Doyen Quotes

Don't be a scaredy-human," called Emerald. "Gran-Doyen says I can't burn you up, so I won't." Then under her breath, she added, "Though accidents do happen." (Emerald to Ethan)

Lecteur paisible et bucolique, Sobre et naïf homme de bien, Jette ce livre saturnien, Orgiaque et mélancolique. Si tu n'as fait ta rhétorique Chez Satan, le rusé doyen, Jette ! tu n'y comprendrais rien, Ou tu me croirais hystérique. Mais si, sans se laisser charmer, Ton oeil sait plonger dans les gouffres, Lis-moi, pour apprendre à m'aimer ; Ame curieuse qui souffres Et vas cherchant ton paradis, Plains-moi !... sinon, je te maudis !

If the invention of derivatives was the financial world's modernist dawn, the current crisis is unsettlingly like the birth of postmodernism. For anyone who studied literature in college in the past few decades, there is a weird familiarity about the current crisis: value, in the realm of finance capital, parallels the elusive nature of meaning in deconstrucitonism. According to Jacques Derrida, the doyen of the school, meaning can never be precisely located; instead, it is always 'deferred,' moved elsewhere, located in other meanings, which refer and defer to other meanings—a snake permanently and necessarily eating its own tail. This process is fluid and constant, but at moments the perpetual process of deferral stalls and collapses in on itself. Derrida called this moment an 'aporia,' from a Greek term meaning 'impasse.' There is something both amusing and appalling about seeing his theories acted out in the world markets to such cataclysmic effect.

She said she hoped she would see me again, and the next thing I knew I was running through light snow back to my dorm, laughing aloud from an excess of joy like the schoolboy that I was. I had overwhelming sense of the world's possibility and plentitude; the massive, luminous spheres burned above me without irony; the streetlights were haloed and I could make out the bright, crustal highlands of the moon, the far-sprinkled systems; I was going to read everything and invent a new prosody and successfully court the radiant progeny of the vanguard doyens if it killed me; my mind and body were as a fading coal awakened to transitory brightness by her breath when she'd brushed her lips against me; the earth was beautiful beyond all change.

It takes extraordinary mental discipline to transmit human experience without perversion. Truth telling is unnatural. Lying is an important aspect of humanity. We lie to other people to prevent hurt feelings and we deceive ourselves in order to protect our noble sense of being a good person. Dishonesty and inaccuracy preserves our quest seeking uninterrupted personal pleasure. I shall eschew pleasure seeking and cultivate precision of mind and moral character that precious truth telling necessitates. Reading and writing, along with observing nature and studious reflection on vivid personal experiences is the process methodology that will bring me closest to discovering inviolate verity of existence and becoming a doyen for all the immaculate truth, beauty, and goodness in this world.

Vous considérez les textes sacrés comme des contes, des épopées grandioses. Plus vous étudiez, moins vous y croyez. Un autre clin d'œil et vous avez vingt-quatre ans. Vous parcourez l'Europe en pensant - en espérant - que cette expérience vous stimulera, qu'avoir un aperçu du vaste monde rendra le vôtre plus net. Ce sera le cas, au début. Mais vous n'avez ni emploi ni avenir. Une fois terminé l'intermède, votre compte bancaire est vide et vous n'avez toujours rien trouvé. Nouveau clin d’œil. À vingt-six ans, vous êtes convoqué dans le bureau du doyen de la faculté. Voyant que vous n'avez plus le cœur à l'ouvrage, il vous conseille de changer de voie et vous assure que vous finirez par trouver votre vocation. Tout le problème est là : vous n'avez jamais ressenti d'appel pour quoi que ce soit. Pas de poussée violente dans une direction précise, mais une succession de légers mouvements dans une multitude de directions qui, à présent, vous semblent toutes hors de portée. Au clin d’œil suivant, vous avez vingt-huit ans. Alors que tous les autres ont déjà bien avancé sur la route, vous en êtes encore à chercher votre chemin. L'ironie de la situation ne vous aura pas échappé : en voulant vivre, apprendre et vous trouver, vous vous êtes perdu.

The 1890s were apprentice years for Yeats. Though he played with Indian and Irish mythology, his symbolism really developed later. The decade was for him, as a poet, the years of lyric, of the Rhymers’ Club, of those contemporaries whom he dubbed the ‘tragic generation’. ‘I have known twelve men who killed themselves,’ Arthur Symons looked back from his middle-aged madness, reflecting on the decade of which he was the doyen. The writers and artists of the period lived hectically and recklessly. Ernest Dowson (1867–1900) (one of the best lyricists of them all – ‘I cried for madder music and for stronger wine’) died from consumption at thirty-two; Lionel Johnson (1867–1902), a dipsomaniac, died aged thirty-five from a stroke. John Davidson committed suicide at fifty-two; Oscar Wilde, disgraced and broken by prison and exile, died at forty-six; Aubrey Beardsley died at twenty-six. This is not to mention the minor figures of the Nineties literary scene: William Theodore Peters, actor and poet, who starved to death in Paris; Hubert Crankanthorpe, who threw himself in the Thames; Henry Harland, editor of The Yellow Book, who died of consumption aged forty-three, or Francis Thompson, who fled the Hound of Heaven ‘down the nights and down the days’ and who died of the same disease aged forty-eight. Charles Conder (1868–1909), water-colourist and rococo fan-painter, died in an asylum aged forty-one.

Foreshadowing a decisive shift in the balance of power from elected to nonelected institutions, a mentally and physically unfit Ghulam Mohammed mocked parliamentary practice by appointing a “cabinet of talents” that included General Ayub Khan as defense minister and Iskander Mirza as interior minister with the doyen of the civil bureaucracy, Chaudhri Mohammad Ali, retaining the all- important finance portfolio

Many of the men brought aboard suffered from “shell shock,” or “combat fatigue,” as it is called in this war. But call it what you like, we did not have to be psychiatrists to realize that the human mind can look at one scene just so long, can absorb meaning and reality to just a certain point. With these men that point had been passed. Their minds had refused to accept the pictures which their senses presented;

Yet the best argument for the enduring value of the efficient-markets hypothesis comes from the eminent twentieth-century British statistician George Box, who is said to have quipped that “all models are wrong, but some are useful.” The efficient-markets hypothesis may not be entirely correct. After all, markets are shaped by humans, and humans are prone to all sorts of behavioral biases and irrationality. But the hypothesis is at the very least a decent approximation for how markets work—and helps explain just why they have in practice proven so hard to beat. Even Benjamin Graham, the doyen of many investors, later in his career became a de facto believer in the efficient-markets hypothesis.

I reached under the table to taunt his hardness. He squealed, causing a few team members at the next table to glance in our direction. Kim’s face went red. He quickly stared at his plate as if nothing unusual had happened.               I seized the opportunity to stroke his covered erection again. This prompted his lower body to squirm uncontrollably while he shrieked for me to stop. I continued joshing the boy (I found his mortification amusing). His silly screeching and fidgeting created such a ruckus that all eyes were on us now. Jules was standing in front of us, and before Kim could find composure, he said, “Stop behaving like silly children. Grow up or I’ll send the two of you to detention.” But amid his stern reprehension, I detected a smirk. He was obviously enjoying his role as a reprimanding doyen.               As soon as Jules walked away, I taunted my buddy again, stirring another rumpus from squealing Kim. This time our instructor barked, “Both of you, come see me after dinner! We need to talk!” We immediately quieted down. As soon as his back was turned, Kim muttered, “We are in deep shit.”               “Really?” I said, smiling to myself.               “You’re truly inscrutable, you moron! He cried. “He’s sending us to clean the toilets.” I sniggered at his assessment but did not respond.               When the hoopla finally subsided, I said to my tent-mate, “You didn’t finish telling me what transpired between the two of you.”               Not wanting to have anything to do with me, the boy walked away.

Most centrally, how did approximately 10,000 people killed in skirmishes between the EIC police and natives in a small portion of the territory over a 20-year period mushroom into 10 million dead, “mass murder on a vast scale” and “a forgotten Holocaust”? Rather than climb down from this ludicrous claim, which the doyen of Congo studies, Jean Stengers, called “absurd” and “polemical,” Hochschild repeats it. His source? The same Jan Vansina whose work, I noted, was based on an erroneous reading of an earlier report (a Harvard study that rejected the report of the Permanent Committee for the Protection of the Natives of 1919 that Hochschild cites in his letter) and whose own work was based on nothing more than “oral traditions.

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