It is then critical that we partake in acts of remembrance of those who came before us and were convinced of the enduring necessity and possibility of liberating Palestine. This is not an exercise in nostalgia or a romanticized vision of militancy. Nor is it a suggestion that the conditions of the Palestinian Revolution can be mapped onto our present. To remember, uplift, and learn from the political theory and strategy of the Palestinian Left is to struggle against Zionism’s ongoing, century-long counterinsurgency against Palestinian resistance.

During the Palestinian Revolution, the Zionist entity assassinated leaders of the Palestinian Left throughout Palestine, the Arab world, and Europe...There has never been closure to this repression. Our historical moment is constituted by an ideological struggle in which Zionism attempts to suppress and eradicate the memory of Palestinian and Arab revolutionaries it has transformed into martyrs.

From Chapter 18:

As Arthur ran, darting, dashing and panting down the side of the mountain, he suddenly felt the whole bulk of the mountain move very, very slightly beneath him. There was a rumble, a roar, and a slight blurred movement, and a lick of heat in the distance behind and above him. He ran in a frenzy of fear. The land began to slide, and he suddenly felt the force of the word "landslide" in a way that had never been apparent to him before. It had always just been a word to him, but now he was suddenly and horribly aware that sliding is a strange and sickening thing for land to do. It was doing it with him on it. He felt ill with fear and trembling. The ground slid, the mountains slurred, he slipped, he fell, he stood, he slipped again and again. The avalanche began.

Stones, then rocks, then boulders, pranced past him like clumsy puppies, only much bigger, much, much harder and heavier, and almost infinitely more likely to kill you if they fell on you. His eyes danced with them, his feet danced with the ancing ground. He ran as if running were a terrible sweating sickness, his heart pounded to the rhythm of the pounding geological frenzy around him.

The logic of the situation, i.e., that he was clearly bound to survive if the next foreshadowed incident in the saga of his inadvertent persecution of Agrajag was to happen, was utterly failing to impinge itself on his mind or exercise any restraining influence on him at this time. he ran with the fear of death in him, under him, over him and grabbing hold of his hair.

And suddenly he tripped again and was hurled forward by his considerable momentum. But just at the moment he was about to hit the ground astoundingly hard he saw lying directly in front of him a small navy tote bag that he knew for a fact he had lost in the baggage retrieval system at the Athens airport some ten years previously in his personal time scale, and in his astonishment he missed the ground completely and bobbed off into the air with his brain singing.

What he was doing was this: he was flying. He glanced around him in surprise, but there could be no doubt that that was what he was doing. No part of him was touching the ground, and no part of him was even approaching it. He was simply floating there with boulders hurtling through the air around him.

From Chapter 9:

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has this to say on the subject of flying.

There is an art, it says, or, rather, a knack to flying.

The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.

But what most impelled me to go out was my secret longing to see a man whom for some little time I had come upon every day when I passed under the trees outside the city gate.

Like a young Titan, this noble stranger strode resplendent among that race of dwarfs, who fed upon his beauty in joyous dread, measured his tall stature and his strength, and with covert glances regaled themselves on the Roman majesty of his shining face, as upon forbidden fruit. And it was a glorious moment each time that this man's eye, for whose glance the ether seemed too narrow, put off all pride and searched until, with an effort, it found its way to mine and, blushing, we gazed at each other and passed on.

One day I had ridden deep into the forest on Mount Mimas and did not start back until late in the evening. I had dismounted and was leading my horse down a steep, wild path, over roots and stones. As I was thus making my way through the underbrush into the gulf that now opened before me, a pair of Karaborniote robbers suddenly fell on me, and for a moment it was hard to fight off the two drawn sabers; but they were already tired from other work, so I managed. I quietly mounted my horse again and rode on.

At the foot of the mountain, between woods and soaring cliffs, a little meadow opened before me. It grew light. The moon had just risen over the dark trees. Some distance away I saw horses lying stretched out and men beside them on the grass.

"Who are you?" I cried.

"That is Hyperion!" cried a voice that rang like a hero's, in happy surprise. "You know me," the voice continued; "I see you every day under the trees outside the city gate."

My horse flew to him like an arrow. The moon shone bright on his face. I recognized him; I sprang to the ground.

"Good evening!" he cried, charming in his youthful vigor, and looked at me with his wild eyes subdued to tenderness, while his sinewy hand grasped mine so that the touch of it penetrated to my inmost being.

Oh! now my meaningless life was at an end!

Alabanda (such was the stranger's name) [...]

The 20th, Lenz walked through the mountains. Snow on the peaks and upper slopes, gray rock down into the valleys, swatches of green, boulders, and firs. It was sopping cold, the water trickled down the rocks and leapt across the path. The fir boughs sagged in the damp air. Gray clouds drifted across the sky, but everything so stifling, and then the fog floated up and crept heavy and damp through the bushes, so sluggish, so clumsy. He walked onward, caring little one way or another, to him the path mattered not, now up, now down. He felt no fatigue, except sometimes it annoyed him that he could not walk on his head. At first he felt a tightening in his chest when the rocks skittered away, the gray woods below him shook, and the fog now engulfed the shapes, now half-revealed their powerful limbs; things were building up inside him, he was searching for something, as if for lost dreams, but was finding nothing. Everything seemed so small, so near, so wet, he would have liked to set the earth down behind an oven, he could not grasp why it took so much time to clamber down a slope, to reach a distant point; he was convinced he could cover it all with a pair of strides. Only sometimes when the storms tossed the clouds into the valleys and they floated upwards through the woods and voices awakened on the rocks, like far-echoing thunder at first and then approaching in strong gusts, sounding as if they wanted to chant the praises of the earth in their wild rejoicing, and the clouds galloped by like wild whinnying horses and the sunshine shot through them and emerged and drew its glinting sword on the snowfields so that a bright blinding light knifed over the peaks into the valleys; or sometimes when the storms drove the clouds downwards and tore a light-blue lake into them and the sound of the wind died away and then like the murmur of a lullaby or pealing bells rose up again from the depths of ravines and tips of fir trees and a faint reddishness climbed into the deep blue and small clouds drifted by on silver wings and all the mountain peaks, sharp and firm, glinted and gleamed far across the countryside, he would feel something tearing at his chest, he would stand there, gasping, body bent forward, eyes and mouth open wide, he was convinced he should draw the storm into himself, contain everything within himself, he stretched out and lay over the earth, he burrowed into the universe, it was a pleasure that gave him pain; or he would remain still and lay his head upon the moss and half-close his eyes and then everything receded from him, the earth withdrew beneath him, it became as tiny as a wandering star and dipped into a rushing stream whose clear waters flowed beneath him. But these were only moments, and then he got up, calm, steady, quiet, as if a shadow play had passed before him, he had no memory of anything. Toward evening he came to the mountain ridge, to the snowfield from which one again descended westwards into the plain, he sat down at the crest. Things had grown more quiet toward evening; the clouds lay still and solid in the sky, as far as the eye could see, nothing but peaks, broad downward slopes, and everything so silent, gray, twilit; a terrible solitude came over him, he was alone, all alone, he wanted to talk to himself, but he could not, he hardly dared breathe, the crunch of his foot sounded like thunder beneath him, he had to sit down; he was seized by a nameless anxiety in this emptiness, he was in a void, he sprang to his feet and raced down the slope. It had gotten dark, sky and earth melted together. It was as if something were following him, as if something terrible would overtake him, something no human could bear, as if madness were hunting him down on horseback. At last he heard voices, he saw lights, he breathed easier, he was told Waldbach lay half an hour away. He went through the village, lights shone through the windows, as he passed by he saw children at tables, old women, young girls, the faces all calm and quiet, the light seemed to pour forth from them, he felt at ease, he was soon in the parsonage in Waldbach. They were sitting at the table, he went in; curls of blond hair fell around his pale face, his eyes and mouth twitched, his clothes were torn. Oberlin welcomed him, he took him to be a journeyman. “Welcome, whoever you are.”—I am a friend of . . . and bring you greetings from him. “Your name, if you please?” . . . Lenz. “Aha, it’s appeared in print, hasn’t it? Haven’t I read several plays attributed to a gentleman by this name?” Yes, but I beg you not to judge me by that. They continued talking, he searched for words and they came tumbling out, but it was torture; little by little he calmed down, the cozy room and the tranquil faces looming out of the shadows, the bright face of a child on which all the light seemed to rest, trusting eyes raised in curiosity, and finally the mother sitting quietly back in the shadows, angel-like. He began to talk of his homeland; he sketched its various local costumes, they all pressed around him to join in, he immediately felt at home, his pale child’s face now all smiles, his lively talk; he felt at ease, it was as if familiar figures, forgotten faces were emerging from the dark, old songs were awakening, he was away, far away. Finally it was time to go, he was led across the street, the parsonage was too cramped, he was given a room in the schoolhouse. He went upstairs, it was cold up there, a large room, empty, a high bed off to the back, he placed the lamp on the table and paced back and forth, he thought back on the day, how he had come here, where he was, the room in the parsonage with its lights and kindly faces, it seemed like a shadow, a dream, and emptiness came over him again as it had on the mountain, but he could no longer fill it with anything, the lamp was out, the darkness engulfed everything; he was seized by a nameless anxiety, he sprang to his feet, he ran through the room, down the stairs, out of the house; but in vain, everything dark, nothing, he seemed a dream to himself, stray thoughts flitted by, he grasped after them, he felt he had to keep on saying “Our Father” over and over again; he could no longer find himself, a dark instinct drove him to save himself, he butted against rocks, he tore at himself with his nails, the pain began to restore his consciousness, he threw himself into the fountain, but the water was not deep, he splashed around. Then people appeared, they had heard it, they called out to him. Oberlin came running; Lenz had come back to his senses, to the full consciousness of his condition, he felt at ease again, now he was ashamed and sorry to have frightened the good people, he told them it was his custom to take cold baths and returned upstairs; exhaustion allowed him at last to rest.

The next day went well. With Oberlin through the valley on horseback; broad mountain slopes funneling down from great heights into a narrow winding valley leading this way and that to the upper elevations, great boulder fields fanning out at the base, not much woodland, but everything a gray somber cast, a view to the west into the countryside and onto the mountain range running straight from north to south, the peaks looming huge, solemn, or mute and motionless, like a twilit dream. Enormous masses of light sometimes surging out of the valleys like a golden torrent, then clouds again, heaped around the highest peaks and then climbing down the forests into the valley or darting up and down in the sunbeams like silvery fluttering ghosts; no noise, no movement, no birds, nothing but the sighing of the wind, now near, now far. Specks also appeared, skeletons of huts, straw-covered planks, somber black.

"In a public key cryptosystem, enciphering and deciphering are governed by distinct keys, E and D, such that computing D from E is computationally infeasible (e.g. requiring 10^100 instructions)."

"Oh God!" said strapping, worthy Bertrand. "I'll never be loved or fancied! I'll always be shunned by the ladies -- I know what an ugly lump I am! But since I'm ill-favored I'll have to be daring, generous, courteous and open-handed, liberal in gifts to heralds and minstrels so they sing and proclaim my praises!"

"Peter of Blois condemns these tears. Tragic compassion with persons involved in earthly tragedies is not compatible with religion, which has concentrated all tragedy in the cardinal point of history," ...[!]... "the divine sacrifice of Christ."

“Whenever I would mention that I was Palestinian, my teachers were outraged and said that I should refer to [Palestinians] as Jordanian,” one Palestinian German woman speaking of her secondary school education told the reporter Hebh Jamal.

"...'Stolpersteine,' or remembrance stones, in the street..." [lit. stumbling block... skandalon]

But I am curious as well. I want to know what's going on in her head when she thinks of her breasts--or of their absence--so I can understand better what came into my head six months ago, when I had to take my own decision.