Her first really great role, the one that cemented the 'Jean Arthur character, ' was as the wisecracking big-city reporter who eventually melts for country rube Gary Cooper in Frank Capra's Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (1936). It was the first of three terrific films for Capra: Jean played the down-to-earth daughter of an annoyingly wacky family in Capra's rendition of Kaufman and Hart's You Can't Take It With You (1938), and she was another hard-boiled city gal won over by a starry-eyed yokel in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939). 'Jean Arthur is my favorite actress, ' said Capra, who had successfully worked with Stanwyck, Colbert and Hepburn. '... push that neurotic girl... in front of the camera... and that whining mop would magically blossom into a warm, lovely, poised and confident actress.' Capra obviously recognized that Jean was often frustrated in her career choice.
Jean Toomer is a phantom of the Harlem Renaissance. Pick up any general study of the literature written by Afro-Americans, and there is the name of Jean Toomer. In biographies and memoirs of Harlem Renaissance figures, his name is invoked as if he had been one of the sights along Lenox Avenue.
Jean smirked, and delicately swirled the mic in his hands, careful not to make a sound. 'Oui. C'est normal. C'est pas special. I will give you something worthy of Holmes.' Jean set down the mic and proceeded toward the couple. As he approached them, he fiddled with his mustache for a moment, and then pulled it sharply. He winced at the sensation. 'I have it, ' he declared confidently. 'You sir, are a thief.
Once outside, the detectives advanced up an escalator and to a floor with two elevators. One was labeled for the staff, and the other for guests. In the corner was a plain grey door which led up a staircase. 'Monsieur Leor... ' Jean began. 'Are you up for a challenge?' 'You want to run up the staircase.' Leor concluded, plainly. 'Like schoolboys?' 'Ouais, monsieur, ' Jean replied, with a silly grin. 'You can consider it your preliminary training, if that helps your dignity.
I find it most offensive that the character of Reason, whom [Jean den Meun (author of the Romance of the Rose)] himself calls the daughter of God, should put forth such a statement as... where she says by way of a proverb that "in the war of Love it is better to deceive than be deceived." And indeed I dare say that in making that statement Jean den Meun's Reason denied her Father, for the doctrine He gave was altogether different.
Christine de Pizan
This is where Jean's stubbornness and, perhaps, God's stubborn grace came into play. 'My definition of grace would be multifaceted, but part of it would certainly be God's passion for brokenness. He does, he really does love brokenness, ' Jean told me. 'Grace doesn't obsess with ourselves. It obsesses with people and with brokenness. This is a hard place to live, but God is bigger than hard places to live.
In that first national election after 9/11 in France, Jean-Marine Le Pen did not win the presidency, but he did get to the final round. He was in the general election. Now, this week, in the first national elections in France after what many people have been calling the French 9/11, the attacks in Paris three weeks ago, this time it's Jean-Marie Le Pen's daughter, Marine Le Pen and the National Front, which is still a far right pseudo-fascistic party, they came in first place in France.
Por lo que a las novelas largas se refiere, salvo por algunas excepciones, me mostraba bastante desconfiado. Pero 'Jean-Christophe' -de Romain Rolland-, con su empecinado individualismo, sin mezquindad alguna, fue para me una saludable revelacion. Sin el, nunca hubiera conseguido comprender el esplendor y la amplitud del individualismo. Hasta aquel encuentro robado con 'Jean-Christophe', mi pobre cabeza educada y reeducada ignoraba, sencillamente, que fuera posible luchar en solitario contra el mundo entero".
I lost Susy thirteen years ago; I lost her mother-her incomparable mother!-five and a half years ago; Clara has gone away to live in Europe and now I have lost Jean. How poor I am, who was once so rich!... Jean lies yonder, I sit here; we are strangers under our own roof; we kissed hands good-by at this door last night-and it was forever, we never suspecting it. She lies there, and I sit here-writing, busying myself, to keep my heart from breaking. How dazzling the sunshine is flooding the hills around! It is like a mockery. Seventy-four years ago twenty-four days. Seventy-four years old yesterday. Who can estimate my age today?
[... ] without much ardor but quite unmistakably, she was writhing her hips as if she were dancing. When he was very close, he saw' her gaping mouth: she was yawning lengthily, insatiably: the great open hole was rocking gently atop die mechanically dancing body. Jean-Marc thought: she's dancing and she's bored. He reached the seawall: down below, on the beach, he saw men with their heads thrown back releasing kites into the air. They were doing it with passion, and Jean-Marc recalled his old theory: there are three kinds of boredom: passive boredom: the girl dancing and yawning; active boredom: kite-lovers; and rebellious boredom: young people burning cars and smashing shop windows.
Six months after 9/11, Jean-Marie Le Pen was almost elected president of France. There were a number of leaders and a number of parties running in the French national elections that year in the spring of 2002. But it ended up being not just a shock across France, and not just a shock across Europe. But it ended up being almost a worldwide shock when in the spring of 2002, Jean-Marie Le Pen came in second in those national elections. That put him in a two-man runoff for the presidency of France, spring of 2002.
Jean shifted his commentary from his guard to me. 'Drusilla, a grievance must be made against these ruffians and thieves. They have stolen my clothing and given me only this... this... ' He ran out of words. 'Ugly-ass orange jumpsuit?' I offered, always ready to help Jean with his command of modern English. 'Oui, exactement. I demand that you obtain my release, tout de suite. And you must know, a woman who allows her husband to remain in such conditions for an entire evening must face reprimand.' I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms. 'And you must know that, in this day and age, should a man reprimand his wife too much, said wife might leave her husband to enjoy a longer time in his prison cell wearing his ugly-ass orange jumpsuit.
From Les Miserables: All at once, in the midst of this profound calm, a fresh sound arose; a sound as celestial, divine, ineffable, ravishing, as the other had been horrible. It was a hymn which issued from the gloom, a dazzling burst of prayer and harmony in the obscure and alarming silence of the night; women's voices, but voices composed at one and the same time of the pure accents of virgins and the innocent accent of children, - voices which are not of the earth, and which resemble those that the newborn infant still hears, and which the dying man hears already. This song proceeded from the gloomy edifice which towered above the garden. At the moment when the hubbub of demons retreated, one would have said that a choir of angels was approaching through the gloom. Cosette and Jean Valjean fell on their knees. They knew not what it was, they knew not where they were; but both of them, the man and the child, the penitent and the innocent, felt that they must kneel. These voices had this strange characteristic, that they did not prevent the building from seeming to be deserted. It was a supernatural chant in an uninhabited house. While these voices were singing, Jean Valjean thought of nothing. He no longer beheld the night; he beheld a blue sky. It seemed to him that he felt those wings which we all have within us, unfolding. The song died away. It may have lasted a long time. Jean Valjean could not have told. Hours of ecstasy are never more than a moment.
Your body is yours to protect and to enjoy.' She raises both eyebrows at me meaningfully. 'Whoever you should choose to partake in that enjoyment, that is your choice, and choose wisely. Every man that ever got to touch me was afforded an honor. A privilege.' Stormy waves her hand over me. 'All this? It's a privilege to worship at this temple, do you understand my meaning? Not just any young fool can approach the throne. Remember my words, Lara Jean. You decide who, how far, and how often, if ever.' 'I had no idea you were such a feminist, ' I say. 'Feminist?' Stormy makes a disgusted sound in her throat. 'I'm no feminist. Really, Lara Jean!' 'Stormy, don't get worked up about it. All it means is that you believe men and women are equal, and should have equal rights.' 'I don't think any man is my equal. Women are far superior, and don't you forget it. Don't forget any of the things I just told you.