Cursor Quotes

I hadn't said goodbye. It had been easier, like always, to just disappear, sparing myself the messy details of another farewell. Now, my fingers hovered over my track pad, moving the cursor down to his comment section before I stopped myself. What was the point? Anything I said now would only be an afterthought. Elizabeth who goes by her middle name

Men plan. Fate Laughs.

Like a blinking cursor on an empty page, it was just the first thing. The beginning of the beginning. But at least it was done.

This is what it look like when it WORKS?

The mobile phone acts as a cursor to connect the digital and physical.

Got to die of something," Giraldi observed. "Might as well put back a few pints while you wait to see what it is.

Like a blinking cursor on an empty page, it was just the first thing. The beginning of the beginning. But at least it was done.” “It was kind of soothing, these sounds of lives being lived all around me, for better or for worse. And there I was, in the middle of them all, newly reborn and still waiting for mine to begin.

You beg fate to make your fears into reality, Aleran. But for the moment, they are only fears. They may come. If so, then face them and overcome them. Until then, pay them no mind. You have enough to think on.

Give it to 'em!" Take 'em down!" First Aleran!" Kick their furry--" Assault formation!

I'm just some fingers resting lightly on a cursor as it slides magically around a kind of Ouija board.

The cursor changed to the spinning wheel of sadness.

Know your enemy. Know yourself. Only then may you achieve victory.

It isn't about being fair and equal. It's about the difference between right and wrong." He stared out at the bloody Elinarch. "And this was wrong.

Unfortunately, many people suffer from BPS - Blank Page Syndrome. Let's face it: starting to write is scary. Seeing the cursor blinking at you on that bright white screen, realizing that you now have to come up with three or ten or twenty pages of text all on your own - it's enough to give anyone a major case of writer's block!

Depression is like … it’s like when you meticulously scroll up through hundreds of pages in a Word document to find a specific paragraph you need to fix, and then you try to type but it automatically takes you right back down to the bottom because you forgot to place your cursor where you wanted to type. And then you bang your head against the desk because you just totally lost your place and then your boss walks in while you have your head planted on your desk and you see her shoes behind you so you immediately say, “I’m not sleeping. I was just banging my head against the desk because I fucked something up.

Wars and plans can’t coexist, sir. One of them kills the other.

I vividly remember going to Google Docs, opening a document at the same time other students were working on it, and seeing their differently colored cursors moving around the screen, typing new words and making edits in real time. It was an epiphany.

Check out the comments underneath,” Augie says. I move the cursor down. “There are over fifty thousand of them.” “Just click ‘Top Comments’ and read a few.” I do as he asks. And as always when reading a comments section, my faith in humanity plummets:

Să încerci să dormi e o înfrîngere, şi nu una curată – eşti ţinut ca în portocala mecanică cu pleoapele răsfrînte ca să te holbezi la o stivă de eşecuri nenorocite, între care se află greşelile altora şi ale tale, decese şi copii legalizate, lama rece pe care te deplasezi ca un cursor de plastic, amintirile scîrbite ele de tine cum eşti tu de ele, şi nu în ultimul rînd replicile usturătoare pe care nu le-ai găsit. Plus acele lucruri mai grele. Dacă o cană cade de pe masă şi se face ţăndări, nu ţi-ar trece prin cap să încerci să mai bei din ea. În schimb, nimic nu te poate face să încetezi să mai aparţii unei iubiri care s-a terminat. Nimic nu poate fi suficient de dur pentru tine încît să renunţi, încît să te potoleşti, nici evidenţa nepăsării celuilalt, sau a trădării lui, nici evidenţa neputinţei tale sau chiar a propriei tale trădări. Nu te gîndeşti decît la cum să bei din nou din cana care s-a făcut ţăndări.

It’s easy to see what choices one should have made after it is too late to go back.

It must be tempered with discipline. Ferocity is useless unless employed in the proper place . . .

Writing is wonderful. But it's hard work, so don't romanticize too much. Make the blinking cursor do its job.

He [Lucius Papirius Cursor] then gave the order to advance the standards and led out his troops, expostulating on the folly of a people [Tarentum] which was incompetent to manage its own affairs because of internal strife and discord, but yet thought fit to prescribe limits to peace and war for others.

Senator. If you call my friend a liar one more time, I will take it badly." "Excuse me?" Arnos said, his eyebrows rising up. "I suggest you find an alternate shortsighted, egomaniacally ridiculous reason to blatantly, recklessly ignore an obvious threat to the Realm simply because you don't wish it to exist. If you cannot restrain yourself from base slander, I will be pleased to meet you in juris macto and personally rip your forked tongue from your head.

She sits at her dressing table looking at her face in the mirror. Her face lacks definition around the cheeks and jaw. It’s a face like a piece of technology, and her two eyes are cursors blinking. Or it’s reminiscent of the moon reflected in something, wobbly and oblique. It expresses everything all at once, which is the same as expressing nothing.

On some days, writing is wonderful. On the days when it is wonderful, it feels like you are the God of a universe that the rest of the world is not yet privy to. And then on some days, it is not wonderful; those days when nothing is coming and the cursor seems to be openly mocking you, blinking out ‘YOU SUCK AT WRITING AND YOU’RE UGLY AS BALLS’ in Morse code.

It's the same thing that makes all pop music so heartbreaking. Even when Miley Cyrus sings "So I put my hands up, they're playin' my song / The butterflies fly away / I'm noddin' my head like 'Yeah!' / Movin' my hips like 'Yeah!'" in her song "Party in the U.S.A." It's that chirping mirth against a backdrop of despair, that juxtaposition of blithe optimism against all the crushing brutalities and inadequacies of life. The image of an ineffably beautiful butterfly flitting by the shattered windows of a dilapidated, abandoned factory is not so poignant because it highlights the indomitable life force. To the contrary, the butterfly (and the pop song) is like a PowerPoint cursor; it's there to whet our perception of and strengthen our affinity for what's moribund, for what's always dying before our eyes. Loving the moribund is our way of signaling the dead from this shore: "We are your kinsmen...

He’d found her, one rainy night, in an arcade. Under bright ghosts burning through a blue haze of cigarette smoke, holograms of Wizard’s Castle, Tank War Europa, the New York skyline . . . And now he remembered her that way, her face bathed in restless laser light, features reduced to a code: her cheekbones flaring scarlet as Wizard’s Castle burned, forehead drenched with azure when Munich fell to the Tank War, mouth touched with hot gold as a gliding cursor struck sparks from the wall of a skyscraper canyon.

You can tell a great deal about a person by looking at the people who share his life.” Isana

The spiteful blink of my cursor: how it mocks. The rude temperature of a crisp day: how it bullies.

As soon as I’m finished typing the email, I move the cursor to send, but before I click it, my laptop slams shut—right on top of my hands. What the fuck?

His were always lighthearted notes from the places they'd visited, scrawled in the limited space on the back of the cards, whereas hers tended to be longer and slightly rambling, unrestricted by the confines of paper. But sitting there with the cursor blinking at him, he wasn't sure what to say. There was something too immediate about an e-mail, the idea that she might get it in mere moments, that just one click of the mouse would make it appear on her screen in an instant, like magic. He realized how much he preferred the safety of a letter, the physicality of it, the distance it had to cross on its way from here to there, which felt honest and somehow more real.

After the rush and the thrill of a new book, the terror of the reviews, you wind up back in exactly the same place you were before the first time you were ever published. The blank page and blinking cursor. Where am I going next?

People often say "God gave you two ears but only one mouth because He wants you to listen twice as much as you talk." Using that same argument, God gave me 104 keys on my keyboard, but only one mouse cursor. I guess He wants me to write more than I surf.

Her face lacks definition around the cheeks and jaw. It’s a face like a piece of technology, and her two eyes are cursors blinking. Or it’s reminiscent of the moon reflected in something, wobbly and oblique. It expresses everything all at once, which is the same as expressing nothing.

The constant calls of the screens, some accompanied by the impatient pulsing of a cursor, suggest with what ease our seemingly entrenched lives might be altered were we simply to walk down a corridor and onto a craft that in a few hours would land us in a place of which we had no memories and where no one knew our name.

I will not live in a realm where calculations of power supersede justice and law - regardless of how inconvenient that may be to the Crown.

That’s how belief works. The worse the situation is, the more a man’s belief can do to sustain him. You’ve given them something to believe in.

He isn’t. But there will always be fools who believe that if a man dislikes violence and goes to great lengths to avoid it, it is a sign of weakness and vulnerability.

Jobs also decided to eliminate the cursor arrow keys on the Macintosh keyboard. The only way to move the cursor was to use the mouse. It was a way of forcing old-fashioned users to adapt to point-and-click navigation, even if they didn’t want to. Unlike other product developers, Jobs did not believe the customer was always right; if they wanted to resist using a mouse, they were wrong.

Pana la urma ma scufundam totusi in somn, infasurat intr-un cocon de vise scamoase. Ma topeam in vis ca zaharul in apa, alunecam ca un cursor pe cremaliera uitarii. Magistrale ale visului virau brusc in autostrazi ale realitatii, creand constelatii si engrame pe care cineva, de foarte sus, le-ar fi putut citi ca pe un tatuaj multicolor, iar cineva de foarte jos le-ar fi simtit pe propria piele, ca pe tortura sadica a tatuarii." (MIrcea Cartarescu - Orbitor, Aripa stanga)

She sits at her dressing table looking at her face in the mirror. Her face lacks definition around the cheeks and jaw. It's a face like a piece of technology, and her two eyes are cursors blinking. Or it's reminiscent of the moon reflected in something, wobbly and oblique. It expresses everything all at once, which is the same as expressing nothing. To wear makeup for this occasion would be, she concludes, embarrassing. Without breaking eye contact with herself, she dips her finger in an open pot of clear lip balm and applies it.

0.1 second: This is the limit for perception of cause-and-effect between events. If software waits longer than 0.1 second to show a response to your action, cause-and-effect is broken: the software’s reaction will not seem to be a result of your action. Therefore, on-screen buttons have 0.1 second to show they’ve been clicked; otherwise users will click again. If an object the user is “dragging” lags more than 0.1 second behind the cursor, users will have trouble placing it. This 0.1-second deadline is what HCI researcher Stuart Card calls the perceptual “moment.” It is also close to the limit for perception of smooth animation: 0.063 second/frame (16 frames/second)

looking for people to design the graphical interface for Apple’s new operating system, Jobs got an email from a young man and invited him in. The applicant was nervous, and the meeting did not go well. Later that day Jobs bumped into him, dejected, sitting in the lobby. The guy asked if he could just show him one of his ideas, so Jobs looked over his shoulder and saw a little demo, using Adobe Director, of a way to fit more icons in the dock at the bottom of a screen. When the guy moved the cursor over the icons crammed into the dock, the cursor mimicked a magnifying glass and made each icon balloon bigger. “I said, ‘My God,’ and hired him on the spot,” Jobs recalled. The feature became a lovable part of Mac OSX, and the designer went on to design such things as inertial scrolling for multi-touch screens (the delightful feature that makes the screen keep gliding for a moment after you’ve finished swiping). Jobs’s experiences at NeXT had matured him, but they had not mellowed him much. He still had no license plate on his Mercedes, and he still parked in the handicapped spaces next to the front door, sometimes straddling two slots. It became a running

If it was a video-file that I was trying to watch, then at the bottom of the screen there’d be that line, that bar that slowly fills itself in—twice: once in bold red and, at the same time, running ahead of that, in fainter grey; the fainter section, of course, has to remain in advance of the bold section, and of the cursor showing which part of the video you’re actually watching at a given moment; if the cursor and red section catch up, then buffering sets in again. Staring at this bar, losing myself in it just as with the circle, I was granted a small revelation: it dawned on me that what I was actually watching was nothing less than the skeleton, laid bare, of time or memory itself. Not our computers’ time and memory, but our own. This was its structure. We require experience to stay ahead, if only by a nose, of our consciousness of experience—if for no other reason than that the latter needs to make sense of the former, to (as Peyman would say) narrate it both to others and ourselves, and, for this purpose, has to be fed with a constant, unsorted supply of fresh sensations and events. But when the narrating cursor catches right up with the rendering one, when occurrences and situations don’t replenish themselves quickly enough for the awareness they sustain, when, no matter how fast they regenerate, they’re instantly devoured by a mouth too voracious to let anything gather or accrue unconsumed before it, then we find ourselves jammed, stuck in limbo: we can enjoy neither experience nor consciousness of it. Everything becomes buffering, and buffering becomes everything. The revelation pleased me. I decided I would start a dossier on buffering.

By the authority of God Almighty, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and of the holy canons, and of the undefiled Virgin Mary, mother and patroness of our Saviour, and of all the celestial virtues, angels, archangels, thrones, dominions, powers, cherubins and seraphins, and of all the holy patriarchs, prophets, and of all the apostles and evangelists, and of the holy innocents, who in the sight of the Holy Lamb, are found worthy to sing the new song of the holy martyrs and holy confessors, and of the holy virgins, and of all the saints together, with the holy and elect of God, may he be damn'd. We excommunicate, and anathematize him, and from the thresholds of the holy church of God Almighty we sequester him, that he may be tormented, disposed, and delivered over with Dathan and Abiram, and with those who say unto the Lord God, Depart from us, we desire none of thy ways. And as fire is quenched with water, so let the light of him be put out for evermore, unless it shall repent him' and make satisfaction. Amen. May the Father who created man, curse him. May the Son who suffered for us curse him. May the Holy Ghost, who was given to us in baptism, curse him May the holy cross which Christ, for our salvation triumphing over his enemies, ascended, curse him. May the holy and eternal Virgin Mary, mother of God, curse him. May St. Michael, the advocate of holy souls, curse him. May all the angels and archangels, principalities and powers, and all the heavenly armies, curse him. [Our armies swore terribly in Flanders, cried my uncle Toby,---but nothing to this.---For my own part I could not have a heart to curse my dog so.] May St. John the Pre-cursor, and St. John the Baptist, and St. Peter and St. Paul, and St. Andrew, and all other Christ's apostles, together curse him. And may the rest of his disciples and four evangelists, who by their preaching converted the universal world, and may the holy and wonderful company of martyrs and confessors who by their holy works are found pleasing to God Almighty, curse him. May the holy choir of the holy virgins, who for the honor of Christ have despised the things of the world, damn him May all the saints, who from the beginning of the world to everlasting ages are found to be beloved of God, damn him May the heavens and earth, and all the holy things remaining therein, damn him. May he be damn'd wherever he be---whether in the house or the stables, the garden or the field, or the highway, or in the path, or in the wood, or in the water, or in the church. May he be cursed in living, in dying. May he be cursed in eating and drinking, in being hungry, in being thirsty, in fasting, in sleeping, in slumbering, in walking, in standing, in sitting, in lying, in working, in resting, in pissing, in shitting, and in blood-letting! May he be cursed in all the faculties of his body! May he be cursed inwardly and outwardly! May he be cursed in the hair of his head! May he be cursed in his brains, and in his vertex, in his temples, in his forehead, in his ears, in his eye-brows, in his cheeks, in his jaw-bones, in his nostrils, in his fore-teeth and grinders, in his lips, in his throat, in his shoulders, in his wrists, in his arms, in his hands, in his fingers! May he be damn'd in his mouth, in his breast, in his heart and purtenance, down to the very stomach! May he be cursed in his reins, and in his groin, in his thighs, in his genitals, and in his hips, and in his knees, his legs, and feet, and toe-nails! May he be cursed in all the joints and articulations of the members, from the top of his head to the sole of his foot! May there be no soundness in him! May the son of the living God, with all the glory of his Majesty and may heaven, with all the powers which move therein, rise up against him, curse and damn him, unless he repent and make satisfaction! Amen. I declare, quoth my uncle Toby, my heart would not let me curse the devil himself with so much bitterness!

Most commands can be repeated by prefacing them with a number; for example typing 5j in command mode will move the cursor down 5 lines.

Engaged Time: it distilled how worthy of human attention a given piece of content was. To arrive at the figure, Chartbeat wired its computers to pick up on a sophisticated set of cues from the reader—a jiggle of the mouse, a scroll either up or down, a moment of hovering the cursor

It’s Friday evening and I’m staring at the blinking cursor on my laptop, waiting for the right words to come to me so I can move that fucker across the page and make some progress. But my muse has been on an extended sabbatical and refuses to make an appearance. Again.

Ahí está el detalle, que en el libro electrónico el viento no puede pasar las hojas. A la derecha de la página única o pantallita hay una flechita para que uno con un cursor la vaya bajando, bajando, y al hacerlo va pasando de la página 1 a la 2, de la 2 a la 3, de la 3 a la 4 y así... –¡Ah, pero eso es un retroceso! Es como ir uno desenrollando un rollo de pergamino de los tiempos de Cicerón. Exacto. Es que el hombre avanza retrocediendo. Por eso vamos tan bien. Y al que no le guste, se pega un tiro o se jode. Todo es cuestión de acostumbrarse. Se acostumbra uno a vivir en un planeta atestado, con las calles atestadas, las carreteras atestadas, los hospitales atestados, los aeropuertos atestados, las ferias de libros atestadas, las conferencias atestadas, y siete mil millones de bípedos sabios comiendo y demás, ¡no se va a acostumbrar a pasar las hojas con un cursor!

Behavior, in this view, “is solely the consequence of the past history of the system, that has brought it to a state where various neuronal populations form an excitatory consortium that organizes and ineluctably triggers the correlated synaptic volleys needed for a particular movement,” as the neuroscientist Robert Doty described it. The sense that one is exercising free will when one orders the cheesecake or moves the cursor on the computer screen to another game of hearts rather than to the spreadsheet program with your overdue taxes—is an illusion, an artifact of a prescientific era, says the prevailing paradigm. The idea that we might choose cantaloupe over cheesecake is as illusory as the apparent underwater “bending” of an oar dipped into a river.

The bright LED iMac monitor lit up their faces. Erin asked, “Can you access the account data now?” Allison tapped her finger over the mouse. The cursor clicked a few times before more code was written. “Unfortunately not. But I’ll have everything in place for if the account ever comes back online.

And you know what, every time I overcome the blinking cursor, and write something that is less than brilliant, I make her proud. That is enough.

Hay un tiempo de soledad en la escritura en el que nadie, por más que quiera y por mucho o poco que sepa del oficio, puede ayudar, y así llegamos a ese punto del taller: a esa escritura que puede comenzar -una vez más- con el cursor titilando un largo rato y diciéndonos: "Escribe: ¿no decías que ya todo estaba tan claro?

She considered the file open on her computer, the cursor blinking endlessly as it had the past hour, midway through a paragraph she’d no taste for. She couldn’t remember ever feeling dull about her work. But this was how it was lately: things that had once felt vibrant were draining from her—and, now and then, other sparks had begun appearing in her mind as though thrown up by hammer blows.

Our assumption that we are directly interacting with physical reality closely parallels the way we respond to the image on a computer screen. Moving a computer’s mouse appears to move the cursor around the screen. In reality, the mouse is sending a stream of data to the central processor, which calculates a new position for the cursor and then updates the image on the screen. In early computers there was a noticeable delay between issuing a command and seeing the effects on the screen. Today computers are so fast they can recalculate the image on a screen in a fraction of a second, and there is no visible delay between the movement of the mouse and the cursor on the screen. We experience moving the cursor across the screen. Our experience of daily life is similar. When I kick a stone, my intention to move my foot is communicated to my body, and my foot in the physical world moves to meet the physical stone. But I do not experience the interaction directly. The brain receives the information sent back by the eyes and body and updates my image of reality appropriately.

There is a website called PointerPointer.com that will match a picture of people pointing fingers at your cursor.

It isn’t about being fair and equal. It’s about the difference between right and wrong.” He stared out at the bloody Elinarch.

I considered the option, my cursor blinking at me in anticipation like a ticking clock.

Over the span of the decade since I first turned my attention to precognitive dreaming, it has gone from being a perplexity I didn’t quite believe in to a fascinating intellectual exploration to (now) something a little bit like a personal religion. The original meaning of religion is re-linking—that is, linking back to some spiritual source from which we feel ourselves sundered. In Sanskrit, yoga has the same root: to yoke, as one yokes a cart to the cow pulling it. What precognitive dreamwork yokes me to, repeatedly and with always unexpected force, is my own biography, my life as a single, more-unified-than-I-ever-knew landscape. It has led me to believe that biography, not psychology, should be the operative term in the humanistic science—or scientifically informed humanism—of the twenty-first century. To characterize our inner self as a psyche is to slightly miss what is really happening, the nature of this thing, this source in us. This source “in” us is really the completeness of us, our wholeness . . . which means our whole story, from birth to death, as it is refracted through that moment-to-moment cursor consciousness. Bringing to light the hidden ways our biography—including our future biography—shapes the landscape of our lives now, and the way our lives now shaped our past, even perhaps our childhoods, is a truly sublime and awesome project of conscious, and conscientious, self-care. It is indeed a path of gnosis. And like any other gnosis, there’s an ecstatic component to it. Every precognitive dream hit is a bit like a hit from a kind of psychedelic drug, an exhilarating, vertiginous, spiritual and life affirmation. It’s like zooming in on a fractal, where the fractal is your life. Every day can bring new discoveries about the precognitive significance of a perplexing symbol in an old dream, if not the full-on closure of a time loop that began a day, a year, or even decades in your past. It’s always something unexpected, but it will be something that adds to the wonder and strangeness of your existence. The trick—and what precognitive dreamwork teaches—is focusing on and learning to be amazed by the haphazard, trivial details of your life that most people overlook,

green glow of his computer to reclaim his bedroom, to redefine the heaps of clutter around him. He swiveled back to the blinking cursor on his TRS-80. With burning, sleep-deprived eyes, he scanned the lines of commands and responses that had delivered him to his present point, the same lines he had been staring at since late the night before. The modem clicked and hummed.

Tab – It shows the completion possibilities for commands or filenames. Ctrl + A – This moves the cursor to the start of the current command line. Ctrl + C – This ends an active computer program and shows the prompt. Ctrl + D – This will log you out of the current session. This key combination is similar to typing logout or exit. Ctrl + E – It moves the cursor to the end of the current command line. Ctrl + H – This is similar to pressing the backspace key on your keyboard. Ctrl + L – This clears the current terminal. Ctrl + R – This searches the command history. Ctrl + Z – This allows you to suspend computer programs.

Copying text in this way is rather cumbersome. There is a way to speed it up. If you right-click on Command Prompt’s title bar and click on Properties, this will take you to the Properties dialog box. Most of the Properties dialog box’s tabs let you control the shape, color, and font size of the Command Prompt. But under the options tab, there is a check box labeled “Insert Mode.” If you check that, it will be as if the Mark option is turned on in Command Prompt all the time – you can highlight text simply by left-clicking and dragging the mouse cursor over it, rather than going to the menu, selecting Edit, and then clicking on Mark every time you want to copy some text. 

Bosun!” “Aye, skipper?” “Reinforce the mainmast, hang out all the laundry, and warn the witchmen! Let’s make the old bitch fly!

His unfinished project stared back at Nick from the computer screen, the cursor accusing him with every blink.

Cut or copy the selected text: On the popup menu, tap Cut to copy and remove the text, or tap Copy to simply copy the text. The copied text will go into the Clipboard. Paste and insert text: Tap the position in the text where you want to paste the contents of the Clipboard. A marker will appear below the text field, and you can drag this marker to adjust the position of the blinking cursor if necessary. Next, tap the marker and then tap Paste on the menu that appears. The text from the Clipboard will be inserted at the position of the cursor. Paste and replace text: First select the block of text you want to replace, as explained above. Then, tap Paste on the popup menu. The contents of the Clipboard will replace the selected text. Delete a block of text: Select the text you want to delete, as explained above. Then press the Backspace key (). Note that the Clipboard works across all built-in Kindle Fire software as well as installed apps. So for example, if you copied a web address (a URL) from a web page, you could later paste it into the Search/Address field in the browser, eliminating the need to manually type the web address, a slow and error-prone process. (The browser

Between them an image is projected: a single, winking cursor. It wants a code. It wants the code.

Your assignment is a pre-cursor to someone else’s assignment. In the same breath, someone else’s assignment is a pre-cursor to yours.

IBM launched its Chess machine, renamed simply the Personal Computer, in August 1981, a scant four months after the Star. Judged against the technology PARC had brought forth, it was a homely and feeble creature. Rather than bitmapped graphics and variable typefaces, its screen displayed only ASCII characters, glowing a hideous monochromatic green against a black background. Instead of a mouse, the PC had four arrow keys on the keyboard that laboriously moved the cursor, character by character and line by line. No icons, no desktop metaphor, no multitasking windows, no e-mail, no Ethernet. Forswearing the Star’s intuitive point-and-click operability, IBM forced its customers to master an abstruse lexicon of typed commands and cryptic responses developed by Microsoft, its software partner. Where the Star was a masterpiece of integrated reliability, the PC had a perverse tendency to crash at random (a character flaw it bequeathed to many subsequent generations of Microsoft Windows-driven machines). But where the Star sold for $16,595-plus, the IBM PC sold for less than $5,000, all-inclusive. Where the Star’s operating system was closed, accessible for enhancement only to those to whom Xerox granted a coded key, the PC’s circuitry and microcode were wide open to anyone willing to hack a program for it—just like the Alto’s. And it sold in the millions.

The blinking cursor in the empty box mocks me, but I refuse to give up.

Men plan. Fate laughs.

It isn’t about being fair and equal. It’s about the difference between right and wrong.

I like the cursor blinking, the coffee drinking, the sitting thinking.

La luce elettrica era diventata a Fontamara anch’essa una cosa naturale, come il chiaro di luna. Nel senso che nessuno la pagava. Nessuno la pagava da molti mesi. E con che cosa avremmo dovuto pagarla? Negli ultimi tempi il cursore comunale neppure era più venuto a distribuire la solita fattura mensile col segno degli arretrati, il solito pezzo di carta di cui noi ci servivamo per gli usi domestici. L’ultima volta che il cursore era venuto, per poco non vi aveva lasciato la pelle. Per poco una schioppettata non l’aveva disteso secco all’uscita del paese. [...] Alcuni giorni dopo un carrettiere gli fece capire, non a Fontamara (a Fontamara egli non metteva più piede), ma giù nel capoluogo, che la schioppettata probabilmente non era stata diretta contro di lui, contro la sua persona, contro la persona di Innocenzo La Legge, ma piuttosto contro la tassa. Però se la schioppettata avesse colto in segno, non avrebbe ucciso la tassa, ma lui; perciò non venne più, e nessuno lo rimpianse. Né a lui balenò mai l’idea di proporre al comune un’azione giudiziaria contro i Fontamaresi.

The cursor blinked where her mind was.

In imagining the Polynesians and their adventurous leaps across the Pacific, I consider the more recent voyages that have brought our own ship back and forth across these same waters—a modern steel vessel a hundred times more robust, connected by satellite and surrounded by a sense of the known. My scientist friends tell me of all the ways that the ocean and climate have changed since people first put to sea, but for a sailor on an open deck these transformations remain largely an abstraction. The flashing cursor and keyboard aside, it is hard here not to feel some connection with all the others who have crossed this ocean previously. Pacific voyagers, captains of discovery, the traders and mapmakers—surely all marveled at the same endless show of light and clouds. No doubt many were at times as cold and wet as us, and just as baffled by the unexpected.

Then one day you find yourself in a boutique of terminal illness, forced to purchase something in order to use the bathroom, and from then on, you have nothing to think about except a catalogue of the instances you took when you could have given. My assistant said, “You are not alone.” “There is no time to update my software,” I snapped at her the next day, from my deathbed. “Who in God’s name cares if my cursor’s disappeared?” “What can I do for you?” she asked. That dreadful refrain. She offered me a cottage, a precious director, a bottomless brunch. The window was open, and the breeze was hot, and the pain was totalizing. “Blamelessness,” I told her. “Doctor my biography.

Other nights, when she woke anxious, she’d follow the cursor to Middle Street, to the squat red bricks of the Portland Police Headquarters or to the courthouse, where she’d examine the building so closely she could make out which windows had air-conditioner units and which units were reinforced with plywood planks. She’d check the online news after that to learn in real time about car accidents, assaults, and fires. Google Earth would then take her there, to the very spot where the incident occurred, so she could search, block by block, irrationally—these weren’t webcams—for signs of Julia or Nick or their no-air-bag car.

Got to die of something,” Giraldi observed. “Might as well put back a few pints while you wait to see what it is.

In 1976, Bill Joy, the hacker who would lead development of BSD UNIX, wrote a text editor called vi, short for "visual," that allowed users to move their cursor and edit text anywhere on the screen.

encounter a multitude of other agents. My keyboard, the words unfolding on the Microsoft Word interface, the books piled beside my computer, the flashing cursor,

Every time some external sound startles you and the fabric of sleep wears thin, the repeated words from Yoon's e-mail, a pianist hammering the same keys, flicker in your mind's eye like a cursor blinking on a computer screen. Testimony. Meaning. Memory. For the future.

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