He shook his head and thought about it for a second. “Maybe I'm not straight? Can I still be straight when I'm sitting here looking into your eyes?” he asked. Maybe it was the alcohol talking or maybe he wasn't as straight as he thought he was.“Yes. Absolutely.” Cormag nodded and watched him closely.“Even when I think they're so pretty? They are, you know. So many different shades of brown…and a little green. Just a touch; not a lot. So pretty.” He sighed happily, watching those dark eyes staring back at him in surprise. He lay his head on his arms, smiling at the way Cormag flushed in embarrassment and turned his full attention onto his bottle of beer.“Wow, you are super drunk.

قلت لي مرة: أنتِ نجمتي البعيدة، كنت أنظر إلى السماء كلما زارني الحزن ليلا، يغيب حزني حين أتذكر كلماتك وأن لعيني بريقا يشبه بريق النجوم.

Colega ei îşi făcuse un titlu de glorie din sângele rece şi avea o rezervă aparent inepuizabilă de poveşti pentru cei uşor impresionabili. Cea mai de succes istorie, care punea întotdeauna pe gânduri debutanţii în meseria lor păcătoasă, privea un accident feroviar. Fuseseră atunci vreo cinci morţi în maşina transformată de locomotiva unui accelerat într-o învălmăşeală de fiare, iar Corina se lăuda oricui vroia să o asculte cum a obţinut un instantaneu şocant. Am adunat câteva bucăţele de creier împrăştiate şi le-am pus alături, chiar pe linia ferată. A ieşit o poză beton!

As the chapters took shape, a change came over her. It was the double-sided recognition that this book, the last that she would write, might achieve esteem and success equal to her great novel, but that its emotional heart would lie in her own unhappiness for having failed to find the one thing she wanted. For the first time she was a character in her own writing, and her frailties and mistakes were trapped on the page by the beauty and unsparing focus of her prose. Towards the end it was a battle to finish a page. The story was the story she had told herself for decades, deep within her own mind, and now as it grew, line by line, on the paper before her, she wrestled with each turn in the path all over again, as if it were still possible to change its course with the power of her words.

The best teachers have showed me that things have to be done bit by bit. Nothing that means anything happens quickly--we only think it does. The motion of drawing back a bow and sending an arrow straight into a target takes only a split second, but it is a skill many years in the making. So it is with a life, anyone's life. I may list things that might be described as my accomplishments in these few pages, but they are only shadows of the larger truth, fragments separated from the whole cycle of becoming. And if I can tell an old-time story now about a man who is walking about, waudjoset ndatlokugan, a forest lodge man, alesakamigwi udlagwedewugan, it is because I spent many years walking about myself, listening to voices that came not just from the people but from animals and trees and stones.

Woolrich had a genius for creating types of story perfectly consonant with his world: the noir cop story, the clock race story, the waking nightmare, the oscillation thriller, the headlong through the night story, the annihilation story, the last hours story. These situations, and variations on them, and others like them, are paradigms of our position in the world as Woolrich sees it. His mastery of suspense, his genius (like that of his spiritual brother Alfred Hitchcock) for keeping us on the edge of our seats and gasping with fright, stems not only from the nightmarish situations he conjured up but from his prose, which is compulsively readable, cinematically vivid, high-strung almost to the point of hysteria, forcing us into the skins of the hunted and doomed where we live their agonies and die with them a thousand small deaths.

Cormag caught his hand and pulled him back until they were facing each other. “I think you're amazing,” he said, blurting the words out.Lachlan smiled, completely shocked and thrilled by how captivating he found him.He had never thought this could happen to him, that he would be attracted to another boy.He thought he knew himself so well.“I think you're smart, sexy, funny as hell. You have hidden depths, Lachlan. You only need the right person to coax you out of your protective shell,” he claimed.“Are you the right person?” Lachlan wondered, as he took a half step forward.Cormag took a deep breath and brushed at a strand of hair that was sticking out at a funny angle from behind the top of his ear. He tugged at his short hair every time he talked about his recent break up. He was such a dork.

Mowaljarlai rarely answered questions with an abstract explanation; he always told a story. His was not a fragmented world, divided into the convenient disciplinary languages and jargon that seem to be required for the understanding of concepts and principles in, for example, mathematics, physics, art and literature. Not only did he not have these languages; he thought this was a strange way to arrive at understanding the way in which the world lives in itself. It baffled him that whitefellas developed their knowledge by busting things up, reducing things to little pieces separate from everything else that contributes to their nature. For him, everything in creation is not only living and interconnected, but exists in a story and story cycle. Yet his knowledge of what whitefellas call ‘science’ was extraordinary.”p80-1.

I believe that there is one story in the world, and only one, that has frightened and inspired us, so that we live in a Pearl White serial of continuing thought and wonder. Humans are caught - in their lives, in their thoughts, in their hungers and ambitions, in their avarice and cruelty, and in their kindness and generosity too - in a net of good and evil. I think this is the only story we have and that it occurs on all levels of feeling and intelligence. Virtue and vice were warp and woof of our first consciousness, and they will be the fabric of our last, and this despite any changes we may impose on field and river and mountain, on economy and manners. there is no other story. A man, after he has brushed off the dust and chips of life, will have left only the hard, clean questions: Was it good or was it evil? Have I done well - or ill?

لا أعرف لم تمسكت بك كل تلك الفترة، كان ذلك القصر الأفلاطوني معقل أفكاري التي صغتها قصائد عشق وترانيم أشواق اغتيلت قبل أن تكمل سنوات طفولتها الأولى.

أن الظلمة التي يعيشها الأعمى ليست ببساطة أكثر من غياب الضوء ، إن مانسميه عمى هو ببساطة شيء ما يغطي مظهر وكينونة الأشياء ، يتركها سليمة خلف حجاب أسود

Some writers might tell you that writing is like a piece of magic - a process of creating something out of nothing, and I guess I used to think about it that way too a long long time ago. But as I've lived my life and loved and lost friends and family, and seen dreams smashed and resurrected, and marveled at the pettiness, drear ambition and ignorance of the herd of which I am a part, I can no longer say that a poem or a story or a script comes from nothing. If it's any good, if it has any power, any potent emotional body, then it's something that a writer has paid for, not only in time, but in all the anxiety that accompanies living and those small fret-filled acts of becoming present that make it possible for us to see beyond our little patch of immediacy. It's not just a reaching out, but a reaching in, into the depths of our being from whence we've sprung.

Tahun lalu kita reunian untuk yg pertama kalinya, tahun ini kita reunian lagi untuk yg kedua kalinya. Entah ada maksud apa yg mempertemukan kita hingga kita bisa sampai di titik pdkt walau cuma terhitung satu hari. Kita tau kita saling suka, kita tau kita banyak bedanya seperti venus dan mars, kita juga tau bahwa sebenarnya kita adalah dua pribadi yg saling membutuhkan, tapi kita tetap memilih untuk tidak bertahan pada apa yg kita rasakan, hingga sekarang kita sudah berjauhan seperti diterjang taufan. Kembali menjadi teman walau tidak seperti sungguhan. Ini semua terangkum karna aku yakin sebenarnya kamu mau bertahan walaupun sekarang kamu terlihat lebih egoisan. Aku juga yakin kamu pasti bosan dengan kelakuan aku yg selalu memaksakan. Hingga suatu saat jika kita dipertemukan lagi, kamu pasti akan menghampiriku dan menyatakan, "memang cuma kamu yang akan dan selalu aku butuhkan...." aku yakin itu, Par!

Adam Kuambiana umerudi nyumbani ulikotoka, ukiongozwa na imani na mwanga wa wale uliowapenda na kuwapoteza. Hatuwezi kukumbuka kwamba umetutoka bila kukumbuka kwamba uliishi, na kwamba maisha yako yalitupa kumbukumbu nzuri tusizoweza kuzisahau haraka. Jumanne, siku ya kuuaga mwili uliokuwa ukitumiwa na wewe, wengine watasema Kwa heri lakini mimi nitasema Asante! Asante kwa sababu ya kipaji chako. Asante kwa sababu ya kujitahidi kwa kadiri ya uwezo wako wote, kutoa sauti kwa wale wote waliokuwa hawawezi kusikika. Asante kwa sababu ya kuacha dunia katika hali nzuri kuliko ulivyoikuta wakati ukiingia, na Asante kwa sababu ya maisha yako. Tukiendelea kuomboleza kifo cha Adam Kuambiana hapa duniani, wengine wanasherehekea kukutana naye huko mbinguni. Mchungaji wa uhai wa wote Mungu wa mbinguni ailaze roho yake mahali pema peponi: Yeye ni mwandishi wa hadithi ya maisha yetu na ndiye aliyeandika ukurasa wa mwisho wa hadithi ya Adam.

As I mentioned briefly on the phone, the best thing about the Air Chrysalis is that it's not an imitation of anyone. It has absolutely none of the usual new writer's sense of 'I want to be another so-and-so'. the syle, for sure, is rough,and the writing is clumsy. She even gets the title wrong: she's confusing 'chrysalis' and 'cocoon'. You could pick it apart completely if you wanted to. But the story itself has real power: it draws you in. the overall plots is a fantasy, but the descriptive details is incredibly real.The balance between the two is excellent. I don't know if words like 'originality' or Inevitability' fit here, and I suppose I might agree if someone insisted it's not at that level, but finally, after you work your way through the thing, with all its faults, it leaves a real impression- it gets to you in some strange, inexplicable way that may be a little disturbing.