High Pedestal Quotes

The fear of not living is a deep, abiding dread of watching your own potential decompose into irredeemable disappointment when 'should be' gets crushed by what is. Sometimes I think it would be easier to die than to face that, because 'what could have been' is much more highly regarded than 'what should have been.' Dead kids are put on pedestals, but mentally ill kids get hidden under the rug.

he thinks too highly of me, places me on a pedestal i've never deserved.

High on their posthumous pedestals, the dead become hard to see. Grief, deference, and the homogenizing effects of adulation blur the details, flatten the bumps, sand off the sharp corners.

The fairy tale is not the conclusion, but the doorway to a more brilliant reality. Pushed onto a pedestal as the final answer their worth is misshapen and distorted. The world’s story may end with a couple living happily ever after but our life in Christ enables the intimacy of the human relationship to illuminate an eternal perfection. In a balanced perspective, neither denigrated nor exalted from their intended place, fairy tales are a lovely and exhilarating part of life.

Whenever we come across a famous painting by an acclaimed artist, we tend to reason with ourselves. That it ought to be good, for everyone thinks highly of it. But had we not known who the artist was, we wouldn’t have appreciated the work that much. We don’t know whom this society and the media would put on a pedestal next. It could very well be you.

Never place someone so high on a pedestal that if they should fall... you get crushed.

High on their posthumous pedestals, the dead become hard to see. Grief, deference, and the homogenizing effects of adulation blur the details, flatten the bumps, sand off the sharp corners.

If you are humble, nothing will touch you, neither praise nor disgrace, because you know what you are. If you are blamed, you won’t be discouraged; if anyone calls you a saint, you won’t put yourself on a pedestal. If you are a saint, thank God; if you are a sinner, don’t remain one. Christ tells us to aim very high, not to be like Abraham or David or any of the saints, but to be like our heavenly Father.

Sometimes I think it would be easier to die than to face that, because “what could have been” is much more highly regarded than “what should have been.” Dead kids are put on pedestals, but mentally ill kids get hidden under the rug.

Enough with this condescending outlook of life from a high and mighty, intellectual pedestal! Come down, come down to earth, come down to the street, come down to the soil, for that's where life is.

When people put you on the pedestal, don't come off it acting like you're humble. Because if they put you up there, that shows how high they can see. Stay there and pull them up, and they'll grow faster.

Until women are allowed to make mediocre works of art while still succeeding in the way that many white men get to do this every single day, we will not have the power to take our creative freedoms back. We will be limited by impossible expectations reserved for the few. As long as we are put and put ourselves on a patriarchal pedestal, too high to succeed and doomed to fail, then surely we will be set up to do exactly that, every time.

From those pedestals which intersperse the railing of the Sheldonian, the high grim busts of the Roman Emperors stared down at the fair stranger in the equipage. Zuleika returned their stare with but a casual glance. The inanimate had little charm for her.

Don't be so sure," said Gamache. "It's a little humbling to realize the pedestal isn't quite so high after all." Brebeuf chuckled. "Welcome to earth, Armand. It's a little dirty down here.

It is in the nature of the human mind to give in, and hold on, to the source of solace with all the might it can muster. Life is hard and any figure that tends to ease the subjective perception of that hardship, attains a high pedestal of utmost reverence in the realm of the individual mind. It all takes place at a molecular level in the human brain with the purpose of self-preservation.

The fear of not living is a deep, abiding dread of watching your own potential decompose into irredeemable disappointment when “should be” gets crushed by what is. Sometimes I think it would be easier to die than to face that, because “what could have been” is much more highly regarded than “what should have been.” Dead kids are put on pedestals, but mentally ill kids get hidden under the rug.

My friend Oscar is one of those princes without kingdom who wander around hoping you'll kiss them so they won't turn into frogs. He gets everything back to front and that's why I like him. People who think they get everything right do things wrong, and this, coming from a left-handed person, says it all. He looks at me and thinks I don't see him. he imagines I'll evaporate if he touches me and if he doesn't touch me, then he'll evaporate. He's got me on such a high pedestal he doesn't know how to get up there. He thinks my lips are door to paradise, but doesn't know they are poisoned. I am such a coward that I don't tell him so as not to lose him. I pretend I don't see him, and that I am, indeed, going to evaporate... My friend Oscar is one of those princes who would be well advised to stay away from fairy tales and the princesses who inhabit them. He doesn't know he's really Prince Charming who must kiss Sleeping Beauty in order to wake her from her eternal sleep, but that's because Oscar doesn't know that fairy tales are lies, although not all lies are fairy tales. Princes aren't charming, and sleeping beauties, however beautiful, never wake up from their sleep. He's the best friend I've ever had and if I ever come across Merlin, I'll thank him for having placed him in my path.

Don Juan once made love to a woman called Donna Ana. Donna Ana was married to a man called Ottavio. You will read about him in this piece. He does not appear. So when Don Juan made love to Donna Ana, Donna Ana screamed, and her father came to her rescue to defend her virtue. Donna Ana’s father got into a sword fight with Don Juan, and in the sword fight Don Juan killed Donna Ana’s father. Then the story cuts to some time later. There was a statue erected to the memory of Donna Ana’s father, and in a high mood one day Don Juan invited the Statue to come and have supper with him, and lo and behold, the Statue stepped down from its pedestal and came and had supper with Don Juan. And in return the Statue invited Don Juan to supper with it, and on this occasion the Statue took Don Juan down into Hell, where, according to Shaw, Ana joins them and they talk with the Devil. —CHARLES LAUGHTON

As she draws level the flickering light strikes her. But under closer scrutiny she is not the young firefox that I presumed she was. With that posture, that chin held so high, those cold beautiful eyes, that tight tapering skirt and those feet mounted on pedestals with heels like blades, how could I have been so wrong? Her hair is not blonde, but white. The dead white of the pantomime wig. That haughty catwalk face is actually more like a skull too, with aged parchment stretched across it; a dry surface freshly painted with a palette more suited to the circus clown than the city girl.

Next Ashlynn walked up the stairs. Apple expected the princess to exhibit the same eagerness, but her steps were slow. The large mirrors hanging from posts around the pedestal broadcast images of Ashlynn’s face to the audience. But the mirrors didn’t show the book, so Apple couldn’t see Ashlynn’s “flash-forward” story, just Ashlynn’s face as she watched it. Her expression was nervous, hopeful, and then… then sad. How could she be sad? Her story ended joyously! It was almost as if Ashlynn had been hoping to see something or someone in her story who didn’t show. Ashlynn took the pen and closed her eyes as she quickly signed.

The learned. Learning and prayer have little in common. It was so then and it is still so today. Learning is besotted and bemused by the brilliance of its own ideas and has an overweeningly high opinion of its own interpretation of the world’s affairs. And whenever the world takes a course not laid down in the books it is immediately suspect. Western thought is inordinately proud of having “grown up” in the last century. It considers itself completely adult and self-possessed. Meanwhile in obedience to its own law it is no longer spreading its wings like an eagle, no longer adventuring to the horizon. It has become a mere appendage to earthbound utility blind and blunted to certain aspects of the truth. But human nature is so constituted that even in its most debased and blinded state it still needs to ape God and set itself on a pedestal as if it were divine. Unconsciously it is reaching out towards a state it might be capable of achieving if it were not so in love with itself and forever leading itself and its world into the icy mire of materialism.

We want to build up a new state! That is why the others hate us so much today. They have often said as much. They said: “Yes, their social experiment is very dangerous! If it takes hold, and our own workers come to see this too, then this will be highly disquieting. It costs billions and does not bring any results. It cannot be expressed in terms of profit, nor of dividends. What is the point?! We are not interested in such a development. We welcome everything which serves the material progress of mankind insofar as this progress translates into economic profit. But social experiments, all they are doing there, this can only lead to the awakening of greed in the masses. Then we will have to descend from our pedestal. They cannot expect this of us.” And we were seen as setting a bad example. Any institution we conceived was rejected, as it served social purposes. They already regarded this as a concession on the way to social legislation and thereby to the type of social development these states loathe. They are, after all, plutocracies in which a tiny clique of capitalists dominate the masses, and this, naturally, in close cooperation with international Jews and Freemasons. If they do not find a reasonable solution, the states with unresolved social problems will, sooner or later, arrive at an insane solution. National Socialism has prevented this in the German Volk. They are now aware of our objectives. They know how persistently and decisively we defend and will reach this goal. Hence the hatred of all the international plutocrats, the Jewish newspapers, the world stock markets, and hence the sympathy for these democrats in all the countries of a like cast of mind. Because we, however, know that what is at stake in this war is the entire social structure of our Volk, and that this war is being waged against the substance of our life, we must, time and time again in this war of ideals, avow these ideals. And, in this sense, the Winterhilfswerk, this greatest social relief fund there is on this earth, is a mighty demonstration of this spirit. Adolf Hitler - speech at the Berlin Sportpalast on the opening of the Kriegswinterhilfswerk September 4, 1940

When you teach someone your true name, you place everything you are in their hands.” “I know, but I may never have the chance again. This is the only thing I have to give, and I would give it to you.” “Eragon, what you are proposing…It is the most precious thing one person can give another.” “I know.” A shiver ran through Arya, and then she seemed to withdraw within herself. After a time, she said, “No one has ever offered me such a gift before…I’m honored by your trust, Eragon, and I understand how much this means to you, but no, I must decline. It would be wrong for you to do this and wrong for me to accept just because tomorrow we may be killed or enslaved. Danger is no reason to act foolishly, no matter how great our peril.” Eragon inclined his head. Her reasons were good reasons, and he would respect her choice. “Very well, as you wish,” he said. “Thank you, Eragon.” A moment passed. Then he said, “Have you ever told anyone your true name?” “No.” “Not even your mother?” Her mouth twisted. “No.” “Do you know what it is?” “Of course. Why would you think otherwise?” He half shrugged. “I didn’t. I just wasn’t sure.” Silence came between them. Then, “When…how did you learn your true name?” Arya was quiet for so long, he began to think that she would refuse to answer. Then she took a breath and said, “It was a number of years after I left Du Weldenvarden, when I finally had become accustomed to my role among the Varden and the dwarves. Faolin and my other companions were away, and I had a great deal of time to myself. I spent most of it exploring Tronjheim, wandering in the empty reaches of the city-mountain, where others rarely tread. Tronjheim is bigger than most realize, and there are many strange things within it: rooms, people, creatures, forgotten artifacts…As I wandered, I thought, and I came to know myself better than ever I had before. One day I discovered a room somewhere high in Tronjheim--I doubt I could locate it again, even if I tried. A beam of sunlight seemed to pour into the room, though the ceiling was solid, and in the center of the room was a pedestal, and upon the pedestal was growing a single flower. I do not know what kind of flower it was; I have never seen its like before or since. The petals were purple, but the center of the blossom was like a drop of blood. There were thorns upon the stem, and the flower exuded the most wonderful scent and seemed to hum with a music all its own. It was such an amazing and unlikely thing to find, I stayed in the room, staring at the flower for longer than I can remember, and it was then and there that I was finally able to put words to who I was and who I am.” “I would like to see that flower someday.” “Perhaps you will.” Arya glanced toward the Varden’s camp. “I should go. There is much yet to be done.” He nodded. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then.” “Tomorrow.” Arya began to walk away. After a few steps, she paused and looked back. “I’m glad that Saphira chose you as her Rider, Eragon. And I’m proud to have fought alongside you. You have become more than any of us dared hope. Whatever happens tomorrow, know that.” Then she resumed her stride, and soon she disappeared around the curve of the hill, leaving him alone with Saphira and the Eldunarí.

The establishment placed him on such a high pedestal that a great deal about Nehru was never openly discussed

Yiddish is a wonderfully rich, descriptive, onomatopoeic language full of colorful words and expressions. But Yiddish is more than just language. It’s a window into the Jewish mind-set. It’s a way of thinking, of seeing and categorizing the world. Yiddish knocks the high and mighty off their pedestals. It questions authority. It argues. It keenly observes the subtle nuances of human behavior. It’s philosophical about life. And, of course, it’s sarcastic as hell.

Ooof! Amy collided at high speed with someone entering the anteroom from the other direction. Her head was still spinning as a pair of capable hands righted her, and a warm chuckle sounded somewhere above her ear. "What an original way to make your presence felt!" "My lord!" Amy hastily stepped back, this time banging into a bust of Brutus that wobbled ominously on its marble pedestal. Amy grabbed at Brutus before he could take a suicidal leap off his stand. "I didn’t…that is…" "Had you known it was me you would have taken care to run into poor Brutus instead?" Lord Richard supplied with a smile of such conspiratorial goodwill that Amy nearly reeled back into poor Brutus once more. "Something like that," admitted Amy weakly. Clearly, she was still slightly dazed from her two collisions.

Keep your feet rooted in the ground, stay humble, maintain your balance, because life is a seesaw ride, the world will lift you high, make you feel dominant and give you an illusion of flying, while it stays down on the other side of the fulcrum, with absolute control over you, ready to throw you off your floating pedestal of conceit, and you'll never see it coming. Don't trust the world with that kind of power.

Equality begins in the mind. If in our own mind we have a pedestal for the billionaire and royalty, and no place for the janitor and the bartender, then even a thousand policy reforms won't be able to equalize such a cockeyed, internally broken society.

I knew that in a few minutes I'd have to enter a happy, unthinking world. A world that revolved around the solid pedestal of money, with an optimistic view I knew something about from listening to the conversations of my friends.

You have that boy on such a high pedestal. It’s far too slippery up there for one so unprincipled as a solitary fae. It’s not as if I haven’t tried to drag him down. I looked inside his soul. Hoped to find his weaknesses. Only to discover that even those could be considered strengths under the right circumstances.

High on their posthumous pedestals, the dead become hard to see.

Tell me how he’s kind and compassionate, about how he takes care of you and puts you first. Tell me about the height of the pedestal he’s placed you on, and that you worry about falling off…that he thinks too highly of you. That you’re just a girl, but this man thinks you’re more stunning than a star hung in the heavens.

Nevertheless, the current social paradigm enthrones independence. It is the avowed goal of many individuals and social movements. Most of the self-improvement material puts independence on a pedestal, as though communication, teamwork, and cooperation were lesser values. But much of our current emphasis on independence is a reaction to dependence—to having others control us, define us, use us, and manipulate us.

Who someone is and what they do is all that matters. This is especially true because who we are changes as we grow and as we change our minds. Furthermore, we are never really of one mind about anything. Belief is never the point—actions are. We can be of two minds about biology or God but treat everyone around us with kindness. If we wait for correct ideas to save us—theological or otherwise—we’ll never be saved, even from ourselves. Why? Because we can never have a fully correct idea. Why? Because however we label ourselves, we are still only half-evolved primates in two or more minds and multiple moods. All we have is our stories. Today’s great art is tomorrow’s joke. Today’s joke is tomorrow’s great art. Today’s atheist is tomorrow’s ardent convert. Today’s preacher is tomorrow’s atheist author. I can’t objectively describe reality because I’m trapped in the moving target we call time. That’s what the word “evolution” means. The very fabric of the universe is unknowable and stranger than we can imagine and has a message for us: climb down off that high atheist, religious or agnostic pedestal!

We cannot convey heart inside written word alone. Words are one-dimensional, emotionless and heartless. We, as authors, search for ways to incorporate the missing emotion through descriptive words, but can never truly touch the depth of a sob, a sigh, or exhilaration expressed in a voice. Ironically, in 150 years, we created an icon of one-dimensional depth when we lifted the Bible high upon a pedestal. Personal communication with our Creator then became secondary. Though His voice was the force that carried faith since the beginning of time when Bibles were not available, we have, in modern times considered hearing the voice of God as mystical. But the written word is not where we receive Salvation. It's the voice of God that is heard in our heart when we read the Bible. Those words become spoken Word that our heart can hear. Sometimes I believe that people in the dark ages heard Father’s voice better than we do now. And that’s because it was their only source. They didn’t have Bibles. So, those who heard Him, let His voice guide them and touch their hearts. They relied on Him only. Mankind came into the enlightened age and created a book, a compilation of epistles that witness to Him. And we made it the foundation of our faith in place of Jesus. We leaned on it to prove our faith. But the real proof of our faith exists when we hear His voice.

The following motto is written on the invitation to your first mass: ‘We don’t rule over your faith, we serve your joy.’ How did that come about? As part of a contemporary understanding of the priesthood, not only were we conscious that clericalism is wrong and the priest is always a servant, but we also made great inward efforts not to put ourselves up on a high pedestal. I would

Apparently he did, for he scrutinized the dates on the dwarf-pedestals with the deepest attention and finally remarked, 'I see you have written a date on each of these. What does that signify?' "'The dates are those on which I acquired the respective specimens,' I answered. "'Oh, indeed.' He reflected, with a profoundly speculative eye on Number Five. I judged that he was trying to recall a date furnished by Number Five's cousin and that he would have liked to consult his note-book. "'The particulars,' I said, 'are too lengthy to put on the labels, but they are set out in detail in the catalogue.' "'Can I see the catalogue?' he asked eagerly. "'Certainly.' I produced a small manuscript volume—not the catalogue which is attached to the 'Archives,' but a dummy that I had prepared for such a contingency as had arisen—and handed it to him. He opened it with avidity, and, turning at once to Number Five, began, with manifest disappointment, to read the description aloud. "'5. Male skeleton of Teutonic type exhibiting well-marked characters of degeneration. The skull is asymmetrical, subdolichocephalic.' (He pronounced this word subdolichocolophalic' and paused abruptly, turning rather red. It is an awkward word.) 'Yes,' he said, closing the catalogue, 'very interesting, very remarkable. Exceedingly so. I should very much like to possess a skeleton like that.' "'You are much better off with the one you have got,' I remarked. "'Oh, I don't mean that,' he rejoined hastily. 'I mean that I should like to acquire a specimen like this Number Five for my proposed collection. Now how could I get one?' "'Well,' I said reflectively, 'there are several ways.' I paused and he gazed at me expectantly. 'You could, for instance,' I continued slowly, 'provide yourself with a lasso and take a walk down Whitechapel High Street.' "'Good gracious!

Having said that there's no such thing as real psychics, there are many people who genuinely believe that they are psychic and they genuinely want to help people. But then there are frauds who know they ain't psychic and their sole purpose is to exploit vulnerable masses, just like there are frauds and morons in the field of science. In science, frauds are those scientists who manipulate research date to suit their expectations, and morons are those scientists who won't mind causing hurt and harm to everyday people in the name of science. We ought to stand up against these frauds and morons no matter their line of work, instead of looking down on regular people for their every little illogicality. Enough with this condescending outlook of life from a high and mighty, intellectual pedestal! Come down, come down to earth, come down to the street, come down to the soil, for that's where life is.

The call of fatherhood is in fact a call of sacrifice, not in some heroic sense where a father is lifted high on some glowing pedestal with all of his sacrifices held up to the awe of those around him. Rather, it is a call that will cost him all that he has, that will be absent of accolades, where rewards will be sparse, and where he will someday find himself having spent all, but in the spending have gained everything. And this is the glory of fatherhood.

Truthfully, she was tired of taking the hard way out. Why was "sucking it up" and "pushing through to the end" perched on such a high pedestal, anyway? These were the same so-called values that sent PhD students running headfirst into the open arms of antidepressants. For once in her life, she wanted to be selfishly and deliciously lazy. To embody the most abhorred word of her generation: unproductive. She, yes she, wanted to be the person who walks away as a car combusts into flames in the background. This was her chance.

For so long, I kept her on a pedestal," he says, "holding her in the highest regard. I think it was because of how high I raised her, how high we all raised her, that I couldn't see her for what she is. Turns out my admiration only serves the show, the act, the game she's playing with all of us. With the entire Land of Five. Now that I see past it, all of it, it's clear. She's poison masquerading as medicine.

Lucien saw all heads turn curiously toward the entrance; then his jaw dropped as a graceful beauty in white walked in, her chin high, a strand of pearls draped artfully over her strawberry-blond hair. 'Alice!' He stared, flabbergasted, transfixed. 'What the hell is she doing here?' He couldn't believe his eyes. Joy and panic crashed in on him from opposite directions. Oh, God, how he had missed her. 'What the hell is she doing in London?' Caro sidled into the ballroom beside her. The baroness was dressed in a tight black velvet dress, but Alice commanded the room, poised, slender, and cool. With her airy evening gown of white silk wafting sensually against her skin, she was an aloof marble goddess who had just stepped down to life from atop her pedestal. She seemed an entirely different creature than the serious, shy young thing who had ventured into his library last week and had been so easily charmed by a bit of Donne poetry. Now she was a force to be reckoned with.

landmarks were “a little shabby.” Half the gilding was gone from the dome of Les Invalides, where Napoleon was buried. The same was true of the pedestal of the Egyptian obelisk in the Place Vendôme and he was sorry to see so much of the statuary marred by black streaks. He spent considerable time at the Panthéon, which, he explained to Katharine, was not used as a church but as commemoration of the great men of France. The dome seen from inside was “not much,” he decided—too high in proportion to its diameter, like looking into an inverted well—but the interior was “very grand.” He took architecture seriously, thoughtfully, and made up his own mind, irrespective of whatever was said in his red Baedeker’s guidebook. Notre Dame was a disappointment. “My imagination pictures things more vividly than my eyes.” He thought the nave too narrow, the clerestory windows too high, the interior far too dark. “The pillars are so heavy and close together that the

Want friends? Master the “Art of Listening.” Look people in the eye while they’re talking. Give whole focus like through their brain you peek. Nod when they make a point, ne’er contradict. Most of all, keep them ever high talking like they’re on pedestal—you admiring! Their ego you must keep on massaging; in every feat they tell, give your clapping.

Zinn, perhaps too lazy or too busy with political agitation to do even the most basic research, has to paint a false picture of those historians with whom he disagrees. He places straw men on pedestals and then knocks them down one by one until only he is standing. A result like that would be substandard coming from a high school student writing a research paper—much less a professional historian claiming to be blazing a new trail and leaving the existing Columbus scholarship behind in the dust. Zinn’s pretense to break new ground on Columbus was nothing more than a clever marketing strategy, surpassing in chutzpah the most brazen of ad campaigns for quack tonics in our capitalistic system that he so vehemently condemns.

the simplest, least adorned space within the crypt or indeed the entire church. A raised white marble platform, ankle-high, on which lies a slab of gray granite with a surround of rose-colored marble. The granite is engraved with Gaudí’s epitaph. The slab lies perpendicular to a wall of large limestone blocks. On each side of the wall are two similar walls joined at oblique angles, drawing the eye to the grave. Low to the ground is a ribbonlike surround of wrought iron rails designed to hold votive candles, now bare. Instead, a single row of red candles burn brightly at the foot of the tomb. Above it, on a small pedestal, is a graceful statue of the Virgin Mary, holding the infant Jesus. Against the limestone walls, four pedestaled columns rise to the apex of the crypt, framing three tall arches that poke into the apse above.

Funk's liberation of Black music through psychedelic Afrofuturist explorations of mental and emotional states in the post-Civil Rights era,15 The Electrifying Mojo instrumentalized the airwaves to design sonic fictions as an overlay to the everyday lives and urban blues of the beginning of the Information Age. He remarked in a 1995 interview on the TV show Black Journal16 that he “just wanted to be a voice on the radio, a face in the crowd, a figment of the imagination. … When you elevate [a persona] too high on a pedestal, you remove yourself from the earshot of what regular people have to say and how they feel, and sometimes that makes it impossible to relate on a relative level.” 17