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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
they say what's with the whole guy on the cross thing, man, that's macabre, that's sick, you people look at a guy dying of torture every day, you hang him in your churches and houses and offices, you carry a dying guy in your pocket, that's just weird, and I try to say he's a dad ...
The dismissal of Gough Whitlam by then Governor-General Sir John Kerr in 1975 has been described as the greatest political and constitutional crisis in Australia's history. It seems pallid in comparison with what is now happening here in Greece.
When I last saw you, still horizontal, interrogating the floor, you'd begun reversing Kafka — a slow transformation from beetle to vertical human. Powered by a new locomotion, you steer yourself towards the stereo; music erupts into your world, is taken entirely for granted.
In a simpler time a visit from our head of state seemed to make us feel better about ourselves. Like many Australians, I hold dear the old lady, but have no fear that democracy will shatter when her life and the monarchy slowly come to their natural end.
Mist moves here, cloaking statues, mild giants that haunt and wait... the slave breathes towardhis freedom.
Two weeks ago two grandmothers met at a popular rendezvous in central Athens. Their talk was the usual leapfrog business, but there was an undercurrent of worry: What was going to happen to this country? Was any sort of solution going to present itself? Suddenly the riot squad hove into view.
A lot of people refused to leave. Sydneysiders with waterfront properties could not fathom that the mansions that had cost them millions of dollars were going to be under water. There were stories of eastern suburbs socialites loading their antiques into boats. And drownings. Lots of drownings.
the coast is jagged like a weeping cut .. the high end of town, pizza beer dusk ... it is here we have staked a life, counted off the steps and measured what it is we need ... hands dissolve in prayer.
My wife and I are performing a difficult, heart-rending task: culling our books. There are thousands of them, on shelves and in boxes, some of which were sealed and labelled 25 years ago. I know who to blame for setting me on the path to this agonising task. It was Mrs Murphy.
Prayer has not prevailed. She sits silent without lover or friend: she slumps in her blackened skirts: she slumps in black dust: she slumps in her black that was green.
One day a stranger knocks on the door. 'Help!' he shouts. 'The people in my house are trying to kill me!' Instinctively, you reach for the door handle. A wrinkled hand, old yet firm, grabs your wrist. You look up and see your landlord, a bald man with thick rectangular glasses and bushy eyebrows.
Hushed joggers puff their discretion, German ladies impose their Kaiser bulk onto the graceful belligerence that is Tai Chi, a Vespa falters for an instant. An early promenade.
181-192 out of 200 results.