Amaranta was the first to suspect that they had lost him forever.
One week before the armistice, when he entered the house without an escort, preceded by two barefoot orderlies who deposited on the porch the saddle from the mule and the trunk of poetry, all that was left of his former imperial baggage, she saw him pass by the sewing room and she called to him. Colonel Aureliano Buendía had trouble recognizing her.
“It’s Amaranta,” she said good-humoredly, happy at his return, and she showed him the hand with the black bandage. “Look.”
Colonel Aureliano Buendía smiled at her the same way as when he had first seen her with the bandage on that remote morning when he had come back to Macondo condemned to death.
“How awful,” he said, “the way time passes!”
I am a gold coin
Allow me to admit proudly that I’ve spent most of my time in Istanbul wandering from purse to purse, and from sash to pocket, as befits an intelligent coin. My worst nightmare is to be stored in a jug and languish for years beneath a rock, buried in some garden; not that it hasn’t happened to me, but for whatever reason, these periods have never lasted long.
“Leave that boy at once!”
said a voice in the outer compound. It was Okonkwo’s uncle, Uchendu. “Are you mad?”
Okonkwo did not answer. But he left hold of Nwoye, who walked away and never returned.
He went back to the church and told Mr. Kiaga that he had decided to go to Umuofia where the white missionary had set up a school to teach young Christians to read and write.
Mr. Kiaga’s joy was very great. “Blessed is he who forsakes his father and his mother for my sake,” he intoned. “Those that hear my words are my father and my mother.”
Nwoye did not fully understand. But he was happy to leave his father. He would return later to his mother and his brothers and sisters and convert them to the new faith.
As Okonkwo sat in his hut that night, gazing into a log fire, he thought over the matter.
Only a few weeks ago,
the drawings you would bring in
were drawings of a tower with a fairy princess
leaning out from a high turret,
a swirl of stars in the background,
and bright moons, distant planets with rings.
Then yesterday you brought in
a drawing of a scallion,
a single scallion on a sheet of white paper—
another crucial step
along the path of human development,
I thought to myself
as I admired the slender green stalk,
the white bulb, and the little beard
of roots that you had penciled in so carefully.
Billy Collins / Girl
“Good morning,” said the little prince.
“Good morning,” said the railway switchman.
“What do you do here?” asked the little prince.
“I sort the travelers in bundles of a thousand,” the switchman said. “I dispatch the trains that carry them, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left.”
And a brightly lit express train, roaring like thunder, shook the switchman’s cabin.
“What a hurry they’re in,” said the little prince. “What are they looking for?”
“Now, we’ll start this band of robbers and call it Tom Sawyer’s Gang.
Everybody that wants to join has got to take an oath, and write his name in blood.”
Everybody was willing. So Tom got out a sheet of paper that he had wrote the oath on, and read it.
Away in the eyefar nightrise over the sapwood, and one likes under hooves the heatfeel after sun flees, heat stays on this smooth to the hoof hardpan, part trail part saltlick now as snowlast moults back into the sapwood to yard and rot and one sees moonrise mounding over a groundswell, but too soon and swifter like never the moon one knows, no moon at all, two moons fawned, both small, too hot, they come with a growling and hold one fast, so chafing for flight but what, what, what, what wondering----
Cassano was a guy with a crude feel for financial risk but a real talent for bullying people who doubted him.
“AIG FP became a dictatorship,” says one London trader. “Joe would bully people around. He’d humiliate them and then try to make it up to them by giving them huge amounts of money.”
“One day he got me on the phone and was pissed off about a trade that had lost money,” says a Connecticut trader. “He said, When you lose money it’s my fucking money. Say it. I said, ‘What?’
“Say, ‘Joe, it’s your fucking money’! So I said, ‘It’s your fucking money, Joe.’”
Down in the basement, at the eastern end of the Ping-Pong table, Alfred was unpacking a Maker’s Mark whiskey carton filled with Christmas-tree lights.
He already had prescription drugs and an enema kit on the table. He had a sugar cookie freshly baked by Enid in a shape suggestive of a terrier but meant to be a reindeer. He had a Log Cabin syrup carton containing the large colored lights that he’d formerly hung on the outdoor yews. He had a pump-action shotgun in a zippered canvas case, and a box of twenty-gauge shells. He had a rare clarity and the will to use it while it lasted.
A shadowy light of late afternoon was captive in the window wells. The furnace was cycling on often, the house leaking heat. Alfred’s red sweater hung on him in skewed folds and bulges, as if he were a log or a chair. His gray wool slacks were afflicted with stains that he had no choice but to tolerate, because the only other option was to take leave of his senses, and he wasn’t quite ready to do that.
On the other hand, online dating sites
are the only places I’ve been where there’s no ambiguity of intention. A gradation of subtlety, sure: from the basic ‘You’re cute,’ to the off-putting ‘Hi there, would you like to come over, smoke a joint and let me take nude photos of you in my living room?’