Councilman Quotes

I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn't particularly want money. I didn't know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn't have to do anything. The thought of being something didn't only appall me, it sickened me. The thought of being a lawyer or a councilman or an engineer, anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have children, to get trapped in the family structure. To go someplace to work every day and to return. It was impossible. To do things, simple things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother's Day . . . was a man born just to endure those things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep.

I didn’t particularly want money. I didn’t know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn’t have to do anything. The thought of being something didn’t only appall me, it sickened me. The thought of being a lawyer or a councilman or an engineer, anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have children, to get trapped in the family structure. To go someplace to work every day and to return. It was impossible. To do things, simple things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother’s Day … was a man born just to endure those things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep.

The thought of being something didn't only appall me, it sickened me. The thought of being a lawyer or a councilman or an engineer, anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have children, to get trapped in the family structure. To go someplace to work every day and to return. It was impossible. To do things, simple things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother's Day. . . was a man born just to endure those things and then die?

Disease may be defined as 'A change produced in living things in consequence of which they are no longer in harmony with their environment.

Of all the people who came before us, Magda, you were the only one who represented truth. I want you to know that. - Councilman Sadler

Don't give up the calling, Magda. Know yourself. Know what you are. Though few would admit it, even those on the council, I truly believe we all need you. - Councilman Sadler

The councilman staggered to one side, his sword clanging on the stones as he clutched at the gushing wound in his neck.

The councilman’s daughter for the Alpha’s mate.

A model of probity, a steady hand to reassure the grieving, a sober man—a grave man—solid as the pillar of a tomb. A good dose of gangster to the hat to let you know the councilman played his politics old-school, with a shovel in the dark of the moon. Plus that touch of Tombstone, of Gothic western undertaker, like maybe sometimes when the moon was full and Flowers & Sons stood empty and dark but for the vigil lights, Chan Flowers might up and straddle a coffin, ride it like a bronco.

Steve listened to the councilman's sermon in a state of hypnosis and again he felt the strange magnetism that the man exuded. Mathers was like a preacher of hellfire and brimstone who called down terror from the pulpit, and it had its effect: Steve realized he was afraid, just senselessly afraid.

Nehemia chewed on the words and then looked to Celaena, brows high—as if she’d expected a translation by now. A smile tugged on the corners of Celaena’s lips. No wonder the councilman was sweating so profusely. Nehemia was a force to be reckoned with. Celaena translated Chaol’s question with ease.

I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn't particularly want money. I didn't know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn't have to do anything. The thought of being something didn't only appall me, it sickened me. The thought of being a lawyer or a councilman or an engineer, anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have children, to get trapped in the family structure. To go someplace to work every day and to return. It was impossible. To do things, simple things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor, Mother's Day . . . was a man born just to endure those things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep. My father had a master plan. He told me, "My son, each man during his lifetime should buy a house. Finally he dies and leaves that house to his son. Then his son gets his own house and dies, leaves both houses to his son. That's two houses. That son gets his own house, that's three houses . . ." The family structure. Victory over adversity through the family. He believed in it. Take the family, mix with God and Country, add the ten-hour day and you had what was needed. I looked at my father, at his hands, his face, his eyebrows, and I knew that this man had nothing to do with me. He was a stranger. My mother was non-existent. I was cursed. Looking at my father I saw nothing but indecent dullness. Worse, he was even more afraid to fail than most others. Centuries of peasant blood and peasant training. The Chinaski bloodline had been thinned by a series of peasant-servants who had surrendered their real lives for fractional and illusionary gains. Not a man in line who said, "I don't want a house, I want a thousand houses, now!" He had sent me to that rich high school hoping that the ruler's attitude would rub off on me as I watched the rich boys screech up in their cream-colored coupes and pick up the girls in bright dresses. Instead I learned that the poor usually stay poor. That the young rich smell the stink of the poor and learn to find it a bit amusing. They had to laugh, otherwise it would be too terrifying. They'd learned that, through the centuries. I would never forgive the girls for getting into those cream-colored coupes with the laughing boys. They couldn't help it, of course, yet you always think, maybe . . . But no, there weren't any maybes. Wealth meant victory and victory was the only reality. What woman chooses to live with a dishwasher?

Of all the people who came before us, Magda, you were the only one who always represented truth. I want you to know that. - Councilman Sadler

As Councilman Ron Rice Jr. had said in 2010, soon after the Zuckerberg gift was announced, Newark suffered from “extreme xenophobia,” particularly toward white outsiders who sought to change the city’s direction.

You really think you can get away with punishing a detective who was shot by a deputy and two days later, despite her wounds and her place getting firebombed, caught the killer of a city councilman? She has your balls in a vise and knows it.

I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn’t particularly want money. I didn’t know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn’t have to do anything. The thought of being something didn’t only appall me, it sickened me. The thought of being a lawyer or a councilman or an engineer, anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have children, to get trapped in the family structure. To go someplace to work every day and to return. It was impossible. To do things, simple things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother’s Day … was a man born just to endure those things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep.

the initial ID is George Thomas Irving. Age forty-six of eight—” “Irving as in Irvin Irving? As in Councilman Irvin Irving?” “Scourge of the LAPD in general and one Detective Harry Bosch in particular.

Special Operations, had sent two judges and a city councilman to the state penitentiary for some rather imaginative income augmentation.

The assassin stepped in then, his left hand moving in a high swing that buried its blade in the councilman’s neck.

It smells odd,” Fermín remarked. “Like a rancid fart, from a councilman or a lawyer.

Araceli could see the Special Friend and Councilman Luján were standing on opposite sides of Mexican history, even as they stood in the United States.

But fighting a wither? Just for a beacon? That’s too risky,” said Councilman Douglas.

North, the Councilman and the reason for my GPS chip, sits there in his perfectly tailored suit. He's the only one who's trying to mask the loathing a little. He's failing at hiding it but I appreciate the effort, I guess.

I get tugged out of his arms gently, even though he doesn’t want to let me go, and Gryphon snarks at him, “Stop hogging her, you possessive shit. You have people to speak to and important councilman shit to do.

People think the really bad ones are something special, but they’re not,” her mother said, sitting on the edge of her bed, next to the table crowded with meds. “Psycho killers and rapists, they never ruin as many lives as a man like Corbell does. His daddy was a town councilman. Stuck-up boy, Corbell, selfish, but no more than lots that age. Thirty-some years on, he’s ruined more people than he can be bothered to remember, or even know.

I’m afraid so.” “He tried to kill a seventeen-year-old girl. A defenseless girl. In a police station. What is more brazen and out of control than that? How could a judge allow it?” Noah sighed. “You know how these things work, Josie. He’s a city councilman. A fine, upstanding citizen with no prior history of violence or a criminal record. Not so much as a parking ticket.” His words dripped with sarcasm, and she knew he was quoting Pierce Fuller’s attorney. “He’s a devoted husband with deep ties to the community. Not a flight risk at all. The judge gave him bail and his wife posted it.” Josie stood up and smoothed down her polo shirt and jeans from the night before. Powder and what looked like oatmeal from the Mills’ kitchen still clung to her pantlegs. “Unbelievable. Not even an ankle bracelet to ensure he doesn’t come near Alison again?” “I’m afraid not.” Josie thought about how this would make Alison feel—knowing this man was still out there, free, after he had walked into a police station and tried to kill her.

Hoffa said, “Fucking Jesus turned fish into bread, and that’s about the only thing I haven’t tried. I’ve spent six hundred grand on the primaries and bought every fucking cop and alderman and councilman and mayor and fucking grand juror and senator and judge and DA and fucking prosecutorial investigator who’d let me. I’m like Jesus trying to part the Red Fucking Sea and not getting no further than some motel on the beach.

If you took a poll, few people in town could tell you who the mayor was, or the police chief, or the city manager. Hardly anybody could tell you the name of a city councilman, or a county commissioner, or the head of the public works department, or the planning department, or the fire department. Those were jobs nobody cared about in Odessa unless a house burned down or a sewer line backed up. But just about everybody could tell you who the coach of Permian High School was, and that rubbed off on her.

ON JULY 1, 2006, Cory Booker officially took office as the new mayor of Newark. He’d gained fame in the late ’90s as a city councilman who would sleep in a tent at city housing projects, hold hunger strikes and live on food stamps, patrol bad neighborhoods himself and physically confront the dealers holding down their corners. His victory was the first regime change in two decades, and it happened only after six years of near-bloody battling between the young, charismatic, light-skinned, Stanford-Yale-Oxford-educated upstart and the old, grizzled, but equally charismatic incumbent. The tension between Cory Booker and Sharpe James had been national news for most of the ’00s. The 2002 election, which Booker lost, was documented in the Oscar-nominated Streetfight, which between talking head interviews showed intense footage of the predominantly poor, black constituents who ardently supported James’s altercating with the working-class whites and Puerto Ricans who fought for Booker and his eloquent calls for public service and revitalization. The documentary was a near-perfect picture of a specific place and time: the declining city at risk of being left behind, the shoulder-height view of the vast number of problems in play, and the presentation of two equal and opposing paths forward whose backers were split almost definitively along socioeconomic lines. The 2002 election had been beyond combative; a riot nearly broke out when Booker showed up at a street basketball tournament that Sharpe James was already attending, and James called Booker “a Republican who took money from the KKK and the Taliban . . . who’s collaborating with the Jews to take over Newark.” When James—who was constantly being investigated for various alleged corruptions—won the election by a margin of 53 percent to 47 percent, his victory seemed to cement Newark’s representation of “permanent poverty,” a culture of violence and corruption (at least if you subscribed to the New York Times).

In 1878, the Christian Social Party, which combined antisemitism with critiques of secularism and free-market capitalism, had been founded in Germany. In the 1880s, the Christian Social movement spread to Austria, and the Austrian Christian Social Party was founded in 1891. The sparkplugs of Viennese Christian Socialism were the journalist Karl von Vogelsang and the charismatic city councilman Karl Lueger, who brazenly and repeatedly accused the Jews of dominating banking and the press, and who had nothing but contempt for the complacent

Ghosts can be really out of line sometimes. It's one thing to come back for true love and cause a little hubbub. Or some unresolved revenge bullshit, fine. You're wrong, blah blah blah, but I get it. At least you have a good reason. But every now and then you get these real entitled-acting blowhards wanna come back and raise a roof just because--perfect example: because they like a house. Ugh. Can't even roll my eyes far enough back into my flesh-and-blood head to express how out of line that shit is. So you like a house. Fucking stay your dead ass downstairs and paint a picture of it. No one wants your house-loving ass wandering around pestering some city councilman, even if he does deserve it.

Councilman Rohan,