As a child, William Beebe was my hero, and I used to read about him going down in the bathysphere, and I wanted to do that too. And I told my family, I said, 'I'd like to go down and be like William Beebe,' and they said, 'Well, maybe you can take up typing and get to be the secretary of William Beebe or somebody like him.'
When the Prince of Wales [later King George IV] and the Duke of York went to visit their brother Prince William [later William IV]at Plymouth, and all three being very loose in their manners, and coarse in their language, Prince William said to his ship's crew, "now I hope you see that I am not the greatest blackguard of my family.
Only Ron's dog was watching William. He considered that it had, for a dog, a very offensive and knowing look. A couple of months ago someaone had tried to hand William the old story about there being a dog in the city that could talk. (...) The dog in front of William didn't look as if it could talk, but it DID look as if it would swear.
Kaia tossed Strider a shut-your-mouth frown before bouncing in her seat. "Do I get to help? Can I? You may not know this, but I'm very handy with a blade of any kind, a hacksaw, a whip, a-" "Hey! Someone went through my bag," William said. "So?" Kaia continued, as if William hadn't spoken. "Whatever the weapon, I'm good with it." He would not be impressed. "We won't be using weapons. We'll be smashing jugulars." "Oh, oh! We can play Who Can Smash More!" "No, we can't because you can't help," Stider said at the same time William blurted out, "I'd be disappointed if you didn't help.
William Shakespeare: 'Close up this din of hateful decay, decomposition of your witches' plot! You thieve my brains, consider me your toy, my doting doctor tells me I am not!' Lilith: No! Words of power! William Shakespeare: 'Foul Carrionite specters, cease your show, between the points... ' [he looks to The Doctor for help] The Doctor: 761390! William Shakespeare: '761390! Banished like a tinker's cuss, I say to thee... ' [he again looks to The Doctor] The Doctor: Uh... [he looks to Martha] Martha Jones: Expelliarmus! The Doctor: Expelliarmus! William Shakespeare: 'Expelliarmus!' The Doctor: Good old JK!
Dangerous as a lightning strike, as lethal as a pair of crisscrossing short swords, William whispered, 'You're about to find out how your liver tastes, my friend.' 'I have tasted it already, ' Zacharel said, his voice its usual monotone. The snowflakes began to fall in earnest, tiny at first, but growing in diameter. An arctic wind blustered around him. 'It was a bit salty.' How the hell was a guy supposed to respond to that? Apparently William didn't know, either, because he gaped at the angel. Then, 'Maybe if you added a little pepper?' O-kay. It was official. William had an answer for everything.
When William Johnson and slave walked down that long, winding American road toward freedom and justice, they didn't realize they would be speaking out for all those left behind. They learned that it would take hard work to make the words of the Declaration of Independence mean what they said. Ellen and William Craft were willing to do their part.
I love the ideas of looking back to historical heroes to give us inspiration on how we can be today's heroes to move forward in the future. So guys like... William Bradford and William Wallace, the Bravehearts, the Patriots, the Pilgrims. There are so many of those people throughout history... whose stories have just never been told.
Nobody wanted to hear about all the Preterite, the many God passes over when he chooses a few for salvation. William argued holiness for these "second Sheep, " without whom there'd be no elect. You can bet the Elect in Boston were pissed off about that. And it got worse. William felt that what Jesus was for the elect, Judas Iscariot was for the Preterite. Everything in the Creation has its equal and opposite counterpart. How can Jesus be an exception? could we feel for him anything but horror in the face of the unnatural, the extracreational? Well, if he is the son of man, and if what we feel is not horror but love, then we have to love Judas too. Right? How William avoided being burned for heresy, nobody knows.
There is something about Prince William and Prince Harry that brings real modernity to the British royal family. They are also very open, human, and kind, and this is what I have tried to capture in the pictures I have taken of them as well as in my pictures of Prince William and Catherine.
Cough clenched, and vomited something chunky into the grass. Terrific. The big dog sat on his haunches and looked at William with a perplexed expression on his face. "Well, eat it back up," William hissed. "Don't waste it." Cough gave a tiny whine. "I'm not eating your puke." Cough panted at him. "No.
Nicholas: I know you, brother. You've been threatened with matrimonial pursuits before. Why are you really here? William: I received an invitation. Nicholas: Not from me you didn't. William: Of course not from you, brother. Parliament would go up in flames before I receive a social invitation from you.
William sees it all happen again. The pain is not in the event. The subjection to it and his powerless state each time is where his anguish lies. He is unable to influence the situation, despite his desire. He sees the nest outside his house. He sees the baby bird that fell. The mother bird cries frantically for her lost chick. William knows as he approaches the chick that if he touches it his scent will linger, and the mother will reject it. Circling around the fallen creature William hopes it will flee from him, back toward the tree from which it had fallen. His presence only intensifies the creature's fear. It speeds to his left, heading for the street. Again William tries to flank the bird, but it is too frightened to return to the nest. The chick's mother wails vainly. William walks into the street trying to herd the bird to safety. The stop light a block away has just turned green. The driver accelerates. William moves from the car's path and it runs over the bird. The momentum from its wake lifts the bird to the underside of the car, breaking its neck, but not killing it. William watches the bird roll helplessly. It is silent for a second, before it begins to whimper. Its contorted head dangles limply from its body. The noise is tragic. The bird's mother hears the chick's pain, but nothing can be done. She laments. A second speeder crushes the chick, leaving only a wet feathered spot in the street. As the cars continue to pass, only one bird is heard. A mother's grief falls deafly on an unconcerned world.
William: You're just gonna have to take who I give you and deal Paris: Like anyone would pick you over me. William: You just wait and see. I'll have every single on of them eating out of my hand. Paris: Only if you had one of those delicious fried Twinkies. Strider rolled his eyes. Egotistical morons. Anyone with a set of eyes could see that Strider was the pretty one in their little three-some.
Sorry, but I have plans elsewhere," William said darkly. "I'm leaving tomorrow morning, and I'll be gone for a few weeks." "What plans?" "Doesn't matter why I kept you in the dark. I'm going and that's final." "You can't go without me," Gilly said. "I can and I will." "You promised to protect me always. How can you protect me if you're gone?" "I didn't lie to you. I will always protect you," William told her gently. He stood, reached for her, but realized what he was doing and dropped his arms to his sides. "You have to trust me on this.
Princess Diana talking to Prince William about the loss of her title Her Royal Highness: She turned to William in her distress. She (Princess Diana) told me how he had sat with her one night when she was upset over the loss of HRH, put his arms around her and said: Don't worry, Mummy. I will give it back to you one day when I am king.
Having seen one of William Steig's letters, I mentioned to Arthur how similar I thought William's handwriting seemed to the lines of his drawings. 'I never connected the handwriting and the drawing, ' Arthur remarked. 'But they're not in two different spheres; it's a good observation, and you're right: Bill is himself all the time. Even if I didn't know him, his handwriting would seem special because there's no separation in it between psyche and hand. And what comes through it is very beautiful because he's very beautiful.
I have spent my whole life preparing to be William Wallace's wife. The choices I make are defined by the person I am. 'I am Mrs. William Victor Wallace. I am married to a federal felon whom I love unconditionally. I hold my head high, I take pride in my life and I walk this world without regret. I will be the perfect wife and my husband deserves nothing less.
I'm not trying to start an argument with you, ' William assured him. 'I suppose I don't know what it's like to be a true revolutionary, though I think I've held some... similar... ideals. At times. Thought I could change things, if I fought hard enough.' 'What did you try to change?' 'Myself, in hopes that it would change others' opinions of me.' 'That is a bit more selfish than what we aspire to, ' Luis clarified. William shrugged. 'If it makes you feel better, I pressed others to change as well. Guess I just didn't fight hard enough for any of it.
He's a love-'em-and-leave-'em kind of guy. And though he's not a Lord, he does have a curse hanging over his head. I have the book to prove it.' William growled low in his throat. 'Anya! Must you share my secrets with everyone?' He flattened his palms on the arms of his chair. 'Fine. If you can spill, I can, too. Anya's the reason the Titanic sank. She was playing chicken with the icebergs.' Scowling, Anya anchored her hands on her hips. 'William had a bronze made of his penis and placed it on his mantel.
William: I just had the best idea ever. Let's give Maddox a ring. Paris: You mean propose to him? To grumpy ole Maddox? Willie, why didn't you tell us you're a masochist, who swung that way? You're so delicate, he'll rip you to shreds the moment you climb into his bed. Plus, he's hitched himself to Ashlyn. You try to lay a move on him, and that sweet thang will rearrange your face. William: I mean call him, you idiot. What's with you tonight? Permanent brain damage? We'll breath heavily and ask him what he's wearing. I bet no one's phone sexed him before.
A garden path, ' write the landscape architects Charles W. Moore, William J. Mitchell, and William Turnbull, 'can become the thread of a plot, connecting moments and incidents into a narrative. The narrative structure might be a simple chain of events with a beginning, middle, and end. It might be embellished with diversions, digressions, and picaresque twists, be accompanied by parallel ways (subplots), or deceptively fork into blind alleys like the althernative scenerios explored in a detective novel.
My teacher told my mum, 'I think William has dyspraxia,' and Mum asked what that meant. She said, 'Well, if I put a chair in the middle of the room and asked every child in the class to walk around it, William would be the only child in the class to walk into it.' Mum was like, 'Yeah, that's my boy'.
I have a print - you can buy them at the Victoria and Albert Museum - of a photograph of the village street of Thetford, taken in 1868, in which William Smith is not. The street is empty. There is a grocer's shop and a blacksmith's and a stationary cart and a great spreading tree, but not a single human figure. In fact William Smith - or someone, or several people, dogs too, geese, a man on a horse - passed beneath the tree, went into the grocer's shop, loitered for a moment talking to a friend while the photograph was taken but he is invisible, all of them are invisible. The exposure of the photograph - sixty minutes - was so long that William Smith and everyone else passed through it and away leaving no trace. Not even so much of a mark as those primordial worms that passed through the Cambrian mud of northern Scotland and left the empty tube of their passage in the rock. I like that. I like that very much. A neat image for the relation of man to the physical world. Gone, passed through and away.
He'd spent the night in the boat. Next to the spaghetti queen. William glanced at the hobo girl. She sat across from him, huddled in a clump. Her stench had gotten worse overnight, probably from the dampness. Another night like the last one, and he might snap and dunk her into that river just to clear the air. She saw him looking. Dark eyes regarded him with slight scorn. William leaned forward and pointed at the river. 'I don't know why you rolled in spaghetti sauce, ' he said in a confidential voice. 'I don't really care. But that water over there won't hurt you. Try washing it off.' She stuck her tongue out. 'Maybe after you're clean, ' he said. Her eyes widened. She stared at him for a long moment. A little crazy spark lit up in her dark irises. She raised her finger, licked it, and rubbed some dirt off her forehead. Now what? The girl showed him her stained finger and reached toward him slowly, aiming for his face. 'No, ' William said. 'Bad hobo.' The finger kept coming closer.
CAUGHT MAKING CONVERSATION TO YOUR TEETH. KITE HIGH IN TUESDAY ETHER. BEEN GONE ALL WEEK. PEOPLE LIVE FOR SUCH A LONG TIME. EIGHTY YEARS TO GET ONE RIGHT. JET WHITE LIKE ALL DAY PAPER COMES BACK BLANK. NO TIME FOR CONVERSATION, TOO MUCH TO SAY. WE THINK YOU'LL LIVE FOR SUCH A LONG TIME NOW. YOU CAN TAKE THIS AS YOU LIKE. THIS IS THE SUN BEATING DOWN YOUR DOOR. FEELS LIKE A GUN, RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES. WARM IN YOUR SUNSHINE. WILLIAM TELL OVERRIDE. WHITE LIES AND DEDICATION. HAVE A SEAT. GLASS ACTOR SWING YOUR HAMMER. THIS ISN'T ME. I'VE BEEN SEARCHING FOR THE RIGHT KIND. ONE WHO DOESN'T AIM SO HIGH. THIS IS THE SUN, A LIFELONG SUICIDE, COLD AS A GUN IN HANDS THAT CAN'T DECIDE. WARM IN HER SUNSHINE. WILLIAM TELL OVERRIDE. WHEN I TOOK IT TO THE MAN, HE SAID, "WE'RE DOING ALL WE CAN." THEN HE SHOOK MY HAND THIS IS THE SUN, CLOSER THAN YOU KNOW. FEELS LIKE A GUN, SHINING THROUGH YOUR WINDOW. WARM IN THE SUNSHINE. WILLIAM TELL OVERRIDE.
Jets to Brazil
Suddenly William loomed over him, scowling, snarling and bloody, his suit dirt-stained and ripped. 'Do you know. How many strands. Of hair I lost. On my way down?' Whatever. 'Math was never my thing, but I'm gonna say you lost... a lot.' Electric-blues glittered with menace. 'You are a cruel, sadistic bastard. My hair needs TLC and you... you... Damn you! I've gutted men for less.' 'I know. I've watched you.' Paris lumbered to his feet and scanned the rocky bank they stood upon, the crimson ocean lapping and bubbling in every direction. The drawbridge was only a fifty-yard dash away. 'Don't kill the messenger, but I'm thinking you should change your dating profile to balding.' Masculine cheeks went scarlet as the big bad warrior struggled for a comeback... 'One of these days you're going to wake up, ' William finally said, 'and I will have shaved you. Everywhere.' 'Won't make a difference. Women will still want me. But you know what else? What I did to you wasn't cruel, Willy.' He offered the warrior a white-flag grin. A trick. A lie. 'This, however, is.' He grabbed William by the wrist, swung the man around and around before at last releasing him and hurling his body directly onto the bridge.