Filthy Language Quotes

Never use a big word when a little filthy one will do.

Oh, yes! Fill the churches with dirty thoughts! Introduce honesty to the White House! Write letters in dead languages to people you've never met! Paint filthy words on the foreheads of children! Burn your credit cards and wear high heels! Asylum doors stand open! Fill the suburbs with murder and rape! Divine madness! Let there be ecstasy, ecstasy in the streets! Laugh and the world laughs with you!

There is no language so filthy as Spanish. There are words for all the vile words in English and there are other words and expressions that are used only in countries where blasphemy keeps pace with the austerity of religion.

I'd rather you came out with your filthy, unfitting language for the rest of your life than for you to turn out one of them cowardly people who can't speak their minds but won't hold their peace and instead mumble behind hands and get their fights out in sneakery and in whispers.

The fall of humanity was the fall from the actual to the symbolic. Language abstracts us from the real world; keeping us from direct, intuitive perception. Words, like the ego, are merely guides. Don’t mistake them for the real thing. Pull aside the filthy curtains of the social. Language makes an enigma of simple existence; it obscures the true nature of reality and of your self.

There is no language so filthy as Spanish. There are words for all the vile words in English and there are other words and expressions that are used only in countries where blasphemy keeps pace with the austerity of religion.

The Cockney has one oath, and one oath only, the most indecent in the language, which he uses on any and every occasion.  Far different is the luminous and varied Western swearing, which runs to blasphemy rather than indecency.  And after all, since men will swear, I think I prefer blasphemy to indecency; there is an audacity about it, an adventurousness and defiance that is better than sheer filthiness.

Turns out quality time was the love language we both craved. That and the filthy words of affirmation he came up with when I was pinned beneath him weren’t bad either.

There are so many dirty names for her that one rarely learns them all, even in one’s native language. There are dirty names for every female part of her body and for every way of touching her. There are dirty words, dirty laughs, dirty noises, dirty jokes, dirty movies, and dirty things to do to her in the dark. Fucking her is the dirtiest, though it may not be as dirty as she herself is. Her genitals are dirty in the literal meaning: stink and blood and urine and mucous and slime. Her genitals are also dirty in the metaphoric sense: obscene. She is reviled as filthy, obscene, in religion, pornography, philosophy, and in most literature and art and psychology. where she is not maligned she is magnificently condescended to, as in this diary entry by Somerset Maugham written when he was in medical school: The Professor of Gynaecology: He began his course of lectures as follows: Gentlemen, woman is an animal that micturates once a day, defecates once a week, menstruates once a month, parturates once a year and copulates whenever she has the opportunity. I thought it a prettily-balanced sentence. Were she loved sufficiently, or even enough, she could not be despised so much. were she sexually loved, or even liked, she and what is done with or to her, in the dark or in the light, she would not, could not, exist rooted in the realm of dirt, the contempt for her apparently absolute and irrevocable; horrible; immovable; help us, Lord; unjust. She is not just less; she and the sex she incarnates are a species of filth. God will not help of course: "For a whore is a deep ditch; and a strange woman is a narrow pit.

Now that you are living on such intimate terms with her, Gwyn has emerged as a slightly different person... She is both funnier and more salacious than you imagined, more vulgar and idiosyncratic, more passionate, more playful, and you are startled to realize how deeply she exults in filthy language and the bizarre slang of sex... Common twentieth-century words do not interest her. She shuns the term making love, for example, in favor of older, more hilarious locutions, such as rumpty-rumpty, quaffing, and bonker bang. A good orgasm is referred to as a bone-shaker. Her ass is a rumdadum. Her crotch is a slittie, a quim, a quim-box, a quimsby. Her breasts are boobs and tits, boobies and titties, her twin girls. At one time or another, your penis is a bong, a blade, a slurp, a shaft, a drill, a quencher, a lancelot, a lightning rod, Charles Dickens, Dick Driver, and Adam Junior... In the grip of approaching orgasm, however, she tends to revert to the contemporary standbys, falling back on the simplest, crudest words in the English lexicon to express her feelings. Cunt, pussy, fuck. Fuck me, Adam. Again and again. Fuck me, Adam. For an entire month you are the captive of that word, the willing prisoner of that word, the embodiment of that word. You dwell in the land of flesh, and your cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life.

But Orcs and Trolls spoke as they would, without love of words or things; and their language was actually more degraded and filthy than I have shown it. I do not suppose that any will wish for a closer rendering, though models are easy to find. Much the same sort of talk can still be heard among the orc-minded; dreary and repetitive with hatred and contempt, too long removed from good to retain even verbal vigour, save in the ears of those to whom only the squalid sounds strong.

Suddenly, political sucksters and realistic insectivores, shoving to the front, puffed up their stomachs and blew lies out of their fingers! A parade was formed! It was now an assembly on the arch, an enthusiastic troop of dunces, pasquil-makers, populist scribblers and lick-penny poets, anti-intellectual hacks, modernistic rubbishmongers, anonymuncules of prose and anacreontic water-bibbers all screaming nonce-words and squealing filthy ditties. They shouted scurrilities! They pronounced words backwards! They tumbled along waggling codpieces, shaking hogs' bladders, and bugling from the fundament! Some sang, shrill, purposely mispronouncing words, snarping at the language to mock it while thumping each other with huge rubber phalluses and roaring out farts! They snapped pens in half and turned somersaults with quills in their ears to make each other laugh, lest they speak and then finally came to the lip of a monstrously large hole, a crater-like opening miles wide, which, pushing and shoving, they circled in an obscene dance while dressed in hoods with long earpieces and shaking firebrands, clackers, and discordant bells! A bonfire was then lit under a huge pole, and on that pole a huge banner, to hysterical applause, was suddenly unfurled and upon it, upsidedown, were written the words: "In The End Was Wordlessness."

withal they were cursing the country with lurid metaphors quite refreshing after a month of unimaginative, monotonous Cockney swearing. The Cockney has one oath, and one oath only, the most indecent in the language, which he uses on any and every occasion. Far different is the luminous and varied Western swearing, which runs to blasphemy rather than indecency. And after all, since men will swear, I think I prefer blasphemy to indecency; there is an audacity about it, an adventurousness and defiance that is better than sheer filthiness.

Just as negative self-paradigms can put limitations on us, positive self-paradigms can bring out the best in us, as the following story about the son of King Louis XVI of France illustrates: King Louis had been taken from his throne and imprisoned. His young son, the prince, was taken by those who dethroned the king. They thought that inasmuch as the king’s son was heir to the throne, if they could destroy him morally, he would never realize the great and grand destiny that life had bestowed upon him. They took him to a community far away, and there they exposed the lad to every filthy and vile thing that life could offer. They exposed him to foods the richness of which would quickly make him a slave to appetite. They used vile language around him constantly. They exposed him to lewd and lusting women. They exposed him to dishonor and distrust. He was surrounded twenty-four hours a day by everything that could drag the soul of a man as low as one could slip. For over six months he had this treatment—but not once did the young lad buckle under pressure. Finally, after intensive temptation, they questioned him. Why had he not submitted himself to these things— why had he not partaken? These things would provide pleasure, satisfy his lusts, and were desirable; they were all his. The boy said, “I cannot do what you ask for I was born to be a king.

See, that’s what I want more of. A little spunk!’ ‘Fuck off!’ I yell, shocking myself with my vulgar language. ‘Ooh, yes, carry on, you filthy-mouthed bitch!’ I gasp and swing around, finding him grinning from ear to ear. ‘Wanker.’ ‘Cow.’ ‘Tosser.’ He grins some more. ‘Dog.’ ‘Shirt-lifter,’ I retort. ‘Tart.’ I recoil, horrified. ‘I am not a tart!

These words point in the right direction, but some of them, such as embarrassed, insulted, different, and ignored, can fade with time. Real shame requires more intensity. That’s why the language of this next list may make you want to turn away, but it’s much closer to shame. Unclean Dishonored Filthy Shunned Disgusting Defiled Outcast Unlovable Discarded Repulsive Disgraced Worthless Loathed Scorned Vile

Warning: “Good Intentions” contains violence, explicit sex, nudity, inappropriate use of church property, portrayals of beings divine and demonic bearing little or no resemblance to established religion or mythology, trespassing, bad language, sacrilege, blasphemy, attempted murder, arguable murder, divinely mandated murder, justifiable murder, filthy murder, sexual promiscuity, kidnapping, attempted rape, arson, dead animals, desecrated graves, gang activity, theft, assault and battery, panties, misuse of the 911 system, fantasy depictions of sorcery and witchcraft, multiple references to various matters of fandom, questionable interrogation tactics, cell phone abuse, reckless driving, consistent abuse of vampires (because they deserve it), even more explicit sex, illegal use of firearms within city limits, polyamory, abuse of authority, hit and run driving, destruction of private property, underage drinking, disturbances of the peace, disorderly conduct, internet harassment, bearers of false witness, mayhem, dismemberment, falsification of records, tax evasion, an uncomfortably sexy mother, bad study habits, and a very silly white guy inappropriately calling another white guy “nigga” (for which he will surely suffer). All characters depicted herein are over the age of 18, with the exception of one little girl who merely needs to get her cat out of a tree. Don’t worry, nothing bad happens to her. She makes it through the story just fine.

Here in the labyrinth, I struggle to find words to describe what I feel. Up on the mountaintop, I knew the language to describe God: majestic, transcendent, all-powerful, heavenly Father, Lord, and King. In this vocabulary, God remains stubbornly located in a few select places, mostly in external realms above or beyond: heaven, the church, doctrine, or the sacraments. What happens in the labyrinth seems vague, perhaps even theologically elusive. Like countless others, I have been schooled in vertical theology. Western culture, especially Western Christianity, has imprinted a certain theological template upon the spiritual imagination: God exists far off from the world and does humankind a favor when choosing to draw close. Sermons declared that God’s holiness was foreign to us and sin separated us from God. Yes, humanity was made in God’s image, but we had so messed things up in the Garden of Eden that any trace of God in us was obscured, if not destroyed. Whether conservative or liberal, most American churches teach some form of the idea that God exists in holy isolation, untouched by the messiness of creation, and that we, God’s children, are morally and spiritually filthy, bereft of all goodness, utterly unworthy to stand before the Divine Presence. In its crudest form, the role of religion (whether through revivals, priesthood, ritual, story, sacraments, personal conversion, or morality) is to act as a holy elevator between God above and those muddling around down below in the world.

Here they are. Everything is related in them which bears reference to my accursed origin; the whole detail of that series of disgusting circumstances which produced it is set in view; the minutest description of my odious and loathsome person is given, in language which painted your own horrors and rendered mine indelible. I sickened as I read. 'Hateful day when I received life!' I exclaimed in agony. 'Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even YOU turned from me in disgust? God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow devils, to admire and encourage him, but I am solitary and abhorred.

Doublespeak has become so common in everyday living that we no longer pay any attention to it. Indeed, we seem to take it for granted, as if such language is the normal way of communicating, or more correctly, not communicating. Even worse, when we do notice it, we don't react. We don't protest when we're asked to check our packages at the desk "for your convenience" when it's not for our convenience at all but for someone else's convenience. We see advertisements for "deep-chilled chickens," "virgin vinyl," or "synthetic glass," but we don't question the language or the supposed quality of the product. We don't challenge the politicians who speak not of slums or ghettos but of the "inner city" or "substandard housing" where the "disadvantaged" live, thus avoiding any mention of the poor who have to live in filthy, poorly heated, ramshackle apartments or houses.

When you’re going to have a baby, it’s like planning a fabulous vacation trip—to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It’s all very exciting. After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The flight attendant comes in and says, “Welcome to Holland.” “Holland?!?” you say. “What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I’m supposed to be in Italy. All my life I’ve dreamed of going to Italy.” But there’s been a change in the flight plan. They’ve landed in Holland and there you must stay. The important thing is that they haven’t taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It’s just a different place. So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met. It’s just a different place. It’s slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you’ve been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around . . . and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills . . . and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts. But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy . . . and they’re all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say “Yes, that’s where I was supposed to go. That’s what I had planned.” And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away . . . because the loss of that dream is a very, very significant loss. But . . . if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn’t get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things . . . about Holland.

The holy Scriptures speak of us as fallen creatures: in almost every page we shall find something that is calculated to abate the loftiness and silence the pretensions of man. “The imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth.” “What is man, that he should be clean? and he which is born of a woman, that he should be righteous[5].” “How much more abominable and filthy is man, which drinketh iniquity like water[6]?” “The Lord looked down from heaven upon the children of men, to see if there were any that did understand, and seek God. They are all gone aside; they are altogether become filthy: there is none that doeth good, no not one[7].” “Who can say, I have made my heart clean, I am pure from my sin[8]?” “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked, who can know it.” “Behold, I was shapen in wickedness, and in sin hath my mother conceived me.” “We were by nature the children of wrath, even as others, fulfilling the desires of the flesh and of the mind.” “O wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me from the body of this death!”—Passages might be multiplied upon passages, which speak the same language, and these again might be illustrated and confirmed at large by various other considerations, drawn from the same sacred source; such as those which represent a thorough change, a renovation of our nature, as being necessary to our becoming true Christians; or as those also which are suggested by observing that holy men refer their good dispositions and affections to the immediate agency of the Supreme Being.

it’s like planning a fabulous vacation trip—to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It’s all very exciting. After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The flight attendant comes in and says, “Welcome to Holland.” “Holland?!?” you say. “What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I’m supposed to be in Italy. All my life I’ve dreamed of going to Italy.” But there’s been a change in the flight plan. They’ve landed in Holland and there you must stay. The important thing is that they haven’t taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It’s just a different place. So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met. It’s just a different place. It’s slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you’ve been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around . . . and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills . . . and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts. But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy . . . and they’re all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say “Yes, that’s where I was supposed to go. That’s what I had planned.” And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away . . . because the loss of that dream is a very, very significant loss. But . . . if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn’t get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things . . . about Holland.

The Pakistani film International Gorillay (International guerillas), produced by Sajjad Gul, told the story of a group of local heroes - of the type that would, in the language of a later age, come to be known as jihadis, or terrorists - who vowed to find and kill an author called "Salman Rushdie" . The quest for "Rushdie" formed the main action of the film and "his" death was the film's version of happy ending. "Rushdie" himself was depicted as a drunk, constantly swigging from a bottle, and a sadist. He lived in what looked very like a palace on what looked very like an island in the Philippines (clearly all novelists had second homes of this kind), being protected by what looked very like the Israeli Army (this presumably being a service offered by Israel to all novelists), and he was plotting the overthrow of Pakistan by the fiendish means of opening chains of discotheques and gambling dens across that pure and virtuous land, a perfidious notion for which, as the British Muslim "leader" Iqbal Sacranie might have said, death was too light a punishment. "Rushdie" was dressed exclusively in a series of hideously coloured safari suits - vermilion safari suits, aubergine safari suits, cerise safari suits - and the camera, whenever it fell upon the figure of this vile personage, invariably started at his feet and then panned [sic] with slow menace up to his face. So the safari suits got a lot of screen time, and when he saw a videotape of the film the fashion insult wounded him deeply. It was, however, oddly satisfying to read that one result of the film's popularity in Pakistan was that the actor playing "Rushdie" became so hated by the film-going public that he had to go into hiding. At a certain point in the film one of the international gorillay was captured by the Israeli Army and tied to a tree in the garden of the palace in the Philippines so that "Rushdie" could have his evil way with him. Once "Rushdie" had finished drinking form his bottle and lashing the poor terrorist with a whip, once he had slaked his filthy lust for violence upon the young man's body, he handed the innocent would-be murderer over to the Israeli soldiers and uttered the only genuinely funny line in the film. "Take him away," he cried, "and read to him from The Satanic Verses all night!" Well, of course, the poor fellow cracked completely. Not that, anything but that, he blubbered as the Israelis led him away. At the end of the film "Rushdie" was indeed killed - not by the international gorillay, but by the Word itself, by thunderbolts unleashed by three large Qurans hanging in the sky over his head, which reduced the monster to ash. Personally fried by the Book of the Almighty: there was dignity in that.

Hover through the Fog and Filthy Air Nursery school for demons Getting to know yourself through crime Brain music like a wounded ambulance praying in tongues Telepathic merchandise A rhapsodic interrogation of love Another haunted customer Soothing you to sleep and infesting your dreams with mechanical tarantulas Carnivorous mirage The night that hides inside the night you know The night that knows you The fierce bliss of the holy glint The lethal myth you carried all your life The voice within my voice the only one I listen to was never born Sometimes everything’s my child Emotions are deployed in glassy air Lots of wondering what to do in the empty lobby and the all night laundromat The diamond swimming in the noisy light A little origami holy ghost The rain goes on softly not wanting to know my side of the story Bloodstreams running with whispering stars A loose confederation of feral children without human language living in ruined cathedrals on the moon pledging allegiance to the buildings and how they appear the grey noise of the interstate new understandings of madness and terrible love half buried in leaves The trapeze artist of the abyss Her discipline Her ascetic silhouette The way we never see her face no matter how she twists

Red-faced, she shrank back behind the door before Devon could catch her spying on him. Soon she heard him approach, the floor creaking beneath his feet, and a dry Turkish towel was extended through the partially open doorway. She took it gratefully and wrapped it around herself. “Are you adequately covered?” she brought herself to ask. “I doubt anyone would call it adequate.” “Would you like to wait in here?” she offered reluctantly. The bathroom was warmer than the drafty bedroom. “No.” “But it’s as cold as ice out there.” “Precisely,” came his brusque reply. Judging from his voice, he was standing just on the other side of the door. “What the devil are you wearing, by the way?” “My riding habit.” “It looks like half a riding habit.” “I leave off the overskirt when I train Asad.” At his lack of response, she added, “Mr. Bloom approves of my breeches. He says that he could almost mistake me for one of the stable boys.” “Then he must be blind. No man with eyes in his head would ever mistake you for a boy.” Devon paused. “From now on, you’ll ride in skirts or not at all.” “What?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re giving me orders?” “Someone has to, if you’re going to behave with so little propriety.” “You are lecturing me about bloody propriety, you sodding hypocrite?” “I suppose you learned that filthy language at the stables.” “No, from your brother,” she shot back.

From now on, you’ll ride in skirts or not at all.” “What?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re giving me orders?” “Someone has to, if you’re going to behave with so little propriety.” “You are lecturing me about bloody propriety, you sodding hypocrite?” “I suppose you learned that filthy language at the stables.” “No, from your brother,” she shot back.

From now on, you’ll ride in skirts or not at all.” “What?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re giving me orders?” “Someone has to, if you’re going to behave with so little propriety.” “You are lecturing me about bloody propriety, you sodding hypocrite?” “I suppose you learned that filthy language at the stables.” “No, from your brother,” she shot back. “I’m beginning to realize I shouldn’t have stayed away from Eversby Priory for so long,” she heard him say grimly. “The entire household is running amok.” Unable to restrain herself any longer, Kathleen went to the open gap in the doorway and glared at him. “You were the one who hired the plumbers!” she hissed. “The plumbers are the least of it. Someone needs to take the situation in hand.” “If you’re foolish enough to imagine you could take me in hand--” “Oh, I’d begin with you,” he assured her feelingly.

From now on, you’ll ride in skirts or not at all.” “What?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re giving me orders?” “Someone has to, if you’re going to behave with so little propriety.” “You are lecturing me about bloody propriety, you sodding hypocrite?” “I suppose you learned that filthy language at the stables.” “No, from your brother,” she shot back. “I’m beginning to realize I shouldn’t have stayed away from Eversby Priory for so long,” she heard him say grimly. “The entire household is running amok.

When they reached the river, he turned left. “Tohobt Pah-e-hona, Blue Water River. You call it the Brazos, eh?” He pointed ahead of them. “Pah-gat-su, upstream.” Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, he said, “Te-naw, downstream. You will listen good, Blue Eyes, and learn. Tosi tivo talk is dirt in my mouth.” His tone set Loretta off balance. Dirt in his mouth? If he hated the whites so much, why on earth had he taken her? Upstream, downstream, she couldn’t remember the words. She didn’t want to. The language of murderers. All she wanted was to be free of the whole filthy lot of them.

Shit.” Macalister’s eyebrow arched. “You should find better language to express yourself.

Well, I read that cursing is actually a sign of intelligence.” “Yes,” he said. “Fluency in swearing can demonstrate a mastery of the English language, but just because you have a skill, doesn’t mean you always have to fucking use it.

Language is a tool, and I prefer a scalpel to a hammer.

Following the Beatles, who incidentally were put together by the Tavistock Institute, came other "Made in England" rock groups, who, like the Beatles, had Theo Adorno write their cult lyrics and compose all the "music." I hate to use these beautiful words in the context of "Beatlemania"; it reminds me of how wrongly the word "lover" is used when referring to the filthy interaction between two homosexuals writhing in pigswill. To call "rock" music, is an insult, likewise the language used in "rock lyrics.

God’s clothing of Adam and Eve has provided a thought model and a metaphor that have been repeatedly used and enjoyed all down the centuries. The Jewish poet and prophet Isaiah describes how the redeemed phrase their song of gratitude to God: I will greatly rejoice in the Lord; my soul shall exult in my God, for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation; he has covered me with the robe of righteousness. (Isa 61:10) In the parable of the Prodigal Son, Christ describes how the prodigal came home in all his filthy rags, shame and disgrace, and then what his father’s response was: ‘the father said to his servants, “Bring quickly the best robe, and put it on him”’ (Luke 15:22). The picturesque metaphors of the Revelation say of the redeemed: They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. ‘Therefore they are before the throne of God.’ (Rev 7:14–15) And this same age-long symbolic gesture and metaphor, translated into the straightforward theological language of the New Testament reads like this: God was in Christ, reconciling the world unto himself, not reckoning unto them their trespasses . . . him who knew no sin he made to be sin on our behalf, that we might become the righteousness of God in him. (2 Cor 5:19, 21 rv) For as by the one man’s disobedience the many were made sinners, so by the one man’s obedience the many will be made righteous. (Rom 5:19) This, then, in any generation is the first stage of redemption.1 The Christian gospel does not pretend that upon believing in Christ we shall never thereafter suffer any more pain, distress, sickness or death. Far from it. But it does affirm that God stands waiting to put into effect, for any who will, the first stage of redemption here and now: that is, personal reconciliation and peace with God, and the certainty that God will never reject us, because in Christ God is for us: If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things? Who shall bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus is the one who died—more than that, who was raised—who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us. (Rom 8:31–34)

Welcome to Holland.” Written by Emily Perl Kingsley, the parent of a child with Down syndrome, it’s about the experience of having your life’s expectations turned upside down: When you’re going to have a baby, it’s like planning a fabulous vacation trip—to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It’s all very exciting. After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The flight attendant comes in and says, “Welcome to Holland.” “Holland?!?” you say. “What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I’m supposed to be in Italy. All my life I’ve dreamed of going to Italy.” But there’s been a change in the flight plan. They’ve landed in Holland and there you must stay. The important thing is that they haven’t taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It’s just a different place. So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met. It’s just a different place. It’s slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you’ve been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around . . . and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills . . . and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts. But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy . . . and they’re all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say “Yes, that’s where I was supposed to go. That’s what I had planned.” And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away . . . because the loss of that dream is a very, very significant loss. But . . . if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn’t get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things . . . about Holland.

Sorry, I am not one of those you mentioned; I didn't initiate sending messages; you did that. Your way of language does not fall under soberness or literary sweetness. However, I know how to deal with that and face such ones. I do not focus on others' character; I try to correct my character and mind my language.

An orange cat scurried out from under the bed and proceeded to snake around my ankles, purring loudly. One eye rested shut, as if it were krazy-glued to a close, and her fur was mottled. Marianne scooped her up. "Sac à puces," (Fleabag), she said. "This stray is a devious one, always sneaking into the apartments. I don't know how she gets in. I'll have to warn Claude to stop feeding her tuna." I scratched under the cat's chin, staring into her good eye---a kaleidoscope of greens and yellows. "She's sweet," I said. "She's filthy," said Marianne, tucking the cat under her arm.

Montreal November 1704 Temperature 34 degrees “Girl! English, eh? What is your name? Indians stole you, eh? I’ll send news to your people.” His excellent speech meant that he did a lot of trading with the English. It meant, Mercy prayed, that he liked the English. She found her tongue. “Will you take me to France, sir? Or anywhere at all? Wherever you are going--I can pay.” He raised his eyebrows. “You do not belong to an Indian?” She flushed and knew her red cheeks gave their own answer, but rather than speaking, she held out the cross. The sun was bright and the gemstones even brighter. The man sucked in his breath. He leaned very close to her to examine the cross. “Yes,” he said. “It is worth much.” He straightened up slowly, his eyes traveling from her waist to her breast to her throat to her hair. The other sailors also straightened, and they too left their work, drawn by the glittering cross. “So you want to sail with me, girl?” He stroked her cheek. His nails were yellow and thick like shingles, and filthy underneath. He twined her hair into a hank, circling it tighter and tighter, as if to scalp. “You are the jewel,” he said. “Come. I get a comb and fix this hair.” The other sailors slouched over. They pressed against her and she could not retreat. He continued to hold her by the hair, as if she were a rabbit to be skinned. She could see neither river nor sky, only the fierce grins of sailors leaning down. “Eh bien,” said the Frenchman, returning to his own tongue. “This little girl begs to sail with us,” he told his men. “What do you say, boys?” He began laughing. “Where should she sleep? What am I bid?” She did not have enough French to get every word, but it was the same in any language. The sailors laughed raucously. Indians had strong taboos about women. Men would not be with their women if they were going hunting or having important meetings, and certainly not when going off to war. She had never heard of an Indian man forcing himself on a woman. But these were not Indians. She let the cross fall on its chain and pushed the Frenchman away, but he caught both her wrists easily in his free hand and stretched her out by the wrists as well as by the hair. Tannhahorens pricked the white man’s hand with the tip of his scalping knife. White men loading barrels stood still. White sailors on deck ceased to move. White passersby froze where they walked. The bearded Frenchman drew back, holding his hands up in surrender. A little blood ran down his arm. “Of course,” he said, nodding. “She’s yours. I see.” The sailors edged away. Behind them now, Mercy could see two pirogues of Indians drifting by the floating dock. They looked like Sauk from the west. They were standing up in the deep wells of their sturdy boats, shifting their weapons to catch the sun. Tannhahorens did not look at Mercy. The tip of his knife advanced and the Frenchman backed away from it. He was a very strong man, possibly stronger than Tannhahorens. But behind Tannhahorens were twenty heavily armed braves. The Frenchman kept backing and Tannhahorens kept pressing. No sailor dared move a muscle, not outnumbered as they were. The Sauk let out a hideous wailing war cry. Mercy shuddered with the memory of other war cries. Even more terrified, all the French took another step back--and three of them fell into the St. Lawrence River. The Sauk burst into wild laughter. The voyageurs hooted and booed. The sailors threw ropes to their floundering comrades, because only Indians knew how to swim.

See, that’s what I want more of. A little spunk!" "Fuck off!" I yell, shocking myself with my vulgar language. "Ooh, yes, carry on, you filthy-mouthed bitch!" I gasp and swing around, finding him grinning from ear to ear. "Wanker." "Cow." "Tosser." He grins some more. "Dog." "Shirt-lifter," I retort. "Tart." I recoil, horrified. "I am not a tart!

When they reached the river, he turned left. “Tohobt Pah-e-hona, Blue Water River. You call it the Brazos, eh?” He pointed ahead of them. “Pah-gat-su, upstream.” Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, he said, “Te-naw, downstream. You will listen good, Blue Eyes, and learn. Tosi tivo talk is dirt in my mouth.” His tone set Loretta off balance. Dirt in his mouth? If he hated the whites so much, why on earth had he taken her? Upstream, downstream, she couldn’t remember the words. She didn’t want to. The language of murderers. All she wanted was to be free of the whole filthy lot of them. Another rock jabbed her insole, and she winced, missing a step. He released her elbow and swept her off her feet into his arms. He took her so much by surprise that if she could have screamed, she would have. Their eyes locked, his mocking, hers wide. Though he now bore Loretta’s weight, her position was such that her back was in danger of breaking if she didn’t loop an arm around his neck. He stood there, looking down at her and waiting. Her mouth went dry. She wished he would just toss her over his shoulder again and be done with it. Being carried like a sack of grain wasn’t very dignified, but at least that way she didn’t have to cling to him. That determined glint she was coming to know too well crept into his eyes. He gave her a little toss, not enough to drop her, but enough to give her a start. Instinctively she hooked an arm around his neck. His lips slanted into a satisfied grin, a grin that said as clearly as if he had spoken that he would have the last word, always. He started walking again. The firm cords of muscle that ran down from his neck undulated beneath her fingers, his warm skin as smooth as fine-grained leather. His hair, silken and heavy, brushed against her knuckles. Beneath her wrist she could feel the crusty cut on his shoulder from Aunt Rachel’s bullet. Remembering the wound he had inflicted on his arm last night, she wondered just how many scars he had. Strangely, the longer she was around him, the less she noticed the slash on his cheek. His was the kind of face that suffered imperfections well, features chiseled, skin weathered to a tough, burnished brown, as rugged as the sharp-cut canyons and endless plains from whence he’d sprung.

In Banaras, Gandhi made four fundamental claims about how Indians should conduct their affairs. First, Gandhi argued in favour of instruction in the mother tongue. English, the foreign language imposed on India, should have no place in education or public affairs; Second, Gandhi pointed to the sharp inequalities between different groups in India. He contrasted the luxuriant lifestyles of the maharajas with the desperate poverty of the majority of Indians. That is why he asked the princes to cast off their jewels, and told the students that they must acquaint themselves with the living conditions of peasants, artisans and labourers; Third, he asked that officials of the state identify more closely with those they governed over. He deplored the arrogance of the elite Indian Civil Service (ICS), whose officers saw themselves as members of a ruling caste rather than as servants of the people; Finally, Gandhi asked for a more critical attitude towards religious orthodoxy. The Kashi Vishwanath was the most famous temple in all of Banaras. Why then was it so filthy? If Indians were incapable of maintaining even their places of worship, how then could they justify their claims for self-rule?

The apostle Paul tells a new crop of Christians that faith in Jesus means getting rid of anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language and putting on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience.

A Reply to Someone Fake and Filthy-minded Sorry, I am not one of those you mentioned; I didn't initiate sending messages; you did that. Your way of language does not fall under soberness or literary sweetness. However, I know to deal with that and face such ones. I do not focus on others' character; I try to correct my character and mind my language.

A Reply to Someone Fake and Filthy-minded Sorry, I am not one of those you mentioned; I didn't initiate sending messages; you did that. Your way of language does not fall under soberness or literary sweetness. However, I know how to deal with that and face such ones. I do not focus on others' character; I try to correct my character and mind my language.

He gave up quickly trying to attune the experience to a language construct, as if life were an especially filthy mirror and speechless love cleansed this mirror and made life not only bearable but something lived with eagerness, energy, an expectancy whose pleasure didn’t depend on fatality.

Anger itself is not a sin but what you do with it can lead to sin. “Be angry and do not sin” (Ephesians 4:26 esv). Anger can propel you to action—to correct an injustice. “He [Jesus] looked around at them angrily and was deeply saddened by their hard hearts. Then he said to the man, ‘Hold out your hand.’ So the man held out his hand, and it was restored!” (Mark 3:5 nlt). Anger can be learned behavior, so be careful who you choose as friends. “Do not make friends with a hot-tempered person, do not associate with one easily angered, or you may learn their ways and get yourself ensnared” (Proverbs 22:24–25). Anger can lead to abusive language. “You must also rid yourselves of all such things as these: anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language from your lips” (Colossians 3:8). Anger can lead to fighting. “An angry person starts fights; a hot-tempered person commits all kinds of sin” (Proverbs 29:22 nlt). God wants you to be slow to anger. “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires” (James 1:19–20). God wants you to refrain from anger. “Refrain from anger and turn from wrath; do not fret—it leads only to evil” (Psalm 37:8). God wants you to deal with your anger quickly. “Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry” (Ephesians 4:26). God wants you to free yourself from anger. “Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice” (Ephesians 4:31). God wants you to talk to Him about your anger. “In my distress I prayed to the Lord, and the Lord answered me and set me free” (Psalm 118:5 nlt). God wants you to be saved through faith in Christ so you do not experience His anger. “God did not appoint us to suffer wrath but to receive salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Thessalonians 5:9).

Śrīla Guru Mahārāj once gave a lecture in the library of Dhanbad before a gathering of many highly qualified paṇḍits and wealthy persons. He started his lecture with this verse. He explained that people think religion is found in books and that those books are written in particular languages, but that religion does not actually come from books or languages: religion is communicated through the transcendental language of heart transaction. All religion presented in scriptures is first revealed in the hearts of ṛṣis, munis, and sādhus. After it appears in their hearts it is transmitted forward from heart to heart, and it later may take the form of books. So what can we say about religion? How much can we understand it? It is a matter of the heart. How can we feel the beauty and understand the glory of religion if our hearts are presently as filthy as a dustbin? Because our hearts are impure we must try to understand religion from a clean-hearted sādhu. (p. 42)

Śrīla Guru Mahārāj once gave a lecture in the library of Dhanbad before a gathering of many highly qualified paṇḍits and wealthy persons. He started his lecture with this verse. He explained that people think religion is found in books and that those books are written in particular languages, but that religion does not actually come from books or languages: religion is communicated through the transcendental language of heart transaction. All religion presented in scriptures is first revealed in the hearts of ṛṣis, munis, and sādhus. After it appears in their hearts it is transmitted forward from heart to heart, and it later may take the form of books. So what can we say about religion? How much can we understand it? It is a matter of the heart. How can we feel the beauty and understand the glory of religion if our hearts are presently as filthy as a dustbin? Because our hearts are impure we must try to understand religion from a cleanhearted sādhu. […] One who has no desire for selfish enjoyment, who wants to give rather than take, who is always engaged twenty-four hours a day in serving the desires of the divine Lord, he is a sādhu. He alone is a truly peaceful, perfect gentleman. Real religion is the beauty that appears within the heart of such a sādhu, the transcendental feeling revealed in such a sādhu’s heart through his life of service. Whatever advice and instruction such a sādhu expresses is true religious instruction and can never be harmful to anyone. If we will receive a heart transmission from that type of sādhu and follow his guidance, we must feel the benefit of a truly religious life and come to understand the universal religion of all souls (jaiva-dharma).

Such a charge is worthy of a philosopher, to allow no dirt on oneself, to tolerate no filthiness or stink on any part of the exposed body, especially around the mouth, which man uses so frequently and in plain view, whether giving a kiss, or holding discourse, speaking in public, or praying in a temple. In fact, all men’s actions are preceded by words, which, as the supreme poet [Homer] says, pass through the wall of our teeth. Now imagine someone with such a high command of language: in his own words he’d say along with the most authoritative men that those who take care in their speech must protect their mouths above all other parts of the body, since the mouth is the antechamber of the soul, the doorway to speech, and a gathering place for thoughts. I for my own part can say with certainty that there’s nothing less seemly for a freeborn and free-minded man than an unclean mouth. Indeed, the mouth occupies a high position on the human body, is the first thing one sees, and is a vehicle for eloquence. You’ll notice that the mouths of wild beasts and animals are positioned low and face the ground, down by their hooves, among grass and footprints, never to be seen except at death or when they’re driven to bite. With a silent man, however, it’s the first thing you notice, and there’s nothing you notice more when he starts to speak.

Holy shit, there's a decapitated cat in my bed, there's blood all over the place. What the fuck do you want? Excuse you, mind your language. Do you talk to your whore of a mother with a filthy mouth like that? The cat is a delicate reminder, is all.

Last winter, in a fit of attentive parenting, Betheen had demanded that Nedda clean up her language. To do it properly, Nedda wanted to know every single forbidden word and derivation. The shelf by her bed began accumulating lists of every cuss she encountered, and her mother's reaction to them. Gradually the project became less about documentation and more about the evolution of swearing. When she'd exhausted standard swears and their traditional permutations, she invented new ones, compound swears, swears that were only swears on certain occasions, and swears for things most people didn't understand were awful. A stack of pages grew, list after list of a filthy, silent scream. So when Nedda called Jimmy La Morte a cunt, it was based on long hours of copious research.

He had changed. And not for the good. He was using strong language - filthy in her estimation - and had become totally immersed in the restoration of the motorcycle.

GOD, the Master, says: 5-6 “‘On the day I chose Israel, I revealed myself to them in the country of Egypt, raising my hand in a solemn oath to the people of Jacob, in which I said, “I am GOD, your personal God.” On the same day that I raised my hand in the solemn oath, I promised them that I would take them out of the country of Egypt and bring them into a country that I had searched out just for them, a country flowing with milk and honey, a jewel of a country. 7 “‘At that time I told them, “Get rid of all the vile things that you’ve become addicted to. Don’t make yourselves filthy with the Egyptian no-god idols. I alone am GOD, your God.” 8-10 “‘But they rebelled against me, wouldn’t listen to a word I said. None got rid of the vile things they were addicted to. They held on to the no-gods of Egypt as if for dear life.

Heaven would at once cease to be heaven if the ears of the saints still heard the blasphemous and filthy language of the reprobate.

I’m sorry,” he said. She was ready to accept his apology, but then he continued. “Sorry that you think language and culture create deeper ties than the common journeys our ancestors made across the Atlantic, crammed into the filthy holds of ships. That’s a language, too. If you can’t speak it yet, then you are lucky. If you refuse to learn it, then you have no business with the Loyal League.

MERE TOLERANCE, SAID G. K. Chesterton, “is the virtue of men who no longer believe in anything.” But our new faith is tolerant only about what it considers inconsequential: sex, pornography, filthy language, boorish manners, slovenly dress, and obscene art. It has no tolerance for those who defy its secularist dogmas.

Then came the aqua-eyed sailors from Meros, whose filthy language and irreverent demeanor won me over instantly. They gifted me with a compass they claimed would point toward whatever my heart desired most.