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Quote by Veronica Vitale

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Inside The Outsider

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Veronica Vitale

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“Lho indotta a sottoscrivere i gesti di una madre sola e imperfetta, di una pittrice dal valore dubitoso, di una donna altera ma debole, una donna che vorrebbe esse uomo per sfuggire se stessa. E da donna a donna l'ho trattata, senza discrezione, senza virile rispetto. Trecento anni di maggiore esperienza non mi hanno insegnato a riscattare una compagna dai suoi errori umani e a ricostruirle una libertà ideale, quella che la affrancava e la esaltava nelle ore di lavoro, che furono tante. E ormai non so che cimentarla, per farla parlare, sui ricordi di una maternità infelice, il solito argomento delle donne.”

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Book:Artemisia
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“Uno strigo deve difendere gli uomini, affinché non vengano appesi agli alberi per le mani e impalati. Difendere le fanciulle dai capelli biondi, affinché non vengano legate con braccia e gambe divaricate a paletti conficcati nel terreno. Difendere i bambini, affinché non vengano scannati e gettati nei pozzi. Merita di essere difeso perfino un gatto bruciato in un fienile dato alle fiamme. Perciò diventerò una striga, perciò ho la spada, per difendere la gente come quella di Sodden e Oltreriva, perché loro non hanno armi, non conoscono i passi, i mezzi giri, le schivate e le piroette, nessuno ha insegnato loro a combattere, sono impotenti di fronte ai licantropi e ai disertori di Nilfgaard. A me insegnano a combattere. Per poter difendere gli inermi. E lo farò. Sempre. Non sarò mai neutrale. Non sarò mai indifferente. Mai!”

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Book:Krew elfów
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“Roughly speaking, the period when bevies of bobwhites were found in great abundance over a goodly portion of the American landscape embraced a period from early in the 20th century into the late 1950s or early 1960s. In retrospect, we can readily perceive the circumstances that produced an incredible bounty of the saucy little patrician of peafield cormers and briar-infested fencerows. All were, in one way or another, habitat related, and all have vanished like milkweed spores caught in September thermals. It was a time of sharecroppers and small farmers, folks who worked the land by hand and with teams of horses or mules. The concept of “clean farming” was both impractical and unknown, and these staunch sons of the soil were also practical conservationists who routinely left field edges and ditch banks in an overgrown state. They allowed worn-out land to revert to broomsedge and pines, and the practice of leaving peafield corners unharvested was commonplace. Raptors were shot on sight, with every hawk being deemed a “chicken” hawk. Furbearing nest predators—'’possums, ’coons, skunks, and foxes—were trapped and hunted for food or fur. Serpents, except for black snakes, which were prized because they kept rodent populations under control around corncribs, were not only killed; they were displayed on fences as a sort of message. Coyotes were at that point unknown over most of the South, the heartland of the noble quail and home of the strongest traditions associated with the bird, Foxes weren't just hunted; they were exterminated. In other words, an area encompassing tens of millions of acres was overseen by an army of unofficial, unpaid, unheralded, yet highly effective gamekeepers.”

HuntingQuail
Book:The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition
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“At this moment a blood-pressure estimate would bust the machine that takes it. Your heart is so loud it sounds like a pile driver. There is something in your throat about the size of a football, and your lips are dry from the temperature you're running, which is maybe just under 110 degrees Fahrenheit. You are looking straight ahead of the dog—never down at the ground—and you are carrying your shotgun slanted across your chest the stock slightly cocked under your elbow. Nothing happens. The dog creeps forward another six yards, and you come up behind him when he freezes again. This time he’s looking right down at his forefeet, and when you walk past him he jumps and the world blows up. The world explodes, and a billion bits of it fly out in front of you, tiny brown bits with the thunder of love in each wing. They go in all directions—right, left, behind you, over your head, sometimes straight at you, sometimes straight up before they level. Then a miracle happens. Out of these billion bits you choose one bit and fire, and if the bit explodes in a cloud of feathers you choose another bit and fire again, and if this bit also explodes you break your gun swiftly and load, figuring maybe there’s a lay bird and you can turn to the Old Man with a grin, and when he says, “How many?” you can answer, “Three.” More likely you’ll answer, “One” or “None.”’ - November Was Always the Best By Robert Ruark”

HuntingHunting DogsQuail
Book:The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition
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“If there is a broad explanation for the fascination of quail shooting, it must be that no man can bet on just how good he’ll be on any given day. The challenge of bird to man is permanent. You will catch a full night's sleep, find perfect shooting the next day, and miss everything that flies. You can get drunk as an owl, sit up all night, fly a plane from dawn until noon, and with a bellyful of butterflies kill all that rustles. My personal record of 15 out of 18 shots was set on a basis of no sleep at all for two nights, due to work and travel, with a splitting headache and hands that shook like maraca gourds. Recently I had 11 in the bag with 13 shots. We couldn't find bird No. 12, and this so upset my timing that it took me 22 shots to get the other four quail. And we had to chase the last one to death. - The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark”

Hunting DogsQuail
Book:The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition
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