Campus Memories Quotes

Go for a walk. Explore a new neighborhood, try a new restaurant. Just keep making memories and sharing experiences. Good or bad, they bring you closer together.

And when that happens, I know it. A message saying so merely confirms a piece of news some secret vein had already received, severing from me an irreplaceable part of myself, letting it loose like a kite on a broken string. That is why, walking across a school campus on this particular December morning, I keep searching the sky. As if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying towards heaven.

Who am I to decide what someone should or shouldn’t do? People skip funerals and memorials all the time, for all sorts of reasons. Maybe they want to grieve for their loved ones in private. Maybe it’s too hard for them. Maybe they just don’t believe in funerals. It’s not my place to judge

But you know what my therapist used to tell me? The best way to forget a bad memory is to replace it with a good one.

...nothing from the summer carries more lasting allure for me than the memory of sitting with Ruth on the bank of a stream on campus, taking turns reading aloud from the books we held on our laps, while the wind wet leaves gossiping in the old trees above us and the creek rustled in its stony bed.

I walk into my bedroom after my morning shower to hear my phone ringing. And since everyone my age texts instead of calls, I know exactly who it is without having to check the screen. “Hey, Mom,” I greet her, gripping the edge of my towel as I head for the dresser. “Mom? Holy shish kebob. So it’s true? I mean, I thought I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy twenty-one years ago, but that seems like a distant memory. Because if I did have a son, he’d probably call me more than once a month, right

Doing a geographic” is a term alcoholics often use for acting on the impulse to start over by moving to a new town, or state, instead of making any internal changes. It’s the anywhere-but-here part of the disease that says, “Remove yourself from this, go someplace new, and everything will be better.” Two years into our Florida stint, my mother pulled a geographic as radical as the move from Rochester. The new plan was to head for California. She enrolled in the mathematics graduate program at the University of California’s shiny new campus in San Diego, and as soon as our elementary school let out for the summer, she put us into a new Buick station wagon – a gift from her parents – and drove us across the country. You’d think we’d have protested at yet another move. After all, having been duped before, we were in no position to believe that the next move would be any different. But I have no memory of being unhappy about the news. Because that’s what often happens when an alcoholic parent is doing a geographic. She pulls you in and, before you know it, you, too, believe in the promise of the new place.

I have memories of him when he was sober. When he was quick to smile, always armed with a joke or a laugh. I miss that man. Christ, I really fucking miss him sometimes.

Set foot on the campus and it changes you forever. It's..." He paused like he was searching for the right word, something I'd never seen him do before." "It's Nerdvana!" he finally declared.

College life is different, entirely different like you don't have to get ready and wear that red and crisp blue school uniform and look alike every day. Free to define ourselves with statement attire. Good thing.

You walk around the world and you see people multitasking. They’re playing games and they’re reading email and they’re on Facebook, etc … On a college campus, most kids are doing two things at once, maybe three things at once … Virtually all multitaskers think they are brilliant at multitasking. And one of the big discoveries is, You know what? You’re really lousy at it! It turns out multitaskers are terrible at every aspect of multitasking. They get distracted constantly. Their memory is very disorganized. Recent work we’ve done suggests they’re worse at analytical reasoning. We worry that it may be creating people who are unable to think well and clearly.15

A message saying so merely confirms a piece of news some secret vein had already received, severing from me an irreplaceable part of myself, letting it loose like a kite on a broken string. That is why, walking across a school campus on this particular December morning, I keep searching the sky. As if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying toward heaven.

My personal war against the so-called “soccer menace” probably reached its peak in 1993, when I was nearly fired from a college newspaper for suggesting that soccer was the reason thousands of Brazilians are annually killed at Quiet Riot concerts in Rio de Janeiro, a statement that is—admittedly—only half true. A few weeks after the publication of said piece, a petition to have me removed as the newspaper’s sports editor was circulated by a ridiculously vocal campus organization called the Hispanic American Council, prompting an “academic hearing” where I was accused (with absolute seriousness) of libeling Pelé. If memory serves, I think my criticism of soccer and Quiet Riot was somehow taken as latently racist, although—admittedly—I’m not completely positive, as I was intoxicated for most of the monthlong episode. But the bottom line is that I am still willing to die a painful public death, assuming my execution destroys the game of soccer (or—at the very least—convinces people to shut up about it).

This was it. This would be my final mission. An overwhelming sadness swept over me at the realization. There would be no more racing across campus to replace the missing arm of the Caesar Augustus statue with one made of pink duct tape. My mind would no longer be used as a photographic tool to unveil a terrorist’s plan. No more last-minute science experiments to help rescue a father and daughter from a terrorist organization. I wouldn’t get to rescue myself with the aid of a Millard-enhanced device. No more disguises involving wigs and glasses to save a Van Gogh painting. The Mariinsky Theatre, the Superman building, the Louvre—my stories would disappear, along with my memories. Light had vanished around me as the ocean swallowed me. I’d been unable to save a helpless girl from her evil kidnapper. In the darkness I heard Daly’s voice, clear and strong, almost like he was there. Don’t give up. Fight. Push yourself. Alexandra Stewart can make a masterpiece out of any canvas. He was right—I couldn’t give up. (page 206)

For the anointed, it is desperately important to win, not simply because they believe that one policy or set of beliefs and values is better for society, but because their whole sense of themselves is at stake. Given the high stakes, it is not hard to understand the all-out attacks of the anointed on those who differ from them and their attempts to stifle alternative sources of values and beliefs, with campus speech codes and “political correctness” being prime examples of a spreading pattern of taboos. Here they are not content to squelch contemporary voices, they must also silence history and traditions—the national memory—as well.

If, uh, Luce wants to get out, someone's gonna have to help her down from the window." She drummed her fingers on the table, looking sheepish. "I made a library book barricade near the entrance in case any of the Sword & Cross-eyeds felt inclined to disrupt us." "Dibs." Cam already had his arm slipped through the crook of Luce's elbow. She started to argue, but none of the other angels seemed to think it was a bad idea. Daniel didn't even notice. Near the back exit, Shelby and Miles both mouthed Be careful to Luce with varying degrees of fierceness. Cam walked her to the window, radiating warmth with his smile. He slid the glass pane up and together they looked out at the campus where they'd met, where they'd grown close, where he'd tricked her into kissing him. They weren't all bad memories... He hopped through the window first, landing smoothly on the ledge, and he held out a hand for hers. "Milady." His grip was strong and it made her feel tiny and weightless as Cam drifted down from the ledge, two stories in two seconds. His wings were concealed, but he still moved as gracefully as if he were flying. They landed softly on the dewy grass. "I take it you don't want my company," he said. "At the cemetery-not, you know, in general." "Right. No, thanks." He looked away and reached into his pocket, pulled out a tiny silver bell. It looked ancient, with Hebrew writing on it. He handed it to her. "Just ring when you want a lift back up." "Cam," Luce said. "What is my role in all of this?" Cam reached out to touch her cheek, then seemed to think better of it. His hand hovered in the air. "Daniel's right. It isn't our place to tell you." He didn't wait for her response-just bent his knees and soared off the ground. He didn't even look back.

But remember 2003, though, when girls wore those miniskirts that were like six floaty napkins stapled to a scrunchie, with perhaps an Edwardian waistcoat sewn of cobwebs as a top? Where at any moment a baby’s sneeze across campus might expose Kaylee’s entire bunghole and even the slouchy Western belt she wore over her three layers of different-colored camisoles couldn’t save her? In case you’ve repressed the memory, 2003 was the kind of year where Jessica Simpson might wear rubber flip-flops to the Golden Globes, and Nicole Richie was nearly elected president on a platform of “straight blonde hair on top, long curly dark brown extensions underneath, one feather.” The 2003 vibe—culturally, socially, politically, spiritually—was very “energy drink commercial directed by Mark McGrath, and not Mark McGrath in his prime, either.” Millions of Americans were forced to mourn Mr. Rogers while wearing a hot-pink corduroy train conductor’s hat. Never again! Bad Boys II is a 2003 movie.

Not everyone on campus was fond of my hobbies. After football practice one day, one of my coaches informed me that the dean of men wanted to see me. I wasn’t sure what I had done wrong, but I knew they had me on something. I walked into the office, and he asked me to close the door. “We have a problem,” he said. “Do you know what street you live on? Do you know the name of it?” “Vetville?” I asked him. “Let me refresh your memory,” he said. “You live on Scholar Drive.” Apparently, the president of Louisiana Tech had given members of the board of trustees a tour of campus the day before. “When we went to where you live, it wasn’t very scholarly,” the dean told me. “There were old boats, motors, duck decoys, and fishnets littering your front yard. He was embarrassed. This is an institution of higher learning.” “That’s my equipment,” I told him. “But everybody’s yard is mowed-except yours,” he replied. “At least the frost will get it,” I said. “It will lay down flat as a pancake when the frost gets it.” “It’s July,” the dean said. “Cut your grass.

Sort pills. Write note to family. Fold blanket. I am alone. Alone in a dark, unfamiliar room filled with piles and piles of stuff, reminiscent of a neglected storage locker. I know researchers are observing me from behind one-way glass—that this is an experiment in empathy, that we are, in fact, on the sprawling campus of a pharmaceutical company in New Jersey, that I can rip off the headphones at any moment and return to my present life, my real life—but this offers me no comfort. I can barely see through the goggles. My feet hurt. Every step is agony, the sharp plastic spikes digging into my soles. Sort pills. Write note to family. Fold blanket. I try to make out the shapes around me. I see an ironing board, a stack of sweaters. A ball of twine. My determination to cross items off any to-do list—always a strong suit of mine—feels slippery. Suddenly, I am a child playing hide-and-seek in the dark. Counting. Eyes squeezed shut. Terrified. Wondering if anyone will ever find me. Blanket. Pills. Note. I keep repeating the words like a prayer so I can remember them through the terrible din. The inside of my head is a needle against a scratched record, skipping, skipping. I feel my way around a cluttered table. A pill case! I try to pick it up. I barely feel it in the palm of my hand. After several tries, I get it open. Then I begin to sort the pills as best I can. Most of them spill to the floor, and I am suddenly, irrationally furious. I move around the table, supporting myself on my hands to take the pressure off my feet. I push an iron out of the way, a magazine, a wooden hanger. The notebook. I find the notebook. My gloved fingers won’t close around a pencil, so I hold it the way a child would, in my fist. By now it all feels nearly futile. I’m on the verge of tears. What is the last task? Through the static, I remember: the blanket. I have to fold it. By now I’m dizzy, depleted. What difference can it possibly make? Who cares? I do a shitty job of folding the blanket and then—then I just sit down in a chair and wait for M. to rescue me. —

Someone nudged her elbow, interrupting her reverie. “Hello? Anyone there?” The question came from Rylann’s roommate, Rae Mendoza, who was seated at her right. “I’m here. Just…picturing myself at the pool.” Rylann tried to hold on to the mirage for a few moments longer. “It’s sunny and seventy-five degrees. I’ve got some kind of tropical drink with one of those little umbrellas in it, and I’m reading a book—one I don’t have to highlight or outline in the margins.” “They make those kinds of books?” “If memory serves..." “I hate to burst the bubble on your daydream, but I’m pretty sure they don’t allow alcoholic drinks at IMPE,” Rae said, referring to the university’s Intramural Physical Education building, which housed said pool. Rylann waved off such pesky details. “I’ll throw a mai tai in my College of Law thermos and tell people that it’s iced tea. If campus security gives me any trouble, I’ll scare them off with my quasi-legal credentials and remind them of the Fourth Amendment’s prohibitions against illegal searches and seizures.” “Wow. Do you know how big of a law school geek you just sounded like?” Unfortunately, she did. “Do you think any of us will ever be normal again?” Rae considered this. “I’m told that somewhere around third year, we lose the urge to cite the Constitution in everyday conversation.” “That’s promising,” Rylann said. “But seeing how you’re more of a law geek than most, it might take you longer.” “Remember that conversation last night when I said I was going to miss you this summer? I take it back

Goodreads is becoming my diary- When I joined Nalanda by 2018, Ritika Rajput, Myself and Urvashi punia bishnoi were almost inseparable friends for three months, wherever we go, we go together, we eat together, we fight together almost whole Nalanda could not separate our friendship until two people entered which I do not want to mention. When we were close friends Shubham das and Shalini Chauhan were seniors to us and introduced us into trekking and hiking in and around Rajgir. But Ritika did not like that I even talk with Shalini Chauhan. Once Shalini invited me to visit Banaras with her, but Ritika asked me not to go with her, I did not want to mess up within friendship so I did not go. After Myself, Ritika and Urvashi broke apart in friendships , Shalini was always there to support me without any expectations. Yeah there were few more friends or seemed like friends Rashmi Singh, Rakhi Kashyap, Deepa kundu, Kajal, Madhuri and all of them were making troubles instead of peace. Shalini was the only peace lover at that time in the campus, but second year she went abroad and then I could not see her even until now Just diary of memories

The cake had two candles on it, a 1 and a 9. 19. I blew out the 1 and wished for all memories of Reed Callaway to disappear from my brain. I blew out the 9 and wished for Reed Callaway to text me happy birthday. Neither wish came true.

Oh man. I’m in big trouble. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss. Every time the memory floats into my head, my pulse races and my balls tighten, and all I want to do is kiss the crap out of her again.

Two years after giving the Ballard Matthews Lectures, Lewis delivered the Riddell Memorial Lectures at the Newcastle upon Tyne campus of the University of Durham on three consecutive evenings, 24–26 February 1943.[507] These remarkable lectures were published as The Abolition of Man in 1943 by Oxford University Press. Lewis here argues that contemporary moral reflection has been undermined by a radical subjectivity—a trend he discerns within contemporary school textbooks. In response to this development, Lewis calls for a renewal of the moral tradition based on “the doctrine of objective value, the belief that certain attitudes are really true, and others really false, to the kind of thing the universe is and the kind of things we are.”[508] Lewis here criticises those who argue that all statements of value (such as “this waterfall is pretty”)[509] are merely subjective statements about the speaker’s feelings, rather than objective statements concerning their object. Lewis argues that certain objects and actions merit positive or negative reactions—in other words, that a waterfall can be objectively pretty, just as someone’s actions can be objectively good or evil. He argues there is a set of objective values (which he terms “the Tao”)[510] that are common to all cultures, with only minor variations. Although The Abolition of Man is now considered a difficult book, its arguments remain highly significant.

Brings back memories, that’s all.” He pauses for so long I don’t think he’s going to continue, but then he does. “It was my mom’s favorite song. They played it at her funeral.

The week of the Reagan funeral, makeshift shrines of flowers and such sprung up at Eureka College and in Dixon, Illinois, at the presidential library in Simi Valley, at the Reagan Ranch Center in Santa Barbara, at the Reagan home in Bel Air, and in towns and villages across the nation. Memorials appeared, too, in Prague and Budapest and in cities and villages across the former “Captive Nations” of the Baltics, as well as in the former Warsaw Pact countries. Few, if any, were visible on the campus of Harvard or in the tony Georgetown section of Washington, nor in the Upper West Side of Manhattan or in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Yes, no matter where you go, there is always a Mateo because there will always be a Vanessa. I see them all the time on campus, following along behind the wrong man, not thinking, but dreaming inside of their heads. Never believing bad things can happen to them and devastated when they wake up with their underpants around their ankles and no memory of what happened.

The South is dotted with towns haunted by the past. In Georgia, the towns of Waynesboro and Thomaston have similar war memorials, and other Southern memorials designate black veterans with a “C.” Clemson University is wrestling with demands to remove the name of Benjamin Tillman, a founding trustee and white supremacist, from a campus building.

Ritika Rajput | Urban Fellows Programme (2020 - 21) | Testimonial - IIHM youtube channel A personal note about this girl as she was my closest friend once. When we used to trek to bram kunth along with Shubham das, Shalini chauhan and Urvashi Poonia Bishnoi near Nalanda Interim campus in rajgir, she makes everyone laugh. She is such as crazy girl I have every met. She is talented soul that has completed BSc in Chemistry from Jamia Milia Islamia with Gold Medal, Nalanda University topper in MSc Ecology and Environmental studies, Then she pursued urban fellows program as part of CSR, SDG, Water and Human Settlement goal as a research topic. She is vivid reader, and her favorite book was silent spring, sigmund freud and Vivekananda., She also read texts in science, statistics and very good mathematics and also NCC. In trekking in Rajgir once we visited along with 10 other people, she deliberately put her legs on me to what my reaction was, I said you need better specs. Yes she is having blindness problem. Very talented soul that is not showing any growth in research now as far as my knowledge. This kind of women should come up to research. Urvashi is also good researcher but lack in focus. Shubham went to banking and Shalini is a freelance language trainer. Just memories

The first notable spinout was Kathy Xu, another woman who managed to flourish in China's venture industry. Rather than studying in the United States, Xu had experienced U.S. instruction at Nanjing University, where she had majored in English. One teacher, an impressive African American woman named Donda West, instilled in her pupils an American ethos. 'You are unique, you are a marvel. There has been no person like you in the last 500 years, and there will be no person like you in the next 500 years,' she lectured. The paean to individualism was, as Xu recalled vividly, an eye-opening experience for a Chinese teenager from Sichuan. Donda West also stuck in Xu's memory because of her son, who was often seen performing acrobatic tricks on campus. Years later, Xu was intrigued to discover that the boy, named Kanye, had become famous.

what comes to mind are the things I learned from my classmates, my friends-what we found funny, writers we loved and hated, drunken walks back to campus from downtown Orono in snowstorms and rainstorms, and talking, talking, talking.

We start to walk, our strides matching despite the five inches I have on him. It's muscle memory - this pace we keep - ingrained in us from two decades of walking together side by side to and from the city proper and campus. When I was a boy, he never left me behind. And now I return the favor.

Once you’ve answered this question for yourself, replace a quick response with one that takes the time to describe the process you identified, points out the current step, and emphasizes the step that comes next. I call this the process-centric approach to e-mail, and it’s designed to minimize both the number of e-mails you receive and the amount of mental clutter they generate. To better explain this process and why it works consider the following process-centric responses to the sample e-mails from earlier: Process-Centric Response to E-mail #1: “I’d love to grab coffee. Let’s meet at the Starbucks on campus. Below I listed two days next week when I’m free. For each day, I listed three times. If any of those day and time combinations work for you, let me know. I’ll consider your reply confirmation for the meeting. If none of those date and time combinations work, give me a call at the number below and we’ll hash out a time that works. Looking forward to it.” Process-Centric Response to E-mail #2: “I agree that we should return to this problem. Here’s what I suggest… “Sometime in the next week e-mail me everything you remember about our discussion on the problem. Once I receive that message, I’ll start a shared directory for the project and add to it a document that summarizes what you sent me, combined with my own memory of our past discussion. In the document, I’ll highlight the two or three most promising next steps. “We can then take a crack at those next steps for a few weeks and check back in. I suggest we schedule a phone call for a month from now for this purpose. Below I listed some dates and times when I’m available for a call. When you respond with your notes, indicate the date and time combination that works best for you and we’ll consider that reply confirmation for the call. I look forward to digging into this problem.” Process-Centric

It was one of those days that made one understand why parents paid such a premium for their children to spend four years on this campus. The temperature sat somewhere in the fifties, but the sun was shining and reflecting perfectly off the pond in the middle of campus. Each redbrick building radiated a near-golden-hour glow, a rose-colored tint that would eventually shade every memory of Taft I shared with the parents of prospective independent school students later on in my career.

A few days later, I was sitting in those trees just outside campus, wondering what would happen if I showed my fave there three hours after my own memorial service.

A few days later, I was sitting in those trees just outside campus, wondering what would happen if I showed my face there three hours after my own memorial service

There have been numerous books and scholarly articles written about these watershed moments in US history, but college presidents as a group have not emerged as a focal point. Therefore, it is unsurprising that Edwin D. Harrison is largely unknown despite leading Georgia Tech to become the first Deep South university to desegregate without violence or a court order. He was regularly sought out among southerners for his counsel on how to admit Black students peacefully, but our collective memories have not done the likes of Harrison and other college presidents justice for their roles in shaping how the nation engaged the race question.19