Good Bulgarian Quotes

A good friend is recognized in times of trouble.

NATO Special Forces put a lot of emphasis on endurance in selection and training. They have guys running fifty miles carrying everything including the kitchen sink. They keep them awake and hiking over appalling terrain for a week at a time. Therefore NATO elite troops tended to be small whippy guys, built like marathon runners. But this Bulgarian was huge. He was at least as big as me. Maybe even bigger. Maybe six-six, maybe two-fifty. He had a shaved head. He had a big square face that would be somewhere between brutally plain and reasonably good-looking depending on the light. At that point the fluorescent tube on the ceiling of his cell wasn’t doing him any favors. He looked tired. He had piercing eyes set deep and close together in hooded sockets. He was a few years older than me, somewhere in his early thirties. He had huge hands. He was wearing brand-new woodland BDUs, no name, no rank, no unit.

The opinions expressed by outsiders about these Christian congregations, both in Asia Minor and in Bulgaria, vary greatly, for while it was usual to speak of them and their doctrine as being indescribably wicked, there were those who judged differently. The earliest writers appear to have written more as partisans than as historians. They accuse the “heretics” of practising vile and unnatural fleshly sins, repeat from hearsay what was current about them and include much from Mani and from what was written against him. The writer Euthymius (died after 1118), says: “They bid those who listen to their doctrines to keep the commandments of the Gospel, and to be meek and merciful and of brotherly love. Thus they entice men on by teaching all good things and useful doctrines, but they poison by degrees and draw to perdition.” Cosmas, a Bulgarian Presbyter, writing at the end of the tenth century, describes Bogomils as “worse and more horrible than demons”, denies their belief in the Old Testament or the Gospels, says they pay no honour to the Mother of God nor to the cross, they revile the ceremonies of the Church and all Church dignitaries, call orthodox priests “blind Pharisees”, say that the Lord’s Supper is not kept according to God’s commandment, and that the bread is not the body of God, but ordinary bread. He attributes their asceticism to their belief that the Devil created all material things and says: “You will see heretics quiet and peaceful as lambs… wan with hypocritical fasting, who do not speak much nor laugh loud”, and again, “when men see their lowly behaviour, they think that they are of true belief; they approach them therefore and consult them about their soul’s health. But they, like wolves that will swallow up a lamb, bow their head, sigh, and answer full of humility, and set themselves up as if they knew how it is ordered in heaven.

Again, there's nothing in Section 702 that authorizes mass surveillance. The NSA justifies the use by abusing the word "incidental." Everything is intercepted, both metadata and content, and automatically searched for items of interest. The NSA claims that only the things it wants to save count as searching. Everything else is incidental, and as long as its intended "target" is outside the US, it's all okay. A useful analogy would be allowing police officers to search every house in the city without any probable cause or warrant, looking for a guy who normally lives in Bulgaria. They would save evidence of any crimes they happened to find, and then argue that none of the other searches counted because they hadn't found anything, and what they found was admissable as evidence because it was "incidental" to the search for the Bulgarian. The Fourth Amendment specifically prohibits that sort of search as unreasonable, and for good reason.

Raindrops, thunder, crickets and monkeys, footsteps, heartbeats, birdsong, trains. There’s the sound of a mother kissing her child, saying, “Be a good boy,” and all manner of songs: classical, drums, bagpipes, yelling, Pygmy girls chanting, Chuck Berry. The vinyl pops. The songs pile up. It keeps snowing. Mr. Bell announces each new track. Russian, Bulgarian, pan pipes, Mexican, Azerbaijani. Stravinsky. One song, just a man with a guitar. The man hums and moans. “Blind Willie Johnson. ‘Dark Was the Night.

When your voice is soft like snow, all the words you pick to show, that even your nothing can be a good rhyme. Like snow, since of water, the snowflakes are made, the water flows soft, yet it cuts right through jade… Words make a path, in Eternal mind-planes, while thoughts turn to actions, eternal, from brains… Our actions are done sometimes meaning without, And someone once wrote, they give dreams here… about. Somewhere in the boundless grey mists dreams sprout…

When life gets you down, just say: “Life, is truth your name, or are you gay?”; when it replies: “The Life am I.”, your swift response: “Your path I try.”; live every moment, that happened, just once, to save in the rye, yours forever the stance, think like rain, to clean each heart, once is always, if good is your part…

Chidren wish for a world pristine, poets, to think, need a sheet that is clean, clean, if, the sky, means the weather is good, clear water - a mirror, reflects, like it should, clear thoughts make for a clearer mind, clean must be every creature, in kind, over every forest, the air is clean, every tree has its own dream…