syād-asti—in some ways, it is
syād-nāsti—in some ways, it is not
syād-asti-nāsti—in some ways, it is, and it is not
syād-asti-avaktavyaḥ—in some ways, it is, and it is indescribable
syād-nāsti-avaktavyaḥ—in some ways, it is not, and it is indescribable
syād-asti-nāsti-avaktavyaḥ—in some ways, it is, it is not, and it is indescribable
syād-avaktavyaḥ—in some ways, it is indescribable
William Vanderson, 1930s
Book digitized by Google from the library of Oxford University and uploaded to the Internet Archive by user tpb.
|—||Bela Tarr (via filmsboutique)|
Click through to Field & Stream for the full story and lots more pictures, but be warned, some of them are grisly:
The best way to untangle the pileup, Burke and Shields decided, was to sever the heads of two of the deer and remove their bodies; then the third deer would be removed intact, with the racks of the first two bucks still locked in its antlers.
(Hat tip to Radiolab listener Mercedes!)
|—||Margaret Atwood (via wordsfirst)|
We’re a violent people, Cal. Does it seem strange to you that I include myself? Maybe it’s true that we are all descended from the restless, the nervous, the criminals, the arguers and brawlers, but also the brave and independent and generous. If our ancestors had not been that, they would have stayed in their home plots in the other world and starved over the squeezed-out soil.
…That’s why I include myself. We all have that heritage, no matter what old land our fathers left. All colors and blends of Americans have somewhat the same tendencies. It’s a breed—selected out by accident. And so we’re overbrave and overfearful—we’re kind and cruel as children. We’re overfriendly and at the same time frightened by strangers. We boast and are impressed. We’re oversentimental and realistic. We are mundane and materialistic—and do you know of any other nation that acts for ideals? We eat too much. We have no taste, no sense of proportion. We throw our energy about like waste. In the old lands, they say of us that we go from barbarism to decadence without an intervening culture. Can it be that our critics have not the key or the language of our culture? That’s what we are, Cal—all of us. You aren’t very different.
|—||John Steinbeck, East of Eden (via invisibleforeigner)|
"A Cat in a Knot in a Tree"
|—||Marilynne Robinson, Gilead (via invisibleforeigner)|