In the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits on the same carpet with the sunbeams, and the stars of midnight.
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The actors today really need the whip hand. They're so lazy. They haven't got the sense of pride in their profession that the less socially elevated musical comedy and music hall people or acrobats have. The theater has never been any good since the actors became gentlemen.
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Mrs. Hall, of Sherborne, was brought to bed yesterday of a dead child, some weeks before she was expected, owing to a...
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We are very excited to add Bobby Gonzalez as our head coach to an already storied basketball tradition at Seton Hall. Our search process was very thorough and we talked with extremely talented candidates, but in the end we felt Bobby stood out as the best coach to represent the university and lead our student-athletes. He has an established presence in the metropolitan area and his teams have been perennial winners on the court.
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Scared, Cold, in pain, the dust hasn't settled yet. Pinned in, crying, my clothes are ripped, red, and wet. Lights, noise, and confusion, all part of the night. I'm going to die alone, give up the fight. Red lights are flashing, mixing with blue. A face appears at my window, the face is you. You're gonna be all right is the first thing you say. A reassuring voice, someone wants me to stay. You could have been home with family, they need you too. You worked all day at the job, your sleeping hours numbered two. But you went down the hall, hoping your family is OK. Now you're here with me and Death, with comforting words to say. No time for yourself, no thought for your safety. Later you may think, your decision was hasty. Get the Jaws. Watch that gas; Keep the people away. Get his vitals, hose this down. Some things I hear them say. You stand in gas, look in my window, show no fear. I look back at you knowing, your voice is the last I'll ever hear. I fade away as you hold me, while holding back your tears. Thank you for being there, You Brave Volunteers.
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The further jazz moves away from the stark blue continuum and the collective realities of Afro-American and American life, the more it moves into academic concert-hall lifelessness, which can be replicated by any middle class showing off its music lessons.
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Age affects how people experience time. The observations on this are well known, so it is only necessary to outline briefly what has been the experience of everyone I have ever talked to or read about: the years go faster as one gets older. At the age of four or six, a year seems interminable; at sixty, the years begin to blend and are frequently hard to separate from each other because they move so fast! There are, of course, a number of common-sense explanations for this sort of thing. If you have only lived five years, a year represents 20 percent of your life; if you have lived fifty years, that same year represents only 2 percent of your life, and since lives are lived as wholes, this logarithmic element would make it difficult to maintain the same perspective on the experience of a year
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The original story, whatever it was, was told to those who forgot some details and substituted others. The original is long lost in the restorations. They have had the composer accompanied by a gifted sister, who, the inflexible record shows, died years before the song was written. They have seated him at the prim old spindle-legged mahogany desk in the hall at Federal Hill and had him dash it off in the frenzy of inspiration. Or they have followed him to the rocks of the old spring house, whither they have sent him, pencil in hand, and counted the frowns of agony with which he laboriously set down now a strain of melody and again a phrase of words. They have heard him trying it out with the deep booming bass voice of him who had never more than a weak but sweet light baritone. Every writer of it has himself for the hero and has described it as he would himself have acted it before the grand audience of posterity. These various stories cling about Federal Hill, the outgrowth of the human desire for contact with the vague figures of the past.
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There's an old joke - um... two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of 'em says, 'Boy, the food at this place is really terrible.' The other one says, 'Yeah, I know; and such small portions.' Well, that's essentially how I feel about life - full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly.
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Her cabined, ample spirit, It fluttered and failed for breath. Tonight it doth inherit The vasty hall of death.
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We had a waiting list then and we hope to have another one soon. Even though we lost some folks over the years, that group remains our largest.
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LEONARD I've failed, Chris. I can't locate the white collective unconscious. CHRIS I wouldn't feel too bad about that. You know, western culture hasn't really carried the baton on folklore and mythology. The rise of Christianity put the kibosh on it--the gospel hits the number one best-seller list and everything else gets remaindered.
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Dad, wherever you are, you are gone but you will never be forgotten.
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That devilish Iron Horse, whose ear-rending neigh is heard throughout the town, has muddied the Boiling Spring with his foot, and he it is that has browsed off all the woods on Walden shore, that Trojan horse, with a thousand men in his belly, introduced by mercenary Greeks! Where is the country's champion, the Moore of Moore Hall, to meet him at the Deep Cut and thrust an avenging lance between the ribs of the bloated pest?
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Every theory of love, from Plato down, teaches that each individual loves in the other sex what he lacks in himself.
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He hangs in the hall by his black cravat, The ladies faint, and the children holler:...
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Queer little twists go into the making of an individual. To supress them all and follow clock and calendar and creed until the individual is lost in the neutral grey of the host is to be less than true to our inheritance.... Life, that gorgeous quality of life, is not accomplished by following another man's rules. It is true we have the same hungers and same thirsts, but they are for different things and in different ways and in different seasons.... Lay down your own day, follow it to its noon, your own noon, or you will sit in an outer hall listening to the chimes but never reaching high enough to strike your own.
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The hall of fame ceremonies are on the 31st and 32nd of July.
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Being plied with fine food always puts me in mind of the slammer, cause the food was jumpin' in there too--high in fat but nice and salty. You know what the worst deprivation in there was My music. Radio belonged to my cell mate, the Blonde Hammer. He was into that jazz-fusion thing at the time. I tell you what, enough Spyro Gyra and you're hoping you'll get killed in a knife fight.
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A reputation once broken may possibly be repaired, but the world will always keep their eyes on the spot where the crack was.
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Yesterday I visited the British Museum; an exceedingly tiresome affair. It quite crushes a person to see so much at once; and I wandered from hall to hall with a weary and heavy heart. The present is burdened too much with the past.
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They're slobbery and they're whiney and they look at you just like they could see right into your soul and they're unpredictable and the smell and they're noisy and the world revolves around them and why I don't get it. They're not interesting. They can't tell jokes, they don't have opinions, and they're boring, you know They're just boring and annoying and I don't want to have one.
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Nor need we power or splendor, wide hall or lordly dome; the good, the true, the tender- these form the wealth of home.
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How do I get to Carnegie Hall? Practice. Practice. Practice.
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Age affects how people experience time.
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It's funny, to me, the way people refer to childbirth as a miraculous event. A miracle is something that defies nature. Only, childbirth has got to be the most natural thing in the world. Top three anyway. But, on the other hand, when you think about it, there's really no other word that fits. Sperm. Egg. A coincidental meshing of genetic information that will grow something that could write an opera or cook up some Napalm. It blows my mind.
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Helpless, unknown, and unremembered, most human beings, however sensitive, idealistic, intelligent, go through life as passengers rather than chauffeurs. Although we may pretend that it is the chauffeur who is the social inferior, most of us, like Toad of Toad Hall, would not mind a turn at the wheel ourselves.
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My room for books and study or for sitting and thinking about nothing in particular to see what would happen was at the end of a hall.
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The path to our destination is not always a straight one. We go down the wrong road, we get lost, we turn back. Maybe it doesn't matter which road we embark on. Maybe what matters is that we embark.
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This is embarrassing as hell -- to be playing out what is essentially a shooting match between Seattle City Hall and Seattle legislators before the 6 million people of the state. We don't have the alignment around some really critical community priorities that I think other cities do.
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