欧宝娱乐

“The last thing he ever said to me was, 'Just always be waiting for me, and then some night you will hear me crowing.”
― J.M. Barrie

“You must carry on my spirit. It can no longer be carried by a god. It must be taken up by all of you. - Pan”
― Rick Riordan, The Battle of the Labyrinth

“Al fin y al cabo, 驴qu茅 clase de ciencia es 茅sa, capaz de poner un hombre en la luna pero incapaz de poner un pedazo de pan en la mesa de cada ser humano?”
― Carlos Ruiz Zaf贸n, Marina

“Remake the wild, a little at a time, each in your own corner of the world. You cannot wait for anyone else, even a god, to do that for you.”
― Rick Riordan, The Battle of the Labyrinth

“He was never more sinister than when he was most polite...”
― J. M. Barrie

“In her fantastic mood she stretched her soft, clasped hands upward toward the moon.

'Sweet moon,' she said in a kind of mock prayer, 'make your white light come down in music into my dancing-room here, and I will dance most deliciously for you to see". She flung her head backward and let her hands fall; her eyes were half closed, and her mouth was a kissing mouth. 'Ah! sweet moon,' she whispered, 'do this for me, and I will be your slave; I will be what you will.'

Quite suddenly the air was filled with the sound of a grand invisible orchestra. Viola did not stop to wonder. To the music of a slow saraband she swayed and postured. In the music there was the regular beat of small drums and a perpetual drone. The air seemed to be filled with the perfume of some bitter spice. Viola could fancy almost that she saw a smoldering campfire and heard far off the roar of some desolate wild beast. She let her long hair fall, raising the heavy strands of it in either hand as she moved slowly to the laden music. Slowly her body swayed with drowsy grace, slowly her satin shoes slid over the silver sand.

The music ceased with a clash of cymbals. Viola rubbed her eyes. She fastened her hair up carefully again. Suddenly she looked up, almost imperiously.

"Music! more music!" she cried.

Once more the music came. This time it was a dance of caprice, pelting along over the violin-strings, leaping, laughing, wanton. Again an illusion seemed to cross her eyes. An old king was watching her, a king with the sordid history of the exhaustion of pleasure written on his flaccid face. A hook-nosed courtier by his side settled the ruffles at his wrists and mumbled, 'Ravissant! Quel malheur que la vieillesse!' It was a strange illusion. Faster and faster she sped to the music, stepping, spinning, pirouetting; the dance was light as thistle-down, fierce as fire, smooth as a rapid stream.

The moment that the music ceased Viola became horribly afraid. She turned and fled away from the moonlit space, through the trees, down the dark alleys of the maze, not heeding in the least which turn she took, and yet she found herself soon at the outside iron gate. ("The Moon Slave")”
― Barry Pain, Ghostly By Gaslight

“The term 鈥減anic鈥� derives from Pan, the god of the woods. People lost deep in the forest report a terror, as though trees might conspire against them. Nature has no special regard for humanity. Panic is our brain's way of reminding us we should be humble.”
― Thomm Quackenbush, Holidays with Bigfoot

“Your bread assumes the shape of the pan you use to bake your flour. Therefore stand still and know that you can鈥檛 use a rounded pan and ever get squared bread. Change the pan and change the shape of the bread!”
― Israelmore Ayivor, Shaping the dream

“The fractured self is not something that needs to be rectified fixed and made whole; by freeing thought of the blinkers of representation, the space of fracture, of multiplicity (as opposed to unity) becomes a powerful place and one from which the most radical ideas can emerge.”
― Ria Banerjee

“Jeg har aldri i mitt liv skrevet "slibrig"; men jeg kunne gi anvisning p氓 dristigere ting i mine b酶ker enn hva som stod i den tyske fortelling. De er 氓 finne f.eks. b氓de i "Sult" og "Pan". Men n氓r Jacob Sverdrup leser over igjen disse steder og forarges, s氓 vil jeg ogs氓 be ham lese f.eks. Ibsens "Lille Eyolf" p氓ny. Den lille nydelige, senile r氓het, champagnen som ei ble r酶rt, b酶r han virkelig nippe til. Og huske. Og bruke.”
― Knut Hamsun, Selected Letters 1879-1898

“A strange breeze rustled through the clearing, temporarily overpowering the stink of trash and murk. It brought the smell of berries and wildflowers and clean rainwater, things that might've once been in these woods. Suddenly I was nostalgic for something I'd never knew.”
― Rick Riordan, The Lightning Thief

“When man has finally fulfilled his death wish by wiping out anything that breathes, including himself, Pan will return to a world made innocent again.”
― Nina Antonia, The Greenwood Faun

“Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies reviv鈥檇, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.”
― Browning Elizabeth Barrett

“they were straining so desperately for admission to paradise that they had forgotten that paradise had always been their address.”
― Tom Robbins

“All in a moment Hurlow forgot the beauty of the sounds and smelt fear. He smelt it as an animal smells it, the breath cold in his nostrils. He had read about Pan, a dead god who might safely be patronized while poring over a book in a London lodging, but here and at this hour a god not to be scorned. ("Furze Hollow")”
― A.M. Burrage

“Nakon 拧to sam jednog prosina膷kog dana 2001. u zagreba膷koj Nacionalnoj knji啪nici prisustvovaoraspe膷a膰enju pisane ostav拧tine Miroslava Krle啪e te sudjelovao u dugoj stru膷noj raspravi o njemu, krenuo sam, zajedno s dijelom publike i sudionika, u pi拧膷ev stan, gdje se upravo imao otvoriti Memorijalni prostor Miroslava i Bele Krle啪e. U dvori拧tu ku膰e na Gvozdu, dok sam zajedno s drugima cupkao na temperaturi od oko minus 10C po ledenu betonskom tlu i 膷ekao gradona膷elnika, iznenadilo me je mno拧tvo meni nepoznatih ljudi o kojima sam od prisutnih kolega 膷uo da su iz kulturne administracije, dr啪avne i gradske, pa sam se u sljede膰ih pedesetak minuta - koliko nas je gradona膷elnik pustio 膷ekati - zapitkivao je li otvorenje moralo biti organizirano ba拧 tako da me膽u okupljenima bude barem dvije tre膰ine kulturno neproduktivnih, a da se profesori, pisci i urednici osje膰aju kao stranci.
Kad se gradona膷elnik napokon dovezao do nas, nakon prigodne besjede (kojom nas je jo拧 desetak minuta zadr啪ao u dvori拧tu), uveo u stan, uzvanici su ispunili prima膰u sobu u tolikoj masi da sam se pobojao kako 膰e se deka izme膽u Krle啪ina i donjega kata prosjesti, pa sam se instinktivno povukao u kut (gdje bi deka zacijelo bila izdr啪ala i da su oni u sredini sobe propali kat ni啪e). Tu sam se pak suo膷io s predmetom koji mi je privukao znati啪elju te mi olak拧ao boravak u ambijentu koji je vi拧e od svega pobu膽ivao 啪elju da se iz njega kriomice pobjegne.
Malo je re膰i da je neobi膷ni predmet bio radioaparat. Bila je to RIZ-ova glazbena kutija (kombinacija radioprijamnika, gramofona i magnetofona) u obliku ove膰e drvene komode s platnenim pokrovom preko ugra膽enih zvu膷nika, s furniranim plohama i o拧trim bridovima, tipi膷nima za ukus i dizajn ranih 拧ezdesetih godina, kad su oble forme omiljene sredinom 20. stolje膰a po膷ele ustupati mjesto uglatima. Promrzao, umoran, pa i pomalo prestra拧en okolnim 啪agorom, osamio sam se u kutu te se posvetio RIZ-ovu elektronskom 膷udovi拧tu, privu膷en, istina, i Krle啪inim glasom koji je dopirao iz zvu膷nika i izgovarao tekst izvorno pro膷itan 29. o啪ujka 1966. na skupu o ilirskom pokretu. O膷ekuju膰i da govornik do膽e do znamenite re膷enice kako su ilirci "bacili kroz prozor" jezik stare hrvatske knji啪evnosti (ona me je potresla ve膰 1966., kad sam je kao gimnazijalac 膷uo u televizijskom prijenosu proslave), obilazio sam oko aparata i promatrao ga s radoznalo拧膰u s kakvom se i ina膷e promatraju zastarjele tehni膷ke naprave. Zapamtio sam ga toliko podrobno da i danas, zatvoriv拧i o膷i, mogu do膷arati njegove povr拧ine i bridove.
Zadr啪ao sam se kraj aparata sve dok nije do拧lo vrijeme za odlazak, a vani se po膷eo spu拧tati rani zimski sumrak. Ku膰i sam se vratio ve膰 po mraku, umoran, bezvoljan, u jednom od onih raspolo啪enja kad svijest o protra膰enu vremenu preraste u osje膰aj obuhvatnijega besmisla, kad nelagodne pojedinosti 拧to ih 膷ovjek pamti u vezi sa sobom i drugima budu prisutnije nego ina膷e, kad se poslovi 拧to ih valja obaviti u skoroj budu膰nosti u膷ine jalovima ili nesavladavima.
Ali, kakav bio, taj je dan bio ispunjen Krle啪om, pa sam se odlu膷io da ga na odgovaraju膰i na膷in i zaklju膷im. Mo啪da u poku拧aju da se nadove啪em na 拧togod o 膷emu se govorilo za okruglim stolom, a mo啪da i nasumice, uzeo sam s police svezak Simfonija te se, nakon nekoliko minuta nesabrana listanja i za膷itavanja na raznim mjestima, posvetio Panu. I gle, malo-pomalo zvuk stihova uljuljao me i raspolo啪io, rast pjesni膷kih slika reanimirao je umrtvljenu svijest, o啪ivjele su i uspomene na nekada拧nja 膷itanja, a ugo膽aj spjeva nametnuo se kao poeti膷na protuvrijednost prozai膷nim zbivanjima koja su me taj dan bila ozlovoljila. Jo拧 se, eto, mo啪e naletjeti na fine teme, u kojima ima objektivne te啪ine i tragova osobne 膷itateljske biografije, a u krle啪ijanskom kompleksu - kojem pripadaju i spjev iz 1917. i proslava s kraja 2001. - jo拧 se uvijek otkrivaju zanimljivi odnosi i suprotnosti. O svemu tome moglo bi se 拧togod napisati. Kad-tad.”
― Zoran Kravar, Uljanice i duhovi

“Your bread assumes the shape of the pan in which you bake your flour. Therefore stand still and know that you can't use a rounded pan and ever get squared bread. Change the pan and get your desired shape of the bread!”
― Israelmore Ayivor, The Great Hand Book of Quotes

“For meg h酶rer skogen og ensomheten til.”
― Knut Hamsun

“I鈥檓 still in bed writing this, lying on my back like an omelette in a pan.”
― Alain Bremond-Torrent, running is flying intermittently

“But he was a human being, or part of one, and he felt just as Lyra did: unhappy, and guilty, and wretchedly lonely.”
― Philip Pullman, The Secret Commonwealth

“No hay olor que calme mejor el miedo que el del pan reci茅n horneado.”
― Cristina Loza, El oso de karantania

“I loved the zebras, the cheetahs, the fruit flies, the octopi and the rest. But The Nature of Sex 鈥渃limaxed鈥� with a species I鈥檇 never heard of before, 鈥渂onobos,鈥� which the narrator also called by their Latin/scientific name Pan paniscus. I knew 鈥淧an鈥� as classical Greek mythology鈥檚 horned and horny god of the wild, so maybe I shouldn鈥檛 have been surprised. But when the bonobos started swinging onto my screen, well鈥� what can I say? Today, I鈥檝e got a whole book鈥檚 worth of stuff to say, but back then, I couldn鈥檛 utter a word. Imagine looking into an evolutionary funhouse mirror and seeing a side of yourself you鈥檝e never seen before, shocking yet deeply familiar.

鈥淲ho are these vibrant, joyful creatures that look so much like me, only hairier?鈥� I wondered. 鈥淎nd what鈥檚 with all the sex?鈥� They weren鈥檛 just going at it for procreation. They were engaging in sex for recreation and interpersonal communication, very much like humans, but without the pretense, hypocrisy and shame. I got very excited, but no, I still didn鈥檛 want to have sex with them. I wanted to have sex like them (at least occasionally), in that playful yet deeply meaningful way of theirs I started calling the Bonobo Way.

But would it keep our sex life out of the dreaded sinkhole? Only time would tell.”
― Susan Block, The Bonobo Way

“I flow like a butter in the nailed pan I stole. I also kept the nail, to polish and use as a means of teleportation.”
― Will Advise, Nothing is here...

“Pan took the joke good-naturedly, probably deciding it wasn't a good idea to argue with a fifteen-year-old who had just pulled two people up ten feet.”
― Grace Anthony, Timeless

“Are the legends true?鈥� asked Cadmus. 鈥淥f course they are,鈥� replied Pan. 鈥淲e live in an age of legends.”
― Sulari Gentill, Chasing Odysseus

“Pan again!" said Dr. Bull irritably. "You seem to think Pan is everything."
"So he is," said the Professor, "in Greek. He means everything."
"Don't forget," said the Secretary, looking down, "that he also means Panic.”
― G.K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare

“Uneori poate s膬-葲i fac膬 pl膬cere s膬 fii tras de p膬r. Ca s膬 vezi c芒t de ciudat膬 e firea omului. Nu-i cu neputin葲膬 s膬 te la葯i t芒r芒t peste mun葲i 葯i v膬i - 葯i dac膬 cineva te 卯ntreab膬 ce 葲i se 卯nt芒mpl膬, tu s膬 r膬spunzi 卯nc芒ntat: Sunt tras de p膬r! Iar dac膬 te 卯ntreab膬: S膬 nu-葲i ajut s膬 scapi? Atunci tu s膬 r膬spunzi: nu. 葮i dac膬, 卯n sf芒r葯it, te 卯ntreab膬: Dar cum po葲i s膬 rabzi s膬 fii tratat a葯a? Tu s膬 r膬spunzi: Da, pot, fiindc膬 ador m芒na care m膬 trage de p膬r.... 葮tii tu, Eva, ce 卯nseamn膬 s膬 speri?”
― Knut-Hamsun

“a hand, a look and a nice pan. (coup de main, coup d'oeil et belle casserole.)”
― Charles de Leusse, Les Contes de la nuit

“Ser bendecido es recibir pan para el camino de la vida. Jes煤s se refer铆a a la 濒颈产别谤补肠颈贸苍 de los esp铆ritus malignos como pan de los hijos. A menudo no conocemos el valor de lo que hemos recibido hasta que lo regalamos, como el muchacho de Jn 6:9.”
― Neal Lozano, Unbound: A Practical Guide to Deliverance

“He choked back a laugh. "How can you make me smile when I feel like I've been struck by a meteor?”
― Amanda Bouchet, A Curse of Queens