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    One of the commonest parts of the outcry is that humanism is subjectivistic altogether — it is supposed to labor under a necessity of 'denying trans-perceptual reality.' 105 It is not hard to see how this misconception of humanism may have arisen; and humanistic writers, partly from not having sufficiently guarded their expressions, and partly from not having yet “got round” (in the poverty of their literature) to a full discussion of the subject, are doubtless in some degree to blame. But I fail to understand how any one with a working grasp of their principles can charge them wholesale with subjectivism. I myself have never thought of humanism as being subjectivistic farther than to this extent, that, inasmuch as it treats the thinker as being himself one portion of reality, it must also allow that some of the realities that he declares for true are created by his being there. Such realities of course are either acts Of his, or relations between other things and him, or relations between things, which, but for him, would never have been traced. Humanists are subjectivistic, also in this, that, unlike rationalists (who think they carry a warrant for the absolute truth of what they now believe in in their present pocket), they hold all present beliefs as subject to revision in the light of future experience. The future experience, however, may be of things outside the thinker; and that this is so the humanist may believe as freely as any other kind of empiricist philosopher.


    “It must have been just before nine o’clock. We had finished dinner, and were sitting over our coffee and cigarettes.”


      "Go in and drive her out, Garnet," shouted Mr. Chase. "In my directionif you can. Look out on the left, Phyllis."Even in that disturbing moment I could not help noticing his use ofthe Christian name. It seemed to me more than sinister. I did not likethe idea of dashing young lieutenants in the senior service calling agirl Phyllis whose eyes had haunted me since I had first seen them.

    Here the conference closed, as it was necessary for Mr. Henderson to take medicine.

    ‘Ah, no call me Uncle Ned no mo’!’ cried the old man. ‘No my name! My name Taveeta, all-e-same Taveeta King of Islael. Wat for he call that Hawaii? I think no savvy nothing — all-e- same Wise-a-mana.’

    Long before daylight on Monday morning adieus were said and the two young adventurers turned into the frozen, silent wastes to the northward, Bob in the lead making a rapid pace, Shad following, and each hauling his toboggan.

    “Forever, perhaps. I don’t know. It depends upon a good many things.”

      据漳州古雷港经济开发区管委会官方微信消息,解放军某部定于2020年10月13日至17日在古雷半岛东侧海域进行实弹射击。警戒区域为红屿、横屿周边海域,北至六鳌半岛大尖山礁,西至沙洲岛,南至横屿以南10公里,东至横屿以东12公里。坐标海a点:23-48-35N 117-40-35E, 海b点:23-56-50N 117-48-00E,海c点:23-52-50N 117-53-10E,海d点:23-44-30N 117-45-40E四点连线水域范围内。请警戒区域内的渔船、人员务必于10月12日15:00前撤离。实弹危险,生命可贵!造成不便,敬请谅解!

    “I don’t think I’m going to go,” she said matter-of-factly. Her answer caught me off guard. Jamie had some of the highest grades in our senior class, and depending on how the last semester went, she might even end up valedictorian. We had a running pool going as to how many times she would mention the Lord’s plan in her speech, by the way. My bet was fourteen, being that she only had five minutes. “What about Mount Sermon? I thought that’s where you were planning to go. You’d love a place like that,” I offered.

    the morning afte r "Guess it's a good thing I'm already into Brown, huh?" Nate said cockily. He lit the joint he'd just rolled, took a hit, and passed it to Brigid. Then he stood up and yanked on his khakis before pacing over to the window. Brigid's room at the Warwick New York Hotel looked out onto an air shaft. The room was all right, if you liked floral patterns and brown carpet, but it wasn't exactly the Plaza. "Don't they serve coffee in the rooms in this dive?" he demanded. Brigid was sitting up in bed, naked, with the covers draped loosely over her. "There's a restaurant downstairs, but they charge, like, five bucks for a cup of tea." Nate whirled around. "So?" He wanted her to feel like the entire night had been a mistake. That accepting him at Brown had been a mistake. She balanced the joint on the rim of a glass ashtray. "You know, I don't usually do this," she said, her blue-green eyes darting up and down his body as though trying to read him. Nate opened the wooden entertainment cabinet across from the bed and flicked on the TV. He began watching a sports roundup on MSNBC, purposely ignoring her. "I like you. You know that, right?" Brigid demanded, burning holes into his back. "We did this because we genuinely like each other?" Nate didn't respond. Brigid pulled the covers up to her chin. "You're not going to tell anyone at Brown about this, are you?" He clicked off the television and tossed the remote on the bed. Brigid looked seriously worried now, which was exactly what he wanted. "Maybe," he replied. "Maybe not." She bit her lip. Her strawberry blond hair was sticking out in all directions. "Your admission would be withdrawn," she warned. Perfect. Nate stuck his feet into his shoes and pulled his half-unbuttoned shirt on over his head. "And I could get fired." He grabbed the joint from out of the ashtray and sucked on it. "I gotta run," he hissed, holding in the hit. He was due for brunch with the Yale coach in just over an hour, and he wanted to get good and buzzed first. He squeezed the joint out between his fingers and tucked it into his pocket. "Maybe we should have stuck with the lobster," he told Brigid, tucking in his shirt. She opened her mouth and then closed it again. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she was about to cry. "That's it?" "That's it," Nate said, and then he spun around and quietly took his leave. See ya! Out in the hallway he stabbed at the button for the elevator and waited for it with his forehead pressed against the wall. He'd never been that nasty to anyone—at least, not on purpose—and he felt horrible about it. Still, he'd done it for Blair, and it wasn't as if he'd ever follow through and get Brigid fired. All he wanted was a letter from Brown telling him they didn't want him after all. And after that little performance, he'd probably get it. the morning after, part II "Where the fuck are you, anyway?" Erik demanded. "Shush," Serena whispered into the phone. "I'm in the art building. In a painting studio." She glanced at Christian. He was lying on the floor next to her, asleep on top of a piece of unused canvas. There was green paint in his hair. "We fell asleep in here." "Oh, did we?" Erik responded mockingly. "I can't believe you're here and I'm not even going to see you," he whined, pretending to be hurt, when Serena knew he'd probably been up all night partying and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. "So, are you like in love, or what?" Serena smiled. Christian's long-lashed brown eyes were closed and his sweet mouth was relaxed. He looked like a sleeping baby. "I'm not sure," she said softly. "I'm supposed be leaving for Yale now." She closed her eyes. "This weekend has been so crazy." Serena smiled. Christian's long-lashed brown eyes were closed and his sweet mouth was relaxed. He looked like a sleeping baby. "I'm not sure," she said softly. "I'm supposed be leaving for Yale now." She closed her eyes. "This weekend has been so crazy." Yale today, although you better go to Brown so we can hang. Talk to you soon. You know you love me. 'Bye!" he burbled nonsensically before hanging up. Serena clicked off, wondering if she should wake Christian or let him sleep. A lime-juice mustache had dried on his upper lip from the Brazilian cocktails he'd made them last night, and there were little green paint Hecks all over his dark olive skin. She was a little paint-smeared and rumpled herself, but Serena was the kind of girl who could sleep on the floor of an art studio all night, wake up and kick the creases out of her jeans, run her fingers through her hair, rub a little cherry-flavored ChapStick on her lips, and voila—instagoddess. Sunlight stalked the tall, wood-framed windows of the art studio. From where she stood, the redbrick buildings of the Brown campus looked serene and sleepy, almost like a ghost town. Then a group of students walked down the path directly in front of the window, wearing old sweatpants and carrying huge travel mugs of coffee. Serena slid away from Christian and pulled on her brown Calvin Klein flats. Leaning against the opposite wall of the studio was Christian's now-finished life-size copy of the ad for Serena's Tears. It was difficult to understand why he'd used so much green, since the ad was shot on a snowy day in February, but even with all that green, the painting was stunning. And bizarre. Christian had developed a technique in which he used only one line to complete an image. In the painting, the features in Serena's face were all connected. Her eyes connected to her nose, which connected to her mouth, which connected to her chin, her cheeks, her ears, her hair. It kind of made her look like something out of Shrek, especially with all that green, but it was still beautiful in its own unique way She retrieved a tube of Chanel lip gloss from out of her bag, found a scrap of paper on the floor, and wrote, I like the green, in pink sparkles. Come see me in NYC. Love, S. Then she pushed the piece of paper toward Christian, grabbed her bag, and tiptoed out the door. "Au revoir," she whispered, turning to blow the sleeping boy a kiss. She hesitated. Was it sleazy to creep away without even saying good-bye? Not when they'd done nothing more than kiss and fall asleep in each other's arms. Besides, the note was pretty romantic. A car honked noisily and Christian stirred. Serena slipped stealthily out the door and down the stairs. She'd never liked good-byes, and if Christian woke up, she'd never make it to Yale. "Love you," she whispered as she left the building. She knew the Brown campus well enough from visiting Erik to find her way to the parking lot. Ignoring the paved walkway, she traipsed down a grassy hill, her shoes damp with dew and her pants legs covered with freshly mown grass. A black town car was pulled over at the side of the road, waiting for her, and all of a sudden she was hit with a bad case of deja vu. Was it only yesterday that Drew had kissed her good-bye at the top of his Harvard dormitory steps, while her town car waited to whisk her up to Brown? Was it only yesterday that she'd told another boy, "I love you"? Yup, that's right. Yesterday. The driver opened the door for her and she got in. "I love you too," she whispered to Drew in apology, even though he wasn't there. A weekend away visiting schools was supposed to help clarify things, but Serena felt more confused than ever. How would she ever concentrate at college when college was full of boys just waiting for her to fall in love with them? There's always the Dorna B. Rae College for Women in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. They're still taking applications! the morning after, part III "Hair of the dog, sister." "Hair of the dog, sister." Hair of the dog. It was the perfect expression for how Blair felt—like a grungy, matted clump of dog hair. She tried to sit up and then fell back on the inflatable mattress again, moaning. Her scalp stung. Her legs burned. She smelled weird. What was wrong with her? No comment. "I swear to God you'll feel better after you drink this." Rebecca knelt down and cradled Blair's head like a morn offering her sick child some warm broth. "It's our secret recipe." How reassuring. Blair sat up, wincing as she gulped the thick red concoction. It tasted like vodka and barbecue potato chips. Blech! "Your hair will look a lot better after the roots start to grow in," Rebecca told her. "And you might want to think about bleaching your eyebrows to match." Blair had forgotten about her hair. She knew it was blond now, or at least some semblance of blond, but she couldn't bear to look at it until she was home and within range of the Elizabeth Arden Red Door Salon. Rebecca would have to loan her a hat. The girls' room had two sets of bunk beds, set up perpendicular to each other so the four friends could talk and giggle I he night away. The beds were empty. "Where are the others?" Blair croaked. Her mouth felt like it had been basted with nail polish. "Getting bagels." Rebecca pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail. "Every Sunday we eat bagels and talk about the boys we could have slept with the night before but didn't." What excellent fun. Blair was way too hung over to discuss bagels or boys. "I have to get home," she mumbled. At home she could lie on her bed, watch old movies, and eat croissants off the tray Myrtle brought her. She could write Nate a nasty e-mail. And she wouldn't have to look at the disturbing Easter bunny mobile made of red LifeStyles condoms that the girls had hung from their dorm room ceiling. "You can't leave until they come back," Rebecca insisted. She sat down on the bottom bunk nearest Blair, unzipped a metallic pink manicure kit, and began to clean her toenails with a pointy stainless-steel instrument. "We have to teach you our special cheer." Blair decided right then and there that if she ever lived in a college dorm, she was definitely getting a single. No way was she sitting around with a bunch of girls while they picked at their toes or built mobiles made of condoms. She'd gone to an all-girls school since first grade—that was quite enough girl time, thank you very much. Hauling herself to her feet, she tried to maintain her composure while wearing the light blue Powerpuff Girls nightgown Gaynor had loaned her last night. She needed a shower and then she needed to go home. Actually, fuck the shower. Showers involved bathrooms with mirrors—and seeing herself in a mirror was something she wanted to avoid at all costs. She pulled on her jeans, wincing as they chafed against her shaved-raw legs. Then she yanked her white linen blouse on over her head, feeling way too sick to be wearing such a nice top. She hung the nightgown on the back of somebody's desk chair. "I have to go now" she insisted. A gray Georgetown baseball hat lay on the floor. "Is that yours?" she asked Rebecca. "Take it," Rebecca offered generously. Blair snatched up the hat and put it on. "Tell everyone thank you and good-bye for me," she said weakly. Then the dorm room door burst open and Forest, Gaynor, and Fran tumbled inside carrying paper bags full of warm, freshly baked bagels and steaming cups of hot coffee. Blair's stomach churned with a mixture of nausea and starvation. with a mixture of nausea and starvation. Blair clamped her mouth shut tight as vomit threatened to spew out from between her teeth. She'd gotten up too quickly. Or maybe she shouldn't have drunk the Bloody Mary. Or let four drunk girls shave her legs and maim her hair. The girls stood in a tight circle, their hands clasped. Blair swayed between Rebecca and Forest, the combined odors of their perfumes making her even more nauseated. "What do we say . . . ?" Fran whispered with hoarse enthusiasm. It sounded like the opening line to some sort of chant. "What do we say when he says, 'Come on, you know you want to'?" the four girls chanted. "We say,' Wait, asshole!'" The girls leaned into the circle in a sort of blond head-lock. "No sex without true love. Friendship now and forever" They broke apart whooping and jumping up and down like cheerleaders. "I have to go," Blair mumbled for the fiftieth time, her stomach still roiling. She stumbled for the door, hoping to make it to the bathroom in time, but it was too late. Instead, she whipped the Georgetown baseball hat off her head and upchucked into it. "I'll call you a car." Rebecca grabbed the phone and began dialing efficiently. "We don't want you to miss your plane." Sisterhood was nice, but nobody wanted a sick sister barfing in their bedroom. "Here." Fran held out a blue baseball cap with a white Y on it. A Yale cap. "You can wear mine." Blair took the cap with her to the bathroom. A split-second glance in the mirror made it very clear that she definitely needed a hat. And sunglasses. And a whole new life. the morning after, part IV "It takes him a really long time to get dressed in the morning, even though, you know, he always looks like that," Dan heard Vanessa tell Tiphany when he woke up. He was lying on his back in Vanessa's bed, listening to their voices outside the door as they clattered around the kitchen making breakfast. Looks like what? he wondered. "Hey, it takes time to master the half-untucked shirt," Tiphany responded. Then Vanessa said something that Dan couldn't hear and both girls broke into a fit of laughter. Tiphany was poaching an egg in the microwave. Vanessa had her camera propped on her shoulder. "So tell me why you chose not to go to college," she asked. Tiphany tied her purple-and-black hair into a knot and opened a cupboard door to get out a plate. "Actually, it wasn't really a choice. I just never got it together to apply." "So what did you do when everyone else went off to school?" Vanessa prompted. Tiphany stuck two pieces of bread in the toaster and then opened all the drawers in the kitchen, looking for a knife. "For like a year I just kicked back. Went down to Florida. Lived on the beach and gave piercings to whoever wanted one. Then I got a waitressing job on a cruise ship for a while. Then I ditched the cruise ship and stayed down in Mexico, painting houses. Then I came back and got work in construction." She grinned and licked a smear of butter off her knife. "It's been one fantastic journey." "Wow," Vanessa remarked. Tiphany was probably the most interesting, upbeat person she'd ever met, and she could feel herself developing a crush on her. Not in a sexual way, but in a sort of I-wish-I-were-more-like-you way. "But if you could do it all over again, would you have gone id college?" Dan called over from the bedroom doorway. He was wearing a faded red T-shirt and white boxer shorts, and his hair was wild and matted. "Hey, sleepyhead," Tiphany replied, ignoring the question. "Hey, sleepyhead," Tiphany replied, ignoring the question. "I'm fine." Dan tugged on his shirt uncomfortably. "Did you guys just wake up?" "We've been up for a while," Vanessa answered vaguely. Tiphany popped her egg out of the microwave, slid it onto her toast, and carried her plate into the living room. There was (\ lump under the sheet on Ruby's futon where Tooter the ferret was curled up, sleeping. Tiphany put one of her own CDs in the stereo and turned up the volume. It was something loud and harsh that Dan had never heard before. Definitely not morning music. She danced over to Vanessa and took her hands, and to Dan's amazement Vanessa started hopping around and wiggling her butt in time to the music. Hello? Vanessa didn't dance. Ever. What had Tiphany done to her? While the girls continued to dance, Tooter slithered out from underneath the covers and trotted over to Dan's new blue-and-gold vintage street Pumas, which were parked by the front door. He sniffed them a few times, then turned around, squatted down, and began to pee. "Hey!" Dan cried, dashing over to rescue his shoes. "Tooter?" Tiphany danced over. "You're okay, baby. Come to Mommy." She squatted down and held out her arms. "Don't be scared." Vanessa joined them, her cheeks rosy from dancing. "Oh, Dan. Did you scare him?" "No, I didn't scare him." Dan flapped his hand angrily at the ferret. "Go to Mommy, little fucker," he added under his breath. In his head, he'd already started a new poem. It was called "Killing Tooter." j's big debut "Line up, girls. In size order, please!" barked Andre, the photographer's assistant. It was eleven o'clock on Sunday morning and Jenny had arrived at the studio over an hour ago after waking up at six and spending three hours getting ready. She'd taken a shower, blow-dried her hair, and applied her makeup—three times. The first time she looked overdone, the second time she just looked freakish, and the third time she'd sensibly decided to just let herself air dry and go without makeup, since that was the stylist's job anyway. The shoot was in the same studio as the go-see. This time the white screen and red velvet chaise were gone, replaced by a giant piece of Astroturf covering the floor and a volleyball net set up over the Astroturf. When Jenny arrived, she discovered she wasn't the only "model" being photographed. There were five other girls, and all of them looked . . . like models. The stylist asked her to change into a royal blue Nike Lycra jog bra and matching Lycra shorts. Then she combed Jenny's hair back into a ponytail and brushed on some clear lip gloss. Jenny felt more ready for gym class than a photo shoot, but then she noticed that all the other models were dressed the same way. "From a line in front of the net. Hurry up, girls. This isn't rocket science," Andre complained. Since she was usually the shortest girl in any group, Jenny stood at the end of the line in front of the volleyball net next to a flat-chested girl who was only few inches taller than she was. Then Andre came over and grabbed her arm, dragging her down to the other end of the line next to a tall girl with boobs that were almost as big as hers. He jostled some of the others girls in line. "That'll do," the photographer called out, striding up on his stocky legs. He stroked his goatee, surveying the lineup. "Try putting your arms around each other's waists." The girls did as they were told. "Nah, too cheerleader. Step away from each other and put your hands on your hips. Legs wide." He held his camera up and peered through it. "Shoulders back, chins up, that's it," he instructed, snapping away. Jenny did her best to look brave and strong and challenging, the way she thought a Nike model should look. She didn't have the musculature of a rock climber or a marathon runner, but neither did the other girls. other girls. "Some teen magazine," the girl answered. "What kind of expression do you want us to make?" the same girl called out to the photographer. "Doesn't matter." The photographer climbed onto a step-stool and continued to photograph them. Jenny relaxed her challenging-Nike-model face. What did he mean it didn't matter? She closed her eyes and stuck out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout, testing him. "Nice work, short girl!" the photographer called out. Jenny opened her eyes, completely confused. She bared her hi ill and wrinkled her nose. Then she stuck out her tongue. "Excellent!" the photographer responded. Jenny giggled. Actually, it was a lot more fun than trying in look alluring and pretty. At least she could show off her personality. And for the first time ever in front of a camera— ma jog bra, no less—she completely forgot about her boobs. And that in itself was a sort of miracle. yale wants to see n in their jockstrap "How's it hanging, coach?" Nate drawled as he joined the Yale coach at her table at Sarabeth's a full forty-five minutes late. "Sorry I'm late. I'm still wasted from last night." He'd smoked two more joints since the one with Brigid in the hotel room. Now his eyes were mere slits, and he couldn't stop smiling. Sarabeth's was bright and flowery and packed with brunch-ing Upper East Side moms with babies and dads reading the Sunday papers. The whole place smelled like maple syrup. "Have a seat." The coach pointed at the chair opposite her. Her mane of blond hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she was wearing red lipstick and a sort of silvery tank top. She looked like Jessica Simpson's long-lost older sister. "Nice hat," she added with a smile. Nate was wearing one of the Yale baseball hats she'd given him. "I've got the jockstrap on, too," he told her, trying desperately to maintain a straight face. He was getting kind of good at acting like an asshole. He grabbed a muffin from out of the basket on the table and shoved the entire thing into his mouth. "I'm fucking starving," he added with his mouth full. "Eat as much as you like," the coach told him generously. "I'm used to being around a team of hungry boys." "Humphft," Nate grunted. This was going to be harder than in lie thought. He grabbed an entire pat of butter between his fingers and rammed it into his mouth with the muffin. "So tell me why I should want to play with those pansies, anyway." The coach sipped her mimosa. "You're the type of guy who likes a challenge—I can tell. Otherwise you get bored. You do you might later regret. My job is to kick your ass, and I you, I'll do it." Nate swallowed the lump of butter. No wonder Yale's team < loing so well this year. He had to admit, he was impressed, again, convincing him to go to Yale was the coach's mis-the whole reason she'd come down to New York in the in m place. And his mission was to get Readmitted. Maybe he was taking the wrong approach. He wiped his mouth and gazed into the coach's blue eyes with his irresistible green ones. "Has anyone ever told you that you're hot?" He reached for her leg underneath the table and held on. The coach smiled her placid, confident smile. "I get that a lot, especially from the guys on my team." All of a sudden Nate felt a hot, stabbing pain in his hand. "Fuck!" he cried, pulling it away. He cradled the hand in his lap. The Yale coach had stabbed him with her fork. He was bleeding! "And I have to say I'm attracted to you. You're a good-looking boy. But I'll just have to satisfy myself with seeing you in that Yale jockstrap in the locker room next fall." She reached into her purse and tossed a Band-Aid at him. "Deal?" tossed a Band-Aid at him. "Deal?" Unlikely story. "Deal," he said, and signaled to the waiter with his good hand. He ordered a beer and then flashed the coach the same cocky, stoned smile that made girls swoon and his teachers give him As when he deserved Cs. The coach ran her thumb over the tines of her fork. "I think I'm going to enjoy having you on my team," she said. And we're all going to enjoy seeing him in that jockstrap. yale sings its way into s's heart Serena's tour guide at Yale was a no-show, which wasn't really :i surprise since she was nearly an hour late. "Come back at three," the woman at the admissions reception desk told her. "There's a tour going out then." Serena stood outside the Yale visitors' center, a historic white house with black shutters, wondering what to do next. "Do re mi fa so la ti do!" chorused a group of male voices farther down Elm Street. "La, la, la, la!" the voices chorused once more. Serena followed her ears down the street toward Yale's stately Battell Chapel. When she reached the chapel she discovered a group of boys standing in formation beneath the arched doorway, exercising their voices. She'd heard of the famous Whiffenpoofs, Yale's all-male a cappella singing group, but she'd never heard them sing. And she'd had no idea how adorable they all were! Suddenly they broke into "Midnight Train to Georgia." She sat down at the bottom of the chapel steps, hoping they wouldn't mind if she stayed and listened. And looked—at the boyish blond tenor in the front who kept stepping forward and doing cute little cameo solos; at the muscular rugby player in the back who had the deepest baritone she'd ever heard; at the freckled geek who was just coming into his own; at the tall, pale, skinny boy with floppy dark hair who sang his solos with a wonderful English accent and was wearing the dandiest 1940s-style shoes Serena had ever seen. She could have stood up and done her own little a cappella solo: Yale boys, Yale boys. Yum, yum, yum! The boys sang a last long, sweet note, standing on tiptoe to draw it out. Then the blond tenor in the front of the group came humming and bebopping down the chapel steps in Serena's direction. When he reached her step he fell on his knees and gazed up at her. "One, two, three . . . Beautiful girl, won't you fall in love with me?" he sang. Serena giggled. Was he kidding? "Beautiful girl, won't you be my family?" The rugby player picked up the song from the top of the steps. "Beautiful girl, won't you waste the afternoon kissing me under a tree?" the entire group sang in harmony. Serena sat on her hands, blushing furiously. She could see now why Blair wanted to go to Yale so badly! "Today is Sunday, and on Sundays we sing instead of talk. It's a beautiful day. Won't you join me for a walk?" the blond tenor sang, taking her hand. Serena hesitated. It was kind of cocky of him to just walk up and start serenading her. The boy seemed to notice her hesitation. "I'm Lars. I'm a sophomore," he whispered, as if worried that the rest of the group would hear him talking instead of singing. "That was just an improv song. We do them all the time." Serena relaxed a little. Lars had magnificent aqua-colored eyes and the tiniest smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. Serena relaxed a little. Lars had magnificent aqua-colored eyes and the tiniest smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. "I did miss my tour," she confessed. "I'll give you a tour, no problem," he sang. She gazed over his shoulder across College Street at Yale's oil I campus. A group of girls were playing Frisbee on New Haven green, the gabled windows of the ancient residence hulls rising up around them. It was a beautiful place. "Beautiful girl, we'll all give you a tour" the Whiffenpoofs wing. Serena giggled again and let Lars pull her to her feet. If Yale wanted her this bad, they could have her! gossipgirl.co.uk topics previous next post a question reply Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me. HEY, PEOPLE! Little-known facts (or outrageous lies—you decide) At Georgetown there exists a prostitution ring that masks itself as a sisterhood of celibacy. It's an extremely exclusive group that's been around for half a century. A serial killer who carries a pet ferret and uses girly exotic names for herself such as Fantasia and Tinkerbell is on the loose in the metropolitan area. Preferred weapon: the pick-axe. A clever con artist has been disguising herself as an admissions per-, son at Brown University, accepting students and collecting tuition. When the students show up for orientation in the fall, the university has never heard of them. So far, authorities have yet to nail down the perpetrator of this inventive scam. The latest issue of Treat magazine features an article called "Does Breast Size Matter?" Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Apparently Brown's art department has been singing the praises of its youngest professor, a Venezuelan recruit who specializes in abstract oil renditions of pop-culture figures, especially teen pop-culture figures. Again, are you thinking what I'm thinking? Of course, this could all be a bunch of hooey. Your e-mail Dear GG, How come you're not stressing about which college to go to? I'm beginning to think maybe you're really like in eighth grade and maybe you just have an older sister or brother or something and that's how you know about this stuff. —bird Dear bird, I love how much time everyone spends thinking about ME. Am I going to be one of those pop icons people start writing Ph.D. papers on, like Madonna? I'll tell you this, though: Eighth grade? Been there, done that. —GG Dear GG, I got kicked out of Brown before I even started my freshman year. I was really surprised I was accepted there in the first place, since I got Ds in almost everything my senior year of high school. Anyway, it turns out I didn't really get in. I was part of this whole scam where somebody was accepting kids and taking their parents' money without the school even knowing. Now I'm a caddy at my dad's golf club. —putter Dear putter, I'm kind of hoping you're just this bored stoner caddy guy, like the ones at MY dad's golf club, who likes to tell everyone this story about how he got accepted at Brown and then expelled. It's a good story. I just hope the same thing doesn't happen to me or any of my friends. —GG Dear GG, can u please explain the difference between a girl who just likes hanging out with different guys and a hoochie? cuz I know I may seem like a hoochie but what is so wrong with having lots of friends who are boys? none of the boys seem to mind, only the girls. —popgrl Dear popgrl, Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. In fact, a girl very close to my heart—known here as S—is just that type of girl, and look how well she's doing! —GG Sightings V and D getting dragged around Chinatown by a loud girl with purple-and-black hair carrying a live fish in a blue plastic bag. Let's just say I won't be dining at their house anytime soon. B in the Elizabeth Arden Red Door Salon after closing time on Sunday. Can you spell color correction? S with her head plastered against the window of the New Haven-New York train, snoring softly. Guess she didn't get much sleep this weekend—nudge, nudge. N on a shady street corner trading his Brown sweatshirt for a dime bag. And little J jogging in Riverside Park. Trying to tone up for her next modeling gig? Who knew this would be such a life-changing weekend? See you at school tomorrow. You know you love me, gossip girl

    His gaze sweeps the faces of the assemblage. It is a compelling gaze, indeed you might say mes-meristic. There is a touch of pathos in it, though, an unuttered appeal to the gathering to consider its own several interests.


    "You clear forgot to say a little prayer for Dude," Jeeter said suddenly. "You left Dude out all around, Bessie. Dude, he's as big a sinner as the rest of us Lester's." Bessie jumped up and ran out into the yard. She clutched Dude by the arm and dragged him to the porch by her chair. She kneeled down in front of it, and tried to pull Dude down beside her. "I don't want to do that," Dude said angrily. "I don't want no praying for me. I ain't done nothing. Pa did all the stealing of Lov's turnips. He took them and ran off to the thicket." Bessie took his hands in hers and stroked his arms for several minutes without speaking. Then she stood up beside him and locked her arms around his waist. She squeezed him so hard it made the blood rush to his head. "I got to pray for you, Dude. The Lord told me all you Lester's was sinful. He didn't leave you out no more than He did Ellie May." Dude looked into her face. She pleaded convincingly enough to make him want to be prayed for, but he could not stop looking down into her nostrils. "What you laughing at, Dude?" she said. "Nothing," he snickered, twisting his head until he could see almost behind himself. "There ain't nothing about prayer to laugh at, Dude," she said. "All of us has got to have it some time or another." He felt ill at ease standing so close to her. The way she stroked his arms and shoulders with her hands made him nervous, and he could not stand still. "Quit that jumping up and down, Dude," Jeeter said. "What ails you?" Bessie drew her arms tighter around his waist, and smiled at him. "You kneel down beside me and let me pray for you. You'll do that, won't you, Dude?" He put his arms around her neck and began rubbing her as she was rubbing him. "Hell," he said, snickering again, "I don't give a damn if I do." "I knowed you would want me to pray for you, Dude," she said. "It will help you get shed of your sins, like Jeeter did." They knelt down on the porch floor beside the chair. Dude continued to rub her shoulders, and Bessie kept her arms around him. Jeeter was sitting on the floor behind them, leaning against the wall of the house and waiting to hear the prayer for Dude. "Dear God, I'm asking You to save Brother Dude from the devil and make a place for him in heaven. That's all, Amen." Bessie stopped praying, but neither she nor Dude made an effort to stand up. "Praise the Lord," Jeeter said, "but that was a dum short prayer for a sinner like Dude." "Dude don't need no more praying for. He's just a boy, and he's not sinful like us grown-ups is. He ain't sinful like you is, Jeeter." "Well, maybe you is right," Jeeter said, "but Dude, he cusses all the time at me and his Ma. He ain't got no respect for none of us. Maybe that's as it should be, but I sort of recollect the Bible saying a son shouldn't cuss his Ma and Pa like he does other people. Nobody never told me no different, but somehow it don't seem right for him to do that. I've seen him pestering Ellie May with a stick, too, and I know that ain't right. That's sinful, and it ought to be prayed about." "Dude won't do that again," Bessie said, stroking Dude's hair. "He's a fine boy, Dude is. He would make a handsome preacher, too. He's mighty like my former husband in his younger days. I sort of feel there ain't much difference between them now." Ada twisted around to see why Dude was staying on the porch. He and Bessie were still kneeling down beside the chair, with their arms around each other. "Dude's sixteen years old now," Jeeter said. "That makes him two years younger than Ellie May. Well, pretty soon he'll be getting a wife, I reckon. All my other male children married early in life, just like the gals done. When Dude gets married, I won't have none of my children left with me, except Ellie May. And I don't reckon she'll ever find a man to marry her. It's all on account of that mouth she's got. I been thinking I'd take her up to Augusta and get a doctor to sew her lip. She'd marry quick enough then, because she's got a powerful way with her, woman-like. Ain't nothing wrong with her, except that slit in her lip. If it wasn't for that, she'd been married as quick as Pearl was. Men here around Fuller all want to marry gals about eleven or twelve years old, like Pearl was. Ada, there, was just turning twelve when I married her." "The Lord intended all of us should be mated," Bessie said. "He made us that way. That's what my former husband used to say. I'd tell him that a man needs a woman, and he'd say a woman needs a man. My former husband was just like the Lord in that respect. They both believed in the same thing when it came to mating." "I reckon the Lord did intend for all of us to get mated," Jeeter said, "but He didn't take into account a woman with a slit in her mouth like Ellie May's got. I don't believe He done the right thing by her when He opened up her lip like that. That's the only contrary thing I ever said about the Lord, but it's the truth. What use is a slit like that for? You can't spit through it, and you can't whistle through it, now can you? It was just meanness on His part when He done that. That's what it was--dum meanness." "You shouldn't talk about the Lord like that. He knows what He done it for. He knows everything. He wouldn't have done it if He didn't have a good purpose in mind. He knows what He makes men and women for. He made Ellie May's face like that with a good reason in mind. He had the best reason in the world for doing it." "What reason?" "Maybe I ought not to say it, Jeeter." "It ain't no secret between you and the Lord, is it, Sister Bessie?" "No, ain't no secrets between us. But I know." "You know what?" "Why He made her lip slit open." "Ain't you going to tell me?" "Brother Jeeter, He done that to her lip to save her pure body from the wicked men." "What men? I'm the only man around here." "It's you, Brother Jeeter." "I ain't wicked. I'm sinful at rare times, but I never been wicked." "It's all the same to God. It don't make no difference to Him which it is." "What did I do? I don't see how stealing a few measly turnips and sweet potatoes once in a while has anything to do with Ellie May's face." "Brother Jeeter, the Lord done that to her lip to save her pure body from being ruined by you. He knowed she would be safe in this house when He made her like that. He knowed that you was once a powerful sinner, and that you might be again if--" "That's the truth," Jeeter said. "I used to be a powerful sinful man in my time. I reckon I was at one time the most powerful sinful man in the whole country. Now, you take them Peabody children over across the field. I reckon clear near about all of them is half mine, one way or another. And then I used to--" "You wait till I finish accusing you, Jeeter, before you start lying out of it." "I ain't lying out of it, Bessie. I just now told you how powerful sinful I once was. There was a man and his wife moved here from--" "As I was saying, you didn't keep none of it hid from the Lord--" "But Henry Peabody didn't know nothing about it though--" "--He knowed that you might take it into your head to ruin Ellie May. The Lord knows everything, and He's got his reasons. He knowed you was such a powerful sinful man long years ago that you wouldn't have obeyed Him if He told you to take your eyes out, if your eyes offended Him?' "Looking at her slit with my eyes won't offend nobody. He don't care about my eyes. What would He want to take them out for?" "Just like I was saying. If the Lord had told you to cut your eyes out because they offended Him, you wouldn't have done it. That showed-you was a powerful sinner. Or if He had told you to cut off your hand, or your ears, for the same reason, you wouldn't have obeyed Him. And He knowed if He told you to stop fooling with Ellie May, you wouldn't have cut off the root of evil like He said do. That's the reason He sent Ellie May into the world with a slit in her lip. He figured she would be safe from a sinner like you, because you wouldn't like the looks of her." "The Lord be praised," Jeeter said. "You sure have opened my eyes to the way of God. I never knowed before about that, I declare. If I had knowed it, I sure would have cut myself off when I was fooling around over there at Peabody's. Then if I had done that, Ellie May wouldn't look like she does now, would she, Bessie?" "It's just like I said. The Lord knows more about us humans' ways than we do." "I've been a powerful sinful man in my time. I reckon. I never knowed I ought to cut myself off before. Maybe it's not too late now. I sure don't want to let the devil get hold of me." Bessie turned to Dude again, smiling at him and holding her arms tighter around his neck. Dude did not know what to do next. He liked to touch her, and feel her, and he wanted her to hug him some more, as she had done. He liked to feel her arms tight around him, and have her rub him. Yet he could not believe that Bessie was hugging him for any real reason. She had stopped praying fifteen minutes before, but she still made no motion to release him and make him get up. "Say, Sister Bessie," Jeeter said, leaning forward and squinting his eyes under his heavy black brows, "what in hell is you and Dude doing there? You and him has been squatting there, hugging and rubbing of the other, for near about half an hour." Dude hoped she would not make him get up, because he liked to feel her pull him tight to her breast and squeeze him in her arms. Bessie tried to stand up, but Dude would not let her. She sat down again beside him on the floor, running her fingers through his hair. "Durn if I ever saw a woman preacher take on like that before," Jeeter said, shaking his head. "Looks to me like you ain't going to do no more praying to-day. You and Dude is hugging and rubbing of the other, ain't you? By God and by Jesus, if it ain't so!" Bessie got up and sat down in the chair. She tried to make Dude go away, but he stood in front of her, waiting for her to touch him. "The Lord was speaking to me," she said. "He was. telling me I ought to marry a new husband. I can't get around much by myself, and if I was to get married to a man, maybe I could do more preaching and praying. The Lord would turn him into a preacher too, and both of us could travel around spreading the gospel!" "He didn't tell you to marry Dude, did He? Dude ain't no preacher. He ain't got sense enough to be one. He wouldn't know what to preach about when the time came to get up and say something." "Dude would make a fine preacher," she interrupted. "Dude would be just about as good at preaching and praying as my former husband was, maybe better. The Lord and me could show him how to do. It ain't hard at all after you catch on to it." "I wish I was in my younger days. If I was, I could maybe do it myself with you. I could do it, yet, only Ada, there, has got so she don't want me fooling with the women-folks no more. I know I could do as fine preaching and praying as the next one. It ain't that what's holding me back--it's Ada, there. She's got a queer notion that I might take to fooling with the women-folks. Well, I ain't saying I wouldn't if I had half a chance, neither." "It would require a younger man for me to be satisfied," Bessie said. "Dude there is just suitable for preaching and living with me. Ain't you, Dude?" "You want me to go home with you now?" he said. "I got to pray over it first, Dude," she said. "When I come back by here the next time, I'll let you know. You'll have to wait until I can ask the Lord if you'll do. He's sometimes particular about his male preachers, especially if they is going to marry women preachers." Bessie ran down the steps and over the hard white sand of the yard. When she reached the tobacco road, she turned around and looked at the Lester's on the front porch several minutes. Presently, without waiting to walk, she began running through the deep white sand towards her house two miles away on the bluff above the Savannah. Bessie's home, a tenant house of three rooms, and a corn-crib, sat on the edge of the bluff. That was where the country dropped down into the swampy Savannah River Valley. The house, covered with unpainted weatherboards, sat precariously on three piles of thin stones. The fourth pile had fallen down ten or twelve years before, making one end of the house sag to the ground. "Well," Jeeter said. "Sister Bessie is up to something all right. It looks to me like she's got her head set on marrying Dude, there. I never seen such hugging and rubbing of the other as them two was doing. Something is going to come of it. Something is bound to happen." Dude snickered and stood behind a chinaberry tree so nobody could see him. Ellie May watched him from behind the pine stump, smiling because she had heard what Bessie had said. Jeeter sat looking out over the old field of brown broom-sedge, and wondering if he could borrow a mule somewhere and raise a crop that year. The time for spring plowing had already arrived, and it made him restless. He did not like to sit idly on the porch and let the spring pass, without burning and plowing. He had decided that he could at least burn over the fields, even if he did not yet know how he could get a mule and seed-cotton and guano. He would have gone out then and set the broomsedge on fire; but he felt comfortable where he was, and the burning of the fields could wait until the next day. There was plenty of time left yet. It would not take him long to put in a crop when once he got started. Now that he was alone he began to worry all over again about the way he had treated Lov. He wanted to do something to make amends. If he went down to the chute the next morning and told Lov how sorry he was and that he promised never to steal anything from him again, he hoped that Lov would forgive him and not try to hit him with chunks of coal. And while he was about it, he could stop by Lov's house and speak to Pearl. He would tell her that she had to stop sleeping on a pallet on the floor, and be more considerate of Lov's wants. It was bad enough, he knew, to have to put up with a woman all day long, and then when night came to be left alone, was even worse. "Ain't you going to haul no more wood to Augusta?" Ada demanded. "I ain't had no new snuff since I don't know when. And all the meal is gone, and the meat, too. Ain't nothing in the house to eat." "I'm aiming to take a load over there to-morrow or the next day," Jeeter said. "Don't hurry me, woman. It takes a heap of time to get ready to make a trip over there. I got my own interests to consider. You keep out of it." "You're just lazy, that's what's wrong with you. If you wasn't lazy you could haul a load every day, and I'd have me some snuff when I wanted it most." "I got to be thinking about farming the land," Jeeter said. "I ain't no durn woodchopper. I'm a farmer. Them woodchoppers hauling wood to Augusta ain't got no farthing to take up their time, like I has. Why, I expect I'm going to grow near about fifty bales of cotton this year, if I can borrow the mules and get some seed-cotton and guano on credit in Fuller. By God and by Jesus, I'm a farmer. I ain't no durn woodchopper." "That's the way you talk every year about this time, but you don't never get started. It's been seven or eight years since you turned a furrow. I been listening to you talk about taking up farming again so long I don't believe nothing you say now. It's a big old whopping lie. All you men is like that. There's a hundred more just like you all around here, too. None of you is going to do nothing, except talk. The rest of them go around begging, but you're so lazy you won't even do that." "Now, Ada," Jeeter said, "I'm going to start in the morning. Soon as I get all the fields burned off, I'll go borrow me some mules. Me and Dude can grow a bale to the acre, if I can get me some seed-cotton and guano." "Humph!" Ada said, leaving the porch.

    ‘I am not so sure,’ said Jensen. ‘I think this gentleman is right: we must go and see.’

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