Avid T Shirt Quotes

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.

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.

Papa actually looked somewhat cool. He wore a leather jacket, sunglasses pushed up on his forehead, and an expensive cotton dress shirt untucked over jeans. Behind him was the palest non-albino human being I had ever seen. A shock of orangey blond stuck straight up from his ovoid head like a toy troll. His head was cocked upward; his smile seemed like a plastic snap-on attachment, and his features were flattened as if pressed back by an invisible stocking. Though he claimed online to be an avid weight-lifter, his body and face were doughy. Technically, he was a small person. He just had a certain genetic softness. This

professor of archaeology at The Pennsylvania State University, watched the new arrival beside his site manager, assistant professor Amanda Jeffers. Hunter was a slender but weathered forty-five-year-old with longish curling salt and pepper hair that danced in the wind off the Atlantic as if it had a life of its own. Amber-tinted aviator glasses hid his mahogany eyes. He wore heavy work boots, khaki shorts that revealed calves taut as knotted hawsers, a vented white safari shirt, and a multi-pocketed canvas vest more suited to fly-fishing than digging. It had belonged to his father, a digger of another sort: a Pennsylvania coal miner and avid fly-fisherman. Hunter would never admit to being superstitious, but he’d worn the vest on every successful expedition since his father had died of black lung disease a decade ago. Behind Hunter and Jeffers, as if it had grown out of the ground, lay the stone foundations  of Carn Dewes, a prehistoric