Flesh Gordon Quotes

But I being fond of true philosophy, Say very often to myself, 'Alas! All things that have been born were born to die, And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass; You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly, And if you had it o'er again—'t would pass— So thank your stars that matters are no worse, And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.

Gratifying the flesh was wrong. He must keep himself pure because the carnal nature was anathema to spiritual men. That’s what Brother Gabriel had told him, and Dale Gordon understood that truism now as never before. Because if he wasn’t careful, this pleasure he was experiencing was going to overwhelm him, cloud his judgment, and jeopardize his mission. But

‎Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world, a boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence. Sleep hath its own world, and a wide realm of wild reality; and dreams in their development have breath, and tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy. They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, they take a weight off our waking toils. They do divide our being; they become a portion of ourselves as of our time, and look like heralds of eternity. They pass like spirits of the past—they speak like sibyls of the future; they have power— the tyranny of pleasure and of pain. They make us what we were not—what they will, and shake us with the vision that’s gone by, the dread of vanished shadows—Are they so? Is not the past all shadow?—What are they? Creations of the mind?—The mind can make substances, and people planets of their own, with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dreamed, perchance in sleep—for in itself a thought, a slumbering thought, is capable of years, and curdles a long life into one hour.

It’s a special thing, Trisha—the thing that waits for the lost ones. It lets them wander until they’re good and scared—because fear makes them taste better, it sweetens the flesh

It’s a special thing, Trisha—the thing that waits for the lost ones. It lets them wander until they’re good and scared—because fear makes them taste better, it sweetens the flesh—and then it comes for them.

Despite his failings she couldn’t shun Nathanael, she was too fond of fleshly delight. He kept her belly large, pumping her full of child as soon as she was emptied, and whenever she was nearing term he avoided their home. Their life conformed almost exactly to the dire predictions made by her father when, with Rob J. already in her, she had married the young carpenter who had come to Watford to help build their neighbor’s barn. Her father had blamed her schooling, saying that education filled a woman with lascivious folly

But you keep fighting!” “Of course!” said Child. “I am of God, whatever or whoever else is not. I must testify to Him by placing my body against the enemy while that body lasts; and by protecting those that my small strength may protect, until my personal end. What is it to me that all the peoples of all the worlds choose to march toward the nether pit? What they do in their sins is no concern of mine. Mine only is concern for God, and the way of God’s people of whom I am one. In the end, all those who march pitward will be forgotten; but I and those like me who have lived their faith will be remembered by the Lord—other than that I want nothing and I need nothing.” Godlun dropped his face into his hands and sat for a moment. When he took his hands away again and raised his head, Hal saw that the skin of his face was drawn and he looked very old. “It’s all right for you,” he whispered. “It is fleshly loves that concern thee,” said Child, nearly as softly. “I know, for I remember how it was in the little time I had with my wife; and I remember the children unborn that she and I dreamed of together. It is thy children thou wouldst protect in these dark days to come; and it was thy hope that I could give you reason to think thou couldst do so. But I have no such hope to give. All that thou lovest will perish. The Others will make a foul garden of the worlds of humankind and there will be none to stop them. Turn thee to God, my brother, for nowhere else shalt thou find comfort.

Even though the Internet provided a tool for virtual and distant collaborations, another lesson of digital-age innovation is that, now as in the past, physical proximity is beneficial. There is something special, as evidenced at Bell Labs, about meetings in the flesh, which cannot be replicated digitally. The founders of Intel created a sprawling, team-oriented open workspace where employees from Noyce on down all rubbed against one another. It was a model that became common in Silicon Valley. Predictions that digital tools would allow workers to telecommute were never fully realized. One of Marissa Mayer’s first acts as CEO of Yahoo! was to discourage the practice of working from home, rightly pointing out that “people are more collaborative and innovative when they’re together.” When Steve Jobs designed a new headquarters for Pixar, he obsessed over ways to structure the atrium, and even where to locate the bathrooms, so that serendipitous personal encounters would occur. Among his last creations was the plan for Apple’s new signature headquarters, a circle with rings of open workspaces surrounding a central courtyard. Throughout history the best leadership has come from teams that combined people with complementary styles. That was the case with the founding of the United States. The leaders included an icon of rectitude, George Washington; brilliant thinkers such as Thomas Jefferson and James Madison; men of vision and passion, including Samuel and John Adams; and a sage conciliator, Benjamin Franklin. Likewise, the founders of the ARPANET included visionaries such as Licklider, crisp decision-making engineers such as Larry Roberts, politically adroit people handlers such as Bob Taylor, and collaborative oarsmen such as Steve Crocker and Vint Cerf. Another key to fielding a great team is pairing visionaries, who can generate ideas, with operating managers, who can execute them. Visions without execution are hallucinations.31 Robert Noyce and Gordon Moore were both visionaries, which is why it was important that their first hire at Intel was Andy Grove, who knew how to impose crisp management procedures, force people to focus, and get things done. Visionaries who lack such teams around them often go down in history as merely footnotes.

I am sure If I were An artist I would concentrate On the bone end Of a bird’s broken wing Or the bullet hole In cold, damp, dead flesh And the transition from death’s cold warmth To the putrefaction Of a biochemical mess And I am sure If I were An artist That these dead and dying things Which are within themselves Beauty Would bring me closer To her life And to her Beauty Which is beauty within itself

Indeed, Jesus came to earth to battle for human souls. Sexual relationships, based on the profound spiritual dimension of sexuality itself, therefore become a primary context for that conflict. Contrary to the world’s view, however, the “battle of the sexes” is not between the man and the woman, one trying to dominate the other—but rather between God and the self-centered desires of the “flesh” in both man and woman. Victory in that battle was won by Jesus on the cross, when He yielded His body to the God who created it. The Good News in this for men and women is that those couples who have surrendered themselves to Jesus at the cross are freed from the urgent demands of their self-centered human nature to love like Jesus—for the other’s sake and not their own.

own spirits (Rom 8:16), has desires that are in opposition to the flesh (Gal 5:17), helps us in our weakness (Rom 8:26), intercedes in our behalf (Rom 8:26–27), works all things together for our ultimate good (Rom 8:28),[5] strengthens believers (Eph 3:16), and is grieved by our sinfulness (Eph 4:30). Furthermore, the fruit of the Spirit’s indwelling are the personal attributes of God (Gal 5:22–23).

Believers saw it as a holy battle, a spiritual warfare at its height. Believers saw themselves in a spiritual war with demons and did not see flesh and blood. When being persecuted they had pity and love for the persecutors.

Don’t expect the puppets of your mind to become the people of your story. If they are not realities in your own mind, there is no mysterious alchemy in ink and paper that will turn wooden figures into flesh and blood.

I am coloured by my father’s Far and painted image. In a thousand lines of broken questions, I have tried to find Some thread, some bind That would peep me through the locked Doors of his life and why I am as I stand. He drank gin with a sense of humour, He was thin and killed by a tumour. In twenty words, his full-fleshed life Is boned for approval, In twenty words, I am lured away And buried in the obscurities Of twenty thousand lives, not so different. Twenty stories told by twenty people Nurture confused and distracted poetry. I am not certain that he was a man And was indeed my father, I am not sure, And yet, I am coloured by my father’s Far and painted image.

Ah, me ! we believe in evil, Where once we believed in good, The world, the flesh, and the devil Are easily understood ; The world, the flesh, and the devil, Their traces on earth are plain ; Must they always riot and revel While footprints of man remain ? Talk about better and wiser, Wiser and worse are one, The sophist is the despiser Of all things under the sun ; Is nothing real but confusion ? Is nothing certain but death ? Is nothing fair save illusion ? Is nothing good that has breath ? Some sprite, malignant and elfish, Seems present, whispering close, 'All motives of life are selfish, All instincts of life are gross ; And the song that the poet fashions, And the love-bird's musical strain, Are jumbles of animal passions, Refined by animal pain.' The restless throbbings and burnings That hope unsatisfied brings, The weary longings and yearnings For the mystical better things, Are the sands on which is reflected The pitiless moving lake, Where the wanderer falls dejected, By a thirst he never can slake. (Wormwood and Nightshade)