B Clever Quotes

I’ve got a new friend, all right. But what a gamble friendship is! Charlotte is fierce, brutal, scheming, bloodthirsty—everything I don’t like. How can I learn to like her, even though she is pretty and, of course, clever?

Scccccratccch the most clever postmodern-relativist professor’s Mercedes with a key, and you will see how fast the mask of relativism (with its pretense that there can be neither right nor wrong) and the cloak of radical tolerance come off.

[B]y being so long in the lowest form I gained an immense advantage over the cleverer boys. They all went on to learn Latin and Greek and splendid things like that. But I was taught English. We were considered such dunces that we could learn only English. Mr. Somervell -- a most delightful man, to whom my debt is great -- was charged with the duty of teaching the stupidest boys the most disregarded thing -- namely, to write mere English. He knew how to do it. He taught it as no one else has ever taught it. Not only did we learn English parsing thoroughly, but we also practised continually English analysis. . . Thus I got into my bones the essential structure of the ordinary British sentence -- which is a noble thing. And when in after years my schoolfellows who had won prizes and distinction for writing such beautiful Latin poetry and pithy Greek epigrams had to come down again to common English, to earn their living or make their way, I did not feel myself at any disadvantage. Naturally I am biased in favour of boys learning English. I would make them all learn English: and then I would let the clever ones learn Latin as an honour, and Greek as a treat. But the only thing I would whip them for would be not knowing English. I would whip them hard for that.

(a) Going to Oxford didn't necessarily make a person clever. (b) Cleverness didn't necessarily make a good prime minister. (c) If a person couldn't even run a pickle factory profitably, how was that person going to run a whole country? And, most important of all: (d) All Indian mothers are obsessed with their sons and are therefore poor judges of their abilities.

The major flaw with human beings is that despite all our cleverness and ingenuity we both tell and believe lies.

L-Liska.” That is all she will give him. Her surname is hers to keep. He chuckles warmly. “Liska, Liseczka… oj, lisku. You’re not a very clever fox, are you?

Nobody likes a clever dick, but it didn’t take Columbo, Jessica Fletcher and the entire occupancy of 221b Baker Street to work out the patient was probably “feeling unwell” because of the litres of blood cascading unnoticed out of her vagina. 

That’s because you’re a clever fellow, Thrasymachus. You knew very well that if you ask someone how much twelve is, and, as you ask, you warn him by saying “Don’t tell me, man, that twelve is twice six, or three [b] times four, or six times two, or four times three, for I won’t accept such nonsense,” then you’ll see clearly, I think, that no one could answer a question framed like that. And if he said to you: “What are you saying, Thrasymachus, am I not to give any of the answers you mention, not even if twelve happens to be one of those things? I’m amazed. Do you want me to say something other than the truth? Or do you mean something else?” What answer would you give him? [c]

Maybe even more important than the D.B.P. [Divine Brotherhood of Pythagoras], ∞-wise is the protomystic Parmenides of Elea (c.515-? BCE), not only because of his distinction between the 'Way of Truth' and 'Way of Seeing' framed the terms of Greek metaphysics and (again) influenced Plato, but because Parmenides' #1 student and defender was the aforementioned Zeno, the most fiendishly clever and upsetting philosopher ever (who can be seen actually kicking Socrates' ass, argumentatively speaking, in Plato's Parmenides).

The corner of his mouth tilts up. “We’re czarownik, not-so-clever fox—we can reach beyond the mortal veil and into the realm of spirits. To us, everything has a soul.

Yet in recent years I have witnessed a new phenomenon among filmgoers, especially those considered intelligent and perceptive. I have a name for this phenomenon: the Instant White-out. People are closeted in cozy darkness; they turn off their mobile phones and willingly give themselves, for ninety minutes or two hours, to a new film that got a fourstar rating in the newspaper. They follow the pictures and the plot, understand what is spoken either in the original tongue or via dubbing or subtitles, enjoy lush locations and clever scenes, and even if they find the story superficial or preposterous, it is not enough to pry them from their seats and make them leave the theatre in the middle of the show. But something strange happens. After a short while, a week or two, sometimes even less, the film is whitened out, erased, as if it never happened. They can’t remember its name, or who the actors were, or the plot. The movie fades into the darkness of the movie house, and what remains is at most a ticket stub left accidentally in one’s pocket.

Mr. Jeavons said that I was a very clever boy. I said that I wasn’t clever. I was just noticing how things were, and that wasn’t clever. That was just being observant. Being clever was when you looked at how things were and used the evidence to work out something new. Like the universe expanding, or who committed a murder. Or if you see someone’s name and you give each letter a value from 1 to 26 (a = 1, b = 2, etc.) and you add the numbers up in your head and you find that it makes a prime number, like Jesus Christ (151), or Scooby-Doo (113), or Sherlock Holmes (163), or Doctor Watson (167). Mr. Jeavons asked me whether this made me feel safe, having things always in a nice order, and I said it did.

A murderer is always a gambler. And, like many gamblers, a murderer often does not know when to stop. With each crime his opinion of his own abilities is strengthened. His sense of proportion is warped. He does not say, 'I have been clever and lucky!' No, he says only, 'l have been clever!' And his opinion of his cleverness grows... and then, roes amis, the ball spins

P.B. I find that I have a fantasy image. It’s that I really like making other people happy, which is probably egotistical, because they think ‘What a lovely girl’, you know. But it’s also that I don’t want people to touch me. I don’t mean physically particularly, though it’s that as well. So I always like to feel that I’m sort of floating by and just occasionally being there, seeing them. I’m very inclined to play a role that someone sets for me, particularly when I first meet people. One of the reasons I married Clive was because he really did accept me as a human being, a person with a mind. N.D. Men think of you just as a pretty girl you mean? P.B. No. They just find it embarrassing when you start talking. Lots of women are intellectually more clever than lots of men. But it’s difficult for men to accept the idea. N.D. If you start talking about ideas they just think you’re putting it on? P.B. Not that you’re putting it on. They just find it slightly embarrassing that you’re not doing the right thing.

Folk art is, indeed, the oldest of the aristocracies of thought, and because it refuses what is passing and trivial, the merely clever pretty, as certainly as the vulgar and insincere, and because it has gathered into itself the simplest and most unforgetable thoughts of the generations, it is the soil where all great art is rooted. Wherever it is spoken by the fireside, or sung by the roadside, or carved upon the lintel, appreciation of the arts that a single mind gives unity and design to, spreads quickly when its hour is come.

Scientists will discover a weak correlation between A and B, assuming C under D conditions. The university PR office will then post something for immediate release: ‘Scientists Find Potential Link Between A and B (under certain conditions)’. News organisations will pick it up and publish, ‘A causes B, say scientists’, which will then be read by The Internets and turned into ‘A causes B - ALL THE TIME!’ Which will then be picked up by TV shows that run stories like ‘A ... A Killer Among Us??’ All of this eventually leads to your grandma getting all weird about A.

[Chang Yu relates the following anecdote of Kao Tsu, the first Han Emperor: “Wishing to crush the Hsiung-nu, he sent out spies to report on their condition. But the Hsiung-nu, forewarned, carefully concealed all their able-bodied men and well-fed horses, and only allowed infirm soldiers and emaciated cattle to be seen. The result was that spies one and all recommended the Emperor to deliver his attack. Lou Ching alone opposed them, saying: “When two countries go to war, they are naturally inclined to make an ostentatious display of their strength. Yet our spies have seen nothing but old age and infirmity. This is surely some ruse on the part of the enemy, and it would be unwise for us to attack.” The Emperor, however, disregarding this advice, fell into the trap and found himself surrounded at Po-teng.”] 19.  Thus one who is skillful at keeping the enemy on the move maintains deceitful appearances, according to which the enemy will act. [Ts’ao Kung’s note is “Make a display of weakness and want.” Tu Mu says: “If our force happens to be superior to the enemy’s, weakness may be simulated in order to lure him on; but if inferior, he must be led to believe that we are strong, in order that he may keep off. In fact, all the enemy’s movements should be determined by the signs that we choose to give him.” Note the following anecdote of Sun Pin, a descendent of Sun Wu: In 341 B.C., the Ch’i State being at war with Wei, sent T’ien Chi and Sun Pin against the general P’ang Chuan, who happened to be a deadly personal enemy of the later. Sun Pin said: “The Ch’i State has a reputation for cowardice, and therefore our adversary despises us. Let us turn this circumstance to account.” Accordingly, when the army had crossed the border into Wei territory, he gave orders to show 100,000 fires on the first night, 50,000 on the next, and the night after only 20,000. P’ang Chuan pursued them hotly, saying to himself: “I knew these men of Ch’i were cowards: their numbers have already fallen away by more than half.” In his retreat, Sun Pin came to a narrow defile, with he calculated that his pursuers would reach after dark. Here he had a tree stripped of its bark, and inscribed upon it the words: “Under this tree shall P’ang Chuan die.” Then, as night began to fall, he placed a strong body of archers in ambush near by, with orders to shoot directly they saw a light. Later on, P’ang Chuan arrived at the spot, and noticing the tree, struck a light in order to read what was written on it. His body was immediately riddled by a volley of arrows, and his whole army thrown into confusion. [The above is Tu Mu’s version of the story; the SHIH CHI, less dramatically but probably with more historical truth, makes P’ang Chuan cut his own throat with an exclamation of despair, after the rout of his army.] ] He sacrifices something, that the enemy may snatch at it. 20.  By holding out baits, he keeps him on the march; then with a body of picked men he lies in wait for him. [With an emendation suggested by Li Ching, this then reads, “He lies in wait with the main body of his troops.”] 21.  The clever combatant looks to the effect of combined energy, and does not require too much from individuals.

Epictetus agrees with Seneca regarding God’s goals. At one point in his Discourses, he imagines a conversation in which God explains why humans experience setbacks: If it had been possible, Epictetus, I [God] would have ensured that your poor body and petty possessions were free and immune from hindrance. But as things are, you mustn’t forget that this body isn’t truly your own, but is nothing more than cleverly moulded clay. But since I couldn’t give you that, I’ve given you a certain portion of myself, this faculty of motivation to act and not to act, of desire and aversion, and, in a word, the power to make proper use of impressions; if you pay good heed to this, and entrust all that you have to its keeping, you’ll never be hindered, never obstructed, and you’ll never groan, never find fault, and never flatter anyone at all.

I seemed to hear a voice of lamentation out of the Golden Age. It told me that we are imperfect, incomplete, and no more like a beautiful woven web, but like a bundle of cords knotted together and flung into a comer. It said that the world was once all perfect and kindly, and that still the kindly and perfect world existed, but buried like a mass of roses under many spadefuls of earth. The faeries and the more innocent of the spirits dwelt within it, and lamented over our fallen world in the lamentation of the wind-tossed reeds, in the song of the birds, in the moan of the waves, and in the sweet cry of the fiddle. It said that with us the beautiful are not clever and the clever are not beautiful, and that the best of our moments are marred by a little vulgarity, or by a pin-prick out of sad recollection, and that the fiddle must ever lament about it all. It said that if only they who live in the Golden Age could die we might be happy, for the sad voices would be still; but alas! alas! they must sing and we must weep until the Eternal gates swing open.

Zaphod paused for a while. For a while there was silence. Then he frowned and said, “Last night I was worrying about this again. About the fact that part of my mind just didn’t seem to work properly. Then it occurred to me that the way it seemed was that someone else was using my mind to have good ideas with, without telling me about it. I put the two ideas together and decided that maybe that somebody had locked off part of my mind for that purpose, which was why I couldn’t use it. I wondered if there was a way I could check. “I went to the ship’s medical bay and plugged myself into the encephalographic screen. I went through every major screening test on both my heads—all the tests I had to go through under Government medical officers before my nomination for presidency could be properly ratified. They showed up nothing. Nothing unexpected at least. They showed that I was clever, imaginative, irresponsible, untrustworthy, extrovert, nothing you couldn’t have guessed. And no other anomalies. So I started inventing further tests, completely at random. Nothing. Then I tried superimposing the results from one head on top of the results from the other head. Still nothing. Finally I got silly, because I’d given it all up as nothing more than an attack of paranoia. Last thing I did before I packed it in was take the superimposed picture and look at it through a green filter. You remember I was always superstitious about the color green when I was a kid? I always wanted to be a pilot on one of the trading scouts?” Ford nodded. “And there it was,” said Zaphod, “clear as day. A whole section in the middle of both brains that related only to each other and not to anything else around them. Some bastard had cauterized all the synapses and electronically traumatized those two lumps of cerebellum.” Ford stared at him, aghast. Trillian had turned white. “Somebody did that to you?” whispered Ford. “Yeah.” “But have you any idea who? Or why?” “Why? I can only guess. But I do know who the bastard was.” “You know? How do you know?” “Because they left their initials burned into the cauterized synapses. They left them there for me to see.” Ford stared at him in horror and felt his skin begin to crawl. “Initials? Burned into your brain?” “Yeah.” “Well, what were they, for God’s sake?” Zaphod looked at him in silence again for a moment. Then he looked away. “Z.B.,” he said quietly. At that moment a steel shutter slammed down behind them and gas started to pour into the chamber. “I’ll tell you about it later,” choked Zaphod as all three passed out.

The tendency to want what has been banned and therefore to presume that it is more worthwhile is not limited to such commodities as laundry soap. In fact, the tendency is not limited to commodities at all but extends to restrictions on information. In an age when the ability to acquire, store, and manage information is becoming increasingly the determinant of wealth and power, it is important to understand how we typically react to attempts to censor or otherwise constrain our access to information. Although much data exist on our reactions to various kinds of potentially censorable material—media violence, pornography, radical political rhetoric—there is surprisingly little evidence as to our reactions to the act of censoring them. Fortunately, the results of the few studies that have been done on the topic are highly consistent. Almost invariably, our response to the banning of information is a greater desire to receive that information and a more favorable attitude toward it than before the ban.112 The intriguing thing about the effects of censoring information is not that audience members want to have the information more than they did before; that seems natural. Rather, it is that they come to believe in the information more, even though they haven’t received it. For example, when University of North Carolina students learned that a speech opposing coed dorms on campus would be banned, they became more opposed to the idea of coed dorms. Thus, without ever hearing the speech, they became more sympathetic to its argument. This raises the worrisome possibility that especially clever individuals holding a weak or unpopular position can get us to agree with that position by arranging to have their message restricted. The irony is that for such people—members of fringe political groups, for example—the most effective strategy may not be to publicize their unpopular views, but to get those views officially censored and then to publicize the censorship. Perhaps the authors of this country’s Constitution were acting as much as sophisticated social psychologists as staunch civil libertarians when they wrote the remarkably permissive free-speech provision of the First Amendment. By refusing to restrain freedom of speech, they may have been attempting to minimize the chance that new political notions would win support via the irrational course of psychological reactance.

I do implore my readers, therefore, not to be more clever than their author, and see portraits where, quite honestly, none are intended. C.B.

He observed the confident young men, the way the young women gravitated to those who exuded an effortless charm with clever conversation and witticisms. He couldn’t help thinking it was all just learned mannerisms, feigned cool couched in cynical language. The whole world they inhabited was a fucking mirage.

When you use Plan B, you do so with the understanding that the solution is not predetermined. If you already know how the problem is going to be solved before you start trying to solve it, then you’re not using Plan B . . . you’re using a “clever” form of Plan A. Plan B is not just a “clever” form of Plan A. Plan B is collaborative, Plan A is unilateral.

I should think that Mma Ramotswe makes you many cakes these days,” said Mma Potokwane as she slid a generous portion of cake onto her own plate. “She is a good cook, I think.” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “She is best at cooking pumpkin and things like that,” he said. “But she can also make cakes. You ladies are very clever.” “Yes,” agreed Mma Potokwane, pouring the tea. “We are much cleverer than you men, but unfortunately you do not know that.” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at his shoes. It was probably true, he thought. It was difficult being a man sometimes, particularly when women reminded one of the fact that one was a man. But there were clever men about, he thought, and these men would give ladies like Mma Potokwane a good run for their money. The problem was that he was not one of these clever men.

For truly great offenses, it’s never the cleverness of the plays or concepts individually. It’s how the entire offense fits together.

Borrowing Hans Burger’s clever introduction to his expansive treatment of union with Christ, “To be or not to be—in Christ—that is the question.

Lego Motorcycle. The toy Lego motorcycle is shown assembled (A) and in pieces (B). It has fifteen pieces so cleverly constructed that even an adult can put them together. The design exploits constraints to specify just which pieces fit where. Physical constraints limit alternative placements. Cultural and semantic constraints provide the necessary clues for further decisions. For example, cultural constraints dictate the placement of the three lights (red, blue, and yellow) and semantic constraints stop the user from putting the head backward on the body or the pieces labeled “police” upside down.

I am a serious reader, and I read slowly. I deeply respect literature and expect to gain insight from a book and to identify emotionally with its characters. I therefore avoid reading suspense novels or science fiction. Family life and society are so rich and filled with surprises that I have no need of murders solved by clever detectives to better understand the drama of life all around me. The literary trappings and moralizing of science fiction I find insufficiently compelling. Very possibly, I am missing out on important genres. (This sounded so much like ME from one of my favorite authors!!)

Think about what you think about is much more than a clever grouping of words. It’s largely the difference between maximized and unrealized potential.

Up in the snow covered Andes, There’s only one beast you will see, Who is clever enough to learn all the stuff That one needs to obtain a degree. The Spectacled Bear is a wonder, The Spectacled Bear is no fool, The Spectacled Bear, with a wisdom that’s rare, Paid attention when he went to school. The Spectacled Bear learnt Spanish, The Spectacled Bear learnt to draw, The Spectacled Bear with time and with care, Could multiply twenty by four. The Spectacled Bear was a paragon, Gerald went on. He learned to write, paint, knit, weave and sing. He learned history and how to add up his sums without using his thumbs. But one thing made him ‘awfully depressed’ – he couldn’t spell, and had to sign his name with a cross. But one day someone gave him a parrot, (A bird that was badly behaved), But one thing it did well, and that was to spell, So the Spectacled Bear was saved. With this bird as his constant companion He writes letters to friends now with glee, And always you’ll find they are carefully signed: ‘Spectickled Bere, B.Sc.’ So if ever your teacher should ask you To spell words like ‘Zephyr’ or ‘Claret’, The thing I’d suggest that would be the best Is to go out and purchase a parrot. On

Oh, would that I had died the way the Sikh did! I can not go forward. I shall not submit to being made to see more clearly than I do. Yet, if I turn back I am self-confessed coward! Furthermore, how can I turn back! How shall I reach India, alone, alive? As a corpse I should no longer interest myself. And if I should succeed in reaching India, I should despise myself, because you and Jimgrim treated me as fellow man and yet I failed you. On the other hand, if I go forward they will teach me the reality of things, of which already I know much too much! It has been bad enough as failed B.A. to stick my tongue into my cheek and flatter blind men-- pompous Englishmen and supine Indians--for a living. I have had to eat dust from the wheels of what the politicians think is progress; and I have had to be polite when I was patronized by men whom I should pity if I had the heart to do it! And I could endure it, Rammy sahib, because I only knew more than was good for me and not all of it by any means! I do not wish to know more. If I saw more clearly I should have to join the revolutionaries-- who are worse than those they revolute against! It is already bad enough to have to toady to the snobs on top. To have to agree with the snobs underneath, who seek to level all men to a common meanness since they can not admire any sort of superiority--that would be living death! I would rather pretend to admire the Englishman whose snobbery exasperates me, than repeat the lies of Indians whose only object is to do dishonestly and badly but much more cleverly what the English do honestly and with all the stupidity of which they are capable!

Promise me, not-so-clever fox. If this doesn't work, promise you'll kill me." She swallows. Fear burns in her chest, caustic and unrelenting. She wants to say no, wants to scream that it isn't fair, that she shouldn't have to kill the man she loves. But she doesn't. Instead, she nods.

It is time for the not-so-clever fox to test her mettle.

Don't you worry, not-so-clever fox," he says. "I can be gentle if I try.

Damn manor," he says. "Damn girl. Intrepid thing you are, eager to be swallowed by a beast just to examine its innards." He laughs, in the merciless way that ice cracks underfoot on a frozen lake. "It seems I named you poorly. Clever, clever fox, with your inexplicable charms. You are my penance, aren't you?

Sad but sometimes clever" Difficult to describe my sadness; It broadens the vibe of madness; Yet not all proscribe of alertness; Running the bribe awkwardness; I knew people ascribe bitterness; Not good, step imbibe blindness; My mouth diatribe I do calmness; Hush feels jibe in our cleverness;

Like the first symptoms of a plague, ugly incidents began to break out sporadically over the country; a riot here, an attempted assassination or unexplained piece of sabotage there, sudden panics on the Stock Exchange, hints and rumours flawing the calm surface of English life. Public opinion was bewildered and growing resentful... This inarticulate resentment was cleverly exploited by the E.B., whose policy was, by constantly embarrassing the present government, to discredit the principle of parliamentary government altogether.

What I’m trying to say,’ Charles said, holding his hands up in surrender. ‘What I’m trying to say is this: our Arthur obviously liked the look of this particular book,’ he said, gesturing to me. ‘Gabriel caught his eye, so he grabbed him off the shelf, opened him up’ – did this guy hear himself? – ‘and he must have liked what he found inside because now he’s telling people this is his favourite book.’ There was a short pause while everyone considered this thought. ‘I think we’ve strayed from the matter at hand,’ Gerry said. ‘What’s that?’ said another of the old boys who’d returned from the tees. ‘What’s everyone doing back here, anyway?’ ‘Desmond, our Arthur’s gay,’ Gladys said. ‘Arthur’s gay?’ Desmond said. ‘Happy gay, or soap-drop-in-the-shower gay?’ ‘Both, I expect. That’s his boyfriend, Gabriel,’ Charles said. ‘Handsome and clever, as we have established.’ ‘Is that right?’ Desmond said, looking at me before turning to Arthur. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ ‘I uh – I just did.’ ‘So you have,’ he said, smiling as he clapped Arthur on the back.

often when we make a decision about someone or something, we don’t use all of the relevant available information. We use only a single, highly representative piece of the total. An isolated piece of information, even though it normally counsels correctly, can lead to clearly stupid mistakes—mistakes that, when exploited by clever others, leave us looking silly or worse.

So clever,’ said his grandma (before whom I was throughout my childhood required to explain any mark under a B+ while she sat – in my memory at least – on a burnished Throne of Judgement before she brought down the Staff of Maternal Disgust across my soul). ‘He already sees how pointless tests are at his age! He sees right through the teachers!

This is the path of Torah: Bread and salt shall you eat, and drink water by measure; you shall sleep upon the ground, and live a life of privation, and in Torah shall be your work. And if you do thus, “You shall be happy, and it will be well with you” (Ps. 128:2)—Happy [refers to] this world, and well to the world to come. Greatest is the Torah, for it gives life to those who perform it[s commandments] in this world and in the world to come, as it is said, “It is a tree of life to those who hold on to it, and all who maintain it are blessed” [Prov. 3:18]. —m. Abot 6:4, 7 Once the wicked regime [Rome] decreed that Jews be forbidden to study the Torah. Pappus b. Judah subsequently found R. Aqiba nonetheless convening groups in public for the study of Torah. “Aqiba,” he said, “are you not afraid of the regime?” He said: “Let me answer you with a comparison: It is like a fox that was walking along the river-bank when he saw some fish moving in groups from place to place. He said to them: ‘What are you fleeing from?’ They said: ‘From the nets that the human beings cast over us.’ He said to them: ‘Wouldn’t you like to climb up onto the dry land so that you and I might live together as your ancestors and mine once did?’ They said: ‘Are you indeed the one who is alleged to be the cleverest of animals? You are not clever but foolish! For if there is danger in the place where we do live [that is, our natural environment], is it not all the more so in the place where we must die?’ So is it with us now: for we sit and study Torah, about which it is said, ‘For it is your life and your length of days’ (Deut. 30:20); were we to abandon it, we would be in far greater danger.” — b. Berakhot 61b

Blood groups were Bren A positive, Cal A positive, Oscar B positive, Finn A positive, and Connor B positive,” the kid says nonchalantly as if explaining further. “Anyway, the sixty million I took wasn’t much to you guys so I don’t know why the fuck you’re so pissed. I’ve a feeling it’s more a pride thing, am I right?” he says, sniggering. Oscar’s head snaps up, “$60 million?” The little lunatic starts laughing. “Oh shit! Wow, I thought you were meant to be the clever little hacker,” he mocks. “Jesus! Yeah, I figured I’d swipe a ten from your daddy too. You know the offshore account ending 3452? Yeah, didn’t think I’d be able to access those, did ya? Dumb fuck.” The little prick is shaking his head, laughing to himself. Oscar’s face pales and he takes a step back, almost staggering. Me? I’m fucking empty, empty. Like what the fuck is happening here?

He is so clever, so very clever. Everything I have ever told him, he has used against me.

I can totally understand why someone in Paris or London or Berlin might not like the president; I don't like the president, either. But don't those people read the newspaper? It's not like Bush ran unopposed. Over 57 million people voted against him. Moreover, half of this country doesn't vote at all; they just happen to live here. So if someone hates the entire concept of America—or even if someone likes the concept of America—based solely on his or her disapproval (or support) of some specific US policy, that person doesn't know much about how the world works. It would be no different that someone in Idaho hating all of Brazil, simply because their girlfriend slept with some dude who happened to speak Portuguese. In the days following the election, I kept seeing links to websites like www(dot)sorryeverybody(dot)com, which offered a photo of a bearded idiot holding up a piece of paper that apologized to the rest of the planet for the election of George W. Bush. I realize the person who designed this website was probably doing so to be clever, and I suspect his motivations were either (a) mostly good or (b) mostly self-serving. But all I could think when I saw it was, This is so pathetic. It's like this guy on this website is actually afraid some anonymous stranger in Tokyo might not unconditionally love him (and for reasons that have nothing to do with either of them)...now I am not saying that I'm somehow happy when people in other countries blindly dislike America. It's just that I'm not happy if they love us, either. I don't think it matters. The kind of European who hates the United States in totality is exactly like the kind of American who hates Europe in totality; both people are unsophisticated, and their opinions aren't valid. But our society will never get over this fear; there will always be people in this country who are devastated by the premise of foreigners hating Americans in a macro sense. And I'm starting to think that's because too many Americans are dangerously obsessed with being liked.

Can the skipper sail his bucket without sailors? Or can the engineer, no matter how clever he is, build a locomotive without workers? Nevertheless, the worker has to stand with his cap in hand and beg for a job. He has to stand there like a dog about to be beaten.

The electrified gas creating these vibrant displays was a distinct and oft-forgotten fourth phase of matter—plasma—that comprised more of the universe than all but matter's fifth phase: dark.