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“The market literature, which was particularly strong in Igboland, in Onitsha, today it is no longer strong. It is one of the victims of the civil war, that market was actually destroyed and at the end of the war a new Nigeria has struggled to come into being and I believe that what is probably going to replace the market literature might be the video, which they have taken to in a big way, creating dramas. So that may be the next thing way we will see coming out of the local basic level in our society.”

“The market performs miracles so routinely that we take it for granted. Supermarkets provide 30,000 choices at rock-bottom prices. We take it for granted that when we stick a piece of plastic in a wall, cash will come out; that when we give the same plastic to a stranger, he will rent us a car, and the next month, Visa will have the accounting correct to the penny. By contrast, "experts" in government can't even count the vote accurately.”

“The market smelled of hay and roasted nuts; she bought a newspaper cone of almonds from a woman stirring them over an open fire. She bought thick sandy leeks, a rope of garlic and a pound of tomatoes; she bought a long batard of sourdough bread, a dozen bluish speckled eggs, a jar of cream, because now she had a refrigerator and could keep such things for more than an hour or two. She lifted the paper lid of the cream and tasted it, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand; she remembered the pillowy clouds of Gruyère grated onto her piece of waxed paper at Les Halles, the cheese maker young and handsome and milk-fed himself; he tried to teach her the French for being in love with him: mon cocotte, mon chouchou, ma petit lapin, Madame, s'il vous plaît. She walked the stalls, and on the edge of the market, a fishmonger laid out his catch on two blocks of ice: strange curled squids and spider crabs, silvery piles of sardines, their eyes still sparkling, thick slabs of some white-meated fish, its head as big as a dinner plate.”

“The market steers the capitalistic economy. It directs each individual's activities into those channels in which he best serves the wants of his fellow-men. The market alone puts the whole social system of private ownership of the means of production and free enterprise in order and provides it with sense and meaning.”

“The market won't let us treat all data equally because there's a potential to make huge gobs of money not doing that. In the United States of America, people will pay to be first unless we do something to stop them. We don't have defenses built in because we haven't been investing in criticism that would help us mount a defense. I”

“The market, if it can be kept honest and competitive, does provide very strong incentives for work effort and productive contributions. In their absence, society would thrash about for alternative incentives-some unreliable, like altruism; some perilous like collective loyalty; some intolerable, like coercion or oppression.”

“The marketplace is an institution that teaches self-advancement, private acquisition, and the domination of nature. Its way of thinking is incompatible with the round river. Ecological harmony is a nonmarket value that takes a collective will to achieve.”

“The marketplace measurement in politics is something called an election. It's a pretty good barometer - it's transparent, it's numerical, it's objective. It gives you a pretty good measure of what your customers think of you. And in 2006 and 2008, the marketplace was telling the Republicans, We prefer the products and services of your competitors. And so when you're losing market share, you step back and say, What can we do differently?”

“The markings on your surface Your speckled face Flawed crystals hang from your ears I couldn't gauge your fears I can't relate to my peers I'd rather live outside I'd rather chip my pride than lose my mind out here Maybe I'm a fool Maybe I should move and settle Two kids and a swimming pool I'm not brave (Brave) I'm not brave I'm living over city And taking in the homeless sometimes, I've Been living in an idea An idea from another man's mind Maybe I'm a fool To settle for a place with some nice views (nice views) Maybe I should move, settle down Two kids and a swimming pool I'm not brave I'd rather live outside I'd rather live outside I'd rather go to jail I've tried hell (it's a loop) What would you recommend I do? (The other side of the loop is a loop) This, this fe-, this feel, this feel, this feels This feels how molly must feel This feels how molly must feel How molly must feel This feels how molly must feel How molly must feel This is not my life It's just a fond farewell to a friend It's just a fond farewell to a friend This is not my life It's just a fond farewell to a friend It's not what I'm like It's just a fond farewell (brave) Speaking of nirvana, it was there Rare as the feathers on my dash from a phoenix There with my crooked teeth and companion sleeping, yeah Dreaming a thought that could dream about a thought That could think of the dreamer that thought That could think of dreaming and getting a glimmer of God I be dreaming a dream in a thought That could dream about a thought That could think of dreaming a dream Where I cannot, where I cannot Less morose and more present Dwell on my gifts for a second A moment one solar flare would consume, so why not Spin this flammable paper on the film that's my life High flights, inhale the vapor, exhale once and think twice Eat some shrooms, maybe have a good cry, about you See some colors, light hang glide off the moon I'd do anything for you (In the dark) I'd do anything for you (In the dark) I'd do anything for you (In the dark) I'd do anything for you (In the dark) I'd do anything for you, anything for you (In the dark) I'd do anything for you, anything for you”

“The marks and wounds from the attack on the 8th of January were changing colors over time. There was still a large graze on my lower back or hip, caused either by flying backwards and falling on the asphalt or possibly a kick or another. I wasn't sure. Over the course of a few weeks, I saw the bruise change colors from purple to black to blue to green, yellow. I sent a picture of it to Martina, along with a depiction of how skinny and sad I had become. I had lost my appetite and had no desire to eat. Since months. I was filled with thoughts of wanting to end all this, unable to imagine living without her, without us, our joy. I struggled to eat, live, and breathe without our love. To this day. My depression (was and is) severe, and I looked like a survivor from a death camp. Just like today. A Prisoner of War. Marked for Death. And I knew Martina was not looking any better, „Missing.” „In Action.” Her words were echoing in my head, in the apartment full of death and violence, (Satan) with invisible marks in plain sight, (Evil Eye) everywhere. One such mark of terror (Hell) and the one-sided wars, all the violence and foolish hatred, (Psychopathy) was the missing glass from the bedroom door, broken by Martina, (Golem) which was why I could clearly hear the couple having sex in our bedroom even with the doors closed. Even near the washing machine, at the other end of the apartment. In the kitchen, I noticed a small bouquet of flowers I had bought for Martina on the first days. I had purchased it from a very old lady in the underground near the Universitat metro station. As I looked at it, still stuck to the wall, I realized it had been there for a year. I sent her a picture of it and, to my surprise, she replied. She told me she loved me and wanted us to be happy. She said we should get a cat and that she wanted to see me and have me bring her the tiny bouquet of flowers. Not her blender from the kitchen, not her shoes, not her bathrobe, not the large images on the wall. Just the tiny flower. It seemed fishy that once again, I wouldn't come back home alive if I went to see her and give her those tiny flowers. And I was Vincent van Gogh now.”

“The Maronite Christian women in Manaus could not tolerate the notion of Zana marrying a Muslim. A mere tinker, a peddler, a roughneck, a Muslim from the mountains of Southern Lebanon, they’d say. Ah, these passions in the provinces. It’s like being onstage, listening to the audience booing two actors playing two lovers. The more they booed, the more perfume I put on the marriage sheets. It was a greedy and vengeful kiss, I silenced those rattling tongues…and all of Abbas’s ghazals were in that kiss.”

“The Marquess shrugged. “I’m a shadow. I do know I am a shadow, Iago. I know most of the time. It’s only when I cannot bear how everyone looks at me down here that I make myself forget it. Shadows are the other side of yourself. I had longings to be good, even then. I was just stronger than my wanting. I’m stronger than anything, really, when I want to be.” The Marquess’s hair turned white as the snow. “Do you know, we’re right underneath Springtime Parish? This place is the opposite of springtime. Everything past prime, boarded up for the season. Just above us, the light shines golden on daffodils full of rainwine and heartgrass and a terrible, wicked, sad girl I can’t get back to. I don’t even know if I want to. Do I want to be her again? Or do I want to be free? I come here to think about that. To be near her and consider it. I think I shall never be free. I think I traded my freedom for a better story. It was a better story, even if the ending needed work.”

“The Marquis believed himself to be hardened against flattery. He thought that he had experienced every variety, but he discovered that he was mistaken: the blatantly worshipful look in the eyes of a twelve-year-old, anxiously raised to his, was new to him, and it pierced his defences. He was capable of giving the coolest of set-downs to any gushing female; and the advances of toadeaters he met with the most blistering of snubs; but even as he realised how intolerably bored he would be in Soho he found himself quite unable to snub his latest and most youthful admirer. It would be like kicking a confiding puppy.”