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“To be or not to be”. Outside the Bible, there six words are the most famous in all the literature of the world. They were spoken by Hamlet when he was thinking aloud, and they are the most famous words in Shakespeare because Hamlet was speaking not only foe himself but for every thinking man and woman. To be or not to be－to live or not to live, to live richly and abundantly and eagerly, or to live dully and meanly and scarcely. A philosopher once wanted to know whether he was alive or not, which is a good question for everyone to put to himself occasionally. He answered it by saying:“I think, therefore I am.”(world of warcraft gold)

But the best definition of existence I ever saw was one written by another philosopher who said:“To be is to be in relations.”If this is true, then the more relations a living thing has, the more relations a living thing has, the more it is alive. To live abundantly means simply to increase the range and intensity of our relations. Unfortunately we are so constituted that we get to love our routine. But apart from our regular occupation how much are we alive? If you are interested only in your regular occupation, you are alive only to that extent. So far as other things are concerned－poetry and prose, music, pictures, sports, unselfish friendships, politics, international affairs－you are dead.buy wow gold

Contrariwise, it is true that every time you acquire a new interest－even more, a new accomplishment－you increase your power of life. No one who is deeply interested in a large variety of subjects can remain unhappy, the real pessimist is the person who has lost interest.

Bacon said that a man dies as often as he loss a friend. But we gain new life by contacts, new friends. What is supremely true of living objects is only less true of ideas, which are also alive. Where your thoughts are, there will your life be also. If your thoughts are confined only to your business, only to your physical welfare, only to the narrow circle of the town in which you live,cheap wow gold, then you live in a narrow circle of the town in which you live, then you live in a narrow circumscribed life. But if you are interested in what is going on in China, then you are living in China; if you are interested in the characters of a good novel, then you are living with those highly interesting people; if you listen intently to fine music, you are away from your immediate surroundings and living in a world of passion and imagination.

To be or not to be－to live intensely and richly, or merely to exist, that depends on ourselves. Let us widen and intensify our relations. While we live, let us live!world of warcraft gold

Chinese Valentine's Day is on the 7th day of the 7th lunar month in the Chinese calendar. A love story for this day is about the 7th daughter of Emperor of Heaven and an orphaned cowherd. The Emperor separated them. The 7th daughter was forced to move to the star Vega and the cowherd moved to the star Altair. They are allowed to meet only once a year on the day of 7th day of 7th lunar month.

The story began from the good-looking poor orphaned boy living with his elder brother and sister-in-law. After his parents passed away, his brother inherited the house and the land. The boy owned an old ox. He needed to work on the farm's field with the ox every day. So he was called a cowherd. His daily life was just like in a Cinderella story.
The 7th daughter of Emperor is good at handcrafting, especially weaving clothing. So she was called a Weaving Maid. The Emperor likes her skill to weave clouds and rainbows to beautify the world.
The ox was actually an immortal from the Heaven. He made mistakes in the Heaven and was punished as an ox in the Earth. One day, wow power leveling, the ox suddenly said to the cowherd, "You are a nice person. If you want to get married, go to the brook and your wish will come true." The cowherd went to the brook and saw all 7 pretty daughters of Emperor came down from Heaven and took a bath in there. Fascinated by the youngest and also the most beautiful one, he took away her fairy clothes secretly. The other six fairies went away after bath. The youngest couldn't fly back without her fairy clothes. Then the cowherd appeared and told her that he would not return her clothes unless she promised to be his wife. After a little hesitation and with a mixture of shyness and eagerness, she agreed to the request from this handsome man. So they married and had two children two years later.
One day, world of warcraft power leveling, the old ox was dying and told the cowherd that he should keep his hide for emergency purpose.
The Emperor found the sky's not that beautiful as before without the 7th daughter weaving clouds and rainbows. He wanted his age of conan power leveling, daughter's grandmother to find the missing daughter and to bring her back. . While the 7th princess was flying to the Heaven with her grandmother, the cowboy wore the ox hide, took his children in two bamboo baskets with his wife's old fairy clothes and chased after his wife in the sky. The grandmother made a milky way in the sky with her hairpin, which kept them separated. The 7th princess was moved to the star Vega (The swooping - Eagle) in the Lyra (Harp) constellation. And the cowherd with his two children stayed in the star Altair (Flying one) in the Aquila (Eagle) constellation. The star of Vega is also known as the Weaving Maid Star and the star of Altair is as the Cowherd Star in China.
Magpies were moved by their true love and many of them gathered and formed a bridge for the couple to meet in the evening of the 7th day of the 7th lunar month, which is the day the Emperor allowed them to meet once a year.
They said that it's hard to find a magpie on Chinese Valentine's Day in China, because all magpies fly to make the bridge for the Weaving Maid and Cowherd. The one thing to prove that is the feathers on the head of the magpies are much lesser after the Chinese Valentine's Day. If the night Chinese Valentine's Day rains, the rain are the tears of the Weaving Maid and Cowherd.

Tianxianpei
With pairs of birds singing on the tree
So green rivers and mounts look great
Picking a flower off conveniently
I put it in my dear’s chignon affectionately
From now on being of enslaving-free
My wife and I are on the way home free
You may plough and I will make some textile
I shoulder water you do some watering while
Being so humble, our house can keep out wind
A loving couple regards poverty as honey to drink
Couple of us is just like that of mandarin ducks
Flying wing to wing in the people’s world with good luck
Tianxianpei(天仙配英文版

The view over a valley of a tiny village with thatched（草盖的）roof cottages around a church; a

drive through a narrow village street lines with thatched cottages painted pink or white; the sight

in parts of England.Most people will agree that the thatched roof is an essential part of the

attraction of the English countryside.
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　　Thatching is in fact the oldest of all the building crafts practiced in the British Isles（英论诸

岛）. Although thatch has always been used for cottage and farm buildings, it was once used for

castles and churches, too.　　
　　Thatching is a solitary（独自的）craft, which often runs in families. The craft of thatching as

it is practiced toady has changed very little since the Middle Ages. Over 800 full-time thatchers are

employed in England and Wales today, maintaining and renewing the old roofs as well as thatching

newer houses. Manyproperty owners choose thatch not only for its beauty but because they know it will

keep them cool in summer and warm in winter.
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　　In fact, if we look at developing countries, over half the world lives under thatch, but they all

do it in different ways. People in developing countries are often reluctant to go back to traditional

materials and would prefer modern buildings. However, they may lack the money to allow them to import

the necessary materials.2moons gold, Their temporary mud huts

with thatched roofs of wild grasses often only last six months.Thatch which has been done the British

way lasts from twenty to sixty years, and is an effective defiance against the heatThe researcher

organized an experimental tournament（锦标赛）involving four youth teams. Each match lasted an hour，

divided into three periods of 20 minutes during which different referees were in charge.
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Observers noted down the referees’ errors， of which there were 61 over the tournament. Converted to

a standard match of 90 minutes， each referee made almost 23 mistakes， a remarkably high number.

The researcher then studied the videotapes to analyse the matches in detail. Surprisingly， he found

that errors were more likely when the referees were close to the incident. When the officials got it

right，2moons dil, they were， on average， 17 meters away from

the action. The average distance in the case of errors was 12 meters. The research shows the optimum

（最佳的）distance is about 20 meters.

There also seemed to be an optimum speed. Correct decisions came when the referees were moving at a

speed of about 2 meters per second. The average speed for errors was 4 meters per second.
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If FIFA， football’s international ruling body，wants to improve the standard of refereeing at the

next World Cup， it should encourage referees to keep their eyes on the action from a distance，

rather than rushing to keep up with the ball， the researcher argues.

He also says that FIFA’s insistence that referees should retire at age 45 may be misguided. If

keeping up with the action is not so important， their physical condition is less critical.
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leveling,
Thatching is a solitarycraft,

It is cold, so bitter cold, on this dark, winter day in 1942. But it is no different from any other day in this Nazi concentration camp. I stand shivering in my thin rags, still in disbelief that this nightmare is happening. I am just a young boy. I should be playing with friends; I should be going to school; I should be looking forward to a future, to growing up and marrying, and having a family of my own. But those dreams are for the living, and I am no longer one of them. Instead, I am almost dead, surviving from day to day, from hour to hour, ever since I was taken from my home and brought here with tens of thousands other Jews. Will I still be alive tomorrow? Will I be taken to the gas chamber tonight?
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Back and forth I walk next to the barbed wire fence, trying to keep my emaciated body warm. I am hungry, but I have been hungry for longer than I want to remember. I am always hungry. Edible food seems like a dream. Each day as more of us disappear, the happy past seems like a mere dream, and I sink deeper and deeper into despair. Suddenly, I notice a young girl walking past on the other side of the barbed wire. She stops and looks at me with sad eyes, eyes that seem to say that she understands, that she, too, cannot fathom why I am here. I want to look away, oddly ashamed for this stranger to see me like this, but I cannot tear my eyes from hers.
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Then she reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a red apple. A beautiful, shiny red apple. Oh, how long has it been since I have seen one! She looks cautiously to the left and to the right, and then with a smile of triumph, quickly throws the apple over the fence. I run to pick it up, holding it in my trembling, frozen fingers. In my world of death, this apple is an expression of life, of love. I glance up in time to see the girl disappearing into the distance.

The next day, I cannot help myself-I am drawn at the same time to that spot near the fence. Am I crazy for hoping she will come again? Of course. But in here, I cling to any tiny scrap of hope. She has given me hope and I must hold tightly to it.

And again, she comes. And again, she brings me an apple, flinging it over the fence with that same sweet smile.

This time I catch it, and hold it up for her to see. Her eyes twinkle. Does she pity me? Perhaps. I do not care, though. I am just so happy to gaze at her. And for the first time in so long, I feel my heart move with emotion.

For seven months, we meet like this. Sometimes we exchange a few words. Sometimes, just an apple. But she is feeding more than my belly, this angel from heaven. She is feeding my soul. And somehow, I know I am feeding hers as well.
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One day, I hear frightening news: we are being shipped to another camp. This could mean the end for me. And it definitely means the end for me and my friend. The next day when I greet her, my heart is breaking, and I can barely speak as I say what must be said: "Do not bring me an apple tomorrow," I tell her. "I am being sent to another camp. We will never see each other again." Turning before I lose all control, I run away from the fence. I cannot bear to look back. If I did, I know she would see me standing there, with tears streaming down my face.

Months pass and the nightmare continues. But the memory of this girl sustains me through the terror, the pain, the hopelessness. Over and over in my mind, I see her face, her kind eyes, I hear her gentle words, I taste those apples.

And then one day, just like that, the nightmare is over. The war has ended. Those of us who are still alive are freed. I have lost everything that was precious to me, including my family. But I still have the memory of this girl, a memory I carry in my heart and gives me the will to go on as I move to America to start a new life. Years pass. It is 1957. I am living in New York City. A friend convinces me to go on a blind date with a lady friend of his. Reluctantly, I agree. But she is nice, this woman named Roma. And like me, she is an immigrant, so we have at least that in common.
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"Where were you during the war?" Roma asks me gently, in that delicate way immigrants ask one another questions about those years.

"I was in a concentration camp in Germany," I reply.

Roma gets a far away look in her eyes, as if she is remembering something painful yet sweet.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I am just thinking about something from my past, Herman," Roma explains in a voice suddenly very soft. "You see, when I was a young girl, I lived near a concentration camp. There was a boy there, a prisoner, and for a long while, I used to visit him every day. I remember I used to bring him apples. I would throw the apple over the fence, and he would be so happy."

Roma sighs heavily and continues. "It is hard to describe how we felt about each other-after all, we were young, and we only exchanged a few words when we could-but I can tell you, there was much love there. I assume he was killed like so many others. But I cannot bear to think that, and so I try to remember him as he was for those months we were given together."
Sro Gold,
With my heart pounding so loudly I think it wil1 explode, I look directly at Roma and ask, "And did that boy say to you one day, 'Do not bring me an apple tomorrow. I am being sent to another camp'?"

"Why, yes," Roma responds, her voice trembling.

"But, Herman, how on earth could you possibly know that?"

I take her hands in mine and answer, "Because I was that young boy, Roma."

For many moments, there is only silence. We cannot take our eyes from each other, and as the veils of time lift, we recognize the soul behind the eyes, the dear friend we once loved so much, whom we have never stopped loving, whom we have never stopped remembering.

Finally, I speak: "Look, Roma, I was separated from you once, and I don't ever want to be separated from you again. Now, I am free, and I want to be together with you forever. Dear, will you marry me?"

I see that same twinkle in her eye that I used to see as Roma says, "Yes, I will marry you," and we embrace, the embrace we longed to share for so many months, but barbed wire came between us. Now, nothing ever will again.
Sro Gold,
Almost forty years have passed since that day when I found my Roma again. Destiny brought us together the first time during the war to show me a promise of hope and now it had reunited us to fulfill that promise.

Valentine's Day, 1996. I bring Roma to the Oprah Winfrey Show to honor her on national television. I want to tell her in front of millions of people what I feel in my heart every day:

"Darling, you fed me in the concentration camp when I was hungry. And I am still hungry, for something I will never get enough of: I am only hungry for your love."

Grandma got Grandpa out of bed and helped him to the kitchen for breakfast. After his meal, she led him to his armchair in the living room where he would rest while she cleaned the dishes. Every so often, she would check to see if he needed anything.

This was their daily routine after Grandpa’s latest stroke. Although once a very active man, his severely damaged left arm, difficulty walking and slurred speech now kept him housebound. For nearly a year he hadn’t even been to church or to visit family.

Grandpa filled his hours with television. He watched the news and game shows while Grandma went about her day. They made a pact—he was not to leave his chair or his bed without her assistance.
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“If you fell and I threw my back out trying to help you, who would take care of us?” Grandma would ask him. She was adamant about their taking care of themselves and living independently.

The Brooklyn brownstone had been their first home and held wonderful memories. They weren’t ready to leave it behind anytime soon.

Immigrants from Ireland, they met and married in America. Grandma was friendly, outgoing and unselfish; Grandpa was reserved, a man devoted to his family. But he wasn’t big on giving gifts. While he wouldn’t think twice about giving my grandma the shirt off his back, he subscribed to the belief that if you treated your wife well throughout the year, presents weren’t necessary; so he rarely purchased gifts for her.

This had been a sore point in the early days of their marriage. But as years passed, Grandma realized what a good man he was. And, after all, anything she wanted she was free to buy herself.
wow gold,
It was a cold, gray February morning, a typical winter day in New York. As always, Grandma walked Grandpa to his chair.

“I’m going to take a shower now.” She handed him the television remote. “If you need anything, I’ll be back in a little while.”

After her shower, she glanced towards the back of Grandpa’s recliner but noticed that his cane was not leaning in its usual spot. Sensing something odd, she walked toward the recliner. He was gone. The closet door stood open and his hat and overcoat were missing. Fear ran down her spine.

Grandma threw a coat over her bathrobe and ran outside. He couldn’t have gotten far; he could barely walk on his own.
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Desperately, she scanned the block in both directions. Small mounds of snow and ice coated the sidewalks. Walking safely would be difficult for people who were steady on their feet, much less someone in Grandpa’s condition.

Where could he be? Why would he leave the house all by himself?
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Wringing her hands, she hardly felt the frigid air as she watched traffic rush by. She recalled overhearing him tell one of their grandchildren recently that he felt he was a “burden.” Until this last year, he had been strong and healthy; now he couldn’t even perform the simplest of tasks.

As she stood alone on the street corner, guilt flooded her.

Just then, Grandpa walked around the bend of the corner. Head bowed, eyes focused on the sidewalk, he took small, cautious steps. His overcoat barely draped the shoulder of his bad arm; his cane and a package filled his good arm.
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Desperate to reach him, Grandma raced down the block. Relieved to see that he was okay, she started to scold.

“I only left you alone for a short while. What did you need so badly that couldn’t wait? I was so worried about you! What on earth was so important?”

Confused and curious, she reached into the brown bag. Before Grandpa had a chance to explain, she pulled out a heart-shaped box.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Grandpa explained. “I thought you might like a box of chocolates.”

A gift? All this worry for . . . candy?

“I haven’t bought you a gift in a long, long time.” His stroke-impaired words warmed the winter wind.
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Tears flooded Grandma’s eyes as she hugged his arm to her chest and led Grandpa back home.

She shook her head slowly.

It just goes to show, she thought, it’s never too late for romance.

A Change of Heart