Grizzly Man Quotes

[The Old Astronomer to His Pupil] Reach me down my Tycho Brahe, I would know him when we meet, When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet; He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how We are working to completion, working on from then to now. Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete, Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet, And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true, And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you. But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn, You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn, What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and smiles; What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles. You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late, But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate. Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night. What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight; You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night. I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known. You 'have none but me,' you murmur, and I 'leave you quite alone'? Well then, kiss me, -- since my mother left her blessing on my brow, There has been a something wanting in my nature until now; I can dimly comprehend it, -- that I might have been more kind, Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind. I 'have never failed in kindness'? No, we lived too high for strife,-- Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life; But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still To the service of our science: you will further it? you will! There are certain calculations I should like to make with you, To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true; And remember, 'Patience, Patience,' is the watchword of a sage, Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age. I have sown, like Tycho Brahe, that a greater man may reap; But if none should do my reaping, 'twill disturb me in my sleep So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name; See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame. I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak; Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak: It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars,-- God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.

Because of their DNA, most men loved a damsel in distress. Every time a man sees a pretty lass in trouble, even the boorish slob-of-a-man transforms into a chivalrous knight-in-shining-armour. This was why most women (no matter how strong, competent or resourceful) were forced to act shy, demure and helpless so that their men could feel like strong grizzly bears or ferocious mountain lions.

Peabody may not have seen the man turn into a grizzly, but he was bright enough to know that Injun Joe was getting set to adjust another relative ass-to-ears ratio.

Why didn't the Eskimo keep it?" she asked, looking at the Magnet with interest. "He got tired of being loved and longed for some one to hate him. So he gave me the Magnet and the very next day a grizzly bear ate him." "Wasn't he sorry then?" she inquired. "He didn't say," replied the shaggy man,

OCTAVIUS. Even if it were so—and I don't admit it for a moment—it is out of the deadliest struggles that we get the noblest characters. TANNER. Remember that the next time you meet a grizzly bear or a Bengal tiger, Tavy. OCTAVIUS. I meant where there is love, Jack. TANNER. Oh, the tiger will love you.

Now standing in one corner of a boxing ring with a .22 caliber Colt automatic pistol, shooting a bullet weighing only 40 grains and with a striking energy of 51 foot pounds at 25 feet from the muzzle, I will guarantee to kill either Gene Tunney or Joe Louis before they get to me from the opposite corner. This is the smallest caliber pistol cartridge made; but it is also one of the most accurate and easy to hit with, since the pistol has no recoil. I have killed many horses with it, cripples and bear baits, with a single shot, and what will kill a horse will kill a man. I have hit six dueling silhouettes in the head with it at regulation distance in five seconds. It was this type of pistol that Millen boys’ colleague, Abe Faber, did all his killings with. Yet this same pistol bullet fired at point blank range will not dent a grizzly’s skull, and to shoot a grizzly with a .22 caliber pistol would simply be one way of committing suicide

The MRI has a repertoire of noises that resemble, in no particular order: a game-show buzzer for a wrong answer, urgent knocking, a modem from 1992, a grizzly-bear growl, and a man with a raspy voice shouting what sounds like "mother cooler!

It would be fitting, I think, if among the last man made tracks on earth would be found the huge footprints of the great brown bear.

whatever a grizzly man did he was under all sorts of pressure. And pressure creates accidents.

Oh, man, don’t get me started on the subject of childhood brainwash. I hate that. Every fairy story, every Disney movie, every plot with animals in it, the bad guy is always the top carnivore. Wolf, grizzly, anaconda, Tyrannosaurus rex.

Reviewing our experiences, we had become more and more convinced that carrying arms was not only unnecessary in most grizzly country but was certainly no good for the desired atmosphere and proper protocol in obtaining good film records. If we were to obtain such film and fraternize successfully with the big bears, it would be better to go unarmed in most places. The mere fact of having a gun within reach, cached somewhere in a pack or a hidden holster, causes a man to act with unconscious arrogance and thus maybe to smell different or to transmit some kind of signal objectionable to bears. The armed man does not assume his proper role in association with the wild ones, a fact of which they seem instantly aware at some distance. He, being wilder than they, whether he likes to admit it or not, is instantly under even more suspicion than he would encounter if unarmed. One must follow the role of an uninvited visitor—an intruder—rather than that of an aggressive hunter, and one should go unarmed to insure this attitude.

Whores were for fucking. Old ladies were for loving, and a man in this club never went back to skanks after putting his brand on some worthy chick.

The stuttering beat in her chest returned. Was it hormonal, something to do with the surgeries? Why did a man coming on to her—a kindhearted, good-looking one, at that—make her body react like she was confronting a pissed-off grizzly?

Traditional Blackfeet saw the natural world in terms of awe and mystery. Animals lived in metaphorical relationships to them; the creatures were other nations. Every plant and animal passed coded information to man. Part of the price western science has paid for analytical power is that it has transformed the natural world into something alien.

This appeared clearly in one of the earliest burial mounds found on the Hopewell farm. There, archaeologists found a young man and a young woman buried side by side. As Stuart J. Fiedel describes the burial in Prehistory of the Americas, “She was bedecked with, and surrounded by, thousands of pearl beads and buttons made of copper-covered wood and stone; she also wore copper bracelets. Both individuals wore copper earspools, copper breastplates, and necklaces of grizzly bear canines” (Fiedel). The skulls had even been buried with artificial noses made of copper. Their bodies were then surrounded by a line of copper earspools. Archaeologists found more than 100,000 pearls in the Hopewell mounds (Prufer).

... family men, Claude." "Then why aren't they home with their families?" "You haven't been listening to me, Claude. It takes lots of honey to raise a family these days..." No, it isn't even that, these teddy bears don't like honey as much as they think they do. They think they're supposed to like it, the way they're supposed to like women and children. They think they're supposed to act like real grizzlies, but they don't feel it. You can't blame them, they just don't have it inside them. What they have, what they love most, is their memories: how the Coach used to shout niceworkpal whenever they caught the big ball or somehow hit the little one, how Dad used to wink when they caught one of his jokes, how when they repeated them he almost died laughing, so they told them and told them - if they told one really well he might do it. They memorized all the conversations verbatim, that about the pussies and the coons, the homers and the balls, the cams and the bearings. They're still memorizing. You can see them almost anytime you're out driving, there in the slow car just ahead, the young man at the wheel, the old man talking, the young man leaning a little to the right in order to hear better, the old man pointing out the properties, the young man looking and listening earnestly, straining to catch the old man's last word, the last joke verbatim, the last bit of know-how about the deals and the properties and the honey. When he thinks he's learned all he can from the old man, he'll shove him out of the car. You watch, next time you're out driving. "...these are the cream, Claude." These are the all-American fairies.

Bears. We come in all shapes and varieties. Besides your “typical” bear (a hairy, stocky to heavyset man), there are chubs (heavyset men who aren’t necessarily hairy), cubs (young bears or bears who are very young at heart), daddy bears (older guys, sometimes looking for a “daddy/son” relationship with a younger guy or cub—definitely not talking pederasty here), leather bears (bears who like to wear leather), muscle bears (can be very muscular, but they tend not to worry about abs in favor of some nice padding), polar bears (bears whose hair has gone gray/white), panda bears (bears of Asian descent), black bears (bears of African descent), pocket bears (short bears), Ewoks (very short bears), ginger bears (redheaded bears), and grizzly bears (usually much shaggier and taller and sometimes dominant). And then there are otters (hairy guys who are slim)!

Let me get this straight. You’re telling me I’m supposed to stand in front of a charging bear and spray it with a can of pepper?” Call fought back a grin. “It isn’t my idea of a good time, but it works. At least it usually does.” “You’re not speaking from personal experience?” “I’ve only had to use it once, but it did the trick. When that little stream of spray hit that grizzly in the face, he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.” Good Lord, the man had faced down a grizzly bear with a can of aerosol spray! She stared at that hard, rugged jaw, thought of Max Mason, and didn’t doubt it for a second. She grinned as she set the pepper spray down on what passed for a kitchen counter--a board with a strip of linoleum glued to the top. “That was very thoughtful. You know what they say in the Yukon--a can of pepper spray beats a bouquet of flowers any old day.

went inside and sat down in a corner booth. Cain looked around. A couple of grizzly trucker types, an old man reading a paper at the counter, country music in the background. The waitress approached and

A forgotten hero but remembered by us few who served with him and are alive today with wives and children because of one unselfish, remarkable man. We were crazy about this calm, relentless bush-fighter who loved his job and his country; when you look at the evil in the modern world I know we need more people like him. The war is over for us but I, Sergeant Mike West of the C Squadron Rhodesian SAS, want to thank you for your outstanding leadership and devotion to duty and to us, your soldiers; for leading us into battle with the ferocity of a grizzly bear and being a dear friend when we were back in Civvy Street. I know I speak for one and all when I say you are always in our thoughts.” A

Roundtree’s Taxidermy Shop was as dark as a cave and twice as mysterious. From the shadows of its dim interior, white fangs and sharp claws gleamed menacingly at the two boys. Near the door, a huge grizzly bear reared on its hind legs as if ready to pounce on any customer who caused its master displeasure. Mr. Roundtree, a short, plump man, shuffled about in flapping slippers. As the boys entered, he was completing the sale of a mounted wolf’s head to a man in a tan raincoat and slouch hat. Joe glanced curiously at the animal, then turned with Chet to a display case of glass eyes.

You have a boner,” she pointed out. Literally, she pointed it out. With her pointer finger. Now, if he wasn’t the son of Clinton Fuller and raised the way he was, perhaps that would’ve embarrassed him, but as it stood, he had to fight the urge to push her hand down so her pretty little black-painted nail poked said erection. He was trying to have manners. “It’s the biggest compliment a man can give a woman,” he said. “You could just say you think I’m pretty.” “Actions over words. Think about it,” he said

OLD GRIZZLY ADAMS. [37-*] James C. Adams, or “Grizzly Adams,” as he was generally termed, from the fact of his having captured so many grizzly bears, and encountered such fearful perils by his unexampled daring, was an extraordinary character. For many years a hunter and trapper in the Rocky and Sierra Nevada Mountains, he acquired a recklessness which, added to his natural invincible courage, rendered him truly one of the most striking men of the age. He was emphatically what the English call a man of “pluck.” In 1860, he arrived in New York with his famous collection of California animals, captured by himself, consisting of twenty or thirty immense grizzly bears, at the head of which stood “Old Sampson”—now in the American Museum—wolves, half a dozen other species of bear, California lions, tigers, buffalo, elk, etc., and Old Neptune, the great sea-lion, from the Pacific.

knew enough to realize a good old lady had all the skills of a whore and the love of an angel to keep her man satisfied.

You aren’t going to offer to shave my legs for me, too, are you?” His hands suddenly stopped moving. There was a stillness and a silence for such a drawn out moment, she wondered if she had somehow offended him. “Marcie,” he finally said. “Why in the world would you shave your legs?” “They’re hairy!” “So what? Who’s gonna care?” She thought about this for a second. She was on the top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere with a man who looked like Grizzly Adams in a place that didn’t even have indoor plumbing. Why would she shave her legs? And armpits? Finally, in a little voice, she said, “I would.” He

God, she was falling hard for this man, and she didn’t know how that would work out for her plan of getting her independence.

Give…give me a second.” Aleks spoke quietly. He lifted his hands to his face, wiping the sweat and tears from his eyes, then with an almighty roar, he rose up like a grizzly bear, grabbed the chair that had held him prisoner, and smashed it into Dostiger’s remaining interrogator. The man doubled over, trying to shield his face. Aleks dropped the chair and grabbed him by his collar, hauling him across the room like a doll. He swept the man’s legs from under him, catching him around the neck in a powerful chokehold. The solid Russian’s bicep bulged and the man’s face turned a deathly gray as Aleks whispered something in his ear. The man’s eyes grew wide and he scrabbled at the Russian’s arm in a feeble attempt to escape the deathly grip, then with a shudder, he went limp and was dropped to the floor unconscious. Aleks turned and spat at the corpse of the other torturer. “This piece of shit was going to drill out my eyes. Let’s get the fuck out of here.

I'd watch his smooth chest rise and fall with each steady breath, I'd watch the pulsating of his stomach when he laughed, and I'd never forget to make a comment or two about the wispy trail of grey fuzz that lined up perfectly centre with his body - and I thought that straight lines didn't exist in nature. "Look at that old man hair," I'd say, purposely trying to get a reaction from him. Sometimes I'd even run my hand over his stomach so that he'd feel it. He'd grab my hand to make me stop, or pretend that he was going to hit me as he laughed with me. "At least I don't have a grizzly bear ass like somebody I know.

couple of grizzly trucker types, an old man reading a paper at the counter, country music in the background. The waitress approached and smiled. “Hi guys. What can I get you?” Cain ordered scrambled eggs, toast, black coffee and pancakes. The driver ordered hash browns and

No, between man and bear, Kern would rather go one-on-one with the grizzly beast every time. Men were devious creatures. Dangerous.

Maybe he was annoyed by the criticism he got for the scene in Grizzly Man during which he listens to Timothy Treadwell’s death over headphones: Why should he get to hear it and we don’t? There was no need—the coroner had already given a play-by-play account. The voyeurs still wanted more. They wanted to hear raw mortality.

The irony I’ve always found most haunting about Grizzly Man was how close it came to avoiding its ending, thus never being made at all. How close Timothy Treadwell and Amie Huguenard came to going home. They’d called it a season, packed up their gear, and got as far as the airport ticket counter before deciding to return to the Alaskan bush awhile longer. As if they’d heard a call to go back. Had Lydia seen this, and never told me? She would know I had. And trusted I would understand exactly what it meant when, after a trip to the bathroom at Vancouver International, I found her seat in our gate’s waiting area empty. Or if not right away, I’d get the message eventually. When I missed our flight, too, I couldn’t say if it was because I was still waiting for her to come back. Or because I wasn’t aware of when everyone else started to board. Or because I was trying to work up the courage to go after her, but couldn’t get past my fear of the mess that might be waiting. Mostly I wished I’d paid more attention to how much of herself Lydia must have seen in Stefan—alive in the wrong time, unable to see anything more ahead for her. All I’d ever wanted was someone to watch movies with, and talk about what they meant before we went to bed. Profound ones. Silly ones. All the ones in between. It seemed so simple, so little to ask for. So why couldn’t I have reached out a hand’s length farther, and accepted it? But as I sat transfixed by the sky, by the clouds and all they concealed, the maker of teeth made it clear. That’s not how this universe works. That’s not how any of this works.

As Theodore Roosevelt explained: There are many kinds of success in life worth having. It is exceedingly interesting and attractive to be a successful businessman, or railway man, or farmer, or a successful lawyer or doctor; or a writer, or a President, or a ranchman, or the colonel of a fighting regiment, or to kill grizzly bears and lions. But for unflagging interest and enjoyment, a household of children, if things go reasonably well, certainly makes all other forms of success and achievement lose their importance by comparison.

Now is no time to think of what you do not have. Think of what you can do with that there is. —Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

This camp was run by Quin, a shifter with greenish-yellow eyes who turned into a mountain lion. Judging by his attitude you’d say he was there because he lost a bet. Quin was a man of few words who appeared to be in his mid-forties, but shifters aged way slower than humans. He could have easily been a few hundreds of years old. Perhaps life hadn’t been kind to him and that shaped him into the burly, grumpy man he was today. Rae joked once that he’s more grizzly than mountain lion. That earned her extra training because ‘when it hurts it’s not funny anymore’. Training stopped only when she dropped from exhaustion.

Someone has to take care of you guys. It will be a little easier to do that as a were-bear, you know?”   “I have this vision of your room covered in Care Bear paraphernalia, right down to the grumpy bear sheets.”   “If you start asking to see my were-bear stare, I’m going to eat you.”   “Aw, don’t be grumpy there, sunshine bear.”   He shoved me.   I held up my hands in mock surrender. “I will say this—I was surprised you turned into a grizzly.”   “What, are you saying that because I’m Mexican? You don’t think a man of my heritage can handle a grizzly bear?”   “I was just going to say because you’re so short.”   It went downhill after that.

When I’d seen Sheriff John Cantrell in the picture, standing by the lake, I had thought that he might wrestle grizzlies in his free time. Now that I saw him in real life, I figured bears would be too easy an opponent for this huge man. A T-rex might be more worthy an adversary.

It is exceedingly interesting and attractive to be a successful business man, or railroad man, or farmer, or a successful lawyer or doctor; or a writer, or a president, or a ranchman, or the colonel of a fighting regiment, or to kill grizzly bears and lions. But for unflagging interest and enjoyment, a household of children, if things go reasonably well, certainly makes all other forms of success and achievement lose their importance by comparison.

Two men are walking in the woods. A ferocious grizzly bear charges at them and they start to run. While running, they shout: Man 1: We’ll never outrun the bear. Man 2: I don’t have to. My only question is “Can I outrun you?

She looked back at him, her lips curving into an incredulous smile. "The man who just gave me the best orgasms of my life is asking me out on a date?" "Um... yeah?" "Um...okay.

There are many kinds of success in life worth having. It is exceedingly interesting and attractive to be a successful businessman, or railway man, or farmer, or a successful lawyer or doctor; or a writer, or a President, or a ranchman, or the colonel of a fighting regiment, or to kill grizzly bears and lions. But for unflagging interest and enjoyment, a household of children, if things go reasonably well, certainly makes all other forms of success and achievement lose their importance by comparison.

My friend Gage, who was here with me when I stumbled on the first den on the mountainside, could find humility before nature in his backyard. I cannot: I need to confront several large, fierce animals who sometimes make meat of man to help recall the total concentration of the hunter. Then the old rusty senses, dulled by urban excesses, spring back to life, probing the shadows for shapes, sounds, and smells. Sometimes I am graced by a new insight into myself, a new combination of thoughts, a metaphor, that knocks on the door of mystery.

The village is the talking bird, the owl, who calls the name of the man who is going to die, and the silver-tipped grizzly who ambles into the village, and the little white speck that is the mountain goat on Whoop-Szo.