Carbon Copy Quotes

Do not, under any circumstances, belittle a work of fiction by trying to turn it into a carbon copy of real life; what we search for in fiction is not so much reality but the epiphany of truth.

Why didn't you tell me there was a smoking hot carbon copy of you?

every being is unique.god neva creates carbon copies,he alys creates originals.he is truly a creator.he neva repeats.but man goes on living in imitation.we are tryin to be somedody else which is impossible.

Why settle for being a carbon copy; when you were created to be an original?

...do not, under any circumstances, belittle a work of fiction by trying to turn it into a carbon copy of real life; what we search for in fiction is not so much reality but the epiphany of truth.

Here, by the grace of God and an inside straight, we have a personality untouched by the psychotic taboos of our tribe - and you want to turn him into a carbon copy of every fourth-rate conformist in this frightened land! Why don't you go whole hog? Get him a brief case and make him carry it wherever he goes - make him feel shame if he doesn't have it.

We’re not supposed to be carbon copies of our siblings . . . even when we are outwardly identical.

There are two kinds of women: those who spend a lifetime trying not to turn into their mothers, and those who literally seem to want nothing more. I often find both varieties get the complete opposite of what they hoped for – one set become carbon copies of the women they didn’t want to be, while the others never live up to their own expectations of who they think they should have become

She could tell them about a simple machine needing no fuel and little maintenance, one that steadily sequesters carbon, enriches the soil, cools the ground, scrubs the air, and scales easily to any size. A tech that copies itself and even drops food for free. A device so beautiful it’s the stuff of poems. If forests were patentable, she’d get an ovation.

We all don't have to be carbon copies of one another to work on the same team, but we can learn from other people.

God, my mind was fucked up. What was scary was how Elizabeth’s thoughts were almost a carbon copy of my own. How did two people so broken find each other’s shattered pieces?

Each day was a carbon copy of the last. You needed a bookmark to tell one from the other.

How strange to remember typewriters, with their jammed keys and snarled ribbons and the smudgy carbon paper for copies.

Never be an imitator, be always original. Don’t become a carbon copy. But that’s what is happening all over the world—carbon copies and carbon copies.

God has placed a unique design inside of your heart to make moments unlike any other. Don’t cheapen what he has created in you by just carbon copying what is inside someone else.

Customs, morals—is there a difference? Woman, do you realize what you are doing? Here, by the grace of God and an inside straight, we have a personality untouched by the psychotic taboos of our tribe—and you want to turn him into a carbon copy of every fourth-rate conformist in this frightened land! Why don’t you go whole hog? Get him a brief case and make him carry it wherever he goes—make him feel shame if he doesn’t have it.

A slender man who looked like a carbon copy of his students, save for maybe a ten-year age difference, strode into the room and took his station behind the short metal desk up front. He was cool and sharp-looking with a stunningly well-tailored white button down, hipster glasses and a faux-military haircut that was shaved close on the sides but left long and slicked back on top. He looked like he was more prepared to model men's watches than to teach Interpersonal Psychology II.

We aren’t put on this earth to be carbon copies of our parents

Existence does not want carbon copies; it loves your uniqueness.

There are forces in the world today, Mr. Winsocki, that are invisibly working to make us all carbon copies of one another. Forces that crush us into molds of each other. You walk down the street and never see anyone’s face, really. You sit faceless in a movie, or hidden from sight in a dreary living room watching television. When you pay bills, or car fares or talk to people, they see the job they’re doing, but never you.

Inside the envelope was a second envelope with two hundred and forty dollars wrapped inside a carbon copy of a bill marked paid and signed by the previous owner’s wife. I counted it thrice to be accurate. Again for the pleasure. Then just to feel joy. Oh my, sweet goddamn. Sweetest goddamn. I sat for a few minutes doing nothing but feeling the money in my hands.

I don’t know why women hate other women who are different from them so much. Maybe it was due to the fact that society was always training us to be carbon copies of one another. Girl-on-girl hate was ingrained in us when really, we needed to stick together.

Don't go by the anyone's idea of perfect. It's those people that are generally pretending to be a carbon copy of someone they're not.

Multiplication is the will of God, but not necessarily duplication. God has made you an original masterpiece, so don't seek to be a carbon copy.

Existence creates only originals; it does not believe in carbon copies. A

What? How? Why didn’t you tell me there was a smoking hot carbon copy of you?

It’s about how we’re all part of an infinite number of parallel worlds. Every time we make a choice, a carbon copy of ourselves makes the opposite choice in a different universe.

In a world of those who follow the rules without deviation those who innovate even in the shadows, will rule. Never be a carbon copy." -Ena

Looking at someone else’s relationship for the answers was like reading about a romance novel hero and expecting to find a carbon copy in real life

If we are only interested in changing the AS person so that they can better meld themselves into society - a tenuous and nebulous concept to begin with - then perhaps we are misguided. The AS community gives us much cause to celebrate. Never, I think, should we expect or want them to be carbon copies of the most socially adept among us. We should only suggest whatever help they need to insure they have every opportunity of leading productive, rewarding and self-sufficient lives. We would lose too much and they would lose even more, if our goals were anything more, or less.

Aunts offer kids an opportunity to try out ideas that don't chime with their parents and they also demonstrate that people can get on, love each other and live together without necessarily being carbon copies.

I marvel at how wildly different each of their stories is. It’s proof that our lives were never meant to be cookie-cutter, culturally constructed carbon copies of some ideal. There is no one way to live, love, raise children, arrange a family, run a school, a community, a nation. The norms were created by somebody, and each of us is somebody. We can make our own normal. We can throw out all the rules and write our own. We can build our lives from the inside out. We can stop asking what the world wants from us and instead ask ourselves what we want for our world. We can stop looking at what’s in front of us long enough to discover what’s inside us. We can remember and unleash the life-changing, relationship-changing, world-changing power of our own imagination. It might take us a lifetime. Luckily, a lifetime is exactly how long we have.

He didn’t like how his character was written into the story but he refused to acknowledge that the character was a carbon copy of himself. So he rated the book a zero and that’s ok- because the author rated him a zero also.

On this literary journey. I never thought that this would ever come true. I'm finally living out my dreams. Not trying to be a carbon copy I'm the blueprint, I am who I am and not going to make excuses for who I am. I'll never trying to pretend to be someone else its too hard being me as it is, nor would I try to walk in another's shoes, don't need the foot fungus. I'm too much of a Diva for that, I love my own Stillettos! Now that is my swag ™

While someone might attempt a feeble carbon copy of those ideas you’ve spent years developing, they can never match the undeniably distinctive aspect of your work. Especially if it resonates across multiple platforms and in multiple formats.

Look,” the Ryker copy said, “I’m you. I know everything you know. What’s the harm in talking about this stuff?” “If you know everything I know, what’s the point of talking about it?” “Sometimes, it helps to externalize things. Even if you talk to someone else about it, you’re usually talking to yourself. The other guy’s just providing a sounding board. You talk it out.

How one man can be so ruthless in business and so giving to those he loves, I will never understand . . . but, the fact that your father is your carbon copy, I know it’s possible.” She cups my face in her hand. “The man I love and the man that the world knows are two very different men . . . and that’s just how I like it. I like that I’m the only one who gets his softness.

In my experience, there are two kinds of women: those who spend a lifetime trying not to turn into their mothers, and those who literally seem to want nothing more. I often find both varieties get the complete opposite of what they hoped for—one set become carbon copies of the women they didn’t want to be, while the others never live up to their own expectations of who they think they should have become.

What's all this nonsense about odd vision and not fitting in? There are plenty worse things in this world than not fitting in--like fitting in way too much. You strike me as a real original, Izzy Malone, in a world that loves carbon copies. If you think you beautified something, I believe you. I've never understood why folks love safe, neutral colors so much. Colors are what make this world worth living in.

It was why she was my everything. My forever always. Because she was unique. Unique in a town full of carbon-copy bimbos. She didn't want to cheer, or bitch, or chase boys. She knew she had me, just as much as I had her.

a simple machine needing no fuel and little maintenance, one that steadily sequesters carbon, enriches the soil, cools the ground, scrubs the air, and scales easily to any size. A tech that copies itself and even drops food for free. A device so beautiful it’s the stuff of poems.

All told, he made three perfect copies of the fuel bay I gave him. The only difference is the material. My original bays were made of aluminum. Someone on Stratt’s team had suggested a carbon-fiber hull but she shot that down. Well-tested technology only. Humanity had sixty-odd years of testing aluminum-hulled spacecraft.

And it became clear that this was not just for the dreams concocted by Americans to justify themselves but also for the dreams that I had conjured to replace them. I had thought that I must mirror the outside world, create a carbon copy of white claims to civilization. It was beginning to occur to me to question the logic of the claim itself. I had forgotten my own self-interrogations pushed upon me by my mother, or rather I had not yet apprehended their deeper, lifelong meaning. I was only beginning to learn to be wary of my own humanity, of my own hurt and anger—I didn’t yet realize that the boot on your neck is just as likely to make you delusional as it is to ennoble.

I think the reason lay partly in his idea of immortality, but I think too it belonged to his war against the Inland Revenue. He was a great believer in delaying tactics. “Never answer all their questions,” he would say. “Make them write again. And be ambiguous. You can always decide what you mean later according to circumstances. The bigger the file the bigger the work. Personnel frequently change. A newcomer has to start looking at the file from the beginning. Office space is limited. In the end it’s easier for them to give in.” Sometimes, if the inspector was pressing very hard, he told me that it was time to fling in a reference to a non-existing letter. He would write sharply, “You seem to have paid no attention to my letter of April 6, 1963.” A whole month might pass before the inspector admitted he could find no trace of it. Mr Pottifer would send in a carbon copy of the letter containing a reference which again the inspector would be unable to trace. If he was a newcomer to the district, of course he blamed his predecessor; otherwise, after a few years of Mr Pottifer, he was quite liable to have a nervous breakdown. I think when Mr Pottifer planned to carry on after death (of course there was no notice in the papers and the funeral was very quiet) he had these delaying tactics in mind. He didn’t think of the inconvenience to his clients, only of the inconvenience to the inspector.’ Aunt Augusta

Measuring requires, first and foremost, analytical ability. But it also demands that measurement be used to make self-control possible rather than abused to control people from the outside and above—that is, to dominate them. It is the common violation of this principle that largely explains why measurement is the weakest area in the work of the manager today. As long as measurements are abused as a tool of control (for instance, as when measurements are used, as a weapon of an internal secret police that supplies audits and critical appraisals of a manager’s performance to the boss without even sending a carbon copy to the manager himself) measuring will remain the weakest area in the manager’s performance.2

Many shooters ask the gamer to use violence against pure, unambiguous evil: monsters, Nazis, corporate goons, aliens of Ottoman territorial ambition. Yet these shooters typically have nothing to say about evil and violence, other than that evil is evil and violence is violent. This was never the most promising thematic carbon to trace, and yet shooters keep doing so with as little self-questioning as a medieval monk copying out scripture.

All right, but you know Star Trek, and ‘Beam me up, Scotty’? How they can teleport people around?” “Yeah. The transporters.” “Do you know how they work?” “Just … special effects. CGI or whatever they used.” “No, I mean within the universe of the show. They work by breaking down your molecules, zapping you over a beam, and putting you back together on the other end.” “Sure.” “That is what scares me. I can’t watch it. I find it too disturbing.” I shrugged. “I don’t get it.” “Well, think about it. Your body is just made of a few different types of atoms. Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and so on. So this transporter machine, there is no reason in the world to break down all of those atoms and then send those specific atoms thousands of miles away. One oxygen atom is the same as another, so what it does is send the blueprint for your body across the beam. Then it reassembles you at the destination, out of whatever atoms it has nearby. So if there is carbon and hydrogen at the planet you’re beaming down to, it’ll just put you together out of what it has on hand, because you get the exact same result.” “Sure. “So it’s more like sending a fax than mailing a letter. Only the transporter is a fax machine that shreds the original. Your original body, along with your brain, gets vaporized. Which means what comes out the other end isn’t you. It’s an exact copy that the machine made, of a man who is now dead, his atoms floating freely around the interior of the ship. Only within the universe of the show, nobody knows this. “Meanwhile, you are dead. Dead for eternity. All of your memories and emotions and personality end, right there, on that platform, forever. Your wife and children and friends will never see you again. What they will see is this unnatural photocopy of you that emerged from the other end. And in fact, since transporter technology is used routinely, all of the people you see on that ship are copies of copies of copies of long-dead, vaporized crew members. And no one ever figures it out. They all continue to blithely step into this machine that kills one hundred percent of the people who use it, but nobody realizes it because each time, it spits out a perfect replacement for the victim at the other end.

I met an angel on the rubbish dump. The light from the flames flickered on the bamboo walls and the straw roof, like the wings of other angels from the hut there emerged a tremulous stream of white, vegetal smoke. Silence took possession of the house, but it was not the silken silence of sweet peaceful nights, whose nocturnal carbon-paper makes copies of happy dreams, lighter than the thoughts of flowers, less metallic than water. April nights in the tropics are like the widows of the warm days of March - dark, cold, dishevelled and sad. The meaning of happiness or despair can only be understood by those who have spelt it out in their minds beforehand, bitten a tear-soaked handkerchief, torn it to shreds with their teeth.

Wind in a Box" —after Lorca I want to always sleep beneath a bright red blanket of leaves. I want to never wear a coat of ice. I want to learn to walk without blinking. I want to outlive the turtle and the turtle’s father, the stone. I want a mouth full of permissions and a pink glistening bud. If the wildflower and ant hill can return after sleeping each season, I want to walk out of this house wearing nothing but wind. I want to greet you, I want to wait for the bus with you weighing less than a chill. I want to fight off the bolts of gray lighting the alcoves and winding paths of your hair. I want to fight off the damp nudgings of snow. I want to fight off the wind. I want to be the wind and I want to fight off the wind with its sagging banner of isolation, its swinging screen doors, its gilded boxes, and neatly folded pamphlets of noise. I want to fight off the dull straight lines of two by fours and endings, your disapprovals, your doubts and regulations, your carbon copies. If the locust can abandon its suit, I want a brand new name. I want the pepper’s fury and the salt’s tenderness. I want the virtue of the evening rain, but not its gossip. I want the moon’s intuition, but not its questions. I want the malice of nothing on earth. I want to enter every room in a strange electrified city and find you there. I want your lips around the bell of flesh at the bottom of my ear. I want to be the mirror, but not the nightstand. I do not want to be the light switch. I do not want to be the yellow photograph or book of poems. When I leave this body, Woman, I want to be pure flame. I want to be your song. Terrance Hayes, Wind in a Box (Penguin, 2006) When I leave this body, Woman, I want to be pure flame. I want to be your song

All right, but you know Star Trek, and ‘Beam me up, Scotty’? How they can teleport people around?” “Yeah. The transporters.” “Do you know how they work?” “Just … special effects. CGI or whatever they used.” “No, I mean within the universe of the show. They work by breaking down your molecules, zapping you over a beam, and putting you back together on the other end.” “Sure.” “That is what scares me. I can’t watch it. I find it too disturbing.” I shrugged. “I don’t get it.” “Well, think about it. Your body is just made of a few different types of atoms. Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and so on. So this transporter machine, there is no reason in the world to break down all of those atoms and then send those specific atoms thousands of miles away. One oxygen atom is the same as another, so what it does is send the blueprint for your body across the beam. Then it reassembles you at the destination, out of whatever atoms it has nearby. So if there is carbon and hydrogen at the planet you’re beaming down to, it’ll just put you together out of what it has on hand, because you get the exact same result.” “Sure. “So it’s more like sending a fax than mailing a letter. Only the transporter is a fax machine that shreds the original. Your original body, along with your brain, gets vaporized. Which means what comes out the other end isn’t you. It’s an exact copy that the machine made, of a man who is now dead, his atoms floating freely around the interior of the ship. Only within the universe of the show, nobody knows this. “Meanwhile, you are dead. Dead for eternity. All of your memories and emotions and personality end, right there, on that platform, forever. Your wife and children and friends will never see you again. What they will see is this unnatural photocopy of you that emerged from the other end. And in fact, since transporter technology is used routinely, all of the people you see on that ship are copies of copies of copies of long-dead, vaporized crew members. And no one ever figures it out. They all continue to blithely step into this machine that kills one hundred percent of the people who use it, but nobody realizes it because each time, it spits out a perfect replacement for the victim at the other end.” I

Why seek to be a carbon copy when God made you an original masterpiece?

Rufinus was an orator and a lawyer, a master of civil administration and agenda. It was because of him that the Eastern Empire—Byzantium—became a bureaucracy for a thousand years; and lived on because its administration had become too intricate to die—though there are those who say that its death was concealed in a sea of paper for that one thousand years. The heritage of Rufinus was the first and longest-enduring paper Empire. It is not accidental that in the tenure of Rufinus as Master of Offices, the duplication of written copies was first brought about. This was not on the order of carbon paper used at the instant of writing; it was wet-process copies made from a finished piece. The process is a detail, however; in the true sense Rufinus was the inventor of carbon copies. Shorthand was then five hundred years old, but Rufinus was the inventor of an improved form of shorthand. It is believed that certain clerks of his appointing are still shuffling papers at the same desks. The paper world he set up was self-perpetuating.

It’s not that being around Marnie makes me uncomfortable. I’d just rather avoid it if I could. It isn’t pleasant. Knowing I have to see her is akin to knowing I have a gynecological appointment coming up. It just isn’t something I look forward to, and it’s one of those things I just want to get over with. Plus, she reminds me of those high school bitches, the ones that ran the school and tormented me every single day of my pathetic teenage existence. She’s one of them. One of those plastic girls. It’s like they’re cut from the same cloth. There must be some secret central brain somewhere that girls like her feed off of because they’re all the same carbon copy snobby legionnaires. Privileged. Insecure. Entitled. Mean.

To live as a carbon copy of everyone else is to not live at all.

Nigel Farage is the leader of a small, loud group of carbon copies of himself. They’re called the United Kingdom Independence Party (UKIP). If they were a reality TV show, they’d be called Britain’s Got Bigots.

Do not judge a book by its price!

My goal is to honor the client and partner with them to design the right solutions for them. I should make an impact on the client’s world. However, I should never produce carbon copies of myself. I want people to think and to solve problems in ways that work for them.

In a world of those who follow the rules without deviation," Ena had added, "those who innovate even in the shadows, will rule. Never be a carbon copy.

South Carolina’s rulers did not “seek to replicate rural English manor life” like their Tidewater neighbors, “or to create a religious utopia in the American wilderness,” as settlers in New England attempted; “instead it was a near- carbon copy of the West Indian slave state these Barbadians had left behind, a place even then notorious for its inhumanity.”43 They brought their slaves to South Carolina and pushed them to the limits of human endurance. Slavery was South Carolina’s foundation, not an afterthought or later development: “No other Southern regime was as committed to eighteenth- century elitist principles or so resistant to nineteenth- century egalitarian republicanism. South Carolina’s balance of despotism and democracy, tipping unusually far toward old- fashioned imperiousness, gave its masters strong confidence in contained, hierarchical dominance, and special contempt for sprawling, leveling, ‘mobocracies.

The internet we know is full of places, languages, territories, and it’s an alternate world in itself. The strange thing is that, deep down, we don’t reinvent anything in this new world. We have this powerful tool, this parallel space that should be ideal, in theory, since it’s completely controlled by us, its creators. And yet it has the same functional faults as the physical world—the real one, you might say. All the social problems of our world exist online: theft, pedophilia, pornography, organized crime, drug trafficking, assassinations… The only difference is that everyone dares to be criminals or morally wrong, at least once, in the cyber world, but even when we do, we’re embarrassed, as if we’re incapable of thinking outside the original format. Humans have created this fantastic space of freedom and made it into a carbon copy of the world system. It’s as if we weren’t creative enough to invent a new moral code that would work online or new representations of ourselves that challenge the ones we’ve always had.

It didn’t matter that I had a carbon copy of this man’s cock in my nightstand drawer and had used it more times than I could count over the past decade; nothing would ever come close to the real thing.

I adored my best friend. Reyna Vargas was the most genuine, kindhearted person I’d ever met. I’d felt an urgent need to take her under my wing the first day she joined our school at the start of senior year. She was so soft-spoken and delicate that she would need protection if she was going to survive the hallways of Xavier Catholic School, where privilege was the backbone of the curriculum and the air itself was infused with the fresh leather scent of entitlement. The kids at my school were carbon copies of their CEO fathers and corporate counsel mothers. They’d been trained since birth to smell blood in the water from a mile away. Xavier bullies could teach the CIA innovative new torture tactics. Reyna had been a brand-new shiny target in a plaid pleated skirt until I took her in my arms and claimed her. No one at school had dared touch her after that.

But if dividing cells are treated with 5-azacytidine, this abnormal cytidine base is added into the new strand of DNA as the genome gets copied. Because the abnormal base contains a nitrogen atom instead of a carbon atom, the DNMT1 enzyme can’t replace the missing methyl group. If this continues as the cells keep dividing, the DNA methylation begins to get diluted out.

I had thought that I must mirror the outside world, create a carbon copy of white claims to civilization. It was beginning to occur to me to question the logic of the claim itself... I was was only beginning to learn to be wary of my own humanity, of my own hurt and anger — I didn't yet realize that the boot on your neck is just as likely to make you delusional as it is to ennoble.

always feel as if I were reading to you a carbon copy of myself and you’ve already seen the original. You seem to hear everything I say a minute in advance. We’re unsynchronized.” “You call that unsynchronized?” “All right. Too well synchronized.

I can be a better me than anyone can; I am me. Good or bad. I am myself. I'm no carbon copy of no one else.

just goes to show that our children are not carbon copies of us, even if we imagine that is how they will turn out. They have their own souls; they choose their own paths.

It just goes to show that our children are not carbon copies of us, even if we imagine that is how they will turn out. They have their own souls; they choose their own paths.

Schmootz If you make a Xerox of a carbon copy do you still get schmootz on your fingers?

Here is how you disappear: you dive into your DNA and rip out everything but carbon. You copy. Carbon copy- see what I did there? And then you keep going. You apply to college because you're supposed to and then you complain about debt and the classes and the whole system because that's what everyone else does. You run into businessmen in untailored suits and you marry the lamest one and you move into a nice picture-perfect house full of clock hands that point at the cemetery. Don't worry. The tide will sweep you right up.

As a young wife and mother living in a pre-Pinterest world, I used to glue-gun bows and small pieces of minutia together methodically. I was an insomniac proudly penning thank you notes longer than the Declaration of Independence to every person who had even sent me a card. I was reorganizing my linen closet, ironing placemats, straight-ironing my hair, and never saying no to any person that asked me for a favor. And, I forgot to mention, I didn’t really like myself. I felt like a fuzzy, carbon copy of myself. I felt the passion, the conviction, and the grit somewhere inside of me yet a bunch of preconceived ideas somehow got in the way.

Too often we assume that what is “best” means that our children should live their lives according to the script that has worked for us. Without realizing it, we try to create carbon copies of ourselves.

Very few people have the nerve to grab their dreams. Most that you meet will be half-images or carbon copies of who they really want to be.

God has placed a unique design inside of your heart to make moments unlike any other. Don’t cheapen what he has created in you by just carbon copying what is inside someone else.

Here, by the grace of God and an inside straight, we have a personality untouched by the psychotic taboos of our tribe - and you want to turn him into a carbon copy of every fourth-rate conformist in this frightened land! Why don't you go whole hog? Get him a brief case and make him carry it wherever he goes - make him feel shame if he doesn't have it.

if only you could see through my eyes at the life that I've lived and if only you could think through my thoughts & hear every word that was said and seen and how it made me feel as all of those words were forced down my ears and stabbed in my chest were my heart used to be.. then and only then would you know why I hide myself so deep in the dark parts of the abyss that became my home and its the place where I can go where my heart is safe from a world that didn't care if my feelings were hurt or if they loved me for what I'm not or tried to kill me for not being their carbon copy illusion of what they thought was normal and if only you walked along side of me through it all then you would understand my choices & not hate my mistakes.

Think about it: God’s doesn’t stand in heaven with a photocopy machine every time a local church is started. Your church was born an original; don’t let it become a carbon copy on your watch.

I only have one advice for you, own your life, from head to toe - unapologetically alive and original, not a carbon copy, with second hand woe.

Tierratitan, Sonnet I only have one advice for you, own your life, from head to toe - unapologetically alive and original, not a carbon copy, with second hand woe. Civilization is not a conjuring trick, Civilization is a long labor of life. You don't figure out everything overnight, You figure out things over time. Sweet dreams are made of sweat-n-dare. Sweat makes it sweet, dare brings it true. Sweet society is made of reason-n-care, When I'm your shelter, my shelter is you. I be your vision, you be my mission. Divided we drown, together, Tierratitan.

But how many times does the parent superimpose on the child until they become carbon copies? Hadn’t I seen it all my life? What else was abuse but a reservoir of trauma trickling down to the next generation?

I had thought that I must mirror the outside world, create a carbon copy of white claims to civilization. It was beginning to occur to me to question the logic of the claim itself.

My mouth was loose and comfortable with the words I knew, and I said them as if I was trying to impress her– or more realistically, trying to mask my linguistic shortcomings. The Korean soundscape of my infancy and all my years of hangeul hakgyo had spawned a literate mimic, and the words I knew would fly out of me with the carbon copy tonality of the women who were around me when I was a baby. But good pronunciation could only get me so far, before I became a stumped mute, racking my brain for an infinitive.

The spiritual life of one person should never be a carbon copy of that of another. Peter and John had quite different personalities and quite different transformational journeys as they followed Jesus. Mary and Martha, two sisters whom Jesus loved deeply, each expressed their love for him uniquely. And he received both, not discouraging Martha from busying herself in service, simply encouraging her to not fret in doing so (Luke 10:38-42).

our lives were never meant to be cookie-cutter, culturally constructed carbon copies of some ideal. There is no one way to live, love, raise children, arrange a family, run a school, a community, a nation. The norms were created by somebody, and each of us is somebody.

There’s no commonsense way to understand how stimulated emission could be possible, or why the new photon should be a carbon copy of the old one. The phenomenon is a consequence of the odd logic of quantum mechanics, the physics of the atomic and subatomic world, where our intuition from everyday life breaks down. Einstein discovered the theoretical necessity of stimulated emission in 1917, but it took another 43 years before anyone figured out how to use it to create the first working laser.

Why don’t you believe in God?” He glances over at Jesus and contemplates my question for a moment. And then he says, “I’m just a pragmatic person.” He smiles down at me and tugs at my hair as he releases me. “That doesn’t mean you can’t believe in Him, though. We aren’t put on this earth to be carbon copies of our parents. Peace doesn’t come to everyone in the same form.

Embarrassment, anger, just everything. Of course my family is different from Chris’s family! Just because both of us come from immigrant families doesn’t mean we’re all carbon copies of each other.

Avi had never had a hard time getting laid. He was hot and rich and had a carbon copy of himself always willing to share.

They are certainly not just carbon copies of old lore or mythical archetypes, however, but are unique in their own right.

Tesla Motors was created to accelerate the advent of sustainable transport. If we clear a path to the creation of compelling electric vehicles, but then lay intellectual property landmines behind us to inhibit others, we are acting in a manner contrary to that goal. Tesla will not initiate patent lawsuits against anyone who, in good faith, wants to use our technology. When I started out with my first company, Zip2, I thought patents were a good thing and worked hard to obtain them. And maybe they were good long ago, but too often these days they serve merely to stifle progress, entrench the positions of giant corporations and enrich those in the legal profession, rather than the actual inventors. After Zip2, when I realized that receiving a patent really just meant that you bought a lottery ticket to a lawsuit, I avoided them whenever possible. At Tesla, however, we felt compelled to create patents out of concern that the big car companies would copy our technology and then use their massive manufacturing, sales and marketing power to overwhelm Tesla. We couldn’t have been more wrong. The unfortunate reality is the opposite: electric car programs (or programs for any vehicle that doesn’t burn hydrocarbons) at the major manufacturers are small to non-existent, constituting an average of far less than 1% of their total vehicle sales. Given that annual new vehicle production is approaching 100 million per year and the global fleet is approximately 2 billion cars, it is impossible for Tesla to build electric cars fast enough to address the carbon crisis. By the same token, it means the market is enormous. Our true competition is not the small trickle of non-Tesla electric cars being produced, but rather the enormous flood of gasoline cars pouring out of the world’s factories every day. We believe that Tesla, other companies making electric cars, and the world would all benefit from a common, rapidly-evolving technology platform. Technology leadership is not defined by patents, which history has repeatedly shown to be small protection indeed against a determined competitor, but rather by the ability of a company to attract and motivate the world’s most talented engineers. We believe that applying the open source philosophy to our patents will strengthen rather than diminish Tesla’s position in this regard.[431]

type my work and get it copied before delivering the original to my agent. (Not too many years before that I’d have made a carbon copy. Do you remember carbon paper? Does anybody?)

Black Americans recognize the necessity of standing in solidarity, but they also have a human desire to be distinct and unique. Racism attacks both. It exacerbates the need for unity while also reducing black people to a throng of carbon copies—it makes solidarity an existential imperative and mutes the individualism of each group member. The consequence is a group seen as homogenous by those on the outside looking in and as heterogeneous by those on the inside peering out, creating a destructive incongruence between how black citizens are viewed and how they view themselves.

So be! Don’t try to become. Then one thing leads to another. If you want to become, then naturally the idea arises: what ideal, what am I to become? Then you have to imagine an ideal that you have to be like this: Christ-like, Buddha-like, Krishna-like. Then you will have to choose an image, and you will become a carbon copy. Krishna has never been repeated. Can’t you see a simple truth? Krishna has never been again.

see a very simple truth, that Buddha is unrepeatable? Each being is unique, utterly unique – so are you. If you try to become somebody, you will be a false entity, a pseudo-existence; you will be a carbon copy. Be the original! So, you can only be yourself; there is nowhere to go, nothing to become. But the ego wants some goal. The ego exists between the present moment and the goal. See the mechanism of the ego: the bigger the goal you have, the bigger the ego. If you want to become a Christ, if you are a Christian, then you have a big ego – maybe even pious, but it doesn’t make any difference. The pious ego is as much an ego as any other ego, sometimes even more dangerous than ordinary egos.

In any revolution the greatest danger is that the oppressed become carbon copies of their oppressors. They fail to see that fighting back with the same tactics, same values, same psychic weapons, can change nothing. Sudden decisions to draw the line and shout "enough" won't work. Men and women who have worked diligently to liberate their femininity from internal Nazi prison camps dare not rest on what they have accomplished. Too soon they may unwittingly find themselves once again collaborating with the very energies that imprisoned them in the first place. Since these regressive complexes resist giving up control, they become more subtle and more dangerous. Hope withers into despair, unless creative masculinity protects the feminine values.

The manager gave him a copy of the contract. From a carbon he read aloud, “’In addition said player will be permitted to convey his German shepherd dog on all road trips in his own conveyance.’” He laughed, “A clause to make baseball history. When do we see this famous dog?” “You’ll meet him tonight. He’ll be on the field.

SUMMARY To be a more effective leader, put these four leadership principles to work 1. Trade minds with the people you want to influence. It’s easy to get others to do what you want them to do if you’ll see things through their eyes. Ask yourself this question before you act: “What would I think of this if I exchanged places with the other person?” 2. Apply the “Be-Human” rule in your dealings with others. Ask, “What is the human way to handle this?” In everything you do, show that you put other people first. Just give other people the kind of treatment you like to receive. You’ll be rewarded. 3. Think progress, believe in progress, push for progress. Think improvement in everything you do. Think high standards in everything you do. Over a period of time subordinates tend to become carbon copies of their chief. Be sure the master copy is worth duplicating. Make this a personal resolution: “At home, at work, in community life, if it’s progress I’m for it.” 4. Take time out to confer with yourself and tap your supreme thinking power. Managed solitude pays off. Use it to release your creative power. Use it to find solutions to personal and business problems. So spend some time alone every day just for thinking. Use the thinking technique all great leaders use: confer with yourself.

All of these poets were older and wiser than me, and many of them were well read, and they brought this wisdom to bear on me and my work. What did I mean, specifically, by the loss of my body? And if every black body was precious, a one of one, if Malcolm was correct and you must preserve your life, how could I see these precious lives as simply a collective mass, as the amorphous residue of plunder? How could I privilege the spectrum of dark energy over each particular ray of light? These were notes on how to write, and thus notes on how to think. The Dream thrives on generalization, on limiting the number of possible questions, on privileging immediate answers. The Dream is the enemy of all art, courageous thinking, and honest writing. And it became clear that this was not just for the dreams concocted by Americans to justify themselves but also for the dreams that I had conjured to replace them. I had thought that I must mirror the outside world, create a carbon copy of white claims to civilization. It was beginning to occur to me to question the logic of the claim itself. I had forgotten my own self-interrogations pushed upon me by my mother, or rather I had not yet apprehended their deeper, lifelong meaning. I was only beginning to learn to be wary of my own humanity, of my own hurt and anger—I didn’t yet realize that the boot on your neck is just as likely to make you delusional as it is to ennoble.

Nobody buys paper books anymore,” I say to customer number 4,356 who is a carbon copy of number 4,343 and all the others. “Unless they’re by Stephen King.

Even if dubstep is a massive global concern, with hardly any racial barriers between artists or crowds, it has been usurped in the UK by a style that was practically a carbon copy of the original immigrant sound-system way of doing things.