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P Quotes

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All P Quotes

“portugal ainda é uma máquina de fazer espanhóis. é verdade, quem de nós, ao menos uma vez, não lamentou já o facto de sermos independentes, quem, mais do que isso até, não desejou que a espanha nos reconquistasse, desta vez para sempre e para salários melhores. deixem-se de tretas, meus amigos, que o patriotismo só vos fica mal, bem iam assentar-vos uns nomes à maneira, como pepe e pablo, diego ou santiago, assim a virar para o outro lado da fronteira, onde se come mais à boca grande e onde sempre houve mais ritmo no sangue.”

“Porém, ainda ficava muito do autêntico Brose, pois o cérebro não era artificial; não existia tal coisa; manufaturar um cérebro artificial ― fazer tal coisa quando ainda existia a firme Arti-Gan Corporation, de Phoenix, bem antes da guerra ― seria entrar no que Adams gostava de chamar em pensamento «um autêntico caso de simulação»… que era o termo que utilizava para aquilo que considerava como sendo a mais elevada e mais nova entidade aparecida no panorama da Natureza, com as suas já tão multiformes decorrências: o universo dos autênticos embustes. E esse universo, pensava ele ainda, em que se pensava poder entrar pela porta de ENTRADA, atravessar e depois sair pela porta de SAÍDA, em, digamos grosseiramente, dois minutos… esse universo, tal como os cenários nos estúdios moscovitas de Eisenbludt, era interminável, sala atrás de sala; a porta de SAÍDA de uma era apenas a porta de entrada da seguinte.”

“Posed In Vein by Stewart Stafford O Stephanie! In your cruciform puppetry, Bloody veins stretched out wiry To relive in a bondage diary. Subject mapped as inked skin she wears, Decorating, desecrating olden snares. Each needle kiss, a line defined, A pinprick story rushes her mind. By candlelight, in her coven deep, Secrets webbed flies must keep, Spelled out straight in her hexing book, Consort Lenore gives a cryptic look. They tug the strings, the marionette, Caught in her captor's welcome net. In artificial light, a social moth's mien, A wrought, posed, fetishistic scene. The knots are tight, the ropes defined; Bodily and in private mind. This mutual art, a supplicant's plea, Cut into her Kinbaku diary. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

“Poseidon grinned. "You're doing well with those new cabins, by the way. I suppose this means I can claim all those other sons and daughters of mine and send you some siblings next summer." "Ha-ha." Poseidon reeled in his empty line. I shifted my feet. "Um, you were kidding, right?" Poseidon gave me one of his inside-joke winks, and I still didn't know whether he was serious or not.”

“Poseidon raised his eyebrows as they shook hands. “Blowfish, did you say?” "Ah, no. Blofis, actually.” "Oh, I see,” Poseidon said. “A shame. I quite like blowfish. I am Poseidon.” "Poseidon? That’s an interesting name.” "Yes, I like it. I’ve gone by other names, but I do prefer Poseidon.” "Like the god of the sea.” "Very much like that, yes.”

“Posh Cal comes from the countryside and tells stories about the woods. These old hunty blokes who live in the forest and cut people and burn them on big bonfires with all the brambles and bracken and smoky shit so nobody knows, grind the bones into pig lunch. Shiny leather high heels and kids' toys in the wood like props from ITV murder dramas, scared people running through bracken and brambles, trying to get to the safety of the big house but the big house isn't safe, it's fully stocked with violent, frustrated young male offenders, lying awake, nightsweats in the dark Last Chance, marinating their desire to hurt people night after night in their soupy rural overlapping dreams, bad young men, blast-past-borstal bastards, lab rats, lying there while crusty ghosts from the old house crouch over them dribbling fear and violent fantasy into their ears, drip, spittle, trickle in the middle of the mean old witchy littered English woods a long way from home, a long way from any lights or cab ranks, or trust, or mums. Haha, crack on, you fuckintwat, says Shy, and starts walking again, slight shivers in his belly.”

Author:Max Porter

“Posh Yet Potty (The Sonnet) One can be posh on the outside yet potty on the inside. More often than less both of these go hand in hand. Pedigree, personality, position, all are deemed important. Amidst this royal mess of things we forget to be human. We look at partisan loyalty, we look at intellectual fluency, And in the process of analysis we end up a freudian chasm. In order to find whether someone belongs in our camp, We act less of a human and more of a lifeless algorithm. It's okay if you don't know how to use spoon and fork. What matters is, to reach out and feed an empty stomach. It's okay if you don't know much fancy words and facts. What matters is, your heart beats beyond the factual muck. So, shitty or not we look on the outside, let's pay no attention, Instead let us muster all spirit towards internal ascension.”

“Poshlust,” or in a better transliteration poshlost, has many nuances, and evidently I have not described them clearly enough in my little book on Gogol, if you think one can ask anybody if he is tempted by poshlost. Corny trash, vulgar clichés, Philistinism in all its phases, imitations of imitations, bogus profundities, crude, moronic, and dishonest pseudo-literature—these are obvious examples. Now, if we want to pin down poshlost in contemporary writing, we must look for it in Freudian symbolism, moth-eaten mythologies, social comment, humanistic messages, political allegories, overconcern with class or race, and the journalistic generalities we all know. Poshlost speaks in such concepts as “America is no better than Russia” or “We all share in Germany’s guilt.” The flowers of poshlost bloom in such phrases and terms as “the moment of truth,” “charisma,” “existential” (used seriously), “dialogue” (as applied to political talks between nations), and “vocabulary” (as applied to a dauber). Listing in one breath Auschwitz, Hiroshima, and Vietnam is seditious poshlost. Belonging to a very select club (which sports one Jewish name—that of the treasurer) is genteel poshlost. Hack reviews are frequently poshlost, but it also lurks in certain highbrow essays. Poshlost calls Mr. Blank a great poet and Mr. Bluff a great novelist. One of poshlost’s favorite breeding places has always been the Art Exhibition; there it is produced by so-called sculptors working with the tools of wreckers, building crankshaft cretins of stainless steel, Zen stereos, polystyrene stinkbirds, objects trouvés in latrines, cannonballs, canned balls. There we admire the gabinetti wall patterns of so-called abstract artists, Freudian surrealism, roric smudges, and Rorschach blots—all of it as corny in its own right as the academic “September Morns” and “Florentine Flowergirls” of half a century ago. The list is long, and, of course, everybody has his bête noire, his black pet, in the series. Mine is that airline ad: the snack served by an obsequious wench to a young couple—she eyeing ecstatically the cucumber canapé, he admiring wistfully the hostess. And, of course, Death in Venice. You see the range.”