Meet the suns lucky 13 beauties of america

Supplementary Readings

'SURPRISED TO MEET THE ONE'. Four ladies Get all our stories the way you want them with The Sun's newsletters .. WINTER WONDERS Be the belle of the ball this Christmas and get yourself an outfit that won't cost you a fortune. How lucky we are To not have to strain to reach for the stars. our nation Peice by peice we fall apart We demand a fresh new start America is broken. The Constitution of the United States of America ( et seq.) Anonymous And mark that Point where Sense and Dulness meet. Nature to all . Some Lucky Licence answers to the full Those Freer Beauties, ev'n in Them, seem Faults: [ ] Through Freedom's Sons no more Remonstrance rings.

It cast its rays in many directions and painted everything in different colors— the trees, the people, the air and the ground. But what was most extraordinary, I thought, was that the sun did not hurt our eyes.

Everything was still and quiet, and everyone was looking up. Then at a certain moment, the sun appeared to stop spinning. It then began to move and to dance in the sky until it seemed to detach itself from its place and fall upon us. It was a terrible moment.

Then it shook and trembled. It looked like a wheel of fire that was going to fall on the people. They recited acts of contrition. One woman began to confess her sins aloud, advertising that she had done this and that…. When at last the sun stopped leaping and moving, we all breathed our relief.

We were still alive, and the miracle which the children had foretold, had been seen by everyone. Then I heard a shout from thousands of voices and saw the multitude suddenly turn its back and shoulders away from the point toward which up to now it had directed its attention, and turn to look at the sky on the opposite side. The sun, a few moments before, had broken through the thick layer of clouds which hid it, and shone clearly and intensely.

I veered to the magnet which seemed to be drawing all eyes, and saw it as a disc with a clean-cut rim, luminous and shining, but which did not hurt the eyes.

It was a clearer, richer, brighter color, having something of the luster of a pearl. It did not in the least resemble the moon on a clear night because one saw it and felt it to be a living body. It was not spheric like the moon, nor did it have the same color, tone, or shading. It looked like a glazed wheel made of mother-of-pearl.

It could not be confused, either, with the sun seen through fog for there was no fog at the timebecause it was not opaque, diffused or veiled.

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The sky was mottled with light cirrus clouds with the blue coming through here and there, but sometimes the sun stood out in patches of clear sky. The clouds passed from west to east and did not obscure the light of the sun, giving the impression of passing behind it, though sometimes these flecks of white took on tones of pink or diaphanous blue as they passed before the sun.

The phenomenon, except for two interruptions when the sun seemed to send out rays of refulgent heat which obliged us to look away, must have lasted about ten minutes. This was not the sparkling of a, heavenly body, for it spun round on itself in a mad whirl. Then, suddenly, one heard a clamor, a cry of anguish breaking from all the people. The sun, whirling wildly, seemed to loosen itself from the firmament and advance threateningly upon the earth as if to crush us with its huge and fiery weight.

The sensation during those moments was terrible. During the solar phenomenon, which I have just described in detail, there were changes of color in the atmosphere.

Looking at the sun, I noticed that everything around was becoming darkened. I looked first at the nearest objects and then extended my glance further afield as far as the horizon. I saw everything an amethyst color. Objects around me, the sky and the atmosphere, were of the same color.

An oak tree nearby threw a shadow of this color on the ground. Fearing that I was suffering from an affection of the retina, an improbable explanation because in that case one could not see things purple-colored, I turned away and shut my eyes, keeping my hands before them to intercept the light.

With my back still turned, I opened my eyes and saw that the landscape was the same purple color as before. The impression was not that of an eclipse, and while looking at the sun I noticed that the atmosphere had cleared. Soon after I heard a peasant who was near me shout out in tones of astonishment: People looked as if they were suffering from jaundice, and I recall a sensation of amusement at seeing them look so ugly and unattractive.

My own hand was the same color. Unfinish'd Things, one knows now what to call, Their Generation's so equivocal: To tell 'em, wou'd a hundred Tongues require, Or one vain Wit's, that might a hundred tire. But you who seek to give and merit Fame, And justly bear a Critick's noble Name, Be sure your self and your own Reach to know.

Nature to all things fix'd the Limits fit, And wisely curb'd proud Man's pretending Wit: Like Kings we lose the Conquests gain'd before, By vain Ambition still to make them more: Each might his sev'ral Province well command, Wou'd all but stoop to what they understand. First follow Nature, and your Judgment frame By her just Standard, which is still the same: Some, to whom Heav'n in Wit has been profuse.

Hear how learn'd Greece her useful Rules indites, When to repress, and when indulge our Flights: Without all these at once before your Eyes, Cavil you may, but never Criticize. But when t'examine ev'ry Part he came, Nature and Homer were, he found, the same: Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold Design, And Rules as strict his labour'd Work confine, As if the Stagyrite o'er looked each Line. Or if you must offend Against the Precept, ne'er transgress its End, Let it be seldom, and compell'd by Need, And have, at least, Their Precedent to plead.

Nations unborn your mighty Names shall sound, And Worlds applaud that must not yet be found! Oh may some Spark of your Coelestial Fire The last, the meanest of your Sons inspire, That on weak Wings, from far, pursues your Flights; Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes To teach vain Wits a Science little known, T' admire Superior Sense, and doubt their own!

There shallow Draughts intoxicate the Brain, And drinking largely sobers us again. Whoever thinks a faultless Piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.

All which, exact to Rule were brought about, Were but a Combate in the Lists left out. Leave the Combate out? Exclaims the Knight; Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite. So vast a Throng the Stage can ne'er contain. Then build a New, or act it in a Plain. The Sense, they humbly take upon Content. Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.

But true Expression, like th' unchanging Sun, Clears, and improves whate'er it shines upon, It gilds all Objects, but it alters none. Then, at the last, and only Couplet fraught With some unmeaning Thing they call a Thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the Song, That like a wounded Snake, drags its slow length along. Avoid Extreams; and shun the Fault of such, Who still are pleas'd too little, or too much. Some foreign Writers, some our own despise; The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize: What woful stuff this Madrigal wou'd be, To some starv'd Hackny Sonneteer, or me?

How the Style refines! We think our Fathers Fools, so wise we grow; Our wiser Sons, no doubt, will think us so. Might he return, and bless once more our Eyes, New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise; Nay shou'd great Homer lift his awful Head, Zoilus again would start up from the Dead.

Be thou the first true Merit to befriend; His Praise is lost, who stays till All commend; Short is the Date, alas, of Modern Rhymes; And 'tis but just to let 'em live betimes. Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken Things, Attones not for that Envy which it brings. What is this Wit which must our Cares employ? Tho' Triumphs were to Gen'rals only due, Crowns were reserv'd to grace the Soldiers too. That not alone what to your Sense is due, All may allow; but seek your Friendship too.

Be silent always when you doubt your Sense; And speak, tho' sure, with seeming Diffidence: How rare, to let the body and mind ramble under sunshine, only constrained by how long the sun would shine. I wondered whether the Kings of Savoy were under the gun to quickly slay some ibex and get back to town for their royal suppers. I found these markings intriguing.

The food options in Cogne are, typically, Italian. Italian restaurants serving Italian food. Two gents strolled up during our pranzo asking if the trail eventually looped back to town. I nodded, pointing west, and he explained that he wanted to drink a bottle of wine, so the assurance of a return to civilization was most welcome.

The sky was full blue. Did he know Americans were going to prance about on his game trails in their underpants?

Leaving the lake behind, Amanda and I descended over scrabbly scree into a green valley. Not a bad place to be a cow. None were in sight, but their patties were partout. From there the trail hooked left, suddenly tracing the edge of another fabulous torrente, somehow clearer and bluer than the last. It was at this point that I wished I could place this entire day in a little jar, maybe an old honey jar, rinsed good and clean. The Smog of the Sargasso Sea July 14, In the harbor, some forty minutes from the tiny airport where our bags were unloaded into wide puddles on the empty tarmac, which alternately baked and soaked under the Bahamian summer haze that permeated all the dilapidated towns we drove through in a rickety green van stuffed to the gills with swim fins, Patagonia backpacks, camera gear, two famous surfers, a journalist with a recent article in Playboy and a twinkle in both eyes, one legendary body surfer, an environmental science student from California, several plastics activists, a representative from a water bottle company, a few local teachers, Simon my musician friend who would be running sound, and me — in the harbor we saw three nurse sharks.

They lounged in clear water near the marina restaurant, closed that day because the owner had been thrown from her car and killed. Nurse sharks are docile enough that you can swim with them, but I peered at them from afar, feeling somehow alien, pale—duly stunned after a long New England winter to find myself on a slender island in the Caribbean, boarding a three-masted schooner bound for the Bermuda Triangle.

From the water, where the nurse sharks noodled around eating God knows what, you could see its name: We had a few days to acclimate to the humid land before thrusting ourselves out to sea, so we wandered over to the nearby Island School for a summit of Bahamian youths interested in environmental activism. I caught up briefly with Jack, a musician friend who had invited me to come along on the expedition. He had brought along his guitar, as well as an underwater super-8mm camera, a throwback to his filmmaking days when he shot surf films.

We chatted about our ideas for this short film - a journey through the plasticene ocean - before he wandered off to dance with his kids. Simon and I caught a lift back to the Mystic. Jupiter and Venus crept closer together in the sky.

Somewhere in the Bahamas, before we embarked. In the Bahamas, great stretches of turquoise sea tint the underside of clouds. Jack, the Malloy brothers, and Mark the bodysurfer decided that we should go find some waves before heading out to shoreless seas, so I suddenly found myself making a surfing film: I stood on the shore with Simon and my wide-angle lenses until the surfers disappeared from view the shore break was a quarter-mile outand then we snorkeled and urinated in the shallow waters.

Plastic littered the beach. That evening, at the reopened marina restaurant, we sipped beers and dangled our feet above the green water, watching the nurse sharks. In the morning Simon and I charged batteries and secured the gear in Pelican cases, anticipating rocky seas: The crew gathered in their brown polo shirts - the Mystic is usually a boat chartered by rich people to sail the seas - and I was told that if the order was given to abandon ship, I would get into lifeboat 4.

Simon and I took dramamine and drank more coffee. Hundreds of hermit crabs piddled around on the dock. Mark and the Malloys swam in the harbor. But either way, with Eleuthera retreating into the rear of our polarized sunglasses, the sails went up.

The engines rumbled on. Our path would take us through the deep waters of the Sargasso Sea, named for the myriad species of Sargassum that collect there, caught by the spiraling surface currents that made up the North Atlantic Gyre. Presumably, we would be sampling what else got caught in the gyre. The much ballyhooed plastic garbage patches.

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But this was clear blue water. So blue that I thought no one would believe the pictures I was taking.

And clear, clean, pure. No land no boats no garbage no nothing. Then in went the trawl. In other words, a drop in the damn bucket. So you multiply that by 34 billion and you get a lot of plastic in the sea. And these plastic bits, which are hydrophobic brethren to petrochemicals like DDT, accumulate toxins in the sea, and then get accumulated up the food chain, landing in the fish we eat, and in countless creatures that we do not.

But admittedly I found myself most disturbed not by the health effects of this plastic sea, but by what it did to my sense of the wilderness.

Not a water man like Jack or the Malloys. But, like Ishmael, every now and again I find myself drawn to the water. The ocean, like an outer space here on our own planet. This would be like landing on the moon and finding bits of Evian bottles and scraps of plastic bags.

How did this get here? Americans have comparatively strong waste management infrastructure, but each of us uses so much plastic that inevitably it leaks out; Marcus compares the sewer systems of major cities like New York to horizontal smoke stacks, belching our toilet and storm drain detritus straight out to sea. Add to that anything that blows from a landfill, or spills from a shipping crate, day after day, year after year. Abroad, many developing countries use less plastic per capita, but what they do use has a much higher chance of escaping lax waste management facilities — first to rivers, then downriver and out.

When it gets to the sea, plastic starts to break down. On the open sea, windy surf slices it into shards. A lot of it floats, bobbling around the surface until some creature gobbles it up, or until some microorganism colonizes it. Tossing the rig into the sea to begin a trawl. Metal cups were handed out, and as the sun set we sat amongst the trawling equipment and the stray strands of Sargassum, sipping some pretty darn decent vino, probably from California.