wired} into the {central processing unit} or it may be controlled by {microcode}. The basic execution cycle consists of fetching the next instruction from {main memory}, decoding it (determining which action the {operation code} specifies and the location of any {arguments}) and executing it by opening various {gates} (e.g. to allow data to flow from main memory into a CPU {register}) and enabling {functional units} (e.g. signalling to the {ALU} to perform an addition). Humans almost never write programs directly in machine code. Instead, they use {programming languages}. The simplest kind of programming language is {assembly language} which usually has a one-to-one correspondence with the resulting machine code instructions but allows the use of {mnemonics} (ASCII strings) for the "{op codes}" (the part of the instruction which encodes the basic type of operation to perform) and names for locations in the program (branch labels) and for {variables} and {constants}. Other languages are either translated by a {compiler} into machine code or executed by an {interpreter} (2009-06-16)

mahoe ::: n. --> A name given to several malvaceous trees (species of Hibiscus, Ochroma, etc.), and to their strong fibrous inner bark, which is used for strings and cordage.

mail merge ::: (messaging) A function of some word processing software (e.g. Microsoft Word) that produces multiple instances of a document by substituting different text strings from a database in place of certain field markers. This is often done with envelopes, resumes, spam, and various other mass mailings. .(2002-07-26)

mail merge "messaging" A function of some {word processing} software (e.g. {Microsoft Word}) that produces multiple instances of a document by substituting different text strings from a {database} in place of certain field markers. This is often done with envelopes, resumes, spam, and various other mass mailings. {(http://mtroyal.ab.ca/programs/academserv/ADC/workshops/staff/mail_merge/mail_merge_tutorial.html)}. (2002-07-26)

main "programming" The name of the {subroutine} called by the {run-time system} (RTS) when it executes a {C} program. The RTS passes the program's {command-line arguments} to main as a count and an {array} of {pointers} to strings. If the main subroutine returns then the program exits. {Java} has inheritted the name "main" from C but in Java it's more complicated of course. The main routine must have a signature of exactly public static void main(String []) And it must be inside a public class with the same name as the {source} file where it is defined. (2008-11-12)

maqui ::: n. --> A Chilian shrub (Aristotelia Maqui). Its bark furnishes strings for musical instruments, and a medicinal wine is made from its berries.

marionette ::: n. --> A puppet moved by strings, as in a puppet show.
The buffel duck. html{color:


marionettes ::: puppets manipulated from above by strings attached to their jointed limbs.

META 5 Early syntax-directed {compiler-compiler}, used for translating one {high-level language} to another. Versions: META II, META-3. ["META 5: A Tool to Manipulate Strings of Data", D.K. Oppenheim et al, Proc 21st Natl Conf, ACM 1966]. [Sammet 1969, p. 638]. (1995-01-23)

META 5 ::: Early syntax-directed compiler-compiler, used for translating one high-level language to another.Versions: META II, META-3.[META 5: A Tool to Manipulate Strings of Data, D.K. Oppenheim et al, Proc 21st Natl Conf, ACM 1966].[Sammet 1969, p. 638]. (1995-01-23)

Missing definition "introduction" First, this is an (English language) __computing__ dictionary. It includes lots of terms from related fields such as mathematics and electronics, but if you're looking for (or want to submit) words from other subjects or general English words or other languages, try {(http://wikipedia.org/)}, {(http://onelook.com/)}, {(http://yourdictionary.com/)}, {(http://www.dictionarist.com/)} or {(http://reference.allrefer.com/)}. If you've already searched the dictionary for a computing term and it's not here then please __don't tell me__. There are, and always will be, a great many missing terms, no dictionary is ever complete. I use my limited time to process the corrections and definitions people have submitted and to add the {most frequently requested missing terms (missing.html)}. Try one of the sources mentioned above or {(http://techweb.com/encyclopedia/)}, {(http://whatis.techtarget.com/)} or {(http://google.com/)}. See {the Help page (help.html)} for more about missing definitions and bad cross-references. (2014-09-20)! {exclamation mark}!!!Batch "language, humour" A daft way of obfuscating text strings by encoding each character as a different number of {exclamation marks} surrounded by {question marks}, e.g. "d" is encoded as "?!!!!?". The language is named after the {MSDOS} {batch file} in which the first converter was written. {esoteric programming languages} {wiki entry (http://esolangs.org/wiki/!!!Batch)}. (2014-10-25)" {double quote}

MUMPS "language" (Or "M") Massachusetts General Hospital Utility Multi-Programming System. A programming language with extensive tools for the support of {database management systems}. MUMPS was originally used for medical records and is now widely used where multiple users access the same databases simultaneously, e.g. banks, stock exchanges, travel agencies, hospitals. Early MUMPS implementations for {PDP-11} and {IBM PC} were complete {operating systems}, as well as programming languages, but current-day implementations usually run under a normal host {operating system}. A MUMPS program hardly ever explicitly performs low-level operations such as opening a file - there are programming constructs in the language that will do so implicitly, and most MUMPS programmers are not even aware of the {operating system} activity that MUMPS performs. Syntactically MUMPS has only one data-type: strings. Semantically, the language has many data-types: text strings, {binary strings}, {floating point} values, {integer} values, {Boolean} values. Interpretation of strings is done inside functions, or implicitly while applying mathematical {operators}. Since many operations involve only moving data from one location to another, it is faster to just move uninterpreted strings. Of course, when a value is used multiple times in the context of arithmetical operations, optimised implementations will typically save the numerical value of the string. MUMPS was designed for portability. Currently, it is possible to share the same MUMPS database between radically different architectures, because all values are stored as text strings. The worst an implementation may have to do is swap pairs of bytes. Such multi-CPU databases are actually in use, some offices share databases between {VAX}, {DEC Alpha}, {SUN}, {IBM PC} and {HP} {workstations}. Versions of MUMPS are available on practically all {hardware}, from the smallest ({IBM PC}, {Apple Macintosh}, {Acorn} {Archimedes}), to the largest {mainframe}. MSM ({Micronetics Standard MUMPS}) runs on {IBM PC RT} and {R6000}; DSM (Digital Standard Mumps) on the {PDP-11}, {VAX}, {DEC Alpha}, and {Windows-NT}; {Datatree MUMPS} from {InterSystems} runs on {IBM PC}; and {MGlobal MUMPS} on the {Macintosh}. Multi-{platform} versions include {M/SQL}, available from {InterSystems}, {PFCS} "mumps@pfcs.com" and {MSM}. {Greystone Technologies}' GT/M runs on {VAX} and {DEC Alpha}. This is a compiler whereas the others are {interpreters}. {GT/SQL} is their {SQL} pre-processor. ISO standard 11756 (1991). ANSI standard: "MUMPS Language Standard", X11.1 (1977, 1984, 1990, 1995?). The MUMPS User's Group was the {M Technology Association}. {Usenet} newsgroups: {news:comp.lang.mumps}. (2003-06-04)

MUMPS ::: (language) (Or M) Massachusetts General Hospital Utility Multi-Programming System.A programming language with extensive tools for the support of database management systems. MUMPS was originally used for medical records and is now widely used where multiple users access the same databases simultaneously, e.g. banks, stock exchanges, travel agencies, hospitals.Early MUMPS implementations for PDP-11 and IBM PC were complete operating systems, as well as programming languages, but current-day implementations usually run under a normal host operating system.A MUMPS program hardly ever explicitly performs low-level operations such as opening a file - there are programming constructs in the language that will do so implicitly, and most MUMPS programmers are not even aware of the operating system activity that MUMPS performs.Syntactically MUMPS has only one data-type: strings. Semantically, the language has many data-types: text strings, binary strings, floating point values, times in the context of arithmetical operations, optimised implementations will typically save the numerical value of the string.MUMPS was designed for portability. Currently, it is possible to share the same MUMPS database between radically different architectures, because all values are of bytes. Such multi-CPU databases are actually in use, some offices share databases between VAX, DEC Alpha, SUN, IBM PC and HP workstations.Versions of MUMPS are available on practically all hardware, from the smallest (IBM PC, Apple Macintosh, Acorn Archimedes), to the largest mainframe. MSM versions include M/SQL, available from InterSystems, PFCS and MSM.Greystone Technologies' GT/M runs on VAX and DEC Alpha. This is a compiler whereas the others are interpreters. GT/SQL is their SQL pre-processor.ISO standard 11756 (1991). ANSI standard: MUMPS Language Standard, X11.1 (1977, 1984, 1990, 1995?).The MUMPS User's Group was the M Technology Association.Usenet newsgroups: comp.lang.mumps.(2003-06-04)

newline "character, jargon" /n[y]oo'li:n/ {Line feed} or other character sequence used to terminate a line of text. {Unix} uses {line feed} as its text line terminator - a {Bell-Labs}-ism rather than a {Berkeley}ism. Interestingly (and unusually for Unix jargon), it is said to have originally been an {IBM} usage. Though the term "newline" appears in {ASCII} {standards}, it never caught on in the general computing world before {Unix}. The encoding of line feed as "\n" in {C} and {Unix} strings comes from this name. The term has been used more generally for any {end of line} character, character sequence (e.g. {crlf}), or operation (like {Pascal}'s writeln procedure or {Lisp 1.5}'s {terpri}) required to terminate a text record or separate lines. [{Jargon File}] (1997-07-14)

newline ::: (character, jargon) /n[y]oo'li:n/ Line feed or other character sequence used to terminate a line of text.Unix uses line feed as its text line terminator - a Bell-Labs-ism rather than a Berkeleyism. Interestingly (and unusually for Unix jargon), it is said to have standards, it never caught on in the general computing world before Unix. The encoding of line feed as \n in C and Unix strings comes from this name.The term has been used more generally for any end of line character, character sequence (e.g. crlf), or operation (like Pascal's writeln procedure or Lisp 1.5's terpri) required to terminate a text record or separate lines.[Jargon File] (1997-07-14)

octachord ::: n. --> An instrument of eight strings; a system of eight tones.

parser generator ::: A program which takes a formal description of a grammar (e.g. in BNF) and outputs source code for a parser which will recognise valid strings obeying that grammar and perform associated actions. Unix's yacc is a well known example.

parser generator A program which takes a formal description of a {grammar} (e.g. in {BNF}) and outputs source code for a parser which will recognise valid strings obeying that grammar and perform associated actions. {Unix}'s {yacc} is a well known example.

password "security" An arbitrary string of characters chosen by a user or {system administrator} and used to authenticate the user when he attempts to log on, in order to prevent unauthorised access to his account. A favourite activity among unimaginative {computer nerds} and {crackers} is writing programs which attempt to discover passwords by using lists of commonly chosen passwords such as people's names (spelled forward or backward). It is recommended that to defeat such methods passwords use a mixture of upper and lower case letters or digits and avoid proper names and real words. If you have trouble remembering random strings of characters, make up an acronym like "ihGr8trmP" ("I have great trouble remembering my password"). (1994-10-27)

password ::: (security) An arbitrary string of characters chosen by a user or system administrator and used to authenticate the user when he attempts to log on, in order to prevent unauthorised access to his account.A favourite activity among unimaginative computer nerds and crackers is writing programs which attempt to discover passwords by using lists of commonly chosen trouble remembering random strings of characters, make up an acronym like ihGr8trmP (I have great trouble remembering my password). (1994-10-27)

pattern matching 1. A function is defined to take arguments of a particular type, form or value. When applying the function to its actual arguments it is necessary to match the type, form or value of the actual arguments against the formal arguments in some definition. For example, the function length []   = 0 length (x:xs) = 1 + length xs uses pattern matching in its argument to distinguish a null list from a non-null one. There are well known {algorithm} for translating pattern matching into conditional expressions such as "if" or "case". E.g. the above function could be transformed to length l = case l of [] -" 0 x:xs -" 1 : length xs Pattern matching is usually performed in textual order though there are languages which match more specific patterns before less specific ones. 2. Descriptive of a type of language or utility such as {awk} or {Perl} which is suited to searching for strings or patterns in input data, usually using some kind of {regular expression}. (1994-11-28)

pattern matching ::: 1. A function is defined to take arguments of a particular type, form or value. When applying the function to its actual arguments it is necessary to match the type, form or value of the actual arguments against the formal arguments in some definition. For example, the function length [] = 0length (x:xs) = 1 + length xs uses pattern matching in its argument to distinguish a null list from a non-null one.There are well known algorithm for translating pattern matching into conditional expressions such as if or case. E.g. the above function could be transformed to length l = case l of[] -> 0 languages which match more specific patterns before less specific ones.2. Descriptive of a type of language or utility such as awk or Perl which is suited to searching for strings or patterns in input data, usually using some kind of regular expression. (1994-11-28)

peg ::: n. --> A small, pointed piece of wood, used in fastening boards together, in attaching the soles of boots or shoes, etc.; as, a shoe peg.
A wooden pin, or nail, on which to hang things, as coats, etc. Hence, colloquially and figuratively: A support; a reason; a pretext; as, a peg to hang a claim upon.
One of the pins of a musical instrument, on which the strings are strained.


pentachord ::: n. --> An ancient instrument of music with five strings.
An order or system of five sounds.


Perl ::: (language, tool) A high-level programming language, started by Larry Wall in 1987 and developed as an open source project. It has an eclectic heritage, and languages. Originally developed for Unix, it is now available for many platforms.Perl's elaborate support for regular expression matching and substitution has made it the language of choice for tasks involving string manipulation, whether for text or binary data. It is particularly popular for writing CGI scripts.The language's highly flexible syntax and concise regular expression operators, make densely written Perl code indecipherable to the uninitiated. The syntax is, however, really quite simple and powerful and, once the basics have been mastered, a joy to write.Perl's only primitive data type is the scalar, which can hold a number, a string, the undefined value, or a typed reference. Perl's aggregate data types Strings in Perl are eight-bit clean, including nulls, and so can contain binary data.Unlike C but like most Lisp dialects, Perl internally and dynamically handles all memory allocation, garbage collection, and type coercion.Perl supports closures, recursive functions, symbols with either lexical scope or dynamic scope, nested data structures of arbitrary content and complexity (as contain embedded documentation in POD (Plain Old Documentation), a simple markup language.The normal Perl distribution contains documentation for the language, as well as over a hundred modules (program libraries). Hundreds more are available from The Perl, but can be implemented as interfaces to code in other languages, typically compiled C.The free availability of modules for almost any conceivable task, as well as the fact that Perl offers direct access to almost all system calls and places no Perl, in a parody of a famous remark about lex, as the Swiss Army chainsaw of programming.The use of Perl has grown significantly since its adoption as the language of choice of many World-Wide Web developers. CGI interfaces and libraries for Perl exist for several platforms and Perl's speed and flexibility make it well suited for form processing and on-the-fly web page creation.Perl programs are generally stored as text source files, which are compiled into virtual machine code at run time; this, in combination with its rich variety of Ousterhout's dichotomy. Perl programs are usually called Perl scripts, if only for historical reasons.Version 5 was a major rewrite and enhancement of version 4, released sometime before November 1993. It added real data structures by way of references, un-adorned subroutine calls, and method inheritance.The spelling Perl is preferred over the older PERL (even though some explain the language's name as originating in the acronym for Practical Extraction and Report Language). The program that interprets/compiles Perl code is called perl, typically /usr/local/bin/perl or /usr/bin/perl.Current version: 5.005_03 stable, 5.005_62 in development, as of 1999-12-04. .Usenet newsgroups: comp.lang.perl.announce, comp.lang.perl.misc.[Programming Perl, Larry Wall and Randal L. Schwartz, O'Reilly & Associates, Inc. Sebastopol, CA. ISBN 0-93715-64-1].[Learning Perl by Randal L. Schwartz, O'Reilly & Associates, Inc., Sebastopol, CA].[Jargon File] (1999-12-04)

Perl "language, tool" A {high-level} programming language, started by {Larry Wall} in 1987 and developed as an {open source} project. It has an eclectic heritage, deriving from the ubiquitous {C} programming language and to a lesser extent from {sed}, {awk}, various {Unix} {shell} languages, {Lisp}, and at least a dozen other tools and languages. Originally developed for {Unix}, it is now available for many {platforms}. Perl's elaborate support for {regular expression} matching and substitution has made it the {language of choice} for tasks involving {string manipulation}, whether for text or binary data. It is particularly popular for writing {CGI scripts}. The language's highly flexible syntax and concise regular expression operators, make densely written Perl code indecipherable to the uninitiated. The syntax is, however, really quite simple and powerful and, once the basics have been mastered, a joy to write. Perl's only {primitive} data type is the "scalar", which can hold a number, a string, the undefined value, or a typed reference. Perl's {aggregate} data types are {arrays}, which are ordered lists of {scalars} indexed by {natural numbers}, and hashes (or "{associative arrays}") which are unordered lists of scalars indexed by strings. A reference can point to a scalar, array, hash, {function}, or {filehandle}. {Objects} are implemented as references "{blessed}" with a {class} name. Strings in Perl are {eight-bit clean}, including {nulls}, and so can contain {binary data}. Unlike C but like most Lisp dialects, Perl internally and dynamically handles all memory allocation, {garbage collection}, and type {coercion}. Perl supports {closures}, {recursive functions}, {symbols} with either {lexical scope} or {dynamic scope}, nested {data structures} of arbitrary content and complexity (as lists or hashes of references), and packages (which can serve as classes, optionally inheriting {methods} from one or more other classes). There is ongoing work on {threads}, {Unicode}, {exceptions}, and {backtracking}. Perl program files can contain embedded documentation in {POD} (Plain Old Documentation), a simple markup language. The normal Perl distribution contains documentation for the language, as well as over a hundred modules (program libraries). Hundreds more are available from The {Comprehensive Perl Archive Network}. Modules are themselves generally written in Perl, but can be implemented as interfaces to code in other languages, typically compiled C. The free availability of modules for almost any conceivable task, as well as the fact that Perl offers direct access to almost all {system calls} and places no arbitrary limits on data structure size or complexity, has led some to describe Perl, in a parody of a famous remark about {lex}, as the "Swiss Army chainsaw" of programming. The use of Perl has grown significantly since its adoption as the language of choice of many {web} developers. {CGI} interfaces and libraries for Perl exist for several {platforms} and Perl's speed and flexibility make it well suited for form processing and on-the-fly {web page} creation. Perl programs are generally stored as {text} {source} files, which are compiled into {virtual machine} code at run time; this, in combination with its rich variety of data types and its common use as a glue language, makes Perl somewhat hard to classify as either a "{scripting language}" or an "{applications language}" -- see {Ousterhout's dichotomy}. Perl programs are usually called "Perl scripts", if only for historical reasons. Version 5 was a major rewrite and enhancement of version 4, released sometime before November 1993. It added real {data structures} by way of "references", un-adorned {subroutine} calls, and {method} {inheritance}. The spelling "Perl" is preferred over the older "PERL" (even though some explain the language's name as originating in the acronym for "Practical Extraction and Report Language"). The program that interprets/compiles Perl code is called "perl", typically "/usr/local/bin/perl" or "/usr/bin/perl". {(http://perl.com/)}. {Usenet} newsgroups: {news:comp.lang.perl.announce}, {news:comp.lang.perl.misc}. ["Programming Perl", Larry Wall and Randal L. Schwartz, O'Reilly & Associates, Inc. Sebastopol, CA. ISBN 0-93715-64-1]. ["Learning Perl" by Randal L. Schwartz, O'Reilly & Associates, Inc., Sebastopol, CA]. [{Jargon File}] (1999-12-04)

phonoscope ::: n. --> An instrument for observing or exhibiting the motions or properties of sounding bodies; especially, an apparatus invented by Konig for testing the quality of musical strings.
An instrument for producing luminous figures by the vibrations of sounding bodies.


Phorminx (Greek) The seven-stringed lyre of Apollo, which he gave to Orpheus; representing the sevenfold mystery of initiation, and other corresponding septenates. Among these, mainly perhaps, the seven-stringed lyre stands for seven-principled nature, both built by and producing sound when the breath of the spirit sweeps over its strings (principles or elements).

Phywa pa [alt. Cha pa] Chos kyi Seng ge. (Chapa Chokyi Senge) (1109-1169). The sixth abbot of GSANG PHU NE'U THOG, a BKA' GDAMS monastery founded in 1073 by RNGOG LEGS PA'I SHES RAB. Among his students are included the first KARMA PA, DUS GSUM MKHYEN PA and the SA SKYA hierarch BSOD NAMS RTSE MO. His collected works include explanations of MADHYAMAKA and PRAJNĀPĀRAMITĀ. With his influential Tshad ma'i bsdus pa yid kyi mun sel rtsa 'grel he continued the line of PRAMĀnA scholarship started by RNGOG BLO LDAN SHES RAB, one that would later be challenged by SA SKYA PAndITA. He is credited with originating the distinctively Tibetan BSDUS GRWA genre of textbook (used widely in DGE LUGS monasteries) that introduces beginners to the main topics in abhidharma in a peculiar dialectical form that strings together a chain of consequences linked by a chain of reasons. He also played an important role in the formation of the BSTAN RIM genre of Tibetan Buddhist literature, the forerunner of the more famous LAM RIM.

pizzicato: pinched, plucked; i.e., in music for bowed strings, plucked with the fingers as opposed to played with the bow; compare arco (in this list), which is inserted to cancel a pizzicato instruction

PL/I ::: (language) Programming Language One.An attempt to combine the best features of Fortran, COBOL and ALGOL 60. Developed by George Radin of IBM in 1964. Originally named NPL and Fortran VI. of PL/I, was used to write almost all of the Multics operating system. PL/I is still widely used internally at IBM. The PL/I standard is ANS X3.53-1976.PL/I has no reserved words. Types are fixed, float, complex, character strings with maximum length, bit strings, and label variables. Arrays have lower bounds concurrency ('call task' and 'wait(event)' are equivalent to fork/join) and compile-time statements.LPI is a PL/I interpreter.[A Structural View of PL/I, D. Beech, Computing Surveys, 2,1 33-64 (1970)]. (1994-10-25)

PL/I "language" Programming Language One. An attempt to combine the best features of {Fortran}, {COBOL} and {ALGOL 60}. Developed by George Radin of {IBM} in 1964. Originally named NPL and Fortran VI. The result is large but elegant. PL/I was one of the first languages to have a formal {semantic} definition, using the {Vienna Definition Language}. {EPL}, a dialect of PL/I, was used to write almost all of the {Multics} {operating system}. PL/I is still widely used internally at {IBM}. The PL/I standard is ANS X3.53-1976. PL/I has no {reserved words}. Types are fixed, float, complex, character strings with maximum length, bit strings, and label variables. {Arrays} have lower bounds and may be dynamic. It also has summation, multi-level structures, {structure assignment}, untyped pointers, {side effects} and {aliasing}. {Control flow} constructs include goto; do-end groups; do-to-by-while-end loops; external procedures; internal nested procedures and blocks; {generic procedures} and {exception handling}. Procedures may be declared {recursive}. Many implementations support {concurrency} ('call task' and 'wait(event)' are equivalent to {fork}/join) and compile-time statements. {LPI} is a PL/I {interpreter}. ["A Structural View of PL/I", D. Beech, Computing Surveys, 2,1 33-64 (1970)]. (1994-10-25)

plus "character" "+", {ASCII} character 43, 0x2B. The mathematical symbol for the {addition} {operator}, also used with the same meaning in arithmetic expressions in nearly all {programming languages}. Common names: {ITU-T}: plus; add. Rare: cross; {INTERCAL}: intersection. In programming, the operator is sometimes {overloaded} to perform other tasks like concatenating strings. In the {C} language and its many imitators, the symbol is doubled, as in "x++" or "++x" to give an increment operator that adds one to its operand ("x" in this case) and also returns x's previous or resulting value respectively. In a {regular expression}, "+" means match one or more instances of the previous pattern. Thus /b(an)+a/ would match any of "bana", "banana", "bananana", etc. (see {banana problem}). (2010-03-20)

polychord ::: a. --> Having many strings. ::: n. --> A musical instrument of ten strings.
An apparatus for coupling two octave notes, capable of being attached to a keyed instrument.


quill ::: n. --> One of the large feathers of a bird&

Real Programmers Don't Use Pascal ::: (humour) Back in the good old days - the Golden Era of computers, it was easy to separate the men from the boys (sometimes called Real Men and out that Real Men don't relate to anything, and aren't afraid of being impersonal.)But, as usual, times change. We are faced today with a world in which little old ladies can get computers in their microwave ovens, 12-year-old kids can blow danger of becoming extinct, of being replaced by high-school students with TRASH-80s.There is a clear need to point out the differences between the typical high-school junior Pac-Man player and a Real Programmer. If this difference is why it would be a mistake to replace the Real Programmers on their staff with 12-year-old Pac-Man players (at a considerable salary savings).LANGUAGESThe easiest way to tell a Real Programmer from the crowd is by the programming language he (or she) uses. Real Programmers use Fortran. Quiche Eaters use need all these abstract concepts to get their jobs done - they are perfectly happy with a keypunch, a Fortran IV compiler, and a beer.Real Programmers do List Processing in Fortran.Real Programmers do String Manipulation in Fortran.Real Programmers do Accounting (if they do it at all) in Fortran.Real Programmers do Artificial Intelligence programs in Fortran.If you can't do it in Fortran, do it in assembly language. If you can't do it in assembly language, it isn't worth doing.STRUCTURED PROGRAMMINGThe academics in computer science have gotten into the structured programming rut over the past several years. They claim that programs are more easily in the world won't help you solve a problem like that - it takes actual talent. Some quick observations on Real Programmers and Structured Programming:Real Programmers aren't afraid to use GOTOs.Real Programmers can write five-page-long DO loops without getting confused.Real Programmers like Arithmetic IF statements - they make the code more interesting.Real Programmers write self-modifying code, especially if they can save 20 nanoseconds in the middle of a tight loop.Real Programmers don't need comments - the code is obvious.Since Fortran doesn't have a structured IF, REPEAT ... UNTIL, or CASE statement, Real Programmers don't have to worry about not using them. Besides, they can be simulated when necessary using assigned GOTOs.Data Structures have also gotten a lot of press lately. Abstract Data Types, Structures, Pointers, Lists, and Strings have become popular in certain circles. Languages, as we all know, have implicit typing based on the first letter of the (six character) variable name.OPERATING SYSTEMSWhat kind of operating system is used by a Real Programmer? CP/M? God forbid - CP/M, after all, is basically a toy operating system. Even little old ladies and grade school students can understand and use CP/M.Unix is a lot more complicated of course - the typical Unix hacker never can remember what the PRINT command is called this week - but when it gets right systems: they send jokes around the world on UUCP-net and write adventure games and research papers.No, your Real Programmer uses OS 370. A good programmer can find and understand the description of the IJK305I error he just got in his JCL manual. A great outstanding programmer can find bugs buried in a 6 megabyte core dump without using a hex calculator. (I have actually seen this done.)OS is a truly remarkable operating system. It's possible to destroy days of work with a single misplaced space, so alertness in the programming staff is people claim there is a Time Sharing system that runs on OS 370, but after careful study I have come to the conclusion that they were mistaken.PROGRAMMING TOOLSWhat kind of tools does a Real Programmer use? In theory, a Real Programmer could run his programs by keying them into the front panel of the computer. Back the first operating system for the CDC7600 in on the front panel from memory when it was first powered on. Seymore, needless to say, is a Real Programmer.One of my favorite Real Programmers was a systems programmer for Texas Instruments. One day he got a long distance call from a user whose system had includes a keypunch and lineprinter in his toolkit, he can get along with just a front panel and a telephone in emergencies.In some companies, text editing no longer consists of ten engineers standing in line to use an 029 keypunch. In fact, the building I work in doesn't contain a system is called SmallTalk, and would certainly not talk to the computer with a mouse.Some of the concepts in these Xerox editors have been incorporated into editors running on more reasonably named operating systems - Emacs and VI being two. The the Real Programmer wants a you asked for it, you got it text editor - complicated, cryptic, powerful, unforgiving, dangerous. TECO, to be precise.It has been observed that a TECO command sequence more closely resembles transmission line noise than readable text [4]. One of the more entertaining will probably destroy your program, or even worse - introduce subtle and mysterious bugs in a once working subroutine.For this reason, Real Programmers are reluctant to actually edit a program that is close to working. They find it much easier to just patch the binary object Programmer to do the job - no Quiche Eating structured programmer would even know where to start. This is called job security.Some programming tools NOT used by Real Programmers:Fortran preprocessors like MORTRAN and RATFOR. The Cuisinarts of programming - great for making Quiche. See comments above on structured programming.Source language debuggers. Real Programmers can read core dumps.Compilers with array bounds checking. They stifle creativity, destroy most of the interesting uses for EQUIVALENCE, and make it impossible to modify the operating system code with negative subscripts. Worst of all, bounds checking is inefficient.Source code maintenance systems. A Real Programmer keeps his code locked up in a card file, because it implies that its owner cannot leave his important programs unguarded [5].THE REAL PROGRAMMER AT WORKWhere does the typical Real Programmer work? What kind of programs are worthy of the efforts of so talented an individual? You can be sure that no Real or sorting mailing lists for People magazine. A Real Programmer wants tasks of earth-shaking importance (literally!).Real Programmers work for Los Alamos National Laboratory, writing atomic bomb simulations to run on Cray I supercomputers.Real Programmers work for the National Security Agency, decoding Russian transmissions.It was largely due to the efforts of thousands of Real Programmers working for NASA that our boys got to the moon and back before the Russkies.Real Programmers are at work for Boeing designing the operating systems for cruise missiles.Some of the most awesome Real Programmers of all work at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in California. Many of them know the entire operating system of the bytes of unused memory in a Voyager spacecraft that searched for, located, and photographed a new moon of Jupiter.The current plan for the Galileo spacecraft is to use a gravity assist trajectory past Mars on the way to Jupiter. This trajectory passes within 80 +/-3 kilometers of the surface of Mars. Nobody is going to trust a Pascal program (or a Pascal programmer) for navigation to these tolerances.As you can tell, many of the world's Real Programmers work for the U.S. Government - mainly the Defense Department. This is as it should be. Recently, programmers and Quiche Eaters alike.) Besides, the determined Real Programmer can write Fortran programs in any language.The Real Programmer might compromise his principles and work on something slightly more trivial than the destruction of life as we know it, providing Fortran, so there are a fair number of people doing graphics in order to avoid having to write COBOL programs.THE REAL PROGRAMMER AT PLAYGenerally, the Real Programmer plays the same way he works - with computers. He is constantly amazed that his employer actually pays him to do what he would be breath of fresh air and a beer or two. Some tips on recognizing Real Programmers away from the computer room:At a party, the Real Programmers are the ones in the corner talking about operating system security and how to get around it.At a football game, the Real Programmer is the one comparing the plays against his simulations printed on 11 by 14 fanfold paper.At the beach, the Real Programmer is the one drawing flowcharts in the sand.At a funeral, the Real Programmer is the one saying Poor George, he almost had the sort routine working before the coronary.In a grocery store, the Real Programmer is the one who insists on running the cans past the laser checkout scanner himself, because he never could trust keypunch operators to get it right the first time.THE REAL PROGRAMMER'S NATURAL HABITATWhat sort of environment does the Real Programmer function best in? This is an important question for the managers of Real Programmers. Considering the amount of money it costs to keep one on the staff, it's best to put him (or her) in an environment where he can get his work done.The typical Real Programmer lives in front of a computer terminal. Surrounding this terminal are:Listings of all programs the Real Programmer has ever worked on, piled in roughly chronological order on every flat surface in the office.Some half-dozen or so partly filled cups of cold coffee. Occasionally, there will be cigarette butts floating in the coffee. In some cases, the cups will contain Orange Crush.Unless he is very good, there will be copies of the OS JCL manual and the Principles of Operation open to some particularly interesting pages.Taped to the wall is a line-printer Snoopy calendar for the year 1969.Strewn about the floor are several wrappers for peanut butter filled cheese bars - the type that are made pre-stale at the bakery so they can't get any worse while waiting in the vending machine.Hiding in the top left-hand drawer of the desk is a stash of double-stuff Oreos for special occasions.Underneath the Oreos is a flowcharting template, left there by the previous occupant of the office. (Real Programmers write programs, not documentation. Leave that to the maintenance people.)The Real Programmer is capable of working 30, 40, even 50 hours at a stretch, under intense pressure. In fact, he prefers it that way. Bad response time project done on time, but creates a convenient excuse for not doing the documentation. In general:No Real Programmer works 9 to 5 (unless it's the ones at night).Real Programmers don't wear neckties.Real Programmers don't wear high-heeled shoes.Real Programmers arrive at work in time for lunch [9].A Real Programmer might or might not know his wife's name. He does, however, know the entire ASCII (or EBCDIC) code table.Real Programmers don't know how to cook. Grocery stores aren't open at three in the morning. Real Programmers survive on Twinkies and coffee.THE FUTUREWhat of the future? It is a matter of some concern to Real Programmers that the latest generation of computer programmers are not being brought up with the same ever learning Fortran! Are we destined to become an industry of Unix hackers and Pascal programmers?From my experience, I can only report that the future is bright for Real Programmers everywhere. Neither OS 370 nor Fortran show any signs of dying out, one of them has a way of converting itself back into a Fortran 66 compiler at the drop of an option card - to compile DO loops like God meant them to be.Even Unix might not be as bad on Real Programmers as it once was. The latest release of Unix has the potential of an operating system worthy of any Real in - like having the best parts of Fortran and assembly language in one place. (Not to mention some of the more creative uses for

Real Programmers Don't Use Pascal "humour" Back in the good old days - the "Golden Era" of computers, it was easy to separate the men from the boys (sometimes called "Real Men" and "Quiche Eaters" in the literature). During this period, the Real Men were the ones that understood computer programming, and the Quiche Eaters were the ones that didn't. A real computer programmer said things like "DO 10 I=1,10" and "ABEND" (they actually talked in capital letters, you understand), and the rest of the world said things like "computers are too complicated for me" and "I can't relate to computers - they're so impersonal". (A previous work [1] points out that Real Men don't "relate" to anything, and aren't afraid of being impersonal.) But, as usual, times change. We are faced today with a world in which little old ladies can get computers in their microwave ovens, 12-year-old kids can blow Real Men out of the water playing Asteroids and Pac-Man, and anyone can buy and even understand their very own Personal Computer. The Real Programmer is in danger of becoming extinct, of being replaced by high-school students with {TRASH-80s}. There is a clear need to point out the differences between the typical high-school junior Pac-Man player and a Real Programmer. If this difference is made clear, it will give these kids something to aspire to -- a role model, a Father Figure. It will also help explain to the employers of Real Programmers why it would be a mistake to replace the Real Programmers on their staff with 12-year-old Pac-Man players (at a considerable salary savings). LANGUAGES The easiest way to tell a Real Programmer from the crowd is by the programming language he (or she) uses. Real Programmers use {Fortran}. Quiche Eaters use {Pascal}. Nicklaus Wirth, the designer of Pascal, gave a talk once at which he was asked how to pronounce his name. He replied, "You can either call me by name, pronouncing it 'Veert', or call me by value, 'Worth'." One can tell immediately from this comment that Nicklaus Wirth is a Quiche Eater. The only parameter passing mechanism endorsed by Real Programmers is call-by-value-return, as implemented in the {IBM 370} {Fortran-G} and H compilers. Real programmers don't need all these abstract concepts to get their jobs done - they are perfectly happy with a {keypunch}, a {Fortran IV} {compiler}, and a beer. Real Programmers do List Processing in Fortran. Real Programmers do String Manipulation in Fortran. Real Programmers do Accounting (if they do it at all) in Fortran. Real Programmers do {Artificial Intelligence} programs in Fortran. If you can't do it in Fortran, do it in {assembly language}. If you can't do it in assembly language, it isn't worth doing. STRUCTURED PROGRAMMING The academics in computer science have gotten into the "structured programming" rut over the past several years. They claim that programs are more easily understood if the programmer uses some special language constructs and techniques. They don't all agree on exactly which constructs, of course, and the examples they use to show their particular point of view invariably fit on a single page of some obscure journal or another - clearly not enough of an example to convince anyone. When I got out of school, I thought I was the best programmer in the world. I could write an unbeatable tic-tac-toe program, use five different computer languages, and create 1000-line programs that WORKED. (Really!) Then I got out into the Real World. My first task in the Real World was to read and understand a 200,000-line Fortran program, then speed it up by a factor of two. Any Real Programmer will tell you that all the Structured Coding in the world won't help you solve a problem like that - it takes actual talent. Some quick observations on Real Programmers and Structured Programming: Real Programmers aren't afraid to use {GOTOs}. Real Programmers can write five-page-long DO loops without getting confused. Real Programmers like Arithmetic IF statements - they make the code more interesting. Real Programmers write self-modifying code, especially if they can save 20 {nanoseconds} in the middle of a tight loop. Real Programmers don't need comments - the code is obvious. Since Fortran doesn't have a structured IF, REPEAT ... UNTIL, or CASE statement, Real Programmers don't have to worry about not using them. Besides, they can be simulated when necessary using {assigned GOTOs}. Data Structures have also gotten a lot of press lately. Abstract Data Types, Structures, Pointers, Lists, and Strings have become popular in certain circles. Wirth (the above-mentioned Quiche Eater) actually wrote an entire book [2] contending that you could write a program based on data structures, instead of the other way around. As all Real Programmers know, the only useful data structure is the Array. Strings, lists, structures, sets - these are all special cases of arrays and can be treated that way just as easily without messing up your programing language with all sorts of complications. The worst thing about fancy data types is that you have to declare them, and Real Programming Languages, as we all know, have implicit typing based on the first letter of the (six character) variable name. OPERATING SYSTEMS What kind of operating system is used by a Real Programmer? CP/M? God forbid - CP/M, after all, is basically a toy operating system. Even little old ladies and grade school students can understand and use CP/M. Unix is a lot more complicated of course - the typical Unix hacker never can remember what the PRINT command is called this week - but when it gets right down to it, Unix is a glorified video game. People don't do Serious Work on Unix systems: they send jokes around the world on {UUCP}-net and write adventure games and research papers. No, your Real Programmer uses OS 370. A good programmer can find and understand the description of the IJK305I error he just got in his JCL manual. A great programmer can write JCL without referring to the manual at all. A truly outstanding programmer can find bugs buried in a 6 megabyte {core dump} without using a hex calculator. (I have actually seen this done.) OS is a truly remarkable operating system. It's possible to destroy days of work with a single misplaced space, so alertness in the programming staff is encouraged. The best way to approach the system is through a keypunch. Some people claim there is a Time Sharing system that runs on OS 370, but after careful study I have come to the conclusion that they were mistaken. PROGRAMMING TOOLS What kind of tools does a Real Programmer use? In theory, a Real Programmer could run his programs by keying them into the front panel of the computer. Back in the days when computers had front panels, this was actually done occasionally. Your typical Real Programmer knew the entire bootstrap loader by memory in hex, and toggled it in whenever it got destroyed by his program. (Back then, memory was memory - it didn't go away when the power went off. Today, memory either forgets things when you don't want it to, or remembers things long after they're better forgotten.) Legend has it that {Seymore Cray}, inventor of the Cray I supercomputer and most of Control Data's computers, actually toggled the first operating system for the CDC7600 in on the front panel from memory when it was first powered on. Seymore, needless to say, is a Real Programmer. One of my favorite Real Programmers was a systems programmer for Texas Instruments. One day he got a long distance call from a user whose system had crashed in the middle of saving some important work. Jim was able to repair the damage over the phone, getting the user to toggle in disk I/O instructions at the front panel, repairing system tables in hex, reading register contents back over the phone. The moral of this story: while a Real Programmer usually includes a keypunch and lineprinter in his toolkit, he can get along with just a front panel and a telephone in emergencies. In some companies, text editing no longer consists of ten engineers standing in line to use an 029 keypunch. In fact, the building I work in doesn't contain a single keypunch. The Real Programmer in this situation has to do his work with a "text editor" program. Most systems supply several text editors to select from, and the Real Programmer must be careful to pick one that reflects his personal style. Many people believe that the best text editors in the world were written at Xerox Palo Alto Research Center for use on their Alto and Dorado computers [3]. Unfortunately, no Real Programmer would ever use a computer whose operating system is called SmallTalk, and would certainly not talk to the computer with a mouse. Some of the concepts in these Xerox editors have been incorporated into editors running on more reasonably named operating systems - {Emacs} and {VI} being two. The problem with these editors is that Real Programmers consider "what you see is what you get" to be just as bad a concept in Text Editors as it is in women. No the Real Programmer wants a "you asked for it, you got it" text editor - complicated, cryptic, powerful, unforgiving, dangerous. TECO, to be precise. It has been observed that a TECO command sequence more closely resembles transmission line noise than readable text [4]. One of the more entertaining games to play with TECO is to type your name in as a command line and try to guess what it does. Just about any possible typing error while talking with TECO will probably destroy your program, or even worse - introduce subtle and mysterious bugs in a once working subroutine. For this reason, Real Programmers are reluctant to actually edit a program that is close to working. They find it much easier to just patch the binary {object code} directly, using a wonderful program called SUPERZAP (or its equivalent on non-IBM machines). This works so well that many working programs on IBM systems bear no relation to the original Fortran code. In many cases, the original source code is no longer available. When it comes time to fix a program like this, no manager would even think of sending anything less than a Real Programmer to do the job - no Quiche Eating structured programmer would even know where to start. This is called "job security". Some programming tools NOT used by Real Programmers: Fortran preprocessors like {MORTRAN} and {RATFOR}. The Cuisinarts of programming - great for making Quiche. See comments above on structured programming. Source language debuggers. Real Programmers can read core dumps. Compilers with array bounds checking. They stifle creativity, destroy most of the interesting uses for EQUIVALENCE, and make it impossible to modify the operating system code with negative subscripts. Worst of all, bounds checking is inefficient. Source code maintenance systems. A Real Programmer keeps his code locked up in a card file, because it implies that its owner cannot leave his important programs unguarded [5]. THE REAL PROGRAMMER AT WORK Where does the typical Real Programmer work? What kind of programs are worthy of the efforts of so talented an individual? You can be sure that no Real Programmer would be caught dead writing accounts-receivable programs in {COBOL}, or sorting {mailing lists} for People magazine. A Real Programmer wants tasks of earth-shaking importance (literally!). Real Programmers work for Los Alamos National Laboratory, writing atomic bomb simulations to run on Cray I supercomputers. Real Programmers work for the National Security Agency, decoding Russian transmissions. It was largely due to the efforts of thousands of Real Programmers working for NASA that our boys got to the moon and back before the Russkies. Real Programmers are at work for Boeing designing the operating systems for cruise missiles. Some of the most awesome Real Programmers of all work at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in California. Many of them know the entire operating system of the Pioneer and Voyager spacecraft by heart. With a combination of large ground-based Fortran programs and small spacecraft-based assembly language programs, they are able to do incredible feats of navigation and improvisation - hitting ten-kilometer wide windows at Saturn after six years in space, repairing or bypassing damaged sensor platforms, radios, and batteries. Allegedly, one Real Programmer managed to tuck a pattern-matching program into a few hundred bytes of unused memory in a Voyager spacecraft that searched for, located, and photographed a new moon of Jupiter. The current plan for the Galileo spacecraft is to use a gravity assist trajectory past Mars on the way to Jupiter. This trajectory passes within 80 +/-3 kilometers of the surface of Mars. Nobody is going to trust a Pascal program (or a Pascal programmer) for navigation to these tolerances. As you can tell, many of the world's Real Programmers work for the U.S. Government - mainly the Defense Department. This is as it should be. Recently, however, a black cloud has formed on the Real Programmer horizon. It seems that some highly placed Quiche Eaters at the Defense Department decided that all Defense programs should be written in some grand unified language called "ADA" ((C), DoD). For a while, it seemed that ADA was destined to become a language that went against all the precepts of Real Programming - a language with structure, a language with data types, {strong typing}, and semicolons. In short, a language designed to cripple the creativity of the typical Real Programmer. Fortunately, the language adopted by DoD has enough interesting features to make it approachable -- it's incredibly complex, includes methods for messing with the operating system and rearranging memory, and Edsgar Dijkstra doesn't like it [6]. (Dijkstra, as I'm sure you know, was the author of "GoTos Considered Harmful" - a landmark work in programming methodology, applauded by Pascal programmers and Quiche Eaters alike.) Besides, the determined Real Programmer can write Fortran programs in any language. The Real Programmer might compromise his principles and work on something slightly more trivial than the destruction of life as we know it, providing there's enough money in it. There are several Real Programmers building video games at Atari, for example. (But not playing them - a Real Programmer knows how to beat the machine every time: no challenge in that.) Everyone working at LucasFilm is a Real Programmer. (It would be crazy to turn down the money of fifty million Star Trek fans.) The proportion of Real Programmers in Computer Graphics is somewhat lower than the norm, mostly because nobody has found a use for computer graphics yet. On the other hand, all computer graphics is done in Fortran, so there are a fair number of people doing graphics in order to avoid having to write COBOL programs. THE REAL PROGRAMMER AT PLAY Generally, the Real Programmer plays the same way he works - with computers. He is constantly amazed that his employer actually pays him to do what he would be doing for fun anyway (although he is careful not to express this opinion out loud). Occasionally, the Real Programmer does step out of the office for a breath of fresh air and a beer or two. Some tips on recognizing Real Programmers away from the computer room: At a party, the Real Programmers are the ones in the corner talking about operating system security and how to get around it. At a football game, the Real Programmer is the one comparing the plays against his simulations printed on 11 by 14 fanfold paper. At the beach, the Real Programmer is the one drawing flowcharts in the sand. At a funeral, the Real Programmer is the one saying "Poor George, he almost had the sort routine working before the coronary." In a grocery store, the Real Programmer is the one who insists on running the cans past the laser checkout scanner himself, because he never could trust keypunch operators to get it right the first time. THE REAL PROGRAMMER'S NATURAL HABITAT What sort of environment does the Real Programmer function best in? This is an important question for the managers of Real Programmers. Considering the amount of money it costs to keep one on the staff, it's best to put him (or her) in an environment where he can get his work done. The typical Real Programmer lives in front of a computer terminal. Surrounding this terminal are: Listings of all programs the Real Programmer has ever worked on, piled in roughly chronological order on every flat surface in the office. Some half-dozen or so partly filled cups of cold coffee. Occasionally, there will be cigarette butts floating in the coffee. In some cases, the cups will contain Orange Crush. Unless he is very good, there will be copies of the OS JCL manual and the Principles of Operation open to some particularly interesting pages. Taped to the wall is a line-printer Snoopy calendar for the year 1969. Strewn about the floor are several wrappers for peanut butter filled cheese bars - the type that are made pre-stale at the bakery so they can't get any worse while waiting in the vending machine. Hiding in the top left-hand drawer of the desk is a stash of double-stuff Oreos for special occasions. Underneath the Oreos is a flowcharting template, left there by the previous occupant of the office. (Real Programmers write programs, not documentation. Leave that to the maintenance people.) The Real Programmer is capable of working 30, 40, even 50 hours at a stretch, under intense pressure. In fact, he prefers it that way. Bad response time doesn't bother the Real Programmer - it gives him a chance to catch a little sleep between compiles. If there is not enough schedule pressure on the Real Programmer, he tends to make things more challenging by working on some small but interesting part of the problem for the first nine weeks, then finishing the rest in the last week, in two or three 50-hour marathons. This not only impresses the hell out of his manager, who was despairing of ever getting the project done on time, but creates a convenient excuse for not doing the documentation. In general: No Real Programmer works 9 to 5 (unless it's the ones at night). Real Programmers don't wear neckties. Real Programmers don't wear high-heeled shoes. Real Programmers arrive at work in time for lunch [9]. A Real Programmer might or might not know his wife's name. He does, however, know the entire {ASCII} (or EBCDIC) code table. Real Programmers don't know how to cook. Grocery stores aren't open at three in the morning. Real Programmers survive on Twinkies and coffee. THE FUTURE What of the future? It is a matter of some concern to Real Programmers that the latest generation of computer programmers are not being brought up with the same outlook on life as their elders. Many of them have never seen a computer with a front panel. Hardly anyone graduating from school these days can do hex arithmetic without a calculator. College graduates these days are soft - protected from the realities of programming by source level debuggers, text editors that count parentheses, and "user friendly" operating systems. Worst of all, some of these alleged "computer scientists" manage to get degrees without ever learning Fortran! Are we destined to become an industry of Unix hackers and Pascal programmers? From my experience, I can only report that the future is bright for Real Programmers everywhere. Neither OS 370 nor Fortran show any signs of dying out, despite all the efforts of Pascal programmers the world over. Even more subtle tricks, like adding structured coding constructs to Fortran have failed. Oh sure, some computer vendors have come out with Fortran 77 compilers, but every one of them has a way of converting itself back into a Fortran 66 compiler at the drop of an option card - to compile DO loops like God meant them to be. Even Unix might not be as bad on Real Programmers as it once was. The latest release of Unix has the potential of an operating system worthy of any Real Programmer - two different and subtly incompatible user interfaces, an arcane and complicated teletype driver, virtual memory. If you ignore the fact that it's "structured", even 'C' programming can be appreciated by the Real Programmer: after all, there's no type checking, variable names are seven (ten? eight?) characters long, and the added bonus of the Pointer data type is thrown in - like having the best parts of Fortran and assembly language in one place. (Not to mention some of the more creative uses for

rebec ::: n. --> An instrument formerly used which somewhat resembled the violin, having three strings, and being played with a bow.
A contemptuous term applied to an old woman.


regular expression 1. "text, operating system" (regexp, RE) One of the {wild card} patterns used by {Perl} and other languages, following {Unix} utilities such as {grep}, {sed}, and {awk} and editors such as {vi} and {Emacs}. Regular expressions use conventions similar to but more elaborate than those described under {glob}. A regular expression is a sequence of characters with the following meanings (in Perl, other flavours vary): An ordinary character (not one of the special characters discussed below) matches that character. A backslash (\) followed by any special character matches the special character itself. The special characters are: "." matches any character except {newline}; "RE*" (where RE is any regular expression and the "*" is called the "{Kleene star}") matches zero or more occurrences of RE. If there is any choice, the longest leftmost matching string is chosen. "^" at the beginning of an RE matches the start of a line and "$" at the end of an RE matches the end of a line. [CHARS] matches any one of the characters in CHARS. If the first character of the string is a "^" it matches any character except the remaining characters in the string (and also usually excluding newline). "-" may be used to indicate a range of consecutive {ASCII} characters. (RE) matches whatever RE matches and \N, where N is a digit, matches whatever was matched by the RE between the Nth "(" and its corresponding ")" earlier in the same RE. Many flavours use \(RE\) instead of just (RE). The concatenation of REs is a RE that matches the concatenation of the strings matched by each RE. RE1 | RE2 matches whatever RE1 or RE2 matches. \" matches the beginning of a word and \" matches the end of a word. Many flavours use "\b" instead as the special character for "word boundary". RE\{M\} matches M occurences of RE. RE\{M,\} matches M or more occurences of RE. RE\{M,N\} matches between M and N occurences. Other flavours use RE\\{M\\} etc. Perl provides several "quote-like" {operators} for writing REs, including the common // form and less common {??}. A comprehensive survey of regexp flavours is found in Friedl 1997 (see below). [Jeffrey E.F. Friedl, "{Mastering Regular Expressions (http://enterprise.ic.gc.ca/~jfriedl/regex/index.html)}, O'Reilly, 1997]. 2. Any description of a {pattern} composed from combinations of {symbols} and the three {operators}: Concatenation - pattern A concatenated with B matches a match for A followed by a match for B. Or - pattern A-or-B matches either a match for A or a match for B. Closure - zero or more matches for a pattern. The earliest form of regular expressions (and the term itself) were invented by mathematician {Stephen Cole Kleene} in the mid-1950s, as a notation to easily manipulate "regular sets", formal descriptions of the behaviour of {finite state machines}, in {regular algebra}. [S.C. Kleene, "Representation of events in nerve nets and finite automata", 1956, Automata Studies. Princeton]. [J.H. Conway, "Regular algebra and finite machines", 1971, Eds Chapman & Hall]. [Sedgewick, "Algorithms in C", page 294]. (2015-04-30)

regular expression ::: 1. (text, operating system) (regexp, RE) One of the wild card patterns used by Perl and other languages, following Unix utilities such as grep, sed, similar to but more elaborate than those described under glob. A regular expression is a sequence of characters with the following meanings:An ordinary character (not one of the special characters discussed below) matches that character.A backslash (\) followed by any special character matches the special character itself. The special characters are:. matches any character except NEWLINE; RE* (where the * is called the Kleene star) matches zero or more occurrences of RE. If there is any choice, the longest leftmost matching string is chosen, in most regexp flavours.^ at the beginning of an RE matches the start of a line and $ at the end of an RE matches the end of a line.[string] matches any one character in that string. If the first character of the string is a ^ it matches any character except the remaining characters in the string (and also usually excluding NEWLINE). - may be used to indicate a range of consecutive ASCII characters.\( RE \) matches whatever RE matches and \n, where n is a digit, matches whatever was matched by the RE between the nth \( and its corresponding \) earlier in the same RE. Many flavours use ( RE ) used instead of \( RE \).The concatenation of REs is a RE that matches the concatenation of the strings matched by each RE. RE1 | RE2 matches whatever RE1 or RE2 matches.\ matches the beginning of a word and \> matches the end of a word. In many flavours of regexp, \> and \ are replaced by \b, the special character for word boundary.RE{m} matches m occurences of RE. RE{m,} matches m or more occurences of RE. RE{m,n} matches between m and n occurences.The exact details of how regexp will work in a given application vary greatly from flavour to flavour. A comprehensive survey of regexp flavours is found in Friedl 1997 (see below).[Jeffrey E.F. Friedl, , O'Reilly, 1997].2. Any description of a pattern composed from combinations of symbols and the three operators:Concatenation - pattern A concatenated with B matches a match for A followed by a match for B.Or - pattern A-or-B matches either a match for A or a match for B.Closure - zero or more matches for a pattern.The earliest form of regular expressions (and the term itself) were invented by mathematician Stephen Cole Kleene in the mid-1950s, as a notation to easily manipulate regular sets, formal descriptions of the behaviour of finite state machines, in regular algebra.[S.C. Kleene, Representation of events in nerve nets and finite automata, 1956, Automata Studies. Princeton].[J.H. Conway, Regular algebra and finite machines, 1971, Eds Chapman & Hall].[Sedgewick, Algorithms in C, page 294].(2004-02-01)

roughstrings ::: n. pl. --> Pieces of undressed timber put under the steps of a wooden stair for their support.

Rx ::: A pattern matcher compatible with GNU regex, but generally faster.Version 0.05, released 1994-05-18, contained substantial changes from the version last distributed with GNU sed. These changes provide low-level support for searching across arbitrarily fragmented strings and suspendable searches.

Rx A pattern matcher compatible with {GNU} {regex}, but generally faster. Version 0.05, released 1994-05-18, contained substantial changes from the version last distributed with GNU {sed}. These changes provide low-level support for searching across arbitrarily fragmented strings and suspendable searches.

scordatura: out of tune; i.e., an alternative tuning used for the strings of a string instrument

semantics ::: In programming language theory, semantics is the field concerned with the rigorous mathematical study of the meaning of programming languages. It does so by evaluating the meaning of syntactically valid strings defined by a specific programming language, showing the computation involved. In such a case that the evaluation would be of syntactically invalid strings, the result would be non-computation. Semantics describes the processes a computer follows when executing a program in that specific language. This can be shown by describing the relationship between the input and output of a program, or an explanation of how the program will be executed on a certain platform, hence creating a model of computation.

senza sordina, or senza sordine (plural): without the mute; compare con sordina in this list; see also Sordino. Note: sordina, with plural sordine, is strictly correct Italian, but the forms con sordino and con sordini are much more commonly used as terms in music. In piano music (notably in Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata), senza sordini or senza sordina (or some variant) is sometimes used to mean keep the sustain pedal depressed, since the sustain pedal lifts the dampers off the strings, with the effect that all notes are sustained indefinitely.

silpanirmānakāya. [alt. silpinirmānakāya] (T. bzo bo sprul sku). In Sanskrit, "artisan emanation body," one of the various of emanation bodies (NIRMĀnAKĀYA) in which a buddha may appear to the world. As the name suggests, in this case, a buddha may appear as a skilled artisan. The example that is typically cited for this type of body is when the Buddha, shortly before his passage into NIRVĀnA, took the form a celestial musician (GANDHARVA) and challenged Sunanda, the king of the celestial musicians, to a lute-playing competition. The Buddha defeated him by playing a beautiful melody on a lute that had no strings. It is said that an artisan emanation body may also take the form of a work of art that is inspiring or calming.

single quote ::: (character) ' ASCII character 39.Common names include single quote; quote; ITU-T: apostrophe. Rare: prime; glitch; tick; irk; pop; INTERCAL: spark; ITU-T: closing single quotation mark; ITU-T: acute accent.Single quote is used in C and derived languages to introduce a single character literal value which is represented internally by its ASCII code. In the Unix shells and Perl single quote is used to delimit strings in which variable substitution is not performed (in contrast to double-quote-delimited strings).Single quote is often used in text for both open and close single quotation mark and apostrophe. Typesetters use two different symbols - open has a tail going up, close and apostrophe have tails hanging down (like a raised comma). Some people use back quote (`) for open single quotation mark. (1998-04-04)

single quote "character" "'" {ASCII} character 39. Common names include single quote; quote; {ITU-T}: apostrophe. Rare: prime; glitch; tick; irk; pop; {INTERCAL}: spark; {ITU-T}: closing single quotation mark; {ITU-T}: acute accent. Single quote is used in {C} and derived languages to introduce a single character {literal value} which is represented internally by its ASCII code. In the {Unix} {shells} and {Perl} single quote is used to delimit strings in which variable substitution is not performed (in contrast to {double-quote}-delimited strings). Single quote is often used in text for both open and close single quotation mark and apostrophe. Typesetters use two different symbols - open has a tail going up, close and apostrophe have tails hanging down (like a raised {comma}). Some people use {back quote} (`) for open single quotation mark. (1998-04-04)

siod "language" (Scheme In One Defun or Scheme In One Day) A small {Scheme} implementation in {C} by George Carrette "gjc@world.std.com", "gjc@mitech.com". SIOD is arranged as a set of subroutines that can be called from any main program for the purpose of introducing an interpreted extension language. It compiles to 20 kbytes of executable ({VAX}/{VMS}). {Lisp} calls {C} and C calls Lisp transparently. SIOD supports symbols, strings, {arrays}, {hash coding}, file i/o (binary, text, seek), data save/restore in binary and text, interface to commercial {databases} such {Oracle} and {Digital} {RDB}. Version 3.0 runs on {VAX}/{VMS},{Unix}, {Sun-3}, {Sun-4}, {Amiga}, {Macintosh}, {MIPS}, {Cray}, {ALPHA}/{VMS}, {Windows NT} and {OS/2}. It can be compiled by most {ANSI C} compilers and {C++} compilers, e.g. {gcc} -Wall. {(ftp://world.std.com/pub/gjc/)}, {(ftp://world.std.com/src/lisp/)}. {Usenet} newsgroup: {news:comp.lang.scheme}. (1994-02-18)

siod ::: (language) (Scheme In One Defun or Scheme In One Day) A small Scheme implementation in C by George Carretteintroducing an interpreted extension language. It compiles to 20 kbytes of executable (VAX/VMS). Lisp calls C and C calls Lisp transparently.SIOD supports symbols, strings, arrays, hash coding, file i/o (binary, text, seek), data save/restore in binary and text, interface to commercial databases such Oracle and Digital RDB.Version 3.0 runs on VAX/VMS,Unix, Sun-3, Sun-4, Amiga, Macintosh, MIPS, Cray, ALPHA/VMS, Windows NT and OS/2. It can be compiled by most ANSI C compilers and C++ compilers, e.g. gcc -Wall. , .Usenet newsgroup: comp.lang.scheme. (1994-02-18)

sling ::: v. t. --> An instrument for throwing stones or other missiles, consisting of a short strap with two strings fastened to its ends, or with a string fastened to one end and a light stick to the other. The missile being lodged in a hole in the strap, the ends of the string are taken in the hand, and the whole whirled rapidly round until, by loosing one end, the missile is let fly with centrifugal force.
The act or motion of hurling as with a sling; a throw; figuratively, a stroke.


SNOBOL4 ::: (language) A quite distinct descendant of SNOBOL, developed by Griswold et al in 1967. SNOBOL4 is declarative with dynamic scope. Patterns are data type. Strings generated at run time can be treated as programs and executed.See also vanilla. . .[The SNOBOL4 Programming Language, Ralph E. Griswold et al, P-H 1971].(2004-04-29)

SNOBOL4 "language" A quite distinct descendant of {SNOBOL}, developed by Griswold et al in 1967. SNOBOL4 is {declarative} with {dynamic scope}. Patterns are {first-class} data objects that can be constructed by concatenation and alternation. Success and failure are used for {flow control}. Delayed (unevaluated) expressions can be used to implement {recursion}. It has a table data type. Strings generated at run time can be treated as programs and executed. See also {vanilla}. {SNOBOL 4 (http://snobol4.org/)}. {(ftp://apple.com/ArchiveVol1/Unix_lang)}. {A FOLDOC parser in SNOBOL4 (http://www.topcat.hypermart.net/foldoc.html)}! ["The SNOBOL4 Programming Language", Ralph E. Griswold et al, P-H 1971]. (2011-01-05)

strand ::: n. --> One of the twists, or strings, as of fibers, wires, etc., of which a rope is composed.
The shore, especially the beach of a sea, ocean, or large lake; rarely, the margin of a navigable river. ::: v. t. --> To break a strand of (a rope).


strands ::: lines or strings consisting of a complex of fibers or filaments that are twisted together to form a thread or a rope or a cable.

string ::: 1. Any series of things arranged or connected in a line or following closely one after another. 2. The vibrating element that produces sound in string instruments and is composed of lengths of a flexible material kept under tension so that they may vibrate freely, but controllably, made of gut, fibre, wire, etc. 3. Slender cords or thick threads used for binding or tying; lines or something resembling this. Also fig. **strings, heart-strings, heart-strings", apron strings (see apron).**

stringed ::: --> of String ::: a. --> Having strings; as, a stringed instrument.
Produced by strings.


stringer ::: n. --> One who strings; one who makes or provides strings, especially for bows.
A libertine; a wencher.
A longitudinal sleeper.
A streak of planking carried round the inside of a vessel on the under side of the beams.
A long horizontal timber to connect uprights in a frame, or to support a floor or the like.


stringless ::: a. --> Having no strings.

stringless ::: without strings; lacking strings.

stringly typed "humour, programming" A humourous play on "{strongly typed}", coined by Mark Simpson, for an implementation that uses strings instead of more appropriate types, thus preventing {compile-time} {type checking}. [{Dodgy Coder (http://www.dodgycoder.net/2011/11/yoda-conditions-pokemon-exception.html)}]. (2012-06-25)

STring Oriented Interactive Compiler "language" (STOIC) A language from the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory. STOIC is similar to {FORTH} for strings and includes many {VAX}-specific items. (1998-09-27)

STring Oriented Interactive Compiler ::: (language) (STOIC) A language from the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory. STOIC is similar to FORTH for strings and includes many VAX-specific items. (1998-09-27)

string ::: (programming) A sequence of data values, usually bytes, which usually stand for characters (a character string). The mapping between values and implcitly or explicitly by the environment in which the string is being interpreted.The most common character set is ASCII but, since the late 1990s, there has been increased interest in larger character sets such as Unicode where each character is represented by more than eight bits.Most programming languages consider strings (e.g. 124:shabooya:\n, hello world) basically distinct from numbers which are typically stored in fixed-length binary or floating-point representation.A bit string is a sequence of bits. (1999-12-21)

string "programming" (Or "character string") A sequence of {characters}. Most {programming languages} consider characters and strings (e.g. "124:shabooya:\n", "hello world") to be distinct from numbers, which are typically stored in fixed-length {binary} or {floating-point} representation. A {bit string} is a sequence of {bits}. (2015-11-29)

String theory - a theoretical framework in which the point-like particles of particle physics are replaced by one-dimensional objects called strings. See /r/strings

stringy ::: a. --> Consisting of strings, or small threads; fibrous; filamentous; as, a stringy root.
Capable of being drawn into a string, as a glutinous substance; ropy; viscid; gluely.


struck ::: pt. Of strike 1. Removed from; obliterated. 2. v. Put forth. 3.** Plucked the strings on a stringed instrument.

Sutra (Sanskrit) Sūtra [from siv to sew] A string, thread; the sutras are strings of rules or aphorisms written in verse form, composed in terse and symbolic language with the obvious intention of their being committed to memory. This was a favorite form among the Hindus, as among all ancient peoples, of imbodying and transmitting rules of ancient religious and philosophic thought. There are sutras written upon almost every subject, but the sutras commonly signify those connected with the Vedas, of which there are three kinds: the Kalpa-sutras (rules of ritual); the grihya-sutras (domestic rules) treating of ordinary family rites such as marriage, birth, name-giving, etc.; and the Samayacharika-sutras which treat of customs and temporal duties. The Kalpa-sutras belong to the class of writings called Srutis (heard or revealed); while the other two types of sutras belong to the Smritis (remembered), carried traditionally from generation to generation by word of mouth.

syntax "language" The structure of valid strings in a given language, as described by a {grammar}. For example, the syntax of a binary number could be expressed as binary_number = bit [ binary_number ] bit = "0" | "1" meaning that a binary number is a bit optionally followed by a binary number and a bit is a literal zero or one digit. The meaning of the language is given by its {semantics}. See also {abstract syntax}, {concrete syntax}. (1994-10-31)

syntax ::: The structure of strings in some language. A language's syntax is described by a grammar. For example, the syntax of a binary number could be expressed as binary_number = bit [ binary_number ] meaning that a binary number is a bit optionally followed by a binary number and a bit is a literal zero or one digit.The meaning of the language is given by its semantics.See also abstract syntax, concrete syntax. (1994-10-31)

System Control Language "language" (SCL) The {command language} for the {VME/B} {operating system} on the {ICL2900}. SCL was {block structured} and supported strings, lists of strings ("superstrings"), {integer}, {Boolean}, and {array} types. You could trigger a {block} whenever a condition on a variable value occured. It supported {macros} and default arguments. Commands were treated like procedure calls. ["VME/B SCL Syntax", Intl Computers Ltd. 1980]. (2003-01-08)

System Control Language ::: (language) (SCL) The command language for the VME/B operating system on the ICL2900. SCL was block structured and supported strings, lists of strings whenever a condition on a variable value occured. It supported macros and default arguments. Commands were treated like procedure calls.[VME/B SCL Syntax, Intl Computers Ltd. 1980].(2003-01-08)

tailpiece ::: n. --> A piece at the end; an appendage.
One of the timbers which tail into a header, in floor framing. See Illust. of Header.
An ornament placed at the bottom of a short page to fill up the space, or at the end of a book.
A piece of ebony or other material attached to the lower end of a violin or similar instrument, to which the strings are fastened.


tape ::: n. --> A narrow fillet or band of cotton or linen; a narrow woven fabric used for strings and the like; as, curtains tied with tape.
A tapeline; also, a metallic ribbon so marked as to serve as a tapeline; as, a steel tape.


termcap "operating system" (terminal capabilities) A {Unix} database listing different types of terminal (or {terminal emulation}) and the character {strings} to send to make the terminal perform certain functions such as move the {cursor} up one line or clear the screen. Programs written using termcap can work on any terminal in the database which supports the necessary functions. Typical programs are {text editors} or file viewers like {more}. The termcap routines look for an {environment variable} "TERM" to determine which terminal the user is using. {terminfo} is a later version of termcap. (1998-10-30)

termcap ::: (operating system) (terminal capabilities) A Unix database listing different types of terminal (or terminal emulation) and the character strings to send to make the terminal perform certain functions such as move the cursor up one line or clear the screen.Programs written using termcap can work on any terminal in the database which supports the necessary functions. Typical programs are text editors or file viewers like more. The termcap routines look for an environment variable TERM to determine which terminal the user is using.terminfo is a later version of termcap. (1998-10-30)

term rewriting system (TRS) A collection of {rewrite rules} used to transform terms (expressions, strings in some formal language) into equivalent terms. See {reduction}. (1994-11-04)

term rewriting system ::: (TRS) A collection of rewrite rules used to transform terms (expressions, strings in some formal language) into equivalent terms. See reduction. (1994-11-04)

the strings on an apron, used for securing it around one"s person.tie to someone"s apron strings. To make or be dependent on or dominated by someone.

theorbo ::: n. --> An instrument made like large lute, but having two necks, with two sets of pegs, the lower set holding the strings governed by frets, while to the upper set were attached the long bass strings used as open notes.

time-table ::: n. --> A tabular statement of the time at which, or within which, several things are to take place, as the recitations in a school, the departure and arrival of railroad trains or other public conveyances, the rise and fall of the tides, etc.
A plane surface divided in one direction with lines representing hours and minutes, and in the other with lines representing miles, and having diagonals (usually movable strings) representing the speed and position of various trains.


Tool Command Language ::: (language) /tik*l/ (Tcl) An interpreted string processing language for issuing commands to interactive programs, developed by John Ousterhout at UCB. Each application program can extend tcl with its own set of commands.Tcl is like a text-oriented Lisp, but lets you write algebraic expressions for simplicity and to avoid scaring people away. Though originally designed to be a scripting language rather than for serious programming, Tcl has been used successfully for programs with hundreds of thousands of lines.It has a peculiar but simple syntax. It may be used as an embedded interpreter in application programs. It has exceptions and packages (called libraries), dynamic loading of object code. It is eight-bit clean. It has only three variable types: strings, lists and associative arrays but no structures.Tcl and its associated GUI toolkit, Tk run on all flavors of Unix, Microsoft Windows, Macintosh and VMS. Tcl runs on the Amiga and many other platforms.Current version: 8.0.3, as of 1998-09-25.See also expect (control interactive programs and pattern match on their output), Cygnus Tcl Tools, [incr Tcl] (adds classes and inheritence to Tcl), Tcl), tclhttpd (an embeddable Tcl-based web server), tclx (adds many commands to Tcl), tcl-debug. . . .Usenet newsgroups: comp.lang.tcl.announce, comp.lang.tcl.[Tcl: An Embeddable Command Language, J. Ousterhout, Proc 1990 Winter USENIX Conf]. (1998-11-27)

Tool Command Language "language" /tik*l/ (Tcl) An interpreted string processing language for issuing commands to {interactive} programs, developed by {John Ousterhout} at {UCB}. Each {application program} can extend tcl with its own set of commands. Tcl is like a text-oriented {Lisp}, but lets you write algebraic expressions for simplicity and to avoid scaring people away. Though originally designed to be a "scripting language" rather than for serious programming, Tcl has been used successfully for programs with hundreds of thousands of lines. It has a peculiar but simple {syntax}. It may be used as an embedded {interpreter} in application programs. It has {exceptions} and {packages} (called libraries), {name-spaces} for {procedures} and {variables}, and provide/require. It supports {dynamic loading} of {object code}. It is {eight-bit clean}. It has only three variable types: strings, lists and {associative arrays} but no {structures}. Tcl and its associated {GUI} {toolkit}, {Tk} run on all flavors of {Unix}, {Microsoft Windows}, {Macintosh} and {VMS}. Tcl runs on the {Amiga} and many other {platforms}. See also {expect} (control interactive programs and pattern match on their output), {Cygnus Tcl Tools}, {[incr Tcl]} (adds classes and inheritence to Tcl), {Scriptics} (John Ousterhout's company that is the home of Tcl development and the TclPro tool suite), {Tcl Consortium} (a non-profit agency dedicated to promoting Tcl), {tclhttpd} (an embeddable Tcl-based web server), {tclx} (adds many commands to Tcl), {tcl-debug}. {comp.lang.tcl FAQ at MIT (ftp://rtfm.mit.edu/pub/usenet-by-group/comp.answers/tcl-faq/)}. or {at purl.org (http://purl.org/NET/Tcl-FAQ/)}. {Scriptics downloads (http://scriptics.com/software/download.html)}. {Kanji (ftp://srawgw.sra.co.jp/pub/lang/tcl/jp/)}. {Usenet} newsgroups: {news:comp.lang.tcl.announce}, {news:comp.lang.tcl}. ["Tcl: An Embeddable Command Language", J. Ousterhout, Proc 1990 Winter USENIX Conf]. (1998-11-27)

tre corde or tc (or sometimes inaccurately tre corda): three strings; i.e., release the soft pedal of the piano (see una corda)

trichord ::: n. --> An instrument, as a lyre or harp, having three strings.

tucum ::: n. --> A fine, strong fiber obtained from the young leaves of a Brazilian palm (Astrocaryum vulgare), used for cordage, bowstrings, etc.; also, the plant yielding this fiber. Called also tecum, and tecum fiber.

Turing Machine "computability" A hypothetical machine defined in 1935-6 by {Alan Turing} and used for {computability theory} proofs. It consists of an infinitely long "tape" with symbols (chosen from some {finite set}) written at regular intervals. A pointer marks the current position and the machine is in one of a finite set of "internal states". At each step the machine reads the symbol at the current position on the tape. For each combination of current state and symbol read, a program specifies the new state and either a symbol to write to the tape or a direction to move the pointer (left or right) or to halt. In an alternative scheme, the machine writes a symbol to the tape *and* moves at each step. This can be encoded as a write state followed by a move state for the write-or-move machine. If the write-and-move machine is also given a distance to move then it can emulate an write-or-move program by using states with a distance of zero. A further variation is whether halting is an action like writing or moving or whether it is a special state. [What was Turing's original definition?] Without loss of generality, the symbol set can be limited to just "0" and "1" and the machine can be restricted to start on the leftmost 1 of the leftmost string of 1s with strings of 1s being separated by a single 0. The tape may be infinite in one direction only, with the understanding that the machine will halt if it tries to move off the other end. All computer {instruction sets}, {high level languages} and computer architectures, including {parallel processors}, can be shown to be equivalent to a Turing Machine and thus equivalent to each other in the sense that any problem that one can solve, any other can solve given sufficient time and memory. Turing generalised the idea of the Turing Machine to a "Universal Turing Machine" which was programmed to read instructions, as well as data, off the tape, thus giving rise to the idea of a general-purpose programmable computing device. This idea still exists in modern computer design with low level {microcode} which directs the reading and decoding of higher level {machine code} instructions. A {busy beaver} is one kind of Turing Machine program. Dr. Hava Siegelmann of {Technion} reported in Science of 28 Apr 1995 that she has found a mathematically rigorous class of machines, based on ideas from {chaos} theory and {neural networks}, that are more powerful than Turing Machines. Sir Roger Penrose of {Oxford University} has argued that the brain can compute things that a Turing Machine cannot, which would mean that it would be impossible to create {artificial intelligence}. Dr. Siegelmann's work suggests that this is true only for conventional computers and may not cover {neural networks}. See also {Turing tar-pit}, {finite state machine}. (1995-05-10)

type "theory, programming" (Or "data type") A set of values from which a {variable}, {constant}, {function}, or other {expression} may take its value. A type is a classification of data that tells the {compiler} or {interpreter} how the programmer intends to use it. For example, the process and result of adding two variables differs greatly according to whether they are integers, floating point numbers, or strings. Types supported by most programming languages include {integers} (usually limited to some range so they will fit in one {word} of storage), {Booleans}, {floating point numbers}, and characters. {Strings} are also common, and are represented as {lists} of characters in some languages. If s and t are types, then so is s -" t, the type of {functions} from s to t; that is, give them a term of type s, functions of type s -" t will return a term of type t. Some types are {primitive} - built-in to the language, with no visible internal structure - e.g. Boolean; others are composite - constructed from one or more other types (of either kind) - e.g. {lists}, {arrays}, {structures}, {unions}. {Object-oriented programming} extends this with {classes} which encapsulate both the structure of a type and the operations that can be performed on it. Some languages provide {strong typing}, others allow {implicit type conversion} and/or {explicit type conversion}. (2003-12-22)

type ::: (theory, programming) (Or data type) A set of values from which a variable, constant, function, or other expression may take its value. A type is variables differs greatly according to whether they are integers, floating point numbers, or strings.Types supported by most programming languages include integers (usually limited to some range so they will fit in one word of storage), Booleans, floating point numbers, and characters. Strings are also common, and are represented as lists of characters in some languages.If s and t are types, then so is s -> t, the type of functions from s to t; that is, give them a term of type s, functions of type s -> t will return a term of type t.Some types are primitive - built-in to the language, with no visible internal structure - e.g. Boolean; others are composite - constructed from one or more Object-oriented programming extends this with classes which encapsulate both the structure of a type and the operations that can be performed on it.Some languages provide strong typing, others allow implicit type conversion and/or explicit type conversion.(2003-12-22)

una corda: one string; i.e., in piano music, depress the soft pedal, altering, and reducing the volume of, the sound. In some pianos, this literally results in the hammer striking one string rather than two or three. (For most notes on modern instruments, in fact it results in striking two rather than three strings.) Its counterpart, tre corde (three strings; see in this list), is the opposite: the soft pedal is to be released.

Universal Resource Identifier "web" (URI, originally "UDI" in some {WWW} documents) The generic set of all names and addresses which are short strings which refer to objects (typically on the {Internet}). The most common kinds of URI are {URLs} and {relative URLs}. URIs are defined in {RFC 1630}. {W3 specification (http://w3.org/hypertext/WWW/Addressing/URL/URI_Overview.html)}. (1997-07-16)

Universal Resource Identifier ::: (World-Wide Web) (URI, originally UDI in some WWW documents) The generic set of all names and addresses which are short strings which refer to objects (typically on the Internet). The most common kinds of URI are URLs and relative URLs.URIs are defined in RFC 1630. . (1997-07-16)

unstring ::: v. t. --> To deprive of a string or strings; also, to take from a string; as, to unstring beads.
To loosen the string or strings of; as, to unstring a harp or a bow.
To relax the tension of; to loosen.
Used also figuratively; as, his nerves were unstrung by fear.


UTF-8 "character" (UCS transformation format 8) An {ASCII}-compatible multibyte {Unicode} and {UCS} encoding, used by {Java} and {Plan 9}. The {Unicode character} set occupies a 16-bit code space. The most obvious Unicode encoding (known as UCS-2) consists of a sequence of 16-bit words. Such strings can contain bytes like '\0' or '/' which have a special meaning in filenames and other {C} library function parameters. In addition, the majority of {Unix} tools expects ASCII files and can't read 16-bit words as characters without major modifications. For these reasons, UCS-2 is not a suitable external encoding of Unicode in filenames, text files, environment variables, etc. The {ISO 10646} {Universal Character Set} (UCS), a superset of Unicode, occupies a 31-bit code space and the obvious UCS-4 encoding for it (a sequence of 32-bit words) has the same problems. The UTF-8 encoding of Unicode and UCS avoids the problems of fixed-length Unicode encodings because an ASCII file encoded in UTF is exactly same as the original ASCII file and all non-ASCII characters are guaranteed to have the most significant bit set (bit 0x80). This means that normal tools for text searching etc. work as expected. UTF-8 is defined in {RFC 2279}. ["File System Safe UCS Transformation Format (FSS_UTF)", X/Open Preliminary Specification, X/Open Company Ltd., Document Number: P316. This information also appears in ISO/IEC 10646, Annex P]. {Plan 9 UTF manual entry (ftp://ftp.uu.net/doc/obi/Bell.Labs/plan9pm/09utf.ps.Z)}. (1998-07-29)

UTF-8 ::: (character) (UCS transformation format 8) An ASCII-compatible multibyte Unicode and UCS encoding, used by Java and Plan 9.The Unicode character set occupies a 16-bit code space. The most obvious Unicode encoding (known as UCS-2) consists of a sequence of 16-bit words. Such strings modifications. For these reasons, UCS-2 is not a suitable external encoding of Unicode in filenames, text files, environment variables, etc.The ISO 10646 Universal Character Set (UCS), a superset of Unicode, occupies a 31-bit code space and the obvious UCS-4 encoding for it (a sequence of 32-bit words) has the same problems.The UTF-8 encoding of Unicode and UCS avoids the problems of fixed-length Unicode encodings because an ASCII file encoded in UTF is exactly same as the significant bit set (bit 0x80). This means that normal tools for text searching etc. work as expected.UTF-8 is defined in RFC 2279.[File System Safe UCS Transformation Format (FSS_UTF), X/Open Preliminary Specification, X/Open Company Ltd., Document Number: P316. This information also appears in ISO/IEC 10646, Annex P]. . (1998-07-29)

V.42bis "communications, standard" An extension of the {ITU-T} {V.42} standard {modem} {protocol} to included {compression} using a {Lempel-Ziv} related technique, which detects frequently occurring character strings and replaces them with tokens. This is similar to the {Unix} {compress} utility. Typical {compression} for text is 50% or better; with nearly 20% gain from {synchronous} conversion this gives reduces transmission time by almost 60%. [Details? On-line spec?] (2004-08-02)

varchar "database" A {database} {data type} for storing variable-length strings of {ASCII} data. The amount of storage space used depends on the length of the strings, in contrast to the ordinary "char" type. The maximum length of string must still be specified, e.g. varchar(256). (2009-02-25)

Vina (Sanskrit) Vīṇā An ancient musical instrument of the guitar family, still in use in India. Although generally termed a lute, its construction is quite different, having two gourds for its sounding boards rather than the single one used in the lute and modern musical instruments. In playing the vina, the performer places one gourd on the shoulder and the other on the hip. It usually has seven strings, and a long finger board containing 19 and occasionally 21 frets or supports. There are many varieties classed according to the number of strings. Its invention is attributed to Narada, one of the seven great rishis.

violin ::: n. --> A small instrument with four strings, played with a bow; a fiddle.

viol ::: n. --> A stringed musical instrument formerly in use, of the same form as the violin, but larger, and having six strings, to be struck with a bow, and the neck furnished with frets for stopping the strings.
A large rope sometimes used in weighing anchor.


violoncello ::: n. --> A stringed instrument of music; a bass viol of four strings, or a bass violin with long, large strings, giving sounds an octave lower than the viola, or tenor or alto violin.

violone ::: n. --> The largest instrument of the bass-viol kind, having strings tuned an octave below those of the violoncello; the contrabasso; -- called also double bass.

virginal ::: a. --> Of or pertaining to a virgin; becoming a virgin; maidenly. ::: n. --> An instrument somewhat resembling the spinet, but having a rectangular form, like the small piano. It had strings and keys, but only one wire to a note. The instrument was used in the sixteenth

nā ::: a variety of lute, the vīnā is one of the most important musical instruments of India, often considered as sacred. Contemporary designs have four playing strings and three drone strings. The body is generally carved from wood, and the upper removable resonator is either carved or made from a gourd.

World-Wide Web ::: (World-Wide Web, networking, hypertext) (WWW, W3, The Web) An Internet client-server hypertext distributed information retrieval system which originated from the CERN High-Energy Physics laboratories in Geneva, Switzerland.An extensive user community has developed on the Web since its public introduction in 1991. In the early 1990s, the developers at CERN spread word of share of Web traffic traversing the NSFNET Internet backbone reached 75 gigabytes per month or one percent. By July 1994 it was one terabyte per month.On the WWW everything (documents, menus, indices) is represented to the user as a hypertext object in HTML format. Hypertext links refer to other documents by Gopher, Telnet or news, as well as those available via the http protocol used to transfer hypertext documents.The client program (known as a browser), e.g. NCSA Mosaic, Netscape Navigator, runs on the user's computer and provides two basic navigation operations: to follow a link or to send a query to a server. A variety of client and server software is freely available.Most clients and servers also support forms which allow the user to enter arbitrary text as well as selecting options from customisable menus and on/off switches.Following the widespread availability of web browsers and servers, many companies from about 1995 realised they could use the same software and protocols on their own private internal TCP/IP networks giving rise to the term intranet.If you don't have a WWW browser, but you are on the Internet, you can access the Web using the command: telnet www.w3.org (Internet address 128.141.201.74) but it's much better if you install a browser on your own computer.The World Wide Web Consortium is the main standards body for the web. . . .Mailing list: .Usenet newsgroups: comp.infosystems.www.misc, comp.infosystems.www.providers, comp.infosystems.www.users, comp.infosystems.announce.The best way to access this dictionary is via the Web since you will get the latest version and be able to follow cross-references easily. If you are reading a plain text version of this dictionary then you will see lots of curly brackets and strings like {(http://hostname/here/there/page.html)}. These are transformed into hypertext links when you access it via the Web.See also Java, webhead. (1996-10-28)

YAML Ain't Markup Language ::: (data, language) (YAML) A data serialisation language designed to be readable and writable by humans and to work well with modern programming languages.YAML uses printable Unicode characters to represent both structure and data. The structural syntax is simple and terse. For example, indentation is used for structure, colons separate pairs, and dashes are used for list items.YAML can represent mappings (hashes or dictionaries), sequences (arrays or lists), scalars (strings or numbers), or any combination of the above. It has a familiar to programmers using Perl, Python, PHP, Ruby, or Javascript, but YAML can be used with any programming language.YAML is, in some respects, a simpler alternative to XML, though it does not share the constraints imposed by XML's SGML legacy and has somewhat different aims. .(2004-02-02)

YAML Ain't Markup Language "data, language" (YAML) A data {serialisation} language designed to be readable and writable by humans and to work well with modern programming languages. YAML uses printable {Unicode} characters to represent both structure and data. The structural syntax is simple and terse. For example, indentation is used for structure, colons separate pairs, and dashes are used for list items. YAML can represent mappings ({hashes} or dictionaries), sequences ({arrays} or lists), {scalars} (strings or numbers), or any combination of the above. It has a simple {typing system} and {reference} syntax. Its structures will be particularly familiar to programmers using {Perl}, {Python}, {PHP}, {Ruby}, or {Javascript}, but YAML can be used with any programming language. YAML is, in some respects, a simpler alternative to XML, though it does not share the constraints imposed by XML's {SGML} legacy and has somewhat different aims. {YAML Home (http://yaml.org/)}. (2004-02-02)

Zhengfayanzang. (J. Shobogenzo; K. Chongpobanjang 正法眼蔵). In Chinese, "Treasury of the Eye of the True Dharma," in three rolls, edited by the CHAN master DAHUI ZONGGAO and his lay disciples in 1147. The Zhengfayanzang is largely a collection of 661 cases or GONG'AN with Dahui's prose commentary (pingchang), annotations (C. zhuoyu/zhuyu; see J. JAKUGO), and instructions for the assembly. The zhengfayanzang of the title is a term used within Chan to indicate the school's special repository of the "eye" or "mind" of the BUDDHADHARMA, which is independent from the scriptural tradition. (See JIAOWAI BIECHUAN). The exchanges between masters and disciples that Daohui covers in his collection are described as being the transmission of this eye. His Zhengfayanzang thus records the exchanges of a number of renowned Tang and Northern Song Chan masters and their disciples, including ZHAOZHOU CONGSHEN, DESHAN XUANJIAN, and XUEFENG YICUN, as well as the sermons of masters associated especially with the LINJI ZONG, including LINJI YIXUAN, YANGQI FANGHUI, and HUANGLONG HUINAN. Dahui strings together typically between three and six exchanges or sermons and, at the end of each section, adds his own brief prose commentary, often about twenty Sinographs in length, most starting with "Miaoxi says." (Miaoxi is one of Daihui's cognomens.) The Zhengfayanzang seems to have exerted some influence on the compilation of the ZONGMEN LIANDENG HUIYAO, by Dahui's third-generation successor Huiweng Wuming (d.u.). The SHoBoGENZo, the magnum opus of the Japanese SoToSHu monk DoGEN KIGEN, bears the same title but in its Japanese pronunciation.



QUOTES [17 / 17 - 1460 / 1460]


KEYS (10k)

   6 Sri Aurobindo
   2 The Mother
   1 Saint Padre Pio of Pietrelcina
   1 Ramesh Balsekar
   1 Phil Hine
   1 Michio Kaku
   1 Marcus Aurelius
   1  Leonard Adleman
   1 Ken Wilber?
   1 Arthur Schopenhauer
   1 Kabir

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   32 John Green
   17 Anonymous
   15 Michio Kaku
   13 Brian Greene
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   9 Percy Bysshe Shelley
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   8 Edgar Albert Guest
   7 William Shakespeare
   7 Sri Aurobindo
   7 Rainer Maria Rilke
   7 Marcus Aurelius
   7 Lisa Kleypas
   7 Anthony Doerr
   6 Tarryn Fisher
   6 Patrick Rothfuss
   6 Khalil Gibran
   6 Charles Dickens
   6 Charles Baudelaire
   6 Anne Kingsmill Finch

1:Humility and charity are the master strings . All other virtues depend on them. One is the lowest; the other is the highest. ~ Saint Padre Pio of Pietrelcina,
2:Nada is found within. It is a music without strings which plays in the body. It penetrates the inner and outer and leads you away from illusion. ~ Kabir,
3:Realize at long last that you have within you something stronger and more numinous than those agents of emotion which make you a mere puppet on their strings. ~ Marcus Aurelius,
4:The harmony of kindred souls that seek
Each other on the strings of body and mind,
Is all the music for which life was born. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Plays and Stories, Act II,
5:The sacred Book lay on its sanctified desk
Wrapped in interpretation's silken strings:
A credo sealed up its spiritual sense. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Entry into the Inner Countries,
6:This grey hour was born
For the ascetic in his silent cave
And for the dying man whose heart released
Loosens its vibrant strings. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Chitrangada,
7:As an apparent entity, man does not live his life but is being lived, like a puppet on strings. All his attempts to "live his life", are nothing more than reactions to impulses, engendered by psycho-physical conditions, over which he has no control. ~ Ramesh Balsekar,
8:The harp of God falls mute, its call to bliss
Discouraged fails mid earth's unhappy sounds;
The strings of the siren Ecstasy cry not here
Or soon are silenced in the human heart. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Word of Fate,
9:In string theory, all particles are vibrations on a tiny rubber band; physics is the harmonies on the string; chemistry is the melodies we play on vibrating strings; the universe is a symphony of strings, and the 'Mind of God' is cosmic music resonating in 11-dimensional hyperspace. ~ Michio Kaku,
10:Existence found its truth on Oneness' breast
And each became the self and space of all.
The great world-rhythms were heart-beats of one Soul,
To feel was a flame-discovery of God,
All mind was a single harp of many strings, ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The House of the Spirit and the New Creation,
11:Reading is merely a substitute for one's own thoughts. A man allows his thoughts to be put into leading-strings.

Further, many books serve only to show how many wrong paths there are, and how widely a man may stray if he allows himself to be led by them. But he who is guided by his genius, that is to say, he who thinks for himself, who thinks voluntarily and rightly, possesses the compass wherewith to find the right course. A man, therefore, should only read when the source of his own thoughts stagnates; which is often the case with the best of minds. ~ Arthur Schopenhauer,
12:Sciences reach a point where they become mathematized..the central issues in the field become sufficiently understood that they can be thought about mathematically..[by the early 1990s] biology was no longer the science of things that smelled funny in refrigerators (my view from undergraduate days in the 1960s)..The field was undergoing a revolution and was rapidly acquiring the depth and power previously associated exclusively with the physical sciences. Biology was now the study of information stored in DNA - strings of four letters: A, T, G, and C..and the transformations that information undergoes in the cell. There was mathematics here! ~ Leonard Adleman,
13:fruits of the release :::
   For even before complete purification, if the strings of the egoistic heart and mind are already sufficiently frayed and loosened, the Jiva can by a sudden snapping of the main cords escape, ascending like a bird freed into the spaces or widening like a liberated flood into the One and Infinite. There is first a sudden sense of a cosmic consciousness, a casting of oneself into the universal; from that universality one can aspire more easily to the Transcendent. There is a pushing back and rending or a rushing down of the walls that imprisoned our conscious being; there is a loss of all sense of individuality and personality, of all placement in ego, a person definite and definable, but only consciousness, only existence, only peace or bliss; one becomes immortatlity, becomes eternity, becomes infinity. All that is left of the personal soul is a hymn of peace and freedom and bliss vibrating somewhere in the Eternal.
   ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Synthesis Of Yoga, The Release from the Ego, 363,
14:Supermind, on the other hand, as a basic structure-rung (conjoined with nondual Suchness) can only be experienced once all the previous junior levels have emerged and developed, and as in all structure development, stages cannot be skipped. Therefore, unlike Big Mind, supermind can only be experienced after all 1st-, 2nd-, and 3rd-tier junior stages have been passed through. While, as Genpo Roshi has abundantly demonstrated, Big Mind state experience is available to virtually anybody at almost any age (and will be interpreted according to the View of their current stage), supermind is an extremely rare recognition. Supermind, as the highest structure-rung to date, has access to all previous structures, all the way back to Archaic-and the Archaic itself, of course, has transcended and included, and now embraces, every major structural evolution going all the way back to the Big Bang. (A human being literally enfolds and embraces all the major transformative unfoldings of the entire Kosmic history-strings to quarks to subatomic particles to atoms to molecules to cells, all the way through the Tree of Life up to its latest evolutionary emergent, the triune brain, the most complex structure in the known natural world.) Supermind, in any given individual, is experienced as a type of omniscience-the supermind, since it transcends and includes all of the previous structure-rungs, and inherently is conjoined with the highest nondual Suchness state, has a full and complete knowledge of all of the potentials in that person. It literally knows all, at least for the individual.
   ~ Ken Wilber?,
15:The obsession clouds all reason, impairs the ability to act, makes anything secondary to it seem unimportant. It's a double-bind tug o'war. The desire to maintain the fantasy may be stronger than the desire to make it real.
   In classical occult terms I am describing a thought-form, a monster bred from the darker reccesses of mind, fed by psychic energy, clothed in imagination and nurtured by umbilical cords which twist through years of growth. we all have our personal Tunnels of Set; set in our ways through habit and patterns piling on top of each other. The thought-form rides us like a monkey; it's tail wrapped firmly about the spine of a self lost to us years ago; an earlier version threshing blindly in a moment of fear, pain, or desire.
   Thus we are formed; and in a moment of loss we feel the monster's hot breath against our backs, it's claws digging into muscle and flesh. we dance to the pull of strings that were woven years ago, and in a lightning flash of insight, or better yet, the gentle admonitions of a friend, we may see the lie; the program. it is first necessary to see that there is a program. To say perhaps, this creature is mine, but not wholly me. What follows then is that the prey becomes the hunter, pulling apart the obsession, naming its parts, searching for fragments of understanding in its entrails. Shrinking it, devouring it, peeling the layers of onion-skin.
   This is in itself a magick as powerful as any sorcery. Unbinding the knots that we have tied and tangled; sorting out the threads of experience and colour-coding the chains of chance. It may leave us freer, more able to act effectively and less likely to repeat old mistakes. The thing has a chinese puzzle-like nature. We can perceive only the present, and it requires intense sifting through memory to see the scaffolding beneath.
   ~ Phil Hine, Oven Ready Chaos,
16:Depression, unless one has a strong will, suggests, "This is not worth while, one may have to wait a lifetime." As for enthusiasm, it expects to see the vital transformed overnight: "I am not going to have any difficulty henceforth, I am going to advance rapidly on the path of yoga, I am going to gain the divine consciousness without any difficulty." There are some other difficulties.... One needs a little time, much perseverance. So the vital, after a few hours - perhaps a few days, perhaps a few months - says to itself: "We haven't gone very far with our enthusiasm, has anything been really done? Doesn't this movement leave us just where we were, perhaps worse than we were, a little troubled, a little disturbed? Things are no longer what they were, they are not yet what they ought to be. It is very tiresome, what I am doing." And then, if one pushes a little more, here's this gentleman saying, "Ah, no! I have had enough of it, leave me alone. I don't want to move, I shall stay in my corner, I won't trouble you, but don't bother me!" And so one has not gone very much farther than before.
   This is one of the big obstacles which must be carefully avoided. As soon as there is the least sign of discontentment, of annoyance, the vital must be spoken to in this way, "My friend, you are going to keep calm, you are going to do what you are asked to do, otherwise you will have to deal with me." And to the other, the enthusiast who says, "Everything must be done now, immediately", your reply is, "Calm yourself a little, your energy is excellent, but it must not be spent in five minutes. We shall need it for a long time, keep it carefully and, as it is wanted, I shall call upon your goodwill. You will show that you are full of goodwill, you will obey, you won't grumble, you will not protest, you will not revolt, you will say 'yes, yes', you will make a little sacrifice when asked, you will say 'yes' wholeheartedly."
   So we get started on the path. But the road is very long. Many things happen on the way. Suddenly one thinks one has overcome an obstacle; I say "thinks", because though one has overcome it, it is not totally overcome. I am going to take a very obvious instance, of a very simple observation. Someone has found that his vital is uncontrollable and uncontrolled, that it gets furious for nothing and about nothing. He starts working to teach it not to get carried away, not to flare up, to remain calm and bear the shocks of life without reacting violently. If one does this cheerfully, it goes quite quickly. (Note this well, it is very important: when you have to deal with your vital take care to remain cheerful, otherwise you will get into trouble.) One remains cheerful, that is, when one sees the fury rise, one begins to laugh. Instead of being depressed and saying, "Ah! In spite of all my effort it is beginning all over again", one begins to laugh and says, "Well, well! One hasn't yet seen the end of it. Look now, aren't you ridiculous, you know quite well that you are being ridiculous! Is it worthwhile getting angry?" One gives it this lesson cheerfully. And really, after a while it doesn't get angry again, it is quiet - and one relaxes one's attention. One thinks the difficulty has been overcome, one thinks a result has at last been reached: "My vital does not trouble me any longer, it does not get angry now, everything is going fine." And the next day, one loses one's temper. It is then one must be careful, it is then one must not say, "Here we are, it's no use, I shall never achieve anything, all my efforts are futile; all this is an illusion, it is impossible." On the contrary, one must say, "I wasn't vigilant enough." One must wait long, very long, before one can say, "Ah! It is done and finished." Sometimes one must wait for years, many years....
   I am not saying this to discourage you, but to give you patience and perseverance - for there is a moment when you do arrive. And note that the vital is a small part of your being - a very important part, we have said that it is the dynamism, the realising energy, it is very important; but it is only a small part. And the mind!... which goes wandering, which must be pulled back by all the strings to be kept quiet! You think this can be done overnight? And your body?... You have a weakness, a difficulty, sometimes a small chronic illness, nothing much, but still it is a nuisance, isn't it? You want to get rid of it. You make efforts, you concentrate; you work upon it, establish harmony, and you think it is finished, and then.... Take, for instance, people who have the habit of coughing; they can't control themselves or almost can't. It is not serious but it is bothersome, and there seems to be no reason why it should ever stop. Well, one tells oneself, "I am going to control this." One makes an effort - a yogic effort, not a material one - one brings down consciousness, force, and stops the cough. And one thinks, "The body has forgotten how to cough." And it is a great thing when the body has forgotten, truly one can say, "I am cured." But unfortunately it is not always true, for this goes down into the subconscient and, one day, when the balance of forces is not so well established, when the strength is not the same, it begins again. And one laments, "I believed that it was over! I had succeeded and told myself, 'It is true that spiritual power has an action upon the body, it is true that something can be done', and there! it is not true. And yet it was a small thing, and I who want to conquer immortality! How will I succeed?... For years I have been free from this small thing and here it is beginning anew!" It is then that you must be careful. You must arm yourself with an endless patience and endurance. You do a thing once, ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times if necessary, but you do it till it gets done. And not done only here and there, but everywhere and everywhere at the same time. This is the great problem one sets oneself. That is why, to those who come to tell me very light-heartedly, "I want to do yoga", I reply, "Think it over, one may do the yoga for a number of years without noticing the least result. But if you want to do it, you must persist and persist with such a will that you should be ready to do it for ten lifetimes, a hundred lifetimes if necessary, in order to succeed." I do not say it will be like that, but the attitude must be like that. Nothing must discourage you; for there are all the difficulties of ignorance of the different states of being, to which are added the endless malice and the unbounded cunning of the hostile forces in the world.... They are there, do you know why? They have been.... ~ The Mother, Questions And Answers 1950-1951,
17:
   Can a Yogi attain to a state of consciousness in which he can know all things, answer all questions, relating even to abstruse scientific problems, such as, for example, the theory of relativity?


Theoretically and in principle it is not impossible for a Yogi to know everything; all depends upon the Yogi.

   But there is knowledge and knowledge. The Yogi does not know in the way of the mind. He does not know everything in the sense that he has access to all possible information or because he contains all the facts of the universe in his mind or because his consciousness is a sort of miraculous encyclopaedia. He knows by his capacity for a containing or dynamic identity with things and persons and forces. Or he knows because he lives in a plane of consciousness or is in contact with a consciousness in which there is the truth and the knowledge.

   If you are in the true consciousness, the knowledge you have will also be of the truth. Then, too, you can know directly, by being one with what you know. If a problem is put before you, if you are asked what is to be done in a particular matter, you can then, by looking with enough attention and concentration, receive spontaneously the required knowledge and the true answer. It is not by any careful application of theory that you reach the knowledge or by working it out through a mental process. The scientific mind needs these methods to come to its conclusions. But the Yogi's knowledge is direct and immediate; it is not deductive. If an engineer has to find out the exact position for the building of an arch, the line of its curve and the size of its opening, he does it by calculation, collating and deducing from his information and data. But a Yogi needs none of these things; he looks, has the vision of the thing, sees that it is to be done in this way and not in another, and this seeing is his knowledge.

   Although it may be true in a general way and in a certain sense that a Yogi can know all things and can answer all questions from his own field of vision and consciousness, yet it does not follow that there are no questions whatever of any kind to which he would not or could not answer. A Yogi who has the direct knowledge, the knowledge of the true truth of things, would not care or perhaps would find it difficult to answer questions that belong entirely to the domain of human mental constructions. It may be, he could not or would not wish to solve problems and difficulties you might put to him which touch only the illusion of things and their appearances. The working of his knowledge is not in the mind. If you put him some silly mental query of that character, he probably would not answer. The very common conception that you can put any ignorant question to him as to some super-schoolmaster or demand from him any kind of information past, present or future and that he is bound to answer, is a foolish idea. It is as inept as the expectation from the spiritual man of feats and miracles that would satisfy the vulgar external mind and leave it gaping with wonder.

   Moreover, the term "Yogi" is very vague and wide. There are many types of Yogis, many lines or ranges of spiritual or occult endeavour and different heights of achievement, there are some whose powers do not extend beyond the mental level; there are others who have gone beyond it. Everything depends on the field or nature of their effort, the height to which they have arrived, the consciousness with which they have contact or into which they enter.

   Do not scientists go sometimes beyond the mental plane? It is said that Einstein found his theory of relativity not through any process of reasoning, but through some kind of sudden inspiration. Has that inspiration anything to do with the Supermind?

The scientist who gets an inspiration revealing to him a new truth, receives it from the intuitive mind. The knowledge comes as a direct perception in the higher mental plane illumined by some other light still farther above. But all that has nothing to do with the action of Supermind and this higher mental level is far removed from the supramental plane. Men are too easily inclined to believe that they have climbed into regions quite divine when they have only gone above the average level. There are many stages between the ordinary human mind and the Supermind, many grades and many intervening planes. If an ordinary man were to get into direct contact even with one of these intermediate planes, he would be dazzled and blinded, would be crushed under the weight of the sense of immensity or would lose his balance; and yet it is not the Supermind.

   Behind the common idea that a Yogi can know all things and answer all questions is the actual fact that there is a plane in the mind where the memory of everything is stored and remains always in existence. All mental movements that belong to the life of the earth are memorised and registered in this plane. Those who are capable of going there and care to take the trouble, can read in it and learn anything they choose. But this region must not be mistaken for the supramental levels. And yet to reach even there you must be able to silence the movements of the material or physical mind; you must be able to leave aside all your sensations and put a stop to your ordinary mental movements, whatever they are; you must get out of the vital; you must become free from the slavery of the body. Then only you can enter into that region and see. But if you are sufficiently interested to make this effort, you can arrive there and read what is written in the earth's memory.

   Thus, if you go deep into silence, you can reach a level of consciousness on which it is not impossible for you to receive answers to all your questions. And if there is one who is consciously open to the plenary truth of the supermind, in constant contact with it, he can certainly answer any question that is worth an answer from the supramental Light. The queries put must come from some sense of the truth and reality behind things. There are many questions and much debated problems that are cobwebs woven of mere mental abstractions or move on the illusory surface of things. These do not pertain to real knowledge; they are a deformation of knowledge, their very substance is of the ignorance. Certainly the supramental knowledge may give an answer, its own answer, to the problems set by the mind's ignorance; but it is likely that it would not be at all satisfactory or perhaps even intelligible to those who ask from the mental level. You must not expect the supramental to work in the way of the mind or demand that the knowledge in truth should be capable of being pieced together with the half-knowledge in ignorance. The scheme of the mind is one thing, but Supermind is quite another and it would no longer be supramental if it adapted itself to the exigencies of the mental scheme. The two are incommensurable and cannot be put together.

   When the consciousness has attained to supramental joys, does it no longer take interest in the things of the mind?

The supramental does not take interest in mental things in the same way as the mind. It takes its own interest in all the movements of the universe, but it is from a different point of view and with a different vision. The world presents to it an entirely different appearance; there is a reversal of outlook and everything is seen from there as other than what it seems to the mind and often even the opposite. Things have another meaning; their aspect, their motion and process, everything about them, are watched with other eyes. Everything here is followed by the supermind; the mind movements and not less the vital, the material movements, all the play of the universe have for it a very deep interest, but of another kind. It is about the same difference as that between the interest taken in a puppet-play by one who holds the strings and knows what the puppets are to do and the will that moves them and that they can do only what it moves them to do, and the interest taken by another who observes the play but sees only what is happening from moment to moment and knows nothing else. The one who follows the play and is outside its secret has a stronger, an eager and passionate interest in what will happen and he gives an excited attention to its unforeseen or dramatic events; the other, who holds the strings and moves the show, is unmoved and tranquil. There is a certain intensity of interest which comes from ignorance and is bound up with illusion, and that must disappear when you are out of the ignorance. The interest that human beings take in things founds itself on the illusion; if that were removed, they would have no interest at all in the play; they would find it dry and dull. That is why all this ignorance, all this illusion has lasted so long; it is because men like it, because they cling to it and its peculiar kind of appeal that it endures.

   ~ The Mother, Questions And Answers 1929-1931, 93?
,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:A puppet is free as long as he loves his strings. ~ sam-harris, @wisdomtrove
2:We're all puppets, Laurie. I'm just a puppet who can see the strings. ~ alan-moore, @wisdomtrove
3:The strings to our past are burned because we need a new beginning. ~ caroline-myss, @wisdomtrove
4:One's whole being vibrates like strings brushed by an invisible wind. ~ peter-russell, @wisdomtrove
5:There are strings in the human heart that had better not be vibrated. ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove
6:The strings to our past are burned because we need a new beginning. ~ norman-vincent-peale, @wisdomtrove
7:When Jack Benny plays the violin, it sounds as though the strings are still in the cat. ~ fred-allen, @wisdomtrove
8:The world is all gates, all opportunities, strings of tension waiting to be struck. ~ ralph-waldo-emerson, @wisdomtrove
9:What mattered most was knowing that love was mine to give, without strings or expectations. ~ nicholas-sparks, @wisdomtrove
10:All gods are homemade, and it is we who pull their strings, and so, give them the power to pull ours. ~ aldous-huxley, @wisdomtrove
11:Zen was an attempt to get back to the purest teachings of the Buddha -enlightenment without strings. ~ frederick-lenz, @wisdomtrove
12:Each one of them suffering from the failures of their day, with strings of guilt they tried hard to guide us. ~ bob-dylan, @wisdomtrove
13:Lay down the song you strum, And rest yourself &
14:From my point of view, compatibilism is a little like saying: a puppet is free so long as it loves its strings. ~ sam-harris, @wisdomtrove
15:I always use the same guitar; I got this guitar years and years ago for nine pounds. It's still got the same strings on it. ~ brian-eno, @wisdomtrove
16:Unused power was like a marionette with visible strings, nobody holding them. A compelling attraction: I could make it dance. ~ frank-herbert, @wisdomtrove
17:Compatibilism amounts to nothing more than an assertion of the following creed: A puppet is free as long as he loves his strings. ~ sam-harris, @wisdomtrove
18:Nada is found within. It is a music without strings which plays in the body. It penetrates the inner and outer and leads you away from illusion. ~ kabir, @wisdomtrove
19:It's true; once you are a father, there's no turning back. Your heart strings as well as your purse strings are never again the same. ~ h-jackson-brown-jr, @wisdomtrove
20:Yet everything that touches us, me and you, takes us together like a violin's bow, which draws one voice out of two separate strings. ~ rainer-maria-rilke, @wisdomtrove
21:Caregiving has no second agendas or hidden motives. The care is given from love for the joy of giving without expectation, no strings attached. ~ gary-zukav, @wisdomtrove
22:How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forced, the notes are few! ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove
23:they say that time heals all things, they say you can always forget; but the smiles and the tears across the years they twist my heart strings yet! ~ george-orwell, @wisdomtrove
24:God, the Master Weaver. He stretches the yarn and intertwines the colors, the ragged twine with the velvet strings, the pains with the pleasures. Nothing escapes his reach. ~ max-lucado, @wisdomtrove
25:My guitar only has five strings 'cause the top one broke and I decided not to put it back on: when I play chords I only play bar chords, and the top one always used to cut me there. ~ brian-eno, @wisdomtrove
26:A woman drew her long black hair out tight, And fiddled whisper music on those strings, And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings, And crawled head downward down a blackened wall. ~ t-s-eliot, @wisdomtrove
27:In all my life, I'd never been as sure of anything, and as much as I hoped to one day hear Savannah say these words to me, what mattered most was knowing that love was mine to give, without strings or expectations. ~ nicholas-sparks, @wisdomtrove
28:There are chords in the human heart- strange, varying strings- which are only struck by accident; which will remain mute and senseless to appeals the most passionate and earnest, and respond at last to the slightest casual touch. ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove
29:In old age our bodies are worn-out instruments, on which the soul tries in vain to play the melodies of youth. But because the instrument has lost its strings, or is out of tune, it does not follow that the musician has lost his skill. ~ henry-wadsworth-longfellow, @wisdomtrove
30:We are a bit of stellar matter gone wrong. We are physical machinery—puppets that strut and talk and laugh and die as the hand of time pulls the strings beneath. But there is one elementary inescapable answer. We are that which asks the question. ~ sir-arthur-eddington, @wisdomtrove
31:While a man is stringing a harp, he tries the strings, not for music, but for construction. When it is finished it shall be played for melodies. God is fashioning the human heart for future joy. He only sounds a string here and there to see how far His work has progressed. ~ henry-ward-beecher, @wisdomtrove
32:Writing checks to the IRS that include strings of zeros does not bother me ... Overall, we feel extraordinarily lucky to have been dealt a hand in life that enables us to write large checks to the government rather than one requiring the government to regularly write checks to us-say, because we are disabled or unemployed. ~ warren-buffet, @wisdomtrove
33:If God thinks this state of war in the universe is a price worth paying for free will&
34:We must face the fact that many today are notoriously careless in their living. This attitude finds its way into the church. We have liberty, we have money, we live in comparative luxury. As a result, discipline has disappeared. What would a violin solo sound like if the strings on the musician's instrument were all hanging loose, not stretched tight, not disciplined? ~ aiden-wilson-tozer, @wisdomtrove
35:The near end of the street was rather dark and had mostly vegetable shops. Abundance of vegetables - piles of white and green fennel, like celery, and great sheaves of young, purplish, sea-dust-coloured artichokes . . . long strings of dried figs, mountains of big oranges, scarlet large peppers, a large slice of pumpkin, a great mass of colours and vegetable freshness. . . . ~ d-h-lawrence, @wisdomtrove
36:Love one another, but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.  ~ kahlil-gibran, @wisdomtrove
37:You get born and you try this and you don't know why, only you keep on trying it and you are born at the same time with a lot of other people, all mixed up with them, like trying to, having to, move your arms and legs with strings, only the same strings are hitched to all the other arms and legs and the others all trying and they don't know why either except that the strings are all in one another's way. ~ william-faulkner, @wisdomtrove
38:It was pitch dark. I could hear only the violin, and it was as though Juliek's soul were the bow. He was playing his life. The whole of his life was gliding on the strings&
39:It seems to be the special peculiarity of human beings that they reflect: they think about thinking and know that they know. This, like other feedback systems, may lead to vicious circles and confusions if improperly managed, but self-awareness makes human experience resonant. It imparts that simultaneous "echo" to all that we think and feel as the box of a violin reverberates with the sound of the strings. It gives depth and volume to what would otherwise be shallow and flat. ~ alan-watts, @wisdomtrove
40:Everything has strings leading to everything else. We're all so tied together. We're all in a net, the net is waiting, and we're pushed into it by one single desire. You want a thing and it's precious to you. Do you know who is standing ready to tear it out of your hands? You can't know, it may be so involved and so far away, but someone is ready, and you're afraid of them all. And you cringe and you crawl and you beg and you accept them&
41:A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship. But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease. Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and life, every fiber thrilling like harp strings, while incense is ever flowing from the balsam bells and leaves.  No wonder the hills and groves were God's first temples, and the more they are cut down and hewn into cathedrals and churches, the farther off and dimmer seems the Lord himself. ~ john-muir, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Adagio for Strings ~ Andrew Peterson,
2:Barber!” “Adagio for Strings, ~ Anonymous,
3:Cut the strings, Shazi. Fly. ~ Ren e Ahdieh,
4:No strings attached, your love is so WiFi. ~ Drake,
5:Maybe all the strings inside him broke, ~ John Green,
6:Maybe all the strings inside him broke. ~ John Green,
7:I boil the strings so they stretch. ~ Eddie Van Halen,
8:The purse strings tie us to our kind. ~ Walter Bagehot,
9:Different hearts beat on different strings ~ Neil Peart,
10:Death cut the strings that gave me life, ~ Countee Cullen,
11:Shouldn't the low strings be at the bottom? ~ Jules Shear,
12:I want to be tangled up in all her strings. ~ Shayla Black,
13:Coincidence is fate pulling strings.”   —Unknown ~ Joe Hart,
14:Love is a precious gift – one without strings ~ Amber Kizer,
15:The moon twangs its silver strings; ~ George Elliott Clarke,
16:We are all strings in the concert of God's joy. ~ Jakob Bohme,
17:A puppet is free as long as he loves his strings. ~ Sam Harris,
18:I was a marionette. He loved pulling the strings. ~ Ruta Sepetys,
19:Here's the thing: the strings are already attached. ~ Trish Doller,
20:If he were a piano, all his strings would have snapped ~ C G Drews,
21:They are the silent griefs which cut the heart-strings. ~ John Ford,
22:Better have two strings to one’s bow than none at all! ~ Jules Verne,
23:My art side is free and there are no strings attached. ~ Swizz Beatz,
24:He fell like a marionette with the strings cut. “Now! ~ Michael Grant,
25:I write to the beat and let life play the guitar strings ~ Macklemore,
26:We are not as frail as the strings would make us believe. ~ John Green,
27:Generosity with strings is not generosity: it is a deal. ~ Marya Mannes,
28:My only expenses are probably guitar strings and records. ~ Chris Isaak,
29:People who wear G-strings suffer from indecision. ~ Mokokoma Mokhonoana,
30:The strings that bind you tight to the map of your life, ~ Stephen King,
31:I excel at pulling strings!” said Arachne. “I’m a spider! ~ Rick Riordan,
32:My life is a blank check before God... No strings attached. ~ David Platt,
33:We play the broken strings of our instruments one last time. ~ John Green,
34:Adagio for Strings,’ by Samuel Barber. It’s pure genius. ~ Andrew Peterson,
35:Chemistry is the melodies you can play on vibrating strings. ~ Michio Kaku,
36:Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress. ~ Charles Lamb,
37:Better to have two strings to one's bow than no string at all! ~ Jules Verne,
38:Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings of steel, ~ William Shakespeare,
39:G-strings are uncomfortable. Girls want real knickers now. ~ Elle Macpherson,
40:It's the devil who pulls the strings that make us dance ~ Charles Baudelaire,
41:Better to dangle from strings than to be bound tight by them, ~ Orson Scott Card,
42:We're all puppets, Laurie. I'm just a puppet who can see the strings. ~ Alan Moore,
43:and who controlled the purse strings, to release her stronghold on ~ Laurie LeClair,
44:The strings to our past are burned because we need a new beginning. ~ Caroline Myss,
45:Strings for when I’m lying, Fiddler for when I’m telling the truth. ~ Steven Erikson,
46:As the strings of a lute are apart though they quiver the same music. ~ Khalil Gibran,
47:If there must be strings attached, let them visible and water soluble. ~ Truth Devour,
48:One's whole being vibrates like strings brushed by an invisible wind. ~ Peter Russell,
49:Never be ashamed to accept a gift when there are no strings attached. ~ Sylvain Reynard,
50:There are strings in the human heart that had better not be vibrated. ~ Charles Dickens,
51:Im Sorry was one of the first songs to come out of Nashville using strings. ~ Brenda Lee,
52:In the pun, two strings of thought are tangled into one acoustic knot. ~ Arthur Koestler,
53:The short, fat fingers moved like dancing sausages across the strings; ~ Jonathan Stroud,
54:We are all puppets in the hands of fate and seldom see the strings. ~ Charles W Chesnutt,
55:You're your kid's partner, not the person who's pulling all the strings. ~ Ross W Greene,
56:There are strings … in the human heart that had better not be vibrated. ~ Charles Dickens,
57:I am the leading strings of the ego and the prompter of its concepts. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
58:Who seeketh two strings to one bow, they may shoot strong, but never straight. ~ Elizabeth I,
59:Yael was a cobweb version, composed of gaps and strings and fragile nothings. ~ Ryan Graudin,
60:Yes, I had two strings to my bow; both golden ones, egad! and both cracked. ~ Henry Fielding,
61:All you men are the same—you’re not fit to fasten your wives’ apron strings. ~ Sholom Aleichem,
62:I did pick up a guitar once, but the strings hurt my fingers so I put it down again. ~ Bill Nighy,
63:There is a man, playing a violin, and the strings are the nerves in his own arm... ~ James O Barr,
64:I’m his puppet and he is my invisible master, holding my strings from miles away. ~ Saffron A Kent,
65:the pleasure was in seeing our strings cross and separate and then come back together ~ John Green,
66:if you ask me, the best way to go about flying is to cut the strings tying you down  ~ Ren e Ahdieh,
67:My wife holds the kite strings that let me go 'weeeeeee', then she reels me back in. ~ Jeff Bridges,
68:There were tightly wound strings shivering in the air as the overture began in full. ~ E K Johnston,
69:Democracy will break under the strain of apron strings. It can exist only on trust. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,
70:It had rained his first day out of the gulag, the lines slanting like marionette strings. ~ R O Kwon,
71:When Jack Benny plays the violin, it sounds as though the strings are still in the cat. ~ Fred Allen,
72:3    Sing to him  l a new song;         play skillfully on the strings, with loud shouts. ~ Anonymous,
73:She was breathing, but she was lifeless, a marionette whose strings had been cut. Neil ~ Nora Sakavic,
74:Even when the strings are broken in our lives, the sweet music plays on in our hearts. ~ Bryant McGill,
75:The cruelest thing, hope, the way it strings you along, the way it makes you believe. ~ Jackson Pearce,
76:You be careful. I’d take you myself, but I’m busy as a cat in a mess of guitar strings. ~ Stephen King,
77:All the world is made of music. We are all strings on a lyre. We resonate. We sing together. ~ Joe Hill,
78:Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and life, every fiber thrilling like harp strings. ~ John Muir,
79:Some prisons don't allow guitar because the strings can be detached and used as weapons. ~ Truman Capote,
80:The world is all gates, all opportunities, strings of tension waiting to be struck. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
81:Besides directory paths on Windows, raw strings are also commonly used for regular expressions ~ Mark Lutz,
82:But, if you ask me, the best way to go about flying is to cut the strings tying you down... ~ Ren e Ahdieh,
83:Tinsley felt like a puppeteer playing with her marionettes, holding all the strings. ~ Cecily von Ziegesar,
84:There is geometry in the humming of the strings. There is music in the spacing of the spheres. ~ Pythagoras,
85:There is geometry in the humming of the strings, there is music in the spacing of the spheres. ~ Pythagoras,
86:There is something in the place where we were born that holds us always by the heart-strings. ~ Lucy Larcom,
87:Reporters are like puppets. They simply respond to the pull of the most powerful strings. ~ Lyndon B Johnson,
88:But, if you ask me, the best way to go about flying is to cut the strings tying you down . . . ~ Ren e Ahdieh,
89:Coincidence is merely the puppeteers’ curtain, hiding the hands that pull the world’s strings. ~ Kaleb Nation,
90:Love is like a violin. The music may stop now and then, but the strings remain forever. ~ June Masters Bacher,
91:the skilful binder uses no strings or knots, while to unloose what he has bound will be impossible. ~ Lao Tzu,
92:What mattered most was knowing that love was mine to give, without strings or expectations. ~ Nicholas Sparks,
93:Giving with strings of secret expectations attached is the greatest invitation to heartbreak. ~ Lysa TerKeurst,
94:Growing up is like that, I suppose. The strings fall away and you're left standing on your own. ~ Alan Bradley,
95:If he were a piano, all his strings would have snapped”
― C.G. Drews, A Thousand Perfect Notes ~ C G Drews,
96:I use heavy strings, tune low, play hard, and floor it. Floor it. That's technical talk. ~ Stevie Ray Vaughan,
97:Physical space between us evaporates. We play the broken strings of our instruments one last time ~ John Green,
98:We are just strings of quarks living in a suburb of the local density maximum of the universe. ~ John D Barrow,
99:Color is the keyboard. The eye is the hammer. The soul is the piano, with its many strings. ~ Wassily Kandinsky,
100:The most beautiful melody in the world will become a monstrosity if the strings are out of tune. ~ Paulo Coelho,
101:Strings of language extend in every direction to bind the world into a rushing, ribald whole. ~ Donald Barthelme,
102:Comfort brings strings that don’t like to untie themselves just because you know something is wrong. ~ Ella Fields,
103:Nature is an aeolian harp, a musical instrument whose tones are the re-echo of higher strings within us. ~ Novalis,
104:The real powers at play never take center stage. Don't follow the marionette, follow the strings. ~ William Ritter,
105:I realized why movie scores are mostly strings, because it really frees your eyes to look around. ~ Laurie Anderson,
106:Lay down the song you strum, And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings No voice can hope to hum. ~ Bob Dylan,
107:The heart is like a musical instrument of many strings, all the chords of which require putting in harmony. ~ Saadi,
108:I think maybe I know why,' she finally said. 'Why?' 'Maybe all the strings inside him broke,' she said. ~ John Green,
109:All gods are homemade, and it is we who pull their strings, and so, give them the power to pull ours. ~ Aldous Huxley,
110:Fun was fun and Sam was strung like a violin. I could play sweet music when I plucked at some of her strings. ~ Tijan,
111:It was true. He was everything I ever wanted. It was all the strings attached to him that frightened me. ~ Kiera Cass,
112:I used to be another little fellow with some hoop dreams / Now I got the game laced up, shoe strings. ~ Carlos Boozer,
113:I used to fly around the stage without strings or camera tricks. That took seven years to create. ~ David Copperfield,
114:The fibers of all things have their tension and are strained like the strings of an instrument. ~ Henry David Thoreau,
115:Zen was an attempt to get back to the purest teachings of the Buddha -enlightenment without strings. ~ Frederick Lenz,
116:But he was giving her back her heart, so that when he left her life, there would be no strings attached. ~ Jodi Picoult,
117:More often than not, a C.E.O is merely a puppet whose strings are pulled by a board of directors. ~ Mokokoma Mokhonoana,
118:I don't mind dancing the robot if the chemicals are ok, but beyond that the robot will not pull my strings. ~ John Lydon,
119:Lookin back on it at least my pride is in tact cause we said no strings attached and I still got tied up in that ~ Drake,
120:Each one of them suffering from the failures of their day, with strings of guilt they tried hard to guide us. ~ Bob Dylan,
121:Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum. ~ Bob Dylan,
122:I think maybe I know why,' she finally said.
'Why?'
'Maybe all the strings inside him broke,' she said. ~ John Green,
123:When military men take over, honest men dance to the strings they pull.
Your life is no longer your own. ~ Howard Fast,
124:An angel kissed my strings, while I slept last night. And her rhythm broke my hunger. And I died a little less. ~ Sara Quin,
125:Flesh of my flesh, love of my love, broken and tied back together with the strings of my heart, these are mine. ~ C D Reiss,
126:From my point of view, compatibilism is a little like saying: a puppet is free so long as it loves its strings. ~ Sam Harris,
127:Like many air travelers, I am aware that airplanes fly aided by capricious fairies and invisible strings. ~ J Maarten Troost,
128:as some strings, untouched,
sound when no one is speaking.

So it was when love slipped inside us. ~ Jane Hirshfield,
129:I like to combine the dramatic emotional warmth of strings with the grooves and body business of drums and bass. ~ David Byrne,
130:Every act of violence was deliberate, and every favor came with enough strings attached to stage a puppet show. ~ Leigh Bardugo,
131:You can't know a father. They're all magicians. Got two million years of strings and mirrors in their pockets. ~ Kate Braverman,
132:There are two kinds of music. One comes from the strings of a guitar, the other from the strings of the heart. ~ Michael Jackson,
133:Comments in the resource file provide contextual information that helps localizers more accurately translate strings. ~ Anonymous,
134:I want to pull very long, multi-colored strings out of my brain and place them next to a bowl of Doritos at a party ~ Megan Boyle,
135:i want to pull very long, multi-colored strings out of my brain and place them next to a bowl of doritos at a party ~ Megan Boyle,
136:Maintain a state of balance between physical acts and inner serenity,like a lute whose strings are finely tuned. ~ Gautama Buddha,
137:Parents always know what strings control your heart and soul. After all, they are the ones who tied them there. ~ Mercedes Lackey,
138:We all share in the same cosmic rhythm... For all natural laws are like the rhythm of the strings of the harp. ~ Ernesto Cardenal,
139:You're in direct contact with the music by having the strings under your fingers. It's not mechanical like a piano. ~ Tommy Bolin,
140:It's about the music, it's not about just showing people what you can do with a piece of wood with strings on it ~ John Frusciante,
141:I've returned to being an amateur without any ties or strings attached, which gives me a freedom I never had before. ~ Cat Stevens,
142:She collected silence like other people collected strings. But she had a way of saying nothing that said it all. ~ Terry Pratchett,
143:The strings felt strange against my fingers, like reunited friends who have forgotten what they have in common. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,
144:He has studied all the live strings of the human heart in the same way as one studies the veins of a dead body. ~ Mikhail Lermontov,
145:Her heart is played like well worn strings
In her eyes the sadness sings
Of one who was destined of better things ~ Lang Leav,
146:His love came with no strings attached, which I thought was the greatest gift one human being could give to another. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
147:No strings sex? I can play that game. I’ll sex her so good that the thought of leaving me never enters her mind again. ~ Ella Goode,
148:When somebody loves you with no strings attached and no personal agenda, it’s the most freeing thing in the world. ~ John C Maxwell,
149:you can muffle the drum, and you can loosen the strings of the lyre, but who shall command the skylark not to sing? ~ Khalil Gibran,
150:It's weird. I guess I got so used to [g-strings] when I was really young that I just couldn't stand it anymore. ~ Cassandra Peterson,
151:Now is the time to make sure we have the strings of all the balloons we want to keep before they all float away. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
152:Now is the time to make sure we have the strings to all the balloons we want to keep before they all float away. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
153:Real love isn’t a payment. It isn’t a response to your accomplishments or anything else. It’s a gift without strings. ~ Lisa Wingate,
154:As I write, My fingers tap tap the keys the way Ravi Shankar's fingers pluck and strum the strings of his sitar. ~ Christina Westover,
155:God's Love does exactly the same thing. It's an unconditional giving of yourself for another with no strings attached. ~ Nancy Missler,
156:Future complications in the strings between the cans. But no prints can come from fingers, if machines become our hands. ~ Jack Johnson,
157:I always use the same guitar; I got this guitar years and years ago for nine pounds. It's still got the same strings on it. ~ Brian Eno,
158:Cooking is 80 percent confidence, a skill best acquired starting from when the apron strings wrap around you twice. ~ Barbara Kingsolver,
159:Let there be spaces in your togetherness...just as strings of a lute dance alone though they quiver with the same music. ~ Khalil Gibran,
160:May the strings that bind us never break May our wild asses forever shake May our unquenchable fire keep our dreams awake ~ Kendall Grey,
161:Do you believe we are masters of ourselves, or merely dance like puppets on strings having the illusion of independence? ~ Winston Graham,
162:I felt strangely light—as if the strings mooring me to the life I’d made had stretched too far, and had finally broken. ~ Melodie Winawer,
163:I wish you wouldn't make the strings such an important part of your arrangements because frankly they're only a tax dodge! ~ Tommy Dorsey,
164:I hope no one asks me to show them the ropes; I have no idea where they are. Maybe I could pull some strings and find out. ~ George Carlin,
165:The moment ached, as if music were being played somewhere on an instrument whose strings had some connexion with her heart. ~ Rebecca West,
166:One must indeed test the strings in this life, bounce the bow, wet the mouthpiece, prepare for the deeper music that follows. ~ Mitch Albom,
167:One must indeed test the strings to this life, bounce the bow, wet the mouthpiece, prepare for the deeper music that follows. ~ Mitch Albom,
168:Yeah, I've been a little down. Totally natural. I'm getting a divorce, but now I'm ready to pull myself up by some G-strings. ~ Aziz Ansari,
169:Kids are supposed to grow up and cut the apron strings. I just never dreamed those sharp scissors would leave so many wounds. ~ Lisa Wingate,
170:All the great coincidences and marvelous achievements of his life disappeared in a flash. In their place were puppet strings. ‘A ~ Hugh Howey,
171:are farmers and they keep trying to breathe, keep the body moving to keep the soul from atrophying. Mama cries when she strings ~ Ann Voskamp,
172:No strings attached,” Constance said again. “Oh, there are always strings,” I replied. “Whether we put them there or not. ~ Caitl n R Kiernan,
173:The red Sahara in an angry glow, / With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed / Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow. ~ Jean Ingelow,
174:Unused power was like a marionette with visible strings, nobody holding them. A compelling attraction: I could make it dance. ~ Frank Herbert,
175:Compatibilism amounts to nothing more than an assertion of the following creed: A puppet is free as long as he loves his strings. ~ Sam Harris,
176:I'm the evil mastermind behind the scenes. I'm the wicked puppeteer who pulls the strings and makes you dance. I'm your writer. ~ Grant Morrison,
177:Nothing speaks louder than an evocative photograph that stirs the imagination, tugs at the heart strings and engages the mind. ~ Mark Carwardine,
178:The very gnarliest and hardest of hearts has some musical strings in it; but they are tuned differently in every one of us. ~ James Russell Lowell,
179:While I am absorbed by fiction, I pull the strings like a puppeteer; I make things happen. It's a passion and a lifelong obsession. ~ Karin Fossum,
180:I look in their smiling faces, at their hope for me. It’s not like Mother’s meddling, but a clean hope, without strings or hurt. ~ Kathryn Stockett,
181:Knowing how the environment is pulling your strings and playing you is critical to making responsive rather than reactive moves. ~ Ronald A Heifetz,
182:A fishnet is made up of a lot more holes than strings, but you can't therefore argue that the net doesn't exist. Just ask the fish. ~ Jeffrey Kluger,
183:Giving with strings of secret expectations attached is the greatest invitation to heartbreak. That's not love. That's manipulation. ~ Lysa TerKeurst,
184:Music is therapy. Music moves people. It connects people in ways that no other medium can. It pulls heart strings. It acts as medicine. ~ Macklemore,
185:We ignore our bad feelings and inner demons because it’s easier, which leaves these beings free to pull on the puppet strings. ~ Carrie Hope Fletcher,
186:We reflect God's character the most when we give freely of ourselves with no strings attached, no secret motives, no hidden agenda. ~ Craig Groeschel,
187:when you’re sitting in a corner with your hair stuck in strings to your sweaty cheeks and it feels as if you’ve swallowed a hot stone— ~ Stephen King,
188:If
you are nice, but you give of yourself with strings attached, the
demand for reciprocity will send him several steps backward. ~ Sherry Argov,
189:People appeared enormously foolish to him. He understood that they were only animated cavities full of jelly and strings and liquids. ~ David Guterson,
190:I play until my fingertips are raw. Until I rip a nail and bleed on the strings. Until my hands hurt so bad I forget my heart does. ~ Jennifer Donnelly,
191:There are strings in the human heart which must never be sounded by another, and drinks that I make myself are those strings in mine. ~ Charles Dickens,
192:What is the heart but a spring, and the nerves but so many strings, and the joints but so many wheels, giving motion to the whole body? ~ Thomas Hobbes,
193:It's easy for parents to pull the strings that make one dance...after all, they are the ones who tied those strings in the first place ~ Mercedes Lackey,
194:I watched, through the keyhole, not the man showering, but the rain falling through him: guitar strings snapping over his globed shoulders ~ Ocean Vuong,
195:Nada is found within. It is a music without strings which plays in the body. It penetrates the inner and outer and leads you away from illusion. ~ Kabir,
196:There will always be those memories that tie us together, those invisible strings. The careless stitches of mother and daughter. Suddenly ~ Lisa Wingate,
197:Nada is found within. It is a music without strings which plays in the body. It penetrates the inner and outer and leads you away from illusion. ~ Kabir,
198:So tired of Noam and Herod and Sir and Angra and all these arrogant, puppet-master men who hold all the strings and refuse to give them up. ~ Sara Raasch,
199:What if a puppet could cut its own strings, and in that act of defiance and strength of will become truly alive? Become is own puppetmaster? ~ Barry Lyga,
200:The Mandolin is the bottom four strings of the guitar, backwards...so a person with dyslexia has no problem learning to play the Mandolin. ~ Steve Goodman,
201:Yet everything that touches us, me and you, takes us together like a violin's bow, which draws one voice out of two separate strings. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,
202:Death is relief from reaction to the senses, from the puppet strings of impulse, from the analytical mind, and from service to the flesh. ~ Marcus Aurelius,
203:Europeans like to think they play games with others, but the truth is that for years Russia has been pulling strings inside the European Union. ~ Anonymous,
204:We were entwined and entangled, connected with invisible strings, each of us trying to pull away, only to create more knots that made us closer. ~ L J Shen,
205:Caregiving has no second agendas or hidden motives. The care is given from love for the joy of giving without expectation, no strings attached. ~ Gary Zukav,
206:Strings that connect us to this world, to nature, to me, become apparent. We’re all living and breathing. We’re all terribly mighty things. ~ Krista Ritchie,
207:The lyrics, the strings, the chords, everything comes at the moment like a gift that is put right into your head and that's how I hear it. ~ Michael Jackson,
208:Dawn, Cillian. That is how long I’ll wait for your apology. For you to remember you were nothing but a puppet king who forgot he was on strings. ~ J J McAvoy,
209:It's the strings vibrating at the same time but separately that makes a good marriage. It messy, it's complicated and it's quite wonderful. ~ Hector Elizondo,
210:It was like two invisible puppeteers, standing stage left and stage right, were yanking on strings to lift up the corners of her mouth. Okay, ~ Sandhya Menon,
211:She found herself wondering at what point in her life she had ceased to be Gulliver and had become the strings holding him to the ground. ~ Erica Bauermeister,
212:Archers ever Have two strings to bow; and shall great Cupid (Archer of archers both in men and women), Be worse provided than a common archer? ~ George Chapman,
213:You're pulling at the strings that keep you standing because love is a play and you're done being dragged around by hands that aren't your own. ~ Hala Abdullah,
214:My soul, I’ve found, has puppet strings
to make me droop or give me wings.
And music is the puppeteer
that turns my ear to hear. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,
215:How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forced, the notes are few! ~ William Blake,
216:so she pulled on all her puppet-strings and ignored how they pulled right back until they nearly ripped right out of her heart to leave it bleeding. ~ Cole McCade,
217:Very likely," replied the seaman; " but, as we don't know, we must work all the same. Better to have two strings to one's bow than no string at all! ~ Jules Verne,
218:Rent-control laws disproportionately benefit the non-poor because the elite pull strings, work the system and are better connected than the non-poor. ~ Larry Elder,
219:they say that time heals all things, they say you can always forget; but the smiles and the tears across the years they twist my heart strings yet! ~ George Orwell,
220:Anecdote
So silent I when Love was by
He yawned, and turned away;
But Sorrow clings to my apron-strings,
I have so much to say.
~ Dorothy Parker,
221:The universe is a symphony of strings. And the "Mind of God," which Einstein wrote eloquently about, is cosmic music resonating throughout hyperspace. ~ Michio Kaku,
222:I grew up in a school that had a big music program, and it was incredible. It's what I looked forward to during the day. I had chorus, strings, band. ~ Alison Krauss,
223:I’m so fucking helplessly charmed I might as well attach some strings and a pair of handles to my back, give them to her, and let her make me dance. ~ J T Geissinger,
224:"There are strings," said Mr. Tappertit, flourishing his bread-and-cheese knife in the air, "in the human heart that had better not be wibrated..." ~ Charles Dickens,
225:Atop their gleaming backs the jockeys look like gaudy baubles, secured with strings. They bob up and down, they rise, lean forward, then settle again. ~ Beryl Markham,
226:...Fastow had found someone trusting and pliable.
Fastow wanted a pupet, Bowen concluded, and he already controlled Ben Glisan's strings.
p.338 ~ Kurt Eichenwald,
227:Needless to say, playing these things hurt, but it was a hurt like tender fingers on lute strings. I bled a bit and hoped that I would callous soon. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,
228:....with the morbid realisation that his sexual being was a dull thing, a lifeless thing, a mass-produced marionette with chipped paint and fraying strings ~ Will Self,
229:I love you Micah. You may not want it. You may not need it. But you'll always have it. It doesn't come with any strings or expectations. It's given freely. ~ Maya Banks,
230:She talked about God giving man free will. Because of that, there is evil in the world. If God pulled everyone’s strings all the time, we’d be puppets. ~ Janice Cantore,
231:the marble really heavy? And fragile?” She tucked a wisp of her blond hair behind her ear. “Oh yes! We had to pull some strings. But Walter is a close ~ Meredith Jaeger,
232:Who do you think is in upper management? Who's pulling all the strings? It's the 105ws. (What's the 10th letter of the alphabet? The 5th letter alphabet?) ~ Turney Duff,
233:History. Language. Passion. Custom. All these things determine what men say, think, and do. These are the hidden puppet-strings from which all men hang. ~ R Scott Bakker,
234:She had been built to feel nothing, and trained to feel even less. They had made her incomplete...She was a broken doll, dancing on the end of their strings. ~ Dan Wells,
235:Do not think to swim below. The ocean is already pushing into ears, sinuses, temples, the softness of eyes, and the harpsichord strings behind the kneecaps. ~ J M Ledgard,
236:With my daughter, we do arts and crafts, we read a lot, we listen to music, and we cut the strings off balloons and bounce them around after birthday parties. ~ Lisa Loeb,
237:The only time sex without strings works—and you already know what I think of that shit—is when you aren’t already in love with the woman before you go there. ~ Katee Robert,
238:When you talking about funk music you just talking about a collage of a lot of different types of music. They used strings, they had brass, they had vocalist. ~ Killer Mike,
239:And me? Well, I don’t aspire to be king. That’s just like being a highly paid pawn. I’m a bishop, a vizier. I’m always behind the scenes pulling the strings. ~ Charlie Human,
240:I learned so much about music by playing this little, miniature songwriting machine [ukulele], especially about melody. The motto is less strings more melody. ~ Eddie Vedder,
241:In Heaven a spirit both dwell
Whose heart-strings are a lute —
None sing so wild — so well
As the angel Israfel —
And the giddy stars are mute. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
242:My fingers discovered the sounds of apologies that the violin offered me. The strings cried for me. Music understood me when I didn't understand myself. ~ Brittainy C Cherry,
243:I...flipped open the lid, thinking my lute might enjoy the feel of a little sun on its strings. If you aren't a musician, I don't expect you to understand. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,
244:I love rhythmic dancing - I'm not derogating it at all. It's just that sometimes you want to whisper, "I adore you." And for that you need strings and woodwinds. ~ Gene Kelly,
245:It was worse than having a sinking feeling; I was a sinking feeling, an unplayable adagio for strings; internal distances expanded and collapsed when I breathed. ~ Ben Lerner,
246:In Republican fantasy world, everything is always Obama's fault. Somehow, he's weak and he's ineffective, and yet he pulls the strings on everything in the world. ~ Bill Maher,
247:Most of us would protest that of course we love our children without any strings attached. But what counts is how things look from the perspective of the children ~ Alfie Kohn,
248:So that every man lawfully ordained must bring a bow which hath two strings, a title of present right and another to provide for future possibility or chance. ~ Richard Hooker,
249:Without the queen pulling your strings, you’re nothing but thoughts and dreams. Such things are easily destroyed." ~ Pippa DaCosta General Kael, City of Fae #2 ~ Pippa DaCosta,
250:Buck had lobbied for a banjo player but Lane said they cost too much, which made no fucking sense to Buck because a banjo’s got fewer strings than a damn guitar. ~ Carl Hiaasen,
251:You know, I'll tell you, nothing changed after 'No Strings' for me. A lot of people said, like, 'Your game will be different,' but it wasn't. It really wasn't. ~ Jake M Johnson,
252:Honesty in the truest sense of the word. Communication with no conditions, no strings attached, no ulterior motive, no sales job, no desperate attempt to be liked. ~ Mark Manson,
253:This isn’t a banana republic. You can’t pull strings in America, pay off an official, lean on your cousin. It’s not like France or Spain – those banana republics. ~ Edmund White,
254:Remember that what pulls the strings is the force hidden within; there lies the power to persuade, there the life, - there, if one must speak out, the real man. ~ Marcus Aurelius,
255:There is geometry in the humming of the strings, there is music in the spacing of the spheres. ~ Pythagoras, as quoted in The Mystery of Matter‎ (1965) edited by Louise B. Young.,
256:They rebuild Ersilia elsewhere. They weave a similar pattern of strings which they would like to be more complex and at the same time more regular than the other. ~ Italo Calvino,
257:A camera can get you close without the burden of commitment. It's a nifty device that way, a magical passport into people's lives with no permanent strings attached. ~ Nina Berman,
258:And that’s about the finest ambition by which a man can be moved,” said the Duke. “The man who can manage the purse-strings of this country can manage anything. ~ Anthony Trollope,
259:And that song, it wasn’t ending. It kept on playing, that stupid, upbeat swing of voices and plucked strings, the promise of a future that would never be mine. ~ Alexandra Bracken,
260:I'll always leave the same set of strings on my guitars when I'm recording. If I break one I'll just replace it instead of putting on a whole new set of strings. ~ Eddie Van Halen,
261:True generosity is an offering; given freely and out of pure love. No strings attached. No expectations. Time and love are the most valuable possession you can share. ~ Suze Orman,
262:All gut strings. Thats just the first kind of guitar I played, it was a nylon string guitar. And to me, its the purest form of guitar making, and I just enjoy doing it. ~ Guy Clark,
263:I want to tell her that the pleasure for me wasn't planning or doing or leaving; the pleasure was in seeing our strings cross and separate and then come back together. ~ John Green,
264:I was a big fan of Jim Hall as well. I liked his comping style, his accompanying. And that he played, generally, four note chords, the top four strings of the guitar. ~ Gary Burton,
265:The multiple choices and possibilities of daily life are the music we dance to. They are like strings on a guitar. Strum and you create a pleasing sound. A harmonic. ~ Stephen King,
266:The seemingly most hateful, those on the front lines of despair, are mere instruments of sinister forces, which pull the manipulative strings of manufactured supremacy. ~ T F Hodge,
267:When the plane took off with me in it, I felt strangely light—as if the strings mooring me to the life I’d made had stretched too far, and had finally broken.   * ~ Melodie Winawer,
268:This is not a fling, Keira. It’s not a one-night stand. It’s not sex with no strings attached. You and I both know it’s more than that. It has been from the day we met. ~ Emery Rose,
269:The sound of the mandolin is a very curious sound because it's cheerful and melancholy at the same time, and I think it comes from that shadow string, the double strings. ~ Rita Dove,
270:Acting for me is finding those things that, finding the strings of humanity that tie us all together. And you only find that by living life and loving and breaking up. ~ Julian Morris,
271:[E]scaping is its own special brand of pain, and tied to you always are the strings of the souls who didn't save themselves. ~ Rebecca Makkai "The Worst You Ever Feel ~ Rebecca Makkai,
272:The multiple choices and possibilities of daily life are the music we dance to. They are like strings on a guitar. Strum them and you make a pleasing sound. A harmonic. ~ Stephen King,
273:You've got this piece of wood and some wires, pickups and some strings. How somebody uses that configuration to make something memorable, that's what's interesting to me. ~ Don Felder,
274:Graduation breathes on us, redneck lady,” he said. “Now is the time to make sure we have the strings to all the balloons we want to keep before they all float away. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
275:I worked at a group home for a survival job years ago, and kids who have a rough home life have always tugged at my heart-strings. I also care a lot about animal cruelty. ~ Mike Colter,
276:The harmony of kindred souls that seek
Each other on the strings of body and mind,
Is all the music for which life was born. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Plays and Stories, Act II,
277:Because who knows? Who knows anything? Who knows who’s pulling the strings? Or what is? Or how? Who knows if destiny is just how you tell yourself the story of your life? ~ Jandy Nelson,
278:God, the Master Weaver. He stretches the yarn and intertwines the colors, the ragged twine with the velvet strings, the pains with the pleasures. Nothing escapes his reach. ~ Max Lucado,
279:I’m not talking about the girl who wants to have fun and a good time with no strings attached. I’m talking about the girl who’s looking for a free ride after the ride ends. ~ Penny Reid,
280:Talking is like playing on the harp; there is as much in laying the hand on the strings to stop their vibrations as in twanging them to bring out their music. ~ Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr,
281:The multiple choices and possibilities of daily life are the music we dance to. They are like strings on a guitar. Strum them and you create a pleasing sound. A harmonic. ~ Stephen King,
282:We are all instruments endowed with feeling and memory. Our senses are so many strings that are struck by surrounding objects and that also frequently strike themselves. ~ Denis Diderot,
283:Whoever comes in the door is usually disappointing, but there is always a chance otherwise. And when a key hits the lock, all the heads come up like there's strings on them. ~ Ken Kesey,
284:And I wanted to tell her that the pleasure for me wasn't planning or doing or leaving; the pleasure was in seeing our strings cross and separate and then come back together. ~ John Green,
285:As I stare at it,I can feel little invisible strings,silently tugging me toward it. I have to touch it. I have to wear it. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. ~ Sophie Kinsella,
286:The earth forms the body of an instrument, across which strings are stretched and are tuned by a divine hand. We must try once again to find the secret of that tuning. ~ R Murray Schafer,
287:This grey hour was born
For the ascetic in his silent cave
And for the dying man whose heart released
Loosens its vibrant strings. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Chitrangada,
288:He'd grown eager to hand off his things, as if the weight of his possessions kept him tethered to this earth, and by giving them away, he could snip those strings. ~ Karen Thompson Walker,
289:Maybe someday, as the knots became unraveled, this moment would wrap around him, tying him to her. Or maybe her love would simply loosen the strings, freeing him to walk away. ~ Amy Harmon,
290:Radio, sewing machine, bookends, ironing board and that great big piano lamp - peace, that's what I like. Butterbean vines planted all along the front where the strings are. ~ Eudora Welty,
291:I experimented a bunch with Ernie Ball in getting the strings to not flop around too much, but at the same time not to be too thick to where you're playing telephone cables. ~ John Petrucci,
292:Man becomes virtually an automaton in the loss of his individuality and responsibility. He is the harp of a thousand strings played upon by a divine hand, but not a man! ~ John Grier Hibben,
293:I was actually very surprised after using some plastic necklaces on the strings, as the sound was very bright. Sometimes I just put something inside that lies next to me. ~ Volker Bertelmann,
294:Strings of chili hung from the rafters, chili to wake them from their dreams, dreams born of scents and rhythms, and the warmth that fell from the sky like the fleeciest blanket. ~ Ana s Nin,
295:There's a Grand Designer behind everything. Your life is not a result of random chance, fate, or luck. There is a master plan. History is His story. God is pulling the strings. ~ Rick Warren,
296:Comedy is a very delicate business, especially comedies that sort of attempt to do things in an honest way and in a very naturalistic way the way that 'No Strings Attached' is. ~ Ivan Reitman,
297:She was inches from my face, really squinting, as if it were a section of a globe she'd never closely inspected before, an ocean filled with strings of unnamed islands. ~ Marisha Pessl,
298:Evelyn suspected there was never true equality in marriage. Someone always had stronger feelings, or held the purse strings, or was more persuasive, powerful, and pushy. ~ Victoria Helen Stone,
299:Even Hitchcock liked to think of himself as a puppeteer who was manipulating the strings of his audience and making them jump. He liked to think he had that kind of control. ~ David Cronenberg,
300:In the middle of the night, when Laila woke up thirsty, she found their hands still clamped together, in the white-knuckle, anxious way of children clutching balloon strings. ~ Khaled Hosseini,
301:For some unexplained reason, it's always the other end of the table that's wild and raucous, with screaming laughter and a fella who plays 'Holiday for Strings' on water glasses. ~ Erma Bombeck,
302:My guitar only has five strings 'cause the top one broke and I decided not to put it back on: when I play chords I only play bar chords, and the top one always used to cut me there. ~ Brian Eno,
303:The sacred Book lay on its sanctified desk
Wrapped in interpretation’s silken strings:
A credo sealed up its spiritual sense. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Entry into the Inner Countries,
304:This is the story of the curse and the kiss, the demon and the girl. It's a love story with dancing and death in it, and singing and souls and shadows reeled out on kite strings. ~ Laini Taylor,
305:What is the universe? The universe is a symphony of vibrating strings...we are nothing but melodies. We are nothing but cosmic music played out on vibrating strings and membranes. ~ Michio Kaku,
306:A guitar is just theoretically built wrong. Each string is an interval of fourths, and then the B string is off. Theoretically, that's not right, all the strings should be off. ~ Eddie Van Halen,
307:Being in love, she concluded, is simply a presentation of our pasts to another individual, mostly packages so unwieldy that we can no longer manage the loosened strings alone. ~ Zelda Fitzgerald,
308:In the meantime, the Islamist movement bided its time. Even back then, there were those who suspected that the invisible hand pulling those particular strings belonged to Uncle Sam. ~ Ay e Kulin,
309:You’ve got to learn in life, you’ve got to learn it quick and keep it for the rest of your life: pull your own strings, and have no puppetmaster – and – habits – are – puppetmasters. ~ John Lydon,
310:For thousands of years humans were oppressed—as some of us still are—by the notion that the universe is a marionette whose strings are pulled by a god or gods, unseen and inscrutable. ~ Carl Sagan,
311:Nobody heard records of you playing whatever the melody was on those low strings. It worked out good, you know, about 25 or 26 million records later. I guess it worked out alright. ~ Lee Hazlewood,
312:The soul, they say, is divine and the flesh is iniquity. But I am a musician and I ask this - without the wood and the strings of the violin, where would the sonata find form? ~ Kathleen Valentine,
313:we are a kind of elaborate tool in the unconscious service of the DNA swimming around inside us, determined (if strings of molecules can be determined) to make more copies of itself. ~ Chip Walter,
314:You have to understand that the bass guitar is the party instrument. It only has four strings. If you see a bass player playing five strings, take your shoe off and throw it at him. ~ Keith Morris,
315:I grew up always admiring business owners. I was always interested in knowing who pulled what strings. I've always been in love with the decision making process, not just the product. ~ Dom Kennedy,
316:My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments with fiddle-strings & harps, drums & tambourines, I sound & clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony. ~ Fernando Pessoa,
317:There are a lot of recent pics of me rocking silk strings of beads. They're made by survivors of the sex trade in Cambodia who were rescued by one of the organizations I support. ~ AnnaLynne McCord,
318:But it feels good to love a thing and not expect anything back. It feels good to not get an argument or any pushiness or any rumors or any bullshit. It's love without strings. It's ideal. ~ A S King,
319:Hills that stand soft and sky that stands high and blue, and the sun setting behind a windmill, and always, always, hazy strings of mountains that fall and fall away on the horizon ~ Khaled Hosseini,
320:Time must be slowed to a crawl to make sense of any scene of true chaos—to show the flurry of human action and reaction going off like multiple strings of firecrackers, all at once. Every ~ Joe Hill,
321:My soul is like a hidden orchestra; I do not know which instruments grind and play away inside of me, strings and harps, timbales and drums. I can only recognize myself as symphony. ~ Fernando Pessoa,
322:Our hearts are curious things. So sentimental and easily misguided. Pull the right strings or snap the correct cords, and poof! Love strangles intelligence, even in the best of us. ~ Kerri Maniscalco,
323:Sometimes, the world just won't stop spinning and spinning, unwinding itself like a spool of thread. Trailing strings of broken bodies and forgotten things through grey, empty space. ~ Kai Cheng Thom,
324:The devil has spit in the soup. Nothing comes out even. Nothing sounds right. Nothing rejoices and warms. Everything is desolate, sad, foul. All strings out of tune. All colors faded. ~ Hermann Hesse,
325:The universe is a symphony of strings, and the mind of God that Einstein eloquently wrote about for thirty years would be cosmic music resonating through eleven-dimensional hyper space. ~ Michio Kaku,
326:For thousands of years humans were oppressed - as some of us still are - by the notion that the universe is a marionette whose strings are pulled by a god or gods, unseen and inscrutable. ~ Carl Sagan,
327:hills that stand soft and a sky that stands high and blue, and the sun setting behind a windmill, and always, always, hazy strings of mountains that fall and fall away on the horizon. ~ Khaled Hosseini,
328:How good are the best musical imaginations? Can a trained musician, swiftly reading a score tell just how that voicing of dissonant oboes and flutes over the massed strings will sound? ~ Daniel Dennett,
329:I myself feel that it is very important that my ISP supplies internet to my house like the water company supplies water to my house. It supplies connectivity with no strings attached. ~ Tim Berners Lee,
330:Arithmetic arithmetock Turn the hands back on the clock How does the ocean rock the boat? How did the razor find my throat? The only strings that hold me here Are tangled up around the pier. ~ Tom Waits,
331:As far as arrangements after the basic track is cut, if I'm writing a horn arrangement or playing strings, I might arrange that, plan that out. Other times, I'll just sit and roll tape. ~ Bernie Worrell,
332:​Nila had fixed me.
She’d helped me escape my purgatory.
She’d been the nebula of perfection. The freedom of flying with no wings. Granting wind to a kite with untethered strings. ~ Pepper Winters,
333:The father threw up on the ground. In the vomit, there were errors--strings not vomit, but language, light. The bunched up bits were writing something, words at once sunk into the ground. ~ Blake Butler,
334:Without putting the brakes on out-of-control campaign contributions from individuals and corporations - it will be business as usual, with 1 percent of Americans pulling the strings. ~ Madeleine M Kunin,
335:Whatever I did—whether I was writing or playing—there was blood on the pages, there was blood on the strings, because anything less than that was just bullshit, and a waste of fucking time. ~ Legs McNeil,
336:It was like pulling the strings on a marionette. Huber and Puto found they could make the students want one beer or the other, just by adding a third choice that few or no one wanted. ~ William Poundstone,
337:Hereafter we all have to be redeemed. The world is pulling with a thousand strings. We sin because of indifference and negligence and heap new guilt on the old original one. Our life is a ~ Joseph Goebbels,
338:What pleasure hast thou of thy changeless bliss? Nay, if love lasted, there were joy in this; But life’s way is the wind’s way, all these things Are but brief voices breathed on shifting strings ~ Anonymous,
339:Big business, elite media and major donors are throwing money at Hillary Clinton because they have total control over every single thing she does. She is their puppet and they pull the strings. ~ Donald Trump,
340:Color is the keyboard, the eyes are the harmonies, the soul is the piano with many strings. The artist is the hand that plays, touching one key or another, to cause vibrations in the soul. ~ Wassily Kandinsky,
341:I have never really thought of him as a person, either.... A guy whose strings were broken, who didn’t feel the root of his leaves of grass connected to the field, a guy who was cracked. Like me. ~ John Green,
342:Most of my guitars have been instruments that look cool. I'm not picky. I never think, 'Oh, this neck isn't made of ebony,' or, 'These strings don't feel correct.' It doesn't matter too much. ~ James Hetfield,
343:The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance; We find delight in the most loathsome things; Some furtherance of Hell each new day brings, And yet we feel no horror in that rank advance. ~ Charles Baudelaire,
344:World events do not occur by accident. They are made to happen, whether it is to do with national issues or commerce; and most of them are staged and managed by those who hold the purse strings. ~ Denis Healey,
345:He traded his freedom for mine," she whispered. "He was a reckless fool, and I was a girl pulled along by puppet strings. The fire burned too hot, and we didn't notice until it consumed everything. ~ Elise Kova,
346:With another screech, the golem wrenched itself free of its wreckage and began to claw itself forward, trailing its ruptured spine. It was as if necromancy, not golem-magic, was pulling its strings. ~ Ben Galley,
347:It had sometimes puzzled me why falling in love should be regarded as some wondrous event, accompanied by soaring strings, when it so often ended in humiliation, despair or acts of awful cruelty. ~ David Nicholls,
348:Food. Medicine. Gifts. They eagerly scoop them up, frozen fingers struggling with the strings. The hovercraft vanishes, five seconds pass, and then about twenty parachutes simultaneously explode. ~ Suzanne Collins,
349:I could feel the threads forming, from my heart to his. Threads that would become strings, until I was all wrapped up in him and couldn't separate myself from him without feeling like half a person. ~ Cindi Madsen,
350:All those separate people were a part of my life, strings strung on the frame of Uhtred, and though they were separate they affected one another and together they would make the music of my life. ~ Bernard Cornwell,
351:But, as I watched my brothers running across the roof, flying their kites and skillfully flicking the strings back and forth to cut each other’s down, I wondered how free a daughter could ever be. ~ Malala Yousafzai,
352:I'm not saying I wouldn't play a seven-string. It's just that I've never needed one. Most dudes who play seven-strings don't sound any different than someone playing a six-string that's tuned down. ~ Dimebag Darrell,
353:Arithmetic arithmetock
Turn the hands back on the clock
How does the ocean rock the boat?
How did the razor find my throat?
The only strings that hold me here
Are tangled up around the pier. ~ Tom Waits,
354:if you don’t strain the strings, and then try to break them, you’ll find it a difficult job; but strain a string to its very utmost, and the mere weight of one finger on the strained string will snap it. ~ Leo Tolstoy,
355:I would hardly change the sorrowful words of the poets for their glad ones. Tears dampen the strings of the lyre, but they grow the tensor for it, and ring even the clearer and more ravishingly. ~ James Russell Lowell,
356:Strings glared at his new corporal. ‘Where’d you learn that skill?’ The man shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Don’t like getting hit.’ ‘Well, do you ever counter-attack?’ Tarr frowned. ‘Sure. When they’re tired. ~ Steven Erikson,
357:Strings of coincidence can strengthen us in the determination to follow our deepest intuitions even when they run counter to conventional wisdom and logic and cannot be subjected to rational explanation. ~ Robert Moss,
358:At a purely formal level, one could call probability theory the study of measure spaces with total measure one, but that would be like calling number theory the study of strings of digits which terminate. ~ Terence Tao,
359:Death is a cessation of the impressions through the senses, and of the pulling of the strings that move the appetites, and of the discursive movements of the thoughts, and of the service to the flesh. ~ Marcus Aurelius,
360:That’s how they made them years ago, before metal strings, before they knew how to brace a long neck. It’s incredible. There’s more careful engineering in that swan neck than in any three cathedrals. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,
361:The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance;
We find delight in the most loathsome things;
Some furtherance of Hell each new day brings,
And yet we feel no horror in that rank advance. ~ Charles Baudelaire,
362:I'm in love! Your advice, what are they? Love has poisoned me! Your remedies, what are they? I hear them shout: "fast, Bind him feet!" But if my heart that has gone mad! Those strings on my feet What is the point? ~ Rumi,
363:The Overture
October's orchestra plays softly on
The northern forest with its thousand strings,
And Autumn, the conductor wields anon
The Golden-rod-- The baton that he swings.
~ Emily Pauline Johnson,
364:You got to think a musical instrument is human or, anyway, alive....You take a fiddle now, we say it has a neck, and in the human neck what do you find? Vocal cords like strings, where the sound comes from. ~ Annie Proulx,
365:A wind starts to blow, without feelings,
A song falls in love, without singing,
A life will begin in melodies of the strings,
May you find all pleasure of the light,
God bless, Warrior of Light! ~ Santosh Kalwar,
366:If that condition of mind and soul, which we call inspiration, lasted long without intermission, no artist could survive it. The strings would break and the instrument be shattered into fragments. ~ Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky,
367:Most people believe that the piano is a stringed instrument, but though there are more than 200 strings inside, the sound is actually made when the hammer hits them, making it a percussion instrument. ~ Diane Greenwood Muir,
368:The wise men know what wicked things are written on the sky;
They trim sad lamps, they touch sad strings, hearing the heavy purple wings,
Where the forgotten Seraph kings still plot how God shall die. ~ G K Chesterton,
369:You never know who you'll meet. The world is about connections, Regina. Not just who you know, but who they know. It's all one big web, everything interconnected, everyone tugging on each other's strings. ~ Jennifer McMahon,
370:I am not the kind of goddess of victory that people cheer for. I am merely a marionette who is fighting to cut off her own strings. At my feet is a hill covered in skeletons...I am nothing but an angel of death. ~ Kaori Yuki,
371:It may be that we are puppets-puppets controlled by the strings of society. But at least we are puppets with perception, with awareness. And perhaps our awareness is the first step to our liberation. (1974) ~ Stanley Milgram,
372:When you took the scissors I had pressed into your palms and cut our strings, I slipped out of step like a ruined marionette. I did not know how to cope with myself, did not know how to handle me-without-you. ~ Trista Mateer,
373:A woman drew her long black hair out tight, And fiddled whisper music on those strings, And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings, And crawled head downward down a blackened wall. ~ T S Eliot,
374:Be very chary of telling your hoarded secrets. Many lose all power once they have been divulged. Be even more careful of sharing your own secrets lest you find yourself a puppet dancing on someone else's strings. ~ Robin Hobb,
375:Sometimes she was seized with hallucinations and thought she was buried in some vault together with a lot of puppet-like corpses which nodded their heads and moved their legs and arms when you pulled the strings. ~ mile Zola,
376:Woman is a delightful instrument of pleasure, but it is necessary to know its trembling strings, to study the position of them, the timid keyboard, the fingering so changeful and capricious which befits it. ~ Honore de Balzac,
377:I take out my book, glad to have a few minutes to study the diagram on time travel and string theory. But before I can build a time machine out of strings, I need to figure out what the heck they are talking about. ~ Wendy Mass,
378:Thou art an old man; no longer let this be a slave, no longer be pulled by the strings like a puppet to unsocial movements, no longer either be dissatisfied with thy present lot, or shrink from the future. All ~ Marcus Aurelius,
379:Hogsmeade looked like a Christmas card; the little thatched cottages and shops were all covered in a layer of crisp snow; there were holly wreaths on the doors and strings of enchanted candles hanging in the trees. ~ J K Rowling,
380:In the courtroom, watch the balance of the scalesIf the price is right, there's time for more appealsThe strings are pulled, the switch is stayedThe finest lawyers fees are paidAnd a rich man never died upon the chair ~ Phil Ochs,
381:It may be that we are puppets-puppets controlled by the strings of society. But at least we are puppets with perception, with awareness. And perhaps our awareness is the first step to our liberation. (1974)
~ Stanley Milgram,
382:Evil gives you far more strings to pull. But I must say that I have never been interested in the psychology of evil, not in the slightest. Perhaps I'm not interested in evil, but in the dark sides of human beings. ~ Lars von Trier,
383:I don't know why I always feel like crying when I'm around him. When I think about him. When I read about him. It's like my emotions are still tethered to him somehow and I can't figure out how to cut the strings. ~ Colleen Hoover,
384:Love is...like a spring coming up out of the ground of our own depths. "I am gift." All that I am is something that's given, and given freely. Being doesn't cost anything. There's no price tag, no strings attached. ~ Thomas Merton,
385:...and I believe that: we're stuck with what we have, but that's all right; in God's eyes, none of us are really much more than flies on strings and all that matters is how much sunshine you can spread along the way. ~ Stephen King,
386:I remember when I was coming up, the music stores where you could get guitar strings was where I got my records from. Now the place where you get your records from is where you can get your DJ mats and your mixers. ~ Jam Master Jay,
387:Sofiowka was found the next morning, swinging by the neck from the wooden bridge. His severed hands were hanging from strings tied to his feet, and across his chest was written, in Brod's red lipstick, ANIMAL ~ Jonathan Safran Foer,
388:The harp of God falls mute, its call to bliss
Discouraged fails mid earth’s unhappy sounds;
The strings of the siren Ecstasy cry not here
Or soon are silenced in the human heart. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Word of Fate,
389:In all my life, I'd never been as sure of anything, and as much as I hoped to one day hear Savannah say these words to me, what mattered most was knowing that love was mine to give, without strings or expectations. ~ Nicholas Sparks,
390:As for Fergus. He had a habit which Maud was not experienced enough to recognise as a common one in ex-lovers of giving little tugs at the carefully severed spider-threads or puppet-strings which had once tied her to him. ~ A S Byatt,
391:Maybe its a case of one guitar feeling a certain way to the hands that makes one subsequently move differently over the strings, but my intent is always to wring the maximum emotional resonance out of the object in hand. ~ Gary Lucas,
392:All I could hear was the violin, and it was as if Juliek’s soul had become his bow. He was playing his life. His whole being was gliding over the strings. His unfulfilled hopes. His charred past, his extinguished future. ~ Elie Wiesel,
393:And there would come up from the sea its voice; and the sea has no voice, but mysteriously touches the strings within the soul of a man, so that the soul speaks in its own way, each soul lifting its peculiar message. ~ Jack Williamson,
394:The sentence is the great invention of civilization. To sit all day long assembling these extraordinary strings of words is a marvelous thing. I couldn’t ask for anything better. It’s as near to godliness as I can get. ~ John Banville,
395:I just couldn't take school seriously: I had this guitar neck with four frets which I kept hidden under the desk. It had strings on it so I would practice my chord shapes under the desk and that's about all I did at school. ~ Alvin Lee,
396:Lives are made of strings of moments, and every once in a while, one of those moments is pivotal and defining. It changes everything, alters you so completely that when you look back, there’s a clear before and after ~ Elizabeth Norris,
397:Sasori, your strength came because of your soul, not in spite of it... You were supposed to be a a top-class ninja puppeteer, not a worthless nobody who lets someone else pull the strings. - Kankurou (Naruto Ch 518) ~ Masashi Kishimoto,
398:Yes Mrs Reed, to you i owe some fearful pangs of mental suffering, but i ought to forgive you, for you knew not what you did while rendering my heart strings, you thought you were only uprooting your bad propensities. ~ Charlotte Bront,
399:If the atoms in [a] decimetre cube of lead were all put into a chain side by side the same distance apart as they are in the normal lead, the strings of atoms so formed would reach over six million million miles. ~ Francis William Aston,
400:Limerick: There Was A Young Lady Of Ryde
There was a Young Lady of Ryde,
Whose shoe-strings were seldom untied.
She purchased some clogs,
And some small spotted dogs,
And frequently walked about Ryde
~ Edward Lear,
401:What an unfortunate instrument the guitar is! An instrument of such great nobility, a genuine monarch of music-- reduced to a pitiful lump of wood with six strings, constantly abused by people with no ear and no voice. ~ Sergei Lukyanenko,
402:Sasori, your strength came because of your soul, not in spite of it... You were supposed to be a a top-class ninja puppeteer, not a worthless nobody who lets someone else pull the strings.
- Kankurou (Naruto Ch 518) ~ Masashi Kishimoto,
403:The magic of reading happens when an author’s written work strings you along until your imagination, aware of your wants, molds the tale into an extraordinary world to be visited frequently—perhaps dwelt in for years. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,
404:Ahhhh! I fucking hate that phrase. I don’t make love. I fuck. That’s it. Plain and simple. Fuck. Clearly defined. No strings attached. As in rut and grunt and get my rocks off. I’m the caveman. I’m the sexual barbarian. ~ Karen Marie Moning,
405:I'm in love!
Your advice, what are they?
Love has poisoned me!
Your remedies, what are they?
I hear them shout: "fast, Bind him feet!"
But if my heart that has gone mad!
Those strings on my feet
What is the point? ~ Rumi,
406:Louisville, an hour after dark, is a carpet of gilt thumbtacks below them, with straight, twinkling lines like strings of beads leading out from it. Southeastward now, toward the Tennessee state-line. ("Jane Brown's Body") ~ Cornell Woolrich,
407:Who we can be begins with our molecular blueprints - a series of alien codes penned in invisibly small strings of acids - well before we have anything to do with it. We are a product of our inaccessible, microscopic history. ~ David Eagleman,
408:A river passing through a landscape catches the world and gives it back redoubled: a shifting, glinting world more mysterious than the one we customarily inhabit. Rivers run through our civilisations like strings through beads, ~ Olivia Laing,
409:He made a noise she recognized, one that meant he was organizing whatever multidimensional information lattices inhabited his mental space into linear strings amenable to transmission through that inadequate medium, language. ~ Elizabeth Bear,
410:I bought new strings of colored lights. This served as a profession of faith in the future. I take the opportunity for such professions where and when I can invent them, since I do not yet actually feel this faith in the future. ~ Joan Didion,
411:I know,” he said, looking down at himself — skin like papier-mache, ribs like violin strings. “I am not — I mean, I look —”

“Beautiful,” she said, and the word was a pronouncement. “You are beautiful, James Carstairs. ~ Cassandra Clare,
412:My siblings are my friends because we are joined by birth, the bond strong and unbreakable, but there is freedom in having a friend with whom I can be myself, without the expectations and strings of family dynamics and drama. ~ Chanel Cleeton,
413:If, as I suspect, my body survives by uttering itself over and over again, then I have some questions. If [I] am one word, so are my daughters, so are all of us in strings and loops. Each life is one short word slowly uttered. ~ Louise Erdrich,
414:We actually have a candidate for the mind of God. The mind of God we believe is cosmic music, the music of strings resonating through 11 dimensional hyperspace. That is the mind of God. ~ Michio Kaku, Math is the Mind of God (29 December 2012),
415:I ordered each man to be presented with something, as strings of ten or a dozen glass beads apiece, and thongs of leather, all which they estimated highly; those which came on board I directed should be fed with molasses. ~ Christopher Columbus,
416:I was shooting a scene in my new film, No Strings Attached, in which I say to Natalie Portman, “If you miss me. you can’t text, you can’t email, you can’t post it on my Facebook wall. If you really miss me, you come and see me. ~ Ashton Kutcher,
417:O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! ~ William Shakespeare,
418:Some men […] choose to seek greatness, while others are forced to it. It is always better to choose than to be forced. A man who is forced is never completely his own master. He must dance on the strings of those who forced him. ~ Robert Jordan,
419:The guitar to me, from the classical/gut-string guitar right through to Hendrix, et cetera, has all the range [of sound]. Within those six strings it is incredible what one can get sound-wise. It's just down to imagination, really. ~ Jimmy Page,
420:Every guitarist I would cross paths with would tell me that I should have a flashy guitar, whatever the latest fashion model was, and I used to say, 'Why? Mine works, doesn't it? It's a piece of wood and six strings, and it works.' ~ Angus Young,
421:It was a pleasure merely to hear the sound of her voice, with which, like an instrument of many strings, she could pass from one language to another; so that there were few of the barbarian nations that she answered by an interpreter. ~ Plutarch,
422:I started doing all kinds of weird stuff on the guitar, which became part of my playing. I started doing harmonics and tapping on the guitar and pulling off strings and doing all this weird stuff that no one had ever done before. ~ Eddie Van Halen,
423:I wanted to tell her that the pleasure for me wasn't planning or doing or leaving; the pleasure was seeing our strings cross and separate and then come back together - but that seemed to cheesy to say, and anyway, she was standing up. ~ John Green,
424:There are chords in the human heart- strange, varying strings- which are only struck by accident; which will remain mute and senseless to appeals the most passionate and earnest, and respond at last to the slightest casual touch. ~ Charles Dickens,
425:You owe me nothing, and I owe you everything.” I take a deep breath. “All the good in me is because of you. That you showed me what it was like to love someone without any strings attached. You showed me that, Erin, so thank you. ~ Natasha Madison,
426:In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
427:You know how comfortably you go on as a bachelor, and how very much you would dislike to be tied to a wife’s apron-strings.”

He laughed a little ruefully, but denied it. “I shouldn’t dislike being tied to your apron-strings. ~ Georgette Heyer,
428:Have you ever, on a cloudless night, looked down from a passing aircraft flying over Canada? Endless, glowing strings of cities, towns, and homesteads. Stretching on and on, one province to the next. With only the stars in the distance. ~ Paul Martin,
429:If string theory is right, the microscopic fabric of our universe is a richly intertwined multidimensional labyrinth within which the strings of the universe endlessly twist and vibrate, rhythmically beating out the laws of the cosmos. ~ Brian Greene,
430:I just remember standing there, singing with the headphones on and the strings playing, just how wonderful that felt. But we so rarely got to go out and do it. Obviously, we don't carry a 70-80-piece orchestra with us when we do shows. ~ Ricky Skaggs,
431:On recovering my senses, I hastened to quit a place where I hoped there was nothing further to detain me. I first filled my pockets with gold, then fastened the strings of the purse round my neck, and concealed it in my bosom. ~ Adelbert von Chamisso,
432:Would it really be such a bad idea to act on something they both wanted so badly? “What way will I get you then?” He couldn't resist asking and was shocked when she met his eyes. “Any way you want as long as it's just sex, no strings.” He ~ S J McCoy,
433:Fishing is like watching baseball, he says, in that it takes such total concentration that you shouldn’t even be noticing little details like your arms and legs and head and mind and the miles- long strings of questions inside it. ~ David James Duncan,
434:I have a thing about underwear. I have to wear thongs. Since I was a showgirl in Las Vegas, and I was wearing G-strings all the time, I got this thing where I cannot stand to have on regular underwear. It drives me out of my mind. ~ Cassandra Peterson,
435:I want to understand the strings that are tied between me and certain other people and if they really can stretch through infinite time and space without ever breaking. Are soul mates real, and is my life ever going to make sense? ~ Jennifer Elisabeth,
436:O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O limèd soul that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels. Make assay.
Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe. ~ William Shakespeare,
437:Pianists, Matthew thought, are the ones that get arthritis, and artists go blind and composers go deaf. And his mother, who pulled all the family strings by words alone, was reduced to stammering and to letting others finish her sentences. ~ Anne Tyler,
438:Establishment suggests there must be some Wizard of Oz somewhere pulling the strings. That's not the way it works. There are individuals like myself. I sat there and watched Donald Trump, and I said, look, someone has got to say something. ~ Mitt Romney,
439:Our darkest fiction is full of Orwellian dystopias, shadowy cabals, and mind-controlling supervillains. But it turns out that the brainless, microscopic, single-celled organisms that live inside us have been pulling on our strings all along. On ~ Ed Yong,
440:The lamplight gleamed on the Magus’ white grin. “People like to watch the pretty puppets, Superior. Even a glimpse of the puppeteer can be most upsetting for them. Why, they might even suddenly notice the strings around their own wrists ~ Joe Abercrombie,
441:Our strings tie us down, restrict us, force us to live a life we never wanted, a life we think we have to live, one we never chose for ourselves. But all strings, whether invisible or as clear as the tumbling spill of a waterfall, can be cut. ~ David Estes,
442:You might loosen your corset strings,” he advised. “It will make your journey more pleasant.”

“I’m not wearing a c-corset,” she said without looking at him.

“You aren’t? My God.” His gaze slid over her with expert assessment. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
443:The touch of his fingertips on my back is like a great cellist brushing the strings of his instrument, or a watchmaker turning a tiny screw invisible to the naked eye. The feeling is erotic, magical, and I just want to go home and go to bed. ~ Chloe Thurlow,
444:Egypt, thou knew'st too well
My heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings,
And thou shouldst tow me after: o'er my spirit
Thy full supremacy thou knew'st, and that
Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods
Command me. ~ William Shakespeare,
445:Nature is like a work by Bach or Beethoven, often starting with a central theme and making countless variations on it that are scattered throughout the symphony. By this criterion, it appears that strings are not fundamental concepts in nature. ~ Michio Kaku,
446:She rubbed it onto his hands one day in Year Eleven, feeling the texture of his fingertips, callused by the strings of his guitar, and his palms, rough from woodwork. ("Productive, despite your lazy streak," she had said, inspecting them.) ~ Melina Marchetta,
447:For me, anything can be music! I can get huge enjoyment and be moved totally by the purity and perfection of some Renaissance polyphony, but equally I can feel emotion in the expectant hum of a big old guitar amp just before the strings are hit. ~ Steven Price,
448:In essence, we string theorists have been trying to work out the score of the universe, the harmonies of the universe, the mathematical vibrations that the strings would play. So musical metaphors have been with us in science since the beginning. ~ Brian Greene,
449:It all goes back and back," Tyrion thought, "to our mothers and fathers and theirs before them. We are puppets dancing on the strings of those who came before us, and one day our own children will take up our strings and dance in our steads. ~ George R R Martin,
450:And then I started appreciating it for what it really was: unadulterated expression. Honesty in the truest sense of the word. Communication with no conditions, no strings attached, no ulterior motive, no sales job, no desperate attempt to be liked. ~ Mark Manson,
451:He is one of those who bring their own dark clouds wherever they go. He keeps them on a string. They are always there, even on the brightest of days. It takes only a chance remark and he tugs their strings, drags them down, and blots out the sun. ~ Steven Carroll,
452:We're all just marionettes, Ashline," Eve said softly. "Dangling, dancing, waiting. You can pretend like you pull your own strings, but in the end your only hope is that you've landed in the hands of someone who knows what the hell they're doing. ~ Karsten Knight,
453:In old age our bodies are worn-out instruments, on which the soul tries in vain to play the melodies of youth. But because the instrument has lost its strings, or is out of tune, it does not follow that the musician has lost his skill. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
454:The more he told me about himself, the more leverage I had for manipulation,” he told Bob’s researcher. “I just kept fueling the fire; the more fuel I added to the fire, the bigger payoff for me. I was the puppet master pulling the strings.” Eventually ~ Jon Ronson,
455:There has been 32 isms since the advent of cubism, yet after all there are essentially the same two old strings, the Romantic and the Classical. We've just be confused by the storm. Science and psychology have played a great part to say nothing of sex. ~ Mark Tobey,
456:DNA directs the construction of strings of chemicals; those chemicals influence the configuration of the whole organism; that configuration influences how likely it is that the organism will reproduce and keep spreading more copies of the code. Dobzhansky ~ Bill Nye,
457:In music, there is no bondage. Music is a door, and the soul escapes through the melody. Even if it’s only for a few minutes. And everyone who listens is freed. Everyone who listens is elevated. “When you play, I hear my life lifting off your strings. I ~ Amy Harmon,
458:...the overture began. God! Strings! Oboes! Timpani! Are you fucking kidding me? Why, when we know what human beings are capable of doing, do we not turn our collective heads in shame at the sight of rich housewives screaming at each other on television? ~ Meg Howrey,
459:My heart is tuned to sorrow, and the strings Vibrate most readily to minor chords, Searching and sad; my mind is stuffed with words Which voice the passion and the ache of things: Illusions beating with their baffled wings Against the walls of circumstance. ~ Amy Lowell,
460:Our friendship is made of bendy straws, long midnight letters,
my so-called life marathons, sleepless sleepovers, diner milk shakes, apron strings, a belief in beauty,
sucking helium, and the most trust I’ve ever felt for anyone, including myself. ~ David Levithan,
461:Most men, no matter how well or badly dressed, carry overstuffed, beat up wallets that should have been replaced years ago. Why is that? Every time I see a guy take out a wallet anywhere, it looks like a piece of old melted chocolate cake-with strings. ~ Jonathan Carroll,
462:Sometimes, we do things we don’t feel good about to survive. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.” His sympathy, his assurance had brought her perilously close to tears. But she couldn’t cry about this. She had known what she was getting into. No strings. ~ Robyn Harding,
463:The multiple choices and possibilities of daily life are the music we dance to. They are like strings on a guitar. Strum them and you create a pleasing sound. A harmonic. But then start adding strings. Ten strings, a hundred strings, a thousand, a million. ~ Stephen King,
464:There was about Alexandra something of the impervious calm of the fatalist, always disconcerting to very young people, who cannot feel that the heart lives at all unless it is still at the mercy of storms; unless its strings can scream to the touch of pain. ~ Willa Cather,
465:Taxes should be continued by annual or biennial reeactments, because a constant hold, by the nation, of the strings of the public purse is a salutary restraint from which an honest government ought not wish, nor a corrupt one to be permitted, to be free. ~ Thomas Jefferson,
466:Until, accustomed to disappointments, you can let yourself rule and be ruled by these strings or emanations that connect everything together, you haven't fully exorcised the demon of doubt that sets you in motion like a rocking horse that cannot stop rocking. ~ John Ashbery,
467:am spinning the silk threads of my story, weaving the fabric of my world. The tiny elf dancer became a wooden doll whose strings were jerked by people not paying attention. I spun out of control. Eating was hard. Breathing was hard. Living was hardest. ~ Laurie Halse Anderson,
468:When Ray Flacke came out, it was like 'What in the heck is this?' ... there's a guy who had that Tele players attitude, and he plugged straight into that amp with a delay, and it was unbelievable the way he would bend those big strings ... he was really unique. ~ Brad Paisley,
469:I think I would have kept in contact with venture capital investors and entrepreneurs. I'm sure staying involved as something like a coach would be fun. If I handed over the reins to a successor, I wouldn't stick around [to pull strings] like a retired emperor. ~ Masayoshi Son,
470:It was the custom in those days for passengers leaving for America to bring balls of yarn on deck. Relatives on the pier held the loose ends. As the Giulia blew its horn and moved away from the dock, a few hundred strings of yarn stretched across the water. ~ Jeffrey Eugenides,
471:Most men probably wouldn't want to live the lives of bonobos. They're constantly clinging to their mothers' apron strings. They lack the ability to make decisions about their own fates, something that we and male chimpanzees practically consider our birthright. ~ Frans de Waal,
472:Then slowly, as his erratic shape approached the next guttering aura he would begin by degrees to become a silhouette, until immediately before the candle he would for a moment appear like an inky scarecrow, a mantis of pitch-black cardboard worked with strings. ~ Mervyn Peake,
473:In all likelihood, I was going to be in charge of his entire business empire soon. I would hold the purse strings, and Jo was worried that my main vice—vindictiveness—would mean she was going to lose her cushy lifestyle. For once in her miserable life, she was right. ~ L J Shen,
474:Every time I jog through the world, I am awed by what I find. On a winter morning, when it seems too cold and slippery for safe jogging or bicycling, I can still go out and experience the glory of sunlight turning icy branches into strings of sparkling diamonds. ~ Bernie Siegel,
475:I am spinning the silk threads of my story, weaving the fabric of my world. They tiny elf-dancer became a wooden doll whose strings were jerked by people not paying attention. I spun out of control. Eating was hard. Breathing was hard. Living was hardest. ~ Laurie Halse Anderson,
476:If I become like you, I will have no will of my own. I will have no individuality, I will just be your puppet.’
'True.’ Sio smiled thinly. 'But even a puppet may dance before its strings are drawn tight. You will dance, Cass, and the heavens will applaud you. ~ Christopher Pike,
477:I'm into a casual-dressing girl: blue jeans and a tank top is super sexy. But the sexiest thing on a girl - when I see it I'm like, oh my God - is these little tight boxers. Don't get me wrong, g-strings are fine, but those cover a little, to where it's just enough. ~ Jensen Ackles,
478:I’m never going to find out what the hell was going on with Lost. I mean, was it just sheer coincidence their plane crashed on the island or was it this Jacob guy pulling the strings all along? And how did most of them end up back in the 1970s with the Dharma people? ~ Peter Clines,
479:It was said that their purring could patch a pail of broken bones back together and revive a fossilized soul; yet when their work was done, cats would go their own way without a backward glance. They loved without reticence, no strings attached—but no promises either. ~ Nina George,
480:Oh, if somewhere there were a being strong and handsome, a valiant heart, passionate and sensitive at once, a poet's spirit in an angel's form, a lyre with strings of steel, sounding sweet-sad epithalamiums to the heavens, then why should she not find that being? ~ Gustave Flaubert,
481:Man said, "I am tired of kings! Sons of the robber-chiefs of yore, They make me pay for their lust and their war; I am the puppet, they pull the strings; The blood of my heart is the wine they drink. I will govern myself for awhile I think, And see what that brings! ~ Henry Van Dyke,
482:Wearing perfectly pressed trousers and shiny boots, Captain Maddox of Star Watch Intelligence flexed his bare chest. Muscles like strings of steel writhed upon his lean frame. He gripped a viper stick, swishing it back and forth, so the spectators murmured uneasily. ~ Vaughn Heppner,
483:Be a little puppet on their strings. That was what Reyn wanted from her, also. She recognized that even if he did not. He was attracted to her not just for her beauty and charm, but because she was young. He thought he could control all her actions and even her thoughts. ~ Robin Hobb,
484:Love is music. It’s learning when to be loud and when to be soft. It’s riding the scales up and down. Learning the curves and strings to play the song of your heart. You have to know when to lead and when to follow. When you’re wrong and when you’re right. Love is music, ~ Staci Hart,
485:There is something in every one of you that waits and listens for the sound of the genuine in yourself. It is the only true guide you will ever have. And if you cannot hear it, you will all of your life spend your days on the ends of strings that somebody else pulls. ~ Howard Thurman,
486:I have learned that collaboration are everything to me. Music is a social thing. If there are no ears to hear it, it has no value. I have really loved getting input from other great musicians- like recording strings with my family or making weird synth sounds with tore nissen. ~ Oh Land,
487:Her technique was not perfect. Here and there he heard an off-pitch note, and her run of sixteenths was uneven. But her attack was fierce, her bow digging into the strings with such confidence that even her mistakes sounded intentional, every note played without apology. ~ Tess Gerritsen,
488:I stuck with that size because I could bend the strings so well, and somewhere along the line I must have gotten it into my mind that I had small hands, so I was thinking I'd never be able to play a full-scale guitar, but I also felt like I was cheating or cutting corners. ~ John Fogerty,
489:Real thick strings - your hands start to get fatigued. As much as you practice, and as much experience as you have, and as long as you've been playing, there is a fatigue point during the show, as with anything that's physical. So I wanted to basically pace myself better. ~ John Petrucci,
490:At the end of the day, it's hard to win against the NFL. It's a billion-dollar business, it's hard to win against it. They can manipulate a lot of different things. They can pull strings, they know people. At the end of the day, nine times out of 10, they are going to win. ~ Adrian Peterson,
491:His fingers touched the strings and all my thoughts were displaced. The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons. It was like no music I had ever heard before. It had warmth as a fire does, a texture and weight like polished ivory. It buoyed and soothed at once. ~ Madeline Miller,
492:In general, therefore, color is a means of exerting a direct influence upon the soul. Color is the keyboard. The eye is the hammer. The soul is the piano with its many strings. The artist is the hand that purposefully sets the soul vibrating by means of this or that key. ~ Wassily Kandinsky,
493:Real data is messy. ...It's all very noisy out there. Very hard to spot the tune. Like a piano in the next room, it's playing your song, but unfortunately it's out of whack, some of the strings are missing, and the pianist is tone deaf and drunk- I mean, the noise! Impossible! ~ Tom Stoppard,
494:Stuff that would make me giggle and give away my hiding spot. He’d say things like, ‘I ran out of dental floss so I cut the strings off your tampons. Is that going to be a problem?’ or, ‘I masturbate in the shower. Don’t you think it’s odd that you never run out of conditioner? ~ Jewel E Ann,
495:There the whole sky is filled with sound, and there that music is
made without fingers and without strings;
There the game of pleasure and pain does not cease.
Kabir says: "If you merge your life in the Ocean of Life, you
will find your life in the Supreme Land of Bliss. ~ Kabir,
496:I believe in fate. Sometimes that means an old bearded guy sitting on a cloud and pulling the strings; sometimes it means random atoms swirling through a cheerless universe; sometimes it means everything being preordained thanks to your karma credit from your previous lives. ~ Kyle MacLachlan,
497:If you wish to experience your System 2 working at full tilt, the following exercise will do; it should bring you to the limits of your cognitive abilities within 5 seconds. To start, make up several strings of 4 digits, all different, and write each string on an index card. ~ Daniel Kahneman,
498:Get a book, so you know where to put your fingers. Otherwise it would be tough to learn. Also you have to fight through getting callouses on your fingers because it hurts, you are pressing your fingers on metal strings, they will hurt at first until you start building up callouses. ~ Joan Jett,
499:The multiple choices and possibilities of daily life are the music we dance to. They are like strings on a guitar. Strum them and you create a pleasing sound. A harmonic. But then start adding strings. Ten strings, a hundred strings, a thousand, a million. Because they multiply! ~ Stephen King,
500:While a man is stringing a harp, he tries the strings, not for music, but for construction. When it is finished it shall be played for melodies. God is fashioning the human heart for future joy. He only sounds a string here and there to see how far His work has progressed. ~ Henry Ward Beecher,
501:Being in love, she concluded, is simply the presentation of our pasts to another individual, mostly packages so unwieldy that we can no longer manage the loosened strings alone. Looking for love is like asking for a new point of departure, she thought, another chance in life. ~ Zelda Fitzgerald,
502:Contrary to what we conclude naturally, the gospel is not too good to be true. It is true! Its the truest truth in the entire universe. No strings attached! No fine print to read. No buts. No conditions. No qualifications. No footnotes. And especially, no need for balance. ~ Tullian Tchividjian,
503:Dr. Singh told me once that if you have a perfectly tuned guitar and a perfectly tuned violin in the same room, and you pluck the D string of a guitar, then all the way across the room, the D string on the guitar will also vibrate. I could always feel my mother's vibrating strings. ~ John Green,
504:Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion; and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every movement. ~ George Eliot,
505:Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion; and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every movement. We ~ Anonymous,
506:If patterns of ones and zeroes were "like" patterns of human lives and deaths, if everything about an individual could be represented in a computer record by a long strings of ones and zeroes, then what kind of creature could be represented by a long string of lives and deaths? ~ Thomas Pynchon,
507:If your going to learn to play lead guitar, get an electric guitar .. it doesn't have to be an expensive one .. acoustic guitars aren't good for learning lead, because you can't play up very high on the neck and they take heavier-gauge strings which makes it hard to bend notes ~ Eddie Van Halen,
508:Love…love is understanding. Love is knowing that other person so well, you can anticipate them. Like if someone knows you’re uncomfortable, and they loosen your boot strings. Or if he knows you’re deeply worried about something, and does his best to remedy it and soothe your fears. ~ Kate Noble,
509:It did matter to get out of bed. There were webs to weave. Strings to grasp. Packages to deliver. Conversations to start. Thoughts to be expressed. Sams to slam into. Oceans to swim. And sad little men hiding in electrical sockets, waiting to be born of the human imagination. ~ Bud Macfarlane Jr,
510:I think emotion is just anything that is emotional, you know, people can feel with music. Music is already so emotional, like the strings, the chords, and the notes and the melodies and stuff. And then you throw on a topic that everyone can relate to. That's gonna be real music. ~ Sam McCandless,
511:Oh, Is It Love?
O is it Love or is it Fame,
This thing for which I sigh?
Or has it then no earthly name
For men to call it by?
I know not what can ease my pains,
Nor what it is I wish;
The passion at my heart-strings strains
Like a tiger in a leash.
~ Amy Levy,
512:...telling me how he had dreamt of kites-a whole sky full of kites, and he was holding all the strings. He told me how the good kites and wicked kites got all mixed up, how he tried to hold on to the good and let the rest float away, but after a while he couldn't tell them apart. ~ Justin Torres,
513:[Buckminster] Fuller was an independent operator coming up with these madcap ways of combining things with absolutely no strings attached and the fact that world changing now is happening within the corporation by and large, and that disruption is ironically what corporations do. ~ Jonathon Keats,
514:Each of our passions, even love, has a stomach that must not be overloaded. We must in all things write the word finis in time; we must restrain ourselves, when it becomes urgent, draw the bolt on the appetite, play a fantasia on the violin, then break the strings with our own hand. ~ Victor Hugo,
515:In string theory, all particles are vibrations on a tiny rubber band; physics is the harmonies on the string; chemistry is the melodies we play on vibrating strings; the universe is a symphony of strings, and the "Mind of God" is cosmic music resonating in 11 dimensional hyperspace. ~ Michio Kaku,
516:The hooting of the owl with its tender wing is more familiar to me than the crowing of the cock. I prefer the strings to the woodwinds. Intermission: that is the darkness. The light feels like a vague scratching; it is malaise rather than pain. I am glad to sink back into darkness. ~ Ernst J nger,
517:In string theory, all particles are vibrations on a tiny rubber band; physics is the harmonies on the string; chemistry is the melodies we play on vibrating strings; the universe is a symphony of strings, and the 'Mind of God' is cosmic music resonating in 11-dimensional hyperspace. ~ Michio Kaku,
518:You can have a silence full of words. A lute retains, in its bowl, the notes it has played. The viol, in its strings, holds a concord. A shriveled petal can hold its scent, a prayer can rattle with curses; an empty house, when the owners have gone out, can still be loud with ghosts. ~ Hilary Mantel,
519:Let me explain something about guitar playing. Everyone's got their own character, and that's the thing that's amazed me about guitar playing since the day I first picked it up. Everyone's approach to what can come out of six strings is different from another person, but it's all valid. ~ Jimmy Page,
520:Grab a guitar, put some kind of strings on it, a banjo string, then a violin string, then a guitar string, tune it any way you want, and make some noise, and see what you get. And work on it until you get something that you think is interesting. That's all there is to art for me. ~ Buffy Sainte Marie,
521:I choose to not ignore or push away emotional pain. Instead, I allow it to move through me. Sometimes, that's quietly working on a puzzle and listening to an all-strings Pandora station, and others, it's being vulnerable with a trusted friend. Either way, I let it have its place. ~ Jennifer Widerstrom,
522:She once told me that she loved me because I was the only thing she could hear. She can feel the vibration of the strings through the carved vessel of her instrument, but I am inside her. I am a song soaked into each bone of her secret body where the world has not been able to wander. ~ Simon Van Booy,
523:We saw too much beauty to be cynical, felt too much joy to be dismissive, climbed too many mountains to be quitters, kissed too many girls to be deceivers, saw too many sunrises not to be believers, broke too many strings to be pro's and gave too much love to be concerned where it goes. ~ Glen Hansard,
524:I play an instrument that has four strings, and I'm still trying to get it right. What I've tried to do in the process of playing these four strings is to try and understand the people I meet, the stories they have to tell. And then become an advocate for them and their stories through music. ~ Yo Yo Ma,
525:Jutta drags herself closer; she watches her brother with outsize eyes. A piano chases the violins. Then woodwinds. The strings sprint, woodwinds fluttering behind. More instruments join in. Flutes? Harps? The song races, seems to loop back over itself. “Werner?” Jutta whispers. He blinks; ~ Anthony Doerr,
526:Love is the most melodious of all harmonies and the sentiment of love is innate. Woman is a delightful instrument of pleasure, but it is necessary to know its trembling strings, to study the position of them, the timid keyboard, the fingering so changeful and capricious which befits it. ~ Honor de Balzac,
527:The following day, Cass still felt as if the villa were suffocating her. Not only was she trapped inside, but she was bored out of her mind--so bored that she sat on the stool and plucked random strings on her aunt’s harp for a while until Bortolo reminded her that he was blind and not deaf. ~ Fiona Paul,
528:Existence found its truth on Oneness’ breast
And each became the self and space of all.
The great world-rhythms were heart-beats of one Soul,
To feel was a flame-discovery of God,
All mind was a single harp of many strings, ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The House of the Spirit and the New Creation,
529:Praise him with the sounding of the trumpet, praise him with the harp and lyre, praise him with tambourine and dancing, praise him with the strings and flute, praise him with the clash of cymbals, praise him with resounding cymbals. Let everything that has breath praise the LORD. (Ps. 150:3–6) ~ Beth Moore,
530:When I first heard about Beverly Hills Chihuahua, I thought, no. This, this is ridiculous. And then you read the script and you close the script and you go, "They aren't going to be able to do that with real dogs. How are they going to do that?" You're going to see the strings. But they did. ~ George Lopez,
531:Before my first child was born, I had nothing going on professionally really, and it's been a very blessed period of creativity for me since he arrived. It's very surreal. It's almost as if the babies are out there pulling strings somewhere, deciding what kind of life they want to be born into. ~ Seth Gabel,
532:For the ten-dimensional universe, however, there are apparemtly millions of ways in which to curl up. To calculate which state the ten-dimensional universe prefers, we need to solve the field theory of strings using the theory of phase transitions, the most difficult problem in quantum theory. ~ Michio Kaku,
533:The Firs
There is a lonely minor chord that sings
Faintly and far along the forest ways,
When the firs finger faintly on the strings
Of that rare violin the night wind plays,
Just as it whispered once to you and me
Beneath the English pines beyond the sea.
~ Emily Pauline Johnson,
534:Then you take her without reservation, disclaimer, parental demands, or otherwise. You take her as she is with all her faults, weaknesses, idiosyncrasies, and requirements. You take her without qualification, with no strings attached by anyone else, because that’s what loving someone means. ~ David Baldacci,
535:..giving power to negative thoughts or fears was bringing ideas to life in physical world,idea in mind became emotion in heart,emotion turned into words spoken,written,painted,strummed across guitar strings,or vibrantly held note by Tibetan singing bowl, thoughts affected physical world. ~ Christina Westover,
536:Maise,” I said. “Huh?” “That’s my name.” I gave it easily, freely, no strings. You remember these things later, when they matter. “And the reason I need that class,” I said, “is so I can get the fuck out of this town.” He smiled, a big, crooked grin. “Good. That’s a worthy reason to fuck me over. ~ Leah Raeder,
537:At West Virginia University, the Charles Koch Foundation’s donation of $965,000 to create the Center for Free Enterprise came with some strings attached. The foundation required the school to give it a say over the professors it funded, in violation of traditional standards of academic independence. ~ Jane Mayer,
538:Hold still," my father would say, while I held the ship in the bottle and he burned away the strings he'd raised the mast with and set the clipper ship free on its blue putty sea. And I would wait for him, recognizing the tension of that moment when the world in the bottle depended, solely, on me. ~ Alice Sebold,
539:Make of my body the beam of a lute of my head the sounding gourd of my nerves the strings of my fingers the plucking rods. Clutch me close and play your thirty-two songs O lord of the meeting rivers! [1526.jpg] -- from Speaking of Siva, by A K Ramanujan

~ Basava, Make of my body the beam of a lute
,
540:Scraps of memory: this is not how a climax should be written. A climax should surge towards its Himalayan peak; but I am left with shreds, and must jerk towards my crisis like a puppet with broken strings. This is not what I had planned; but perhaps the story you finish is never the one you begin. ~ Salman Rushdie,
541:This is very dangerous for us, as a society, and I think people deserve a politics of integrity that is not bought and paid for by big banks, fossil fuel giants, war profiteers, insurance companies, the things that those two corporate parties both represent and which pull the strings inside the party. ~ Jill Stein,
542:my lute set aside on the little table lazily I meditate on cherishing feelings the reason I don't bother to strum and pluck? there's a breeze over the strings and it plays itself [2158.jpg] -- from A Drifting Boat: Chinese Zen Poetry, Edited by J. P. Seaton / Edited by Dennis Maloney

~ Po Chu-i, Lute
,
543:The lieutenant, returning from a tour after a bandage, produced from a hidden receptacle of his mind new and portentous oaths suited to the emergency. Strings of expletives he swung lashlike over the backs of his men, and it was evident that his previous efforts had in nowise impaired his resources. ~ Stephen Crane,
544:What people saw when he appeared before them, then, was not really him, but a person he had invented, an artificial creature he could manipulate in order to manipulate others. He himself remained invisible, a puppeteer working the strings of his alter-ego from a dark, solitary place behind the curtain ~ Paul Auster,
545:If you play "I Don't Want To Know" by Fleetwood Mac loud enough -- you can hear Lindsey Buckingham's fingers sliding down the strings of his acoustic guitar. ...And we were convinced that this was the definitive illustration of what we both loved about music; we loved hearing the INSIDE of a song. ~ Chuck Klosterman,
546:String theory?[pause] It closed the conceptual gulp between relativity and quantum mechanics. It postulates that subatomic particles are not points, but strings, about one planck length long. The rate at which strings vibrate can generate the properties of all known particles. Huh? How did I know that? ~ Willie Garson,
547:He did not know what to say in the face of such sorrow. He sat in silence by his sister's side in the spring verdure, which was too young; and the hidden strings in his breast began to quiver; and to sound.
This was the first time that he had ever looked into the labyrinth of the human soul. ~ Halld r Kiljan Laxness,
548:He raised his bottle. “Well, if you ever want to go diving when you’re off duty, let me know.” “I’m not looking for a relationship, Mr. Carver. I’m here to solve a murder.” He opened his front door to go inside. “Who said anything about a relationship? I’m just offering a no-strings recreational dive.” A ~ Toni Anderson,
549:Her lips remind me of kite strings and I find myself thinking about panda bears. Panda bears do not fly kites, I tell myself.

'I thought you were dead,' she says.

Maybe if you taped a kite to a panda paw and scared the panda so that it started running, the kite might start to lift off. ~ Michael Ian Black,
550:The universe is a complete unique entity. Everything and everyone is bound together with some invisible strings. Do not break anyone’s heart; do not look down on weaker than you. One’s sorrow at the other side of the world can make the entire world suffer; one’s happiness can make the entire world smile. ~ Shams Tabrizi,
551:If God thinks this state of war in the universe a price worth paying for free will—that is, for making a live world in which creatures can do real good or harm and something of real importance can happen, instead of a toy world which only moves when He pulls the strings—then we may take it it is worth paying. ~ C S Lewis,
552:If you go to a concert, you will notice, is it loud? Is the music fast? Is it predominately strings or brass? There are things we can all register, whether we are musicians or not. Painting's no different. Taking pleasure in projecting oneself into the painting is the act of looking. That's what looking is. ~ David Salle,
553:I judge property myself by its net earning power; that is the only rule I have been able to get.... This whole island [Manhattan] was once bought for a few strings of beads. But now you will find this property valued by its earning power, by its rent power, and that is the way to value a railroad or telegraph. ~ Jay Gould,
554:Unconditional love is a gift of the heart. It’s a gift that we can both give and receive that comes with no strings attached, no qualifications, reservations, footnotes, asterisks, objections, judgments, or other kinds of fine print legalese that later have to be uncovered, argued over, or cried about. ~ Catherine Carrigan,
555:He reached up t0 grab one and came down with several, and they kept coming, washing over him, floating all around him. Never have tampon strings seemed so beautiful as they rolled up and down with the wind, landing on the ground and then twirling and floating up again, falling and rising and falling and rising. ~ John Green,
556:I hadn't lived a real life―I'd had just a model of a life. Everything I did, everything I thought, was suspended safely by strings, too high up for anyone to damage. Zero contact, zero risk. Now those strings had been cut and I was going to die, never having had a chance to live without them. ~ Neal Shusterman,
557:And then I realized that love is like a helium balloon. You know the one which flies away into the sky if you don’t hold it by its strings? No matter how much I tried to break my string, the balloon always remained there. Know why? Because maybe unknown to yourself, you were holding a couple of strings as well ~ Sapan Saxena,
558:With a clear sky, a bright sun, and a gentle breeze, you will have friends in plenty; but let fortune frown, and the firmament be overcast, and then your friends will prove like the strings of the lute, of which you will tighten ten before you find one that will bear the stretch and keep the pitch. ~ Gotthold Ephraim Lessing,
559:A room full of fags gives me the horrors. They jerk around like puppets on invisible strings, galvanized into hideous activity that is the negation of everything living and spontaneous. The live human being has moved out of these bodies long ago. But something moved in when the original tenant moved out. ~ William S Burroughs,
560:It seemed impossible, from within love at least, that this could have been anything but fate. It would have taken a steady mind to contemplate without superstition the enormous probability of a meeting that had turned out to alter our lives. Someone at (30,000 feet) must have been pulling strings in the sky. ~ Alain de Botton,
561:Marionettes dance afield beneath masterly hands— I stumble among them crossed by the strings in tangled two-step and curse all these fools in their mad pirouette— I shall not live as they do oh, no, leave me in my circled dance— these unbidden twitchings you see I swear on Hood’s Grave is artistry in motion S ~ Steven Erikson,
562:We live in a dancing matrix of viruses; they dart, rather like bees, from organism to organism, from plant to insect to mammal to me and back again, and into the sea, tugging along pieces of this genome, strings of genes from that, transplanting grafts of DNA, passing around heredity as though at a great party. ~ Lewis Thomas,
563:His muscles had wasted away to knotty strings, and the flesh pads had disappeared, so that each rib and every bone in his frame were outlined cleanly through the loose hide that was wrinkled in folds of emptiness. It was heartbreaking, only Buck's heart was unbreakable. The man in the red sweater had proved that. ~ Jack London,
564:I dreamed of going to the top of Mount Elum like Alexander the Great to touch Jupiter and even beyond the valley. But, as I watched my brother running across the roof, flying their kites and skillfully flicking the strings back and forth to cut each other's down, I wondered hoe free a daughter could ever be. ~ Malala Yousafzai,
565:If language A has an operator for removing spaces from strings and language B doesn’t, that probably doesn’t make A more powerful, because you can probably write a subroutine to do it in B. But if A supports, say, recursion, and B doesn’t, that’s not likely to be something you can fix by writing library functions. ~ Paul Graham,
566:Love is music. It’s learning when to be loud and when to be soft. It’s riding the scales up and down. Learning the curves and strings to play the song of your heart. You have to know when to lead and when to follow. When you’re wrong and when you’re right. Love is music, hijo mío. It is the greatest music there is. ~ Staci Hart,
567:No strings, Justin. I want you on your feet, not your knees, and I'd rather see you presiding at the seance table than hungry or desperate. I don't want you to capitulate. I never want you to do that. Merely, I would take it as a very great favour if you'd please, please let me give you back your freedom to choose. ~ K J Charles,
568:You know, for most of its life bluegrass has had this stigma of being all straw hats and hay bales and not necessarily the most sophisticated form of music. Yet you can't help responding to its honesty. It's music that finds its way deep into your soul because it's strings vibrating against wood and nothing else. ~ Alison Krauss,
569:I met my manager when I was 17, when I didn't have enough money to buy a set of guitar strings. There are not very many people who are looking out for you and being in business with you when you're at that stage. And it's not in my nature to think that success as a musician makes you any different from anybody else. ~ Johnny Marr,
570:My big break was really Liz Meriwether saw me in a movie called 'Paper Heart' and really liked it, and then saw me in a movie called 'Ceremony' because she knew Max Winkler and said, 'I want you to be in 'No Strings Attached,' but you gotta audition for it.' From that it was easier for her to get me in 'New Girl. ~ Jake M Johnson,
571:If God thinks this state of war in the universe a price worth paying for free will - that is, for making a live world in which creatures can do real good or harm and something of real importance can happen, instead of a toy world which only moves when He pulls the strings - then we may take it (that) it is worth paying. ~ C S Lewis,
572:Billy?” she said, looking up at him. “Yes, Amy?” “I love you,” she said sweetly, with no reservations whatsoever, no strings attached. The fresh honesty of children simply couldn’t be denied. Thirty years of trauma, healed by the cutest therapist of all, in two seconds flat, he thought. With just one little sentence. ~ Chance Carter,
573:One of the hardest things for a teacher is to know when to keep quiet and when to let go. It is a terrible thing to hold someone back from success, or to insist on sharing credit, or to tie someone to your apron strings. We need to have faith that we have done all we can, and then we need to kick our birds out of the nest. ~ Tim Gunn,
574:The bow of God's wrath is bent, and His arrows made ready upon the string. Justice points the arrow at your heart and strings the bow. It is nothing but the mere pleasure of God (and that of an angry God without any promise or obligation at all) that keeps the arrow one moment from being made drunk with your blood. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
575:We find that David had the tenderness and the sensitivity of an artist. He was a musician and a songwriter. David did not simply have talent. Talent alone could not have soothed the torment of Saul. David plucked the strings of his harp with tenderness and sensitivity. He chose melodies that ministered to the aching soul. ~ Beth Moore,
576:What interests me when I'm writing is being able to crawl into a character's head and speak from his or her mouth. It's not pulling the strings on a marionette, it's not playing ventriloquist, and it's not mimicry. It's about inhabiting a character, and, at the same time, being totally unaware of what you've become. ~ Nathan Englander,
577:Hidden all day in impenetrable black burkas, rich Saudi women transformed themselves by night into birds of paradise with their corsets, their see-through bras, their G-strings with multicolored lace and rhinestones. They were exactly the opposite of Western women, who spent their days dressed up and looking sexy to ~ Michel Houellebecq,
578:I dreamed of a beast in human form, that hunted men for pleasure. When they brought it down—at last, after many deaths—they cut it open. Only to find a wormlike thing coiled in a bed of slime at the center of it, where the heart should be, and a webwork of puppeteer’s strings leading outward through the flesh. I screamed. ~ C S Friedman,
579:The result was the same as tuning down the strings by a semitone and using a capo at the first fret. With less tension in the strings, the sound was more mellow and softer; it also allowed me to cover a larger span of the fingerboard. I used this for quite a few years, but eventually I went back to the standard fingerboard. ~ Tal Farlow,
580:It was practically with people with strings. There was no CG involved, it was just painfully taking Collin [Farrell] and Jessica Biel and putting them upside-down, we built the set upside-down and just try to twist perspective to make it all seem like zero gravity. And it was one of the most difficult things I've ever shot. ~ Len Wiseman,
581:Most of the spiritual traditions were very theistic and the idea of an external god pulling the strings didn't resonate with me. I then discovered Buddhism and found the perfect path. I felt so grateful to the Buddha for having given the path, and not just explaining the end result, but showing so clearly how to get there. ~ Tenzin Palmo,
582:SOME PEOPLE BELIEVE IN FATE, OTHERS DON’T. I DO, and I don’t. It may seem at times as if invisible fingers move us about like puppets on strings. But for sure, we are not born to be dragged along. We can grab the strings ourselves and adjust our course at every crossroad, or take off at any little trail into the unknown. ~ Thor Heyerdahl,
583:Colin did not laugh. Instead he thought, Tampons have strings? Why? Of all the major human mysteries - God, the nature of the universe, etc. - he knew the least about tampons. To Colin, tampons were a little bit like grizzly bears: he was aware of their existence, but he'd never seen on in the wild, and didn't really care to. ~ John Green,
584:Nor The Sun Its Selling Power
They say her words were like balloons
with strings I could not hold,
that her love was something in a shop
cheap and far too quickly sold;
but the tree does not price its apples
nor the sun its selling power
the rain does not gossip
or speak of where it goes.
~ Brian Patten,
585:[..] the innate tendency of a society of consumers to instil in their members a willingness to accord other people the same - and no more - respect as they are trained to feel and to show to consumer goods, the objects designed and destined for instantaneous, and possibly untroubled satisfaction, with no strings attached. ~ Zygmunt Bauman,
586:When in the puppet-show of dreams we hold in hand the strings of quite a number of actors, controlling their actions and their speech, we are not aware of this being so. Only one of them is myself, the dreamer. In him I act and speak immediately, while I may be awaiting eagerly and anxiously what another one will reply ~ Erwin Schr dinger,
587:Writing checks to the IRS that include strings of zeros does not bother me ... Overall, we feel extraordinarily lucky to have been dealt a hand in life that enables us to write large checks to the government rather than one requiring the government to regularly write checks to us-say, because we are disabled or unemployed. ~ Warren Buffett,
588:I understand that in people's eyes, classical music is kind of a lost and dying art, but in my eyes, it's like, "Oh, the musical language, which has been, in the past, only available to a scarce few at the top of the tower, is now wide open." Now people's ears are becoming more amenable to fake strings - I think this is great! ~ Owen Pallett,
589:So if there was a way that I knew something about my character's desires or the things that they were resisting because I was saving it for some grand epiphany moment for my readers, I just feel like that's when you can feel the machine at work in a story. That's when you can feel the writer pulling the strings of the puppet. ~ Molly Antopol,
590:The beauty of string theory is the metaphor kind of really comes very close to the reality. The strings of string theory are vibrating the particles, vibrating the forces of nature into existence, those vibrations are sort of like musical notes. So string theory, if it's correct, would be playing out the score of the universe. ~ Brian Greene,
591:Some people believe in Fate, others don't. I do, and I don't.
It may seem at times as if invisible fingers move us above like puppets on strings. But for sure, we are not
born to be dragged along. We can grab the strings ourselves and adjust our course at every crossroad, or take off at any little trail into the unknown. ~ Thor Heyerdahl,
592:If God thinks this state of war in the universe is a price worth paying for free will--that is, for making a live world in which creatures can do real good or harm and something of real importance of real importance can happen, instead of a toy world which only moves when He pulls the strings--then we may take it it is worth paying. ~ C S Lewis,
593:But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings break, or maybe our ships sink, or maybe we’re grass—our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. We don’t suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. ~ John Green,
594:you choose the strings, then you’re imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose the grass, you’re saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. The metaphors have implications. Do you know what I mean? ~ John Green,
595:She dug into one of the boxes, finding clay angels she’d made in art class when she was seven years old. She found plastic swans on strings and red crystal cardinals. She found a blue-and-white rocking horse covered in glitter. She found a porcelain Santa Claus. She found that she couldn’t figure out where the hell time had gone. ~ Rebecca McNutt,
596:But there are a thousand ways to look at it; maybe the strings break or maybe our ships sink, or maybe we're grass-our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you do have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. ~ John Green,
597:But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings break, or maybe our ship s sink, or maybe we're grass--our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. ~ John Green,
598:By night, moose haunted the roadsides, licking salt left by plows. By day, one of the creatures might be spied farther off in the swamp, dipping its great head into the bog, then lifting it ponderously, water pouring in strings from a head of an outsized, prehistoric horse, sullen eyes of a cow, and drooping lower lip of a giraffe. ~ Eric Rickstad,
599:The thing about developing an addiction is that it happens so quietly, you don’t know how much trouble you’re in until it’s to late. It tiptoes through the rooms of your mind and body, gently inserting hooks and strings into every cell, until you don’t know where you end and it beginigs. And untangling that web is nearly impossible. ~ Leisa Rayven,
600:And he who mingles music with gymnastic in the fairest proportions, and best attempers them to the soul, may be rightly called the true musician and harmonist in a far higher sense than the tuner of the strings. You are quite right, Socrates. And such a presiding genius will be always required in our State if the government is to last. Yes, ~ Plato,
601:I don't feel that comfortable being on the runway with a G-string. I shoot G-strings with Victoria's Secret, but on the runway... It's really about the moment. I work with professionals. Professional people make everything look perfect, they make everything that you're wearing look great, if it's in a picture or on the runway. ~ Alessandra Ambrosio,
602:Wipe out the imagination. Stop the pulling of the strings. Confine thyself to the present. Understand well what happens either to thee or to another. Divide and distribute every object into the causal (formal) and the material. Think of thy last hour. Let the wrong which is done by a man stay there where the wrong was done. Direct ~ Marcus Aurelius,
603:Some people believe in Fate, others don't. I do, and I don't.
It may seem at times as if invisible fingers move us above like puppets on strings. But for sure, we are not
born to be dragged along. We can grab the strings ourselves
and adjust our course at every crossroad, or take off at any
little trail into the unknown. ~ Thor Heyerdahl,
604:The Bowl Of Song
Sweet the song ~ Anacreon



sings,
Sweet notes flow from Sappho's strings:
Pindar's strains, their sweets among,
Add, to crown the bowl of song.
Such a triple charm would sure
Dionysus' lips allure;
Paphos' sleek-skinn'd queen would deign,
Or Love's self, the cup to drain.
~ Anacreon,
605:We are the tools and vassals of rich men behind the scenes. We are the jumping jacks, they pull the strings and we dance.  Our talents, our possibilities and our lives are all the property of other men. We are intellectual prostitutes." —John Swinton, Head of Editorial Staff, New York Times, at a banquet thrown in his honour, 1880 ~ Georgia Le Carre,
606:What was most important in Epicurus’ philosophy of nature was the overall conviction that our life on this earth comes with no strings attached; that there is no Maker whose puppets we are; that there is no script for us to follow and be constrained by; that it is up to us to discover the real constraints which our own nature imposes on us. ~ Epicurus,
607:If a class contains more than about seven data members, consider whether the class should be decomposed into multiple smaller classes (Riel 1996). You might err more toward the high end of 7±2 if the data members are primitive data types like integers and strings, more toward the lower end of 7±2 if the data members are complex objects. ~ Steve McConnell,
608:Jan Kubelik
Your bow swept over a string, and a long low note quivered to the air.
(A mother of Bohemia sobs over a new child perfect learning to suck milk.)
Your bow ran fast over all the high strings fluttering and wild.
(All the girls in Bohemia are laughing on a Sunday afternoon in the hills with
their lovers.)
~ Carl Sandburg,
609:The people in the city seem paper thin in the mist. They believe they are dancing to the music of their lives... But I think, like the puppets, each of us is pulled upon invisible strings, until the night comes and we are put away. I shiver, and hurry from the square, as the darkness of the city closes over me like canal water or the grave. ~ Neil Gaiman,
610:We can summarize electricity, magnetism and gravity into equations one inch long, and that's the power of field theory. And so I said to myself: I will create a field theory of strings. And when I did it one day, it was incredible, realizing that on a sheet of paper I can write down an equation which summarized almost all physical knowledge. ~ Michio Kaku,
611:Catgut is a type of surgical thread made from the intestines of cows or sheep.” “So why do they call it catgut?” asked Rizzoli. “It goes back to the Middle Ages, when gut strings were used on musical instruments. The musicians referred to their instruments as their kit, and the strings were called kitgut. The word eventually became catgut. ~ Tess Gerritsen,
612:Each of our passions, even love, has a stomach that must not be overloaded. We must in everything write the word 'finis' in time; we must restrain ourselves, when it becomes urgent; we must draw the bolt on the appetite, play a fantasia on the violin, then break the strings with our own hand. The Wise man is he who knows when and how to stop. ~ Victor Hugo,
613:Never before had he said such long strings of sentences in French before, like he did now. In the sheltering dark, his thrusts were slow, deep, sure, his hands digging bruises into her hips, the French rolling in thick purrs off his tongue; she had the impression it was sexual, whatever he said, the way the words caressed and encouraged her. ~ Lauren Gilley,
614:Some strings of marks or noises are meaningful sentences. It is an amazing fact that any normal person can instantly grasp the meaning of even a very long and novel sentence. Each meaningful sentence has parts that are themselves meaningful. Though initially attractive, the Referential Theory of Meaning faces several compelling objections. ~ William G Lycan,
615:Nostradamus said, according to Archie, that the Gods sell the goods that they give us. We had been shown a fine instrument. But the bow could be overlong bent; the harp lose its voice if its strings were not loosened.’

‘I hope he said so in Francis’s hearing. Poor Archie,’ said Marthe. ‘Did he say what should be loosened? His morals? ~ Dorothy Dunnett,
616:Kill them!" I shouted and put my spurs back.
Kill them. This is what the poets sing about. At night, in the hall, when the hearth smoke thickens about the beams and the ale-horns are filled and the harpist plucks his strings, the songs of battle are sung. They are the songs of our family, of our people, and it is how we remember the past. ~ Bernard Cornwell,
617:The cake sitting on the dining room buffet table was wide and three layers tall. There was a fondant topper shaped like a branch, and from that branch draped candy strings of Spanish moss, flowing down the side of the cake like a veil. Bey kept looking over it. Why did Lisette make it so large? They were going to be eating cake for weeks. ~ Sarah Addison Allen,
618:When I've thought about him dying - which admittedly isn't that much - I always thought of it like you said, that all the strings inside him broke. But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings break, or maybe our ships sink, or maybe we're grass - our roots are interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. ~ John Green,
619:You have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. If you choose the strings, then you’re imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose the grass, you’re saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. ~ John Green,
620:It's the city's crush and heave that move you; its intricacy; its endless life. You know the story about Manhattan as a wilderness purchased for strings of beads, but you find it impossible not to believe that it has always been a city; that if you dug beneath it you would find the ruins of another, older city, and then another and another. ~ Michael Cunningham,
621:Thus far did I come laden with my sin; Nor could aught ease the grief that I was in, Till I came hither; what a place is this! Must here be the beginning of my bliss? Must here the burden fall from off my back? Must here the strings that bound it to me crack? Blest cross! blest sepulchre! blest rather be The Man that was there put to shame for me! ~ John Bunyan,
622:And yet we constantly make the active choice to disengage. We listen to our headphones as we walk, run, take the subway. We check our phones when we are having dinner with our friends and family. We think of the next meeting while we are in the current one. In short, we occupy our minds with self-made memorization topics or distracting strings of numbers ~ Anonymous,
623:We listen to the old radio shows. Light flares and spreads across the blue-banded edge, sunrise, sunset, the urban grids in shadow. There is a sweetness in the tenor voice of the young man singing, a simple vigour that time and distance and random noise have enveloped in eloquence and yearning. Every sound, every lilt of strings has this veneer of age. ~ Don DeLillo,
624:I’ll deal with the consequences one way or another, but I’m sick and tired of sitting back and wondering ‘what if.’ I’ve been a puppet for too long. Now that I know I have the potential to fight, I need to cut the strings and do something about it. There’s a reason I was created the way I was. I have to believe that, and I have to seek out my purpose. ~ L J Kentowski,
625:We were so wholly one I had not thought
That we could die apart. I had not thought
That I could move,—and you be stiff and still!
That I could speak,—and you perforce be dumb!
I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof
In some firm fabric, woven in and out;
Your golden filaments in fair design
Across my duller fibre. ~ Edna St Vincent Millay,
626:Perhaps everything was connected to everything, in a discernible if nebulous way, and if one might only trace the fibers and filaments of those connections, one might... One might what? Observe the Grand Design? Untangle all the puppet strings and discover whose hands (or claws) are pulling them? End the ancient search for order and meaning in the universe? ~ Tom Robbins,
627:These are the days when, however simple the future, we do not go
towards it but leave part of life in a lobby whose elevators
divide and enclose us, brightening digits that show

exactly where we are headed, while a young Polish woman
is emptying an ashtray, and we are drawn to a window
whose strings, if we pull them, widen an emptiness. ~ Derek Walcott,
628:It was in his high school music class that he first became acquainted with a battered caramel-colored Stella Parlor. When Harlan raked his fingers over the six strings, his entire body vibrated. He'd never thought of himself as incomplete - one half of something he could name - but there it was, the very thing that had been missing from his young life. ~ Bernice L McFadden,
629:Inspired, Karou said, ‘Hey! That’s what you should do for your project. Make a giant puppeteer, and you be the marionette. You know? You could make it so that when you move, it’s like, I don’t know, reverse puppetry. Has anyone done that before? You’re the puppet, dancing from strings, but really it’s your movements that are making the puppeteer’s hands move? ~ Laini Taylor,
630:Love and hate hold hands always so it made natural sense that they'd get confused by upset married folk in the wee hours once in a while and a nosebleed or bruised breast might result. But it just seemed proof that a great foulness was afoot in the world when a no-strings roll in the hay with a stranger led to chipped teeth or cigarette burns on the wrist. ~ Daniel Woodrell,
631:Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then, a bird of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now, came the violin solo above all the other strings, and those strings were like a cage of silk round my bed. Then flute and oboe bored, like worms of like platinum, into the thick thick toffee gold and silver. ~ Anthony Burgess,
632:Thus far did I come laden with my sin;
Nor could aught ease the grief that I was in
Till I came hither: What a place is This!
Must here be the beginning of my bliss?
Must here the burden fall from off my back?
Must here the strings that bound it to me crack?
Blest Cross! blest Sepulchre! blest rather be
The Man that was put to shame for me ~ John Bunyan,
633:God, the Master Weaver. He stretches the yarn and intertwines the colors, the ragged twine with the velvet strings, the pains with the pleasures. Nothing escapes his reach. Every king, despot, weather pattern, and molecule are at his command. He passes the shuttle back and forth across the generations, and as he does, a design emerges. Satan weaves; God reweaves. ~ Max Lucado,
634:Love is the ultimate outlaw. It just won't adhere to any rules. The most any of us can do is to sign on as its accomplice. Instead of vowing to honor and obey, maybe we should swear to aid and abet. That would mean that security is out of the question. The words "make" and "stay" become inappropriate. My love for you has no strings attached. I love you for free. ~ Tom Robbins,
635:Love is the ultimate outlaw. It just won’t adhere to any rules. The most any of us can do is to sign on as its accomplice. Instead of vowing to honor and obey, maybe we should swear to aid and abet. That would mean that security is out of the question. The words “make” and “stay” become inappropriate. My love for you has no strings attached. I love you for free. ~ Tom Robbins,
636:Where I’ve been is places, and what I’ve seen is things, and there’ve been times I’ve run off from seeing them, off to other places and things. I keep moving, me and this guitar with the silver strings slung behind my shoulder. Sometimes I’ve got food with me, and an extra shirt maybe, but most times just the guitar, and trust to God for what I need else. ~ Manly Wade Wellman,
637:Never having thought of writing for the guitar, I asked Julian Bream for a chart which would explain what the guitar could do. I managed to write some rather pretty pieces for him, except that the first six notes of the first piece all need to be played on open strings. So when he begins to play the audience will probably think he's tuning the bloody thing up! ~ William Walton,
638:For the first time since she'd pieced her heart back together, she felt a small tug at one of the strings. She dropped her hands to her sides and took a step back. The one word she'd waited to hear could destroy her carefully constructed life.

"Don't."

Don't make me forget. Don't make it better. Don't make me love you again.

- Autumn Haven ~ Rachel Gibson,
639:She was a small, hot-tempered woman who wore a widow’s cap with strings floating at her cheeks, and when it was cold, a squirrely fur cloak and tiny fur-lined shoes. She was known to line girls up on the Idle Bench for the smallest infraction and scream at them until they fainted. I despised her, and her “polite education for the female mind,” which was composed ~ Sue Monk Kidd,
640:Then she lay silent as he moved his fingers over the strings with a grace that astounded and compelled. When he added his voice, keeping the volume low to avoid disturbing her neighbors, she felt her heart stop beating. A fallen angel might have a voice like that, she thought, hard and pure and with an unashamed sexuality to it that invited the listener into sin. ~ Nalini Singh,
641:When he gets up he spends an hour kicking and stamping on his French horn so he will not have to play it again. Music, maths, these are things that no longer make any sense to him. They are too perfect, they do not belong here. He does not khow how he ever believed this universe could be a symphony played on super-strings, when it sounds like shit, played on shit. ~ Paul Murray,
642:A lean, loose-jointed Negro had commenced plunking a guitar beside me while I slept. His clothes were rags; his feet peeped out of his shoes. His face had on it some of the sadness of the ages. As he played, he pressed a knife on the strings of the guitar in a manner popularized by Hawaiian guitarists who used steel bars. The effect was unforgettable. ~ William Christopher Handy,
643:The skilful traveller leaves no traces of his wheels or footsteps; the skilful speaker says nothing that can be found fault with or blamed; the skilful reckoner uses no tallies; the skilful closer needs no bolts or bars, while to open what he has shut will be impossible; the skilful binder uses no strings or knots, while to unloose what he has bound will be impossible. ~ Lao Tzu,
644:I repeat, if the strings of this piano are tuned correctly, and the required vibrations are evoked in the corresponding strings, the resulting blending of vibrations coincides almost exactly, even mathematically, with the law-conformable totality of vibrations of the substances issuing from corresponding cosmic sources, according to the sacred Heptaparaparshinokh. ~ G I Gurdjieff,
645:To each memorable image you attach a thought, a label, a category, a piece of the cosmic furniture, syllogisms, an enormous sorites, chains of apothegms, strings of hypallages, rosters of zeugmas, dances of hysteron proteron, apophantic logoi, hierarchic stoichea, processions of equinoxes and parallaxes, herbaria, genealogies of gymnosophists—and so on, to infinity. ~ Umberto Eco,
646:Writing keeps me at my desk, constantly trying to write a perfect sentence. It is a great privilege to make one's living from writing sentences. The sentence is the greatest invention of civilization. To sit all day long assembling these extraordinary strings of words is a marvelous thing. I couldn't ask for anything better. It's as near to godliness as I can get. ~ John Banville,
647:Jazz is the music of the body. The breath comes through brass. It is the body's breath, and the strings' wails and moans are echoes of the body's music. It is the body's vibrations which ripple from the fingers. And the mystery of the withheld theme, known to jazz musicians alone, is like the mystery of our secret life. We give to others only peripheral improvisations. ~ Anais Nin,
648:Jazz is the music of the body. The breath comes through brass. It is the body’s breath, and the strings’ wails and moans are echoes of the body’s music. It is the body’s vibrations which ripple from the fingers. And the mystery of the withheld theme, known to jazz musicians alone, is like the mystery of our secret life. We give to others only peripheral improvisations. ~ Ana s Nin,
649:They stopped thinking with an almost painful relief, stopped seeing; they only breathed and sought each other. They were both in the gray gentle world of a mild hangover of fatigue when the nerves relax in bunches like piano strings, and crackle suddenly like wicker chairs. Nerves so raw and tender must surely join other nerves, lips to lips, breast to breast… ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,
650:Mr Wooster, I am not ashamed to say that the tears came into my eyes as I listened to them. It amazes me that a man as young as you can have been able to plumb human nature so surely to its depths; to play with so unerring a hand on the quivering heart-strings of your reader; to write novels so true, so human, so moving, so vital!"
"Oh, it's just a knack," I said. ~ P G Wodehouse,
651:When I was a little child there used to be two blind performers in Rajkot. One of them was a musician. When he played on his instrument, his fingers swept the strings with an unerring instinct and everybody listened spellbound to his playing. Similarly there are chords in every human heart. If we only knew how to strike the right chord, we would bring out the music. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,
652:When she stopped playing, she looked thoughtful for a moment and said something like, ‘I sometimes want to stop time. I sometimes want, in a happy moment, for a church bell never to ring again. I want not to ever have to go to the market again. I want for the starlings to stop flying in the sky. . . . But we are all at the mercy of time. We are all the strings, aren’t we? ~ Matt Haig,
653:Part of a moon was falling down the west,
Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw
And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand
Among the harp-like morning-glory strings,
Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,
As if she played unheard the tenderness
That wrought on him beside her in the night. ~ Robert Frost,
654:It seemed that having girlfriends was a sign of innocence and a boundless capacity to care about other women. The hearts in that photograph and multiple strings attached to multiple other hearts. Everything was less about cliché and more about camaraderie. We weren't out for ourselves, we were out for each other. When had I forgotten that? When had I cut the pink wire? ~ Sloane Crosley,
655:He thought for a moment. About puppets.
About being controlled.
Everyone was controlled by something, the Impressionist knew. By a spouse. A parent. A boss. A friend. By one’s own impulses, be they dark or light.
Everyone was a puppet to something.
Most people just couldn’t see the strings, is all. And so they didn’t believe they were puppets in the first place. ~ Barry Lyga,
656:All I want for my birthday is to get fucked unconscious with no strings attached.” Not a lie.



“What a coincidence. I’ve got a big dick, a bar tab, and the local cab company’s number on speed dial.” The guy’s eyes bore into me from behind the dark lenses, and I have a momentary lapse in vaginal secretion control.



Clean up on aisle twelve, stat! ~ Kendall Grey,
657:Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress. Act a charity sometimes. When a poor creature (outwardly and visibly such) comes before thee, do not stay to inquire whether the "seven small children," in whose name he implores thy assistance, have a veritable existence. Rake not into the bowels of unwelcome truth, to save a halfpenny. It is good to believe him. ~ Charles Lamb,
658:love one another, but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup. give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. ~ Khalil Gibran,
659:Improvisations: Light And Snow: 01
The girl in the room beneath
Before going to bed
Strums on a mandolin
The three simple tunes she knows.
How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels!
When she has finished them several times
She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails
And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.
~ Conrad Potter Aiken,
660:The near end of the street was rather dark and had mostly vegetable shops. Abundance of vegetables - piles of white and green fennel, like celery, and great sheaves of young, purplish, sea-dust-coloured artichokes . . . long strings of dried figs, mountains of big oranges, scarlet large peppers, a large slice of pumpkin, a great mass of colours and vegetable freshness. . . . ~ D H Lawrence,
661:Love's the only thing I've thought of or read about since I was knee-high. That's what I always dreamed of, of meeting somebody and falling in love. And when that remarkable thing happened, I was going to recite poetry to her for hours about how her heart's an angel's wing and her hair the strings of a heavenly harp. Instead I got drunk and hollered at her and called her a harpy. ~ Ben Hecht,
662:Scott smirked. "You know it's always worse when you're around. And I still think I can keep up with you. Of course, you're going to drive off, go back home, drink a fifth and play guitar all night and not feel a thing. On the other hand, I'll be up thirteen times to take a piss before five AM, have a hella case of acid reflux and sore fingers from shredding guitar strings. ~ Carrie Clevenger,
663:teeth. As a child I used to tie strings of red dental floss around a wiggly tooth and leave the floss dangling there for days and days until the tooth fell out on its own. Marjorie would call me a tease and chase me around the house trying to pull the wax string, and I would scream and cry because it was fun and because I was afraid if I let her pull out one tooth she wouldn’t ~ Paul Tremblay,
664:And yet from thought of death, my friends, I shrink;
I want to live - to suffer and to think,
To taste of care and grief and tribulation,
Of rapture and of sweet exhilaration;
Be drunk with harmony; touch fancy's strings
And freely weep o'er its imaginings...
And love's last flash, its smile of farewell tender
My sad decline may yet less mournful render. ~ Alexander Pushkin,
665:The relations individuals enter into with other individuals nowadays have been described as ‘pure’ – meaning ‘no strings attached’, no unconditional obligations assumed and so no predetermination, and therefore no mortgaging, of the future. The sole foundation and only reason for the relationship to continue is, it has been said, the amount of mutual satisfaction drawn from it. ~ Zygmunt Bauman,
666:His confidences, this mist, had led us unexpectedly onto a peninsula of intimacy, and I found myself on the brink of telling what I had never told anyone before. The words flew ready-formed into my head, organized themselves instantly into sentences, long strings of sentences, bursting with impatience to fly from my tongue. As if they had spent years planning for this moment. ~ Diane Setterfield,
667:But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. If you choose the strings, then you’re imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose the grass, you’re saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. The metaphors have implications. ~ John Green,
668:The Jew continues to monopolize money, and he loosens or strangles the throat of the state with the loosening or strengthening of his purse strings...He has empowered himself with the engines of the press, which he uses to batter at the foundations of society. He is at the bottom of...every enterprise that will demolish first of all thrones, afterwards the altar, afterwards civil law. ~ Franz Liszt,
669:The puppet dances, He turns flips and he jigs. His painted red smile looks happy but he is screaming, for he performs on red-hot coals. His wooden feet begin to smoke. A man comes in with a shining axe. He swings it. I think he will cut off the puppet's burning feet, but instead the axe cuts all his strings. But the man with the axe falls just as swiftly as the puppet leaps away, free. ~ Robin Hobb,
670:Sully suffers from a stutter,
simple syllables will clutter,
stalling speeches up on beaches
like a sunken sailboat rudder.

Sully strains to say his phrases,
sickened by the sounds he raises,
strings of thoughts come out in knots,
he solves his sentences like mazes.

At night, he writes his thoughts instead
and sighs as they steadily rush from his head. ~ Bo Burnham,
671:The flower inside the fruit that is both its parent and its child. Decadent as ancestors. The portal and that which passes. Nuclear devices activated, and the machine keeps pushing time through the cogs, like paste into strings into paste again, and only the machine keeps using time to make time to make time. And when the machine stops, time was an illusion that we created free will. ~ Ronald D Moore,
672:Were you good at hide-and-seek? I sucked at it. Jude would talk stupid gibberish while looking for me. Stuff that would make me giggle and give away my hiding spot.

He’d say things like, ‘I ran out of dental floss so I cut the strings off your tampons. Is that going to be a problem?’ or, ‘I masturbate in the shower. Don’t you think it’s odd that you never run out of conditioner? ~ Jewel E Ann,
673:The eating of meat was unknown up to the big flood, but since the flood they have put the strings and stinking juices of animal meat into our mouths, just as they threw in front of the grumbling sensual people in the desert. Jesus Christ, who appeared when the time had been fulfilled, has again joined the end with the beginning, so that it is no longer allowed for us to eat animal meat. ~ Saint Jerome,
674:Because we suddenly see that making everything all right would NOT make everything all right. We would not be human beings. We would then be no more than puppets obeying the strings of the master puppeteer. We agree sadly that it is a good thing that we are not God; we do not have to understand God's ways, or the suffering and brokenness and pain that sooner or later come to us all. ~ Madeleine L Engle,
675:The individual who is friend- or enemy-centered has no intrinsic security. Feelings of self-worth are volatile, a function of the emotional state or behavior of other people. Guidance comes from the person’s perception of how others will respond, and wisdom is limited by the social lens or by an enemy-centered paranoia. The individual has no power. Other people are pulling the strings. ~ Stephen R Covey,
676:The Shepherd Of King Bimbisaran
I too had a mother
When a King bought me, a slave,
She was given a price, a few coins
She tied them to my apron-strings
And left bare-handed
I bought a blanket, later
To protect her from cold
Alas! When I came with the gift at last
She had gone for eternal rest
Under the cover of a thick earthen blanket.
~ Edasseri Govindan Nair,
677:Sam [Phillips] wanted I Walk The Line up - you know, up-tempo. And I put paper in the strings of my guitar to get that (vocalizing) sound, and with the bass and the lead guitar, there it was. Bare and stark, that song was when it was released. And I heard it on the radio and I really didn't like it, and I called Sam Phillips and asked him please not to send out any more records of that song. ~ Johnny Cash,
678:Universes may co-exist in the same wave-train, operating as the harmonics of a complex of frequencies. Analogous to the groove in a phonograph record, which is easily distinguished into horns and strings by the practiced ear—horns one universe, strings another. We may exist in all universes, but ‘hear’ only one because of our limitations, the valve of our desires, our practical, physical needs. ~ Greg Bear,
679:The question is, do we have a shadow government? And, if we do, who are those intelligent minority that is -- that is guiding us through? And where are they guiding us to? If you skip past all of the puppets and the strings, if you stop looking at the puppets themselves, you have to see who's behind the puppets. Who is choosing the puppets and the players? Who's the puppet master? George Soros. ~ Glenn Beck,
680:When Pat Holt strings together a list of words not to overuse—“Actually, totally, absolutely, completely, continually, constantly, continuously, literally, really, unfortunately, ironically, incredibly, hopefully, finally”—she’s not being a stickler for formality and grammar. Instead she’s reminding us that words matter, that poor word use is just a red flag for someone who wants to ignore you. ~ Seth Godin,
681:Did you know that without rosin, the bow slides across the cello strings and makes a faint whispery sound, or no sound at all? It’s the rosin that provides the friction in order to produce sound when it’s pulled across the strings. Before you, Jamie, I was whispering through life. With you, I’m whole. I’m melodious and tuneful. Pure musicality.” She smiled up at him. “You’re my rosin, Jamie. ~ Melissa Foster,
682:There are men charged with the duty of examining the construction of the plants, animals, and soils which are the instruments of the great orchestra. These men are called professors. Each selects one instrument and spends his life taking it apart and describing its strings and sounding boards. This process of dismemberment is called research. The place for dismemberment is called a university. ~ Aldo Leopold,
683:Mori made an unwilling sound. 'I don't like Western art.'

'No look at this.' He lifted it from its package. It wasn't heavy. 'It's clever, it looks like busy Mozart.'

'What?'

'I . . .' Thaniel sighed. 'I see sound. Mozart looks like this. You know. Fast strings.'

'See? In front of you?'

'Yes. I'm not mad.'

'I didn't think so. All sounds?'

'Yes. ~ Natasha Pulley,
684:...the laws of physics, carefully constructed after thousands of years of experimentation, are nothing but the laws of harmony one can write down for strings and membranes. The laws of chemistry are the melodies that one can play on these strings. the universe is a symphony of strings. And the "Mind of God," which Einstein wrote eloquently about, is cosmic music resonating throughout hyperspace. ~ Michio Kaku,
685:Every cell in your body, she said, was a quark, a sort of vibrating string. And through their thoughts and intentions, human beings had an almost magnetic power to attract similar strings out in the universe. As the number and intensity of these attracted strings build, a critical mass is reached and the want, whatever that may be, comes into being. “Most of us are more powerful than we know. ~ Karen McQuestion,
686:   Something very odd is going on in our world. It is not simply the manifestation into our physical reality of things that western culture merely considers symbolic or archetypal. It is also that these manifestations appear in a bizarrely synchronistic manner. It is as if someone or some intelligence is pulling the strings of our reality, and doing so in order to tell us something. To teach us. ~ Mike Clelland,
687:The forlorn notes of Cristofori’s Dream replaced the eerie silence, sending a chill up my neck. The piano sang in desperation. Lamenting strings pierced the air as if grieving on my behalf. The notes edged through my mind, and I stared across the room, right through the beige wall to the void beyond. My eyes labored through nothingness, searching for the tiniest fragment of hope to no avail. ~ Christie Anderson,
688:Stepan Trofimovich managed to touch the deepest strings in his friend's heart and to call forth in him the first, still uncertain sensation of that age-old, sacred anguish which the chosen soul, having once tasted and known it, will never exchange for any cheap satisfaction. (There are lovers of this anguish who cherish it more than the most radical satisfaction, if that were even possible.) ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,
689:Stephen Gray to devise an experiment that for sheer inventive panache outstripped anything that had come before. He clothed a boy in heavy garments until his body was thoroughly insulated but left the boy’s hands, head, and feet naked. Using nonconducting silk strings, he hung the boy in the air, then touched an electrified glass tube to his naked foot, thus causing a spark to rocket from his nose. ~ Erik Larson,
690:After an hour of blather, I started to understand Tyler Durden. Human interaction to him was a program. Behavior was determined by frames and congruence and state and validation and other big-chunk psychological principles. And he wanted to be the Wizard of Oz: the little guy behind the curtain, pulling the strings that made everyone around him think he was a big and powerful master of the realm. I ~ Neil Strauss,
691:God makes it all come right in the end, that's what Johnnie told Dock Barker just before we parted company. I was raised a Christian-I admit I fell away a bit along my
journey-and I believe that: we're stuck with what we have, but that's all right; in God's
eyes, none of us are really much more than flies on strings and all that matters is how
much sunshine you can spread along the way. ~ Stephen King,
692:Inside, upstairs, where the planes are met, the spaces are long and low and lined in tasteful felt gray like that cocky stewardess's cap and filled with the kind of music you become aware of only when the elevator stops or when the dentist stops drilling. Plucked strings, no vocals, music that's used to being ignored, a kind of carpet in the air, to cover up a silence that might remind you of death. ~ John Updike,
693:You are entitled to it, and there are no strings attached. You must never depend on another person to “give” you happiness; that places too much of a burden on both of you. If you are truly happy inside yourself and allow the other person that same right, then you automatically bring happiness to each other without even trying, and it is a bonus because it is not expected or anticipated…it just is. ~ Wayne W Dyer,
694:Because music is like hope. Between the strings in this box," he ran his fingers along the keys of the piano and began to play once again, "and the strings in the heart, there is nothing but air and magic. Songs can lead men laughing into battle, lay strong men low, make you fall in love, let you visit with the dead. Ain't nothing real to it - just words and rhythm - but it's got power, all the same. ~ R S Belcher,
695:For me the world has always been more of a puppet show. But when one looks behind the curtain and traces the strings upward he finds they terminate in the hands of yet other puppets, themselves with their own strings which trace upward in turn, and so on. In my own life I saw these strings whose origins were endless enact the deaths of great men in violence and madness. Enact the ruin of a nation. ~ Cormac McCarthy,
696:He lay in the grass amid a little clump of alders, trembling, hot and cold, trying not to puke (he had spent the entire previous day puking and shitting, it seemed, until the muscles of his midsection ached with the strain of sending such heavy traffic in two directions at once and nothing came up his throat but thick, mucusy strings and nothing out of his backside but brown stew and great hollow farts), ~ Anonymous,
697:What is a secret? It is much more than knowledge shared with only a few, or perhaps only one another. It is power. It is a bond. It is a sign of deep trust, or the darkest threat possible....
Be very chary of revealing your hoarded secrets. Many lose all power once they have been divulged. Be even more careful of sharing your secrets lest you find yourself a puppet dancing on someone else's strings. ~ Robin Hobb,
698:You’re so damned brilliant," said Phelim. "You know everything. It’s hard-set you’d be to give yourself a dull Saturday afternoon. We’re all puppets—not the old Queens only, but the rest of us, man, woman and child, looking the fools of the world. [...] You have them there, on their strings, all curled tight to your littlest finger; and you little heeding as you swing them what soul you may bruise. ~ Dorothy Dunnett,
699:The Work is merely four questions; it's not even a thing. It has no motive, no strings. It's nothing without your answers. These four questions will join any program you've got and enhance it. Any religion you have - they'll enhance it. If you have no religion, they will bring you joy. And they'll burn up anything that isn't true for you. They'll burn through to the reality that has always been waiting. ~ Byron Katie,
700:And she felt the beauty in the music now, drank it in with tears streaming down her face. Never had she been so naked in worship before her Creator, allowing the adoration to bleed out her very fingertips onto the strings, playing her heart's cry for every single lost soul, for the loss of innocence every generation to come would possess as a result of what happened at the killing fields of Auschwitz. ~ Kristy Cambron,
701:And all of these involved remembering that someone existed whom you hadn’t thought of in a while, an ability that had atrophied in the minds of people who could not remember a time without social networking, just as people near the end of the twentieth century had lost the ability to remember the long and semi-random strings of digits that made up phone numbers once cellphones began to do that for them. ~ Dexter Palmer,
702:I turn my back and look out to sea, the sun so low and molten that my eyes fill with tears, and yet I can feel it: a cooler wind is coming in, the edge of evening approaching. Dusk is gathering along the coast, in the coves and quaysides and marinas, where in an hour or so the long strings of coloured bulbs will twinkle and sway; and then it will pass over us-like a visitation: a plague or a blessing.... ~ Harriet Lane,
703:I would run to rejoin the children. Especially when it was time for the kite-flying contests- where the boys would skilfully try to cut down their competitors' kite strings. It plunges. It was beautiful, and also a bit melancholy for me to see the pretty kites sputter to the ground.
Maybe it was because I could see a future that would be cut down just like those kites- simply because I was a girl. ~ Malala Yousafzai,
704:In Ersilia, to establish the relationships that sustain the city’s life, inhabitants stretch strings from the corners of the houses, white or black or gray or black-and-white according to whether they mark a relationship of blood, of trade, authority, agency. When the strings become so numerous that you can no longer pass among them, the inhabitants leave: the houses are dismantled. —Italo Calvino ~ Siddhartha Mukherjee,
705:Many of the younger generation know my name in a vague way and connect it with grotesque inventions, but don't believe that I ever existed as a person. They think I'm a nonperson, just a name that signifies a tangled web of pipes or wires or strings that suggest machinery. My name to them is like a spiral staircase, veal cutlets, barber's itch — terms that give you an immediate picture of what they mean. ~ Rube Goldberg,
706:1How good it is to give thanks to the Eternal and to praise Your name with song, O Most High; 2To speak of Your unfailing love in the morning and rehearse Your faithfulness as night begins to fall. 3How good it is to praise to the sound of strings—lute and harp— the stirring melodies of the lyre. 4Because You, O Eternal One, thrill me with the things You have done, I will sing with joy in light of Your deeds. ~ Anonymous,
707:The rain thickened; then slacked, then came down again in floods; the night crackled and roared with change and iron cold. Drunk with coziness, the pup wallowed beside me and groaned, and I remember wondering, before I slept, a little more about the relationship of storms to man … If, being animal, we ring like guitar strings to nature’s furies, what hope can there be for our ultimate, planned peacefulness? ~ John Graves,
708:Children get food shelter pocket money longholidays and love, all of it apparently free gratis, and most of the little fools think it's a sort of compensation for having been born. 'There are no strings on me!' They sang; but I, pinnoccio, saw the strings. Parents are impelled by the profit motive - nothing more, nothing less. For their attentions, they expected, from me, the immense dividend of greatness. ~ Salman Rushdie,
709:If you think reading a book is hard, you should try writing one. Because it's even harder. It's still not as hard as writing a game, though. If you discount the purely visual pop-up parts, a book is made almost entirely of words. As a novelist, you just need to think of a few decent strings of words and then fill the other 98% of the book with more or less random descriptions of things and exclamation points. ~ Erik Wolpaw,
710:I learned early that the richness of life is found in adventure. Adventure calls on all the faculties of mind and spirit. It develops self-reliance and independence. Life then teems with excitement. But man is not ready for adventure unless he is rid of fear. For fear confines him and limits his scope. He stays tethered by strings of doubt and indecision and has only a small and narrow world to explore. ~ William O Douglas,
711:You get born and you try this and you don't know why, only you keep on trying it and you are born at the same time with a lot of other people, all mixed up with them, like trying to, having to, move your arms and legs with strings, only the same strings are hitched to all the other arms and legs and the others all trying and they don't know why either except that the strings are all in one another's way. ~ William Faulkner,
712:Critics are like horse-flies which hinder the horses in their plowing of the soil. The horse works, all its muscles drawn tight like the strings on a double-bass, and a fly settles on his flanks and tickles and buzzes. And what does the fly buzz about? It scarcely knows itself; simply because it is restless and wants to proclaim: 'Look, I too am living on the earth. See, I can buzz, too, buzz about anything.' ~ Anton Chekhov,
713:During the reign of Rameses III (the Twentieth Dynasty) Egypt saw a flowering of its civilization and the harp became the royal instrument of priests and kings. Often times they had as many as 21 strings. Under the manipulation "the Minstrels of the Gods" the music was of rare potency. "Musical Medicine" was an actuality. Healing, along with numerous so-called "supernatural feats" was attributed to this art. ~ Corinne Heline,
714:At first only Tamarind had noticed the awkward, disquieting way his expressions changed, as if a puppeteer were pulling wires to move his face muscles, and doing it rather badly. Nowadays she saw the fear in everybody’s eyes. Her brother was going out of tune like an old piano, and nobody would come to retune his strings. Dukes and kings may go mad at their leisure, for nobody has enough power to stop them. ~ Frances Hardinge,
715:I miss you, mourn for you, and walk the streets alone- often at night, beside, I fall asleep in tears, for your dear face, yet not one word comes back to me. If it is finished, tell me, and I will raise the lid to my box of Phantoms, and lay one more love in; but if it lives and beats still, still lives and beats for me, then say so, and I will strike the strings to one more strain of happiness before I die. ~ Emily Dickinson,
716:All the lines that held me to my life were sliced apart in swift cuts, like clipping the strings of a bunch of balloons. Everything that made me who I was - my love for the dead girl upstairs, my love for my father, my loyalty to my new pack, the love for my other brothers, my hatred for my enemies, my home, my name, my self - disconnected from me in that second - snip, snip, snip - and floated up into space. ~ Stephenie Meyer,
717:what I want to write about today is the sea. It contains so many colors. Silver at dawn, green at noon, dark blue in the evening. Sometimes it looks almost red. Or it will turn the color of old coins. Right now the shadows of clouds are dragging across it, and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere. White strings of gulls drag over it like beads. It is my favorite thing, I think, that I have ever seen. ~ Anthony Doerr,
718:A culture may be conceived as a network of beliefs and purposes in which any string in the net pulls and is pulled by the others,thus perpetually changing the configuration of the whole. If the cultural element called morals takes on a new shape, we must ask what other strings have pulled it out of line. It cannot be one solitary string, nor even the strings nearby, for the network is three-dimensional at least. ~ Jacques Barzun,
719:May I strike my heart's keys clearly, and may none fail because of slack, uncertain, or fraying strings. May the tears that stream down my face make me more radiant: may my hidden weeping bloom.... How we waste our afflictions!... [T]hey're really our wintering foliage, our dark greens of meaning, one of the seasons of the clandestine year—; not only a season—: they're site, settlement, shelter, soil, abode. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,
720:3. Pointless bustling of processions, opera arias, herds of sheep and cattle, military exercises. A bone flung to pet poodles, a little food in the fish tank. The miserable servitude of ants, scampering of frightened mice, puppets jerked on strings. Surrounded as we are by all of this, we need to practice acceptance. Without disdain. But remembering that our own worth is measured by what we devote our energy to. ~ Marcus Aurelius,
721:No-strings relationships have helped cure me of love addiction. All my life I've been in long-term monogamous relationships. I had to break that pattern by not allowing myself to have a relationship for a year, stopping myself from committing to men. I haven't been celibate. I've had lots of dates and lots of sex, but I haven't been pushing to turn a date into a relationship. This has been a huge thing for me. ~ Alanis Morissette,
722:Stairs!” Parks yells, pointing. “Get up the stairs.” They do. To the sound of crazed church bells as the windows shatter. Parks is bringing up the rear, throwing grenades over his back like strings of beads at a fucking Mardi Gras parade. And the grenades are going off behind them one after another, barking concussions overlapping in hideous counterpoint. Shrapnel smacks Parks’ flak jacket and his unprotected legs. The ~ M R Carey,
723:When you treat your time together as something he has to do, you’ve taken something that was a pleasure and made it a chore. If you are nice, but you give of yourself with strings attached, the demand for reciprocity will send him several steps backward. Whenever you make him feel as though he has to see you, it will feel like work. When it’s not an obligation to see you, the very same thing will feel like pleasure. ~ Sherry Argov,
724:A thrumming of piano-strings beyond the gardens and through the elms. At length the melody steals into my being. I know not when it began to occupy me. By some fortunate coincidence of thought or circumstance I am attuned to the universe, I am fitted to hear, my being moves in a sphere of melody, my fancy and imagination are excited to an inconceivable degree. This is no longer the dull earth on which I stood. ~ Henry David Thoreau,
725:And one of the things I find most moving is the way people with infirmities manage to embrace Life, and from the cool flowers by the wayside reach conclusions about the vast splendour of its great gardens. They can, if their souls' strings are finely tuned, arrive with much less effort at the feeling of eternity; for everything we do, they may dream. And precisely where our deeds end, theirs begin to bear fruit. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,
726:He yearned for a thousand tremulous dreams, for cool and delicate images, transparent tints, fleeting scents, and exquisite music from streams of highly strung, tensely drawn silvery strings — and then silence, the innermost heart of silence, where the waves of air never bore a single stray tone, but where all was rest unto death, steeped in the calm glow of red colors and the languid warmth of fiery fragrance. ~ Jens Peter Jacobsen,
727:I met many Russians over the years who were convinced my brothers and I were a cabal, pulling strings behind the scenes to shape American policy. The Soviets had no conception of how a pluralistic democracy works and believed elected officials, up to and including the president of the United States, were only figureheads acting out the roles dictated to them by the real "powers that be" - in this case, my family. ~ David Rockefeller,
728:The beauty of the flute was in its simplicity, in its resemblance to the human voice. It always sounded clear. It sounded alone. The piano, on the other hand, was a network of parts—a ship, with its strings like rigging, its case a hull, its lifted lid a sail. Kestrel always thought that the piano didn't sound like a single instrument but a twinned one, with its low and high halves merging together or pulling apart. ~ Marie Rutkoski,
729:We are, almost all of us, descended from people who responded to the dangers of existence by inventing stories about unpredictable or disgruntled deities. For a long time the human instinct to understand was thwarted by facile religious explanations [...].
For thousands of years humans were oppressed - as some of us still are - by the notion that the universe is a marionette whose strings are pulled by a god or gods. ~ Carl Sagan,
730:If you want to run the show, God will let you. If you want to pull all the strings, that's up to you. If you want to insist that what you are doing is the way it should be done, even when you are not getting anywhere, go right ahead. God will let you run yourself ragged, if you choose to do so. Unfortunately, you may not always be aware that you are in God's way. . . . God has no need to prove to you what God can do. ~ Iyanla Vanzant,
731: Who art thou that camest
Who art thou that camest
Bearing the occult Name,
Wings of regal darkness,
Eyes of an unborn flame?
Like the august uprising
Of a forgotten sun
Out of the caverned midnight
Fire-trails of wonder run.

Captured the heart renouncing
Tautness of passion-worn strings
Allows the wide-wayed sweetness
Of free supernal things.
~ Sri Aurobindo, - Who art thou that camest
,
732:Long legs and longer arms, each tipped with a row of black talons. Sinewy. Wiry. And above all, humanoid, its skin in the sunlight as translucent as a baby mouse’s—mapped with a network of blue veins and purple arteries and even its heart faintly visible as a pinkish throb just right of center mass. snarling as strings of bloody saliva dangled from the corners of its lipless mouth, creamy eyes hard-focused on its target. ~ Blake Crouch,
733:That night . . . something happened to me. Something I've never felt before. I was heartbroken and sick inside. And I prayed. I cried out for love, not even knowing that love was what I asked for. I needed to feel loved, and it was just . . . just poured down on me. No strings, no ultimatums, no promises required. Just freely given. All I had to do was ask. And I was . . . changed by it. In that moment, I felt . . . healed. ~ Anonymous,
734:Vocal music is considered to be the highest, for it is natural; the effect produced by an instrument which is merely a machine cannot be compared with that of the human voice. However perfect strings may be, they cannot make the same impression on the listener as the voice which comes direct from the soul as breath, and has been brought to the surface through the medium of the mind and the vocal organs of the body. ~ Hazrat Inayat Khan,
735:I've written arrangements for choirs and strings in the past, but I usually write music with my voice or a keyboard and then I'll get someone who is good at writing scores to write it out. Or, if I have the luxury of time, I will go in a room and hear the people perform and then change it through what I hear, not on paper. I can read music OK, but I probably rebelled a little - music changes into something else when you read it. ~ Bjork,
736:One hot afternoon during the era in which you’ve gotten yourself ridiculously tangled up with heroin, you will be riding the bus and thinking what a worthless piece of crap you are when a little girl will get on the bus holding the strings of two purple balloons. She’ll offer you one of the balloons, but you won’t take it because you believe you no longer have a right to such tiny beautiful things. You’re wrong. You do. ~ Cheryl Strayed,
737:If you find yourself cluttered up and done in by disorganization, ask yourself why you seem to hang on to everything that comes your way. Do you feel obligated to keep it just because someone gave it to you? Of course, we don’t want to hurt people’s feelings, but on the other hand, if a gift is given correctly, it comes with no strings attached. If someone truly gives you a gift, it should be yours to do with as you please. ~ Joyce Meyer,
738:It is no parlor trick: There is a skull and, in the dark, it is glowing. Somehow it is now floating above us all. Listen: The skull is speaking. It is saying your name. It knows about you and your favorite flower and all about your tenth birthday. But it does not matter. You are not convinced. For some reason, you are still full of doubt. You stare into the dark, looking for wires. Grasping for strings, you hold your hands out. ~ Joe Meno,
739:A lot of the strings that hold us like puppets are really inventions of our own minds. I'm not saying that there aren't armies and police and various ways to punish deviants, but there isn't any way to punish a large number of deviants. It's too expensive to even try. So, the solution is to colonize the minds of children as they're growing up, so that they become their own police, and to report on others who are deviating. ~ John Taylor Gatto,
740:At West Virginia University, the Charles Koch Foundation’s donation of $965,000 to create the Center for Free Enterprise came with some strings attached. The foundation required the school to give it a say over the professors it funded, in violation of traditional standards of academic independence. The Kochs’ investment had an outsized impact in the small, poor state where coal, in which the Kochs had a financial interest, ruled. ~ Jane Mayer,
741:Dimly, as if through a veil, geneticists were beginning to visualize patterns and themes: threads, strings, maps, crossings, broken and unbroken lines, chromosomes that carried information in a coded and compressed form. But no one had seen a gene in action or knew its material essence. The central quest of the study of heredity seemed like an object perceived only through its shadows, tantalizingly invisible to science. ~ Siddhartha Mukherjee,
742:We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors...but you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. If you choose the strings, then you're imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose the grass, you'r e saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. The metaphors have implications. ~ John Green,
743:I like the strings. I always have. Because that's how it feels. But the strings make pain seem more fatal than it is, I think. We're not as frail as the strings would make us believe. And I like the grass, too. The grass got me to you, helped me to imagine you as an actual person. But we're not different sprouts from the same plant. I can't be you. You can't be me. You can imagine another well – but never quite perfectly, you know? ~ John Green,
744:It wasn’t until I’d walked halfway across the parking lot that I realized: 1. I wasn’t wearing shoes.
A. Or a shirt.
2. I didn’t bring my keys                      
A. Or anything really.
3. I’d just left a complete stranger in my apartment.                      
A. Naked.

Whoever said one-night stands were supposed to be simple with no strings attached had clearly never met the disaster that was me. ~ Cora Carmack,
745:No free people ever existed, or can ever exist, without keeping the purse strings in their own hands. Where this is the case, they have a constitutional check upon the administration, which may thereby by brought into order without violence. But when such a power is not lodged in the people, oppression proceeds uncontrolled in its career, till the governed, transported into rage, seek redress in the midst of blood and confusion. ~ John Dickinson,
746:I want him to know I love him. I want him to feel that we both tried, but this was way too big for us: we aren't going to survive this. Even if I hadn't done what I did with Mal, almost all the strings of our marriage have been severed; waiting together to say goodbye is the last one. Once it has been cut, only love will remain. And it takes more than love--no matter how fervent, deep and passionate--to keep two people together. ~ Dorothy Koomson,
747:It was pitch dark. I could hear only the violin, and it was as though Juliek's soul were the bow. He was playing his life. The whole of his life was gliding on the strings--his last hopes, his charred past, his extinguished future. He played as he would never play again...When I awoke, in the daylight, I could see Juliek, opposite me, slumped over, dead. Near him lay his violin, smashed, trampled, a strange overwhelming little corpse. ~ Elie Wiesel,
748:Hallelujah! Praise God in his holy house of worship, praise him under the open skies; Praise him for his acts of power, praise him for his magnificent greatness; Praise with a blast on the trumpet, praise by strumming soft strings; Praise him with castanets and dance, praise him with banjo and flute; Praise him with cymbals and a big bass drum, praise him with fiddles and mandolin. Let every living, breathing creature praise GOD! ~ Eugene H Peterson,
749:When we hear a Mozart piano concerto today, we're most likely to hear the piano part played on a modern concert grand. In the hands of a professional pianist, such a piano can bury the strings and the winds and hold its own against the brass. But Mozart wasn't composing for a nine-foot-long, thousand-pound piano; he was composing for a five-and-a-half-foot-long, hundred-and-fifty-pound piano built from balsa wood and dental floss. ~ Robert Greenberg,
750:Douglas Thornton [an English Christian missionary to Cairo, Egypt with the Church Missionary Society from 1898-1907] was often more amusing than he tried to be. He had a delightful way of mixing up two kindred proverbs or idioms. Once he told his companions that he always had two strings up his sleeve. They then asked him if he had another card to his bow. Such exchanges enliven heavy committee eetings and create wholesome laughter. ~ J Oswald Sanders,
751:Every time my parents bring up the subject of if I want to go back to Lake Hills or transfer somewhere else it makes me want to take more pills. Like that's even a possibility. Anything that might resemble a pill is under lock and key in our house. The next time I get my period, I'm going to have to ask Mom's permission for a Midol. She's probably going to ration my use of tampons in case I try to make a noose out of the strings. ~ Sarah Darer Littman,
752:Now, from special relativity we know that energy and mass are two sides of the same coin: Greater energy means greater mass, and vice versa. Thus, according to string theory, the mass of an elementary particle is determined by the energy of the vibrational pattern of its internal string. Heavier particles have internal strings that vibrate more energetically, while lighter particles have internal strings that vibrate less energetically. ~ Brian Greene,
753:But there was another thing Momo couldn't quite understand - a thing that hadn't happened until very recently. More and more often these days, children turned up with all kinds of toys you couldn't really play with: remote-controlled tanks that trundled to and fro but did little else, or space rockets that whizzed around on strings but go nowhere, or model robots that waddled along with eyes flashing and heads swiveling but that was all. ~ Michael Ende,
754:May I strike my heart's keys clearly, and may none fail
because of slack, uncertain, or fraying strings.
May the tears that stream down my face
make me more radiant: may my hidden weeping
bloom.... How we waste our afflictions!...
[T]hey're really
our wintering foliage, our dark greens of meaning, one
of the seasons of the clandestine year—; not only
a season—: they're site, settlement, shelter, soil, abode. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,
755:I think string theory provides an explanation.” “Some think that it is only when two strings encounter each other and some qualities are canceled out that the dimensions are unfolded into the macroscopic, and dimensions above three will never have such chances for encountering each other.… I don’t think much of this explanation. It is not mathematically beautiful. Like I said, this is the universe’s three and three hundred thousand syndrome. ~ Liu Cixin,
756:Jesus, music has always been my first love. I use music in my work because it's the fastest way to an emotional place. You hear a song, and that memory comes right back-- you're there... Making music is immediate, and it's all about you. If you're playing guitar, the feeling comes through-- the way you bend the note, the intensity with which you hit the strings. With making films, although it's real emotion, it's false emotion. You're lying. ~ Johnny Depp,
757:A reader is entitled to believe what he or she believes is consonant with the facts of the book. It is not unusual that readers take away something that is spiritually at variance from what I myself experienced. That's not to say readers make up the book they want. We all have to agree on the facts. But readers bring their histories and all sets of longings. A book will pluck the strings of those longings differently among different readers. ~ Richard Ford,
758:2    Praise him for his  o mighty deeds;         praise him according to his excellent  p greatness!     3 Praise him with  q trumpet sound;         praise him with  r lute and  r harp! 4    Praise him with  s tambourine and  s dance;         praise him with  t strings and  u pipe! 5    Praise him with sounding  v cymbals;         praise him with loud clashing cymbals! 6    Let  w everything that has breath praise the LORD!      x Praise the LORD! ~ Anonymous,
759:Every cell in your body, she said, was a quark, a sort of vibrating string. And through their thoughts and intentions, human beings had an almost magnetic power to attract similar strings out in the universe. As the number and intensity of these attracted strings build, a critical mass is reached and the want, whatever that may be, comes into being. “Most of us are more powerful than we know. We are each in charge of our own vibrating energy. ~ Karen McQuestion,
760:Coincidence may be described as the chance encounter of two unrelated causal chains which-miraculously, it seems-merge into a significant event. It provides the neatest paradigm of the bisociation of previously separate contexts, engineered by fate. Coincidences are puns of destiny. In the pun, two strings of thought are tangled into one acoustic knot; in the coincidental happening, two strings of events are knitted together by invisible hands. ~ Arthur Koestler,
761:Effortlessly, Love flows from God into man, Like a bird Who rivers the air Without moving her wings. Thus we move in His world One in body and soul, Though outwardly separate in form. As the Source strikes the note, Humanity sings -- The Holy Spirit is our harpist, And all strings Which are touched in Love Must sound. [1527.jpg] -- from The Enlightened Heart: An Anthology of Sacred Poetry, by Stephen Mitchell

~ Mechthild of Magdeburg, Effortlessly
,
762:We have to ask ourselves why we are so focused on silent girly-girls in G-strings faking lust. This is not a sign of progress, it's a testament to what's still missing from our understanding of human sexuality with all its complexity and power. We are still so uneasy with the vicissitudes of sex we need to surround ourselves with caricatures of female hotness to safely conjure up the concept of 'sexy.' When you think about it, it's kind of pathetic. ~ Ariel Levy,
763:Simon did everything inexpertly. He was really good at it. He was one of those tall lads apparently made out of knees, thumbs and elbows. Watching him walk was a strain, you kept waiting for the strings to snap, and when he talked the spasm of agony on his face if he spotted an S or W looming ahead in the sentence made people instinctively say them for him. It was worth it for the grateful look which spread across his acned face like sunrise on the moon. ~ Anonymous,
764:You can't hang around waiting for somebody else to pull your strings. Destiny's what you make of it. You have to face whatever life throws at you. And if it throws more than you'd like, more than you think you can handle? Well then you just have to find the heroism within yourself and play out the hand you've been dealt. The universe never sets a challenge that can't be met. You just need to believe in yourself in order to find the strength to face it. ~ Darren Shan,
765:I live inside my own skin. Anything that happens outside it doesn't change who I am. This isn't something I'm proud of; as far as I'm concerned, it's a bare minimum baseline requirement for calling yourself an adult human being, somewhere around the level of knowing how to do your own washing or change a toilet roll. All those idiots on the websites, begging for other people to pull their sagging puppet-strings, turn them real: they make me want to spit. ~ Tana French,
766:Those who arrive at Thekla can see little of the city, beyond the plank fences, the sackcloth screens, the scaffoldings, the metal armatures, the wooden catwalks hanging from ropes or supported by sawhorses, the ladders, the trestles. If you ask, “Why is Thekla’s construction taking such a long time?” the inhabitants continue hoisting sacks, lowering leaded strings, moving long brushes up and down, as they answer, “So that its destruction cannot begin. ~ Italo Calvino,
767:she sees them, again and again, all lighting at once, filling up the winter-naked trees, shockwave riders on the moving edge of nature’s most violent season, she sees them take wing again and again, the flutter of their wings like the snap of many sheets on the line, and she thinks: A month from now every kid in Derry Park will have a kite, they’ll run to keep the strings from getting tangled with each other. She thinks again: This is what flying is like. ~ Stephen King,
768:Thankfully you tune the strings of your moldering lyre to a moderated, to a passably joyful, nay, to an even delighted psalm of thanksgiving and with it bore your quiet, flabby and slightly stupefied half-and-half god of contentment; and in the thick warm air of a contented boredom and very welcome painlessness the nodding mandarin of a half-and-half god and the nodding middle-aged gentleman who sings his muffled psalm look as like each other as two peas. ~ Hermann Hesse,
769:it is likely that even if string theory is right, no one ever will. Strings are so small that a direct observation would be tantamount to reading the text on this page from a distance of 100 light-years: it would require resolving power nearly a billion billion times finer than our current technology allows. Some scientists argue vociferously that a theory so removed from direct empirical testing lies in the realm of philosophy or theology, but not physics. ~ Brian Greene,
770:Misted the flowers weep as light dies
Moon of white silk sleeplessly cries.
Stilled - Phoenix wings.
Touched - Mandarin strings.

This song tells secrets that no one knows
To far Yenjan on Spring breeze it goes.
To you it flies
Through the night skies.

Sidelong - Eyes. How
White tears fill now!
Hearts pain? Come see -
In this mirror with me.
by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

~ Li Bai, Yearning
,
771:Outside, the sirens go whirling off in another direction, leaving only the sky stretched over the houses, the lonely beautiful universe, a sad song played on a broken instrument. She wonders if Skippy did hear them tonight. Ruprecht told her that even though you can’t see strings, scientists believed the theory was true because it was the most beautiful explanation. So, Skippy heard their song, that would be the beautiful explanation, wouldn’t it? For tonight? ~ Paul Murray,
772:Time mellows people as it mellows wine, as long as the grapes are good. You may set out to be a businesswoman or businessman but in the course of time end up caring for a dying parent, orphaned niece, or disabled brother. You may encounter illness yourself and end up being a writer, touching the heartstrings, not the purse strings of other people. That's why it's best to always be true to yourself and God and to be flexible within His will. He will use you. ~ Barbara Johnson,
773:It is also possible to carve atomic devices using electron beams. For example, scientists at Cornell University have made the world’s smallest guitar, one that is twenty times smaller than a human hair, carved out of crystalline silicon. It has six strings, each one hundred atoms thick, and the strings can be plucked using an atomic force microscope. (This guitar will actually play music, but the frequencies it produces are well above the range of the human ear.) ~ Michio Kaku,
774:What comes before determines what comes after,” Kellhus continued. “For the Dûnyain, there’s no higher principle.” “And just what comes before?” Cnaiür asked, trying to force a sneer. “For Men? History. Language. Passion. Custom. All these things determine what men say, think, and do. These are the hidden puppet-strings from which all men hang.” Shallow breath. A face freighted by unwanted insights. “And when the strings are seen . . .” “They may be seized.” In ~ R Scott Bakker,
775:Stand Fast Through the Storms of Life.

"You will have all kinds of trials to pass through. And it is quite as necessary for you to be tried as it was for Abraham and other men of God... God will feel after you, and He will take hold of you and wrench your very heart strings and if you cannot stand it you will not be fit for an inheritance in the Celestial kingdom of God"
-John Taylor recalls the words of Joseph Smith to the Twelve. JS manual page 231 ~ Joseph Smith Jr,
776:There's probably more of a struggle to get material and narratives published that really speak to black culture. And that has a lot to do with the mergers and buyouts and the corporations being more in control of the purse strings. We find that the projects have to come with higher expectations rather than books that just should be published. That's disturbing because we might find fewer and fewer children's books by African Americans or with black cultural themes. ~ Jerry Pinkney,
777:The problem with security, real and bulletproof security, is that it’s ugly. By way of example, take a look at a supermax prison or better yet, a liquor store in the bad part of town. The rich and beautiful want to feel safe in their homes, but they don’t want to look out through barred windows or ruin their view of the canyon with strings of razor wire. There’s always a compromise between safety and aesthetics, and that compromise is where guys like me wriggle in. ~ Craig Schaefer,
778:They played, not beautifully but deep, ignoring their often discordant strings and striking right into the heart of the music they knew best, the true notes acting as their milestones. On the poop above their heads, where the weary helmsmen tended the new steering-oar and Babbington stood at the con, the men listened intently; it was the first sound of human life that they had heard, apart from the brief Christmas merriment, for a time they could scarcely measure. ~ Patrick O Brian,
779:We don’t suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. If you choose the strings, then you’re imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose the grass, you’re saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. The metaphors have implications. Do you know what I mean? ~ John Green,
780:I do not have a hero complex. I have always been attracted to strong, independent women. I like a girl who has her shit together. No strings. Simple. Confident. But the way she nearly sighed the word 'broken'--as if it was her sole identifier, as if it's branded on her somehow, as if admitting this has cost her dearly, shamed her--just killed me a little bit. I want to save her. I want to be her hero. I want to make her see she is so much more than her damaged past. ~ Cheryl McIntyre,
781:In a way, her strangeness, her naiveté, her craving for the other half of her equation was the consequence of an idle imagination. Had she paints, or clay, or knew the discipline of the dance, or strings, had she anything to engage her tremendous curiosity and her gift for metaphor, she might have exchanged the restlessness and preoccupation with whim for an activity that provided her with all she yearned for. And like an artist with no art form, she became dangerous. ~ Toni Morrison,
782:My excuse for not lecturing against the use of tobacco is, that I never chewed it; that is a penalty which reformed tobacco chewers have to pay; though there are things enough I have chewed, which I could lecture against. If you should ever be betrayed into any of these philanthropies, do not let your left hand know what your right hand does , for it is not worth knowing. Rescue the drowning and tie your shoe-strings. Take your time, and set about some free labor. ~ Henry David Thoreau,
783:She's not sensual. She doesn't want affairs. It's just cold-blooded experiment on her part and the fun of stirring people up and setting them against each other. She dabbled in that too. She's the sort of woman who's never had a row with anyone in her life--but rows always happen where she is! She makes them happen. She's kind of female Iago. She must have drama. But she doesn't want to be involved herself. She's always outside pulling strings--looking on--enjoying it! ~ Agatha Christie,
784:Using a wide variety of media, we could demonstrate for our fellow Americans their anxieties, desires, insufficiencies, and frustrations--and how to assuage them all. We informed you in six seconds that you needed something you didn't know you lacked. We made you want anything that anyone willing to pay us wanted you to want. We were hired guns of the human soul. We pulled the strings on the people across the land and by god they got to their feet and they danced for us. ~ Joshua Ferris,
785:We are many small puppets moved by fate and fortune through strings unseen by us; therefore, if it is so as I think, one has to prepare oneself with a good heart and indifference to accept things coming towards us, because they cannot be avoided, and to oppose them requires a violence that tears our souls too deeply, and it seems that both fortune and men are always busy in affairs for our dislike because the former is blind and the latter only think of their interest. ~ Marcello Malpighi,
786:We walk by faith and not by sight – not because we are blind, but because faith gives us the courage to face or fears and puts those fears in a context that makes them less frightful. We walk by faith and not by sight because there are places to go that cannot be seen and the scope of our vision is too small for our strides. Faith is not a denial of facts – it is a broadening of focus. It does not deny the hardness of guitar strings, it plucks them into a sweetness of sound ~ Rich Mullins,
787:It seems to be the special peculiarity of human beings that they reflect: they think about thinking and know that they know. This, like other feedback systems, may lead to vicious circles and confusions if improperly managed, but self-awareness makes human experience resonant. It imparts that simultaneous "echo" to all that we think and feel as the box of a violin reverberates with the sound of the strings. It gives depth and volume to what would otherwise be shallow and flat. ~ Alan Watts,
788:The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem. In the history of the earth hitherto the largest and most stirring appear tame and orderly to their ampler largeness and stir. Here at last is something in the doings of man that corresponds with the broadcast doings of the day and night. Here is not merely a nation, but a teeming nation of nations. Here is action untied from strings, necessarily blind to particulars and details, magnificently moving in vast masses. ~ Walt Whitman,
789:As I see it, in other words, God acts in history and in your and my brief histories not as the puppeteer who sets the scene and works the strings but rather as the great director who no matter what role fate casts us in conveys to us somehow from the wings, if we have our eyes, ears, hearts open and sometimes even if we don’t, how we can play those roles in a way to enrich and ennoble and hallow the whole vast drama of things including our own small but crucial parts in it. ~ Frederick Buechner,
790:Harvey didn’t set his phone to beep or buzz or vibrate like a normal person. Harvey’s phone screeched with a string piece from the Hitchcock movie Psycho, the scene with Janet Leigh in the shower, the knife rising and falling, the string section shrieking with short, staccato stabs, the lone violin slashing through the fermata with discordant glissandos, more violins joining the first, violas adding their teeth, mad strings schooling like orchestral sharks at a blood-drunk feast. ~ Robert Crais,
791:The only way a djinni can advance in rank and increase in power is to obtain more knowledge. For example, djinn can manipulate the matter in the universe by changing the vibration of strings. This action is much like playing a guitar: the more chords a person knows, the wider the repetoire. Individual string vibrations determine the type of particles and matter formed, and djinn are able to change the "notes" of the strings, thus changing one form of matter into another. ~ Rosemary Ellen Guiley,
792:Hidden all day in impenetrable black burkas, rich Saudi women transformed themselves by night into birds of paradise with their corsets, their see-through bras, their G-strings with multicolored lace and rhinestones. They were exactly the opposite of Western women, who spent their days dressed up and looking sexy to maintain their social status, then collapsed in exhaustion once they got home, abandoning all hope of seduction in favor of clothes that were loose and shapeless. ~ Michel Houellebecq,
793:example, there’s a popular national radio personality who lives here, who is only on the air for 15 minutes in the morning, and 15 minutes in the evening. He occasionally complains about the federal government, but you will never hear him complain about Chicago. The reason being, I own his radio station, and I had the general manager get this radio star to sign a lifetime contract. In effect, I own him, and he will never speak out. I’m the puppeteer who pulls the strings in that city, ~ Cliff Ball,
794:A Song
Persuade me not, there is a Grace
Proceeds from Silvia's Voice or Lute,
Against Miranda's charming Face
To make her hold the least Dispute.
Musick, which tunes the Soul for Love,
And stirs up all our soft Desires,
Do's but the glowing Flame improve,
Which pow'rful Beauty first inspires.
Thus, whilst with Art she plays, and sings
I to Miranda, standing by,
Impute the Music of the Strings,
And all the melting Words apply
~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,
795:The cause of Sense, is the External Body, or Object, which presseth the organ proper to each Sense, either immediately, as in theTaste and Touch; or mediately, as in Seeing, Hearing, and Smelling: which pressure, by the mediation of Nerves, and other strings, and membranes of the body, continued inwards to the Brain, and Heart, causeth there a resistance, or counter- pressure, or endeavor of the heart, to deliver it self: which endeavor because Outward, seemeth to be some matter without. ~ Thomas Hobbes,
796:He was playing his life. His whole being was gliding over the strings. His unfulfilled hopes. His charred past, his extinguished future. He played that which he would never play again. I shall never forget Juliek. How could I forget this concert given before an audience of the dead and dying? Even today, when I hear that particular piece by Beethoven, my eyes close and out of the darkness emerges the pale and melancholy face of my Polish comrade bidding farewell to an audience of dying men. ~ Elie Wiesel,
797:A celeb is only a celeb if you remember them. It’s like we disappear if no one is paying any attention. We think we have all the power, but it’s actually the public who decides, just like with politicians. Except it’s really the record and movie execs and probably a few guys in a room in Washington, D.C., who control the purse strings and give the public the next number-one Billboard singer and movie star and president, but they make it seem like the public chose it so no one gets too upset. ~ Teddy Wayne,
798:I've certainly stayed a marginal figure, though I became a member of the "surveillance committee" fairly early on. I can actually live pretty well with this, because I'm allowed to work in peace - except when I have to give strings of interviews... And also, I've never sought a position of power in the music business. I became a teacher not so as to found a Kagel School, but to transmit knowledge. My work as a composer should be the only yardstick by which my contribution can be measured. ~ Mauricio Kagel,
799:Music, also, the architect ought to understand so that he may have knowledge of the canonical and mathematical theory, and besides be able to tune ballistae , catapultae, and scorpiones to the proper key. For to the right and left in the beams are the holes in the frames through which the strings of twisted sinew are stretched by means of windlasses and bars, and these strings must not be clamped and made fast until they give the same correct note to the ear of the skilled workman. ~ Marcus Vitruvius Pollio,
800:One possibility in this direction is to regard, classically, an electron as the end of a single Faraday line of force. The electric field in this picture from discrete Faraday lines of force, which are to be treated as physical things, like strings. One has then to develop a dynamics for such a string like structure, and quantize it.... In such a theory a bare electron would be inconceivable, since one cannot imagine the end of a piece of string without having the string. ~ Paul Dirac, Bombay Lectures (1955),
801:Werner likes to crouch in his dormer and imagine radio waves like mile-long harp strings,bending and vibrating over Zollverein,flying through forests,through cities,through walls.At midnight he and Jutta prowl the ionosphere,searching for that lavish,penetrating voice.When they find it,Werner feels as if he has been launched into a different existence,a secret place where great discoveries are possible,where an orphan from a coal town can solve some vital mystery hidden in the physical world. ~ Anthony Doerr,
802:FAREWELL. Tie the strings to my life, my Lord,    Then I am ready to go! Just a look at the horses —    Rapid! That will do! Put me in on the firmest side,    So I shall never fall; For we must ride to the Judgment,    And it's partly down hill. But never I mind the bridges,    And never I mind the sea; Held fast in everlasting race    By my own choice and thee. Good-by to the life I used to live,    And the world I used to know; And kiss the hills for me, just once;    Now I am ready to go! ~ Emily Dickinson,
803:There are some places which, seen for the first time, yet seem to strike a chord of recollection. "I have been here before," we think to ourselves, "and this is one of my true homes." It is no mystery for those philosophers who hold that all which we shall see, with all which we have seen and are seeing, exists already in an eternal now; that all those places are home to us which in the pattern of our life are twisting, in past, present and future, tendrils of remembrance round our heart-strings. ~ E C Bentley,
804:He's bent over the strings tuning his guitar with such passionate attention I almost feel I should look away but I can't. In fact I'm full on gawking wondering what it would be like to be cool and casual and fearless and passionate and so freaking alive just like he is- and for a split second I want to play with him. I want to disturb the birds. Later as he plays and plays as all the fog burns away I think he's right. That's exactly it- I am crazy sad and somewhere deep inside all I want is to fly. ~ Jandy Nelson,
805:Bracelets with white symbols?” Michael made the question casual; in fact, he bent his head and concentrated on tuning his guitar, not that it needed it. Every note sounded perfect as it whispered out of the strings. “Do you remember?”
“No.” She felt a pure burst of something that wasn’t quite panic, wasn’t quite excitement. “Does that mean they have Protection?”
He hesitated for about a second, just long enough for her to know he was surprised. “You mean condoms?” he asked. “Doesn’t everybody? ~ Rachel Caine,
806:A mature person has the integrity to stand alone. And when a mature person gives love, he or she gives without any strings attached to it. When two mature persons are in love, one of the great paradoxes of life happens, one of the most beautiful phenomena: they are together and yet tremendously alone. They are together so much that they are almost one. Two mature persons in love help each other to become more free. There is no politics involved, no diplomacy, no effort to dominate. Only freedom and love. ~ Rajneesh,
807:Behind and around him, behind and around me, the fully formed streets of my childhood soon will stand, birthed out of the ruins of the southernmost town like a still-born giantess, a puppet of calcified dreams and bone, pulled into unwanted existence by the strings of someone else’s desire. This, this is my mother’s endless suffocating desire, slowing time down around us, winding it back, back, until it becomes the amber-boned river in which I am always and only her little girl, eternal and alone. ~ Livia Llewellyn,
808:It has amazed me in the past to see people lose their way when they allow their hairdresser, whose own world is a catastrophe, to become their counselor. Nothing against hairdressers, but the same can be said of unchurched colleagues and neighbors. Sharing your woes with people whose own lives don't line up with the will of God can lead to bad advice and poor choices. Look for the people in your life who love you and love God wnd clearly want what's best for you, with no agendas or strings attrached. ~ Brian Houston,
809:My friends: Music is the language of spirits. Its melody is like the frolicsome breeze that makes the strings quiver with love. When the gentle fingers of Music knock at the door of our feelings, they awaken memories that have long lain hidden in the depths of the Past. The sad strains of Music bring us mournful recollections; and her quiet strains bring us joyful memories. The sound of strings makes us weep at the departure of a dear one, or makes us smile at the peace God has bestowed upon us. ~ Khalil Gibran,
810:Everything has strings leading to everything else. We're all so tied together. We're all in a net, the net is waiting, and we're pushed into it by one single desire. You want a thing and it's precious to you. Do you know who is standing ready to tear it out of your hands? You can't know, it may be so involved and so far away, but someone is ready, and you're afraid of them all. And you cringe and you crawl and you beg and you accept them--just so they'll let you keep it. And look at whom you come to accept. ~ Ayn Rand,
811:Imagine craving absolutely nothing from the world. Imagine cutting the invisible strings that so painfully bind us: what would that be like? Imagine the freedoms that come from the ability to enjoy things without having to acquire them, own them, possess them. Try to envision a relationship based on acceptance and genuine care rather than expectation. Imagine feeling completely satisfied and content with your life just as it is. Who wouldn't want this? This is the enjoyment of non-attachment. ~ Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche,
812:There is a string that connects us that is not visible to the eye. Maybe every person has more than one soul they are connected to, and all over the world there are these invisible strings. Maybe the chances that you'll find each and every one of your soulmates is slim. But sometimes you're lucky enough to stumble across one. And you feel a tug. And it's not so much a choice to love them through their flaws and through your differences, but rather you love them without even trying. You love their flaws. ~ Tarryn Fisher,
813:There is a string that connects us that is not visible to the eye. Maybe every person has more than one soul they are connected to, and all over the world there are those invisible strings… Maybe the chances that you’ll find each and every one of your soul mates is slim. But sometimes you’re lucky enough to stumble across one. And you feel a tug. And it’s not so much a choice to love them though their flaws and through your differences, but rather you love them without even trying. You love their flaws. ~ Tarryn Fisher,
814:It seems that the problem with government as an institution is uniformly bad, worldwide. It may be the ONLY thing that binds all nations together - the incompetence of all of their governments...The unions are the mafia, which is the CIA, which is the Catholic Church, which is the government, which is what's the difference? It's corrupt! It's the same guys pulling these strings, you know? One day he pulls the string and this lamp comes out, the next say he pulls the string and there's a missile coming out. ~ Frank Zappa,
815:He is about to hand the earphone to Jutta when—clear and unblemished, about halfway down the coil—he hears the quick, drastic strikes of a bow dashing across the strings of a violin. He tries to hold the pin perfectly still. A second violin joins the first. Jutta drags herself closer; she watches her brother with outsize eyes. A piano chases the violins. Then woodwinds. The strings sprint, woodwinds fluttering behind. More instruments join in. Flutes? Harps? The song races, seems to loop back over itself. ~ Anthony Doerr,
816:There is a string that connects us that is not visible to the eye. Maybe every person has more than one soul they are connected to, and all over the world there are those invisible strings... Maybe the chances that you'll find each and every one of your soul mates is slim. But sometimes you're lucky enough to stumble across one. And you feel a tug. And it's not so much a choice to love them though their flaws and through your differences, but rather you love them without even trying. You love their flaws. ~ Tarryn Fisher,
817:PSALM 150 [†] u Praise the LORD! Praise God in his m sanctuary; praise him in n his mighty heavens! [1] ps150v2 2 Praise him for his o mighty deeds; praise him according to his excellent p greatness! ps150v3 3[†] Praise him with q trumpet sound; praise him with r lute and r harp! ps150v4 4 Praise him with s tambourine and s dance; praise him with t strings and u pipe! ps150v5 5 Praise him with sounding v cymbals; praise him with loud clashing cymbals! ps150v6 6 Let w everything that has breath praise the LORD! ~ Anonymous,
818:Then it broke!” he said, gesturing wildly. “And all I could think was, Not now! Not before the ending! But I saw the blood on your hand and my stomach knotted up. You looked up at us, then down at the strings, and it got quieter and quieter. Then you put your hands back on the lute and all I could think was, There’s a brave boy. Too brave. He doesn’t know he can’t save the end of a broken song with a broken lute. But you did!” He laughed as if I’d played a joke on the world, and danced a quick jig step. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,
819:You've been playing on my sympathies as though they were harp strings. You-'
'What do you expect me to do?' he cut in. 'Play fair? With a woman who makes up her own rules as she goes along?'
'I expect you to take no for an answer!'
He rose. 'I should like to know what you're afraid of.'
'Afraid?' Her voice climbed. 'Afraid? Of you?'
'The only reason I can think of for your rejecting an opportunity to run the world as you see fit is fear that you can't manage the man offering the opportunity. ~ Loretta Chase,
820:A horn honks.I look up, expecting to see the white Audi. But there’s a sleek black four-door with shiny silver rims instead. e driver side opens and a tall, dark figure in a trendy fall leather jacket and aviator sunglasses steps out and stalks around the car to open the passenger door. “Irish! Get in.” And I decide that Dr. Stayner is an evil wizard with a crystal ball and puppet strings attached to his fingers. He has somehow masterminded this entire situation. He’s definitely cackling in his office right now. ~ K A Tucker,
821:God is not a puppeteer who pulls all the strings, controlling everything that happens. A real puppet master controls the puppets from outside and is therefore the 'outer cause' of the puppet's movements. But that is not the way God controls the world. God controls the world through natural laws. So God -- or nature -- is the 'inner cause' of everything that happens. This means that everything in the material world happens through necessity. Spinoza had a determinist view of the material, or natural, world. ~ Jostein Gaarder,
822:Hours, or days, or minutes passed before I felt the light touch of a hand on my head.
"Elisabeth."
A young man looked down at me, his mismatched eyes soft, the tilt of his mouth tender. It was the tenderness that undid me, undid the strings I'd bound about my heart. Longing, fear, grief, resentment, and desire came tumbling out. I began to cry.
The young man reached out to wipe my tears away, and in his touch there was nothing but kindness. I wanted to take his compassion and wrap it about me for comfort. ~ S Jae Jones,
823:we are not the ones driving the boat of our behavior, at least not nearly as much as we believe. Who we are runs well below the surface of our conscious access, and the details reach back in time before our birth, when the meeting of a sperm and egg granted us with certain attributes and not others. Who we can be begins with our molecular blueprints—a series of alien codes penned in invisibly small strings of acids—well before we have anything to do with it. We are a product of our inaccessible, microscopic history. ~ David Eagleman,
824:Don’t Let That Horse . . .” from A Coney Island of the Mind.

Don’t let that horse
eat that violin

cried Chagall’s mother

But he
kept right on
painting

And became famous

And kept on painting
The Horse With Violin In Mouth

And when he finally finished it
he jumped up upon the horse
and rode away
waving the violin

And then with a low bow gave it
to the first naked nude he ran across


And there were no strings
attached ~ Lawrence Ferlinghetti,
825:Heaven would be a comfy armchair….You’d get a great, private phonograph, and all of eternity to listen to your life’s melody. You could isolate your one life out of the cacophonous galaxy—the a cappella version—or you could play it back with its accompaniment, embedded in the brass and strings of mothers, fathers, sisters, windfalls and failures, percussion cities of strangers. You could play it forward or backward, back and back, and listen to the future of your past. You could lift the needle at whim, defeating Time. ~ Karen Russell,
826:Regardless of perspective, conservative or not, the resulting confluence of mathematical results with experimental observations is extremely impressive. I am not a fan of hyperbole, but I view these developments as among the most exciting advances in decades. Mathematical manipulations that utilize strings moving through a particular ten-dimensional spacetime tell us something about quarks and gluons living in a four-dimensional spacetime-and the "something" the calculations tell us seems to be borne out by experiments. ~ Brian Greene,
827:There should be at least a room, or some corner where no one will find you and disturb you or notice you. You should be able to untether yourself from the world and set yourself free, loosing all the fine strings and strands of tension that bind you, by sight, by sound, by thought, to the presence of other men. Once you have found such a place, be content with it, and do not be disturbed if a good reason takes you out of it. Love it, and return to it as soon as you can, and do not be too quick to change it for another. ~ Thomas Merton,
828:We’re not fighting for a scrap of sharecropper immortality with the strings hanging off it like Mafioso spaghetti. We want the whole tamale. The Johnsons are taking over the Western Lands. We built it with our brains and our hands. We paid for it with our blood and our lives. It’s ours and we’re going to take it. And we are not applying in triplicate to the Immortality Control Board. Anybody gets in our way we will get our communal back against a rock or a tree and fight the way a raccoon will fight a fucking dog. ~ William S Burroughs,
829:He was uninterested in art, politics, culture, people. While his brain burrowed through rock toward a very specific knowledge goal, mine preferred to warren the air; his brain operated a drill bit while mine launched a thousand aimless kites that tangled strings or bounced along the invisible currents, disconnected and alone. Cognitively, we were the gravitational negatives of each other. Sometimes I wished I had his brain. But only sometimes. He suffered due to his specialized excesses; he just suffered differently from me. ~ Heidi Julavits,
830:Being a nerd, which is to say going too far and caring too much about a subject, is the best way to make friends I know. For me, the spark that turns an acquaintance into a friend has usually been kindled by some shared enthusiasm . . . At fifteen, I couldn't say two words about the weather or how I was doing, but I could come up with a paragraph or two about the album Charlie Parker with Strings. In high school, I made the first real friends I ever had because one of them came up to me at lunch and started talking about the Cure. ~ Sarah Vowell,
831:Every selection process involves a kind of censorship, and every instance of censorship has a political component. It begins with the people involved agreeing to solicit public attention for a certain topic. And no one would deny anymore that WL attracts public attention. Because one person, Julian Assange, held too many of the strings, WikiLeaks became a global political player—something it was never intended to be. That spelled the end of our pledge to maintain strict neutrality—one of WL’s most important principles. At ~ Daniel Domscheit Berg,
832:It was very, very early in the morning. You were probably only just awake. Your mother was asleep in the corner. It was an exquisite morning. I was walking along wondering who it could be in a four-in-hand? It was a splendid set of four horses with bells, and in a second you flashed by, and I saw you at the window—you were sitting like this, holding the strings of your cap in both hands, and thinking awfully deeply about something," he said, smiling. "How I should like to know what you were thinking about then! Something important? ~ Leo Tolstoy,
833:The silver-haired elf woman Yaela had knelt by the side of the grave, taken an acorn from the pouch on her belt, and planted it directly above Wyrden’s chest. And then the twelve elves, Arya included, sang to the acorn, which took root and sprouted and grew twining upward, reaching and grasping toward the sky like a clutch of hands. When the elves had finished, the leafy oak stood twenty feet high, with long strings of green flowers at the end of every branch. Eragon had thought it was the nicest burial he had ever attended. ~ Christopher Paolini,
834:They can’t, because I control the purse strings, for one thing. None of these future leaders can do anything contrary to what I want, and whatever form the KGB takes, after they have the current version of the Soviet Union collapse. If anyone tries, those people will be taken down through assassinations, coups, or economic collapse. One of my new associates is in the process of training a new form of terrorist, who will kill themselves to destroy a whole host of people; this will also be part of the plan to weaken the western powers. ~ Cliff Ball,
835:Must you always speak with so many pop culture references?"
"I must, yes, but no one's making pop culture anymore, so I'm starting to feel dated. I haven't seen a new movie in two years. And you know what else I just realized?"
The doctor stared at him.
"I'm never going to find out what the hell was going on with Lost. I mean, was it just sheer coincidence their plane crashed on the island or was it this Jacob guy pulling the strings all along? And how did most of them end up back in the 1970s with the Dharma people? ~ Peter Clines,
836:Do I perceive a softening in your heart for me, damoiselle?" He laughed at her scowl. "Beware maid. I will tell you true. After you will come another and then another. There are no strings that can tether me to any woman. So guard your heart."
"My lord, you greatly exaggerate your appeal," she replied indignantly. "If I fell anything for you, 'tis hatred. You are the enemy and you are to be despised as such."
"Indeed?" He smiled slowly into her eyes.
"Then tell me, damoiselle, do you always kiss the enemy so warmly? ~ Kathleen E Woodiwiss,
837:In the Bible (Hebrews, 6:19), hope is ‘an anchor of the soul, both sure and stedfast, and which entereth into that within the veil.’ Here [in Watts painting], Hope is blindfolded, seated on a globe and playing a lyre of which all but one of the strings are broken . . . Hope’s attempts to make music appear futile and several critics argued that the work might have been more appropriately titledDespair. Watts explained that ‘Hopeneed not mean expectancy. It suggests here, rather, the music which can come from the remaining cord’. ~ George Frederic Watts,
838:Being a nerd, which is to say going too far and caring too much about a subject, is the best way to make friends I know. For me, the spark that turns an acquaintance into a friend has usually been kindled by some shared enthusiasm . . . At fifteen, I couldn't say two words about the weather or how I was doing, but I could come up with a paragraph or two about the album Charlie Parker with Strings. In high school, I made the first real friends I ever had because one of them came up to me at lunch and started talking about the Cure. ~ Sarah Vowell,
839:what I want to write about today is the sea. It contains so many colors. Silver at dawn, green at noon, dark blue in the evening. Sometimes it looks almost red. Or it will turn the color of old coins. Right now the shadows of clouds are dragging across it, and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere. White strings of gulls drag over it like beads. It is my favorite thing, I think, that I have ever seen. Sometimes I catch myself staring at it and forget my duties. It seems big enough to contain everything anyone could ever feel. ~ Anthony Doerr,
840:Bronze Trumpets And Sea Water - On Turning Latin
Into English
Alembics turn to stranger things
Strange things, but never while we live
Shall magic turn this bronze that sings
To singing water in a sieve.
The trumpets of Cæsar's guard
Salute his rigorous bastions
With ordered bruit; the bronze is hard
Though there is silver in the bronze.
Our mutable tongue is like the sea,
Curled wave and shattering thunder-fit;
Dangle in strings of sand shall he
Who smoothes the ripples out of it.
~ Elinor Morton Wylie,
841:I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I. ~ Thomas Hardy,
842:Politicians see a more politically and socially active population that must be appeased, and they will continue to fall all over themselves to get the female vote. Women are better suited to and better served by the globalism and consumerism of modern democracies that promise security, no-strings attached sex and shopping.

The new Way of Women depends on prosperity, security, and globalism. Any return of honor and The Way of Men and the eventual restoration of balance and harmony between the sexes will require the weakening of all three. ~ Jack Donovan,
843:Love Song

How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn’t touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
I would like to shelter it, among remote
lost objects, in some dark and silent place
that doesn’t resonate when your depths resound.
Yet everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin’s bow,
which draws one voice out of two separate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,
844:True poetry is the perception of human feelings, the voice of the heart, open or hidden. It is the lyrics, compositions, and melody of the relation between humankind, the universe and God, a shadow pinpointing each of the truths we can discern everywhere (from the earth to the stars), a photograph of the creation’s projection cast in our feelings and thoughts and framed through words, a heartfelt tune of our loves and joys played on different strings, and it is a bouquet of our faith, hope, determination, beauty, love, reunion, and yearnings. ~ M Fethullah G len,
845:I’m not the only kid who grew up this way. Surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme about sticks and stones. As if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called, and we got called them all. So we grew up believing no one would ever fall in love with us. That we’d be lonely forever. That we’d never meet someone to make us feel like the sun was something they built for us in their tool shed. So broken heart strings bled the blues as we tried to empty ourselves so we would feel nothing. Don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone. ~ Shane L Koyczan,
846:The farm brook ran down from the mountain in a straight line for the fold then swerved to the west to go its way down into the marshes. There were two knee-high falls in it and two pools, knee-deep. At the bottom there was shingle, pebbles and sand. It ran in many curves. Each curve had its own tone, but not one of them was dull; the brook was merry and music-loving, like youth, but yet with various strings, and it played its music without thought of any audience and did not care though no one heard for a hundred years, like the true poet. ~ Halld r Kiljan Laxness,
847:Beside the china-cupboard and beneath Ratafee stood Emma’s harp, a green harp ornamented with gilt scrolls and acanthus leaves in the David manner. When Laura was little she would sometimes steal into the empty drawing-room and pluck the strings which remained unbroken. They answered with a melancholy and distracted voice, and Laura would pleasantly frighten herself with the thought of Emma’s ghost coming back to make music with cold fingers, stealing into the empty drawing-room as noiselessly as she had done. But Emma’s was a gentle ghost. ~ Sylvia Townsend Warner,
848:The outsider cannot just barge in like Santa Claus and put things to right—especially our kind of outsider who, because he has no sense of belonging in the world, invariably smells like an interferer. He does not really know what he wants, and therefore everyone suspects that there are limitless strings attached to his gifts. For if you know what you want, and will be content with it, you can be trusted. But if you do not know, your desires are limitless and no one can tell how to deal with you. Nothing satisfies an individual incapable of enjoyment. ~ Alan W Watts,
849:String theorists have found special pairs of geometrical shapes for space that have completely different features when each is probed by unwrapped strings. They also have completely different features when each is probed by wrapped strings. But-and this is the punch line-when probed both ways, with wrapped and unwrapped strings, the shapes become indistinguishable. what the unwrapped strings see on one space, the wrapped strings see on the other, and vice versa, rendering identical the collective picture gleaned from the full physics of string theory. ~ Brian Greene,
850:The great events of an age appear, to those living through them, as backdrops only to the vastly more compelling dramas of their own lives, and how could it be otherwise?
In this same way, many of the men and women there in the Hippodrome (and some who were not, but later claimed to have been) would cling to one private image or another of what transpired. They might be entirely different things, varying moments, for each of us has strings within the soul, and we are played upon in different ways, like instruments, and how could it be otherwise? ~ Guy Gavriel Kay,
851:The violin’s oldest European ancestors date from the tenth century. They were called “fitheles”, a word derived from vitula, the Latin for heifer, the source of the gut for the strings. (The Latin word also eventually gave rise to “violin”; “fitheles”, meanwhile, became “fiddle” in a process of linguistic speciation also akin to the biological sort.) The instrument arrived at its modern form between the 16th and the 18th centuries, in the workshops of Cremona, a city in northern Italy that produced the Amati, Guarneri and Stradivari dynasties of luthiers. ~ Anonymous,
852:But you who walk facing the sun, what images drawn on the earth can hold you? You who travel with the wind, what weathervane shall direct your course? What man's law shall bind you if you break your yoke but upon no man's prison door? What laws shall you fear if you dance but stumble against no man's iron chains? And who is he that shall bring you to judgment if you tear off your garment yet leave it in no man's path? People of Orphalese, you can muffle the drum, and you can loosen the strings of the lyre, but who shall command the skylark not to sing? ~ Khalil Gibran,
853:Mid-December then and still no snow. Strange Chicago crèches appeared in front yards: Baby Jesus, freed from the manger, leaned against a Santa sled half his height. He was crouching, as if about to jump; he wore just a diaper. Single strings of colored lights lay across bushes, as if someone had hatefully thrown them there. We patched the roof of a Jamaican immigrant whose apartment had nothing in it but hundreds of rags, spread across the floor and hanging from interior clotheslines. Nobody asked why. As we left, she offered us three DietRite Colas. ~ George Saunders,
854:A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship. But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease. Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and life, every fiber thrilling like harp strings, while incense is ever flowing from the balsam bells and leaves. No wonder the hills and groves were God's first temples, and the more they are cut down and hewn into cathedrals and churches, the farther off and dimmer seems the Lord himself. ~ John Muir,
855:Hey, non dispera! There is a way out. Come to beautiful Oasis. No crime, no madness, no bad stuff of any kind, a brand new home, home on the range, no or antelope but hey, accentuate the positive, there never is a discouraging word, nobody rapes you or tries to reminisce about Paris in the springtime, no sense sniffing that old vomit, right? Cut the strings, blank the slate, let go of Auschwitz and the Alamo and the ... the fucking Egyptians for God’s sake, who needs it, who cares, focus on tomorrow. Onward and upward. Come to beautiful Oasis. ~ Michel Faber,
856:It was Buckley, as my father and sister joined the group and listened to Grandma Lynn’s countless toasts, who saw me. He saw me standing under the rustic colonial clock and stared. He was drinking champagne. There were strings coming out from all around me, reaching out, waving in the air. Someone passed him a brownie. He held it in his hand but did not eat. He saw my shape and face, which had not changed-the hair still parted down the middle, the chest still flat and hips undeveloped-and wanted to call out my name. It was only a moment, and then I was gone. ~ Alice Sebold,
857:She feels a splash of water on her hand and, turning, sees that the sky has become overcast with a blanket of ominous dark rose-colored cloud, and of a sudden the light fades from the lawn and the cedars.

Steerpike, who is on his way back to the Earl's bedroom, stops a moment at a staircase window to see the first decent of the rain. It is falling from the sky in long, upright, and seemingly motionless lines of rosy silver that stand rigidly upon the ground as though there were a million harp strings strung vertically between the solids of earth and sky. ~ Mervyn Peake,
858:You've tugged on your bonnet strings five times in this conversation already. Why wear one, if it's so uncomfortable? Have you any reason for it, other than that it is what everyone else does?"
"I brown terribly in the sunlight. I'll develop freckles."
"Oh no,. That sounds awful." He spoke with exaggerated solicitude, but he leaned down from his horse until his nose was a bare foot from hers. "Freckles. And what do those dastardly spots portend? Are freckled people thrown in prison? Pilloried? Covered in tar and sprinkled with tiny little down feathers? ~ Courtney Milan,
859:After Passing The Examination
For ten years I never left my books;
I went up ... and won unmerited praise.
My high place I do not much prize;
The joy of my parents will first make me proud.
Fellow students, six or seven men,
See me off as I leave the City gate.
My covered couch is ready to drive away;
Flutes and strings blend their parting tune.
Hopes achieved dull the pains of parting;
Fumes of wine shorten the long road ...
Shod with wings is the horse of him who rides
On a Spring day the road that leads to home.
~ Bai Juyi,
860:You mix metaphors,” added Carl. “I what?” “You mix metaphors. You start talking about the idea of having a gun to their head and then you describe the corps as having strings in their backs, like puppets. And then you talk about playing a rigged game. You’ve got to pick one or the other. Unless you want them all to see themselves as puppets playing cards with guns to their heads, but that’s just stupid. Who shoots a puppet?” The captain’s mouth fell open. “You know, I had teachers who talked like you in school. Pretty sure they’re what drove me to a life of crime. ~ Elliott Kay,
861:On the cracked floor beside her lay an open violin case. The ebony violin she had played for Death rested inside, along with the bow. The golden strings gleamed in the torchlight. Of all the instruments that were famous works of art, this one was the most exquisite she had ever seen. And of all the instruments in the world, there would never be a more expensive one she could acquire. She had paid for it with an endless lifetime of service.
Carefully, as she closed the lid and latched it, she thought, I was broken, and broken again, until I became someone else. ~ Thea Harrison,
862:Your violin has only two strings,” I say. “You’re missing the other two.”

Yes, he says. He’s well aware.

“All I want to do is play music, and the crisis I’m having is right here. This one’s gone,” he says of the missing top string, “that one’s gone, and this little guy’s almost out of commission.” His goal in life, Nathaniel tells me, is to figure out how to replace the strings. But he got used to playing imperfect instruments while taking music classes in Cleveland’s public schools, and there’s a lot you can do, he assures me, with just two strings ~ Steve L pez,
863:I turn away from the light to the holy, inexpressible, mysterious night. Far away lies the world − sunk into a
deep vault, its place waste and lonely. Across my heart strings a low melancholy plays. I will fall in drops of dew and merge with the ashes. Distant memories, the wishes of youth, the dreams of childhood, the brief joys and vain hopes of a long life – all arise dressed in grey, like evening mist after sunset. In other lands light has
pitched its merry tents. And if it never returned to its children, who would await its dawning with the innocence of faith? ~ Novalis,
864:Reading is merely a substitute for one's own thoughts. A man allows his thoughts to be put into leading-strings.

Further, many books serve only to show how many wrong paths there are, and how widely a man may stray if he allows himself to be led by them. But he who is guided by his genius, that is to say, he who thinks for himself, who thinks voluntarily and rightly, possesses the compass wherewith to find the right course. A man, therefore, should only read when the source of his own thoughts stagnates; which is often the case with the best of minds. ~ Arthur Schopenhauer,
865:1106
Tie The Strings To My Life, My Lord,
Tie the strings to my life, my Lord,
Then I am ready to go!
Just a look at the horses -Rapid! That will do!
Put me in on the firmest side,
So I shall never fall;
For we must ride to the Judgment,
And it's partly down hill.
But never I mind the bridges,
And never I mind the sea;
Held fast in everlasting race
By my own choice and thee.
Good-by to the life I used to lives,
And the world I used to know;
And kiss the hills for me, just once;
Now I am ready to go!
~ Emily Dickinson,
866:Ian's sense of right and wrong overwhelms me.
Not a single other person .... I know
possesses such an unshakable sense of morality.
Its more than unbelievable. It's frightening.
To offer without strings something all men crave,
and be rejected by him is incomprehensible.
Think I'll have to kick Kaeleigh's ass.
Does she have any idea what it means .... to be
so treasured? He has built a pedestal for her so tall
that she is afraid to be lifted atop it, because to fall
would mean certain death. But oh, she would rise
far, far beyond fear. ~ Ellen Hopkins,
867:Unforunately, string theorists are, at present, at a loss to explain why ten dimensions are singled out. The answer lies deep within mathematics, in an area called modular functions. Whenever we manipulate the KSV loop diagrams created by interacting strings, we encounter these strange modular functions, where the number ten appears in the strangest places. These modular functions are as mysterious as the man who invented them, the mystic from the East. Perhaps if we better understood the work of this Indian genius, we would understand why we live in our present universe. ~ Michio Kaku,
868:According to string theory, which Professor Tamashi and other scientists have been using to try to solve the Big Bang, in addition to the four dimensions of spacetime we know, there are six of these very small, curled-up dimensions, making ten all told. And the strings, which are little strands of energy, wiggle around vibrating in these ten dimensions.’

‘Like Dennis’s mother,’ Mario, seeking vengeance for the ant slur, interjects, ‘wiggling around vibrating with her vibrator, because she is a famous slut, and also, she has ten dimensions because she is a fat bitch. ~ Paul Murray,
869:All year long you are close to me
And, like formerly, happy and young!
Aren't you tortured already
By the traumatized strings' dark song?

Those now only lightly moan
That once, taut, loudly rang
And aimlessly they are torn
By my dry, waxen hand.

Little is necessary to make happy
One who is tender and loving yet,
The young forehead is not touched yet
By jealousy, rage or regret.

He is quiet, does not ask to be tender,
Only stares and stares at me
And with blissful smile does he bear
My oblivion's dreadful insanity. ~ Anna Akhmatova,
870:Mothers are odd things. We're quick to think of their nurturing aspects, but there is also some sort of strange darkness there. It tends to be much stronger in connection with sons than with daughters. It's easy for a mother to cross an invisible line and enslave a son with kindness. There's nothing more revolting than a man incapable of slipping his mother's apron strings. He will always revert back to a boy in her presence. I see boys with unnatural attachments to their mothers all the time. It's a sign of the times in which no one ever grows up. We live in soft times. ~ Damien Echols,
871:How shall I hold my soul that it may not
Be touching yours? How shall I lift it then
Above you to where other things are waiting?
Ah, gladly would I lodge it, all forgot,
With some lost thing the dark is isolating
On some remote and silent spot that, when
Your depths vibrate, is not itself vibrating.
You and me – all that lights upon us though,
Brings us together like a fiddle bow
Drawing one voice from two strings, it glides along.
Across what instrument have we been spanned?
And what violinist holds us in his hand?
O sweetest song. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,
872:As the boat stopped, a black woman came running wildly up the plank, darted into the crowd, flew up to where the slave gang sat, and threw her arms round that unfortunate piece of merchandise before enumerate—"John, aged thirty," and with sobs and tears bemoaned him as her husband. But what needs tell the story, told too oft,—every day told,—of heart-strings rent and broken,—the weak broken and torn for the profit and convenience of the strong! It needs not to be told;—every day is telling it,—telling it, too, in the ear of One who is not deaf, though he be long silent. ~ Harriet Beecher Stowe,
873:If I were you," he said with a wink and a smile as his eyes swept over those who's started the discussion, "I would waste far less time ragging on religion and find out just how much Jesus wants to be your friend without any strings attached. He will care for you and if given a chance will become more real to you than your best friend, and you will cherish him more than anything else you desire. He will give you a purpose and a fullness of life that will carry you through every stress and pain and will change you from the inside to show you what true freedom and joy really are. ~ Wayne Jacobsen,
874: How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
I would like to shelter it, among remote
lost objects, in some dark and silent place
that doesn't resonate when your depths resound.
Yet everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin's bow,
which draws one voice out of two separate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.
Translated by Stephen Mitchell

~ Rainer Maria Rilke, Love Song
,
875:There are two kinds of music. One comes from the strings of a guitar, the other from the strings of the heart. One sound comes from a chamber orchestra, the other from the beating of the heart's chamber. One comes from an instrument of graphite and wood, the other from an organ of flesh and blood. This loftier music I speak of tonight is more pleasing than the notes of the most gifted composers, more moving than a marching band, more harmonious than a thousand voices joined in hymn and more powerful than all the world's percussion instruments combined. That sweet sound of love. ~ Michael Jackson,
876:She could play the piano to make a person want to fall right down and cry. But tonight, I’d been the one sitting on the stool playing music with Biff and Camp. We were the ones that raised folks to their feet and got them to dance. We were the ones that set hands clapping. Tonight, I’d stepped right up to the curse that I laid over the men that cared for me and decided I could still find my pleasures. I didn’t sit with the old people; I didn’t spend the evening fussing over the food. Tonight, with everybody watching, I put my bow to the fiddle strings and showed another side of me. ~ Ann Weisgarber,
877:Consider, Maldacena says, a stack of three-branes, so closely spaced that they appear as a single monolithic slab-Figure 9.4-and study the behavior of strings moving in this environment. You'll recall that there are two types of strings-open snippets and closed loops-and that the end-points of open strings can move within and through branes but not off them, while closed strings have no ends and so can move freely through the entire spatial expanse. In the jargon of the field, we say that while open strings are confined to the branes, closed strings can move through the bulk of space. ~ Brian Greene,
878:Yet Percy, even in the glimpses he had had in the streets, as he drove from the volor station outside the People's Gate, of the old peasant dresses, the blue and red-fringed wine carts, the cabbage-strewn gutters, the wet clothes flapping on strings, the mules and horses -- strange though these were, he had found them a refreshment. It had seemed to remind him that man was human, and not divine as the rest of the world proclaimed -- human, and therefore careless and individualistic; human, and therefore occupied with interests other than those of speed, cleanliness, and precision. ~ Robert Hugh Benson,
879:I'm going to explode," my dad says, rubbing his stomach gleefully. He's just put down a massive sandwich piled with corned beef, pastrami, chopped liver, and Swiss cheese, with a slide of crispy onion strings and a vanilla malt.
"Tilt," I say, making the time-out signal with my hands. I managed to get three-quarters of the way through a turkey club with no tomatoes and Thousand Island instead of mayo, with a pile of extra-crispy fries and a chocolate phosphate. Not to mention the bucket of pickles, and the soup, chicken with kreplach and noodles for him, sweet-and-sour cabbage for me. ~ Stacey Ballis,
880:It was a matter of not seeing the woods for the trees. Glorious songs have been in Ireland forever, but a lot of these were so popular they were sung only by drunken men at weddings. They didn't have any regard for the song at all. So, I picked out 14 songs that I had grown up with, songs with great melodies. After 35 years as a songwriter, I appreciate the value of a good melody because I know how hard it is to write one. So I presented them in a new way, with piano, keyboards, strings, and a contemporary rhythm section. I just treated the melody with a bit of dignity and a bit of style. ~ Phil Coulter,
881:The Symphony
Wonder in happy eyes
Fades, fades away:
And the angel-coloured skies
Whisper farewell.
Loveliness over the strings of the heart may stray
In fugitive melodies;
But Oh, the hand of the Master must not stay,
Even for a breath;
For to prolong one joy, or even to dwell
On one rich chord of pain,
Beyond the pulse of the song, would untune heaven
And drown the stars in death.
So youth with its love-note dies;
And beauty fades in the air,
To make the master-symphony immortal,
And find new life and deeper wonder there.
~ Alfred Noyes,
882:I have been feeling very clearheaded lately and what I want to write about today is the sea. It contains so many colors. Silver at dawn, green at noon, dark blue in the evening. Sometimes it looks almost red. Or it will turn the color of old coins. Right now the shadows of clouds are dragging across it, and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere. White strings of gulls drag over it like beads.

It is my favorite thing, I think, that I have ever seen. Sometimes I catch myself staring at it and forget my duties. It seems big enough to contain everything anyone could ever feel. ~ Anthony Doerr,
883:The boldest yodellers found him, impaled; they stumbled into his shop and over the longest needle in the world, which darned his spleen to the floor. He was buried in his rag coffin, under the altar of San Silvester. Strings were attached to his arms and legs, and whenever a pilgrim entered the chapel, an unseen jig was danced six feet below. The coffin is no longer there: by all accounts Morgan himself seized it for a sail. However, shards of the barber’s mirror can still be found on the hats of the locals, each carrying a reflection which arrived too late to convince a corsair of his humanity. ~ Rhys Hughes,
884:The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and behind my gulliver the trumpets three-wise silverflamed, and there by the door the timps rolling through my guts and out again crunched like candy thunder. Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then, a bird of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now, came the violin solo above all the other strings, and those strings were like a cage of silk around my bed. Then flute and oboe bored, like worms of like platinum, into the thick thick toffee gold and silver. I was in such bliss, my brothers. ~ Anthony Burgess,
885:Things must be negative but not too negative. Hopelessness, despair—these drive us to do nothing. Pity, empathy—those drive us to do something, like get up from our computers to act. But anger, fear, excitement, or laughter—these drive us to spread. They drive us to do something that makes us feel as if we are doing something, when in reality we are only contributing to what is probably a superficial and utterly meaningless conversation. Online games and apps operate on the same principles and exploit the same impulses: be consuming without frustrating, manipulative without revealing the strings. ~ Ryan Holiday,
886:I admit that the slave does sometimes sing, dance, and appear to be merry. But what does this prove? It only proves to my mind, that though slavery is armed with a thousand strings, it is not able entirely to kill the elastic spirit of the bondman. That spirit will rise and walk abroad, despite of whips and chains, and extract from the cup of nature, occasional drops of joy and gladness. No thanks to the slaveholder, nor to slavery, that the vivacious captive may sometimes dance in his chains, his very mirth in such circumstances, stands before God, as an accusing angel against his enslaver. ~ Frederick Douglass,
887:He says, this silence of More's, it was never really silence, was it? It was loud with his treason; it was quibbling as far as quibbles would serve him, it was demurs and cavils, suave ambiguities. It was fear of plain words, or the assertion that plain words pervert themselves; More's dictionary, against our dictionary. You can have a silence full of words. A lute retains, in its bowl, the notes it has played. The viol, in its strings, holds a concord. A shriveled petal can hold its scent, a prayer can rattle with curses; an empty house, when the owners have gone out, can still be loud with ghosts. ~ Hilary Mantel,
888:Horace To His Lute
If ever in the sylvan shade
A song immortal we have made,
Come now, O lute, I pri' thee come-Inspire a song of Latium.
A Lesbian first thy glories proved-In arms and in repose he loved
To sweep thy dulcet strings and raise
His voice in Love's and Liber's praise;
The Muses, too, and him who clings
To Mother Venus' apron-strings,
And Lycus beautiful, he sung
In those old days when you were young.
O shell, that art the ornament
Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content
To Jove, and soothing troubles all-Come and requite me, when I call!
~ Eugene Field,
889:Some rabbis say that, at birth, we are each tied to God with a string, and that every time we sin, the string breaks. To those who repent of their sins, especially in the days of Rosh Hashanah, God sends the angel Gabriel to make knots in the string, so that the humble and contrite are once again tied to God. Because each one of us fails, because we all lose our way on the path to righteousness from time to time, our strings are full of knots. But, the rabbis like to say, a string with many knots is shorter than one without knots. So the person with many sins but a humble heart is closer to God. ~ Rachel Held Evans,
890:To His Lute
If ever in the sylvan shade
A song immortal we have made,
Come now, O lute, I prithee come,
Inspire a song of Latium!
A Lesbian first thy glories proved;
In arms and in repose he loved
To sweep thy dulcet strings, and raise
His voice in Love's and Liber's praise.
The Muses, too, and him who clings
To Mother Venus' apron-strings,
And Lycus beautiful, he sung
In those old days when you were young.
O shell, that art the ornament
Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content
To Jove, and soothing troubles all,-Come and requite me, when I call!
~ Eugene Field,
891:Logan is quiet. A little too quiet. He’s strung tighter than my guitar strings. “You okay?” I ask. I sign while I talk. Trip smacks himself in the forehead with his open palm. “Oh my God,” he cries. “I completely forgot about your impairment!” He says the next few words, punctuating each one with a pause. “Do. You. Need. For. Us. To. Talk. Slowly?” “I can keep up,” Logan says. “But thank you for the offer.” “Just. Let. Us. Know. If. We. Need. To. Talk. Slower.” Trip smiles, and I want to punch him in the face. Logan lifts his head, a smile I know he doesn’t feel tilting the corners of his lips. “Thanks. ~ Tammy Falkner,
892:Three Quatrains
As long as Fame's imperious music rings
Will poets mock it with crowned words august;
And haggard men will clamber to be kings
As long as Glory weighs itself in dust.
II
Drink to the splendor of the unfulfilled,
Nor shudder for the revels that are done:
The wines that flushed Lucullus are all spilled,
The strings that Nero fingered are all gone.
III
We cannot crown ourselves with everything,
Nor can we coax the Fates for us to quarrel:
No matter what we are, or what we sing,
Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel.
~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,
893:Thoughts On An Ancient Site:Birthplace Of Wang
Qiang
Through flocks of mountains, myriad valleys,
I arrive in Jingmen,
where Ming-fei was born and bred-the village is still there.
Once she left the crimson terraces,
there was nothing but endless desert;
only her evergreen grave is left
to face the twilight.
Portraits have recorded
her spring-fresh face;
the tinkle of girdle pendants heralds
her soul's vain return by moonlight.
For a thousand years the pipa
has wailed in its alien tongue,
as if its strings bemoan in song
her tragic tale of grief.
~ Du Fu,
894:I do not speak in German, I speak in contexts; therefore, my words ought not to be loosen away from the invisible strings to which they have been attached whether by me or by the original meanings from the corresponding languages whence each word stemmed. Obviously, I do not agree with the conviction that the German language has transcended through materializing those inconspicuous threads into the structures of the words and sentences, I rather consider George Orwell's observation as remarkable and surpassingly valid. Hence, the semantics of my own text are only to be found within my own Quotery Lexicon. ~ Ibrahim Ibrahim,
895:Charles Koch himself committed $1.5 million on the spot, but with strings attached, keeping him in control. As Mellor recalled, “He said, ‘Here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll give you up to $500,000 a year for three years, each year, but you have to come back each year and demonstrate that you’ve met these milestones that you’ve set out to accomplish and I will evaluate it on a yearly basis, and there’s no guarantees.’ ” The legal group, the Institute for Justice, went on to bring numerous successful cases against government regulations, including campaign-finance laws, several of which reached the Supreme Court. ~ Jane Mayer,
896:You are sitting here with us,
but you are also out walking in a field at dawn.

You are yourself the animal we hunt
when you come with us on the hunt.

You are in your body
like a plant is solid in the ground,
yet you are wind.

You are the diver's clothes
lying empty on the beach.
You are the fish.

In the ocean are many bright strands
and many dark strands like veins that are seen
when a wing is lifted up.

Your hidden self is blood in those,
those veins that are lute strings
that make ocean music,
not the sad edge of surf,
but the sound of no shore. ~ Rumi,
897:Edain came out of Midhir's hill, and lay
Beside young Aengus in his tower of glass,
Where time is drowned in odour-laden winds
And Druid moons, and murmuring of boughs,
And sleepy boughs, and boughs where apples made
Of opal and ruhy and pale chrysolite
Awake unsleeping fires; and wove seven strings,
Sweet with all music, out of his long hair,
Because her hands had been made wild by love.
When Midhir's wife had changed her to a fly,
He made a harp with Druid apple-wood
That she among her winds might know he wept;
And from that hour he has watched over none
But faithful lovers. ~ W B Yeats,
898:Walking into the library, I took in my breath sharply and stopped: glass fronted bookcases and Gothic panels, stretching fifteen feet to a frescoed and plaster-medallioned ceiling. In the back of the room was a marble fireplace, big as a sepulchre, and a globed gasolier--dripping with prisms and strings of crystal beading--sparkled in the dim.

There was a piano, too, and Charles was playing, a glass of whiskey on the seat beside him. He was a little drunk; the Chopin was slurred and fluid, the notes melting sleepily into one another. A breeze stirred the heavy, moth-eaten velvet curtains, ruffling his hair. ~ Donna Tartt,
899:His cynicism - a veteran's cynicism - was a thing that disturbed him all the time. It seemed to him after the war that the world was thoroughly altered. It was not even a thing you could explain to anybody, why it was that everything was folly. People appeared enormously foolish to him. He understood that they were only animated cavities full of jelly and strings and liquids. He had seen the insides of jaggedly ripped-open dead people. He knew, for instance, what brains looked like spilling out of somebody's head. In the context of this, much of what went on in normal life seemed wholly and disturbingly ridiculous. ~ David Guterson,
900:It was one of those August afternoons that Montana does just right, with heavy gray thunderheads crowding out the movie-blue sky and the feeling of a guaranteed downpour just beginning to change the touch of the air, the color of the sunlight. We were right in the middle of the maybe twenty minutes before the storm would hit, when it was only just promised, and every single thing in its path—from the strings of multicolored turn flags over the pool to the sheen of the oily puddles in the parking lot to the smell of fried foods wafting over from the Burger Box on the corner—was somehow more alive within that promise. ~ Emily M Danforth,
901:Whether on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the sun, that now
From ancient melody have ceas'd;

Whether in Heav'n ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air,
Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,
Beneath the bosom of the sea
Wand'ring in many a coral grove,
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry!

How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoy'd in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move!
The sound is forc'd, the notes are few!

- "To the Muses ~ William Blake,
902:Watt settled in, finding his rhythm, his fingers flying across the touch screen as he manipulated pieces of invisible information, like pulling on the strings of a massive, intricate net. He and Nadia worked well together. Even as he made his way slowly and methodically through the hack, Watt could feel her there, a ghostly presence, like the light of a candle flickering just at the edge of his vision. He lost all sense of time and place, his entire being reduced to the string of numerics on the screen before him, waiting for the flash of intuition that would enable him to see a pattern, a blind spot, anything at all. ~ Katharine McGee,
903:CONCERTS IN TOWN “Summergarden: New Music for New York” The Museum of Modern Art turns to music every summer, hosting a variety of classical, jazz, and pop performers in its Sculpture Garden. Juilliard runs the classical department, with Joel Sachs leading members of the New Juilliard Ensemble; this week’s concert offers contemporary works for strings by Roberto Sierra, Eric Lindsay, and the dean of Australian composers, Peter Sculthorpe (the String Quartet No. 15, from 1999), as well as a piece for flute and strings by the Belize-born British composer Errollyn Wallen. (11 W. 53rd St. July 20 at 8. Free with museum admission.) ~ Anonymous,
904:I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms,
hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless.

No more sailing from harbor to harbor with this my weather-beaten boat.
The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves.

And now I am eager to die into the deathless.

Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss
where swells up the music of toneless strings
I shall take this harp of my life.

I shall tune it to the notes of forever,
and when it has sobbed out its last utterance,
lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent.

~ Rabindranath Tagore, Ocean Of Forms
,
905:Holy spirits, you walk up there
in the light, on soft earth.
Shining god-like breezes
touch upon you gently,
as a woman's fingers
play music on holy strings.

Like sleeping infants the gods
breathe without any plan;
the spirit flourishes continually
in them, chastely kept,
as in a small bud,
and their holy eyes
look out in still
eternal clearness.

A place to rest
isn't given to us.
Suffering humans
decline and blindly fall
from one hour to the next,
like water thrown
from cliff to cliff,
year after year,
down into the Unknown. ~ Friedrich H lderlin,
906:Although it was only six o'clock, the night was already dark. The fog, made thicker by its proximity to the Seine, blurred every detail with its ragged veils, punctured at various distances by the reddish glow of lanterns and bars of light escaping from illuminated windows. The road was soaked with rain and glittered under the street-lamps, like a lake reflecting strings of lights. A bitter wind, heavy with icy particles, whipped at my face, its howling forming the high notes of a symphony whose bass was played by swollen waves crashing into the piers of the bridges below. The evening lacked none of winter's rough poetry. ~ Th ophile Gautier,
907:The Devil’s Chair The Stiperstones in Shropshire are connected with a range of local folklore. They were stolen from the devil by a giantess after his apron-strings broke scattering stones, but he then made her apron-strings break casing the five stones to scatter. However the stones dropped by the giantess were connected with a prophecy, which said that if the stones sank into the earth then England would come to ruin. The devil frequently visits the stones to try and force them into the earth so he can claim all the souls in England, and sits on the stone called the Devil’s Chair, trying to force it into the earth.xxix Another ~ Sorita d Este,
908:But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings break, or maybe our ships sink, or maybe we're grass our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful with metaphor you choose, because it matters. If you choose the strings, then you're imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose the grass, you're saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. The metaphors have implications ~ John Green,
909:Writing keeps me at my desk, constantly trying to write a perfect sentence. It is a great privilege to make one’s living from writing sentences. The sentence is the greatest invention of civilization. To sit all day long assembling these extraordinary strings of words is a marvelous thing…

For me, a line has to sing before it does anything else. The great thrill is when a sentence that starts out being completely plain suddenly begins to sing, rising far above itself and above any expectation I might have had for it. That’s what keeps me going on those dark December days when I think about how I could be living instead of writing. ~ John Banville,
910:After supper was over and the toasts had been drunk, the boy Pablo was called in to play for the company while the gentlemen smoked. . . there was softness and languor in the wire strings--but there was also a kind of madness; the recklessness, the call of wild countries which all these men had felt or followed in one way or another. Through clouds of cigar smoke, the scout and the soldiers, the Mexican rancheros and the priests, sat silently watching the bent head and crouching shoulders of the banjo player, and his seesawing yellow hand, which sometimes lost all form and became a mere whirl of matter in motion, like a patch of sand-storm. ~ Willa Cather,
911:Riddle
From rosy bowers we issue forth,
From east to west, from south to north,
Unseen, unfelt, by night, by day,
Abroad we take our airy way:
We foster love and kindle strife,
The bitter and the sweet of life:
Piercing and sharp, we wound like steel;
Now, smooth as oil, those wounds we heal:
Not strings of pearl are valued more,
Or gems enchased in golden ore;
Yet thousands of us every day,
Worthless and vile, are thrown away.
Ye wise, secure with bars of brass
The double doors through which we pass;
For, once escaped, back to our cell
No human art can us compel.
~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,
912:Oh it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and behind my gulliver the trumpets three-wise silverflamed, and there by the door the timps rolling through my guts and out again crunched like candy thunder. Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then, a bird of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now, came the violin solo above all the other strings, and those strings were like a cage of silk round my bed. Then flute and oboe bored, like worms of like platinum, into the thick thick toffee gold and silver. I was in such bliss, my brothers. ~ Anthony Burgess,
913:Even So
So it is, my dear.
All such things touch secret strings
For heavy hearts to hear.
So it is, my dear.
Very like indeed:
Sea and sky, afar, on high,
Sand and strewn seaweed,—
Very like indeed.
But the sea stands spread
s one wall with the flat skies,
Where the lean black craft like flies
Seem well-nigh stagnated,
Soon to drop off dead.
Seemed it so to us
When I was thine and thou wast mine,
And all these things were thus,
But all our world in us?
Could we be so now?
Not if all beneath heaven's pall
Lay dead but I and thou,
Could we be so now!
~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,
914:Sciences reach a point where they become mathematized..the central issues in the field become sufficiently understood that they can be thought about mathematically..[by the early 1990s] biology was no longer the science of things that smelled funny in refrigerators (my view from undergraduate days in the 1960s)..The field was undergoing a revolution and was rapidly acquiring the depth and power previously associated exclusively with the physical sciences. Biology was now the study of information stored in DNA - strings of four letters: A, T, G, and C..and the transformations that information undergoes in the cell. There was mathematics here! ~ Leonard Adleman,
915:For thousands of years humans were oppressed— as some of us still are— by the notion that the universe is a marionette whose strings are pulled by a god or gods, unseen and inscrutable. Then, 2,500 years ago, there was a glorious awakening in Ionia: on Samos and the other nearby Greek colonies that grew up among the islands and inlets of the busy eastern Aegean Sea. Suddenly there were people who believed that everything was made of atoms; that human beings and other animals had sprung from simpler forms; that diseases were not caused by demons or the gods; that the Earth was only a planet going around the Sun. And that the stars were very far away. ~ Carl Sagan,
916:According to string theory, if we could somehow magnify a point particle, we would actually see a small vibrating string. In fact, according to this theory, matter is nothing but the harmonies created by this vibrating string. Since there are an infinite number of harmonies that can be composed for the violin, there are an infinite number of forms of matter that can be constructed out of vibrating strings. This explains the richness of the particles in nature. Likewise, the laws of physics can be compared to the laws of harmony allowed on the string. The universe itself, composed of countless vibrating strings, would then be comparable to a symphony. ~ Michio Kaku,
917:Roderic Quinn
No more will Rod his lyrics sing,
As tuneful as the thrush when Spring
With minstrel voice is calling;
As joyous as the gentle chime
Of bellbirds in the Summertime
From sylvan spires down-falling.
The harp is mute from which he drew
The magic of a music new
Of woods and golden beaches;
Its silent strings tell ne'er again
Enraptured tales of hill and plain
And gleaming river reaches.
But this fair land shall ever be
Indebted to his minstrelsy,
So, written on the portal
Of Art's proud temple, will his name
Go down forevermore in fame
Untarnished and immortal.
~ Edwin James Brady,
918:Australia
LAST sea-thing dredged by sailor Time from Space,
Are you a drift Sargasso, where the West
In halcyon calm rebuilds her fatal nest?
Or Delos of a coming Sun-God’s race?
Are you for Light, and trimmed, with oil in place,
Or but a Will o’ Wisp on marshy quest?
A new demesne for Mammon to infest?
Or lurks millennial Eden ’neath your face?
The cenotaphs of species dead elsewhere
That in your limits leap and swim and fly,
Or trail uncanny harp-strings from your trees,
Mix omens with the auguries that dare
To plant the Cross upon your forehead sky,
A virgin helpmate Ocean at your knees.
~ Bernard O'Dowd,
919:In his Dialogue "Timaeus" Plato had a demiurge to create the globe-shaped world according to musical laws, including the human soul. Fifteen hundred years later, that still found an echo in the Renaissance. And in those days the architects realized that the musical harmonies had spatial expressions -- namely, the relationships of the length of strings, and spatial relationships were precisely their only concerns. Because both the world and the body and soul were composed according to musical harmonies by the demiurge architect, both the macrocosm and the microcosm, they must therefore be guided in their own architectural designs by the laws of music. ~ Harry Mulisch,
920:And I think that's the story of our generation's pursuit of fulfillment in relationships. We wished for intimacy without obligation. We wished for sex with no strings attached. We wished for the pleasure of love with none of work, none of the vows, none of the sacrifice.

And we got it.

But the results aren't what we hoped for. And we're left feeling emptier than before. The intimacy is superficial. The sex leaves us dissatisfied and hungry for something real, something true.

Where is true joy? It's found in God's brand of love - love founded on faithfulness, rooted in commitment.

The joy of intimacy is the reward of commitment. ~ Joshua Harris,
921:He turned the crank handles, hoping the thing wouldn’t explode in his face. A few clear tones rang out-metallic yet warm. Leo manipulated the levers and gears. He recognized the song that sprang forth-the same wistful melody Calypso sang for him on Ogygia about homesickness and longing. But through the strings of the brass cone, the tune sounded even sadder, like a machine with a broken heart-the way Festus might sound if he could sing.
Leo forgot Apollo was there. He played the song all the way through. When he was done, his eyes stung. He could almost smell the fresh-baked bread from Calypso’s kitchen. He could taste the only kiss she’d ever given him. ~ Rick Riordan,
922:Indeed, as string theory was understood better, it became clear that the gauge interactions naturally emerged from it. But even more than this, during their period of exile from the mainstream, the string theorists realized that their theory naturally gave rise to an interaction that had all of the hallmarks of the gravitational force. In order to get the force to come out with the right strength, all they had to do was fix the length of the string to be about the Planck length. Thus, string theory had the potential to unify all of physics in a simple framework, in which all phenomena arise from the motion and vibrations of fundamental one-dimensional strings. ~ Lee Smolin,
923:Whatever this is that I am, it is a little flesh and breath, and the ruling part. Throw away thy books; no longer distract thyself: it is not allowed; but as if thou wast now dying, despise the flesh; it is blood and bones and a network, a contexture of nerves, veins, and arteries. See the breath also, what kind of a thing it is, air, and not always the same, but every moment sent out and again sucked in. The third then is the ruling part: consider thus: Thou art an old man; no longer let this be a slave, no longer be pulled by the strings like a puppet to unsocial movements, no longer be either dissatisfied with thy present lot, or shrink from the future. ~ Marcus Aurelius,
924:He pulled a Tupperware container out of the fridge and set it next to the carton of eggs. “Why do I get the feeling you weren’t there to catch a Cubs game?” She ignored his question. “Are those prechopped peppers in that Tupperware container?” Troy cracked an egg into a bowl. “Yeah.” “I’m not sleeping with you.” “Jesus,” he choked out. “How did we arrive here from prechopped peppers?” Ruby pushed back her chair and stood, the poster child for nervous energy. “You must cook for girls pretty often to chop up peppers in advance, that’s all I’m saying. So if there are strings attached to that omelet, I don’t want it. No matter how good it tastes, the answer is no. ~ Tessa Bailey,
925:Dreams
I do not care to talk to you although
Your speech evokes a thousand sympathies,
And all my being's silent harmonies
Wake trembling into music. When you go
It is as if some sudden, dreadful blow
Had severed all the strings with savage ease.
No, do not talk; but let us rather seize
This intimate gift of silence which we know.
Others may guess your thoughts from what you say,
As storms are guessed from clouds where darkness broods.
To me the very essence of the day
Reveals its inner purpose and its moods;
As poplars feel the rain and then straightway
Reverse their leaves and shimmer through the woods.
~ Amy Lowell,
926:So she hadn't completely lost her sense of propriety -- and for some reason he was glad of that. Yet even as he looked at her, there was that mischievous sparkle in her eyes again despite her protest.
A sparkle. An odd light as incongruous as her red hair.
No, he was imagining things. But where was the expected admonishment on propriety, the lecture on proper restraint? Just when he thought he understood the lady, knew how to knot up her corset strings and keep her at sixes and sevens, she'd turned the tide on him.
What had she said? You are not a man easily understood.
Perhaps she understood him better than he'd given her credit for. ~ Elizabeth Boyle,
927:Becoming sensitive to the background causes of one's thoughts and feelings can—paradoxically—allow for greater creative control over one's life. It is one thing to bicker with your wife because you are in a bad mood; it is another to realize that your mood and behavior have been caused by low blood sugar. This understanding reveals you to be a biochemical puppet, of course, but it also allows you to grab hold of one of your strings: A bit of food may be all that your personality requires. Getting behind our concious thoughts and feelings can allow us to steer a more intelligent course through our lives (while knowing, of course, that we are ultimately being steered). ~ Sam Harris,
928:Depressive ontology is dangerously seductive because, as the zombie twin of a certain philosophical wisdom, it is half true. As the depressive withdraws from the vacant confections of the lifeworld, he unwittingly finds himself in concordance with the human condition so painstakingly diagrammed by a philosopher like Spinoza: he sees himself as a serial consumer of empty simulations, a junky hooked on every kind of deadening high, a meat puppet of the passions. The depressive cannot even lay claim to the comforts that a paranoiac can enjoy, since he cannot believe that the strings are being pulled by any one. No flow, no connectivity in the depressive’s nervous system. ~ Mark Fisher,
929:And messengers must have come running to Don Jorge, telling him the service was on the point of beginning, and he must have waved them away with a grave gesture of a long white hand, while in his mind the distant sound of chanting, the jingle of the silver bit of his roan horse stamping nervously where he was tied to a twined Moorish column, memories of cavalcades filing with braying of trumpets and flutter of crimson damask into conquered towns, of court ladies dancing, and the noise of pigeons in the eaves, drew together like strings plucked in succession on a guitar into a great wave of rhythm in which his life was sucked away into this one poem in praise of death. ~ John Dos Passos,
930:A Spring Sonnet
Last night beneath the mockery of the moon
I heard the sudden startled whisperings
Of wakened birds settling their restless wings;
The North-east brought his word of gladness, "Soon!"
And all the night with wonder was a-swoon.
A soul had breathed into long-dreaming things;
Some unseen hand hovered above the strings:
Some cosmic chord had set the earth in tune.
And when I rose I saw the Bay arrayed
In her grey robe against the coming heat.
A pulse awoke within the stirring street-The wattle-gold upon the pavements thrown,
And through the quiet of the colonnade
The smoky perfume of boronia blown.
~ Arthur Henry Adams,
931:There is something scary about letting ourselves go. It means that we will screw up, that we will relinquish the possibility of perfection. It means that we will say things we didn’t mean to say and express feelings we can’t explain. It means that we will be onstage and not have complete control, that we won’t know what we’re going to play until we begin, until the bow is drawn across the strings. While this spontaneous method might be frightening, it’s also an extremely valuable source of creativity…the lesson about letting go is that we contain our own creativity. We are so worried about playing the wrong note or saying the wrong thing that we end up with nothing at all. ~ Jonah Lehrer,
932:Edain came out of Midhir's hill, and lay
Beside young Aengus in his tower of glass,
Where time is drowned in odour-laden winds
And Druid moons, and murmuring of boughs,
And sleepy boughs, and boughs where apples made
Of opal and ruby and pale chrysolite
Awake unsleeping fires; and wove seven strings,
Sweet with all music, out of his long hair,
Because her hands had been made wild by love.
When Midhir's wife had changed her to a fly,
He made a harp with Druid apple-wood
That she among her winds might know he wept;
And from that hour he has watched over none
But faithful lovers.

~ William Butler Yeats, The Shadowy Waters - The Harp Of Aengus
,
933:I made it when I was young, by my standards, after years of playing on various harps. I shaped its pieces out of Ymris oak beside night fires in far, lonely places where I heard no man’s voice but my own. I carved on each piece the shapes of leaves, flowers, birds I saw in my wanderings. In An, I searched three months for strings for it. I found them finally; sold my horse for them. They were strung to the broken harp of Ustin of Aum, who died of sorrow over the conquering of Aum. Its strings were tuned to his sorrow, and its wood was split like his heart. I strung my harp with them, matching note for note in the restringing. And then I returned them to my joy.” Morgon ~ Patricia A McKillip,
934:The Girl At The Harp
LIKE Clotho, at her harp she sits and weaves
With mystic fingers from the swaying strings
A melody that ever louder sings
And my charmed heart in vibrant rapture leaves
All hers! And all her quiet life receives
The peaceful melody which round her clings;
She walks amid suave strains and murmurings
That never doubt or strident discord cleaves.
And from her singing harp she bends to grant
My dear desire; and the poor monotone,
That is my life, in her glad heart she takes,
And, twining its dull phrases with her own
Full-flowing theme of life, of both she makes
The pæan of one love reverberant.
~ Arthur Henry Adams,
935:We are like those oysters in many ways...Irritants, or foreign objects, infiltrate our lives in the form of bad choices, jealousy, fear, deep loss, and countless other challenges I could name. We choose how to handle things that come, either by rallying our strength and faith and finding a way to go on, or by giving into the pressure and giving up.
When we choose to stand up inside and protect our spirits, our hearts, and the essence of who we are, we produce a substance similar to what the oyster produces to form the layers of the pearl. In us, it's called character, integrity, grace, courage, and the ability to love ourselves and others, with no strings attached. ~ Stacy Hawkins Adams,
936:Removing zero from the universe might seem like a drastic step, but strings are much more tractable than dots; by eliminating zero, string theory smooths out the discontinuous, particle-like nature of quantum mechanics and mends the gashes torn in general relativity by black holes. With these problems patched over, the two theories are no longer incompatible. Physicists began to think that string theory would unify quantum mechanics with relativity; they believed that it would lead to the theory of quantum gravity-the Theory of Everything that explains every phenomenon in the universe. However, string theory had some problems. For one thing, it required 10 dimensions to work. ~ Charles Seife,
937:I had lost sight of the fact that I want to do work that matters. I want to understand the world, and how it moves and how the intricate strings of existence weave together into a tapestry, and I want to weave those tapestries with my own two hands. I am filled suddenly by that wanting, to know things, to understand the world, to feel myself in it. It floods me with a ferocious strength. This world is mine. This work is mine. If it is selfish to want, then selfishness shall be my weapon. I will fight for everything that cannot fight for itself. Block the wind and keep away the wolves and put supper on the table. I am suddenly swollen with more than wanting to be known—I want to know. ~ Mackenzi Lee,
938:Frankincense And Myrrh
My heart is tuned to sorrow, and the strings
Vibrate most readily to minor chords,
Searching and sad; my mind is stuffed with words
Which voice the passion and the ache of things:
Illusions beating with their baffled wings
Against the walls of circumstance, and hoards
Of torn desires, broken joys; records
Of all a bruised life's maimed imaginings.
Now you are come! You tremble like a star
Poised where, behind earth's rim, the sun has set.
Your voice has sung across my heart, but numb
And mute, I have no tones to answer. Far
Within I kneel before you, speechless yet,
And life ablaze with beauty, I am dumb.
~ Amy Lowell,
939:The traditions of . . . bygone times, even to the smallest social particular, enable one to understand more clearly the circumstances with contributed to the formation of character. The daily life into which people are born, and into which they are absorbed before they are well aware, forms chains which only one in a hundred has moral strength enough to despise, and to break when the right time comes - when an inward necessity for independent individual action arises, which is superior to all outward conventionalities. Therefore it is well to know what were the chains of daily domestic habit which were the natural leading-strings of our forefathers before they learnt to go alone. ~ Elizabeth Gaskell,
940:The strings in her mind grew flatter, calmer. The shapes in the hologrid had changed. She heard the man's words, and yet she didn't; the words were not what was really important. And wasn't that right? Words had never been important, only strings, and the strings had shapes like - but not like -the ones around the man. Only the man had disappeared, too, and that was alright, because she, Miri, Miranda Serena Sharifi, was disappearing, was sliding down a steep long chute and each meter she traveled she became smaller and smaller until she had disappeared and was invisible, a weightless transparent ghost that neither twitched nor stammered, in the corner of a room she had never seen before. ~ Nancy Kress,
941:you feel what else is there to do in life apart from living? And even that is out of your control; it depends on an infinite number of factors. Everything is in your unconscious mind. Why sex desire arose in you, why you raised a family, how greed and anger entered you, why you were dishonest, why you accumulated wealth, why you made enemies – you have no idea! You are just like a puppet, whose strings are being pulled by someone else. You imagine you are dancing, but in fact it is someone else who is making you dance.
Look closely at your life and you will find that you are nothing more than a puppet. How can anything real happen in the life of a man who is not his own master, but merely a puppet? ~ Osho,
942:Duval's Birds
The parrot, screeching, flew out into the darkness,
Circled three times above the upturned faces
With a great whir of brilliant outspread wings,
And then returned to stagger on her finger.
She bowed and smiled, eliciting applause. . .
The property man hated her dirty birds.
But it had taken years—yes, years—to train them,
To shoulder flags, strike bells by tweaking strings,
Or climb sedately little flights of stairs.
When they were stubborn, she tapped them with a wand,
And her eyes glittered a little under the eyebrows.
The red one flapped and flapped on a swinging wire;
The little white ones winked round yellow eyes.
~ Conrad Potter Aiken,
943:Some are teethed on a silver spoon,
With the stars strung for a rattle;
I cut my teeth as the black raccoon--
For implements of battle.

Some are swaddled in silk and down,
And heralded by a star;
They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth gown
On a night that was black as tar.

For some, godfather and goddame
The opulent fairies be;
Dame Poverty gave me my name,
And Pain godfathered me.

For I was born on Saturday--
"Bad time for planting a seed,"
Was all my father had to say,
And, "One mouth more to feed."

Death cut the strings that gave me life,
And handed me to Sorrow,
The only kind of middle wife
My folks could beg or borrow. ~ Countee Cullen,
944:To M-O! I care not that my earthly lot
Hath little of Earth in it,
That years of love have been forgot
In the fever of a minute:
I heed not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you meddle with my fate
Who am a passer by.
It is not that my founts of bliss
Are gushing- strange! with tearsOr that the thrill of a single kiss
Hath palsied many years'Tis not that the flowers of twenty springs
Which have wither'd as they rose
Lie dead on my heart-strings
With the weight of an age of snows.
Not that the grass- O! may it thrive!
On my grave is growing or grownBut that, while I am dead yet alive
I cannot be, lady, alone.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
945:The Dead Village
Here there is death. But even here, they say,
Here where the dull sun shines this afternoon
As desolate as ever the dead moon
Did glimmer on dead Sardis, men were gay;
And there were little children here to play,
With small soft hands that once did keep in tune
The strings that stretch from heaven, till too soon
The change came, and the music passed away.
Now there is nothing but the ghosts of things,—
No life, no love, no children, and no men;
And over the forgotten place there clings
The strange and unrememberable light
That is in dreams. The music failed, and then
God frowned, and shut the village from His sight.
~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,
946:String theory promises to take a further step beyond that taken by Einstein's picture of force subsumed within curved space and time geometry. Indeed, string theory contains Einstein's theory of gravitation within itself. Loops of string behave like the exchange particles of the gravitational forces, or 'gravitons' as they are called in the point-particle picture of things. But it has been argued that it must be possible to extract even the geometry of space and time from the characteristics of the strings and their topological properties. At present, it is not known how to do this and we merely content ourselves with understanding how strings behave when they sit in a background universe of space and time. ~ John D Barrow,
947:I’m not the only kid
who grew up this way
surrounded by people who used to say
that rhyme about sticks and stones
as if broken bones
hurt more than the names we got called
and we got called them all
so we grew up believing no one
would ever fall in love with us
that we’d be lonely forever
that we’d never meet someone
to make us feel like the sun
was something they built for us
in their tool shed
so broken heart strings bled the blues
as we tried to empty ourselves
so we would feel nothing
don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone
that an ingrown life
is something surgeons can cut away
that there’s no way for it to metastasize

it does ~ Shane L Koyczan,
948:Saturday's Child
Some are teethed on a silver spoon,
With the stars strung for a rattle;
I cut my teeth as the black racoon-For implements of battle.
Some are swaddled in silk and down,
And heralded by a star;
They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth gown
On a night that was black as tar.
For some, godfather and goddame
The opulent fairies be;
Dame Poverty gave me my name,
And Pain godfathered me.
For I was born on Saturday-"Bad time for planting a seed,"
Was all my father had to say,
And, "One mouth more to feed."
Death cut the strings that gave me life,
And handed me to Sorrow,
The only kind of middle wife
My folks could beg or borrow.
~ Countee Cullen,
949:Unstrung
My skies were blue, and my sun was bright,
And, with fingers tender and strong and light,
He woke up the music that slept before—
Echoing, echoing evermore!
By-and-by, my skies grew grey;—
No master-touch on the harp-strings lay,—
Dead silence cradled the notes divine:
His soul had wander'd away from mine.
Idly, o'er strange harps swept his hand,
Seeking for music more wild and grand.
He wearied at last of his fruitless quest,
And he came again to my harp for rest.
But the dust lay thick on the golden wires,
And they would not thrill to the old desires.
The chords, so broken and jarred with pain,
Could never be tender and sweet again.
~ Ada Cambridge,
950:episode, I’d had a sense of déjà-vu, a sense of having read this article, or one very like it, at least once before. Oh, a dead parachutist: one of those. Everyone can recognize and understand that situation. Before I’d ever heard of Vanuatans, the first joke I learnt to tell as a child was about a classified ad for a used parachute, “no strings attached.” To the anthropologist, as I explained before, it’s generic episodes and phenomena that stand out as significant, not singular ones. To the anthropologist, there’s no such thing as a singular episode, a singular phenomenon—only a set of variations on generic ones; the more generic, therefore, the more pure, the closer to an unvariegated or unscrambled archetype. ~ Tom McCarthy,
951:One girl she had grown like a cyst, upon her thigh. Other children she had made out of things in her garden, or bits of trash that the cats brought her: aluminum foil with strings of chicken fat still crusted to it, broken television sets, cardboard boxes that the neighbors had thrown out. She had always been a thrifty witch. Some of these children had run away and others had died. Some of them she had simply misplaced, or accidentally left behind on buses. It is to be hoped that these children were later adopted into good homes, or reunited with their natural parents. If you are looking for a happy ending in this story, then perhaps you should stop reading here and picture these children, these parents, their reunions. ~ Kelly Link,
952:Secret Stories, which advertised name-brand lingerie at discount prices, had nothing to worry about: the same kind of shops were doing fine in the malls of Riyadh and Abu Dhabi. Neither, for that matter, did Chantal Thomass or La Perla. Hidden all day in impenetrable black burkas, rich Saudi women transformed themselves by night into birds of paradise with their corsets, their see-through bras, their G-strings with multicolored lace and rhinestones. They were exactly the opposite of Western women, who spent their days dressed up and looking sexy to maintain their social status, then collapsed in exhaustion once they got home, abandoning all hope of seduction in favor of clothes that were loose and shapeless. All ~ Michel Houellebecq,
953:Smoke hung heavy in the air. Will’s eyes stung. His throat.
His nose. And the crackling. God, the crackling fire was like the devil laughing.
Vera was in that house.
Mikey gripped his arm. “Hold on, Will—”
Will lunged forward. “Vera—”
“Whoa, Will.” Mikey’s grip tightened. “Stop.”
“The hell I will. Vera—”
“Billy?” One of the cops approached him. Said a bunch of
words. Helped Mikey hold Will back.
Vera was in that house.
Vera, her trusty wooden body, her frets, her new strings. Vera,
who’d had his back everywhere from Pickleberry Springs to
Nashville to New York to LA, from seedy bars to stadiums.
Vera, who’d helped him write his first song. His last song.
Every song in between. ~ Jamie Farrell,
954:Let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together, yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow. ~ Kahlil Gibran,
955:Marit's Song
"Dance!" called the fiddle,
Its strings loudly giggled,
The bailiff's man wriggled
Ahead for a spree.
"Hold!" shouted Ola
And tripped him to tumbling,
The bailiff's man humbling,
To maidens' great glee.
"Hop!" said then Erik,
His foot struck the ceiling,
The beams rang their pealing,
The walls gave a shriek.
"Stop!" said now Elling,
And seizing him collared,
He held him and hollered:
"You still are too weak!"
"Hei!" said then Rasmus,
Fair Randi embracing:
"Be quick now in placing
The kiss that you know!"
"Nay!" answered Randi.
A slapping she gave him,
And from her she drave him:
"Here take what I owe!"
~ Bjornstjerne Bjornson,
956:How was God supposed to stop it? You're a free man, Alois. There are no invisible strings connecting you to God, directing your every move.'

But if God is all-powerful, God could intervene. God could find a way.'

And because God didn't intervene, it was all right.'

Yes.'

Too bad you don't believe in God, then. You've lost your excuse.'

Bauer blinked. He looked away. 'Perhaps I do believe in God,' he said.

Oh yes,' Dietrich said. 'God makes a convenient scapegoat. Or people always think God is absent when things are going bad for them. Things go better and God is back. Well, I want to live in the world as if there were no God. That is the only way God can truly be with any of us. ~ Denise Giardina,
957:I was raised on the struggle of elders - iron collars, severed feet, the rifle of dirty Harriet, and down through the years, the Muslims and regal Malcolm. But mostly what I saw around me was rank dishonor: cable and Atari plugged into every room, juvenile parenting, niggers sporting kicks with price tags that looked like mortgage bills. The Conscious among us knew the whole race was going down, that we'd freed ourselves from slavery and Jim Crow but not the great shackling of minds. The hoppers had no picture of the larger world. We thought all our battles were homegrown and personal, but, like an evil breeze at our back, we felt invisible hands at work, like someone else was still tugging at levers and pulling strings. ~ Ta Nehisi Coates,
958:Our contemporaries are constantly excited by two conflicting passions: they want to be led, and they wish to remain free. As they cannot destroy either the one or the other of these contrary propensities, they strive to satisfy them both at once. They devise a sole, tutelary, and all-powerful form of government, but elected by the people. They combine the principle of centralization and that of popular sovereignty; this gives them a respite: they console themselves for being in tutelage by the reflection that they have chosen their own guardians. Every man allows himself to be put in leading-strings, because he sees that it is not a person or a class of persons, but the people at large who hold the end of his chain. ~ Alexis de Tocqueville,
959:Love Beyond Keeping
She had a box
with a million red bandanas for him.
She gave them to him
one by one or by thousands,
saying then she had not enough for him.
She had languages and landscapes
on her lips and the end of her tongue,
landscapes of sunny hills and changing fogs,
of houses falling and people within falling,
of a left-handed man
who died for a woman who went out of her mind,
of a guitar player
who died with fingers reaching for strings,
of a man whose heart stopped
as his hand went out to put a pawn forward
on the fifth day of one game of chess,
of five gay women
stricken and lost
amid the javelins and chants
of love beyond keeping.
~ Carl Sandburg,
960:For a moment they stood looking at each other in the firelight, while the old harper still fingered the shining strings and the other man looked on with a gleam of amusement lurking in his watery blue eyes. But Aquila was not looking at him. He was looking only at the dark young man, seeing that he was darker even than he had thought at first, and slightly built in a way that went with the darkness, as though maybe the old blood, the blood of the People of the Hills, ran strong in him. But his eyes, under brows as straight as a raven's flight-pinions, were not the eyes of the little Dark People, which were black and unstable and full of dreams, but a pale clear grey, lit with gold, that gave the effect of flame behind them. ~ Rosemary Sutcliff,
961:How many times have you been in love, Doctor?"

"Twice. The love of my life, and now my soulmate."

"What's the difference? Between the love of your life, and your soulmate?"

"One is a choice, and one is not...There is a string that connects us that is not visible to the eye. Maybe every person has more than one soul they are connected to, and all over the world there are these invisible strings. Maybe the chances that you'll find each and every one of your soulmates is slim. But sometimes you're lucky enough to stumble across one. And you feel a tug. And it's not so much a choice to love them through their flaws and through your differences, but rather you love them without even trying. You love their flaws. ~ Tarryn Fisher,
962:He did not know what to say in the face of such sorrow. He sat in silence by his sister's side in the spring verdure, which was too young; and the hidden strings of his breast began to quiver, and to sound. This was the first time that he had ever looked into the labyrinth of the human soul. He was very far from understanding what he saw. But what was of more value, he felt and suffered with her. In years that were yet to come he relived this memory in song, in the most beautiful song the world has ever known. For the understanding of the soul's defenselessness, of the conflict between the two poles, is not the source of the greatest song. The source of the greatest song is sympathy. Sympathy with Asta Sollilja on earth. ~ Halld r Kiljan Laxness,
963:I always thought of it like you said, that all the strings inside him broke. But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings break, or maybe our ships sink, or maybe we’re grass—our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is alive. We don’t suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. If you choose the strings, then you’re imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose the grass, you’re saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. The metaphors have implications. Do you know what I mean? ~ John Green,
964:What’s the difference?” I asked him. “Between the love of your life, and your soulmate?”
“One is a choice, and one is not.” “There is a string that connects us that is not visible to the eye,” he said. “Maybe every person has more than one soul they are connected to, and all over the world there are these invisible strings.” As if to make his point, his finger traced a black ribbon that ran through my horse’s mane. “Maybe the chances that you’ll find each and every one of your soulmates is slim. But sometimes you’re lucky enough to stumble across one. And you feel a tug. And it’s not so much a choice to love them through their flaws and through your differences, but rather you love them without even trying. You love their flaws. ~ Tarryn Fisher,
965:Ma Boheme
I went off with my hands in my torn coat pockets; my overcoat too was
becoming ideal;
I travelled beneath the sky, Muse! and I was your vassel; oh dear me!
what marvellous loves I dreamed of!
My only pair of breeches had a big hole in them.- Stargazing Tom
Thumb, I sowed rhymes along the way.
My tavern was at the Sign of the Great Bear. - My stars in the sky
rustled softly.
And I listened to them, sitting on the road-sides on those pleasant
September evenings while I felt drops of dew on my forehead like
vigorous wine;
and while, rhyming among the fantastical shadows, I plucked like the
strings of a lyre the elastics of my tattered boots, one foot close to my
heart!
~ Arthur Rimbaud,
966:Similarly, as God “is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked” (Luke 6:35), and as he allows the blessings of nature to come “on the evil and on the good” (Matt. 5:45), so our love must be given without consideration to the relative merits or faults of the person we encounter. We are to love like the sun shines and like the rain falls: indiscriminately. We are to “be merciful, just as [our] Father is merciful” (Luke 6:36). We are to give to beggars, lend to those in need, not resist evildoers, and give without expecting anything in return (e.g., Matt. 5:39–42; Luke 6:31–36). In other words, we are to love without strings attached, without conditions, without any consideration whatsoever of the apparent worthiness of the person we encounter. ~ Gregory A Boyd,
967:Piano
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
~ David Herbert Lawrence,
968:As I learned how to change my perceptions of my marital partner, I saw that my happiness lay not in what I could get from her, but in my choosing more often to love her without expectations of what I might get back. I learned that when I was able to love her without strings attached, she often became more loving, sometimes with her love wrapped in very different-colored packages than I was asking for, yet these new colors were often richer than what I was requesting. I also learned that when I did not do this consistently, I would instantly create pain for myself and often for her. And of great importance, I came to understand her not so much as a separate objective reality, but often as a mirror of my own attitudes, thoughts, and perceptions. ~ Henry Grayson,
969:There have to be rules though.” She pulled out of the kiss, withdrawing her finger as well, sliding it down his chin and throat, leaving a wet trail.
“Rules?”
Her gaze locked with his. “This can only be sex. Just seven weeks of utterly debauched, completely strings-free sex.” Her finger moved south, swirling around first one nipple then the other. “No expectations. No commitments. No getting attached. No crying like a baby and asking me not to leave.”
Ryder laughed at the thought, but there was a husky catch to it as her finger trailed down his abdomen.
“I’m not going to fall in love with you,” she continued. “And you’re not going to fall in love with me. I will not give up my dream again, Ryder. Not for you, not for any man. Okay? ~ Amy Andrews,
970:People don’t write on the backs of photos much anymore. That’s because we don’t write on anything as much as we used to—at least, not in a traditional, pen-to-paper sense. Nor do we even take photos—by which I mean real photos, printed on paper coated with photo emulsion. Cameras have proliferated as never before, but the images they produce are ephemeral strings of ones and zeroes, rarely printed, stored on chips and drives that are easily damaged or erased, susceptible to heat, magnets, wear, and obsolescence. A hard drive might last five years, a compact disc ten or fifteen. A well-printed snapshot will still be visible after a century—negatives even longer. We are no longer leaving behind a tangible, enduring photographic record of ourselves. ~ Ransom Riggs,
971:picked this up at Skip’s place,” the kid said. He showed Bobby a bullet. It looked like a regular .45-caliber round but the bullet was blunter. “This is a multiple-impact round. When you fire the gun, the bullet breaks into three fragments held together with strings of Kevlar. The fragments come at you spinning like a South American bolo and they hit with a fourteen-inch spread. In other words, I could shoot at you, miss by thirteen inches, and still blow your brains out. Now I don’t know if that verifies Skip as a hit man but it verifies him as something.” Bobby looked like he’d opened his safe and found a head of cabbage. Hegan turned away to hide his smile. “Any questions?” the short guy said. The kid lifted his head. “Something’s burning.” Earlier ~ Joe Ide,
972:Dear Jutta, Sorry I have not written these past months. The fever is mostly gone now and you should not worry. I have been feeling very clearheaded lately and what I want to write about today is the sea. It contains so many colors. Silver at dawn, green at noon, dark blue in the evening. Sometimes it looks almost red. Or it will turn the color of old coins. Right now the shadows of clouds are dragging across it, and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere. White strings of gulls drag over it like beads. It is my favorite thing, I think, that I have ever seen. Sometimes I catch myself staring at it and forget my duties. It seems big enough to contain everything anyone could ever feel. Say hello to Frau Elena and the children who are left. ~ Anthony Doerr,
973:Letter To Myselves
You can be hurt
because you want too much;
because in your face it says:
love me, nurture me;
because in your teeth it says:
sugar flows to us;
because in your tongue it says:
drive in the spike.
You can be hurt
because you care too much
because your ribs swing out like shutters
& your heart
glows like a night light.
You can be hurt
because you need too much
because your skin comes off in streamers
& your veins
twang like guitar strings.
You can be hurt that way.
You made your head
a wind tunnel for death.
You made your womb
the world's confessional.
You made your heart
a lump of burning clay.
You, mewe can be hurt that way.
~ Erica Jong,
974:The Fury Of Guitars And Sopranos "

This singing
is a kind of dying,
a kind of birth,
a votive candle.
I have a dream-mother
who sings with her guitar,
nursing the bedroom
with a moonlight and beautiful olives.
A flute came too,
joining the five strings,
a God finger over the holes.
I knew a beautiful woman once
who sang with her fingertips
and her eyes were brown
like small birds.
At the cup of her breasts
I drew wine.
At the mound of her legs
I drew figs.
She sang for my thirst,
mysterious songs of God
that would have laid an army down.
It was as if a morning-glory
had bloomed in her throat
and all that blue
and small pollen
ate into my heart
violent and religious. ~ Anne Sexton,
975:In the old days, Christmas lights had come in short strings that were wired serially. If a single bulb burned out or even just loosened in its socket, the circuit was broken and the entire string went dark. One of the season’s rituals for Gary and Chip had been to tighten each little brass-footed bulb in a darkened string and then, if this didn’t work, to replace each bulb in turn until the dead culprit was found. (What joy the boys had taken in the resurrection of a string!) By the time Denise was old enough to help with the lights, the technology had advanced. The wiring was parallel, and the bulbs had snap-in plastic bases. A single faulty light didn’t affect the rest of the community but identified itself instantly for instant replacement . . . ~ Jonathan Franzen,
976:The large strings hummed like rain, The small strings whispered like a secret, Hummed, whispered—and then were intermingled Like a pouring of large and small pearls into a plate of jade. We heard an oriole, liquid, hidden among flowers. We heard a brook bitterly sob along a bank of sand. . . . By the checking of its cold touch, the very string seemed broken As though it could not pass; and the notes, dying away Into a depth of sorrow and concealment of lament, Told even more in silence than they had told in sound. . . . A silver vase abruptly broke with a gush of water, And out leapt armored horses and weapons that clashed and smote— And before she laid her pick down, she ended with one stroke, And all four strings made one sound, as of rending silk. ~ Eiji Yoshikawa,
977:Do you already know that your existence--who and how you are--is in and of itself a contribution to the people and place around you? Not after or because you do some particular thing, but simply the miracle of your life. And that the people around you, and the place(s), have contributions as well? Do you understand that your quality of life and your survival are tied to how authentic and generous the connections are between you and the people and place you live with and in?

Are you actively practicing generosity and vulnerability in order to make the connections between you and others clear, open, available, durable? Generosity here means giving of what you have without strings or expectations attached. Vulnerability means showing your needs. ~ Adrienne Maree Brown,
978:That's why you look so tired, isn't it?" I murmured. "You used up all your magic to find me last night."

Owen shrugged as though it was nothing. But it wasn't nothing to me. Besides Finn and the Deveraux sisters, I couldn't even remember the last time someone had cared enough to come looking for me when I was in trouble. I was so used to being on my own for so long, always being the tough, strong, capable one, that I'd forgotten how nice it felt to have someone else look out for me.

To have someone else care about me.

And just like that, the fragile strings of my feelings for Owen joined together, all the tangled threads wrapping around and weaving their way through my heart. Scary and painful in some ways, but necessary in others too. ~ Jennifer Estep,
979:A Hope Carol
A night was near, a day was near,
Between a day and night
I heard sweet voices calling clear,
Calling me:
I heard a whirr of wing on wing,
But could not see the sight;
I long to see my birds that sing,
I long to see.
Below the stars, beyond the moon,
Between the night and day
I heard a rising falling tune
Calling me:
I long to see the pipes and strings
Whereon such minstrels play;
I long to see each face that sings,
I long to see.
Today or may be not today,
Tonight or not tonight,
All voices that command or pray
Calling me,
Shall kindle in my soul such fire
And in my eyes such light
That I shall see that heart's desire
I long to see.
~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,
980:Having the Having"

I tie knots in the strings of my spirit
to remember. They are not pictures
of what was. Not accounts of dusk
amid the olive trees and that odor.
The walking back was the arriving.
For that there are three knots
and a space and another two
close together. They do not imitate
the inside of her body, nor her clean
mouth. They cannot describe, but they
can prevent remembering it wrong.
The knots recall. The knots
are blazons marking the trail
back to what we own and imperfectly
forget. Back to a bell ringing
far off, and the sweet summer darkening.
All but a little of it blurs and leaks
away, but that little is most of it,
even damaged. Two more knots
and then just straight string. ~ Jack Gilbert,
981:From every enjoyment I was, of course, excluded: my share of the gaiety consisted […] in listening to the sound of the piano or the harp played below, to the passing to and fro of the butler and footman, to the jingling of glass and china as refreshments were handed, to the broken hum of conversation as the drawing-room door opened and closed.  When tired of this occupation, I would retire from the stairhead to the solitary and silent nursery […]. I then sat with my doll on my knee, till the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the embers sank to a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging at knots and strings as I best might, and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my crib. ~ Charlotte Bront,
982:My Bohemian Existence
I went off with my hands in my torn coat pockets;
my overcoat too was becoming ideal;
I travelled beneath the sky,
Muse! and I was your vassal;
Oh dear me! what marvellous loves
I dreamed of! My only pair of breeches
had a big hole in them. -Stragazing Tom Thumb,
I sowed my rhymes along the way.
My tavern was at the Sign of the Great Bear.
-- My stars in the sky rustled softly.
And I listened to them, sitting on the road-sides
on those pleasant September evenings
while I felt drops of dew on my forehead
like vigorous wine; and while,
rhyming among the fantastical shadows,
I plucked the strings of a lyre
the elastics of my tattered boots,
one foot close to my heart!
~ Arthur Rimbaud,
983:I want to hear her laugh.

To watch sunbeams awaken her visage and shine through her eyes. To see the gray clouds of regret that hang heavy over her head rain away to nothing.

I want to hear her sunny voice dance on the breeze, as light and free as glossy bubbles, floating up…up…up to pop like hiccups. I want to know the type and form of key I must cut to unshackle even a portion of her joy.

If I could pluck the winning feather; if my smile could convince; if I could stroke her vocal chords like harp strings and make each treble note ascend to euphoria. Oh, to hear the giggled melody she would release into a world craving the balm of mirth!
I ache to experience that. I am desperate for it.

I live for the day I hear her laugh. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,
984:Romance
Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been- a most familiar birdTaught me my alphabet to sayTo lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child- with a most knowing eye.
Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flingsThat little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away- forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
985:She once told me of a night that fumed with escapes and was filled with bedsides reeking of ecstasy; she told me the stars cast not judgments, but blessings, knowing full well the disastrous outcomes of the deeds they cradled with the strings of their young hearts. She’d inhaled the night itself, those around her doing the same, and so all become one. No disharmony. No discordance. Nothing to shatter the cause; nothing to unearth the beauty. So as we together ascended that front porch, allowing the glow behind the blown-out windows and the odious steams plunder us from through the cracks...time forgot to distill us, and our steps became as silver as glass. I could no longer deny the boiling words of my blood: tonight would be the beginning of a very long road indeed. ~ Dave Matthes,
986:There’s a lot of scientific evidence demonstrating that focused attention leads to the reshaping of the brain. In animals rewarded for noticing sound (to hunt or to avoid being hunted, for example), we find much larger auditory centers in the brain. In animals rewarded for sharp eyesight, the visual areas are larger. Brain scans of violinists provide more evidence, showing dramatic growth and expansion in regions of the cortex that represent the left hand, which has to finger the strings precisely, often at very high speed. Other studies have shown that the hippocampus, which is vital for spatial memory, is enlarged in taxi drivers. The point is that the physical architecture of the brain changes according to where we direct our attention and what we practice doing. ~ Daniel J Siegel,
987:Among the compensations of advancing age is a wholesome pessimism which, while it takes the fine edge off whatever triumphs may come to us, has the admirable effect of preventing fate from working off on us any of those gold bricks, coins with strings attached, and unhatched chickens that which ardent youth snatches with such enthusiasm to its subsequent disappointment. As we emerge from the twenties, we grow into a habit of mind which looks askance at fate bearing gifts. We miss perhaps the occasional prize but we also avoid leaping lightheartedly into traps. Ash Marsin had yet to reach the age of tranquil mistrust and when fate seemed to be treating him kindly, he was still young enough to accept such kindnesses on its face value and rejoice in them. --Something Fresh ~ P G Wodehouse,
988:We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly!--yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever;

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest. -- A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise. -- One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:

It is the same!--For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability.
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,
989:The woman, one of those usually known as a good-time girl, was famous for the premature portliness which had earned her the nickname Boule de Suif. Small, round as a barrel, fat as butter and with fingers tightly jointed like strings of small sausages, her glowing skin and the enormous bosom which strained under the constraints of her dress — as well as her freshness, which was a delight to the eye — made her hugely desirable and much sought after. She had a rosy apple of a face, a peony bud about to burst into bloom. Out of it looked two magnificent dark eyes shaded by thick black lashes. Further down was a charming little mouth complete with invitingly moist lips and tiny, gleaming pearly-white teeth. She was said to possess a variety of other inestimable qualities. ~ Guy de Maupassant,
990:In The Light Of Birds
In the light of birds the lunatic wakes from uncountable sleeps
His burning electric wires begin to glow
Birds sing in every forest of flesh and blood
The lunatic's fingers turn into strings in the outer silence
The darkness of half-asleep awareness roars through
The lunatic's widening arteries, it's another kind of
Waking-- and even total sleep is a frightening fire
It's compelled to burst out even while being awake.
The lunatic sees through his sun-paraphrasing eyes
That creates circles centred outside him
And unaccountable sleep awakens lightnings
To sing a vast lullaby in flesh and blood.
The lunatic watches a bird...half-closed like eyes...flying
And his eyes as they drown begin to chirp.
~ Dilip Chitre,
991:(The string is extremely tiny, at the Planck length of 10 ^-33 cm, a billion billion times smaller than a proton, so all subatomic particles appear pointlike.)

If we were to pluck this string, the vibration would change; the electron might turn into a neutrino. Pluck it again and it might turn into a quark. In fact, if you plucked it hard enough, it could turn into any of the known subatomic particles.

Strings can interact by splitting and rejoining, thus creating the interactions we see among electrons and protons in atoms. In this way, through string theory, we can reproduce all the laws of atomic and nuclear physics. The "melodies" that can be written on strings correspond to the laws of chemistry. The universe can now be viewed as a vast symphony of strings. ~ Michio Kaku,
992:The buzzer rang. Magnus pressed the button to let him enter, speechless for a moment because he had wanted Alec there, so badly, and here he was. It felt more like magic than anything he could do.
Then Alec was there, standing in the open doorway.
“I wanted to see you,” said Alec with devastating simplicity. “Is this okay? I can go away if you’re busy or anything.”
It must have been raining a little outside. There were sparkling drops of water in Alec’s messy black hair. He was wearing a hoodie that Magnus thought he might have found in a Dumpster, and sloppy jeans, and his whole face was lit up just because he was looking at Magnus.
“I think,” said Magnus, pulling Alec in by the strings on his awful gray hoodie, “that I could be persuaded to clear my schedule. ~ Cassandra Clare,
993:Why do the strings make different sounds, Maestro?” “It is simple. They work like life.” “I don’t understand.” “The first string is E. It is high pitched and quick like a child. “The second string is B. It is pitched slightly lower, like the squeaky voice of a teenager. “The third string, G, is deeper, with the power of a young man. “The fourth string, D, is robust, a man at full strength. “The fifth string, A, is solid and loud but unable to reach high tones, like a man who can no longer do what he did.” “And the sixth string, Maestro?” “The sixth is the low E, the thickest, slowest, and grumpiest. You hear how deep? Dum-dum-dum. Like it is ready to die.” “Is that because it is closest to heaven?” “No, Francisco. It is because life will always drag you to the bottom.” Frankie ~ Mitch Albom,
994:The Fury Of Guitars And Sopranos
This singing
is a kind of dying,
a kind of birth,
a votive candle.
I have a dream-mother
who sings with her guitar,
nursing the bedroom
with a moonlight and beautiful olives.
A flute came too,
joining the five strings,
a God finger over the holes.
I knew a beautiful woman once
who sang with her fingertips
and her eyes were brown
like small birds.
At the cup of her breasts
I drew wine.
At the mound of her legs
I drew figs.
She sang for my thirst,
mysterious songs of God
that would have laid an army down.
It was as if a morning-glory
had bloomed in her throat
and all that blue
and small pollen
ate into my heart
violent and religious.
~ Anne Sexton,
995:Piano

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.


In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside

And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.


So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour

With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour

Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past. ~ D H Lawrence,
996:He who the sword of heaven will bear
Should be as holy as severe;
Pattern in himself to know,
Grace to stand, and virtue go;
More nor less to others paying
Than by self-offences weighing.
Shame to him whose cruel striking
Kills for faults of his own liking!
Twice treble shame on Angelo,
To weed my vice and let his grow!
O, what may man within him hide,
Though angel on the outward side!
How may likeness made in crimes,
Making practise on the times,
To draw with idle spiders' strings
Most ponderous and substantial things!
Craft against vice I must apply:
With Angelo to-night shall lie
His old betrothed but despised;
So disguise shall, by the disguised,
Pay with falsehood false exacting,
And perform an old contracting. ~ William Shakespeare,
997:A piano tuner used to come over to our house when I was young. He was a blind man, his eyes burnt-out holes in his head, his body all bent. I remember how strange he looked against the grandeur of our lives, how he stooped over that massive multitoothed instrument and tweaked its tones. The piano never looked any different after he’d worked on it, but when I pressed a C key or the black bar of an F minor, the note sprung out richer, as though chocolate and spices had been added to a flat sound. This was what was different. It was as though I’d been visited by a blind piano tuner who had crept into my apartment at night, who had tweaked the ivory bones of my body, the taut strings in my skull, and now, when I pressed on myself, the same notes but with a mellower, fuller sound sprang out. ~ Lauren Slater,
998:She felt as though her nerves were strings being strained tighter and tighter on some sort of screwing peg. She felt her eyes opening wider and wider, her fingers and toes twitching nervously, something within oppressing her breathing, while all shapes and sounds seemed in the uncertain half-light to strike her with unaccustomed vividness. Moments of doubt were continually coming upon her, when she was uncertain whether the train were going forwards or backwards, or were standing still altogether; whether it were Annushka at her side or a stranger. "What's that on the arm of the chair, a fur cloak or some beast? And what am I myself? Myself or some other woman?" She was afraid of giving way to this delirium. But something drew her towards it, and she could yield to it or resist it at will. ~ Leo Tolstoy,
999:We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly! yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost forever:

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest.-- A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise.-- One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:

It is the same! For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability.

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mutability
,
1000:It was very quiet. No one else would have seen if not for the desert. But when the desert heard Pete Wyatt singing a love song, it took notice. The desert loved him, after all, and wanted him happy. So when it heard Pete singing, it rose a wind around them until the breeze sang gently like strings, and when it heard Pete singing, it provoked the air to heat and cool around every stone and plant so that each of these things sounded in harmony with his voice, and when it heard Pete singing, it roused Colorado's grasshoppers to action and they rubbed their legs together like a soft horn section, and when it heard Pete singing, it shifted the very ground beneath Bicho Raro so that the sand and the dirt pounded a beat that matched the sound of the incomplete heart that lived in Pete Wyatt. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
1001:People everywhere, enjoying life, smiling, and just slowing down to let the world take care of itself for a few hours.
The feeling was contagious. Especially when I stepped into McPherson's Pub to grab a bite of the special and listen to some traditional Irish music. The fiddle made me want to dance with myself, and many did. The drum beat like my very own heart. And some little flute that looked no wider than a pencil reminded me of the Aran Islands floating not too far from Abbeyglen.
God was here tonight. In the strings of the guitar and the call of the singer's voice. I realize how often I overlook him back at home.
And I know I don't want to do that anymore.
The LORD will send His faithful love by day; His song will be with me in the night a prayer to the Gid of my life. ~ Jenny B Jones,
1002:Our contemporaries are constantly excited by two conflicting passions: they want to be led, and they wish to remain free. As they cannot destroy either the one or the other of these contrary propensities, they strive to satisfy them both at once. They devise a sole, tutelary, and all-powerful form of government, but elected by the people. They combine the principle of centralization and that of popular sovereignty; this gives them a respite; they console themselves for being in tutelage by the reflection that they have put in leading-strings, because he sees that it is not a person or a class of persons, but the people at large who hold the end of his chain. By this system the people shake off their state of dependence just long enough to select their master and then relapse into it again.”9 ~ Mark R Levin,
1003:A Maiden To Her Mirror
He said he loved me! Then he called my hair
Silk threads wherewith sly Cupid strings his bow,
My cheek a rose leaf fallen on new snow;
And swore my round, full throat would bring despair
To Venus or to Psyche.
Time and care
Will fade these locks; the merry god, I know,
Uses no grizzled cords upon his bow.
How will it be when I, no longer fair,
Plead for his kiss with cheeks, whence long ago
The early snowflakes melted quite away,
The rose leaf died – and in whose sallow clay
Lie the deep sunken tracks of life’s gaunt crow?
When this full throat shall wattle fold on fold,
Like some ripe peach left drying on a wall,
Or like a spent accordion, when all
Its music has exhaled – will love grow cold?
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
1004:I am spinning the silk threads of my story, weaving the fabric of my world. The tiny elf dancer became a wooden doll whose strings were jerked by people not paying attention. I spun out of control. Eating was hard. Breathing was hard. Living was hardest.

I wanted to swallow the bitter seeds of forgetfulness. Cassie did, too. We leaned on each other, lost in the dark and wandering in endless circles. She got too tired an went to sleep. Somehow, I dragged myself out of the dark and asked for help.

I spin and weave and knit my words and visions until a life starts to take shape.

There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever. There are only small steps upward; an easier day, an unexpected laugh, a mirror that doesn't matter anymore.


I am thawing. ~ Laurie Halse Anderson,
1005:In the world's busy market-place, O Shyama, Thou art flying kites; High up they soar on the wind of hope, held fast by maya's string. Their frames are human skeletons, their sails of the the three gunas made; But all their curious workmanship is merely for ornament. Upon the kite-strings Thou hast rubbed the manja-paste of worldliness, So as to make each straining strand all the more sharp and strong. Out of a hundred thousand kites, at best but one or two break free; And thou dost laugh and clap Thy hands, O Mother, watching them! On favoring winds, says Ramprasad, the kites set loose will speedily Be borne away to the Infinite, across the sea of the world. [1008.jpg] -- from Kali: The Black Goddess of Dakshineswar, by Elizabeth U. Harding

~ Ramprasad, In the worlds busy market-place, O Shyama
,
1006:when I've thought about him dying-which admittedly isn't that much-I always thought of it like you said, that all the strings inside him broke. But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings broke, or maybe our ships sink, or maybe we're grass-our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. If you choose strings, then you're imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose the grass, you're saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. The metaphors have implications. Do you know what I mean? ~ John Green,
1007:During replication, those nucleotides are read and translated into linear strings of amino acids (which make up enzymes and proteins) by a rule-governed process. The set of rules is called the genetic code. The DNA contains the sequence, but the code is implemented by RNA molecules. Certain DNA sequences, called codons, which are made up of three nucleotides, symbolize certain amino acid sequences. There is no ambiguity, but there is also not just one codon for each amino acid. For example, six different codons symbolize arginine, but only one codon symbolizes tryptophan. But the components of the DNA sequence (the symbol) do not resemble the components of the amino acid sequence (its meaning), just as the words that symbolize the components of a recipe do not resemble the components themselves. ~ Michael S Gazzaniga,
1008:Here in Little City,” she said, “lives a traveler who didn’t come from this world. Or perhaps it came from a million years in the future. Or from outside of time, from before this universe or any other was created. Either I am thought incapable of understanding the fine details—or I am thought to be safer not knowing them. Or maybe knowing them would destroy my sanity. In any case, I call this traveler Parasite, because its real name is nothing I can pronounce. This vile thing invades a human host and lives secretly among us, and by our definition, it is pure evil. It infects others, not with its substance but with a controlling poison, and those it infects eventually infect still others. It is a parasite but it’s also a puppeteer, and it pulls a million strings, ten times a million, all over the world. ~ Dean Koontz,
1009:It was the custom in those days for passengers leaving for America to bring balls of yarn on deck. Relatives on the pier held the loose ends. As the "Giulia" blew its horn and moved away from the dock, a few hundred strings of yarn stretched across the water. People shouted farewells, waved furiously, held up babies for last looks they wouldn't remember. Propellers churned; handkerchiefs fluttered, and, up on deck, the balls of yarn began to spin. Red, yellow, blue, green, they untangled toward the pier, slowly at first, one revolution every ten seconds, then faster and faster as the boat picked up speed. Passengers held the yarn as long as possible, maintaining the connection to faces disappearing onshore. But finally, one by one, the balls ran out. The strings of yarn flew free, rising on the breeze. ~ Jeffrey Eugenides,
1010:There is so much silence all around
that I think I can hear
moonlight crashing against the
windows.

A foreign voice
awakes inside my breast,
singing a longing which is not my
own.

They say that ancestors, who died
before their time,
with young blood in their veins,
with great passions in their blood,
with living sun in passions,
return,
return to live
inside us
their unspent lives.

There is so much silence all around
that I think I can hear
moonlight crashing against the
windows.

Oh, who knows, my soul -in whose
breast you too will sing, in centur-
ies to come,
on sweet strings of silence
on a harp of darkness,
your smothered longing and your
broken joy of life? Who knows?
Who knows? ~ Lucian Blaga,
1011:Of My Lady Isabella Playing On The Lute
Such moving sounds from such a careless touch,
So unconcerned herself, and we so much!
What art is this, that with so little pains
Transports us thus, and o'er the spirit reigns?
The trembling strings about her fingers crowd
And tell their joy for every kiss aloud.
Small force there needs to make them tremble so;
Touched by that hand, who would not tremble too?
Here love takes stand, and while she charms the ear,
Empties his quiver on the listening deer:
Music so softens and disarms the mind
That not an arrow does resistance find.
Thus the fair tyrant celebrates the prize,
And acts herself the the triumph of her eyes.
So Nero once with harp in hand surveyed
His flaming Rome, and as it burned he played.
~ Edmund Waller,
1012:When I’ve thought about him dying — which admittedly isn’t that much — I always thought of it like you said, that all the strings inside him broke. But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings break, or maybe our ships sink, or maybe we’re grass — our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. We don’t suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. If you choose the strings, then you’re imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose the grass, you’re saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. The metaphors have implications. Do you know what I mean? ~ John Green,
1013:The First Day's Night Had Come
410
The first Day's Night had come—
And grateful that a thing
So terrible—had been endured—
I told my Soul to sing—
She said her Strings were snapt—
Her Bow—to Atoms blown—
And so to mend her—gave me work
Until another Morn—
And then—a Day as huge
As Yesterdays in pairs,
Unrolled its horror in my face—
Until it blocked my eyes—
My Brain—begun to laugh—
I mumbled—like a fool—
And tho' 'tis Years ago—that Day—
My Brain keeps giggling—still.
And Something's odd—within—
That person that I was—
And this One—do not feel the same—
Could it be Madness—this?
~ Emily Dickinson,
1014:Maybe the idea of the world as flat isn't a tribal memory or an archetypal memory, but something far older -- a fox memory, a worm memory, a moss memory.

Memory of leaping or crawling or shrugging rootlet by rootlet forward, across the flatness of everything.

To perceive of the earth as round needed something else -- standing up! -- that hadn't yet happened.

What a wild family! Fox and giraffe and wart hog, of course. But these also: bodies like tiny strings, bodies like blades and blossoms! Cord grass, Christmas fern, soldier moss! And here comes grasshopper, all toes and knees and eyes, over the little mountains of the dust.

When I see the black cricket in the woodpile, in autumn, I don't frighten her. And when I see the moss grazing upon the rock, I touch her tenderly,

sweet cousin. ~ Mary Oliver,
1015:Lazy Man's Song
I have got patronage, but am too lazy to use it;
I have got land, but am too lazy to farm it.
My house leaks; I am too lazy to mend it.
My clothes are torn; I am too lazy to darn them.
I have got wine, but am too lazy to drink;
So it's just the same as if my cellar were empty.
I have got a harp, but am too lazy to play;
So it's just the same as if it had no strings.
My wife tells me there is no more bread in the house;
I want to bake, but am too lazy to grind.
My friends and relatives write me long letters;
I should like to read them, but they're such a bother
to open.
I have always been told that Chi Shu-yeh1
Passed his whole life in absolute idleness.
But he played the harp and sometimes transmuted metals,
So even he was not so lazy as I
~ Bai Juyi,
1016:Yes. You do understand, you do. I knew you would. It was that analogy you made to the Quran that got me thinking in the first place. Metaphors: knowledge existing in several states simultaneously and without contradiction. The stag and the doe and the trap. Instead of working with linear strings of ones and zeroes, the computer could work with bundles that were one and zero and every point in between, all at once. If, if, if you could teach it to overcome its binary nature."
"That sounds very complicated indeed."
"It should be impossible, but it isn't." Alif began typing furiously. "All modern computers are pedants. To them the world is divided into black and white, off and on, right and wrong. But I will teach yours to recognize multiple origin points, interrelated geneses, systems of multivalent cause and effect. ~ G Willow Wilson,
1017:The Jesuits’ strategy became clear to us when we discovered Father Barruel. Between 1797 and 1798, in response to the French Revolution, he writes his Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire du jacobinisme, a real dime novel that begins, surprise surprise, with the Templars. After the burning of Molay, they transform themselves into a secret society to destroy monarchy and papacy and to create a world republic. In the eighteenth century they take over Freemasonry and make it their instrument. In 1763 they create a literary academy consisting of Voltaire, Turgot, Condorcet, Diderot, and d’Alembert, which meets in the house of Baron d’Holbach and in 1776, plot after plot, they bring about the birth of the Jacobins. But they are mere marionettes, their strings pulled by the real bosses, the Illuminati of Bavaria—regicides by vocation. ~ Umberto Eco,
1018:You couldn't just leave her?"

"No," he says. "She's going through some shit right now. I'm just trying to be there for her. As a friend. That's it!"

"Gosh, she really knows how to work you, Peter!"

"It's not like that."

"It's always like that. She pulls the strings and you just . . ." I dangle my arms and head like a marionette doll.

Peter frowns. "That was mean."

"Well, I feel mean right now. So watch out."

"You're not mean, though. Not usually."

"Why can't you just tell me? You know I won't tell anyone. I really want to understand it, Peter."

"Because it's not for me to say. Don't try to make me tell you, because I can't."

"She's just doing this to manipulate you. It's what she does." I hear the jealousy in my voice, and I hate it, I hate it. This isn't me. ~ Jenny Han,
1019:Consider how the principles of the law of accelerating returns apply to the epochs we discussed in the first chapter. The combination of amino acids into proteins and of nucleic acids into strings of RNA established the basic paradigm of biology. Strings of RNA (and later DNA) that self-replicated (Epoch Two) provided a digital method to record the results of evolutionary experiments. Later on, the evolution of a species that combined rational thought (Epoch Three) with an opposable appendage (the thumb) caused a fundamental paradigm shift from biology to technology (Epoch Four). The upcoming primary paradigm shift will be from biological thinking to a hybrid combining biological and nonbiological thinking (Epoch Five), which will include “biologically inspired” processes resulting from the reverse engineering of biological brains. ~ Ray Kurzweil,
1020:Cavenaugh rubbed his hands together and smiled his sunny smile.

'I like that idea. It's reassuring. If we can have no secrets, it means we can't, after all, go so far afield as we might,' he hesitated, 'yes, as we might.'

Eastman looked at him sourly. 'Cavenaugh, when you've practiced law in New York for twelve years, you find that people can't go far in any direction, except-' He thrust his forefinger sharply at the floor.'Even in that direction, few people can do anything out of the ordinary. Our range is limited. Skip a few baths, and we become personally objectionable. The slightest carelessness can rot a man's integrity or give him ptomaine poisoning. We keep up only be incessant cleansing operations, of mind and body. What we call character, is held together by all sorts of tacks and strings and glue. ("Consequences") ~ Willa Cather,
1021:[T]his readiness to assume the guilt for the threats to our environment is deceptively reassuring: We like to be guilty since, if we are guilty, it all depends on us. We pull the strings of the catastrophe, so we can also save ourselves simply by changing our lives. What is really hard for us (at least in the West) to accept is that we are reduced to the role of a passive observer who sits and watches what our fate will be. To avoid this impotence, we engage in frantic, obsessive activities. We recycle old paper, we buy organic food, we install long-lasting light bulbs—whatever—just so we can be sure that we are doing something. We make our individual contribution like the soccer fan who supports his team in front of a TV screen at home, shouting and jumping from his seat, in the belief that this will somehow influence the game's outcome. ~ Slavoj i ek,
1022:My mouth blooms like a cut.
I've been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby, you fool!

Before today my body was useless.
Now it's tearing at its square corners.
It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot
and see - Now it's shot full of these electric bolts.
Zing! A resurrection!

Once it was a boat, quite wooden
and with no business, no salt water under it
and in need of some paint. It was no more
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.
She's been elected.

My nerves are turned on. I hear them like
musical instruments. Where there was silence
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire. ~ Anne Sexton,
1023:Hearthside
Half across the world from me
Lie the lands I'll never seeI, whose longing lives and dies
Where a ship has sailed away;
I, that never close my eyes
But to look upon Cathay.
Things I may not know nor tell
Wait, where older waters swell;
Ways that flowered at Sappho's tread,
Winds that sighed in Homer's strings,
Vibrant with the singing dead,
Golden with the dust of wings.
Under deeper skies than mine,
Quiet valleys dip and shine.
Where their tender grasses heal
Ancient scars of trench and tomb
I shall never walk: nor kneel
Where the bones of poets bloom.
If I seek a lovelier part,
Where I travel goes my heart;
Where I stray my thought must go;
With me wanders my desire.
Best to sit and watch the snow,
Turn the lock, and poke the fire.
~ Dorothy Parker,
1024:Of course God knew what would happen if they used their freedom the wrong way: apparently He thought it worth the risk. Perhaps we feel inclined to disagree with Him. But there is a difficulty about disagreeing with God. He is the source from which all your reasoning power comes: you could not be right and He wrong any more than a stream can rise higher than its own source. When you are arguing against Him you are arguing against the very power that makes you able to argue at all: it is like cutting off the branch you are sitting on. If God thinks this state of war in the universe a price worth paying for free will—that is, for making a live world in which creatures can do real good or harm and something of real importance can happen, instead of a toy world which only moves when He pulls the strings—then we may take it it is worth paying. When ~ C S Lewis,
1025:Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
And let there glide by many a pearly car
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
And half-discovered wings, and glances keen.
The while let music wander round my ears,
And as it reaches each delicious ending,
Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
And full of many wonders of the spheres:
For what a height my spirit is contending!
'Tis not content so soon to be alone.
'This sonnet also belongs to the Cottage in the Vale of Health, as we are led to infer from Charles Cowden Clarke's mention of it in connexion with No. IX. and No. XV.' ~ John Keats, Sonnet XII. On Leaving Some Friends At An Early Hour
,
1026:In the silence I felt it all unravelling, the audience waking with the dream unfinished, all my work ruined, wasted. And all the while burning inside me was the song, the song. The song!

Without knowing what I did, I set my fingers back to the strings and fell deep into myself. Into years before, when my hands had calluses like stones and my music had come as easy as breathing. Back to the time I had played to make the sound of Wind Turning a Leaf on a lute with six strings...

And then it was done. Raising my head to look at the room was like breaking the surface of the water for air. I came back into myself, found my hand bleeding and my body covered in sweat. Then the ending of the song struck me like a fist in my chest, as it always does, no matter where or when I listen to it.

I buried my face in my hands and wept. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,
1027:I wonder, sometimes, if the Continentals were like shoals of fish, & the slightest flick of one fish caused dozens of others to follow suit, until the entire shimmering cloud had changed course.

And were the Divinities the sum of this cloud? An embodiment, perhaps, of a national subconscious? Or were they empowered by the thoughts & praises of millions of people, yet also yoked to every one of those thoughts – giant, terrible puppets forced to dance by the strings of millions of puppeteers.

This knowledge, I think, is incredibly dangerous. The Continentals derive so much pride & so much power from having Divine approval … but were they merely hearing the echoes of their own voices, magnified through strange caverns & tunnels? When they spoke to the Divinities, were they speaking to giant reflections of themselves? ~ Robert Jackson Bennett,
1028:The varied players—objects and events, currently present or recalled from memory—do not pluck the strings of any violins or cellos and do not press the keys of countless pianos, but the metaphor captures the situation. Objects and eventsdo “play,” in the sense that they, as distinct entities within the organism’s mind, can act on certain neural structures of the organism, “affect” their state, and change those other structures for a passing moment. Over the “playing time,” their actions result in a certain kind of music, the music of our thoughts and feelings and of the meanings that emerge from the inner narratives they help construct. The result may be subtle or not so. Sometimes it amounts to an operatic performance. You can attend it passively, or you can intervene, modify the score to a greater or smaller extent, and produce unpredicted results. ~ Ant nio R Dam sio,
1029:One of the strangest things is the act of creation.

You are faced with a blank slate—a page, a canvas, a block of stone or wood, a silent musical instrument.

You then look inside yourself. You pull and tug and squeeze and fish around for slippery raw shapeless things that swim like fish made of cloud vapor and fill you with living clamor. You latch onto something. And you bring it forth out of your head like Zeus giving birth to Athena.

And as it comes out, it takes shape and tangible form.

It drips on the canvas, and slides through your pen, it springs forth and resonates into the musical strings, and slips along the edge of the sculptor’s tool onto the surface of the wood or marble.

You have given it cohesion. You have brought forth something ordered and beautiful out of nothing.

You have glimpsed the divine. ~ Vera Nazarian,
1030:The Kiss
My mouth blooms like a cut.
I've been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby, you fool!
Before today my body was useless.
Now it's tearing at its square corners.
It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot
and see - Now it's shot full of these electric bolts.
Zing! A resurrection!
Once it was a boat, quite wooden
and with no business, no salt water under it
and in need of some paint. It was no more
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.
She's been elected.
My nerves are turned on. I hear them like
musical instruments. Where there was silence
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire.
~ Anne Sexton,
1031:It throbbed and pulsed, channeled by elemental forces of fear, love, hope, and sadness. The bow stabbed and flitted across the strings in a violent whorl of creation; its hairs tore and split until it seemed the last strands would sever in a scrape of dissonance. Those who saw the last fragile remnants held their breath against the breaking. The music rippled across the ship like a spirit, like a thing alive and eldritch and pregnant with mystery. The song held. More than held, it deepened. It groaned. It resounded in the hollows of those who heard. Then it softened into tones long, slow, and patient and reminded men of the faintest stars trembling dimly in defiance of a ravening dark. At the last, when the golden hairs of the bow had given all the sound they knew, the music fled in a whisper. Fin was both emptied and filled, and the song sighed away on the wind. ~ A S Peterson,
1032:We would never know the music of the harp—if the strings were left untouched. We would never enjoy the juice of the grape—if it were not trodden in the winepress. We would never discover the sweet perfume of cinnamon—if it were not pressed and beaten. We would never feel the warmth of fire—if the coals were not utterly consumed. The wisdom and power of the great Workman are revealed by the trials through which His vessels of mercy are permitted to pass. Present afflictions tend also to heighten future joy. There must be dark shadows in the picture—to bring out the beauty of the lights. Could we be so supremely blessed in heaven—if we had not known the curse of sin and the sorrow of earth? Will not peace be sweeter—after conflict? Will not rest be more welcome—after toil? Will not the bliss of the glorified—be enhanced the recollection of past sufferings? ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1033:I went to her, and she looked up at me as though fearing something more to hurt her, I saw her eyes, that were the eyes of one not long from the cot and the tears that ran and shone in the sunlight swelled to crystal in mine, and in my blindness I saw, as through the mist of a morning, the grass upon a field torn, and a spewing forth of earth and stones, and men coming to stand before me who wore their steel as I wear tweed, in ease and comfort, and their swords were bright. And I heard a note in the infant voice as of trumpets sounding for battle, and drums beat, and men were shouting, chariots raced and dragon banners streamed, and bowmen plucked strings while steel spoke in the ranks and lance heads glittered in the sun.

And battle lust was in me, with blood running red about my feet and my hands red with it, and slippery, and the smell of it hot near me. ~ Richard Llewellyn,
1034:Losing a belief in free will has not made me a fatalist - in fact, it has increased my feelings of freedom. My hopes, fears, and neuroses seem less personal and indelible. There is no telling how much I might change in the future. Just as one wouldn't draw a lasting conclusion about oneself on the basis of a brief experience of indigestion, one needn't do so on a basis of how one has thought or behaved for vast stretches of time in the past. A creative change of inputs to the system - learning new skills, forming new relationships, adopting new habits of attention - may radically transform one's life. Becoming sensitive to the background causes of one's thoughts and feelings can -paradoxically- allow for greater creative control over one's life. This understanding reveals you to be a biochemical puppet, of course, but it also allows you to grab hold of one of your strings. ~ Sam Harris,
1035:Basically, Sam Phillips recorded Bill Haley, Johnny Cash, and all those other Memphis guys; Chuck Berry played the top two strings; Elvis appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show above the waist; the Beatles made all the girls squirm by singing about wanting to hold their “hands”; Ray Davies got lost in a sunset; Pete Townshend smashed his guitar; Brian Wilson heard magic in his head and made it come out of a studio; the Rolling Stones urinated on a garage door; and then (skipping a bit) you’ve got Joey Levine and Chapman-Chinn and Mott the Hoople and Iggy and the Runaways and KISS and the Pink Fairies and Rick Nielsen and Jonathan Richman and Johnny Ramone and Lemmy and the Young brothers and Cook and Jones and Pete Shelley and Feargal Sharkey and Rob Halford … and Foghat. You get what I’m saying. It didn’t happen in a vacuum, but it did happen, and now here we are in the aftermath. ~ Frank Portman,
1036:Attentional focus on one coherent scene does not in itself explain how a complex sequence can be recalled. To understand that, one must take into account that the focus of attention can shift from one level of analysis to another. Cowan: The magical number 4 BEHAVIORAL AND BRAIN SCIENCES (2001) 24:1 93 McLean and Gregg (1967, p. 459) described a hierarchical organization of memory in a serial recall task with long lists of consonants: “At the top level of the hierarchy are those cueing features that allow S to get from one chunk to another. At a lower level, within chunks, additional cues enable S to produce the integrated strings that become his overt verbal responses.” ~ Cowan, N (February 2001). "The magical number 4 in short-term memory: a reconsideration of mental storage capacity"(PDF). Behav Brain Sci. 24 (1): 87–114, discussion 114–85. doi:10.1017/S0140525X01003922. PMID 11515286 p.93,
1037:Philip Marlowe, 38, a private licence operator of shady reputation, was apprehended by police last night while crawling through the Ballona Storm Drain with a grand piano on his back. Questioned at the University Heights Police Station, Marlowe declared he was taking the piano to the Maharajah of Coot-Berar. Asked why he was wearing spurs, Marlowe declared that a client's confidence was sacred. Marlowe is being held for investigation. Chief Hornside said police were not yet ready to say more. Asked if the piano was in tune, Chief Hornside declared that he had played the Minute Waltz on it in thirty-five seconds and so far as he could tell there were no strings in the piano. He intimated that someting else was. A complete statement to the press will be made within twelve hours, Chief Hornside said abruptly. Speculation is rife that Marlowe was attempting to dispose of a body. ~ Raymond Chandler,
1038:To The Poet Cowper, On His Recovery From An
Indisposition
WRITTEN SOME TIME BACK.
Cowper, I thank my God that thou art healed.
Thine was the sorest malady of all,
And I am sad to think that it should light
Upon the worthy head; but thou art healed,
And thou art yet, we trust, the destined man,
Born to re-animate the lyre, whose chords
Have slumbered, and have idle lain so long;
To the immortal sounding of whose strings
Did Milton frame the stately-paced verse;
Among whose wires with lighter finger playing
Our elder bard, Spenser, a gentler name,
The lady Muses' dearest darling child,
Enticëd forth the deftest tunes yet heard
In hall or bower; taking the delicate ear
Of the brave Sidney, and the Maiden Queen.
Thou, then, take up the mighty epic strain,
Cowper, of England's bards the wisest and the best!
~ Charles Lamb,
1039:Javanese Dancers
Twitched strings, the clang of metal, beaten drums,
Dull, shrill, continuous, disquieting:
And now the stealthy dancer comes
Undulantly with cat-like steps that cling;
Smiling between her painted lids a smile,
Motionless, unintelligible, she twines
Her fingers into mazy lines,
The scarves across her fingers twine the while.
One, two, three, four glide forth, and, to and fro,
Delicately and imperceptibly,
Now swaying gently in a row,
Now interthreading slow and rhythmically,
Still, with fixed eyes, monotonously still,
Mysteriously, with smiles inanimate,
With lingering feet that undulate,
With sinuous fingers, spectral hands that thrill
In measure while the gnats of music whirr,
The little amber-coloured dancers move,
Like painted idols seen to stir
By the idolators in a magic grove.
~ Arthur Symons,
1040:Finally Bill Mixter would lower his head, lay his bow upon the strings, and draw out the first notes of a tune, and the others would come in behind him. The music, while it lasted, brought a new world into being. They would play some tunes they had learned on the radio, but their knowledge was far older than that and they played too the music that was native to the place, or that the people of the place were native to. Just the names of the tunes were a kind of music; they cal l back the music to my mind still, after so many years: "Sand Riffle," "Last Gold Dollar," "Billy in the Low Ground," "Gate to Go Through," and a lot of others. "A fiddle, now, is an atmospheric thing," said Burley Coulter. The music was another element filling the room and pouring out through the cracks. When at last they'd had their fill and had gone away, the shop felt empty, the silence larger than before. ~ Wendell Berry,
1041:Most organised abuser groups call each particular training a “programme”, as if you were a computer. Many specific trained behaviours have “on” and “off” triggers or switches. Some personality systems are set up with an inner world full of wires or strings that connect switches to their effects. These can facilitate a series of actions by a series of insiders. For example, one part watches the person function in the outside world, and presses a button if he or she sees the person disobeying instructions. The button is connected to an internal wire, which rings a bell in the ear of another part. This part then engages in his or her trained behaviour, opening a door to release the pain of a rape, or cutting the person's arm in a certain pattern, or pushing out a child part. So the watcher has no idea of who the other part is or what she or he does. These events can be quite complicated. ~ Alison Miller,
1042:Because who knows? Who knows anything? Who knows who’s pulling the strings? Or what is? Or how? Who knows if destiny is just how you tell yourself the story of your life? Another son might not have heard his mother’s last words as a prophecy but as drug-induced gibberish, forgotten soon after. Another girl might not have told herself a love story about a drawing her brother made. Who knows if Grandma really thought the first daffodils of spring were lucky or if she just wanted to go on walks with me through the woods? Who knows if she even believed in her bible at all or if she just preferred a world where hope and creativity and faith trump reason? Who knows if there are ghosts (sorry, Grandma) or just the living, breathing memories of your loved ones inside you, speaking to you, trying to get your attention by any means necessary? Who knows where the hell Ralph is? (Sorry, Oscar.) No one knows. ~ Jandy Nelson,
1043:Joseph Dixon
Who carved this shattered harp on my stone?
I died to you, no doubt. But how many harps and pianos
Wired I and tightened and disentangled for you,
Making them sweet again -- with tuning fork or without?
Oh well! A harp leaps out of the ear of a man, you say,
But whence the ear that orders the length of the strings
To a magic of numbers flying before your thought
Through a door that closes against your breathless wonder?
Is there no Ear round the ear of a man, that it senses
Through strings and columns of air the soul of sound?
I thrill as I call it a tuning fork that catches
The waves of mingled music and light from afar,
The antennae of Thought that listens through utmost space.
Surely the concord that ruled my spirit is proof
Of an Ear that tuned me, able to tune me over
And use me again if I am worthy to use.
~ Edgar Lee Masters,
1044:Here's a possible way forward. In introducing the holographic principle, the perspective I've taken is to imagine that everything we experience lies in the interior of spacetime, with the unexpected twist being processes, mirroring those experiences, which take place on a distant boundary. Let's reverse that perspective. Imagine that our universe-or, more precisely, the quarks and gluons in our universe-lives on the boundary, and so that's where the RHIC experiments take place. Now invoke Maldacena. His result shows that the RHIC experiments (described by quantum field theory) have an alternative mathematical description in terms of strings moving in the bulk. The details are involved but the power of rephrasing is immediate: difficult calculations in the boundary description (where the coupling is large) are translated into easier calculations in the bulk description (where the coupling is small). ~ Brian Greene,
1045:Ariadna exuded the perfume of broken souls who have become lost along the way, though they think they're moving forward. He had always been fascinated by the idea that if one knew how to read the language of looks and of time, one could guess, just by gazing at a face, what that face had looked like as a child, and relish the moment when the world had stuck its poison dart in it, and its spirit had begun to grow old. People were like puppets or clockwork toys. They all had a hidden mechanism that allowed one to pull their strings and make them run in whatever direction one wished them to run. The satisfaction he felt, or perhaps it was only a sustenance, came from that surrender, that confused desire to which sooner or later they succumbed to give themselves over to his wishes, to receive his blessing and offer him their soul and exchange for a smile of approval and a look that would make them believe. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zaf n,
1046:L'Audace
Daughter of God! Audacity divine
Of clowns the terror and of brains the sign
Not thou the inspirer of the rushing fool,
Not thine of idiots the vocal drool:
Thy bastard sister of the brow of brass,
Presumption, actuates the charging ass.
Sky-born Audacity! of thee who sings
Should strike with freer hand than mine the strings;
The notes should mount on pinions true and strong,
For thou, the subject shouldst sustain the song,
Till angels lean from Heaven, a breathless throng!
Alas! with reeling heads and wavering tails,
They (notes, not angels) dropp and the hymn fails;
The minstrel's tender fingers and his thumbs
Are torn to rags upon the lyre he strums.
Have done! the lofty thesis makes demand
For stronger voices and a harder hand:
Night-howling apes to make the notes aspire,
And Poet Riley's fist to slug the rebel wire!
~ Ambrose Bierce,
1047:Along with data from other research studies, these findings make it clear that when we’re trying to solicit cooperation from other people—be they coworkers, clients, students, or acquaintances—we should offer help to them in a way that’s unconditional and no-strings-attached. Approaching the potentially cooperative relationship in this way should not only increase the likelihood that you’ll secure their cooperation in the first place, but also ensure that the cooperation you do receive is built on a solid foundation of trust and mutual appreciation, rather than on a much weaker incentive system. You’ll also find this approach to be much longer lasting. Otherwise, the moment the incentive you’ve been promising or awarding can no longer be offered or is no longer desired by the other person, the brittle foundation of the relationship may crack, and the cooperative bridge you’ve built up may come crashing down. ~ Noah J Goldstein,
1048:Oh what marvels fill me with thanksgiving!
The deep mahogany of a leaf once green. The feathered fronds of tiny icicles coating every twig and branch in a wintry landscape. The feel of goosebumps thawing after endured frozen temperatures. Both hands clamped around a hot mug of herbal tea. The aromatic whiff of mint under my nose. The stir of emotion from a child's cry for mommy. A gift of love detached of strings. Spotted lilies collecting raindrops in a cupped clump of petals. The vibrant mélange of colors on butterfly wings. The milky luster of a single pearl. Rainbows reflecting off iridescence bubbles. Awe-struck silence evoked by any form of beauty.
Avocado flecks in your eyes.
Warm hands on my face.
Sweetness on the tongue.
The harmony of voices.
An answered prayer.
A pink balloon.
A caress.
A smile.
More.
These have become my treasures
by virtue of thanksgiving. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,
1049:What are these?" Maxon asked, brushing across the tips of my fingers as we walked.
"Calluses. They're from pressing down on violin strings four hours a day."
"I've never noticed them before."
"Do they bother you?" I was the lowest caste of the six girls left, and I doubted any of them had hands like mine.
Maxon stopped moving and lifted my fingers to his lips, kissing the tiny, worn tips.
"On the contrary. I find them rather beautiful." I felt myself blush. "I've seen the world – admittedly mostly through bulletproof glass or from the tower of some ancient castle – but I've seen it. And I have access to the answers of a thousand questions at my disposal. But this small hand here?" He looked deeply into my eyes. "This hand makes sounds incomparable to anything I've ever heard. Sometimes I think I only dreamed that I heard you play the violin, it was so beautiful. These calluses are proof that it was real. ~ Kiera Cass,
1050:/Farsi & Turkish Love's way is humility and intoxication, The torrent floods down. How can it run up? You'll be a cabuchon in the ring of lovers, If you're a red ruby's slave, dear friend ; Even as Earth is a serf of the sapphire sky And your monkey body's a slave to your spirit. What did Earth ever lose by this relationship? What mercy has the Self showed to weary limbs? One shouldn't beat the snare drum of awakening Beneath a cosy sofa's, comfy counterpane. Hoist, like a hero, your flag in the desert. Listen with your soul's ear to the song, In that hollow of the vast turquoise dome, Rising from the lover's passionate moan . When your tight gown-strings are loosened By the tipsy inebriation of perfect love, The victorious heavens shout, triumphantly! And the constellations gaze down ashamed. This world is in deep trouble, from top to bottom, But it can be swiftly healed by the balm of love.

~ Jalaluddin Rumi, On Love
,
1051:Extended Family
Yet like grandfather
I bathe before the village crow
the dry chlorine water
my only Ganges
the naked Chicago bulb
a cousin of the Vedic sun
slap soap on my back
like father
and think
in proverbs
like me
I wipe myself dry
with an unwashed
Sears turkish towel
like mother
I hear faint morning song
(though here it sounds
Japanese)
and three clear strings
nextdoor
through kitchen
clatter
like my little daughter
I play shy
hand over crotch
my body not yet full
12
of thoughts novels
and children
I hold my peepee
like my little son
play garden hose
in and out
the bathtub
like my grandson
I look up
unborn
at myself
like my great
great-grandson
I am not yet
may never be
my future
dependent
on several
people
yet
to come
~ A. K. Ramanujan,
1052:Growing Old
Little by little the year grows old,
The red leaves drop from the maple boughs;
The sun grows dim, and the winds blow cold,
Down from the distant arctic seas.
Out of the skies the soft light dies,
And the shadows of autumn come creeping over,
And the bee and the bird are no longer heard
In grove or meadow, or field of clover.
Little by little our lives grow old,
Our faces no longer are fair to see;
For gray creeps into the curls of gold,
And the red fades out of the cheeks, ah me!
And the birds that sang till our heart strings rang
With strains of hope, and joy, and pleasure,
Have flown away; and our hearts today
Hear only the weird wind's solemn measure.
Youth and summer, and beauty and bloom,
Droop and die in the autumn weather,
But up from the gloom of the winter's tomb,
They shall rise, in God's good time, together.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
1053:With so many siblings to care for, rare were the times Catrina MacGreagor could climb the hill of a morning, look down on her small Scottish village, and spend the precious moments of solicitude needed to contemplate the silent passing from childhood into womanhood. At fourteen, she was as tall as she would be, or so everyone said. The daughter of a Viking who found himself stranded in Scotland years before, her long hair was the same light blonde as her father’s, and her soft blue eyes were normally filled with goodness and kindness. She wore the usual off-white, long wool dress tied at the waist with twine. Her sword and dagger strings were tied over the twine, and she wore a woven leather headband to keep the hair out of her eyes. Except for the normal fears of being attacked by a neighboring clan, or dying of a dreaded illness, hers was a good life filled with all the love a family and a close-knit clan had to give. ~ Marti Talbott,
1054:Cool. I haven’t been in a church in years!” “No kidding? I’d never have guessed. Well, people will have certain expectations…” “Okay, no swearing. I’ll be totally polite. And I’ll leave my pasties and G-string at home.” Noah went completely red and she burst out laughing. “I don’t have pasties and G-strings. That club? It wasn’t that bad.” “Just out of curiosity, what was your part?” he asked. “Well,” she said, rolling her eyes upward. “That’s the interesting thing—sometimes a certain costume or look does more for the guys than being totally naked. The two most popular outfits were the cheerleading costume and the candy striper’s costume. The men—they really go for pom-poms.” Ellie looked at Noah. “Hey—are you all right?” “Fine. I’m fine,” Noah said weakly. He’d been in his share of strip clubs, but not for a while. And he hadn’t had much female companionship lately, either. Until today, he hadn’t realized how much he missed that. ~ Robyn Carr,
1055:The beauty of the principle idea of string theory is that all the known elementary particles are supposed to represent merely different vibration modes of the same basic string. Just as a violin or a guitar string can be plucked to produce different harmonics, different vibrational patterns of a basic string correspond to distinct matter particles, such as electrons and quarks. The same applies to the force carriers as well. Messenger particles such as gluons or the W and Z owe their existence to yet other harmonics. Put simply, all the matter and force particles of the standard model are part of the repertoire that strings can play. Most impressively, however, a particular configuration of vibrating string was found to have properties that match precisely the graviton-the anticipated messenger of the gravitational force. This was the first time that the four basic forces of nature have been housed, if tentatively, under one roof. ~ Mario Livio,
1056:To An Old Lady In A Train
HER hair was beautifully white
Beneath her bonnet, black as night,
Which, plainly of New England kin,
Was tied with strings beneath her chin.
And when she spoke I had no choice
But listened to that soft crisp voice;
And when she smiled, I saw the truth,
She had been lovely in her youth,
And with those quick, observing eyes,
Was charming still to all the wise.
And still, in spite of bonnet strings,
She thought keen, quaint, amusing things,
With gaiety that many hold
Remarkable in one so old.
We talked ten minutes in a train,
And when we came to part again,
Good-bye, enjoy yourself,' said she,
I told her that ahead of me
No pleasure beckoned, no, I said,
Stern duty only lay ahead!
Oh, well,' her parting answer ran,
Enjoy yourself the best you can.'
And so unconquerably gay,
She went upon her darkening way.
~ Alice Duer Miller,
1057:Redemption Choir. Half-demons who want to be human,” I said. “So they’re the good guys.” “No,” I said. “They’re nuts, and they just kidnapped a priest. They’re the bad guys.” “Who’s AB?” “Special Agent Harmony Black. FBI agent, trying to bust Nicky Agnelli. Honest cop, as far as I know. Straight shooter.” “So she’s a good guy.” “No, because she also wants to bust everyone who Nicky’s ever done business with, including me, and Lauren Carmichael’s pulling her strings. So she’s also a bad guy.” “Who’s S?” Pixie asked. “Sitri. Demon prince.” “Definitely a bad guy.” I sighed. “No. My girlfriend works for him, and she just helped save the world.” “So let me get this straight,” Pixie said. “Some of the bad guys are bad guys, some of the bad guys are the good guys, and there aren’t any good good guys.” “That’s right.” “Hey, Faust?” “Yeah, Pix?” “You ever think,” she said, “your moral compass might be just a little bit fucked up?” “Every damn day. ~ Craig Schaefer,
1058:Let’s say that you and I are close friends, but after an argument one night, you stole my car and drove it into a lake. This is a serious crime with a serious penalty—let’s say $10,000 in damages and three years spent in prison. Now imagine you came to me and apologized, expressing sincere regret and grief over your actions. What if I responded by telling you I could forgive you, but only if my daughter took your place in prison and paid the fine on your behalf, because I am a merciful and just friend. My mercy compels me to forgive you, but my justice demands that the crime be punished. This is the exact picture that most Christians paint of God: a God who offers no choice but to demand punishment for sins. But if a good friend of mine wrecked my car, I could simply forgive that friend without anyone’s being punished. I’m a nice guy but certainly not the embodiment of perfect love—so why can I forgive with no strings attached but God can’t? ~ Mike McHargue,
1059:Lying on her side, the warm fire at her feet, Helen's laughter died away as Lucas suddenly went from tuning to playing.
It was like an orchestra in an instrument.
He played with both hands-not one hand picking and the other holding down strings-but with both hands so that it sounded like more than one guitar was playing. Sometimes he hit the strings to make them hum like a harp, and sometimes he hit the body of the guitar like a drum to add bass and keep time. It was the most fascinating thing Helen had ever watched, like Lucas had a dozen voices in his head, all singing the same song, and he'd figured a way to make them come out of ten fingers.
Helen looked at his face and could tell why he loved it. It was like thinking for him, only this was a puzzle that he could share with her as he solved it.
He'd walked into her head when he'd come to her world. And she'd walked into his when she finally heard him play.
It was heaven. ~ Josephine Angelini,
1060:Three Voices [together]. Hurry to bless the hands that play,
The mouths that speak, the notes and strings,
O masters of the glittering town!
O! lay the shrilly trumpet down,
Though drunken with the flags that sway
Over the ramparts and the towers,
And with the waving of your wings.

First Voice. Maybe they linger by the way.
One gathers up his purple gown;
One leans and mutters by the wall -
He dreads the weight of mortal hours.

Second Voice. O no, O no! they hurry down
Like plovers that have heard the call.

Third Voice. O kinsmen of the Three in One,
O kinsmen, bless the hands that play.
The notes they waken shall live on
When all this heavy history's done;
Our hands, our hands must ebb away.

Three Voices [together]. The proud and careless notes live on,
But bless our hands that ebb away.

~ William Butler Yeats, The Players Ask For A Blessing On The Psalteries And On Themselves
,
1061:An Anarchist
False to his art and to the high command
God laid upon him, Markham's rebel hand
Beats all in vain the harp he touched before:
It yields a jingle and it yields no more.
No more the strings beneath his finger-tips
Sing harmonies divine. No more his lips,
Touched with a living coal from sacred fires,
Lead the sweet chorus of the golden wires.
The voice is raucous and the phrases squeak;
They labor, they complain, they sweat, they reek!
The more the wayward, disobedient song
Errs from the right to celebrate the wrong,
More diligently still the singer strums,
To drown the horrid sound, with all his thumbs.
Gods, what a spectacle! The angels lean
Out of high Heaven to view the sorry scene,
And Israfel, 'whose heart-strings are a lute,'
Though now compassion makes their music mute,
Among the weeping company appears,
Pearls in his eyes and cotton in his ears.
~ Ambrose Bierce,
1062:For her beauty, as we are told, was in itself not altogether incomparable, nor such as to strike those who saw her; but converse with her had an irresistible charm, and her presence, combined with the persuasiveness of her discourse and the character which was somehow diffused about her behaviour towards others, had something stimulating about it. 3 There was sweetness also in the tones of her voice; and her tongue, like an instrument of many strings, she could readily turn to whatever language she pleased, so that in her interviews with Barbarians she very seldom had need of an interpreter, but made her replies to most of them herself and unassisted, whether they were Ethiopians, Troglodytes, Hebrews, Arabians, Syrians, Medes or Parthians. 4 Nay, it is said that she knew the speech of many other peoples also, although the kings of Egypt before her had not even made an effort to learn the native language, and some actually gave up their Macedonian dialect. ~ Plutarch,
1063:Rest you here, enchanter, while the light fades,
Vision narrows, and the far
Sky-edge is gone with the sun.
Be content with the small spark
Of the coal, the smell
Of food, and the breath
Of frost beyond the shut door.
Home is here, and familiar things;
A cup, a wooden bowl, a blanket,
Prayer, a gift for the god, and sleep.
(And music, says the harp, And music.)
Rest here, enchanter, while the fire dies.
In a breath, in an eyelid's fall,
You will see them, the dreams;
The sword and the young king,
The white horse and the running water,
The lit lamp and the boy smiling.
Dreams, dreams, enchanter! Gone with the harp's echo
when the strings
Fall mute; with the flame's shadow when the fire
Dies.
Be still, and listen.
Far on the black air Blows the great wind, rises
The running tide, flows the clear river.
Listen, enchanter, hear
Through the black air and the singing air
The music…. ~ Mary Stewart,
1064:Tegmark argues that "our universe is not just described by mathematics-it is mathematics" [emphasis added]. His argument starts with the rather uncontroversial assumption that an external physical reality exists that is independent of human beings. He then proceeds to examine what might be the nature of the ultimate theory of such a reality (what physicists refer to as the "theory of everything"). Since this physical world is entirely independent of humans, Tegmark maintains, its description must be free of any human "baggage" (e.g., human language, in particular). In other words, the final theory cannot include any concepts such as "subatomic particles," "vibrating strings," "warped spacetime," or other humanly conceived constructs. From this presumed insight, Tegmark concludes that the only possible description of the cosmos is one that involves only abstract concepts and the relations among them, which he takes to be the working definition of mathematics. ~ Mario Livio,
1065:Because who knows? Who knows anything? Who knows who's pulling the strings? Or what is? Or how? Who knows if destiny is just how you tell yourself the story of your life? Another son might not have heard his mother's last words as a prophecy but as drug-induced gibberish, forgotten soon after. Another girl might not have told herself a love story about a drawing her brother made. Who knows if Grandma really thought the first daffodils of spring were lucky or if she just wanted to go on walks with me through the woods? Who knows if she even believed in her bible at all or if she just preferred a world where hope and creativity and faith trump reason? who knows if there are ghosts (sorry, Grandma) or just the living, breathing memories of your loved ones, inside you, speaking to you, trying to get your attention by any means necessary? Who knows where the hell Ralph is? (Sorry, Oscar.) No one knows.

SO we grapple with the mysteries, each in our own way. ~ Jandy Nelson,
1066:Colum-Cille’s Farewell To Ireland
ALAS for the voyage, O High King of Heaven,
Enjoined upon me,
For that I on the red plain of bloody Cooldrevin
Was present to see.
How happy the son is of Dima; no sorrow
For him is designed,
He is having, this hour, round his own hill in Durrow,
The wish of his mind.
The sounds of the winds in the elms, like strings of
A harp being played,
The note of a blackbird that claps with the wings of
Delight in the shade.
With him in Ros-Grencha the cattle are lowing
At earliest dawn,
On the brink of the summer the pigeons are cooing
And doves in the lawn.
Three things am I leaving behind me, the very
Most dear that I know,
Tir-Leedach I’m leaving, and Durrow and Derry;
Alas, I must go!
Yet my visit and feasting with Comgall have eased me
At Cainneach’s right hand,
And all but thy government, Eiré, have pleased me,
Thou waterful land.
~ Douglas Hyde,
1067:A dozen or more boats on the lake swung their rosy and moon–like lanterns low on the water, that reflected as from a fire. In the distance, the steamer twanged and thrummed and washed with her faintly–splashing paddles, trailing her strings of coloured lights, and occasionally lighting up the whole scene luridly with an effusion of fireworks, Roman candles and sheafs of stars and other simple effects, illuminating the surface of the water, and showing the boats creeping round, low down. Then the lovely darkness fell again, the lanterns and the little threaded lights glimmered softly, there was a muffled knocking of oars and a waving of music.

Gudrun paddled almost imperceptibly. Gerald could see, not far ahead, the rich blue and the rose globes of Ursula’s lanterns swaying softly cheek to cheek as Birkin rowed, and iridescent, evanescent gleams chasing in the wake. He was aware, too, of his own delicately coloured lights casting their softness behind him. ~ D H Lawrence,
1068:Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you'll never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. Even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope for something good to come along. Something to make you feel connected, to make you feel whole, to make you feel loved. ~ Charlie Kaufman,
1069:But things like the world-inside-this-one are too big to hold in your head by yourself. You need someone to remind you, or else, you need someone you can tell, and you have to keep telling each other, over and over, throughout your whole life. And as you tell them, the things are slowly binding you together, like tiny invisible strings, or like a frisbee that's thrown back and forth, or like words written on the floor in syrup. TELL LORI. TELL RUPRECHT.

Maybe instead of strings it's stories things are made of, an infinite number of tiny vibrating stories; once upon a time they all were part of one big giant superstory, except it got broken up into a jillion different pieces, that's why no story on its own makes any sense, and so what you have to do in a life is try and wave it back together, my story into your story, our stories into all the other people's we know, until you've got something that to God or whoever might look like a letter or even a whole word... ~ Paul Murray,
1070:Psalm The 137th Paraphras'D To The 7th Verse
Proud Babylon! Thou saw'st us weep;
Euphrates, as he pass'd along,
Saw, on his Banks, the Sacred Throng
A heavy, solemn Mourning keep.
Sad Captives to thy Sons, and Thee,
When nothing but our Tears were Free!
A Song of Sion they require,
And from the neighb'ring Trees to take
Each Man his dumb, neglected Lyre,
And chearful Sounds on them awake:
But chearful Sounds the Strings refuse,
Nor will their Masters Griefs abuse.
How can We, Lord, thy Praise proclaim,
Here, in a strange unhallow'd Land!
Lest we provoke them to Blaspheme
A Name, they do not understand;
And with rent Garments, that deplore
Above whate'er we felt before.
But, Thou, Jerusalem, so Dear!
If thy lov'd Image e'er depart,
Or I forget thy Suff'rings here;
Let my right Hand forget her Art;
My Tongue her vocal Gift resign,
And Sacred Verse no more be mine!
~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,
1071:What’s the difference?” I asked him. “Between the love of your life, and your soulmate?” “One is a choice, and one is not.” I’d never thought of love as a choice. Rather, it seemed like the un-choice. But if you stayed with someone who was self-destructing and chose to keep loving, I suppose it could be a choice. I waited for him to go on. To explain how I fit in. “There is a string that connects us that is not visible to the eye,” he said. “Maybe every person has more than one soul they are connected to, and all over the world there are these invisible strings.” As if to make his point, his finger traced a black ribbon that ran through my horse’s mane. “Maybe the chances that you’ll find each and every one of your soulmates is slim. But sometimes you’re lucky enough to stumble across one. And you feel a tug. And it’s not so much a choice to love them through their flaws and through your differences, but rather you love them without even trying. You love their flaws. ~ Tarryn Fisher,
1072:Tired
I am tired to-night, and something,
The wind maybe, or the rain,
Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside,
Has brought back the past and its pain.
And I feel as I sit here thinking,
That the hand of a dead old June
Has reached out hold of my heart’s loose strings,
And is drawing them up in tune.
I am tired to-night, and I miss you,
And long for you, love, through tears;
And it seems but to-day that I saw you go –
You, who have been gone for years.
And I seem to be newly lonely –
I, who am so much alone;
And the strings of my heart are well in tune,
But they have not the same old tone.
I am tired; and that old sorrow
Sweeps down the bed of my soul,
As a turbulent river might suddenly break
Away from a dam’s control.
It beareth a wreck on its bosom,
A wreck with a snow-white sail,
And the hand on my heart-strings thrums away,
But they only respond with a wail.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
1073:Revenge
A spitcat sate on a garden gate
And a snapdog fared beneath;
Careless and free was his mien, and he
Held a fiddle-string in his teeth.
She marked his march, she wrought an arch
Of her back and blew up her tail;
And her eyes were green as ever were seen,
And she uttered a woful wail.
The spitcat's plaint was as follows: 'It ain't
That I am to music a foe;
For fiddle-strings bide in my own inside,
And I twang them soft and low.
'But that dog has trifled with art and rifled
A kitten of mine, ah me!
That catgut slim was marauded from him:
'Tis the string that men call E.'
Then she sounded high, in the key of Y,
A note that cracked the tombs;
And the missiles through the firmament flew
From adjacent sleeping-rooms.
As her gruesome yell from the gate-post fell
She followed it down to earth;
And that snapdog wears a placard that bears
The inscription: 'Blind from birth.'
~ Ambrose Bierce,
1074:Fear has a lot of flavors and textures. There's a sharp, silver fear that runs like lightning through your arms and legs, galvanizes you into action, power, motion. There's heavy, leaden fear that comes in ingots, piling up in your belly during the empty hours between midnight and morning, when everything is dark, every problem grows larger, and every wound and illness grows worse. And there is coppery fear, drawn tight as the strings of a violin, quavering on one single note that cannot possibly be sustained for a single second longer—but goes on and on and on, the tension before the crash of cymbals, the brassy challenge of the horns, the threatening rumble of the kettle drums. That's the kind of fear I felt. Horrible, clutching tension that left the coppery flavor of blood on my tongue. Fear of the creatures in the darkness around me, of my own weakness, the stolen power the Nightmare had torn from me. And fear for those around me, for the folk who didn't have the power I had. ~ Jim Butcher,
1075:The gene responsible for creating white eyes (called white eyed), for instance, was inescapably linked to maleness: no matter how Morgan crossed his flies, only males were born with white eyes. Similarly, the gene for sable color was linked with the gene that specified the shape of a wing.

For Morgan, this genetic linkage could only mean one thing: genes had to be physically linked to each other. In flies, the gene for sable color was never (or rarely) inherited independently from the gene for miniature wings because they were both carried on the same chromosome. If two beads are on the same string, then they are always tied together, no matter how one attempts to mix and match strings. For two genes on the same chromosome, the same principle applied: there was no simple way to separate the forked-bristle gene from the coat-color gene. The inseparability of features had a material basis: the chromosome was a "string" along which certain genes were permanently strung. ~ Siddhartha Mukherjee,
1076:An exciting feature of string theory is that the particles emerge from the theory itself: a distinct species of particle arises from each distinct string vibrational pattern. And since the vibrational pattern determines the properties of the corresponding particle, if you understood the theory well enough to delineate all vibrational patterns, you'd be able to explaine all properties of all particles. The potential and the promies, then, is that string theory will transcent quantum field theory by deriving all particle properties mathematically. Not only would this unify everything under the umbrella of vibrating strings, it would establish that future "surprises"-such as the discovery of currently unknown particle species-are built into string theory from the outset and so would be accessible, in principle, to sufficiently industrious calculation. String theory doesn't build piecemeal toward an ever more complete description of nature. It seeks a complete description from the get-go. ~ Brian Greene,
1077:God’s providence is always on time! You and I make appointments, and miss them by half-an-hour. But God has never missed an appointment yet. God is never early, though we often wish he were. But he is never late, no, not by one tick of the clock. When it was time for the people of Israel to leave Egypt, all the Pharaohs in the pyramids, if they had risen to life again, could not have kept them in slavery another half-minute. When the Lord said, “Let my people go,” it was time and go they did. All the kings and princes of the earth are under the rule of God’s providence. He can move them just as he pleases. God can move everyone on earth and the angels in heaven according to his will and pleasure, like the puppeteer pulls his strings and moves his puppets. And now, you who are trembling, why are you afraid? “Fear not, I am with you.” All the mysterious actions of God work for our good. You who are in trouble; touch that string again and see if God’s harp does not play sweet music. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1078:By patient and determined exploitation and maneuvering of these positions, the Agency is able to get key men into places where they are ready for the time when the ST wishes to pull the strings to have a certain man made the alternate, or to designate someone for a role such as that of the NSC 5412/2 Special Group. This is intricate and long-range work but it pays off, and the ST is adept at the use of these tactics. Of course, there are many variations of the ways in which this can be done. The main thing is that it is done skillfully and under the heavy veil of secrecy. Many key CIA career men have served in such slots as agents operating within the United States Government. There is no question about the fact that some of these agents have been the most influential and productive agents in the CIA, and there is no doubt that the security measures utilized to cover these agents within our own government have been heavier than those used between the United States and other governments. ~ L Fletcher Prouty,
1079:It would all be done with keys on alphanumeric keyboards that stood for weightless, invisible chains of electronic presence or absence. If patterns of ones and zeroes were "like" patterns of human lives and deaths, if everything about an individual could be represented in a computer record by a long strings of ones and zeroes, then what kind of creature could be represented by a long string of lives and deaths? It would have to be up one level, at least -- an angel, a minor god, something in a UFO. It would take eight human lives and deaths just to form one character in this being's name -- its complete dossier might take up a considerable piece of history of the world. We are digits in God's computer, she not so much thought as hummed to herself to sort of a standard gospel tune, And the only thing we're good for, to be dead or to be living, is the only thing He sees. What we cry, what we contend for, in our world of toil and blood, it all lies beneath the notice of the hacker we call God. ~ Thomas Pynchon,
1080:The Sometime Sportsman Greets the Spring
by John Updike

When winter's glaze is lifted from the greens,
And cups are freshly cut, and birdies sing,
Triumphantly the stifled golfer preens
In cleats and slacks once more, and checks his swing.

This year, he vows, his head will steady be,
His weight-shift smooth, his grip and stance ideal;
And so they are, until upon the tee
Befall the old contortions of the real.

So, too, the tennis-player, torpid from
Hibernal months of television sports,
Perfects his serve and feels his knees become
Sheer muscle in their unaccustomed shorts.

Right arm relaxed, the left controls the toss,
Which shall be high, so that the racket face
Shall at a certain angle sweep across
The floated sphere with gutty strings—an ace!

The mind's eye sees it all until upon
The courts of life the faulty way we played
In other summers rolls back with the sun.
Hope springs eternally, but spring hopes fade. ~ John Updike,
1081:Nuit Blanche
I want no horns to rouse me up to-night,
And trumpets make too clamorous a ring
To fit my mood, it is so weary white
I have no wish for doing any thing.
A music coaxed from humming strings would please;
Not plucked, but drawn in creeping cadences
Across a sunset wall where some Marquise
Picks a pale rose amid strange silences.
Ghostly and vaporous her gown sweeps by
The twilight dusking wall, I hear her feet
Delaying on the gravel, and a sigh,
Briefly permitted, touches the air like sleet
And it is dark, I hear her feet no more.
A red moon leers beyond the lily-tank.
A drunken moon ogling a sycamore,
Running long fingers down its shining flank.
A lurching moon, as nimble as a clown,
Cuddling the flowers and trees which burn like glass.
Red, kissing lips, I feel you on my gown—
Kiss me, red lips, and then pass—pass.
Music, you are pitiless to-night.
And I so old, so cold, so languorously white.
~ Amy Lowell,
1082:The tape had not been rewound fully and the room filled immediately with music. Lauren Adler, celebrated cello soloist and Elodie’s mother, was in close-up on the screen. She hadn’t started yet, but was embracing the cello, its neck entwined with her own as the orchestra played behind her. She was very young in this video. Her chin was lifted, her eyes fixed on the conductor; long hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She was waiting. The stage lights illuminated one side of her face, throwing the other into dramatic shadow. She was wearing a black satin dress with spaghetti straps, and her fine arms—deceptively strong—were bare. She wore no jewelry except for her simple gold wedding band; her fingers, resting on the strings, were poised, ready. The conductor was on-screen now, a man in a white bowtie and black jacket. He brought the orchestra to a pause and, after a few seconds of silence, nodded at Lauren Adler. She drew breath and then she and her cello began their dance. Amongst ~ Kate Morton,
1083:fruits of the release :::
   For even before complete purification, if the strings of the egoistic heart and mind are already sufficiently frayed and loosened, the Jiva can by a sudden snapping of the main cords escape, ascending like a bird freed into the spaces or widening like a liberated flood into the One and Infinite. There is first a sudden sense of a cosmic consciousness, a casting of oneself into the universal; from that universality one can aspire more easily to the Transcendent. There is a pushing back and rending or a rushing down of the walls that imprisoned our conscious being; there is a loss of all sense of individuality and personality, of all placement in ego, a person definite and definable, but only consciousness, only existence, only peace or bliss; one becomes immortatlity, becomes eternity, becomes infinity. All that is left of the personal soul is a hymn of peace and freedom and bliss vibrating somewhere in the Eternal.
   ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Synthesis Of Yoga, The Release from the Ego, 363,
1084:As in the middle ages... [t]here was then no desire to communicate discoveries; science was a sort of freemasonry, and silence was effectually secured by priestly anathemas; men of science were as jealous of one another as they were of all other classes of society. ...[T]o form a clear picture of this earliest stage of civilisation, an age which represents at once the naïveté of childhood and the suspicious reticence of senility, we must turn our eyes to the priest, on the one hand, claiming as his own all art and science, and commanding respect by his contemptuous silence; and, on the other hand, to the mechanic plying the loom, extracting the Tyrian dye, practising chemistry, though ignorant of its very name, and despised and oppressed, and only tolerated when he furnished Religion with her trappings or War with arms. Thus the growth of chemistry was slow, and by reason of its backwardness it was longer than any other art in ridding itself of the leading-strings of magic and astrology. ~ Encyclopedia Brittanica (1875),
1085:During his speech, Lord Sydenham warned that the Mandate as being presented by Churchill to the League of Nations, ‘will undoubtedly, in time, transfer the control of the Holy Land to New York, Berlin, London, Frankfurt and other places. The strings will not be pulled from Palestine; they will be pulled from foreign capitals; and for everything that happens during this transference of power, we shall be responsible.’22 When the vote was taken, the views of the anti-Zionist Lords prevailed, with sixty voting against the Balfour Declaration, and only twenty-nine for it. On the following day, Major Hubert Young, a senior official in the Middle East Department of the Colonial Office, who in 1918 had participated in the Arab Revolt against the Turks, warned Churchill that the anti-Zionist vote ‘will have encouraged the Arab Delegation to persist in their obstinate attitude.’ Unless the vote in the Lords could be ‘signally overruled’ by the Commons, Britain’s pledges to the Jews would not be able to be fulfilled. ~ Martin Gilbert,
1086:If you choose to believe me, good. Now I will tell you how Octavia, the spider-web city, is made. There is a precipice between two steep mountains: the city is over the void, bound to the two crests with ropes and chains and catwalks. You walk on the little wooden ties, careful not to set your foot in the open spaces, or you cling to the hempen strands. Below there is nothing for hundreds and hundreds of feet: a few clouds glide past; farther down you can glimpse the chasm's bed.
This is the foundation of the city: a net which serves as passage and as support. All the rest, instead of rising up, is hung below: rope ladders, hammocks, houses made like sacks, clothes hangers, terraces like gondolas, skins of water, gas jets, spits, baskets on strings, dumb-waiters, showers, trapezes and rings for children's games, cable cars, chandeliers, pots with trailing plants.
Suspended over the abyss, the life of Octavia's inhabitants is less uncertain than in other cities. They know the net will only last so long. ~ Italo Calvino,
1087:From the first note I knew it was different from anything I had ever heard.... It began simply, but with an arresting phrase, so simple, but eloquent as a human voice. It spoke, beckoning gently as it unwound, rising and tensing. It spiraled upward, the tension growing with each repeat of the phrasing, and yet somehow it grew more abandoned, wilder with each note. His eyes remained closed as his fingers flew over the strings, spilling forth surely more notes than were possible from a single violin. For one mad moment I actually thought there were more of them, an entire orchestra of violins spilling out of this one instrument. I had never heard anything like it--it was poetry and seduction and light and shadow and every other contradiction I could think of. It seemed impossible to breathe while listening to that music, and yet all I was doing was breathing, quite heavily. The music itself had become as palpable a presence in that room as another person would have been--and its presence was something out of myth. ~ Deanna Raybourn,
1088:The Awakening Land" p614

But what in God's name did folks today want to make the whole world over like they were for? In her time in the woods, everybody she knew was egged on to be his own special self. He could live and think like he wanted to and no two humans you met up with were alike. Each had his own particular beliefs and his reasons for owning to them. Folks were a joy to talk to then, for all were different. Even the simple-minded were original in their own notions. They either mad you laugh or gave you pause. But folks in Americus today seemed mighty tiresome and getting more so. If you saw one, you saw most. If you heard one talk, it's likely you heard the rest. They were creacked on living like everybody else, according to the fashion, and if you were so queer and outlandish as to go your own way and do what you liked, it bothered their 'narve strings' so they were liable to lock you up in one of their newfangled asylums or take you home where they could hold you down to their way of doing... ~ Conrad Richter,
1089:At first glance, the main display case at Dicecca today looks like a selection you'll find in any cheese shop in Puglia: tubs of milky water covering hunks of mozzarella in its many guises; strings of swollen scamorze dangling from the ceiling, bronzed by their stopover in the cold smoker; small plastic containers of creamy ricotta ready to be stuffed or eaten straight with a spoon. But look closer and you'll see some unfamiliar faces staring back at you through the glass: a large bucket brimming with ricotta spiked with ribbons of blue cheese and toasted almonds, served by the scoop; a wooden serving board paved with melting slabs of goat cheese weaponized with a cloak of bright red chili flakes; a hulking wheel of pecorino, stained shamrock green by a puree of basil and spinach. These are the signs of a caseificio in the grips of an evolution, one that started more than a decade ago when the brothers took the reins from their parents and began to expand the definition of a small, family-run cheese shop. ~ Matt Goulding,
1090:Drink Out Thy Glass
Drink out thy glass! See, on thy threshold, nightly,
Staying his sword, stands Death, awaiting thee.
Be not alarmed; the grave-door, opened slightly,
Closes again; a full year it may be
Ere thou art dragged, poor sufferer, to the grave.
Pick the octave!
Tune up the strings! Sing of life with glee!
Golden's the hue thy dull, wan cheeks are showing;
Shrunken's thy chest, and flat each shoulder-blade.
Give me thy hand! Each dark vein, larger growing,
Is, to my touch, as if in water laid.
Damp are these hands; stiff are these veins becoming.
Pick now, and strumming,
Empty thy bottle! Sing! drink unafraid.
.....
Skal, then, my boy! Old Bacchus sends last greeting;
Freya's farewell receive thou, o'er thy bowl.
Fast in her praise thy thin blood flows, repeating
Its old-time force, as it was wont to roll.
Sing, read, forget; nay, think and weep while thinking.
Art thou for drinking
Another bottle? Thou art dead? No Skal!
~ Carl Michael Bellman,
1091:Longing was a feeling that was hard to live with. It didn’t ask permission. It didn’t pay attention to time or place. It was overwhelming and demanding, grasping and selfish. It clouded thoughts or made them too bright, too sharp. Longing demanded unconditional surrender. Lumikki tried to fight it and failed. She didn’t want to long and yet she longed. She didn’t want to remember, and yet her dreams and her body remembered, reminding her constantly.
The longing was physical. It was dizziness. It was a seizing in her belly. It was the need to wrap her arms around herself alone in bed when there was no one else to do it for her. She felt the longing in her fingertips that yearned to stroke, to touch, to caress. The longing made her fingers restless, fiddling with the zipper of her jacket, the strings in her hoodie, fidgeting with whatever little thing happened to her hand. The longing made her teeth bite into her lower lip, leaving it chipped and almost bleeding. She knew she was being stupid. She knew her longing was pointless. ~ Salla Simukka,
1092:Every aspect of the multipronged legal system even today is dominated by males: police, prosecutors, judges, probation officers. In addition, the state legislatures that make the laws are still disproportionately male. So how does the abuser come to the far-fetched conclusion that women are somehow lurking in the shadows, pulling strings to cause him to suffer consequences for his actions when he thinks there shouldn’t be any? This absurd leap occurs for two reasons. One is that he already has wellentrenched habits of blaming women for his own behavior. So when society sends him the message that he is responsible for what he does, he just widens the scope of his blame-projecting machine to target all women. The second is that if he didn’t blame women, he would have to accept the fact that a large proportion of men are opposed to what he is doing. Cultural values are changing, slowly but surely, and abusers cannot always count on other men to back them up anymore—a fact that makes them feel betrayed so they close their eyes to it. ~ Lundy Bancroft,
1093:Sir Grant Morgan looked up from his desk as Nick burst into his office before morning sessions. There was no trace of apology in his hard green eyes. “I see you’ve spoken to Sir Ross,” he said.
Nick proceeded to give vent to his outrage in the coarsest words ever conceived in the history of the English language, leveling accusations that would have caused any other man either to cower in terror or to reach for the nearest pistol. Morgan, however, listened as calmly as if Nick were offering a description of the weather.
After an extensive rant speculating on the likelihood that Morgan was nothing but a puppet while Sir Ross pulled the strings, the chief magistrate sighed and interrupted.
“Enough,” he said shortly. “You’re beginning to repeat yourself. Unless you have anything new to add, you may as well spare yourself the breath. As to your last charge— that this situation is all of Sir Ross’s making— I can assure you that the decision to remove you from the force was fully as much mine as his.”

-Morgan & Nick ~ Lisa Kleypas,
1094:Almost before the strings of her corset were freed, his palms slid into the bodice of her gown, closing around her breasts, filling his hands with soft, overflowing flesh, for her breasts seemed to swell of their own volition. His palms rubbed tiny circles around the points of her nipples, first one way, then the other.
She'd written about this, with Raven and Rowan. She recalled moving restlessly in her chair as she'd written the scene, pressing her hands against her bosom in order to quell the sensation that gathered there.
But this was so much better than she could have ever imagined. This, then, was what he meant by touching, she realized hazily.
Tiny needlelike pinpricks centered there, in the very peaks. He tantalized. He tormented. Yet she longed for it to go on and on, for she sensed there was more. Her lips parted. She panted softly, aware that he watched his hands lift her breasts, his thumbs whisking across her nipples, then circling slowly. Yes, he watched... and she watched, and it was arousing beyond belief. ~ Samantha James,
1095:He is the One in many, countless are His shapes and forms. He pervades all that exists; wherever I look, He is there. But very few perceive this reality, for Maya ever enchants us with her multiple reflections of color and alluring beauty. Everything is Gobind, Gobind is everything. Nothing that exists is without Gobind: the one thread strings innumerable beads -- Prabhu Himself is the thread, the threader, the threaded. River and waves, foam and bubbles have all their being within water itself. This play of things is the sport of Parbhama. The One cannot be thought different from the other. Hope is a lie and desire a mere dream -- yet both are construed as actual reality. But when my guru gave me his holy wisdom, I awoke from my dream and my heart yielded. Namdeva says, Behold Hari's creation; ponder upon it with all your heart, and you will see that in every pore, in every living thing, there is only the one Murari. [2184.jpg] -- from Songs of the Saints from the Adi Granth, Translated by Nirmal Dass

~ Namdev, He is the One in many
,
1096:Dak had a song he didn’t often sing for crowds, but saved for late nights around dying fires, when only the restless and bleary-eyed stuck around to listen. Enid had only heard it a couple of times, but she remembered it and sat up when he played it now. The chorus was about dust in the wind, and how everything would eventually blow away and come to naught. The melody was sad and haunting, a rain of notes plucked on the strings until they faded out, just a lingering vibration through the wood of the guitar. The sound seemed to carry, even after the song ended. “That was really sad,” one of the half dozen left on the patio said, and the words seemed rude somehow. Like after that they should have all just vanished without a word, melting into the night. “I learned it from an old man when I was just a little kid. He said it came from a place called Kansas.” Enid said, “I’ve seen Kansas on a map.” A crinkled atlas in the Haven library had the continent marked up into regions that didn’t mean much these days. “It’s over a thousand miles east of here. ~ Carrie Vaughn,
1097:No one needs a relationship. What you need is the basic cop-on to figure that out, in the face of all the media bullshit screaming that you're nothing on your own and you're a dangerous freak if you disagree. The truth is, if you don't exist without someone else, you don't exist at all. And that doesn't just go for romance. I love my ma, I love my friends, I love the bones of them. If any of them wanted me to donate a kidney or crack a few heads, I'd do it, no questions asked. And if they all waved goodbye and walked out of my life tomorrow, I'd still be the same person I am today.

I live inside my own skin. Anything that happens outside it doesn't change who I am. This isn't something I'm proud of; as far as I'm concerned, it's a bare minimum baseline requirement for calling yourself an adult human being, somewhere around the level of knowing how to do your own washing or change a toilet roll. All those idiots on the websites, begging for other people to pull their sagging puppet-strings, turn them real: they make me want to spit. ~ Tana French,
1098:She waits. For what I do not know. It may be for her worshippers to return again. Or for us to become her new worshippers, as we well may. Or perhaps merely for death. She shaped herself, I believe, a woman of the Vanished People so that they would love her. We are here now, and so she shaped for me a woman of my own race—a woman beside whom Chenille would stand like a child—who could sing and speak to me. Beneath it the old sea goddess waited, and was not of our human race, nor of the race of the Vanished People, whom I was to come to know. I once had a toy, a little wooden man in a blue coat who was moved by strings. When I played with him, I made him walk and bow, and spoke for him. I practiced until I thought myself very clever. One day I saw my mother holding the two sticks that held his strings, and my little wooden man saluting my youngest sister much more cleverly than I could have made him do it, and laughing with his head thrown back, then mourning with his face in his hands. I never spoke of it to my mother, but I was angry and ashamed. * ~ Gene Wolfe,
1099:String theory is potentially the next and final step in this progression. In a single framework, it handles the domains claimed by relativity and the quantum. Moreover, and this is worth sitting up straight to hear, string theory does so in a manner that fully embraces all the discoveries that preceded it. A theory based on vibrating filaments might not seem to have much in common with general relativity's curved spacetime picture of gravity. Nevertheless, apply string theory's mathematics to a situation where gravity matters but quantum mechanics doesn't (to a massive object, like the sun, whose size is large) and out pop Einstein's equations. Vibrating filaments and point particles are also quite different. But apply string theory's mathematics to a situation where quantum mechanics matters but gravity doesn't (to small collections of strings that are not vibrating quickly, moving fast, or stretched long; they have low energy-equivalently, low mass- so gravity plays virtually no role) and the math of string theory morphs into the math of quantum field theory. ~ Brian Greene,
1100:‘and Ask Ye Why These Sad Tears Stream?’
'And ask ye why these sad tears stream?'
‘Te somnia nostra reducunt.’
OVID.
And ask ye why these sad tears stream?
Why these wan eyes are dim with weeping?
I had a dream–a lovely dream,
Of her that in the grave is sleeping.
I saw her as ’twas yesterday,
The bloom upon her cheek still glowing;
And round her play’d a golden ray,
And on her brows were gay flowers blowing.
With angel-hand she swept a lyre,
A garland red with roses bound it;
Its strings were wreath’d with lambent fire
And amaranth was woven round it.
I saw her mid the realms of light,
In everlasting radiance gleaming;
Co-equal with the seraphs bright,
Mid thousand thousand angels beaming.
I strove to reach her, when, behold,
Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian,
And all that rich scene wrapt in gold,
Faded in air–a lovely vision!
And I awoke, but oh! to me
That waking hour was doubly weary;
And yet I could not envy thee,
Although so blest, and I so dreary.
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,
1101:Father Explains
"There where that ray touches the plain
And the shadows escape as if they really ran,
Warsaw stands, open from all sides,
A city not very old but quite famous.
"Farther, where strings of rain hang from a little cloud,
Under the hills with an acacia grove
Is Prague. Above it, a marvelous castle
Shored against a slope in accordance with old rules.
"What divides this land with white foam
Is the Alps. The black means fir forests.
Beyond them, bathing in the yellow sun
Italy lies, like a deep-blue dish.
"Among the many fine cities that are there
You will recogni2e Rome, Christendom's capital,
By those round roofs on the church
Called the Basilica of Saint Peter.
"And there, to the north, beyond a bay,
Where a level bluish mist moves in waves,
Paris tries to keep pace with its tower
And reins in its herd of bridges.
"Also other cities accompany Paris,
They are adorned with glass, arrayed in iron,
But for today that would be too much,
I'll tell the rest another time
~ Czeslaw Milosz,
1102:They were moving through a tunnel. Geometric shapes, fragmented into neon colors and labyrinth patterns flew by in every direction. They were morphing inside and out, with new shapes emerging from within like a kind of slow, pixelated evolution. Spheres, cubes, and pyramids fused together to generate patterned hallucinations: three-dimensional casts with hundreds of polygons, shifting into yet more complex patterns. He couldn’t tell if they were standing still and the shapes were moving, or if the shapes were standing still and they were moving through the tunnel themselves. Strings of closed figures were defined by the interstices between one shape and another. Spaces of nothingness spiraled into their own patterns through the movement of the shapes like strands of translucent DNA forming over a radiant background. There was a break in the tunnel, and suddenly, they were in free fall. Below, a city of shapes, still relentless in their transformations, loomed above a floor made out of more tunnels, entangled inside of an intricate meta-pattern with cities submerged inside of cities. ~ M U Riyadad,
1103:Get up, brat, and for the lord's sake, smooth your hair! You look the most complete romp!'
Miss Wantage did her best to comply with this direction, but without any marked degree of success. Fortunately, the exigencies of the particular mode of hairdressing affected by his lordship obliged him to carry a comb upon his person. He produced this, dragged it through the soft, tangled curls, tied the hood-strings under Hero's chin, and, after a critical survey, said that it would answer well enough. Miss Wantage smiled trustfully up at him, and the Viscount made a discovery. 'You look just like a kitten!'
She laughed. 'No, do I, Sherry?'
'Yes, you do. I think it's your silly little nose,' said the Viscount, flicking it with a careless forefinger. 'That, or the trick you have of staring at a fellow with your eyes wide open. I think I shall call you Kitten. It suits you better than Hero, which I always thought a nonsensical name for a girl.'
'Oh, it is the greatest affliction to me!' she exclaimed. 'You can have no notion, Sherry! I would much rather you should call me Kitten. ~ Georgette Heyer,
1104:Meanwhile, in Genoa, the noons were getting hotter, the converging outer roads getting deeper with white dust, the oleanders in the tubs along the wayside gardens looking more and more like fatigued holiday-makers, and the sweet evening changing her office - scattering abroad those whom the mid-day had sent under shelter, and sowing all paths with happy social sounds, little tinklings of mule-bells and whirrings of thrumbed strings, light footsteps and voices, if not leisurely, then with the hurry of pleasure in them; while the encircling heights, crowned with forts, skirted with fine dwellings and gardens, seemed also to come forth and gaze in fulness of beauty after their long siesta, till all strong colour melted in the stream of moonlight which made the streets a new spectacle with shadows, both still and moving, on cathedral steps and against the facades of massive palaces; and then slowly with the descending moon all sank in deep night and silence, and nothing shone but the port lights of the great Lanterna in the blackness below, and the glimmering stars in the blackness above. ~ George Eliot,
1105:Saul And David
It was a villainous spirit, snub-nosed, foul
Of breath, thick-taloned and malevolent,
That squatted within him wheresoever he went
.......And possessed the soul of Saul.
There was no peace on pillow or on throne.
In dreams the toothless, dwarfed, and squinny-eyed
Started a joyful rumor that he had died
.......Unfriended and alone.
The doctors were confounded. In his distress, he
Put aside arrogant ways and condescended
To seek among the flocks where they were tended
.......By the youngest son of Jesse,
A shepherd boy, but goodly to look upon,
Unnoticed but God-favored, sturdy of limb
As Michelangelo later imagined him,
.......Comely even in his frown.
Shall a mere shepherd provide the cure of kings?
Heaven itself delights in ironies such
As this, in which a boy's fingers would touch
.......Pythagorean strings
And by a modal artistry assemble
The very Sons of Morning, the ranked and choired
Heavens in sweet laudation of the Lord,
.......And make Saul cease to tremble.
~ Anthony Evan Hecht,
1106:All right, all right, all right,” Old Bailey was saying. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. There was a man walked into a bar. No, he wasn’t a man. That’s the joke. Sorry. He was a horse. A horse … no … a piece of string. Three pieces of string. Right. Three pieces of string walk into a bar.” A huge old rook croaked a question. Old Bailey rubbed his chin, then shrugged. “They just do. It’s a joke. They can walk in the joke. He asks for a drink for himself and one for each of his friends. And the barman says, we ‘don’t serve pieces of string here.’ To one of the pieces of string. So. It goes back to its friends and says they ‘don’t serve strings here.’ And it’s a joke, so the middle one does it too, three of them, you see, then the last one, he ties himself around the middle and he pulls the end of him all out. And he orders a drink.” The rook croaked again, sagely. “Three drinks. Right. And the barman says, here, ‘Aren’t you one of those pieces of string?’ And he says, the piece of string, he says, no. ‘I’m a frayed knot.’ ‘Afraid not,’ y’see, ‘a frayed knot.’ Pun. Very, very funny. ~ Neil Gaiman,
1107:Welkley came with four fiddles after dinner, two hanging from the fingers of each hand. Astonishing fiddles, nothing modest about them, smelling wonderfully of wood and varnish and gleaming brown, orange, vermilion. They were the best he’d been able to find in such a short time, Welkley explained. She was to choose one of the four, as a gift from the royal family. Fire thought she could guess which member of the royal family had spared a minute amidst his preoccupations to order a roundup of the city’s finest fiddles, and again she found herself uncomfortably close to tears. She took the instruments from the steward one by one, each more beautiful than the last. Welkley waited patiently while she played them, testing their feeling against her neck, the sharpness of the strings on her fingertips, the depth of their sound. There was one she kept reaching for, with a copper-red varnish, and a clarity like the point of a star, precise and lonesome, reminding her, somehow, of home. This one, she thought to herself. This is the one. Its only flaw, she told Welkley, was that it was too good for her skill. ~ Kristin Cashore,
1108:All right then, you should know that you missed out on mocha sugar donuts.”
My mouth falls open. “How’d you get those? I thought the shop didn’t open that early!”
“I went out and got them last night specifically for the bus ride,” Peter says. “For you and me.”
Aw. I’m touched. “Well, are there any left?”
“Nope. I ate them all.”
He looks so smug that I reach out and swat at his hoodie strings. “You creep,” I say, but I mean it affectionately.
Peter grabs my hand mid-swat and says, “Wanna hear something funny?”
“What?”
“I think I started liking you.”
I go completely still. Then I pull my hand away from his, and I start to gather my hair into a ponytail, and then I remember I don’t have a hair tie. My heart is thudding in my chest and it’s hard to think all of a sudden. “Stop teasing.”
“I’m not teasing. Why do you think I kissed you that day at McClaren’s house back in seventh grade? It’s why I went along with this thing in the first place. I’ve always thought you were cute.”
My face feels hot. “In a quirky way.”
Peter grins his perfect grin. “So? I guess I must like quirky, then. ~ Jenny Han,
1109:I See You'Ve Travelled Some
Wherever you may chance to be — wherever you may roam,
Far away in foreign lands; or just at home sweet home;
It always gives you pleasure, it makes your heart strings hum
Just to hear
The words of cheer,
'I see you've travelled some.'
When you get a brother’s greeting, and he takes you by the hand,
It thrills you with a feeling that you cannot understand,
You feel that bond of brotherhood, that tie that’s sure to come
When you hear him say
In a friendly way
'I see you've travelled some.'
And if you are a stranger, in strange lands all alone
If fate has left you stranded, dead broke and far from home,
Oh, it's a grand and glorious feeling, it thrills you; makes you numb,
When he says with a grip
Of fellowship,
'I see you've travelled some.'
And when your final summons comes, to take a last long trip,
Adorned with Lambskin Apron White and gems of fellowship —
The Tiler at the Golden Gate, with Square and Level and Plumb
Will size up your pin
And say 'Walk In:
I see you've travelled some.'
~ Edgar Albert Guest,
1110:He remembered the time hi fished the female of a pair of swordfish. The male always lets the female eat first, and she, by biting the hook, struggled in a wild, desperate and panicky battle that soon exhausted her. All the time the male stayed with her, crossing the line and circling her partner on the surface. He was so close that the old man had been afraid that he would cut the rope with his tail, which was sharpened like a scythe and almost of that shape and size. The old man put the hook in, hit her, caught the sword, edge like sandpaper and pounded on the tip of the head until her color became almost like the back of a mirror, and then, with the boy's help, lifted her up to put her on board. The male stayed on the side of the boat. Later, when the old man cleaned the strings and prepared the harpoon, the male jumped very high in the air, next to the boat, to see where his partner where, and finally he plunged into the deepest, with blue-reddish wings, that were his pectoral fins, spread wide and with all stripes of the same color in sight. "He was beautiful," recalled the old man, "and he stayed until the end. ~ Ernest Hemingway,
1111:The ducks of Mackinac Island are apparently not easily taken down. “Found a portion of the Lungs as large as a turkey’s egg protruding through the external wound, lacerated and burnt, and below this another protrusion resembling a portion of the Stomach, what at first view I could not believe possible to be that organ in that situation with the subject surviving, but on closer examination I found it to be actually the Stomach, with a puncture in the protruding portion large enough to receive my forefinger, and through which a portion of his food that he had taken for breakfast had come out and lodged among his apparel.” Thus reads Beaumont’s somewhat windy account of the injury. Through that puncture—and in the slop of half-digested meat and bread suddenly visible in the folds of St. Martin’s wool shirt—lay Beaumont’s ticket to the spotlight of national renown. Italian digestion experimenters had pulled food in and out of live animal stomachs, soaked it up in sponges on strings, even regurgitated their own dinners, but St. Martin’s portal presented an unprecedented opportunity to document the human juices and processes in vivo. ~ Mary Roach,
1112:three tiers to the heart: physical, ethereal, Eternal
with each one being more spiritual and subtle
the physical heart a little brain with over 40,000 neurons
it sends and receives by electromagnetic field operations
it's got its own nervous system that senses and remembers
making decisions and giving directions to other centers
emitting enfolded energetic organizational patterns
information, that is—communicative interactions
detected outside the body by magnetometers and other people
for heart coherence listen to Pärt's “Spiegel im Spiegel”
valid are chakras and acupuncture meridians
meditate on the heart chakra to see what this means
energy meridians are strings of polarized crystalline water
bioelectric signals transmitted in connective tissue matter
information is sent along these lengths of collagen proteins
molecules of structured water allowing the transfer of protons
crystal water wires inside protein pathways
with acupuncture points being junctures in the maze
the protons, then, are what have been referred to as “chi”
a current flowing, much like electrical circuitry ~ Jarett Sabirsh,
1113:What were you playing?” I ask. “Nothing yet,” she says with a smile. “I can take requests.” I shake my head. This is one area where I can’t bond with her. “I don’t know anything at all about music,” I say. “Sorry.” I know it’s important to her. Kind of like a mainstay in her life. “You can’t hear this at all?” she asks. Her fingers strum across the strings again. “That?” I shake my head. I wish I could hear it, but I can’t. “Can you hear any music?” She’s curious. I like that. I nod. “I can hear the rock bands at the club. Or rather, I can feel the beat and the rhythm of the song when rock and roll is playing.” “Can you dance?” I roll my eyes. “Can I dance? You have to be kidding me.” I motion to my body. “I have rhythm.” Her face colors. That’s not quite the rhythm I meant, but I’ll take it. “Someone is thinking naughty thoughts,” I tease. I reach for her toe, but she jerks it back before I can tug on it. “I’m sorry I can’t enjoy your music,” I confess. “There’s nothing I would like more than to hear you play. I want to experience everything that makes you happy.” I shake my head. I don’t usually feel left out of anything, but I do now. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1114:He knew everything. He knew at least a thousand Hungarian folk songs, all the words and tunes, he could handle Gypsies, give them instructions and keep them in order, check their familiarity with the flicker of an eyelid, then win their affection with a lordly, condescending, and yet fraternal-playful sidelong glance, he could call 'acsi' perfectly, shout at the first violin when he didn't strike up Csendesen, csak csendesen quietly enough and the cimbalonist when the padded sticks didn't make the steel strings thunder and rumble sufficiently in Hullamzo Balaton, he could kiss the viola player's pock-marked face, give the double bass a kick, break glasses and mirrors, drink wine, beer and marc brandy for three days on end out of tumblers, smack his lips at the site of cabbage soup and cold pork stew, take ages inspecting his cards (with relish, one eye closed), dance a quick csardas for a whole half-hour, urging and driving himself on to stamp and shout and toss his partner high in the air and catch her, light as a feather, with one arm: so, as I said, he could do everything that raises Man from his animal condition and makes him truly Man. ~ Dezs Kosztol nyi,
1115:I See You'Ve Travelled Some
I See You've Travelled Some
Wherever you may chance to be — wherever you may roam,
Far away in foreign lands; or just at home sweet home;
It always gives you pleasure, it makes your heart strings hum
Just to hear
The words of cheer,
'I see you've travelled some.'
When you get a brother's greeting, and he takes you by the hand,
It thrills you with a feeling that you cannot understand,
You feel that bond of brotherhood, that tie that's sure to come
When you hear him say
In a friendly way
'I see you've travelled some.'
And if you are a stranger, in strange lands all alone
If fate has left you stranded, dead broke and far from home,
Oh, it's a grand and glorious feeling, it thrills you; makes you numb,
When he says with a grip
Of fellowship,
'I see you've travelled some.'
And when your final summons comes, to take a last long trip,
Adorned with Lambskin Apron White and gems of fellowship —
The Tiler at the Golden Gate, with Square and Level and Plumb
Will size up your pin
And say 'Walk In:
I see you've travelled some.'
~ Edgar Albert Guest,
1116:Strings possess one defining property which is their tension. This quantity plays a crucial role in the overall picture of how strings can be reconciled with the miraculous experimental success of the point-like Quantum field theories in explaining the observed features of the world at lower Energies. For the strings possess a tension that varies with the energy of the environment, so that at low energies, the tension is high and pulls the strings taut into points and we recover the favorable features of a world of Point like Elementary particles. At high energies where the string tension is low, their essential stringiness becomes evident and creates Behavior that is qualitatively different from that of the point particle theories.
Unfortunately at present the mathematical expertise required to reveal these properties is somewhat Beyond us. For the first time modern physicists have found that off-the-shelf mathematics is insufficient to extract the physical content of their theories. But, in time, suitable techniques will no doubt emerge, or perhaps a better way to look at the theory will be found: one that is conceptually and technically simpler. ~ John D Barrow,
1117:Hope Is A Tattered Flag
Hope is a tattered flag and a dream of time.
Hope is a heartspun word, the rainbow, the shadblow in white
The evening star inviolable over the coal mines,
The shimmer of northern lights across a bitter winter night,
The blue hills beyond the smoke of the steel works,
The birds who go on singing to their mates in peace, war, peace,
The ten-cent crocus bulb blooming in a used-car salesroom,
The horseshoe over the door, the luckpiece in the pocket,
The kiss and the comforting laugh and resolve—
Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder.
The spring grass showing itself where least expected,
The rolling fluff of white clouds on a changeable sky,
The broadcast of strings from Japan, bells from Moscow,
Of the voice of the prime minister of Sweden carried
Across the sea in behalf of a world family of nations
And children singing chorals of the Christ child
And Bach being broadcast from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania
And tall skyscrapers practically empty of tenants
And the hands of strong men groping for handholds
And the Salvation Army singing God loves us….
~ Carl Sandburg,
1118:Immature people falling in love destroy each other’s freedom, create a bondage, make a prison. Mature persons in love help each other to be free; they help each other to destroy all sorts of bondages. And when love flows with freedom there is beauty. When love flows with dependence there is ugliness.

A mature person does not fall in love, he or she rises in love. Only immature people fall; they stumble and fall down in love. Somehow they were managing and standing. Now they cannot manage and they cannot stand. They were always ready to fall on the ground and to creep. They don’t have the backbone, the spine; they don’t have the integrity to stand alone.

A mature person has the integrity to stand alone. And when a mature person gives love, he or she gives without any strings attached to it. When two mature persons are in love, one of the great paradoxes of life happens, one of the most beautiful phenomena: they are together and yet tremendously alone. They are together so much that they are almost one. Two mature persons in love help each other to become more free. There is no politics involved, no diplomacy, no effort to dominate. Only freedom and love. ~ Osho,
1119:What passed in the mind of this man at the supreme moment of his agony cannot be told in words. He was still comparatively young, he was surrounded by the loving care of a devoted family, but he had convinced himself by a course of reasoning, illogical perhaps, yet certainly plausible, that he must separate himself from all he held dear in the world, even life itself. To form the slightest idea of his feelings, one must have seen his face with its expression of enforced resignation and its tear-moistened eyes raised to heaven. The minute hand moved on. The pistols were loaded; he stretched forth his hand, took one up, and murmured his daughter's name. Then he laid it down seized his pen, and wrote a few words. It seemed to him as if he had not taken a sufficient farewell of hIs beloved daughter. Then he turned again to the clock, counting time now not by minutes, but by seconds. He took up the deadly weapon again, his lips parted and his eyes fixed on the clock, and then he shuddered at the click of the trigger as he cocked the pistol. At this moment of mortal anguish the cold sweat came forth upon his brow, a pang stronger than death clutched at his heart-strings. ~ Alexandre Dumas,
1120:In LA, you can’t do anything unless you drive. Now I can’t do anything unless I drink. And the drink-drive combination, it really isn’t possible out there. If you so much as loosen your seatbelt or drop your ash or pick your nose, then it’s an Alcatraz autopsy with the questions asked later. Any indiscipline, you feel, any variation, and there’s a bullhorn, a set of scope sights, and a coptered pig drawing a bead on your rug.
So what can a poor boy do? You come out of the hotel, the Vraimont. Over boiling Watts the downtown skyline carries a smear of God’s green snot. You walk left, you walk right, you are a bank rat on a busy river. This restaurant serves no drink, this one serves no meat, this one serves no heterosexuals. You can get your chimp shampooed, you can get your dick tattooed, twenty-four hour, but can you get lunch? And should you see a sign on the far side of the street flashing BEEF-BOOZE – NO STRINGS, then you can forget it. The only way to get across the road is to be born there. All the ped-xing signs say DON’T WALK, all of them, all the time. That is the message, the content of Los Angeles: don’t walk. Stay inside. Don’t walk. Drive. Don’t walk. Run! ~ Martin Amis,
1121:The next morning I took the screen out of that window, and hid it in the back of my closet, where it remains. I took an elective in poetry my sophomore year because I heard that Margo was taking it. By then we weren't friends really, because she was already the high priestess of Winterpark High School. She was friendly to me, but I never really had anything to say to her really, except occasionally during classes. The great surprise of that class was that I actually like poetry. At least some of it. There's this one poem we read called "Howl", and it starts out:
"I saw the best minds of my generation, destroyed by madness. Starving, hysterical, naked."

I've never seen Margo starving, or hysterical, and God knows I've never seen her naked. But somehow -- and this is why I like poetry -- those words still describe her as she stood outside my window. Her blinkless blue eyes, starving, and hysterical, and naked, staring back at me. I think she was still trying to piece it together - how the strings break, I mean - as she stared at me. Margo always loved mysteries, and in everything that came afterward, I could never stop thinking that maybe she loved mysteries so much that she became one. ~ John Green,
1122:[33]* In the seventh month, when the heat is dreadful, everything in the building is kept open all through the night, and it’s delightful to wake on moonlit nights and lie there looking out. Dark nights too are delightful, and as for the sight of the moon at dawn, words cannot describe the loveliness. Picture her lying there, on a fresh new mat 1 placed near the outer edge of the gleaming wooden aisle-room floor, the low standing curtain pushed to the back of the room in a quite unseemly way. 2 It should normally be placed at the outer edge, but perhaps she’s concerned about being seen from within. Her lover must have already left. She is lying asleep, a robe drawn up over her head 3 – it is pale greyish-violet with deep violet inner lining, the outer surface a little faded, or perhaps it is a stiffish robe of rich gleaming damask. Beneath this, she is wearing a clove-tan or yellow gossamer-silk shift, and the long strings of her unlined scarlet skirted trousers trailing undone from below the hem of her clothing tell us that she must have fallen asleep with trousers still untied after her lover departed. The soft luxury of hair that lies piled in waves beside her speaks of its wonderful length. ~ Sei Sh nagon,
1123:You goin’ somewhere?” I asked.
“Out west.”
“Out west? What is this, a John Wayne movie? There’s a lot that’s west of Boston. How far out west?” I asked.
“Vegas,” he said, and turned down the strings.
“Huh.” Vegas. That was quite the drive. I wondered how long it would take. I really had no clue. It was all the way across the country. Major road trip.
“I’m headed that direction too,” I lied enthusiastically. He looked over at me, his eyebrows disappearing under the thick edge of his cap.
“You’re headed to Vegas?”
“Well, maybe not that far, you know, uh, just . . . west,” I hedged. I didn’t want him to think I wanted to tag along all the way to Vegas, although suddenly I thought I might. “Can I ride with you for a ways?”
“Look, kid—”
“Clyde?” I immediately interrupted. “I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-one years old. I’m not jailbait or an escapee from prison or a mental institution. I’m not a member of the Klan, or even a Bible salesman, although I do believe in Jesus and am not ashamed to admit it, though I will keep my love for him to myself if you’ve got issues with that. I have some money to contribute to gas and food and whatever else we need. I just need a lift out . . . west. ~ Amy Harmon,
1124:I.
The keen stars were twinkling,
And the fair moon was rising among them,
Dear Jane.
The guitar was tinkling,
But the notes were not sweet till you sung them
Again.

II.
As the moon's soft splendour
O'er the faint cold starlight of Heaven
Is thrown,
So your voice most tender
To the strings without soul had then given
Its own.

III.
The stars will awaken,
Though the moon sleep a full hour later
To-night;
No leaf will be shaken
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight.

IV.
Though the sound overpowers,
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.
Published in part (lines 7-24) by Medwin (under the title, An Ariette for Music. To a Lady singing to her Accompaniment on the Guitar), The Athenaeum, November 17, 1832; reprinted by Mrs. Shelley, Poetical Works, 1839, 1st edition. Republished in full (under the title, To --.) Poetical Works, 1839, 2nd edition. The Trelawny manuscript is headed To Jane. Mr. C.W. Frederickson of Brooklyn possesses a transcript in an unknown hand.
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, To Jane - The Keen Stars Were Twinkling
,
1125:Antony:
O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See
How I convey my shame out of thine eyes
By looking back what I have left behind
'Stroyed in dishonour.

Cleopatra:
O my lord, my lord,
Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought
You would have followed.

Antony:
Egypt, thou knew'st too well
My heart was to thy rudder tied by th' strings,
And thou shouldst tow me after. O'er my spirit
Thy full supremacy thou knew'st, and that
Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods
Command me.

Cleopatra:
O, my pardon!

Antony:
Now I must
To the young man send humble treaties, dodge
And palter in the shifts of lowness, who
With half the bulk o' th' world played as I pleased,
Making and marring fortunes. You did know
How much you were my conqueror, and that
My sword, made weak by my affection, would
Obey it on all cause.

Cleopatra:
Pardon, pardon!

Antony:
Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates
All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss.
Even this repays me.
We sent our schoolmaster; is 'a come back?
Love, I am full of lead. Some wine
Within there, and our viands! Fortune knows
We scorn her most when she offers blows. ~ William Shakespeare,
1126:In this way, as it seems to me, he said: "One might make the same
argument about harmony, lyre and strings, that a harmony is something
invisible, without body, beautiful and divine in the attuned lyre, whereas
the lyre itself and its strings are physical, bodily, composite, earthy and
akin to what is mortal. Then if someone breaks the lyre, cuts or breaks
the strings and then insists, using the same argument as you, that the
harmony must still exist and is not destroyed because it would be impossi-
ble for the lyre and the strings, which are mortal, still to exist when the
strings are broken, and for the harmony, which is akin and of the same
nature as the divine and immortal, to be destroyed before that which is
mortal; he would say that the harmony itself still must exist and that the
wood and the strings must rot before the harmony can suffer. And indeed
Socrates, I think you must have this in mind, that we really do suppose
the soul to be something of this kind; as the body is stretched and held
together by the hot and the cold, the dry and the moist and other such
things, and OUR soul is a mixture and harmony of those things when they
are mixed with each other rightly and in due measure. ~ Plato,
1127:In a society that is essentially designed to organize, direct, and gratify mass impulses, what is there to minister to the silent zones of man as an individual? Religion? Art? Nature? No, the church has turned religion into standardized public spectacle, and the museum has done the same for art. The Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls have been looked at so much that they've become effete, sucked empty by too many stupid eyes. What is there to minister to the silent zones of man as an individual? How about a cold chicken bone on a paper plate at midnight, how about a lurid lipstick lengthening or shortening at your command, how about a Styrofoam nest abandoned by a 'bird' you've never known, how about a pair of windshield wipers pursuing one another futilely while you drive home alone through a downpour, how about something beneath a seat touched by your shoe at the movies, how about worn pencils, cute forks, fat little radios, boxes of bow ties, and bubbles on the side of a bathtub? Yes, these are the things, these kite strings and olive oil cans and Valentine hearts stuffed with nougat, that form the bond between the autistic vision and the experiential world, it is to show these things in their true mysterious light that is the purpose of the moon. ~ Tom Robbins,
1128:Then I looked up. I didn't notice that your ears stick out, just a little, so you look like a pixie sometimes, or an elf. I didn't notice that the corners of you mouth always seem like they're trying to smile, while the rest of your mouth wants to pout. I didn't notice the little bump on your nose, near the bridge but slightly to the right-the bump I'd trace with my finger over and over, not soon enough. I didn't notice your long hands and rough finger-tips, or the dozens-is it hundreds?-of bracelets on your left wrist, made of busted guitar strings.

I noticed your eyes, because they looked wet; maybe it was a trick of the light-the fluorescent and neon lights falling over your face from the bodega next door. But I didn't think about love, and I didn't see right down to your heart. But I must have stared-did I?-because there was your spirit, right there before me, and when you found my eyes I knew I'd pulled that spirit back from someplace amazing, not Greenpoint, not the summer sidewalk in front of Fish's bar, smelling of old alcohol and piss.

But it must have been a trick of the light, because when you stood up, you were smiling, and your bright eyes looked alive and right there, with me, on Franklin Avenue in Brooklyn, New York, Earth. ~ Steve Brezenoff,
1129:Such a nasty bruise,” he says, staring straight into my eyes. I am stunned he can see it. Delicate to the touch and tender on every side, the bruise is deeper than days. My hand automatically moves to my chest.

Science taught me with valid assurance that my heart was fixed in my rib cage, but life has since shown me otherwise. My heart in fact dangles from a tangle of strings. The ends are grasped tight by numerous people who yank and release, having caused many painful bruises over time. I cry because they are invisible to most.

“Such a nasty bruise,” he repeats, tugging on my poor heart.

His kind eyes fall away from mine as I feel a squeeze on my arm. He twists it enough to show me a small, round patch of purple surrounded by a sickly yellowish corona.

“Oh. My elbow.” I let the air exhale from my lungs. Another bruise forms where my heart has hit the floor. It is jerked up again.

“Can I do anything for you?” I see in his eyes the mirror image of a finger—his finger—wrapped in one of the dangling strings. He tugs and I feel it.

“No,” I reply to his question. But it is a lie. There is something he could do, along with all who grasp a portion of the web entangling my heart. I wish they would mercifully let go. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,
1130:Endymion

The rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams,
Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes,--the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,--
In silence and alone
To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies.

O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.

Responds,--as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings;
And whispers, in its song,
"Where hast thou stayed so long? ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
1131:When God finished his work of creation
In the vast blue sky
All the stars began to shine.
In the milky way
With this new world in their front
All the gods sat in rows and began to sing,
O what joy! What perfection!
A great piece of music, in perfect rhythm -
These planets, this moon and this sun!

But someone from the assembly
Suddenly told,
From this string of lights
A star seems to have fallen down!
The strings of the lyre snapped
And the music came to a stop,
A quest began to find out
Where the lost star had gone.
Everybody said,
It was the star which brightened the heavens most
It was the biggest and the best.

From then on has been going on
This quest for this star which has been lost
Day and night there is no rest.
Everybody says,
Among all the stars
We have got to find out
This particular star.
Without it the entire world has become dark.
But in the dead of night the silent stars
Smiling silently say among themselves,
This search is useless
For all the stars are there!
Transcreation of the poem Haradhan from the collection Kheya (The Ferry) by Rabindranath Tagore. Transcreation by Kumud Biswas.
Translated by Kumud Biswas
~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Lost Star
,
1132:For the first step, we need much more efficient Grid supercurrents. They must mightily suppress the unwanted strong<>weak color charge transformations. Of course, this means that the supercurrents themselves would be flows involving both strong and weak color charges.

No known form of matter can supply such supercurrents. On the other hand, it's easy to invent new Higgs-like fields that do the job. People have played with other ideas, too. Maybe these currents arise from particles racing around in additional, tiny cureled-up spatial dimensions. Maybe they're vibrations of strings that wrap around additional tiny curled-up spatial dimensions. Because the concentrated energies required to probe distances this small lie far, far beyond what we can achieve in practice, these speculations are not easy to check.

Fortunately, just as in the Core electroweak theory, we can make good progress by taking the supercurrents as given, without fingo-ing hypotheses about what they're made of. That's the philosophy I adopted in Part III of this book. It led us to some encouraging successes, and to some specific predictions. If it survives further scrutiny, we'll be able to assert with confidence that we live within a multilayered, multicolored cosmic superconductor. ~ Frank Wilczek,
1133:Our contemporaries are constantly excited by two conflicting passions; they want to be led, and they wish to remain free: as they cannot destroy either one or the other of these contrary propensities, they strive to satisfy them both at once. They devise a sole, tutelary, and all-powerful form of government, but elected by the people. They combine the principle of centralization and that of popular sovereignty; this gives them a respite: they console themselves for being in tutelage by the reflection that they have chosen their own guardians. Every man allows himself to be put in leading-strings, because he sees that it is not a person or a class of persons, but the people at large that holds the end of his chain.

By this system the people shake off their state of dependence just long enough to select their master, and then relapse into it again. A great many persons at the present day are quite contented with this sort of compromise between administrative despotism and the sovereignty of the people; and they think they have done enough for the protection of individual freedom when they have surrendered it to the power of the nation at large. This does not satisfy me: the nature of him I am to obey signifies less to me than the fact of extorted obedience. ~ Alexis de Tocqueville,
1134:Oh How To Find Silence In The World
Being spotted in the color of skin,
why I take care in San Francisco,
waiting for the bus to Iowa.
They say racial prejudice is strong,
Negros and not whites kawawa,
and because of this they will revolt.
I shiver and shiver from fear and hunger
because I just landed from Tokyo.
A Negro came into the station—
naka-African hairdo; he holds a small
whip: it’s scary to look, so
I did not look at him. Kumakalansing
the metal on the strings of his shoes
and he shouts, “Peace, brothers!” Smiled showing
white teeth. Looked at me—
maybe he laughed at what he saw—
a tiny dayuhan, dark and from
some lupalog. Upside down
my insides went in fright and pulled
a cigarette so the redness of my face
wouldn’t show. I nahalata
that the Whites there too were quiet
so quiet, unable to speak in front
of that Negro. Only when he left returned
the normalcy in the station—others
read again, neighbors gossiped again,
laughter, the janitor sweeped again.
After a while that Negro passed again
two white Americanas on each arm,
blonde, their beauty with no equal.
The janitor stopped sweeping.
I thought, “So this is racial prejudice.”
~ Cirilo Bautista,
1135:An Ode To Himself
Where dost thou careless lie,
Buried in ease and sloth?
Knowledge that sleeps doth die;
And this security,
It is the common moth
That eats on wits and arts, and oft destroys them both.
Are all th' Aonian springs
Dried up? lies Thespia waste?
Doth Clarius' harp want strings,
That not a nymph now sings?
Or droop they as disgrac'd,
To see their seats and bowers by chatt'ring pies defac'd?
If hence thy silence be,
As 'tis too just a cause,
Let this thought quicken thee:
Minds that are great and free
Should not on fortune pause;
'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.
What though the greedy fry
Be taken with false baites
Of worded balladry,
And think it poesy?
They die with their conceits,
And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.
Then take in hand thy lyre,
Strike in thy proper strain,
With Japhet's line aspire
Sol's chariot for new fire,
To give the world again;
Who aided him will thee, the issue of Jove's brain.
And since our dainty age
Cannot endure reproof,
Make not thyself a page
To that strumpet, the stage,
29
But sing high and aloof,
Safe from the wolf's black jaw and the dull ass's hoof.
~ Ben Jonson,
1136:I stared at him, baffled. But at that moment Gideon began to play, and I entirely forgot what I had been going to ask the count. Oh, my god! Maybe it was the punch—but wow! That violin was really sexy! Even the way Gideon raised it and tucked it under his chin! He didn’t have to do more than that to carry me away with him. His long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and a lock of hair fell over his face as he began passing the bow over the strings. The first notes filling the room almost took my breath away, they made such tender, melting music, and suddenly I was close to tears. Until now, violins had been way down on my list of favorite instruments, and I really liked them only for accompanying certain moments in films. But this was just incredibly wonderful—well, all of it was: the bittersweet melody and boy enticing it out of the instrument. All the people in the room listened with bated breath, and Gideon played on, immersed in the music as if there were no one else there.
I didn’t notice that I was crying until the count touched my cheek and caught a tear gently with his finger. Then I jumped in alarm.
He was smiling down at me, and I saw a warm glow in his dark brown eyes. “Nothing to be ashamed of,” he said quietly. “If it were otherwise, I’d have been very disappointed. ~ Kerstin Gier,
1137:Agnes shut her eyes, clenched her fists, opened her mouth and screamed.

It started low. Plaster dust drifted down from the ceiling. The prisms on the chandelier chimed gently as they shook.
It rose, passing quickly through the mysterious pitch at fourteen cycles per second where the human spirit begins to feel distinctly uncomfortable about the universe and the place in it of the bowels. Small items around the Opera House vibrated off shelves and smashed on the floor.

The note climbed, rang like a bell, climbed again. In the Pit, all the violin strings snapped, one by one.
As the tone rose, the crystal prisms shook in the chandelier. In the bar, champagne corks fired a salvo. Ice jingled and shattered in its bucket. A line of wine-glasses joined in the chorus, blurred around the rims, and then exploded like hazardous thistledown with attitude.

There were harmonics and echoes that caused strange effects. In the dressing-rooms the No. 3 greasepaint melted. Mirrors cracked, filling the ballet school with a million fractured images.
Dust rose, insects fell. In the stones of the Opera House tiny particles of quartz danced briefly...

Then there was silence, broken by the occasional thud and tinkle.
Nanny grinned.
'Ah,' she said, 'now the opera's over. ~ Terry Pratchett,
1138:A Background In Music
music city u.s.a. it was, nothing doing without a song,
and not just twangy tunes that rhyme southern drawls
with guitar strings, though it's true i knew charlie pride
before charlie parker, but music, music, music, broadway
numbers (one! . . .) broadcast over speakers in the park,
pointer sisters fingering ohio players on the school bus,
the elementary chorus performing a patriotic medley
for the bicentennial, the high school madrigals wringing
the carol of the bells out of our overworked throats each
december, WVOL simulblasting car wash or little red corvette
out the windows of every deep ride rolling in the black
neighborhoods, melodies to carry over the clap*slap*snap
of our hands clocking time (miss mar-y mack mack mack)
or to keep us out of trouble with the jump rope, pep squad
cheers to perfect, spontaneous spirituals in the church
parking lot, and, yes, some country, the mandrells, the oak
ridge boys, tuning in to hee-haw's banjo humor and gloom,
the music was howdy and whassup, hell naw! and aw yeah!,
merry, happy, baby-baby, and god loves you if no one else does:
to ourselves, to applause, in talent shows, in choirs, on cue
and (mostly) in key, we sang everything there was to say.
~ Evie Shockley,
1139:On The Turn
Like the twang of an old complaint, the pong
of decomposing swan songs hit him
as a jangle rose
from the dee-jay equipment
and the gates groaned open on Hullabaloo. The threshold
yawned like something out of Jaws. “Je t’adore, flophead.
Jette this way, s’il vous plait.”
She didn’t actually say
she was charmed, but he knew she was. They all were.
Adjusting his tie in a mirror, the old goat
stared fixedly ahead.
Just then a knock
knock joke surfaced and submerged him, Eurydice
felt, in a funk
band fantasy — part enactment, part cow.
Then without warning a ding-a-ling
effect.
“Hello? Yes, it’s true
Riff-Raff, I’m a virgin. When the black priest comes
for eight days I will offer you a candle.”
Muttering
“Attaboy” intermittently, the big-eared gimmick
held out his hands to Chaste Lily
for example.
“Swiftly,
I’ve been a swine too long. To change ...” is what
he thought they might have wanted him to say —
tingling, softly, in a flutter.
He was a bit of a looker
into dark places and the artless. He often
plucked arrangements people
up to their old tricks
pulled apart and attached strings to. Later he’d
call them names of course — Chouchou,
Oh Rarefied, Nix.
~ Chris Edwards,
1140:God created things which had free will. That means creatures which can go wrong or right. Some people think they can imagine a creature which was free but had no possibility of going wrong, but I can't. If a thing is free to be good it's also free to be bad. And free will is what has made evil possible. Why, then, did God give them free will? Because free will, though it makes evil possible, is also the only thing that makes possible any love or goodness or joy worth having. A world of automata -of creatures that worked like machines- would hardly be worth creating. The happiness which God designs for His higher creatures is the happiness of being freely, voluntarily united to Him and to each other in an ecstasy of love and delight compared with which the most rapturous love between a man and a woman on this earth is mere milk and water. And for that they've got to be free.
Of course God knew what would happen if they used their freedom the wrong way: apparently, He thought it worth the risk. (...) If God thinks this state of war in the universe a price worth paying for free will -that is, for making a real world in which creatures can do real good or harm and something of real importance can happen, instead of a toy world which only moves when He pulls the strings- then we may take it it is worth paying. ~ C S Lewis,
1141:All the sentences in Madame Bovary could be examined with wonder, but there is one in particular that always stops me in admiration. Flaubert has just shown us Emma at the piano with Charles watching her. He says, “She struck the notes with aplomb and ran from top to bottom of the keyboard without a break. Thus shaken up, the old instrument, whose strings buzzed, could be heard at the other end of the village when the window was open, and often the bailiff’s clerk, passing along the highroad, bareheaded and in list slippers, stopped to listen, his sheet of paper in his hand.”

The more you look at a sentence like that, the more you can learn from it. At one end of it, we are with Emma and this very solid instrument “whose strings buzzed,” and at the other end of it we are across the village with this very concrete clerk in his list slippers. With regard to what happens to Emma in the rest of the novel, we may think that it makes no difference that the instrument has buzzing strings or that the clerk wears list slippers and has a piece of paper in his hand, but Flaubert had to create a believable village to put Emma in. It’s always necessary to remember that the fiction writer is much less immediately concerned with grand ideas and bristling emotions than he is with putting list slippers on clerks. ~ Flannery O Connor,
1142:Among the most prominent under-the-tree drinkers were a pair of characters named Red and Clarence. They were two of the biggest drinking carousers around, but when the spirit hit them, they could get very religious. Once Red had decided he had received the “gift of tongues,” a common practice in our Pentecostal church. He went to church a few times and would, on impulse, stand up and go into seemingly meaningless strings of syllables, to which the believers would respond with “Bless him, Lord.” The story is that one day Red and Clarence were downtown in a truck belonging to one of them, and Red looked out the window and was reading a sign, somewhat haltingly. “E-CON-O-MY-AU-TO-SUP-PLY, Economy Auto Supply,” Red sputtered, to which Clarence, assuming his friend had gone into “tongues,” quickly came back with, “Bless him, Lord.”
That story circulated through the ranks of the church membership and was the source of great laughter for a time around the Parton household. It became something of a running joke that would crop up whenever anybody said anything that could be mistaken for “tongues.” Sunday morning, getting ready for church, a brother would say, “Come tie my bow tie,” and some smart-aleck sibling would shout, “Bless him, Lord,” and the rest of us would join in, all pretending to be caught up in the spirit. ~ Dolly Parton,
1143:That night Serena dressed to meet Zahi. She used a metallic green eye shadow on the top lids and the outer half of the bottom lids so that her eyes looked like a jungle cat's. Two coats of black mascara completed them, and then she smudged a light gold gloss on her lips.
She took a red skirt from the closet. The material was snakelike, shimmering black, then red. She slipped it on and tied the black strings of a matching bib halter around her neck and waist. She painted red-and-black glittering flames on her legs and rubbed glossy shine on her arms and chest.
Finally, she took the necklace she had bought at the garage sale and fixed it in her hairline like the headache bands worn by flappers back in the 1920's. The jewels hung on her forehead, making her look like an exotic maharani.
She sat at her dressing table and painted her toenails and fingernails gold, then looked in the mirror. A thrill jolted through her as it always did. No matter how many times she saw her reflection after the transformation, her image always astonished her. She looked supernatural, a spectral creature, green eyes large, skin glowing, eyelashes longer, thicker. Everything about her was more forceful and elegant- an enchantress goddess. She couldn't pull away from her reflection. It was as if the warrior in her had claimed the night. ~ Lynne Ewing,
1144:How the might of Nature sways All the world in ordered ways, How resistless laws control Each least portion of the whole Fain would I in sounding verse On my pliant strings rehearse. Lo, the lion captive ta'en Meekly wears his gilded chain; Yet though he by hand be fed, Though a master's whip he dread, If but once the taste of gore Whet his cruel lips once more, Straight his slumbering fierceness wakes, With one roar his bonds he breaks, And first wreaks his vengeful force On his trainer's mangled corse. And the woodland songster, pent In forlorn imprisonment, Though a mistress' lavish care Store of honeyed sweets prepare; Yet, if in his narrow cage, As he hops from bar to bar, He should spy the woods afar, Cool with sheltering foliage, All these dainties he will spurn, To the woods his heart will turn; Only for the woods he longs, Pipes the woods in all his songs. To rude force the sapling bends, While the hand its pressure lends; If the hand its pressure slack, Straight the supple wood springs back. Phbus in the western main Sinks; but swift his car again By a secret path is borne To the wonted gates of morn. Thus are all things seen to yearn In due time for due return; And no order fixed may stay, Save which in th' appointed way Joins the end to the beginning In a steady cycle spinning.

~ Boethius, The Bent of Nature
,
1145:Hey, sweetheart. All alone in this palace?"

She arched a brow when she felt the hand on her bottom and turned her head slowly to stare at McNab.

He went red, then white, then red again. "Christ! Lieutenant. Sir."

"Your hand's on my ass, McNab. I don't think you want it to be there."

He snatched it away as if scorched. "God. Man. Shit. Beg your pardon. I didn't recognize you. I mean..." He jammed the hand he sincerely hoped she'd allow him to keep in his pocket. "I didn't know it was you. I thought... You look..." Words failed him.

"I believe Detective McNab is trying to compliment you, Eve." Roarke slipped up beside them and, because it was too much to resist, stared hard into McNab's panicked eyes. "Weren't you, Ian?"

"Yeah. That is..."

"And if I believed he'd realized it was your ass he was fondling, I'd just have to kill him. Right here." Roarke reached out and flicked at the strings of McNab's snazzy red tie. "Right now."

"Oh, I'd have already taken care of that myself," Eve said dryly. "You look like you could use a drink,Detective."

"Yes, sir. I could."

"Roarke, why don't you take care of him? Mira just came in. I want to talk to her."

"Delighted." Roarke draped an arm around McNab's shoulder and squeezed just a little harder than comfort allowed. ~ J D Robb,
1146:Old couples began to pair off and spin each other around, and the younger ones lined the walls, clapping and stomping their feet and swishing their drinks. In that little pub, on that little stage by the windows, Kevin was a life force, a star. With the aid of an instrument, he could spend four hours in a new country and fit in better than Maggie could after four months. He sang about drunk tanks and love and Christmas hopes, but in the spaces between the words of the song and in the cold shadows of his closed eyes rested all the things that he allowed to escape from himself only on the stage. Watching him, Maggie thought of their conversation earlier that day--how he had quit the band, quit his music, hadn't picked up a guitar in months. She could see the way he picked gingerly at the strings on his uncalloused fingers. His voice wasn't beautiful, but it had always contained a kind of arresting truth. Now too, Maggie detected a new quality--a desperation that had not been there before. Looking around the table at her family, she knew that Nanny Eli heard it, too. Her grandmother was leaning forward, holding her cigarette aloft while the ash grew longer and longer, and she was not listening to her son like the rest of them were but watching him, the movements of his long, skeletal fingers, the closed bruises of his eyes. ~ Jessie Ann Foley,
1147:...and nearly laughed aloud from the joy that came over her for no reason. She felt her nerves tighten more and more, like strings on winding pegs. She felt her eyes open wider and wider, her fingers and toes move nervously; something insider her stopped her breath, and all images and sounds in that wavering semi-darkness impressed themselves on her with extraordinary vividness. She kept having moments of doubt whether the carriage was moving forwards or backwards, or standing still. Was that Annushka beside her, or some stranger? What is that on the armrest a fur coat or some animal? And what am I? Myself or someone else? It was frightening to surrender herself to this oblivion. But something was drawing her in, and she was able, at will, to surrender to it or hold back from it. She stood up to come to her senses. For a moment she recovered...wind and snow had burst in...everything became confused again...This muzhik with the long waist began to gnaw at something on the wall; the old woman began to stretch her legs out the whole length of the carriage and filled it with a black cloud; then something screeched and banged terribly, as if someone was being torn to pieces; then a red fire blinded her eyes, and then everything was hidden by a wall. Anna felt as if she was falling through the floor. But all this was not frightening but exhilarating. ~ Leo Tolstoy,
1148:This guy Lobo, whose real and true name was Wolfgang Fink, played better than good flamenco guitar in a place called Mamma Mia in Puerto Vallarta. Had a partner name of Willie Royal, tall gangly guy who was balding a little early and wore glasses and played hot gypsy-jazz violin. They'd worked out a repertoire of their own tunes, "Improvisation #18" and "Gypsy Rock" as examples, played 'em high and hard, rolled through "Amsterdam" and "The Sultan's Dream" with enough power to set you two times free or even beyond that when the day had been tolerable and the night held promise. Lobo, sun worn and hard lined in the face looking over at Willie Royal bobbing and weaving and twisting his face into a mean imitation of a death mask when he really got into it, right wrist looking almost limp but moving his bow at warp speed across the strings, punctuated here and there by Lobo's stabbing ruscados and finger tapping on the guitar top.

Good music, wonderful music, tight and wild all at the same time. On those nights when the sweat ran down your back and veneered your face and the gringitas looked good enough to swallow whole - knowing too they looked just that way and them watching the crowd to see who might be man enough to try it - people would be riding on the music, drinking and clapping in flamenco time, dancing around the dinner tables. ~ Robert James Waller,
1149:The Bier Of Precentor A. Reitan
With smiles his soft eyes ever gleamed,
When God and country thinking;
With endless joy, his soul, it seemed,
Faith, fatherland, was linking.
His word, his song,
Like springs flowed strong;
They fruitful made the valley long,
And quickened all there drinking.
Poor people and poor homes among
In wintry region saddest,
In Sunday's choir he always sung,
Of all the world the gladdest:
'The axis stout
It turns about,
Falls not the poorest home without,
For thus, O God, Thou badest.'
With sickness came a heavy year
And put to proof his singing,
While helpless children standing near
His trust to test were bringing.
But glad the more,
As soft notes soar
When winds o'er hidden harp-strings pour,
His song his soul was winging.
His life foretold us that erelong
With faith in God unshaken
Shall all our nation stand in song,
And church, home, school, awaken,
In Norway's song,
In gladness' song,
In glory of the Lord's own song,
From life's low squalor taken.
Fair fatherland, do not forget,
The children of his bower!
He, poor as is the rosebush, yet
147
Gave gladness till death's hourWith failure's smart
Let not depart
From this thy soil so glad a heart,His garden, let it flower!
~ Bjornstjerne Bjornson,
1150:The most important thing is love," said Leigh-Cheri. "I know that now. There's no point in saving the world if it means losing the moon."
Leigh-Cheri sent that message to Bernard through his attorney. The message continued, "I'm not quite 20, but, thanks to you, I've learned something that many women these days never learn: Prince Charming really is a toad. And the Beautiful Princess has halitosis. The bottom line is that (a) people are never perfect, but love can be, (b) that is the one and only way that the mediocre and the vile can be transformed, and (c) doing that makes it that. Loving makes love. Loving makes itself. We waste time looking for the perfect lover instead of creating the perfect love. Wouldn't that be the way to make love stay?"
The next day, Bernard's attorney delivered to her this reply:

Love is the ultimate outlaw. It just won't adhere to any rules. The most any of us can do is to sign on as its accomplice. Instead of vowing to honor and obey, maybe we should swear to aid and abet. That would mean that security is out of the question. The words "make" and "stay" become inappropriate. My love for you has no strings attached. I love you for free.

Leigh-Cheri went out in the blackberries and wept. "I'll follow him to the ends of the earth," she sobbed.
Yes, darling. But the earth doesn't have any ends. Columbus fixed that. ~ Tom Robbins,
1151:A Dead Baby
LITTLE soul, for such brief space that entered
In this little body straight and chilly,
Little life that fluttered and departed,
Like a moth from an unopened lily,
Little being, without name or nation,
Where is now thy place among creation?
Little dark-lashed eyes, unclosèd never,
Little mouth, by earthly food ne'er tainted,
Little breast, that just once heaved, and settled
In eternal slumber, white and sainted,-Child, shall I in future children's faces
See some pretty look that thine retraces?
Is this thrill that strikes across my heart-strings
And in dew beneath my eyelid gathers,
Token of the bliss thou mightst have brought me,
Dawning of the love they call a father's?
Do I hear through this still room a sighing
Like thy spirit to me its author crying?
Whence didst come and whither take thy journey,
Little soul, of me and mine created?
Must thou lose us, and we thee, forever,
O strange life, by minutes only dated?
Or new flesh assuming, just to prove us,
In some other babe return and love us?
Idle questions all: yet our beginning
Like our ending, rests with the Life-sender,
With whom naught is lost, and naught spent vainly:
Unto Him this little one I render.
Hide the face--the tiny coffin cover:
So, our first dream, our first hope--is over.
~ Dinah Maria Mulock Craik,
1152:The Prinkin' Leddie
The Hielan' lassies are a' for spinnin',
The Lowlan' lassies for prinkin' and pinnin';
My daddie w'u'd chide me, an' so w'u'd my minnie
If I s'u'd bring hame sic a prinkin' leddie.
Now haud your tongue, ye haverin' coward,
For whilst I'm young I'll go flounced an' flowered,
In lutestring striped like the strings o' a fiddle,
Wi' gowden girdles aboot my middle.
In your Hielan' glen, where the rain pours steady,
Ye'll be gay an' glad for a prinkin' leddie;
Where the rocks are all bare an' the turf is all sodden,
An' lassies gae sad in their homespun an' hodden.
My silks are stiff wi' patterns o' siller,
I've an ermine hood like the hat o' a miller,
I've chains o' coral like rowan berries,
An' a cramoisie mantle that cam' frae Paris.
Ye'll be glad for the glint o' its scarlet linin'
When the larks are up an' the sun is shinin';
When the winds are up an' ower the heather
Your heart'll be gay wi' my gowden feather.
When the skies are low an' the earth is frozen,
Ye'll be gay an' glad for the leddie ye've chosen,
When ower the snow I go prinkin' an' prancin'
In my wee red slippers were made for dancin'.
It's better a leddie like Solomon's lily
Than one that'll run like a Hielan' gillie
A-linkin' it ower the leas, my laddie,
In a raggedy kilt an' a belted pladdie!
~ Elinor Morton Wylie,
1153:He was trying to sleep. Could one fall asleep here? Wasn’t it dangerous to lower one’s guard, even for a moment, when death could strike at any time? Those were my thoughts when I heard the sound of a violin. A violin in a dark barrack where the dead were piled on top of the living? Who was this madman who played the violin here, at the edge of his own grave? Or was it a hallucination? It had to be Juliek. He was playing a fragment of a Beethoven concerto. Never before had I heard such a beautiful sound. In such silence. How had he succeeded in disengaging himself? To slip out from under my body without my feeling it? The darkness enveloped us. All I could hear was the violin, and it was as if Juliek’s soul had become his bow. He was playing his life. His whole being was gliding over the strings. His unfulfilled hopes. His charred past, his extinguished future. He played that which he would never play again. I shall never forget Juliek. How could I forget this concert given before an audience of the dead and dying? Even today, when I hear that particular piece by Beethoven, my eyes close and out of the darkness emerges the pale and melancholy face of my Polish comrade bidding farewell to an audience of dying men. I don’t know how long he played. I was overcome by sleep. When I awoke at daybreak, I saw Juliek facing me, hunched over, dead. Next to him lay his violin, trampled, an eerily poignant little corpse. ~ Elie Wiesel,
1154:It was a rustling sound that woke me up. Because I'd had my eyes closed, the whiteness of the room seemed even brighter than before. There wasn't a shadow anywhere in front of me, and every object, every angle and curve stood out so sharply it made my eyes hurt. That's when Maman's friends came in. There were about ten in all, and they floated into the blinding light without a sound. They sat down without a single chair creaking. I saw them more clearly than I had ever seen anyone, and not one detail of their faces or their clothes escaped me. But I couldn't hear them, and it was hard for me to believe that they really existed. Almost all the women were wearing aprons, and the strings, which were tied tight around their waists, made their bulging stomachs stick out even more. I'd never noticed what huge stomachs old women can have. Almost all the men were skinny and carried canes. What struck me most about their faces was that I couldn't see their eyes, just a faint glimmer in a nest of wrinkles. When they'd sat down, most of them looked at me and nodded awkwardly, their lips sucked in by their toothless mouths, so that I couldn't tell if they were greeting me or if it was just a nervous tic. I think they were greeting me. It was then that I realized they were all sitting across from me, nodding their heads, grouped around the caretaker. For a second I had the ridiculous feeling that they were there to judge me. ~ Albert Camus,
1155:Singers To Come
New delights to our desire
The singers of the past can yield.
I lift mine eyes to hill and field,
And see in them your yet dumb lyre,
poets unborn and unrevealed.
Singers to come, what thoughts will start
To song? What words of yours be sent
Through man's soul, and with earth be blent?
These words of nature and the heart
Await you like an instrument.
Who knows what musical flocks of words
Upon these pine-tree tops will light,
And crown these towers in circling flight,
And cross these seas like summer birds,
And give a voice to the day and night?
Something of you already is ours;
Some mystic part of you belongs
To us whose dream of your future throngs,
Who look on hills, and trees, and flowers,
Which will mean so much in your songs.
I wonder, like the maid who found,
And knelt to lift, the lyre supreme
Of Orpheus from the Thracian stream.
She dreams on its sealed past profound;
On a deep future sealed I dream.
She bears it in her wanderings
Within her arms, and has not pressed
Her unskilled fingers but her breast
Upon those silent sacred strings;
I, too, clasp mystic strings at rest.
For I, i' the world of lands and seas,
The sky of wind and rain and fire,
And in man's world of long desire--
22
In all that is yet dumb in these-Have found a mysterious lyre.
~ Alice Meynell,
1156:His eyes dragged over her. “Arin, your slave looks positively wild.”
Lack of sleep made her thoughts broken and shiny, like pieces of mirrors on strings. Cheat’s words spun in her head. Arin tensed beside her.
“No offense,” Cheat told him. “It was a compliment to your taste.”
“What do you want, Cheat?” Arin said.
The man stroked a thumb over his lower lip. “Wine.” He looked straight at Kestrel. “Get some.”
The order itself wasn’t important. It was how Cheat had meant it: as the first of many, and how, in the end, they translated into one word: obey.
The only thing that kept Kestrel’s face clean of her thoughts was the knowledge that Cheat would take pleasure in any resistance. Yet she couldn’t make herself move.
“I’ll get the wine,” Arin said.
“No,” Kestrel said. She didn’t want to be left alone with Cheat. “I’ll go.”
For an uncertain moment, Arin stood awkwardly. Then he walked to the door and motioned a Herrani girl into the room. “Please escort Kestrel to the wine cellar, then bring her back here.”
“Choose a good vintage,” Cheat said to Kestrel. “You’ll know the best.”
As she left the room, his eyes followed her, glittering.
She returned with a clearly labeled bottle of Valorian wine dated to the year of the Herran War. She placed it on the table in front of the two seated men. Arin’s jaw set, and he shook his head slightly. Cheat lost his grin.
“This was the best,” Kestrel said. ~ Marie Rutkoski,
1157:Thou who art the innermost Spirit of my being,
art thou pleased, Lord of my Life?
For I give to thee my cup filled with all
the pain and delight that the crushed
grapes of my heart had surrendered,
I wove with rhythm of colors and song cover for thy bed,
And with the molten gold of my desires
I fashioned playthings for thy passing hours.
I know not why thou chosest me for thy partner,
Lord of my life.

Didst thou store my days and nights,
my deeds and dreams for the alchemy of thy art,
and string in the chain of thy music my songs of autumn and spring,
and gather the flowers from my mature moments for thy crown?

I see thine eyes gazing at the dark of my heart,
Lord of my life,
I wonder if my failure and wrongs are forgiven.
For many were my days without service
and nights of forgetfulness; futile were the flowers
that faded in the shade not offered to thee.

Often the tied strings of my lute slackened
at the strains of thy tunes.
And often at the ruin of wasted hours
my desolate evenings were filled with tears.

But have my days come to their end at last,
Lord of my life, while my arms round thee
grow limp, my kisses losing their truth?
Then break up the meeting of this languid day!
Renew the old in me in fresh forms of delight;
and let the wedding come once again in
a new ceremony of life.

~ Rabindranath Tagore, Lord Of My Life
,
1158:1052
Toys
I can pass up the lure of a jewel to wear
With never the trace of a sigh,
The things on a shelf that I'd like for myself
I never regret I can't buy.
I can go through the town passing store after store
Showing things it would please me to own,
With never a trace of despair on my face,
But I can't let a toy shop alone.
I can throttle the love of fine raiment to death
And I don't know the craving for rum,
But I do know the joy that is born of a toy,
And the pleasure that comes with a drum
I can reckon the value of money at times,
And govern my purse strings with sense,
But I fall for a toy for my girl or my boy
And never regard the expense.
It's seldom I sigh for unlimited gold
Or the power of a rich man to buy;
My courage is stout when the doing without
Is only my duty, but I
Curse the shackles of thrift when I gaze at the toys
That my kiddies are eager to own,
And I'd buy everything that they wish for, by Jing!
If their mother would let me alone.
There isn't much fun spending coin on myself
For neckties and up-to-date lids,
But there's pleasure tenfold, in the silver and gold
I part with for things for the kids.
I can go through the town passing store after store
Showing things it would please me to own,
But to thrift I am lost; I won't reckon the cost
When I'm left in a toy shop alone.
~ Edgar Albert Guest,
1159:[At the beginning of modern science], a light dawned on all those who study nature. They comprehended that reason has insight only into what it itself produces according to its own design; that it must take the lead with principles for its judgments according to constant laws and compel nature to answer its questions, rather than letting nature guide its movements by keeping reason, as it were, in leading-strings; for otherwise accidental observations, made according to no previously designed plan, can never connect up into a necessary law, which is yet what reason seeks and requires. Reason, in order to be taught by nature, must approach nature with its principles in one hand, according to which alone the agreement among appearances can count as laws, and, in the other hand, the experiments thought in accordance with these principles - yet in order to be instructed by nature not like a pupil, who has recited to him whatever the teacher wants to say, but like an appointed judge who compels witnesses to answer the questions he puts to them. Thus even physics owes the advantageous revolution in its way of thinking to the inspiration that what reason would not be able to know of itself and has to learn from nature, it has to seek in the latter (though not merely ascribe to it) in accordance with what reason itself puts into nature. This is how natural science was first brought to the secure course of a science after groping about for so many centuries. ~ Immanuel Kant,
1160:The Priest's Heart
It was Sir John, the fair young Priest,
He strode up off the strand;
But seven fisher maidens he left behind
All dancing hand in hand.
He came unto the wise wife's house:
'Now, Mother, to prove your art;
To charm May Carleton's merry blue eyes
Out of a young man's heart.'
'My son, you went for a holy man,
Whose heart was set on high;
Go sing in your psalter, and read in your books;
Man's love fleets lightly by.'
'I had liever to talk with May Carleton,
Than with all the saints in Heaven;
I had liever to sit by May Carleton
Than climb the spheres seven.
'I have watched and fasted, early and late,
I have prayed to all above;
But I find no cure save churchyard mould
For the pain which men call love.'
'Now Heaven forefend that ill grow worse:
Enough that ill be ill.
I know of a spell to draw May Carleton,
And bend her to your will.'
'If thou didst that which thou canst not do,
Wise woman though thou be,
I would run and run till I buried myself
In the surge of yonder sea.
'Scathless for me are maid and wife,
And scathless shall they bide.
Yet charm me May Carleton's eyes from the heart
That aches in my left side.'
120
She charmed him with the white witchcraft,
She charmed him with the black,
But he turned his fair young face to the wall,
Till she heard his heart-strings crack.
1870
~ Charles Kingsley,
1161:The Reward Of Song
_Why do we make our music?_
Oh, blind dark strings reply:
Because we dwell in a strange land
And remember a lost sky.
We ask no leaf of the laurel,
We know what fame is worth;
But our songs break out of our winter
As the flowers break out on the earth.
And we dream of the unknown comrade,
In the days when we lie dead,
Who shall open our book in the sunlight,
And read, as ourselves have read,
On a lonely hill, by a firwood,
With whispering seas below,
And murmur a song we made him
Ages and ages ago.
If making his may-time sweeter
With dews of our own dead may,
One pulse of our own dead heart-strings
Awake in his heart that day,
We would pray for no richer guerdon,
No praise from the careless throng;
For song is the cry of a lover
In quest of an answering song.
As a child might run to his elders
With news of an opening flower
We should walk with our young companion
And talk to his heart for an hour,
As once by my own green firwood,
And once by a Western sea,
Thank God, my own good comrades
Have walked and talked with me.
Too mighty to make men sorrow,
Too weak to heal their pain
(Though they that remember the hawthorn
158
May find their heaven again),
We are moved by a deeper hunger;
We are bound by a stronger cord;
For love is the heart of our music,
And love is its one reward.
~ Alfred Noyes,
1162:The Quarrel
Suddenly, after the quarrel, while we waited,
Disheartened, silent, with downcast looks, nor stirred
Eyelid nor finger, hopeless both, yet hoping
Against all hope to unsay the sundering word:
While all the room's stillness deepened, deepened about us
And each of us crept his thought's way to discover
How, with as little sound as the fall of a leaf,
The shadow had fallen, and lover quarreled with lover;
And while, in the quiet, I marveled-alas, alasAt your deep beauty, your tragic beauty, torn
As the pale flower is torn by the wanton sparrowThis beauty, pitied and loved, and now forsworn;
It was then, when the instant darkened to its darkest,When faith was lost with hope, and the rain conspired
To strike its gray arpeggios against our heartstrings,When love no longer dared, and scarcely desired:
It was then that suddenly, in the neighbor's room,
The music started: that brave quartette of strings
Breaking out of the stillness, as out of our stillness,
Like the indomitable heart of life that sings
When all is lost; and startled from our sorrow,
Tranced from our grief by that diviner grief,
We raised remembering eyes, each looked at other,
Blinded with tears of joy; and another leaf
Fell silently as that first; and in the instant
The shadow had gone, our quarrel became absurd;
And we rose, to the angelic voices of the music,
And I touched your hand, and we kissed, without a word.
~ Conrad Potter Aiken,
1163:What chord would you be?” she mused, playing one chord after another.
I listened as she experimented.
“Oh, here’s a good, sad one,” she said, strumming softly.
“You think I’m sad?” I asked.
“Nah. Definitely not. That’s not your chord. No minor chords for you.”
“Absolutely not. I’m a major chord all the way. A major chord and a major stud.” She laughed and I sighed. I didn’t know what time it was, but the golden glow of the nearby lamp and the warm strings made my eyes heavy and my heart light.
“This is Henry’s chord.” Millie played something dissonant and curious, and I laughed out loud because it made total sense. “But you would be something deeper,” she added.
“Because I’m a sexy man,” I drawled.
“Yep. Because you’re a sexy man. And we would want something with a little twang to it.”
“Because I’m a sexy Texan.”
“A sexy Utah Texan.” She tried a few more, laughing and scrunching up her nose as she tried to find just the right chord. “And we need something sweet.”
“Sweet and violent?” I asked.
“Sexy, twangy, sweet and violent. This might be more difficult than I thought,” she said, still giggling.
She strummed something full and throaty, picking over each string and then strumming them together. “There it is, hear that? That’s Tag.”
“I like it,” I said, pleased.
She stretched her hand, her pinky finger clinging to the bottom string and the chord changed subtly, another layer, a slightly different sound, like the chord wasn’t quite yet resolved. “And that’s David. ~ Amy Harmon,
1164:A Poor Christian Looks At The Ghetto
Bees build around red liver,
Ants build around black bone.
It has begun: the tearing, the trampling on silks,
It has begun: the breaking of glass, wood, copper, nickel, silver, foam
Of gypsum, iron sheets, violin strings, trumpets, leaves, balls, crystals.
Poof! Phosphorescent fire from yellow walls
Engulfs animal and human hair.
Bees build around the honeycomb of lungs,
Ants build around white bone.
Torn is paper, rubber, linen, leather, flax,
Fiber, fabrics, cellulose, snakeskin, wire.
The roof and the wall collapse in flame and heat seizes the foundations.
Now there is only the earth, sandy, trodden down,
With one leafless tree.
Slowly, boring a tunnel, a guardian mole makes his way,
With a small red lamp fastened to his forehead.
He touches buried bodies, counts them, pushes on,
He distinguishes human ashes by their luminous vapor,
The ashes of each man by a different part of the spectrum.
Bees build around a red trace.
Ants build around the place left by my body.
I am afraid, so afraid of the guardian mole.
He has swollen eyelids, like a Patriarch
Who has sat much in the light of candles
Reading the great book of the species.
What will I tell him, I, a Jew of the New Testament,
Waiting two thousand years for the second coming of Jesus?
My broken body will deliver me to his sight
And he will count me among the helpers of death:
The uncircumcised.
10
~ Czeslaw Milosz,
1165:The Archers
Stripped to the waist, his copper-coloured skin
Red from the smouldering heat of hate within,
Lean as a wolf in winter, fierce of mood-As all wild things that hunt for foes, or food-War paint adorning breast and thigh and face,
Armed with the ancient weapons of his race,
A slender ashen bow, deer sinew strung,
And flint-tipped arrow each with poisoned tongue,-Thus does the Red man stalk to death his foe,
And sighting him strings silently his bow,
Takes his unerring aim, and straight and true
The arrow cuts in flight the forest through,
A flint which never made for mark and missed,
And finds the heart of his antagonist.
Thus has he warred and won since time began,
Thus does the Indian bring to earth his man.
II
Ungarmented, save for a web that lies
In fleecy folds across his impish eyes,
A tiny archer takes his way intent
On mischief, which is his especial bent.
Across his shoulder lies a quiver, filled
With arrows dipped in honey, thrice distilled
From all the roses brides have ever worn
Since that first wedding out of Eden born.
Beneath a cherub face and dimpled smile
This youthful hunter hides a heart of guile;
His arrows aimed at random fly in quest
Of lodging-place within some blameless breast.
But those he wounds die happily, and so
Blame not young Cupid with his dart and bow:
Thus has he warred and won since time began,
Transporting into Heaven both maid and man.
77
~ Emily Pauline Johnson,
1166:I twirled in front of the mirror slowly, wanting to see the full effect of my new dress front and back. It was a daring little thing made of black silk, its front held by thin strings tied behind my neck and completely backless.  I did another twirl, asking out loud, “Do you think this looks good on me?” I wanted my friends’ opinions before they left to have dinner with their families and I had to leave for my second date with my week-old boyfriend. “Everything looks good on you,” Alyx said, rolling her eyes. She was on the armchair in the corner, one leg tossed carelessly over the side. Slender with boyishly cut hair, she could always be counted on to say the truth, no matter how harsh it was. Even so, I still felt insecure. I always was when it came to the boy I loved. Glancing at the other girl who made up our close-knit trio, I asked Yanna, “What do you think?” “It’s what I always think,” Yanna said simply. Petite and curvy, she was lying on her stomach on the floor, flipping through the latest issue of Teen Vogue. Seeing that I was waiting for an explanation, she laughed and elaborated obediently, “You look drop dead gorgeous.”  The words should have comforted me, but it didn’t. I knew Yanna meant what she said, and not just because she happened to be the nicest and most polite person I knew. She was also hopeless when it came to lying, and that was probably why I felt worse now. Doubt had shadowed her gaze as she uttered the compliment, and the sight made it harder for me to stay deaf to the warning inside my head. ~ Marian Tee,
1167:Now that the clouds have come like cattle To the cold waters of the city's river, All the windows turn their scandalized expression Toward the tide's tin dazzle, And question, with their weak-eyed stare, The riotous sun. From several places at a time Cries of defiance, As delicate as frost, as sharp as glass, Rise from the porcelain buildings And break in the blue sky. Then, falling swiftly from the air, The fragments of this fragile indignation Ring on the echoing streets No louder than a shower of pins. But suddenly the bridges' choiring cables Jangle gently in the wind And play like quiet piano-strings. All down the faces of the buildings Windows begin to close Like figures in a long division. Those whose eyes all night have simulated sleep, Suddenly stare, from where they lie, like wolves, Tied in the tangle of the bedding, And listen for the waking blood To flood the apprehensive silence of their flesh. They fear the heart that now lies quenched may quicken, And start to romp against the rib, Soft and insistent as a secret bell. They also fear the light will grow Into the windows of their hiding places, like a tree Of tropical flowers And put them, one by one, to flight. Then life will have to begin. Pieces of paper, lying in the streets, Will start up, in the twisting wind, And fly like idiot birds before the faces of the crowds. And in the roaring buildings Elevator doors will have begun To clash like sabres. [1499.jpg] -- from Selected Poems of Thomas Merton, by Thomas Merton

~ Thomas Merton, Aubade -- The City
,
1168:An Autumn Landscape
No wind there is that either pipes or moans;
The fields are cold and still; the sky
Is covered with a blue-gray sheet
Of motionless cloud; and at my feet
The river, curling softly by,
Whispers and dimples round its quiet gray stones.
Along the chill green slope that dips and heaves
The road runs rough and silent, lined
With plum-trees, misty and blue-gray,
And poplars pallid as the day,
In masses spectral, undefined,
Pale greenish stems half hid in dry gray leaves.
And on beside the river's sober edge
A long fresh field lies black. Beyond,
Low thickets gray and reddish stand,
Stroked white with birch; and near at hand,
Over a little steel-smooth pond,
Hang multitudes of thin and withering sedge.
Across a waste and solitary rise
A ploughman urges his dull team,
A stooped gray figure with prone brow
That plunges bending to the plough
With strong, uneven steps. The stream
Rings and re-echoes with his furious cries.
Sometimes the lowing of a cow, long-drawn,
Comes from far off; and crows in strings
Pass on the upper silences.
A flock of small gray goldfinches,
Flown down with silvery twitterings,
Rustle among the birch-cones and are gone.
This day the season seems like one that heeds,
With fixed ear and lifted hand,
All moods that yet are known on earth,
All motions that have faintest birth,
44
If haply she may understand
The utmost inward sense of all her deeds.
~ Archibald Lampman,
1169:The Responsibility Of Fatherhood
BEFORE you came, my little lad,
I used to think that I was good,
Some vicious habits, too, I had,
But wouldn't change them if I could.
I held my head up high and said:
'I'm all that I have need to be,
It matters not what path I tread,'
But that was ere you came to me.
I treated lightly sacred things,
And went my way in search of fun,
Upon myself I kept no strings,
And gave no heed to folly done.
I gave myself up to the fight
For worldly wealth and earthly fame,
And sought advantage, wrong or right,
But that was long before you came.
But now you sit across from me,
Your big brown eyes are opened wide,
And every deed I do you see,
And, O, I dare hot step aside.
I've shaken loose from habits bad,
And what is wrong I've come to dread,
Because I know, my little lad,
That you will follow where I tread.
I want those eyes to glow with pride,
In me I want those eyes to see
The while we wander side by side
The sort of man I'd have you be.
And so I'm striving to be good
With all my might, that you may know
When this great world is understood,
What pleasures are worth while below.
I see life in a different light
From what I did before you came,
Then anything that pleased seemed right;
937
But you are here to bear my name,
And you are looking up to me
With those big eyes from day to day,
And I'm determined not to be
The means of leading you astray.
~ Edgar Albert Guest,
1170:The Age Of Ink
Swiftly the changes come. Each day
Sees some lost beauty blown away
And some new touch of lovely grace
Come into life to take its place.
The little babe that once we had
One morning woke a roguish lad;
The babe that we had put to bed
Out of our arms and lives had fled.
Frocks vanished from our castle then,
Ne'er to be worn or seen again,
And in his knickerbocker pride
He boasted pockets at each side
And stored them deep with various thingsStones, tops and jacks and-colored strings;
Then for a time we claimed the joy
Of calling him our little boy.
Brief was the reign of such a spell.
One morning sounded out a bell;
With tears I saw her brown eyes swim
And knew that it was calling him.
Time, the harsh master of us all,
Was bidding him to heed his call;
This shadow fell across life's poolOur boy was on his way to school.
Our little boy! And still we dreamed,
For such a little boy he seemed!
And yesterday, with eyes aglow
Like one who has just come to know
Some great and unexpected bliss,
He bounded in, announcing this:
'Oh, Dad! Oh, Ma! Say, what d'you think?
This year we're going to write with ink!'
Here was a change I'd not foreseen,
Another step from what had been.
I paused a little while to think
665
About this older age of inkWhat follows this great step, thought I,
What next shall come as the time goes by?
And something said: 'His pathway leads
Unto the day he'll write with deeds.'
~ Edgar Albert Guest,
1171:Israfel
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute";
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamored moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven,)
Pauses in Heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and singsThe trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a dutyWhere Love's a grown-up GodWhere the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.
Therefore thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live, and long!
54
The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suitThy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy luteWell may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely- flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
1172:Supermind, on the other hand, as a basic structure-rung (conjoined with nondual Suchness) can only be experienced once all the previous junior levels have emerged and developed, and as in all structure development, stages cannot be skipped. Therefore, unlike Big Mind, supermind can only be experienced after all 1st-, 2nd-, and 3rd-tier junior stages have been passed through. While, as Genpo Roshi has abundantly demonstrated, Big Mind state experience is available to virtually anybody at almost any age (and will be interpreted according to the View of their current stage), supermind is an extremely rare recognition. Supermind, as the highest structure-rung to date, has access to all previous structures, all the way back to Archaic-and the Archaic itself, of course, has transcended and included, and now embraces, every major structural evolution going all the way back to the Big Bang. (A human being literally enfolds and embraces all the major transformative unfoldings of the entire Kosmic history-strings to quarks to subatomic particles to atoms to molecules to cells, all the way through the Tree of Life up to its latest evolutionary emergent, the triune brain, the most complex structure in the known natural world.) Supermind, in any given individual, is experienced as a type of omniscience-the supermind, since it transcends and includes all of the previous structure-rungs, and inherently is conjoined with the highest nondual Suchness state, has a full and complete knowledge of all of the potentials in that person. It literally knows all, at least for the individual.
   ~ Ken Wilber?,
1173:Let’s see what your temperature is,” she said, bringing an electronic thermometer over from the desk.
“It’s higher than usual.”
Her amber stare flipped up to his. “Your arm.”
“No, your eyes.”
She blinked, then seemed to shake herself. “I seriously doubt that.”
“Then you underestimate your appeal.”
As she shook her head and clicked one of the plastic covers onto the silver wand, he caught a whiff of her scent. His fangs elongated.
“Open.” She brought the thermometer up and waited. “Well?”
Rehv stared into those amazing tricolored eyes of hers and dropped his jaw.
She leaned in, all business as usual, only to freeze.
As she looked at his canines, her scent surged with something dark and erotic.
Triumph singed in his veins as he growled, “Do me.”
There was a long moment, during which the two of them were bound together by invisible strings of heat and longing. Then her mouth flattened out.
“Never, but I will take your temperature, because I have to.”
She jabbed the thermometer in between his lips, and he had to clamp his teeth together to keep the thing from deflating one of his tonsils.
S’all good, though.
Even if he couldn’t have her, he turned her on. And that was more than he deserved.
There was a beep, an interval, and another beep.
“One oh nine,” she said as she stepped back and released the plastic cover into the biohazard bin. “Havers will be with you as soon as he’s able.”
The door clapped shut behind her with the hard syllabic smack of the f-word.
Man, she was hot.

-Ehlena & Rehv ~ J R Ward,
1174:“Oh, Kelly,
you make my legs weak like jelly.
Oh, Kelly…
I get butterflies in my belly.
Oh, Kelly,

uh, your perfume is so sweet and smelly, Kelly…
She’s giggling now.
“Sorry,” Evan says, plucking a final chord. “Turns out even I can’t make smelly into a compliment.”
“Two out of three isn’t bad,” I point out, very impressed with Evan’s skills. He can sketch out a tune really fast, and switch between styles; one moment he’s doing a blues song, then pop, and the one he made up for me was like something from a musical.
As if he’s reading my mind, he echoes, turning to look at me, drawing out the syllables:
Don’t forget, Vio-let--Dive in!”
This time he ends the line low and gentle, and it isn’t a musical number anymore. It’s almost a love song.
“You mind if I work on that?” he asks, leaning on the guitar, looking at me. “That’s kinda nice. I could do something with that.”
“Oh!” I don’t quite know what to say. “Sure,” I add.
“Ooh! Evan’s writing Violet a love song!” Paige whoops, coming over and retrieving her magazine. “Evan and Violet sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
I expect Evan to look embarrassed, or to tell Paige to shut up, but he just grins again, bending over his guitar, starting to strum it again, quite unaffected by his sister.
Paige,” he sings to me,
needs to act her age…
Such a shame
She’s such a pain
It’s a
terrible strain…
I laugh and settle back on the lounger, watching him play, his hands moving with surprising lightness and dexterity on the strings. ~ Lauren Henderson,
1175:Jane and Mr. Nobley entered the great hall, the ceiling dazzling with thousands of real candles that put fire into the white dresses and cravats. Five musicians were seated on a dais--a cello and two violins (or maybe a viola?), a harpsichord, and some kind of wind instrument. From keys and strings, they coaxed a grand prelude to the minuet. Jane looked at everything, smiling at the amusement park novelty of it all. She looked at Mr. Nobley. He was beaming at her. At last.
“You are stunning,” he said, and every inch of him seemed to swear that it was true.
“Oh,” she said.
He kissed her gloved fingers. He was still smiling. There was something different about him tonight, and she couldn’t place what it was. Some new plot twist, she presumed. She was eager to roll around in all the plot she could on her last night, though once or twice her eyes strayed to spot Martin.
Mr. Nobley stood opposite her in a line of ten men. She watched Amelia and Captain East perform the figures. They held each other’s gazes, they smiled with the elation of new love. All very convincing.
Poor Amelia, thought Jane.
It was a bit cruel, now that she thought about it, all these actors who made women fall in love with them. Amelia seemed so tenderhearted, and Miss Charming and her heaving breasts so delighted with this world. Jane caught sight of a very striking Colonel Andrews who, now that she watched him dance, might just be gay.
Jane felt a thrumming of foreboding. All the ladies were so happy and open-hearted and eager to love. What would happen to them in the dregs of tomorrow? ~ Shannon Hale,
1176:He had his back to Cass, his face resting against a carved cherub as he absentmindedly plucked various strings. Cass stared, watching the movement of his neck and back and shoulders: pieces of motion that were discrete, yet interconnected. She remembered his words from the graveyard. The human form, it’s a symphony. Tiny interlocking movements that join together in song.
“It’s about time,” he said, without turning around.
He turned slowly, then. The blue eyes. The crooked grin. Cass started to greet him, but her voice stuck in her throat. She reached out for the curlicue bottom of the stairway banister, gripping the bronze for a second, reminding herself that there were no feelings. No. Feelings. She flicked her eyes back up at him, felt her lips forming a smile independent of any command by her brain.
Falco cocked an eyebrow. “A beautiful woman who doesn’t speak. Every man’s dream.”
“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable,” Cass shot back. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.” Or ever.
“I’d thought you might have learned that with me, you must expect the unexpected.” Falco got up from his seat in front of Agnese’s harp, and it was Cass’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Falco was wearing a flowing white chemise overlaid with an embroidered black and silver doublet and knee-length breeches. His hair still curled forward toward his face, but it looked sleeker than usual, as if he had attempted to tame it with some kind of paste.
“Why are you dressed like that?” she asked. “Are you going to Mass?” Not likely since Falco professed not to even believe in God. ~ Fiona Paul,
1177:I.
  The cold earth slept below;
    Above the cold sky shone;
     And all around,
     With a chilling sound,
  From caves of ice and fields of snow
  The breath of night like death did flow
     Beneath the sinking moon.

II.
  The wintry hedge was black;
    The green grass was not seen;
     The birds did rest
     On the bare thorn's breast,
Whose roots, beside the pathway track,
Had bound their folds o'er many a crack
     Which the frost had made between.

III.
Thine eyes glow'd in the glare
   Of the moon's dying light;
     As a fen-fire's beam
     On a sluggish stream
Gleams dimlyso the moon shone there,
And it yellow'd the strings of thy tangled hair,
     That shook in the wind of night.

IV.
The moon made thy lips pale, beloved;
   The wind made thy bosom chill;
     The night did shed
     On thy dear head
Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky
     Might visit thee at will.
Published in Hunt's Literary Pocket-Book, 1823, where it is headed November, 1815. Reprinted in the Posthumous Poems, 1824.

The single surviving MS. is dated November 5, 1815. If correct, this date makes impossible the common assumption that the poem refers to the suicide of Shelley's first wife, Harriet, in November 1816.

17.
Tangled. Hunt prints "raven," but the MS. reads "tangled."


~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lines - The cold earth slept below
,
1178:I’ve never much liked the whole setup of Christianity, with its emphasis on being saved, thereby acknowledging a debt that can only be paid by a lifetime of sacrifice and devotion. Must God’s love have strings attached? People who crave salvation should think about how they’re going to feel if it turns out that this God who saved them is, upon closer acquaintance, completely alien. He, possibly she (or, more likely, it), is not now and never has been one of us. Jesus clearly was not one of us, with his crypto-stories about the prodigal who is more beloved by the father than the dutiful son and the sliding pay scale for field hands, with his magic powers that run the gamut from improving the wedding beverage to blasting trees to raising the dead. These days we have born-agains everywhere, even in the White House, carping about how clear and meaningful everything is now that they’ve seen the light and accepted Christ as their Savior. There they were, just sinning along aimlessly, drinking and fornicating down that slippery slope lined with good intentions and ending you know where, when suddenly Jesus reached out and down or across and saved them. And now they feel grateful all the time, every day. It things go wrong, that’s God’s way of testing their faith, and if they are successful and make lots of money, that proves they have been chosen by God.
It's supposed to be all about free will, but there’s not much freedom in it. And if God is really so eager to save the desperate from themselves, where was he when my mother was knocking back the Seconal with her lunatic girlfriend from hell. ~ Valerie Martin,
1179:On Going Home For Christmas
He little knew the sorrow that was in his vacant chair;
He never guessed they'd miss him, or he'd surely have been there;
He couldn't see his mother or the lump that filled her throat,
Or the tears that started falling as she read his hasty note;
And he couldn't see his father, sitting sorrowful and dumb,
Or he never would have written that he thought he couldn't come.
He little knew the gladness that his presence would have made,
And the joy it would have given, or he never would have stayed.
He didn't know how hungry had the little mother grown
Once again to see her baby and to claim him for her own.
He didn't guess the meaning of his visit Christmas Day
Or he never would have written that he couldn't get away.
He couldn't see the fading of the cheeks that once were pink,
And the silver in the tresses; and he didn't stop to think
How the years are passing swiftly, and next Christmas it might be
There would be no home to visit and no mother dear to see.
He didn't think about it — I'll not say he didn't care.
He was heedless and forgetful or he'd surely have been there.
Are you going home for Christmas? Have you written you'll be there?
Going home to kiss the mother and to show her that you care?
Going home to greet the father in a way to make him glad?
If you're not I hope there'll never come a time you'll wish you had.
Just sit down and write a letter — it will make their heart strings hum
With a tune of perfect gladness — if you'll tell them that you'll come.
~ Edgar Albert Guest,
1180:Past the despairing wail
And the bright banquets of the Elysian vale
Melt every care away!
Delight, that breathes and moves forever,
Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river!
Elysian life survey!
There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads,
His merry west-winds blithely leads
The ever-blooming May!
Through gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the hours,
In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers,
And truth, with no veil, gives her face to the day.
And joy to-day and joy to-morrow,
But wafts the airy soul aloft;
The very name is lost to sorrow,
And pain is rapture tuned more exquisitely soft.

Here the pilgrim reposes the world-weary limb,
And forgets in the shadow, cool-breathing and dim,
The load he shall bear never more;
Here the mower, his sickle at rest, by the streams,
Lulled with harp-strings, reviews, in the calm of his dreams,
The fields, when the harvest is o'er.
Here, he, whose ears drank in the battle roar,
Whose banners streamed upon the startled wind
A thunder-storm,before whose thunder tread
The mountains trembled,in soft sleep reclined,
By the sweet brook that o'er its pebbly bed
In silver plays, and murmurs to the shore,
Hears the stern clangor of wild spears no more!
Here the true spouse the lost-beloved regains,
And on the enamelled couch of summer-plains
Mingles sweet kisses with the zephyr's breath.
Here, crowned at last, love never knows decay,
Living through ages its one bridal day,
Safe from the stroke of death!

~ Friedrich Schiller, Elysium
,
1181:And so we weep for the fallen. We weep for those yet to fall, and in war the screams are loud and harsh and in peace the wail is so drawn-out we tell ourselves we hear nothing.

And so this music is a lament, and I am doomed to hear its bittersweet notes for a lifetime.
Show me a god that does not demand mortal suffering.

Show me a god that celebrates diversity, a celebration that embraces even non-believers and is not threatened by them.

Show me a god who understands the meaning of peace. In life, not in death.

Show—


'Stop,' Gesler said in a grating voice.

Blinking, Fiddler lowered the instrument. 'What?'

'You cannot end with such anger, Fid. Please.'

Anger? I am sorry. He would have spoken that aloud, but suddenly he could not. His gaze lowered, and he found himself studying the littered floor at his feet. Someone, in passing – perhaps Fiddler himself – had inadvertently stepped on a cockroach. Half-crushed, smeared into the warped wood, its legs kicked feebly. He stared at it in fascination.

Dear creature, do you now curse an indifferent god?

'You're right,' he said. 'I can't end it there.' He raised the fiddle again. 'Here's a different song for you, one of the few I've actually learned. From Kartool. It's called "The Paralt's Dance".' He rested the bow on the strings, then began.

Wild, frantic, amusing. Its final notes recounted the triumphant female eating her lover. And even without words, the details of that closing flourish could not be mistaken.

The four men laughed.

Then fell silent once more. ~ Steven Erikson,
1182:All that exists, or remains, of Duchamp’s stay in Buenos Aires is a readymade. Though of course his whole life was a readymade, which was his way of appeasing fate and at the same time sending out signals of distress. As Calvin Tomkins writes: As a wedding present for his sister Suzanne and his close friend Jean Crotti, who were married in Paris on April 14, 1919, Duchamp instructed the couple by letter to hang a geometry book by strings on the balcony of their apartment so that the wind could “go through the book, choose its own problems, turn and tear out the pages.” Clearly, then, Duchamp wasn’t just playing chess in Buenos Aires. Tompkins continues: This Unhappy Readymade, as he called it, might strike some newlyweds as an oddly cheerless wedding gift, but Suzanne and Jean carried out Duchamp’s instructions in good spirit; they took a photograph of the open book dangling in midair (the only existing record of the work, which did not survive its exposure to the elements), and Suzanne later painted a picture of it called Le Readymade malheureux de Marcel. As Duchamp later told Cabanne, “It amused me to bring the idea of happy and unhappy into readymades, and then the rain, the wind, the pages flying, it was an amusing idea.” I take it back: all Duchamp did while he was in Buenos Aires was play chess. Yvonne, who was with him, got sick of all his play-science and left for France. According to Tompkins: Duchamp told one interviewer in later years that he had liked disparaging “the seriousness of a book full of principles,” and suggested to another that, in its exposure to the weather, “the treatise seriously got the facts of life. ~ Roberto Bola o,
1183:If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,
Like this.

If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is,
or what "Gods fragrance" means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.
Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.
Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
dont try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.
Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to "die for love," point
here.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.
This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, the returns.
When someone doesnt believe that,
walk back into my house.
Like this.

When lovers moan,
theyre telling our story.
Like this.

I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.
Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.
Like this.

How did Josephs scent come to Jacob?
Huuuuu.

How did Jacobs sight return?
Huuuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.
Like this.

When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
hell put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us
Like this.
~ Jalaluddin Rumi, Like This
,
1184:In the words of Disraeli, “elected governments seldom govern” and the personages who controlled the strings are far different from the politicians the citizens elected. From that point on, God’s plan for mankind, social and economic interaction for the benefit of all was trashed. In its place arose a brutal structure that looted man of his substance, his possessions, his liberty and his freedom by the most hideously malicious acts of aggression through which mankind became utterly oppressed. The Christian teaching that man was created by God with a higher purpose, notably to serve Him, with a spiritual nature that made this possible, was destroyed by the interaction that started with Cain murdering Abel. Since that moment on, murder, whether it was an individual, (like the murder of Congressman Louis T. McFadden, Chairman of the House Banking Committee for daring to expose the Federal Reserve Banking system) or mass murder, through wars such as the horrible First World War, became the instrument whereby these evil men enforced their rule. They mouthed pious platitudes and even put on an appearance of Christianity, but in their secret chambers and in their enclaves, they hurled invective at God the Father and his Son, Jesus Christ. Such is the nature of the beast with which we contend and with whom we are locked in battle in the year of our Lord, 2006. The “Elect” (and here I include the present U.S. administration in the hands of President G.W. Bush) does not believe that they are bound by Moral Law. While the “300” rule as they most assuredly do, man can never be secure in his person, his liberties and his property, witness the country of Iraq as one example. ~ John Coleman,
1185:There is a tree. At the downhill edge of a long, narrow field in the western foothills of the La Sal Mountains -- southeastern Utah. A particular tree. A juniper. Large for its species -- maybe twenty feet tall and two feet in diameter. For perhaps three hundred years this tree has stood its ground. Flourishing in good seasons, and holding on in bad times. "Beautiful" is not a word that comes to mind when one first sees it. No naturalist would photograph it as exemplary of its kind. Twisted by wind, split and charred by lightning, scarred by brushfires, chewed on by insects, and pecked by birds. Human beings have stripped long strings of bark from its trunk, stapled barbed wire to it in using it as a corner post for a fence line, and nailed signs on it on three sides: NO HUNTING; NO TRESPASSING; PLEASE CLOSE THE GATE. In commandeering this tree as a corner stake for claims of rights and property, miners and ranchers have hacked signs and symbols in its bark, and left Day-Glo orange survey tape tied to its branches. Now it serves as one side of a gate between an alfalfa field and open range. No matter what, in drought, flood heat and cold, it has continued. There is rot and death in it near the ground. But at the greening tips of its upper branches and in its berrylike seed cones, there is yet the outreach of life.

I respect this old juniper tree. For its age, yes. And for its steadfastness in taking whatever is thrown at it. That it has been useful in a practical way beyond itself counts for much, as well. Most of all, I admire its capacity for self-healing beyond all accidents and assaults. There is a will in it -- toward continuing to be, come what may. ~ Robert Fulghum,
1186:a stunning glimpse of Buddy, at a later date by innumerable years, quite bereft of my dubious, loving company, writing about this very party on a very large, jet-black, very moving, gorgeous typewriter. He is smoking a cigarette, occasionally clasping his hands and placing them on the top of his head in a thoughtful, exhausted manner. His hair is gray; he is older than you are now, Les! The veins in his hands are slightly prominent in the glimpse, so I have not mentioned the matter to him at all, partially considering his youthful prejudice against veins showing in poor adults’ hands. So it goes. You would think this particular glimpse would pierce the casual witness’s heart to the quick, disabling him utterly, so that he could not bring himself to discuss the glimpse in the least with his beloved, broadminded family. This is not exactly the case; it mostly makes me take an exceedingly deep breath as a simple, brisk measure against getting dizzy. It is his room that pierces me more than anything else. It is all his youthful dreams realized to the full! It has one of those beautiful windows in the ceiling that he has always, to my absolute knowledge, fervently admired from a splendid reader’s distance! All round about him, in addition, are exquisite shelves to hold his books, equipment, tablets, sharp pencils, ebony, costly typewriter, and other stirring, personal effects. Oh, my God, he will be overjoyed when he sees that room, mark my words! It is one of the most smiling, comforting glimpses of my entire life and quite possibly with the least strings attached. In a reckless manner of speaking, I would far from object if that were practically the last glimpse of my life. ~ J D Salinger,
1187:You know those particular stand out beauties you see once in a blue moon walking by themselves down the high street on a Saturday afternoon or sitting on a park bench all alone during their lunch break in the middle of summer, who immediately catch your eye, looking utterly bored out of their minds and just begging for some single handsome stranger to come and distract them away for twenty minutes or so from their mundane and repetitive daily worlds. That special girl who right away tugged so hard on your heart strings that your blood turned to ice and your soul melted to its very core because you knew she was completely your type without even having spoken to her. All you had to go on was a gut feeling and that special crazy something about her that spoke to every inch of your fibre and being and said this girl is the one for you, my friend, if you would only step up to the damn plate, put all your fears of public rejection, humiliation and inhibitions behind you and gather the courage, will power and determination to go and get her. That rare, radiant and beautiful Angel who caught a glimpse of you, too, and smiled back at you in turn while you were within their proximity but, alas, you had absolutely nothing to say to them in that moment. Nothing. No simple magic words, no charming chat up line, just a blank frozen mind and a stuttering tongue. But in reality, just to say one word, utter one stupid, tiny, silly little insignificant syllable would surely have been a million times better than saying nothing at all and living a life full of regret of not acting in the moment. And then poof, just like that, she's gone forever, out of sight, but never out of your mind. ~ Sean Paul Thomas,
1188:Like This

If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is,
or what "God’s fragrance" means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to "die for love," point
here.
If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.

This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, the returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.

Like this.

When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.

Like this.

I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.

Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.

Like this.

How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?
Huuuuu.

How did Jacob’s sight return?
Huuuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.

Like this.
When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us

Like this. ~ Rumi,
1189:There is a musical instrument, one that is in fact little more than a toy, that we in Viron used to call Molpe’s dulcimer. Strings are arranged in a certain way and drawn tight above a chamber of thin wood that swells the sound when they are strummed by the wind. Horn made several for his young siblings before we went into the tunnels; when I made them, I dreamed of making a better one someday, one constructed with all the knowledge and care that a great craftsman would bring to the task, a fitting tribute to Molpe. I have never built it, as you will have guessed already. I have the craft now, perhaps; but I have never had the musical knowledge the task would require, and I never will. If I had built it, it might have sounded something like that, because I would have made it sound as much like a human voice as I could; and if I were the great craftsman I once dreamed of becoming, I would have come very near—and yet not near enough. That is how it was with the Mother’s voice. It was lovely and uncanny, like Molpe’s dulcimer; and although it was not in truth very remote as well as I could judge, there was that in it that sounded very far away indeed. I have since thought that the distance was perhaps of time, that we heard a song on that warm, calm evening that was not merely hundreds but thousands of years old, sung as it had been sung when the Short Sun of Blue was yet young, and floating to us across that lonely sea with a pain of loss and longing that my poor words cannot express. No, not even if I could whisper them aloud to you of the future, and certainly not as I am constrained to speak to you now with Oreb’s laboring black wingfeather. Nor with a quill from any other bird that ever flew. * ~ Gene Wolfe,
1190:Clowns' Houses
BENEATH the flat and paper sky
The sun, a demon's eye,
Glowed through the air, that mask of glass;
All wand'ring sounds that pass
Seemed out of tune, as if the light
Were fiddle-strings pulled tight.
The market-square with spire and bell
Clanged out the hour in Hell;
The busy chatter of the heat
Shrilled like a parakeet;
And shuddering at the noonday light
The dust lay dead and white
As powder on a mummy's face,
Or fawned with simian grace
Round booths with many a hard bright toy
And wooden brittle joy:
The cap and bells of Time the Clown
That, jangling, whistled down
Young cherubs hidden in the guise
Of every bird that flies;
And star-bright masks for youth to wear,
Lest any dream that fare
--Bright pilgrim--past our ken, should see
Hints of Reality.
Upon the sharp-set grass, shrill-green,
Tall trees like rattles lean,
And jangle sharp and dissily;
But when night falls they sign
Till Pierrot moon steals slyly in,
His face more white than sin,
Black-masked, and with cool touch lays bare
Each cherry, plum, and pear.
Then underneath the veiled eyes
Of houses, darkness lies-Tall houses; like a hopeless prayer
They cleave the sly dumb air.
Blind are those houses, paper-thin
Old shadows hid therein,
With sly and crazy movements creep
Like marionettes, and weep.
Tall windows show Infinity;
And, hard reality,
The candles weep and pry and dance
Like lives mocked at by Chance.
The rooms are vast as Sleep within;
When once I ventured in,
Chill Silence, like a surging sea,
Slowly enveloped me.
~ Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell,
1191:I was already an atheist, and by my senior year I had became obsessed with the question “What is the meaning of life?” I wrote my personal statement for college admissions on the meaninglessness of life. I spent the winter of my senior year in a kind of philosophical depression—not a clinical depression, just a pervasive sense that everything was pointless. In the grand scheme of things, I thought, it really didn’t matter whether I got into college, or whether the Earth was destroyed by an asteroid or by nuclear war. My despair was particularly strange because, for the first time since the age of four, my life was perfect. I had a wonderful girlfriend, great friends, and loving parents. I was captain of the track team, and, perhaps most important for a seventeen-year-old boy, I got to drive around in my father’s 1966 Thunderbird convertible. Yet I kept wondering why any of it mattered. Like the author of Ecclesiastes, I thought that “all is vanity and a chasing after wind” (ECCLESIASTES 1:14) . I finally escaped when, after a week of thinking about suicide (in the abstract, not as a plan), I turned the problem inside out. There is no God and no externally given meaning to life, I thought, so from one perspective it really wouldn’t matter if I killed myself tomorrow. Very well, then everything beyond tomorrow is a gift with no strings and no expectations. There is no test to hand in at the end of life, so there is no way to fail. If this really is all there is, why not embrace it, rather than throw it away? I don’t know whether this realization lifted my mood or whether an improving mood helped me to reframe the problem with hope; but my existential depression lifted and I enjoyed the last months of high school. ~ Jonathan Haidt,
1192:This is what happens: A hovercraft marked with the Capitol’s seal materializes directly over the barricaded children. Scores of silver parachutes rain down on them. Even in this chaos, the children know what silver parachutes contain. Food. Medicine. Gifts. They eagerly scoop them up, frozen fingers struggling with the strings. The hovercraft vanishes, five seconds pass, and then about twenty parachutes simultaneously explode. A wail rises from the crowd. The snow’s red and littered with undersized body parts. Many of the children die immediately, but others lie in agony on the ground. Some stagger around mutely, staring at the remaining silver parachutes in their hands, as if they still might have something precious inside. I can tell the Peacekeepers didn’t know this was coming by the way they are yanking away the barricades, making a path to the children. Another flock of white uniforms sweeps into the opening. But these aren’t Peacekeepers. They’re medics. Rebel medics. I’d know the uniforms anywhere. They swarm in among the children, wielding medical kits. First I get a glimpse of the blond braid down her back. Then, as she yanks off her coat to cover a wailing child, I notice the duck tail formed by her untucked shirt. I have the same reaction I did the day Effie Trinket called her name at the reaping. At least, I must go limp, because I find myself at the base of the flagpole, unable to account for the last few seconds. Then I am pushing through the crowd, just as I did before. Trying to shout her name above the roar. I’m almost there, almost to the barricade, when I think she hears me. Because for just a moment, she catches sight of me, her lips form my name. And that’s when the rest of the parachutes go off. ~ Suzanne Collins,
1193:I reach up to my hair, lifting it, squeezing water out of it down my back, and I know that the movement summons Luca’s attention back to me. I can feel his eyes on me now as I move closer to Evan on the lounger, looking at his hands moving on the strings, the typical girl admiring a boy playing a guitar. Evan flashes me a smile and keeps strumming away, quite unaware of the little drama being enacted around him.
Don’t forget, Vio-let,” he croons softly. And though I can’t really sing, not properly, I know the tune now, and my head leans in toward his as I join in on the last two words:
“Dive in!”
He finishes on a last, rising chord and lifts his head, our faces close now. The sunshine beats down on us; the blue water of the swimming pool glints brightly in the heat, the breeze raising tiny ripples on the surface. Evan’s eyes are as clear and blue as the water, with no hidden currents, no unexpected, dangerous undertow. The rosemary and lavender bushes planted around the verge are wafting a lovely, sun-warmed scent, bees buzzing in the lavender. It’s paradise. It should be paradise.
In the parking lot below, tires screech. We all jump. Luca must be executing the tightest, sharpest three-point turn in history: the car scrapes, churns, tears up the gravel, and shoots out of the lot and down the drive so fast we wince. It snaps back and forth like Road Runner as he speeds downhill. Only a very good driver could make those switchback turns so fast without crashing--and he’s very lucky he didn’t meet anyone coming up.
“Wow! I guess they have somewhere they really need to be,” Paige observes.
“More like someone to get away from,” Kelly says dryly under her breath, so only I can hear her. ~ Lauren Henderson,
1194:The Keys
Broken ivories
playing
the blue piano
of the sea.
We have come
from the bitter city
to heal ourselves.
We have come
looking for a patch of beach
not yet built into a fortress
of real-estate greed,
a coral reef
not yet picked clean
of buried treasure,
not yet bare of birds.
The first night in the Keys,
I dreamed I was a bird
soaring over a hilly city,
soaring & dipping
like a gull or egret.
& I thought:
'Ah- this is a flying dream!
Enjoy it.'
But I really think
that my soul
has been transported
for a night
into the body of
a bird
& I was flying.
I woke up
exhausted,
arms weary,
eyes red.
The beach was dazzling
211
with its white sand,
the sun blinding,
& I seemed to know the palm trees
from above
as well as below.
They root in the sand
with elephant feet,
yet they also root
their delicate fronds
in air.
& these are a comfort
as you fly
half bird, half human
through a dream of sky.
Everything was new
to a spirit
so divided
between two kingdoms.
The water was alive
with fish,
the air with birds
& palm fronds,
clouds, thunderous presences
of rain
gathering & parting,
& fiery sun playing through.
I knew
that I stood
on a patch of earth
connected to the sky,
that my heart beat
with the sea,
that my arms moved
with the clouds,
that my flesh
was finally irrelevant
though it surrounded me
as the case of a piano
surrounds its strings,
212
while the fingers play
on the ivory keys
& the human music
rises to the sky.
~ Erica Jong,
1195:Ad Cattonum
I know not, Mr. Catton, who you are,
Nor very clearly why; but you go far
To show that you are many things beside
A Chilean Consul with a tempting hide;
But what they are I hardly could explain
Without afflicting you with mental pain.
Your name (gods! what a name the muse to woo
Suggesting cats, and hinting kittens, too!)
Points to an origin-perhaps Maltese,
Perhaps Angoran-where the wicked cease
From fiddling, and the animals that grow
The strings that groan to the tormenting bow
Live undespoiled of their insides, resigned
To give their name and nature to mankind.
With Chilean birth your name but poorly tallies;
The test is-Did you ever sell tamales?
It matters very little, though, my boy,
If you're from Chile or from Illinois;
You can't, because you serve a foreign land,
Spit with impunity on ours, expand,
Cock-turkeywise, and strut with blind conceit,
All heedless of the hearts beneath your feet,
Fling falsehoods as a sower scatters grain
And, for security, invoke disdain.
Sir, there are laws that men of sense observe,
No matter whence they come nor whom they serve
The laws of courtesy; and these forbid
You to malign, as recently you did,
As servant of another State, a State
Wherein your duties all are concentrate;
Branding its Ministers as rogues-in short,
Inviting cuffs as suitable retort.
Chileno or American, 'tis one
Of any land a citizen, or none
If like a new Thersites here you rail,
Loading with libels every western gale,
You'll feel the cudgel on your scurvy hump
133
Impinging with a salutary thump.
'Twill make you civil or 'twill make you jump!
~ Ambrose Bierce,
1196:But figure his thought, when Death is now clutching at his own heart-strings, unlooked for, inexorable! Yes, poor Louis, Death has found thee. No palace walls or life-guards, gorgeous tapestries or gilt buckram of stiffest ceremonial could keep him out; but he is here, here at thy very life-breath, and will extinguish it. Thou, whose whole existence hitherto was a chimera and scenic show, at length becomest a reality: sumptuous Versailles bursts asunder, like a dream, into void Immensity; Time is done, and all the scaffolding of Time falls wrecked with hideous clangour round thy soul: the pale Kingdoms yawn open; there must thou enter, naked, all unking'd, and await what is appointed thee! Unhappy man, there as thou turnest, in dull agony, on thy bed of weariness, what a thought is thine! Purgatory and Hell-fire, now all-too possible, in the prospect; in the retrospect,--alas, what thing didst thou do that were not better undone; what mortal didst thou generously help; what sorrow hadst thou mercy on? Do the 'five hundred thousand' ghosts, who sank shamefully on so many battle-fields from Rossbach to Quebec, that thy Harlot might take revenge for an epigram,--crowd round thee in this hour? Thy foul Harem; the curses of mothers, the tears and infamy of daughters? Miserable man! thou 'hast done evil as thou couldst:' thy whole existence seems one hideous abortion and mistake of Nature; the use and meaning of thee not yet known. Wert thou a fabulous Griffin, devouring the works of men; daily dragging virgins to thy cave;--clad also in scales that no spear would pierce: no spear but Death's? A Griffin not fabulous but real! Frightful, O Louis, seem these moments for thee.--We will pry no further into the horrors of a sinner's death-bed. ~ Thomas Carlyle,
1197:Listening
1.
When earth's winter bareness
Feels the April rain,
All her summer fairness
Comes to life again.
So my spirit quickens to that magic strain.
2.
Fancy, warmed and brightened,
Spreads her folded wings —
Passion, stirred, enlightened,
From its slumber springs —
When that bow is laid upon those trembling strings.
3.
Visions, past all telling,
Sweet and strange, I see;
Mystic voices, swelling —
Melting — cry to me
From celestial realms of hope and memory.
4.
Tender thoughts caress me,
Like a summer's day;
Sterner moods possess me,
As the rough winds play
With an autumn leaf untimely cast away.
5.
Fierce desires come creeping
From their secret lair;
Wild regrets, upleaping,
At my heartstrings tear —
Wildest aspirations, more than I can bear.
125
6.
Like a leaf I quiver
With responsive thrills —
Ache, and burn, and shiver,
As the Master wills
Whose mysterious message all my being fills.
7.
Dreams of grace and glory,
Always out of reach —
Truths untold in story,
That no book can teach,
Past all human language, find their native speech.
8.
O what wailing sadness
That no tongue may tell,
What enraptured gladness,
In those wild notes swell —
Bliss and anguish both — divine, ineffable!
9.
Joys and woes unspoken,
Whereof earth is rife,
Dear hopes blest and broken,
Futile pain and strife,
Birth and death and love, the tragedy of life.
10.
And my soul, attending,
Through my listening ears
In those strains heartrending
Its own history hears —
All too sweet for words, too terrible for tears.
126
~ Ada Cambridge,
1198:What passed in the mind of this man at the supreme moment of his agony cannot be told in words. He was still comparatively young, he was surrounded by the loving care of a devoted family, but he had convinced himself by a course of reasoning, illogical perhaps, yet certainly plausible, that he must separate himself from all he held dear in the world, even life itself. To form the slightest idea of his feelings, one must have seen his face with its expression of enforced resignation and its tear-moistened eyes raised to heaven. The minute hand moved on. The pistols were loaded; he stretched forth his hand, took one up, and murmured his daughter's name. Then he laid it down seized his pen, and wrote a few words. It seemed to him as if he had not taken a sufficient farewell of his beloved daughter. Then he turned again to the clock, counting time now not by minutes, but by seconds. He took up the deadly weapon again, his lips parted and his eyes fixed on the clock, and then shuddered at the click of the trigger as he cocked the pistol. At this moment of mortal anguish the cold sweat came forth upon his brow, a pang stronger than death clutched at his heart-strings. He heard the door of the staircase creak on its hinges—the clock gave its warning to strike eleven—the door of his study opened; Morrel did not turn round—he expected these words of Cocles, "The agent of Thomson & French."

He placed the muzzle of the pistol between his teeth. Suddenly he heard a cry—it was his daughter's voice. He turned and saw Julie. The pistol fell from his hands. "My father!" cried the young girl, out of breath, and half dead with joy—"saved, you are saved!" And she threw herself into his arms, holding in her extended hand a red, netted silk purse. ~ Alexandre Dumas,
1199:Something dangerous is beginning:
I am coming late to my own self.
I made an appointment with my thoughts-
the thoughts were snatched from me.
I made an appointment with Faulkner-
but they made me go to a banquet.
I made an appointment with history,
but a grass-widow dragged me into bed.
Worse than barbed wire
are birthday parties, mine and others',
and roasted suckling pigs hold me
like a sprig of parsley between their teeth!
Led away for good
to a life absolutely not my own,
everything that I eat, eats me,
everything that I drink, drinks me.
I made an appointment with myself,
but they invite me to feast on my own spareribs.
I am garlanded from all sides
not by strings of bagels, but by the holes of bagels,
and I look like an anthology of zeros.
Life gets broken into hundreds of lifelets,
that exhaust and execute me.
In order to get through to myself
I had to smash my body against others',
and my fragments, my smithereens,
are trampled by the roaring crowd.
I am trying to glue myself together,
but my arms are still severed.
I'd write with my left leg,
but both the left and the right
have run off, in different directions.
I don't know- where is my body?
And soul? Did it really fly off,
without a murmured 'good-bye! '?
How do I break through to a faraway namesake,
waiting for me in the cold somewhere?
I've forgotten under which clock
I am waiting for myself.
For those who don't know who they are,
time does not exist.
No one is under the clock.
On the clock there is nothing.
I am late for my appointment
with me. There is no one.
Nothing but cigarette butts.
Only one flicker-
A lonely, dying, spark... ~ Yevgeny Yevtushenko,
1200:And canst thou mock mine agony, thus calm
In cloudless radiance, Queen of silver night?
Can you, ye flow'rets, spread your perfumed balm
Mid pearly gems of dew that shine so bright?
And you wild winds, thus can you sleep so still
Whilst throbs the tempest of my breast so high?
Can the fierce night-fiends rest on yonder hill,
And, in the eternal mansions of the sky,
Can the directors of the storm in powerless silence lie?

Hark! I hear music on the zephyrs wing,
Louder it floats along the unruffled sky;
Some fairy sure has touched the viewless string--
Now faint in distant air the murmurs die.
Awhile it stills the tide of agony.
Now--now it loftier swells--again stern woe
Arises with the awakening melody.
Again fierce torments, such as demons know,
In bitterer, feller tide, on this torn bosom flow.

Arise ye sightless spirits of the storm,
Ye unseen minstrels of the aereal song,
Pour the fierce tide around this lonely form,
And roll the tempest's wildest swell along.
Dart the red lightning, wing the forked flash,
Pour from thy cloud-formed hills the thunders roar;
Arouse the whirlwind--and let ocean dash
In fiercest tumult on the rocking shore,--
Destroy this life or let earth's fabric be no more.

Yes! every tie that links me here is dead;
Mysterious Fate, thy mandate I obey,
Since hope and peace, and joy, for aye are fled,
I come, terrific power, I come away.
Then o'er this ruined soul let spirits of Hell,
In triumph, laughing wildly, mock its pain;
And though with direst pangs mine heart-strings swell,
Ill echo back their deadly yells again,
Cursing the power that neer made aught in vain.


  
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Despair
,
1201:Smiling, Simon stared into the depths of his brandy.
“What a difficult evening you’ve had,” he heard Westcliff remark sardonically. “First you were compelled to carry Miss Peyton’s nubile young body all the way to her bedroom …then you had to examine her injured leg. How terribly inconvenient for you.”
Simon’s smile faded. “I didn’t say that I had examined her leg.”
The earl regarded him shrewdly. “You didn’t have to. I know you too well to presume that you would overlook such an opportunity.”
“I’ll admit that I looked at her ankle. And I also cut her corset strings when it became apparent that she couldn’t breathe.” Simon’s gaze dared the earl to object.
“Helpful lad,” Westcliff murmured.
Simon scowled. “Difficult as it may be for you to believe, I receive no lascivious pleasure from the sight of a woman in pain.”
Leaning back in his chair, Westcliff regarded him with a cool speculation that raised Simon’s hackles. “I hope you’re not fool enough to fall in love with such a creature. You know my opinion of Miss Peyton—”
“Yes, you’ve aired it repeatedly.”
“And furthermore,” the earl continued, “I would hate to see one of the few men of good sense I know to turn into one of those prattling fools who run about pollenating the atmosphere with maudlin sentiment—”
“I’m not in love.”
“You’re in something,” Westcliff insisted. “In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you look so mawkish as you did outside her bedroom door.”
“I was displaying simple compassion for a fellow human being.”
The earl snorted. “Whose drawers you’re itching to get into.”
The blunt accuracy of the observation caused Simon to smile reluctantly. “It was an itch two years ago,” he admitted. “Now it’s a full-scale pandemic. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
1202:The advisors, on the other hand, were like older brothers and sisters. My favorite was Bill Symes, who'd been a founding member of Fellowship in 1967. He was in his early twenties now and studying religion at Webster University. He had shoulders like a two-oxen yoke, a ponytail as thick as a pony's tail, and feet requiring the largest size of Earth Shoes. He was a good musician, a passionate attacker of steel acoustical guitar strings. He liked to walk into Burger King and loudly order two Whoppers with no meat. If he was losing a Spades game, he would take a card out of his hand, tell the other players, "Play this suit!" and then lick the card and stick it to his forehead facing out. In discussions, he liked to lean into other people's space and bark at them. He said, "You better deal with that!" He said, "Sounds to me like you've got a problem that you're not talking about!" He said, "You know what? I don't think you believe one word of what you just said to me!" He said, "Any resistance will be met with an aggressive response!" If you hesitated when he moved to hug you, he backed away and spread his arms wide and goggled at you with raised eyebrows, as if to say, "Hello? Are you going to hug me, or what?" If he wasn't playing guitar he was reading Jung, and if he wasn't reading Jung he was birdwatching, and if he wasn't birdwatching he was practicing tai chi, and if you came up to him during his practice and asked him how he would defend himself if you tried to mug him with a gun, he would demonstrate, in dreamy Eastern motion, how to remove a wallet from a back pocket and hand it over. Listening to the radio in his VW Bug, he might suddenly cry out, "I want to hear... 'La Grange' by ZZ Top!" and slap the dashboard. The radio would then play "La Grange. ~ Jonathan Franzen,
1203:Sappho
She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;
Above her glared the noon; beneath, the sea.
Upon the white horizon Atho's peak
Weltered in burning haze; all airs were dead;
The cicale slept among the tamarisk's hair;
The birds sat dumb and drooping. Far below
The lazy sea-weed glistened in the sun;
The lazy sea-fowl dried their steaming wings;
The lazy swell crept whispering up the ledge,
And sank again. Great Pan was laid to rest;
And Mother Earth watched by him as he slept,
And hushed her myriad children for a while.
She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;
And sighed for sleep, for sleep that would not hear,
But left her tossing still; for night and day
A mighty hunger yearned within her heart,
Till all her veins ran fever; and her cheek,
Her long thin hands, and ivory-channelled feet,
Were wasted with the wasting of her soul.
Then peevishly she flung her on her face,
And hid her eyeballs from the blinding glare,
And fingered at the grass, and tried to cool
Her crisp hot lips against the crisp hot sward:
And then she raised her head, and upward cast
Wild looks from homeless eyes, whose liquid light
Gleamed out between deep folds of blue-black hair,
As gleam twin lakes between the purple peaks
Of deep Parnassus, at the mournful moon.
Beside her lay her lyre. She snatched the shell,
And waked wild music from its silver strings;
Then tossed it sadly by.-'Ah, hush!' she cries;
'Dead offspring of the tortoise and the mine!
Why mock my discords with thine harmonies?
Although a thrice-Olympian lot be thine,
Only to echo back in every tone
The moods of nobler natures than thine own.'
Eversley, 1847
83
From Yeast.
~ Charles Kingsley,
1204:The relationship between the University and the Patrician, absolute ruler and nearly benevolent dictator of Ankh-Morpork, was a complex and subtle one.
The wizards held that, as servants of a higher truth, they were not subject to the mundane laws of the city.
The Patrician said that, indeed, this was the case, but they would bloody well pay their taxes like everyone else.
The wizards said that, as followers of the light of wisdom, they owed allegiance to no mortal man.
The Patrician said that this may well be true but they also owed a city tax of two hundred dollars per head per annum, payable quarterly.
The wizards said that the University stood on magical ground and was therefore exempt from taxation and anyway you couldn't put a tax on knowledge.
The Patrician said you could. It was two hundred dollars per capita; if per capita was a problem, decapita could be arranged.
The wizards said that the University had never paid taxes to the civil authority.
The Patrician said that he was not proposing to remain civil for long.
The wizards said, what about easy terms?
The Patrician said he was talking about easy terms. They wouldn't want to know about the hard terms.
The wizards said that there was a ruler back in , oh, it would be the Century of the Dragonfly, who had tried to tell the University what to do. The Patrician could come and have a look at him if he liked.
The Patrician said that he would. He truly would
In the end it was agreed that while the wizards of course paid no taxes, they would nevertheless make an entirely voluntary donation of, oh, let's say two hundred dollars per head, without prejudice, mutatis mutandis, no strings attached, to be used strictly for non-militaristic and environmentally-acceptable purposes. ~ Terry Pratchett,
1205:Sara noticed that his white teeth were slightly snaggled, giving his smile the appearance of a friendly snarl. It was then that she understood why so many women had been seduced by him. His grin held a wickedly irresistible appeal. She stared at his chest as he untied the laces and positioned her cap correctly.
"Thank you," she murmured, and tried to take the strings of the cap from his fingers.
But he didn't let go. He held the laces at her chin, his fingers tightening. Glancing up at him in confusion, Sara saw that his smile had vanished. In a decisive motion he pulled the concealing lace from her hair and let it fall. The cap fluttered to a patch of mud and rested there limply.
Sara lifted her hand to the loose braided coil of her hair, which threatened to tumble from its pins. The chestnut locks gleamed with fiery highlights, escaping in delicate wisps around her face and throat. "Mr. Craven," she scolded breathlessly. "I find your behavior untoward a-and offensive, not to mention-oh!" She stammered in astonishment as he reached for her spectacles and plucked them from her face. "Mr. Craven, h-how dare you..." She fumbled to retrieve them. "I... I need those..."
Derek held them out of reach as he stared at her uncovered face. This was what she had kept hidden beneath the old-maid disguise... pale, luminous skin, a mouth shaped with surprising lushness, a pert little nose, marked at the delicate bridge where the edge of her spectacles had pressed. Angel-blue eyes, pure and beguiling, surmounted by dark winged brows. She was beautiful. He could have devoured her in a few bites, like a fragrant red apple. He wanted to touch her, take her somewhere and pull her beneath him, as if he could somehow erase a lifetime of sin and shame within the sweetness of her body. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
1206:Former and future nerdistocracy slowly, and to look at them you’d think reluctantly, filtering back out into the street, into the long September which has been with them in a virtual way since spring before last, continuing only to deepen. Putting their street faces back on for it. Faces already under silent assault, as if by something ahead, some Y2K of the workweek that no one is quite imagining, the crowds drifting slowly out into the little legendary streets, the highs beginning to dissipate, out into the casting-off of veils before the luminosities of dawn, a sea of T-shirts nobody’s reading, a clamor of messages nobody’s getting, as if it’s the true text history of nights in the Alley, outcries to be attended to and not be lost, the 3:00 am kozmo deliveries to code sessions and all-night shredding parties, the bedfellows who came and went, the bands in the clubs, the songs whose hooks still wait to ambush an idle hour, the day jobs with meetings about meetings and bosses without clue, the unreal strings of zeros, the business models changing one minute to the next, the start-up parties every night of the week and more on Thursdays than you could keep track of, which of these faces so claimed by the time, the epoch whose end they’ve been celebrating all night—which of them can see ahead, among the microclimates of binary, tracking earthwide everywhere through dark fiber and twisted pairs and nowadays wirelessly through spaces public and private, anywhere among cybersweatshop needles flashing and never still, in that unquiet vastly stitched and unstitched tapestry they have all at some time sat growing crippled in the service of—to the shape of the day imminent, a procedure waiting execution, about to be revealed, a search result with no instructions on how to look for it? ~ Thomas Pynchon,
1207:Sara noticed that his white teeth were slightly snaggled, giving his smile the appearance of a friendly snarl. It was then that she understood why so many women had been seduced by him. His grin held a wickedly irresistible appeal. She stared at his chest as he untied the laces and positioned her cap correctly.
"Thank you," she murmured, and tried to take the strings of the cap from his fingers.
But he didn't let go. He held the laces at her chin, his fingers tightening. Glancing up at him in confusion, Sara saw that his smile had vanished. In a decisive motion he pulled the concealing lace from her hair and let it fall. The cap fluttered to a patch of mud and rested there limply.
Sara lifted her hand to the loose braided coil of her hair, which threatened to tumble from its pins. The chestnut locks gleamed with fiery highlights, escaping in delicate wisps around her face and throat. "Mr. Craven," she scolded breathlessly. "I find your behavior untoward and a-and offensive, not to mention-oh!" She stammered in astonishment as he reached for her spectacles and plucked them from her face. "Mr. Craven, h-how dare you..." She fumbled to retrieve them. "I... I need those..."
Derek held them out of reach as he stared at her uncovered face. This was what she had kept hidden beneath the old-maid disguise... pale, luminous skin, a mouth shaped with surprising lushness, a pert little nose, marked at the delicate bridge where the edge of her spectacles had pressed. Angel-blue eyes, pure and beguiling, surmounted by dark winged brows. She was beautiful. He could have devoured her in a few bites, like a fragrant red apple. He wanted to touch her, take her somewhere and pull her beneath him, as if he could somehow erase a lifetime of sin and shame within the sweetness of her body. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
1208:The glory of God is not contingent on man's good will, but all existence subserves his purposes. The system of the universe is as a celestial poem, whose beauty is from all eternity, and must not be marred by human interpolations. Things proceed as they were ordered, in their nice, and well-adjusted, and perfect harmony; so that as the hand of the skilful artist gathers music from the harp-strings, history calls it forth from the well-tuned chords of time. Not that this harmony can be heard during the tumult of action. Philosophy comes after events, and gives the reason of them, and describes the nature of their results. The great mind of collective man may, one day, so improve in self-consciousness as to interpret the present and foretell the future; but as yet, the end of what is now happening, though we ourselves partake in it, seems to fall out by chance. All is nevertheless one whole; individuals, families, peoples, the race, march in accord with the Divine will; and when any part of the destiny of humanity is fulfilled, we see the ways of Providence vindicated. The antagonisms of imperfect matter and the perfect idea, of liberty and necessary law, become reconciled. What seemed irrational confusion, appears as the web woven by light, liberty and love. But this is not perceived till a great act in the drama of life is finished. The prayer of the patriarch, when he desired to behold the Divinity face to face, was denied; but he was able to catch a glimpse of Jehovah, after He had passed by; and so it fares with our search for Him in the wrestlings of the world. It is when the hour of conflict is over, that history comes to a right understanding of the strife, and is ready to exclaim: "Lo! God is here, and we knew it not." ~ George Bancroft Literary and Historical Miscellanies (1855), p. 491,
1209:Work
WHEN I am busying about,
Sewing on buttons, tapes, and strings,
Hanging the week's wet washing out
Or ironing the children's things,
Sweeping and dusting, cleaning grates,
Scrubbing the dresser or the floors,
Washing the greasy dinner plates,
Scouring the brasses on the doors-I wonder what it's all about,
And when did people first begin
To keep the dirt and wornness out
And keep the wholesome comfort in:
How long it is since women bore
This round of wash and make and mend,
And what God makes us do it for
And whether it will ever end!
When God began to do His work
He made a new thing every day-Even now He is not one to shirk,
But makes things, always some new way
He made the earth, and sky, and sun,
The creatures of the sea and wood,
And when his first week's work was done
He saw that it was very good.
But He--for all He worked so fast
To finish air, and wave, and shore,
Knew that this work of His would last
For ever and for evermore.
On Saturday night He was content,
He knew that Monday would not bring
Need for another firmament,
Another set of everything.
But though my work is easier far
Than making sky and sea and sun,
It's harder than God's labours are,
471
Because my work is never done.
I sweep and churn, save and contrive,
I bake and brew, I don't complain,
But every Monday morning I've
Last Monday's work to do again.
I'm good at work--I work away;
Always the same my work must go;
The flowers grow different every day,
That's why I like to see them grow.
If, up in Heaven, God understood
He'd let me for my Paradise
Make all things new and very good
And never make the same thing twice!
~ Edith Nesbit,
1210:One of the fundamental conditions of happiness is to know that everything that one does has a meaning in eternity; but who in these days can still conceive of a civilization within which all vital manifestations would be developed "in the likeness of Heaven"? In a theocentric society the humblest activity participates in this heavenly benediction. The words of a street singer heard by the author in Morocco are worth quoting here. The singer was asked why the little Arab guitar which he used to accompany his chanting of legends had only two strings. He gave this answer: "To add a third string to this instrument would be to take the first step towards heresy. When God created the soul of Adam it did not want to enter into his body, and circled like a bird round about its cage. Then God commanded the angels to play on the two strings that are called the male and the female, and the soul, thinking that the melody resided in the instrument- which is the body- entered it and remained within it. For this reason two strings, which are always called the male and the female, are enough to deliver the soul from the body."

This legend holds more meaning than appears at first sight, for it summarizes the whole traditional doctrine of sacred art. The ultimate objective of sacred art is not the evocation of feelings nor the communication of impressions; it is a symbol, and as such it finds simple -and primordial means sufficient; it could not in any case be anything more than allusive, its real object being ineffable. It is of angelic origin, because its models reflect supra-formal realities. It recapitulates the creation- the "Divine Art"- in parables, thus demonstrating the symbolical nature of the world, and delivering the human spirit from its attachment to crude and ephemeral "facts ~ Titus Burckhardt,
1211:Shame"

It is a cramped little state with no foreign policy,
Save to be thought inoffensive. The grammar of the language
Has never been fathomed, owing to the national habit
Of allowing each sentence to trail off in confusion.
Those who have visited Scusi, the capital city,
Report that the railway-route from Schuldig passes
Through country best described as unrelieved.
Sheep are the national product. The faint inscription
Over the city gates may perhaps be rendered,
"I'm afraid you won't find much of interest here."
Census-reports which give the population
As zero are, of course, not to be trusted,
Save as reflecting the natives' flustered insistence
That they do not count, as well as their modest horror
Of letting one's sex be known in so many words.
The uniform grey of the nondescript buildings, the absence
Of churches or comfort-stations, have given observers
An odd impression of ostentatious meanness,
And it must be said of the citizens (muttering by
In their ratty sheepskins, shying at cracks in the sidewalk)
That they lack the peace of mind of the truly humble.
The tenor of life is careful, even in the stiff
Unsmiling carelessness of the border-guards
And douaniers, who admit, whenever they can,
Not merely the usual carloads of deodorant
But gypsies, g-strings, hasheesh, and contraband pigments.
Their complete negligence is reserved, however,
For the hoped-for invasion, at which time the happy people
(Sniggering, ruddily naked, and shamelessly drunk)
Will stun the foe by their overwhelming submission,
Corrupt the generals, infiltrate the staff,
Usurp the throne, proclaim themselves to be sun-gods,
And bring about the collapse of the whole empire. ~ Richard Wilbur,
1212:I await my time. I sit, I cook, I spin, with downcast eyes I am silent and let him speak. This is fine. I await my time.

Everything is a strategy. This is the wisdom of the spider. Silently, silently spin. Let the fly buzz. Before I ate her and put on her skin I lay across the stove in my hut, the hut standing on a chicken leg, and I waited, and they came to me, and became my food, and in the end she came too, the one I wanted, and instead of swallowing her I dived inside and let her swallow me. It doesn’t matter what it looks like! I ate her even as I allowed her to eat me. It’s a special digestive trick: a reverse takeover of the feeder by the fed. And so farewell, chicken-legged hut in the forest! Goodbye forever, foul Russian smell! Now am I perfumed and clothed in beauty, my eyes behind her eyes, my teeth behind her teeth.

Everything she does is false, every word a lie, because here I am inside her, pulling her strings, casting the web of her words and deeds around the little fly, the old fool. He believes she loves him! Ha ha ha ha ha! Cackle, cackle! That’s a good one, that is. (...)
I conceal this voice deep inside myself, so deep that she, myself, can convince herself she cannot hear it, that it is not her truest voice. At the level of the skin, of the tongue, a different voice speaks, and she tells herself a different story, in which she is virtuous and her deeds are justified, both absolutely, by moral standards, and empirically, by the events around her. By him, the old one, the king in the golden house, who he is, how he treats her, what his faults are. But there it is, the deep voice speaking, commanding her at the deepest level, the level of the molecules of instruction, twined into the four helical amino acids of her being, which is also mine. It is who I is. It is who she am. ~ Salman Rushdie,
1213:And you must appear willing to marry me,” Oliver said.
“I understand.”
“Do you? It means you’ll have to act as if you enjoy my company.”
To his surprise, a small smile curved her lips. “I believe I can manage that.” Then, as if realizing she was softening, she wiped the smile from her face. “But you must behave responsibly, too.”
“By not trying to seduce you, you mean.”
She started. “No! I mean, yes…I mean, you already said you have more urgent concerns.” Alarm rose in her cheeks. “Oh dear, I forgot that you also said you have no honor or morals.”
He’d made similar assertions half his life, yet tonight he regretted making them. Shocking young ladies seemed to have lost some of its appeal.
“All the same, Miss Butterfield, I promise that your virtue is safe from me.” When she looked skeptical, he added, “You’re not the sort of woman I prefer.” A respectable woman came with strings attached.
“Of course I’m not,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Anyone can see that.”
That took him aback.
She went on. “A man with no morals isn’t going to want a woman who has them. She’d never let him do anything wicked.”
Freddy coughed, as if choking on something. Oliver understood why. Miss Butterfield had an unnerving way of cutting everything down to its essence.
“Yes,” he said, for lack of a better response. “Quite.” Then he narrowed his gaze on her. “So what did you mean when you said I had to ‘behave responsibly’?”
“You promised to find my fiancé, and I expect you to hold to your word.”
“Ah, right. Your fiancé?” He kept forgetting about that. It was hard to imagine any woman sailing off across the ocean to hunt down her fiancé. No female would ever do such a thing for him.
Not that he’d want her to. That would mean someone cared for him more than was wise, given his character. ~ Sabrina Jeffries,
1214:The obsession clouds all reason, impairs the ability to act, makes anything secondary to it seem unimportant. It's a double-bind tug o'war. The desire to maintain the fantasy may be stronger than the desire to make it real.
   In classical occult terms I am describing a thought-form, a monster bred from the darker reccesses of mind, fed by psychic energy, clothed in imagination and nurtured by umbilical cords which twist through years of growth. we all have our personal Tunnels of Set; set in our ways through habit and patterns piling on top of each other. The thought-form rides us like a monkey; it's tail wrapped firmly about the spine of a self lost to us years ago; an earlier version threshing blindly in a moment of fear, pain, or desire.
   Thus we are formed; and in a moment of loss we feel the monster's hot breath against our backs, it's claws digging into muscle and flesh. we dance to the pull of strings that were woven years ago, and in a lightning flash of insight, or better yet, the gentle admonitions of a friend, we may see the lie; the program. it is first necessary to see that there is a program. To say perhaps, this creature is mine, but not wholly me. What follows then is that the prey becomes the hunter, pulling apart the obsession, naming its parts, searching for fragments of understanding in its entrails. Shrinking it, devouring it, peeling the layers of onion-skin.
   This is in itself a magick as powerful as any sorcery. Unbinding the knots that we have tied and tangled; sorting out the threads of experience and colour-coding the chains of chance. It may leave us freer, more able to act effectively and less likely to repeat old mistakes. The thing has a chinese puzzle-like nature. We can perceive only the present, and it requires intense sifting through memory to see the scaffolding beneath.
   ~ Phil Hine, Oven Ready Chaos,
1215:LADY that hast my heart within thy hand,
Thou heed'st me not; and if thou turn thine ear
Unto the wise, thou shalt not understand--
Behold the fault is thine, our words were clear.
For all the tumult in my drunken brain
Praise God! who trieth not His slave in vain;
Nor this world nor the next shall make me fear!

My weary heart eternal silence keeps--
I know not who has slipped into my heart;
Though I am silent, one within me weeps.
My soul shall rend the painted veil apart.
Where art thou, Minstrel! touch thy saddest strings
Till clothed in music such as sorrow sings,
My mournful story from thy zither sweeps.

Lo, not at any time I lent mine ear
To hearken to the glories of the earth;
Only thy beauty to mine eyes was dear.
Sleep has forsaken me, and from the birth
Of night till day I weave bright dreams of thee;
Drunk with a hundred nights of revelry,
Where is the tavern that sets forth such cheer!

My heart, sad hermit, stains the cloister floor
With drops of blood, the sweat of anguish dire;
Ah, wash me clean, and o'er my body pour
Love's generous wine! the worshippers of fire
Have bowed them down and magnified my name,
For in my heart there burns a living flame,
Transpiercing Death's impenetrable door.

What instrument through last night's silence rang?
My life into his lay the minstrel wove,
And filled my brain with the sweet song he sang.
It was the proclamation of thy love
That shook the strings of Life's most secret lyre,
And still my breast heaves with last night's desire,
For countless echoes from that music sprang.

And ever, since the time that Hafiz heard
His Lady's voice, as from a rocky hill
Reverberates the softly spoken word,
So echoes of desire his bosom fill.

~ Hafiz, Lady That Hast My Heart
,
1216:In my life I’ve only been good at one thing. The violin. Not as good as my father. Maybe I could have been. But I drank too much and lost my temper too often. I came to Italy because I failed in Vienna. I came to Italy because I was in love with a woman who wasn’t in love with me. And for the last thirteen years, I’ve taken it out on you. If you hadn’t been so strong, I might have broken you. I might have made you hate me. But you fought back. You shrugged me off. And now I listen to you and I am in awe.” “You are?” Eva asked in amazement. These were things she had never heard before. “When you play, Eva, I feel hopeful. They can take our homes, our possessions. Our families. Our lives. They can drive us out, like they’ve driven us out before. They can humiliate us and dehumanize us. But they cannot take our thoughts. They cannot take our talents. They cannot take our knowledge, or our memories, or our minds. In music, there is no bondage. Music is a door, and the soul escapes through the melody. Even if it’s only for a few minutes. And everyone who listens is freed. Everyone who listens is elevated. “When you play, I hear my life lifting off your strings. I hear the long notes and the scales, the tears and the hours. I hear you and me, together in this room. I hear my father and the things he taught me that I passed on to you. I hear it all, and my life plays on, his life plays on, over and over, when you play.” Eva set her instrument down and, with tears streaming down her face, knelt in front of her uncle and slid her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his thin chest. He embraced her gently, and they stayed in sorrowful silence, listening to the wind as it wailed a mournful strain not so different from the one Eva had composed, wondering if the wind would be the only witness, the only whisper, when the death in Austria came for them too. ~ Amy Harmon,
1217:Preparatory Meditations - Second Series: 12
(Ezekiel 37:24. David my Servant shall be their King)
Dull, dull indeed! What, shall it e'er be thus?
And why? Are not Thy promises, my Lord,
Rich, quick'ning things? How should my full cheeks blush
To find me thus? And those a lifeless word?
My heart is heedless: unconcerned hereat:
I find my spirits spiritless and flat.
Thou court'st mine eyes in sparkling colors bright,
Most bright indeed, and soul-enamouring,
With the most shining sun, whose beams did smite
Me with delightful smiles to make me spring.
Embellished knots of love assault my mind,
Which still is dull, as if this sun n'er shined.
David in all his gallantry now comes,
Bringing, to tend Thy shrine, his royal glory,
Rich prowess, prudence, victories, sweet songs,
And piety to pencil out Thy story;
To draw my heart to Thee in this brave shine
Of typic beams, most warm. But still I pine.
Shall not this lovely beauty, Lord, set out
In dazzling shining flashes 'fore mine eye,
Enchant my heart, love's golden mine, till 't spout
Out streams of love refin'd that on Thee lie?
Thy glory's great: Thou David's kingdom shalt
Enjoy for aye. I want and that's my fault.
Spare me, my Lord, spare me, I greatly pray,
Let me Thy gold pass through Thy fire until
Thy fire refine, and take my filth away.
That I may shine like gold, and have my fill
Of love for Thee; until my virginal
Chime out in changes sweet Thy praises shall.
Wipe off my rust, Lord, with Thy wisp me scour,
And make Thy beams perch on my strings their blaze.
25
My tunes clothe with Thy shine, and quavers pour
My cursing strings on, loaded with Thy praise.
My fervant love with music in her hand,
Shall then attend Thyself, and Thy command.
~ Edward Taylor,
1218:Stanzas On The Death Of Lord Byron
He was, and is not! Graecia's trembling shore,
Sighing through all her palmy groves, shall tell
That Harold's pilgrimage at last is o'er—
Mute the impassioned tongue, and tuneful shell,
That erst was wont in noblest strains to swell—
Hush'd the proud shouts that rode Aegaea's wave!
For lo! the great Deliv'rer breathes farewell!
Gives to the world his mem'ry and a grave—
Expiring in the land he only lived to save!
Mourn, Hellas, mourn! and o'er thy widow'd brow,
For aye, the cypress wreath of sorrow twine;
And in thy new-form'd beauty, desolate, throw
The fresh-cull'd flowers on his sepulchral shrine.
Yes! let that heart whose fervour was all thine,
In consecrated urn lamented be!
That generous heart where genius thrill'd divine,
Hath spent its last most glorious throb for thee—
Then sank amid the storm that made thy children free!
Britannia's Poet! Graecia's hero, sleeps!
And Freedom, bending o'er the breathless clay,
Lifts up her voice, and in her anguish weeps!
For us, a night hath clouded o'er our day,
And hush'd the lips that breath'd our fairest lay.
Alas! and must the British lyre resound
A requiem, while the spirit wings away
Of him who on its strings such music found,
And taught its startling chords to give so sweet a sound!
The theme grows sadder — but my soul shall find
A language in those tears! No more — no more!
Soon, 'midst the shriekings of the tossing wind,
The 'dark blue depths' he sang of, shall have bore
Our all of Byron to his native shore!
His grave is thick with voices — to the ear
Murm'ring an awful tale of greatness o'er;
But Memory strives with Death, and lingering near,
Shall consecrate the dust of Harold's lonely bier!
215
~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
1219:To Men
Sirs, when you pity us, I say
You waste your pity. Let it stay,
Well corked and stored upon your shelves,
Until you need it for yourselves.
We do appreciate God's thought
In forming you, before He brought
Us into life. His art was crude,
But oh, so virile in its rude
Large elemental strength: and then
He learned His trade in making men;
Learned how to mix and mould the clay
And fashion in a finer way.
How fine that skilful way can be
You need but lift your eyes to see;
And we are glad God placed you there
To lift your eyes and find us fair.
Apprentice labour though you were,
He made you great enough to stir
The best and deepest depths of us,
And we are glad he made you thus.
Ay! we are glad of many things.
God strung our hearts with such fine strings
The least breath movces them, and we hear
Music where silence greets your ear.
We suffer so? but women's souls
Like violet powder dropped on coals,
Give forth their best in anguish. Oh,
The subtle secrets that we know,
Of joy in sorrow, strange delights
Of ecstasy in pain-filled nights,
And mysteries of gain in loss
Known but to Christ upon the Cross!
851
Our tears are pitiful to you?
Look how the heaven-reflecting dew
Dissolves its life in tears. The sand
Meanwhile lies hard upon the strand.
How could your pity find a place
For us, the mothers of the race?
Men may be fathers unaware,
So poor the title is you wear,
But mothers -? Who that crown adorns
Knows all its mingled blooms and thorns;
And she whose feet that path hath trod
Has walked upon the heights with God.
No, offer us not pity's cup.
There is no looking down or up
Between us: eye looks straight in eye:
Born equals, so we live and die.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
1220:And indeed today as it struggles with its financial crisis, the central issue in Greek politics remains resentment of the influence of Brussels, Germany, the International Monetary Fund, and other external actors, which are seen as pulling strings behind the back of a weak Greek government. Although there is considerable distrust of government in American political culture, by contrast, the basic legitimacy of democratic institutions runs very deep. Distrust of government is related to the Greek inability to collect taxes. Americans loudly proclaim their dislike of taxes, but when Congress mandates a tax, the government is energetic in enforcement. Moreover, international surveys suggest that levels of tax compliance are reasonably high in the United States; higher, certainly, than most European countries on the Mediterranean. Tax evasion in Greece is widespread, with restaurants requiring cash payments, doctors declaring poverty-line salaries, and unreported swimming pools owned by asset-hiding citizens dotting the Athenian landscape. By one account, Greece’s shadow economy—unreported income hidden from the tax authorities—constitutes 29.6 percent of total GDP.24 A second factor has to do with the late arrival of capitalism in Greece. The United States was an early industrializer; the private sector and entrepreneurship remained the main occupations of most Americans. Greece urbanized and took on other trappings of a modern society early on, but it failed to build a strong base of industrial employment. In the absence of entrepreneurial opportunities, Greeks sought jobs in the state sector, and politicians seeking to mobilize votes were happy to oblige. Moreover, the Greek pattern of urbanization in which whole villages moved from the countryside preserved intact rural patronage networks, networks that industry-based development tended to dissolve. ~ Francis Fukuyama,
1221:A New Madrigal To An Old Melody
(It is supposed that Shadow-of-a-Leaf uses the word 'clear' in a
more ancient sense of 'beautiful.')
As along a dark pine-bough, in slender white mystery
The moon lay to listen, above the thick fern,
In a deep dreaming wood that is older than history
I heard a lad sing, and I stilled me to learn;
So rarely he lilted his long-forgot litany,-_Fall, April; fall, April, in dew on our dearth!
Bring balm, and bring poppy, bring deep sleepy dittany
For Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth._
Then I drew back the branches. I saw him that chanted it.
I saw his fool's bauble. I knew his old grief.
I knew that old greenwood and the shadow that haunted it,-My fool, my lost jester, my _Shadow-of-a-Leaf_!
And 'why,' I said, 'why, all this while, have you left me so
Luckless in melody, lonely in mirth?'
'Oh, why,' he sang, 'why has this world then bereft me so
Soon of my Marian, so long laid in earth?
'In the years that are gone,' he said, 'love was more fortunate.
Grief was our minstrel of things that endure.
Now, ashes and dust and this world grow importunate.
Time has no sorrow that time cannot cure.
Once, we could lose, and the loss was worth cherishing.
Now, we may win, but, O, where is the worth?
Memory and true love,' he whispered, 'are perishing,
With Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth.'
'Ah, no!' I said, 'no! Since we grieve for our grief again,
Touch the old strings! Let us try the old stave!
And memory may wake, like my _Shadow-of-a-Leaf_ again,
Singing of hope, in the dark, by a grave.'
So we sang it together--that long-forgot litany:-_Fall, April; fall, April; bring new grief to birth.
Bring wild herb of grace, and bring deep healing dittany,
For Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth._
12
~ Alfred Noyes,
1222:It is the best of times in physics. Physicists are on the verge of obtaining the long-sought theory of everything. In a few elegant equations, perhaps concise enough to be emblazoned on a T-shirt, this theory will reveal how the universe began and how it will end. The key insight is that the smallest constituents of the world are not particles, as had been supposed since ancient times, but “strings”—tiny strands of energy. By vibrating in different ways, these strings produce the essential phenomena of nature, the way violin strings produce musical notes. String theory isn’t just powerful; it’s also mathematically beautiful. All that remains to be done is to write down the actual equations. This is taking a little longer than expected. But, with almost the entire theoretical-physics community working on the problem—presided over by a sage in Princeton, New Jersey—the millennia-old dream of a final theory is sure to be realized before long. It is the worst of times in physics. For more than a generation, physicists have been chasing a will-o’-the-wisp called string theory. The beginning of this chase marked the end of what had been three-quarters of a century of progress. Dozens of string-theory conferences have been held, hundreds of new Ph.D.’s have been minted, and thousands of papers have been written. Yet, for all this activity, not a single new testable prediction has been made; not a single theoretical puzzle has been solved. In fact, there is no theory so far—just a set of hunches and calculations suggesting that a theory might exist. And, even if it does, this theory will come in such a bewildering number of versions that it will be of no practical use: a theory of nothing. Yet the physics establishment promotes string theory with irrational fervor, ruthlessly weeding dissenting physicists from the profession. Meanwhile, physics is stuck in a paradigm doomed to barrenness. ~ Jim Holt,
1223:'Black Bart, Po8'
Welcome, good friend; as you have served your term,
And found the joy of crime to be a fiction,
I hope you'll hold your present faith, stand firm
And not again be open to conviction.
Your sins, though scarlet once, are now as wool:
You've made atonement for all past offenses,
And conjugated-'twas an awful pull!The verb 'to pay' in all its moods and tenses.
You were a dreadful criminal-by Heaven,
I think there never was a man so sinful!
We've all a pinch or two of Satan's leaven,
But you appeared to have an even skinful.
Earth shuddered with aversion at your name;
Rivers fled backward, gravitation scorning;
The sea and sky, from thinking on your shame,
Grew lobster-red at eve and in the morning.
But still red-handed at your horrid trade
You wrought, to reason deaf, and to compassion.
But now with gods and men your peace is made
I beg you to be good and in the fashion.
What's that?-you 'ne'er again will rob a stage'?
What! did you do so? Faith, I didn't know it.
Was _that_ what threw poor Themis in a rage?
I thought you were convicted as a poet!
I own it was a comfort to my soul,
And soothed it better than the deepest curses,
To think they'd got one poet in a hole
Where, though he wrote, he could not print, his verses.
I thought that Welcker, Plunkett, Brooks, and all
The ghastly crew who always are begriming
With villain couplets every page and wall,
Might be arrested and 'run in' for rhyming.
205
And then Parnassus would be left to me,
And Pegasus should bear me up it gaily,
Nor down a steep place run into the sea,
As now he must be tempted to do daily.
Well, grab the lyre-strings, hearties, and begin:
Bawl your harsh souls all out upon the gravel.
I must endure you, for you'll never sin
By robbing coaches, until dead men travel.
~ Ambrose Bierce,
1224:Repaired
Hauled I was from out the tip
Fritz made with his demonstration,
All broke up, a fractured hip
In me Darby Kell a rip
Settn' up a cool sensation
Like excessive ventilation
One 'and cluttered up a treatOn me oath you wouldn't know it
From a 'andsome plate of meat.
They had sorter pied me feet,
And a bullet of the foe hit
Where no decent bloke could show it.
'Arf a year they've botched me now;
Ev'ry scientific schemer
In the cor' has faked me prow,
Soled 'n' heeled a bloke somehowGawd, the last one was a screamer.
Wirin' up me flamin' femur!
Comes a guy and pipes you square,
Gogglin' at you through his glasses,
Swings you in the barber's chair,
Tilts you this end up with care,
Lets you have a whiff of gasses
Chattin' off-hand with the lasses.
Then he slices clean 'n' swift,
Like a cobbler cuts his leather,
Gives the splintered knob a liftS'elp me tater, it's a gift
How they glues you all together,
Sayin' it's bin nicer weather!
Surgeon wipes his 'ands, a verse
Chort1e softly as he pitches
Probes and sponges to the nurse,
Thinks the lunch might have bin worse;
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Close your little gap he hitches,
Whistlin' as he jabs the stitches.
I'm caught in with fiddle-strings,
Stuck about with bits 'n' patches,
Fixed with ligatures 'n' springs,
Lath 'n' plastered, swung in slings
Skewered with little wooden matches,
Hung with hinges, knobs 'n' latches.
Till I lay behind me screen,
Serious 'n' sober one day,
Satisfied 'n' all serene,
'Arf a man 'n' 'arf machine
What they winds up ev'ry Monday
'N' it tilts all ways by Sunday.
'Ome again I'll come, a neat,
Semi-autymatic loafer,
Number up, 'n' all complete,
Creakin' round on Collins Street,
With a licence (which I'll owe for)
My own car and my own shofer!
~ Edward George Dyson,
1225:I've apparently been the victim of growing up, which apparently happens to all of us at one point or another. It's been going on for quite some time now, without me knowing it. I've found that growing up can mean a lot of things. For me, it doesn't mean I should become somebody completely new and stop loving the things I used to love. It means I've just added more things to my list. Like for example, I'm still beyond obsessed with the winter season and I still start putting up strings of lights in September. I still love sparkles and grocery shopping and really old cats that are only nice to you half the time. I still love writing in my journal and wearing dresses all the time and staring at chandeliers. But some new things I've fallen in love with -- mismatched everything. Mismatched chairs, mismatched colors, mismatched personalities. I love spraying perfumes I used to wear when I was in high school. It brings me back to the days of trying to get a close parking spot at school, trying to get noticed by soccer players, and trying to figure out how to avoid doing or saying anything uncool, and wishing every minute of every day that one day maybe I'd get a chance to win a Grammy. Or something crazy and out of reach like that. ;) I love old buildings with the paint chipping off the walls and my dad's stories about college. I love the freedom of living alone, but I also love things that make me feel seven again. Back then naivety was the norm and skepticism was a foreign language, and I just think every once in a while you need fries and a chocolate milkshake and your mom. I love picking up a cookbook and closing my eyes and opening it to a random page, then attempting to make that recipe. I've loved my fans from the very first day, but they've said things and done things recently that make me feel like they're my friends -- more now than ever before. I'll never go a day without thinking about our memories together. ~ Taylor Swift,
1226:To A Soubrette
'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met;
And yet--ah, yet, how swift and tender
My thoughts go back in time's dull track
To you, sweet pink of female gender!
I shall not say--though others may-That time all human joy enhances;
But the same old thrill comes to me still
With memories of your songs and dances.
Soubrettish ways these latter days
Invite my praise, but never get it;
I still am true to yours and you-My record's made, I'll not upset it!
The pranks they play, the things they say-I'd blush to put the like on paper,
And I'll avow they don't know how
To dance, so awkwardly they caper!
I used to sit down in the pit
And see you flit like elf or fairy
Across the stage, and I'll engage
No moonbeam sprite was half so airy;
Lo, everywhere about me there
Were rivals reeking with pomatum,
And if, perchance, they caught your glance
In song or dance, how did I hate 'em!
At half-past ten came rapture--then
Of all those men was I most happy,
For bottled beer and royal cheer
And têtes-à-têtes were on the tapis.
Do you forget, my fair soubrette,
Those suppers at the Cafe Rector,-The cosey nook where we partook
Of sweeter cheer than fabled nectar?
Oh, happy days, when youth's wild ways
Knew every phase of harmless folly!
Oh, blissful nights, whose fierce delights
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Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy!
Gone are they all beyond recall,
And I--a shade, a mere reflection-Am forced to feed my spirit's greed
Upon the husks of retrospection!
And lo! to-night, the phantom light,
That, as a sprite, flits on the fender,
Reveals a face whose girlish grace
Brings back the feeling, warm and tender;
And, all the while, the old-time smile
Plays on my visage, grim and wrinkled,-As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet
Upon my rusty heart-strings tinkled!
~ Eugene Field,
1227:Dan's Wife
Up in early morning light,
Sweeping, dusting, 'setting right,'
Oiling all the household springs,
Sewing buttons, tying strings,
Telling Bridget what to do,
Mending rips in Johnny's shoe,
Running up and down the stair,
Tying baby in her chair,
Cutting meat and spreading bread,
Dishing out so much per head,
Eating as she can by chance,
Giving husband kindly glance;
Toiling, working, busy life,-Smart woman,
Dan's wife.
Dan comes home at fall of night,
Home so cheerful, neat, and bright;
Children meet him at the door,
Pull him in and looked him o'er;
Wife asks how the work has gone.
'Busy times with us at home!'
Supper done, Dan reads with ease,-Happy Dan, but one to please!
Children must be put to bed-All the little prayers are said;
Little shoes are placed in rows,
Bedclothes tucked o'er little toes;
Busy, noisy, wearing life,-Tired woman,
Dan's wife.
Dan reads on and falls asleep-See the woman softly creep;
Baby rests at last, poor dear,
Not a word her heart to cheer;
Mending-basket full to top,
Stockings, shirt, and little frock;
Tired eyes and weary brain,
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Side with darting, ugly pain;
'Never mind, 'will pass away,'
She must work, but never play;
Closed piano, unused books,
Done the walks to easy nooks,
Brightness faded out of life,-Saddened woman,
Dan's wife.
Upstairs, tossing to and fro,
Fever holds the woman low;
Children wander free to play
When and where they will today;
Bridget loiters--dinner's cold,
Dan looks anxious, cross, and old;
Household screws are out of place,
Lacking one dear, patient face;
Steady hands, so weak but true,
Hands that knew just what to do,
Never knowing rest or play,
Folded now--and laid away;
Work of six in one short life,-Shattered woman,
Dan's wife.
~ Anonymous Americas,
1228:Hospitals cannot continue to hemorrhage. For the country as a whole, medical insurance premiums include a surcharge that pays for treating the uninsured. However, if the proportion of uninsured indigent patients exceeds a certain figure, a hospital has no choice but to close. In California alone, the heavy cost of free medicine for foreigners forced no fewer than 60 hospitals to shut down between 1993 and 2003; many others were on the verge of collapse. From 1994 to 2004, the number of hospital emergency rooms in the country as a whole dropped by more than 12 percent.
In May 2010, Miami’s health care system was so strapped, it was considering closing two of its five public hospitals. This would mean laying off 4,487 employees and the loss of 581 acute-care beds. Experts explained that treating uninsured patients had stretched the system to the breaking point.
Houston is a good example of a city whose hospitals are barely making ends meet. In the nation as a whole, about 15 percent of the population has no medical insurance, but Texas, with its large population of Hispanics, has the highest percentage at 24 percent. In Houston, the figure is 30 percent. The safety net cannot accommodate so many people who cannot pay. “Does this mean rationing?” asks Kenenth Mattox, chief of staff at Ben Taub General Hospital. “You bet it does.”
There is such a crush at Houston’s emergency rooms that ambulances often wait for one or two hours before they can even unload patients. The record wait is six hours. Twenty percent of the time, hospitals end up sending patients to other hospitals, and some have died after being diverted. Politicians and businessmen pull strings so friends can cut in line.
Americans who fall sick in Mexico do not get free treatment. The State Department warns that Mexican doctors routinely refuse to treat foreign patients unless paid in advance, and that they often charge Americans for services not rendered. ~ Jared Taylor,
1229:The Duel
Oh many a duel the world has seen
That was bitter with hate, that was red with gore.
But I sing of a duel by far more cruel
Than ever a poet was sung before.
It was waged by night, yea by day and by night,
With never a pause or halt or rest,
And the curious spot where this battle was fought
Was the throbbing heart in a woman’s breast.
There met two rivals in deadly strife,
And they fought for this woman so pale and proud.
One was a man in the prime of his life,
And one was a corpse in a moldy shroud;
One wrapped in a sheet from his head to his feet,
The other one clothed in worldly fashion;
But a rival to dread is a man who is dead,
If he has been loved in life with passion.
The living lover he battled with sighs,
He strove for the woman with words that burned,
While stiff and stark lay the corpse in the dark,
And silently yearned and yearned and yearned.
One spoke of the rapture that life still held
For hearts that yielded to love’s desire,
And one through the cold grave’s earthly mold
Sent thoughts of a past that were fraught with fire.
The living lover seized hold of her hands –
“You are mine, ” he cried, “and we will not part! ”
But she felt the clutch of the dead man’s touch
On the tense-drawn strings of her aching heart.
Yet the touch was of ice, and she shrank with fear –
Oh! the hands of the dead are cold, so cold –
And warm were the arms that waited near
To gather her close in their clinging fold.
And warm was the light in the living eyes,
But the eyes of the dead, how they stare and stare!
With sudden surrender she turned to the tender
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And passionate lover who wooed her there.
Farewell to sorrow, hail, sweet to-morrow!
The battle was over, the duel was done.
They swooned in the blisses of love’s fond kisses,
And the dead man stared on in the dark alone.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
1230:The sorceress walked a short distance away, her rounded hips swaying. She lifted her hands, fingers moving as if plucking invisible strings. Bitter cold flooded out, the sand crackling as if lit by lightning, and the gate that erupted was massive, yawning, towering. Through the billowing icy air flowed out a sweeter, rank smell. The smell of death. A figure stood on the threshold of the gate. Tall, hunched, a withered, lifeless face of greenish grey, yellowed tusks thrusting up from the lower jaw. Pitted eyes regarded them from beneath a tattered woollen cowl. The power cascading from this apparition sent Equity stumbling back. Abyss! A Jaghut, yes, but not just any Jaghut! Calm – can you hear me? Through this howl? Can you hear me? An ally stands before me – an ally of ancient – so ancient – power! This one could have been an Elder God. This one could have been…anything! Gasping, fighting to keep from falling to one knee, from bowing before this terrible creature, Equity forced herself to lift her gaze, to meet the empty hollows of his eyes. ‘I know you,’ she said. ‘You are Hood.’ The Jaghut stepped forward, the gate swirling closed behind him. Hood paused, regarding each witness in turn, and then walked towards Equity. ‘They made you their king,’ she whispered. ‘They who followed no one chose to follow you. They who refused every war fought your war. And what you did then – what you did—’ As he reached her, his desiccated hands caught her. He lifted her from her feet, and then, mouth stretching, he bit into the side of her face. The tusks drove up beneath her cheek bone, burst the eye on that side. In a welter of blood, he tore away half of her face, and then bit a second time, up under the orbitals, the tusks driving into her brain. Equity hung in his grip, feeling her life drain away. Her head felt strangely unbalanced. She seemed to be weeping from only one eye, and from her throat no words were possible. I once dreamed of peace. As a child, I dreamed of— ~ Steven Erikson,
1231:I look over the recipe again. It sounds very simple. You boil some rice in water like pasta, I can do that. You cook some onion in butter, stir in the rice, pop it in the oven. Add some cream and grated cheese and mix it up. And voila! A real dinner.
I pull out a couple of the pots Caroline gave me, and began to get everything laid out. Grant always yammered on about mise en place, that habit of getting all your stuff together before you start cooking s