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  1. #8901
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    It was so cold today the Lawyers had their hands in their own pockets.










    Fish Deeper and Suckers Born.

  2. #8902
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    BaitongBoy, have you watched the movie, "84 Charing Cross Road"?
    I watched it today (Netflix), and thought of you.
    People who appreciate English language.

  3. #8903
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    Cheers...I'll have a look...

    “In a sense, we are all crashing to our death from the top story of our birth ... and wondering with an immortal Alice at the patterns of the passing wall. This capacity to wonder at trifles - no matter the imminent peril - these asides of the spirit ... are the highest form of consciousness.”

    ― Vladimir Nabokov

  4. #8904
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    “Age has no reality except in the physical world. The essence of a human being is resistant to the passage of time. Our inner lives are eternal, which is to say that our spirits remain as youthful and vigorous as when we were in full bloom. Think of love as a state of grace, not the means to anything, but the alpha and omega. An end in itself.”

    ― Gabriel Garcia Marquez , Love in the Time of Cholera

  5. #8905
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    “He was awakened by sadness. Not the sadness he had felt that morning when he stood before the corpse of his friend, but the invisible cloud that would saturate his soul after his siesta and which he interpreted as divine notification that he was living his final afternoons.”

    ― Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

  6. #8906
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    “I walk along the avenue thinking how shit always sinks, and how all these towns dump their shit for the river to push it down to the delta. Then I think about that girl sitting in the alley, sitting in her own slough, and I shake my head. I have not gotten that low.

    I stop in front of the bus station, look in on the waiting people, and think about all the places they are going. But I know they can't run away from it or drink their way out or die to get rid of it. It's always there, you just look at somebody and they give you a look like the Wrath of God.”

    ― Breece D'J Pancake, The Stories of Breece D'J Pancake

  7. #8907
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    “The universe is a great unknown wonderful place, and we know nothing, really, to speak of about it. I think that either depresses and frightens one or is exhilarating.

    We are very important, and we’re not important in quite the way we think we are. Each one of us is unique, and we can find out a whole lot just by examining ourselves. I think that’s the essential thing. Not paying attention to how you’re going to make money, just paying attention to whatever is around you.

    Each one of those seconds is your only chance. It’s your life. And it’s wonderful. The more attention that we pay to our ordinary lives leads to a real elation that we’re here at all.”

    ― W.S. Merwin

  8. #8908
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    The Gettysburg Address

    (Bliss Copy)

    Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

    Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

    But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.

    It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

    Abraham Lincoln
    November 19, 1863

  9. #8909
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    all these years I have looked through your limbs
    to the river below and the roofs and the night
    and you were the way I saw the world

    ― W.S. Merwin, The Moon Before Morning

  10. #8910
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    Corruption is my gospel.
    I love shit, the rotting odour coming
    From cubicles… In a spit
    I show my disgust at human nature.
    And the inferior beast who roams in the woods
    Is most assuredly my elder brother.

    – from Monologue of a Shadow, Augusto dos Anjos

  11. #8911
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    “Fiction is one of the few experiences where loneliness can be both confronted and relieved. Drugs, movies where stuff blows up, loud parties -- all these chase away loneliness by making me forget my name's Dave and I live in a one-by-one box of bone no other party can penetrate or know.

    Fiction, poetry, music, really deep serious sex, and, in various ways, religion -- these are the places (for me) where loneliness is countenanced, stared down, transfigured, treated.”

    ― David Foster Wallace

  12. #8912
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    In Bangkok
    At twelve o'clock
    They foam at the mouth and run
    Slut mad dogs and Englishmen
    Go out in the midday sun

    - Noel Coward

  13. #8913
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    “One day many years ago a man walked along and stood in the sound of the ocean on a cold sunless shore and said, 'We need a voice to call across the water, to warn ships; I'll make one.

    I'll make a voice like all of time and all of the fog that ever was; I'll make a voice that is like an empty bed beside you all night long, and like an empty house when you open the door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on the hard, cold shore.

    I'll make a sound that's so alone that no one can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths will seem warmer, and being inside will seem better to all who hear it in the distant towns. I'll make me a sound and an apparatus and they'll call it a Fog Horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity and the briefness of life.'"


    ― Ray Bradbury, The Fog Horn

  14. #8914
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    “What has shaken me is not that you lied to me, but that I no longer believe you.”

    ― Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

  15. #8915
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    “It’s dark because you are trying too hard.
    Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly.
    Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply.
    Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.

    I was so preposterously serious in those days, such a humorless little prig.
    Lightly, lightly – it’s the best advice ever given me.
    When it comes to dying even. Nothing ponderous, or portentous, or emphatic.
    No rhetoric, no tremolos,
    no self conscious persona putting on its celebrated imitation of Christ or Little Nell.
    And of course, no theology, no metaphysics.
    Just the fact of dying and the fact of the clear light.

    So throw away your baggage and go forward.
    There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet,
    trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair.
    That’s why you must walk so lightly.
    Lightly my darling,
    on tiptoes and no luggage,
    not even a sponge bag,
    completely unencumbered.”

    ― Aldous Huxley , Island

  16. #8916
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    “To laugh often and much; to win the respect of the intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the beauty in others; to leave the world a bit better whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know that one life has breathed easier because you lived here. This is to have succeeded.”

    ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

  17. #8917
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    “Chronic remorse, as all the moralists are agreed, is a most undesirable sentiment. If you have behaved badly, repent, make what amends you can and address yourself to the task of behaving better next time. On no account brood over your wrongdoing. Rolling in the muck is not the best way of getting clean.”

    ― Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

  18. #8918
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    Memorable Passages-laurens-jpg
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  19. #8919
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    “I have three precious things which I hold fast and prize. The first is gentleness; the second is frugality; the third is humility, which keeps me from putting myself before others. Be gentle and you can be bold; be frugal and you can be liberal; avoid putting yourself before others and you can become a leader among men.”

    ― Lao Tzu

  20. #8920
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    Just short of the grove she poised, startled, her eyes having caught the alien color of the men’s shirts. She stood there up on her toes poised like a deer to run. She was very close now, close enough for the men to see every feature of her face.
    She was all ovals – oval-shaped eyes, the bones of her face, the contour of her brow. Her skin was an exquisite dark creaminess and her eyes, enormous, dark violet or brown but dark with long heavy lashes shadowed her lovely face. Her mouth was rich without being gross, sweet without being weak and dyed dark red with the juice of the grapes. She was so incredibly lovely that Fabrizzio murmured, “Jesus Christ, take my soul, I’m dying,” as a joke, but the words came out a little too hoarsely. As if she had heard him, the girl came down off her toes and whirled away from them and fled back to her pursuers. Her haunches moved like an animal’s beneath the tight print of her dress; as pagan and as innocently lustful. When she reached her friends she whirled around again and her face was like a dark hollow against the field of bright flowers. She extended an arm, the hand full of grapes pointed toward the grove. The girls fled laughing, with the black-clad, stout matrons scolding them on.
    As for Michael Corleone, he found himself standing, his heart pounding in his chest; he felt a little dizzy. The blood was surging through his body, through all its extremities and pounding against the tips of his fingers, the tips of his toes. All the perfumes of the island came rushing in on the wind, orange, lemon blossoms, grapes, flowers. It seemed as if his body had sprung away from him out of himself. And then he heard the two shepherds laughing.
    “You got hit by the thunderbolt, eh?” Fabrizzio said, clapping him on the shoulder. Even Calo became friendly, patting him on the arm and saying, “Easy, man, easy,” but with affection. As if Michael had been hit by a car. Fabrizzio handed him a wine bottle and Michael took a long slug. It cleared his head.
    “What the hell are you damn sheep lovers talking about?” he said.
    Both men laughed. Calo, his honest face filled with the utmost seriousness, said, “You can’t hide the thunderbolt. When it hits you, everybody can see it. Christ, man, don’t be ashamed of it, some men pray for the thunderbolt. You’re a lucky fellow.”
    Michael wasn’t too pleased about his emotions being so easily read. But this was the first time in his life such a thing had happened to him. It was nothing like his adolescent crushes, it was nothing like the love he’d had for Kay, a love based as much on her sweetness, her intelligence and the polarity of the fair and dark. This was an overwhelming desire for possession, this was an inerasible printing of the girl’s face on his brain and he knew she would haunt his memory every day of his life if he did not possess her. His life had become simplified, focused on one point, everything else was unworthy of even a moment’s attention. During his exile he had always thought of Kay, though he felt they could never again be lovers or even friends. He was, after all was said, a murderer, a mafioso who had “made his bones.” But now Kay was wiped completely out of his consciousness.
    Fabrizzio said briskly, “I’ll go to the village, we’ll find out about her. Who knows, she may be more available than we think. There’s only one cure for the thunderbolt, eh, Calo?”
    The other shepherd nodded his head gravely. Michael didn’t say anything. He followed the two shepherds as they started down the road to the nearby village into which the flock of girls had disappeared.

    from The Godfather - Mario Puzo
    Last edited by docmartin; 07-08-2019 at 11:55 AM.

  21. #8921
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    Last edited by fishlocker; 11-09-2019 at 11:07 AM.

  22. #8922
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    We used to play for silver..Now we play for laughs....

  23. #8923
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    The Gunner's Lament - James K Baxter 1965

    A Maori gunner lay dying
    In a paddyfield north of Saigon,
    And he said to his pakeha cobber,
    "I reckon I've had it, man!

    'And if I could fly like a bird
    To my old granny's whare
    A truck and a winch would never drag
    Me back to the Army.

    'A coat and a cap and a well-paid job
    Looked better than shovelling metal,
    And they told me that Te Rauparaha
    Would have fought in the Vietnam battle.

    'On my last leave the town swung round
    Like a bucket full of eels.
    The girls liked the uniform
    And I liked the girls.

    'Like a bullock to the abattoirs
    In the name of liberty
    They flew me with a hangover
    Across the Tasman Sea,

    'And what I found in Vietnam
    Was mud and blood and fire,
    With the Yanks and the Reds taking turns
    At murdering the poor.

    'And I saw the reason for it
    In a Viet Cong's blazing eyes -
    We fought for the crops of kumara
    And they are fighting for the rice.

    'So go tell my sweetheart
    To get another boy
    Who'll cuddle her and marry her
    And laugh when the bugles blow,

    'And tell my youngest brother
    He can have my shotgun
    To fire at the ducks on the big lagoon,
    But not to aim it at a man,

    'And tell my granny to wear black
    And carry a willow leaf,
    Because the kid she kept from the cold
    Has eaten a dead man's loaf.

    'And go and tell Keith Holyoake
    Sitting in Wellington,
    However long he scrubs his hands
    He'll never get them clean.'


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