Andover Quotes

Oh fer Christ's bloody sake Martha I didna' raise ye to be well regarded. To be liked. Any puny weak-waisted slut can be liked. I raised ye to be reckoned with.

You ask me what makes a woman comely?" He tapped one finger lightly against her temple and said, "Thoughts, missus. It's thoughts that make a woman so.

The military was providing him (George H.W. Bush) with an education that was not available at Andover or Yale.

You are the deer shot through with arrows whose heart grows cold for want of being taken.

he went to Andover. Big, big deal.

Tell your children your mother was a woman who, with all her multitude of shortcomings, was more ferocious than kind, more contentious than agreeable, more irate than placid; but who cherished her family above all else.

(...) o parvalhão reparou nela e aproximou-se para a cumprimentar. Haviam de ouvir a maneira como se cumprimentaram. Haviam de pensar que não se viam há vinte anos. Haviam de pensar que tomavam banho na mesma banheira ou coisa assim quando eram pequenos. Amigos do coração. Era de vómitos. O mais engraçado era que provavelmente se tinham encontrado uma única vez, numa festa pirosa qualquer. Finalmente, quando deram por terminadas as lambuzadelas, a amiga Sally apresentou-nos. Chamava-se George qualquer coisa - já nem sequer me lembro - e andava em Andover. Só mesmo visto. Haviam de o ver quando a amiga Sally lhe perguntou o que achava da peça. Era o tipo de armante que tem de se dar espaço para responder a qualquer pergunta que lhe façam.

Two years ago, George Bush felt prompted to address this issue. More spending on public education, said the president, isn’t “the best answer.” Mr. Bush went on to caution parents of poor children who see money “as a cure” for education problems. “A society that worships money …,” said the president, “is a society in peril.” The president himself attended Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts—a school that spends $11,000 yearly on each pupil, not including costs of room and board. If money is a wise investment for the education of a future president at Andover, it is no less so for the child of poor people in Detroit. But the climate of the times does not encourage this belief, and the president’s words will surely reinforce that climate.

I hadn’t gone to Andover, or Horace Mann or Eton. My high school had been the average kind, and I’d been the best student there. Such was not the case at Eli. Here, I was surrounded by geniuses. I’d figured out early in my college career that there were people like Jenny and Brandon and Lydia and Josh—truly brilliant, truly luminous, whose names would appear in history books that my children and grandchildren would read, and there were people like George and Odile—who through beauty and charm and personality would make the cult of celebrity their own. And then there were people like me. People who, through the arbitrary wisdom of the admissions office, might share space with the big shots for four years, might be their friends, their confidantes, their associates, their lovers—but would live a life well below the global radar. I knew it, and over the years, I’d come to accept it. And I understood that it didn’t make them any better than me.

Noah is the heir to a banking fortune, an Andover boy from Philadelphia's Main Line who is such a brat that when Harvard told him he had to take time off before entering as a freshman, he actually hired a consultant to plan the year for him. He does so much coke that I have started to wonder how he will look with a third nostril. I don't really like him much, but for some reason I will do anything to get him to like me, an impossible task, because he just doesn't. I keep thinking that if I could only win Noah's love, I would finally feel as if I've actually arrived at Harvard, appended myself to someone so integral to the place, so at home here, so at home on this earth and in his own skin in a way that I will never be, that the minefields in my head would stop exploding at long last.

valley? That should be interesting for you.” “I haven’t decided what I’m doing yet.” “I’d be happy to help,” Mr. Bally said. “I’m an expert on the subject you’re studying.” He picked up one of the microfilm boxes. “Judges in these contests like primary sources.” I knew that. Judges in these contests always liked primary sources. I was already using one. “Tell me about Andover,” I’d said to Cissy Langer, sitting in her back room with a wall full of piggy dolls staring at me. “Oh, my goodness, Mimi, what a question,” she’d said. I took the glass of iced tea, and I took the plate of chocolate chip cookies, and I set my tape recorder between them. I’d borrowed it from the school librarian. “I’ve already got some primary sources,” I said to Winston Bally in the conference room. We all pick and choose the things we talk about, I guess. I’d listened to my mother and Cissy talk about growing up together for maybe hundreds of hours, about sharing a seat and red licorice ropes on the bus, about getting licked for wearing their Sunday dresses into the woods one day, about the years when they both moved back in with their parents while their husbands went to war. And somehow I’d never really noticed that all the stories started when they were ten, that there were no stories about the four-year-old Miriam, the six-year-old Cissy, about the day when they were both seven when Ruth came home from the hospital, a bundle of yellow crochet yarn and dirty diaper. It made sense, I guess, since it turned out Cissy had grown up in a place whose name I’d never even heard because it had been wiped off the map before I’d ever even been born. “My whole family lived in Andover,” Cissy said. “My mother and

In mid-sentence, there was a jolt and the unmistakable hissing sound of the steam engine was heard. The train came to life and started to roll out of the terminal, chugging away. Still hanging out of the window waving to my mother, I suddenly got a cinder in my eye from the black cloud of smoke that descended upon us. Closing the window helped, but smoke and cinders continued coming into our car. The cinder aggravated my eye most of the way to Andover, New Jersey, our destination. Now I perceived that I had two problems. The most important one was that I did not want anyone to think that I was crying, and the second one was this damn aggravating cinder in my eye. Somehow, I must have eventually removed it, but it was dirty riding on the trains back in those days…. Never mind, I was on my way!

About this time two plantations began to be settled upon Merrimack, Pentuckett called Averill, and Cochichawick called Andover.

did not at first appreciate how academically disadvantaged I was—especially compared with classmates from elite prep schools like Andover and Exeter and top-flight public schools like Bronx Science.

I did not at first appreciate how academically disadvantaged I was—especially compared with classmates from elite prep schools like Andover and Exeter and top-flight public schools like Bronx Science.

My first challenge was explaining Andover to my friends in Texas. In those days, most Texans who went away to high school had discipline problems. When I told a friend that I was headed to a boarding school in Massachusetts, he had only one question: “Bush, what did you do wrong?

He has not shown the special interest in reading that we should like to see but he likes shop work. George H. W. Bush's parents on his Andover application

One of George H. W. Bush's early teachers at Andover wrote, "At the moment he is intellectually immature for his powers of reasoning are not entirely developed.

Already a connoisseur of boredom, Tony extended his acquaintance with Salisbury's furnished lodgings and the cheap residential hotels of Andover.

Yet that's how it felt for years and years -- that Andover ground me beneath the heel of its Bass Weejuns because it needed losers to make its golden Adonises shine even brighter. I wandered through so lost and sad, I can't believe nobody ever asked me what was wrong. Nothing, I would have said, by which I would have meant Everything.

LOU SANDERS WAS on his way to joining the infantilized and catatonic denizens belted into the wheelchairs of a North Andover nursing home

First, some clarification of misunderstood aspects of the ‘Salem witchcraft.’ Salem was the seat of Essex County, and thus, the location of the jail and courthouse. The first ‘witchcraft’ incidents appear to have taken place in Salem Village, which was the original name of what is today, Danvers, Massachusetts. Charges quickly were made in other Essex County towns, including Salem Town. The largest number of charges were made in Andover – more than fifty.

The first indication of unraveling Puritanism occurred in Andover in 1681 when Pastor Frances Dane significantly reduced his preaching. There is no historical record that specifically explains why he did that, but there are many clues. Because of Dane’s reduced preaching,

But then, on a brisk February evening my junior year, I attended a free yoga class at the Harvard Divinity School Andover Chapel. I came in fully expecting to do cat, cow, and child’s pose. Our instructor, Nicholas, who was also a graduate student there, had us on our backs with taut abs, legs held in the air in a ninety-degree position, neck lifted off the ground, hands stretched above our heads. I had become the sleeping dragon. One minute in, my body was trembling. You can’t. I told myself I could. You can’t. I opened my eyes and saw everyone else peacefully holding their pose. This voice yelling at me wasn’t my own. So where was it coming from? You can’t. It was Hang telling me to dump my elementary school best friends who still played with toy horses at thirteen. He said I needed to be more strategic about my social ranking. You can’t be friends with them. My sister excluding me from her life when we became teenagers. You can’t hang out with us. Ba calling me pathetic when I told him I wasn’t pursuing med school. You can’t even try because you’re too dumb. I screamed, You can’t, right back inside of my head, telling all of them what I never had the courage to say. My body shuddered as the rage escaped my body like bats flying out from a cave. Hot tears fell from the sides of my eyes into the chapel carpet floor. And then I heard a clear voice inside of me speak. It was not mine, it was someone else’s. “All those times you’ve felt unloved or alone, you weren’t. God, through the presence of the body, has always been there for you.” Who was this voice? And how could my body be the key to loving myself? My body was always something I had seen as an inconvenience, a detached thing I had to fix. But tonight, I felt welcome to get to know my body.

Sometimes our father asked us questions: “Do you have any ideas on what might help Xue survive in this country?” We could not offer good answers. We could not stop the white boys at school from hurting Xue or change the rules and protocol of the school district to take bullying and racism into account; we could not undo a system that was as old as this country we were told to call home. It all felt much too late. The newspaper articles about the culture of fear and the suicide epidemic that would break the silence of the Anoka-Hennepin School District hadn’t yet been written. It was only 2003. It wasn’t until 2012 that Dawb and I read Rolling Stone magazine’s piece about the bullying that was killing kids in Andover and other cities in Anoka County and shared it with our mother and father.

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This is a short cut to knowing one another,” he explained. “School and college and medical school first, please. Joiner and Vickery are from Groton and Harvard; I’m only from Andover and Yale, so they won’t let me stay in the same room with them; but we can keep the door ajar and get some of the air from the high life, now and then.

Richard paused. He drew his hand across his eyes, shuddering. “Milward saw the scratch. He cried out that the cards were marked! Suddenly everyone seemed to be gathered about our table—all talking! Jack had his hand on my shoulder; he and Dare were running through the pack. But all the while I could look at no one but Tracy—Andover. He seemed so sinister, so threatening, in those black clothes of his.

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Sloane describes her own father, Peter, simply as Andover, Princeton, Harvard. You’ll know what I mean, she says, when I say that. She doesn’t intend to boast about education or money. Her feelings about where she came from were metabolized long ago. Now they are a Chanel suit in a cold closet.

the Andover Workhouse scandal.

At the centre of the Andover Workhouse scandal of 1847 was the chairman of the guardians, the Reverend Christopher Dodson, rector of Gateley and Penton Mawsey. He dominated meetings of the board with his sarcastic tongue and a bullying manner. He was a popular figure locally because he kept the poor rate low, largely through economies driving workhouse inmates close to starvation. He also appointed a succession of workhouse masters who proved mostly unsuitable.