Flagstaff Quotes

No matter how old I get, I keep running into people who are smarter, nobler, and kinder. I really ought to start listening to them and telling my pride to shut up. I had gods tell me not to go to Asgard. I had witches tell me not to go to Flagstaff. You told me this plan wouldn't work. But I barreled ahead anyway for my own reasons. I still have plenty of growing to do.

The facts of life are simple and trivial. Only our imagination gives life to them. It makes the laundry pole of facts a flagstaff of dreams.

One of the happiest days of my life was when my mother wrote a note to the public librarians saying 'Let her check out anything she wants'...I'd read everything we had at home by the time I was ten. So I read my way through the Flagstaff Public Library.

There was probably not a knight of all the Round Table combination who would not rather have died than been caught carrying such a thing as that on his flagstaff.  And yet there could not be anything more sensible.  It had been my intention to smuggle a couple of sandwiches into my helmet, but I was interrupted in the act, and had to make an excuse and lay them aside, and a dog got them.

And it was, as Dougal explained, convenient to the pillory, a homely wooden contraption that stood on a small stone plinth in the center of the square, adjacent to the wooden stake used—with thrifty economy of purpose—as whipping post, maypole, flagstaff and horse tether, depending upon requirements.

Before us, the moonlight lay upon the tumbled desolation of sand that had once been the brilliant capital of a pharaoh. For a moment I had a vision; I seemed to see the ruined walls rise up again, the stately villas in their green groves and gardens, the white walls of the temples, adorned with brilliantly painted reliefs, the flash of gold-tipped flagstaffs, with crimson pennants flying the breeze. The wide, tree-lined avenues were filled with a laughing throng of white-clad worshipers, going to the temple, and before them all raced the golden chariot of the king, drawn by matched pair of snow-white horses…. Gone. All gone, into the dust to which we must all descend when our hour comes. “Well?

According to Robert S. Rosenberg, medical director of the Sleep Disorders Centers of Prescott Valley and Flagstaff, Arizona, “When you hit the snooze button repeatedly, you’re doing two negative things to yourself. First, you’re fragmenting what little extra sleep you’re getting so it is of poor quality. Second, you’re starting to put yourself through a new sleep cycle that you aren’t giving yourself enough time to finish. This can result in persistent grogginess throughout the day.

According to Robert S. Rosenberg, medical director of the Sleep Disorders Centers of Prescott Valley and Flagstaff, Arizona, "When you hit the snooze button repeatedly, you're doing two negative things to yourself. First, you're fragmenting what little extra sleep you're getting so it is of poor quality. Second, you're starting to put yourself through a new sleep cycle that you aren't giving yourself enough time to finish. This can result in persistent grogginess throughout the day.

Unequipped to hold their own in the ferociously competitive world of White America, in which even the language is foreign to them, the Navajos sink ever deeper into the culture of poverty, exhibiting all of the usual and well-known symptoms: squalor, unemployment or irregular and ill-paid employment, broken families, disease, prostitution, crime, alcoholism, lack of education, too many children, apathy and demoralization, and various forms of mental illness, including evangelical Protestantism. Whether in the favelas of Rio de Janeiro, the barrios of Caracas, the ghettos of Newark, the mining towns of West Virginia or the tarpaper villages of Gallup, Flagstaff and Shiprock, it’s the same the world over—one big wretched family sequestered in sullen desperation, pawed over by social workers, kicked around by the cops and prayed over by the missionaries.

As a resident of the forest, a lover of the outdoors, and an ecologist, I am concerned for our future safety and enjoyment of the San Francisco Peaks. The upcoming years will be challenging. This area’s population has tripled over the last fifty years, a rate exceeding that of the world’s population. This growth, combined with increases in tourism, land use, climate change, consumption, and wildfires, demands attention and action from everyone who cares about the present and future of this special place.

In fact, I had amused myself on the ride to the smithy by imagining an aerial view of the village as a representation of a skeletal forearm and hand; the High Street was the radius, along which lay the shops and businesses and the residences of the more well-to-do. St. Margaret’s Lane was the ulna, a narrower street running parallel with the High, tenanted by smithy, tannery, and the less genteel artisans and businesses. The village square (which, like all village squares I had ever seen, was not square at all, but roughly oblong) formed the carpals and metacarpals of the hand, while the several lanes of cottages made up the phalangeal joints of the fingers. The Duncans’ house stood on the square, as behooved the residence of the procurator fiscal. This was a matter of convenience as well as status; the square could be used for those judicial matters which, by reason of public interest or legal necessity, overflowed the narrow confines of Arthur Duncan’s study. And it was, as Dougal explained, convenient to the pillory, a homely wooden contraption that stood on a small stone plinth in the center of the square, adjacent to the wooden stake used—with thrifty economy of purpose—as whipping post, maypole, flagstaff and horse tether, depending upon requirements.

Like noiseless nautilus shells, their light prows sped through the sea; but only slowly they neared the foe. As they neared him, the ocean grew still more smooth; seemed drawing a carpet over its waves; seemed a noon-meadow, so serenely it spread. At length the breathless hunter came so nigh his seemingly unsuspecting prey, that his entire dazzling hump was distinctly visible, sliding along the sea as if an isolated thing, and continually set in a revolving ring of finest, fleecy, greenish foam. He saw the vast, involved wrinkles of the slightly projecting head beyond. Before it, far out on the soft Turkish-rugged waters, went the glistening white shadow from his broad, milky forehead, a musical rippling playfully accompanying the shade; and behind, the blue waters interchangeably flowed over into the moving valley of his steady wake; and on either hand bright bubbles arose and danced by his side. But these were broken again by the light toes of hundreds of gay fowl softly feathering the sea, alternate with their fitful flight; and like to some flag-staff rising from the painted hull of an argosy, the tall but shattered pole of a recent lance projected from the white whale's back; and at intervals one of the cloud of soft-toed fowls hovering, and to and fro skimming like a canopy over the fish, silently perched and rocked on this pole, the long tail feathers streaming like pennons. A gentle joyousness—a mighty mildness of repose in swiftness, invested the gliding whale. Not the white bull Jupiter swimming away with ravished Europa clinging to his graceful horns; his lovely, leering eyes sideways intent upon the maid; with smooth bewitching fleetness, rippling straight for the nuptial bower in Crete; not Jove, not that great majesty Supreme! did surpass the glorified White Whale as he so divinely swam.

This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says: “In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength, but you would have none of it. You said, ‘No, we will flee on horses.’ Therefore you will flee! You said, ‘We will ride off on swift horses.’ Therefore your pursuers will be swift! . . . till you are left like a flagstaff on a mountaintop, like a banner on a hill.” Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; therefore he will rise up to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for him! (Isa. 30:15–18 NIV)

They ended the call, and Thaddeus turned to Christine. “Don’t say it. I know you’re going to say I’m not ready to go to court yet, that I’m too beat up.” “Why would I saw that?” she asked.

It fell on deaf ears as Donnie was unconscious again. The beatings since being kidnapped from his front yard had taken their toll.

He double checks everything I say. He’ll ask me, ‘Do we need milk?’ I’ll say no. Then he’ll look in the fridge anyhow. Or he’ll ask if the dishes in the dishwasher are clean or dirty. I’ll tell him they’re clean, and he’ll examine them under a light. If I say it’s raining, he’ll look out the window to see if I’m right. He asks what I’m cooking for dinner, but he doesn’t take my word for it. He looks in the pot.” —April, Flagstaff, AZ

Her flagstaff swept down again, strobing like a patriotic nightclub,

Then Rod comes up, his glasses glistening. He doesn't remove them. He starts to sway. Is he high? - "Hello. Are you all listening? I'm glad so many of you are here today, Because as of now you're part of a movement that uses writing as a tool for the improvement of the world! I know that of course it looks like what we do is make great trans books, and we do! You've all read Arizona? And what did you think? Was it fucking great? Were you like, 'It's a book, but I somehow relate'? Turns out a novel about a tranny stoner driving to Flagstaff can also be a tool to build community!" "People think that the power of books is surprising, like 'it's just a book.' Well I've got news! Books are vital. We need humanizing depictions of ourselves, depictions we can use, to feel okay, or make sense of our being. Because if you're cis, you're used to seeing people like you in books and on screen. That's normal, that's how it's always been. But we have to do the work of trying to insert ourselves, and pretend we can see meaning in characters we could never be, and failing, and feeling like we're lying, or else we conclude that books are lame and go off to play a computer game. "And simultaneously, we're learning we have nothing to say, that people of our kind, whatever emotions we might have churning around in our bodies, don't have a mind: we can't be authors, we needn't be respected, at best we're specimens to be dissected! Know yourself, the philosophers instruct, unless you're trans, in which case, you're fucked. We're known by others Our prescribed aspiration is to change ourselves, the definition of despair! Worse yet, we don't know what it is we share. Because of our intellectual isolation we're strangers to each other, a community without any real culture to talk about.

Actually, you could save even more American lives if the Pentagon ever figured out how to end the wars it started. Baghdad fell in three weeks. Kabul in a month. A testament to American fighting capability. The problems came in sticking the landing, in not letting these things grind on for years and years until morally dubious programs like Phoenix and Flagstaff became almost inevitable.

The Phoenix Program in Vietnam, Operation Flagstaff in Afghanistan.

One nice touch about Christy’s discovery was that it happened in Flagstaff, for it was there in 1930 that Pluto had been found in the first place. That seminal event in astronomy was largely to the credit of the astronomer Perdval Lowell. Lowell, who came from one of the oldest and wealthiest Boston families (the one in the famous ditty about Boston being the home of the bean and the cod, where Lowells spoke only to Cabots, while Cabots spoke only to God), endowed the famous observatory that bears his name, but is most indelibly remembered for his belief that Mars was covered with canals built by industrious Martians for purposes of conveying water from polar regions to the dry but productive lands nearer the equator. Lowell’s other abiding conviction was that there existed, somewhere out beyond Neptune, an undiscovered ninth planet dubbed, Planet X. Lowell based this belief on irregularities he detected in the orbits of Uranus and Neptune, and devoted the last years of his life to trying to find the gassy giant he was certain was out there. Unfortunately, he died suddenly in 1916, at least partly exhausted by his quest and the search fell into abeyance while Lowell’s heirs squabbled over his estate. However, in 1929, partly as a way of deflecting attention away from the Mars canal saga (which by now had become a serious embarrassment), the Lowell Observatory directors decided to resume the search and to that end hired a young man from Kansas named Clyde Tombaugh. Tombaugh had no formal training as an astronomer, but he was diligent and he was astute, and after a year’s patient searching he somehow spotted Pluto, a faint point of light in a glittery firmament. It was a miraculous find, and what made it all the more striking was that the observations on which Lowell had predicted the existence of a planet beyond Neptune proved to be comprehensively erroneous. Tombaugh could see at once that the new planet was nothing like the massive gasball Lowell had postulated, but any reservations he or anyone else had about the character of the new planet were soon swept aside in the delirium that attended almost any big news story in that easily excited age. This was the first American-discovered planet and no one was going to be distracted by the thought that it was really just a distant icy dot. It was named Pluto at least partly because the first two letters made a monogram from Lowell’s initials. Lowell was posthumously hailed everywhere as a genius of the first order, and Tombaugh was largely forgotten, except among planetary astronomers, who tend to revere him.

Fields of yellow wildflowers flowers rolled past as clouds billowed over the mountains, the breeze tumbling sweet and fresh through the open window. Harmony had just flown into Flagstaff, and was now being driven to the park in St. Blane.

EROS AND THANATOS        Beyond all this, the wish to be alone        However the sky grows dark with invitation-cards        However we follow the printed directions of sex        However the family is photographed under the        flagstaff—        Beyond all this, the wish to be alone        Beneath it all desire of oblivion runs        Despite the artful tensions of the calendar,        The life insurance, the tabled fertility rites,        The costly aversion of the eyes from death —        Beneath it all desire of oblivion runs. • PHILIP LARKIN

ALTHOUGH I DON'T PROFESS TO BE NORMAL, I AM HUMAN AS ARE ALL THE OTHER PEOPLE I WORK WITH, AND SOMETIMES EVEN I FORGET THAT." -Violent Crimes Investigator Flagstaff Arizona

As the tricolour was unfurled against the sky, a light rain began to fall an s a resounding cheer broke through. he stood in the sea of his countrymen and women, unable or unwilling to return to the flagstaff. The Governer general, standing upright in the car, saluted the flag. A bright rainbow appeared emblazoning saffron, white, green - the colours of Independent India - in the blue sky. Jawahar felt curiously light. As if Indra himself had unfurled the tricoor from his indradhanush!

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

Every year five million people from all over the world travel to northern Arizona to see the Grand Canyon. Driving north to the Grand Canyon from Phoenix, Sedona, or Flagstaff, the road gradually climbs to the top of what is called the Colorado Plateau. (A plateau is a large elevated flat area of land.)

If it be the business of the North to squander her millions, and to give up her sons, simply that we can place the old flag-staff again in the hands of those who ask protection to slavery, then … you will see an inglorious termination to the campaign. But, if we are to fight for freedom; if we are to wipe out the curse that infects our borders; if we are to establish justice, teach mercy, and proclaim righteousness, then will our soldiers be animated by a heroic purpose that will build them up in courage, in faith, in honor, and they will come back to us respected and beloved.73

Almost there,” Neil said, the first unsolicited words he had uttered since “I’ll take your suitcase” back at the small airport in Flagstaff.

For an impotent few seconds, I felt like an actor standing speechless on the stage, unable to adjust the urgent part of me that wanted only my father and his strength. Time and distance had not diminished the need.

If Miss Nameless minded, she wasn't letting on. And if her name was really Frances, I didn't find out. The evening went a different direction from there. The music was still going like notes from a faraway horn, and her hands were all over me. That's what I remembered. Light shone through the gap in the curtain, through which people came and went - night after cheap, careless night, most likely - to the room on the other side. In the end, I was back there, alone.

The shameful sensation was still lodged in my brain when I awakened. That and the urge to get up and slither out of the mess I'd let Detroit's nightlife make of me.

The Riviera Theatre was not my concern tonight. The Detroit River was. As a hotspot for Canada's legal alcohol coming across, rum-running was rampant. Hoodlums brought a load of hooch across and had shown up armed to the teeth. No doubt, they were wise to the fact that they were up against Detroit's underworld led by immigrants from the lower east side. None other than the Bornstein family.

Swallowed by the vast and practically empty lobby, I wandered over to the window and looked out at the Grand Circus Park through the lens of a September morning's first hour. Across the way, the newly completed Metropolitan Building pierced the Detroit skyline, and lights twinkled in the many competing tall buildings.

I inhaled deeply and felt the smoke pass slowly from my nostrils. Lies, like thick, warm, invisible syrup, must've secretly coated Alan's situation with a soothing, sweet, and delicate aroma. It had hardened, making him a victim-immobile, trapped-looking out through a thick, unbendable lens to a distorted world beyond.

With no more than enough money to ride the streetcar home, I closed the door and was out of the speakeasy into the alley on a day not yet light, hoping to resurrect the farm boy that had grown up with country-loving decency.

I flung the pages of the letter into the air and watched them flutter aimlessly to the floor, and dad's make-believe hopes with them. I went to the washstand, poured every drop of cold water into the bowl, and glared at the man in the mirror, wanting to growl at the resemblance to my father. I let my hands soak, drowning what was possible to drown, than dried them and changed my clothes, put on a tie, and brushed my hair till my head hurt. When I walked out the door to go down for dinner, I looked like a new man. Cottage pie sounded terrific.

Tomorrow morning the mindless noise in my head was going to resume, which meant facing the glaring reality that law enforcement wasn't suicide but came mighty close.

I could be wrong, but I don't believe whatever held him could possibly have satisfied his yearning. Depravity's an addiction.

Think about that for a minute: seventy years earlier, photons of light from the Sun had reflected off Pluto, traveled for four hours and over all those billions of miles to Earth, and passed through a telescope in Flagstaff, Arizona. Those photons created a tiny dot in a plate of photographic emulsion that had caught young Clyde Tombaugh’s eye when he examined that image a few weeks later, revealing the existence of a new, faraway planet. Now some atoms that had been part of Clyde were going to make the journey to that faraway world and then continue on, outward, to leave our solar system for interstellar space and the galaxy beyond. Whatever you believe about life, death, consciousness, and fate, this was surely a unique and wondrous memorial, unlike any other in history.

Name’s Clay Tahoma, originally from Flagstaff and the Navajo Nation. Lately from L.A. I’m up here to work with an old friend, Nathaniel Jensen.” Jack’s face took light at that. “Nate’s a friend of mine, too! Pleasure to meet you.” Jack introduced Clay to some other men who were standing around—a guy named John, who they called Preacher; Paul, who owned the flatbed and forklift; Dan Brady, who was Paul’s foreman; and Noah, the minister whose truck slipped off the road. Noah smiled sheepishly as he shook Clay’s hand. No one seemed to react to the sight of a Native American with a ponytail that reached past his waist and an eagle feather in his hat. And right at that moment

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