Artefacts Quotes

Words tell stories. Specifically, the history of those words - how they came into use, and how their meaning morphed into what they mean today - tell us just as much about a people, if not more, than any other kind of historical artefact.

Not your weapons," Agrona sneered. "Your artifacts. Sigyn's bow. The Horn of Roland. The Swords of Ruslan. And, of course, Vic." "Well, naturally," the sword crowed, his voice swelling with pride. "I do put the art in artefact." I looked down on him. "Really?" I whispered. "You're really going to talk about how awesome you are at a time like this?" "Certainly," Vic said. "Why wouldn't I?

What the...? "Holy S***! You're 250 years old!?" He gives me a wink of his beautiful eye in response. "Surprised?" "Um, hell yeah. Ok, that's pretty much disgusting. Chester the Molester. I've been screwing an ancient artefact!" Dorian & Gabriella

All it takes is for people to believe and I am no longer just an artefact put together by clever engineers. I am an idea, a something made of nothing, whose time has come to be. Some may even call me "Goddess

From the first smouldering taper to the elegant lanterns whose light reverberated around eighteenth-century courtyards and from the mild radiance of those lanterns to the unearthly glow of the sodium lamps that line the Belgian motorways, it has all been combustion. Combustion is the hidden principle behind every artefact we create. The making of a fish-hook, manufacture of a china cup, or production of a television programme, all depend on the same process of combustion. Like our bodies and like our desires, the machines we have devised are possessed of a heart which is slowly reduced to embers.

But I am not his conquest. I am not his to claim. I’m not part of their royal line. I have my own family. And I am my own fucking castle.

ALL ANIMALS PERFORM actions and most do little else. A great many also make artefacts

The pop star, as we knew her" – and here he bowed slightly, in her direction – "was actually an artefact of preubiquitous media." "Of -?" "Of a state in which 'mass' media existed, if you will, within the world." "As opposed to?" "Comprising it.

We ask [ of the computer ] not just about where we stand in nature, but about where we stand in the world of artefact. We search for a link between who we are and what we have made, between who we are and what we might create, between who we are and what, through our intimacy with our own creations, we might become.

Four days after his own funeral, Albert Wilkes came home for Tea.

Her fingers felt small, yet substantial, when he wrapped his own around them. A jolt shot through him at the touch and she stopped, looking at him with a curious expression. Had she felt it, too?

So, you care about me now,’ I said, meaning to make a joke of it, but it came out soft and low and full of something guttural that made me embarrassed. ‘Why?’ “Because I don’t know anybody like you. You’re like … a rare artefact. And it would be a shame if you got broken.’ Amusement spluttered from me in the most unattractive way. ‘Are you really comparing me to an antique right now? Oh my God, you nerd.” He started laughing, and the carefree melody of it swept me up until I was laughing too, and it was absurd because our families were being threatened and murdered and there we were squished together in a hundred-degree heat outside a maximum security prison, and we used to hate each other and now we were laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes. He composed himself first, but it took a while and I was left choking my laughter into silence. ‘What I meant was,’ his face twisted into a quiet smile that felt secret and deadly, ‘you’re a bright spark, Sophie. And I don’t want anyone to snuff you out.’ ‘Oh.’ Well I couldn’t make fun of that. Was I supposed to say something back? Wasn’t that how compliments worked? The silence was growing and suddenly his words felt heavy and important and he was so close to me and I was perspiring and panicking, and … and I said, ‘And you’re kind of like a snowflake.’ Oh, Jesus Christ. He masked his fleeting surprise with a quirked eyebrow. ‘Excuse me?’ ‘Nothing,’ I said quickly. ‘I didn’t say anything.’ ‘No, no,’ he said, rounding on me so his face was too close, his eyes too searing, his smile too irritating. ‘I’m a snowflake, am I?’ ‘Shut up. Seriously.’ I pulled wisps of loose hair around my cheeks. ‘Shut up.’ ‘I think you were trying to tell me I was special.’ ‘Icy,’ I said. ‘I meant you were icy.’ I could practically taste his glee. I was floundering, and he was relishing it. ‘And unique, in that you’re uniquely annoying,’ I added. ‘God, you’re annoying.

Because the idea that a culture could reveal more of itself through its throwaway items than through its supposedly revered artefacts was fascinating to me. Still is.

Religions are often state-protected nurseries of pseudoscience, although there's no reason why religions have to play that role. In a way, it's an artefact from times long gone.

Rigidity of order is the artefact and sediment of the human agents ' freedom.

I have a habit of being an archaeologist of my own past, a sentimental collector of personal artefacts which may at first glance appear random, but each of which holds a unique significance. As the years pass me by, I find that the number of objects within my possession begins to accumulate. A torn map. A sealed letter. A boat full of paper animals. Each item encapsulates within itself a story, akin to an outward manifestation of my inner journey.

In a manner of speaking, the fact that humankind itself is unpredictable is the quintessential stumbling-block for archaeologists. We have to assume that the people whose dwelling-places, artefacts, lives even, we are dealing with were rational, integrated, sane and sensible human beings. Then we look around at our own contemporaries and wonder how this belief can possibly be sustained.

gold light burned faintly. From his cosy window seat, Mario was tracing a frost-flower on the windowpane with an unsure finger. Were its perfectly-rendered geometric patterns a product of nature, or were they an artefact of metaphysics? Was the frost-flower to the Masters what a work of Art was to him? Did the Masters of Strings truly control every aspect of reality? The fractal flower slowly melted under Mario’s fingertip. “No work of chance here,” he bitterly thought. “This was by design.

But the man-moulders of the new age will be armed with the powers of an omnicompetent state and an irresistible scientific technique; we shall get at last a race of conditioners who really can cut out all posterity in what shape they please. [...] It is not that they are bad men. They are not men at all. Stepping outside the Tao, they have stepped into the void. Nor are their subjects necessarily unhappy men. They are not men at all: they are artefacts. Man's final conquest has proved to be the abolition of Man.

Hunger is a language I know. A script I've written a thousand times.

I'm going to die, all because of a fucking bar of soap.

Many people remember that when in 1977 the Voyager spacecraft was launched, opinions were canvassed as to what artefacts would be most appropriate to leave in outer space as a signal of man's cultural achievements on earth. The American astronomer Carl Sagan proposed that 'if we are to convey something of what humans are about then music has to be a part of it.' To Sagan's request for suggestions, the eminent biologist Lewis Thomas answered, 'I would send the complete works of Johann Sebastian Bach.' After a pause, he added, 'But that would be boasting.

She had thought about how everywhere in that place Romans had written the local people out of their history. She was trying to figure out how people valued a thing, what made something revered while other things were overlooked. Who decided what was out with the old, what had to have a replacement? What traditions stayed and what tools, household items, art, things, evidence of someone, languages, fell away. But when she tried to draw a vague line to the artefacts of Prosperous she was stumped — why the artefacts of Middlesbrough were important and not those from home.

Every magician inherits some family artefact. Baz has a wand, like me; all the Pitches are wandworkers. But Penny has a ring. And Gareth has a belt buckle. (It’s really inconvenient—he has to thrust his pelvis forward whenever he wants to cast a spell. He seems to think it’s cheeky, but no one else does.)

uncomfortable truth of libraries throughout the ages: no society has ever been satisfied with the collections inherited from previous generations. What we will frequently see in this book is not so much the apparently wanton destruction of beautiful artefacts so lamented by previous studies of library history, but neglect and redundancy, as books and collections that represented the values and interests of one generation fail to speak to the one that follows. The fate of many collections was to degrade in abandoned attics and ruined buildings, even if only as the prelude to renewal and rebirth in the most unexpected places.

These pieces, he already realised, were merely stepping stones at the start of a journey towards something - some grand artefact, either musical, or literary, or filmic, or perhaps a combination of all three - towards which he knew he was advancing, slowly but with a steady, inexorable tread. Something which would enshrine his feelings for Cicely, and which she would perhaps hear, or read, or see in ten or twenty years' time, and suddenly realize, on her pulse, that it was created for her, intended for her, and that of all the boys who had swarmed around her like so many drones at school, Benjamin had been, without her having the wit to notice it, by far the purest in heart, by far the most gifted and giving. On that day the awareness of all she had missed, all she had lost, would finally break upon her in an instant, and she would weep; weep for her foolishness, and of the love that might have been between them. Of course, Benjamin could always just have spoken to her, gone up to her in the bus queue and asked her for a date. But this seemed to him, on the whole, the more satisfactory approach.

As much as he loved Old Earth artefacts, it was tremendously frustrating at times to know that it wasn’t possible to prove the original purpose of so many of them. Spotting an object he had puzzled over for the past two years, he stopped at its shelf, picked up the crumpled piece of plastic, and unfolded it until it had the approximate shape of a woman. She could be inflated by blowing air into an attached valve. Although he did have his suspicions as to what she was for (and he blushed even thinking about it—he described her as a ‘portable statue of a surprised female’ to potential customers), he still yearned to know whether he was right or not.

Language death is like no other form of disappearance. When people die, they leave signs of their presence in the world, in the form of their dwelling places, burial mounds, and artefacts - in a word, their archaeology. But spoken language leaves no archaeology. When a language dies, which has never been recorded, it is as if it has never been.

With a temper like mine, a girl is bound to get in trouble now and then… or often.

I thought you said this was done,” he replies, his intense gaze searing into me. “Fuck what I said.” “Oh, thank gods.

Only one horse? I’m not riding with you.

in my deepest essence I am just an artefact of our culture, just a little bubble winking at the brim of our civilisation. And when it’s gone, I’ll be gone. Not that I think I mind.

I didn’t want to carry and feed this artefact of my inherent unlovability – this physical proof that any permanent connection to me must be an accident.

to listen to him was a venture of collaboration, in which the things that were spoken of came gradually to be transformed into artefacts of a shared imagining.

artefacts.

One is that phenotypes that extend outside the body do not have to be inanimate artefacts: they can themselves be built of living tissue.

It is why caution must be exercised before accepting the popular but very misleading idea that the brain is a computer, an artefact very unlike an organ. Indeed, computers lack culture.

This book argues that evolution is happening all around us. It is the best way of understanding how the human world changes, as well as the natural world. Change in human institutions, artefacts and habits is incremental, inexorable and inevitable. It follows a narrative, going from one stage to the next; it creeps rather than jumps; it has its own spontaneous momentum,

Artificiality is the reality of the mind. Mind has never been and will never have a given nature. It becomes mind by positing itself as the artefact of its own concept. By realizing itself as the artefact of its own concept, it becomes able to transform itself according to its own necessary concept by first identifying, and then replacing or modifying, its conditions of realization, disabling and enabling constraints. Mind is the craft of applying itself to itself. The history of the mind is therefore quite starkly the history of artificialization. Anyone and anything caught up in this history is predisposed to thoroughgoing reconstitution. Every ineffable will be theoretically disenchanted and every scared will be practically desanctified.

Why do you do that? Do what? Push the sceptic thing so hard!? I mean, it made sense at first, but now? After everything we’ve seen, after everything you’ve read! I hear you recording statements and y-you just dismiss them. You tear them to pieces like they’re wasting your time, but half of the “rational” explanations you give are actually more far-fetched than just accepting it was a, a ghost or something. I mean for god’s sake John, we’re literally hiding from some kind of worm… queen… thing, how, how could you possibly still not believe!? Of course, I believe. Of course I do. Have you ever taken a look at the stuff we have in Artefact Storage? That’s enough to convince anyone. But, but even before that… Why do you think I started working here? It’s not exactly glamorous. I have… I’ve always believed in the supernatural. Within reason. I mean. I still think most of the statements down here aren’t real. Of the hundreds I’ve recorded, we’ve had maybe… thirty, forty that are… that go on tape. Now, those, I believe, at least for the most part. Then why do you – Because I’m scared, Martin!. Because when I record these statements it feels… it feels like I’m being watched. I… I lose myself a bit. And then when I come back, it’s like… like if I admit there may be any truth to it, whatever’s watching will… know somehow. The skepticism, feigning ignorance. It just felt safer.

Lillian comes out of the kitchen carrying an artefact, the blue metal tin marked Danish Butter Cookies that if I didn't know better I would swear had been in the family for generations - when the Jews left Egypt, they took with them the tins of Danish Butter Cookies. And tins, which as best as I could tell never included Danish Butter Cookies, traveled from house to house, but always, always found their way back to Lillian.

Blue jeans are perhaps the most ubiquitous carrier of working-man symbolism. Presently I struggle with denim. It will be a while before the aroma of Jeremy Clarkson and a host of ageing ‘rebels’ has dissipated from the artefact.

If the phenotypic change in the artefact had an influence on the success of replication of the new gene, natural selection would act, positively or negatively, to change the probability of similar artefacts existing in the future.

archaeological evidence consists mainly of fossilised bones and stone tools. Artefacts made of more perishable materials – such as wood, bamboo or leather – survive only under unique conditions. The common impression that pre-agricultural humans lived in an age of stone is a misconception based on this archaeological bias. The Stone Age should more accurately be called the Wood Age, because most of the tools used by ancient hunter-gatherers were made of wood.

From the viewpoint of this book an animal artefact, like any other phenotypic product whose variation is influenced by a gene, can be regarded as a phenotypic tool by which that gene could potentially lever itself into the next generation.

To be human is the only way out of being human. An alternative exit— either by unbinding sentience from sapience or by circumventing sapience in favour of a direct engagement with the technological artefact—cannot go beyond the human. Rather it leads to a culture of cognitive pettiness and self-deception that is daily fodder for the most parochial and utilitarian political systems that exist on the planet. In delivering sentience from its so-called sapient yoke, one does not become posthuman, or even animal, but falls back on an ideologically charged ‘biological chauvinism’ that sapience ought to overcome, for it is the very idea of humanist conservatism that misrepresents what is accidental and locally contingent as what is necessary and universal. In discarding the human in the hope of an immediate contact with superintelligence or a self-realization of the technological artefact, one either surreptitiously subjects the future to the predetermined goals of conservative humanism, or subscribes to a future that is simply the teleological actualization of final causes and thus a resurrection of the well-worn Aristotelian fusion of reasons and causes. Human sapience is the only project of exit.

The flowers in Tibet were always taller, more fragrant and vivid. Her descriptions, imprecise but unchanging from year to year lead me to an inevitable acceptance that her past was unequaled by our present lives. She would tell me of knee-deep fields of purple, red and white- plants never named or pointed out to during our years in India and Nepal- that over time served to create an idea of her fatherland, phayul, as a riotous garden. I pictured her wilderness paradise by comparing them not to the marigolds, daises or bluebells I crushed with my fingers, but to the shape of household artefacts around me: lollipop, broom, bottle. Disparate objects that surrendered to and influenced the idea, space and hope of a more abundant and happy place.

It's reasonable to try for success. Paradoxically, it's also sane to admit defeat. This excels the coming of the end. And when that tide has crested and broken, it recedes from the shore to leave behind something of principle significance. An artefact borne from the lunatic fight. The human struggle. And I can see myself, not too far into the future, with my hair whipping about in the fray of coastal spray, arching low to pick up that wriggling, billion-limbed nautilus, to hold it to my winter-cold ear, to hear what I could hear.

Historical research is well and fine,’ said Letty. ‘All you have to do is look at artefacts, documents, and the like. But how do you research the history of words? How do you determine how far they’ve travelled?’ Professor Lovell looked very pleased by this question. ‘Reading,’ he said.

Goods were arranged in glass cabinets as if they were ancient Egyptian artefacts. I was a contaminant, a fly in the gourmet soup, a spanner in the golden machine that sparkled and hummed before my eyes." Reid, A. J. (2012-11-08). A Smaller Hell (Kindle Locations 319-321). . Kindle Edition.

Agatha Chubb, expert in ancient wizarding artefacts, has identified no fewer than twelve lead Bludgers dating from this period, discovered both in Irish peat bogs and English marshes. "They are undoubtedly Bludgers rather than cannonballs," she writes. The faint indentations of magically reinforced Beaters' bats are visible and one can see the distinctive hallmarks of manufacture by a wizard (as opposed to a Muggle) - the smoothness of line, the perfect symmetry. A final clue was the fact that each and every one of them whizzed around my study and attempted to knock me to the floor when released from its case,

I’m not supposed to be doing this…but I can’t seem to help myself around you.

When he bonded to his queen, he would settle for nothing less than someone who set his blood on fire.

Gabriel’s a captain?” “Of the king’s personal guard, yes.

She’s mine. I don’t know why I believe it with such conviction, but deep in my bones, I know she belongs to me. And I’ll die before anyone else touches her.

The one ring, to rule them all’? Sounds very far-fetched to me!

That b**** took my soap.

Yes, you can. You’re going to do this because you are the strongest fucking woman I’ve ever met. Because you’re a queen without her crown and it’s time to take it back. Do you hear me?

After Independence, Uganda -- A European artefact -- was still forming as a country rather than a kingdom in the minds of ordinary Gandas. They were lulled by the fact that Kabaka Muteesa II was made president of the new Uganda. Nonetheless most of them felt that 'Uganda' should remain a kingdom for the Ganda under their kabaka so that things would go back to the way things were before the Europeans came. Uganda was a patchwork of fifty or so tribes. The Ganda did not want it. The union of tribes brought no apparent advantage to them apart from a deluge of immigrants from wherever, coming to Kampala to take their land. Meanwhile, the other fifty or so tribes looked on flabbergasted as the British drew borders and told them that they were now Ugandans. Their histories, cultures and identities were overwritten by the mispronounced name of an insufferably haughty tribe propped above them. But to the Ganda, the reality of Uganda as opposed to Buganda only sank in when, after independence, Obote overran the kabakas lubiri with tanks, exiling Muteesa and banning all kingdoms. The desecration of their kingdom by foreigners paralyzed the Ganda for decades.

I also have to credit Bill Bilby, owner of Chelsea Books, with two other important lessons: first, his shop was always tidy and thoughtfully-organized –a remarkable trait in secondhand shops; and second, he was visibly enthusiastic about his stock. He was the first bookseller I knew to describe a book-artefact as “sexy”! A cynic might denigrate this latter trait as a mere sales tactic –because indeed his infectious enthusiasm successfully sold lots of books –but the fact is that the guy was, and is, just a completely mad bibliophile, and being in his shop with him, listening to him effuse about his books, and watching the way he would stroke them and savour them, was profound. It made me realize that we in the trade are actually evangelists of bibliophilia, and embracing and spreading that passion is the only way to ensure our survival.

He reaches out, his thumb gently brushing my cheek, where I know the bottom tip of my scar sits. “It’s ugly, I know. But it’s a reminder,” I say, waiting for him to grimace or make a scathing remark. “It’s not ugly at all. It’s noble.” “It speaks to something important about your character that you wear it so proudly. I’ve never, for one moment, thought it was ugly. I remember the first time I saw you at the ball, how beautiful you were.

It’s there, in all its decaying glory. A story of sadness and loss. Of ego and mistakes and the consequences of wanting too much. A shadow of the legacy that has haunted me every single day of my life. The Queendom of Heart.

5 principles of service design thinking MARC STICKDORN 1. User-centred Services should be experienced through the customer’s eyes. 2. Co-creative All stakeholders should be included in the service design process. 3. Sequencing The service should be visualised as a sequence of interrelated actions. 4. Evidencing Intangible services should be visualised in terms of physical artefacts. 5. Holistic The entire environment of a service should be considered. A

When Michael Cremo visited Ukraine’s Dnepropetrovsk Historical Museum, the head of the archaeology collection, Dr Larisa Churilova, showed him artefacts that indicated an early Stone Age belief in reincarnation. Her reason for not publishing her findings was that the editors of journals are uncomfortable with cultural interpretations. They just want to print things like ‘a stone flake two centimetres long was found at a depth of one metre in the excavation.

Until recently it has been assumed that in similar cases in the Scandinavian homelands, exotic and imported artefacts buried with women were gifts from men. This is especially so in western Norway, where artefacts looted from Britain and Ireland have mostly been found in women’s graves. But the new isotopic and genetic evidence on migration has forced us to rethink the interpretation of these burials. The recurring problem is trying to work out whether it was the object or its owner who travelled. When it comes to women in the Viking Age, the conclusion has almost always been the former, which has had an enormous impact on how we have viewed women’s agency – their involvement and individual participation – in the entire period. Partly the issue is that the interpretation of the objects has been based on a number of assumptions that lead to circular arguments, a serpent biting its own tail, going right the way back to the start of the Viking Age.

My thesis has been that the slight further conceptual step outside the immediate body is a comparatively minor one. Nevertheless it is an unfamiliar one, and I tried to develop the idea in stages, working through inanimate artefacts to internal parasites controlling their hosts’ behaviour. From internal parasites we moved via cuckoos to action at a distance. In theory, genetic action at a distance could include almost all interactions between individuals of the same or different species. The living world can be seen as a network of interlocking fields of replicator power.

August wanted to hand the papers back and to tell them everything, draw them close and whisper that their lives had turned out wrong, that she and her family were meant to be powerful, not broken, tell them that something bad happened before any of them was born. Tell them that something was stolen from a place inland, from the five hundred acres where her people lived. She wanted to tell them that the world was all askew and she thought it was because of the artefacts, that she thought they should understand it was all so urgent now, that they knew truths now tell them that she wasn’t extinct, that they didn’t need the exhibition after all.

Imagine a crown of thorns, twisted, dark and unreflective, grown too thickly tangled to ever rest on any human head. Put it in orbit around a failed star whose own reflected half-light does little more than throw its satellites into silhouette. Occasional bloody highlights glinted like dim embers from its twists and crannies; they only emphasized the darkness everywhere else. Imagine an artefact that embodies the very notion of torture, something so wrenched and disfigured that even across uncounted lightyears and unimaginable differences in biology and outlook, you can't help but feel that somehow, the structure itself is in pain. Now make it the size of a city.

The setting sun paints the water in hues of pink and orange, and every time I think I’ve witnessed the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, I find yet another to surpass it. I wonder if I’ll ever get over this sensation of seeing everything as if for the very first time. I’ve barely lived. My entire life has been experienced on the edge of nothing.

I bought the air freshener for four euro because it was a kind of artefact translated into many languages, and also because it was clearly an interpretation of a woman ( breasts belly apron eyelashes) and I had becomes confused by the signs for servicios in public places. I could not figure out why one sign was male and the other female. The most common stick figure sign was not particularly male or female. Did I need this aerosol to make things clearer to me? What kind of clarity was I after? I had conquered Juan who was Zeus the thunderer as far as I was concerned, but the signs were all mixed up because his job in the injury hut was to tend the wounded with his tube of ointment. He was maternal, brotherly, he was like a sister, perhaps paternal, he had become my lover. Are we all lurking in each other's sign? Do I and the woman on the air freshener belong to the same sign? Another aeroplane was flying above the market, it's metal body heavy in the sky. A male pilot I had met in the Coffee House had told me that an aircraft was always referred to as 'she'. His task was to keep her in balance, to make her a extension of his hands, to make her responsive to the lightest of touch. She was sensitive and needed to be handled delicately. A week later, after we had slept together, I discovered that he was also responsive to the lightest of touch. It wasn't clarity I was after. I wanted things to be less clear.

The introduction of cinematography enabled us to corral time past and thus retain it not merely in the memory - at best, a falsifying receptacle - but in the objective preservative of a roll of film. But, if past, present and future are the dimensions of time, they are notoriously fluid. There is no tension in the tenses and yet they are always tremulously about to coagulate. The present is a liquid jelly which settles into a quivering, passive mass, the past, as soon as - if not sooner than - we are aware of it as present. Yet this mass was intangible and existed only conceptually until arrival of the preservative, cinema. The motion picture is usually regarded as only a kind of shadow play and few bother to probe the ontological paradoxes it presents. For it offers us nothing less than the present tense experience of time irrefutably past. So that the coil of film has, as it were, lassoed inert phenomena from which the present had departed, and when projected upon a screen, they are granted a temporary revivification. [...] The images of cinematography, however, altogether lack autonomy. Locking in programmed patterns, they merely transpose time past into time present and cannot, by their nature, respond to the magnetic impulses of time future for the unachievable future which does not exist in any dimension, but nevertheless organizes phenomena towards its potential conclusions. The cinematographic model is one of cyclic recurrences alone, even if these recurrences are instigated voluntarily, by the hand of man viz. the projectionist, rather than the hand of fate. Though, in another sense, the action of time is actually visible in the tears, scratches and thumbprints on the substance of the film itself, these are caused only by the sly, corrosive touch of mortality and, since the print may be renewed at will, the flaws of aging, if retained, increase the presence of the past only by a kind of forgery, as when a man punches artificial worm-holes into raw or smokes shadows of fresh pain with a candle to produce an apparently aged artefact. Mendoza, however, claimed that if a thing were sufficiently artificial, it became absolutely equivalent to the genuine.

He lowers his head and peers at me, meeting my eyes. “No. I can see the life you’ve lived in the depths of your eyes. You are no fool, and you are not ignorant. Perhaps you didn’t learn how to waltz or play the piano, but those are things the rich do merely to fill their time. They aren’t important and they mean nothing. You’ve lived, Lor. You must have experienced so many terrible things in that prison.

Lor! When are you going to get it through your head that I am totally, completely fucking in love with you!” She attempts to retreat, but I take another step until she’s backed against the window. “You’re all I think about. I’ve never felt like this about anyone, and I’d do anything for you. You’ve become my air and my blood and my only reason to exist. I love you, Lor. I love you so much it makes my heart feel ready to burst.

How can this woman have spent half her life in Nostraza and turn out like that? It should have broken her. It should have left her as a shell. But somehow, she survived both that and Atlas’s Trials and came out on the other end in a blazing ball of confident fire that threatens to burn me up every time she walks into the room. It’s as though her spirit has always understood her legacy and her purpose. She behaves exactly like a queen. A slightly wild one with a short fuse, but a queen nonetheless.

Nowadays, whether we like it or not, we are stuck with one form or another of advanced technology and we have got to make it work safely and efficiently: this involves, among other things, the intelligent application of structural theory. However, man does not live by safety and efficiency alone, and we have to face the fact that, visually, the world is becoming an increasingly depressing place. It is not, perhaps, so much the occurrence of what might be described as 'active ugliness' as the prevalence of the dull and the commonplace. Far too seldom is the heart rejoiced or does one feel any better or happier for looking at the works of modern man. Yet most of the artefacts of the eighteenth century, even quite humble and trivial ones, seem to many of us to be at least pleasing and sometimes incomparably beautiful. To that extent people—all people—in the eighteenth century lived richer lives than most of us do today. This is reflected in the prices we pay nowadays for period houses and antiques. A society which was more creative and self-confident would not feel quite so strong a nostalgia for its great-grandfathers' buildings and household looks.

Future visitors from outer space, who mount archaeological digs of our planet, will surely find ways to distinguish designed machines such as planes and microphones, from evolved machines such as bat wings and ears. It is an interesting exercise to think about how they will make the distinction. They may face some tricky judgements in the messy overlap between natural evolution and human design. If the alien scientists can study living specimens, not just archaeological relics, what will they make of fragile, highly strung racehorses and greyhounds, or snuffling bulldogs who can scarcely breathe and can't be born without Caesarian assistance, of blear-eyed Pekinese baby surrogates, of walking udders such as Friesian cows, walking rashers such as Landrace pigs, or walking woolly jumpers such as Merino sheep? Molecular machines - nanotechnology - crafted for human benefit on the same scale as the bacterial flagellar motor, may pose the alien scientists even harder problems... Given that the illusion of design conjured by Darwinian natural selection is so breathtakingly powerful, how do we, in practice, distinguish its products from deliberately designed artefacts?... [Graham] Cairns-Smith was writing in a different context, but his point works here too. An arch is irreducible in the sense that if you remove part of it, the whole collapses. Yet it is possible to build it gradually by means of scaffolding[, which after] the subsequent removal of the scaffolding... no longer appears in the visible picture...

The Japanese sense the presence of a divinity in every industrial object. For us, that sacred presence has been reduced to a tiny ironic glimmer, a nuance of play and distantiation. Though this is, none the less, a spiritual form, behind which lurks the evil genius of technology which sees to it itself that the mystery of the world is well-guarded. The Evil Spirit keeps watch beneath artefacts and, of all our artificial productions, one might say what Canetti says of animals: that behind each of them there is a hidden someone thumbing his nose at us. Irony is the only spiritual form in the modern world, which has annihilated all others. It alone is the guardian of the mystery, but it is no longer ours to exercise. For it is no longer a function of the subject; it is an objective function, that of the artificial, object world which surrounds us, in which the absence and transparency of the subject is reflected. The critical function of the subject has given way to the ironic function of the object. Once they have passed through the medium or through the image, through the spectrum of the sign and the commodity, objects, by their very existence, perform an artificial and ironic function. No longer any need for a critical consciousness to hold up the mirror of its double to the world: our modern world swallowed its double when it lost its shadow, and the irony of that incorporated double shines out at every moment in every fragment of our signs, of our objects, of our models. No longer any need to confront objects with the absurdity of their functions, in a poetic unreality, as the Surrealists did: things move to shed an ironic light on themselves all on their own; they discard their meanings effortlessly. This is all part of their visible, all too visible sequencing, which of itself creates a parody effect.

Indeed, it’s a virtue for a scientist to change their mind. The biologist Richard Dawkins recounts his experience of ‘a respected elder statesman of the Zoology Department at Oxford’ who for years had: passionately believed, and taught, that the Golgi Apparatus (a microscopic feature of the interior of cells) was not real: an artefact, an illusion. Every Monday afternoon it was the custom for the whole department to listen to a research talk by a visiting lecturer. One Monday, the visitor was an American cell biologist who presented completely convincing evidence that the Golgi Apparatus was real. At the end of the lecture, the old man strode to the front of the hall, shook the American by the hand and said – with passion – “My dear fellow, I wish to thank you. I have been wrong these fifteen years.” We clapped our hands red … In practice, not all scientists would [say that]. But all scientists pay lip service to it as an ideal – unlike, say, politicians who would probably condemn it as flip-flopping. The memory of the incident I have described still brings a lump to my throat.25 This is what people mean when they talk about science being ‘self-correcting’. Eventually, even if it takes many years or decades, older, incorrect ideas are overturned by data (or sometimes, as was rather morbidly noted by the physicist Max Planck, by all their stubborn proponents dying and leaving science to the next generation). Again, that’s the theory. In practice, though, the publication system described earlier in this chapter sits awkwardly with the Mertonian Norms, in many ways obstructing the process of self-correction. The specifics of this contradiction – between the competition for grants and clamour for prestigious publications on the one hand, and the open, dispassionate, sceptical appraisal of science on the other – will become increasingly clear as we progress through the book. 25. Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion (London: Bantam Books, 2006): pp. 320–21.

Although they made it their own, the Vikings were not the first explorers of the North Atlantic. For at least two centuries before the beginning of the Viking Age, Irish monks had been setting out in their curachs in search of remote islands where they could contemplate the divine in perfect solitude, disturbed only by the cries of seabirds and the crashing of the waves on the shore. The monks developed a tradition of writing imrama, travel tales, the most famous of which is the Navigatio sancti Brendani abbatis (The Voyage of St Brendan the Abbot). The Navigatio recounts a voyage purported to have been made by St Brendan (d. c. 577) in search of the mythical Isles of the Blessed, which were believed to lie somewhere in the western ocean. The imrama certainly show a familiarity with the North Atlantic–the Navigatio, for example, describes what are probably icebergs, volcanoes and whales–but they also include so many fantastical and mythological elements that it is impossible to disentangle truth from invention. There is no evidence to support claims that are often made that St Brendan discovered America before the Vikings, but Irish monks certainly did reach the Faeroe Islands and Iceland before them. Ash from peat fires containing charred barley grains found in windblown sand deposits at Á Sondum on Sandoy in the southern Faeroes has been radiocarbon-dated to between the fourth and sixth centuries AD. Although no trace of buildings has yet been found, the ash probably came from domestic hearths and had been thrown out onto the sand to help control erosion, which was a common practice at the time. As peat was not used as a fuel in Scandinavia at this time but was widely used in Britain and Ireland, this evidence suggests that seafaring Irish monks had discovered the Faeroes not long after Ireland’s conversion to Christianity. No physical traces of an Irish presence in Iceland have been found in modern times, but early Viking settlers claimed that they found croziers and other ecclesiastical artefacts there. There are also two papar place-names (see here) associated with Irish monks, Papos and Papey, in the east of Iceland. The monks, all being celibate males, did not found any permanent self-sustaining communities in either place: they were always visitors rather than settlers.

refuge imagine how it feels to be chased out of home. to have your grip ripped. loosened from your fingertips, something you so dearly held on to. like a lover’s hand that slips when pulled away you are always reaching. my father would speak of home. reaching. speaking of familiar faces. girl next door who would eventually grow up to be my mother. the fruit seller at the market. the lonely man at the top of the road who nobody spoke to. and our house at the bottom of the street lit up by a single flickering lamp where beyond was only darkness. there they would sit and tell stories of monsters that lurked and came only at night to catch the children who sat and listened to stories of monsters that lurked. this is how they lived. each memory buried. an artefact left to be discovered by archaeologists. the last words on a dying family member’s lips. this was sacred. not even monsters could taint it. but there were monsters that came during the day. monsters that tore families apart with their giant hands. and fingers that slept on triggers. the sound of gunshots ripping through the sky became familiar like the tapping of rain fall on a window sill. monsters that would kill and hide behind speeches, suits and ties. monsters that would chase families away forcing them to leave everything behind. i remember when we first stepped off the plane. everything was foreign. unfamiliar. uninviting. even the air in my lungs left me short of breath. we came here to find refuge. they called us refugees so, we hid ourselves in their language until we sounded just like them. changed the way we dressed to look just like them. made this our home until we lived just like them and began to speak of familiar faces. girl next door who would grow up to be a mother. the fruit seller at the market. the lonely man at the top of the road who nobody spoke to. and our house at the bottom of the street lit up by a flickering lamp to keep away the darkness. there we would sit and watch police that lurked and came only at night to arrest the youths who sat and watched police that lurked and came only at night. this is how we lived. i remember one day i heard them say to me they come here to take our jobs they need to go back to where they came from not knowing that i was one of the ones who came. i told them that a refugee is simply someone who is trying to make a home. so next time when you go home tuck your children in and kiss your families goodnight, be glad that the monsters never came for you. in their suits and ties. never came for you. in the newspapers with the media lies. never came for you. that you are not despised. and know that deep inside the hearts of each and every one of us we are all always reaching for a place that we can call home.

Our current guy is so unpopular, he should walk it, except that he's got serious problems of his own. He's seen as being too close to the Russians, for one thing, and we Georgians hate the Russians. On the other hand, we don't just hate them, we fear them too. So if Nergadze can convince voters he's the man to repair our relationship with Moscow without jeopardising our independence, he'll win. That's why he's been filling his speeches with nationalistic bullshit recently, and spending a fortune buying up and repatriating Georgian art and artefacts, doing everything he can to prove himself our greatest patriot.

new kind of realm was gradually formed. This, the human world, is materially rooted in the natural world but is quite different from it. It is populated by individuals who are not just organisms, as is evident in that they inhabit an acknowledged, shared public sphere, structured and underpinned by an infinity of abstractions, generalizations, customs, practices, norms, laws, institutions, facts, and artefacts unknown to even the most “social” of animals.

An outsider's inquisitiveness to know another's private affairs is natural, but not so in children with respect to their parents. Children know the overt personal life of their parents. It is a crime for children to probe into mistakes made by their parents, like detectives looking for evidence of crimes. Any man can make mistakes, however good he may be. It is wrong for children to inquisitively probe into their parents' lives, and have fun or show anger over what they uncover. It is like digging into the heads of ancient statues in search of archaeological artefacts. Nanda spoke with anger.

Contemporary Marxist sf theory from the European tradition can be accused of paying insufficient attention to the ways technoscientific innovations have transformed social life globally – to their potential to transform the means of production, and with them world models, cultural values and human bodies. Jameson has taken on the challenge, after a fashion, in his work on postmodernism and Third World cinema, but his interest in this area is primarily in the effect of technology on art, drawing conclusions about world-currents through elite artefacts.

I didn’t know much about it either. Connie said that it was once traditional for young men of a certain class and age to embark on a cultural pilgrimage to the continent, following well-established routes and, with the help of local guides, taking in certain ancient sites and works of art before returning to Britain as sophisticated, civilised men of experience. In practice the culture was largely an excuse for drinking and whoring and getting ripped off, arriving home with pillaged artefacts, some bottles of the local booze and venereal disease.

Have fun playing with your artefacts.

The distinction between artefact and organism dissolved in a Petri dish.

The idea that either (i) the human species is at an evolutionary dead-end, and must incorporate technologies in order to evolve to the ‘next level’; or (ii) that we have long ceased to be human, because of our increasingly intimate relationships with nonhumans, such as technological artefacts. Often seen as similar to arguments about cyborgs (see p.100), the idea of the posthuman provokes excitement in some, terror in others. It contains a number of variants in fields of biomedicine, science fiction and cyberculture theory

The result is that today, text is the cornerstone of our global digital, fast-paced world. Indeed, requirements concerning accessibility and media management are not the only reasons for the use of text. Interestingly, text is also the response to the growing complexity and range of application of information communication technologies. Interface design is rapidly progressing toward a full conversion from flashy buttons, animations, icons, images, audio and video to plain text. This process, combined with the systematic process of digitisation and hybridization of daily life objects with digital technology, results in a progressive translation of identity, objects, activities, places and material and conceptual artefact in a text-based form.

In archaeology, context is everything. Objects allow us to reconstruct the past. Taking artefacts from a temple or an ancient private house is like emptying out a time capsule.

The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.

It was exhausting to me, and touching at the same time, how my friends took such care to gather up every morsel of her life. They collated these shards of her history with all the white-glove care of archaeologists gathering up the fragments of some precious artefact.

The dominance of the Church hindered the development in Muscovy of the secular art forms that had taken shape in Europe since the Renaissance. Instead, the icon was the focal point of Muscovy’s religious way of life. It was an artefact of daily ritual as much as it was a creative work of art. Icons were encountered everywhere – not just in homes and churches but in shops and offices or in wayside shrines. There was next to nothing to connect the icon to the European tradition of secular

This was exciting for two reasons. First, because I had never heard of Viking artefacts turning up nearby, despite long-held suspicions that there was another Viking site in the area, and second, because I had struggled to make

housed in the British Museum in London, that repository of stolen artefacts from around the world.

It’s the logical consequence of removing valuable artefacts from native cultures. This sort of pandering to American greed, at the expense of the dignity and self-determination of the cultures concerned, is certain to cause long-term results—

It is arguable that ugliness came into human life only with affluence. In fact, I'd venture to say that there are few artefacts or buildings that we know of prior to 1830 that would be generally considered ugly.

My point? I have watched your people since you were little more than bipedal simpletons howling at the moon. I have seen you murder each other for vanity and silver. For a thousand centuries, shaking your fists at an empty sky cursing my name when your misfortune is of your own making. The greatest number living a life full of pointless trivial gestures. Worshipping money and fornication, making heroes of those least worthy. You offer lip-service to goodness, say a prayer at noon, drunkenly beat your family at dusk. Sign a petition to provide for your elderly and sick, then repeatedly vote in governments who let the weakest in society suffer and perish, never connecting the two. You weep at the sight of forests burning, yet would never part with the machines which hasten the flames. Your collective hypocrisy is a plague that lets you sleep at night. In truth, you sicken me, yet I am compelled to chase you for your souls. I am not evil, Mr. Carter. I punish evil. Hell is close, the gate always open. Your kind fear it, but live lives that ensure your reservation. I am in a hurry to shed this flesh and return.” He paused. The building settled back to silent stillness. When he spoke next, his eyes and voice were that of a normal man again. “That’s why a man like you is such a prize. You have sinned, so many, many times, yet you retain a purity which, thus far at least, prevents you from joining me. So I offer you this deal.

The craftsman imbibes the spirit of his civilization from an artefact, from its surface since each artefact is invested with a spirit that endures.

WHAT CAN BE EXPECTED OF ‘BIBLICAL ARCHAEOLOGY’? The question is an important one, because sometimes exaggerated claims have been made, of the ‘archaeology proves (or disproves) the Bible’ type. It is perhaps because archaeology has been thought to be more ‘scientific’ than other critical, exegetical, and theological approaches that words like ‘proof’ have been used. But it is essential to bear in mind that there is often as much interpretation involved in the understanding of an archaeological discovery as there is in the understanding of a biblical passage. The ancient identity of a site may be unknown or uncertain. A piece of ancient writing may be fragmentary, difficult to read or translate, and even if the translation is clear the precise significance may not be. The purpose or function of an artefact or structure may not always be easily or correctly understood.