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Hey, I can cook." "How do you know? You haven't eaten anything since before the Norman Conquest." "I've never had any complaints." "Given the infants you date, I'm not surprised. You could serve them sawdust and they'd eat it with a smile, dazzled by the swing of your broadsword." "What do you know about the swing of my broadsword?" "More than I care to. Women talk." Which shut him up, as he started wondering who'd said what. ↗
Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it. ↗
This was the greatest gift that he had, the talent that fitted him for war; that ability not to ignore but to despise whatever bad ending there could be. This quality was destroyed by too much responsibility for others or the necessity of undertaking something ill planned or badly conceived. For in such things the bad ending, failure, could not be ignored. It was not simply a possibility of harm to one's self, which could be ignored. He knew he himself was nothing, and he knew death was nothing. He knew that truly, as truly as he knew anything. In the last few days he had learned that he himself, with another person, could be everything. But inside himself he knew that this was the exception. That we have had, he thought. In that I have been most fortunate. That was given to me, perhaps, because I never asked for it. That cannot be taken away nor lost. But that is over and done with now on this morning and what there is to do now is our work. ↗
Am I to die?” I asked, and he stopped, raised our joined hands to his mouth and gently kissed my knuckles. “You are, my love, and in your sleep, you will become Death’s bride. ↗
So che, rifiutando a mia volta di accettare un compromesso con i fondamentalisti e con i signori della guerra, o di annacquare le mie denunce nei loro confronti, protrò finire con l'essere annoverata anch'io nel lungo elenco degli afghani che sono morti per la libertà del loro paese. Ma non si può venire a patti con la verità. E non ho paure di una morte prematura, se la mia morte favorirà la cause della giustizia. ↗
The winter was not really winter at all, and therein may lie Key West's greatest charm. If one does not have to brood upon the coming of winter and the shortening of the days and the fading of the light, then perhaps one does not have to brood upon the coming of death. When the season is gentle and untreatening and seems to renew itself daily, we come to believe that spring and the long days of summer may be eternal after all. When we see the light trapped high in the sky on a summer evening, is it possible we are looking through an aperture at our future rather than at a seasonal phenomenon? Is it possible that the big party is just beginning? ↗