Ingrate Quotes

Do you believe,' said Candide, 'that men have always massacred each other as they do to-day, that they have always been liars, cheats, traitors, ingrates, brigands, idiots, thieves, scoundrels, gluttons, drunkards, misers, envious, ambitious, bloody-minded, calumniators, debauchees, fanatics, hypocrites, and fools?' Do you believe,' said Martin, 'that hawks have always eaten pigeons when they have found them?

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drenched our teeples, drowned the cocks! You sulphurour and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once That make ingrateful man!

I do half the cooking, and by 'half' I mean three quarters," Dad pointed out. "And if you're going to turn up your nose at all my carnivorous delights, ingrate child, you can sit under the table and gnaw sadly on a raw Brussels sprout at mealtimes.

But Noodynaady's actual ingrate tootle is of come into the garner mauve and thy nice are stores of morning and buy me a bunch of iodines.

Cosette, do you hear? he has come to that! he asks my forgiveness! And do you know what he has done for me, Cosette? He has saved my life. He has done more--he has given you to me. And after having saved me, and after having given you to me, Cosette, what has he done with himself? He has sacrificed himself. Behold the man. And he says to me the ingrate, to me the forgetful, to me the pitiless, to me the guilty one: Thanks! Cosette, my whole life passed at the feet of this man would be too little. That barricade, that sewer, that furnace, that cesspool,--all that he traversed for me, for thee, Cosette! He carried me away through all the deaths which he put aside before me, and accepted for himself. Every courage, every virtue, every heroism, every sanctity he possesses! Cosette, that man is an angel!

Imagine a speck of dust next to a planet a billion times the size of the earth. The speck of dust represents the odds in favor of your being born; the huge planet would be the odds against it. So stop sweating the small stuff. Don’t be like the ingrate who got a castle as a present and worried about the mildew in the bathroom. Stop looking the gift horse in the mouth—remember that you are a Black Swan.

Pure generosity is when you help the ingrate. Every other form is self-serving.

For instance? Well, for instance, what it means to be a man. In a city. In a century. In transition. In a mass. Transformed by science. Under organized power. Subject to tremendous controls. In a condition caused by mechanization. After the late failure of radical hopes. In a society that was no community and devalued the person. Owing to the multiplied power of numbers which made the self negligible. Which spent military billions against foreign enemies but would not pay for order at home. Which permitted savagery and barbarism in its own great cities. At the same time, the pressure of human millions who have discovered what concerted efforts and thoughts can do. As megatons of water shape organisms on the ocean floor. As tides polish stones. As winds hollow cliffs. The beautiful supermachinery opening a new life for innumerable mankind. Would you deny them the right to exist? Would you ask them to labor and go hungry while you yourself enjoyed old-fashioned Values? You—you yourself are a child of this mass and a brother to all the rest. or else an ingrate, dilettante, idiot. There, Herzog, thought Herzog, since you ask for the instance, is the way it runs.

Every time I bestow a vacant office I make a hundred discontented persons and one ingrate. Louis XIV, 1638-1715

Even after centuries of human interacting, children still continue to rebel against their parents and siblings. Young marrieds look upon their in-laws and parents as obstacles to their independence and growth. Parents view their children as selfish ingrates. Husbands desert their wives and seek greener fields elsewhere. Wives form relationships with heroes of soap operas who vicariously bring excitement and romance into their empty lives. Workers often hate their bosses and co-workers and spend miserable hours with them, day after day. On a larger scale, management cannot relate with labour. Each accuses the other of unreasonable self-interests and narrow-mindedness. Religious groups often become entrapped, each in a provincial dogma resulting in hate and vindictiveness in the name of God. Nations battle blindly, under the shadow of the world annihilation, for the realization of their personal rights. Members of these groups blame rival groups for their continual sense of frustration, impotence, lack of progress and communication. We have obviously not learned much over the years. We have not paused long enough to consider the simple truth that we humans are not born with particular attitudinal sets regarding other persons, we are taught into them. We are the future generation's teachers. We are, therefore, the perpetrators of the confusion and alienation we abhor and which keeps us impotent in finding new alternatives. It is up to us to diligently discover new solutions and learn new patterns of relating, ways more conducive to growth, peace, hope and loving coexistence. Anything that is learned can be unlearned and relearned. In this process called change lies our real hope.

Oh. A bigger studio. It dawns on me, stupid me, that Henry could win the lottery at any time at all; that he has never bothered to do so because it's not normal; that he has decided to set aside his fanatical dedication to living like a normal person so I can have a studio big enough to roller-skate across; that I am being an ingrate. "Clare? Earth to Clare..." "Thank you," I say, too abruptly.

Ce viclesug, ce forta si ce geniu, stapan ingrat, m-ar duce iar la tine, chip milostiv ce-n inima porti moarte?

Well.” Giving a sniff, I tossed my hair back and walked through the door. “That’s the last time I ever offer you a shoulder to cry on.” “Hallelujah,” he muttered. Ingrate. But he nudged my shoulder, leaned down, mouth right by my ear, T-shirt brushing against my sleeve, and whispered, “Thanks, K. You’re sweet, you know that?” It was so unexpected that I felt my cheeks burn.

I am sometimes taken aback by how people can have a miserable day or get angry because they feel cheated by a bad meal, cold coffee, a social rebuff or a rude reception. We are quick to forget that just being alive is an extraordinary piece of good luck, a remote event, a chance of occurrence of monstrous proportions. Imagine a speck of dust next to a planet a billion times the size of earth. The speck of dust represents the odds in favor of your being born; the huge planet would be the odds against it. So stop sweating the small stuff. Don’t be like the ingrate who got a castle as a present and worried about the mildew in the bathroom. Stop looking at the gift horse in the mouth – remember you are a Black Swan.

Unless we are complete ingrates, the lives of all those men that preceded us should be seen as sacred. Their collective existence paved the way for our own time on Earth. Because

Cathy smiled back ‘Rules were meant to be broken.’ ‘Don’t disagree,’ Oversteegen replied immediately. ‘Indeed they are. Providin’, however, that the one breakin’ the rules is willin’ t’ pay the price for it, and the price gets charged in full. Which you were, Lady Catharine. I saluted you for it then–at the family dinner table that night, in fact. My mother was infinitely more indisposed thereafter; tottered back t’ her bed cursin’ me for an ingrate. My father was none too pleased either. I salute you for it, again. Otherwise, breakin’ rules becomes the province of brats instead of heroes. Fastest way I can think t’ turn serious political affairs int’ a playpen. A civilized society needs a conscience, and conscience can’t be developed without martyrs—real ones—against which a nation can measure its crimes and sins.

Doctor Spielvogel, it alleviates nothing fixing the blame - blaming is still ailing, of course, of course - but nonetheless, what was it with these Jewish parents, what, that they were able to make us little Jewish boys believe ourselves to be princes on the one hand, unique as unicorns on the one hand, geniuses and brilliant like nobody has ever been brilliant and beautiful before in the history of childhood - saviors and sheer perfection on the one hand, and such bumbling, incompetent, thoughtless, helpless, selfish, evil little shits, little ingrates, on the other!

Do you believe," said Candide, "that men have always massacred each other as they do to-day, that they have always been liars, cheats, traitors, ingrates, brigands, idiots, thieves, scoundrels, gluttons, drunkards, misers, envious, ambitious, bloody-minded, calumniators, debauchees, fanatics, hypocrites, and fools?" "Do you believe," said Martin, "that hawks have always eaten pigeons when they have found them?" "Yes, without doubt," said Candide. "Well, then," said Martin, "if hawks have always had the same character why should you imagine that men may have changed theirs?

Mrs. Pott's beady black eyes narrowed,"Do you know how many glass slippers I have to stitch when I get home? There's a Mad Hatter serenading a toaster as we speak. There could be mayhem wreaking havoc all over the love in New Gotham, granted what thankless ingrates you are. But here I am! I've taken a chance on you..

Ingrates!" says the garment, "I protected you in inclement weather. Why will you have nothing to do with me?" "I have just come from the deep sea," says the fish. "I have been a rose," says the perfume. "I have loved you," says the corpse. "I have civilized you," says the convent. To this there is but one reply: "In former days.

S'il fallait condamner Tous les ingrats qui sont au monde, A qui pourrait-on pardonner?

Suicide in whatever form is an act of ingratitude to God. You threw back at Him the gift He took His time, energy and resources to create specially for you.

Do you trust," said Candide, "that guys have always massacred every other as they do to-day, that they've always been liars, cheats, traitors, ingrates, brigands, idiots, thieves, scoundrels, gluttons, drunkards, misers, green with envy, formidable, bloody-minded, calumniators, debauchees, enthusiasts, hypocrites, and fools?

Je ne ressens pas la moindre honte de ne pas être une super bonne meuf. En revanche, je suis verte de rage qu'en tant qu fille qui intéresse peu les hommes, on cherche sans cesse à me faire savoir que je ne devrais même pas être là. On a toujours existé. Même s'il n'est pas question de nous dans les romans d'hommes, qui n'imaginent que des femmes avec qui ils voudraient coucher. On a toujours existé, on n'a jamais parlé. Même aujourd'hui que les femmes publient beaucoup de romans, on rencontre rarement de personnage féminins aux physiques ingrats ou médiocres, inaptes à aimer les hommes ou à s'en faire aimer. Au contraire les héroines contemporaines aiment les hommes, les rencontrent facilement couchent avec eux en deux chapitres, elles jouissent en quatre lignes et elles aiment toutes le sexe. La figure de la looseuse de la féminité m'est plus que sympathique, elle m'est essentielle.

Do you want me to call the boys?" Liz suggested from way above me. "Do not not call Nick Krieger!" I shouted. "God, would he love this." "I've got Davis in my cell phone," Liz called. "Gavin,too." "Absolutely not.If you call Davis or Gavin,Nick will be attached." Chloe squealed,"Yes,please,liz. Gavin would be excellent right now! No offense,Hayden,but don't join the ski patrol anytime soon." "Ingrate!" I yelled. "I'll show you.I'm about to save the day, in just a minute here.

Cititorul este un bolnav căruia trebuie să i se inventeze isteria. Orice poveste întinsă pe trei sute de pagini trebuie să îl confirme, iată boala de care suferă adultul urban.

Of all people only those are at leisure who make time for philosophy, only they truly live. Not satisfied to merely keep good watch over their own days, they annex every age to their own. All the harvest of the past is added to their store. Only an ingrate would fail to see that these great architects of venerable thoughts were born for us and have designed a way of life for us.” —SENECA

Narcissistic Parents often enlist other family members on their side, causing rifts and building alliances against a “bad” child. In other words, they may bully their own children. The victims of such behavior often describe themselves as a “scapegoat,” held accountable for all the family troubles. Their mothers often compare them unfavorably to a sibling viewed as “golden,” one child a loser and the other a winner. Narcissistic Parents tell blatant lies, too, painting themselves as victims and their children as heartless ingrates.

When you first rise in the morning tell yourself: I will encounter busybodies, ingrates, egomaniacs, liars, the jealous and cranks. They are all stricken with these afflictions because they don’t know the difference between good and evil. Because I have understood the beauty of good and the ugliness of evil, I know that these wrong-doers are still akin to me … and that none can do me harm, or implicate me in ugliness—nor can I be angry at my relatives or hate them. For we are made for cooperation.” —MARCUS AURELIUS, MEDITATIONS, 2.1

Mrs. Potts beady black eyes narrowed,"Do you know how many glass slippers I have to stitch when I get home? There's a Mad Hatter serenading a toaster as we speak. There could be mayhem wreaking havoc all over the love in New Gotham, granted what thankless ingrates you are. But here I am!

Whose but his own? ingrate, he had of mee All he could have; I made him just and right, Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall. Such I created all th’ Ethereal Powers And Spirits, both them who stood and them who fail’d; Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell. Not free, what proof could they have giv’n sincere Of true allegiance, constant Faith or Love, Where only what they needs must do, appear’d, Not what they would? what praise could they receive? What pleasure I from such obedience paid, When Will and Reason (Reason also is choice) Useless and vain, of freedom both despoil’d, Made passive both, had served necessity, Not mee. They therefore as to right belong’d, So were created, nor can justly accuse Thir maker, or thir making, or thir Fate; As if Predestination over-rul’d Thir will, dispos’d by absolute Decree Or high foreknowledge; they themselves decreed Thir own revolt, not I; if I foreknew Foreknowledge had no influence on their fault, Which had no less prov’d certain unforeknown. So without least impulse or shadow of Fate, Or aught by me immutable foreseen, They trespass, Authors to themselves in all Both what they judge and what they choose; for so I form’d them free, and free they must remain, Till they enthrall themselves: I else must change Thir nature, and revoke the high Decree Unchangeable, Eternal, which ordain’d Thir freedom: they themselves ordain’d thir fall.

Perch Rory on their backs and they’d stand still for a second but by the time I’d backed up and gotten them in focus they’d turn around like, “What are you doing? Why is there a raccoon on my back? Why do they even let you be in charge of things?” and then they’d just flop over on their sides like a bunch of ingrates who didn’t understand art. Rory would gently tumble onto the floor, which I suspect sent the cats mixed messages because he was still waving his hands in the air like he just didn’t care, as if he were celebrating the cats being assholes, and I was like, “You’re killin’ me, Smalls,” but then he just celebrated the fact that I was frustrated. Honestly, it is impossible to stay mad at that raccoon.

-Visezi? -Ce să fac,să accept altfel că nu sunt om?

Here I’ve given him a good eight inches and a shot at immortality and he’ll turn on me the same way he did last year when I asked him to pose for a few nude sketches. Ingrate

Idle, profligate, ingrate. No one decent could ever want him.

he hated him with the fire of a thousand suns, that he thought the knight a reckless ingrate who needed to be put down

Kindness to those who deserve it instead of wasted on ingrates.

A Night Thought Lo! where the Moon along the sky Sails with her happy destiny; Oft is she hid from mortal eye Or dimly seen, But when the clouds asunder fly How bright her mien! Far different we, a froward race, Thousands though rich in Fortune's grace With cherished sullenness of pace Their way pursue, Ingrates who wear a smileless face The whole year through. If kindred humours e'er would make My spirit droop for drooping's sake, From Fancy following in thy wake, Bright ship of heaven! A counter impulse let me take And be forgiven

I’m off—I’ll be back when we find another good treat.” “Do you know what to do if you run out of money?” Benjimir asked. “Yes, ask King Petyrr for more,” Gwendafyn said. Benjimir tapped her on the tip of her nose. “Or you could ask your husband.” Gwendafyn grinned as she walked backwards for a few steps. “Why would I do that? My father-in-law will give me more than you would!” "Ingrate

I did not want to be an ingrate, but I had trouble seeing why writing support emails for a venture-funded startup should offer more economic stability and reward than creative work or civic contributions.

Blasphemy is more complicated than the simple act of cursing God. It is an attempt to remove our cultural eyeglasses, or at least grind the lenses to make our focus broader, clearer. There are deep strictures against removing these eyeglasses, for without them our culture would fall apart. Question Christianity, damned heathen. Question capitalism, pinko liberal. Question democracy, ungrateful wretch. Question science, just plain stupid. These epithets—blasphemer, commie, ingrate, stupid—need not be spoken aloud. Their invocation actually implies an incomplete enculturation of the subject. Proper enculturation causes the eyeglasses to be undetectable. People believe they are perceiving the world as it is, without the distorting lens of culture: God (with a capital G) does sit upon a heavenly throne; heaven is located beyond the stars that make up Orion’s belt (and, so I was told, you can just see heavens brilliance if you look closely enough); a collection of humans, each acting selfishly, will bring peace, justice, and affluence to all; the United States is the world’s greatest democracy; humans are the apex of creation.

Idleness as a waste of time is a damaging notion put about by its spiritually vacant enemies. The fact that idling can be enormously productive is repressed. Musicians are characterized as slackers; writers as selfish ingrates; artists as dangerous. Robert Louis Stevenson expressed the paradox as follows in “An Apology for Idlers” (1885): “Idleness . . . does not consist in doing nothing, but in doing a great deal not recognized in the dogmatic formularies of the ruling class.

The obstinacy of antiquated institutions in perpetuating themselves resembles the stubbornness of the rancid perfume which should claim our hair, the pretensions of the spoiled fish which should persist in being eaten, the persecution of the child's garment which should insist on clothing the man, the tenderness of corpses which should return to embrace the living. "Ingrates!" says the garment, "I protected you in inclement weather. Why will you have nothing to do with me?" "I have just come from the deep sea," says the fish. "I have been a rose," says the perfume. "I have loved you," says the corpse. "I have civilized you," says the convent. To this there is but one reply: "In former days." To dream of the indefinite prolongation of defunct things, and of the government of men by embalming, to restore dogmas in a bad condition, to regild shrines, to patch up cloisters, to rebless reliquaries, to refurnish superstitions, to revictual fanaticisms, to put new handles on holy water brushes and militarism, to reconstitute monasticism and militarism, to believe in the salvation of society by the multiplication of parasites, to force the past on the present, – this seems strange. Still, there are theorists who hold such theories. These theorists, who are in other respects people of intelligence, have a very simple process; they apply to the past a glazing which they call social order, divine right, morality, family, the respect of elders, antique authority, sacred tradition, legitimacy, religion; and they go about shouting, "Look! take this, honest people." This logic was known to the ancients. The soothsayers practise it. They rubbed a black heifer over with chalk, and said, "She is white, Bos cretatus." As for us, we respect the past here and there, and we spare it, above all, provided that it consents to be dead. If it insists on being alive, we attack it, and we try to kill it. Superstitions, bigotries, affected devotion, prejudices, those forms all forms as they are, are tenacious of life; they have teeth and nails in their smoke, and they must be clasped close, body to body, and war must be made on them, and that without truce; for it is one of the fatalities of humanity to be condemned to eternal combat with phantoms. It is difficult to seize darkness by the throat, and to hurl it to the earth.

Pour elle c'est clair, sans équivoque: c'est la pire affaire au monde qui continue, qui change de forme mais c'est le même chemin. La même sorte de sangsue assoiffée, indélogeable. Le même karma ingrat qui lui pèse à chaque pas. Mais elle a décidé que rien ni personne ne lui enlèvera sa joie.

- Ciao, mon biquet, ce fut un plaisir de voyager avec toi. - Je te retrouverais, cracha le bone. Je te retrouverais et ce jour-là, je te crèverai. En prenant tout mon temps ! - C'est ça, ironisa Salim, personne n'est pressé. - Tu vas souffrir ! Beaucoup souffrir ! - Ça c'est cruel, s'indigna Salim, et ingrat. Je t'ai quand même tenu dans mes bras pendant tout le trajet. D'ailleurs, à ce sujet, tu devrais te laver plus souvent, tu sais ? Et encore... je crois que c'est de l'intérieur que tu pues ! Maintenant, si ça ne te fait rien, je te quitte. C'est pas que je m'ennuie mais je ne peux quand même pas passer la journée avec tous les rigolos que je rencontre. À la prochaine, vieux !

Hommes plus qu'ingrats, qui flétrissez par le mépris les jouets de vos passions, vos victimes ! c'est vous qu'il faut punir des erreurs de notre jeunesse …; si vains du droit de nous juger,… Est-il un seul état pour les malheureuses filles ? Elles avaient un droit naturel à toute la parure des femmes : on y laisse former mille ouvriers de l'autre sexe.

Des hommes, en effet, on peut dire généralement ceci: qu'ils sont ingrats, changeants, simulateurs et dissimulateurs, ennemis des dangers, avides de gain; et tant que tu leur fais du bien, ils sont tout à toi, t'offrent leur sang, leurs biens, leur vie, leurs enfants, comme j'ai dit plus haut, quand le besoin est lointain; mais quand il s'approche de toi, ils se dérobent.

Of all people only those are at leisure who make time for philosophy, only they truly live. Not satisfied to merely keep good watch over their own days, they annex every age to their own. All the harvest of the past is added to their store. Only an ingrate would fail to see that these great architects of venerable thoughts were born for us and have designed a way of life for us.

THE NINE SATANIC STATEMENTS 1. Satan represents indulgence, instead of abstinence! 2. Satan represents vital existence, instead of spiritual pipe dreams! 3. Satan represents undefiled wisdom, instead of hypocritical self-deceit! 4. Satan represents kindness to those who deserve it, instead of love wasted on ingrates! 5. Satan represents vengeance, instead of turning the other cheek! 6. Satan represents responsibility to the responsible, instead of concern for psychic vampires! 7. Satan represents man as just another animal, sometimes better, more often worse than those that walk on all-fours, who, because of his 'divine spiritual and intellectual development', has becomes the most vicious animal of all! 8. Satan represents all of the so-called sins, as they all lead to physical, mental, or emotional gratification! 9. Satan has been the best friend the church has ever had, as he has kept it in business all these years!

O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us! Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt, Since riches point to misery and contempt? Who would be so mock'd with glory? or to live But in a dream of friendship? To have his pomp and all what state compounds But only painted, like his varnish'd friends? Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart, Undone by goodness! Strange, unusual blood, When man's worst sin is, he does too much good! Who, then, dares to be half so kind again? For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men. My dearest lord, bless'd, to be most accursed, Rich, only to be wretched, thy great fortunes Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord! He's flung in rage from this ingrateful seat Of monstrous friends, nor has he with him to Supply his life, or that which can command it. I'll follow and inquire him out: I'll ever serve his mind with my best will; Whilst I have gold, I'll be his steward still.

They aren’t destroying everything, then,” she said. “Yes, how terribly blessed we must be.” Aturach laughed, extending his arms to the sky. “Thank you, O Wise Healer, for in Your infinite wisdom, You have decided to kill only most of the people in this city. Let all who doubt Your mercy hear my cry.” He cupped his hands over his mouth and screamed into the night sky. “It could have been worse, ingrates! Fall to your knees and be grateful that the Gods killed only half of your families!” “You’re not helping.

Only twenty-seven people in Britain can explain why the day after Christmas Day is called Boxing Day, but that doesn't stop millions from marking it by staying home from work. An intriguing side effect of thus having two consecutive public holidays is that no matter what days of the week they fall on, the British can easily justify taking the whole week off. Suppose Christmas Day falls on a Tuesday, with Boxing Day on the Wednesday. Well, then, what is the point, the contemporary Bob Cratchit cries, of bother to open up the office or factory on Monday, when we all plan to knock off work by lunchtime because it's Christmas Eve? And it's hardly worth cranking up the heat for a working week that's now been whittled down to just two days. By the time we finish complaining about our ingrate in-laws and the cheesy Christmas television programs and the blatant materialism of our kids, it's time to go home for the weekend. Isn't it simpler for Mr. Scrooge to close the countinghouse until the New Year? (He can still pay us, of course.) This creative logic is a little more challenging when Christmas Day is a Thursday, but several Plumley residents had pulled it off...

L'entêtement des institutions vieillies à se perpétuer ressemble à l'obstination du parfum ranci qui réclamerait notre chevelure, à la prétention du poissons gâté qui voudrait être mangé, à la persécution du vêtement d'enfant qui voudrait habillé l'homme, et à la tendresse des cadavres qui reviendraient embrasser les vivants. Ingrats! dit le vêtement, je vous ai protégés dans le mauvais temps, pourquoi ne voulez-vous plus de moi? Je viens de la pleine mer, dit le poisson. J'ai été la rose, dit le parfum. Je vous ai aimés, dit le cadavre. Je vous ai civilisés, dit le couvent. À cela une seule réponse: Jadis.

YOU NEVER THANKED ME FOR THE BURGER. INGRATE. He checked his work e-mail and fired off a few quick replies. About ten minutes later, he got a text message from Brooke. SOMEBODY WOULD’VE BEEN THANKED IN PERSON, IF HE HADN’T STORMED OUT OF MY OFFICE AS PART OF SOME CRANKY-MAN TIRADE. He smiled while replying. OUT OF THE KINDNESS OF MY HEART, I’LL LET YOU THANK ME IN PERSON OVER DINNER TONIGHT. GOT GOOD NEWS TODAY, NEED TO CELEBRATE. JUST HOW GOOD IS THIS GOOD NEWS? she wrote back. Cade thought about that. ON A SCALE OF MEH TO HOLY-SHIT-I-JUST-WON-THE-ROSE-BOWL, I’D SAY THIS COMES IN AT REALLY DAMN COOL.

Ruth said, “It isn’t right to call me or any ballplayer an ingrate because we ask for more money. Sure I want more, all I’m entitled to. The time of a ballplayer is short. He must get his money in a few years or lose out. Listen, a man who works for another man is not going to be paid any more than he’s worth. You can bet on that. A man ought to get all he can earn. A man who knows he’s making money for other people ought to get some of the profit he brings in. Don’t make any difference if it’s baseball or a bank or a vaudeville show. It’s business, I tell you. There ain’t no sentiment to it. Forget that stuff.

Îl privesc cum perorează nevrotic despre ultimele romane "bune" pe care le-a "devorat", despre ultimul strigăt în arta plastică, si cum i se pierd în aer dantelele de cuvinte ingenios lucrate... de parcă dacă ai mânca zi de zi inele cu diamante și alte bijuterii sofisticate, sau amfore grecești, fresce boticelliene, ai deveni cu adevărat frumos, nobil...

Thy false promise, and my certain misfortune, do carry me to such a place, as from thence thou shalt sooner receive news of my death than reasons of my just complaints. Thou hast disdained me, O ingrate! for one that hath more, but not for one that is worth more than I am; but if virtue were a treasure of estimation, I would not emulate other men’s fortunes, nor weep thus for mine own misfortunes. That which thy beauty erected, thy works have overthrown; by it I deemed thee to be an angel, and by these I certainly know thee to be but a woman. Rest in peace, O causer of my war! and let Heaven work so that thy spouse’s deceits remain still concealed, to the end thou mayst not repent what thou didst, and I be constrained to take revenge of that I desire not.

LaVey’s bible (1969), members worship the trinity of the devil—Lucifer, Satan, and the Devil—including nine pronouncements of the devil that Satan represents: 1. indulgence, instead of abstinence, 2. vital existence, instead of spiritual pipe dreams, 3. undefiled wisdom instead of hypocritical self-deceit, 4. kindness to those who deserve it, instead of love wasted on ingrates, 5. vengeance, instead of turning the other cheek, 6. responsibility, instead of concern for the psychic vampires, 7. man as just another animal, sometimes better, more often worse, than those who walk on all fours, who because of his divine and intellectual development has become the most vicious of all, 8. all of the so-called sins, as they lead to physical, mental, or emotional gratification, 9. the best friend the church has ever had, as he has kept it in business all these years (LaVey, 1969, p. 25). Holmes (1990), who interviewed two

Ma Jeanne, dont je suis doucement insensé, Étant femme, se sent reine; tout l'A B C Des femmes, c'est d'avoir des bras blancs, d'être belles, De courber d'un regard les fronts les plus rebelles, De savoir avec rien, des bouquets, des chiffons, Un sourire, éblouir les coeurs les plus profonds, D'être, à côté de l'homme ingrat, triste et morose, Douces plus que l'azur, roses plus que la rose; Jeanne le sait; elle a trois ans, c'est l'âge mûr; Rien ne lui manque; elle est la fleur de mon vieux mur, Ma contemplation, mon parfum, mon ivresse; Ma strophe, qui près d'elle a l'air d'une pauvresse, L'implore, et reçoit d'elle un rayon; et l'enfant Sait déjà se parer d'un chapeau triomphant, De beaux souliers vermeils, d'une robe étonnante; Elle a des mouvements de mouche frissonnante; Elle est femme, montrant ses rubans bleus ou verts, Et sa fraîche toilette, et son âme au travers; Elle est de droit céleste et par devoir jolie; Et son commencement de règne est ma folie.

LOVE AND HATE SATANISM represents kindness to those who deserve it instead of love wasted on ingrates! You cannot love everyone; it is ridiculous to think you can. If you love everyone and everything you lose your natural powers of selection and wind up being a pretty poor judge of character and quality. If anything is used too freely it loses its true meaning. Therefore, the Satanist believes you should love strongly and completely those who deserve your love, but never turn the other cheek to your enemy! Love is one of the most intense emotions felt by man; another is hate. Forcing yourself to feel indiscriminate love is very unnatural. If you try to love everyone you only lessen your feelings for those who deserve your love. Repressed hatred can lead to many physical and emotional ailments. By learning to release your hatred towards those who deserve it, you cleanse yourself of these malignant emotions and need not take your pent-up hatred out on your loved ones.

Le juge d'instance est l'équivalent pour la justice du médecin de quartier. Loyers impayés, expulsions, saisies sur salaire, tutelle des personnes handicapées ou vieillissantes, litiges portant sur des sommes inférieures à 10 000 euros - au-dessus, cela relève du tribunal de grande instance, qui occupe la partie noble du Palais de justice. Pour qui a fréquenté les assises ou même la correctionnelle, le moins qu'on puisse dire est que l'instance offre un spectacle ingrat. Tout y est petit, les torts, les réparations, les enjeux. La misère est bien là, mais elle n'a pas tourné à la délinquance. On patauge dans la glu du quotidien, on a affaire à des gens qui se débattent dans des difficultés à la fois médiocres et insurmontables, et le plus souvent on n'a même pas affaire à eux car ils ne viennent pas à l'audience, ni leur avocat parce qu'ils n'ont pas d'avocat, alors on se contente de leur envoyer la décision de justice par lettre recommandée, qu'une fois sur deux ils n'oseront pas aller chercher. (p.175)

Who has not known you, O deep joys of wine? Whoever has had some remorse to appease, a memory to evoke, a sorrow to drown, a castle to build in Spain, in fact all men have invoked you, mysterious god concealed in the tendrils of the vine. Wine is like man himself: one never knows to what extent one may esteem or despise him, love or hate him, nor of what sublime actions or monstrous crimes he is capable. Let us not then be crueller towards wine than towards ourselves, let us treat him as an equal. Sometimes I think I can hear wine speak (he speaks with his soul, the spiritual voice heard only by the spirit) and he says: “Man, my beloved, I would pour out for you, in spite of my prison of glass and fetters of cork, a song full of brotherhood, a song full of joy, light and hope. I am no ingrate; I know that I owe you my life. I know what it cost you in toil, your back under the burning sun. You gave me life and I shall reward you for it. I am the soul of your country. I am half-lover, half-soldier. I shall light up your aged wife’s eyes, the old companion of your everyday cares and your oldest hopes. I shall soften her glance and drop into the pupil of her eye the lightning-flash of her youth. Our close reunion will create poetry. Between us we shall make a god. This is what wine sang in its mysterious language.

The persistence of superannuated institutions in striving to perpetuate themselves is like the obstinacy of a rancid odour clinging to the hair; the pretension of spoiled fish that insists on being eaten, the tenacious folly of a child's garment trying to clothe a man, or the tenderness of a corpse returning to embrace the living. "Ingrates!" exclaims the garment. "I shielded you in weakness. Why do you reject me now?" "I come from the depths of the sea," says the fish; "I was once a rose," cries the odour; "I loved you," murmurs the corpse; "I civilized you," says the convent. To this there is but one reply; "In the past." To dream of the indefinite prolongation of things dead and the government of mankind by embalming; to restore dilapidated dogmas, regild the shrines, replaster the cloisters, reconsecrate the reliquaries, revamp old superstitions, replenish fading fanaticism, put new handles in worn-out sprinkling brushes, reconstitute monasticism; to believe in the salvation of society by the multiplication of parasites; to foist the past upon the present, all this seems strange. There are, however, advocates for such theories as these. These theorists, men of mind too, in other things, have a very simple process; they apply to the past a coating of what they term divine right, respect for our forefathers, time-honored authority, sacred tradition, legitimacy; and they go about, shouting, "Here! take this, good people!" This logic was familiar to the ancients; their soothsayers practised it. Rubbing over a black heifer with chalk, they would exclaim, "She is white" Bos cretatus. As for ourselves, we distribute our respect, here and there, and spare the past entirely, provided it will but consent to be dead. But, if it insists upon being alive, we attack it and endeavor to kill it. Superstitions, bigotries, hypocrisies, prejudices, these phantoms, phantoms though they are, are tenacious of life; they have teeth and nails in their shadowy substance, and we must grapple with them, body to body, and make war upon them and that, too, without cessation; for it is one of the fatalities of humanity to be condemned to eternal struggle with phantoms. A shadow is hard to seize by the throat and dash upon the ground.

Sunt omul care vrea să trăiască fără să existe.

Living in the shadows of someone else is an act of ingrate to your maker...

While the ingrates duke-it-out about the true God, you take each breath in holy gratitude.

But the larger irony is that now Maliki is begging for a return of American hard power to save his government from those killers that his policies helped create. In extremis, he understands that no other country would depose an oil-rich tyrant, stay on to foster democracy, leave the oil to its owners, and then leave when asked — and finally consider coming back to the rescue of an abject ingrate.

Îndată ce răsare soarele,mă las cuprins de toate deliciile nesincerității.

Do not be so sure that revenge is a meal that will satisfy your hunger. It is more like a disease that eats away your soul. As the years go on, bitterness turns you into the very thing you detest. You begin a blessed man. But when Elohim takes away that blessing, you begin to believe you deserved it in the first place. You blame him and eventually you end up an old bellyaching ingrate without the ability to appreciate the good in anything. And you realize that you are the reason for your misery. You have become your own enemy.

În mod inevitabil, futilitățile intelectuale și stupiditatea modelor pe care le denunțăm ori le disprețuim astăzi, mâine vor deveni disciplină, vor dobândi consistența seriozității. În virtutea obișnuinței se vor transforma în eveniment cultural, vor deveni obligatorii. Nimic mai rafinat, așadar, decât o disertație care ar justifica, de pildă, jignirea ca fenomen de masă cotidian. Pe măsură ce va trece timpul, evantaiul mizeriei umane își va cere îndreptățirea cu din ce în ce mai puțină perdea, iar cloaca intimității va sugruma și va înlocui tradiția morală și estetică de până acum. Limbajul conceptual, îngrijit, solemn, cu aură profetică, va rămâne o amintire jenantă, iar semnatarii lui vor fi găsiți vinovați de neputința, de bâlbele și de confuziile noului tip de “luciditate”. Pentru că aspirăm de atâtea mii de ani la sinceritate, ne va fi dată cu vârf și îndesat, până la delir. [...] “Templul” va deveni un focar de absurdități, iar metropolele vor fi bântuite de alienați cu subconștientul pe buze, de vicioși debili care vor încarna rațiunea, rezonabilul, de filozofia smiorcăielii și a deriziunii predicată de tot felul de schizofrenici...

When you first rise in the morning tell yourself: I will encounter busybodies, ingrates, egomaniacs, liars, the jealous and cranks. They are all stricken with these afflictions because they don’t know the difference between good and evil.” – Marcus Aurelius

Of all people only those are at leisure who make time for philosophy, only they truly live. Not satisfied to merely keep good watch over their own days, they annex every age to their own. All the harvest of the past is added to their store. Only an ingrate would fail to see that these great architects of venerable thoughts were born for us and have designed a way of life for us.

La folle qui fouillait les couches usagées cherchait dans les Pampers le lait maternel d’un sein giflé par les hommes qui payent l’odeur des bébés noyés en elle comme dans des toilettes publiques elle cherchait dans les Pampers la nourriture des chiens aux gueules malodorantes de gens ingrats qu’elle laissait lui lécher la joue elle cherchait dans les Pampers la carte des ateliers de peinture de luxe pour prendre de la drogue elle cherchait dans les Pampers le parc où ton propre enfant promenait son chien en laisse et riait bruyamment sous le parapluie rouge (traduit du roumain par Gabrielle Danoux)

It had been my experience that fatherhood was mostly a matter of suffering the insufferable, tolerating the intolerable, and changing diapers. Where was the joy in the endless screeching, door slamming, and name-calling? Was it a privilege to sacrifice time, money, and sanity to a snarling horde of sticky ingrates?

Arta ne face să disprețuim preocupările ingrate ale zilei, grija pentru hrană și chiar pentru dreptate și uităm că astea sunt rădăcinile care hrănesc floarea nemuritoare. Cei dintâi creștini aveau dreptate nevrând să-i dea un chip prea frumos Fecioarei în sfintele icoane, pentru că, seduși de frumusețea ei, oamenii ar fi uitat că este Maica Domnului.

– Je puis mourir, disais-je ; je le devrais même, après tant de honte et de douleur ; mais je souffrirais mille morts sans pouvoir oublier l’ingrate Manon.

– Je puis mourir, disais-je ; je le devrais même, après tant de honte et de douleur ; mais je souffrirais mille morts sans pouvoir oublier l’ingrate Manon.

[..] I sensed it was finally safe to ask the question without seeming like an ingrate. God? Where were you? For 107 days where were you? Where were you in my unconsciousness and where were you in that hospital room when I wanted to feel your presence with fireworks and explosions of emotions and supernatural palpability? Where were you, God? [...] I was there, my child, [...] I was the peace, I was the breath, I was the comfort.

Peu de discours sont aussi ingrats que les complaintes conventionnelles sur les « recherches » jamais satisfaites de l'« esprit humain »; en réalité, tout a déjà été dit, mais il s’en faut de beaucoup que tout ait toujours été compris par tout le monde. Il ne saurait donc être question de présenter des « vérités nouvelles »; en revanche, ce qui s’impose à notre époque, et même à toute époque s’éloignant des origines, c’est de fournir à quelques-uns des clefs renouvelées — plus différenciées et plus réflexives que les anciennes mais non meilleures — pour les aider à redécouvrir des vérités qui sont inscrites, d’une écriture éternelle, dans la substance même de l’esprit.

Methuselah continued, “Do not be so sure that revenge is a meal that will satisfy your hunger. It is more like a disease that eats away your soul. As the years go on, bitterness turns you into the very thing you detest. You begin a blessed man. But when Elohim takes away that blessing, you begin to believe you deserved it in the first place. You blame him and eventually you end up an old bellyaching ingrate without the ability to appreciate the good in anything. And you realize that you are the reason for your misery. You have become your own enemy.

Ne purtăm de cele mai multe ori singurătatea ca pe o marfă de care ne imbolnăvim dacă nu o schimbăm pe moneda indiferentă a cuvântului.

Sunt atât de îndrăgostit de singurătate, încât nu mădularul mi l-aș secționa,precum teribilul Origene,ci mai degrabă centrul vorbirii,care îmi confiscă singurătatea în folosul nevrozei,al isteriei literare.M-aș filozofa în felul acesta pe mine însumi telepatic,mi-aș înlocui existența cu mistica inumană a trogloditului care nu mai poartă necesitatea nici unei pedespe pentru vina de a răstălmăci clipă de clipă Divinul.

Ca să seduci o femeie,să îi smulgi din trup îngerul ascuns spre a te tolăni tu în locul lui,te transformi într-un demon pudic,educat,într-o carte care se deschide la pagina ce nu trebuie citită,pentru că nu poartă decât mâzgălitura unei promisiuni:e prea puțin ca să îți strălucească în ochi bronzul inteligenției,e prea mult ca să nu adie prostia parfumată,care întodeauna trezește în femeie mila necunoscută a dezbrăcării.

Cărțile cu destin zadarnic,uitate,ignorate,alcătuind o bibliotecă tristă a nedreptății,și care îi trmit și pe cei ce le scriu să umble precum nebunii prin ce a mai rămas de netrăit din Dumnezeu,pe care nu îl mai preferă nimeni,fiindcă provoacă absurdul,o sinceritate neînțeleasă a lumii.

Only twenty-seven people in Britain can explain why the day after Christmas Day is called Boxing Day, but that doesn't stop millions from marking it by staying home from work. An intriguing side effect of thus having two consecutive public holidays is that no matter what days of the week they fall on, the British can easily justify taking the whole week off. Suppose Christmas Day falls on a Tuesday, with Boxing Day on the Wednesday. Well, then, what is the point, the contemporary Bob Cratchit cries, of bother to open up the office or factory on Monday, when we all plan to knock off work by lunchtime because it's Christmas Eve? And it's hardly worth cranking up the heat for a working week that's now been whittled down to just two days. By the time we finish complaining about our ingrate in-laws and the cheesy Christmas television programs and the blatant materialism of our kids, it's time to go home for the weekend. Isn't it simpler for Mr. Scrooge to close the countinghouse until the New Year? (He can still pay us, of course.) This creative logic is a little more challenging when Christmas Day is a Thursday, but several Plumley residents had pulled it off...

«Certo, facevo coscientemente la guerra e la giustificavo moralmente e politicamente. La mia coscienza di uomo e di cittadino non erano in conflitto con i miei doveri militari. La guerra era, per me, una dura necessità, terribile certo, ma alla quale ubbidivo, come ad una delle tante necessità, ingrate ma inevitabili, della vita. Pertanto facevo la guerra e avevo il comando di soldati. La facevo dunque, moralmente, due volte. Forse, era quella calma completa che allontanava il mio spirito dalla guerra. Avevo di fronte un ufficiale, giovane, inconscio del pericolo che gli sovrastava. Non lo potevo sbagliare. Avrei potuto sparare mille colpi a quella distanza, senza sbagliarne uno. Bastava che premessi il grilletto: egli sarebbe stramazzato al suolo. Questa certezza che la sua vita dipendesse dalla mia volontà, mi rese esitante. Avevo di fronte un uomo. Un uomo! Un uomo! Ne distinguevo gli occhi e i tratti del viso. La luce dell’alba si faceva più chiara ed il sole si annunziava dietro la cima dei monti. Tirare così, a pochi passi, su un uomo… come su un cinghiale! Cominciai a pensare che, forse, non avrei tirato. Pensavo. Condurre all'assalto cento uomini, o mille, contro cento altri o altri mille è una cosa. Prendere un uomo, staccarlo dal resto degli uomini e poi dire: «Ecco, sta’ fermo, io ti sparo, io t’uccido» è un’altra. È assolutamente un’altra cosa. Fare la guerra è una cosa, uccidere un uomo è un’altra cosa. Uccidere un uomo, così, è assassinare un uomo.»

Face à la montée des couches populaires en 1985–1986, la classe dominante avait renoncé à la maîtrise directe de l’appareil politico-administratif. Elle se contente, dans la plupart des cas, d’inspirer et de piloter à distance la politique économique et monétaire. Exemples ? Le long discours-programme rédigé en partie par le secteur privé et lu par le général-président Henry Namphy en mars-avril 1986. En 1991–1992, à la suite de l’embargo imposé pour ramener Aristide au pouvoir, elle abandonnait ses projets d’industrialisation. Elle se concentrait sur la recherche du profit, laissant aux couches moyennes la triste et ingrate besogne de la gestion de la misère du peuple et de la répression. Il faut vraiment que ses intérêts paraissent en grand danger pour qu’elle se résigne à « aller au charbon », comme lorsqu’il fut nécessaire de mobiliser l’Association des Industries d’Haïti afin d’abattre Jean-Claude Duvalier, à la fin de janvier 1986, quand celui-ci avait épuisé sa durée de vie politique utile. Ce scénario rappelle l’apologue du chien hollandais que conte Chateaubriand dans ses Mémoires d’Outre-Tombe : « Quand les Hollandais essuient un coup de vent en haute mer, ils se retirent dans l’intérieur du navire, ferment les écoutilles et boivent du punch, laissant un chien sur le pont pour aboyer à la tempête; le danger passé, on renvoie Fidèle à sa niche au fond de la cale, et le capitaine revient jouir du beau temps sur le gaillard. » Voilà ce qui pourrait fort bien s’appliquer tant à Jean-Claude Duvalier qu’à Henry Namphy, à cette différence près que la bourgeoisie haïtienne, au lieu de les renvoyer à la cale, les a simplement basculés par-dessus bord.

When you first rise in the morning tell yourself: I will encounter busybodies, ingrates, egomaniacs, liars, the jealous and cranks. They are all stricken with these afflictions because they don’t know the difference between good and evil. Because I have understood the beauty of good and the ugliness of evil, I know that these wrong-doers are still akin to me . . . and that none can do me harm, or implicate me in ugliness—nor can I be angry at my relatives or hate them. For we are made for cooperation.

Ingrta sunt beneficia quibus comes est metus. (Publilius Sent.: ingrtus, -a, -um, ungrateful, thankless; unwelcome, displeasing; “ingrate,” “ingratitude.”—comes, comitis, m./ f., companion; “concomitant,” “count,” i.e., a nobleman’s title.)

I wait until I catch an ingrate with his fly open, then I take a picture of it.

No cal ser ingrat. Basta se sincer.

Bran tells me that you wish to find the nexus not for science, but so you may put your faerie lover back on his throne. It is the height of stupidity to involve yourself in their politics. You will thank me one day." I stared at her in dumbfounded agitation. This was not how it was supposed to go. I had imagined Eichorn and de Grey full of gratitude for our assistance and eager to help in our search for the nexus. Not condescending, dismissive, and--- well, bloody rude. To my surprise, it was Rose who came to my defense. "Our reasons for seeking the nexus are beside the point. A promise was made, and we have the means to see it is kept." "Do you?" De Grey cast a cool look in Wendell's direction where he lay by the fire, little more than a lumpy collection of blankets and a tuft of gold hair. "This faerie king, as Bran has termed him, does not seem to be made of strong stuff." "He pulled you both out of Faerie, you ingrate," I snapped. "Not to mention out of time. If you do not help us, I will see to it that he throws you into a realm far more unpleasant than the one you have left behind, with a populace decidedly less well mannered than the fauns." A little silence followed this.

The share-and-share-alike anti-establishment ethos of the Topanga Canyon Hollywood hippie entertainment class of the late sixties was what Dennis Wilson offered these ragmuffins. However, pretty quickly, these garbage-eating, acid-tripping, clap-ridden, singsong-sounding runaways proved themselves to be a bunch of freeloading ingrates. They wrecked Wilson's pad and cost him thousands of dollars in venereal-disease medicine and lost, stolen, and damaged property. Until, finally, Wilson just moved out of the house and left it to his business manager to evict the squalid squatters.

Voilà à quoi je pensais, tandis que je marchais pour rentrer chez moi, légèrement ivre, après avoir quitté L. devant le bar où nous avions bu un troisième verre. Nous avions bien ri, elle et moi, au fond de la salle, car finalement la conversation avait dévié sur nos passions adolescentes, avant Barthes et toute la clique, à l’époque où nous accrochions des posters dans notre chambre. J'avais raconté à L. les deux années durant lesquelles, vers l'âge de seize ans, j'avais contracté puis developpé une cristallisation spectaculaire sur la personne d'Ivan Lendl, un joueur de tennis tchécoslovaque au physique ingrat dont je percevais la beauté obscure et saisissante, au point que je m'étais abonnée à Tennis Magazine (moi que je n'avais jamais touché une raquette de ma vie) et avais passé des heures devant les retransmissions televisées du tournoi de Roland Garros et Wimbledon au lieu de réviser mon bac. L. étais sidérée. Elle aussi l'avait adoré! C'était bien la première fois que je rencontrais quelqu'un qui avait aimé Ivan Lendl, l'un des joueurs les plus detestés de l'histoire du tennis, sans doute à cause de son visage austère que rien ne pouvait dérider, et de son jeu de fond de court, méthodique et rébarbatif. Selon toute vraisemblance, c'est d'ailleurs pour ces raisons, parce qu'il était si grand, maigre et incompris, que je l'ai tant aimé. À la même époque, oui, exactement, L. avait suivi tous les matchs d'Ivan Lendl, elle s'en souvenait parfaitement, notamment de cette fameuse finale de Roland Garros jouée contre John McEnroe, que Lendl avait gagné à l'issue d'un combat d'une rare intensité dramatique. Les images l'avaient alors montré victorieux, défiguré pour l'épuisement, et pour la première fois le monde entier avait découvert son sourire. L. était incollable, se souvenait de tous les détails de la vie et de la carrière d'Ivan Lendl que j'avais pour ma part oubliés. C'était incroyable, plus de vingt ans après, de nous imaginer toutes les deux hypnotisées devant nos postes de télevision, elle en banlieue parisienne et mois dans un village de Normandie, souhaitant l'une et l'autre avec la même ardeur le sacre de l'homme de l'Est. L. savait auusi ce qu’Ivan Lendl était devenu, elle avait suivi tout cela de très près, sa carrière comme sa vie privée. Ivan Lendl était marié et père de quatre enfants, vivait aux Ètats-Unis, entraînait de jeunes joueurs de tennis et s’était fait refaire les dents. L. déplorait ce dernier point, la disparition du sourire tchécoslovaque (dents rangées de manière inégale dont on devinait le chevauchement) au profit d’un sourire américain (dents fausses parfaitement alignées, d’un blanc éclatant), selon elle, il y avait perdu tout son charme, je n’avais qu’à vérifier sur Internet si je ne la croyais pas. C’était un drôle de coïncidence. Un point commun parmi d’autres, qui nous rapprochait.

Of all people only those are at leisure who make time for philosophy, only they truly live. Not satisfied to merely keep good watch over their own days, they annex every age to their own. All the harvest of the past is added to their store. Only an ingrate would fail to see that these great architects of venerable thoughts were born for us and have designed a way of life for us.

Sometimes I go to parties filled with mature people who know things and act their age and I’m quickly filled with despair. I walk in the door and greet the host and mill about, but in the pit of my stomach I know that leaving home was a huge mistake. I will not be surprised and delighted. I will not learn something new. I will not even enjoy the sound of my own voice. I will be lulled into a state of excruciating paralysis and self-hatred and other-people hatred. Let’s be honest, some days, sensible middle-aged urban liberal adult professionals are the most tedious people in the world. I know that I should feel grateful that these people, my peers, are enlightened, that they listen to NPR and read The Atlantic, that they join book clubs and send their kids to the progressive preschool and the Italian immersion magnet. I should feel cheered by the fact that I know human beings who hold national grants to improve government policy on something or other, or who work with troubled teenagers. These people are informed and intelligent. These are the people I should want to know. But I am an ingrate.

The girl who had purportedly escaped a violent assault on her family home in civil-war-stricken Somalia, and departed the dangerous, ramshackle, jungle-like conditions of a Kenyan camp for America, was amazingly ungrateful.

Why should whites apologize? For inventing nearly everything and still being spat upon by the ingrates who freely “appropriate” these inventions without even a simple “thank you”?

Te naști într-o familie; de multe ori, nici cu familia ta nu-i lesne, dar aici ești total jucăria hazardului: această familie ți-a fost dată, aici n-ai nici o posibilitate să alegi. Iar când ajungi să mai și-alegi... Ai numai două posibilități: să-ntorci spatele ambelor familii, ale tale și-ale partenerului tău - și-atunci ești un ingrat; sau să duci, în majoritatea cazurilor, crucea unor conveniențe sociale și mai ales morale de fiu bun, de noră bună, rozându-ți întruna zăbala, ceea ce nu mărește chiar deloc apropierea dintre cei doi parteneri, ci dă un permanent inconfort moral, tăceri pline de conținut, menajamente reciproc transformate-n puncte de suspensie între suflete și-n distanțe din ce în ce mai mari.

do half the cooking, and by ‘half’ I mean three-quarters,” Dad pointed out. “And if you’re going to turn up your nose at all my carnivorous delights, ingrate child, you can sit under the table and gnaw sadly on a raw Brussels sprout at mealtimes.