Fullerton Quotes

All violations of essential privacy are brutalizing.

I think Dr. Willis McNelly at the California State University at Fullerton put it best when he said that the true protagonist of an sf story or novel is an idea and not a person. If it is *good* sf the idea is new, it is stimulating, and, probably most important of all, it sets off a chain-reaction of ramification-ideas in the mind of the reader; it so-to-speak unlocks the reader’s mind so that the mind, like the author’s, begins to create. Thus sf is creative and it inspires creativity, which mainstream fiction by-and-large does not do. We who read sf (I am speaking as a reader now, not a writer) read it because we love to experience this chain-reaction of ideas being set off in our minds by something we read, something with a new idea in it; hence the very best since fiction ultimately winds up being a collaboration between author and reader, in which both create and enjoy doing it: joy is the essential and final ingredient of science fiction, the joy of discovery of newness.

If you do follow your bliss you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. Follow your bliss and don't be afraid, and doors will open where you didn't know they were going to be. ” — Joseph Campbell

No book is written; it's always re-written

We are a species driven by innovation and creativity. The world is full of information and any number of things to learn and discover at any given time, so if you are bored, it’s your choice. As such, you’re not allowed to complain.

You feel like heaven,” he whispered against my lips as he palmed my breast brazenly. “And you taste like sin. I’m drunk on you, Rachel.

It’s only an insult if it’s true,

My best ideas come when I'm walking the dog or doing the dishes!

A preacher may proclaim the grace of God with glorious orthodoxy, but if his life contradicts his doctrine he will disgrace the gospel of Christ (1 Tim 3:7).

Nostalgia has selective memory; it softens the heart and strips the details to leave you with what should have been instead of what was.

When his eyes landed on my mouth, I nearly swallowed my tongue.

I think Dr. Willis McNelly at the California State University at Fullerton put it best when he said that the true protagonist of an sf story or novel is an idea and not a person. If it is good sf the idea is new, it is stimulating, and, probably most important of all, it sets off a chain-reaction of ramification-ideas in the mind of the reader; it so-to-speak unlocks the reader's mind so that that mind, like the author's, begins to create.

The Memphis Finley and I landed in was my mother’s Memphis. It was magnolia-lined and manicured, black-tailed and bow-tied. It glittered in illusory gold and tinkled in sing-song voices. It was cloistered, segregated, and well-appointed, the kind of place where everyone monogrammed their initials on everything from hand towels to silver because nothing mattered more than one’s family and to whom they were connected by lineage that traced through the fertile fields of the Mississippi Delta.

Both of those alternate universes were wonderful. Different from each other but equally wonderful. In different ways (in the poor Mexican one I enjoyed being close to the streetnote street, not “earth” or “soil”—and being in a familiar place. In the wealthy cosmopolitan one I enjoyed variety and expensive tastes), each was equally complete, an entire world. It’s as if God informed me:  “You turn north, I’ll spin for you an entire world and a wonderful one which you’ll love.”“You turn south, I’ll plant you in a little town and it’ll be a whole universe, that little town, with dreams about other towns in the north, rumors of wealth you will treasure as rumors.”“You decided to live dead-center, and I will show you that the Tao, which is what you have found in Fullerton, because there you do speak in public, you do receive royal guests, but near you is the poor barrio, and you’re stuck in Fullerton forever as if you were poor—you decide on the Tao, the Middle Path, and I will show you that each path is the Middle Path, that there is no universe which I can’t make complete. You can’t be where I am not. And if I am there, which I always am, it is a total world, good as any other.

There are many subjects upon which, if we hold an opinion at all, we should hold it tentatively, waiting for more light, and retaining a willingness to be enlightened. Many a bitter and fruitless quarrel might be avoided, if more persons found it possible to maintain this philosophical attitude of mind. Philosophy is, after all, reflection, and the reflective man must realize that he is probably as liable to error as are other men. He is not infallible, nor has the limit of human knowledge been attained in his day and generation. He who realizes this will not assume that his neighbor is always wrong, and he will come to have that wide, conscientious tolerance, which is not indifference, but which is at the farthest remove from the zeal of mere bigotry.

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100%原版制作學历證书【+V信1954 292 140】《加州州立大学富尔顿分校學位證》California State University Fullerton

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Just the other day I looked up the Greek philosopher Empedocles and I was amazed to see that UBIK in many ways expresses his world-view. It is a view generally discarded these days. In May of this year a guy from France doing his doctoral thesis on UBIK flew here and asked me, 'You know Empedocles?' to which I had to admit no, I didn't even know the name. The French guy got very angry, as if he believed I was lying, and walked out. Now I can see why. It is impossible to believe that anyone could write UBIK without having gotten the concepts from Empedocles. By the way—Empedocles, I read, believed that he would be reincarnated and return some day. I'm not kidding. He expected to come back—but I bet he didn't anticipate finding himself in Fullerton. I guess the part where they're all dead is because ol' E. has been dead these many centuries and knows a lot about how it feels (I wish I was kidding when I say all this, but I'm not; I mean, I really sort of believe this).

should men study philosophy? The question is a natural one, for man is a rational being, and when the worth of a thing is not at once evident to him, he usually calls for proof of its worth.

In the Middle Ages there gradually grew up rather a sharp distinction between those things that can be known through the unaided reason and those things that can only be known through a supernatural revelation. The term "philosophy" came to be synonymous with knowledge attained by the natural light of reason. This seems to imply some sort of a limitation to the task of the philosopher. Philosophy is not synonymous with all knowledge.

The philosopher is the man to whom is committed what is left when we have taken away what has been definitely established or is undergoing investigation according to approved scientific methods. He is Lord of the Uncleared Ground, and may wander through it in his compassless, irresponsible way, never feeling that he is lost, for he has never had any definite bearings to lose.

Of course, these have to do with things sooner or later, for our mathematical reasonings would be absolutely useless to us if they could not be applied to the world of things; but in mathematical reasonings we abstract from things for the time being, confident that we can come back to them when we want to do so, and can make use of the results obtained in our operations.

Observation precedes reflection. When we come to think definitely about the mind, we are all apt to make use of notions which we have derived from our experience of external things.

The very notion of tabu is one of the rightest notions in the world. Better any old tabu than none, for a man cannot be said to be "on the side of the stars" at all, unless he makes refusals.

Take psychology as an instance. How does it happen that the physicist calmly develops his doctrine without finding it necessary to make his bow to philosophy at all, while the psychologist is at pains to explain that his book is to treat psychology as "a natural science," and will avoid metaphysics as much as possible?

If you put your mind to it, not as a school lesson but as a practical tool that you’ve got to master, you may find it a lot easier than you think.

Gratitude is not a band aid and neither is happiness. You can’t just slap it on a wound and it will automatically heal, but it is a salve that can help keep it clean, free of infection, and back on the road to recovery.

Unfortunately these days, hardly a day goes by without news of an incident of childhood bullying. Some of these are so horrific or tragic that they defy understanding. Those really grab our attention. Others are all too easily dismissed as some sort of rite of passage, an acceptable part of growing up. The truth, though, is that bullying of any kind has the power to change who a child is, the kind of person he or she grows up to be. When ignored, the victim can be scarred for life, emotionally, if not physically. The perpetrator grows up with a skewed value system that suggests it’s perfectly okay to make another person’s life miserable, to feel powerful, even for a moment, at the expense of someone weaker. It’s up to adults—parents, teachers, entire communities—to take a stand, to say bullying is not okay, not ever, not by anyone! And that’s exactly what happens in Serenity when schoolteacher Laura Reed and pediatrician J. C. Fullerton realize a student is being bullied. Both Laura and J.C. have experienced the damaging effects of bullying, so what’s happening to Misty Dawson is personal and unacceptable. While there are often subtle messages tucked away in my stories, I hope the message in Catching Fireflies is loud and clear. There is nothing cute or normal or acceptable about bullying, whether it’s a toddler on the playground or a teenager using the internet to torment a classmate. Pay attention to what may be happening to your children, no matter how young or how old. Pay even closer attention to how they’re treating others. Bullying is wrong. It needs to stop. And alert parents and teachers and a united community can make that happen. I hope you’ll enjoy spending time with all the Sweet Magnolias once more, and that you’ll take their message—and mine—to heart. All best, Sherryl

They could be in possession of a majestic beauty, but as soon as their mouth betrayed them of the ignorance they’d chosen to allow into their dialect, the allure quickly turned into a repellant." --David Harmon (from "The Room" Copyright 2016 Brian C. Copper)

Now, a small bluish patch of color is not, strictly speaking, a tree; but for us it represents the tree. Suppose that we walk toward the tree. Do we continue to see what we saw before? Of course, we say that we continue to see the same tree; but it is plain that what we immediately perceive, what is given in consciousness, does not remain the same as we move. Our blue patch of color grows larger and larger; it ceases to be blue and faint; at the last it has been replaced by an expanse of vivid green, and we see the tree just before us. During our whole walk we have been seeing the tree. This appears to mean that we have been having a whole series of visual experiences, no two of which were just alike, and each of which was taken as a representative of the tree. Which of these representatives is most like the tree? Is the tree really a faint blue, or is it really a vivid green? Or is it of some intermediate color? Probably

All our sensations are, therefore, experiences which take their place in a certain setting. This is our ultimate criterion. We need not take the word of the philosopher for it. We need only reflect, and ask ourselves how we know that, in a given case, we are seeing or hearing or touching something, and are not merely imagining it.

to drag it out of him that they had spent the day at the fair, with Alex and Max tagging along for good measure. I

The Cal State Fullerton library was epic. Granted, I’ve never been to other university libraries but I would be hard-pressed to believe any of them could be as big as this one. There were five floors of books, with rows upon rows of aisles that seemed endless. Cubicles everywhere, filled with students connected to iPods, iPhones and iEverything else. The juxtaposition of dusty library with modern technology was striking. Two worlds colliding. At

It will be observed that, in distinguishing between sensations and things imaginary, we never go beyond the circle of our experiences. We do not reach out to a something beyond or behind experiences, and say: When such a reality is present, we may affirm that we have a sensation, and when it is not, we may call the experience imaginary. If there were such a reality as this, it would do us little good, for since it is not supposed to be perceived directly, we should have to depend upon the sensations to prove the presence of the reality, and could not turn to the reality and ask it whether we were or were not experiencing a sensation.

Are not things presented in our experience only as we have sensations? what is it to perceive a thing? is it not to have sensations? how, then, can we distinguish between sensations and things?

Shall I call it a quality of a thing, or shall I call it a sensation? To this I answer: I may call it either the one or the other, according to its setting among other experiences. We

When we say we see a tree at a distance, we must mean, then, that we know from certain visual experiences which we have that by moving a certain distance we will be able to touch a tree. And what does it mean to move a certain distance? In the last analysis it means to us to have a certain quantity of movement sensations. Thus

As has been seen, our author accepts without question, the psychological doctrine that the mind is shut up within the circle of the messages that are conducted to it along the sensory nerves, and that it cannot directly perceive anything truly external.

So it was all a lie?” “At first,” he answered. “But I swear to God that it changed. Every day I spent with you, I couldn’t help fall in love with you.” “How convenient,” I sneered.

Appearances and realities are experiences which are observed to be related in certain ways. That which is not open to observation at all, that of which we have, and can have, no experience, we have no reason to call the reality of anything. We have, in truth, no reason to talk about it at all, for we know nothing whatever about it; and when we do talk about it, it is because we are laboring under a delusion.

...I tried to give a little bling to my writing, like you asked us to do. Maybe something will come to me in another entry, but, for now, I guess I do not have any glitter in my word-crafting drawer.

You may recall the day we were over at Special Collections Library at Cal State Fullerton, and I revealed my mystic vision which came over me around March of this year, in which I saw the world—make that universe—entirely differently. Finally, in doing my homework on this, I found someone who had that worldview before me, and oddly it is a Greek philosopher who someone who flew here from France to interview me mentioned, around April. I had never read anything about Empedocles before. This French guy, who was doing his doctoral thesis on UBIK, wondered if my reading of Empedocles had influenced me, or had any other pre-Socratic Greek. I had to admit no. Evidently this French dude had correctly seen that UBIK expressed the worldview of Empedocles and to a lesser extent other Ionian Greeks or the Eleatic School. It was all meaningless to me, what he was saying, back then; how strange that my vision of the universe would conform in strict and exact detail to that of specific early Greek philosophers, views (as Lem pointed out in his article) long ago discarded. Also, from what I read about Empedocles, he had certain what we'd have to call religious or mystical experiences which he discussed only with his friends; from the evidence I'm convinced these experiences resemble mine—were in fact identical. Empedocles was smart enough not to talk about them openly, and I'm trying to do the same. Whatever hit me in March hit him back in 400 or so B.C. Reading about his interpretation of them I can much better understand them for my own purposes. Also, I might add, Empedocles was certain that some day, through transmigration, he would return.

The glass pitcher of sweet tea Elvita gave us sat opaque and sweating, reducing crescents of ice to weak bobbing smiles around a flaccid slice of lemon.

Because the thing about being a Southern girl is they let you run loose until the time comes to shape you.

The mind registers trauma in step-by-step increments, lest you become overwhelmed. It is the unadulterated meaning of saving grace, a mechanism within each of us that is far too intelligent to make use of the basic instincts of fight or flight, because it is beyond it. The mind freezes in the critical moment, and waits until you are strong enough to take the next step.

finished

idealist, Hume a skeptic, and Mill what has been called a sensationalist; yet all were empiricists of a sort, and emphasized the necessity of founding our knowledge upon experience.

The Stoic tells us of what the world consists; what was the beginning and what will be the end of things; what is the relation of the system of things to God. He develops a physics and a logic as well as a system of ethics. The Epicurean informs us that the world originated in a rain of atoms through space; he examines into the foundations of human knowledge; and he proceeds to make himself comfortable in a world from which he has removed those disturbing elements, the gods. The Skeptic decides that there is no such thing as truth, before he enunciates the dogma that it is not worth while to worry about anything. The philosophy of each school includes a view of the system of things as a whole. The philosopher still regarded the universe of knowledge as his province.

When little is known about things, it does not seem impossible for one man to learn that little.

I know now, since I'm well into my adulthood, that there's a side to the unions made in high school that has perpetual resonance, a side that remains in arrested development that will never let you forget who you essentially are.

Word of God is God’s active, authoritative energy in the world. When the Word of God is preached, God himself is active. And when God the Lord is actively working through his Word, he comes with his authority, power, and presence.2 God’s work in salvation is accomplished through his Word.

exaggerated

Together, we were a girl complete. Separately, we were inchoate and in need of each other, like solitary pieces of a clock that were useless until assembled, but once assembled, kept perfect time.

Falmouth. But you’ll be joining up with the

occupying the same stream. They were distinct opposites going through the motions of co-creating a life, but the gossamer veneer of their marriage started to shred the day my father impulsively quit his job as vice president of a bank in Minneapolis. One hundred thousand dollars from a deceased aunt I’d never heard of must have seemed like a lifetime cushion to my father, but when he shared the news with my mother, Finley and I heard the ballistic reverberation in every room of the house.

It was cloistered, segregated, and well-appointed, the kind of place where everyone monogrammed their initials on everything from hand towels to silver because nothing mattered more than one’s family and to whom they were connected by lineage that traced through the fertile fields of the Mississippi Delta.

Your heart breaks only once in a lifetime. Every offense in its wake is only a variation of the original laceration. Only once can you say you have no frame of reference. Only once are you knocked to your knees by an intractable powerlessness, where the only option is surrender in listless defeat. Subsequent infractions are damaging in their own right, but they’re only a visitation of the original wound, which remains half-healed forever, with scar tissue that defines you for the rest of your life.

new

At Government House, Tony Hunt, the governor's son, watched a trusted retainer named Mary Fullerton prepare to leave with what valued possessions she could carry, a portrait of the Queen in one hand, two bottles of gin in the other. Tony thought she had her priorities about right.

There is a feel about Galway you can wear around your shoulders like a cloak. It hangs in the air with its dampness; it walks the cobblestone streets and stands in the doorways of its gray stone buildings. It blows in with the mist from the Atlantic and lingers incessantly at every corner. I have never been able to walk the streets of Galway without feeling some unnamed presence accompanying me.

There’s an energy that hangs between strangers even in a crowd.

There's a period of uncertainty that comes into play upon meeting someone who interests you. It must be inherent in attraction, for I’ve never met anybody who hasn’t experienced it, it’s just a question of to what degree they’re going to admit it.

What is the fire of inspiration that resides within, if not something to follow along a path?

Irish men are afraid of being in love because they lose control. The women in this country trap them with babies at an early age, and then it is all over for them. They think it is better not to love. They think there is no risk if they push the love away.

From my American vantage point, there seemed to be a subtle dance the Irish employ around any charged topic even when they’re trying to say something specific. It’s as if the higher the stakes, the vaguer they become.

I found it interesting that fate had provided the chance encounter. It seemed to me that if we, in our human frailty, didn’t have the courage to take care of business, then the powers that be intervened seemingly by chance.

Well, Ireland is an old culture,” he explained, “and old cultures are subtle cultures. We’re like most of Europe that way. There is a great respect for language that I don’t think you have in America. We’re colorful in our language, all right. You know, I was a language teacher at the boy’s school across the road for many years.

When I first met my wife, who is no longer with us; God bless her and a fine one she, I didn’t have the words to tell her anything, no, nothing at all,” he shook his head with a nostalgic smile. “We’re not one for spilling the soul around here, and you’d be best not looking for it,” he said.

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Speculation is a hard and trying business, and a speculator must be on the job all the time or he’ll soon have no job to be on. My task, as I should have known after my early reverses at Fullerton’s, was very simple: To look at speculation from another angle. But I didn’t know that there was much more to the game than I could possibly learn in the bucket shops. There I thought I was beating the game when in reality I was only beating the shop. At the same time the tape-reading ability that trading in bucket-shops developed in me and the training of my memory have been extremely valuable. Both of these things came easy to me. I owe my early success as a trader to them and not to my brains or knowledge, because my mind was untrained and my ignorance was colossal.32 The game taught me the game. And it didn’t spare the rod while teaching.

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