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Raw Dog: The Naked Truth About Hot Dogs

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Jamie Loftus

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“Victoria Ocampo era por cierto una oligarca, pero no todas las oligarcas eran Victoria Ocampo. Las damas de la alta sociedad, como se decía entonces, no empleaban su dinero y su tiempo en la difusión de las letras ni abrazaban la causa del feminismo ni transgredían costumbres establecidas, ni se animaban a proclamar su agnosticismo; nada tenían en común con Victoria”

“Dressing like that creates the wrong idea.” “Oh really?” Wendy narrowed her eyes; John was moving into dangerous territory. “I wasn’t aware that wearing the same shirt you’re wearing was revolutionary.” “It’s a man’s shirt, Wendy.” Wendy scoffed. “Surprisingly, I’m aware of that. This was all I could find, so unless you want me to go to dinner naked, I suggest you come to terms with my shirt.”

“So, when I came to write science-fiction novels, I came lugging this great heavy sack of stuff, my carrier bag full of wimps and klutzes, and tiny grains of things smaller than a mustard seed, and intricately woven nets which when laboriously unknotted are seen to contain one blue pebble, an imperturbably functioning chronometer telling the time on another world, and a mouse’s skull; full of beginnings without ends, of initiations, of losses, of transformations and translations, and far more tricks than conflicts, far fewer triumphs than snares and delusions; full of space ships that get stuck, missions that fail, and people who don’t understand.”

“I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.”