Hobart Quotes

I don't know what you two are up to," Hobart said. "But you be careful now, you hear? Don't do anything I wouldn't do." "Well now, that doesn't restrict us very much, does it?" Mark teased back.

Martha Ballard is the great-aunt of Clara Barton, founder of the American Red Cross. She is also the great-great-grandmother of Mary Hobart, one of the first female physicians in the United States.

I didn't mind what she called me, what anybody called me. But this was the room I had to live in. It was all I had in the way of a home. In it was everything that was mine, that had any association for me, any past, anything that took the place of a family. Not much: a few books, pictures, radio, chessmen, old letters, stuff like that. Nothing. Such as they were, they had all my memories.

Blodgett and Hobart are named for and oven and a mixer?” Justin asked. “Huh. And all this time I thought they were named for some unfortunate relatives.

A few months later Miss Mitten was killed by a milk van in Hobart, across the road from a cricket oval. To the twins there was hidden justice in the fact that the milk van had been reversing.

The next day, William Lanney's much abused remains were carried in a coffin to the cemetery. The crowd of mourners was large. It included many of Lanney's shipmates, suggesting that the whaling profession in late-nineteenth-century Hobart was graced with a higher level of humanistic sensibility than the surgical profession.

He would teach himself to dislike what he actually liked, to approve of what he did not totally understand, in the hopes that he would come out the other side with something that resembled inspiration, something that would make him more famous than Chris Burden or even Hobart Waxman.

The emotions do not deserve being put into opposition with “intelligence.” The emotions are themselves a higher order of intelligence. —O. Hobart Mowrer

As Hobart19 says, “the past cannot determine the event, except through the present. And no past moment determined it any more truly than does the present moment

Ramona, I hear the mission bells above, Ramona, they’re ringing out our song of love.” Ramona stared at her book as she thought mean, dark thoughts about Uncle Hobart.

of the American Red Cross. She is also the great-great-grandmother of Mary Hobart, one of the first female physicians in the United States. She left a medical legacy in this country that is unmatched.

She showed it to Hobart, who also loved it, and it made me feel, for the first time, that maybe it was dumb to be embarrassed about weird things if you were really good at them. Or not good. If they made vou happy.

It was one of those Hobart spring nights, cold as charity, snow coming down hard on the mountain, the harbour a lather, sleet slapping and scratching at windows and tin roofs like a wild drunk who's been locked out.

They’re only the record of one woman’s meticulous daily life. But those pages were preserved and passed to Dolly (Ballard) Lambard. She gave them to her daughter Sarah, who passed them on to Dr. Mary Hobart, who donated them to the Maine State Library, where they sat until they were organized and bound by Lucy (Lambard) Fessenden. Many years later, law librarian Edith L. Hary made those pages available to the public. And finally, Cynthia McCausland translated all six million bytes of text so that the full transcript could be published by Picton Press.

He loves me like a monster, all teeth and talk and hiding in the dark. That’s my specialty— men with strong bodies and fragile hearts, and if you hold them too tightly they will crumble beneath you like an avalanche that’s waiting. Still, he looks at me like all things beautiful and burning and we love each other recklessly with hearts so empty our names echo against vandalized walls that say, “There was someone here before me, listen closely and you’ll hear their name.” He has matches for hands, and I, a paper heart. Gasoline will drip from our mouths and we will call that holy. We will burn at the stake and pollute the sky with smoke and selfishness, and we will say it was in the name of a crooked love. We will burn our own bodies to the ground and we will call that sacrifice. We will tear ourselves open like there’s something left inside. Nobody ever taught us how to love. ―Lindsey Hobart

So Hobart and Harriett get their house burned down? What's next--a lynching?" Mrs. Bates jerked the bucket from the woman next to her. "I've seen a body swingin'. Three times in my life," her husband said, his voice low. For a moment, except for the roaring of the smoky flames, everyone went quite. Stella wondered how silence could be so loud.

Like all children, you would have loved and admired her. You would have named your favorite doll after her....And then you would have poked out the doll's eyes.

She thinks of her former job in a Hobart law firm. Right now, the thought of being in her quiet-as-a-library, air-conditioned, plush-carpeted city office, with a takeout coffee on the desk next to her and a tricky clause to unravel, is like remembering a glorious tropical holiday. She sees now that she didn’t just enjoy work, she loved it. She is a person whose brain requires certainty and control, rules and procedures, perhaps more than the average person, but motherhood has none of that and some days she is bored out of her freaking mind.

He undid the lock and pulled open the cover to reveal a large stack of envelopes, each one labeled with a different name: Franklin Hobart, Brian Yancey, Everett Singer, Larry Steczynski…it was this last one he grabbed and pulled open, emptying its contents into his wallet and pockets. “Larry Steczynski?” I asked incredulously. Sage smiled. “You don’t think it suits me?” “Oh, I think you suits you perfectly. How many aliases do you have?” “I’m a bit of a collector.” I placed a hand on his wrist, stopping him as he transferred something into his wallet. “Does Larry Steczynski carry a black AmEx?” “He might.” “My mom doesn’t even carry a black AmEx.” “Apparently your mom doesn’t move in the same circles as Larry Steczynski.” “Sage,” Ben called from across the room. He had knelt down to gaze closely at a sculpted figurine that sat on an end table, and his voice broke with awe. “This...this is a real Michelangelo, isn’t it?” “Yeah, yeah it is.” “But it’s a Michelangelo!” “Yep.” “And that painting,” Ben said, nodding to a piece on the wall featuring a sketch of what looked like a somewhat cherubic version of Sage himself. “That’s a real Rubens?” “It is.” “It looks like you.” “Strong genetics in the family line,” Sage explained.

bags and boxes across the hot parking lot to the van. On the way back to the mall, Willa Jean, who spotted the ice-cream store that sold fifty-two flavors, told her uncle she needed an ice-cream cone. Uncle Hobart agreed that ice-cream cones were needed by all. Inside the busy shop, customers had to take numbers and wait turns. Ramona, responsible for Willa Jean, who could not read, was faced with the embarrassing task of reading aloud the list of fifty-two flavors while all the customers listened. “Strawberry, German chocolate, vanilla, ginger-peachy, red-white-and-blueberry, black walnut, Mississippi mud, green bubble gum, baseball nut.

Mijn vrouw is ziek en dat verandert mijn leven drastisch. Ik beheers namelijk slechts drie keukenhuishoudelijkheden: ei bakken, thee zetten, brood bakken. Om thee te zetten breng ik water in een fluitketel aan de kook. Bij de fluittoon kookt het water en zet ik het gas af. Ik giet het water in een theepot waarin ik een theezakje heb gehangen. De theepot zet ik op een warmhoudplaatje. Als ik een ei ga bakken, zet ik een koekenpan op het vuur, doe er een scheut olijfolie in, wacht even op de hitte, tik het ei met een mes open en laat het in de pan vallen. Als het er als een glimmend tijdschriftplaatje uitziet, leg ik het op een boterham. Brood bak ik al vijfentwintig jaar dagelijks. Dat komt omdat ik een Hobart bezit, een professionele, ontilbare deegkneedmachine. Ik doe een beetje lauw water in een kannetje waarin ik een klontje gist laat vallen en een schepje suiker. Daarna doe ik meel in de mengkom van de machine, en een eetlepel zout. Vervolgens roer ik het water-gist-suikermengsel en giet het op het meel. Dan zet ik de Hobart aan, die het karwei klaart. Terwijl ik naar het mechanisch kneden sta te kijken, denk ik aan de merkwaardige uitdrukking 'het karwei klaren' en neem me voor het etymologisch woordenboek te raadplegen, want ik wil nu eindelijk wel eens weten wat het woord 'klaren' betekent. Dat stel ik dan uit tot de volgende dag, zodat ik al vijfentwintig jaar onwetend op deze drempel sta. Als de Hobart klaar is, doe ik het brood in vormen die ik ingevet heb met alweer olijfolie. Daarna laat ik ze een uurtje rijzen en bak ik ze in de gasoven.

For several decades we psychologists looked upon the whole matter of sin and moral accountability as a great incubus and acclaimed our liberation from it as epoch making. But at length we have discovered that to be free in this sense, that is, to have the excuse of being sick rather than sinful, is to court the danger of also becoming lost… In becoming amoral, ethically neutral and free, we have cut the very roots of our being, lost our deepest sense of selfhood and identity, and with neurotics, themselves, we find ourselves asking: Who am I, what is my deepest destiny, what does living mean?

Our patients predict the culture by living out consciously what the masses of people are able to keep unconscious for the time being. The neurotic is cast by destiny into a Cassandra role. In vain does Cassandra, sitting on the steps of the palace at Mycenae when Agamemnon brings her back from Troy, cry, “Oh for the nightingale’s pure song and a fate like hers!” She knows, in her ill-starred life, that “the pain flooding the song of sorrow is [hers] alone,” and that she must predict the doom she sees will occur there. The Mycenaeans speak of her as mad, but they also believe she does speak the truth, and that she has a special power to anticipate events. Today, the person with psychological problems bears the burdens of the conflicts of the times in his blood, and is fated to predict in his actions and struggles the issues which will later erupt on all sides in the society. The first and clearest demonstration of this thesis is seen in the sexual problems which Freud found in his Victorian patients in the two decades before World War I. These sexual topics‒even down to the words‒were entirely denied and repressed by the accepted society at the time. But the problems burst violently forth into endemic form two decades later after World War II. In the 1920's, everybody was preoccupied with sex and its functions. Not by the furthest stretch of the imagination can anyone argue that Freud "caused" this emergence. He rather reflected and interpreted, through the data revealed by his patients, the underlying conflicts of the society, which the “normal” members could and did succeed in repressing for the time being. Neurotic problems are the language of the unconscious emerging into social awareness. A second, more minor example is seen in the great amount of hostility which was found in patients in the 1930's. This was written about by Horney, among others, and it emerged more broadly and openly as a conscious phenomenon in our society a decade later. A third major example may be seen in the problem of anxiety. In the late 1930's and early 1940's, some therapists, including myself, were impressed by the fact that in many of our patients anxiety was appearing not merely as a symptom of repression or pathology, but as a generalized character state. My research on anxiety, and that of Hobart Mowrer and others, began in the early 1940's. In those days very little concern had been shown in this country for anxiety other than as a symptom of pathology. I recall arguing in the late 1940's, in my doctoral orals, for the concept of normal anxiety, and my professors heard me with respectful silence but with considerable frowning. Predictive as the artists are, the poet W. H. Auden published his Age of Anxiety in 1947, and just after that Bernstein wrote his symphony on that theme. Camus was then writing (1947) about this “century of fear,” and Kafka already had created powerful vignettes of the coming age of anxiety in his novels, most of them as yet untranslated. The formulations of the scientific establishment, as is normal, lagged behind what our patients were trying to tell us. Thus, at the annual convention of the American Psychopathological Association in 1949 on the theme “Anxiety,” the concept of normal anxiety, presented in a paper by me, was still denied by most of the psychiatrists and psychologists present. But in the 1950's a radical change became evident; everyone was talking about anxiety and there were conferences on the problem on every hand. Now the concept of "normal" anxiety gradually became accepted in the psychiatric literature. Everybody, normal as well as neurotic, seemed aware that he was living in the “age of anxiety.” What had been presented by the artists and had appeared in our patients in the late 30's and 40's was now endemic in the land.

The Confessor laughed gently. “How very sweet. But you’re not quite one of them, are you, Cass? You’re worth more than any of them. This Piper, at least, must have realized what you could be worth to them, or he’d have killed you as soon as he got hold of you, to be rid of Zach.” She cocked her head slightly as she stared at me. “Though I’m beginning to wonder whether I didn’t overestimate you. Whether we all didn’t. I’m sure you have your moments. I’m guessing we have you to thank for the evacuation of most of the islanders; probably the fire at New Hobart, too. But I’m surprised at your blind spots. You still haven’t harnessed what you’re capable of, it seems.” She’d drawn even closer to us, but as always it was her mental presence that was most confronting. The calculation behind her still eyes; the probing that made me want to wince. “You’re disappointing, Cass. Like these machines. It turns out they’re not everything we might have hoped. Oh, they’re great for storing the information. It’s all in there.” She waved vaguely at the stacks of machines below. “You should have seen the record chambers at Wyndham, before Zach and I had it moved into the computers here. They had the information, but it was so unwieldy. Now, if I need to find something straightforward, it’s phenomenally good. Think of the thousands of clerks we’d need, all scuttling about with millions of files, just to keep track of the basic details. With the computer, it’s all synthesized, in one system. Like a live thing. So I can tap into it, interact with it, use the information as fluently as thinking. If we’d stayed with paper records, we’d never have been able to do what we’ve done.” “And what a tragic loss that would be.

famous modern art gallery in Hobart.

(according to the rules of NPC, one must not refer to the right-wing disrupters as radicals, whether they are in Hobart Town Hall or outside Parliament House in Canberra under banners reading ‘Julia Gillard: Bob Brown’s Bitch’)

The Four Horsemen and the Zombies of Tasmania The voters complacent the politician now leads He’s just a cog in the business of greed He does not protect; he exploits and devours He serves not the people, but money and power The religious turn the message of love to hate Their arrogance that only they can see Heaven’s gate They oppress women and those they deem strange But the abuse of the children shows just how deranged The general orders a soldier’s fate To kill his brother and sister, he must not hesitate For the politician and the religious, he must always serve From blind obedience, he must not swerve The Power of Money is king over all it surveys You are a slave of debt till the end of your days It’s a way of control; you would wake up if you knew That the sweat of your labour benefits only the few Be free, young ones; show us a bright new way Let not the four horsemen bring your life to decay But be careful, young ones, for they are easy to find They are waiting there, lurking in the back of your mind Lily Dayton, Hobart Mayor, year 2090

Errol Flynn was a film actor whose performances gave pleasure to many millions. On June 20, 1909, he was born in Hobart, Tasmania, and on October 14, 1959, he died in Vancouver, British Columbia. When he was seventeen he was expelled from school in Sydney, and in the next 33 years he lived a life which was full, lusty, restless and colourful. In his career, in his three marriages, in his friendships, in his quarrels, and in bed with the many women he took there, he lived with zest and irregularity. The lives of film stars are not cast in the ordinary mould, and in some respects Errol Flynn’s was more stellar than most. When he died, he posed the only question that I have to decide: where was he domiciled at the date of his death?

Why, I wondered, did the teasers continue to come back? They must have been fascinated by the Hobarts. Otherwise they wouldn’t keep egging them on. Maybe they liked hearing new words and phrases and names for things. But the teasers were so mean. If they wanted to hear Johnny ask for “fairy floss,” or Ben call someone a “rev head,” or Mathew talk about “brecky,” they could just ask the boys to tell them about Australia. Most teasers, I had found out, tease because they feel inferior and need to feel superior like a bully who beats up the runt of the school because the runt is easy to beat. However, I knew this, but it didn’t help the Hobarts much.

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She showed it to Hobart, who also loved it, and it made me feel, for the first time, that maybe it was dumb to be embarrassed about weird things if you were really good at them. Or not good. If they made you happy.

I love you as only a man with a whole hide can love the woman who saved it for him

Like walking into a strange house alone, with no idea who’s in there. This isn’t Hobart, Theo. People here have guns, and if you wander into their house, a lot of them would be quite happy to shoot you.

technical trouble?

Hobart. Many of the crew have friends waiting and know this place. But not me. This is a new place. “You will love it,” they say, excited to be back. The Red Lion, the Dog House, the Hope and Anchor, the Ship Hotel—places I will be taken, live music and dancing and beer on tap.

Camille paused. She loved art, even if she wasn’t always sure what it was. She loved her husband. She loved her baby. Was it so strange to put all of these things together and see what would happen? Hobart had said that kids kill art, but what did he know? They would prove him wrong. Kids could make art. Their kid was capable of making the most amazing art. “Okay,” she said. “It’s going to be beautiful,” Caleb said, squeezing one of her hands so hard it tingled when he released his grip on her. They stood, a family, and walked out of the mall, into the sunlight, seeking to rearrange the shape of their surroundings, to blow something up and watch all the tiny pieces resettle around them like falling snow.

You don’t have to follow your parents all over the country, hiding in plain sight, putting your lives on hold until their latest action can be revealed to the world. They forgot to keep you tied to them, and now you don’t have to follow them. Does that not seem like a good thing?” “It’s hard to think like that,” Annie admitted. “I imagine that’s true,” Hobart said, “after a lifetime of living otherwise.” “I don’t know if I want to think like that,” Buster said. “What do you two really want if you do find your parents? What would be achieved?” Annie, who had surprisingly never spent a single session with a psychiatrist, began to get the intense feeling that she was in therapy. She did not care for it in the least. And there went her fingers, long and slender, transforming themselves once again into tiny sledgehammer fists. She struggled for an answer to Hobart’s question and, no acceptable reply forthcoming, she leaned back against the sofa, stumped. And then Buster said, “We want to find them and show them that they can’t do whatever they want, just because they think it’s beautiful.” “That is not worth the effort,” Hobart replied.

Olli punched in with the cymbal-whack of her typewriter by the alley-side window while a happy neon sign six stories down flashing Hobart and Sons' Fine Smokables got its purple light all tangled up in her eyelashes.

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Where are our parents?” the Fang children asked in unison, inching closer to Hobart. Hobart sighed deeply and then pointed toward the living room and said, “Let’s sit down and talk.” Hobart took nearly five minutes to find a comfortable sitting position on his George Nelson–designed Kangaroo chair. Buster and Annie sat side by side opposite Hobart on a black leather sling sofa, feeling as though they were waiting for a bus that was very, very late.

She had tried for months now to think of her own performance, some unique revelation of the absurdity of life, but she had no capacity for new ideas. She could see an existing artwork and understand why it was or was not successful. But she could not take that knowledge and arrange it into something wholly original, or even a reinterpretation of that existing piece. She was, as Hobart had explained to her, as kindly as possible, simply a critic.

Il denaro non fa la felicità. Chi ha dieci milioni di dollari non è più felice di chi ne ha solo nove.

His parents ran a jewelry store in Hobart for forty years, and although neither Leo nor any of his sisters had any interest in carrying on the business, everyone in the family automatically clocks jewelry.