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the Stack
select ::: Being, God, injunctions, media, place, powers, subjects,
favorite ::: cwsa, everyday, grade, mcw, memcards (table), project, project 0001, Savitri, the Temple of Sages, three js, whiteboard,
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--- DICTIONARIES (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

--- QUOTES [2 / 2 - 175 / 175] (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

KEYS (10k)

   1 Ray Bradbury
   1 H P Lovecraft


   11 Haruki Murakami
   3 Stephen King
   3 Robin Sloan
   3 Ray Bradbury
   3 Neil Gaiman
   3 Austin Kleon
   2 William Ritter
   2 Rick Moody
   2 Nicholas Sparks
   2 Marie Rutkoski
   2 Maggie Stiefvater
   2 Lev Grossman
   2 Lavie Tidhar
   2 Lauren Groff
   2 Khaled Hosseini
   2 Henry David Thoreau
   2 Frances Mayes
   2 Ernest Cline
   2 Ellery Adams
   2 Chelsea M Cameron
   2 Charles Stross
   2 Carl Sandburg
   2 Bren Brown

1:Strange and terrible books were drawn voluminously from the stack shelves and from secure places of storage; and diagrams and formulae were copied with feverish haste and in bewildering abundance. ~ H P Lovecraft,
2:You must write every single day of your life... You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads... may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world. ~ Ray Bradbury,

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:The frog atop the stack of coins dares not jump. ~ Steven Erikson,
2:It's fun to just skim through piles of books in the stacks of a library. ~ John D Agata,
3:One book, printed in the Heart’s own wax / Is worth a thousand in the stacks. ~ Joshua Foer,
4:You look pale,” Soraya repeated, placing the stack of papers on the table. ~ Khaled Hosseini,
5:Oh nookie in the stacks.Figures you're the type to have that fantasy, grad school and all. ~ Chloe Neill,
6:not in any single system, but in the stack of all systems, the accidental megasystem. It ~ Kim Stanley Robinson,
7:And this is an undergrad haunt. You know at least one person has had their tits out in the stacks. ~ Lucy Parker,
8:Being infuriated was actually a boost to my productivity I discovered. I bulldozed through the stack of work on my desk… ~ Andrea Smith,
9:Walking the stacks in a library, dragging your fingers across the spines—it’s hard not to feel the presence of sleeping spirits. ~ Robin Sloan,
10:I watched him walk after Mags and Quentin until he vanished into the stacks. What can I say? He was still wearing leather pants. ~ Seanan McGuire,
11:Walking the stacks in a library, dragging your fingers across the spines -- it's hard not to feel the presence of sleeping spirits. ~ Robin Sloan,
12:You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. ~ Ray Bradbury,
13:Great brand, no resume - no problem. Great resume, no brand? Welcome to position #347 of the stack of five hundred equally great resumes ~ Michael Ellsberg,
14:(leaf through) turn over (the pages of a book or the papers in a pile), reading them quickly or casually: he leafed through the stack of notes. ~ Erin McKean,
15:The Universal Soul, as it is called, has an interest in the stacking of hay, the foddering of cattle, and the draining of peat-meadows. ~ Henry David Thoreau,
16:I put down the stack of pages and turned around to face him directly, just as he’d always taught me to do once I realized I was in for a fight. ~ Joe Schreiber,
17:Subject: You're totally picturing me naked right now


So how about you and I head up to the stacks to do some “shelving”? ~ Chelsea M Cameron,
18:Blue was filled with the uncomfortable certainty that she probably needed to label the stack BLUE SARGENT IS A HYPOCRITE in her own handwriting. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
19:Grandma placed a plate of sandwiches on the table. Piled so high the stack was more precarious than a zombie stood on one leg and told to stop picking bits ~ Al K Line,
20:Books are a form of magic—” the doctor lifted the volume he had just laid on the stack, “—because they span time and distance more surely than any spell or charm. ~ Tad Williams,
21:Heaven, Mori. When I die, this place will be transported right up into the clouds, so I can flit about the stacks for hours on end, reading into eternity. - Sadie ~ Heather W Petty,
22:Trust is the stacking and layering of small moments and reciprocal vulnerability over time. Trust and vulnerability grow together, and to betray one is to destroy both. ~ Bren Brown,
23:I also did something that seems to come naturally to females, although I am sure we are not taught to do it; I placed my underwear in the middle of the stack of clothing. ~ Marlo Morgan,
24:Joe looked at the stacks of books in every corner of the room. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “Rest. I’ll be back tonight. It’s nice that you’re able to talk again, Oskar. ~ Andrew Peterson,
25:He wanted to run through the stacks, pick at the books, sample them one after the other, climb the stacks to their highest reaches and see what treasures were hidden there. ~ Lavie Tidhar,
26:To be contemporary is to rise through the stack of the past, like the fire through the mountain. Only a heat so deeply and intelligently born can carry a new idea into the air. ~ Mary Oliver,
27:mayor’s fundraiser were bright orange and as big as index cards. They were also sequentially numbered. “Blossom, they’ll know if we take one.” Tyler leafed through the stack. ~ Christine Nolfi,
28:Today, if you want to access a typical out-of-print book, you have only one choice - fly to one of a handful of leading libraries in the country and hope to find it in the stacks. ~ Sergey Brin,
29:Reading was a brave spiritual journey for Elena Hood, and little piles of books were for her like the stacks of rubble—the Tibetan prayer walls—that marked the progress of pilgrims. ~ Rick Moody,
30:In the University library he wandered through the stacks, among the thousands of books, inhaling the musty odor of leather, cloth, and drying page as if it were an exotic incense. ~ John Williams,
31:Reading is important. Books are important. Librarians are important. (Also, libraries are not child-care facilities, but sometimes feral children raise themselves among the stacks.) ~ Neil Gaiman,
32:Reading is important.
Books are important.
Librarians are important. (Also, libraries are not child-care facilities, but sometimes feral children raise themselves among the stacks.) ~ Neil Gaiman,
33:I wandered through the stacks, running my hands along the spines of the books on the shelves, they reminded me of cultured or opinionated guests at a wonderful party, whispering to each other. ~ Janet Fitch,
34:a cloudy cocktail called Smoke, made by mixing water and fuel alcohol. Smoke joints were tucked into the back of paint stores, drugstores, and markets, among the dry goods and the stacked cans. ~ Deborah Blum,
35:Now I find the stack of chapters I called Under Magnolia. Why, after many years, even open these flowered folders? Dare alla luce, the Tuscans say at the birth of a baby, to give to the light. ~ Frances Mayes,
36:April, and more bills. I sought distraction and several times a week, I found myself at the public library. There, I wandered the stacks of books or sat in the reading room with a book on my lap. ~ Ann Weisgarber,
37:Strange and terrible books were drawn voluminously from the stack shelves and from secure places of storage; and diagrams and formulae were copied with feverish haste and in bewildering abundance. ~ H P Lovecraft,
38:Where do dreams come from?

...they slink out of books, they lurk in the stacks of libraries. Out of pages turned they rise like the scent of peonies and infect the brain with their promises. ~ Marge Piercy,
39:Always be reading. Go to the library. There's magic in being surrounded by books. Get lost in the stacks. Read bibiliographies. It's not the book you start with, it's the book that book leads you to. ~ Austin Kleon,
40:I believe in the absolute and unlimited liberty of reading. I believe in wandering through the stacks and picking out the first thing that strikes me. I believe in choosing books based on the dust jacket. ~ Rick Moody,
41:Always be reading. Go to the library. There’s magic in
being surrounded by books. Get lost in the stacks. Read
bibliographies. It’s not the book you start with, it’s the book
that book leads you to. ~ Austin Kleon,
42:There were no violins or warning bells when I pulled the janitor’s theme off the top of the stack and set it before me, no sense that my little life was about to change. But we never know, do we? Life turns on a dime. ~ Stephen King,
43:I'm looking for anything interesting in the guitar playing, songwriting, artwork, and production. If you look at the stack of CDs on my desk and in my car, you'll find a very wide range of music under the umbrella of metal. ~ David Pajo,
44:the stacks keeps you on your toes. Besides which, there are rumours of ape-men living down here; I don’t know how the rumours got started, but this place is more than somewhat creepy when you’re on your own late at night. ~ Charles Stross,
45:I was warned I’d see some strange things in the countryside,” he said, “but I admit, I didn’t expect to find a feral librarian roaming the stacks.”
(...)"I didn't expect you to find me, either" she heard herself say. ~ Margaret Rogerson,
46:The writing of the record didn't take long, because I just have a huge stack of papers and I just pluck from the stack. It took a long time because it's very expensive to make records; in fact, I think it's a complete rip-off. ~ Cass McCombs,
47:I always wish people would comment more, though the thing that makes me cringe is when the comment is the name of the function rephrased. Function's called push stack and the comment says, “This pushes to the stack.” Thank you. ~ Peter Seibel,
48:If I died, I didn’t want people remembering me for the stacks of legal briefs I’d written or the corporate trademarks I’d helped defend. I felt certain that I had something more to offer the world. It was time to make a move. ~ Michelle Obama,
49:It's a funny thing about looking for things. If you hunt for a needle in a haystack you don't find it. If you don't give a darn whether you ever see the needle or not it runs into you the first time you lean against the stack. ~ P G Wodehouse,
50:... one of those librarians who rules the stacks with an intimidating scowl, whispers quiet sharply enough to lacerate the tender inner tissues of the ear, and will pursue an overdue-book fine with the ferocity of a rabid ferret. ~ Dean Koontz,
51:Walking the stacks in a library, dragging your fingers across the spines—it’s hard not to feel the presence of sleeping spirits. That’s just a feeling, not a fact, but remember (I repeat): people believe weirder things than this. ~ Robin Sloan,
52:It's not the same." She holds the stack of cones in her hand and leans back against the stage looking at me with a serious face. "You and i, we're not the same. Not even close. I said yes, and you didn't even get asked the question. ~ E K Johnston,
53:pulled the money bag up to the passenger seat. He reached inside the bag, pulled out a banded stack of bills. It was a half inch thick, all hundreds. He riffled the stack with his thumb, put it back in the bag, and attempted to tally the number of ~ John Sandford,
54:The nurse reached over and patted the stack of papers she had beside her before glancing back up at the blond again. “I’m plugging in meds and test results.” “Blah, blah, blah. Don’t let her fool you, she’s a Twitter whore. On it all the fucking time ~ Abbi Glines,
55:I scowled and stabbed begrudginly at the stack before scooping up a bite with my fork, but it toppled over and plopped into my lap. I groaned and banged my head on the counter.
Mom frowned, 'You have to be smarter than the pancakes, Ellie. ~ Courtney Allison Moulton,
56:Debatable how long the seduction took. The smarter the girl, the swifter these things go. Physical forwardness as intellectual high-wire act: the pleasure not of pleasure but of performance and revenge against the retainer, the flute, the stack of expectations. ~ Lauren Groff,
57:You must write every single day of your life... You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads... may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world. ~ Ray Bradbury,
58:Looking around, I wondered why Halliday, who always claimed to have had a miserable childhood, had later become so nostalgic for it. I knew that if and when I finally escaped from the stacks, I’d never look back. And I definitely wouldn’t create a detailed simulation of the place. ~ Ernest Cline,
59:Still now I send letters into space
Hoping that some mailman somewhere will track you down
And recognise you from the descriptions in my poems
That he will place the stack of them in your hands and tell you,
There is a girl who still writes you, she doesn't know how not to ~ Sarah Kay,
60:The library was still giving trouble: a few books in some of the more obscure corners of the stacks retained some autonomy, dating back to an infamous early experiment with flying books, and lately they’d begun to breed. Shocked undergraduates had stumbled on books in the very act. ~ Lev Grossman,
61:Baba dropped the stack of food stamps on her desk. "Thank you but I don't want," Baba said. "I work always. In Afghanistan I work, in America I work. Thank you very much, Mrs. Dobbins, but I don't like it free money."...Baba walked out of the welfare office like a man cured of a tumor. ~ Khaled Hosseini,
62:I wait, browsing the stacks, thinking that the library is both the bookstore’s enemy and our friend. They have everything here—why would anyone ever need to buy a book? On the other hand, there is nothing like the library to awaken a reader to the endless possibilities of the written word. ~ Cynthia Swanson,
63:Sit down, Skip. I’m not finished.” Mulcahy stood up, brandishing the stack of columns. “You know what makes me sad? You’re such a damn good writer, too good to be turning out shit like this. Something’s happened the last few months. You’ve been slipping away. I think you’re sick.” Wiley winced. “Sick? ~ Carl Hiaasen,
64:He wandered off into the stacks, pulling a book here and there, looking at it, putting it back. Choosing books was serious business. You had to be careful. If you were a grownup you could have as many as you wanted, but kids could only take out three at a time. If you picked a dud, you were stuck with it. ~ Stephen King,
65:It was still pretty dark down here, so I took out my flashlight and headed east, weaving my way through the dark maze, doing my best to remain unseen while being careful to avoid tripping over a shopping cart, engine block, or one of the other pieces of junk littering the narrow alleys between the stacks. ~ Ernest Cline,
66:Did it have a name, this project?” “Yes. The books and posters are called MAGIC CIRCLE OF SAFETY, but she said I’d find it in the stacks under a very strange reference—KGB.2.YA—what’s so funny? Bob? Are you choking? Bob? Bob? Do you need help?” Kiss Good-Bye 2 Your Ass: I love the Laundry sense of humor. ~ Charles Stross,
67:These are the things that life is all about. These moments. It’s not about the rituals. It’s not about getting by. It’s about the stack of tiny little moments of joy and love that add up to a lifetime that’s been worthwhile. You can’t measure them; you can only capture them, like snapshots in your mind. ~ C Robert Cargill,
68:But beneath them all, at the very bottom of the stack, is a worn and slightly tattered magazine called African Mamas Sucking Hog. I flip through it real quick; a bunch of young black girls dressed like Kenyans giving fat-ass bikers blow jobs. I smile at this; Elroy the scholar. Elroy the sicko masturbator. ~ Andre Dubus III,
69:I slept that night in the room I used to have when I was a little boy, with the summer wind blowing in at the windows, bringing the smell of the ripe fields. I lay awake and watched the moonlight shining over the barn and the stacks and the pond, and the windmill making its old dark shadow against the blue sky. ~ Willa Cather,
70:There’s a terrible pattern in organizations in which leaders turn to their teams, or their investors, or their board, and say “You need to trust me.” Typically, that happens in a moment of crisis, when it is far too late. Trust is the stacking of small moments over time, something that cannot be summoned with a command ~ Bren Brown,
71:Allie would love what you've done," he remarked. "She was always a softie when it came to things like this." I folded my hands in my lap. "I wish she could be there this weekend." Noah glanced at the stack of letters. I knew he was imagining Allie, and for a brief moment, he looked strangely younger. "So do I," he said. ~ Nicholas Sparks,
72:Al walks in, and I don't even have to ask him to help me, he just walks over and strips bedding with me. i will have to scrub the frame later. Al carries the stack of sheets to the trash and together we walk toward the training room. "Ignore him," Al says. "He's an idiot, and if you don't get angry, he'll stop eventually. ~ Veronica Roth,
73:My name is Herondale," the boy said cheerfully. "William Herondale, but everyone calls me Will. Is this really your room? Not very nice, is it?" He wandered toward the window, pausing to examine the stacks of books on her bedside table, and then the bed itself. He waved a hand at the ropes. "Do you often sleep tied to the bed? ~ Cassandra Clare,
74:She wrote to tell me she’d moved in with him, that he’d gotten her a job, a good-paying job…” He slid the manila folder across the table. On top of the stack inside was a ragged newspaper clipping, torn from the Vegas Sun, and the stark headline told the story. “Porn Star Drowns in Storm Tunnel.” I didn’t need to read the article. ~ Craig Schaefer,
75:Allie would love what you've done," he remarked. "She was always a softie when it came to things like this."
I folded my hands in my lap. "I wish she could be there this weekend."
Noah glanced at the stack of letters. I knew he was imagining Allie, and for a brief moment, he looked strangely younger.
"So do I," he said. ~ Nicholas Sparks,
76:She planned to fix herself a cup of lemon-ginger tea and pick a book from the stack on her coffee table. It didn’t matter which title she chose, every book had something unique to offer. They were memories she’d yet to make. Worlds she’d yet to discover. Friends she’d yet to meet. And she was looking forward to making their acquaintance. ~ Ellery Adams,
77:Walk it off, man" he suggested with a smirk as he began leading him by the elbow out of the chaos of the stacks and toward the hallway.
"Bastard, " Zane hissed.[]You'd probably say that if I lost a leg."
"Nah," Ty scoffed as they got out into the hall. []"I'd probably say hop it off," he corrected with a barely restrained snicker. ~ Abigail Roux,
78:It had the side-to-side proportions of a small sitting room, but its floor was way below. Absurdly deep. Steps angled down. It was a shaft of roomness, shelved with books. Ladders dangled from the stacks. As the church’s holdings grew, Billy thought, horizontal constraints required generations of kraken worshippers to dig for their library. ~ China Mi ville,
79:The library was home away from home to my mom, and my family. We had spent every Sunday afternoon there since I was a little boy, wandering around the stacks, pulling out every book with a picture of a pirate ship, a knight, a soldier, or an astronaut. My mom used to say, "This is my church, Ethan. This is how we keep the Sabbath holy in our family. ~ Kami Garcia,
80:I was shocked at college to see one hundred of my classmates in the library all reading copies of the same book. Instead of doing as they did, I went into the stacks and read the first book written by an author whose name began with Z. I received the highest grade in the class. That convinced me that the institution was not being run correctly. I left. ~ John Cage,
81:This sounds corny, but I once told a kid when I was in a the library conference, the best - not the best, what I really hope for is that someday 20, 30 years from now, some kid, 12-year-old, 15-year-old, in Des Moines will be going through the stacks, if they have stacks anymore - they probably won't - and find a book of mine and get something from it. ~ Nat Hentoff,
82:When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but to a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas. I think of the books on library shelves, without their jackets, years old, and a countryish teen-aged boy finding them, and having them speak to him. The review, the stacks in Brentano's, are just hurdles to get over, to place the books on that shelf. ~ John Updike,
83:But inside our heads – at least that’s where I imagine it – there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. ~ Haruki Murakami,
84:I wandered past the stacks of drying wood, thinking about how many great skills the world had lost, how many things of value had passed without any of us even noticing. The old men with their chisels and handsaws would have once been the most highly paid members of their community and what had we put in their place? Financial engineers and young currency traders. ~ Terry Hayes,
85:I'm old enough to remember when the air over American cities was a lot dirtier than it is now. You've probably never woken up early on a winter morning to the acid stink of coal smoke in the air, which was everywhere when I was a little kid. My grade school was heated with coal. Not only was coal used to generate electricity, it was without any scrubbers in the stacks. ~ P J O Rourke,
86:Debatable how long the seduction took. The smarter the girl, the swifter these things go. Physical forwardness as intellectual highwire act: the pleasure not of pleasure but of performance and revenge against the retainer, the flute, the stack of expectations. Sex as rebellion against the way things should be. [Sounds familiar? It is. No story on earth more common.] For ~ Lauren Groff,
87:Finally, she turned and headed for home. She planned to fix herself a cup of lemon-ginger tea and pick a book from the stack on her coffee table. It didn’t matter which title she chose, every book had something unique to offer. They were memories she’d yet to make. Worlds she’d yet to discover. Friends she’d yet to meet. And she was looking forward to making their acquaintance. ~ Ellery Adams,
88:First thing I do when I get in a library is - I go to the stacks and nose around. The idea is - you don't know what you're interested in. That's why it's possible to be surprised. So, instead of looking for things in particular, you look for what you didn't know you liked, and then when you find it you know that you liked it, and then you are a broader person than you were before. ~ Jesse Ball,
89:THREE-QUARTERS OF A CENTURY dances by in a five-second flip. Nicholas Hoel thumbs through the stack of a thousand photos, watching for those decades’ secret meaning. At twenty-five, he’s back for a moment on the farm where he has spent every Christmas of his life. He’s lucky to be there, given the cancellations. Snowstorms sweep in from the west, grounding planes all over the country ~ Richard Powers,
90:The proverbial German phenomenon of the verb-at-the-end about which droll tales of absentminded professors who would begin a sentence, ramble on for an entire lecture, and then finish up by rattling off a string of verbs by which their audience, for whom the stack had long since lost its coherence, would be totally nonplussed, are told, is an excellent example of linguistic recursion. ~ Douglas Hofstadter,
91:Always be reading. Go to the library. There’s magic in being surrounded by books. Get lost in the stacks. Read bibliographies. It’s not the book you start with, it’s the book that book leads you to. Collect books, even if you don’t plan on reading them right away. Filmmaker John Waters has said, “Nothing is more important than an unread library.” Don’t worry about doing research. Just search. ~ Austin Kleon,
92:A reader's tastes are peculiar. Choosing books to read is like making your way down a remote and winding path. Your stops on that path are always idiosyncratic. One book leads to another and another the way one thought leads to another and another. My type of reader is the sort who burrows through the stacks in the bookstore or the library (or the Web site — stacks are stacks), yielding to impulse and instinct. ~ Jane Smiley,
93:I’d taken a few swipes with Occam’s razor, and that was what I’d ended up with, but that didn’t make it so. I really didn’t want to have to retreat and regroup with Peele and Alice breathing down my neck on either side. There were still those last few boxes, though. It was possible that Sod’s Law was operating, and that the ghost’s anchor was just going to turn out to be one of the documents at the very bottom of the stack. ~ Mike Carey,
94:It’s so easy to say yes. Yes to another feature, yes to an overly optimistic deadline, yes to a mediocre design. Soon, the stack of things you’ve said yes to grows so tall you can’t even see the things you should really be doing. Start getting into the habit of saying no—even to many of your best ideas. Use the power of no to get your priorities straight. You rarely regret saying no. But you often wind up regretting saying yes. ~ Jason Fried,
95:Zev finished drying his

body, hung his towel, and then headed into Jonah’s bedroom. He noted

the stacks of boxes in the corner, Jonah’s belongings ready for his

move, and felt a stab in his chest. With a hand pressing down against

his heart, Zev settled into Jonah’s bed and thought about how to handle

the situation facing him.

True mates didn’t separate. Not ever, not for any length of time. ~ Cardeno C,
96:I smiled at the stacks, inhaling again. Hundreds of thousands of pages that had never been turned, waiting for me. The shelves were a warm, blond wood, piled with spines of every color. Staff picks were arranged on tables, glossy covers reflecting the light back at me. Behind the little cubby where the cashier sat, ignoring us, stairs covered with rich burgundy carpet led up to the worlds unknown. 'I could just live here,' I said. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
97:Spanish, huh?" he said, glancing down at the scattered papers as he grabbed them. "Can you say anything interesting?"
"El tono de tu voz hace que queria estrangularme." I stood up and waited for him to hand over my papers.
"That sounds sexy," he said, getting to his feet and handing me the stack of Spanish work he'd swept together. "What's it mean?"
"The sound of your voice makes me want to strangle myself."
"Kinky. ~ Kody Keplinger,
98:Most people either love or hate old libraries. To some, a room like this--dim, high-ceilinged, dusty, smelling of old paper and crumbling leather--would be oppressive, a place to flee from in search of sun and air. To others, like me, it was a wonderful cave filled with unimaginable treasures and unexpected treats. I always found myself inhaling deeply when I entered the stacks, as if trying to absorb part of them into my bloodstream. ~ Sheila Connolly,
99:Next morning at breakfast he paid Mamma four hundred dollars, cash on the table, for that one night. I watched him count the money out of his wallet, and while I watched I thought what a good thing it was I hadnt told even Mamma about the altar boys those times in the sacristy, behind the stacks of missals. All told, she got twelve hundred dollars for just the last three weeks of June, plus Pullman tickets for both of us back to New Orleans. ~ Shelby Foote,
100:By the time the elevator opened on the 24th floor, I was in serious pain and afraid I would lose all feeling in my arms, drop the papers and wind up spending the rest of the day on the floor putting them back in the correct order. I walked as fast as I could to Rob’s office, quite the challenge since I could barely see over the documents and, out of breath, placed them on his desk. I momentarily kept a hand on either side of the stack in case the papers fell. ~ Meredith Schorr,
101:The comic on the top of the stack catches my eye. Is this the end for Commander Justice? I wish, but of course it isn’t. I flip through the first few pages before tossing the candy-colored propaganda aside. “You really shouldn’t read this crap,” I tell Carl when he finally comes back into the room. “It can’t be doing anything for your confidence.” “I need to keep up with his latest crime-fighting techniques.” “No, you don’t. You need to shoot him in the face. ~ John Joseph Adams,
102:This is taken from his acceptance speech when he received the Newbery Medal.
"I don't know what I actually said tonight. I know what I want to say though.
Reading is important
Books are important
Libraries are important. (Also, Libraries are not child-care facilities, but sometimes feral children raise themselves among the stacks). It is a glorious and unlikely thing to be cool to your children.
Children's fiction is the most important fiction of all/ ~ Neil Gaiman,
103:Women occupied many of the cubicles; they answered phones and sat in front of typewriters, but they also made hieroglyphic marks on transparent slides and conferred with my father and other men in the office on the stacks of documents that littered their desks. That so many of them were African American, many of them my grandmother’s age, struck me as simply a part of the natural order of things: growing up in Hampton, the face of science was brown like mine. ~ Margot Lee Shetterly,
104:The Web is cool, but the library is magic. Where else can the spirit of generations of writers stir your soul? So many writers talk about libraries setting them on their magical paths, it's almost a groaner. But we know it's true. Wander through the stacks and you can feel the dreams, the unique worlds bubbling within each volume. The magic enters you as if by osmosis. On the Web, you may feel clever, lucky and driven to download--but rarely inspired to dream and to write. ~ Arthur Plotnik,
105:Libraries have always been mysterious, almost mystical places to me. There’s something about the sheer vastness of them, the seemingly infinite number of books they protect and keep, that inspires a sense of wonder, making each visit feel like a quest for ancient secrets. Whenever I step into one, I always wander the stacks, choosing books by some invisible pull rather than by the author’s name or the catalog. It’s not efficient, but I can’t help it. It feels more magical this way. ~ Peng Shepherd,
106:But as he sat still for a moment, and as he steadfastly looked into the mate's malignant eye and perceived the stacks of powder-casks heaped up in him and the slow-match silently burning along towards them; as he instinctively saw all this, that strange forbearance and unwillingness to stir up the deeper passionateness in any already ireful being—a repugnance most felt, when felt at all, by really valiant men even when aggrieved— this nameless phantom feeling, gentlemen, stole over Steelkilt. ~ Herman Melville,
107:The stack of her medical files that confronted me at the nurses’ station was about four feet high, taller than the shrunken little girl herself. Laura’s story, like that of the children of Waco, helped us learn more about how children respond to early experience. It illustrates how the mind and body cannot be treated separately, reveals what infants and young children need for healthy brain development and demonstrates how neglecting those needs can have a profound impact on every aspect of a child’s growth. ~ Bruce D Perry,
108:In that instant it all seemed to come clear to him- it came in a grisly flash of light, and he realized that the vote they had taken as children was a joke. There was no turning back, never had been. They were on a track as preordained as the memory-track which had caused him to look up when he passed under the stairway leading to the stacks. There was an echo here in Derry, a deadly echo, and all they could hope for was that the echo could be changed enough in their favor to allow them to escape with their lives. ~ Stephen King,
109:This place might have been paradise, a treasure trove far greater than any to be found in a pirate yarn.

Everywhere he looked there were books.

They rose into the air in majestic columns, stacks and stacks of them forming a maze that seemed to stretch to forever; the stacks rose high into the air and disappeared towards the unseen ceiling. The air had the overwhelming smell of old books, of polished leather, and yellowing leaves, like the smell of a bookshop or a public library magnified a thousand-fold. ~ Lavie Tidhar,
110:Subject: This is a work environment and this is harassment

Mr. Zaccadelli,

I am writing to inform you that your proposition has been rejected. Due to both the fact that we are coworkers, as well as roommates, I would find it inappropriate to “visit the stacks” with you. I will reject all further offers at this time. If, in the future, I decide to entertain such an offer, I will inform you via correspondence.

Respectfully (not) yours,

Miss Taylor Caldwell

P.S. Stop fucking emailing me. ~ Chelsea M Cameron,
111:I took a last nervous glance at myself in the mirror. I’d brushed the thick waves of my hair until they shimmered down my back, and I’d dressed them off my face with a circlet of red gold that twined about my brow. I had to admit, the look suited me. A gown of leaf-green wool under a russet-and-purple mantle draped the lines of my body. The torc around my neck gleamed, and the stacked bronze and silver bangles on my wrists jangled as I pushed aside my door curtain and headed up the winding path to my father’s great hall. ~ Lesley Livingston,
112:Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads - at least that's where I imagine it - there's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live forever in your own private library. ~ Haruki Murakami,
113:The new pornography would combine sexual excitement with an interest in other human ideals. The usual animalistic categories and hackneyed plots, replete with stock characters seemingly incapable of coherent speech, would give way to pornographic images and scenarios based aorund such qualities as intelligence (showing people reading or wandering the stacks in libraries), kindness (people performing oral sex on one another with an air of sweetness and regard) or humility (people caught looking embarrassed, shy or self-conscious). ~ Alain de Botton,
114:Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That’s part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads – at least that’s where I imagine it – there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live for ever in your own private library. ~ Haruki Murakami,
115:...I was the beginning, the middle and the end all rolled into one small boy, already old, already dead, here, in the shadows, between the stacks of plates higher than himself, and outside, very far away, in the cast and gloomy sunshine of glory. I was the particle at the beginning of its trajectory and the series of waves which flows back on it after it has struck the terminal buffer. Reassembled and compressed, one hand on my tomb and the other on my cradle, I felt brief and splendid, a flash of lightening swallowed up in darkness. ~ Jean Paul Sartre,
116:Barrett opened the door and stepped into the large, spacious corner office of Cordell Hull, the U.S. secretary of state. “What’s the matter, Bill?” Hull asked, looking up from the stack of papers on his large oak desk. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” “It’s the Czechs, sir,” Barrett said. “What about them?” “Hitler’s forces just crossed their border.” Hull was aghast. “Germany has invaded Czechoslovakia?” “I’m afraid so, sir.” “This is confirmed?” Barrett nodded. “Very well,” Hull said. “Get the White House on the line. I need to see the president. ~ Joel C Rosenberg,
117:Time overlaps itself. A breath breathed from a passing breeze is not the whole wind, neither is it just the last of what has passed and the first of what will come, but is more--let me see--more like a single point plucked on a single strand of a vast spider web of winds, setting the whole scene atingle. That way; it overlaps...As prehistoric ferns grow from bathtub planters. As a shiny new ax, taking a swing at somebody's next year's split-level pinewood pad, bites all the way to the Civil War. As proposed highways break down through the stacked strata of centuries. ~ Ken Kesey,
118:I’ve learned that for hoarders, every cleanup is a grieving process. We are asking them to say goodbye to items that are heavy with memories - some wonderful, some painful. But all are important and deserve respect. A hoarder finds safety in the hoard, in the stacks and piles, and he or she will grieve over the loss of those items when they are gone. The week after the house cleaning is usually the worst. Instead of being happy and enjoying the new space, hoarders go through a difficult process. They miss their possessions, which were their closest friends for years. ~ Matt Paxton,
119:In summer we live out of doors, and have only impulses and feelings, which are all for action, and must wait commonly for the stillness and longer nights of autumn and winter before any thought will subside; we are sensible that behind the rustling leaves, and the stacks of grain, and the bare clusters of the grape, there is the field of a wholly new life, which no man has lived; that even this earth was made for more mysterious and nobler inhabitants than men and women. In the hues of October sunsets, we see the portals to other mansions than those which we occupy. ~ Henry David Thoreau,
120:Let's go down there!" She was pointing to a flat stretch on the other side of the hill where along the green turf were a thousand grayish-white crosses stretching in endless, ordered rows like the stacked arms of a battalion. "Those are the Confederate dead," said Sally Carrol simply. They walked along and read the inscriptions, always only a name and a date, sometimes quite indecipherable. "The last row is the saddest—see, 'way over there. Every cross has just a date on it and the word 'Unknown.'" She looked at him and her eyes brimmed with tears. "I can't tell you how real ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,
121:Every one of us is losing something precious to us, lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads-at least that's where I imagine it-there's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live forever in your own private library. ~ Haruki Murakami,
122:Every one of us is losing something precious to us. Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads--at least that's where I imagine it--there's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live forever in your own private library. ~ Haruki Murakami,
123:Every one of us is losing something precious to us... Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That's what part of it means to be alive. But inside our heads- at least that's where I imagine it- there's a litle room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let fresh air in, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live for ever in your own private library. ~ Haruki Murakami,
124:Every one of us is losing something precious to us. Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That’s part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads — at least that’s where I imagine it — there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live for ever in your own private library. ~ Haruki Murakami,
125:Every one of us is losing something precious to us. Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That’s what part of it means to be alive. But inside our heads — at least that’s where I imagine it — there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let fresh air in, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live for ever in your own private library. ~ Haruki Murakami,
126:One of the great Confederate combat leaders, General John B. Gordon, had sat at his horse and spoken farewell to his men. Some he had seen weeping as they folded burnt and shot-pierced battle flags and laid them on the stacked arms of surrender. As he told his troops his own grief he tried to give them hope to rebuild out of the poverty and ashes to which many would return. Gordon would never forget a Kentucky father who lost two sons, one dying for the North, the other for the South. Over the two graves of his soldier boys the father set up a joint monument inscribed "God knows which was right. ~ Carl Sandburg,
127:Now he would prowl the stacks of the library at night, pulling books out of a thousand shelves and reading them like a madman. The thought of these vast stacks of books would drive him mad: the more he read, the less he seemed to know—the greater the number of the books he read, the greater the immense uncountable number of those which he could never read would seem to be.... He read insanely, by the hundreds, the thousands, the ten thousands. . . . [T]he thought that other books were waiting for him tore at his heart forever. He pictured himself as tearing the entrails from a book as from a fowl. ~ Matthew Battles,
128:Civilization Number 184 was destroyed by the stacked gravitational attractions of a tri-solar syzygy. This civilization had advanced to the Scientific Revolution and the Industrial Revolution. In this civilization, Newton established nonrelativistic classical mechanics. At the same time, due to the invention of calculus and the Von Neumann architecture computer, the foundation was set for the quantitative mathematical analysis of the motion of three bodies. After a long time, life and civilization will begin once more, and progress through the unpredictable world of Three Body. We invite you to log on again. ~ Liu Cixin,
129:Sicarius,” Amaranthe said quietly.

He bent low, eyes toward her face.

With the men laughing and talking up front, and the lorry clacking and chugging as the stack billowed black smoke into the air, this was scarcely a romantic spot. But maybe it did not matter. His response would not likely be to wrap her in his arms and kiss her. Whatever response he gave — if he gave one at all — she anticipated it would sting.

“I…uhm…” Amaranthe forced herself to meet his gaze. “I love you.”

A long moment passed. She did not remember breathing.

Sicarius nodded infinitesimally. “I know. ~ Lindsay Buroker,
130:Every one of us is losing something precious to us,” he says after the phone stops ringing. “Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That’s part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads—at least that’s where I imagine it—there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live forever in your own private library. ~ Haruki Murakami,
131:Derek's change came faster now and maybe a bit easier--no vomiting this time. Finally it was over, and he fell onto his side, panting, shaking, and shivering. Then he reached for my hand, holding it tight, and I entwined my fingers with his, shifting closer and using my free hand to brush sweaty hair from his face.
"Whoa," a voice said, making both of us jump. Simon stood in the entrance to our corner, a pile of fabric in his hands. "You really need to get dressed before you start that."
"I'm not starting anything," Derek said.
"Still..." He held out the stack in his hands. "Dr. Fellows dug up some hospital greens for you. Get dressed and then... whatever ~ Kelley Armstrong,
132:The tradition among libraries of boasting about the number of volumes in their collection is well established, but surely, it is not aggregation that makes a library; it is dissemination. Perhaps libraries should bang on about how many volumes are on loan, are presently off crowding nightstands, and circulating through piles on the mantel, and weighing down purses. Yes, it is somewhat vexing to thread through the stacks of a library, only to discover an absence rather than the sought-after volume, but once the ire subsides, doesn’t one feel a sense of community? The gaps in a library are like footprints in the sand; they show us where others have gone before; they assure us we are not alone. ~ Josiah Bancroft,
133:The Art of Papier-Mâché,” he said, reading the title of the lowest book in the stack. He pointed to the ledger above it. “I want you to record notes on it while you read. Take thorough enough notes and I won’t make you write a report.”
Ceony’s jaw fell. “But—”
A Living Paper Garden,” he said, gesturing to the next book in the stack. “Do the same. I bookmarked chapters five, six, and twelve; they have exercises in them I’d like you to do. And A Tale of Two Cities. It’s just a good book. Have you read it?”
Ceony stared at the paper magician, words caught in her throat. He’d gone mad again. He’d tricked her into thinking he wasn’t mad, and yet now he’d proved— ~ Charlie N Holmberg,
134:There were pools of light among the stacks, directly beneath the bulbs which Philip had switched on, but it was now with an unexpected fearfulness that he saw how the books stretched away into the darkness. They seemed to expand as soon as they reached the shadows, creating some dark world where there was no beginning and no end, no story, no meaning. And if you crossed the threshold into that world, you would be surrounded by words; you would crush them beneath your feet, you would knock against them with your head and arms, but if you tried to grasp them they would melt away. Philip did not dare turn his back upon these books. Not yet. It was almost, he thought, as if they had been speaking to each other while he slept. ~ Peter Ackroyd,
135:Consider, for example, the following puzzle. I give you a large piece of paper, and I ask you to fold it over once, and then take that folded paper and fold it over again, and then again, and again, until you have refolded the original paper 50 times. How tall do you think the final stack is going to be? In answer to that question, most people will fold the sheet in their mind’s eye, and guess that the pile would be as thick as a phone book or, if they’re really courageous, they’ll say that it would be as tall as a refrigerator. But the real answer is that the height of the stack would approximate the distance to the sun. And if you folded it over one more time, the stack would be as high as the distance to the sun and back. ~ Malcolm Gladwell,
136:The video switched to somewhere outdoors, where books looked like they were being tossed into a pile. The camera focused on one book, it was a Bible, then focused on some of the other books; they were either Bibles or hymnals. Everyone at Camp 13 knew what was coming, and it bothered them greatly. Some of the younger children began crying because they knew this was not right. This was a book burning, specifically the burning of their Bibles and the hymnals they used in church. This went on for ten minutes, when it showed Simmons walking to the stack and lighting it on fire with a torch. Simmons bounced up and down, clapping in glee, as the books burned and turned into a bonfire. Everyone involved in the burning looked pleased with themselves. ~ Cliff Ball,
137:The library was still giving trouble: a few books in some of the more obscure corners of the stacks retained some autonomy, dating back to an infamous early experiment with flying books, and lately they'd begun to breed. Shocked undergraduates had stumbled on books in the very act.
Which sounded interesting, but so far the resulting offspring had either been predictably derivative (in fiction) or stunningly boring (nonfiction); hybrid pairings between fiction and nonfiction were the most vital. The librarian thought the problem was just that the right books weren't breeding with each other and proposed a forced mating program. The library committee had an epic secret meeting about the ethics of literary eugenics which ended in a furious deadlock. ~ Lev Grossman,
138:They went back to work. There were no more callouts for Ballard that shift. She got her report writing finished and filed and then joined Bosch on the FI cards. By dawn they had made it through the two boxes they brought from storage. Fifty more cards were added to the stack that warranted a second look but did not rise to the level of requiring immediate action. As they worked through the cards, they had talked and Bosch had told her stories about his days in Hollywood Homicide in the 1990s. She noticed that he, or in some instances the media, had given names to many of his cases: the Woman in the Suitcase, the Man with No Hands, the Dollmaker, and so on. It was as though homicides back then were an event. Now it seemed that nothing was new, nothing shocked ~ Michael Connelly,
139:We'd already talked in the stacks, and I knew you were different from any other girl I'd met. And you told me that your parents were dead, and I thought that you were so . . . lost and vulnerable. So when I saw you in the physics lab . . . and I saw you try and take care of someone that you thought who had been through what you'd been through; could be that . . . well, generous, and thoughtfull . . ." Guy said.
"But you hardly knew me." said Willow
"I know . . . I didn't know that we'd even talk again, or that if we did, if we'd get along, or maybe you were seeing someone else . . . I just knew that the way you tried to protect someone's life that, especially given your situation . . . I just . . . I though that you had to be the most special girl I would ever meet . . . ~ Julia Hoban,
140:If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories — science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world. ~ Ray Bradbury,
141:If we were going to determine what was broken in the radios, we needed a power source. With no electricity, this meant batteries. [...] we'd walk to the trading center and look for used cells that had been tossed in the waste bins. [...]

First we'd test the battery to see if any juice was left in it. We'd attach two wires to the positive and negative ends and connect them to a torch bulb. The brighter the bulb, the stronger the battery. Next we'd flatten the Shake Shake carton and roll it into a tube, then stack the batteries inside, making sure the positives and negatives faced in the same direction. Then we'd run wires from each end of the stack to the positive and negative heads inside the radio, where the batteries normally go. Together, this stack of dead batteries usually contained enough juice to power a radio. ~ William Kamkwamba,
142:Finally I find it, the book, but as I’m pulling it out of the stack I hear a noise coming from my toy room. It sounds like scratching or scraping maybe and my mind instantly goes to the possibility that maybe it’s a monster or a dragon or something else with claws. My hand shakes a little as I stand up and turn back toward the room. When I step into it, I feel the wind hit my cheeks. I shine the light around and notice one of the windows is open. I don’t understand why. I didn’t open it and I don’t think it was open when I came down here. What if it was a monster?

I sweep the flashlight around the room at all my toys as I start back toward the corner. Then the light lands on something tall… I hear voices. Ones that don’t sound like they belong to a monster, but just people. But that’s what they end up being.

Terrible, horrible monsters. ~ Jessica Sorensen,
143:-and finally, to all of you who've come here tonight to celebrate children's books: every time you find the right, the necessary book for a child - a book about sadness overcome, unfairness battled, hearts mended - you perform the best kind of magic. It doesn't matter if it's about a gorilla or a nuclear physicist, a puppeteer, a motherless girl, or a clueless fish. If it's the right book, you've allowed a child to make a leap our of her own life, with all its limitations and fears - and yes, sometimes sadness - into another, to imagine new possibilities for herself and for the world. Every time you book-talk a new title, every time you wander the stacks trying to find that elusive, well-thumbed series paperback, every time you give just the right book to just the right child, you're saying, "You, my friend, have potential." That is a gift. That is a miracle. ~ Katherine Applegate,
144:Trudi’s gift lay in knowing. Knowing the words that named the thoughts inside people’s minds, the words that masked the fears and secrets inside their hearts. To force their secrets to the surface like water farts and let them rip through the silence. They called her a snoop, a meddler. But even though she was more inconvenient to them than ever before, they kept coming back—to borrow books, they liked to believe—yet, what they really came for, even those who feared Trudi Montag, were the stories she told them about their neighbors and relatives. What they brought Trudi in return were stories of their own lives, which they yielded to her questions or, unknowingly, to her ears as she overheard them talk to each other between the stacks; and they didn’t even miss what she had taken from them until the words they’d bartered in return for her tales had ripened into new stories that ~ Ursula Hegi,
145:But there’s one thing I want you to remember, Kafka. Those are exactly the kind of people who murdered Miss Saeki’s childhood sweetheart. Narrow minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe. Of course it’s important to know what’s right and what’s wrong. Individual errors in judgment can usually be corrected. As long as you have the courage to admit mistakes, things can be turned around. But intolerant, narrow minds with no imagination are like parasites that transform the host, change form, and continue to thrive. They’re a lost cause, and I don’t want anyone like that coming in here.” Oshima points at the stacks with the tip of his pencil. What he means, of course, is the entire library. “I wish I could just laugh off people like that, but I can’t. ~ Haruki Murakami,
146:The stacks of pav have been sprinkled with chutney—
the top half of the inside of the bun is bathed in green chutney, the bottom with red garlic chutney—
and the assistant reaches out with one hand, in one continuous arc of his arm opening the pav, scooping up two of the vadas, one in each nest of pav, and delivering it to the hungry customer. I walk away from the stall and crush the vada by pressing down on it with the pav; little cracks appear in the crispy surface, and the vada oozes out its potato-and-pea mixture. I eat. The crispy batter, the mouthful of sweet-soft pav tempering the heat of the chutney, the spices of the vada mixture —dark with garam masala and studded with whole cloves of garlic that look like cashews—get masticated into a good mouthful, a good mouth-feel. My stomach is getting filled, and I feel I am eating something nourishing after a long spell of sobbing. Borkar has done his dharma. ~ Suketu Mehta,
147:A smaller plate got mixed in with the large ones I’m working on. I’m tempted to put it back into the dishwasher by the other plates that size, but that’s—that’s probably weird, I think, and Mirjam is looking, so I just set it aside for a stack of its own. “We were selected early on. We couldn’t make it on board sooner.”
I have no idea if that lie will hold water, but Mirjam is nodding. “Gotcha. I was happy to move on board, myself. Someone broke into our house the other month—looking for food, I guess—and it didn’t feel safe after that. Plus, it was cold. We had to board up the window they broke, and couldn’t find anyone to fix it properly.”
“That sucks,” I say—usually a safe response.
“Tell me about it.”
I have a nice stack of plates now. I put my hands on each side of it, straightening the stack before reaching for the first batch of small plates. There’s a sense of relief when I add them to the single plate I set aside. ~ Corinne Duyvis,
148: Guide To The Other Gallery
This is the hall of broken limbs
Where splintered marble athletes lie
Beside the arms of cherubim.
Nothing is ever thrown away.
These butterflies are set in rows.
So small and gray inside their case
They look alike now. I suppose
Death makes most creatures commonplace.
These portraits here of the unknown
Are hung three high, frame piled on frame.
Each potent soul who craved renown,
Immortalized without a name.
Here are the shelves of unread books,
Millions of pages turning brown.
Visitors wander through the stacks,
But no one ever takes one down.
I wish I were a better guide.
There's so much more that you should see.
Rows of bottles with nothing inside.
Displays of locks which have no key.
You'd like to go? I wish you could.
This room has such a peaceful view.
Look at that case of antique wood
Without a label. It's for you.
~ Dana Gioia,
149:Problem?” a silky voice murmured.
I ignored Torin and turned my attention to the stack of notebooks near the couch.
“I am sorry for what I said about your father this morning,” he said. “It was beneath me.”
I still didn’t say anything.
“Being trapped thus is incredibly frustrating for me, and occasionally I take it out on others. Again, I apologize. Now, if you’d like, I can help you with what you’re seeking.”
Knowing I’d probably regret it, I crossed the rom and yanked the canvas off the mirror. As before, he was sitting on the table, smirking at me.
“Jackass, jackass on the wall, where’s the info on Hex Hall?”
Torin laughed long and loud at that, and I saw that his teeth were slightly crooked. Seeing as how he was from the sixteenth century, I guess he was lucky to have any teeth at all.
“Oh, I do like you,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “All these bloody warrior women are so serious. It’s nice to have a real wit around the place again. ~ Rachel Hawkins,
150:I will say tell me. Tell me how much we’ll have to live by after the emperor’s tithe. You’ll say you don’t know. You have no intention of knowing.”
Kestrel had risen from her seat.
“Then I will be silent,” Arin said, “and you will stir your tea. You will drink and I will drink. There. Is that how it will be?”
Kestrel was light-headed. “Go away,” she whispered, though she was the one standing. Arin didn’t move from the table. He stared up at her, jawline tight, and she didn’t understand how it could still be there in his face: that hard expectation, that angry faith. Don’t fail me, his eyes said. Don’t fail yourself.
She quit the table.
“You’re better than this,” he called after her. A librarian stepped from the stacks to shush him. Kestrel walked away.
He said, “How can the inconsequence of your life not shame you?”
He said, “How do you not feel empty?”
I do, she thought as she pushed through the library doors and let them thud behind her. I do. ~ Marie Rutkoski,
151:I think you're going to like these," she said, placing the stack on the table. "The whole class spent Monday and Tuesday painting them up."
Raymond and Sean lifted up the top poster and stared.

She smiled proudly. "What do you think?"
"Nice," said Sean, wondering why Raymond had suddenly gone so silent and so pale.
Finally Raymond found his voice. "But Ashly, why does it say" —he pointed to the top line— "that?"
"That? That's us. Our initials—Ashly, Raymond, Sean, and Eckerman—I couldn't remember his first name."
"I get it," said Sean.
Raymond was positively white. "The other kids who worked on them—they didn't—say anything about the posters? The wording maybe?"
"The whole class really liked them," said Ashley. "I think everyone's favorite part was the initials thing. They thought it was clever."
Raymond looked up at the ceiling. "Oh, it was. ~ Gordon Korman,
152:When you travel you become invisible if you want. I do want. I like to be the observer. What makes these people who they are Could I feel at home here No one expects you to have the stack of papers back by Tuesday or to check messages or to fertilize the geraniums or to sit full of dread in the waiting room at the protologist’s office. When travelling you have the delectable possibility of not understanding a word of what is said to you. Language becomes simply a musical background for watching bicycles zoom along a canal calling for nothing from you. Even better if you speak the language you catch nuances and make more contact with people.

Travel releases spontaneity. You become a godlike creature full of choice free to visit the stately pleasure domes make love in the morning sketch a bell tower read a history of Byzantium stare for one hour at the face of Leonardo da Vinci’s Madonna dei fusi. You open as in childhood and – for a time – receive this world. There’s the visceral aspect too – the huntress who is free. Free to go Free to return home bringing memories to lay on the hearth. ~ Frances Mayes,
153:I wondered straightaway how he could sit at peace there, of an evening, with the row of heads staring down at him. There were no pictures, no flowers: only the heads of chamois. The concession to melody was the radiogram and the stack of records of classical music.

Foolishly, I had asked, "Why only chamois?"

He answered at once, "They fear Man."

This might have led to an argument about animals in general, domestic, wild, and those which adapt themselves to the whims and vagaries of the human race; but instead he changed the subject abruptly, put on a Sibelius record, and presently made love to me, intently but without emotion. I was surprised but pleased. I thought, "We are suited to one another. There will be no demands. Each of us will be self-contained and not beholden to the other."

All this came true, but something was amiss. There was a flaw - not only the nonappearance of children, but a division of the spirit. The communion of flesh which brought us together was in reality a chasm, and I despised the bridge we made. Perhaps he did as well. I had been endeavouring for ten years to build for my self a ledge of safety. ("The Chamois") ~ Daphne du Maurier,
154:What are all these?” Charlie plucked a book of psalms from the unruly pile on the desk. “Have you two robbed a church since I left this morning?”

“No,” said Jackaby. “Not personally. We had to delegate that task. Pilfering parish property has fallen to Miss Cavanaugh this week.”

Charlie rubbed his neck as he dropped the book back on the stack. “Because if there’s one thing New Fiddleham needs right now, it’s a bit more paranormal petty crime.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” I submitted, “the pastor more or less asked us to. He was rather insistent that we should find something in one of his Bibles.”

“You’re certain he won’t go storming into the station house tomorrow to tell the duty officer how he’s been robbed by a ghost?”

I swallowed.

“Not unless he is one himself,” said Jackaby. “He’s dead.”


“Quite dead. He’s up in the attic if you would like to check for yourself.”

“Why do you have a dead preacher in your attic?”

“Because we found it easier to carry him up to the coffin than to maneuver it down to him.”

Charlie looked suddenly very tired.

“Enough about our morning,” I said. “You had a difficult patch yourself? ~ William Ritter,
155:right now my mind is full of images, an overwhelming flood of memories and ideas—you have any idea how many memories are buried in the mind? Fishing for bluegill on Lake Argyle with my father, the hook caught in his thumb, forcing it through the other side and cutting it off with wirecutters, the severed barb flying dangerously into the air spinning its cut facet gleaming in the sun and I jerking back for fear it would plunge into my eye, squinting protectively, opening my eyes again it is mud, all mud, a universe of mud and the mortar shell has just taken flight, my fingers jammed into my ears, the smell of the explosion penetrating my sinuses making them clench up and bleed, the shell exploding in the trees, a puff of white smoke but the trees are still there and the gunfire still raining down like hailstones on the cellar door on the day that the tornado wrecked our farmhouse and we packed into my aunt’s fruit cellar and I looked up at the stacked mason jars of rhubarb and tomatoes and wondered what would happen to us when the glass shattered and flew through the air like the horizontal sleet of Soldier Field on the day that I caught five for eighty-seven yards and put such a hit on Cornelius Hayes that he took five minutes to get up. God, I can see my entire life! ~ Neal Stephenson,
156:History is a funny little creature. Do you remember visiting your old Aunt that autumn when the trees shone so very yellow, and how she owned a striped and unsocial cat, quite old and fat and wounded about the ears and whiskers, with a crooked, broken tail? That cat would not come to you no matter how you coaxed and called; it had its own business, thank you, and no time for you. But as the evening wore on, it would come and show some affection or favor to your Aunt, or your Father, or the old end-table with the stack of green coasters on it. You couldn’t predict who that cat might decide to love, or who it might decide to bite. You couldn’t tell what it thought or felt, or how old it might really be, or whether it would one day, miraculously, decide to let you put one hand, very briefly, on its dusty head.

History is like that.

Of course, unlike your Aunt’s cat, history is going on all around you, all the time, and is often quite lively. Sometimes it rests in a sunbeam for a peaceful century or two, but on the whole, history is always plotting, and it bites very hard. It stalks around the world, fickle and dissatisfied and often angry. It demands to be fed just a little earlier each day, until you find yourself carving meat from the bone as fast as you can, faster than you thought possible, just to satisfy it. Some people have a kind of marvelous talent for calming it and enticing it onto their laps. To some it will never even spare a glance. ~ Catherynne M Valente,
157:Mr. Quincy told me that he will be working for you in London. I am glad, for both your sakes, that you’ve given him such an opportunity. He will be an excellent valet.”
“For what I’m paying him,” Winterborne said, “he’d better be the best in England.”
Helen was briefly nonplussed. “I have no doubt he will be,” she ventured.
Meticulously Winterborne neatened the stack of paper. “He wants to start by disposing of my shirts.”
“Your shirts,” Helen repeated, perplexed.
“One of my managers brought some of my clothes from London. Quincy could tell that the shirts were ready-made.” He glanced at her warily, assessing her reaction. “To be accurate,” he continued, “they’re sold half finished, so they can be tailored to the customer’s preference. The quality of the fabric is as high as any bespoke shirt, but Quincy still turns up his nose.”
Helen considered her reply carefully. “A man of Quincy’s profession has an exacting eye when it comes to details.” She probably should have left it at that. The discussion of a man’s clothing was entirely improper, but she felt that she should help him to understand Quincy’s concerns. “It’s more than just the fabric. The stitching is different in a bespoke shirt: The seams are perfectly straight and flat-felled, and the buttonholes are often hand-worked with a keyhole shape at one side to reduce the stress of the button’s shank.” She paused with a smile. “I would elaborate about plackets and cuffs, but I fear you would fall asleep in the chair. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
158:Atro had once explained to him how this was managed, how the sergeants could give the privates orders, how the lieutenants could give the privates and the sergeants orders, how the captains... and so on and so on up to the generals, who could give everyone else orders and need take them from none, except the commander in chief. Shevek had listened with incredulous disgust. "You call that organization?" he had inquired. "You even call it discipline? But it is neither. It is a coercive mechanism of extraordinary inefficiency--a kind of seventh-millennium steam engine! With such a rigid and fragile structure what could be done that was worth doing?" This had given Atro a chance to argue the worth of warfare as the breeder of courage and manliness and weeder-out of the unfit, but the very line of his argument had forced him to concede the effectiveness of guerrillas, organized from below, self-disciplined. "But that only works when the people think they're fighting for something of their own--you know, their homes, or some notion or other," the old man had said. Shevek had dropped the argument. He now continued it, in the darkening basement among the stacked crates of unlabeled chemicals. He explained to Atro that he now understood why the Army was organized as it was. It was indeed quite necessary. No rational form of organization would serve the purpose. He simply had not understood that the purpose was to enable men with machine guns to kill unarmed men and women easily and in great quantities when told to do so. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,
159: Ballad Of Another Ophelia
Oh the green glimmer of apples in the orchard,
Lamps in a wash of rain!
Oh the wet walk of my brown hen through the stackyard,
Oh tears on the window pane!
Nothing now will ripen the bright green apples,
Full of disappointment and of rain,
Brackish they will taste, of tears, when the yellow dapples
Of autumn tell the withered tale again.
All round the yard it is cluck, my brown hen,
Cluck, and the rain-wet wings,
Cluck, my marigold bird, and again
Cluck for your yellow darlings.
For the grey rat found the gold thirteen
Huddled away in the dark,
Flutter for a moment, oh the beast is quick and keen,
Extinct one yellow-fluffy spark.
Once I had a lover bright like running water,
Once his face was laughing like the sky;
Open like the sky looking down in all its laughter
On the buttercups, and the buttercups was I.
What, then, is there hidden in the skirts of all the blossom?
What is peeping from your wings, oh mother hen?
’Tis the sun who asks the question, in a lovely haste for wisdom;
What a lovely haste for wisdom is in men!
Yea, but it is cruel when undressed is all the blossom,
And her shift is lying white upon the floor,
That a grey one, like a shadow, like a rat, a thief, a rain-storm,
Creeps upon her then and gathers in his store.
Oh the grey garner that is full of half-grown apples,
Oh the golden sparkles laid extinct!
And oh, behind the cloud-sheaves, like yellow autumn dapples,
Did you see the wicked sun that winked!
~ David Herbert Lawrence,
160:Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

Who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
Sets up a secret and unwavering scale
for all the shadows, dreams, and forms
Woven into the texture of this life.

If there is a limit to all things and a measure
And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
Who will tell us to whom in this house
We without knowing it have said farewell?

Through the dawning window night withdraws
And among the stacked books which throw
Irregular shadows on the dim table,
There must be one which I will never read.

There is in the South more than one worn gate,
With its cement urns and planted cactus,
Which is already forbidden to my entry,
Inaccessible, as in a lithograph.

There is a door you have closed forever
And some mirror is expecting you in vain;
To you the crossroads seem wide open,
Yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus.

There is among all your memories one
Which has now been lost beyond recall.
You will not be seen going down to that fountain
Neither by white sun nor by yellow moon.

You will never recapture what the Persian
Said in his language woven with birds and roses,
When, in the sunset, before the light disperses,
You wish to give words to unforgettable things.

And the steadily flowing Rhone and the lake,
All that vast yesterday over which today I bend?
They will be as lost as Carthage,
Scourged by the Romans with fire and salt.

At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
Murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me. ~ Jorge Luis Borges,
161:He sat down among the evidence at a barren communal desk in the basement of the station. He looked through the stack of extra fliers that my father had made up. He had memorized my face, but still he looked at them. He had come to believe that the best hope in my case might be the recent rise in development in the area. With all the land churning and changing, perhaps other clues whould be found that would provide the answer he needed.
In the bottom of the box was the bag with my jingle-bell hat. When he'd handled it to my mother, she had collasped on the rug. He still couldn't pinpoint the moment he'd fallen in love with her. I knew it was the day he'd sat in our family room while my mother drew stick figures on butcher paper and Buckley and Nate slept toe to toe on the couch. I felt sorry for him. He had tried to solve my murder and he failed. He had tried to love my mother and he had failed.
Len looked at the drawing of the cornfield that Lindsey had stolen and forced himself to acknowledge this: in his cautiousness, he had allowed a murderer to get away. He could not shake his guilt. He knew, if no one else did, that by being with my mother in the mall that day he was the one to blame for George Harvey's freedom.
He took his wallet out of his back pocket and laid down the photos of all the unsolved cases he had ever worked on. Among them were his wife's. He turned them all face-down. 'Gone,' he wrote on each one of them. He would no longer wait for a date to mark an understanding of who or why or how. He would never understand all the reasons why his wife had killed herself. He would never understand how so many children went missing. He placed these photos in the box with my evidence and turned the lights off in the cold room.
~ Alice Seboldpg 219; Len Fenerman on grief, guilt and acceptance on his lack of foresight ~ Alice Sebold,
162:As we trod up the front walk, Jackaby let out a thoughtful “Huh.” I followed his gaze to the transom ahead of us. It read, in clean, frosty letters:

r. f. jackaby:

exquisite frustration

“Are you feeling exquisitely frustrated of late, Miss Rook?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t put it as such, sir,” I said. “I don’t think that one’s for me.”

Jenny materialized between Jackaby and the bright red door. “Ah,” said Jackaby. “Good afternoon, Miss Cavanaugh.”

“I couldn’t find it,” Jenny said without preamble as we mounted the steps.

“What? Right—the Bible. It’s fine. I’ll see to it myself. That church is a long way off. It was quite ambitious for you to even consider the trip. I shouldn’t reasonably have expected as much of you.”

“I made it to the church just fine, thank you very much for your vote of confidence. Do you have any idea how many Bibles and psalm books and hymnals there are in a parish that size? You said to look for a shield, but none of them had anything obvious like that. If the shield is somehow inside one of them, it could be any of them.”

“That’s all right, you did your—” Jackaby began.

“. . . So I just brought all of them.”

The door swung open to reveal a small hillside of books heaped on the front desk.

“Hrm.” Jackaby grunted. He stepped inside and began to dig through the stack, picking up battered old books and dropping them back onto the heap.

“Thank you, Miss Cavanaugh,” Jenny intoned behind him. “It was nothing, really,” she replied to herself. “I underestimated you, Miss Cavanaugh. Oh, I was just happy to help. You are special and precious to me, Miss Cavanaugh. Please now, Mr. Jackaby, you’re simply too much.”

Jackaby paid her dialogue no mind, and appeared to have forgotten that anyone else was in the room at all.

“I’ll just go fetch that bail money for Miss Lee, shall I?” I suggested, and excused myself. ~ William Ritter,
163:My eyes hurt," she said plaintively, as he surveyed the stacks of books they hadn't read yet.
"Then by all means, we will save your eyes for a bit," Peri said, with a chuckle that rumbled inside his chest. He put his head down along his folded forelegs and looked up at her with an amused expression.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"That I've never known anyone it was easier to be- friends with," she said, hesitating a moment over the "friend" part. Because it felt as if their relationship was unfolding into something a great deal warmer than mere friendship.
"It's odd, isn't it?" he responded. "Except for my brother, I've never been as comfortable around any dragon as I am around you. I don't quite know how to fathom it."
"Then let's not," she said instantly, not wanting to spoil anything. "All right?"
He laughed. "One can certainly analyze things until they are no longer enjoyable. I bow to your wisdom. I am just happy to enjoy your company."
She felt warm and tingly in a pleasant sort of way as he looked down at her with those glowing dark-emerald eyes. Feeling greatly daring, she reached out and scratched the soft skin under his chin.
He sighed. "Oh, glory. That feels lovely. Don't stop doing that for the next thirty years or so. Take more time if you need it."
She laughed, but kept scratching.
"I wish there was something I could do for you that felt as good," he said, in a voice rich with content.
"You already are," she said. "You're very comfortable to sit on."
He laughed again, this time with a note of self-mockery. "I shall be sure to add that to my list of virtues. 'Makes a comfortable chair.' I am sure the Great Dragon at the gates of Paradise will find that ample reason to let me in straightaway. And the rest of my clan will surely inscribe it on my memorial wall."
She blinked. "Dragons believe in Paradise?" she said, surprised.
"Of course they do, silly goose," Peri replied, with another affectionate brush on his nose on her shoulder. ~ Mercedes Lackey,
164:Did you bring money with you, or shall we play for markers?" She flipped the stack of cards to the table with a professional twist of her wrist. "I don't play for less than a guinea a hand."
His lips twitched. "The question is not if I have money. The question is, do you?"
"I don't need funds, as I don't plan on losing," she said, her gaze mocking.
For a moment, he thought he'd heard her incorrectly. Slowly, he said, "I beg your pardon, but are you saying you could beat me at a game of chance?"
A dismissive smile rested on her lips. "Please, Dougal, let's speak frankly," she drawled softly. "Naturally, I expect to win; I was taught by a master."
Dougal was entranced. He'd been challenged to many things before, but no one had so blatantly dismissed his chances of winning. "A giunea a hand?"
"At least."
"I didn't realize I'd need a note from my banker, or I'd have brought one with me."
Her eyes sparkled with pure mischief, which inflamed him more. "If you've no money with you, then perhaps there are other things we can play for."
The words hung in the room, as thick as the smoke that seeped from the fireplace. Like a blinding bolt of light from a storm-black sky, everything fell into place. This was why she and her minions had worked so hard to convince him that the house was worthless. If he thought it of low value, he'd be eager to wager the deed.
Of all the devious plots!
Yet Dougal found himself fighting a grin. He'd been feted and petted, fawned upon and sought out, but until now, no one had gone to such lengths to fleece him.
Dugal couldn't look away from Sophia. He knew his own worth; women had paid attention to him for so long that he took it for granted. He'd dallied and toyed, taken and enjoyed. But never, in all of his years, had he so desired any woman as he did this one. The irony of it was that she desired him,too-but only for the contents of his pocket.
Dougal didn't know whether to laugh or fume. He should be insulted, but instead he found himself watching her with new appreciation. ~ Karen Hawkins,
165:sounded calm when she answered the phone. Which meant that Jody had probably left. They had begun the day with the two women arguing about whose phone the government had legal and moral authority to tap. Pearl and her daughter could discuss such subjects until they were all talked out and Quinn had long since fled to wherever it might be legal and moral to smoke a cigar. “Still reeling from the Minnie Miner show?” Pearl asked him. “Not per se,” Quinn said. “That sounds like something Winston Castle would say. He must have gotten to you with his member-of-parliament persona.” “I suppose that’s why I’m calling,” Quinn said. “There’s something familiar about Winston Castle’s act. It reminds me of a magician’s patter, designed to get you looking at one hand while he’s doing something with the other. Just when everybody’s attention is distracted, Presto! Out of the hat pops the rabbit.” “Or the right card,” “Never play poker with them,” Quinn said. “Rabbits?” “People. Like the ones in Winston Castle’s whack-job family, or whatever it is. They have their patter.” “Meaning?” “Maybe somebody has a real Michelangelo up a sleeve.” “Magicians,” Pearl said, not quite understanding. “I’ve always kind of liked them.” “Their act wouldn’t work if you didn’t.” “I still like them.” “They cut people in half, you know.” “Only beautiful girls. And it doesn’t seem to hurt.” “I wouldn’t want to see you proved wrong.” “Where are you going with this,” Pearl asked with a sigh. Jody had apparently worn her down. “We are going to stake out the Far Castle’s Garden.” “I thought we were concentrating on D.O.A.” “Maybe we are,” Quinn said. “My guess is he’s not one of the many people who think Bellazza isn’t in the garden, just because an imitation has already been found there.” “Are we among the many, Quinn?” “On one hand, yes.” “But on the other?” “Presto!” 78 The searcher came by night, as Quinn had suspected he would, and hours after the restaurant had closed. Quinn was slouching low behind the steering wheel in the black Lincoln. He’d parked where he had a catty-corner view across the intersection and the Far Castle’s outdoor dining area. Beyond the stacked and locked tables and chairs loomed the shadowed topiary forms of the garden. Beginning several feet behind the flower beds was the larger garden, wilder and less arranged than the beds, with a variety of ~ John Lutz,
166:I lift the lid of the chest. Inside, the air is musty and stale, held hostage for years in its three-foot-by-four-foot tomb. I lean in to survey the contents cautiously, then pull out a stack of old photos tied with twine. On top is a photo of a couple on their wedding day. She's a young bride, wearing one of those 1950's netted veils. He looks older, distinguished- sort of like Cary Grant or Gregory Peck in the old black-and-white movies I used to watch with my grandmother. I set the stack down and turn back to the chest, where I find a notebook, filled with handwritten recipes. The page for Cinnamon Rolls is labeled "Dex's Favorite." 'Dex.' I wonder if he's the man in the photo.
There are two ticket stubs from 1959, one to a Frank Sinatra concert, another to the movie 'An Affair to Remember.' A single shriveled rosebud rests on a white handkerchief. A corsage? When I lift it into my hand, it disintegrates; the petals crinkle into tiny pieces that fall onto the living room carpet. At the bottom of the chest is what looks like a wedding dress. It's yellowed and moth-eaten, but I imagine it was once stark white and beautiful. As I lift it, I can hear the lace swishing as if to say, "Ahh." Whoever wore it was very petite. The waist circumference is tiny. A pair of long white gloves falls to the floor. They must have been tucked inside the dress. I refold the finery and set the ensemble back inside.
Whose things are these? And why have they been left here? I thumb through the recipe book. All cookies, cakes, desserts. She must have loved to bake. I tuck the book back inside the chest, along with the photographs after I've retied the twine, which is when I notice a book tucked into the corner. It's an old paperback copy of Ernest Hemingway's 'The Sun Also Rises.' I've read a little of Hemingway over the years- 'A Moveable Feast' and some of his later work- but not this one. I flip through the book and notice that one page is dog-eared. I open to it and see a line that has been underscored. "You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another."
I look out to the lake, letting the words sink in. 'Is that what I'm trying to do? Get away from myself?' I stare at the line in the book again and wonder if it resonated with the woman who underlined it so many years ago. Did she have her own secret pain? 'Was she trying to escape it just like me? ~ Sarah Jio,
167:I’ve experienced all kinds of discrimination,” Oshima says. “Only people who’ve been discriminated against can really know how much it hurts. Each person feels the pain in his own way, each has his own scars. So I think I’m as concerned about fairness and justice as anybody. But what disgusts me even more are people who have no imagination. The kind T. S. Eliot calls hollow men. People who fill up that lack of imagination with heartless bits of straw, not even aware of what they’re doing. Callous people who throw a lot of empty words at you, trying to force you to do what you don’t want to. Like that lovely pair we just met.” He sighs and twirls the long slender pencil in his hand. “Gays, lesbians, straights, feminists, fascist pigs, communists, Hare Krishnas—none of them bother me. I don’t care what banner they raise. But what I can’t stand are hollow people. When I’m with them I just can’t bear it, and wind up saying things I shouldn’t. With those women—I should’ve just let it slide, or else called Miss Saeki and let her handle it. She would have given them a smile and smoothed things over. But I just can’t do that. I say things I shouldn’t, do things I shouldn’t do. I can’t control myself. That’s one of my weak points. Do you know why that’s a weak point of mine?” “’Cause if you take every single person who lacks much imagination seriously, there’s no end to it,” I say. “That’s it,” Oshima says. He taps his temple lightly with the eraser end of the pencil. “But there’s one thing I want you to remember, Kafka. Those are exactly the kind of people who murdered Miss Saeki’s childhood sweetheart. Narrow minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe. Of course it’s important to know what’s right and what’s wrong. Individual errors in judgment can usually be corrected. As long as you have the courage to admit mistakes, things can be turned around. But intolerant, narrow minds with no imagination are like parasites that transform the host, change form, and continue to thrive. They’re a lost cause, and I don’t want anyone like that coming in here.” Oshima points at the stacks with the tip of his pencil. What he means, of course, is the entire library. “I wish I could just laugh off people like that, but I can’t. ~ Haruki Murakami,
168: When I Am Gone
When I am gone, I pray you shed
No tears upon the grassy bed
Where that which you have loved is laid
Under the wind-warped yew-tree's shade.
And let no sombre pomp prepare
My unreturning journey there,
Nor wailing words nor dirges deep
Disturb the quiet of my sleep;
But tender maidens, robed in white,
Who have not yet forgotten quite
The love I sought, the love I gave,
Be the sole mourners round my grave.
And neither then, nor after, raise
The bust of pride, the slab of praise,
To him who, having sinned and striven,
Now only asks to be forgiven,
That he is gone.
When I am gone, you must not deem
That I am severed, as I seem,
From all that still enchains you here,
Throughout the long revolving year.
When, as to Winter's barren shore
The tides of Spring return once more,
And, wakened by their flashing showers,
The woodland foams afresh with flowers,
You sally forth and ramble wide,
I shall walk silent at your side,
Shall watch your mirth, shall catch your smile,
Shall wander with you all the while,
And, as in many a bygone Spring,
Hear cuckoo call and ousel sing.
And, when you homeward wend, along
A land all blithe with bleat and song,
Where lambs that skip and larks that soar
Make this old world seem young once more,
And with the wildwood flowers that fill
Your April laps deck shelf and sill,
I shall be there to guide your hand,
And you will surely understand
I am not gone.
When Summer leans on Autumn's arm,
And warm round grange and red-roofed farm
Is piled the wain and thatched the stack,
And swallows troop and fieldfares pack;
When round rough trunk and knotted root
Lies thick the freshly-fallen fruit,
And 'mong the orchard aisles you muse
On what we gain, on what we lose,
Now vernal cares no more annoy,
And wisdom takes the place of joy,
I shall be there, as in past years,
To share your steps, to dry your tears,
To note how Autumn days have brought
Feelings mature and mellow thought,
The fruitful grief for others' smart,
The ripeness of a human heart.
And, when the winds wax rude and loud,
And Winter weaves the stark year's shroud,
As round the flickering household blaze
You sit and talk of vanished days,
Of parent, friend, no longer nigh,
And loves that in the churchyard lie,
And lips grow weak, and lids grow wet,
Then, then, I shall be with you yet,
Though I seem gone.
~ Alfred Austin,
169:more than anything.” He turned to Jean Louise. “Seven-thirty tonight and no Landing. We’ll go to the show.” “Okay. Where’re you all going?” “Courthouse. Meeting.” “On Sunday?” “Yep.” “That’s right, I keep forgetting all the politicking’s done on Sunday in these parts.” Atticus called for Henry to come on. “Bye, baby,” he said. Jean Louise followed him into the livingroom. When the front door slammed behind her father and Henry, she went to her father’s chair to tidy up the papers he had left on the floor beside it. She picked them up, arranged them in sectional order, and put them on the sofa in a neat pile. She crossed the room again to straighten the stack of books on his lamp table, and was doing so when a pamphlet the size of a business envelope caught her eye. On its cover was a drawing of an anthropophagous Negro; above the drawing was printed The Black Plague. Its author was somebody with several academic degrees after his name. She opened the pamphlet, sat down in her father’s chair, and began reading. When she had finished, she took the pamphlet by one of its corners, held it like she would hold a dead rat by the tail, and walked into the kitchen. She held the pamphlet in front of her aunt. “What is this thing?” she said. Alexandra looked over her glasses at it. “Something of your father’s.” Jean Louise stepped on the garbage can trigger and threw the pamphlet in. “Don’t do that,” said Alexandra. “They’re hard to come by these days.” Jean Louise opened her mouth, shut it, and opened it again. “Aunty, have you read that thing? Do you know what’s in it?” “Certainly.” If Alexandra had uttered an obscenity in her face, Jean Louise would have been less surprised. “You—Aunty, do you know the stuff in that thing makes Dr. Goebbels look like a naive little country boy?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jean Louise. There are a lot of truths in that book.” “Yes indeedy,” said Jean Louise wryly. “I especially liked the part where the Negroes, bless their hearts, couldn’t help being inferior to the white race because their skulls are thicker and their brain-pans shallower—whatever that means—so we must all be very kind to them and not let them do anything to hurt themselves and keep them in their places. Good God, Aunty—” Alexandra was ramrod straight. “Well?” she said. Jean Louise said, “It’s just that I never knew you went in for salacious reading material, Aunty.” Her aunt was silent, and Jean Louise continued: “I was real impressed with the parable where since the dawn of history the rulers of the world have always been white, except Genghis Khan or somebody—the author was real fair about that—and he made a killin’ point about even the Pharaohs were white and their subjects were either black or Jews—” “That’s true, isn’t it?” “Sure, but what’s that got to do with the case?” When Jean Louise felt apprehensive, expectant, or on edge, especially when confronting her aunt, her brain clicked to the meter of Gilbertian tomfoolery. Three sprightly figures ~ Harper Lee,
170:Kestrel set her cup on its saucer. “I didn’t ask to see you,” she said.
“Too bad.” Arin claimed the chair across from her table in the library in a manner unbearably familiar to her. It was as if the chair had always been his.
He slouched in his seat, tipped his head back, and looked at her from beneath lowered lids. The morning light fired his profile. “Worried, Lady Kestrel?” He spoke in Valorian, his accent roughening his voice. He always pronounced his r’s too low in his throat, so that when he spoke in her tongue everything came across as a soft growl. “Dreading what I’ll say…or do?” He smiled a grim little smile. “No need. I’ll be the perfect gentleman.” He tugged at his cuffs. It was only then that Kestrel noticed that they came too short on his arms and showed his wrists.
It pained her to see his self-consciousness, the way it had suddenly revealed itself. In this light, his gray eyes were too clear. His posture had been confident. His words had had an edge. But his eyes were uncertain. Arin fidgeted again with his cuffs as if there was something wrong with them--with him. No, she would have said. You’re perfect, she wanted to say. She imagined it: how she would reach out to touch Arin’s bare wrist.
That could lead nowhere good.
She was nervous, she was cold. Her stomach was a flurry of snow.
She dropped her hands to her lap.
“No one’s here anyway,” Arin said, “and the librarians are in the stacks. You’re safe enough.”
It was too early for courtiers to be in the library. Kestrel had counted on this, and on the fact that if anyone did turn up and saw her with the Herrani minister of agriculture, such a meeting would excite little interest.
One with Arin, however, was an entirely different story. It was frustrating: his uncanny ability to unsettle her plans--and her very sense of self. She said, “Pressing where you’re not invited seems to be a habit with you.”
“And yours is to put people in their place. But people aren’t gaming pieces. You can’t arrange them to suit yourself.”
A librarian coughed.
“Lower your voice,” Kestrel hissed at Arin. “Stop being so--”
“Frankly, yes.”
His smile came: quick, true, surprised by itself. Then changing, and slow. “I could be worse.”
“I am sure.”
“I could tell you how.”
“Arin, how is it for you here, in the capital?”
He held her gaze. “I would rather talk about what we were talking about.”
“Arin, how is it for you here, in the capital?”
He held her gaze. “I would rather talk about what we were talking about.”
She arranged her fingers along the studs that pinned green leather to the tabletop. She felt each cool, small, hard nail. The silence inside her was like those nails. What it held down was something sheer: a feeling like fragile silk, billowing up at the sound of his voice.
If she and Arin were to talk about what they had been talking about, that silk could tear free. It would float up. It would catch the light, and cast a colored shadow.
What color would it be, Kestrel wondered, the silk of what she felt?
What would it be like to let it go, let it canopy above her? ~ Marie Rutkoski,
171:I took a shower after dinner and changed into comfortable Christmas Eve pajamas, ready to settle in for a couple of movies on the couch. I remembered all the Christmas Eves throughout my life--the dinners and wrapping presents and midnight mass at my Episcopal church. It all seemed so very long ago.
Walking into the living room, I noticed a stack of beautifully wrapped rectangular boxes next to the tiny evergreen tree, which glowed with little white lights. Boxes that hadn’t been there minutes before.
“What…,” I said. We’d promised we wouldn’t get each other any gifts that year. “What?” I demanded.
Marlboro Man smiled, taking pleasure in the surprise.
“You’re in trouble,” I said, glaring at him as I sat down on the beige Berber carpet next to the tree. “I didn’t get you anything…you told me not to.”
“I know,” he said, sitting down next to me. “But I don’t really want anything…except a backhoe.”
I cracked up. I didn’t even know what a backhoe was.
I ran my hand over the box on the top of the stack. It was wrapped in brown paper and twine--so unadorned, so simple, I imagined that Marlboro Man could have wrapped it himself. Untying the twine, I opened the first package. Inside was a pair of boot-cut jeans. The wide navy elastic waistband was a dead giveaway: they were made especially for pregnancy.
“Oh my,” I said, removing the jeans from the box and laying them out on the floor in front of me. “I love them.”
“I didn’t want you to have to rig your jeans for the next few months,” Marlboro Man said.
I opened the second box, and then the third. By the seventh box, I was the proud owner of a complete maternity wardrobe, which Marlboro Man and his mother had secretly assembled together over the previous couple of weeks. There were maternity jeans and leggings, maternity T-shirts and darling jackets. Maternity pajamas. Maternity sweats. I caressed each garment, smiling as I imagined the time it must have taken for them to put the whole collection together.
“Thank you…,” I began. My nose stung as tears formed in my eyes. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect gift.
Marlboro Man reached for my hand and pulled me over toward him. Our arms enveloped each other as they had on his porch the first time he’d professed his love for me. In the grand scheme of things, so little time had passed since that first night under the stars. But so much had changed. My parents. My belly. My wardrobe. Nothing about my life on this Christmas Eve resembled my life on that night, when I was still blissfully unaware of the brewing thunderstorm in my childhood home and was packing for Chicago…nothing except Marlboro Man, who was the only thing, amidst all the conflict and upheaval, that made any sense to me anymore.
“Are you crying?” he asked.
“No,” I said, my lip quivering.
“Yep, you’re crying,” he said, laughing. It was something he’d gotten used to.
“I’m not crying,” I said, snorting and wiping snot from my nose. “I’m not.”
We didn’t watch movies that night. Instead, he picked me up and carried me to our cozy bedroom, where my tears--a mixture of happiness, melancholy, and holiday nostalgia--would disappear completely. ~ Ree Drummond,
172:What’s this?” he asks, sitting forward. I remove the top off the box and take out a pile of pictures. I hand him one. “This is Jacob,” I say. My eyes fill with tears, and I don’t even try to blink them back. I let them fall over my lashes and onto my cheeks. Paul brushes them away, but I really don’t want him to. I want to feel all of this because I have forced myself not to feel it for so very long. “This is when he was born.” I point to the squirmy little ball of red skin and dark hair. Paul looks from me to it. “He looks like you,” he says. I shake my head. “He looks more like his dad, I think.” These fucking tears keep falling. I’m not crying. It’s like someone opened an emotional dam in me and I can’t get it to close. I don’t want it to. “What happened to his dad?” Paul asks. “He died,” I say. I have to stop and clear my throat. “Drug overdose a few years after Jacob was born. I read about it in the paper.” “I’m so sorry.” I sniff. “I am, too.” I feel like I need to explain, and for the first time ever, I want to. “We were young, and we played around with marijuana and stuff. But I cut it all out when I found out I was pregnant with Jacob. He didn’t. He wasn’t able. It was really sad when I couldn’t be with him anymore. I didn’t have anyone else. But I didn’t really have him, either. The drugs had him, you know?” He nods. I hand him more pictures, and he flips through them. I have looked at them so much that they’re dog-eared in places. He holds one up from when Jacob was about three. “You can’t tell me he doesn’t look like you. Look at those eyes! He’s so handsome.” My eyes fill with tears again, but I smile through them. He is perfect. And I should be able to hear someone say so. “Look at that smirk!” Paul cries when he sees the most recent one. “That is so you!” I grin. I guess he’s right. “Where is your family, Friday?” he asks. “I don’t know,” I tell him. I lay my head on his shoulder and watch as he takes in the photos over and over, poring through the stack so he can point out ways that Jacob looks like me. “They kicked me out when I got pregnant. Terminated their rights.” Paul presses his lips to my forehead and doesn’t say anything. “I thought I knew everything back then.” I laugh and wipe my eyes with the hem of my dress. “Turns out I didn’t know shit.” “Do you ever think about looking for them?” I shake my head. “No. Never.” I point to special pictures of my son. “His mom—her name is Jill—she sometimes sends me special milestone pictures. This is his first tooth he got and the first tooth he lost. And this one is from his first step. That wasn’t even part of the agreement. She just does it because she wants me to know how he’s doing.” I try to grin through the tears. “He’s doing so great. He’s smart. And they can send him to college and to special schools. He takes piano, and he plays sports. And Jill says he likes to paint.” My voice cracks, and I don’t hate that it does. I just let it. “Of course, he does. You’re his mother.” “I just wanted to do what was best for him, you know?” This time, I use Paul’s sleeve to wipe my eyes. I blink hard trying to clear my vision. “That’s what parents do. We do what’s in the best interest of our children.” He kisses me softly. “Thank you for showing me these. ~ Tammy Falkner,
173:Don't believe that, dear. Don't ever believe that. Nobody's bad just because of the way they look. It's what's inside a person that counts.' 'But, Ma, what's inside a person? When people look different are they different inside, too?' Ma didn't answer, she was looking at her hands now, kneading a ball of dough. Saroj thought she had forgotten her and so she said, 'Ma?' Ma turned her eyes back to Saroj. 'I'll show you in a moment, dear. I'll just finish making these.' Saroj watched the stack of dhal puris grow into a flat round tower and then Ma said she was finished and covered them with a cloth and washed her hands. Then she opened the cupboard where she kept her spare jars and bottles and took out six jars and placed them on the kitchen counter. 'Do you see these jars, Saroj? Are they all the same?' Saroj shook her head. 'No, Ma.' The glasses were all different. There was a short flat one and a tall thin one and a medium-sized one, and other shapes in between. Some were different colours: green or brown or clear. 'All right. Now, just imagine these jars are people. People with different shapes of bodies and colours of skin. Can you do that?' Saroj nodded. 'Right. Well, now the bodies are empty. But look…’ Ma picked up a big glass jug, filled it at the tap and poured water into all the jars. 'See, Saroj? Now all the glasses are filled. All the bodies are alive! They have what we call a spirit. Now, is that spirit the same in all the glasses, or different?' 'It's the same, Ma. So people are —' But Ma broke in. 'Now, can you run into the pantry and get the tin where I keep my dyes? You know it, don't you?' Saroj was back even before Ma had finished speaking. Ma opened the tin and picked up one of the tiny bottles of powdered dye. It was cherry-coloured. Ma held the bottle over one of the jars and tipped a little of the powder into the water. Immediately, the water turned pink-red. Ma returned the cap to the bottle and picked up another one. The water turned lime-green. She did that six times and each time the water turned a different colour so that in the end Ma had six different shaped jars of six different colours. 'So, Saroj, now you answer me. Are these people here all the same inside, or are they all different?' Saroj took her time before answering. She puckered her brow and thought hard. Finally she said, 'Well, Ma, really they're all the same but the colours make them different.' 'Yes, but what is more real, the sameness or the differences?' Saroj thought hard again. Then she said: 'The sameness, Ma. Because the sameness holds up the differences. The differences are only the powders you put in.' 'Exactly. So think of all these people as having a spirit which is the same in each one, and yet each one is also different — that is because each person has a different personality. A personality is made up of thoughts, and everyone has different kinds of thoughts. Some have loving thoughts, some have angry thoughts, some have sad thoughts, some have mean thoughts. Most people have jumbles of thoughts — but everybody's thoughts are different, and so everybody is different. Different outside and different inside. And they see those differences in each other and they squabble and fight, because everyone thinks the way he is, is right. But if they could see through the differences to the oneness beyond, linking them all, then…’ 'Then what, Ma?' 'Then we would all be so wise, Saroj, and so happy! ~ Sharon Maas,
174: I Make This In A Warring Absence
I make this in a warring absence when
Each ancient, stone-necked minute of love's season
Harbours my anchored tongue, slips the quaystone,
When, praise is blessed, her pride in mast and fountain
Sailed and set dazzling by the handshaped ocean,
In that proud sailing tree with branches driven
Through the last vault and vegetable groyne,
And this weak house to marrow-columned heaven,
Is corner-cast, breath's rag, scrawled weed, a vain
And opium head, crow stalk, puffed, cut, and blown,
Or like the tide-looped breastknot reefed again
Or rent ancestrally the roped sea-hymen,
And, pride is last, is like a child alone
By magnet winds to her blind mother drawn,
Bread and milk mansion in a toothless town.
She makes for me a nettle's innocence
And a silk pigeon's guilt in her proud absence,
In the molested rocks the shell of virgins,
The frank, closed pearl, the sea-girls' lineaments
Glint in the staved and siren-printed caverns,
Is maiden in the shameful oak, omens
Whalebed and bulldance, the gold bush of lions,
Proud as a sucked stone and huge as sandgrains.
These are her contraries: the beast who follows
With priest's grave foot and hand of five assassins
Her molten flight up cinder-nesting columns,
Calls the starved fire herd, is cast in ice,
Lost in a limp-treed and uneating silence,
Who scales a hailing hill in her cold flintsteps
Falls on a ring of summers and locked noons.
I make a weapon of an ass's skeleton
And walk the warring sands by the dead town.
Cudgel great air, wreck east, and topple sundown,
Storm her sped heart, hang with beheaded veins
Its wringing shell, and let her eyelids fasten.
Destruction, picked by birds, brays through the jaw-bone,
And, for that murder's sake, dark with contagion
Like an approaching wave I sprawl to ruin.
Ruin, the room of errors, one rood dropped
Down the stacked sea and water-pillared shade,
Weighed in rock shroud, is my proud pyramid;
Where, wound in emerald linen and sharp wind,
The hero's head lies scraped of every legend,
Comes love's anatomist with sun-gloved hand
Who picks the live heart on a diamond.
'His mother's womb had a tongue that lapped up mud,'
Cried the topless, inchtaped lips from hank and hood
In that bright anchorground where I lay linened,
'A lizard darting with black venom's thread
Doubled, to fork him back, through the lockjaw bed
And the breath-white, curtained mouth of seed.'
'See,' drummed the taut masks, 'how the dead ascend:
In the groin's endless coil a man is tangled.'
These once-blind eyes have breathed a wind of visions,
The cauldron's root through this once-rindless hand
Fumed like a tree, and tossed a burning bird;
With loud, torn tooth and tail and cobweb drum
The crumpled packs fled past this ghost in bloom,
And, mild as pardon from a cloud of pride,
The terrible world my brother bares his skin.
Now in the cloud's big breast lie quiet countries,
Delivered seas my love from her proud place
Walks with no wound, nor lightning in her face,
A calm wind blows that raised the trees like hair
Once where the soft snow's blood was turned to ice.
And though my love pulls the pale, nippled air,
Prides of to-morrow suckling in her eyes,
Yet this I make in a forgiving presence.
~ Dylan Thomas,
175: Smoke And Steel
SMOKE of the fields in spring is one,
Smoke of the leaves in autumn another.
Smoke of a steel-mill roof or a battleship funnel,
They all go up in a line with a smokestack,
Or they twist … in the slow twist … of the wind.
If the north wind comes they run to the south.
If the west wind comes they run to the east.
By this sign
all smokes
know each other.
Smoke of the fields in spring and leaves in autumn,
Smoke of the finished steel, chilled and blue,
By the oath of work they swear: 'I know you.'
Hunted and hissed from the center
Deep down long ago when God made us over,
Deep down are the cinders we came from—
You and I and our heads of smoke.
Some of the smokes God dropped on the job
Cross on the sky and count our years
And sing in the secrets of our numbers;
Sing their dawns and sing their evenings,
Sing an old log-fire song:
You may put the damper up,
You may put the damper down,
The smoke goes up the chimney just the same.
Smoke of a city sunset skyline,
Smoke of a country dusk horizon—
They cross on the sky and count our years.
Smoke of a brick-red dust
Winds on a spiral
Out of the stacks
For a hidden and glimpsing moon.
This, said the bar-iron shed to the blooming mill,
This is the slang of coal and steel.
The day-gang hands it to the night-gang,
The night-gang hands it back.
Stammer at the slang of this—
Let us understand half of it.
In the rolling mills and sheet mills,
In the harr and boom of the blast fires,
The smoke changes its shadow
And men change their shadow;
A ****, a wop, a bohunk changes.
A bar of steel—it is only
Smoke at the heart of it, smoke and the blood of a man.
A runner of fire ran in it, ran out, ran somewhere else,
And left—smoke and the blood of a man
And the finished steel, chilled and blue.
So fire runs in, runs out, runs somewhere else again,
And the bar of steel is a gun, a wheel, a nail, a shovel,
A rudder under the sea, a steering-gear in the sky;
And always dark in the heart and through it,
Smoke and the blood of a man.
Pittsburg, Youngstown, Gary—they make their steel with men.
In the blood of men and the ink of chimneys
The smoke nights write their oaths:
Smoke into steel and blood into steel;
Homestead, Braddock, Birmingham, they make their steel with men.
Smoke and blood is the mix of steel.
The birdmen drone
in the blue; it is steel
a motor sings and zooms.
Steel barb-wire around The Works.
Steel guns in the holsters of the guards at the gates of The Works.
Steel ore-boats bring the loads clawed from the earth by steel, lifted and lugged
by arms of steel, sung on its way by the
clanking clam-shells.
The runners now, the handlers now, are steel; they dig and clutch and haul; they
hoist their automatic knuckles from job to
job; they are steel making steel.
Fire and dust and air fight in the furnaces; the pour is timed, the billets wriggle;
the clinkers are dumped:
Liners on the sea, skyscrapers on the land; diving steel in the sea, climbing steel
in the sky.
Finders in the dark, you Steve with a dinner bucket, you Steve clumping in the
dusk on the sidewalks with an evening paper
for the woman and kids, you Steve with your head wondering where we all end
Finders in the dark, Steve: I hook my arm in cinder sleeves; we go down the
street together; it is all the same to us; you
Steve and the rest of us end on the same stars; we all wear a hat in hell
together, in hell or heaven.
Smoke nights now, Steve.
Smoke, smoke, lost in the sieves of yesterday;
Dumped again to the scoops and hooks today.
Smoke like the clocks and whistles, always.
Smoke nights now.
To-morrow something else.
Luck moons come and go:
Five men swim in a pot of red steel.
Their bones are kneaded into the bread of steel:
Their bones are knocked into coils and anvils
And the sucking plungers of sea-fighting turbines.
Look for them in the woven frame of a wireless station.
So ghosts hide in steel like heavy-armed men in mirrors.
Peepers, skulkers—they shadow-dance in laughing tombs.
They are always there and they never answer.
One of them said: 'I like my job, the company is good to me, America is a
wonderful country.'
One: 'Jesus, my bones ache; the company is a liar; this is a free country, like
One: 'I got a girl, a peach; we save up and go on a farm and raise pigs and be
the boss ourselves.'
And the others were roughneck singers a long ways from home.
Look for them back of a steel vault door.
They laugh at the cost.
They lift the birdmen into the blue.
It is steel a motor sings and zooms.
In the subway plugs and drums,
In the slow hydraulic drills, in gumbo or gravel,
Under dynamo shafts in the webs of armature spiders,
They shadow-dance and laugh at the cost.
The ovens light a red dome.
Spools of fire wind and wind.
Quadrangles of crimson sputter.
The lashes of dying maroon let down.
Fire and wind wash out the slag.
Forever the slag gets washed in fire and wind.
The anthem learned by the steel is:
Do this or go hungry.
Look for our rust on a plow.
Listen to us in a threshing-engine razz.
Look at our job in the running wagon wheat.
Fire and wind wash at the slag.
Box-cars, clocks, steam-shovels, churns, pistons, boilers, scissors—
Oh, the sleeping slag from the mountains, the slag-heavy pig-iron will go down
many roads.
Men will stab and shoot with it, and make butter and tunnel rivers, and mow hay
in swaths, and slit hogs and skin beeves, and
steer airplanes across North America, Europe, Asia, round the world.
Hacked from a hard rock country, broken and baked in mills and smelters, the
rusty dust waits
Till the clean hard weave of its atoms cripples and blunts the drills chewing a
hole in it.
The steel of its plinths and flanges is reckoned, O God, in one-millionth of an
Once when I saw the curves of fire, the rough scarf women dancing,
Dancing out of the flues and smoke-stacks—flying hair of fire, flying feet upside
Buckets and baskets of fire exploding and chortling, fire running wild out of the
steady and fastened ovens;
Sparks cracking a harr-harr-huff from a solar-plexus of rock-ribs of the earth
taking a laugh for themselves;
Ears and noses of fire, gibbering gorilla arms of fire, gold mud-pies, gold birdwings, red jackets riding purple mules,
scarlet autocrats tumbling from the humps of camels, assassinated czars
straddling vermillion balloons;
I saw then the fires flash one by one: good-by: then smoke, smoke;
And in the screens the great sisters of night and cool stars, sitting women
arranging their hair,
Waiting in the sky, waiting with slow easy eyes, waiting and half-murmuring:
'Since you know all
and I know nothing,
tell me what I dreamed last night.'
Pearl cobwebs in the windy rain,
in only a flicker of wind,
are caught and lost and never known again.
A pool of moonshine comes and waits,
but never waits long: the wind picks up
loose gold like this and is gone.
A bar of steel sleeps and looks slant-eyed
on the pearl cobwebs, the pools of moonshine;
sleeps slant-eyed a million years,
sleeps with a coat of rust, a vest of moths,
a shirt of gathering sod and loam.
The wind never bothers … a bar of steel.
The wind picks only.. pearl cobwebs.. pools of moonshine.
~ Carl Sandburg,

--- IN CHAPTERS (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)


   2 The Mother

   2 The Mothers Agenda

Agenda_Vol_4, #The Mothers Agenda, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  So when I note it all down, the result is all sorts of papers! (Mother shows the Stack of drafts)
  And now, with that new process, the papers will go on multiplying! Because it comes the way I told

Agenda_Vol_7, #The Mothers Agenda, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  disturbing it, the atmosphere is gone and I no longer know how I arranged it. And here, there are four,
  five, six people handling my papers - seven. So (Mother points to the Stacks in every corner): chaos.
  Because it waters down the experience. This is also words (Mother shows the Stack of "Questions and
  Answers" for the next Bulletin).
  (Then Mother looks at her appointment notebook and the Stack of letters from people asking to see
  All this (pointing to the Stack of letters) is for appointments! And it's something quite simple, it's not
  tiring - nothing is tiring if you aren't in a hurry. But if you are forever thinking of the next thing you

Book_of_Exodus, #The Bible, #Anonymous, #Various
  6 If fire break out, and catch in thorns, so that the Stacks of corn, or the standing corn, or the field, be consumed therewith; he that kindled the fire shall surely make restitution. 7 If a man shall deliver unto his neighbour money or stuff to keep, and it be stolen out of the man's house; if the thief be found, let him pay double. 8 If the thief be not found, then the master of the house shall be brought unto the judges, to see whether he have put his hand unto his neighbour's goods.

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