EVANSVILLE, Indiana (AP) -- Ruth M. Siems, a home economist who helped create Stove Top stuffing, a Thanksgiving favorite that will be on dinner tables across the country this year, has died at 74.

Siems, who worked for General Foods for more than 30 years, died November 13 in Newburgh, Indiana, after suffering a heart attack in her home.

Siems helped develop Stove Top in 1971 while working at General Foods' technical center in White Plains, New York. She was listed first among four inventors when the patent was awarded in 1975 for the quick and easy way of making stuffing without actually stuffing a turkey.

Kraft Foods, which now owns the Stove Top brand, sells about 60 million boxes each year around Thanksgiving. The five-minute stuffing comes in several flavors, including turkey, chicken and beef.

As a member of the research and development staff for General Foods, Siems helped find the ideal bread crumb size for making instant stuffing with the same texture as the real thing, said her brother, David Siems.

Siems grew up in Evansville and graduated from Purdue University in 1953 with a home economics degree. She later took a job at a General Foods plant in Indiana, researching flour and angel food cake mixes.

She retired in 1985 and settled in a historic house in Newburgh, near Evansville.

I don't know who said that novelists read the novels of others only to figure out how they are written. I believe it's true. We aren't satisfied with the secrets exposed on the surface of the page: we turn the book around to find the seams. In a way that's impossible to explain, we break the book down to its essential parts and then put it back together after we understand the mysteries of its personal clockwork. The effort is disheartening in Faulkner's books, because he doesn't seem to have an organic system of writing, but instead walks blindly through his biblical universe, like a herd of goats loosed in a shop full of crystal. Managing to dismantle a page of his, one has the impression of springs and screws left over, that it's impossible to put back together in its original state. Hemingway, by contrast, with less inspiration, with less passion and less craziness but with a splendid severity, left the screws fully exposed, as they are on freight cars. Maybe for that reason Faulkner is a writer who has had much to do with my soul, but Hemingway is the one who had the most to do with my craft - not simply for his books, but for his astounding knowledge of the aspect of craftsmanship in the science of writing. In his historic interview with George Plimpton in The Paris Review, (Hemingway) showed for all time - contrary to the Romantic notion of creativity -that economic comfort and good health are conducive to writing; that one of the chief difficulties is arranging the words well; that when writing becomes hard it is good to reread one's own books, in order to remember that it always was hard; that one can write anywhere so long as there are no visitors and no telephone; and that it is not true that journalism finishes off a writer, as has so often been said - rather, just the opposite, so long as one leaves it behind soon enough. ''Once writing has become the principal vice and the greatest pleasure,'' he said, ''only death can put an end to it.'' Finally, his lesson was the discovery that each day's work should only be interrupted when one knows where to begin again the next day. I don't think that any more useful advice has ever been given about writing. It is, no more and no less, the absolute remedy for the most terrible specter of writers: the morning agony of facing the blank page. (GGM hablando de Hemingway)

Everywhere and every time, I have encountered fear of thought, repression of thought, as an almost universal desire to scape or else stifle this ferment of restlessness. During the dictatorship of the proletariat, when Red posters proclaimed that 'the reign of the workers will never end', no one would admit any doubt as to the eternity of a régime which was quite clearly exceptional, formed in the course of siege. Our great Marxists of Russia, nurtured on Science, would not admit any doubt concerning the dialectical conception of Nature—which is, however, no more than a hypothesis, and one difficult to sustain at that. The leadership of the Communist International classified as a moral lapse, or as a crime, the slightest doubt as to the triumphal future of their organization. Later, in the heart of the Opposition, with all the integrity of its ideals, Trotsky would not tolerate any point of view different from his own. I say nothing of other sorts of men, victims to waves of mob-hysteria, to the blindness of private interests or the inertia of tradition. In 1918 I was nearly torn to pieces by my French workmates because I defended the Russian Revolution at the moment of the Brest-Litovsk negotiations. Twenty years later, I was nearly torn to pieces by the same workers because I denounced the totalitarism which has sprung from that Revolution.

I have seen the intellectuals from the Left, responsible for editing reputable reviews and journals, refuse to publish the truth, even though it was absolutely certain, even though they did not contest it; but they found it painful, they preferred to ignore it, it was in contradiction with their moral and material interests (the two generally go together). In politics I have observed the appalling powerlessness of accurate prediction, which brings boycott, slander or persecution on him who predicts. The role of critical intelligence has semed to me to be dangerous, and very nearly useless. That is the most pesimistic conclusion to which I have felt myself drawn. I am careful not to state it finally; I blame the feeling on my personal weakness, and I persist in regarding critical and percipient thought as an absolute necessity, as a categorical imperative which no one can evade without damage to himself and harm to society, and, besides, as the source of immense satisfactions. Better times will come, and perhaps soon. It is a matter of holding fast and keeping faith until then. (Victor Serge, Memoirs of a Revolutionary)

Jerry's great-grandfather, John Westley Roy, came to Michigan from Missouri in 1931, in the depths of the Depression. He built a home five blocks north of a plant operated by General Motors' AC Delco division and worked there for a decade before he was injured and retired to a farm.

Mr. Roy's grandfather, Edward, worked at the Delco plant during the war, when it was converted into a machine-gun plant: he would tell a story about a day one of the guns came off a mount and began shooting holes in the wall of a cafeteria.

When you see me spend hours
Holding in a too-local glance
Your mouth or teeth, or your hand
And note how my soul devours
With a sleep-like trance
The commonest things that stand,

And ask me what in them I see
Since in to each my spirit delves
As if each had a mystery,
You err in your conjecturings,
For whatever obsesses me
Is not things in their many selves
But the being there of things.

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Su familia asegura que no han recibido el apoyo que esperaban del Gobierno colombiano y la distancia y la dificultad con el idioma hacen más dramático el regreso. Familiares que viven en Estados Unidos tuvieron que recurrir a un restaurante chino, donde un empleado ha servido de interlocutor con las autoridades chinas.

Body hanging from tree mistaken for Halloween decoration.

Así lo denunció la Asociación Protectora de Animales Ayudar, cuyo presidente, el veterinario Carlos Bayona, dijo que las aves fueron envenenadas.

Bayona pidió a la población suministrar información a las autoridades para que investiguen y castiguen a los responsables.

El caso ocurrió el sábado pasado, cuando las palomas murieron tras consumir, al parecer, un peligroso raticida que les dieron en la alimentación.

La evidencia del envenenamiento la obtuvo Bayona después de hacer pruebas biológicas en las que le dio de comer a un pollito parte del contenido alimenticio extraído del intestino de dos palomas muertas y la reacción fue similar. (tomado de EL TIEMPO)

Y es que el lujo de no ir directamente al grano y la preeminencia de las buenas formas, sin olvidar el derroche generoso y despreocupado de tiempo que éstas conllevan, es justamente la esencia de la dignidad humana, es decir, lo que nos eleva por encima de lo meramente natural y conforma la verdadera civilización.

— Watanabe, ¿sabes lo que más me gusta de las películas porno?

— No.

— Pues que cuando empieza una escena de sexo se oye cómo alrededor en la sala todo el mundo traga saliva. ¡Glup! —comentó Midori—. Me encanta ese ¡glups! ¡es muy gracioso!

En una película documental y yugoslava se ve cómo el instinto del pulpo hembra entra en juego para proteger por todos los medios a sus huevos, y entre otras medidas de defensa organiza su propio camuflaje amontonando algas y disimulándose tras ellas para no ser atacada por las murenas durante los dos meses que dura la incubación.

Como todo el mundo, Lucas contempla antropomórficamente las imágenes: el pulpo decide protegerse, busca las algas, las dispone frente a su refugio, se esconde. Pero todo eso (que en una primera tentativa de explicación igualmente antropomórfica fue llamado instinto a falta de mejor cosa) sucede fuera de toda conciencia, de todo conocimiento por rudimentario que pueda ser. Si por su parte Lucas hace el esfuerzo de asistir también como desde fuera, ¿qué le queda? Un mecanismo, tan ajeno a las posibilidades de su empatía como el moverse de los pistones en los émbolos o el resbalar de un líquido por un plano inclinado.

Considerablemente deprimido, Lucas se dice que a esas alturas lo único que cabe es una especie de intrapolación: también esto, lo que está pensando en este momento, es un mecanismo que su conciencia cree comprender y controlar, también esto es un antropomorfismo aplicado ingenuamente al hombre.

«No somos nada», piensa Lucas por él y por el pulpo.

El orgullo, cuando aparece sólo, sin el añadido de la vanidad, se manifiesta, en sus resultados, como timidez: quien se siente grande, y no obstante desconfía de que los otros lo reconozcan como tal, teme confrontar la opinión que tiene de sí mismo con la opinión que los otros puedan tener de él.

We strolled through fields all wet with rain
And back along the lane again
They were the sun shine
In the sweet summertime
The way that young lovers do

I kissed you on the left once more
And we said goodbye by the door in the nighttime
Yeah, that's the right time
To feel the way that young lovers do

Then we sat on our own star and dreamed of the way that we were and the
way that we were meant to be
Then we sat on our own star and dreamed of the way that I was for you
and you were for me
And then we danced the night away
And turned to each other, say, 'I love you, I love you'
The way that young lovers do

"I'm just being what?" Nicholson asked, with a little excess of politeness.

"Logical. You're just giving me a regular, intelligent answer," Teddy said. "I was trying to help you. You asked me how I get out of the finite dimensions when I feel like it. I certainly don't use logic when I do it. Logic's the first thing you have to get rid of."

Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là ; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu à votre guise, mais enivrez-vous!
Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l'étoile, à l'oiseau, à l'horloge; à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est. Et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront, il est l'heure de s'enivrer ; pour ne pas être les esclaves martyrisés du temps, enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse de vin, de poésie, de vertu, à votre guise.

Quando as coisas do coração
Não consegue compreender
O que a mente não faz questão
E nem tem forças para obedecer
Quantos sonhos já destruí
E deixei escapar das mãos
E se o futuro assim permitir
Não pretendo viver em vão
Meu amor não estamos sós
Tem um mundo a esperar por nós
Do infinito do céu azul
Pode ter vida em marte
Entao vem cá
Me dá a sua língua
Então vem
Eu quero abraçar vocë
Seu poder vem do sol
Minha medida
Entao vem
Vamos viver a vida
Então vem
Se não eu vou perder quem sou
Vou querer me mudar
Para uma Life on Mars

Entao vem
Se nao eu vou perder quem sou
Seu poder vem do sol
Minha medida
Então vem
Vamos viver a vida
Meu bem
Se nao eu vou perder quem sou
Ou ou ou
Vou querer me mudar
Para uma Life on Mars

Pero tengo una duda. ¿Merece la pena emprender ese viaje tan largo sólo para volver y contar la inacabable serie de sucesos raros que me habrán acontecido? ¿Y si me quedo en casa y simplemente los imagino?