Hef Quotes

That's one of the things about Hef: when it came to humiliating his girlfriends, the larger the audience, the better.

Like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum, she guzzled down the vodka in hopes that Hef would feel that urge to rescue her or care for her.

Poetry is a problem of form and emptiness. Ze moment I put one word onto an empty page, I hef created a problem for myself. Ze poem that emerges is form, trying to find a solution to my problem.” He sighed. “In ze end, of course, there are no solutions. Only more problems, but this is a good thing. Without problems, there would be no poems.

Without a word, I moved beside him.He slid the cutting board in front of me. "First," he said, coming behind me and placing his hands on the counter, just outside of mine, "choose your tomato." He dipped his head so his mouth was at my ear. His breath was warm, tickling my skin. "Good. Now pick up the knife." "Does the hef always stand this close?" I asked, not sure If I liked of feared the flutter his closeness caused inside me. "When he is revealing culinary secrets, yes. Hold the knife like you mean it.

Lezer onder je gloeilamp hef je hoofd op: de trekvogels gaan, de uiltjes komen.

Where do you think poems come from? Everything speaks, young schoolboy! But it is only poets and prophets, saints and philosophers who hef ze ears to hear.” “They hear voices?” “Of course! Socrates! And Joan of Arc! Rilke, Milton, Blake . . . !

I tried to play off my outburst as having been touched by the romantic moment (and I think most people bought it!), but in reality I was crying because of what a farce this whole thing was and how stretched thin my nerves were at that moment. Hef reading off the flowing words of love from the card reminded me again what a joke this whole situation was and made me feel like I had missed out on my chance to ever have anything real with someone; to ever meet a man who really deserved a card like that. I had sold my soul to the devil and felt that there was no way out.

When I received my glossy black invitation in the mail a few days later, I could feel my heart swell with excitement. “Hef’s Midsummer Night’s Dream Party,” it read. On the front was a beautiful pinup illustration by famed artist Olivia De Berardinis and inside was a small piece of paper with directions. It was like Cinderella finally scoring an invitation to the ball—except instead of arriving by horse-drawn carriage, we would board a shuttle at a UCLA parking garage.

Hef holds the Guinness Book of World Records title for largest scrapbook collection at over 2,000 volumes.

Hef ég drepið mann eða hef ég ekki drepið mann? Hver hefur drepið mann og hver hefur ekki drepið mann? Hvenær drepur maður mann og hvenær drepur maður ekki mann? Fari í helvíti sem ég drap mann. Og þó.

Ég get ekki losað um hluti sem ég hef haldið svona föstum svona lengi. Ég þarf svo mikið á því að halda að þetta sé ástarsaga, ég þarf svo ótrúlega mikið á því að halda því ef að þetta er ekki ástarsaga, hvað er þetta þá? Þetta er líf mitt, þetta er líf mitt eins og það leggur sig.

Mér hefði fundist allt mitt starf gersneytt merkingu og fundið leiðan hellast yfir mig og byrjað að drekka brennivín til að hafa ofan af fyrir sjálfum mér. Svoleiðis verða þeir í Reykjavík. Ég hef séð það af kvikmyndunum sem þeir búa til um fólkið á landsbyggðinni. Samfélagsmyndin sem skín í gegn samanstendur af illa innrættum þursum sem hafa það eitt fyrir stafni að berja á sínum nánustu og tjá sig í einsatkvæðisorðum.

... ég var að sýsla við lagabálka og lagafrumvörp Upplýsingatímans. Undirrót þeirrar lagasmíðar var sú trú að heimurinn væri í eðli sínu góður og þess vegna væri líka hægt að koma honum í gott horf. Það gladdi mig að sjá hvernig þessi trú varð uppspretta lagagreina og lagabálka sem áttu að vera ... verðir hins réttláta skipulags, og sanna það með fegurð sinni að þeir væru framverðir sannleikans. Ég stóð lengi í þeirri trú að réttarfarið hefði tekið framförum í sögunni, að þrátt fyrir skelfileg bakslög ... hefði það sífellt orðið fegurra, trúverðugra, skynsamlegra og mennskara. Frá því að ég uppgötvaði að þessi trú var blekking ein hef ég verið að búa mér til allt aðra mynd af framvindu réttarsögunnar. Þessi mynd gerir ... ráð fyrir því að hún hafi stefnt að ákveðnu marki, en þegar þessu marki var náð, eftir margs konar áföll, ringulreið og villur, reyndist það vera byrjunarreiturinn, þar sem hún hófst, og varla er hún komin á þennan byrjunarreit þegar hún verður að leggja upp að nýju.

She says I am a fool to take foolish risks. But vat choice do I hef? I am a poet. Poets must take risks. And I am a fool, so my risks must be foolish. I see no way around this, do you agree?

Let me tell you something about poetry, young schoolboy. Poetry is a problem of form and emptiness. Ze moment I put one word onto an empty page, I hef created a problem for myself. Ze poem that emerges is form, trying to find a solution to my problem.

Vat is real?” “But I told you, I don’t know what’s real!” “Of course not! That is what mekks it an excellent question.” The old man picked up the vodka bottle, unscrewed the cap, and started pouring more vodka into the three glasses. “Now we must toast to your question, and then you must go home and contemplate ze nature of reality, and when you hef an answer, you can come back and tell me all about it.” He handed the Aloha glass to Benny. “To reality!

Hef, never missing a chance to paint me as ugly,

The only thing Hef loved more than the mansion was himself.

Playboy Enterprises (a public company at the time) owned the mansion. Not Hef. In order to live there, he had to pay a monthly rent on every room he and his girlfriends occupied. People may find it surprising that Hugh Hefner is nothing more than a tenant renting his room at the mansion,

Hef was a notoriously lecherous 70-something old man offering me Quaaludes that he referred to as “thigh openers.

That’s one of the things about Hef: when it came to humiliating his girlfriends, the larger the audience, the better.

Ik probeer me wel eens in te beelden dat ik directeur ben van bijvoorbeeld een internationaal poëziefestival. En dat ik dan snoepreisjes ga maken met jonge dichteressen naar Mongolië, en dan samen met zon dichteresje een bundel schrijf en haar aandoenlijke ansichtkaartjes stuur welk ik dan trots op facebook post. En dat dan zo'n #metoo rage uitbreekt en ik een jonge redacteur die wat teveel blowt publiekelijk aan de schandpaal genageld zie worden. O nee wacht, dat probeer ik me juist niet in te beelden. Net zo min als ik me de dikke directeur van het Stedelijk in wens te beelden, al schilderijtjes schilderend met jonge kunstenaresjes. Zo ben ik nu eenmaal, niet erg gesteld op al te lokale fantasietjes. Ook de krijgsheer in Afghanistan zou me niet in zulke mate weten boeien dat ik mijn fantasie erop wil zetten, u mag hierin een zekere wereldvreemdheid zien, maar ik zie het zelf gewoon liever als een verlangen naar het grotere verhaal. Zou echter die directeur kunstlessen beginnen geven, waarbij de amateurs door kunstenaars worden geïnstrueerd en hijzelf de meestercursus verzorgt, nee, nee, zelfs dan ga ik mijn mond houden. Loopt u vooral door, de stroopwafels liggen links, Jan Wolkers rechts. Ik hef als geen ander het Wilhelmus aan. Dat de koning van Spanje erende Duits bloed, hoe makkelijk verwar je het op den duur met de passie der geuzen.

In December 1969, Susan wrote a freelance piece for Playboy on women’s lib, but it never ran—Hugh Hefner spiked it. Hef’s memo as to why he didn’t like the piece was later leaked to the press by a Playboy secretary (who was promptly fired) and it became a cause célèbre. “What I want,” Hef said, “is a devastating piece that takes militants apart.... What I’m interested in is the highly irrational, kooky trend that feminism has taken. These chicks are our natural enemy.... It is time to do battle with them.... All of the most basic premises of the extreme form of the new feminism [are] unalterably opposed to the romantic boy-girl society that Playboy promotes.

He seemed like a good man and talked as if he wanted the world for his girls. But like all that glitters and sparkles, this opportunity wouldn’t come without a steep price. “Would you like a Quaalude?” Hef asked, leaning towards me with a bunch of large horse pills in his hands, held together by a crumpled tissue.

Hef was a notoriously lecherous 70-something old man offering me Quaaludes that he referred to as “thigh openers.” Are you kidding me? Why didn’t I run for the nearest exit? It doesn’t get much creepier than that.

No. This vas a terrible irony. On ze very next day, Spanish authorities reopened ze border and allowed his friends to leave. One week later, they boarded a ship to America. Benyameen took his pills too soon. If he only could hef waited .

She is very angry with me,” Slavoj said in a low voice. He leaned forward and gripped the wheels, trying to rotate them. “She says I am irresponsible. Ach, of course she is right! She says I am a fool to take foolish risks. But vat choice do I hef? I am a poet. Poets must take risks. And I am a fool, so my risks must be foolish. I see no way around this, do you agree?

Gondález Videla, de verrader van Chili (Epiloog) 1949 Vanuit de oude cordilleras kwamen de beulen als beenderen, als Amerikaanse doornen op de ruige rug van een genealogie van rampen: ze werden aangesteld, geënt op de ellende van onze volkeren. Elke dag bevlekte het bloed hun mouwen. In de bergen werden ze als brute beesten gebaard uit onze zwarte klei. Zij waren de saurische tijgers, de glaciale tirannen, pas onlangs ontstaan uit onze grotten en onze nederlagen. Zo groeven ze de kaaksbeenderen van Gómez op onder de straten bezoedeld door vijftig jaar van ons bloed. Het beest verduisterde de gronden met zijn schoften toen het na de executies op zijn snor beet naast de Noord-Amerikaanse ambassadeur die hem thee inschonk. De monsters waren vuil, maar ze waren niet vuil. Nu, op de plek die het licht bestemde voor de zuiverheid, in het besneeuwde blanke vaderland van Araucanië, glimlacht een verrader op een verrotte troon. In mijn vaderland presideert de schande. Het is Gondález Videla, de rat die zijn haardos vol mest en bloed uitschudt over mijn aarde die hij verkocht heeft. Elke dag haalt hij het gestolen geld uit zijn zakken en denkt er aan of hij morgen land of bloed zal verkopen. Alles heeft hij verraden. Hij kroop als een rat naar de schouders van het volk en daar, knagend aan de heilige vlag van mijn land, krult hij zijn knaagdierenstaart en zegt tot de haciendahouder, de vreemdeling, de meester van de Chileense ondergrond: “Drink al het bloed van dit volk, ik ben de beheerder van de folteringen.” Trieste clown, miserabele kruising van aap en rat wiens staart ze in Wall Street kamden met pommade van goud, de dag is niet veraf dat je uit de boom valt en het hoopje vanzelfsprekend vuil wordt dat de voorbijganger op de straathoeken ontwijkt! Zo geschiedde. Het verraad werd Regering van Chili. Een verrader liet zijn naam in onze geschiedenis achter. Judas die doodshoofdtanden toont verkocht mijn broeder, gaf mijn vaderland vergif, stichtte Pisagua, sloopte onze ster, spuwde op de kleuren van een zuivere vlag. G abriel G ondález Videla. Hier zet ik zijn naam, opdat later, als de tijd de schande heeft uitgewist, als mijn vaderland zijn helder gezicht wast met tarwe en sneeuw, zij die hier de erfenis zoeken die ik als een groene vuurgloed in deze regels nalaat, ook de naam van de verrader vinden die de dodende beker gaf die mijn volk afwees. Mijn volk, volk van mij, neem je lot in handen! Sloop de gevangenis, slecht de muren die insluiten! Verpletter de g rimmige loop van de rat die beveelt in het Paleis: hef je op lansen naar de dageraad en laat op de hoogste top je woedende ster schitteren en de wegen van Amerika verlichten. (Willy Spillebeen)

... ég ber hyldjúpa virðingu fyrir stærðfræði, enda þekki ég allt of lítið til hennar til þess að geta fyrirlitið hana. Hins vegar hef ég andmælt við Þorstein [Gylfason] þeirri firru, að stærðfræði sé kölluð listgrein, þó að hún sé stórmerkileg á sína vísu. Mig minnir að ég hafi einhvern tíma á góðri stund haldið að Þorsteini þeirri kenningu að stærðfræði og list væru pólar mannlegrar snilli, því stærðfræði væri aðferð til að hugsa út fyrir skilning sinn, en list væri aðferð til að skilja út fyrir hugsun sína.

Jill Ann Spaulding, for instance, wrote of the elderly Hefner’s uninspiring sexual performance: ‘Hef just lies there with his Viagra erection. It’s just a fake erection, and each girl gets on top of him for two minutes while the girls in the background try to keep him excited. They’ll yell things like, “Fuck her daddy, fuck her daddy!”’13

His acolytes forgave ‘Hef’ when he was still young and attractive, but as time went on he was revealed to be little more than a dirty old man.

Poetry is a problem of form and emptiness. Ze moment I put one word onto an empty page, I hef created a problem for myself. Ze poem that emerges is form, trying to find a solution to my problem.' He sighed. 'In ze end, of course, there are no solutions. Only more problems, but this is a good thing. Without problems, there would be no poems.

Líklega hefur það samt verið hún sem ól mig upp, að því leyti sem ég hef verið alinn upp; að minstakosti hugsa ég að hún hafi átt meiri þátt en ýmsir aðrir í að gera mig sisona einsog ég er; en það var ekki fyren eftir að ég varð roskinn að ég tók eftir henni svo mér fanst ég sjá hana. Mér fanst blátt áfram einn góðan veðurdag að hún stæði mér kanski næst af öllum mönnum þó ég vissi færra um hana en aðra menn og hún hefði nú legið í gröf sinni um hríð. Það er annað en gaman að ætla að fara að tala um manneskju sem maður veit svona lítið um, en er manni þó svo nákomin.

Let me tell you something about poetry, young schoolboy. Poetry is a problem of form and emptiness. Ze moment I put one word onto an empty page, I hef created a problem for myself. Ze poem that emerges is form, trying to find a solution to my problem.” He sighed. “In ze end, of course, there are no solutions. Only more problems, but this is a good thing. Without problems, there would be no poems.

I couldn't figure out when he'f become so important in my life. It was like trying to name the moment you learned to breathe air.

The madam was arrested in 2007 and revealed details about her global hooking empire during the Rolling Stone interview, but Playboy—and Hef—had known about the racket for years. In fact, Hef even launched his own private investigation into the matter in hopes of shutting down Nici’s Girls and other agencies standing on the shoulders of the Playboy name. The hypocrisy here is palpable. Considering Hef kept his own “harem” of sorts, it’s easy to see the mansion as a gateway to hooking. But Hef was determined to plug this leak—not necessarily for the benefit of the girls, I believe, but to maintain Playboy’s image. It wouldn’t look that good if a majority of Playmates graduated to sex for pay. Playboy was supposed to be “classy,” after all.

She says I am a fool to take foolish risks. But vat choice do I hef? I am a poet. Poets must take risks. And I am a fool, so my risks must be foolish. I see no way around this, do you agree?

Ik Hermes, zoon van de Oppergod Zeus bergnimf Maia mijn geboortemoeder niet alleen bode, benoem mij hoeder der kunsten, lyriek, poëzie en heus leraar van de schone zanggodinnen men vergeet, ook ik laat mijn stem eens los hoor het gezang alom Epidauros luister Grieken, laat mij u beminnen zodat ik uw ontroerend hart beroer zet u neder op de punt van uw stoel hef niet uw voeten van de kille vloer geef alleen maar toe aan zalig gevoel doof geheel om u heen al het rumoer treed in het mythologisch zang gewoel

Þú hefur miklu meiri gáfur en ég, Örn, sagði skáldið þá. Það kemur fram í því, að þú hefur aldrei trúað neinu sem þér hefur verið sagt. Ég hef afturámóti altaf trúað öllu sem mér hefur verið sagt. Og þegar veröldin í kríngum mig hefur verið full af hörku og grimd, þá hef ég ekki haft kjark til að bíta á jaxlinn einsog þú, heldur hef ég ósjálfrátt dregið mig í hlé og reynt að lifa fyrir fegurðina og andann.