Gibbs Best Quotes

release me—an eye gouge or a knee to the testicles—though the best I managed was to drive my elbow into a chair. “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Chip snarled. “Would you just fight like a man?” “I’ll pass,” I said. The Bashful Armadillo was working for me. “What is going on here?!” The principal’s voice was frightening enough to scare even Chip cold. Our fight stopped instantly. For the first time since emerging from the subterranean level, I had a chance to take in my surroundings.

Take care with the words you speak, it's best to keep them sweet.....you never know when you might have to eat them.

Take care with the words you speak, it's best to keep them sweet..... because you never know when you might have to eat them!

Both did their best to play dumb. Given that they were dumb, it shouldn’t have been that hard, and yet they didn’t do a very good job of it.

Trafalgar Square is probably not the best place to stand at one o’clock in the morning. In fact, it is probably not the best place to be if you are alone at any time of the night.

When you meet her you'll know it because you feel whole, for the first time, and it's the best damn feeling in the world.

As a footnote to the above, I would like to say that I am getting very tired of literary authorities, on both the stage and the screen, who advise young writers to deal only with those subjects that happen to be familiar to them personally. It is quite true that this theory probably produced "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn," but the chances are it would have ruled out "Hamlet.

The most successful critics are always scribbling things in their programs, largely because it gives them an important and industrious air. Also, it is interesting to try to figure out what you've written afterward. Last week, for instance, I made a very helpful note during the second act of a drama called "They Walk Alone." "Lanchstr get face stuck 1 these nights awful if," it seemed to say.

To prove to an indignant questioner on the spur of the moment that the work I do was useful seemed a thankless task and I gave it up. I turned to him with a smile and finished, 'To tell you the truth we don't do it because it is useful but because it's amusing.' The answer was thought of and given in a moment: it came from deep down in my mind, and the results were as admirable from my point of view as unexpected. My audience was clearly on my side. Prolonged and hearty applause greeted my confession. My questioner retired shaking his head over my wickedness and the newspapers next day, with obvious approval, came out with headlines 'Scientist Does It Because It's Amusing!' And if that is not the best reason why a scientist should do his work, I want to know what is. Would it be any good to ask a mother what practical use her baby is? That, as I say, was the first evening I ever spent in the United States and from that moment I felt at home. I realised that all talk about science purely for its practical and wealth-producing results is as idle in this country as in England. Practical results will follow right enough. No real knowledge is sterile. The most useless investigation may prove to have the most startling practical importance: Wireless telegraphy might not yet have come if Clerk Maxwell had been drawn away from his obviously 'useless' equations to do something of more practical importance. Large branches of chemistry would have remained obscure had Willard Gibbs not spent his time at mathematical calculations which only about two men of his generation could understand. With this trust in the ultimate usefulness of all real knowledge a man may proceed to devote himself to a study of first causes without apology, and without hope of immediate return.

in describing the various writers of his idolatry he more than once lets fall a phrase that could equally apply to himself. 'To read Spenser,' he says, 'is to grow in mental health.' What he values in Addison is his 'open-mindedness.' The moments of despair chronicled in Scott's diary cannot, he claims, counterpoise 'that ease and good temper, that fine masculine cheerfulness' suffused through the best of the Waverly novels. Most of all it was the chiaroscuro of what Chaucer called 'earnest' and 'game' that attracted him. He found it eminently in the poetry of Dunbar, that late-medieval Scottish maker who wrote the greatest religious poetry and the earthiest satire in the language

we would stride over Hinksey and Cumnor - we walked almost as fast as we talked - disputing and quoting, as we looked for the dark dingles and tree-topped hills of Matthew Arnold. This kind of walk must be among the commonest, perhaps among the best, of undergraduate experiences. Lewis, with the gusto of a Chesterton or a Belloc, would suddenly roar out a passage of poetry that he had newly discovered and memorized, particularly if it were in Old English, a language novel and enchanting to us both for its heroic attitudes and crashing rhythms

You know the great thing about Truman,” he told Goodwin, “is that once he makes up his mind about something—anything, including the A bomb—he never looks back and asks ‘should I have done it? Oh! Should I have done it?’ No, he just knows he made up his mind as best he could and that’s that. There’s no going back. I wish I had some of that quality.

We've all felt the pain inflicted by hurtful people...Just remember it's NOT your problem so don't waste any energy stressing about it. It doesn't necessarily follow that because you are kind, others will be kind to you. Just keep moving forward and be the best you can be because the greatest impact and growth will occur wherever your FOCUS is

What I think is true is that at a certain stage in his life, he deliberately ceased to take any interest in himself except for a kind of spiritual alumnus taking his moral finals...Self-knowledge for him had come to mean recognition of his own weakness and shortcomings and nothing more. Anything beyond that he sharply suspected, both in himself and in others, as a symptom of spiritual megalomania. At best, there was so much else, in letters and in life, that he found much more interesting than himself.

What I think is true is that at a certain stage in his life, he deliberately ceased to take any interest in himself except as a kind of spiritual alumnus taking his moral finals...Self-knowledge for him had come to mean recognition of his own weakness and shortcomings and nothing more. Anything beyond that he sharply suspected, both in himself and in others, as a symptom of spiritual megalomania. At best, there was so much else, in letters and in life, that he found much more interesting than himself.

What I think is true is that at a certain stage in his life he deliberately ceased to take any interest in himself except as a kind of spiritual alumnus taking his moral finals...Self-knowledge for him had come to mean recognition of his own weakness and shortcomings and nothing more. Anything beyond that he sharply suspected, both in himself and in others, as a symptom of spiritual megalomania. At best, there was so much else, in letters and in life, that he found much more interesting! As far as I am able to judge, it was this that lay behind that distinctive combination of an almost supreme intellectual and 'phantastic' maturity, laced with moral energy, on the one hand, with...a certain psychic or spiritual immaturity on the other

I do not blame Lord French. I have no right to blame him, as I am not a soldier nor a military expert. He did his best, with the highest motives. The blunders he made were due to ignorance of modern battles. Many other generals made many other blunders, and our men paid with their lives. Our High Command had to learn by mistakes, by ghastly mistakes, repeated often, until they became visible to the military mind and were paid for again by the slaughter of British youth. One does not blame. A writing-man, who was an observer and recorder, like myself, does not sit in judgment. He has no right to judge. He merely cries out, “O God! … O God!” in remembrance of all that agony and that waste of splendid boys who loved life, and died.

No matter how ridiculous a statement Lincoln made, Walter would happily reiterate it—even statements that Lincoln had quickly admitted were mistaken, like his suggestion that the best way to get rid of old nuclear weapons would be to detonate them.

The best we can do is knot these threads at the ends so they won’t unravel any further.

He howls when the Bee Gees play on the radio, like he always has, though she’ll never know if this is a complete coincidence or if Gibb falsetto is the only frequency her deaf dog can discern. But that’s Auggie’s only real mystery, other than where he came from. Minnie knows her best friend. She knows his excited bark from his anxious bark, his I’m-hungry whine from his I-have-to-go-out whine. When he rolls on his back, he wants to be rubbed not on his belly but on the top of his head, and she shares his belief that the pizza delivery guy simply must be given a hero’s frenzied welcome every time. She’s given him food and shelter, walks and tossed Frisbees; he’s given her courage and strength by first giving her unconditional love. She never had to ask for it. It came into her life. All she had to do was trust it. Which is so much harder than it sounds.

Yeah,” I agreed, taking the opportunity to look around as well. My fellow spies had all come along by now, blending in with the other kids and doing their best to look normal—except for Warren, who had clonked several other people in the head with his skis.

Ten minutes later, I was in the principal’s office. Or at least what was left of it. It probably wasn’t the best idea to be in a fifth-story room that had just suffered severe structural damage, but the principal, who didn’t think clearly on normal occasions, was so enraged that he’d apparently ceased thinking at all.

There is something I’d like you all to do to the principal,” I said. “Really?” Chip asked, excited. “What?” “Tell him he’s making a mistake.” Chip frowned, deflated. “You mean, like write a petition or something?” “Yes.” “We could do that!” Zoe proclaimed eagerly. “And we could send it to the top brass at the CIA too! They should know they’re losing one of their best spies-to-be for a dumb reason. If anyone should have been booted for this, it’s Warren.” Lots of people seconded this. “Hey!” Warren cried. “This isn’t my fault!

Erica didn’t say anything in response. She just gave Cyrus a stare so cold it seemed to lower the temperature around us. Right at this moment, Alexander Hale returned. He barged through the door, whistling happily, and completely failed to pick up on the tension in the room. “Great news!” he cried, holding up a grocery bag. “I got everything we need to make s’mores!” Cyrus squinted at him crankily. “Now, where the heck do you expect to do that?” “The fireplace in the lobby,” Alexander suggested. “The fire in the lobby’s a fake,” Cyrus informed him. “Boy, your observation skills stink on ice.” “That’s right,” Erica told Cyrus tartly. “Everyone in this family’s a lousy spy except you. And no matter how hard we try, we’ll apparently never be good enough.” With that, she stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind her. A cheap framed ski poster fell off the wall and busted on the floor. Cyrus rolled his eyes and muttered, “Teenagers.” Alexander glared at him, still smarting from his insult. “See if I ever buy you campfire treats again,” he said, and then stormed out himself. Somehow, with them gone, there was even more tension in the room. Cyrus was prickly on his best days, but now he seemed ready to blow. I edged toward the door, desperate to get out of there, hoping he might simply ignore me and let me go. He didn’t. His angry gaze now fell on me. “I should probably be going too,” I said as cheerfully as I could. “I’ve got a big day tomorrow with the mission and all, so I want to turn in early and get a good night’s sleep. . . .” “Do you have the hots for Jessica Shang?” Cyrus asked accusingly. “No!” I lied, selling it as hard as I could. “I don’t even think she’s that attractive. In fact, to be totally honest, she’s kind of ugly. I actually feel sorry for her. . . .” Cyrus didn’t buy this for a moment.

Running in ski boots was even more difficult than I expected. In addition to being exceptionally tight, the boots were also heavy and oddly balanced. I got exactly one step, then pitched forward and landed on top of two small children, knocking them flat. Just my luck, it turned out to be the same family I’d wiped out on the ice rink the day before. “You again!” the father snarled, while his kids started crying. Several other adults glared at me accusingly. Behind them all, I caught a glimpse of Chip and Jawa, laughing hysterically. “No hablo inglés,” I said to the father. Then I hurried off before he could pound me, doing my best not to crush any other preschoolers. I found Zoe at the ski counter, trying to act like she didn’t know me in front of everyone else. I wasn’t sure if this was because she was angry at me—or embarrassed to be seen with me after I’d just made a scene. “That was smooth,” she said under her breath.

Chip Schacter, Jawaharlal O’Shea, and Warren Reeves. Chip, being two years older, was the biggest, toughest, and sneakiest of us. Jawa was the smartest and the best athlete. Warren wasn’t really a very good spy at all. I’d invited him along only because Zoe said that if I didn’t, we’d never hear the end of it. (He was pretty talented at camouflage, though. It came naturally to him. He was wearing a white outfit that blended in with the snow so well, we’d already lost him twice in the motel parking lot.)

He rolled off the bed and unzipped his overstuffed duffel bag. Clothes erupted from it with such force that a pair of boxer shorts sailed across the room and nailed Warren in the face. Warren screamed in horror, stumbled backward over his own suitcase, and collapsed on the floor. “It’s not really supposed to be a vacation,” I warned them. “Erica says our lives could be at risk.” Chip laughed and shrugged this off. “Erica always thinks her life is at risk. Remember last year when she got all worked up about us having a mole in the school?” “Um . . . there was a mole,” I reminded him. “And our lives really were in danger. I almost got killed. Twice.” “Oh, yeah,” Chip recalled. “That’s right. Hey, I wonder if anyone will try to kill us this time.” “I hope so!” Jawa said excitedly. “That’d be amazing!” “Assuming they’re unsuccessful,” Warren pointed out. Chip pegged him in the face with another pair of boxers. “Well, duh. No one wants a successful attempt made on their life, you nitwit.” “What if it happened on the slopes?” Jawa asked, his excitement ratcheting up a few notches. “And we got to have an honest-to-goodness ski chase? How fantastic would that be?” “It’d be the best,” Chip agreed. “Warren, stop playing with my underwear, you pervert.” He snatched the boxers Warren had just removed from his head and tossed them into a drawer, along with a handful of random socks and gloves.

Alexander looked completely stunned by how I’d come through the wall. Erica looked as though she were trying her best not to look stunned.

(The academy had stopped using real swords a few years earlier, after a student had been literally disarmed in class.) I did my best to defend myself, but it was only twenty seconds before I was sprawled on the floor with Professor Simon standing over me, sword raised, ready to shish kabob my spleen. Which was all the more embarrassing, as it happened in front of the entire class. ASP took place in a large lecture hall. My fellow classmates were seated in tiers around me, watching me get my butt kicked by a woman four times my age.

Erica instantly changed her entire demeanor, shifting from spy surveillance mode to behaving like an actual teenage girl. Even her voice changed, ratcheting up a few octaves. “I am so psyched to hit the slopes tomorrow!” she exclaimed, taking a bite of pizza. “Aren’t you?” “Definitely,” I replied, trying my best to play along. “I hear there’s some major freshies coming in this week,” Erica proclaimed, leading me between the guards and across the street. “Maybe a foot. Twelve inches of pow-pow! How radical is that?” “Er . . . very radical.” I had no idea what Erica was talking about, but suspected it was skier-speak for something to do with snow. Erica shot me a peeved glance, as though she was annoyed I wasn’t holding up my end of the charade very well, and then decided to handle everything herself. She launched into a long, purposefully vapid diatribe about how much she loved skiing while we continued our circuit around the hotel.

A keen memory is the best weapon an agent can have,” Alexander had explained. “Well, besides a gun. Or a knife. And maybe a hand grenade. Okay, technically, there’s a lot of weapons that are better than your memory, but memory’s still awfully important. Because . . . Oh, nuts. I forgot what I was going to say.

I was exhausted, and every part of my body ached. But still, it was the best vacation of my life. Because Erica Hale kissed me.

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Paul Lee slipped into the gap on the couch that Murray had left, trying his best to be debonair and failing miserably. “Ms. Hale, er . . . I fear that you, um . . . may have gotten the wrong . . . er, idea about me. . . .” “You keep your distance from me as well,” Catherine told him. “Or I’ll let Erica rip off your kneecaps and make castanets with them.

Of course I can undo it. I did it in the first place.” He turned to Catherine and grinned proudly. “No one does this as well as I do,” he boasted. “That’s why we came to you,” Catherine said flirtatiously. “You’re certainly the best.” “I think I’m going to be sick,” Erica muttered under her breath.

And meanwhile, MI6 is after us too,” Mike observed. “Is there anyone in this country who isn’t trying to capture or kill us?” “Possibly a few shepherds,” Murray said. “Though I might be wrong about that.” He was still clutching the pizza box in his arms and doing his best to eat a cold slice as we ran.

That’d make sixteen people!” Mike exclaimed. “Nineteen,” I corrected. “At least.” “Nineteen,” Mike agreed. “Sorry. Math’s not my best subject.

Unfortunately, the man made no attempt to brace himself for the finish and simply smacked into the wall with a resounding thud. “Ouch!” he cried. “I mean . . . ow . . . er . . . oof.” He also didn’t think to unclip himself so he could get out of the way before I arrived. I did my best to prepare myself, but I’d been expecting to hit a wall, not an arms dealer.

Oh, sure. There’s lots of important people with offices here besides the president.” Kimmy leaned in and whispered, “In fact, there’s quite a few who think they’re even more important than the president.” I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “Like who?” Kimmy suddenly seemed to realize that this might not be the best thing to discuss on White House grounds, so she blatantly changed the subject.

When is a tiger most likely to attack you?” Alexander asked me. “When you’re trying to take away something it wants—or when you’re trying to hurt it?” “Um… ,” I said. “It seems like both of those situations would be dangerous.” “Really?” Alexander asked. “Hmm. Maybe that wasn’t the best analogy. Would it work better if I used a polar bear?” “Not really.” “How about a rattlesnake? Ooh! Or a tarantula? That would be better because a tarantula’s a spider. So spider/SPYDER. It works on multiple levels.

Trafaglar Square is probably not the best place to stand at 1 o'clock in the morning. My name is Violet Lee, and I was standing in the shadow of Nelson's Column, Trafaglar Square, London, shivering as the supposed warm air of July blew through square. I shuddered, pulling my coat tightly around myself, seriously regretting my choice of wordrobe - a short, simply black dress.

odd, singsong Dutch accent. “I’ll give you to the count of three, and then I’ll snap her neck!” Zoe tried her best to put on a brave face, but she was obviously terrified. She knew Dane wasn’t bluffing. I looked to Erica, worried. She was crouched in the plants, gun in hand, looking for a shot at Dane Brammage that didn’t exist. “One!” Dane shouted.

Now, not only was Doomsday still moving forward, but we were trapped inside a Russian submarine at gunpoint. Ivan appeared equally dismayed. He gave his agent a wounded look and asked, “Dmitri, how can you do this to me?” “Because you are a rutabaga,” Dmitri replied angrily. It is highly likely that I misunderstood him, because my Russian wasn’t great at the best of times, and now I was on the edge of panic, so I was having trouble focusing. But it’s also possible that “rutabaga” was a very nasty Russian insult. “For years, you have driven us to plan this doomsday attack. We have suffered greatly to be by your side. We have left our families behind and lived a miserable existence in Siberia. And now, when the time of our triumph has finally arrived, you back out? Just because you are afraid to make a sacrifice? You are a flabby credenza, and we will no longer take orders from you.” He turned and shouted to the others in the submarine. “Prepare to fire the missile!

Look out for the baby seals!” I yelled. “Don’t let the torpedo blow them up!” “I’m doing my best!” Erica yelled back. “You know how I feel about baby seals!” I did. Despite her generally tough and cold exterior, Erica loved baby seals. And sea otters. And kittens. Back at our original spy school, her dormitory walls had been covered with posters of them (as well as one incredibly precious baby sloth)

My status as a spy-in-training was classified and my mission at the White House had been unauthorized. So they wouldn’t expect me to have the skills and know-how to elude a manhunt. In truth, I wasn’t completely sure I had the skills and know-how to elude a manhunt either, but I was going to give it my best shot.

I still kept to the shadows, but did my best to behave in a calm and collected manner, as though I had a perfectly rational reason for wandering around the city at two in the morning.

Because the formula he derived for measuring the average number of bits needed to encode a piece of information looked almost exactly like Ludwig Boltzmann and Josiah Willard Gibbs’s formula for calculating entropy in thermodynamics. Here’s Shannon’s equation for calculating the size of any given piece of information: H = –Σi pi logb pi And here’s one way of stating Boltzmann’s equation for calculating the entropy of any given system: S = –kB Σi pi ln pi These two equations don’t just look similar; they’re effectively the same. Shortly after deriving his equation, Shannon pointed the similarity out to John von Neumann, then widely considered the world’s best mathematician. Von Neumann shrugged, suggesting that Shannon call his measure of the number of bits needed to carry a piece of information information entropy on the grounds that no one really understood thermodynamic entropy either.

However, I had serious concerns. “That’s Plan B? That ought to be Plan C or D at best. The Secret Service and Homeland Security have the museum surrounded. We’re never going to be able to get in there without authorization.” “That’s why we’re not going through the front door,” Catherine said. “We’ll have to parachute onto the roof. The same way the Croatoan probably came in.” “An aerial assault?” Chip exclaimed. “Awesome!” “Oh no,” I said, remembering my last aerial assault; it had taken place over Paris and had not been an enjoyable way to arrive in the city. “That ought to be Plan Z.

But if we leave right now, averaging sixty miles an hour, it should only take us eight hours to get there.” “Twenty hours,” Erica corrected. “Who taught you math?” “Oops,” Alexander said. “Well, that’s certainly longer, but we can still make the best of it. I’ll download some audiobooks, we can sing show tunes, maybe I can even find a place around here that sells Travel Bingo…

center, there’s probably going to be . . .” He trailed off, pointing dramatically through a gap in the trees. “A temple.” Sure enough, another mound rose in the distance. This one was significantly taller than the others around us. It was bedecked with trees and plants, but was obviously a stepped pyramid. “So what’s the plan, exactly?” Murray asked blankly. “We go to the temple and pray that someone rescues us?” Zoe swatted Murray on the back of the head. “No, you idiot. We climb the temple and see how close we are to civilization. Plus, maybe we can spot Erica from up there.” “Oh!” Murray said. “Good thinking.” The ancient road led directly to the pyramid. Lots of trees and brush had grown on the road over the past few centuries, but it was still easy to follow. Now that we’d had plenty of water to drink and were warm again, we were in good shape. Except for my wet shoes squelching on my feet and my wet underwear riding up my butt, I felt better than I had in hours. We reached the base of the pyramid and worked our way up the stepped exterior. Like the other buildings, it was constructed of rough-hewn limestone held together with mortar and covered with centuries of dirt and plant life. There were also dozens of iguanas basking in the sun on it. Everywhere I looked, there was an iguana, many of them the size of lapdogs. It was like a display case for an iguana store. They watched us warily as we climbed past them, but didn’t seem too threatened by us, as they rarely bothered to move out of our way. The pyramid angled up sharply. Murray, being in the best shape, made his way up it the fastest, though the rest of us weren’t far behind. The heat and the humidity, originally so refreshing after our time underground, quickly grew oppressive. I had to stop halfway up the pyramid to catch my breath, taking care not to sit on any iguanas. Zoe

The thing is, when you meet the one, the one you’ve dreamed about and hoped and prayed actually existed somewhere out there in the world, when you meet her, you know it. You know it in an instant. You don’t even fall in love with her, because you were in love with her before time. Before either of you even existed. When you meet her you’ll know it because you feel whole, for the first time, and it’s the best damn feeling in the world.

She’d practically been preparing for it since birth: Spying was her family business. Most of her ancestors had been spies, going all the way back to Nathan Hale in the Revolutionary War. Her grandfather Cyrus Hale was one of the best there’d ever been, and he’d taught Erica almost everything he knew. On the other hand, I came from a long line of grocers. I was only thirteen, and until seven months earlier, my entire espionage experience had consisted of watching James Bond movies.

America’s legal system was based on the Bible and on British common law principles that derived from the eternal and immutable Law of the Creator, articulated best in 1765 by William Blackstone in his Commentaries on the Laws of England

The Bible no longer sets the standard for American law. Legislators and judges now write the laws, determine the policies, and decide the cases based on what they think is best for America—their own personal preferences.

I’m doing my best!” Erica yelled back. “You know how I feel about baby seals!

Each of us are born into our lot and each must make the best out of what we are given. The best any of us can do is to hope. The worst any of us can do is to give up. We can do no more. We can do no less.