Harry T Moore Quotes

No,” she said. “You are not Patrick Swayze. I am not Demi Moore.” She touched a switch on the little box and it started ticking. “And this sure as hell isn't pottery class.

Adults are living increasingly as children: completely in their imaginations. Reading Harry Potter while every newspaper in the country goes out of business. They know so little that is real.

A thousand years or more ago, When I was newly sewn, There lived four wizards of renown, Whose name are still well-known: Bold Gryffindor from wild moor, Fair Ravlenclaw from glen, Sweet Hufflepuff from valley broad, Shrewd Slytherin from fen. They share a wish, a hope, a dream, They hatched a daring plan, To educate young sorcerers, Thus Hogwarts school began. Now each of these four founders Formed their own house, for each Did value different virtues, In the ones they had to teach. By Gryffindor, the bravest were Prized far beyond the rest; For Ravenclaw, the cleverest Would always be the best; For Hufflepuff, hardworkers were Most worthy of admission; And power-hungry Slytherin Loved those of great ambition. While still alive they did divide Their favourates from the throng, Yet how to pick the worthy ones When they were dead and gone? 'Twas Gryffindor who found the way, He whipped me off his head The founders put some brains in me So I could choose instead! Now slip me snug around your ears, I've never yet been wrong, I'll have alook inside your mind And tell where you belong!

I was not supposed to end up freezing my ass off in a remake of Harry Potter meets The Italian Job by way of Fargo.

The longer one stays here the more does the spirit of the moor sink into one’s soul, its vastness, and also its grim charm. When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all traces of modern England behind you, but on the other hand you are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you walk are the houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the huge monoliths which are supposed to have marked their temples. As you look at their grey stone huts against the scarred hillsides you leave your own age behind you, and if you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door, fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you would feel that the presence there was more natural than your own. The strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what must always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I could imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were forced to accept that which none other would occupy.

From the very second that you sat on my couch crying over Harry Potter at midnight while you devoured Toaster Strudel...I knew.

Sir, I can’t talk to you without a mask,” Moore said loudly. “Go get a mask.

the Thing has stirred in its moorings. The Thing that my Grandfather Harry and his generation of Harrys had thought was nothing but a false alarm.

Why can’t you just hate me?’ Iain sobs under his breath. ‘It would be so much easier.’ ‘Save your energy,’ Harry says. ‘We can fight tomorrow. Right now we have to rinse those scrapes out with vinegar before they fester. You’ve brought half the moor home with you.

Tell me something wonderful," he said to Dane. "Tell me that we are going to die dreamfully and loved in our sleep." "You're always writing one of your plays on the phone," said Dane. "I said, something wonderful. Say something about springtime." "It is sloppy and wet. It is a beast from the sea." "Ah," said Harry.

I guess you’re familiar with Moore’s Law? This states that the number of transistors that can be placed on an integrated circuit—which basically means memory size and processing speed—will double every eighteen months, and costs will halve. Moore’s Law has held with amazing consistency since 1965, and it still holds.

Every morning they made sure that they had removed all clues to their presence, then set off to find another lonely and secluded spot, traveling by Apparition to more woods, to the shadowy crevices of cliffs, to purple moors, gorse-covered mountainsides, and once a sheltered and pebbly cove. Every twelve hours or so they passed the Horcrux between them as though they were playing some perverse, slow-motion game of pass-the-parcel, where they dreaded the music stopping because the reward was twelve hours of increased fear and anxiety.

Of course, there can be clear indications that a teacher is not worth paying attention to. A history as a fabulist or a con artist should be considered fatal; thus, the spiritual opinions of Joseph Smith, Gurdjieff, and L. Ron Hubbard can be safely ignored. A fetish for numbers is also an ominous sign. Math is magical, but math approached like magic is just superstition—and numerology is where the intellect goes to die. Prophecy is also a very strong indication of chicanery or madness on the part of a teacher, and of stupidity among his students. One can extrapolate from scientific data or technological trends (climate models, Moore’s law), but most detailed predictions about the future lead to embarrassment right on schedule.

In the year 1212, sincere Christian parents of the medieval church decided to send their children to conquer Jerusalem and drive out the Moors, This Children's Crusade, as it was called, was a disaster. The children died in severe storm or were slaughtered by bandits and wild beasts. Those who survived were sold into slavery to the Moors and raised as Moslems. You cannot serve God by disobeying God. A similar slaughter is taking place today. Some Christian parents send their children to public schools to take them for Christ. Others are just sent to get an education. Some are sent just to get them out of the house. The result is the same. Casualties lie all around us. The few children who survive with their faith intact are more influenced than they are influential.

The assassination of President Kennedy killed not only a man but a complex of illusions. It demolished the myth that hate and violence can be confined in an airtight chamber to be employed against but a few. Suddenly the truth was revealed that hate is a contagion; that it grows and spreads as a disease; that no society is so healthy that it can automatically maintain its immunity. If a smallpox epidemic had been raging in the South, President Kennedy would have been urged to avoid the area. There was a plague afflicting the South, but its perils were not perceived. Negroes tragically know political assassination well. In the life of Negro civil-rights leaders, the whine of the bullet from ambush, the roar of the bomb have all too often broken the night's silence. They have replaced lynching as a political weapon. More than a decade ago, sudden death came to Mr. and Mrs. Harry T. Moore, N.A.A.C.P. leaders in Florida. The Reverend George Lee of Belzoni, Mississippi, was shot to death on the steps of a rural courthouse. The bombings multiplied. Nineteen sixty-three was a year of assassinations. Medgar Evers in Jackson, Mississippi; William Moore in Alabama; six Negro children in Birmingham—and who could doubt that these too were political assassinations? The unforgivable default of our society has been its failure to apprehend the assassins. It is a harsh judgment, but undeniably true, that the cause of the indifference was the identity of the victims. Nearly all were Negroes. And so the plague spread until it claimed the most eminent American, a warmly loved and respected president. The words of Jesus "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me" were more than a figurative expression; they were a literal prophecy. We were all involved in the death of John Kennedy. We tolerated hate; we tolerated the sick stimulation of violence in all walks of life; and we tolerated the differential application of law, which said that a man’s life was sacred only if we agreed with his views. This may explain the cascading grief that flooded the country in late November. We mourned a man who had become the pride of the nation, but we grieved as well for ourselves because we knew we were sick.

I was not supposed to end up freezing my ass off in a remake of Harry Potter meets The Italian Job by way of Fargo.

It is not a matter of me marrying either you or a gas pumper. It is a matter of marrying a man. I do not much care what he does, so long as he is a man. You are 21,” she said, “and under the law you are a man, and your height and weight is that of a man. In the bed you are a man,” and she smiled a little. “But you are losing your manhood faster then hell. Pretty soon in bed will be the only place you are a man. But that is not manhood. Dogs and bulls and tomcats do the same. Yes, you are losing your manhood and becoming simply an island in the empire of Moors.

Zach’s Fanfare #2” (MFSB)* “Comeback Kid” (Sleigh Bells) “Monkey Gone to Heaven” (The Pixies) “Spaceman” (Harry Nilsson) “Going Down” (Freddie King) “I’m Bad” (Rocket to Memphis) “Pumped Up Kicks” (Foster the People) “Nobody Does It Better” (Me First and the Gimme Gimmes) “Skull & Crossbones” (Sparkle Moore & Dan Belloc and His Orchestra) “Switchblade Smiles” (Kasabian) “I Wanna Destroy You” (The Soft Boys) “Drain You” (Foxy Shazam) “T.O.R.N.A.D.O.” (The Go! Team) “Woman of Mass Destruction” (The Woolly Bandits) “Tough Lover” (Nick Curran and the Lowlifes) “(I’m Stuck in a Pagoda With) Tricia Toyota” (The Dickies) “Apache” (The Sugarhill Gang) “For Whom the Bell Tolls” (Metallica) “We All Go Back to Where We Belong” (R.E.M.) “Change Reaction” (David Uosikkinen) “Satellite” (The Hooters) “Fanfare for Rocky” (Bill Conti)*

the extent to which Mormons wish to continue to dissociate themselves from any of the three major branches of Christianity makes it harder for them to credibly claim to be Christian at the same time. Imagine a young man raised in a not overly devout LDS home today who begins to go around describing a vision he had received in which he saw three identical looking men who identified themselves as Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. They instructed him to associate with no existing church but to await further revelation. Eventually an angel guides him to dig up silver tiles that are covered with writing he cannot read but looks a little like pictographs on totem poles. Later he announces he has been enabled by God’s Spirit to translate them. They tell the story of a group of Mormons who migrated to the Yukon in the late nineteenth century and who mingled with the Inuit there until they were all killed off except for one who had buried these tiles with their story engraved on them. Later God reveals to this young man extensive instructions for the founding of a new group restoring the original Mormonism of Joseph Smith, which had begun to be corrupted by Brigham Young, lost its moorings considerably in the mid-twentieth century, was reformed and improved by LDS church president Ezra Taft Benson but still needs a full restoration. After all, Joseph Smith died before he could pass on his authority to his divinely ordained successor, so no existing Mormons have true priesthood authority. The Salt Lake City-based Mormons, the rural Utah fundamentalist Mormons, and the Community of Christ (formerly the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints) are all illegitimate, and it is time to restore original Mormonism under the leadership of this upstart young man. Anyone who wants to be in God’s best graces has to be baptized into the new church this man is organizing, which is to be called the Restored Church of our Holy Lord Jesus Christ of Last-day Disciples. Existing Mormon baptisms are not good enough for membership in his church. Indeed, this new Restored Church is the one true church on the entire planet. At the same time, it wants to call itself Mormon and be treated as fully Mormon by the Quorum of the Twelve and the First Presidency in Salt Lake City, by all the renegade fundamentalist Mormons, and by the Community of Christ. What is the likelihood that anyone in these three groups would agree? Yet that is very close to how the rest of Christendom perceives, rightly or wrongly, the desires of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Why?’ ‘People use them as a security device, to keep a track of the kids, anything really. I think some insurance firms even give lower premiums if you have one. Spy more, pay less, that kind of thing.’ ‘Yeah, well, I’m guessing Kirsty had no idea it was there,’ Matt said. ‘You’d have to be looking for it to find it, if you know what I mean.’ They were less than a mile away now from Daryl. But that mile just couldn’t zip by quick enough. ‘We’re nearly back at the house,’ Harry said. ‘What about you and Jen?’ ‘We were just about to head over to speak with Adam’s brother,’ Matt said. ‘Just to check up on what he saw up on the moors, the lights and whatnot. Just wanted to get this development to you first.’ ‘Right,’ Harry said. ‘Good job. Well, you crack on with that, see what Gary has to say. But get a message through to Jadyn to contact Swift and tell him what we’re up to.’ ‘Will do, Boss.’ Harry told Jim to hang up. ‘We’re nearly there,’ he said, dropping speed now as they passed into a residential zone.

Ian Hunter

Billy Harvey,

A small slap for man, a giant slap for girlkind

I gots to git down to the infirmary, Zuzu, something awful is happening, the Thing has stirred in its moorings. The Thing that my Grandfather Harry and his generation of Harrys had thought was nothing but a false alarm. The Mayor, dragging the woman by the fox skins hanging from her neck, leaves city hall and jumps into his Stutz Bearcat parked at the curb. They drive until they reach St. Louis Cathedral where 19th-century HooDoo Queen Marie Laveau was a frequent worshiper; its location was about 10 blocks from Place Congo. They walk up the steps and the door’s Judas Eye swings open.

Until that moment, she had not known that she was not afraid to die. But she might not have to. She could shoot a dog without thinking twice, and she was sure she could shoot a man too, even if it would mean going to jail. But could she shoot more than one man? She didn’t know, but maybe she could. Newspaper reporters and the sheriff would claim she had lost her mind like they would say about Ruby McCollum in Live Oak one day soon, but her soul knew the truth: rescuing Robbie from a killing place would not be as immoral as leaving him there. The stench of pain and death from the Reformatory reached all the way out to this creek, dripping from aerial roots reaching toward the water. And if the law said she was wrong to shoot at the men chasing her brother, the law was wrong too. Uncle June had said he didn’t think his killing in the war was a sin because those men were trying to kill him. She would know the truth, at least. Miz Lottie, who had given her the gun, would certainly know. Papa would too. If she lived long enough, one day she would write a book about how she had helped set Robbie free. She’d tried the courthouse, hadn’t she? She’d brought Harry T. Moore and the glorious John Dorsey to try that way, but justice in Gracetown didn’t exist for Negroes. She’d told the judge about Lyle McCormack’s true-life violations and all he’d cared about was Papa’s imaginary one. No one was left to look out for Robbie except her.

Pelosi would create a special House committee to investigate the insurrection. A few weeks later, the House considered a bill to award a Congressional Gold Medal to every officer who defended the Capitol on January 6th. It was a simple, apolitical gesture of recognition. The Congressional Gold Medal bill did not call for any kind of investigation or cast aspersions on anyone. It merely honored the officers who risked their lives to stop a violent insurrection. Even so, twenty-one Republicans voted against it. For the historical record, here are the names of those twenty-one spineless fucks: Andrew Clyde, Paul Gosar, Jody Hice, Lauren Boebert, Barry Moore, Ralph Norman, Matthew Rosendale, Chip Roy, Warren Davidson, Scott Perry, Mary Miller, Andy Biggs, Thomas Massie, Andy Harris, Matt Gaetz, Marjorie Taylor Greene, Louie Gohmert, Michael Cloud, Greg Steube, Bob Good, and John Rose.

As already mentioned this novel was based on the two-part episode of the same name from The Saint, which starred Roger Moore; part one first aired on Sunday, 8 December 1968, and part two first aired on Sunday, 15 December 1968. The script was written by longtime favorite John Kruse with some minor adjustments by script editor Harry Junkin. Charteris loved the script, saying that “The Fiction Makers fulfils all the promise of the synopsis, and the dialogue has a crisp sparkle which has all too often been lacking in other scripts. It’s true that I still somewhat prefer the treatment of the ending which I suggested. But it is simply a splendid job.

Do you remember what Karl Marx said? He would have been proud of Sam Harris's metaphysical moorings on religion, for he tried the same thing Harris is trying. Marx said that religion is “the opium of the people.” Yes, everybody who hates religion remembers this quote. But they forget, deliberately or otherwise, what Marx said in continuation of that thought: “Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people…. Religion is only the illusory sun which revolves around man as long as he does not revolve around himself.”35 Atheists want us to revolve around ourselves—no, even more, to revolve around their fluctuating philosophies.

You're full of hashish! You been bothered lately with your head, Mr. Harris?

Look," Harry told Dr. Moore. "I'm not the suicidal type. That's too melodramatic for me." Besides, Harry thought, the Great Tiredness was every bit as good as death. There was no color here, no pain, no emotional weather at all, just an occasional oddness that was the outside world trying to puff itself up into significance when, of course, the secret of the Great Tiredness, the truth of this realm, was that everything was arbitrary and meaningless.

Tom Marvolo Riddle” . . . And Other Anagrams for “I Am Lord Voldemort” • Lord Earldom Vomit • I Am Lord Old Mr. Out • Mild Doormat Lover • Dermal Drool Vomit • Old Immortal Lover • Milk Moor, Dad Lover • Marmot Drool Devil

London was soon far behind them, replaced by neat green fields that gave way in turn to wide, purplish moors, a great city alive with cars like multicolored ants, villages with tiny toy churches.

Joe himself remained the same as ever, picking his early fruit and laying it out in crates, making jam from windfalls, pointing out wild herbs and picking them when the moon was full, collecting bilberries from the moors and blackberries from the railway banking, preparing chutney from his tomatoes, piccalilli from his cauliflowers, lavender bags for sleeplessness, wintergreen for rapid healing, hot peppers and rosemary in oil and pickled onions for the winter. And, of course, there was the wine. Throughout all that summer Jay smelled wine brewing, fermenting, aging. All kinds of wine: beet root, pea pod, raspberry, elderflower, rose hip, jackapple, plum, parsnip, ginger, blackberry. The house was a distillery, with pans of fruit boiling on the stove, demijohns of wine waiting on the kitchen floor to be decanted into bottles, muslins drying on the clothesline for straining the fruit, sieves, buckets, bottles, funnels, laid out in neat rows ready for use.

Although believed to be situated in the far north of Europe, Durmstrang is one of the most secretive of all schools about its whereabouts, so nobody can be quite certain. Visitors, who must comply with memory charms to erase their knowledge of how they got there, speak of vast, sprawling grounds with many stunning views, not least of the great, dark, spectral ship that is moored on a mountain lake behind the school, from which students dive in summertime.