Hopper Quotes

A ship is safe in harbor, but that's not what ships are for.

Either you go to America with Mrs. Van Hopper or you come home to Manderley with me." "Do you mean you want a secretary or something?" "No, I'm asking you to marry me, you little fool.

Whatever happened to the dragon?" I mustered my primmest tone. "He has a name, you know." Adrian pulled back and gave me a curious look. "I didn't know, actually. What'd you decide on?" "Hopper." When Adrian laughed, I added, "Best rabbit ever. He'd be proud to know his name is being passed on." "Yes, I'm sure he would. Did you name the Mustang too?" "I think you mean the Ivashkinator." He stared at me in wonder. "I told you I loved you, right? "Yes," I assured him. "Many times.

If you could say it in words, there would be no reason to paint.

Oh, no,” said Princess Sophie to her favourite rabbit friend, Hopper. “We have to do something. We can’t have Christmas without that special Christmas feeling. What can we do?

Is Hopper celebrating with you?” “Hopper? Why would—” My mouth snapped shut for a few moments. “Oh. I, uh, kind of forgot about him.

It is better to beg forgiveness, than ask permission.

He's been out for a while," she said. "You ready to take a break?" Hopper could exist in this living form or be transformed into a small statue, which helped avoid uncomfortable questions when people came by. Only she could transform him though. "Yeah. He keeps trying to eat my paints. And I don't want him to watch me kiss you goodbye.

There is a famous painting, Nighthawks, by Edward Hopper. I am in love with that painting. Sometimes, I think everyone is like the people in that painting, everyone lost in their own private universes of pain or sorrow or guilt, everyone remote and unknowable. The painting reminds me of you. It breaks my heart.

The Doctor: Hello, I've come to see the Lord Mayor. Idris Hopper: Have you got an appointment? The Doctor: No, just an old friend passing by, bit of a surprise. Can't wait to see her face! Idris Hopper: Well, she's just having a cup of tea. The Doctor: Just go in there and tell her "the Doctor" would like to see her. Idris Hopper: "The Doctor" who? The Doctor: Just "The Doctor". Tell her exactly that, "The Doctor". Idris Hopper: Hang on a tic. [Idris goes inside. There is the sound of a teacup smashing and Idris returns.] Idris Hopper: The Lord Mayor says "thank you f-for popping by." She'd love to have a chat, but, um, she's up to her eyes in paperwork. Perhaps you would like to make an appointment for next week... The Doctor: [happily] She's climbing out the window, isn't she? Idris Hopper: Yes, she is.

Great art is the outward expression of an inner life in the artist, and this inner life will result in his personal vision of the world.

No amount of skillful invention can replace the essential element of imagination.

Leadership is a two-way street, loyalty up and loyalty down." (CBS 60 Minutes interview, March 6, 1983)

More of me comes out when I improvise.

Humans are allergic to change. They love to say, 'We've always done it this way.' I try to fight that. That's why I have a clock on my wall that runs counter-clockwise.

Hopper’s paintings are full of women like her; women who appear to be in the grips of a loneliness that has to do with gender and unattainable standards of appearance, and that gets increasingly toxic and strangulating with age.

Yes,” Howie said solemnly. “I can teach you how to be more ‘street’”. “For God’s sake…” “Or is it ‘urban’? I can’t remember. Anyway, I can teach you, grasshopper. Or hip-hopper.

You’re very arrogant, Hopper Kincaid.” “Yeah, well, man gets that way when a woman that looks like you comes as hard as I can make you come.

Too bad I couldn’t take Hopper out drinking with me. He could have become Bar Hopper.

Maybe I am not very human - all I ever wanted to do was to paint sunlight on the side of a house.

I give you five minutes to spare your blushes. here is the little bronze key that opens the ebony caskets on the mantle piece in the Louise-Phillipe room. In one of the caskets you will find a scorpion, in the other, a grasshopper, both very cleverly imitated in Japanese bronze: they will say yes or no for you. If you turn the scorpion round, that will mean to me, when I return that you have said yes. The grasshopper will mean no... The grasshopper, be careful of the grass hopper! A grasshopper does not only turn: it hops! It hops! And it hops jolly high!

He who lives for nothing costs the lives of many, but he who lives for something greater than himself preserves those he loves.

The only real influence I've ever had is myself.

Well, writing novels is incredibly simple: an author sits down…and writes. Granted, most writers I know are a bit strange. Some, downright weird. But then again, you’d have to be. To spend hundreds and hundreds of hours sitting in front of a computer screen staring at lines of information is pretty tedious. More like a computer programmer. And no matter how cool the Matrix made looking at code seem, computer programmers are even weirder than authors.

You are the shit, Hopper Kincaid!

Out of the night Hopper came, and Perrin was one with the wolf. Hopper, the cub who had watched the eagles soar, and wanted so badly to fly through the sky as the eagles did. The cub who hopped and jumped and leaped until he could leap higher than any other wolf, who never lost the cub's yearning to soar through the sky. [...] Something crashed into his head, and as he fell, he did not know if it was Hopper or himself who died.

In a world where the dead have returned to life, the word" trouble' loses much of its meaning.

The wonderful thing about standards is that there are so many of them to choose from.

Lady, we’re not sleeping, we’re resting then we’re fucking some more. Last time I’ll say it. Not done with you, got things I want to do to you and I’m doin’ them.

Because deep down you know that someone needs to keep you out of trouble.

Each romance, the type of self-destructive gesture Hedda Hopper would call "marry-kiri".Instead of plunging a sword into one's stomach, you repeatedly throw yourself on the most inappropriate erect penis.

The most dangerous phrase in the language is we've always done

Wouldn’t it be dull to do things that ended?

I want it. I need it. Because all these records, they give me a language to decipher just how fucked I am. Because there is a void in my guts which can only be filled by songs.

Life was simple before World War II. After that, we had systems.

Maybe I am not very human - what I wanted to do was to paint sunlight on the side of a house.

If I could say it in words, there would be no reason to paint

We’re all Dennis Hopper now.

On one side you have book burners, Congressional wives and Pat Robertson. On the other side, you have vulgar comedians, foul-mouthed rap groups and Dennis Hopper—all your choices should be so easy.

No girl escapes teenhood without a keen awareness of exactly how the world sees her, what it expects of her; she knows the weight of the world’s desire for her down to the ounce.

It takes more than going down to the video store and renting "Easy Rider" to be a rebel.

Some adventures should never be repeated.

Whenever something scary happens or I want to comment on something, like Joyce and Hopper’s constant bickering, which is getting annoying, I glance toward Adam’s side of the couch. And each and every time I do, the pain of his absence pierces my chest. That’s the thing about losing someone: there’s one major death followed by a million little deaths.

You think an Air Gap is a defense? Sofacy, Stuxnet, Uroburos, AirHopper, BitWhisperer and ProjectSauron…enough said!

And we’re all stuck in our ways. Bed-hoppers, thieves, drunks, murderers. We repeat our sins and hope for forgiveness, from God, other people, ourselves.

He squinted up at the straining muscular backs of the stone men supporing the dome. "You'll have to take me to some museums," he said. He was being the young man on the road, following the sun because gray weather made him suicidal, writing his poetry in his mind in diners and gas station men's rooms across the country. "But I did see a show of Hopper once. And I like his light. It was kind of lonely or something. Or, "The world's a mess, it's in my kiss,' like John and Exene say," he mumbled. We were in a leather store on Market Street being punks on acid with skunk-striped hair and steel-toed boots.

We'd taken up our positions on the benches between the school hall and a newly-installed outdoor basketball court. Being hip-hoppers, we were obliged to be obsessed with basketball. None of us had a ball.

Huge with child, and lumbering about dressed in black - I'll look like one of those hopper-barges loaded with refuse and sent out to sea." "You're too small to be a barge," Cassandra said. "You'll be a tugboat.

Whether we consider hip-hop as an evolved manifestation of the Harlem Renaissance or something completely new under the sun, it clearly has moved beyond the stage of just entertaining lives to that of informing and empowering lives.

Seven of those days were pretty good. The eighth day was the bad one.

Nobody was touching my humans. To make sure of that I had to kill these two rogue Units. I could have pulled out at this point, sabotaged the hoppers, and got my humans out of there, leaving the rogue Units stuck on the other side of an ocean; that would have been the smart thing to do.

Every day, hundreds of observations and experiments pour into the hopper of the scientific literature. Many of them don't have much to do with evolution - they're observations about the details of physiology, biochemistry, development, and so on - but many of them do. And every fact that has something to do with evolution confirms its truth. Every fossil that we find, every DNA molecule that we sequence, every organ system that we dissect, supports the idea that species evolved from common ancestors. Despite innumerable possible observations that could prove evolution untrue, we don't have a single one. We don't find mammals in Precambrian rocks, humans in the same layers as dinosaurs, or any other fossils out of evolutionary order. DNA sequencing supports the evolutionary relationships of species originally deduced from the fossil record. And, as natural selection predicts, we find no species with adaptations that only benefit a different species. We do find dead genes and vestigial organs, incomprehensible under the idea of special creation. Despite a million chances to be wrong, evolution always comes up right. That is as close as we can get to a scientific truth.

The compressed video clip in the packet was from the serial World Hoppers, from a story arc climax episode, when a secondary main character’s mind had been taken over by a sentient brain-virus (I know) and the story was really much better than it sounds but it was the moment when the character said, I am trapped in my own body.

Hopper was neither an illustrator nor a narrative painter. His paintings don’t tell stories. What they do is suggest—powerfully, irresistibly—that there are stories within them, waiting to be told. He shows us a moment in time, arrayed on a canvas; there’s clearly a past and a future, but it’s our task to find it for ourselves.

Here, in this waiting room, one could see a cross section of them—the hoppers, the creepers, the crawlers, the wrigglers, and rollers that came from the many planets, from so many stars. Earth was the galactic melting pot, he thought, a place where beings from the thousand stars met and mingled to share their thoughts and cultures.

That autumn, I kept coming back to Hopper’s images, drawn to them as if they were blueprints and I was a prisoner; as if they contained some vital clue about my state. Though I went with my eyes over dozens of rooms, I always returned to the same place: to the New York diner of Nighthawks, a painting that Joyce Carol Oates once described as “our most poignant, ceaselessly replicated romantic image of American loneliness”... Green shadows were falling in spikes and diamonds on the sidewalk. There is no colour in existence that so powerfully communicates urban alienation, the atomisation of human beings inside the edifices they create, as this noxious pallid green, which only came into being with the advent of electricity, and which is inextricably associated with the nocturnal city, the city of glass towers, of empty illuminated offices and neon signs.

War is romantic only to those who have never lived it.

The most dangerous phrase in the language is, ‘We’ve always done it this way.

Color breathes life into my soul.

I like to lean. Too much of the time I have to hold myself up, so if an opportunity to swoon presents itself, I take it.

Didn’t you have one when you were little? What was his name, Hopper?” “Yeah,” I said, resisting the urge to punch him on the arm. Hopper? Really? “Best rabbit ever.

By 1940 Grace Hopper was bored. She had no children, her marriage was unexciting, and teaching math was not as fulfilling as she had hoped.

Finally, leaders focus on people. In the words of Grace Murray Hopper, computer scientist and rear admiral in the US Navy, “You manage things; you lead people.” Naturally,

The thing you dread should be your first priority. Because if you’re not willing to find the chink in your armor, the Hopper, the Unknown and Unknowable, the randomness of life, will find it for you.

Hopper would later gain fame both as a teacher and as a pioneer in the development of high-level programming languages. Yet perhaps her best-known contribution came in the summer of 1945, when she and her colleagues were tracking down a glitch in the Mark II and discovered a large moth that had gotten crushed by one of the relay switches and shorted it out. She taped the dead moth into the logbook with the notation “First case of an actual bug being found.

There was nothing for it but to sit in my usual place beside Mrs. Van Hopper while she, like a large, complacent spider, spun her wide net of tedium about the stranger's person." I think I've met Mrs. Van Hopper on numerous occasions.

Loneliness is not abstract and intangible - metaphors about desert islands and mismatched shoes, Edward Hopper's characters staring at windows, Fiona Apple's entire discography. Loneliness is here. It molds our souls, but also our bodies.

When people begin to experience the lull of mediocrity, they often question whether they are in the right job. They wonder if there might be another one out there that would better suit them, and that might give them the thrill they once experienced before things went south. They may even act on that impulse, hopping to another job or company, and subsequently find that everything is better for a while. The newness is back, and that craved-for sense of challenge has returned. Problem solved? Actually, no. In many of these situations the job hopper is right back in crisis within a matter of months. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with their new job; it’s because they changed their external situation without changing their mind-set and methods. They were trying to solve an internal problem by changing their external circumstances, which rarely works. You have to begin by finding alignment internally, then question your work environment.

If only I could cry. I am beyond that. The light, the light, lending itself to empty downtown Saturday, but still the stupid insensate cars flush by oblivious to their stupidity, my silent plea. It isn't Mexico. It's not Paris. It's a painting by Hopper come to life. I am trapped inside a dead thing. Language is impossible here, even in English. Who has the arrogance to say: I'm mad, this is my crazy view of things, help me. I'm trapped in a silent world, a tableau of forty years ago. The walls are different, the tables, the heights of the veiling and the chairs. I loom above this letter. The view past the rows of cakes in the plate glass window is unfamiliar. I am a ghost. There is nothing now between me and death. Death is the unfamiliarity of everything, the strangeness of the once familiar. The same spatial configurations only the light is hollow, sick. I think I lack the energy to hit expensive discos which I don't know where they are to be rejected tonight. I look passable. My energy's low. I love to dance but despair is not a good muse. This Mexico, babe. Men who don't love you but act wildly as if they do initially. Self-involved, narcissistic men... The men drink and philosophize about pain. The women live it solo and culturelessly. No one cries, except easily, sentimentally. The devil, therefore God, exists. Oaxaca was a pushover compared to this. Pain had boundaries there. Spare us big cities, oh lord!

Hopper invites us to feel empathy with the woman in her isolation. She seems dignified and generous, only perhaps a little too trusting, a little naive—as if she has knocked against a hard corner of the world. Hopper puts us on her side, the side of the outsider against the insiders. The figures in Hopper's art are not opponents of home per se; it is simply that in a variety of undefined ways, home appears to have betrayed them, forcing them out into the night or onto the road.

When she opened up that closet and found you cowering in the corner, what did she do? You're still alive, aren't you? You're still wearing that sacrilegious getup. What did Ashley do that you were so fucking afraid of?' Villarde only lowered his head. 'You can't even say it, can you?' Villarde opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Then he gasped, a bizarre gagging sound that prompted disgust to flood through me. He was, without doubt, one of the most wretched beings I'd ever laid eyes on. 'She pulled me to my feet,' he whispered. 'And she...' 'She what?' shouted Hopper. 'She...' Villarde was crying. 'There's really nothing more terrifying - " 'WHAT?' 'She told me she...forgave me.' The words were so fragile and unexpected, no one spoke.

The first and best hoarding novelist was Dickens, who crammed his big books with all the details they could hold, and created an unparalleled hoarder portrait in Miss Havisham of Great Expectations, who keeps every object as it was at the hour she was jilted.

Happiness was attainable for anyone who had enough courage to reach for it. Just because I had to reach further than some only made it that much more appreciated. Today, in this moment, I was wrapping both hands around my happiness, grabbing it tight. Hopper’s

My world has changed so much. Everything around me has perceptibly shifted in a direction I hadn’t seen coming. The people around me, the ones I once thought I knew so well have transformed into strangers. Worst of all, I can’t recognize the person I have become.

What this means is that the entire business model for something like Chase’s credit card business is not much more than a gigantic welfare fraud scheme. These companies borrow hundreds of billions of dollars from the Fed at rock-bottom rates, then turn around and lend it out to the world at 5, 10, 15, 20 percent, as credit cards and mortgages, boat loans and aircraft loans, and so on. If you pay it back, great, it’s a 500 percent or 1,000 percent or 4,000 percent profit for the bank. If you don’t pay it back, the company can put your name in the hopper to be sued. A $5,000 debt on a credit card for the now-defunct Circuit City, which was actually a Chase card, became a $13,000 or $14,000 debt by the time the bank finished applying fees and penalties. Just like a welfare application, you have to read the fine print. “They make more on lawsuits than they make on credit interest,” says Linda.

Jo declaró en una entrevista en 1956: "Un día voy a escribir la historia verdadera de Edward Hopper... Es puro Dostoievski. ¡Oh, es amargura aplastante!". [...] En la misma entrevista dijo que hablar con Edward "era a veces exactamente como tirar una piedra en un pozo, salvo que no hace ruido al caer".

When one is much alone one’s vision becomes more extensive; from the tide-wrack rubbish-heap of small bones and dry, crumpled wings, relics of lesser lives, rise images the brighter for being unconfined by the physical eye. From some feathered mummy, stained and thin, soars the spinning lapwing in the white March morning; in the surface crust of rotting weed, where the foot explodes a whirring puff of flies, the withered fins and scales hold still, intrinsically, the sway and dart of glittering shoals among the tide-swung sea-tangle; smothered by the mad parabolic energy of leaping sand-hoppers the broken antlers of a stag re-form and move again high in the bare, stony corries and the October moonlight.

Us girls deserve more than one song. We deserve more than one pledge of solidarity. We deserve better songs than any boy will ever write about us.

Books can be shelved or packed away, but little girls shouldn't be.

It is on my short list of why I will one day move to the woods. Nothing is grosser than people after last call.

Machine problems, called bugs, were very often caused by fraying of the brushes on the counters, which caused them to spark. When this happened, the operators would go to Hopper and borrow the little mirror from the handbag she always had with her. Then they turned the lights off and held the mirror down into the machinery to locate where the counters were sparking.

—¿Ha sabido alguna vez que iba a llover sin ni siquiera ver las nubes, señorita Hopper? Sientes algo, no sabes bien el qué, algo que te dice que aunque esté el sol brillando va a llover… y al final llueve. O mejor, imagine un camino largo, muy largo, y una persona al final del mismo. Esa persona camina hacia usted. No puede ver nada de ella, ni su cara ni su ropa. Pero llega un instante en que, aún sin poder ver sus rasgos, ni siquiera su manera de andar, algo hace clic en su cabeza y la reconoce. Es un familiar. Es un amigo. Es un desconocido. Pues así veo yo a la muerte. Pero con la particularidad de que ella ya no está al final del camino, sino muy cerca. Puedo verla con todo detalle. Y solo quedan unos pocos pasos para que me alcance…

I'd be damn p-p-p-proud," he said, "of a f-father like Martin Hopper." The girl tossed her head with disdain. "That's just your trouble, Douglas Hyde." "What do you mean?" he bristled angrily. "You know he's a phony," she answered coldly. "You've told me so yourself. And yet, in a pinch, you defend him." The two stared at each other—blonde against dark—in absolute opposition.

My reading is dead!' Pilar gasped. The little girl held the fourth grade reading book, rigid as a stillborn, across her open palms as if pleading with the pretty gringa teacher to take the burden away.

Grip’s favorite painting didn’t contain a single figure. 'Seven A.M.' showed distant trees on one side, and on the other a storefront that time had passed by. So still. Some kind of story could probably be told, but one refrained from asking questions. The light and shadows convinced the viewer to exist in the moment. Hopper had drawn sharp lines where the sun cast shadows on the white walls inside the window, while outside the ground gleamed like warm sand. The hands of an old wall clock suggested that the time was seven. Someone who should have been there was somewhere else. Yet nothing was missing. With the morning light streaming down on the ground and in through the window, time might as well have stopped—so the clock always stood at seven. Just like that, a place where nothing ever changes.

I went to Europe in 1917 with sixty-five lbs. on my back,” he told Hedda Hopper in a May 17, 1960, radio interview. To another interviewer, he quipped, “I learned to run the 100-yard dash in eight seconds flat, carrying a full pack.” He served for nineteen months as a private in the 101st Field Artillery Regiment in France. He never said much about what combat was like, except to confess that he was “severely frightened 500 times.

Dancing in pitch-dark rooms, rooms illuminated exclusively by the tiny light on the turntable, is an activity which fits very well with my ideas of “rock-critic behavior” (which is like normal music-fan behavior, but substantially more pitiful and indulgent).

He regarded her indignantly. “Did she say I broke our engagement?” “She didn’t say hardly anything when I talked to her this morning, just that the two of you reached a mutual decision to end your relationship.” “And you assumed that meant I ended it.” “Didn’t you?” “Hell, no.” “Are you saying Gracie dumped you?” He saw too late the trap he’d laid for himself. “‘Course not. Nobody dumps me.” “She did, didn’t she? She dumped you! Holy Moses! A person of the female species finally gave Bobby Tom Denton back a little bit of what he’s been giving out.” Grinning widely, she lifted her face to the heavens. “Thank you, Jesus!” “Will you stop that! She didn’t dump me. Haven’t you figured out by now that we were never really engaged! It was just a ploy to keep everybody off my back while I was in town.” The fact that Terry Jo was making a joke out of this hurt in a way he couldn’t express. “Of course you were engaged. A blind fool could see the two of you love each other.” “We do not! Well, maybe she loves me, but…I care about her. Who wouldn’t? She’s about the best kind of woman there is. But, love? She’s not my type, Terry Jo.” Terry Jo gave him a long, steady gaze. “It’s amazing. You don’t know any more about women now than you did in high school when you threw me over for Sherri Hopper.” She regarded him sadly. “When are you going to grow up, Bobby Tom?

I was raised on the struggle of elders - iron collars, severed feet, the rifle of dirty Harriet, and down through the years, the Muslims and regal Malcolm. But mostly what I saw around me was rank dishonor: cable and Atari plugged into every room, juvenile parenting, niggers sporting kicks with price tags that looked like mortgage bills. The Conscious among us knew the whole race was going down, that we'd freed ourselves from slavery and Jim Crow but not the great shackling of minds. The hoppers had no picture of the larger world. We thought all our battles were homegrown and personal, but, like an evil breeze at our back, we felt invisible hands at work, like someone else was still tugging at levers and pulling strings.

It was warm in the summer of 1945; the windows were always open and the screens were not very good. One day the Mark II stopped when a relay failed. They finally found the cause of the failure: inside one of the relays, beaten to death by the contacts, was a moth. The operator carefully fished it out with tweezers, taped it in the logbook, and wrote under it “first actual bug found.

I looked at him over my glass of citronade. It was not easy to explain my father and usually I never talked about him. He was my secret property. Preserved for me alone, much as Manderley was preserved for my neighbour. I had no wish to introduce him casually over a table in a Monte Carlo restaurant. There was a strange air of unreality about that luncheon, and looking back upon it now it is invested for me with a curious glamour. There was I, so much of a schoolgirl still, who only the day before had sat with Mrs Van Hopper, prim, silent, and subdued, and twenty-four hours afterwards my family history was mine no longer, I shared it with a man I did not know. For some reason I felt impelled to speak, because his eyes followed me in sympathy like the Gentleman Unknown.

The hatred which some of his order feel for Socialists and Demagogues Lord Marshmoreton kept for roseslugs, rose-beetles and the small, yellowish-white insect which is so depraved and sinister a character that it goes through life with an alias—being sometimes called a rose-hopper and sometimes a thrips. A simple soul, Lord Marshmoreton—mild and pleasant. Yet put him among the thrips, and he became a dealer-out of death and slaughter, a destroyer in the class of Attila the Hun and Genghis Khan. Thrips feed on the underside of rose leaves, sucking their juice and causing them to turn yellow; and Lord Marshmoreton's views on these things were so rigid that he would have poured whale-oil solution on his grandmother if he had found her on the underside of one of his rose leaves sucking its juice.

The renaming of ME to Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS) in 1988, giving misplaced emphasis to “fatigue”, trivializes the substantial disability of the disease 1 – which can extend to the wheelchair or bed-bound requiring 24 hour care ME/CFS is characterized by neurological, immunological, gastrointestinal, cardiovascular and musculoskeletal features – severe forms can present with paresis, seizures, intractable savage headaches and life threatening complications.

Are you chuckling yet? Because then along came you. A big, broad meat eater with brash blond hair and ruddy skin that burns at the beach. A bundle of appetites. A full, boisterous guffaw; a man who tells knock know jokes. Hot dogs - not even East 86th Street bratwurst but mealy, greasy big guts that terrifying pink. Baseball. Gimme caps. Puns and blockbuster movies, raw tap water and six-packs. A fearless, trusting consumer who only reads labels to make sure there are plenty of additives. A fan of the open road with a passion for his pickup who thinks bicycles are for nerds. Fucks hard and talks dirty; a private though unapologetic taste for porn. Mysteries, thrillers, and science fiction; a subscription to National Geographic. Barbecues on the Fourth of July and intentions, in the fullness of time, to take up golf. Delights in crappy snack foods of ever description: Burgles. Curlies. Cheesies. Squigglies - you're laughing - but I don't eat them - anything that looks less like food than packing material and at least six degrees of separation from the farm. Bruce Springsteen, the early albums, cranked up high with the truck window down and your hair flying. Sings along, off-key - how is it possible that I should be endeared by such a tin ear?Beach Boys. Elvis - never lose your roots, did you, loved plain old rock and roll. Bombast. Though not impossibly stodgy; I remember, you took a shine to Pearl Jam, which was exactly when Kevin went off them...(sorry). It just had to be noisy; you hadn't any time for my Elgar, my Leo Kottke, though you made an exception for Aaron Copeland. You wiped your eyes brusquely at Tanglewood, as if to clear gnats, hoping I didn't notice that "Quiet City" made you cry. And ordinary, obvious pleasure: the Bronx Zoo and the botanical gardens, the Coney Island roller coaster, the Staten Island ferry, the Empire State Building. You were the only New Yorker I'd ever met who'd actually taken the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. You dragged me along once, and we were the only tourists on the boat who spoke English. Representational art - Edward Hopper. And my lord, Franklin, a Republican. A belief in a strong defense but otherwise small government and low taxes. Physically, too, you were such a surprise - yourself a strong defense. There were times you were worried that I thought you too heavy, I made so much of your size, though you weighed in a t a pretty standard 165, 170, always battling those five pounds' worth of cheddar widgets that would settle over your belt. But to me you were enormous. So sturdy and solid, so wide, so thick, none of that delicate wristy business of my imaginings. Built like an oak tree, against which I could pitch my pillow and read; mornings, I could curl into the crook of your branches. How luck we are, when we've spared what we think we want! How weary I might have grown of all those silly pots and fussy diets, and how I detest the whine of sitar music!

bu kitap minimalist bir ressamla ilgili ve konu minimalist sanat olduğu zaman fark ettim ki ben agnostik hatta belki ateistim. Bu kelimeleri kullanıyorum çünkü bence minimalizme ya inanırsınız ya da inanmazsınız -bir Hockney, bir Hopper ya da bir Monet söz konusu olduğunda size tanınmayan bir şanstır bu. Karşımızda Irwin var (şans bu ya sevilesi, düşünceli bir adam) turuncu bir zemin üzerinde türlü düz çizgilerden ibaret olan en son desen çizimleriyle: “Bakınca… tablolara algısal açıdan, gözünüzün havanın, uzayın hatta kısacık bir mesafenin orta yerinde takılı kaldığını fark ediyorsunuz: varlığınızın uzay-zaman süreklisinde kaynaşıyor uzay ve zaman. Tam bir meditasyon halinde buluyorsunuz kendinizi.” Size böyle bir şey olmazsa ne olacak? Demek istediğim, herkese olmuyordur herhalde bu, öyle değil mi? Ne kalıyor o zaman elinizde? Katoliklerin de komünyon ayinine katıldığınız zaman olabileceklerle ilgili benzer bir iddiada bulunabilecekleri geldi aklıma. İsa’nın bedeniyle incecik bir ekmek parçası arasında çok büyük bir fark var.

The Wessely School rejects the significant body of biomedical evidence demonstrating that chronic “fatigue” or “tiredness” is not the same as the physiological exhaustion seen in ME/CFS and persists in believing that they have the right to demand a level of “evidence‐based” definitive proof that ME/CFS is not an “aberrant belief” as they assert, when their biopsychosocial model of “CFS/ME” that perpetuates their own aberrant belief about the nature of ME/CFS has been exposed by other psychiatrists as being nothing but a myth.

If talking pictures could be said to have a father, it was Lee De Forest, a brilliant but erratic inventor of electrical devices of all types. (He had 216 patents.) In 1907, while searching for ways to boost telephone signals, De Forest invented something called the thermionic triode detector. De Forest’s patent described it as “a System for Amplifying Feeble Electric Currents” and it would play a pivotal role in the development of broadcast radio and much else involving the delivery of sound, but the real developments would come from others. De Forest, unfortunately, was forever distracted by business problems. Several companies he founded went bankrupt, twice he was swindled by his backers, and constantly he was in court fighting over money or patents. For these reasons, he didn’t follow through on his invention. Meanwhile, other hopeful inventors demonstrated various sound-and-image systems—Cinematophone, Cameraphone, Synchroscope—but in every case the only really original thing about them was their name. All produced sounds that were faint or muddy, or required impossibly perfect timing on the part of the projectionist. Getting a projector and sound system to run in perfect tandem was basically impossible. Moving pictures were filmed with hand-cranked cameras, which introduced a slight variability in speed that no sound system could adjust to. Projectionists also commonly repaired damaged film by cutting out a few frames and resplicing what remained, which clearly would throw out any recording. Even perfect film sometimes skipped or momentarily stuttered in the projector. All these things confounded synchronization. De Forest came up with the idea of imprinting the sound directly onto the film. That meant that no matter what happened with the film, sound and image would always be perfectly aligned. Failing to find backers in America, he moved to Berlin in the early 1920s and there developed a system that he called Phonofilm. De Forest made his first Phonofilm movie in 1921 and by 1923 he was back in America giving public demonstrations. He filmed Calvin Coolidge making a speech, Eddie Cantor singing, George Bernard Shaw pontificating, and DeWolf Hopper reciting “Casey at the Bat.” By any measure, these were the first talking pictures. However, no Hollywood studio would invest in them. The sound quality still wasn’t ideal, and the recording system couldn’t quite cope with multiple voices and movement of a type necessary for any meaningful dramatic presentation. One invention De Forest couldn’t make use of was his own triode detector tube, because the patents now resided with Western Electric, a subsidiary of AT&T. Western Electric had been using the triode to develop public address systems for conveying speeches to large crowds or announcements to fans at baseball stadiums and the like. But in the 1920s it occurred to some forgotten engineer at the company that the triode detector could be used to project sound in theaters as well. The upshot was that in 1925 Warner Bros. bought the system from Western Electric and dubbed it Vitaphone. By the time of The Jazz Singer, it had already featured in theatrical presentations several times. Indeed, the Roxy on its opening night in March 1927 played a Vitaphone feature of songs from Carmen sung by Giovanni Martinelli. “His voice burst from the screen with splendid synchronization with the movements of his lips,” marveled the critic Mordaunt Hall in the Times. “It rang through the great theatre as if he had himself been on the stage.

Did It Ever Occur to You That Maybe You’re Falling in Love? BY AILISH HOPPER We buried the problem. We planted a tree over the problem. We regretted our actions toward the problem. We declined to comment on the problem. We carved a memorial to the problem, dedicated it. Forgot our handkerchief. We removed all “unnatural” ingredients, handcrafted a locally-grown tincture for the problem. But nobody bought it. We freshly-laundered, bleached, deodorized the problem. We built a wall around the problem, tagged it with pictures of children, birds in trees. We renamed the problem, and denounced those who used the old name. We wrote a law for the problem, but it died in committee. We drove the problem out with loud noises from homemade instruments. We marched, leafleted, sang hymns, linked arms with the problem, got dragged to jail, got spat on by the problem and let out. We elected an official who Finally Gets the problem. … We watched carefully for the problem, but our flashlight died. We had dreams of the problem. In which we could no longer recognize ourselves. We reformed. We transformed. Turned over a new leaf. Turned a corner, found ourselves near a scent that somehow reminded us of the problem, In ways we could never Put into words. That Little I-can’t-explain-it That makes it hard to think. That Rings like a siren inside.

Turing was offered a choice: imprisonment or probation contingent on receiving hormone treatments via injections of a synthetic estrogen designed to curb his sexual desires, as if he were a chemically controlled machine. He chose the latter, which he endured for a year. Turing at first seemed to take it all in stride, but on June 7, 1954, he committed suicide by biting into an apple he had laced with cyanide. His friends noted that he had always been fascinated by the scene in Snow White in which the Wicked Queen dips an apple into a poisonous brew. He was found in his bed with froth around his mouth, cyanide in his system, and a half-eaten apple by his side. Was that something a machine would have done? I. Stirling’s formula, which approximates the value of the factorial of a number. II. The display and explanations of the Mark I at Harvard’s science center made no mention of Grace Hopper nor pictured any women until 2014, when the display was revised to highlight her role and that of the programmers. III. Von Neumann was successful in this. The plutonium implosion design would result in the first detonation of an atomic device, the Trinity test, in July 1945 near Alamogordo, New Mexico, and it would be used for the bomb that was dropped on Nagasaki on August 9, 1945, three days after the uranium bomb was used on Hiroshima. With his hatred of both the Nazis and the Russian-backed communists, von Neumann became a vocal proponent of atomic weaponry.

Oleh akibat ketidak-berpihakan, ketidak-beruntungan, ketidak-terpilihan, ketidak-sesuaian, ketidak-terjawaban doa-doa, kegagalan, keterlepasan, isolasi dan kehilangan. Perlahan kamu mulai menyadari sebuah fakta, bahwa kamu ternyata tidak spesial. Simply tidak ada yang spesial dari diri kamu. Biasa saja. Cuma satu dari milyaran organisme yang terserak di perairan purba yang tak berbatas. Biasa. Biasa. Biasa. Biasa. Biasa. Biasa. Dan biasa. Seperti produk massal. Tissue toilet yang diganti setiap hari oleh petugas janitor. Lahir, mengkonsumsi, kerja, mengkonsumsi, berkembang biak, mengkonsumsi, kerja, mengkonsumsi lalu mati. Mati pun tidak pasti apakah tetap mati, ataukah kembali lagi ke bentuk awal, lahir. Begitu seterusnya. Berulang terus dan terus sampai entah kapan. Cuma serangkaian episode dari keberulangan setiap hari. Seperti sebuah roll film yang sama yang digunakan untuk merekam bermacam adegan yang berbeda setiap harinya. Adegan pertama dihapus, lalu ditindih kembali untuk bertukar dengan adegan kedua. Adegan kedua berganti yang ketiga, dan begitu seterusnya. Sebuah keberulangan yang berbeda terus menerus, tetapi tetap pada hakikatnya adalah sebuah roll film yang sama. Dalam satu gulungan besar yang sama. Dalam satu format yang serupa. Sebuah kebeluman yang terus menerus.. Banal dan tanpa makna.. Lalu, apakah sesuatu yang selamanya “belum selesai” masih dapat dikatakan sebagai sesuatu yang spesial? Spesial itu cuma akal-akalan pemasar. Kamu spesial kalau beli produk ini, kalau beli produk itu, kalau pakai parfum ini, kalau pakai kosmetik itu, kamu spesial itu kalau dalam sehari minimal ada satu kali transaksi digerai starbucks, kamu spesial itu kalau kamu pakai iphone 6 bahkan sebelum produknya keluar di pasar lokal, kamu spesial itu kalau kamu member fitness center, tentu kamu lebih spesial lagi kalau pakai personal trainer, kamu spesial kalau kamu fashionable, kalau kamu tech savvy, kalau kamu club hopper, kamu spesial itu kalau kamu kelihatan aktif berkeringat dalam trend lari kekinian yang hampir separuhnya berisi aktivitas narsis dan konsumsi bermacam produk running shoes, kamu spesial itu cuma kalau kamu pakai brand ini, pakai brand itu, kalau ini, kalau itu, kalau, kalau, kalau, kalau dan kalau.. Spesial itu cuma ada dalam quotes-quotes yang dikasih latar gambar pemandangan, kamu bisa comot-comot dari pinterest atau instagram lalu pasang sebagai profile picture di sosial media milikmu. Pun spesial bersemayam dalam kolase omong kosong yang dirangkum buku-buku swa-bantu atau dalam kutipan ayat dari kitab suci dalam status blackberry teman-teman kamu yang berusaha kelihatan religius, tapi jauh sekali dari makna religius dalam perilaku sehari-hari. Jadi, dari pada ngga ada habisnya memikirkan jawaban dari pertanyaan mengapa kamu tidak spesial? Mungkin kamu harusnya berfikir, buat apa jadi spesial? Harus banget ya jadi spesial? Harus banget ya beda dengan yang lain? Apa perlu banget jadi beda? Emang kalau ngga ada satu pun dari kita yang spesial, kenapa? Kalau kita semua ternyata sama, memangnya kenapa? Kalau kita semua berebut jadi spesial, lalu siapa yang mau berada di posisi tidak spesial? kalau semua spesial, apakah masih spesial namanya? Sudah, sekarang terima saja, bahwa ngga ada yang spesial dari diri kamu, dan seluruh kehidupan kamu yang begitu membosankan.. hidup ngga akan pernah repot-repot berusaha untuk menjaga perasaan kamu. Apalagi susah payah menempatkan kamu di posisi yang 'spesial'. Things happen because they need to happen. Spesial itu cuma soal kamu memberi bentuk pada makna. Tentang bagaimana kamu ingin dimaknai, tentang bagaimana kamu ingin diperlakukan, tentang bagaimana (anehnya) kamu ingin menerima kembali perlakuan yang kamu inginkan justru dengan cara memberikan perlakuan itu kepada yang lain diluar diri kamu. Tentang omong kosong soal konsep memberi untuk merima lebih banyak..