Cheese In The Trap Quotes

In baiting a mousetrap with cheese, always leave room for the mouse.

Apathy is a trap. There is no challenge... so there is no reward. Remember, there is always free cheese in a mousetrap.

The only cheese I have in the apartment is a wedge of Brie in the refrigerator and before leaving I place the entire slice--it’s a really big rat--along with a sun-dried tomato and a sprinkling of dill, delicately on the trap, setting it.

A whole new thing. A forging of the humble parts of bread and cheese into a greater whole. I call it...a cheese-trap.

Whirrun ignored ‘em. ‘Then, when I’ve got two cut,’ and he dropped a pale slab of cheese on one slice then slapped the other on top like he was catching a fly, ‘I trap the cheese between then, and there you have it!’ ‘Bread and cheese.’ Yon weighed the half-loaf in one hand and the cheese in the other. ‘Just the same as I’ve got.’ And he bit off the cheese and tossed it to Scorry. Whirrun sighed. ‘Have none of you no vision?’ He held up his masterpiece to such light as there was, which was almost none. ‘This is no more bread and cheese than a fine axe is wood and iron, or a live person is meat and har.’ ‘What is it, then?’ asked Drfod, rocking back from his wet wood and tossing the flint aside in disgust. ‘A whole new thing. A forging of the humble part of bread and cheese into a greater whole. I call it … a cheese-trap.’ Whirrun took a dainty nibble from one corner. ‘Oh, yes, my friends. This tastes like … progress…

We play into the definitions and stereotypes others impose on us and accept the model-minority myth, thinking it's positive, but it's a trap just like any stereotype. They put a piece of model-minority cheese between the metal jaws of their mousetrap, but we're lactose intolerant anyway! We can't even eat the cheese.

We compare ourselves to others to seek solace, or get more depressed. When in reality, everyone has problems of their own.

The most powerful bond we know of is the bond between mother and child, and we break it in order to make "comfort foods" for ourselves" Michael Schwarz

ثمة مرحلة جميلة بين الحلم والحقيقة تسمى مرحلة التخطيط ص 103

The little country mouse looked at the trap. Then he looked at his cousin. “I think I will go home,” he said. “I’d rather have barley and grain and eat it in peace, than have brown sugar and cheese and eat in fear.” The two mice shook hands. The country mouse happily went back to his home. And there he stayed for the rest of his life.

Big incidents sometimes leave scars, but in the end, time probably takes care of everything.

Luc sighed as he raised his hands. "Look, this is not a trap, a test, or a drill. Archer's here, too. He's waiting for us, actually, and I'm more than willing to explain everything to you, but I'm not doing it standing here. Not when I found a Lunchables just a few minutes before you guys showed up, and I'm ready to make myself a delicious buffet of ham and cheese on crackers. I stared at him. "What? It's the kind that has Oreo cookies included," he replied. "That shit is banging.

The first thing he noticed was that Las Vegas seemed to have invented a new school of functional architecture, 'The Gilded Mousetrap School' he thought it might be called, whose main purpose was to channel the customer-mouse into the central gambling trap whether he wanted the cheese or not.

To escape, you have to be tougher and wiser than them.

In the end, what we believe to be true—our conventional wisdom—is really nothing more than sixty years of misconceived nutrition research. Before 1961, there were our ancestors, with their recipes. And before them, there were their ancestors, with their hunting bows or traps or livestock—but like lost languages, lost skills, and lost songs, it takes only a few generations to forget.

Free cheese comes only in traps.

هذا الكتاب ليس موجهاً إلى الجبناء الذين يسعون وراء الإغراءات ص 49

Be ready to pay the price of your dreams. Free cheese can only be found in a mousetrap.

Look, what I'm saying is, you're the leader, right? So you got to act like you know what you're doing, okay? If the leader doesn't know what he's doing, no one else does, either." "I only know what I'm doing when I'm dismantling traps," said Darktan. "All right, think of the future as a great big trap," said Sardines. "With no cheese.

At last you get in – but you hear a step: The ogre, Life, comes into the room, (He was waiting and heard the clang of the spring) To watch you nibble the wondrous cheese, And stare with his burning eyes at you, And scowl and laugh, and mock and curse you, Running up and down in the trap, Until your misery bores him.

عد إلى منزلك في الوقت الذي يتعين عليك فيه أن تعود إليه ص 38

تحدث إلى أي شخص بإمكانه أن يستمع إليك ص 114

And what if it’s a trap?” asked Mallinson, but Barnard supplied an answer. “A nice warm trap,” he said, “with a piece of cheese in it, would suit me down to the ground.

It seem that there is not much of a difference between criticism and advice. It all depends on how the other person takes it. That's why I'm responsible for the words that comes out of my mouth.

It was one of those red-gold early October days, the air crisp and tart as heady as applejack, and even at dawn the sky was the clear, purplish blue that only the finest of autumn days brings. There are maybe three such days in a year. I sang as I lifted my traps, and my voice bounced off the misty banks of the Loire like a challenge. It was the mushroom season, so after I had brought my catch back to the farm and cleaned it out, I took some bread and cheese for breakfast and set out into the woods to hunt for mushrooms. I was always good at that. Still am, to tell the truth, but in those days I had a nose like a truffle pig's. I could smell those mushrooms out, the gray chanterelle and the orange, with its apricot scent, the bolet and the petit rose and the edible puffball and the brown-cap and the blue-cap. Mother always told us to take our mushrooms to the pharmacy to ensure we had not gathered anything poisonous, but I never made a mistake. I knew the meaty scent of the bolet and the dry, earthy smell of the brown-cap mushroom. I knew their haunts and breeding grounds. I was a patient collector.

Now let’s be going before Susina finishes biting the cash, and comes to ravish you.” “You paid her. I’m in your debt-“ “Yes, yes, and the sun is a vast light, and the world has four corners, and we are all in Lucifer’s net. Out of the trap, mouse. The cheese is eaten.

Whole world was nothing but a big rattrap. It set baits for people by offering riches and joys, shelter and food, heat and clothing exactly as the rattrap offered cheese and pork. As soon as anyone let himself be tempted to touch the bait, the rattrap closed in on him, and then everything came to an end.

I thought of my favorite business analogy—the mouse who says let me out of the trap, I've decided I don't want the cheese.' There are a million business traps. You can get sloppy, you can get alcoholic, you can get megalomania, you can not understand your own limitations. There are a million ways to gum it up.

Once upon a time I'd left Los Angeles and been swallowed down the throat of a life in which my sole loyalty was to my tongue. My belly. Myself. My mother called me selfish and so selfish I became. From nineteen to twenty-five I was a mouth, sating. For myself I made three-day braises and chose the most marbled meats, I played loose with butter and cream. My arteries were young, my life pooling before me, and I lapped, luxurious, from it. I drank, smoked, flew cheap red-eyes around Europe, I lived in thrilling shitholes, I found pills that made nights pass in a blink or expanded time to a soap bubble, floating, luminous, warm. Time seemed infinite, then. I begged famous chefs for the chance to learn from them. I entered competitions and placed in a few. I volunteered to work brunch, turn artichokes, clean the grease trap. I flung my body at all of it: the smoke and singe of the grill station, a duck's breast split open like a geode, two hundred oysters shucked in the walk-in, sex in the walk-in, drunken rides around Paris on a rickety motorcycle and no helmet, a white truffle I stole and shaved in secret over a bowl of Kraft mac n' cheese for me, just me, as my body strummed the high taut selfish song of youth. On my twenty-fifth birthday I served black-market fugu to my guests, the neurotoxin stinging sweetly on my lips as I waited to see if I would, by eating, die. At that age I believed I knew what death was: a thrill, like brushing by a friend who might become a lover.

That’s like making the mouse pay for the cheese you put in his trap.

Listen Dummy. You're going to meet plenty of people who will do worse things because of your looks and family. You are to be surrounded by people whether you like it or not!

I don't care anymore. I'm sick of everything.

You'll work like a dog, but you'll shut your mouth and let them step over you. In society, the person who works hard has more to lose. They end up taking all the blame.

If you get hit once, hit her twice. Strong one wins!

It's an instant where everything falls apart. It will take a long time to get things back together.

The free cheese in a mousetrap is only for the mouse.

Yes, just chicken and cheese. I need a basic bitch quesadilla.

When it comes to the teachingless teachings, you have to take your business to Zen and Advaita, being careful to avoid the tourist traps where you can unwittingly walk in circles for years or lifetimes. For instance, Ramana Maharshi prescribed the use of the inquiry “Who am I?” to be used relentlessly as an auger for drilling down through all the layers of ego and delusion. But this process of self-inquiry has itself become mired in layers of ego and delusion; repackaged for mass consumption. Ramana’s students have become teachers, and their students have become teachers, and the diamond at the core—the process of self-inquiry—has become the cheese in a dozen bait-and-switch operations. Those lured in by the simplicity and directness of self-inquiry are sucked into a morass of teachers and teachings, gurus and babble, ego and delusion, from which they are not likely to soon emerge. Five words: Ask yourself “Who am I?” Five words that render all other words—including those of Ramana Maharshi—superfluous. Five words that need no explanation, no amplification, no elucidation. Five words that bestow upon the recipient self-reliance and self-determination. But a complete spiritual teaching that fits on a matchbook cover is not what anyone really wants. No fame, fortune and following for the giver, no wiggle room for the receiver. And by what mechanism does such a simple thing as self-inquiry get mangled and bloated beyond all recognition? Ego. Always ego. The

also suffer from a number of specific fears or phobias. To name a few: enclosed spaces (claustrophobia); heights (acrophobia); fainting (asthenophobia); being trapped far from home (a species of agoraphobia); germs (bacillophobia); cheese (turophobia); speaking in public (a subcategory of social phobia); flying (aerophobia); vomiting (emetophobia); and, naturally, vomiting on airplanes (aeronausiphobia).

When you have cat stealers over for tea, you clean the house, buy bagels and cream cheese, and try to figure out how to trap your guests in a lie.

We are used to danger," the faceless voice assured her. "It comes with our job. Every day we are expected to carry untamed pastries and savage cheeses, advance down corridors to see whether assassins have left traps, cover for the mistakes of our betters, and risk our lives for members of the Court. We look out for our own because nobody else will. Do you know how many courtiers have been willing to risk their lives for one of us?" "No. How many?" "One," came the answer. "Precisely one in five hundred years." The sedan door opened. Pulling off her goggles, Neverfell stepped out into the low-ceilinged alcove just off the silent thoroughfare, the walls etched with the whorls and rib frills of fossilized sea things. She turned toward the man who had been speaking with her, the owner of the soft-as-fur voice, and found herself looking into the face of the manservant she had saved at the first banquet. "Good luck," he said, and with that he and his fellow servant lifted the sedan and trotted away, their feet making less sound than the stray drips falling from the ceiling to the sodden dust.

I don’t understand what happened,” she said dully. “It’s quite simple.” He pushed up until he sat beside her, leaning against the bedhead. “I wanted to kiss you the moment I saw you.” Astonishment flared in her caramel eyes. And dangerous pleasure. He fought the urge to draw her back into his arms. He’d managed to stop once. Nothing on God’s green earth would restrain him if he succumbed to temptation a second time. “But why did I let you?” “Perhaps because we’re trapped here,” he said, knowing that the attraction went much deeper than mere propinquity. “It must be more than that.” She studied him with a troubled expression. “I’ve never acted this way before.” “I generally don’t leap on virtuous young women either,” he responded, stung. “You seemed to know what you were doing.” It sounded like an accusation. Lyle knew she picked a quarrel as a distraction. But he refused to oblige. He was experienced enough to know that a loss of temper would lead to a different loss of control. He stared into the fire and answered in a mild tone. “Does that mean you liked it?” “I don’t have much to compare it to,” she muttered. Shocked, he turned back to her. Shocked and disgusted with himself. He’d jumped on her like a starving man snatched at a cheese sandwich. “You make me feel like a beast.” He paused as he pondered just what she’d said. “Much or nothing?” She frowned at him. “What?” “You said you didn’t have much to compare my kisses to.” She blushed. “You have no right to ask that.” “I had no right to kiss you either. Yet I did.” His gaze sharpened. “Who’s been trifling with your favors? And where do I need to go to kill him?” She didn’t smile at his absurdity. Nor was he convinced he was joking. “I’ve been kissed before,” she admitted ungraciously. “It was…nice.” A grunt of laughter escaped as he sagged with relief. “I don’t need to kill him after all. Heaven help your swains if that’s the best they can do.” Miss Warren regarded him with displeasure. Thank God. He preferred her snap and fire to seeing her crushed with mortification. “Your kisses weren’t nice.” “I should hope not.” “And I do wish you’d put a shirt on,” she said crossly, shifting to the edge of the bed but still—interesting again—without making any move to leave. Feeling

I don't want the cheese. I just want to get out of the trap.

كل ما يهمني هو أن تكون راغباً في الشعور بالحية والحصول عليها ص 20

إذا لم تكن تشعر بالسعادة في حياتك، فمن حقك أن تعبر عن هذا الشعور الذي يخالجك. هذا هو حقك الطبيعي والمشروع. وليس من المفترض أبداً أن تقمع هذا الصوت الداخلي وألا تبوح بكل ما تشعر به من مشاعر رفض لهذه الحالة التي أنت عليها ص 81

يفترض أن تخرج كل ما تشعر به من داخلك، ولست مضطراً إلى أن تعاني في صمت ص 81

tall buildings and clustered streets of the city had her trapped like a mouse in a maze, without even the possible reward of cheese.

There is free cheese in every trap

Why, I'd never do such things now!" She laughed. "Unless you're foxed." "Unless I'm foxed." "Perhaps you should stop drinking, then." "And perhaps you should start eating, my dear wife. I've seen sparrows with bigger appetites. Here, try some of this Cheshire. It is splendid." He plucked a small bit of cheese from the dish and, leaning across the table, held the morsel to her lips. Juliet hesitated — the gesture seemed uncomfortably intimate — but the wine had relaxed her, taking the edge off her inevitable wedding-night jitters, and she suddenly felt ridiculous for being so skittish. Especially when she looked into those romantic blue eyes across from her and saw shadows of Charles in that familiar de Montforte face, in that lazy de Montforte smile. Currents fluttered out along her nerve endings. Warmth settled in the pit of her belly. Slowly, she opened her mouth and accepted the cheese, trembling at the warm brush of his fingers against her lips. She chewed and swallowed, her gaze still trapped by his, until she finally blushed and looked away, her face rosy and hot, her hands gripped tightly beneath the tablecloth. When she finally dared to look back up at him, he was gazing at her with an amused little half-smile. "Well, what do you think of it?" he asked, topping up her wine glass. "Delicious."  Every nerve in her body was thrumming in response to the intimate gesture they'd just shared, her lips tingling where his fingers had brushed them. "But I think I prefer the Cheddar." "Oh. I haven't tried that one yet." "You haven't?" "No."  His eyes were teasing, challenging, inviting her to summon her courage and — Good God, he wants me to feed him! Heat prickled through her. He was still watching her, little sparkles of laughter dancing in his eyes, his mouth twitching at the corners. "You want me to force you to try some, then," she declared, her bold tone belying her shaky courage. "My dear Juliet, I shall never force you to do anything that you do not wish to do." She looked across the table at him. He gazed back, calm, relaxed, amused. Dear God, but he looked handsome in the candlelight. Handsome under any light. And now his grin was spreading, as though he was ready to burst out laughing at her predicament. What a rogue he was! 

Carefully leaning across the table so the candle would not singe her sleeve, she met that challenging stare with an equally challenging one of her own and placed the morsel of cheese against her husband's lips. His sensuous, lazily smiling lips. His gaze locked on hers, but he did not open his mouth. He merely gave her a warm, assessing look that melted every bone in her body. And then his lips parted, and his tongue came out to lazily circle the edge of the cheese. Raw desire shot through Juliet's blood, centered between her legs. Her hand shook. Her heart pounded. His lips, soft and warm, feathered against her fingers as he slowly took the cheese, his gaze still holding hers. He finally began to chew, and Juliet — trembling — started to pull away, but his hand came up and closed warmly around her own, trapping her fingers within his strong, hard grasp. He brought her hand to his lips, and, watching her from above her knuckles, slowly licked each fingertip clean. Juliet gasped and yanked her hand back. "I — think I've had enough food for tonight," she said shakily, pushing her chair back. Laughing, he leaned an elbow against the table, propped his dimpled chin in his palm, and calmly swallowed the cheese. "Coward." "I am not!  It's just that ... well, this is —" "Wicked?" "Well, yes!" "Unseemly?" "It's —" "Juliet." She froze. Her insides were hot and shaking, her throat as dry as cinders. Her bones were suddenly so weak she didn't know if she could stand up, anyhow. She clenched her hands to still her wildly pounding heart and forced herself to meet his amused gaze. "Y-yes?" "You, my dear, do not know how to have fun.

the tall buildings and clustered streets of the city had her trapped like a mouse in a maze, without even the possible reward of cheese.

... no trap can be successful without uncounsciously cooperation from a victim. No one forces the mouse to seek cheese in a mousetrap.

I Want More Cheese Jasper Van Dumpken was a twelve year old boy that lived on a farm. He had rosy cheeks, bright red hair, and a huge appetite. He ate rye bread with cheese and fresh milk for breakfast. At lunch, he usually ate macaroni and cheese. At dinner time, he ate a portion of meat and potatoes with lots of cheese of course. As you can see, cheese was Jasper’s favorite kind of food. Although Jasper’s parents weren’t particularly rich, they always had plenty to eat. However, because of Jasper’s craving for cheese they often ran out of it. His father would poke fun at him and ask him if he had a hole in his tummy, because he just couldn’t understand how he put so much cheese in there. One summer’s evening, Jasper climbed into bed with his stomach a little more filled than usual. He had stuffed himself with cheese curds all day. He felt a soft wind blow through his window and he took a sniff of the piny smell that came in from the tree nearby. That tree seemed to glow and he thought he saw beams of lights dancing under it. They seemed to be shaped like a girl. He laughed at the idea of it. Pretty soon though, he heard a voice whisper, “Come with us, there’s plenty of cheese.” Then again the voice whispered, “Come with us, there’s plenty of cheese.” Now Jasper was a very curious young man, and although something deep inside of him told him to stay put, he was ready for an adventure. So he put on his shoes and carefully climbed out his bedroom window. As he stepped out, he noticed three little women. They were absolutely beautiful and had wings that shined like fireflies. “Come with us and we will show you where we keep all of our cheese,” they said together. Their soft voices sounded like music to his ears. He wanted to try their cheese so he followed them to end of the forest. They told him to sit down. They disappeared and came back carrying all different kinds of cheese. Some that Jasper had never even tried before. Jasper ate until his poor little tummy ached. “Stop, please, stop! No more cheese!” he cried out. But the fairies kept bringing more until a huge wall had formed around him. Jasper was now trapped. He started to scream for help, but it was no use. He yelled until he was tired and fell right to sleep. Several hours later Jasper woke up, he rubbed his eyes and expected to see mounds of cheese around him. But instead he was back in his bedroom. Jasper breathed a sigh of relief because it had all been a terrible nightmare. From that day forward, Jasper never ate another piece of cheese again. Although he had once loved it, after that horrible dream, he couldn’t even stand the smell of cheese anymore.

Whole world was nothing but a big rattrap. It set baits for people by offering riches and joys, shelter and food, heat and clothing exactly as the rattrap offered cheese and pork. As soon as anyone let himself be tempted to touch the bait, the rattrap closed in on him, and then everything came to an end.

As a business owner don't think your limitations, think business; it's all about business.

There is free cheese in every trap

The lasagna filled a huge roasting pan, covered in thick browned cheese that was crispy in the corners. "Get me a corner piece, and I'll owe you one," Sanna whispered to Isaac, who sat closer to the pan. "I'll hold you to that." He scooped the darkest corner onto her plate with a wink that caused Sanna's heart to skip. She wished she could come up with a pithy response, but instead she turned her attention to the food, unable to find her words. The garlic bread was made from a local bakery's signature item, the giant Corsica loaf. It was slathered in sesame seeds and baked in olive oil so the bottom was crispy yet dripping. Mrs. Dibble had carved huge slices, coated each with garlic butter, then warmed it until the butter soaked in. The salad rounded it out, something light to balance all the heavy food so you could keep nibbling on lettuce to stretch the time at the table. "Sanna, why don't you pull out a few bottles of cider for dinner?" Einars said. Glad for distraction, Sanna brought out three large bottles she had in the fridge, all from the same batch- toasty brown. Not the most appetizing color, but it was the best match to go with a dinner like this one. It was a nearly still, unfiltered scrumpy style that was layered and complex, but not sweet and not dry. It wasn't acidic, so it didn't compete with the tomato sauce, and the subtle apple notes didn't confuse the palate with too many conflicting flavors. It was refreshing and smooth, a dark amber in color with bits of sediment floating around. She poured it into stemless glasses for each of the adults and enjoyed how the evening light got trapped, making the liquid glow when she held it up in a beam of evening summer sunlight.

...Remember, the second mouse to the trap is the one who always gets the cheese.

The only free cheese is in the mouse trap

For a moment I imagined myself to be that mouse, not a guard at all but just another convicted criminal there on the Green Mile, convicted and condemned but still managing to look bravely up at a desk that must have seemed miles high to it (as the judgment seat of God will no doubt someday seem to us), and at the heavy-voiced, blue-coated giants who sat behind it. Giants that shot its kind with BB guns, or swatted them with brooms, or set traps on them, traps that broke their backs while they crept cautiously over the word VICTOR to nibble at the cheese on the little copper plate.

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