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-   -   quotation debate, part II (http://www.zefrank.com/bulletin_new/showthread.php?t=13246)

YsaPur EsChomuw 03-30-2008 02:45 PM

If I only had a little humility I would be perfect.

Ted Turner

12"razormix 03-30-2008 02:54 PM

and i'll pull your crooked teeth
you'll be perfect just like me

billy corgan

zero 03-30-2008 03:08 PM

why can't i be you?

- robert smith

12"razormix 03-30-2008 03:18 PM

you're venus as a boy

zero 03-30-2008 03:34 PM

nothing stands in your way
when youre a boy


Anna 03-30-2008 04:07 PM

One of the rules of Brienne school was that each pupil should know
something about agriculture. To illustrate this study, each one of the
one hundred and fifty boys had a little garden-spot set aside for him to
cultivate and keep in order.

Some of the boys did this from choice, and because they loved to watch
things grow; but many of them were careless, and had no love for fruit
or flowers; so while some of the garden-plots were well kept, others
were neglected.

Napoleon was glad of this garden-plot, for it gave him something which
he could call his own. He cared for it faithfully; but he wished to make
it even more secluded. He remembered his dear grotto at Ajaccio, and
studied over a plan to make his garden-plot just such a real retreat.
But it was not large enough for this. He looked about him. The boys to
whom belonged the garden-plots on either side of him were careless and
neglectful. Their gardens received no attention; they were overgrown
with weeds; their hedges were full of gaps and holes.

"I will take them," said Napoleon; "what one cannot care for, another

Marcus Bales 03-31-2008 09:03 AM

Once upon a time two explorers came upon a clearing in the jungle. In the clearing were growing many flowers and many weeds. One explorer says, "Some gardener must tend this plot." The other disagrees, "There is no gardener." So they pitch their tents and set a watch. No gardener is ever seen. "But perhaps he is an invisible gardener." So they set up a barbed-wire fence. They electrify it. They patrol with bloodhounds. (For they remember how H. G. Well's The Invisible Man could be both smelt and touched though he could not be seen.) But no shrieks ever suggest that some intruder has received a shock. No movements of the wire ever betray an invisible climber. The bloodhounds never give cry. Yet still the Believer is not convinced. "But there is a gardener, invisible, intangible, insensible, to electric shocks, a gardener who has no scent and makes no sound, a gardener who comes secretly to look after the garden which he loves." At last the Sceptic despairs, "But what remains of your original assertion? Just how does what you call an invisible, intangible, eternally elusive gardener differ from an imaginary gardener or even from no gardener at all?"

--Antony Flew

YsaPur EsChomuw 03-31-2008 11:42 AM

”We’re Prisoners of War,” Chacko said. “Our dreams have been doctored. We belong nowhere. We sail unanchored on troubled seas. We may never be allowed ashore. Our sorrows will never be sad enough. Our joys never happy enough. Our dreams never big enough. Our lives never important enough. To matter.”
Then, to give Estha and Rahel a sense of historical perspective (though perspective was something, which, in the weeks to follow, Chacko himself would sorely lack), he told them about the Earth Woman. He made them imagine that the earth – four thousand six hundred million years old – was a forty-six-year-old woman – as old, say, as Aleyamma Teacher, who gave them Malayalam lessons. It had taken the whole of the Earth Woman’s life for the earth to become what it was. For the oceans part. For the mountains to rise. The Earth Woman was eleven years old, Chacko said, when the first single-celled organisms appeared. The first animals, creatures like worms and jellyfish, appeared only when she was forty. She was over forty-five – just eight months ago – when dinosaurs roamed the earth.
“The whole of human civilisation as we know it,” Chacko told the twins, “began only two hours ago in the Earth Woman’s life. As long as it takes us to drive from Ayemenem to Cochin.”
It was an awe-inspiring and humbling thought, Chacko said (Humbling was a nice word, Rahel thought. Humbling along without a care in the world), that the whole contemporary history, the World Wars, the War of Dreams, the Man on the Moon, science, literature, philosophy, the pursuit of knowledge – was no more than a blink of the Earth Woman’s eye.
“And we, my dears, everything we are and ever will be – are just a twinkle in her eye,” Chacko said grandly, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
When he was in this sort of mood, Chacko used his Reading Aloud voice. His room had a church-feeling. He didn’t care whether anyone was listening to him or not. And if they were, he didn’t care, whether or not they had understood what he was saying. Ammu called them his Oxford Moods.
Later, in the light of all that happened, twinkle seemed the completely wrong word to describe the expression in the Earth Woman’s eye. Twinkle was a word with crinkled, happy edges.
While other children of their age learned other things, Estha and Rahel learned how history negotiates its terms and collects its dues from those who break its laws. They heard its sickening thud. They smelled its smell and never forgot it.
History’s smell.
Like old roses on a breeze.
It would lurk for ever in ordinary things. In coat-hangers. Tomatoes. In the tar on the roads. In certain colours. In the plates at a restaurant. In the absence of words. At the emptiness in eyes.
They would grow up grappling with ways of living with what happened. They would try to tell themselves that in terms of geological time it was an insignificant event. Just a blink of the Earth Woman’s eye. That Worse Things had happened. That Worse Things kept happening. But they would find no comfort in the thought.

Arundhati Roy: The God of Small Things

12"razormix 03-31-2008 02:37 PM

i have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.

umberto eco

zero 03-31-2008 03:37 PM

cinema verite is the accountant's truth, as i keep saying. i have insulted many with that, but i've always been after what i call an 'ecstatic truth' — an ecstasy of truth... facts do not create truth. facts create norms, but they do not create an illumination.

- werner herzog

YsaPur EsChomuw 03-31-2008 03:42 PM

‘Look,’ she had said during one of their little chats, ‘ it’s a court of evidence, not truth. We have to forget about the truth, for truth’s sake. The truth is out of reach. And we shouldn’t pretend when we stand up in court that the truth is what we care about. We don’t. We care about what our client says is the truth. I can live with that. It’s the only way to take innocence seriously when all evidence points the other way. The truth? What’s that? It’s something the jury decided after I sat down.’

William Brodrick: the gardens of the dead

zero 03-31-2008 04:49 PM

LAWYER: mr. hill, this bass-fishing defence isn't going to cut it. hmm. were you abused as a child?
HANK: what? no!
LAWYER: are you sure? juries eat that up.
HANK: maybe i ought to tie that long hair on your head to the short hair on your ass and kick you down the street! i told you, i am not a doper!

Anna 03-31-2008 06:22 PM

Karen Crowder: You don't want the money?
Michael Clayton: Keep the money. You'll need it.

Don Jefferies: Is this fellow bothering you?

Michael Clayton: Am I bothering you?

Don Jefferies: Karen, I've got a board waiting in there. What the hell's going on? Who are you?

Michael Clayton: I'm Shiva, the God of death.

T.I.P. 03-31-2008 08:31 PM

"You're Hell's Angels, then ?" asked Big Ted, sarcastically. If there's one thing real Hell's Angels can't abide, it's weekend bikers.

The four strangers nodded.

"What chapter are you from, then?"

The Tall Stranger looked at Big Ted. Then he stood up. It was a complicated motion; if the shores of the seas of night had deck chairs, they'd open up something like that.
He seemed to be unfolding himself forever.
He wore a dark helmet, completely hiding his features. And it was made of that weird plastic, Big Ted noted. Like, you looked in it, and all you could see was your own face.

Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett - Good Omens

Hyakujo's Fox 03-31-2008 09:51 PM

Yes it's true, what they say, it's better the devil you know.

~ Kylie Minogue

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