I’ve got so to dislike lorries, that I bought a little book which tells me the names of them, and it’s the one way to get to like them, picking out these names and then looking for them. A Euclid, an Atkinson, a Seddon – endless different types with different names to them of an exciting kind. A Dumper Krupp.
Una mi morì pochi giorni dopo; l’altra volle darmi il tempo, invece, di affezionarmi a lei, con tutto l’ardore di un padre che, non avendo più altro, faccia della propria creaturina lo scopo unico della sua vita; volle aver la crudeltà di morirmi, quando aveva già quasi un anno, e s’era fatta tanto bellina, tanto, con quei riccioli d’oro ch’io m’avvolgevo attorno le dita e le baciavo senza saziarmene mai; mi chiamava papà, e io le rispondevo subito: – Figlia -; e lei di nuovo: – Papà…-; così, senza ragione, come si chiamano gli uccelli tra loro.
Prosecutor Mark Paltenghi read the texts sent between the four defendants during an alleged air rifle shooting spree in east London to the Snaresbrook crown court yesterday.
‘Hurry up, I’ve got bare haters around me now,’ read one of the messages.
Mr Paltenghi deciphered this as: ‘Hurry up, I’ve got a lot of people who don’t particularly like me here.’
Another text said: ‘Hurry up I’ve got a strap on me, this is bare bait.’
The barrister announced to the court: ‘We believe this means: “Hurry up, I’ve got a gun on me, and this is really risky”.’
After delivering these translations, the four defendants and the jurors reportedly burst out laughing.
A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.
Badalamenti earned a Grammy for his work and the album earned a gold record from the RIAA, an especially rare feat for a soundtrack album. Initially, though, Badalamenti couldn’t understand why it was popular. “Early on when the soundtrack was flying off the shelves, l asked David [Lynch], ‘What is it about the music and why is it getting so much attention?’ He simply responded, ‘Angelo, it’s because the music is fucking beautiful.’”
When I was driving a truck, every time a big shiny car drove by, it started me sort of daydreaming. I always felt that someday, somehow, something would happen to change everything for me.
You can look at a picture for a week and never think of it again. You can also look at a picture for a second and think of it all your life.
It is good thus to go walking in the morning, the senses rejuvenated, the spirit purged by the healing bath and long Lethean draught of the night. You look upon the day that lies before you, regard it with strong, serene confidence, but you hesitate lazily to begin it – you are the master of an unusually free and unburdened span of time lying between the dream and the day, your reward for the good use you have made of your time. The illusion that you are leading a life that is constant, simple, undissipated and benignly introspective, the illusion that you belong utterly to yourself, renders you happy. Man is disposed to regard his case or condition of the moment, be this glad or troubled, peaceful or passionate, for the true, essential, and permanent aspect of his life, and above all is in fancy inclined to elevate every happy ex tempore to a radiant rule and an unbreakable habit, whereas he is really condemned to live by improvisation, from hand to mouth, so to speak.
So, drawing in deep breaths of the morning air, you believe in your freedom and in your worth, though you ought to be aware, and at heart are aware, that the world is holding its snares ready to entangle you in them, and that in all probability you will again be lying in bed until nine to-morrow morning, because you had got into it at two the night before, heated, befogged, and full of passionate debate. … Well, so be it. To-day you are the man of sobriety and the dew-clad early hour, the right royal lord of that mad hunter yonder who is just making another jump across the fence out of sheer joy that you are apparently content to live this day with him and not waste it upon the world you have left behind you.