Cat Stevens Quotes

If toast always lands butter-side down, and cats always land on their feet, what happens if you strap toast on the back of a cat and drop it?

Curiosity killed the cat, but for a while I was a suspect.

Someone once said give a dog food and shelter and treats and they think you are a god, but give a cat the same and they think they are the god.

If you want to sing out, sing out, and if you want to be free, be free, cause there's a million ways to be, you know that there are.

I always knew looking back on my tears would bring me laughter, but I never knew looking back on my laughter would make me cry.

Do radioactive cats have eighteen half-lives?

It's hotter than a two-peckered alley cat up in here. Humidity must be close to a hundred.

You will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not.

Say what you think; think what you mean.

One can choose to obsess over prescriptive rules, but they have no more to do with human language than the criteria for judging cats at a cat show have to do with mammalian biology.

When two hearts are meant for each other no distance is so far, no time is so long and no other love can break them apart.

I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul Where I end up, well, I think only God really knows

I always knew looking back on the tears would make me laugh, but I never knew looking back on the laughs would make me cry.

A cat is a responsibility after all. And feeding and keeping and caring about a stupid fat cat isn't much, isn't much in the entirety of what counts for being a person and the huge range of what people do,but it is something. It is something and it's something that's warm and that I still have.

Life is like a maze of doors and then all open on the side you're on. Just keep on pushing hard, boy, try as you may...you're going to wind up where you started from.

From the moment I could talk, I was ordered to listen.

You mean like Cat Stevens? The singer-songwriter? I bite back a snicker. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of the man,” Mr. Scott says dryly. “I’d assume he was far past your age group.” “I make it my business to know a lot of factoids, most of which are useless in today’s contemporary society.” “What’s its name?” “Hawn,” he says. “Like Han Solo?” “Not Han. Hawn. H-A-W-N.” I pause, hand in the middle of pushing my hair back from my face. “Goldie Hawn?” Mr. Scott sighs, as I laugh.

There is a joke about a little girl who is filling in a hole in her garden when a neighbor looks over the fence. He politely asks, "Hi! What are you up to?" "My goldfish died," replies the girl tearfully, "and I've just buried him." The neighbor asks, "Isn't that an awfully big hole for a goldfish?" The little girl tamps down the soil and replies, "That's because he's inside your stupid cat.

I'd like to start this week with a request, and this one goes out to the followers of the three Abrahamic religions: the Muslims, Christians, and Jews. It's just a little thing, really, but do you think that when you've finished smashing up the world and blowing each other to bits and demanding special privileges while you do it, do you think that maybe the rest of us could sort of have our planet back? I wouldn't ask, but I'm starting to think that there must be something written in the special books that each of you so enjoy referring to that it's ok to behave like special, petulant, pugnacious, pricks. Forgive the alliteration, but your persistent, power-mad punch-ups are pissing me off. It's mainly the extremists obviously, but not exclusively. It's a lot of 'main-streamers' as well. Let me give you an example of what I'm talking about. Muslims: listen up my bearded and veily friends! Calm down, ok? Stop blowing stuff up. Not everything that said about you is an attack on the prophet Mohammed and Allah that needs to end in the infidel being destroyed. Have a cup of tea, put on a Cat Stevens record, sit down and chill out. I mean seriously, what's wrong with a strongly-worded letter to The Times? Christians: you and your churches don't get to be millionaires while other people have nothing at all. They're your bloody rules; either stick to them or abandon the faith. And stop persecuting and killing people you judge to be immoral. Oh, and stop pretending you're celibate -- it's a cover-up for being a gay or a nonce. Right, that's two ticked off. Jews! I know you're god's 'Chosen People' and the rest of us are just whatever, but when Israel behaves like a violent, psychopathic bully and someone mentions it that doesn't make them antisemitic. And for the record, your troubled history is not a license to act with impunity now.

In fact, without a specification of a creature's goals, the very idea of intelligence is meaningless. A toadstool could be given a genius award for accomplishing with pinpoint precision and unerring reliability, the feat of sitting exactly where it is sitting. Nothing would prevent us from agreeing with the cognitive scientist Zenon Pylyshyn that rocks are smarter than cats because rocks have the sense to go away when you kick them.

I never wanted to be a star, I never wanted to travel far / I only wanted a little bit of love so I could put a little love in my heart / I never wanted to be la-de-da, go to parties ‘avec le bourgeois’ / I only wanted to sing my song well so I could ring a small bell in your heart

Everything i do is for the pleasure of Allah.

The more the mouse pursues this line of of thought, the more it seems to him that the cat is a large, soft mouse.

It probably took a lot to faze a cat.

Be you dust; or be you star To be what you must Just reach out for what you are

Then one day I found my head when I wasn't even trying.

the Lisbon girls “Alone Again, Naturally,” Gilbert O’Sullivan us “You’ve Got a Friend,” James Taylor the Lisbon girls “Where Do the Children Play?,” Cat Stevens us “Dear Prudence,” The Beatles

...As we locked the front door behind us, she said, "How do you keep getting in without my knowing it? Did Jill give you a key without mentioning it to me?" "Trade secret," I said. "What trade is that? Cat burglar?" "Yes, although I prefer the technical term." "What's that?" "Music promoter.

Violence pervaded their entertainment as well. Tuchman describes two of the popular sports of the time: “Players with hands tied behind them competed to kill a cat nailed to a post by battering it to death with their heads, at the risk of cheeks ripped open or eyes scratched out by the frantic animal’s claws....

From the moment I could talk I was ordered to listen.

Alex and Birdman were grinning like cats who’d eaten all the cream.

You have to love a woman’s cats like you love the woman.

Pets enrich our lives...and poop on our floors!

Why can’t I have normal friends?’ Stonny demanded. ‘Ones without tiger stripes and cat eyes? Ones without a hundred thousand souls riding their backs? Here comes a rider from that other lagging company – maybe he’s normal! Hood knows, he’s dressed like a farmer and looks inbred enough to manage only simple sentences. A perfect man! Hey! You! No, what are you hesitating for? Come to us, then! Please!

Players with hands tied behind them competed to kill a cat nailed to a post by battering it to death with their heads, at the risk of cheeks ripped open or eyes scratched out by the frantic animal’s claws....

She’s nice as hell, but I swear, I’m going to strangle the cat if I find it,” Steven said, sitting down across from me. I held up my hands, palms out, and smirked at him. “Come on, brother. You’re really going to kill that nice old lady’s cat just because she’s annoying?” “Fine,” he said. “I’m going to kill that cat’s whole family. Just to send a message.” “What’s the message?” His eyes stared into mine. “Cats better not fuck with me.

Sombre as fir trees, liquid cats Moved in the grass without a sound. They did not know the grass went round. The cats had cats and the grass turned gray And the world had worlds, ai, this-a-way: The grass turned green and the grass turned gray.

A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts" The difficulty to think at the end of day, When the shapeless shadow covers the sun And nothing is left except light on your fur— There was the cat slopping its milk all day, Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk And August the most peaceful month. To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time, Without that monument of cat, The cat forgotten in the moon; And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light, In which everything is meant for you And nothing need be explained; Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself; And east rushes west and west rushes down, No matter. The grass is full And full of yourself. The trees around are for you, The whole of the wideness of night is for you, A self that touches all edges, You become a self that fills the four corners of night. The red cat hides away in the fur-light And there you are humped high, humped up, You are humped higher and higher, black as stone— You sit with your head like a carving in space And the little green cat is a bug in the grass.

How does the idea that the locative is a gestalt shift explain why some verbs allow the shift while other verbs, seemingly similar to them, do not? The key is the chemistry between the meaning of the construction and the meaning of the verb. To take a simple case, one can throw a cat into the room, but one cannot throw the room with a cat, because merely throwing something into a room can’t ordinarily be construed as a way of changing the room’s state. This chemistry applies to more subtle cases as well. Verbs that differ in their syntactic fussiness, like pour, fill, and load, all pertain to moving something somewhere, giving us the casual impression that they are birds of a feather.

Similarly clad women stood by the muddy well, pausing in their endless dunking of cats – a bemusing activity, its symbolism lost on the man as he hurried past.

The main recommended long term mobility exercises are RTO supports and German hangs/skin the cats.

They’re having fun. It’s not their fault if guys are assholes.” “If a mouse is dumb enough to walk in front of a cat, it’s going to get eaten.

gaze

Judy and a menagerie of cats on Florida?s Space Coast where

Cat Stevens is also the only other member of the family who enjoys eating the meats that Dad brings home from the Strip, although sometimes he expresses his enjoyment by barfing.

A snail, for example, may crawl all over a hammer, a cat may sniff it and a dog may piss on it, but only persons deal with its Being as a hammer, that is, its meaningful character as a tool having a particular function in the world.

And the good-bye makes the journey harder still. -Cat Stevens “O Very Young

How could you leave me behind to explode?" "Er," Alice said, "I'm not sure how to--" "Oh--you have a clockwork cat. This is very nice. I will forgive you if I may pet the cat.

The answer lies within So why not take a look now Kick out the devils sin Pickup, pickup a good book now

Where are you taking me?” “To town. I’m going to wire your daddy and get you a hotel room.” Her blue eyes filled with silvery stars. “You want to wire Daddy so you can ask for my hand,” she crooned. “You’re going to marry me.” “I was thinking more in terms of murder,” Steven replied. Joellen’s cheeks reddened. “Well, you have to marry me, Steven Fairfax—you’ve compromised my good name!” “I’m going to compromise your bottom if you don’t stop talking as if I had my way with you out there. I never touched you, except to share a coat, and you know it.” “Daddy doesn’t,” Joellen said, with a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “And neither do all those cowboys, or Mr. Deva, or Sing Cho. They’re my witnesses that you’ve spoiled me for any other man.” Steven sighed and kept his silence.

The building was a sniper’s heaven; it was long with dozens of windows and many points of view. Three floors. Someone had put cardboard in each of the panes, dozens of cardboard boxes, making it almost impossible to see inside. The marines kept firing, thousands and thousands of rounds. The barrels of their machine guns glowed and sagged. “Get me another barrel,” one of the kids said. More firing commenced. “I don’t know who he is, but he is very well trained,” said Lieutenant Steven Berch, another one of the platoon leaders. Omohundro was downstairs. He listened to the commotion and called in an airstrike. “Just blow the building to shit,” he said. First a 2,000 -pound bomb, then a 500 -pounder flew into the building and burst. A cloud unfolded upward and revealed a gigantic fire. It rose through the ruined ceiling. Part of a wall collapsed. Crack! Crack! Crack! The marines ducked, cursed loudly and returned fire. No one spotted the sniper this time. The sniper fired back. The marines responded with another blast of gunfire, many thousands of rounds. I stood with some guys at the back of the roof, behind a shed. A blue and green parakeet fluttered out of the sky and hovered in tight circles. Bullets flew past. The parakeet landed on a slumping power line. The marines stared in amazement. “Someone’s pet?” a marine said. I ran across the top of the roof and the sniper took a shot. Crack! The bullet whizzed by. An artillery barrage began. First came the 155 mm shells, each filled with fifty pounds of high explosives. One after the other the shells sailed into the building. Fire swept through the three floors. What was left of the ceiling collapsed in the smoke. Cardboard sailed out of shattered windows. Twenty shells, then thirty, each one large enough to end the world. The shelling ceased and the shooting stopped. The building burned. Remarkably it still had a frame, and parts of its three floors still stood. Suddenly a sound rustled from a storefront on the first floor. The marines tensed. A cat sauntered out, dirty yellow, tail in the air. It walked like a runway model in front of a construction site. “Can I shoot it, sir?” a marine asked his squad leader. “Absolutely not,” came the reply. Crack!

From the day I could talk, I was ordered to listen.

Cat Steven's song Wild World: Oh Baby, baby, it's a wild world, it's hard to get by just on a smile, Oh baby, baby, it's a wild world and I'll always remember you like a child.

According to the official numbers, shelters take in somewhere between six million and eight million dogs and cats every year and euthanize about half of them. And this is an improvement. While it was back in the 1970s that the HSUS began trying to raise awareness

From the moment I could talk, I was ordered to listen. —Tea for the Tillerman

Then I found my head one day when I wasn't even trying.

The police report stated that Avery took a cat, poured gas and oil on it, threw it in a bonfire, and then watched it burn until it died. A friend who was present at the time told police that the cat jumped out of the fire, and Avery caught it and poured more gasoline on it before the animal died. Thousands

I remember my first dose of Klonopin the way I imagine the elect recall their high school summer romances, bathed in the golden light of a perfect carelessness, untouched and untouchable by time's predations or the foulness of any present pain. As Cat Stevens wrote, The first cut is the deepest, though I've always preferred Norma Fraser's cover to the original (the legendary Studio One, Kingston, Jamaica, 1967). Stevens sings it like a pop song, but Fraser knows the line is true, that she'll never love like that again. Her voice soars over the reverb like a bird in final flight. The first cut is the deepest. I've since learned all about GABA receptors and molecular binding, benzos and the dangers of tolerance, but back then I knew only that I had received an invisible and highly effective surgery to the mind, administered by a pale yellow tablet scored down the middle and no larger than an aspirin. There is so much drivel about psychoactive meds, so much corruptions, bad faith over- and underprescription, vagueness, profiteering, ignorance, and hope, that it's easy to forget they sometimes work, alleviating real suffering, at least for a time. This was such a time.

The doctor and nurse met in the hallway before going to the nurse’s station to verify some of the results on the computer screen.  The doctor wanted to see the results of the blood work and CAT scan to see what they had.  His gut was telling him the diagnosis, nearly screaming what it was, but he needed to verify and line up the facts first.       “Let me see his blood work,” the doctor told the nurse. 

Um, without two cats of opposite gender, sir, making kittens is not an easy venture.

If a mouse is dumb enough to walk in front of a cat, it’s going to get eaten.

One clever, thoughtful and serious-minded songwriter is Cat Stevens. He planes down his lyrics to smoothen the creases of a forlorn heart and to post new measures for mercurial astuteness. His two hit songs WILD WORLD and THE FIRST CUT IS THE DEEPEST establish gentle swings that strengthen the earnestness of listening moods.

If you are a cat lover, then you can admire and even be in awe of a tiger. However, despite its beauty, it is a dangerous animal and you will never be able to bring it into your home and share your house with it. It belongs in the wild. Sometimes, people can be like this. You can admire them and even be in love with them, or revere them, but you can never share your life with them. They are dangerous and can do some serious damage to you. If you can recognise they have some impossible-to-live-with traits, then admire them in the wild and not in your home. Find a domestic cat that suits your home if you want happiness.

When two hearts are meant for each other, no distance is too far, no time is too long, and no other love can break them apart." ~ Cat Stevens

The police report stated that Avery took a cat, poured gas and oil on it, threw it in a bonfire, and then watched it burn until it died. A friend who was present at the time told police that the cat jumped out of the fire, and Avery caught it and poured more gasoline on it before the animal died.

I am confident that, in the end, common sense and justice will prevail. I’m an optimist, brought up on the belief that if you wait until the end of the story, you get to see the good people live happily ever after.

for fantasy permeated the popular folk music of the time—the imagery in lyrics by musicians like Mark Bolan, Donovan, and Cat Stevens, and in old British ballads performed by new folk-rock bands like Fairport Convention, Pentangle, and Steel-eye Span. I suspect that I am not the only reader of fantastic fiction who came to it through this musical back door; and here is another example of the endurance of the old stories, adapting themselves to the radio air-waves and the bass line beat of rock and roll.

Then we would go to the living room and sit on the blue couches, and Cat Stevens would sing on the record player, “I have my freedom / I can make my own rules.

The heart that truly loves never forgets. -Proverb And the good-bye makes the journey harder still. -Cat Stevens “O Very Young

Kisses, not hisses.

The deer and the dachshund are one. Well, the gods grow out of the weather. The people grow out of the weather; The gods grow out of the people. Encore, encore, encore les dieux … The distance between the dark steeple And cobble ten thousand and three Is more than a seven-foot inchworm Could measure by moonlight in June. Kiss, cats; for the deer and the dachshund Are one. My window is twenty-nine three And plenty of window for me. The steeples are empty and so are the people, There’s nothing whatever to see

Someone once said give a dog food and shelter and treats and they think you are a god, but give a cat the same and they think they are the god. We shared the rest of that ice-cream cone, for I am a god.

Give Me Love” was a hit around the same time as Cat Stevens’s “Morning Has Broken,” a superficially similar hippie-dad prayer, yet I violently hated “Morning Has Broken,” just hated it, despised the choked sobs and prissy whispers, still hate it, because it sounded to my ears (and might still sound, if I had the stomach to investigate) like a phony version of what “Give Me Love” does for real. All four Beatles were surrogate dads to Seventies kids, which partly why we fantasized about them so much, and if George was the dad who’s perpetually disappointed in you, “Give Me Love” is a song that did and still does make me fantasize about what a world fathered and raised by George might look like. Yet it’s the kind of song George distrusted—a song that could get people’s hopes up, making promises he was scared he couldn’t keep.

The cat is out of the bag: The very high altitude summit of Mauna Kea is biologically toxic to the sea level adapted workers. It is time to demolish the Mauna Kea Observatories.

The Boeing 737 Max let the cat out of the bag that health and safety fraud is rampant in the USA.

Abstain from butt wiping, it works for cats and dogs!

We all listened to and loved the Stones, the Beatles, Cat Stevens, Nina Simone, Neil Young, Bonnie Raitt, Aretha, sixties Motown, Andreas