Don't Take Offence Quotes

I have no heart?--Perhaps I have not; But then you're mad to take offence That I don't give you what I have not got: Use your own common sense.

Leaders create influence with the clays of criticism others throw at them. They don't take offence; they take corrections.

And since the griefstruck rarely know what they need or want, only what they don’t, offence-giving and offence-taking are common.

Let me be frank. I find you intriguing, and extremely appealing, and delightful company, and very much a man who deserves more pleasure in his life. If you’d like to take that pleasure with me, I’d be honoured. If you aren’t so minded, don’t take offence at the offer, and I shan’t at the refusal. And if you decide you’d prefer Corvin, for example, I shall bow out like a gentleman, although I shall probably kick him in the shins at some point from pure envy.

You don't take offence?" "Frequently," Nicholas said. "I seldom show it.

Innuendo One two three four Ooh ooh While the sun hangs in the sky and the desert has sand While the waves crash in the sea and meet the land While there's a wind and the stars and the rainbow Till the mountains crumble into the plain Oh yes, we'll keep on trying Tread that fine line Oh, we'll keep on trying Yeah Just passing our time Oh oh While we live according to race, colour or creed While we rule by blind madness and pure greed Our lives dictated by tradition, superstition, false religion Through the eons and on and on Oh, yes, we'll keep on trying, yeah We'll tread that fine line Oh oh we'll keep on trying Till the end of time Till the end of time Through the sorrow all through our splendor Don't take offence at my innuendo Duh duh duh duh duh duh duh Duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh You can be anything you want to be Just turn yourself into anything you think that you could ever be Be free with your tempo, be free, be free Surrender your ego be free, be free to yourself Oh oh, yeah If there's a God or any kind of justice under the sky If there's a point, if there's a reason to live or die Ha, if there's an answer to the questions we feel bound to ask Show yourself destroy our fears release your mask Oh yes, we'll keep on trying Hey, tread that fine line (Yeah) yeah We'll keep on smiling, yeah (Yeah) (yeah) (yeah) And whatever will be will be We'll just keep on trying We'll just keep on trying Till the end of time Till the end of time Till the end of time

do want to write a good story. But I no longer trust the judgements of my age. The critic now assesses the writer’s life as much as her work. The judges award prizes according to a checklist of criteria created by corporations and bureaucrats. And we writers and artists acquiesce, fearful of a word that might be misconstrued or an image that might cause offence. I read many of the books nominated for the globalised book prizes; so many of them priggish and scolding, or contrite and chastened. I feel the same way about those films feted at global festivals and award ceremonies. It’s not even that it is dead art: it’s worse, it’s safe art. Most of them don’t even have the dignity of real decay and desiccation: like the puritan elect, they want to take their piety into the next world. Their books and their films don’t even have the power to raise a good stench. The safe is always antiseptic.

Well, I’m kinda popular.” I smile at her. She rolls her eyes at me, and I chuckle. “No offence, but you blend into the crowd. I get the feeling that's because you want to blend in. You don't want to be seen. It doesn't take a genius to work out that girls at your other school had a problem with you. I don't know the details—and I don't need to—but it doesn't need to be like that here. You don't need to blend in. You can be whoever the hell you want to be. No one knows you. Whoever was mean to you, they're not here now. I can help you. You can come to parties with me and meet people instead of hiding away all the time.

If you are a member of Congress, (no offence,) and one of your constituents who doesn’t know anything, and does not want to go into the bother of learning something, and has no money, and no employment, and can’t earn a living, comes besieging you for help, do you say, “Come, my friend, if your services were valuable you could get employment elsewhere — don’t want you here?” Oh, no: You take him to a Department and say, “Here, give this person something to pass away the time at — and a salary” — and the thing is done. You throw him on his country. He is his country’s child, let his country support him. There is something good and motherly about Washington, the grand old benevolent National Asylum for the Helpless.

BROADBENT [stiffly]. Devil is rather a strong expression in that connexion, Mr Keegan. KEEGAN. Not from a man who knows that this world is hell. But since the word offends you, let me soften it, and compare you simply to an ass. [Larry whitens with anger]. BROADBENT [reddening]. An ass! KEEGAN [gently]. You may take it without offence from a madman who calls the ass his brother--and a very honest, useful and faithful brother too. The ass, sir, is the most efficient of beasts, matter-of-fact, hardy, friendly when you treat him as a fellow-creature, stubborn when you abuse him, ridiculous only in love, which sets him braying, and in politics, which move him to roll about in the public road and raise a dust about nothing. Can you deny these qualities and habits in yourself, sir? BROADBENT [goodhumoredly]. Well, yes, I'm afraid I do, you know. KEEGAN. Then perhaps you will confess to the ass's one fault. BROADBENT. Perhaps so: what is it? KEEGAN. That he wastes all his virtues--his efficiency, as you call it--in doing the will of his greedy masters instead of doing the will of Heaven that is in himself. He is efficient in the service of Mammon, mighty in mischief, skilful in ruin, heroic in destruction. But he comes to browse here without knowing that the soil his hoof touches is holy ground. Ireland, sir, for good or evil, is like no other place under heaven; and no man can touch its sod or breathe its air without becoming better or worse. It produces two kinds of men in strange perfection: saints and traitors. It is called the island of the saints; but indeed in these later years it might be more fitly called the island of the traitors; for our harvest of these is the fine flower of the world's crop of infamy. But the day may come when these islands shall live by the quality of their men rather than by the abundance of their minerals; and then we shall see. LARRY. Mr Keegan: if you are going to be sentimental about Ireland, I shall bid you good evening. We have had enough of that, and more than enough of cleverly proving that everybody who is not an Irishman is an ass. It is neither good sense nor good manners. It will not stop the syndicate; and it will not interest young Ireland so much as my friend's gospel of efficiency. BROADBENT. Ah, yes, yes: efficiency is the thing. I don't in the least mind your chaff, Mr Keegan; but Larry's right on the main point. The world belongs to the efficient.

But although this 8-stage attack sequence applies to most SJW attacks, the real problem with them doesn't have anything to do with those of us who are sufficiently well known to draw hostile media attention. The real problem is how many people suffer the malicious attention of the thought police without anyone knowing about it at all. We don't know how many Americans lose their jobs every year due to SJW attacks, but we do know that there are an average of 25,000 criminal charges being laid every year in Britain for speech offences and that over 12,000 of those judicial proceedings result in convictions. The SJWs are “an army of self-appointed militants who see themselves as the guardians of correct thinking”, and their culture of thuggish speech-policing is on the verge of taking over society, if it has not already. Fortunately for both free speech and society, after 20 years of rampaging freely from one victory to the next, the SJWs have finally met with an implacable and ruthless enemy against whom their social pressure is impotent and their media dominance has proven meaningless.

But I drew the line, one evening, at Jerry O'Keefe's, the fish-shop where people crammed in late for hot plates of peas and chips and yellow-battered fish, in a kind of boiler house of steaming fat, after the last cinema show or the old theatre. 'But why?' she said. 'Why? It looks fun in there.' I said I did not think it the place for her, and she said: 'You talk like a parson or something. You talk just like old Miss Crouch.' 'I'm not taking you,' I said. 'Why? If it's good enough for these people it's good enough for us, isn't it?' 'No.' 'That's because you're really an awful snob,' she said. 'You're too uppish to be seen in there.' 'It's not myself,' I said. 'It's you.' 'Are you going to take me or aren't you?' she said. 'No,' I said. 'I'm not.' She turned and walked down the street. I stood for a moment alone, stubbornly, watching her swinging away into darkness out of the steamy, glowing gas-light. Then I had a moment of sickness when I felt she was walking out of my life, that I had given her impossible offence and that I should never see her again. 'Wait,' I said, 'wait. Don't go like that. I'll take you.

Let us not take offence over small cheese, let things slide off when they don’t really matter, not take things personally, be free to make better use of our energy, to get on with something meaningful instead.

Judge: Mr. Larch, you've heard the case for the prosecution. Is there anything you wish to say before I pass sentence? Mr. Larch: Well... I'd just like to say, m'lud, I've got a family ... a wife and six kids ... and I hope very much you don't have to take away my freedom ... because ... well, because m'lud, freedom is a state much prized within the realm of civilized society. It is a bond wherewith the savage man may charm the outward hatchments of his soul, and soothe the troubled breast into a magnitude of quiet. It is most precious as a blessed balm, the savior of princes, the harbinger of happiness, yea, the very stuff and pith of all we hold most dear. What frees the prisoner in his lonely cell, chained within the bondage of rude walls, far from the owl of Thebes? What fires and stirs the woodcock in his springe or wakes the drowsy apricot betide? What goddess doth the storm-tossd mariner offer most tempestuous prayers to? Freedom! Freedom! Freedom! Judge: It's only a bloody parking offence.

Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than any one. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offence, isn’t it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehill—he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offence, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness.

Yet taking offence is a matter of choice. Marcus Aurelius said it this way: ‘Choose not to be harmed – and you won’t feel harmed. Don’t feel harmed – and you haven’t been

...Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than anyone. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offence, isn't it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehill -- he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness. But get up, sit down, I beg you. All this, too, is deceitful posturing....

Murderers aren’t your type – I’ll bear that in mind. Saying that, I have to tell you that you’re scared of blood, when you’re practically named after the colour of it. Bit hypocritical of you.” Jokily speaking, some weight seems to drop from my shoulders at his words. Not fully, but some – a start. Another new start. My whole life is new start after new start. Hopefully this one will actually be my last. I don’t know how much more leapfrogging I can take and I don’t want to find out. “Me hypocritical, what about you? Your name is what your kind look like on their deathbeds.” As soon as the words have left my mouth, I hate what I’ve said. Even if I’m not being serious, it’s insensitive of me. Thankfully, Ash doesn’t seem to take offence. Instead, he’s rather defiant. “Actually, I’m named after the colour of my eyes.

Good eyes, Cadet Sunborn,” she said. “Good shooting, both of you. We cannot risk both harpies and bandits with a force this size. We will do one more sweep of the forest and return home. Chaos-of-Battle, back in the trees. Sunborn, I want you to take four men and pack up the camp as quickly and quietly as you can.” “Commander!” said Luke. “What about—” “I don’t want to be protected by incompetents!” Elliot exclaimed, and looked around at the faces of the assembled troop. “Uh, no offence, everybody.

Your prince charming is now a budding supervillain, so there’s nobody here to make sure the rest of us don’t push you.” “I take personal offence to that statement,” Kilian said calmly, eyeing some sort of satin bodysuit. “Niko isn’t her only prince charming.” Cian snorted. “Right. There’s nobody left except Kilian—who is happy to lie about his sexuality as long as Isobel doesn’t stop showering with him.

One sure way of not giving offence is by not doing anything at all. Many young women develop a habit of ‘not doing much’. Deepika, 24, says, ‘I need a lot of push and encouragement to take the first step in anything. I don’t like initiating, I feel like pata nahin , don’t know, what will happen.

admit, and explained about Scott taking his wife and mother-in-law back to Yorkshire. “So you see I wasn’t expecting him to necessarily be here on the doorstep, but the house hasn’t been properly locked up at all. And I know I don’t know Mr Hawkesmoor well, but he came across as the kind of professional who wouldn’t be that careless. “And there’s another thing. I wasn’t quite sure whether to contact the police, because to be honest I have no evidence of what’s happened, but the way Mrs Hawkesmoor and Mrs Underhill left seems, well …just odd. Like they stepped out of the door and vanished. Maybe they were just sloppy people, but stuff like the milk has been left out on the side – as if they were either expecting to come back before they left, or were expecting somebody else to come and tidy up after them straight away.” “Show me, would you?” the man who she now knew was Sergeant Miles asked, and so Kat took him around to the cottage and unlocked the door. “I locked it up simply for security,” she explained, letting him go in alone. When he reappeared it was with a frown on his face. “I agree it doesn’t look like they were planning on going and never coming back. Have you looked upstairs?” Kat felt a touch foolish confessing. “I didn’t like to, beyond calling for Mr Hawkesmoor. Mrs Hawkesmoor is an odd sort of woman. Takes offence very easily and where none was intended, if you get my drift. Mr Hawkesmoor told me they lost their two sons in an accident last year, so I guess she’s every right to be a bit of a mess, but I was very glad I wasn’t going to be working for her, if that doesn’t sound callous. And her mother, Mrs Underhill! Lord, there was a woman who must make enemies wherever she goes! Very abrasive, very aggressive, and used to ruling the roost unless I’m much mistaken.” Sergeant Miles gave her an odd look but vanished upstairs, coming back down looking even more perplexed. “Well there’s no women’s clothing up there, but there are men’s clothes. Did you say that Mr Hawkesmoor had every intention of coming back here?” “Oh yes. This weekend if at all possible. But that’s why I’m concerned that his mobile seems to be off. I heard from him on Tuesday by text, but then didn’t think anything of him not being in touch until now, if only because I thought he’d probably got his hands full with his family. Not now, though. I would’ve expected something from him by now, even if not a long chatty conversation.” The odd looks Sergeant Miles kept giving her were now starting to seriously spook her. “Look, what’s going on? Why are you here? Has something awful happened?” He gave a grunt. “We were contacted by our colleagues up in Yorkshire. They’re looking for Mr Hawkesmoor.” “Scott Hawkesmoor? Why? Whatever for? He didn’t strike me as some master criminal.” “Well whether he’s responsible or not, we need to speak to him because both his wife and his mother-in-law are dead.” Kat felt herself sway and heard Sergeant Miles say, “Are you alright?” as he caught hold of her arm. Why did that feel as though she had known it was going to happen? Why had that feeling of someone having a violent death been all over her ever since she’d come back? The news felt almost physical in its

Oh lighten up, Darius. If you can’t laugh at yourself from time to time then you’re going to end up spending a lot of your life taking offence over things that really don’t matter.

Alkistis Dimech: I think people are in a state of inflammation, almost permanently, as if they’re waiting to be outraged. The readiness to take offence at perceived slights, or any deviation from a narrow orthodoxy. It’s a hyper-reactive state, and that’s a product of modern life, the need to present online, not existing if you don’t, that’s part of what’s unhinging people’s nervous systems.

I don’t make shit, I make masterpieces,” she replied, pretending to take offence from Charlie’s words. “And just for that, I’ll take a BBQ sauce base with tuna, anchovies and pineapple please.

No, not about Diderot. Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than anyone. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offence, isn't it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehill- he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offence, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness.

name, but he lives around the corner.’ Mary sighed. ‘He works in a law firm — or a finance brokerage — or something like that—’ she lifted her left hand and moved her wrist in circles ‘—on the next street over. Of course, when you walk past a shelter wearing a Rolex you’re going to be asked if you can spare some change.’ She shook her head. ‘But yes, I know who you mean, and I’ve heard him say those things.’ ‘He mean anything by them you think?’ She studied Roper for a second. ‘Are you asking if I think he could have murdered Ollie?’ Roper stayed quiet. He couldn’t lead her into anything. After a second, he said, ‘I’m not asking anything other than whether you think that he’s worth speaking to.’ Diplomatic he wasn’t. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never spoken to him — only heard his voice, had him described to me.’ Jamie cut in now. ‘Has he ever assaulted any of the people who come here? Any violence, or direct threat?’ ‘Direct threat?’ Roper sucked his teeth. ‘As in, I’m going to drown you versus you should be drowned.’ Mary’s mouth crumped into a wrinkled line. ‘I don’t know that I can really say whether… I… I don’t know is the simple answer. Lots of people take offence to the shelter being here. It wouldn’t be out of the question for someone to act rashly — but him? I don’t know.’ She was being careful not to say anything that would incriminate the possibly innocent man. She turned to Roper, trying to sound casual. There was no need to worry Mary. ‘We’ll get some uniformed officers to canvas the area — ask around to see whether the shelter has had an impact on anyone in particular.’ She smiled at Mary now. ‘But don’t worry, it’s just eliminating the most improbable suspects first, narrowing down the scope of the investigation, you know?’ ‘Am I a suspect?’ Mary asked, stopping

Sometimes the best of relationships are fragile and important. It all starts with a misunderstanding and the other person taking offence. At such times you need to do introspection. Weigh how important is 55 that relationship is for you. If it is a casual relationship and the person has done undue offence, perhaps it will be OK to part. But if it is a deeper relationship you value, then don’t let it go. Don’t hesitate to take the first step to make up. Believe me, it is worth it and your friends or person will appreciate. And it will be a happy ending. A woman is the nucleus of a family. She is born no

An oily fish,’ warned George. ‘Take heed you don’t grease up the lappets on that coat.’ ‘The pilchard is a surface fish,’ replied Aymer, picking knowledge from his memory as clumsily as he now was picking bones from between his teeth. He was delighted to see George. ‘Pelagic is the term. You know the word?’ ‘Don’t know the word. I know the fish well enough. There’s nothing else this time of year, exceptin’ pilchers.’ ‘Demersic is the other word, I think. The twin of pelagic. It speaks of fish that live upon the ocean floor. I see a parallel with people here. Those shoals of common men who live near the surface, and those solitary, more silent ones that inhabit deeper water. I count myself to be demersic, then. You, George, can I describe you as pelagic, a pilchard as it were? You would not take offence at that?’ ‘You’re talking to a pilchard, then?’ ‘Well, yes, I am, within my metaphor …’ ‘Mistaking a man for a fish is madness, I should say. It in’t what I’d call deep and solitary. What was that word you used?’ ‘Demersic, George.’ ‘Now, there’s a word! What do you say I’ll never have to use that word again?’ ‘Do not hold words in low regard. Words have power, George. Words are deeds …’ ‘Oh, yes?’ said George. ‘And the wind is a potato, I suppose. If words are deeds, then I’m the meanest man in Wherrytown. There in’t a sin I won’t have done.

An oily fish,’ warned George. ‘Take heed you don’t grease up the lappets on that coat.’ ‘The pilchard is a surface fish,’ replied Aymer, picking knowledge from his memory as clumsily as he now was picking bones from between his teeth. He was delighted to see George. ‘Pelagic is the term. You know the word?’ ‘Don’t know the word. I know the fish well enough. There’s nothing else this time of year, exceptin’ pilchers.’ ‘Demersic is the other word, I think. The twin of pelagic. It speaks of fish that live upon the ocean floor. I see a parallel with people here. Those shoals of common men who live near the surface, and those solitary, more silent ones that inhabit deeper water. I count myself to be demersic, then. You, George, can I describe you as pelagic, a pilchard as it were? You would not take offence at that?’ ‘You’re talking to a pilchard, then?’ ‘Well, yes, I am, within my metaphor …’ ‘Mistaking a man for a fish is madness, I should say. It in’t what I’d call deep and solitary. What was that word you used?’ ‘Demersic, George.’ ‘Now, there’s a word! What do you say I’ll never have to use that word again?’ ‘Do not hold words in low regard. Words have power, George. Words are deeds …’ ‘Oh, yes?’ said George. ‘And the wind is a potato, I suppose. If words are deeds, then I’m the meanest man in Wherrytown. There in’t a sin I won’t have done.’ ‘No, what I meant to say is this, that words and deeds should be the same. You make a promise, you should keep it. You hold a view, then you should stand by it. You should say what you do: you should do what you say.’ ‘Well, there’s the difference,’ said George, evidently losing interest. ‘People in these parts in’t impressed by words. They don’t mean what they say. They only mean what they do. And that, I think, makes better sense.

You’ve got to be kidding. A criminal is easy to spot.” Reuben spoke to Alex as he tied up his grieves, Alex tried to ignore his comment, but by the king was she tired of his boasting. “Enlighten me.” She rolled her eyes but he didn’t notice, he almost cut her off with how quickly he answered. “My uncle, he’s a Templar, he taught me: The tip of the tail for one, Alex. Those are the blasphemers. The petty thieves get a finger removed for each offence. The hand for smuggling and an ear for petty disrespect of the divine. Then, well, indefinite jail time or execution, so you’ll never have to run into any of those breeds on the street.” He straightened his belt rather confidently before taking a comb to his greasy mane. “And the ones who don’t get caught?” Alex replied. Reuben snapped back, “hah! We always catch them in the end.” Punctuating the conversation with his exit from the barracks.