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Magnesium serves to pull soil particles together, whereas calcium will spread the particles farther apart. . . . Slightly more magnesium is called for in a porous soil, whereas clay requires higher levels of calcium to improve drainage and aeration.
Desired Ca:Mg ratios: sandy 5:1, loam 7:1, clay higher
Desired Ca:Mg:K percent base saturation ratios: sandy 65:16-18:3-4, loam 70:12:4, clay 76:10:4-5

Magnesium serves to pull soil particles together, whereas calcium will spread the particles farther apart. . . . Slightly more magnesium is called for in a porous soil, whereas clay requires higher levels of calcium to improve drainage and aeration.
Desired Ca:Mg ratios: sandy 5:1, loam 7:1, clay higher

A full, routine job, this tracking of criminals. Murderers are the most unsatisfactory of the lot. Nine times or if ten you've got no past record to go on. What's the good of your beautiful filling system then?

Like most of the wittiest and funniest people I have known he was fundamentally sad and pessimistic. Happy extroverts are doubtless to be envied, but they do not make the best companions.

We put down in black and white a few basic equations of travel. For example, less weight equals more encounters. Pace equals metrics equals story. And above all: the greater the difficulty, the more stories to tell. And who cares if we end up trying to hitch a ride in the middle of the Carpathians? We'll have more things to remember.

Warsaw: "The city I have loved and visited many times seems to have been sucked into the void. Bermuda shorts, ice cream cones, rude tourists, a square invaded by multicolored papier mâché bears on their hind legs with their forelegs raised in the air like fools. The analgesic illusionism of the West appears to me in all of its dementia. After just one day, I'm exhausted."

I've learned in my travels not to ask too many questions. It's better to talk about yourself. Offer something of yourself and your own story so that the dialogue turns into a bartering of firsts.

The bear, he says, is many animals in one. Like a lion, he downs mammals much bigger than he; like any ruminant, he pillages crops; he steals grapes and fruit like a monkey; nibbles on berries like a blackbird; plunders anthills and beehives like a woodpecker; digs up tubers and larvae like a pig; and catches fish with the dexterity of an otter. And he eats honey like a man.

"Come in," she tells her, and she invites her in to see her treasures, all affectionately addressed by diminutive nicknames: taters, carotelles, strawbabies, peasies, and so on. "Explain to your readers that it's a sin not to cultivate the earth," she says to Monika, and her elementary truth startles me. Why don't our priests thunder from the pulpit against this first of all sins?

I repeat the names of the cardinal points in Russian: sever, north, desolate asperity of the Gulag; yug, south, a funnel that sucks you down toward the bottom; vostok, east, like the launch of a catapult; and zapad, west, the sound of falling head over heels.

I repeat the names of the cardinal points in Russian: sever, north, desolate asperity of the Gulag; yug, south, a funnel that sucks you down toward the bottom; vostok, east, like the launch of a catapult; and zapad, west, the sound of falling head over heels.

Philosophers and theologians love paradoxes, regarding them as honorable signposts to important truths. Scientists take a dimmer view, having learned from experience that “paradox” is a polite way of saying that we are missing something obvious.

Even today it is apparent that Britain has a weakness for people who spout solutions that they will never be called upon to enact: the mainstream is muddy with compromise, while those outside it can stand clean and clear, dangling the great glittering hypnotist’s tool that is ‘change’.

"But he was a very fine writer," protested Mrs. Featherstone, a lady in her thirties, whose violently compressed figure suggested that she was engaged in a perpetual struggle to compute her weight in terms of the first syllables of her name rather than the last.

"No thanks," as Wimsey advanced to carry the kettle, "I'm quite capable of carrying 6 pints of water."
"Crushed again!" said Wimsey.
"Eiluned disapproves of conventional courtesies between the sexes," said Marjorie.
"Very well," replied Wimsey, amiably. "I will adopt an attitude of passive decoration."

Oh yes--nature will have her revenge. They will slink away from the Government Communal Games to play solitaire in catacombs over a bowl of unsterilized skim-milk.

And I shall wag my head and display my up-to-date dentures and say, 'Ah, ha! They don't have the fun we used to have in my younger days, the poor, well-regulated creatures!'

There won't be any night-clubs then for you to creep into, if they're as disciplined as all that.

and they'll say, 'Look, darling! That's the wicked Lord Peter, celebrated for never having spoken a reasonable word for the last 96 years. He was the only aristocrat will skip the guillotine in the revolution of 1960. We keep them as a pet for the children.'

I'm afraid I'm being damned dull. Oxygen starvation, probably. D'you mind if we have the window down a bit? That's better. Give me a good food and a little air to breathe and I will caper, goat like, to a dishonorable old age. People will point me out, as I creep, bald and yellow and supported by discreet corsetry, into the night-clubs of my great grandchildren,

"Very useful," said Sir Impey. "A person who can believe all the articles of the Christian faith is not going to boggle over a trifle of adverse evidence."