Agri Quotes

Agricultural sustainability doesn't depend on agritechnology. To believe it does is to put the emphasis on the wrong bit of 'agriculture.' What sustainability depends on isn't agri- so much as culture.

modern agriculture has thoroughly separated the agri from the culture. They’ve killed the meaning of the word—bifurcated it, completely, in just the last thirty or so years.

Die Einfachheit und Nacktheit des primitiven Menschen hatte wenigstens den Vorteil, daß er sich in der Natur als Gast fühlte. War er durch Nahrung und Schlaf erquickt, dann dachte er wieder ans Weiterziehen. Er lebte in der Welt gleichsam wie in einem Zelt, durchstreifte die Täler, überquerte die Ebenen oder kletterte auf Berge. Aber die Menschen haben sich zu Werkzeugen ihrer Werkzeuge gemacht! Der Mensch, der sich frei und unabhängig Beeren pflückte, wenn er hungrig war, ist Farmer geworden, und der einst unter einem Baum Schutz suchte, Hausbesitzer. Wir schlagen nicht mehr für eine Nacht unser Zelt auf, sondern haben uns auf der Erde ansässig gemacht und den Himmel vergessen. Wir haben die christliche Kultur angenommen, doch nur als verbesserte Methode der Agri-Kultur. Wir haben für diese Welt ein Familienhaus und für die andere ein Familiengrab errichtet.

We now no longer camp as for a night, but have settled down on earth and forgotten heaven. We have adopted Christianity merely as an improved method of agri-culture. We have built for this world a family mansion, and for the next a family tomb. The best works of art are the expression of man’s struggle to free himself from this condition, but the effect of our art is merely to make this low state comfortable and that higher state to be forgotten.

Prior to the Industrial Age and during the long Agri-cultural Age life was a matter of survival and the concept of 'happiness' was superfluous, but with the industrial age came 'leisure time' and thus happiness was something one had 'time' to pursue". ~R. Alan Woods [2013]

bukan apa yg kita lihat.. tapi tentang bagaimana kita melihatnya,, dan menginterpretasikannya..

Considering the comparative lifespans of simpler tribal societies and that of the more advanced agri-urban empires of antiquity, even here in the New World, it would be possible, indeed, to make out quite a case for illiteracy as a factor of the safety in keeping population and essential supplies in a working balance, with little or no damage to the basic sources of renewal.

No alumnus of the Class of ’73 would ever forget that electric moment when Thorkjeld Svenson in his Commencement remarks clove a solid oak podium neatly in twain from top to base as he slammed down his fist to emphasize those deathless words, “Agri isn’t a business, it’s a culture!” As a farmer’s highest calling was to serve the earth, but to be merry withal in his labor, so was a hog entitled to its wallow in good, soft mud and a cow to its cud of sweet, fresh grass beneath a shady tree before each fulfilled its ultimate destiny. No fowl went from incubator to coop to stewpot without ever once getting its claws in real dirt to scratch up its own worms.

Dzejas nav, kā ļaudis domā, jūtas (tās ir jau pietiekoši agri) - tās ir pieredzes. Vienas dzejas dēļ ir jāredz daudz pilsētu, cilvēku un lietu, jāpazīst dzīvnieki, jājūt, kā putni laižas, jāzina kustības, ar kādām mazās puķes rītos veras, jāspēj atcerēties ceļi svešos apvidos, negaidītas satikšanās un šķiršanās. Un svešos nepietiek vēl ar to, ka ir atmiņas. Jāspēj tās aizmirst, jo viņu ir daudz, un jābūt lielai pacietībai, gaidot, kad tās no jauna radīsies. Jo pašas atmiņas vēl nav dzeja. Tikai tad, kad tās kļūst par mūsu asinīm, mūsu skatiem un kustībām, bezvārdīgas un neatšķiramas no mums pašiem, - tikai tad var gadīties, ka kādā ļoti dīvainā stundā viņu vidū ceļas un no tām izrīst dzejas pirmais vārds.

I hate spinach," the President of the United States blurted out. "Not the least bit sorry to see it happen." He spoke these candid words in a hush-hush, closed-door meeting with a "special advisor" from agribusiness giant, AgriNu. "Hate it." The President went on, "You know what else I hate? Peas. Despise peas... and there's so many of them." Edwin Edwards (why do parents do that?), otherwise known as Mr. Ed, leaned back with a sly smile. "What if I told you there was a way to get rid of spinach? And peas? And, at the same time, break open this damned European block to our special genetically modified seeds, allowing us to finally take control of the world market?" The President settled back in his seat, indicating for him to go on. Despite not liking vegetables, the President liked a man with a big appetite.

But Hock Seng doesn’t contest the foreigner’s words. He’ll put out the bounty, regardless. If the cats are allowed to stay, the workers will start rumors that Phii Oun the cheshire trickster spirit has caused the calamity. The devil cats flicker closer. Calico and ginger, black as night—all of them fading in and out of view as their bodies take on the colors of their surroundings. They shade red as they dip into the blood pool.  Hock Seng has heard that cheshires were supposedly created by a calorie executive—some PurCal or AgriGen man, most likely—for a daughter’s birthday. A party favor for when the little princess turned as old as Lewis Carroll’s Alice.  The child guests took their new pets home where they mated with natural felines, and within twenty years, the devil cats were on every continent and Felis domesticus was gone from the face of the world, replaced by a genetic string that bred true ninety-eight percent of the time. The Green Headbands in Malaya hated Chinese people and cheshires equally, but as far as Hock Seng knows, the devil cats still thrive there. 

Why did you help AgriGen for so long?" The doctor's eyes narrow. "The same reason you run like a dog for your masters. They paid me in the coin I wanted most." Her slap rings across the water. The guards start forward, but Kanya is already drawing back, shaking off the sting in her hand, waving away the guards. "We're fine. Nothing is wrong." The guards pause, unsure of their duty and loyalties. The doctor touches his broken lip, examines the blood thoughtfully. Looks up. "A sore spot, there. . . How much of yourself have you already sold?" He smiles showing teeth rimed bloody from Kanya's strike. "Are you AgriGen's then? Complicit?" He looks into Kanya's eyes. "Are you here to kill me? To end my thorn in their side?" He watches closely, eyes peering into her soul, observant, curious. "It is only a matter of time. They must know that I am here. That I am yours. The Kingdom couldn't have fared so well for so long without me. Couldn't have released nightshades and ngaw without my help. We all know they are hunting. Are you my hunter, then? Are you my destiny?" Kanya scowls. "Hardly. We're not done with you yet." Gibbons slumps. "Ah, of course not. But then, you never will be. That is the nature of our beasts and plagues. They are not dumb machines to be driven about. They have their own needs and hungers. Their own evolutionary demands. They must mutate and adapt, and so you will never be done with me, and when I am gone, what will you do then? We have released demons upon the world, and your walls are only as good as my intellect. Nature has become something new. It is ours now, truly. And if our creation devours us, how poetic will that be?" "Kamma," she murmurs. "Precisely.

Kanya looks away. "You deserve it. It's your kamma. Your death will be painful." "Karma? Did you say karma?" The doctor leans closer, brown eyes rolling, tongue lolling. "And what sort of karma is it that ties your entire country to me, to my rotting broken body? What sort of karma is it that behooves you to keep me, of all people, alive?" He grins. "I think a great deal about your karma. Perhaps it's your pride, your hubris that is being repaid, that forces you to lap seedstock from my hand. Or perhaps you're the vehicle of my enlightenment and salvation. Who knows? Perhaps I'll be reborn at the right hand of Buddha thanks to the kindnesses I do for you." "That's not the way it works." The doctor shrugs. "I don't care. Just give me another like Kip to fuck. Throw me another of your sickened lost souls. Throw me a windup. I don't care. I'll take what flesh you throw me. Just don't bother me. I'm beyond worrying about your rotting country now." He tosses the papers into the pool. They scatter across the water. Kanya gasps, horrified, and nearly lunges after them before steeling herself and forcing herself to draw back. She will not allow Gibbons to bait her. This is the way of the calorie man. Always manipulating. Always testing. She forces herself to look away from the parchment slowly soaking in the pool and turn her eyes to him. Gibbons smiles slightly. "Well? Are you going to swim for them or not?" He nods at Kip. "My little nymph will help you. I'd enjoy seeing you two little nymphs frolicking together." Kanya shakes her head. "Get them out yourself." "I always like it when an upright person such as yourself comes before me. A woman with pure convictions." He leans forward, eyes narrowed. "Someone with real qualifications to judge my work." "You were a killer." "I advanced my field. It wasn't my business what they did with my research. You have a spring gun. It's not the manufacturer's fault that you are likely unreliable. That you may at any time kill the wrong person. I built the tools of life. If people use them for their own ends, then that is their karma, not mine." "AgriGen paid you well to think so." "AgriGen paid me well to make them rich. My thoughts are my own." He studies Kanya. "I suppose you have a clean conscience. One of those upright Ministry officers. As pure as your uniform. As clean as sterilizer can make you." He leans forward. "Tell me, do you take bribes?" Kanya opens her mouth to retort, but words fail her. She can almost feel Jaidee drifting close. Listening. Her skin prickles. She forces himself not to look over her shoulder. Gibbons smiles. "Of course you do. All of your kind are the same. Corrupt from top to bottom.

Poet Reader Agri-Culture [10w] Poet plants seeds of meaning; readers do all the gleaning.

McKinsey has listed agri-business as one of the hottest areas for Chinese investment. The logic was pretty simple. There is rising demand from consumers and the entire supply chain needs to be improved: land, water, farming, fertilizer, technology, logistics, retail, etc. Almost everything.

If they have money enough for a war, why don't they repair the bridge across the Agri which has been down for four years without anyone moving a finger to fix it? They might make a dam or provide us with more fountains, or plant young trees instead of cutting down the few that are left. We've plenty of land right here, but nothing to go with it.

Ļaunumam nav robežu. Paldies Dievam, skauģi un nelieši saņem pēc nopelniem, agri vai vēlu. Gan skaistuļļi, gan briļļu čūskas.

Ja vēlaties kļūt bagāts, jums jādara trīs lietas: agri jāceļas, smagi jāstrādā un jāizdara vērtīgs atklājums.

Es noliku savu bagāžu nepazīstamās istabās, okšķerēdams visapkārt, lai redzētu, vai viņa jau ir ieradusies, es devos strādāt, pārrados vakarā, lūdzot debesis, lai viņa būtu manā gultā. Reizēm viņa tur bija, reizēm ne. Viņa atnāca nakts vidū, un mēs apmaldījāmies viens otrā, nepārmīdami ne vārda. Mēs smējāmies zem palagiem, sajūsmināti, ka te atrodamies. Nu jā. Tik tālu. Tik tuvi. Reizēm viņa ieradās tikai nākamajā dienā, un es pavadīju nakti, sēžot pie bāra letes un ieklausoties vestibila trokšņos. Reizēm viņa apmetās citā istabā un lika man ierasties agri no rīta. Reizēm viņa neatbrauca, un es viņu ienīdu. Es atgriezos Parīzē neciešamā noskaņojumā. Sākumā man patiešām bija ko darīt, un tad arvien mazāk un mazāk… Ko tik es neizgudroju, lai varētu aizbraukt. Reizēm es redzēju pilsētu un reizēm neredzēju neko citu kā vien viesnīcas istabu. Mums pat gadījās palikt lidostas teritorijā… Tas bija smieklīgi. Pavisam absurdi. Reizēm mēs aizgūtnēm runājām, citreiz mums nebija ko teikt. Uzticīga savam solījumam, Matilde gandrīz nekad nerunāja par savu jūtu dzīvi. Vai arī gultā. Viņa pieminēja cilvēkus vai situācijas, kas mani darīja traku, bet tas bija gultā… Es biju šīs sievietes varā, viņas smalkā, koķetā izskata varā, kad viņa izlikās, ka tumsā sajauc vārdu. Es likos aizvainots, bet biju iznīcināts. Es ņēmu viņu vēl brutālā, lai gan alku turēt savās skavās.. Kad viens no mums abiem spēlējās, otrs cieta. Tas bija pilnīgi absurdi. Es gribēju sagrābt viņu un tik ilgi purināt, līdz viņa izspļauj savu indi. Līdz viņa man saka, ka mīl mani. Lai viņa reiz to man pasaka. Bet es nevarēju, nelietis biju es. Tas viss bija mana vaina…

He advocated land reform, breaking up the big estates, ‘the ranches’ and studying Denmark’s, Holland’s, and Germany’s farming methods so as to promote agri-business, specifically, meat processing, cheese-making and dairying and a range of downstream activities, including agricultural machinery.

Nedzimuša bērna un ļoti agri miruša bērna nāve ir savāda, neizprotama lieta. Tu jau sēro ne tikai par savu iztēli, bet gan par īstu cilvēku, kurš patiešām ir eksistējis. Bet kas viņš bija? Viņš nerunāja, viņš neizpauda ne savas domas, ne raksturu, tos viņam izdomāji tu. Tā ir tava iztēle, tavs pieņēmums, par ko tu sēro, taču reizē arī nav, jo viņš taču pastāvēja fiziski, un tāpat viņam jau bija noslieksmes domāt un paust zināma tipa domas. Tu sēro par nebijušu nākotni. Par kādas būtnes neīstenoto nākotni, un arī tevis paša nākotni, tevis paša citādo laiku, kas ticis atcelts. Par vienu būtni pasaulē mazāk – tātad par veselu lērumu laika mazāk. Varbūt pat par simt gadiem mazāk.

The burdens of government were so greatly reduced by the barbarian conquests that an opening was created for the poor to obtain freehold property and keep it. Some of the agri deserti, or deserted farms abandoned by owners fleeing predatory taxation in the final years of the Roman Empire, were brought back into production. Notwithstanding the rude circumstances of the time and the fact that crop yields were ridiculously low by modern standards, the Dark Ages were a period of relative prosperity for Europe’s smallholders.