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"Use the first moments in study. You may miss many an opportunity for quick viclory this way, but the moments of study are insurance of success. Take your time and be sure.” – Duncan Idaho

A violent calamity of color spilled over the sky as the sun dipped beneath the horizon.

“He blipped the throttle a couple of times and then pulled out onto the blacktop and turned on the lights and shifted into second gear and went up the road with the car squatting on the big rear tires and fishtailing and the tires whining and unspooling clouds of rubbersmoke behind him.”

Excerpt From
No Country for Old Men
Cormac McCarthy
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“I beg you to recognize human life draped in a form and guise alien to ours, but springing from a soil plowed and sown by all our hands. I ask you to recognize the laws and processes flowing from such a condition, under- stand them, seek to change them. If we do none of these, then we should not pretend horror or surprise when thwarted life expresses itself in fear and hate and crime.” – Boris A. Max

"O xipoco rodou a pá sobre a cabeça, se algazarrando em berraria:

— Entra na cova!"

“Mas, apesar disso, como não raro ocorre entre as pessoas que elegeram diferentes áreas de atividade, cada um deles, embora acatasse e justificasse a profissão do outro, no íntimo a desprezava. Parecia, a cada um, que a vida que ele mesmo levava era a vida autêntica e a vida do amigo não passava de uma miragem.” – Tolstoy

"...A hermit no more, a gypsy no more, a splintered personality no more; I was growing into one man again...with joy and meaning in my life, passing the days and nights in a place where I belonged -- beside the woman who loved me so well. Carrie.

I had found my place of rest and redemption, and the Ghost Rider's work was done. He could keep on riding now, right off the end of that pier, into the sunset." -- N.E.P.

“The successful hunter need not skin the beast” – NEP

[...cont.] Digging in the furnace room, I found my old nerf-arrow bow, and a Super Soaker gun, and the hunt began. It’s developing into a regular Caddyshack scene, with me in the Bill Murray role, as I go spying out of windows and stalking around with my “weapons,” then cranking open the kitchen window to fire off a few rounds.

“Ha ha, squirrel — your ass is mine!” – N.E.P./John Ellwood Taylor

Also in the news: Lately I’ve been waging a most enjoyable war with a neighborhood squirrel (good title, no? “A Most Enjoyable War”), who keeps jumping from the wall of the house onto my bird-feeder, then hanging there impudently while he fills his rodent face with my finest sunflower seeds. [continued...]

[…] not having meant to keep us waiting long.

There is so little to remember of anyone—an anecdote, a conversation at table. But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming, habitual fondness[…]

[...] and sat down to supper with Him., all wounded as He was.

And when He did die it was sad—such a young man, so full of promise, and His mother wept and His friends could not believe the loss, and the story spread everywhere and the mourning would not be comforted, until He was so sharply lacked and so powerfully remembered that his friends felt Him beside them as they walked along the road, and saw someone cooking fish on the shore and knew it to be Him, and sat down to[...]

The sky above Fingerbone was a floral yellow. A few spindled clouds smoldered and glowed a most unfiery pink. And then the sun flung a long shaft over the mountain, and another, like a long-legged insect bracing itself out of its chrysalis, and then it showed above the black crest, bristly and red and improbable.

[…] just as the wind in the orchard picks up the leaves from the ground as if there were no other pleasure in the world but brown leaves, as if it would deck, clothe, flesh itself in flourishes of dusty brown apple leaves, and then drops down in a heap at the side of the house and goes on.

A breeze dulled the surface of the water as the sun descended amid a crying of stranded dogs and of one disoriented rooster…the sound of the night wind in the mountains was like one long inward breath.Downstairs the flood bumped and fumbled like a blind man in a strange house,but outside it hissed and trickled,like the pressure of water against your eardrums and like the sound you hear in the moment before you faint.