Be the only one who can do what you do, and make the fate of those who hire you so entwined with yours that they cannot possibly get rid of you. Otherwise you will someday be forced to cross your own Bridge of Sighs.
Such is the fate (to a less violent degree, one hopes) of those who do not make others dependent on them. Sooner or later someone comes along who can do the job as well as they can someone younger, fresher, less expensive, less threatening.
What do you put on a sign? You know, that flimsy piece of cardboard people hold in their hands as they stand on corners, begging. I always used to look away when Mom and I drove by. I thought that if I met their eyes, I’d get their hopes up, like I was going to give them something. I never did. Now, I wish I had.
I’m not sure what I’ll write on my sign. How to condense my life into a few words, make people want to give a stranger their hard-earned cash. Most of what I think of is too long, too personal.
“Got fed up with drunk stepdad hitting Mom. Promised if he hit me, I’d be gone. He did. I’m here.”
I’ve started thinking about my sign since my money’s almost gone. Back when life was normal, I’d spend my allowance on things like magazines or junk food from the market where my friends and I hung out after school. Maybe I’d buy one of those short skirts Dad would never get for me. Nothing too bad, but you know how dads are. We used to fight about things like that – clothes and curfew and boys. He always said I was too stubborn, and Mom would laugh and say I was just like him. Dad would shake his head, but I think he was kind of proud of that. Now he’s gone, and I’m counting pennies for food. If I had known what little time we’d have together, I wouldn’t have wasted so much of it arguing.
I’ve seen other people’s signs. Some are funny in a sad way: “Why lie? Need beer.” But I’m not funny, never really have been. It got hard to laugh after Dad died, and I think I stopped altogether the day Beth left. I never thought she’d really do it. She used to hug me in those days after the funeral, when everyone else had gone home and we couldn’t get Mom out of bed. There were no relatives to call, no one left but Uncle Frank, and he didn’t count. I’ve never met him, but I figured anyone who couldn’t be bothered to come bury his own brother wouldn’t help anyway. Beth was all I had. She’d hold me tight and promise things would be okay, that we’d get through it together. I believed her. What else could I do? It hurt so much, and I was just looking for someone to hang onto when my world was falling apart. Mom couldn’t help. She was barely holding on herself. Beth was my anchor.
I’m not mad at her for leaving. To be honest, I’m amazed she stayed as long as she did. I think it was the day we came home and found Mom nursing a bloody nose that finally did it. I remember how the bedroom was dark, the curtains pulled over the window as if shutting out the light would keep the memories away. My mother was hunched up on a corner of the bed, rocking herself back and forth. Beth flipped on the light, and I almost screamed – Mom’s face was a mess of purple bruises, blood still seeping through the white Kleenex she pressed to her nose and lips. Apparently, dear Stepfather Alan had stumbled in late that morning, and Mom had mustered the nerve to ask where he’d been. He hadn’t taken it well.
Beth begged her to leave him. “Let’s go,” she pleaded. “The three of us. Right now.” I begged too. But Mom would only cry and shake her head. I don’t think she had the strength left to see any future but the one right in front of her. The one with Alan. He was actually an okay guy until he lost his job. Then he started drinking again.
A lot changed after that.
I thought about telling friends. Maybe a teacher. But I didn’t know what to say. Even if I did tell someone, what would they do? Take me and Beth away, split us up, put us in a home somewhere? I couldn’t take that chance. So I blocked it out, pretended things weren’t really that bad. I kept pretending, right up to the day Beth left. And then it was too late.
She left me a note, Beth did. I found it on my pillow when I came home from school, a small square of white that destroyed what little remained of my world. For the longest time, I just stared at it, like if I didn’t touch it, it wasn’t real. I knew what it would say. Finally, I opened it, hoping so desperately that it would tell me where she had gone, where to meet her so we could leave together. It didn’t, of course. Just that she loved me and was sorry but had to go, or she’d end up like Mom. She promised to write, but she never did. I guess she got busy, maybe found a job and is just too tired at the end of each day. I’m sure there’s a good reason. The thought of me holding a sign would make her sick. If she knew where I was, I bet she’d come get me. Well, she would’ve at one point. I suppose things change. Who knows? Maybe she’s got a sign of her own. I hope not.
Some people’s signs tell of their families, or their past, or both: “Homeless vet. Kids to feed.” But I don’t want to share my past, not with strangers. They judge. I can see it in their eyes, those that aren’t too scared to look away. Some give looks of pity. “Oh, you poor dear. How on earth did you wind up here?” But I know they don’t care that much. The light will change and they’ll drive off, and I’ll be forgotten before the next block. Others stare, and I can feel the accusations, thoughts of drugs, alcohol, even prostitution flitting through their heads. I’m not explaining how none of it was my fault, how there was no other way out. That day, when I stepped in front of Mom and Alan struck me instead, I knew. And in that moment of frozen silence before Alan stormed out, Mom knew too.
“I’m sorry,” she pleaded, her hand shaking as she pressed a piece of ice against my swollen lip. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have asked him about the interview. He’s under a lot of pressure, he didn’t mean it…” The words tumbled out, trembling, empty.
“Did he mean it when he hit you yesterday?” I pushed her hand away. “What about last week? He doesn’t get to hit us! If Dad was here—”
I stopped myself, since if Dad was here, there would be no Alan. Mom didn’t speak, but I saw something in her change. I had said the unspoken, reminded her of Dad, of how our lives used to be. How they were supposed to be.
“Please.” I caught her hand, forcing her to look at me. “Mom, please.” It wasn’t a request. It was an ultimatum, and we both knew it.
For a moment, something flickered in her eyes, and I thought, “Yes. Yes!” Then whatever dim spark she had left fizzled out, and she looked away. When she finally spoke, I already knew what the answer would be.
“I can’t.”
We sat there for a long time, her dabbing at my lip, our tears mixing with the melted ice running down my chin. Finally, she went to make dinner. I went to pack.
The hardest part will be filling the boredom in my head as I stand on my corner hour after hour. I have to keep my mind busy, keep it focused on something. The drivers, the streetlights, the road – something. I can’t let my mind wander. It creeps off to places I’d rather not go.
It happens each night as I’m falling asleep, when I’m too tired to hold them back any longer, and the thoughts that have been lurking in the darkness break free. I’ve tried to fight them. I always lose.
The dream starts out warm and friendly, all of us sitting in front of the TV that night. Then Dad jumps up to grab his keys, and it turns into a nightmare.
“I forgot!” he says. “We’re out of milk. How am I going to make pancakes tomorrow without milk?”
Beth and I laugh, telling him to forget it – we’re not kids anymore, we don’t need pancakes with Saturday morning cartoons. We don’t even watch cartoons. But Dad insists.
“Be right back!” he calls, throwing Mom a kiss, running out the door.
For a moment, my dream freezes – the three of us sitting there, staring at the door as it closes behind him. Then something clicks, and everything speeds up.
I’m flying, hovering over the stop sign just a few blocks away. I see our old brown station wagon pull up, stop, and begin to move. I’m screaming at my dad. Stop! Stop! He doesn’t hear me. The yellow car careens toward him, one headlight broken, its driver drunk out of his mind. It’s all in the accident report. I know.
I never see the crash. I’m back home in a heartbeat, just in time to hear the knock on the door. Mom opens it. I see the policeman’s mouth moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. It doesn’t matter. Mom sinks to her knees, mouth wide open in a silent scream, and I wake up, shaking, dripping with sweat, not knowing where I am.
I won’t think about that each day when I’m standing on my corner, don’t want to flinch every time a yellow car drives by. I don’t know what I’ll think about yet, but it won’t be that. It won’t be.
I’m starting to stink. I thought I was doing okay until I saw a woman wrinkle her nose when she walked by me yesterday. I hadn’t even noticed. It stung at first, the realization that I smell of the streets, that I’m truly becoming one of them. Then I realized that I was doing what I hoped others wouldn’t: I was making people into objects, putting them beneath me without even caring how they wound up with their signs. I thought about that for awhile, and I stopped feeling so bad about how I smelled.
I think I’ll keep moving, holding my sign when I need the money, but always going somewhere new. There’s got to be something better around the corner, right? Maybe I’ll even find Beth. It’s easy to move, since all I’ve got to carry is the stuff I could fit in my backpack: my money, some clothes, a picture of the four of us – me, Beth, Mom, and Dad. It’s from my last birthday we were all together. We’re wearing these goofy hats, and everyone’s smiling. I like that picture, but it hurts to look at it. Sometimes, I don’t want to remember.
In the end, I just write, “Hungry. Please help.” I figure it’s the truth, not all of it, but probably as much as people want to know. If you see it, and you’ve got some change or even a dollar, maybe you can help me out. If not, that’s fine too. I’ll be okay.
You know those long texts that are like medieval or something and they're like really long and you Can see them in this list of paragraphs you're reading now? Yeah I'ma do a parody of that because I Žajda Šira am sigma.
King Ašken I said to his brother I am already bored of typing this and then he exploded into 2,332 pieces. King Ašken II, the brother of King Ašken I, wondered why his brother exploded. And then, he exploded. It turned out there were grenades in there hats. What an unfortunate end to an idiotic story. Glory to Arstotzka!
Prince Doran has been at the Water Gardens for nearly two years now, watching the children play in the pools while trying to deal with his gout. Captain Areo Hotah hears the approach of Obara Sand, eldest of the Red Viper's bastard daughters, and bars her from disturbing Prince Doran's rest. Deadly as she may be, she is no match for the Captain, but the Prince calls her into his presence before they come to blows. Obara demands justice for her father, imploring Prince Doran to marshal the Dornish army and give half to her so she might march on Oldtown and burn it to the ground, and the other half to her half-sister Lady Nym to march up the Kingsroad. Doran tells her that his brother was not murdered, but died in single combat, and that Lord Tywin has promised them Ser Gregor's head. Unappeased, Obara mocks her uncle for his meekness and stalks off after he tells her to await his word in Sunspear. Fearing an uprising in Sunspear incited by the Sand Snakes, Prince Doran tells Hotah that he must return to his seat at the Palace of the Sun. The Captain reminds him that Princess Myrcella is there, and that Ser Arys Oakheart sends letters to Queen Cersei. Hotah thinks that he and the Kingsguard will eventually cross swords, and when that occurs the Captain will kill him.
The next morning, the prince and his retinue begin the journey back to Sunspear, but along the way they come upon another of the Sand Snakes. The beautiful Lady Nym is far more tactful than her older half-sister, but no less resolved to seek vengeance for her father. Scoffing at Obara's demand to go to war, Lady Nym tells her uncle that she needs only her sister Tyene, and the two will assassinate Cersei, Jaime, Lord Tywin and King Tommen. Stating that his brother was only to take the measure of Joffrey's court and not seek revenge for Elia despite the seventeen years that have passed, Nymeria responds in parting, "My sisters and I shall not wait ten-and-seven years for our vengeance."
Arriving in Sunspear, the prince's retinue is accosted by townspeople calling for vengeance for the Red Viper. In the Old Palace, Princess Arianne greets her father and tells him that Tyene Sand awaits him in the throne room. The third of the Sand Snakes is embroidering when the captain encounters her while bearing Prince Doran to his high seat. Tyene offers her uncle the cloth she is knitting, which shows her father mounted on a sand steed, so that he will not forget the Red Viper. Prince Doran responds, "I am not like to forget your father." Tyene counsels her uncle to wed his son Trystane to Myrcella now, and then crown the princess as is the Dornish way. This would incite the Queen Regent and Highgarden to march on Dorne, where the prince's armies could bleed them in the high passes and treacherous deserts. When she calls her uncle fearful, Doran advises her, "There is a difference between fear and caution." Tyene raises her hand to touch her uncle, but Hotah brings the butt of his longaxe down on the marble floor, and cautions her, "My lady, you presume. Step from the dais, if it please you." The Sand Snake replies that she meant no harm and loves her uncle, he loved his brother. After she takes her leave, Maester Caleotte rushes to the Prince's side to make sure he was not pricked by one of Tyene's needles.
Shortly after, Prince Doran commands the captain to round up and confine all the Sand Snakes, including Ellaria's young daughters. Obara, Nymeria and Tyene are locked up in cells at the top of the Spear Tower, but with no blood spilled, the younger Sand Snakes are restricted together with their mother to the Water Gardens. When Hotah tells him that the common folk will howl when they find out, the Prince of Dorne replies, "All Dorne will howl. I only pray Lord Tywin hears them...so he might know what a loyal friend he has in Sunspear."
Integrity is the fundamental premise for military service in a free society. Without integrity, the moral pillars of our military strength, public trust, and self-respect are lost.
The discipline which makes the soldiers of a free country reliable in battle is not to be gained by harsh or tyrannical treatment. On the contrary, such treatment is far more likely to destroy than to make an army. It is possible to impart instruction and give commands in such a manner and such a tone of voice as to inspire in the soldier no feeling but an intense desire to obey, while the opposite manner and tone of voice cannot fail to excite strong resentment and a desire to disobey. The one mode or other of dealing with subordinates springs from a corresponding spirit in the breast of the commander.
If I am captured I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and to aid others to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy.
If I become a prisoner of war, I will keep faith with my fellow prisoners. I will give no information or take part in any action which might be harmful to my comrades. If I am senior, I will take command. If not, I will obey the lawful orders of those appointed over me and will back them up in every way.
Interpretation
Many of the great condottieri of Renaissance Italy suffered the same fate as the patron saint of Siena and the Count of Carmagnola: They won battle after battle for their employers only to find themselves banished, imprisoned, or executed. The problem was not ingratitude; it was that there were so many other condottieri as able and valiant as they were. They were replaceable. Nothing was lost by killing them. Meanwhile, the older among them had grown powerful themselves, and wanted more and more money for their services. How much better, then, to do away with them and hire a younger, cheaper mercenary. That was the fate of the Count of Carmagnola, who had started to act impudently and independently. He had taken his power for granted without making sure that he was truly indispensable.
The Court of Carmagnola was one of the bravest and most successful of all the condottieri. In 1442, late in his life, he was in the employ of the city of Venice, which was in the midst of a long war with Florence. The count was suddenly recalled to Venice. A favorite of the people, he was received there with all kinds of honor and splendor. That evening he was to dine with the doge himself, in the doge's palace. On the way into the palace, however, he noticed that the guard was leading him in a different direction from usual. Crossing the famous Bridge of Sighs, he suddenly realized where they were taking him to the dungeon. He was convicted on a trumped-up charge and the next day in the Piazza San Marco, before a horrified crowd who could not understand how his fate had changed so drastically, he was beheaded.
Learn To Keep People Dependent On You
Transgression Of The Law
Sometime in the Middle Ages, a mercenary soldier (a condottiere), whose name has not been recorded, saved the town of Siena from a foreign aggressor. How could the good citizens of Siena reward him? No amount of money or honor could possibly compare in value to the preservation of a city's liberty. The citizens thought of making the mercenary the lord of the city, but even that, they decided, wasn't recompense enough. At last one of them stood before the assembly called to debate this matter and said, "Let us kill him and then worship him as our patron saint." And so they did.
Reversal
This law admits of no reversal. Its application is universal. There is nothing to be gained by associating with those who infect you with their misery; there is only power and good fortune to be obtained by associating with the fortunate. Ignore this law at your peril.
Authority: Recognize the fortunate so that you may choose their company, and the unfortunate so that you may avoid them. Misfortune is usually the crime of folly, and among those who suffer from it there is no malady more contagious: Never open your door to the least of misfortunes, for, if you do, many others will follow in its train.... Do not die of another's misery. (Baltasar Gracian, 1601-1658)
Use the positive side of this emotional osmosis to advantage. If, for example, you are miserly by nature, you will never go beyond a certain limit; only generous souls attain greatness. Associate with the generous, then, and they will infect you, opening up everything that is tight and restricted in you. If you are gloomy, gravitate to the cheerful. If you are prone to isolation, force yourself to befriend the gregarious. Never associate with those who share your defects they will reinforce everything that holds you back. Only create associations with positive affinities. Make this a rule of life and you will benefit more than from all the therapy in the world.
There was no one Napoleon admired more than Talleyrand. He envied his minister's way with people, his wit and his ability to charm women, and as best he could, he kept Talleyrand around him, hoping to soak up the culture he lacked. There is no doubt that Napoleon changed as his rule continued. Many of the rough edges were smoothed by his constant association with Talleyrand.
This applies to more than good cheer and success: All positive qualities can infect us. Talleyrand had many strange and intimidating traits, but most agreed that he surpassed all Frenchmen in graciousness, aristocratic charm, and wit. Indeed he came from one of the oldest noble families in the country, and despite his belief in democracy Napoleon was in many ways the opposite a peasant from Corsica, taciturn and ungracious, even violent.
The other side of infection is equally valid, and perhaps more readily understood: There are people who attract happiness to themselves by their good cheer, natural buoyancy, and intelligence. They are a source of pleasure, and you must associate with them to share in the prosperity they draw upon themselves.
Image: A Virus. Unseen, it enters your pores without warning, spreading silently and slowly. Before you are aware of the infection, it is deep inside you.
neden bana gelmedin derken aslinda seni ozledim demek istedim aklima bir fikir geldi haydi sana
Aeron Greyjoy, who in the chapter is referred to as "the prophet", is drowning men at a beach on Great Wyk. This a practice in which a worshiper of the Drowned God is held below the water until he drowns. The priest then resuscitates him. Through this initiation the person is stronger: “What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger."
Gormond Goodbrother appears to bring Aeron to Lord Gorold Goodbrother. Aeron initially declines but relents when the messenger tells him the king, Aeron's brother, is dead. During the journey Aeron remembers his brothers. His father married three times. The sons of his first wife died young. The eldest son from his second marriage was the strongest and fiercest of the remaining. Aeron admired Balon although they were not close in their youth.
When they arrive at Lord Goodbrother's hall at Hammerhorn, Aeron demands that everyone in the hall be sent away so that he and Gorold Goodbrother can speak privately. Lord Goodbrother insists that his maester will stay as well. Aeron disagrees and prepares to leave, but the maester stops him by informing him that Euron Greyjoy has occupied the Seastone Chair. Aeron is shocked. He remembers his brother but with little love. Goodbrother wants advice on whom to support, but Aeron wants to pray first and leaves for Pebbleton.
Again Aeron thinks back to his youth. He was not a very religious man but rather a drunken sod. This changed when he fell overboard in a sea battle during Balon's Rebellion. He almost drowned and became a devoted follower of the Drowned God. Aeron has discussed the succession with Balon. Though Balon wanted his daughter, Asha, to succeed him, Aeron did not agree with having a woman rule the Iron Islands. Theon is a weakling and probably dead. Balon's eldest brother, Euron, is ungodly and Aeron hates him. Thus Aeron makes up his mind; it must be Victarion.
A few days later, Aeron has arrived at Pebbleton and starts to preach. Asha has also claimed the throne. Now Aeron's followers and a number of lords look to him for advice on whom to support. During his preaching, he finds his inspiration: the Ironmen should elect the king in a Kingsmoot as they did in the old days. Every captain is to go to Nagga's Hill on Old Wyk, the ancient place where the old kings were chosen. Aeron hears his followers take up his call and knows he has done the right thing.
d) Weiter müsste ein Minderungsrecht vorliegen, § 441 I BGB. Das ist der Fall, wenn ein Rücktrittsrecht besteht. Hierfür kommt § 326 V BGB in Betracht.
Der (objektive erhöhte) Kaufpreis von 30.000€ beruht indes allein auf dem Verhalten von M selbst.
ee) Daher besteht ein Anspruch nur in Höhe von 30.000€, §§ 437, 311a, 281 I BGB
Nach dem Trennungsprinzip erfolgt jedoch der Eigentumsübergang erst mit Auflassung und Eintragung der M, die eben noch nicht erfolgt ist.
Das Grundbuch ist daher nicht unrichtig, sondern richtig, § 894 BGB.
a) Der Antrag ist gem. §§ 935, 936, 920 ZPO iVm. 885 I 1 BGB statthaft.
Der Antragsgegner wird vorläufig im Wege der einstweiligen Verfügung verpflichtet, die Eintragung einer Vormerkung, welche auf die Eintragung der Antragsteller als Eigentümer des im Grundbuch von Kuppenheim, Blatt 7345, Bestandsverzeichnis Nr. 1 eingetragenen Grundstücks Flurstück Nr. 967 gerichtet ist, zu bewilligen.
Dies könnte aufgrund § 275 I BGB der Fall sein. Indes ist es ohne weiteres Möglich, ersatz für die gestohlenen Teile zu beschaffen. Auch wenn dies mit Kosten verbunden ist, dürfte die Grenze des § 275 II BGB noch bei weitem nicht erreicht sein
Der Mandantschaft könnte ein Minderungsrecht gem. §§ 437, 326 V, 323 I, 441 I BGB zustehen mit der Rechtsfolge, dass der Kaufpreis gemindert wird, § 441 III BGB.
Aus anwaltlicher Vorsicht ist darauf hinzuweisen, dass die Abgrenzung zwischen §§ 434, 435 BGB zwar sehr umstritten und schwierig ist, für die Erfolgschancen der M indes nur von untergeordneter Bedeutung.
cc) Auf die Erheblichkeit des Mangels kommt es iRd. Minderung nicht an, §§ 441 I 2 BGB, 323 V 2 BGB.
Jedoch müssten die Parteien vereinbart haben, dass das Zimmer im Keller als Kinderzimmer bzw. Wohnraum genutzt werden kann, § 434 II 1 Nr. 1 BGB. Dies setzt eine Vertragliche Vereinbarung voraus, §§ 133, 157 BGB.
Indes ist der Widerspruch stets auf einen Grundbuchberichtigungsanspruch gerichtet, §§ 894, 899 I BGB. Ist das Grundbuch demgegenüber richtig und der Eingetragene Eigentümer, so hilft der Widerspruch nicht weiter.
(1) Eine Täuschung liegt dadurch vor, dass G jedenfalls objektiv gegenüber M1 und M2 geäußert hat, das Zimmer sei als Wohnraum nutzbar, obwohl dies rechtlich überhaupt nicht der Fall ist, s. § 65 LBO.
