Cluttered Desk Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Cluttered Desk. Here they are! All 45 of them:

If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?
Laurence J. Peter
An empty desk is a sign of a cluttered desk drawer.
Joseph Addison
More and more of us feel like emergency-room physicians, permanently on call, required to heal ourselves but unable to find the prescription for all the clutter on our desk. •
Pico Iyer (The Art of Stillness: Adventures in Going Nowhere (TED Books))
I am simply impressed by the unexpected insights which shower down on me when my job is to imagine, as contrasted with the woodenly familiar ideas which clutter my desk when my job is to tell the truth.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (Wampeters, Foma and Granfalloons)
You can't stand clutter, and you have an obsession with orderliness. The furniture in here is centered exactly on the walls; the files on your desk are arranged in precise corners. If I had to guess, I would say you are probably a control freak, and that is usually symptomatic of a man who feels powerless to control his own life, so he tries to control every facet of his surroundings.
Judith McNaught (Someone to Watch Over Me (Paradise, #5))
A clean desk is a sign of a cluttered mind.
C.E. Murphy (Heart of Stone (Negotiator Trilogy/Old Races Universe, #1))
a messy environment taxes the brain. When surrounded by clutter, our brains are so busy registering all the things around us that we can’t focus on what we should be doing in the moment, such as tackling the work on our desk or communicating with others. We feel distracted, stressed, and anxious, and our decision-making ability is impaired.
Marie Kondō (Joy at Work: Organizing Your Professional Life)
If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what. then, is an empty desk a sign of?
Albert Einstein
At some time all cities have this feel: in London it's at five or six on a winer evening. Paris has it too, late, when the cafes are closing up. In New York it can happen anytime: early in the morning as the light climbs over the canyon streets and the avenues stretch so far into the distance that it seems the whole world is city; or now, as the chimes of midnight hang in the rain and all the city's longings acquire the clarity and certainty of sudden understanding. The day coming to an end and people unable to evade any longer the nagging sense of futility that has been growing stronger through the day, knowing that they will feel better when they wake up and it is daylight again but knowing also that each day leads to this sense of quiet isolation. Whether the plates have been stacked neatly away or the sink is cluttered with unwashed dishes makes no difference because all these details--the clothes hanging in the closet, the sheets on the bed--tell the same story--a story in which they walk to the window and look out at the rain-lit streets, wondering how many other people are looking out like this, people who look forward to Monday because the weekdays have a purpose which vanishes at the weekend when there is only the laundry and the papers. And knowing also that these thoughts do not represent any kind of revelation because by now they have themselves become part of the same routine of bearable despair, a summing up that is all the time dissolving into everyday. A time in the day when it is possible to regret everything and nothing in the same breath, when the only wish of all bachelors is that there was someone who loved them, who was thinking of them even if she was on the other side of the world. When a woman, feeling the city falling damp around her, hearing music from a radio somewhere, looks up and imagines the lives being led behind the yellow-lighted windows: a man at his sink, a family crowded together around a television, lovers drawing curtains, someone at his desk, hearing the same tune on the radio, writing these words.
Geoff Dyer (But Beautiful: A Book About Jazz)
Here's what I think: when you're born, you're assigned a brain like you're assigned a desk, a nice desk, with plenty of pigeonholes and drawers and secret compartments. At the start, it's empty, and then you spend your life filling it up. You're the only one who understands the filing system, you amass some clutter, sure, but somehow it works: you're asked the capital of Oregon, and you say Salem; you want to remember your first-grade teacher's name, and there it is, Miss Fox. Then suddenly you're old, and though everything's still in your brain, it's crammed so tight that when you try to remember the name of the guy who does the upkeep on your lawn, your first childhood crush comes fluttering out, or the persistent smell of tomato soup in a certain Des Moines neighborhood.
Elizabeth McCracken (Niagara Falls All Over Again)
His life was just like this desk: cluttered at the edges and empty at the center.
Theresa Romain (My Scandalous Duke)
I think,” he said slowly, “he’s got something to do with Quidditch. There’s some connection, but I can’t--I can’t think what it is.” “Quidditch?” said Ron. “Sure you’re not thinking of Gorgovitch?” “Who?” “Dragomir Gorgovitch, Chaser, transferred to the Chudley Cannons for a record fee two years ago. Record holder for most Quaffle drops in a season.” “No,” said Harry. “I’m definitely not thinking of Gorgovitch.” “I try not to either,” said Ron. “Well, happy birthday anyway.” “Wow--that’s right, I forgot! I’m seventeen!” Harry seized the wand lying beside his camp bed, pointed it at the cluttered desk where he had left his glasses, and said, “Accio Glasses!” Although they were only around a foot away, there was something immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom toward him, at least until they poked him in the eye. “Slick,” snorted Ron.
J.K. Rowling (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Harry Potter, #7))
Yet a cluttered desk piled high with papers could stand for quite a few things: inner disorder, fear of meeting one’s obligations, accepting too much responsibility, ignoring mundane details, and so on. This inconsistency is valid because we each express and at the same time hide who we are. Some of the time you express who you are, while at other times you detach from your real feelings, deny them, or find outlets that feel socially acceptable.
Deepak Chopra (The Book of Secrets: Unlocking the Hidden Dimensions of Your Life)
TIDY UP YOUR WORKSPACE BEFORE YOU CALL IT A DAY. When you go to an office, you can leave your messy home, well, at home. Not so for remote workers. And this is a problem, because working in a messy space zaps your concentration. Research shows clutter can trigger the release of cortisol (the stress hormone). Messy homes are also linked to increased procrastination. Before you clock out each night, spend five minutes putting things away, organizing your papers, and removing dirty glasses. You’ll appreciate your efforts when you sit down to your desk the next morning.
Aja Frost (Work-from-Home Hacks: 500+ Easy Ways to Get Organized, Stay Productive, and Maintain a Work-Life Balance While Working from Home!)
He couldn’t bear to live, but he couldn’t bear to die. He couldn’t bear the thought of her making love to someone else, but neither could he bear the absence of the thought. And as for the note, he couldn’t bear to keep it, but he couldn’t bear to destroy it either. So he tried to lose it. He left it by the wax-weeping candle holders, placed it between matzos every Passover, dropped it without regard among rumpled papers on his cluttered desk, hoping it wouldn’t be there when he returned. But it was always there. He tried to massage it out of his pocket while sitting on the bench in front of the fountain of the prostrate mermaid, but when he inserted his hand for his hanky, it was there. He hid it like a bookmark in one of the novels he most hated, but the note would appear several days later between the pages of one of the Western books that he alone in the shtetl read, one of the books that the note had now spoiled for him forever. But like his life, he couldn’t for the life of him lose the note. It kept returning to him. It stayed with him, like a part of him, like a birthmark, like a limb, it was on him, in him, him, his hymn: I had to do it for myself.
Jonathan Safran Foer (Everything is Illuminated)
Erika was a stout sprinter from Brooklyn who complained about Los Angeles endlessly, the smoggy air, the traffic, the lack of trains. Her grievances only made Jude realize how grateful she felt. Gratitude only emphasized the depth of your lack, so she tried to hide it. On move-in day, Erika had glanced at Jude’s two suitcases and asked, “Where’s the rest of your stuff?” Her own desk was cluttered with records, photographs of friends taped to the walls, her closet stuffed with shimmery blouses. Jude, quietly unpacking everything she owned, said that her other things were still in storage.
Brit Bennett (The Vanishing Half)
Now’s the time to get rid of your first batch of malignant clutter. If you simply must have a reminder that this stuff was part of your life, take a picture of it, then tuck away the physical photo in a desk or stick the digital version deep into the belly of your computer. It’s time to give this clutter to the world outside your home.
Peter Walsh (Lose the Clutter, Lose the Weight: The Six-Week Total-Life Slim Down)
Well, happy birthday anyway.” “Wow--that’s right, I forgot! I’m seventeen!” Harry seized the wand lying beside his camp bed, pointed it at the cluttered desk where he had left his glasses, and said, “Accio Glasses!” Although they were only around a foot away, there was something immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom toward him, at least until they poked him in the eye. “Slick,” snorted Ron. Reveling in the removal of his Trace, Harry sent Ron’s possessions flying around the room, causing Pigwidgeon to wake up and flutter excitedly around his cage. Harry also tried tying the laces of his trainers by magic (the resultant knot took several minutes to untie by hand) and, purely for the pleasure of it, turned the orange robes on Ron’s Chudley Cannons posters bright blue. “I’d do your fly by hand, though,” Ron advised Harry, sniggering when Harry immediately checked it. “Here’s your present. Unwrap it up here, it’s not for my mother’s eyes.” “A book?” said Harry as he took the rectangular parcel. “Bit of a departure from tradition, isn’t it?” “This isn’t your average book,” said Ron. “It’s pure gold: Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. Explains everything you need to know about girls. If only I’d had this last year I’d have known exactly how to get rid of Lavender and I would’ve known how to get going with…Well, Fred and George gave me a copy, and I’ve learned a lot. You’d be surprised, it’s not all about wandwork, either.
J.K. Rowling (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Harry Potter, #7))
[...] He also used his medical practice as a source of experimental data, but was not above using himself as a test subject. There is something so wonderful - and more than a little ironic - in this image of Snow the teetotaler, arguably the finest medical mind of his generation, performing his research. He sits alone in his cluttered flat, frogs croaking around him, illuminated only by candlelight. After a few minutes tinkering with his latest experimental inhaler, he fastens the mouthpiece over his face and releases the gas. Within seconds, his head hits the desk. Then, minutes later, he wakes, consults his watch through blurred vision. He reaches for his pen, and starts recording the data.
Steven Johnson (The Ghost Map: The Story of London's Most Terrifying Epidemic—and How It Changed Science, Cities, and the Modern World)
Can you tell me which is yours?" Standing at Bird's side, the nurse spoke as if she were addressing the father of the hospital's healthiest and most beautiful baby. But she wasn't smiling, she didn't even seem sympathetic; Bird decided this must be the standard intensive care ward quiz. Not only the nurse who had asked the question but two young nurses who were rinsing baby bottles beneath a huge water heater on the far wall, and the older nurse measuring powdered milk next to them, and the doctor studying file cards at a cramped desk against the smudgy poster-cluttered wall, and the doctor on this side of him, conversing with a stubby little man who seemed, like Bird, to be the father of one of the seeds of calamity gathered here—everybody in the room stopped what he was doing and turned in expectant silence to look at Bird.
Kenzaburō Ōe (A Personal Matter)
Modern society is incredibly complex, complex even beyond human comprehension, if we grant its premises—property, "production for the sake of production," competition, capital accumulation, exploitation, finance, centralization, coercion, bureaucracy and the domination of man by man. Linked to every one of these premises are the institutions that actualize it—offices, millions of "personnel," forms, immense tons of paper, desks, typewriters, telephones, and, of course, rows upon rows of filing cabinets. As in Kafka's novels, these things are real but strangely dreamlike, indefinable shadows on the social landscape. The economy has a greater reality to it and is easily mastered by the mind and senses, but it too is highly intricate—if we grant that buttons must be styled in a thousand different forms, textiles varied endlessly in kind and pattern to create the illusion of innovation and novelty, bathrooms filled to overflowing with a dazzling variety of pharmaceuticals and lotions, and kitchens cluttered with an endless number of imbecile appliances. If we single out of this odious garbage one or two goods of high quality in the more useful categories and if we eliminate the money economy, the state power, the credit system, the paperwork and the policework required to hold society in an enforced state of want, insecurity and domination, society would not only become reasonably human but also fairly simple.
Murray Bookchin (Post-Scarcity Anarchism (Working Classics))
Shall we always study to obtain more of these things, and not sometimes to be content with less? Shall the respectable citizen thus gravely teach, by precept and example, the necessity of the young man’s providing a certain number of superfluous glow-shoes, and umbrellas, and empty guest chambers for empty guests, before he dies? Why should not our furniture be as simple as the Arab’s or the Indian’s? When I think of the benefactors of the race, whom we have apotheosized as messengers from heaven, bearers of divine gifts to man, I do not see in my mind any retinue at their heels, any carload of fashionable furniture. Or what if I were to allow—would it not be a singular allowance?—that our furniture should be more complex than the Arab’s, in proportion as we are morally and intellectually his superiors! At present our houses are cluttered and defiled with it, and a good housewife would sweep out the greater part into the dust hole, and not leave her morning’s work undone. Morning work! By the blushes of Aurora and the music of Memnon, what should be man’s morning work in this world? I had three pieces of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified to find that they required to be dusted daily, when the furniture of my mind was all undusted still, and threw them out the window in disgust. How, then, could I have a furnished house? I would rather sit in the open air, for no dust gathers on the grass, unless where man has broken ground.
Henry David Thoreau (Walden)
In a small, dark room with no windows, a man hunched over his cluttered workstation. Papers were scattered all over the surface of the desk and he had to dig through them to find the keyboard. He sat down and turned on the monitor. As the display warmed up, a bright green typing arrow faded into view in the bottom corner of the screen. The man scraped his hand across his scraggly beard and typed into the screen on his computer. “How are you doing today?” The display beeped and words formed on the screen as someone responded. “When can I have someone to play with?” The man sighed and typed again. “I’m sorry, but you know why you must be alone right now.” The computer beeped as the reply came across the screen. “I’m doing better.” “I’m sure you are, but I have to be sure you can’t hurt anyone.” “I promise I won’t.” “I believe you. But there are some things I have to do to make sure.
Steve DeWinter (Herobrine Rises: Season One - Episode 0 (Minecraft Adventures #1))
cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind. 
Erin Brady (The Holiday Gig)
Unit’s seventh floor offices revealed little trace of his personality--unless that in itself offered the faintest glimpse. While most of his fellow detectives had family photos, personal announcements, or their children’s artwork posted around their work areas, David’s cubicle revealed only a single photo of Michelle. In it, she smiled broadly in front of a sign for the Olympic National Park’s Hurricane Ridge. He wasn’t a bit superstitious, but he was reluctant to bring even a picture of his family into the office. He also abhorred clutter, which made the papers and file folders strewn around his desk all the more unusual.
Karl Erickson (The Blood Cries Out)
Clear Your Mind   Clearing your mind is the same as clearing your environment. Seeing a lot of stuff cluttered on the floor or disorganized in your cabinets can make you crazy. Your mind becomes confused with a lot of things that you see and this might cause you headaches. Try to organize your things in boxes, clean your room, fix your bed, sweep your floor, open your curtains to let the sunshine in and arrange things according to size or color. If you work on your desk, this is the best time to organize documents into folders, arrange them properly in drawers and throw out those that are not needed anymore. Making a habit of cleaning your environment can clear your mind and can make your life easier.
Kerry Elise (The Best of Dr. Oz: Medical Secrets)
Harry seized the wand lying beside his camp bed, pointed it at the cluttered desk where he had left his glasses, and said, "Accio Glasses!" Although they were only around a foot away, there was something immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom toward him, at least until they poked him in the eye. "Slick," snorted Ron.
J.K. Rowling
Okay, listen up! Clear your desk...NOW! Despite what some people believe, a cluttered desk does not indicate genius. Au contraire! It signals confusion and creates stress. Even mini-clutter will grow and eventually fill every inch. Keep your desk clear of everything except your project du jour and your family picture.   22
David Cottrell (175 Ways to Get More Done In Less Time)
Our external environments mirror our internal lives. If your desk is cluttered, don’t be surprised if you find it hard to focus. If your closet and garage are piled with stuff you don’t use, don’t be shocked when you are easily distracted. If things are lying around your living and working space that don’t serve a clear purpose, don’t be amazed that you aren’t very calm and centered.
Rob Bell (How to Be Here: A Guide to Creating a Life Worth Living)
By keeping your desk messy, for example, you tell yourself you can’t pay your bills because you have no space to do so. But by avoiding the bills, you’re also making sure your bank account doesn’t grow
Kerri L. Richardson (What Your Clutter Is Trying to Tell You: Uncover the Message in the Mess and Reclaim Your Life)
If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?
Graham Moore (The Last Days of Night)
She stepped back into the house. “I want to show you something.” Trying to get his legs back, his head wobbly, and his internal referee still giving him the eight count, Myron followed her silently up the stairway. She led him down a darkened corridor lined with modern lithographs. She stopped, opened a door, and flipped on the lights. The room was teenage-cluttered, as if someone had put all the belongings in the center of the room and dropped a hand grenade on them. The posters on the walls—Michael Jordan, Keith Van Horn, Greg Downing, Austin Powers, the words YEAH, BABY! across his middle in pink tie-dye lettering—had been hung askew, all tattered corners and missing pushpins. There was a Nerf basketball hoop on the closet door. There was a computer on the desk and a baseball cap dangling from a desk lamp. The corkboard had a mix of family snapshots and construction-paper crayons signed by Jeremy’s sister, all held up by oversized pushpins. There were footballs and autographed baseballs and cheap trophies and a couple of blue ribbons and three basketballs, one with no air in it. There were stacks of computer-game CD-ROMs and a Game Boy on the unmade bed and a surprising amount of books, several opened and facedown. Clothes littered the floor like war wounded; the drawers were half open, shirts and underwear hanging out like they’d been shot mid-escape. The room had the slight, oddly comforting smell of kids’ socks.
Harlan Coben (Darkest Fear (Myron Bolitar, #7))
[Henry Ford] I have a row of electric push-buttons on my desk, and by pushing the right button, I can summon to my aid people who can answer any question I desire to ask concerning the business to which I am devoting most of my efforts. Now, will you kindly tell me why I should clutter up my mind with general knowledge, for the purposes of being able to answer questions, when I have people around me who can supply any knowledge I require? p81
Napoleon Hil (Think and Grow Rich)
...while Colbert wrote in the back seat of the Comedy Central Car, Media spun out of control. Back when Colbert was working Second City weird comedians had little competition. TV news seemed sane, its anchors staid, and the greying men behind the desk considered themselves journalists, not entertainers. In those final pre-Web years, newspapers were mostly reliable, free of the cluttered competition of websites, tweets and blogs. But a decade later with 24-7 cable spreading, and every poll and pundit saying whatever it took to get attention, the comic could scarcely be more outrageous than the media circus. As the age of Fox News and the Drudge Report dawned, opinion replaced fact, rumor was treated as truth, and no conspiracy, however trivial or trumped up, went unnoticed.
Bruce Watson (Stephen Colbert: Beyond Truthiness)
The room where he receives visitors is dimly lit, its walls clad in linen that have grown sooty and grimy the past decades. What was intended to create a serious and solemn impression has been lost amidst the clutter. Books and ledgers are stacked next to inkwells and clay pipes. Lysander receives her seated behind his desk while she stands on the floor in front of him.
Niklas Natt och Dag (The Wolf and the Watchman)
I reached a point in my own life where I had enough. There was so much stuff around me that I just wanted to scream. I started to get really distressed when looking around my home at all the unnecessary things laying around. At first I took to “tidying up”, putting things away in neat little plastic boxes and lining these boxes up in perfect rows in my closets, desk and other storage areas. This didn’t do it for me, because the clutter would always return and I felt like I wasn’t getting to the root of the issue. I realized that my issue wasn’t just wasn’t the disorganization, but it was the matter of why I had all this stuff to begin with. In my mind, throwing stuff away became less wasteful than having acquired it in the first place. It was almost like this stuff I had acquired was a crutch. The expensive stuff I had was a way to tell myself that I am successful. The activity items, like cookbooks and sports equipment, was a way of pretending that I am consistently an active and dynamic person. The redundant items, like extra jackets and clothing, kitchen supplies, and books were a security blanket guarding against an unknown future (i.e. “you never know”). I suspect that the sentimental items from my past were also a way of holding on to what I know and a fear of moving forward.
Samuel J. Strauss (The 30-Day Clutter Challenge: Guide To Reducing Anxiety and Letting Go Of What's Holding You Back)
It’s almost impossible to reconcile creativity with cleanliness. The sculptor gets metal dust all over his studio. The writer must wade through a clutter of notes, books, and crumpled drafts to get to her desk. The rock musician must weave through a tangle of cables, black boxes, guitar stands, and song notes to sit down and create.
Marty Neumeier (The 46 Rules of Genius: An Innovator's Guide to Creativity (Voices That Matter))
If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what then, is an empty desk a sign?
Peter O'Mahoney (Stolen Power (Jack Valentine #2))
Prime Minister Adolphus sat at a broad desk at the far end, surrounded by a cluttered nest of bookcases and cheap metal filing cabinets.
Peter F. Hamilton (A Night Without Stars)
a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?” (Albert Einstein) would be copied as “Ifacluttrddskisasignofacluttrdmind,ofwhat,thn,isanmptydskasign?
Woo-Kyoung Ahn (Thinking 101: How to Reason Better to Live Better)
If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?” (Albert Einstein) would be copied as “Ifacluttrddskisasignofacluttrdmind,ofwhat,thn,isanmptydskasign?
Woo-Kyoung Ahn (Thinking 101: How to Reason Better to Live Better)
a cluttered desk is the sign of genius.
Anthony D. Fredericks (From Fizzle to Sizzle)
However, when you don’t follow through with that choice and leave the shirt in the bag, the pens in a desk drawer you never open, and the gallon of olive oil on the floor of your pantry because it’s too big for the shelf, you’re adding to the clutter and noise of your life, not the ease and margin that fixed decisions can offer.
Kendra Adachi (The Lazy Genius Way: Embrace What Matters, Ditch What Doesn't, and Get Stuff Done)
Another scenario is possible, and that is the e-book will succeed and that books will be downloaded from the Internet. But at the same time, it may be the case that the digital network and the terminals that tap into it will become saturated as limits to growth of computer memory and speed of operation are reached at the same time that electronic traffic becomes gridlocked with e-mail and World Wide Web use. If that were to happen, there would likely be pressure to keep older books in print form, and perhaps even continue to issue newer books that way, rather than clutter the Internet with more and more information. Under such a scenario, older books might not be allowed to circulate because so few copies of each title will have survived the great CD digital dispersal, leaving printed editions that will be as rare as manuscript codices are today. In spite of potential problems, the electronic book, which promises to be all books to all people, is seen by some visionaries as central to any scenario of the future. But what if some electromagnetic catastrophe or a mad computer hacker were to destroy the total electronic memory of central libraries? Curious old printed editions of dead books would have to be disinterred from book cemeteries and re-scanned. But in scanning rare works into electronic form, surviving books might have to be used in a library's stacks, the entrance to which might have to be as closely guarded as that to Fort Knox. The continuing evolution of the bookshelf would have to involve the wiring of bookstacks for computer terminal use. Since volumes might be electronically chained to their section in the stacks, it is also likely that libraries would have to install desks on the front of all cases so that portable computers and portable scanners could be used to transcribe books within a telephone wire's or computer cable's reach of where they were permanently kept. The aisles in a bookstack would most likely have to be altered also to provide seating before the desks, and in time at least some of the infrastructure associated with the information superhighway might begin again to resemble that of a medieval library located in the tower of a monastery at the top of a narrow mountain road.
Petroski, Henry
He took memory sticks and an external drive from his desk, and cables from the mess on the floor. Pike loaded his gear into the backpack, and we made our way toward the garage. Pike stopped when we reached the living room. “The fish.” The aquarium stood on its stand, bubbling. I said, “What about them?” Tyson said, “We gotta feed them.” We waited while Pike fed the fish, then followed him into the garage. The walls were lined with gray metal shelving units. The shelves were crowded with different-sized boxes and the clutter that accumulates as time passes, and more boxes were stacked on the floor in front of the shelves. Handwriting identified their contents: Christmas/ornaments, Christmas/lights, Tyson—baby clothes, Mom’s lamp. Pike pointed out a small black box clipped to the outside of the garage door’s track, up high by the ceiling and difficult to see. “Transmitter.
Robert Crais (The Wanted (Elvis Cole, #17; Joe Pike, #6))