欧宝娱乐

“Rosalind is your love's name?

ORLANDO: Yes, just.

JAQUES: I do not like her name.

ORLANDO: There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.”
― William Shakespeare, As You Like It

“Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her.

ORLANDO
Forever and a day.

ROSALIND
Say 鈥渁 day鈥� without the 鈥渆ver.鈥� No, no, Orlando, men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock- pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more newfangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry. I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.”
― William Shakespeare, As You Like It

“In the words of Mr Thierry Coup of Warner Bros: 'We are taking the most iconic and powerful moments of the stories and putting them in an immersive environment. It is taking the theme park experience to a new level.' And of course I wish Thierry and his colleagues every possible luck, and I am sure it will be wonderful. But I cannot conceal my feelings; and the more I think of those millions of beaming kids waving their wands and scampering the Styrofoam turrets of Hogwartse_STmk, and the more I think of those millions of poor put-upon parents who must now pay to fly to Orlando and pay to buy wizard hats and wizard cloaks and wizard burgers washed down with wizard meade_STmk, the more I grind my teeth in jealous irritation.

Because the fact is that Harry Potter is not American. He is British. Where is Diagon Alley, where they buy wands and stuff? It is in London, and if you want to get into the Ministry of Magic you disappear down a London telephone box. The train for Hogwarts goes from King's Cross, not Grand Central Station, and what is Harry Potter all about? It is about the ritual and intrigue and dorm-feast excitement of a British boarding school of a kind that you just don't find in America. Hogwarts is a place where children occasionally get cross with each other鈥攏ot 'mad'鈥攁nd where the situation is usually saved by a good old British sense of HUMOUR. WITH A U. RIGHT? NOT HUMOR. GOTTIT?”
― Boris Johnson

“I am growing up. I am losing some illusions, perhaps to acquire others.”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“Here she tossed her foot impatiently, and showed an inch or two of calf. A sailor on the mast, who happened to look down at the moment, started so violently that he missed his footing and only saved himself by the skin of his teeth. 'If the sight of my ankles means death to an honest fellow who, no doubt, has a wife and family to support, I must, in all humanity, keep them covered,' Orlando thought. Yet her legs were among her chieftest beauties. And she fell to thinking what an odd pass we have come to when all a woman's beauty has to be kept covered lest a sailor fall from a mast-head. 'A pox on them!' she said, realizing for the first time what, in other circumstances, she would have been taught as a child, that is to say, the sacred responsibilities of womanhood...”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another.”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“I want you to know that I have nothing against Orlando, though you are, of course, far more likely to get shot or robbed there than in London.”
― Boris Johnson

“Terror doesn't change people from gay to straight. It just hurts innocent people.”
― DaShanne Stokes

“You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives and conned them out of rings?”
― William Shakespeare, As You Like It

“The taste for books was an early one. As a child he was sometimes found at midnight by a page still reading. They took his taper away, and he bred glow-worms to serve his purpose. They took the glow-worms away, and he almost burnt the house down with a tinder. To put it in a nutshell, leaving the novelist to smooth out the crumpled silk and all its implications, he was a nobleman afflicted with a love of literature. Many people of his time, still more of his rank, escaped the infection and were thus free to run or ride or make love at their own sweet will. But some were early infected by a germ said to be bred of the pollen of the asphodel and to be blown out of Greece and Italy, which was of so deadly a nature that it would shake the hand as it was raised to strike, and cloud the eye as it sought its prey, and make the tongue stammer as it declared its love. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality, so that Orlando, to whom fortune had given every gift--plate, linen, houses, men-servants, carpets, beds in profusion--had only to open a book for the whole vast accumulation to turn to mist. The nine acres of stone which were his house vanished; one hundred and fifty indoor servants disappeared; his eighty riding horses became invisible; it would take too long to count the carpets, sofas, trappings, china, plate, cruets, chafing dishes and other movables often of beaten gold, which evaporated like so much sea mist under the miasma. So it was, and Orlando would sit by himself, reading, a naked man.”
― Virginia Woolf

“These selves of which we are built up, one on top of another, as plates are piled on a waiter's hand, have attachments elsewhere, sympathies, little constitutions and rights of their own, call them what you will (and for many of these things there is no name) so that one will only come if it is raining, another in a room with green curtains, another when Mrs Jones is not there, another if you can promis it a glass of wine 鈥攁nd so on; for verybody can multiply from his own experience the different terms which his different selves have made with him鈥攁nd some are too wildly ridiculous to be mentioned in print at all.”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“At length the colour on her cheeks resumed its stability and it seemed as if the spirit of the age鈥攊f such indeed it were鈥攍ay dormant for a time. Then Orlando felt in the bosom of her shirt as if for some locket or relic of lost affection, and drew out no such thing, but a roll of paper, sea-stained, blood-stained, travel-stained鈥攖he manuscript of her poem, 'The Oak Tree'. She had carried this about with her for so many years now, and in such hazardous circumstances, that many of the pages were stained, some were torn, while the straits she had been in for writing paper when with the gipsies, had forced her to overscore the margins and cross the lines till the manuscript looked like a piece of darning most conscientiously carried out. She turned back to the first page and read the date, 1586, written in her own boyish hand. She had been working at it for close three hundred years now. It was time to make an end. Meanwhile she began turning and dipping and reading and skipping and thinking as she read, how very little she had changed all these years. She had been a gloomy boy, in love with death, as boys are; and then she had been amorous and florid; and then she had been sprightly and satirical; and sometimes she had tried prose and sometimes she had tried drama. Yet through all these changes she had remained, she reflected, fundamentally the same.”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“The sound of the trumpets died away and Orlando stood stark naked. No human being since the world began, has ever looked more ravishing. His form combined in one the strength of a man and a woman鈥檚 grace. As he stood there, silver trumpets prolonged their note, as if reluctant to leave the lovely sight which their blast had called forth; and Chastity, Purity, and Modesty, inspired, no doubt, by Curiosity, peeped in at the door and threw a garment like a towel at the naked form which, unfortunately, fell short by several inches. Orlando looked at himself up and down in a long looking-glass, without showing any signs of discompose, and went presumably, to his bath.

We many take advantage of this pause in the narrative to make certain statements. Orlando had become a woman - there is no denying it. But in every other respect, Orlando remained precisely as he had been. The change in sex, though it altered their future, did nothing whatever to alter their identity. Their faces remained, as their portraits prove, practically the same. His memory - but in the future we must, for convention鈥檚 sake, say 鈥榟er鈥� for 鈥榟is鈥�, and 鈥榮he鈥� for 鈥榟e鈥� - her memory then, went back through all the events of her past life without encountering any obstacle. Some slight haziness there may have been, as if a few dark spots had fallen into the clear pool of memory; certain things had become a little dimmed; but that was all. The change seemed to have been accomplished painlessly and completely and in such a way that Orlando herself showed no surprise at it. Many people, taking this into account, and holding that such a change in sex is against nature, have been at great pains to prove (1) that Orlando has always been a woman, (2) that Orlando is at this moment a man. Let biologists and psychologists determine. It is enough for us to state the simple fact; Orlando was a man till the age of thirty; when he became a woman and has remained so ever since.”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“What made the process still longer was that it was profusely illustrated, not only with pictures, as that of old Queen Elizabeth, laid on her tapestry couch in rose-coloured brocade with an ivory snuff-box in her hand and a gold-hilted sword by her side, but with scents 鈥� she was strongly perfumed 鈥� and with sounds; the stags were barking in Richmond Park that winter鈥檚 day. And so, the thought of love would be all ambered over with snow and winter; with log fires burning; with Russian women, gold swords, and the bark of stags; with old King James鈥� slobbering and fireworks and sacks of treasure in the holds of Elizabethan sailing ships. Every single thing, once he tried to dislodge it from its place in his mind, he found thus cumbered with other matter like the lump of glass which, after a year at the bottom of the sea, is grown about with bones and dragon-flies, and coins and the tresses of drowned women.”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“醿愥儞醿犪償醿ａ儦醿� 醿愥優醿犪儤醿氠儤醿� 醿溼儛醿椺償醿氠儤 醿︶儛醿涐償 醿樶儞醿掅儛. 醿ａ儣醿曖儛醿氠儛醿曖儤 醿曖儛醿犪儭醿欋儠醿氠儛醿曖儤醿� 醿儤醿涐儶醿樶儧醿� 醿愥儺醿愥儦醿� 醿涐儣醿曖儛醿犪儤醿� 醿曖償醿犪儶醿儦醿樶儭醿め償醿� 醿ㄡ儯醿メ儭 醿ㄡ償醿犪儸醿п儧醿濁儞醿�, 醿犪儛醿♂儛醿�, 醿椺儛醿曖儤醿� 醿涐儺醿犪儤醿�, 醿メ儯醿┽儤醿� 醿氠儛醿涐優醿樶儩醿溼償醿戓儤醿� 醿掅儛醿溼儛醿椺償醿戓儛 醿愥儧醿п儛醿犪償醿戓儞醿�. 醿撫儛 醿斸儭 醿ㄡ儯醿メ儤 醿掅儛醿溼儯醿栣儩醿涐儦醿愥儞 醿愥儧醿ㄡ儠醿斸儨醿斸儜醿撫儛 醿愥儞醿愥儧醿樶儛醿溼償醿戓儤醿� 醿♂儛醿償醿斸儜醿� 醿撫儛 醿涐儤醿♂儮醿斸儬 醿曖儬醿斸儨醿樶儭 醿儯醿犪儩醿椺儧醿濁儷醿︶儠醿犪償醿戓儛醿�. 醿п儠醿斸儦醿愥儰醿斸儬醿� 醿椺儛醿曖儤醿♂儤 醿ａ儰醿愥儱醿樶儢醿斸儭醿� 醿樶償醿犪儤醿� 醿掅儛醿涐儩醿欋儠醿斸儣醿樶儦醿樶儳醿�, 醿撫儛 醿涐儛醿樶儨醿�, 醿樶儭醿斸儣醿� 醿掅儬醿儨醿濁儜醿� 醿樶儱醿涐儨醿斸儜醿濁儞醿�, 醿椺儤醿椺儱醿濁儭 醿♂儛醿撫儛醿儛醿� 醿п儠醿斸儦醿愥儰醿斸儬醿� 醿斸儬醿椺儤醿愥儨醿愥儞 醿掅儛醿氠儲醿曖償醿戓儩醿撫儛, 醿犪儩醿� 醿愥儬醿� 醿犪儩醿涐償醿氠儤醿︶儛醿� 醿曖償醿犪儶醿儦醿樶儭 醿儠醿斸儣醿�, 醿犪儩醿涐償醿氠儧醿愥儶 醿п儠醿斸儦醿� 醿儛醿栣儤 醿掅儛醿涐儩醿欋儠醿斸儣醿� 醿撫儛 醿♂儯醿氠儤 醿ㄡ儣醿愥儜醿斸儬醿�. 醿掅儛醿溼儛
醿♂儛醿ａ儜醿愥儬醿� 醿愥儭醿斸儣醿樶儠醿� 醿愥儬 醿ａ儨醿撫儛 醿樶儳醿濁儭醿�? 鈥� 醿め儤醿メ儬醿濁儜醿撫儛 醿濁儬醿氠儛醿溼儞醿� (醿撫儛 醿♂儯醿氠償醿氠儯醿� 醿濁儶醿溼償醿戓償醿戓儭 醿涐儤醿斸儶醿�); 醿掅儛醿溼儛 醿愥儭醿斸儣醿� 醿愥儬 醿ａ儨醿撫儛 醿樶儳醿濁儭 醿♂儛醿栣儩醿掅儛醿撫儩醿斸儜醿�, 醿愥儭醿斸儣醿� 醿愥儬 醿ａ儨醿撫儛 醿樶儳醿濁儭 醿涐償醿掅儩醿戓儬醿濁儜醿�, 醿愥儭醿斸儣醿� 醿愥儬 醿ａ儨醿撫儛 醿樶儳醿濁儭 醿♂儤醿п儠醿愥儬醿ａ儦醿�? 醿犪儛醿撫儝醿愥儨 醿ａ儰醿愥儦醿涐儛 醿ａ儸醿п儤醿� 醿犪儛醿⑨儩醿�, 醿涐儛醿樶儨醿儞醿愥儧醿愥儤醿溼儶 醿涐儛醿ㄡ儤醿�, 醿犪儩醿儛 醿愥儞醿愥儧醿樶儛醿溼儯醿犪儤 醿ａ儬醿椺儤醿斸儬醿椺儩醿戓償醿戓儤醿� 醿犪儸醿涐償醿溼儛 醿掅儠醿斸儥醿愥儬醿掅償醿戓儛, 醿犪儛醿︶儛醿�, 醿椺儛醿曖儦醿樶儭 醿撫儛 醿償醿斸儜醿樶儭 醿椺儯 醿椺儤醿曖儤醿� 醿栣儠醿樶儨醿樶儭 醿撫儛 醿濁儣醿儣醿曖儛醿氠儛 醿め儩醿犪儨醿樶儭 醿ㄡ償醿涐儣醿儠醿斸儠醿樶儣醿� 醿掅儛醿溼儦醿愥儝醿斸儜醿� 醿樶儭醿斸儣 醿♂儬醿ａ儦醿п儩醿め儤醿� 醿♂儤醿涐儜醿濁儦醿濁儭 醿儛醿犪儧醿濁儝醿曖儤醿撫儝醿斸儨醿� 醿樶儧醿樶儭醿愥儭, 醿犪儛醿� 醿涐儤醿ａ儸醿曖儞醿濁儧醿斸儦醿樶儛, 醿犪儩醿� 醿樶儭醿斸儠 醿椺儛醿曖儤醿撫儛醿� 醿曖儤醿儳醿斸儜醿� 醿儤醿斸儜醿愥儭.”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“鈥� 醿♂儯醿� 醿愥儬 醿涐儛醿撫儛醿犪儞醿斸儜醿�, 醿椺儯醿欋儤
醿愥儬醿� 醿斸儬醿� 醿♂儯醿氠儤醿斸儬醿� 醿愥儲醿愥儬 醿ㄡ償醿曖儺醿曖儞醿斸儜醿� 醿┽償醿涐儭 醿♂儤醿儩醿儺醿氠償醿ㄡ儤! 醿ㄡ償醿搬儳醿曖儤醿犪儛 醿撫儛 醿儬醿斸儧醿氠儛醿� 醿撫儛醿樶儲醿曖儛醿犪儛. 醿ａ儣醿曖儛醿氠儛醿曖儤 醿涐儩醿⑨儬醿め儤醿愥儦醿� 醿搬儳醿愥儠醿撫儛, 醿涐儛醿掅儬醿愥儧 醿儺醿濁儠醿犪償醿戓儛, 醿犪儩醿涐償醿氠儧醿愥儶, 醿欋儛醿儧醿� 醿犪儩醿� 醿椺儱醿曖儛醿�, 醿儩醿� 醿ａ儨醿撫儛 醿ㄡ償醿樶儷醿樶儨醿濁儭 醿犪儛醿︶儛醿� 醿涐儨醿樶儴醿曖儨醿斸儦醿濁儜醿�, 醿掅儛醿ａ儬醿戓儩醿撫儛 醿涐儛醿�, 鈥� 醿溼儯醿椺儯 醿斸儭 醿愥儬醿樶儭? 鈥� 醿樶儥醿樶儣醿儛, 醿濁儲醿濁儨醿� 醿愥儬醿愥儠醿樶儨
醿斸儝醿ａ儦醿斸儜醿濁儞醿� 醿炨儛醿♂儯醿儤醿� 醿掅儛醿涐儶醿斸儧醿�, 鈥� 醿溼儯醿椺儯 醿斸儭 醿愥儬醿樶儭, 鈥� 醿涐儛醿樶儨醿� 醿撫儛醿愥儧醿椺儛醿曖儬醿� 醿♂儛醿椺儱醿涐償醿氠儤, 鈥� 醿犪儛醿♂儛醿� 醿愥儞醿愥儧醿樶儛醿溼償醿戓儤 醿♂儤醿儩醿儺醿氠償醿� 醿ａ儸醿濁儞醿斸儜醿斸儨?”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice? So that all this chatter and praise and blame and meeting people who admired one and did not admire one was as ill suited as could be to the thing itself鈥攁 voice answering a voice. What could have been more secret, she thought, more slow, and like the intercourse of lovers, than the stammering answer she had made all these years to the old crooning song of the woods, and the farms and the brown horses standing at the gate, neck to neck, and the smithy and the kitchen and the fields, so laboriously bearing wheat, turnips, grass, and the garden blowing irises and fritillaries?”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“Love had meant nothing to him but sawdust and cinders.”
― Virginia Woolf

“She remembered how, as a young man, she had insisted that women must be obedient, chaste, scented, and exquisitely apparelled. "Now I shall have to pay in my own person for those desires," she reflected; "for women are not (judging by my own short experience of the sex) obedient, chaste, scented, and exquisitely apparelled by nature. They can only attain these graces, without which they may enjoy none of the delights of life, by the most tedious discipline. There's the hairdressing," she thought, "that alone will take an hour of my morning, there's looking in the looking-glass, another hour; there's staying and lacing; there's washing and powdering; there's changing from silk to lace and from lace to paduasoy; there's being chaste year in and year out...”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“El lector que haya intimado con las severidades del trabajo de redactar no necesitar谩 pormenores: c贸mo escribi贸 y le pareci贸 bueno; reley贸 y le pareci贸 vil: corrigi贸 y rompi贸; omiti贸; agreg贸, conoci贸 el 茅xtasis, la desesperaci贸n; tuvo sus buenas noches y sus malas ma帽anas; atrap贸 ideas y las perdi贸; vio su libro concluido y se le borr贸; personific贸 sus h茅roes mientras com铆a; los declam贸 al salir a caminar; ri贸 y llor贸; vacil贸 entre uno y otro estilo; prefiri贸 a veces el heroico y pomposo; otras el directo y sencillo; otras los valles de Tempe; otras los campos de Kent o de Cornwall; y no lleg贸 nunca a saber si era el genio m谩s sublime o el mayor mentecato de la tierra.”
― Virginia Woolf

“Ly Kim Nguyen recently retired from her career in the education sector and is spending her retirement as peacefully as possible.”
― Ly Kim Nguyen

“Thomas Rauchegger of Cramer & Rauchegger, Inc. is an accomplished financial consultant, licensed Series 7 Securities Representative, a Series 66 holder, a Certified Estate planner, and a life insurance license holder who obtained a Master of Business Administration from the University of Central Florida. In his 15 years of experience, Tom has adopted a philanthropic approach in the areas of finance and estate planning 鈥� delivering reliable and trustworthy service to all clients as an advocate for the best-possible retirement years.”
― Thomas Rauchegger

“Tal vez escribir cartas a una mujer sea como [鈥.

Creo que, al enfriar la emoci贸n con lenguaje, las cartas de amor sin amor logran con mayor 茅xito la contenci贸n que vuelve carne y fluido el delirio amoroso. Virginia espera dejar atr谩s la cama y retomar su batalla contra el mundo: 芦Y no est谩s aqu铆 para transformarme禄. 驴Qu茅 煤nico poder deber铆a tener una mujer sobre otra sino el de transformarla? 驴Os suena de algo, se帽ora?
En sus cartas Virginia le reclama a Vita que la acuse de no tener sentimientos o de inventarse 芦frases encantadoras禄 que 芦le restan aspectos a la realidad禄. Sobra vida en Vita鈥�.
[...]
驴Qu茅 puedo decir sobre eso sino sentirme m谩s Vita que Virginia y a veces m谩s Virginia que Vita? 驴En cu谩l de ellas se reconoce usted?
Virginia insiste en que ella intenta decir lo que siente. Pero entiendo que no sea suficiente para Vita, que busca algo m谩s. Woolf a煤lla por historias frescas. Y Vita las tiene, las genera, las encarna.
[...]
Todo lo que lati贸 en el encuentro entre estas dos mujeres, pero lo que se recordar谩 ser谩 un gran libro, mi bien, otro libro de Virginia Woolf (y este pu帽ado de cartas como anexo, un mapa alternativo de lectura). Ning煤n libro de Vita. Que sali贸 a juguetear en los bosques con Mary Campbell, con Mary Carmichael o Mary Seton, mientras Virginia parec铆a celebrar sus trucos y re铆rle las gracias con deleite: 芦Ninguna de esas soy yo, maldita seas. En fin禄. Tan distante, tan razonable, tan, en fin, europea鈥�
[...]
Perdone que me desv铆e con asuntos mundanos. Perdone que centre todo en el amor. Es verdad, parece un vicio sentir y resentir que haya sido una mujer la que derribara m谩s muros que nadie
[...]
Quiz谩 solo he querido regalarle estas cartas para invitarla a poner una vela en el altar fascinante de la creaci贸n colaborativa que es la pasi贸n l茅sbica, tan parecida al deseo por una misma. D铆game por favor si me invento este romance porque entonces saldr茅 a celebrarlo.

Su burra Gabriela W.”
― Virginia Woolf, The Letters of Virginia Woolf: Volume Three, 1923-1928