Козата е беля работа ако човек е свикнал с овце, защото козата е овца с мозък. ... тя знаеше, че спрямо козите трябва да използваш пъсихология. Ако вземеш да се превъзбудиш и да се развикаш, и да удариш козата (при което да си удариш ръката, защото то е все едно да зашлевиш чувал със закачалки), то те ще са спечелили, и ще ти се надсмиват на кози език, който и без друго се състои почти само от насмешки.
Lucinda might sneak from her own house at midnight to place a wager somewhere else, but she dared not touch the pack that lay in her own sideboard. She knew how passionate he had become about his 'weakness.' She dared not even ask him how it was he had reversed his opinions on the matter. But, oh, how she yearned to discuss it with him, how much she wished to deal a hand on a grey wool blanket. There would be no headaches then, only this sweet consummation of their comradeship.But she said not a word. And although she might have her 'dainty' shoes tossed to the floor, have her bare toes quite visible through her stockings, have a draught of sherry in her hand, in short appear quite radical, she was too timid, she thought, too much a mouse, to reveal her gambler's heart to him. She did not like this mouselike quality. As usual, she found herself too careful, too held in.Once she said: 'I wish I had ten sisters and a big kitchen to laugh in.'Her lodger frowned and dusted his knees.She thought: He is as near to a sister as I am likely to get, but he does not understand.She would have had a woman friend so they could brush each other's hair, and just, please God, put aside this great clanking suit of ugly armor.She kept her glass dreams from him, even whilst she appeared to talk about them. He was an admiring listener, but she only showed him the opaque skin of her dreams--window glass, the price of transporting it, the difficulties with builders who would not pay their bills inside six months. He imagined this was her business, and of course it was, but all the things she spoke of were a fog across its landscape which was filled with such soaring mountains she would be embarrassed to lay claim to them. Her true ambition, the one she would not confess to him, was to build something Extraordinary and Fine from glass and cast iron. A conservatory, but not a conservatory. Glass laced with steel, spun like a spider web--the idea danced around the periphery of her vision, never long enough to be clear. When she attempted to make a sketch, it became diminished, wooden, inelegant. Sometimes, in her dreams, she felt she had discovered its form, but if she had, it was like an improperly fixed photograph which fades when exposed to daylight. She was wise enough, or foolish enough, to believe this did not matter, that the form would present itself to her in the end.
Did you ever think much about jobs? I mean, some of the jobs people land in? You see a guy giving haircuts to dogs, or maybe going along the curb with a shovel, scooping up horse manure. And you think, now why is the silly bastard doing that? He looks fairly bright, about as bright as anyone else. Why the hell does he do that for living?You kind grin and look down your nose at him. You think he’s nuts, know what I mean, or he doesn’t have any ambition. And then you take a good look at yourself, and you stop wondering about the other guy…You’ve got all your hands and feet. Your health is okay, and you make a nice appearance, and ambition-man! You’ve got it. You’re young, I guess: you’d call thirty young, and you’re strong. You don’t have much education, but you’ve got more than plenty of other people who go to the top. And yet with all that, with all you’ve had to do with this is as far you’ve got And something tellys you, you’re not going much farther if any.And there is nothing to be done about it now, of course, but you can’t stop hoping. You can’t stop wondering……Maybe you had too much ambition. Maybe that was the trouble. You couldn’t see yourself spending forty years moving from office boy to president. So you signed on with a circulation crew; you worked the magazines from one coast to another. And then you ran across a little brush deal-it sounded nice, anyway. And you worked that until you found something better, something that looked better. And you moved from that something to another something. Coffee-and-tea premiums, dinnerware, penny-a-day insurance, photo coupons, cemetery lots, hosiery, extract, and God knows what all. You begged for the charities, You bought the old gold. You went back to the magazines and the brushes and the coffee and tea. You made good money, a couple of hundred a week sometimes. But when you averaged it up, the good weeks with the bad, it wasn’t so good. Fifty or sixty a week, maybe seventy. More than you could make, probably, behind agas pump or a soda fountain. But you had to knock yourself out to do it, and you were standing stil. You were still there at the starting place. And you weren’t a kid any more.So you come to this town, and you see this ad. Man for outside sales and collections. Good deal for hard worker. And you think maybe this is it. This sounds like a right town. So you take the job, and you settle down in the town. And, of course, neither one of ‘em is right, they’re just like all the others. The job stinks. The town stinks. You stink. And there’s not a goddamned thing you can do about it. All you can do is go on like this other guys go on. The guy giving haircuts to dogs, and the guy sweeping up horse manute Hating it. Hating yourself.And hoping.
While many experts insisted that children seldom lie about sexual abuse, others claimed that young children often failed to distinguish between fact and fiction and might be susceptible to suggestion and pressure on the part of investigators. As more of these allegations arose in custody and divorce cases in which one parent was being accused, the issue of deliberate malice and vindictiveness on the part of the accusing parent became a matter for consideration. Were these parents intentionally coaching their children to lie in order to punish a hated ex-spouse or to gain advantage in a divorce settlement? There were many professionals—lawyers, judges, clinicians, psychiatrists—who became convinced that this was the case. Articles in respectable publications like Time and Newsweek cited statistics indicating that fictitious allegations made by divorcing parents were on the rise, and lawyers were quoted describing sex abuse allegations as the ‘atom bomb of custody disputes.’ There were also parents—predominantly mothers—who found evidence suggesting a good possibility that their children had been sexually molested by ex-spouses. Sometimes a child’s disclosures or physical or psychological symptoms led a mother to seek medical or psychological advice. Often the suggestion that abuse had occurred came not from the mother but from a doctor or a psychologist. Initial shock and disbelief on the part of these mothers was followed with the hope and expectation that the proper authorities, to whom suspicion of abuse was reported, would conduct appropriate investigations and take the steps necessary to protect their children. Rapidly they found that the systems response was very different from what they had expected. As protective mothers in cases against fathers, these women were automatically labeled vindictive, malicious, and paranoid, regardless of evidence to the contrary. Suddenly they found themselves in a Kafkaesque labyrinth of courts and state-run systems, among lawyers, judges, social workers, and experts, where the end result was almost always the same—returning or delivering the child to the alleged molester. Could this really be happening in America? Coverage of high-profile cases in the respected print media tends to reflect the attitudes of a handful of very vocal, self-styled ‘experts.” They have fueled the widespread public perception that false allegations of child sexual abuse are appearing with increased frequency in custody cases. Despite scientific evidence to the contrary, this belief has been adopted by many in the legal profession and by a sizeable segment of the mental health community. The purpose of this book is to challenge these misconceptions. Sex abuse allegations that occur during custody disputes are frequently presumed to be false because they have arisen during or just before a custody case, regardless of the evidence. Because of this presumption on the part of private professionals and public officials, when children who suffer incest become the subjects of custody disputes, often their outcries are not believed and they are not protected. Custody of such children is likely to be given to the very adults accused of molesting them. (page x)
أسير على غير هدى وبلا هدف ولكن صادفتنى مفاجأة لم تخطر لى فى خاطرى فصرت كلما وضعت قدمى فى شارع انقلب الشارع سيركا.اختفت جدرانه وأبنيته وسياراته والمارة وحل محل ذلك قبة هائلة بمقاعدها المتدرجة وحبالها الممدودة والمدلاة واراجيحها وأقفاص حيوانتها والممثلون والمبتكرون والرياضيون حتى البلياتشو، وشد ما دهشت وسررت وكدت أطير من الفرح، ولكن بالانتقال من شارع إلى شارع وبتكرار المعجزة مضى السرور يفتر والضجر يزحف حتى ضقت بالمشى والرؤية وتاقت نفسى للرجوع إلى مسكنى، ولكم فرحت حين لاح لى وجه الدنيا وامنت بمجىء الفرح. وفتحت الباب فإذا بالبلياتشو يستقبلنى مقهقها.
Я люблю осень, это честное время года. Когда из серых туч льют холодные струи дождя, природа как бы говорит: "Готовьтесь! Дальше будет только хуже!"Если осенью стоит ясная погода, это очень красиво. Яркие оранжевые листья устилают тротуары, а воздух пронзительно свеж и прозрачен. В это время хочется дышать полной грудью, впитывая запахи опавшей листвы, высушенной солнцем травы и сырой земли.Осенью все запахи становятся очень чёткими. И эта чёткость активно будит память. Голову наполняют воспоминания, они несутся сквозь сознание, словно лавина ярких осколков. Какие-то эпизоды прошлого всплывают яркими картинами и их приятно пережить вновь. Другие вспыхивают редким кадром и тут же улетучиваются. И как ни старайся ухватить ускользающую ниточку памяти их уже не вернуть. От этого становится чуточку грустно. Осенью очень активно работает синдром дежавю, как будто, что-то стучится в настоящее из прошлого и, слегка мелькнув перед глазами, стремительно уносится прочь, в будущее. В эти моменты, кажется, что ты можешь предсказать какие-то грядущие события, но видения растворяются в прозрачном осеннем воздухе и спустя миг тебе уже нет до них никакого дела. Осень это время мистицизма. Кажется, что кто-то пальцем выводит в небе иероглифы истинных знаний, стоит только прищуриться особым образом и прочесть их. Но как только ты смотришь на небо, то сразу озорной ветер стирает письмена редкими рваными облаками. Я люблю осень, потому что она похожа на смерть. А смерть всегда абсолютно искренна. Вот что-то умерло и всё, больше нет никаких компромиссов, смерть есть смерть.
