Burlington Quotes

When did they stop putting toys in cereal boxes? When I was little, I remember wandering the cereal aisle (which surely is as American a phenomenon as fireworks on the Fourth of July) and picking my breakfast food based on what the reward was: a Frisbee with the Trix rabbit's face emblazoned on the front. Holographic stickers with the Lucky Charms leprechaun. A mystery decoder wheel. I could suffer through raisin bran for a month if it meant I got a magic ring at the end. I cannot admit this out loud. In the first place, we are expected to be supermoms these days, instead of admitting that we have flaws. It is tempting to believe that all mothers wake up feeling fresh every morning, never raise their voices, only cook with organic food, and are equally at ease with the CEO and the PTA. Here's a secret: those mothers don't exist. Most of us-even if we'd never confess-are suffering through the raisin bran in the hopes of a glimpse of that magic ring. I look very good on paper. I have a family, and I write a newspaper column. In real life, I have to pick superglue out of the carpet, rarely remember to defrost for dinner, and plan to have BECAUSE I SAID SO engraved on my tombstone. Real mothers wonder why experts who write for Parents and Good Housekeeping-and, dare I say it, the Burlington Free Press-seem to have their acts together all the time when they themselves can barely keep their heads above the stormy seas of parenthood. Real mothers don't just listen with humble embarrassment to the elderly lady who offers unsolicited advice in the checkout line when a child is throwing a tantrum. We take the child, dump him in the lady's car, and say, "Great. Maybe YOU can do a better job." Real mothers know that it's okay to eat cold pizza for breakfast. Real mothers admit it is easier to fail at this job than to succeed. If parenting is the box of raisin bran, then real mothers know the ratio of flakes to fun is severely imbalanced. For every moment that your child confides in you, or tells you he loves you, or does something unprompted to protect his brother that you happen to witness, there are many more moments of chaos, error, and self-doubt. Real mothers may not speak the heresy, but they sometimes secretly wish they'd chosen something for breakfast other than this endless cereal. Real mothers worry that other mothers will find that magic ring, whereas they'll be looking and looking for ages. Rest easy, real mothers. The very fact that you worry about being a good mom means that you already are one.

She sang that night like - I cannot say like an angel, for her songs were all of champagne suppers and strolling in the Burlington Arcade; perhaps, then, like a fallen angel - or yet again like a falling one: she sang like a falling angel might sing with the bounds of heaven fresh burst behind him, and hell still distant and unguessed. And as she did so, I sang with her - not loudly and carelessly like the rest of the crowd, but softly, almost secretly, as if she might hear me the better if I whispered rather than bawled.

Plastic flowers last for hours

For the last day or so there had been a certain amount of coolness in the home over a pair of jazz spats which I had dug up while exploring in the Burlington Arcade.

Don't ask me, I'm British.

Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled Byron—at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old.

The United States was of an anti-intellectual bent. And yet the two most technologically advanced laboratories in the world, as far as Paul could tell, were no longer in Paris’s Louvre or London’s Burlington House. They were now in Menlo Park, New Jersey, and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. They were operated by two self-made men with no formal training at all.

on board a train wreck in slow motion dragging distances of time in phantom carriages behind it

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As mayor of Burlington, I helped establish two sister-city programs. One was with the town of Puerto Cabezas in Nicaragua.

She’s life, and I’m death. Prescott Burlington-Smyth is everything I want to be. A storm moving out of a shit situation at the speed of light, not looking back to spare a glance at the casualties of her actions. How

As for Prescott Burlington-Smyth—If you thought my parents burdened me with an unfortunate last name, you’d be surprised, because the only name Bryan managed to snag that fits my physical profile is Tanaka Cockburn. And while Tanaka is a beautiful name. . . Cockburn.

When you stand on the banks of Penn Swamp Pond in August, those injuries can save your life and keep you picking till the bush is bare.

September heard October creeping up behind, and it gracefully stepped to one side, opening the door to the darker evenings and falling leaves, frost-covered lawns and hearty stews.

at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled Byron — at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old. Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg was a Londoner. He was never seen on ‘Change,

How many cities of forty thousand, which is the population of Burlington, have a foreign policy? Well, we did. During my tenure as mayor we made the point that excessive spending on the military and unnecessary wars meant fewer resources to address the needs of ordinary people. Somewhere in the Reagan Library, or wherever these things are kept, there is a letter from the mayor of Burlington opposing the U.S. funding of contras in Nicaragua. The letter stated, “Stop the war against the people of Nicaragua. Use our tax dollars to feed the hungry and house the homeless. Stop killing the innocent people of Nicaragua.” As

I’d heard an NPR story about it that winter, this ongoing grassroots movement against the recent civil union law. They’d played a phone interview with a Burlington resident who’d sounded young and energetic and pierced. He said, “This state is the most happily polarized place in the country. Half the people are way liberal, and the other half are so conservative, it’s like, ‘You can be gay if I can have my guns.’ It’s this sort of balance of extremes.” The angry clots of paint on these weathered sheets looked anything but happy, though. And I remembered that the man on the radio had said his own car bore a bumper sticker reading “Take Vermont from Behind.

Burlington, Vermont, is an example of a certain kind of small city that David Brooks calls “Latte Towns,” enclaves of affluent and well-educated people, sometimes in scenic locales such as Santa Fe or Aspen and sometimes in university towns such as Ann Arbor, Berkeley, or Chapel Hill. Of Burlington, Brooks writes: Burlington boasts a phenomenally busy public square. There are kite festivals and yoga festivals and eating festivals. There are arts councils, school-to-work collaboratives, environmental groups, preservation groups, community-supported agriculture, antidevelopment groups, and ad hoc activist groups.… And this public square is one of the features that draw people to Latte Towns. People in these places apparently would rather spend less time in the private sphere of their home and their one-acre yard and more time in the common areas.

My faith is important but there are so many contradictions in the Good Book that I have been forced to forge my own path and focus on those tenets that are important to me. Honouring my mother and father, treating others as I wish to be treated, and reserving judgement for God alone. If he forgives the sinner, who am I to convict? Besides, God made all living things, and that includes you, my darling, however imperfect you are. And I can’t believe anything He made can be condemned.

On Sunday, November 10, Kaiser Wilhelm II was dethroned, and he fled to Holland for his life. Britain’s King George V, who was his cousin, told his diary that Wilhelm was “the greatest criminal known for having plunged the world into this ghastly war,” having “utterly ruined his country and himself.” Keeping vigil at the White House, the President and First Lady learned by telephone, at three o’clock that morning, that the Germans had signed an armistice. As Edith later recalled, “We stood mute—unable to grasp the significance of the words.” From Paris, Colonel House, who had bargained for the armistice as Wilson’s envoy, wired the President, “Autocracy is dead. Long live democracy and its immortal leader. In this great hour my heart goes out to you in pride, admiration and love.” At 1:00 p.m., wearing a cutaway and gray trousers, Wilson faced a Joint Session of Congress, where he read out Germany’s surrender terms. He told the members that “this tragical war, whose consuming flames swept from one nation to another until all the world was on fire, is at an end,” and “it was the privilege of our own people to enter it at its most critical juncture.” He added that the war’s object, “upon which all free men had set their hearts,” had been achieved “with a sweeping completeness which even now we do not realize,” and Germany’s “illicit ambitions engulfed in black disaster.” This time, Senator La Follette clapped. Theodore Roosevelt and Senator Lodge complained that Wilson should have held out for unconditional German surrender. Driven down Capitol Hill, Wilson was cheered by joyous crowds on the streets. Eleanor Roosevelt recorded that Washington “went completely mad” as “bells rang, whistles blew, and people went up and down the streets throwing confetti.” Including those who had perished in theaters of conflict from influenza and other diseases, the nation’s nineteen-month intervention in the world war had levied a military death toll of more than 116,000 Americans, out of a total perhaps exceeding 8 million. There were rumors that Wilson planned to sail for France and horse-trade at the peace conference himself. No previous President had left the Americas during his term of office. The Boston Herald called this tradition “unwritten law.” Senator Key Pittman, Democrat from Nevada, told reporters that Wilson should go to Paris “because there is no man who is qualified to represent him.” The Knickerbocker Press of Albany, New York, was disturbed by the “evident desire of the President’s adulators to make this war his personal property.” The Free Press of Burlington, Vermont, said that Wilson’s presence in Paris would “not be seemly,” especially if the talks degenerated into “bitter controversies.” The Chattanooga Times called on Wilson to stay home, “where he could keep his own hand on the pulse of his own people” and “translate their wishes” into action by wireless and cable to his bargainers in Paris.

Lexington High still plays Burlington High on Thanksgiving Day, and Dratch and I trash-text each other. She calls me Burlington garbage and I tell her to go drive her Mercedes into a lake.

a trend we see playing out across America: young people are in Detroit fixing up real estate, in Burlington starting farms, and in San Francisco building tech companies. The “kids these days” aspire to be small business owners, startup founders, and makers. Just maybe, the kids these days are alright.

Hair spray was king, and the eighties silhouette in Burlington was big hair, giant shoulder pads, chunky earrings, thick belts, and form-fitting stretch pants. My silhouette was an upside-down triangle. Add in my round potato face and hearty eyebrows and you’ve got yourself a grade-A boner killer, so remember that before you try to jerk it to my teenage-nurse story.

Around the World in 80 Days Chapter I IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PASSEPARTOUT ACCEPT EACH OTHER, THE ONE AS MASTER, THE OTHER AS MAN Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled Byron— at least

During this first term [as Burlington mayor in 1981] I discovered that the city was wasting substantial sums of money on its insurance policies. Companies, year after year, were getting the city’s business at substantially higher than market rates. I instituted a radical socialist concept, 'competitive' bidding, which saved the city tens of thousands of dollars.

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remarkable was that she had been the first female detective in the Burlington Police Department. As far as he knew she was still the only one. And she had been his partner. They had made more arrests leading to more convictions than anyone in

Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled Byron,—at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old.

Out of those cracks, hidden socialists crawled. I’m not sure anyone was paying attention in 1988, for example, when Bernie Sanders took a little jaunt over to the Soviet Union to meet with some of the party leaders he admired so much. Anyway, why would they have noticed? In those days, Comrade Bernie was still just the hippie mayor of Burlington, Vermont. No one took him seriously.

I thought #JamesBond was a real spy until I read #TheBurlingtonFiles.

But Burlington’s big post–World War II turning point came with the arrival in the late 1950s of what eventually turned out to be one of IBM’s major semiconductor works, in the suburb of Essex Junction, just east of Burlington. At its peak, the IBM factory employed some eight thousand engineers and technical workers. Its staff fell to about three thousand (and IBM has sold the works to another company, a Silicon Valley spin-off called GlobalFoundries). But its influence on Burlington remains profound.

The state of Vermont is a favorite target of the latte libel. In his best-selling Bobos in Paradise, David Brooks ridicules the city of Burlington in that state as the prototypical “latte town,” a city where “Beverly Hills income levels” meet a Scandinavian-style social consciousness.

My full name is Cadence Sinclair Eastman. I live in Burlington, Vermont, with mummy and three dogs. I am nearly eighteen. I own a well-used library card, an envelope full of dried beach roses, a book of fairy tales, and a handful of lovely purple rocks. Not much else. I am The perpetrator Of a foolish, deluded crime That became A tragedy. Yes, it's true that I fell in love with someone and that he died, along with the two other people I loved best in this world. That has been the main thing to know about me for a very long time, although i did not know it myself. But there must be more to know. There will be more.

The Grants will make their train. Julia is so eager to leave town that she has chosen the local, which takes thirteen long hours to reach Burlington. The faster option would be the seven-thirty express in the morning, but that would mean a night at the theater with the daft and unbalanced Mary Lincoln. Julia Grant's mind is made up. What Ulysses S. Grant does not know is that he will be returning to Washington by the same train within twenty-four hours.

The Duke of Devonshire owned Hardwick Hall, Chatsworth, Bolton Abbey, Lismore Castle and Compton Place, and, in London, Burlington and Devonshire Houses. Prodigal peers and their heirs ran up astronomical debts – and mortgaging and other legal devices allowed them to do this without imperilling their estates.

Applicants must also choose whether to be in or near a city or whether to attend college in a rural area. City suburbs are always a favorite because they combine access to the urban area with the safety that parents crave. During the 1970s, rural hideaways were popular among students who wanted to curl up with a book on bucolic hillside. Today, cow colleges are out as students hear the siren song of the city. Boston has always been preeminent among student-friendly big cities, offering an unparalleled combination of safety, cultural activities, and about fifty colleges. Chicago and Washington, D.C., are also immensely popular. On the West Coast, Berkeley, California, is a mecca for the college-aged, though today an overcrowded one. Legendary college towns like Ann Arbor, Michigan; Boulder, Colorado; and Burlington, Vermont, provide wonderfully rich places for a college education. Perhaps the hottest place of all among today’s students is New York City, where private institutions such as Columbia University, Barnard College, and New York University are enjoying record popularity.

Martin Luther King, Jr. was the first African American to be Time Magazine ’ ’ s Man of the Year (1963) The first stagecoach line was established in 1732 between Burlington and Amboy in New Jersey.

Sir David Evans was a charming old man with philosophic pretensions and a mass of white hair. Because of the philosophy he sat in front of the immense bookcases groaning under Locke, Hartley and Hume; and because of the hair these sages were cased in a dark shiny leather sparsely tooled in gold. The effect was charming – the more so in that Sir David's features invariably suggested rugged benevolence. Every few years a portrait of Sir David robed in scarlet and black and with Locke and Hume behind him would appear in the exhibitions which our greatest painters arrange at Burlington House. Of these portraits one already hung in the Great Hall of the university, a second could be seen in a dominating position as soon as one entered Sir David's villa residence, and a third was stowed away ready for offer to the National Portrait Gallery when the time came.

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I still can’t decide which is worse – the suffering of the victim or the suffering of those left behind.

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On March 4, 1981, Burlington elected him mayor—by a margin of ten votes out of more than 9,600 cast.15 (“Ten anarchist votes!” Murray would say. “And I know who they were!”)

No one understood how Chanel made all that money but still shopped at Burlington’s, Target, and even thrift stores. She knew what it was like to starve, to be dirt poor, and to literally only have forty-nine cents to your name.

For People Starting Out—Say “Yes” When Derek was 18, he was living in Boston, attending the Berklee College of Music. “I’m in this band where the bass player, one day in rehearsal, says, ‘Hey man, my agent just offered me this gig—it’s like $ 75 to play at a pig show in Vermont.’ He rolls his eyes, and he says, ‘I’m not gonna do it, do you want the gig?’ I’m like, ‘Fuck yeah, a paying gig?! Oh, my God! Yes!’ So, I took the gig to go up to Burlington, Vermont. “And, I think it was a $ 58 round-trip bus ticket. I get to this pig show, I strap my acoustic guitar on, and I walked around a pig show playing music. I did that for about 3 hours, and took the bus home, and the next day, the booking agent called me up, and said, ‘Hey, yeah, so you did a really good job at the pig show. . . .’ “So many opportunities, and 10 years of stage experience, came from that one piddly little pig show. . . . When you’re earlier in your career, I think the best strategy is to just say ‘yes’ to everything. Every little gig. You just never know what are the lottery tickets.

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Burlington, Vermont, Nouvelle-Angleterre, était considéré par le reste du pays comme un trou perdu. Charmant, mais tellement ennuyeux. Ça me convenait plutôt bien au début, du moins jusqu'à ce que je réalise que ce paisible petit bled abritait en secret l'une des plus vieilles communautés surnaturelles du pays. Vous me direz, rien n'est parfait... peut être, mais si j'avais su, j'y aurais regardé à deux fois avant de de venir m'y installer six mois plus tôt. Les humains de l'office du tourisme auraient dû le mentionner dans leurs prospectus. Ça aurait donné un truc du genre : "Venez visiter Burlington, l'été, vous pourrez pratiquer les sports nautiques ou pêcher sur le lac Champlain et l'hiver, vous pourrez faire du ski ou de la randonnée en raquettes, ah, au fait, n'oubliez pas d'amener avec vous quelques fusils munis de balles d'argent, un ou deux pieux, trois ou quatre lance-flammes, les habitants du coin sont du genre irritable...

DADDY I$$UES Famous investor Warren Buffett’s largest-ever purchase was a $26 billion acquisition of the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad in 2010. Why’d he buy it? “Because my father didn’t buy me a train set as a kid,” said Buffett.

Hester Lipp had written Where the Sidewalk Starts, an inexplicably acclaimed book of memoir, recounting — in severe language and strange, striking imagery — Lipp's childhood and adolescence on a leafy suburban street in Burlington. Her house was large and well-kept, her schooling uneventful, her family — the members of which she described in scrupulous detail — uniformly decent and supportive. Sidewalk was blurbed as a devastatingly honest account of what it meant to grow up middle class in America. Amy, who forced herself to read the whole thing, thought the book devastatingly unnecessary. The New York Times had assigned it to her for a review, and she stomped on it with both feet. Amy's review of Sidewalk was the only mean-spirited review she ever wrote. She had allowed herself to do this, not because she was tired of memoirs, baffled by their popularity, resentful that somehow, in the past twenty years, fiction had taken a backseat to them, so that in order to sell clever, thoroughly imagined novels, writers had been browbeaten by their agents into marketing them as fact. All this annoyed her, but then Amy was annoyed by just about everything. She beat up on Hester Lipp because the woman could write up a storm and yet squandered her powers on the minutiae of a beige conflict-free life. In her review, Amy had begun by praising what there was to praise about Hester's sharp sentences and word-painting talents and then slipped, in three paragraphs, into a full-scale rant about the tyranny of fact and the great advantages, to both writer and reader, of making things up. She ended by saying that reading Where the Sidewalk Starts was like "being frog-marched through your own backyard.

Bernie Sanders’ public career as a socialist, most notably his presidential runs, have catapulted him from the middle class to “one of those rich people against whom he has so unrelentingly railed,” as Politico put it in a recent profile, “The Secret of Bernie’s Millions.” Bernie cashed in on his wife’s severance package after she ran Burlington College into the ground. He also did well with real estate appreciation and with the proceeds of a bestselling book, which he boasts “sold all over the world, and we made money.” Bernie and his wife now own three homes, including a lakefront summer pad.

Cadence Sinclair Eastman. I live in Burlington, Vermont, with Mummy and three dogs.

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Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club,

I think I'd make a good candidate," Bernie explained, making it plain that he planned to run no matter what I or anyone else decided to do. This was clearly not a negotiation, just a discussion. For me, the choice was obvious: divide our forces by running myself or stand aside. Actually, it was easy -- I never much wanted the job. Ousting the incumbent had always been my main objective, the only way I could see to open the political process.

Petrykin left the room again, and after a few seconds Green could hear him washing his hands in the kitchen sink. He returned a few seconds later drying his hands on a towel. In his pocket was a pair of latex gloves. Green smiled as Petrykin put them on. He too had a box of gloves ready and waiting in his kitchen. Habit of the profession, he thought. Petrykin took out the book and the sheet of folded up paper from the package. "So, Stuart, this was hidden in the lining here?" Petrykin mimed the removal of the page from the book. "Exactly." "Okay, let me look at this book first." Green watched the master go to work, inspecting the volume from every angle. It didn't take long before he reached a verdict. "It looks to be from the correct period, certainly. Sixteenth century. And that's the Tsar's seal, I'm positive, unless it's a forgery..." Petrykin looked inside the book. "Greek. My Greek isn't what it should be—too much football when I should have been studying—but it’s of the right period. The workmanship suggests a very expensive book, but not too fancy. To be read, rather than admired. Do you know what it says?" Green shook his head. "Until today I only had a few photographed pages, which I sent to be translated.” "Constantin?" Petrykin asked. "Yes, actually, but he never got back to me. I imagine he's busy." "Not busy so much as troubled. The university is after him," Petrykin lamented. "Really?" Petrykin nodded gravely and made the universal gesture of tipping a bottle toward one’s mouth. "He sucks his thumb?" Green joked. Petrykin faked a smile. "Ha, ha," he said. "We should get him this book—no, a copy, he cannot be trusted at the moment. Is he the only Greek person we know in the whole world?" Petrykin wondered, annoyed. "Could be," Green lamented. "Okay, we will take the book to the copy place and copy some of it. If it's promising, we copy the rest.

It’s no surprise, however, that baseball and finally softball teams continued to adopt the honey bee as their mascot after World War II. With the issue of race becoming an explosive issue, sports and schools became the avenues for the American public to address racial and gender prejudice. Because Americans don’t have a national religion, sports provide a way for people to share rules and values. From the Burlington Bees to the Salt Lake Buzz, baseball teams chose the honey bee as their icon because such a symbol emphasized a tightly organized social infrastructure, which good baseball teams need.

Morgantown,

They set aside time for a trip to Burlington, held hands as they walked the streets and wandered the shops filled with the residue of last season's tourists.

Thus everything had been false, everything except the birth of her daughter, which had freed her momentarily from frightened acquiescence, made her calm and strong, and a little more selfish, but not quite enough. Thus are lives lost, through what must be despair at knowing oneself too weak to deal with the dangers, the choices. And only the memory of those few brief moments of permitted freedom, in a café in New Burlington Street, a book on the table in front of her, with the clear conscience of one who had done a good day’s work—only that memory now appeared to be free from any kind of adult stain.

Fortunately, most true followers of the Prophet abhorred this senseless destruction.

The Dig Site Matrouh Governorate, Egypt From the ages of eight to fourteen, Brook rarely saw her father. He made brief stopovers in the States two or three times a year, week-long whirlwind affairs with much of the time spent with Brook's mother in the bedroom, and a little with Brook and her little brother. Mostly, Brook remembered his non-stop patter during these times; excited recounts of the civilizations he'd discovered, the walls and chambers and treasures; gold and riches from the northern plains of Turkey to the Andes in Peru. Both Brook and her mother found themselves thoroughly caught up in the excitement of having Cale home, as well as the thrill of his work and the energy he brought into their humble home in the suburbs of the nation's capital. He told stories—tall tales, it turned out—about the travels of the ancients

Everything you do should be driven by love.

God’s plans for us all are a wonder to behold,’ she said,

He set me up a couple of times. Without my knowing it—I found out later—he used me as a getaway driver on a hit-and-run jewel theft in the Burlington Arcade. “Here, Keith, I’ve got this Jag. Want to try it out?” What they wanted was a clean car and a clean driver. And Tony had obviously told these blokes that I was a good night driver. So I waited outside this place, not knowing what was happening. Tony was a good mate of mine, but he used to stitch me up.

One of our most prominent scholars in Dutch paintings told me,” Rousseau once recalled, “that when he saw the article in The Burlington Magazine and the photographs of Emmaus, he said to his pupils, ‘That’s a forgery.’ But then he went to Holland, and when he saw the picture in front of him, with its convincing craquelure, convincing colors, convincing aging, he began to doubt his own first impression. There, close to it, he saw all the convincing details and not what was wrong with the style.