Caliber Sayings And Quotes

The Christian god can easily be pictured as virtually the same god as the many ancient gods of past civilizations. The Christian god is a three headed monster cruel vengeful and capricious. If one wishes to know more of this raging three headed beast like god one only needs to look at the caliber of people who say they serve him. They are always of two classes fools and hypocrites.

My father, for whose skills as a surgeon I have the deepest respect, says, "The operation with the best outcome is the one you decide not to do." Knowing when not to operate, knowing when I am in over my head, knowing when to call for the assistance of a surgeon of my father's caliber--that kind of talent, that kind of "brilliance," goes unheralded.

To fight the good fight is one of the bravest and noblest of life's experiences. Not the bloodshed and the battle of man with man, but the grappling with mental and spiritual adversaries that determines the inner caliber of the contestant. It is the quality of the struggle put forth by a man that proclaims to the world what manner of man he is far more than may be by the termination of the battle. It matters not nearly so much to a man that he succeeds in winning some long-sought prize as it does that he has worked for it honestly and unfalteringly with all the force and energy there is in him. It is in the effort that the soul grows and asserts itself to the fullest extent of its possibilities, and he that has worked will, persevering in the face of all opposition and apparent failure, fairly and squarely endeavoring to perform his part to the utmost extent of his capabilities, may well look back upon his labor regardless of any seeming defeat in its result and say, "I have fought a good fight." As you throw the weight of your influence on the side of the good, the true and the beautiful, your life will achieve an endless splendor. It will continue in the lives of others, higher, finer, nobler than you can even contemplate.

To begin with, this case should never have come to trial. The state has not produced one iota of medical evidence that the crime Tom Robinson is charged with ever took place... It has relied instead upon the testimony of two witnesses, whose evidence has not only been called into serious question on cross-examination, but has been flatly contradicted by the defendant. Now, there is circumstantial evidence to indicate that Mayella Ewel was beaten - savagely, by someone who led exclusively with his left. And Tom Robinson now sits before you having taken the oath with the only good hand he possesses... his RIGHT. I have nothing but pity in my heart for the chief witness for the State. She is the victim of cruel poverty and ignorance. But my pity does not extend so far as to her putting a man's life at stake, which she has done in an effort to get rid of her own guilt. Now I say "guilt," gentlemen, because it was guilt that motivated her. She's committed no crime - she has merely broken a rigid and time-honored code of our society, a code so severe that whoever breaks it is hounded from our midst as unfit to live with. She must destroy the evidence of her offense. But what was the evidence of her offense? Tom Robinson, a human being. She must put Tom Robinson away from her. Tom Robinson was to her a daily reminder of what she did. Now, what did she do? She tempted a *****. She was white, and she tempted a *****. She did something that, in our society, is unspeakable. She kissed a black man. Not an old uncle, but a strong, young ***** man. No code mattered to her before she broke it, but it came crashing down on her afterwards. The witnesses for the State, with the exception of the sheriff of Maycomb County have presented themselves to you gentlemen, to this court in the cynical confidence that their testimony would not be doubted, confident that you gentlemen would go along with them on the assumption... the evil assumption that all Negroes lie, all Negroes are basically immoral beings, all ***** men are not to be trusted around our women. An assumption that one associates with minds of their caliber, and which is, in itself, gentlemen, a lie, which I do not need to point out to you. And so, a quiet, humble, respectable *****, who has had the unmitigated TEMERITY to feel sorry for a white woman, has had to put his word against TWO white people's! The defendant is not guilty - but somebody in this courtroom is. Now, gentlemen, in this country, our courts are the great levelers. In our courts, all men are created equal. I'm no idealist to believe firmly in the integrity of our courts and of our jury system - that's no ideal to me. That is a living, working reality! Now I am confident that you gentlemen will review, without passion, the evidence that you have heard, come to a decision and restore this man to his family. In the name of GOD, do your duty. In the name of God, believe... Tom Robinson

Invisible prose only!" rules out the sparkling style of [writers]. . . For [whom] vivid prose, and the visionary mind it evinces, rich with speculation, insight, and subjectivity, is the craft and offers a unique caliber of truth. Is there any other art form one would praise by saying it's "invisible"? By definition, art transcends the ordinary, calls attention to itself, and offers virtuosity as its calling card. One that makes it possible to do what metaphor does so well: illuminate what can't be wholly understood.

Let’s stand here and argue about the caliber of weapon the girl you thought was your new best friend is using to murder everyone,” Julia says.

And if, as all philosophers on the subject have noted, art is a human activity that relies on the senses to reach the soul, did it not also stand to reason that dogs -- at least dogs of Mr. Bones' caliber -- would have it in them to feel a similar aesthetic impulse? Would they not, in other words, be able to appreciate art? As far as Willy knew, no one had ever thought of this before. Did that make him the first man in recorded history to believe such a thing was possible? No matter. It was an idea whose time had come. If dogs were beyond the pull of oil paintings and string quartets, who was to say they wouldn't respond to an art based on the sense of smell? Why not an olfactory art? Why not an art for dogs that dealt with the world as dogs knew it?

I'll sit on him,' Otis says and laughs like it's the funniest thing in the world. He twirls a small ball of fire in one hand and a Desert Eagle .50 Caliber in the other. If Seven didn't know him, he'd probably be running away as fast as he could. It's a big gun.

The Oswald shadings, the multiple images, the split perceptions—eye color, weapons caliber—these seem a foreboding of what is to come. The endless fact-rubble of the investigations. How many shots, how many gunmen, how many directions? Powerful events breed their own network of inconsistencies. The simple facts elude authentication. How many wounds on the President's body? What is the size and shape of the wounds? The multiple Oswald reappears. Isn't that him in a photograph of a crowd of people on the front steps of the Book Depository just as the shooting begins? A startling likeness, Branch concedes. He concedes everything. He questions everything, including the basic suppositions we make about our world of light and shadow, solid objects and ordinary sounds, and our ability to measure such things, to determine weight, mass and direction, to see things as they are, recall them clearly, be able to say what happened.

Dwayne's bad chemicals made him take a loaded thirty-eight caliber revolver from under his pillow and stick it in his mouth. This was a tool whose only purpose was to make holes in human beings. It looked like this: In Dwayne's part of the planet, anybody who wanted one could get one down at his local hardware store. Policemen all had them. So did the criminals. So did the people caught in between. Criminals would point guns at people and say, "Give me all your money," and the people usually would. And policemen would point their guns at criminals and say, "Stop" or whatever the situation called for, and the criminals usually would. Sometimes they wouldn't. Sometimes a wife would get so mad at her husband that she would put a hole in him with a gun. Sometimes a husband would get so mad at his wife that he would put a hole in her. And so on. In the same week Dwayne Hoover ran amok, a fourteen-year-old Midland City boy put holes in his mother and father because he didn't want to show them the bad report card he had brought home. His lawyer planned to enter a plea of temporary insanity, which meant that at the time of the shooting the boy was unable to distinguish the difference between right and wrong. · Sometimes people would put holes in famous people so they could be at least fairly famous, too. Sometimes people would get on airplanes which were supposed to fly to someplace, and they would offer to put holes in the pilot and co-pilot unless they flew the airplane to someplace else.

Your thoughts on numerology are most interesting,” Waterhouse says loudly, running Mr. Drkh off the rhetorical road. “I myself studied with Drs. Turing and von Neumann at the Institute for Advanced Studies in Princeton.” Father John snaps awake, and Mr. Drkh looks as if he’s just taken a fifty-caliber round in the small of his back. Clearly, Mr. Drkh has had a long career of being the weirdest person in any given room, but he’s about to go down in flames.

I follow you. So now you aim to get to a good college. In order to do justice to your talent.’ ‘Well, something like that. My mother and I both thought that maybe Atlas Brookings, being a generous and liberal college…’ ‘Sufficiently generous and liberal to be open to all students of high caliber, even some who haven’t benefited from genetic editing.’ ‘Exactly, sir.’ ‘And no doubt, Rick, you understand, because your mother will have told you, that I currently chair the college’s Founders’ Committee. That’s to say, the body that controls the scholarships.’ ‘Yes, sir. That’s what she told me.’ ‘Now, Rick. I’m hoping your mother hasn’t been implying that the selection procedure at Atlas Brookings is subject to any favoritism.’ ‘Neither my mother nor I would ask you to help me out of favoritism, sir. I’m only asking you to help if you think I’m worth a place at Atlas Brookings.’ ‘That’s well said. Okay, let’s take a look at what you have here.

So is he a radical?” non-Muslims often asked when I told them about the Sheikh. “Not at all,” I’d say, assuming we were all speaking in post-9/11 code. “Of course not.” And I’d meant it. He is not a radical. Or rather, not their kind of radical. His radicalism is of entirely another caliber. He’s an extremist quietist, calling on Muslims to turn away from politics and to leave behind the frameworks of thought popularised by Islamists in recent centuries. Akram’s call for an apolitical Islam unpicked the conditioning of a generation of Muslims, raised on the works of Abu l’Ala Maududi and Sayyid Qutb and their nineteenth-century forerunners. These ideologues aimed to make Islam relevant to the sociopolitical struggles facings Muslims coping with modernity. Their works helped inspire revolutions, coups, and constitutions. But while these thinkers equated faith with political action, the Sheikh believed that politics was puny. He was powered by a certainty that we are just passing through this earth and that mundane quests for land or power miss Islam’s point. Compared with the men fighting for worldly turf, Akram was far more uncompromising: turn away from quests for nation-states or parliamentary seats and toward God. “Allah doesn’t want people to complain to other people,” he said. “People must complain to Allah, not to anyone else.” All the time spent fulminating, organising, protesting? It could be saved for prayer. So unjust governments run the world? Let them. They don’t, anyway. Allah does, and besides, real believers have the next world to worry about.

We put him to the test that afternoon after the Kid woke up. I piled every weapon we had into the wagon and trucked the arsenal halfway across the San Simon Valley. One by one I fired off a round from each of the borrowed weapons and wrote down the order in which I had sent the reports. When I returned at midafternoon, we compared my notes to the Kid’s. Jack had not once failed to identify gun make and model, caliber, and brand of ammunition. He was even able to tell whether I had fired off a report with my right or left hand. Lord knows how he did that. I, of course, had to see it for myself. We sent Pate off to the South Pass of the Dragoons and he commenced to fire off rounds at dusk. BAM! came the first report, aborning to us from the distant mountains and then quickly disintegrating into the maw of the desert sky. “Remington forty-four,” Jack said. “Eighteen sixty-nine model.” He sat on a rock with his hands splayed over his stumpy knees and his head cocked for the next selection. POW! Jack pursed his lips. “Colt’s Lightning . . . forty-one caliber . . . iv’ry grips.” BOOM! At this report Jack chuckled. “Well, first off . . . forty-five caliber Peacemaker, seven-and-a-half-inch barrel,” he announced proudly. Then he smiled. “That ol’ dodger Pate . . . he’s a slick one, tryin’ to pull one on me.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Along with the Colt he let go with a derringer, thirty-two caliber. Sounded like it ain’t been cleaned in a while.” I sat down next to Jack and draped my arm over his rounded shoulders. “Jack, I believe you’ve given credence to the saying that every man on this earth serves a role.” Jack gave me a look. “ ‘Serves a roll?’ Are we in the restaurant business again?

You poor, dear child,” Mrs. Wilkes said, after several restorative sips. “I can only begin to image the insults and humiliations you have been forced to endure, living among those…savages.” Tipsy, Livy wondered if she was referring to Lawson or the Gunns. “I can’t change what you have been through, but I can promise you this. You will never have to see the Gunns again. They were intolerably negligent in placing you in a situation where a savage could propose to make you his…his…wife.” Mrs. Wilkes mouth pursed, as if she’d gone for the snuff and mistakenly taken alum. She lay a hand over her heart. “You needn’t fear going back. You may stay with us for as long as you wish. I swear to you, there is nothing on heaven or earth that could ever persuade me to return you to that nest of vipers.” Mr. Wilkes came in carrying a shawl. “When I think of a child of her caliber being forced into such degraded association with those red instruments of Satan, it makes my blood boil.” He draped the shawl around Livy’s shoulders and patted her kindly. “Mr. Lawson may be a rascal,” Mr. Wilkes continued, “but we owe him a debt of gratitude for rescuing you. I cannot believe one of those creatures actually proposed marriage! To be honest, the mere thought of you with him makes me ill. You were fortunate, Deliverance. I mean to say, I am assuming that the savage did not actually act on his evil intentions?” Livy flinched at his words. Mrs. Wilkes looked sympathetic, but her eyes were bright with curiosity. Every grown person Livy’d been near lately seemed to have their minds stuck on Sodom and Gomorrah. They made her feel dirty. And they wanted to keep her here. To rescue her form Rising Hawk. From Rising Hawk! She looked into the fire. There were bright blue and white tiles the entire length of the hearth. A silver tea service sparkled on a walnut sideboard. This room, with its warm fire and pretty things, had seemed like a haven, peaceful and civilized, up to this moment. They watched her, her head down, studying the tabletop. Suddenly she stood up. “Mr. Wilkes, Mrs. Wilkes. You have both been so kind to me and Ephraim that I feel I owe you the truth.” She paused and put a corner of the shawl to her eyes. “The fact is, me and the Indian have been sinning together for, oh, I don’t know how long. And now here I am, a month gone already and nearly a widow before I’m married.” Mrs. Wilkes fainted with a loud thud. Livy took a certain satisfaction in the sound.

Okay, not quite that good. Ballistics came back on the bullets that were used in the hospital shooting. Octagonal polygonal rifling characteristics, fragments of what looks like a .41 caliber bullet. Forensics says the gun was a Desert Eagle Jericho.” “A Jericho, not the Baby Eagle? They’re kind of rare around these parts.

It’s not an academic question any more to ask what’s going to happen to a cloud. People very much want to know—and that means there’s money available for it. That problem is very much within the realm of physics and it’s a problem very much of the same caliber. You’re looking at something complicated, and the present way of solving it is to try to look at as many points as you can, enough stuff to say where the cloud is, where the warm air is, what its velocity is, and so forth. Then you stick it into the biggest machine you can afford and you try to get an estimate of what it’s going to do next. But this is not very realistic.

Liam took me aside and explained that if anything happened to either of those women he would kill me, but not right away. He promised to take me somewhere and slowly feed me to a group of mangy dogs he intended to recruit off the street, but he would make sure I was alive as long as possible so I could enjoy my hideous death. He went into great detail about all of it.” “He said that?” She couldn’t imagine it. Liam was always nice. Not always. Yeah, okay, she could see him saying that. “Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean it. You know, it’s like the dad who cleans his guns while his daughter’s date shows up.” “I would never show that little fucker what caliber of weapons are coming his way,” Ian announced. “I will show him the report I have on him, his parents, all those fucker friends of his, and how I can find him anywhere he goes. And Li’s totally serious. He’s got a notebook filled with all the ways he can get away with murder. Serena’s been trying to get her hands on it for years, but he thinks he’s going to need it in the end.

I chugged a recovery “Endurance Elixir” that I’d brought—a concoction conceived specifically for me by my friend Compton Rom, a PhD in microbiology who had been using me as a guinea pig to test out various nutritional formulae for his wellness start-up Ascended Health. An entirely plant-based formula loaded with high-caliber nutrients sourced from the four corners of the globe—fermented greens, adaptogens, probiotics, Cordyceps mushroom extracts, marine phytoplankton, and exotic antioxidants, like nattokinase, resveratrol, and quercetin—it’s the furthest thing from flavorful (to say the least) but always revives me like nature’s Red Bull.

No sugarcoating would be necessary,” Matthew interrupted calmly. “Daisy…that is, Miss Bowman, is entirely—” Beautiful. Desirable. Bewitching. “—acceptable. Marrying a woman like Miss Bowman would be a reward in itself.” “Good,” Bowman grunted, clearly unconvinced. “Very gentlemanly of you to say so. Still, I will offer you fair recompense in the form of a generous dowry, more shares in the company and so forth. You will be quite satisfied, I assure you. Now as to the wedding arrangements—” “I didn’t say yes,” Matthew interrupted. Bowman stopped pacing and sent him a questioning stare. “To start with,” Matthew continued carefully, “it is possible Miss Bowman will find a suitor within the next two months.” “She will find no suitors of your caliber,” Bowman said smugly. Matthew replied gravely despite his amusement. “Thank you. But I don’t believe Miss Bowman shares your high opinion.” The older man made a dismissive gesture. “Bah. Women’s minds are as changeable as English weather. You can persuade her to like you. Give her a posy of flowers, throw a few compliments in her direction…better yet, quote something from one of those blasted poetry books she reads. Seducing a woman is easily accomplished, Swift. All you have to do is—” “Mr. Bowman,” Matthew interrupted with a sudden touch of alarm. God in heaven, all he needed was an explanation of courtship techniques from his employer. “I believe I could manage that without any advice. That’s not the issue.” “Then what…ah.” Bowman gave him a man-of-the-world smile. “I understand.” “You understand what?” Matthew asked apprehensively. “Obviously you fear my reaction if you should decide later on that my daughter is not adequate to your needs. But as long as you behave with discretion, I won’t say a word.” Matthew sighed and rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling weary. This was a bit much to face so soon after his ship had landed in Bristol. “You’re saying you’ll look the other way if I stray from my wife,” he said rather than asked. “We men face temptations. Sometimes we stray. It is the way of the world.” “It’s not my way,” Matthew said flatly. “I stand by my word, both in business and in my personal life. If or when I promise to be faithful to a woman, I would be. No matter what.” Bowman’s heavy mustache twitched with amusement. “You’re still young enough to afford scruples.” “The old can’t afford them?” Matthew asked with a touch of affectionate mockery. “Some scruples have a way of becoming overpriced. You’ll discover that someday.” “God, I hope not.” Matthew sank into a chair and buried his head in his hands, his fingers tunneling through the heavy locks of his hair.

One can observe, for example, greed, jealousy, hatred, and the like in children, though the diseases do not necessarily endure. But how does this compare with “Original Sin,” the Christian concept which states that people are corrupt by nature? In short, though Muslim scholars of the caliber of Imam al-Ghazālī do say that diseases of the heart are related to human nature, they would also say that this manifests itself as human inclination. However, Muslims do not believe that this inclination is a result of Adam’s wrongdoing or that Adam brought upon himself, and transferred to his descendants, a permanent state of sin that can only be lifted by sacrificial blood. Adam and Eve erred, no doubt, but they then turned in penitence to God, and God accepted their repentance and forgave them both. This is the nature of God’s forgiveness. There was no blemish passed on to their progeny. The Qur’an declares that no soul bears the burden of sin of another soul (QUR’AN, 6:164). However, this fact does not negate the existence of base instincts among humans.

What kind of ‘loving god’ allows untold thousands of poor innocent women and children to suffer the ravages of disease and poverty?” The Accuser was an actor of the highest caliber. He actually looked as if he meant what he was saying. Tears flowed from his crocodile eyes down his glistening scaly face. He did not care a whit for women and children. He actually thought poverty and disease were good ways to keep the population from expanding to unmanageable numbers that would threaten the earth’s ecosystem of life. To the Accuser, humans were in fact parasites of Mother Earth, grubworms of the Great Goddess. Disease was the Earth’s balancing revenge. But that belief would not stop him from using rhetoric to appeal to the sympathies and compassion of his enemy.

Ah, Aden—” Bishop pushed open the door and rounds snapped through the air. He threw himself backward into the safety of the stairwell. Heavy-caliber projectiles slapped into the door, punching through the wood in a shower of splinters. The pair beat a hasty retreat back down the stairwell as slugs bounced off the walls. “Don’t even think about saying it,” said Bishop. “It’s OK, we’ll find another way out.” Mirza patted the rocket launcher. “Or we can always ‘make’ a way out.

Myron nodded again. “You find anything else?” “Yes,” she said. “And this too I found funny. Very funny.” “Ha-ha funny or strange funny?” “You decide,” she said. She smoothed her lab coat. “I’m no ballistics expert, but I know a little something about bullet slugs. I pulled two slugs from Yeller. One from the rib cage, one from the head.” “Yeah so?” “The two slugs were of different calibers.” Amanda West put up her index finger. All traces of a smile were gone now. Her face was clear and determined. “Understand what I’m telling you, Mr. Bolitar. I’m not just saying two different guns here. I’m talking about different caliber. And here’s the funny part: all the officers on the Philadelphia force use the same caliber weapon.” Myron felt a chill. “So one of the two bullets came from someone other than a cop.” “And,” she continued, “all those secret service men were carrying guns.” Silence. “So,” she said, “ha-ha funny or strange funny?” Myron looked at her. “You don’t hear me laughing.

2,000–3,000 PEOPLE, NOT GENERAL FAME This is one of the messages Eric burned into my brain last year, and it’s guided many decisions since. We were sitting in a large soaking tub talking about the world (as mathematicians and human guinea pigs do in San Francisco), and he said: “General fame is overrated. You want to be famous to 2,000 to 3,000 people you handpick.” I’m paraphrasing, but the gist is that you don’t need or want mainstream fame. It brings more liabilities than benefits. However, if you’re known and respected by 2–3K high-caliber people (e.g., the live TED audience), you can do anything and everything you want in life. It provides maximal upside and minimal downside. GOOD QUESTION TO ASK YOURSELF WHEN TACKLING INCUMBENT COMPANIES (OR IDEAS) “How is their bread buttered?” “What is it that they can’t afford to say or think?” “CONSENSUS” SHOULD SET OFF YOUR SPIDEY SENSE “Somehow, people have to learn that consensus is a huge problem. There’s no ‘arithmetic consensus’ because it doesn’t require a consensus. But there is a Washington consensus. There is a climate consensus. In general, consensus is how we bully people into pretending that there’s nothing to see. ‘Move along, everyone.’ I think that, in part, you should learn that people don’t naturally come to high levels of agreement unless something is either absolutely clear, in which case consensus isn’t present, or there’s an implied threat of violence to livelihood or self.” TF: I start nearly every public presentation I give with a slide that contains one quote: “Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it’s time to pause and reflect.” —Mark Twain. This isn’t just for my audience. It’s also a reminder for me.

Learn to admire others; it is the first step to overcome your ego.” “The ego destroys its egoist silently and suddenly, as a termite does.” “The ego is such a bullet that fires all your relations.” “The ego and vanity both hold such invisible fire that flames upon oneself.” “Your ego may hurt and damage you more than others.” Learn how to live and participate in people and society, how to help each other, and how to build harmony and peace among those who have lost their way. It can only be with respect, justice, and equality, without any distinctions. Be aware that your ego can destroy your ability if you focus on your caliber and status; it is a poison, not a remedy. Understand the outcomes and consequences of ego, egoists, and egotism. Read thoroughly to grasp the insight to enlighten your life and ways. “Everyone stands firm with their ego status; thus, I accept that I am zero and that everyone else is a hero, but remember that on every count, zero matters.” “The ego, vanity, jealousy, and other flaws define the imperceptive attitude and fly silently toward self-victimizing.” “Nothing else than the worst and abysmal self-defeat, which elucidates that one fetches and embraces itself to become the victim of ego, vanity, and jealousy.” “An egoist focuses on self-promotion and does not admire others or value anyone else. Unfortunately, such one remains the prisoner of egotism.” “A heart that contains love cannot keep the hate there A heart that performs forgiveness does not recognize revenge In a heart where there is altruism, there is no place for egoism Such a heart demonstrates a pure and real human.” “It proves not a difficult task if one discovers the universe; however, discovering one’s self-ego is the toughest matter, whereas overcoming that leads to a visionary victory.” “To show others, the quotes and sayings of the visionary figures, as a mirror instead of reform own conduct and character, indicates one’s worst egoism unless that reflects and demonstrates not their golden words.” “One can neither understand nor accept and respect others’ logic, view, and insight before overcoming their ego.” “After the jumping out of your ego, you liberate your own, and you see the way towards the values of others.” “The nurturing of morals is the language, and control of the ego is the eye of the soul.” “Surrender your ego to enjoy peace of mind and the beauty of equality and harmony.” “Everyone stands firm with their ego status; thus, I accept that I am zero and that everyone else is a hero, but remember that on every count, zero matters.” “Hatred, racism, discrimination, distinction, and vainglory germinate in the soil of ego.” “When one becomes capable of overcoming desires, hopes, and ego, one learns and understands the faculty of patience.” I Yield Not *** I suffer not from ego I let that not enter my life I yield not my will to avaricious As I am a truth of truths I dream not, impossibilities I become a dream of my dreams Since I exist as a reality Thus, it builds A sweet and lovely pleasure, Peace and calm I dance; I dance Without security Even no one can imagine My link to the spiritual world I am here and there No one is aware I wear and bear Every atmosphere. Deliberately *** I deliberately Become fool I enjoy that To punish My ego It is not strange Nor it is a surprise It is just an idea Of yourself What are you Who are you If my ego rules me I feel myself in the doom If I overcome my ego My ways become bright I see the destiny For that, I am here I deliberately Become fool To let people Enjoy and happy Let them heal Their wounds Caused by themselves Of their wrong deeds I deliberately Become fool To make the people active Put to use their time The great lessons That nowhere One can learn.

Honestly, the only retirement option I might have ever considered was sold by the caliber. You broke that cycle for me. Thank you for that. Second to I love you, that’s the thing I keep wanting to say. Thank you. Besides I’m sorry.

I don’t remember how much time passed between my saying, “It’s nothing,” and someone in that other group of soldiers opening fire, but it was likely less than ten seconds. And I don’t know why they did it. But I know that .50 caliber machine-gun rounds tore into the small white car and tore into the old man and the old woman until the small white car stopped moving and the old man and the old woman were both dead. So it goes. They have been dying in my mind every day for the last fourteen years. I suspect they will do so until I’ve exhausted my own days on this earth. This is my moment trapped in amber. I am now thirty-eight years old. I live in a rented house in Pittsboro, North Carolina, with my wife, my two daughters, and my dog. I try to be kind. I try not to hurt people. And though I have just told you all the things I know with certainty about that day in September in Tal Afar, Iraq, when I was twenty-four, I’m still not sure what it means. I don’t know if my being there in that place and at that time makes me a bad person, but on most days I think it means I do not get to claim to be a good one.

Don't look for the state of the art most expensive cameras. You should be capable today with fairly simple equipment of high caliber. You can edit on your own laptop, and you can make a film yourself for, let's say, even a feature film under $10,000. Learn from the documentary film school. Really didn't have any equipment or any money.

My father used to say a man’s legacy isn’t made of the achievements he leaves behind. He always told me it’s built from the caliber of people who remember him and how he made them feel.

I saw a strange and odd-looking little guy walk in to a gun show in Fort Worth, pay cash for a 50-caliber sniper rifle with nobody asking him any questions before he walked right out the front door with that thing strapped over his shoulder; I thought it was extra odd that he was such a little puny fellow and the sniper rifle was actually bigger than he was, making that very memorable for me. I’m not saying this little fellow can’t legally have a sniper rifle; I am saying we would all have much better security in knowing that he was legally cleared to have it and in knowing that if he gets weird on us, then someone will show up to legally take the sniper rifle out of his hands.

There is no reason at all for thinking that the average intelligent investor, even with much devoted effort, can derive better results over the years from the purchase of growth stocks than the investment companies specializing in this area. Surely these organizations have more brains and better research facilities at their disposal than you do. Consequently we should advise against the usual type of growth-stock commitment for the enterprising investor.* This is one in which the excellent prospects are fully recognized in the market and already reflected in a current price-earnings ratio of, say, higher than 20. (For the defensive investor we suggested an upper limit of purchase price at 25 times average earnings of the past seven years. The two criteria would be about equivalent in most cases.)† The striking thing about growth stocks as a class is their tendency toward wide swings in market price. This is true of the largest and longest-established companies—such as General Electric and International Business Machines—and even more so of newer and smaller successful companies. They illustrate our thesis that the main characteristic of the stock market since 1949 has been the injection of a highly speculative element into the shares of companies which have scored the most brilliant successes, and which themselves would be entitled to a high investment rating. (Their credit standing is of the best, and they pay the lowest interest rates on their borrowings.) The investment caliber of such a company may not change over a long span of years, but the risk characteristics of its stock will depend on what happens to it in the stock market. The more enthusiastic the public grows about it, and the faster its advance as compared with the actual growth in its earnings, the riskier a proposition it becomes.

The revolver was chambered for .442 rounds, which meant there was only room for five. "These are large caliber bullets for such a short gun," Merritt remarked. "It's designed to stop someone at close range," Ethan said, absently arching up to rub a spot on his chest. "Being hit by one of those bullets feels like a kick from a mule." "Why is the hammer bobbed?" "To keep it from catching on the holster or clothing, if I have to draw it fast." Keeping the muzzle of the gun pointed away from him, Merritt reassembled the revolver, slid the extractor rod into place, and locked it deftly. "Well done," Ethan commented, surprised by her assurance. "You're familiar with guns, then." "Yes, my father taught me. May I shoot it?" "What are you going to aim for?" By this time, the others had come out from the parlor to watch. "Uncle Sebastian," Merritt asked, "are those pottery rabbits on the stone wall valuable?" Kingston smiled slightly and shook his head. "Have at it." "Wait," Ethan said calmly. "That's a twenty-yard distance. You'll need a longer-range weapon." With meticulous care, he took the revolver from her and replaced it in his coat. "Try this one." Merritt's brows lifted slightly as he pulled a gun from a cross-draw holster concealed by his coat. This time, Ethan handed the revolver to her without bothering to disassemble it first. "It's loaded, save one chamber," he cautioned. "I put the hammer down to prevent accidental discharge." "A Colt single-action," Merritt said, pleased, admiring the elegant piece, with its four-and-a-half-inch barrel and custom engraving. "Papa has one similar to this." She eased the hammer back and gently rotated the cylinder. "It has a powerful recoil," Ethan warned. "I would expect so." Merritt held the Colt in a practiced grip, the fingers of her support hand fit neatly underneath the trigger guard. "Cover your ears," she said, cocking the hammer and aligning the sights. She squeezed the trigger. An earsplitting report, a flash of light from the muzzle, and one of the rabbit sculptures on the wall shattered. In the silence that followed, Merritt heard her father say dryly, "Go on, Merritt. Put the other bunny out of its misery." She cocked the hammer, aimed and fired again. The second rabbit sculpture exploded. "Sweet Mother Mary," Ethan said in wonder. "I've never seen a woman shoot like that." "My father taught all of us how to shoot and handle firearms safely," Merritt said, giving the revolver back to him grip-first.

What I hadn’t anticipated was the media’s reaction to Trump’s sudden embrace of birtherism—the degree to which the line between news and entertainment had become so blurred, and the competition for ratings so fierce, that outlets eagerly lined up to offer a platform for a baseless claim. It was propelled by Fox News, naturally, a network whose power and profits had been built around stoking the same racial fears and resentments that Trump now sought to exploit. Night after night, its hosts featured him across their most popular platforms. On Fox’s O’Reilly Factor, Trump declared, “If you are going to be president of the United States you have to be born in this country. And there is a doubt as to whether or not he was….He doesn’t have a birth certificate.” On the network’s morning show Fox & Friends, he suggested that my birth announcement might have been a fake. In fact, Trump was on Fox so much that he soon felt obliged to throw in some fresh material, saying that there was something fishy about my getting into Harvard, given that my “marks were lousy.” He told Laura Ingraham he was certain that Bill Ayers, my Chicago neighbor and former radical activist, was the true author of Dreams from My Father, since the book was too good to have been written by someone of my intellectual caliber.