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A Quotes

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All A Quotes

“Allí se bebe a costillas propias o ajenas; bebe el gorrista destapado, el que finge no serlo, el que quiere y el que no quiere: yo bebo, tú bebes, él bebe; sólo el estanquero no bebe, y... el hombre feliz tampoco. Allí está tirado proclamándose Prometeo y dios a un mismo tiempo, y a medida que se bebe, llamean las mejillas; enrojecen las narices; las pupilas fulguran; los sombreros se van a las coronas... y el dar filo a las lenguas, y el charloteo, y el hablar a la rebatiña, y el tartamudear... el tímido bota la timidez; el discreto desembucha secretos; el hipócrita, picardías; el generoso se torna en cicatero; el caballero en canalla; el prudente en imprudente; el cobarde en rajabroqueles; el manso se sulfura; el sin ventura halla la felicidad; el triste, la alegría; el callado habla hasta por los codos; y el alma-de-cántaro... empeora... Allí de proyectos, de negocios, de política, de crónica escandalosa; allí de chistes, de chascarrillos, de literatura, de amor... Y el cigarrillo, mezclando sus perfumados humos con los vulgares del tabaco de la tierra, y el olor de las tinas, y el tufo de los bebedores (de El palacio de la felicidad)”

“Alma focused. She went behind the tall wood-carved bar and straightened the tequila bottles. She loved the colors and designs of the containers--- brightly colored, some were even hand-painted. Her favorite bottle was a white ceramic one painted with intricate blue leaves. The shape of the bottle resembled the curves of a woman, and the liquor itself was just as robust, just as refined--- truly the intersection of quality and art. She signaled her bar manager, Lupe, to turn the music on, to which Lupe quickly obliged. The melodic sounds of one of her favorite Spanish ballads filled the air; the singer's deep baritone voice almost as intoxicating as the liquor in the place. Almost. A waft from the kitchen danced through her nostrils. Though this was a tequila bar, Mezcalifornia was known for its happy hour. They served mostly the usual fare that you would expect--- small carnitas street tacos, fresh-charred corn dressed with a tangy garlic sauce and garnished with cotija cheese, mini ahi tostadas, and of course, guacamole. She hadn't wanted a typical sit-down restaurant with gourmet food and a wine list. Been there, done that. No. She wanted a vibe. A destination. An experience.”

“Alma knelt in the tall grass and brought her face as near as she could to the stone. And there, rising no more than an inch above the surface of the boulder, she saw a great and tiny forest. Nothing moved within this mossy world. She peered at it so closely that she could smell it- dank and rich and old. Gently, Alma pressed her hand into this tight little timberland. It compacted itself under her palm and then sprang back to form without complaint. There was something stirring about its response to her. The moss felt warm and spongy, several degrees warmer than the air around it, and far more damp than she had expected. It appeared to have its own weather. Alma put the magnifying lens to her eye and looked again. Now the miniature forest below her gaze sprang into majestic detail. She felt her breath catch. This was a stupefying kingdom. This was the Amazon jungle as seen from the back of a harpy eagle. She rode her eye above the surprising landscape, following its paths in every direction. Here were rich, abundant valleys filled with tiny trees of braided mermaid hair and minuscule, tangled vines. Here were barely visible tributaries running through that jungle, and here was a miniature ocean in a depression in the center of the boulder, where all the water pooled. Just across this ocean- which was half the size of Alma's shawl- she found another continent of moss altogether. On this new continent, everything was different. This corner of the boulder must receive more sunlight than the other, she surmised. Or slightly less rain? In any case, this was a new climate entirely. Here, the moss grew in mountain ranges the length of Alma's arms, in elegant, pine tree-shaped clusters of darker, more somber green. On another quadrant of the same boulder still, she found patches of infinitesimally small deserts, inhabited by some kind of sturdy, dry, flaking moss that had the appearance of cactus. Elsewhere, she found deep, diminutive fjords- so deep that, incredibly, even now in the month of June- the mosses within were still chilled by lingering traces of winter ice. But she also found warm estuaries, miniature cathedrals, and limestone caves the size of her thumb. Then Alma lifted her face and saw what was before her- dozens more such boulders, more than she could count, each one similarly carpeted, each one subtly different. She felt herself growing breathless. 'This was the entire world.' This was bigger than a world. This was the firmament of the universe, as seen through one of William Herschel's mighty telescopes. This was planetary and vast. These were ancient, unexplored galaxies, rolling forth in front of her- and it was all right here!”

“Alma si sentiva terribilmente sola, affidò questo suo sentimento a una lettera. "Non ce la faccio più. Non sono mai riuscita a incontrare qualcuno che mi amasse. La vita mi è insopportabile!" e scrisse di seguito tutti i motivi per cui l'esistenza le appariva vuota e ingiusta. Era così sola che, ultimata la lettera, non seppe a chi mandarla. Aprì l'elenco telefonico, scelse un nome e un indirizzo a caso e spedì. La lettera venne ricevuta da Franco. L'uomo lesse tutto e decise di inviarle una risposta. "Non ce la faccio più nemmeno io" e proseguiva elencando tutte le ragioni per cui riteneva che la vita gli avesse fatto un torto. Alma, attraverso quello scambio, scoprì un'intimità che mai aveva conosciuto, Franco una confidenza che gli era sembrata irrimediabilmente perduta. Quando Franco morì, ad Alma sembrò di essere ripiombata nella sua vita precedente. Capì presto che sbagliava, perchè l'amore ricevuto illuminava comunque le sue giornate, anche se ora la luce era meno forte. Nei momenti in cui si sentiva particolarmente sola, affidava i suoi pensieri a una lettera. Gliel'aveva consigliato un'amica conosciuta in ospedale. "Scrivigli lo stesso, riuscirai sempre a trovarlo nelle tue parole, è lì che continuerà a vivere". Non aveva bisogno di spedirle a un indirizzo a caso, ora poteva finalmente custodire il suo dolore nel posto giusto.”

“Alma wrote in depth about laurel, mimosa, and verbena. She wrote about grapes and camellias, about the myrtle orange, about the cosseting of figs, She published under the name "A. Whittaker." Neither she nor George Hawkes believed that it would much benefit Alma to announce herself in print as female. In the scientific world of the day, there was still a strict division between "botany" (the study of plants by men) and "polite botany" was often indistinguishable from "botany"- except that one field was regarded with respect and the other was not- but still, Alma did not wish to be shrugged off as a mere polite botanist. Of course, the Whittaker name was famous in the world of plants and science, so a good number of botanists already knew precisely who "A. Whittaker" was. Not all of them, however. In response to her articles, then, Alma sometimes received letters from botanists around the world, sent to her in care of George Hawkes's print shop. Some of these letters began, "My dear Sir." Other letters were written to "Mr. A. Whittaker." One quite memorable missive even came addressed to "Dr. A. Whittaker." ( Alma kept that letter for a long time, tickled by the unexpected honorific.)”

“Almeno, - egli diceva, proseguendo il suo ragionamento, - dalle altre femmine, uno può salvarsi, può scoraggiare il loro amore; ma dalla madre, chi ti salva? Essa ha il vizio della santità... non si sazia mai di espiare la colpa d'averti fatto, e, finché è viva, non ti lascia vivere, col suo amore. E si capisce: lei, povera ragazza insignificante, non possiede altro che quella famosa colpa nel suo passato e nel suo futuro, tu, figlio malcapitato, sei l'unica espressione del suo destino, essa non ha nessun'altra cosa da amare. Ah, è un inferno essere amati da chi non ama né la felicità, né la vita, né se stesso, ma soltanto te! E se tu hai voglia di sottrarti a un simile sopruso, a una simile persecuzione, essa ti chiama Giuda! Precisamente, tu saresti un traditore, perché ti va di girare per le vie, alla conquista dell'universo, mentre che lei vorrebbe tenerti sempre con sé, nella sua dimora d'una camera e cucina!”

“Almighty God hath created the mind free. All attempts to influence it by temporal punishments or burthens...are a departure from the plan of the holy Author of our religion...No man shall be compelled to frequent or support religious worship or ministry or shall otherwise suffer on account of his religious opinions or belief, but all men shall be free to profess and by argument to maintain, their opinions in matters of religion. I know but one code of morality for men whether acting singly or collectively.”

“Almighty God, we make our earnest prayer that Thou wilt incline the hearts of the citizens to cultivate a spirit of subordination and obedience to government; to entertain a brotherly affection and love for one another and for their fellow-citizens of the United States at large.”