Avid Class Quotes

When I was in London in 2008, I spent a couple hours hanging out at a pub with a couple of blokes who were drinking away the afternoon in preparation for going to that evening's Arsenal game/riot. Take away their Cockney accents, and these working-class guys might as well have been a couple of Bubbas gearing up for the Alabama-Auburn game. They were, in a phrase, British rednecks. And this is who soccer fans are, everywhere in the world except among the college-educated American elite. In Rio or Rome, the soccer fan is a Regular José or a Regular Giuseppe. [...] By contrast, if an American is that kind of Regular Joe, he doesn't watch soccer. He watches the NFL or bass fishing tournaments or Ultimate Fighting. In an American context, avid soccer fandom is almost exclusively located among two groups of people (a) foreigners—God bless 'em—and (b) pretentious yuppie snobs. Which is to say, conservatives don't hate soccer because we hate brown people. We hate soccer because we hate liberals.

It’s no coincidence that the man who contributed the most to the study of human anatomy, the Belgian Andreas Vesalius, was an avid proponent of do-it-yourself, get-your-fussy-Renaissance-shirt-dirty anatomical dissection. Though human dissection was an accepted practice in the Renaissance-era anatomy class, most professors shied away from personally undertaking it, preferring to deliver their lectures while seated in raised chairs a safe and tidy remove from the corpse and pointing out structures with a wooden stick while a hired hand did the slicing. Vesalius disapproved of this practice, and wasn’t shy about his feelings. In C. D. O’Malley’s biography of the man, Vesalius likens the lecturers to “jackdaws aloft in their high chair, with egregious arrogance croaking things they have never investigated but merely committed to memory from the books of others. Thus everything is wrongly taught,…and days are wasted in ridiculous questions.

As the weekend goes on, more information about Marian Wallace emerges. She attended Harvard on scholarship. She was a Massachusetts State Champion swimmer, and an avid creative writer. She was from Roxbury. Her mother is dead—cancer when Marian was thirteen. The maternal grandmother died a year later of the same cause. Her father is a drug addict. She spent her high school years in and out of foster care. One of her foster mothers remembers young Marian always with her head in a book. No one knows who the father of her baby is. No one even remembers her having a boyfriend. She was put on academic leave from college because she failed all her classes the previous semester—the demands of motherhood and a rigorous academic schedule having become too much to bear. She was pretty and smart, which makes her death a tragedy. She was poor and black, which means people say they saw it coming.

It was accepted wisdom almost everywhere in the nineteenth century that the poor were poor because they were born to be. Although a few impoverished people might generously be described as undeserving, most were by nature “improvident, reckless and intemperate, and with habitual avidity for sensual gratification,” as one government report crisply summarized it. Even Friedrich Engels, a far more sympathetic observer than most, could write in The Condition of the Working Class in England: “The facile character of the Irishman, his crudity, which places him but little above the savage, his contempt for all humane enjoyments, in which his very crudeness makes him incapable of sharing, his filth and poverty, all favour drunkenness.

We have so little in common, but we were both avid readers growing up. I read almost nonstop when I was little, and it saved me in school. I hated classes, hated teachers. They always wanted me to do things I didn't want to do. But because I was a reader, they knew I wasn't stupid, just different. They cut me slack. It got me through. Reading couldn't help me make friends, though. I never got the hang of it. I would talk to kids, and over the years a handful of them even seemed to like me enough to ask to come over, but after that first visit to the house they never lasted. Ma told me what I did wrong but I could never manage to do it right. 'Act interested in what they say,' she said, but they never said anything interesting. 'Don't talk too much,' she said, but it never seemed like too much to me. So it wasn't like people threw tomatoes at me, or dipped my pigtails in inkwells, or stood up to move their desks away from mine, but I never really managed to make friends that I could keep. And I got used to it. I got used to a lot of things. Writing extra papers to make up for falling short in class participation. Volunteering to do the planning and the typing up whenever we had group work assigned, because I knew I could never really work right with a group. And the coping always worked. Up until three years into college, where despite Ma's repeated demands to try harder, I stalled. Every semester since, I was always still trying to finish that last Oral Communications class, which I had repeatedly failed. This semester I only made it six weeks in before it became obvious I wouldn't pass. I think we'd both finally given up.

And even beer, retailing at 88 Pfennigs per litre, was a considerable drain on the working-class food budget. Not surprisingly, the majority of Germans lived on a modest and monotonous diet of bread and jam, potatoes, cabbage and pork, washed down with water and small amounts of milk and beer. Hence the derogatory term 'Kraut', popular both in France and Britain. Germans were also avid drinkers of coffee and coffee substitutes, consuming a total of almost 5 kilos per annum.

Mi vergognavo di appartenere, da parte di madre, a una famiglia così antica e nobile. Non veniva proprio da loro, da quelle famiglie avide, ipocrite, rapaci, gran parte del male dell'isola? Odiavo la loro incapacità atavica di cambiare, di vedere la verità, di capire gli altri, di farsi da parte, di agire con umiltà. E la sola idea di dividere qualcosa con loro, fosse solo un'involontaria somiglianza, mi disgustava. Eppure, mio nonno era così lontano dallo stereotipo del nobile presuntuoso e arrogante da farmi pensare di essere stata ingiusta, forse per giovanili innamoramenti ideologici, con lui. E' sempre limitativo e stupido cacciare le persone dentro una categoria, che sia una classe o un sesso. Non fare i conti con l'imprevedibile è da citrulli.

(Sherly Hutomo, lajang, 27 th. Karyawati swasta. Iphone - checked, veganisme early stages - checked, morning starbucks - checked, 5k run - checked, nike running shoes - checked, connoisseur - checked, urban culinary specialist - checked, gym membership - checked, workout obsessed - checked, supplement junkie - checked, socmed savvy - checked, eat healthy food - checked, zumba class - checked, avid traveller and hip resto pilgrim- checked, fancy bag - checked, edgy yet sophisticated - checked. casual drinker - checked.)

Allyson admired the way that he talked. Maybe, if her history professors in college had been more like Sean Wyatt, she might have paid a little more attention in class, or at least not fallen asleep. Sometimes, she wished that she was in a line of work that she liked better. Journalism certainly had some positives about it, but there were times that she loathed her job. Long hours stuck in a cubicle could drive even the most avid writer to madness

No matter the age, desertions of duty, large and small, happen for the avid gamer: skipping class, dodging chores, neglecting family or even neglecting other pleasures (good food, outdoors, reading books)–all for the sake of “more.” Honest gamers know this nearly invisible line that separates “escape” and “desertion.” And they also know that on the far side of escape, the pleasures of play are often greatly diminished. “More play” does not always render “more pleasure.

Harro could not only perform complex mathematical operations in his head, he was an avid reader who had a vivid and original way of talking about things. Asked to compare the words fly and butterfly, he launched into an etymological reverie: “The butterfly is colorful and the fly is black. The butterfly has big wings so that two flies could go underneath one wing. But the fly is much more skillful and can walk up the slippery glass and up the wall . . . The microscope explains how the fly can walk up the wall: just yesterday I saw it has teeny weeny claws on the feet and at the ends tiny little hooks.” But Harro was failing in school, because he was very disruptive in class, like Fritz. He would crawl around on all fours and announce that a lesson was “far too stupid” for him. He rarely did his homework, and if a teacher gave him a makeup assignment, he would sneer, “I wouldn’t dream of doing this.” He spent his days immersed in the books he loved, a stranger to the children around him.

The way Jesus explains the kingdom of God (and he talks about it more than anything else in the Gospels), it works very differently from the rest of the world. The weak are made strong. The last are first. The humble are exalted. The proud are brought low. The widow, the alien, and the orphan are valued highly. The unfairly treated are defended. The seemingly insignificant go to the head of the class. The lost are found. And the broken are healed. Imagine men like you and me taking whatever strength we are given to defend and expand that kingdom rather than our own temporary, throwaway, little ones that will never last.