Django Quotes

Gentlemen you had my curiosity ... but now you have my attention.

Have you never picked up a book you've read before, and found it speaks to you in a new way?

You got rid of him?” “For the moment,” Winter said. “Nothing confuses an officer like violently agreeing with him.

Three men can keep a secret only once two of them are at the bottom of the river.

Much later, Alice would wonder what might have happened if she had gone to bed when she was supposed to.

To follow the analogy, as a Reader, you're not part of the story, you just insert yourself into it for a while.

He expects me turn up for the inspection, glance through all of this, and then scurry back to Ohnlei to get on with my life. Marcus gave a rueful smile. More fool him. He doesn't know I haven't got a life.

Besides it's not as though the prisoner can truly die, any more than a character in a novel can. You can always flip back to the first page, can't you?

I think the general’s job is harder than the painter’s; canvas doesn’t fight back, after all.

When they join up, they know I might have to spend their lives, but they trust that I’ll get a good price.

Never underestimate what can be accomplished by a little bacon at the right moment,

But there was never any arguing with Janus, least of all from the other end of a flik-flik line.

If this works, it' going to be one of those things that get written down in the history books. He wondered, briefly, what he should say. Oh well. I can always think of something clever later to tell the historians. "Come on!" He chopped downward, toward the enemy. "Let's get the bastards!

That’s right, door. I’m the Dark fucking Lord. Don’t fuck with me.

At this particular moment, fuck subtlety. I cast fireball, motherfucker.

Never fuck anyone you would be upset having to kill, that’s my new motto.1

You can’t eat goat,” Buck said. “It ain’t natural. If God had wanted us to eat goat, he wouldn’t’ve made it taste like shit.

Is that what love is supposed to look like? Wanting the best for another person, regardless of what it means for yourself?

A certain understanding passed between them, the shared feeling of men tasked with keeping a superior from absentmindedly killing himself. Marcus suppressed a smile.

It occurred to the man that the biggest problem with this staid world was the overwhelming demand for conformity. Everything was so eerily definitive: assent to the mandates of society would see you on the rise, but dissent was a steady downward path.

But you...I felt that you would not be used. Would not allow yourself to be used. You deserve the opportunity to make your own choices, to walk your own path. Indeed, I believe you will do so, regardless of what Ending, Geryon, or anyone else intends. You must do what you believe to be right.

The name meant "Angel of Victory," which Jaffa supposed was appropriate enough. The Divine Hand himself had started the fashion for taking the names of angels when he'd called himself Vale-dan-Rahksa, the Angel of Vengeance. At the rate the Council was expanding, there would soon be a serious shortage of angels. Jaffa wondered what would happen when they ran out of manly, intimidating names and were reduced to naming themselves after the Angel of Sisterly Affection or the Angel of Small Crafts.

I feel her eyes on me like a shaft of sunlight, warming my skin wherever it touches.

Q: How does a girl with tusks go down on you? A: Very carefully, and with commendable attention to detail.

Getting captured is how you end up in the torture dungeon with Snaky de Sade.

pocketses,

I invite you to (a) respect my expertise, and (b) fuck off into the sun.

It was always good to know that things in the field really were the way the officers had said they’d be, if only because this so rarely turned out to be the case.

Can you be haunted by someone who isn’t dead?

Sooner or later, Captain, we all must take something on faith.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, he’d mused, that most people will never find their ‘call me Ishmael’.

Books age, they yellow, the pages dry and crackle and tear. Who can tell what tiny defect will change simple paper and ink into true meaning?

Marcus, whose appreciation of wine began and ended with what color it was, nodded uncertainly.

Raesinia wondered if Maurisk, in the barricaded offices of the Hotel Ancerre, repeated it to himself. Janus is coming.

They both offered Winter crisp salutes, but the expression on their faces made her uncomfortable. It was the look of Women meeting a legend. When did I become a legend?

He'd sometimes thought that the War College was really a thinly disguised royal subsidy to the local tavern industry.

You’re not very loyal,” Isaac said as Alice took his hand. “Loyalty,” Ashes sniffed, “is for dogs. Cats have better sense.

The universe may be a vicious pile of utter nonsense, but at least when you drink drinks, you get drunk.

Django Reinhardt was always good, but he was at his best with Stéphane Grappelli.

Barely pausing between songs, he played American compositions like “St. Louis Blues” and “Tiger Rag.” He played “Parfum” from the gypsy legend Django Reinhardt. He

Monsieur Django, I presume?” Duke Ellington said, offering his hand. “Monsieur

Django Reinhardt

for example, the wealthy planter Quentin Tarantino portrays in Django Unchained is prepared to sell beautiful Broomhilda for only $700 but wants $12,000 for his best fighting slaves.

He called me a coward and a traitor,” Janus said. “How refusing to sit behind the walls of Ashe-Katarion makes me a coward, I’m not sure I understand, but no doubt the minds of royalty work in mysterious ways.

HE WAS KNOWN As DJANGO, a Gypsy name meaning "I awake." His legal name-the name the gendarmes and border officials entered into their journals as his family crisscrossed Europe in their horsedrawn caravan-was jean Reinhardt. But when the family brought their travels to a halt alongside a hidden stream or within a safe wood to light their cookfire, they called him only by his Romany name. Even among his fellow Gypsies, "Django" was a strange name, a strong, telegraphic sentence due to its first-person verb construction. It was a name of which Django was exceedingly proud. It bore an immediacy, a sense of life, and a vision of destiny.

- Acho que a conheço de algum lado. Tenho essa sensação. - Claro - disse ela, farta de ouvir aquilo. Mas quando olhou para ele, sentiu a mesma coisa. - Vou tocar agora - informou Korda, apontando para o palco com o polegar. - É músico? - Sou. Quer que toque alguma coisa especial? - Poderia tocar uma música chamada Tears? - Do Django? Claro. Gosta dessa música? - Para ser sincera, não a conheço. Mas sinto que devo forçar o destino.

While I hate to cast aspersions on the humble army cutters, their knowledge tends toward the practical, and their approach is often... blunt. If the problem cannot be removed from the patient with a bone saw, they are often at a loss.

It is a terrible moment when you realise you’ll never do all the best things this world can offer; that you’ll never have a superlative experience. You’ll go to a Gala Bingo rather than Vegas; get your own office, but not be a CEO; and get a gravestone, but not in Poet’s Corner. You’ll never sleep with the girls on the TV. And all of this mediocrity was made worse by the fact of its inescapable prevalence.

It never was about the musician or the instrument - it was about the laser notes in a hall of mirrors, the music itself. It was going to change the world for the better and it has. Maybe not as fast or as much as we wanted, but it has and it still will. Whether your name is Mozart, or Django Reinhardt, or Robert Johnson, or Jimi Hendrix, or whoever is next; who you are doesn't matter so long as you can open that conduit and let the music come through. It is the burning edge, whatever it sounds like and whoever is playing it. It is the noisy, messy, silly, invincible voice of life that comes through the LP on the turn-table, the transistor radio, or the Bose in your new Lexus that makes you want to get up out of whatever you are stuck in and dance. It is Dionysus and the Maenads all over again. No one can control it and I pity whoever tries. I am old now and only a house cat sunning herself in the window - but I was a tigress once, and I remember. I still remember.

Hate makes people stupid.

But the counterexample is right in front of me. Fields of golden grain, waving majestically in the wind like a GOP campaign ad.

According to Jeffrey, there’s no D&D-style labyrinth here stuffed with beholders and gelatinous cubes, just a more-or-less passable cave cut by the stream into the rock.

haruspex is someone who reads omens in the guts of sacrifices! THE MORE YOU KNOW

They catch me one more time (sword to the back of the head, instant death, 5/5 stars),

He's a bony old motherfucker with a beard you could lose a sheep in

I can’t say that I disagree, but I still don’t follow his reasoning.” “The joys of serving under Janus bet Vhalnich,” Marcus said, carefully under his breath.

And now that she knew, she couldn't do nothing. She couldn't. The anger would build inside he, on and on, forever until it poisoned her

You missed your place as a knight-errant three hundred years ago. Always defend a lady, always stand by a friend, and never betray your lord.

Masturbation, like archery, is something at which I am probably the best in the world. At least it’s hard to imagine how anyone could have more practice.

I give him my best innocent stare. “Whose side are you on?” Amitsugu blinks and shows his pointed teeth. “Why, mine, of course.

Code is read more than it is written.

Humans farm to generate more calories per land-area, because we breed—like rats—to outstrip the food supply until we get killed off by disease or famine or one another, just like that lovable scamp Malthus said.

I am aware that my connection with sanity is a little tenuous." Maybe a little more than even I thought, if the notebooks are to be believed. "But it's not all bad. The thing about being crazy is nobody expects it.

The thing about manipulating a crowd is that you don’t have to convince everyone. Ninety percent of the shouting comes from 10 percent of the mob. Get the loudest voices on your side, and the rest will convince themselves.

COOL JAZZ: RECOMMENDED LISTENING Chet Baker, “But Not for Me,” February 15, 1954 Dave Brubeck and Paul Desmond, “You Go to My Head,” October 1952 Miles Davis and Gil Evans, “Blues for Pablo,” May 23, 1957 Miles Davis, “Fran Dance,” May 26, 1958 Miles Davis, “So What,” March 2, 1959 Stan Getz, “Moonlight in Vermont,” March 11, 1952 Modern Jazz Quartet, “Django,” December 23, 1954 Gerry Mulligan and Chet Baker, “Line for Lyons,” September 2, 1952

I’m sorry, sir. She was a good soldier.” “She might have disagreed with you,” Marcus said with a slight smile. “But you’re right. In the end it’s not all about crisp salutes and shiny boots.” Fitz, who had both, kept a diplomatic silence.

Being part of an attack was a strange thing, Marcus had always thought. It was like being a component in a larger organism, something that could live or die, stand or flee, all on its own and independent of the will of the men who made it up. Sometimes it drove you onward, into the face of what seemed like certain death, in spite of every instinct screaming for flight. Other times, you could feel it falling apart, turning at bay like a whipped dog, hunkering down or turning tail to run.

God,” he said, “I never want to do that again. I felt like everyone on the street was watching me.” “You look ridiculous in that cloak,” Maurisk said. “You might as well carry a sign saying ‘I’m up to no good.’” “I’d be happy to,” Faro said. “Much safer than one saying ‘I’m carrying enough money to buy a small city.’ Besides, it’s essential. Cloak-and-dagger work, you know? Cloak”—he pushed the cloak back, revealing a steel gleam at his belt, opposite where he normally buckled his sword—“and dagger! I wouldn’t feel properly dressed otherwise.

RESURRECTION OF DJANGO He was born in a gypsy caravan and spent his early years on the road in Belgium, playing the banjo for a dancing bear and a goat. He was eighteen when his wagon caught fire and he was left for dead. He lost a leg, a hand. Goodbye road, goodbye music. But as they were about to amputate, he regained the use of his leg. And from his lost hand he managed to save two fingers and become one of the best jazz guitarists in history. There was a secret pact between Django Reinhardt and his guitar. If he would play her, she would lend him the fingers he lacked.

What our friend the duke does not understand is that a perfect record of treachery is just as predictable as one of impeccable loyalty. You simply must always expect to be stabbed in the back, and you’ll never be surprised. Keeping faith occasionally would make him much harder to anticipate.

He noticed—it was impossible not to notice—that Raesinia was wearing a sheer silk nightgown that did little or nothing to hide the shape of the figure beneath it. A woman’s figure, Marcus had to admit. The queen’s diminutive height made it easy to forget that she’d passed her twentieth year.

As the Colonials settled down in Ashe-Katarion, Janus asked Marcus to come up with a detail of twenty men he thought he could trust to keep a secret. Marcus was tempted to reply that twenty men could keep a secret only if you sank nineteen of them in the river, and even then you’d have to keep an eye on the last one.

When we weigh up the balance sheet of our lives, it's always easy to see the costs. People we've hurt, mistakes we've made. But the other side of the balance can be harder to make out. How do you measure what didn't happen? Friends who didn't die because of something you did, wars that didn't start, cities that never burned. That has to count for something, doesn't it?" "You can't know what would have happened," Winter said. "Maybe everyone would have been better off." "It's possible," Abraham said placidly. "But you can't know that for certain, either. Out of all the possible worlds, we can't know if this is the best, the worst, or somewhere in between. But it's one we've got.

Django handed her a heap of parsley and she stood next to him, allowing his rhythm to become her own until they were moving together. In the air, the tang of lemons. The aroma of chicken stock. Beeswax mingling with butter. Chocolate melting into oranges. Her spirits rose with the scents swirling through the kitchen. They spoke little; they had no need. They were a team, their minds melded more effortlessly than Stella had imagined possible. They massaged butter into chickens, boned fish, opened oysters. Django set a flat of speckled eggs on the counter. Next to it, a ceramic bowl. He opened his hands and Stella broke the eggs, dozens of them, across his outstretched fingers, watching yolks separate from whites. It occurred to her that she had tortured herself for no reason. She was happy.

An individual block of code takes moments to write, minutes or hours to debug, and can last forever without being touched again. It’s when you or someone else visits code written yesterday or ten years ago that having code written in a clear, consistent style becomes extremely useful. Understandable code frees mental bandwidth from having to puzzle out inconsistencies, making it easier to maintain and enhance projects of all sizes.

You're a cat," she said automatically. "Your powers of perception are astounding," the cat drawled. "Although I feel obliged to point out, in the interests of ontological exactitude, that I am in fact only half cat. Personally, though, I have always considered it the better half." "And you can talk," Alice said, working her way through the situation. "Better and better! With brains like that, I can see how you monkeys took over the world.

Not a single scene, situation, idea, or image that was in that screenplay was in my script for Django Unchained. Yet... the essence of what Floyd was trying to accomplish in that script, an epic western with a black heroic cowboy at its center, was the very heart of what I was trying to accomplish with Django Unchained. But even more influential than any one script was having a man trying to be a screenwriter living in my house. Him writing, him talking about his script, me reading it, made me consider for the first time writing movies. The reason I knew how to even format a screenplay was from reading Floyd's screenplays. It would be a long read—from that year of 1978 to me completing my first feature length screenplay -True Romance- in September 1987. But due to Floyd's inspiration I tried writing screenplays. I usually never got that far. I think thirty was by far the furthest I ever got. But I tried. And eventually succeeded.

Here and there a catcall followed her, but she was used to that. Barely one in a hundred University students was female, and while the ratio was somewhat redressed by visitors who didn’t actually attend the school, Old Street still felt like the eye of a raging storm of indiscriminate masculine humors. When she first came here, Raesinia had taken such things personally, but she’d since come to understand they were more of an automatic reaction, like dogs barking at one another when they meet in the park.

felt like someone had pushed jagged shards of glass into her eyes and was twisting them back and forth in the sockets, sending searing tendrils

felt like someone had pushed jagged shards of glass into her eyes and was twisting them back and forth in the sockets, sending searing tendrils of pain all the way down her body. Her toes curled and her arms jerked, ready to claw at the offending orbs, but Geryon held her in a firm grip. Her vision had gone black, but she could hear someone screaming, a pathetic, little-girl shriek of terror and agony. It

Something about the force of his mind bent the course of everyone around him, like a mighty river carving out a valley that lesser streams couldn’t help but flow into.

Django, a web framework, is named after Django Reinhardt the jazz guitarist,

The world is the ocean.” Janus blinked slowly. “The surface is light and clear. Ships, birds, fish. We draw maps of the light and say, this is the world. This is all there is.” He laughed, and it turned into a cough. “Hubris. All vanity.

Will is just another word for who we are,” the Eldest said. “Sometimes a choice may be so finely balanced that we waver between the alternatives. Other times, our basic nature drives us in one direction whether we like it or not.” The Eldest spread his hands. “Philosophers have debated for centuries on the question of whether this means we are not truly free. Personally, I don’t think there’s a lot of point to the argument.

The two-car local pulled into North Landing station, which turned out to be little more than a wooden platform,

Do you know what you are Sidney? You’re an ol’Uncle Ruckus ass nigga. Steven the Butler from Django ass nigga. News Flash Sidney Malik Collier. A house nigger, is still a nigger. ‘Light nigga, dark nigga, faux nigga, real nigga, rich nigga, po’ nigga, house nigga, field nigga. Still Nigga.” Tamika said as she stood in front of me with her head held high.

When I went to Passard's restaurant, the meal began with slices of raw scallop topped with caviar; that reminded me of how shocking it was when Django fed us raw fish all those years ago. Then there was a marvelous Saint-Pierre. Passard had peeled away the skin and prepared the fish with hundreds of bay leaves before covering it back up and steaming the fish until it had absorbed all the flavors of the herb. The man loves herbs and uses them in the most fascinating ways. That also reminded me of Django. There was a fat sweetbread skewered with a sprig of rosemary until it was nothing more than an herbal cloud. And the salad was the tiniest herbs, all different. Beautiful simplicity." Stella was tasting the flavors in her mind as he described them.

Remembering the careful way the cooks she'd met chose their ingredients--- the snails at L'Ami Louis, Taeb's saffron, Baldwin's asparagus--- Stella thought Django was more like a magician, conjuring dishes out of thin air. By the time George nudged Stella aside to poke his nose in the door, Lucie was strewing crisp breadcrumbs on top of a thick vegetable potage, and Django was stirring a tart lemon pudding. Downstairs, customers lingered, people who had intended on stopping in for a moment stayed on as increasingly seductive scents wafted through the shop. Unwilling to admit that he was pleased, George tasted the pudding and grumbled, "You've used up all the eggs. And I wanted gingerbread for tonight's reading." "Gingerbread!" Django pulled a face. "Nous sommes en France. I will make something more appropriate." Still standing in the doorway, Stella wondered how he would manage this; he'd used everything in the kitchen except an aged pound cake resembling a rock, a handful of desiccated dried apricots, and the sour milk. "We'll make some coffee." Django was tearing up the stale cake. As she watched, he produced curds from the sour milk, cooked the apricots into jam, and soaked the cake in coffee. With a flourish, he pulled a bar of chocolate from his pocket. "J'ai toujours du chocolat sur moi." He melted the chocolate, stirring in the last of the coffee. "I always have chocolate. You never know when you will need it." Against her better judgement, Stella was charmed. Lucie stood close by, watching him layer the coffee-drenched cake with jam, curds, and chocolate, grabbing each spoon as he finished. "Will you make this for my birthday?" she asked. "No." "Please," she begged. "For your birthday I will make something better.

But since the Obsidian Order—perennial of cheap dramas and bogeymen of children’s stories—had

From above, they would have looked like a chain of four diamonds strung out along the road, points aligned with one another so that the faces of the squares could shoot without risking friendly fire.

The Church of the time called it ‘Infernivore,’ because to them it was a demon that fed on other demons.

You?” Jane fixed her with a furious glare. “You came here to apologise? For what?” Winter shifted uncomfortably. “For feeling the way I did… I guess.” Jane paused then ran one hand back through her hair tugging at the spiky tufts. “Fuck! Brass balls of the fucking Beast! Carice the Saviours cock with bells tied around the tip.” Having apparently run out of profanity she put one hand over her mouth and shook her head. “You were going to apologise.” Jane crossed the room in two quick steps and sat cross legged at Winters feet. “You thought you had to apologize to me?

Since everything that is needed to construct the requested image is contained within the URL, and there’s little need for authentication, this makes a good candidate for a stateless application.

Typically forms are used to validate POST and GET content, but they can also be used to validate particular values from the URL, or those stored in cookies. Here

For server-side caching, you can easily use Django’s cache utilities. This will trade memory usage to store the cached values while saving the CPU cycles required to generate the images, as

(In the real world, you’d want to use a custom search system of some sort. Search the Web for open-source full-text search to get an idea of the possibilities.)

For one thousand, two hundred, and nine years, the Priests of the Black had performed their sacred duty and the ignorant world had been kept safe from the Beast of Judgment.

There are four key practices to writing great code: Version control Documentation Testing Continuous Integration Each

Testing and documentation have a crucial relationship—your tests prove that your documentation is telling the truth.

If you use custom Manager objects, take note that the first Manager Django encounters (in the order in which they’re defined in the model) has a special status. Django interprets this first Manager defined in a class as the “default” Manager, and several parts of Django (though not the admin application) will use that Manager exclusively for that model.