Fine Print Quotes

Do you know the difference between education and experience? Education is when you read the fine print; experience is what you get when you don't.

Warning: If you are reading this then this warning is for you. Every word you read of this useless fine print is another second off your life. Don't you have other things to do? Is your life so empty that you honestly can't think of a better way to spend these moments? Or are you so impressed with authority that you give respect and credence to all that claim it? Do you read everything you're supposed to read? Do you think every thing you're supposed to think? Buy what you're told to want? Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Stop the excessive shopping and masturbation. Quit your job. Start a fight. Prove you're alive. If you don't claim your humanity you will become a statistic. You have been warned.

Love with all your heart and show kindness in all your actions.

To the girls who dream of meeting a prince but end up falling for the misunderstood villain.

how can we appreciate the sun every morning if we don’t live through the dark?

Life's too short to hide who you are because you're afraid of getting hurt.

If I had a heart to give, it would be all yours. Free of cost.

Zahra’s it for me. I know it with everything in me, and my intuition has never been wrong before. There’s nothing in the world I’ll find more beautiful than her. Not the sun. Not the moon. Not even the entire galaxy compares to the light she radiates wherever she goes.

That’s why you always check the fine print.

You know how the saying goes. Act like a dick, lose said dick.

In the beginning, some people try to appear that everything about them is "in black and white," until later their true colors come out.

Also she signed away the right to self-destruct years ago. The fine print on the birth certificate, her friend calls it.

You better have a massive dick to back up that attitude or else people will be mighty disappointed.

You like me," I blurt out. "No. I tolerate you more than most people. That's why I want to date you,

I’ll never stop being greedy when it comes to Zahra. She will always be the exception to any rule and the one person I’m willing to screw the world over for. Because if she’s not happy, I’ll ruin whatever stole her smile, myself included.

There are times when a feeling of expectancy comes to me, as if something is there, beneath the surface of my understanding, waiting for me to grasp it. It is the same tantalizing sensation when you almost remember a name, but don't quite reach it. I can feel it when I think of human beings, of the hints of evolution suggested by the removal of wisdom teeth, the narrowing of the jaw no longer needed to chew such roughage as it was accustomed to; the gradual disappearance of hair from the human body; the adjustment of the human eye to the fine print, the swift, colored motion of the twentieth century. The feeling comes, vague and nebulous, when I consider the prolonged adolesence of our species; the rites of birth, marriage and death; all the primitive, barbaric ceremonies streamlined to modern times. Almost, I think, the unreasoning, bestial purity was best. Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I'll laugh. And then I'll know what life is.

It’s like she shits sprinkles and consumes rainbows for sustenance.

You’ll learn that the best rewards come with the biggest consequences. Because nothing that great is given for free.

I'm not sure what I did right in my life to deserve your love, but I'll stop at nothing to protect it.

You better have a massive dick to back up that attitude or else people will be mighty disappointed.”  “Care to bring out a ruler and test your theory?”  “I left my magnifying glass at home, so maybe tomorrow.

Bloom even when the sun doesn't shine.

One man’s accident is another man’s fate.

Nothing in fine print is ever good news.

If you want to play with fire, then prepare to be cremated.

I laid on the fake tears and he broke down quicker than a McDonald’s ice cream machine.

Education is what you get when you read the fine print. Experience is what you get if you don't.

A kiss for a secret.”  “I’ve never heard of this game.” I smirk.  “That’s because it’s exclusively ours.

There was nothing to tempt me from the choice of desserts, so I opted instead for a coffee, which was bitter and lukewarm. Naturally, I had been about to pour it all over myself but, just in time, had read the warning printed on the paper cup, alerting me to the fact that hot liquids can cause injury. A lucky escape, Eleanor! I said to myself, laughing quietly. I began to suspect that Mr. McDonald was a very foolish man indeed, although, judging from the undiminished queue, a wealthy one.

I thought you didn’t care?”  “Hmm. Maybe I found some fucks to give after all.

Kissing Zahra is like reaching Heaven after an eternity spent in purgatory. Like I’ve spent most of my life hopelessly ambling around, waiting for her to show me the way back to the light. She’s divine with enough wickedness to make a sinner like me want to pray in devotion.

If you don’t believe in yourself, no one will.

She feels perfect in my arms, and I’m tempted to keep her tucked beside me where I can protect her from all the darkness in the world, including myself.

Like a diamond built under pressure, with flaws that make us stunning.

We don’t seek to make the world better. We seek to make the world ours.

It's part of the marriage vows. Didn't you read the fine print? To have and to harass.

There is no fine print in Thou shall not kill" Lysander to Santino

I turned a rich god into a beggar.

He’s the Devil, Zahra. Well, that explains why Eve fell for his tricks. If the Devil looked half as good as Rowan, I’d eat the damn apple, too. Screw the consequences.

Your file never mentioned an issue with talking back to authority figures.”  I perk up. “You’ve been reading up on me.”  “I tend to research my investments.

We see a promise as a personal law, and we see the people who break them as private-life criminals. We think it automatically, one of those truths that just is to us: breaking a promise is a bad, bad thing. A promise can be as buoyant as whispered words or solemn as a marriage vow, but we view it as something pure and untouchable when it should never be either of those things. If a promise is a personal law, a contract, then it ought to be layered with fine print, rules and conditions, promises within those promises, and whether we like it or not, it ought to be something we can snatch back, that we should snatch back, if those rules are violated.

One second he’s scowling at me and the next his lips are slamming into mine.

The white feminist becomes the CEO. The black feminist becomes the exiled rebel. The white feminist speaks about teaching literacy like i should thank her, hold her hand, kiss her for teaching children of darker skin. The black feminist should be grateful. The black feminist wears her natural hair, she is called ‘too rebellious’. The white feminist cuts her hair, she is brave. The white feminist gets featured on TIME. The black feminist is the fine print.

My little knights, Love with all your heart and show kindness in all your actions.

We aren’t an investment, my feminist brain calls out. But the big grumpy man spends his time researching me, the hopeless romantic calls out in rebuttal.

Ivanov's fear was of a literary nature. That is, it was the fear that afflicts most citizens who, one fine (or dark) day, choose to make the practice of writing, and especially the practice of fiction writing, an integral part of their lives. Fear of being no good. Also fear of being overlooked. But above all, fear of being no good. Fear that one's efforts and striving will come to nothing. Fear of the step that leaves no trace. Fear of the forces of chance and nature that wipe away shallow prints. Fear of dining alone and unnoticed. Fear of going unrecognized. Fear of failure and making a spectacle of oneself. But above all, fear of being no good. Fear of forever dwelling in the hell of bad writers.

Because if she’s not happy, I’ll ruin whatever stole her smile, myself included.

Love does make people helpless, but only because they willingly accept it. Because to love someone else means to trust them enough to not abuse the power they have over you.

You are so much more than you let on—but in a way that makes you priceless.

You’re comparing yourself to the fictional characters she loves now? You’re fucked. Absolutely fucked.

The big print giveth and the fine print taketh away.

We need to push each other out of our comfort zones. Because if you’re not afraid, then you are not growing

I’ll dream big enough for the two of us.

I want to see myself like she sees me. Because in her eyes, I don’t feel like I’m a man carrying an entire mountain of expectations on my shoulders. I’m just Rowan, the kind of guy who sits on a floor in a pair of expensive slacks, eating takeout from a carton and loving every second of it.

The economics we need is of the "seminar room" variety, not the "rule-of-thumb" kind. It is an economics that recognizes its limitations and caveats and knows that the right message depends on the context. The fine print is what economists have to contribute.

It was all part of a way of doing things in the United States that, as I would gradually realize, forced you to be constantly on guard, constantly worried that whatever amount of money you had or earned would never be enough, and constantly anxious about navigating the complex and mysterious fine print thrown at you from every direction by corporations that had somehow managed to evade even the bare minimum of sensible protections for consumers.

Now that I have you, I’ll never let you go.

You represent everything I dislike in someone.

Corporations have grown so powerful that they have inverted the Roman equation: rather than corporations existing to serve the state, the state serves them.

You’re so stunning that it hurts to stare at you for long periods of time.

A small part of me rejoices in the fact that she doesn’t offer him a smile. Those are all mine, fuck him very much.

He's my dark storm cloud in the middle of a drought-an underappreciated beauty that makes me feel equally alive as the sun or the stars.

To put it another way, every love relationship is based upon unwritten conventions rashly agreed upon by the lovers during the first weeks of their love. On the one hand, they are living a sort of dream; on the other, without realizing it, they are drawing up the fine print of their contracts like the most hard-nosed of lawyers. O lovers! Be wary during those perilous first days! If you serve the other party breakfast in bed, you will be obliged to continue same in perpetuity or face charges of animosity and treason!

But I want to risk falling in love anyway in the hopes that we create something beautiful together. Like a diamond built under pressure, with flaws that make us stunning. I want that kind of love with Rowan. The one that is as passionate as a wildfire and as long-lasting as a gem.

Maybe one day you’ll be open to the idea of showing the world the real you, rather than hiding behind your mask of indifference. Life’s too short to hide who you are because you’re afraid of getting hurt.

What if jerks are my kink?  Well, at least it explains your unhealthy obsession with Mr. Darcy.

You are so much more than you let on—but in a way that makes you priceless.

Something shifts between us. His eyes darken as they assess me. I’m not sure if he wants to choke me, fire me, or fuck me into submission.

What kind of person is so lonely, they wold willingly text someone with a pseudonym? The one desperate to be loved back.

He might not be searching for love but maybe he’s looking to heal.

Because to be loved by him is to be cherished and protected unconditionally, and in a world like ours, it’s a gift. One I never knew I needed but can’t imagine living without.

Because to love someone else means to trust them enough to not abuse the power they have over you.

Long walks are off, and alas, bathing in the sea; fillet steaks and apples and raw blackberries (teeth difficulties) and reading fine print. But there is a great deal left. Operas and concerts, and reading, and the enormous pleasure of dropping into bed and going to sleep, and dreams of every variety. Almost best of all, sitting in the sun--gently drowsing and there you are again--remembering. I remember, I remember, the house where I was born....

A liar is a liar, no matter what excuse they have.

There’s nothing in the world I’ll find more beautiful than her. Not the sun. Not the moon. Not even the entire galaxy compares to the light she radiates wherever she goes.

There’s nothing I enjoy more than people being called out on their bullshit.

How can we appreciate the sun every morning if we don't live through the dark?

That’s okay. I’ll dream big enough for the two of us.

You don’t want me to help you with that problem?”  “Take a man out to dinner first.”  “Does my pussy count?”  “Fuck.

Forget sparks. Together, we're a raging inferno so blistering, I'm scared that I'll burst into flames if I touch him.

He wraps his arms around me and kisses my head. “You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me. Thank you for giving me the chance to be the dad I never had but always wanted.

It’s like she shits sprinkles and consumes rainbows for sustenance. I’m not sure what kind of fairy tale forest she was raised in, but no one can be this optimistic about everything.

Like all canned food, love has an expiration date, a price tag, and a warning label. In order to love, you need to check the price tag to see if you have enough money in your wallet, observe the warnings given in fine print, and finish matters before the expiration date. Only then is it a smooth process for everyone.

Sloan & Dex... “You skipped puberty didn’t you?” Dex let out a wistful sigh. “It wasn’t for me.” Sloane laughed as he carried Dex out of the room. “You’re hopeless.” “I’m also nonrefundable.” “Surely there’s a return policy.” “Forget it. You’re way past the thirty-day refund period. You’re stuck with me now. And before you ask, I’m also nontransferable and nonexchangeable. If you donate me to charity there’s no tax write-off because technically that would be considered Human trafficking.” “Wow. You’ve got your bases covered.” “You bet. Should have paid more attention to the Dexter J. Daley boyfriend agreement.” Sloane dropped him onto the counter and stepped between his legs to pull him close. “I don’t recall this boyfriend agreement.” “You might have been sleeping at the time, but sleep during the reading of the DJDBA is covered in the fine print. As long as you have a pulse, you’re considered present and accounted for.” “Duly noted.

A fine layer of ash had blown into the carport, showing a single set of cat prints going from the side of the house to the cat hatch built into my door. People in Minnesota see things like this with snow.

The greatest threat to Christ-centered witness even in churches that formally affirm sound teaching is what British evangelical David Gibson calls ‘the assumed gospel.’ The idea is that the gospel is necessary for getting saved, but after we sign on, the rest of the Christian life is all the fine print: conditional forgiveness.

The Bible isn’t a cookbook—deviate from the recipe and the soufflé falls flat. It’s not an owner’s manual—with detailed and complicated step-by-step instructions for using your brand-new all-in-one photocopier/FAX machine/scanner/microwave/DVR/home security system. It’s not a legal contract—make sure you read the fine print and follow every word or get ready to be cast into the dungeon. It’s not a manual of assembly—leave out a few bolts and the entire jungle gym collapses on your three-year-old.

A number of small decisions, each appearing insignificant in the moment and made in isolation of one another, can result in a negative outcome.

So what, you only believe in fate when things go your way? That sounds like some bullshit logic to me.

Honestly, what does it take for someone like him to smile? Stealing candy from babies? Blood sacrifices? Watching live feeds of families having their homes foreclosed on? I need to know.

From a shamanic perspective, the psychic blockade that prevents otherwise intelligent adults from considering the future of our world - our obvious lack of future, if we continue on our present path - reveals an occult dimension. It is like a programming error written into the software designed for the modern mind, which has endless energy to spend on the trivial and treacly, sports statistic or shoe sale, but no time to spare for the torments of the Third World, for the mass extinction of species to perpetuate a way of life without a future, for the imminent exhaustion of fossil fuel reserves, or for the fine print of the Patriot Act. This psychic blockade is reinforced by a vast propaganda machine spewing out crude as well as sophisticated distractions, encouraging individuals to see themselves as alienated spectators of their culture, rather than active participants in a planetary ecology.

Truth is, I’m terrified of falling in love. But I’d rather trust you with my heart and risk you breaking it than live another day without you in my life. I want to be the kind of man that deserves a woman as beautiful, selfless, and kind as you. It might take my entire life to achieve that kind of goal, but as long as you’re by my side, I’d consider it a life worth living.

In the two years after No Logo came out, I went to dozens of teach-ins and conferences, some of them attended by thousands of people (tens of thousands in the case of the World Social Forum), that were exclusively devoted to popular education about the inner workings of global finance and trade. No topic was too arcane: the science of genetically modified foods, trade-related intellectual property rights, the fine print of bilateral trade deals, the patenting of seeds, the truth about certain carbon sinks. I sensed in these rooms a hunger for knowledge that I have never witnessed in any university class. It was as if people understood, all at once, that gathering this knowledge was crucial to the survival not just of democracy but of the planet. Yes, this was complicated, but we embraced that complexity because we were finally looking at systems, not just symbols.

Above his head at street level, he saw an angled aileron of a scarlet Porsche, its jaunty fin more or less at the upper edge of his window frame. A pair of very soft, clean glistening black shoes appeared, followed by impeccably creased matt charcoal pinstriped light woollen legs, followed by the beautifully cut lower hem of a jacket, its black vent revealing a scarlet silk lining, its open front revealing a flat muscular stomach under a finely-striped red and white shirt. Val’s legs followed, in powder-blue stockings and saxe-blue shoes, under the limp hem of a crêpey mustard-coloured dress, printed with blue moony flowers. The four feet advanced and retreated, retreated and advanced, the male feet insisting towards the basement stairs, the female feet resisting, parrying. Roland opened the door and went into the area, fired mostly by what always got him, pure curiosity as to what the top half looked like.

I wish I could believe you. I really do. But I’m tired of giving people all the chances in the world, only for them to realize I’m not worth it in the end. Because I am, and no one is going to convince me otherwise anymore. Not even you. I don’t want to be used for entertainment while passing the time, just like I don’t want to be labeled as some mistake.

This is the gift of focus, or wilful denial, and it is something boys are particularly good at. Girls—at least where I grew up—tend to be more emotionally balanced and sane, and therefore find the kind of all-excluding concentration you need to care about dinosaurs, taxonomy, philately and geopolitical schemes a bit worrying and sad. Girls can grasp the bigger picture (i.e., it might be better not to destroy the world over this), where boys have a perfect grip on the fine print (i.e., this insidious idea is antithetical to our existence and cannot be allowed to flourish alongside our peace-loving, free society). Note carefully how it is probably better to let the girls deal with weapons of mass destruction.

And somehow or other, the windows being open, and the book held so that it rested upon a background of escallonia hedges and distant blue, instead of being a book it seemed as if what I read was laid upon the landscape not printed, bound, or sewn up, but somehow the product of trees and fields and the hot summer sky, like the air which swam, on fine mornings, round the outline of things.

The theory goes that governmental agencies don't accidentally make accessing information or resources difficult. They do this shit on purpose. The forms are confusing, and the record keeping is ass-backward because it reflects a policy choice. A decision has been made to repel the average citizen from gaining certain knowledge or opportunities. When most people encounter the seemingly arbitrary and capricious workings of, for instance, the IRS or the DMV, they accept it because they've been trained to assume that the government is run by half-wits. They yell at the lowly staffer in front of them, then sulk away and comply with the absurd rules or give up. Yet what the vast majority of citizens see as mistakes are the result of calculated design. Some high-level political functionary stipulated that the form must be completed in triplicate. A few billionaire donors drafted the fine print that disqualifies the neediest from touching the bounty. These are very smart motherfuckers. To think otherwise plays into their hands.

IT IS WITH OUR FACES that we face the world, from the moment of birth to the moment of death. Our age and our sex are printed on our faces. Our emotions, the open and instinctive emotions which Darwin wrote about, as well as the hidden or repressed ones which Freud wrote about, are displayed on our faces, along with our thoughts and intentions. Though we may admire arms and legs, breasts and buttocks, it is the face, first and last, which is judged “beautiful” in an aesthetic sense, “fine” or “distinguished” in a moral or intellectual sense. And, crucially, it is by our faces that we can be recognized as individuals. Our faces bear the stamp of our experiences and character; at forty, it is said, a man has the face he deserves. At

Thus to him, to this school-boy under the bending dome of day, is suggested, that he and it proceed from one root; one is leaf and one is flower; relation, sympathy, stirring in every vein. And what is that Root? Is not that the soul of his soul?―A thought too bold,―a dream too wild. Yet when this spiritual light shall have revealed the law of more earthly natures,―when he has learned to worship the soul, and to see that the natural philosophy that now is, is only the first gropings of its gigantic hand, he shall look forward to an ever expanding knowledge as to a becoming creator. He shall see, that nature is the opposite of the soul, answering to it part for part. One is seal, and one is print. Its beauty is the beauty of his own mind. Its laws are the laws of his own mind. Nature then becomes to him the measure of his attainments. So much of nature as he is ignorant of, so much of his own mind does he not yet possess. And, in fine, the ancient precept, "Know thyself," and the modern precept, "Study nature," become at last one maxim.

He couldn’t have known it, but among the original run of The History of Love, at least one copy was destined to change a life. This particular book was one of the last of the two thousand to be printed, and sat for longer than the rest in a warehouse in the outskirts of Santiago, absorbing the humidity. From there it was finally sent to a bookstore in Buenos Aires. The careless owner hardly noticed it, and for some years it languished on the shelves, acquiring a pattern of mildew across the cover. It was a slim volume, and its position on the shelf wasn’t exactly prime: crowded on the left by an overweight biography of a minor actress, and on the right by the once-bestselling novel of an author that everyone had since forgotten, it hardly left its spine visible to even the most rigorous browser. When the store changed owners it fell victim to a massive clearance, and was trucked off to another warehouse, foul, dingy, crawling with daddy longlegs, where it remained in the dark and damp before finally being sent to a small secondhand bookstore not far from the home of the writer Jorge Luis Borges. The owner took her time unpacking the books she’d bought cheaply and in bulk from the warehouse. One morning, going through the boxes, she discovered the mildewed copy of The History of Love. She’d never heard of it, but the title caught her eye. She put it aside, and during a slow hour in the shop she read the opening chapter, called 'The Age of Silence.' The owner of the secondhand bookstore lowered the volume of the radio. She flipped to the back flap of the book to find out more about the author, but all it said was that Zvi Litvinoff had been born in Poland and moved to Chile in 1941, where he still lived today. There was no photograph. That day, in between helping customers, she finished the book. Before locking up the shop that evening, she placed it in the window, a little wistful about having to part with it. The next morning, the first rays of the rising sun fell across the cover of The History of Love. The first of many flies alighted on its jacket. Its mildewed pages began to dry out in the heat as the blue-gray Persian cat who lorded over the shop brushed past it to lay claim to a pool of sunlight. A few hours later, the first of many passersby gave it a cursory glance as they went by the window. The shop owner did not try to push the book on any of her customers. She knew that in the wrong hands such a book could easily be dismissed or, worse, go unread. Instead she let it sit where it was in the hope that the right reader might discover it. And that’s what happened. One afternoon a tall young man saw the book in the window. He came into the shop, picked it up, read a few pages, and brought it to the register. When he spoke to the owner, she couldn’t place his accent. She asked where he was from, curious about the person who was taking the book away. Israel, he told her, explaining that he’d recently finished his time in the army and was traveling around South America for a few months. The owner was about to put the book in a bag, but the young man said he didn’t need one, and slipped it into his backpack. The door chimes were still tinkling as she watched him disappear, his sandals slapping against the hot, bright street. That night, shirtless in his rented room, under a fan lazily pushing around the hot air, the young man opened the book and, in a flourish he had been fine-tuning for years, signed his name: David Singer. Filled with restlessness and longing, he began to read.