Insist On Playing Fair Quotes

If you cannot understand my argument, and declare "It's Greek to me", you are quoting Shakespeare; if you claim to be more sinned against than sinning, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you recall your salad days, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you act more in sorrow than in anger; if your wish is farther to the thought; if your lost property has vanished into thin air, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you have ever refused to budge an inch or suffered from green-eyed jealousy, if you have played fast and loose, if you have been tongue-tied, a tower of strength, hoodwinked or in a pickle, if you have knitted your brows, made a virtue of necessity, insisted on fair play, slept not one wink, stood on ceremony, danced attendance (on your lord and master), laughed yourself into stitches, had short shrift, cold comfort or too much of a good thing, if you have seen better days or lived in a fool's paradise -why, be that as it may, the more fool you , for it is a foregone conclusion that you are (as good luck would have it) quoting Shakespeare; if you think it is early days and clear out bag and baggage, if you think it is high time and that that is the long and short of it, if you believe that the game is up and that truth will out even if it involves your own flesh and blood, if you lie low till the crack of doom because you suspect foul play, if you have your teeth set on edge (at one fell swoop) without rhyme or reason, then - to give the devil his due - if the truth were known (for surely you have a tongue in your head) you are quoting Shakespeare; even if you bid me good riddance and send me packing, if you wish I was dead as a door-nail, if you think I am an eyesore, a laughing stock, the devil incarnate, a stony-hearted villain, bloody-minded or a blinking idiot, then - by Jove! O Lord! Tut tut! For goodness' sake! What the dickens! But me no buts! - it is all one to me, for you are quoting Shakespeare.

Ove was, well, Ove was Ove. Something the people around her also kept telling Sonja. He’d been a grumpy old man since he started elementary school, they insisted. And she could have someone so much better. Maybe he didn’t write her poems or serenade her with songs or come home with expensive gifts. But he believed so strongly in things: justice and fair play and hard work and a world where right just had to be right. Not so one could get a medal or a diploma or a slap on the back for it, but just because that was how it was supposed to be. Not many men of his kind were made anymore, Sonja had understood. So she was holding on to this one.

I find that some philosophers think that my whole approach to qualia is not playing fair. I don’t respect the standard rules of philosophical thought experiments. “But Dan, your view is so counterintuitive!” No kidding. That’s the whole point. Of course it is counterintuitive. Nowhere is it written that the true materialist theory of consciousness should be blandly intuitive. I have all along insisted that it may be very counterintuitive. That’s the trouble with “pure” philosophical method here. It has no resources for developing, or even taking seriously, counterintuitive theories, but since it is a very good bet that the true materialist theory of consciousness will be highly counterintuitive (like the Copernican theory--at least at first), this means that “pure” philosophy must just concede impotence and retreat into conservative conceptual anthropology until the advance of science puts it out of its misery. Philosophers have a choice: they can play games with folk concepts (ordinary language philosophy lives on, as a kind of aprioristic social anthropology) or they can take seriously the claim that some of these folk concepts are illusion-generators. The way to take that prospect seriously is to consider theories that propose revisions to those concepts.

Rayna does not get sick on planes. Also, Rayna does not stop talking on planes. By the time we land at Okaloosa Regional Airport, I’m wondering if I’ve spoken as many words in my entire life as she did on the plane. With no layovers, it was the longest forty-five minutes of my whole freaking existence. I can tell Rachel’s nerves are also fringed. She orders an SUV limo-Rachel never does anything small-to pick us up and insists that Rayna try the complimentary champagne. I’m fairly certain it’s the first alcoholic beverage Rayna’s ever had, and by the time we reach the hotel on the beach, I’m all the way certain. As Rayna snores in the seat across from me, Rachel checks us into the hotel and has our bags taken to our room. “Do you want to head over to the Gulfarium now?” she asks. “Or, uh, rest up a bit and wait for Rayna to wake up?” This is an important decision. Personally, I’m not tired at all and would love to see a liquored-up Rayna negotiate the stairs at the Gulfarium. But I’d feel a certain guilt if she hit her hard head on a wooden rail or something and then we’d have to pay the Gulfarium for the damages her thick skull would surely cause. Plus, I’d have to suffer a reproving look from Dr. Milligan, which might actually hurt my feelings because he reminds me a bit of my dad. So I decide to do the right thing. “Let’s rest for a while and let her snap out of it. I’ll call Dr. Milligan and let him know we’ve checked in.” Two hours later, Sleeping Beast wakes up and we head to see Dr. Milligan. Rayna is particularly grouchy when hungover-can you even get hungover from drinking champagne?-so she’s not terribly inclined to be nice to the security guard who lets us in. She mutters something under her breath-thank God she doesn’t have a real voice-and pushes past him like the spoiled Royalty she is. I’m just about aggravated beyond redemption-until we see Dr. Milligan in a new exhibit of stingrays. He coos and murmurs as if they’re a litter of puppies in the tank begging to play with him. When he notices our arrival he smiles, and it feels like a coconut slushy on a sweltering day and it almost makes up for the crap I’ve been put through these past few days.

He insisted on clearing the table, and again devoted himself to his game of patience: piecing together the map of Paris, the bits of which he’d stuffed into the pocket of his raincoat, folded up any old how. I helped him. Then he asked me, straight out, ‘What would you say was the true centre of Paris?’ I was taken aback, wrong-footed. I thought this knowledge was part of a whole body of very rarefied and secret lore. Playing for time, I said, ‘The starting point of France’s roads . . . the brass plate on the parvis of Notre-Dame.’ He gave me a withering look. ‘Do you take for me a sap?’ The centre of Paris, a spiral with four centres, each completely self-contained, independent of the other three. But you don’t reveal this to just anybody. I suppose - I hope - it was in complete good faith that Alexandre Arnoux mentioned the lamp behind the apse of St-Germain-l’Auxerrois. I wouldn’t have created that precedent. My turn now to let the children play with the lock. ‘The centre, as you must be thinking of it, is the well of St-Julien-le-Pauvre. The “Well of Truth” as it’s been known since the eleventh century.’ He was delighted. I’d delivered. He said, ‘You know, you and I could do great things together. It’s a pity I’m already “beyond redemption”, even at this very moment.’ His unhibited display of brotherly affection was of childlike spontaneity. But he was still pursuing his line of thought: he dashed out to the nearby stationery shop and came back with a little basic pair of compasses made of tin. ‘Look. The Vieux-Chene, the Well. The Well, the Arbre-a-Liege On either side of the Seine, adhering closely to the line he’d drawn, the age-old tavern signs were at pretty much the same distance from the magic well. ‘Well, now, you see, it’s always been the case that whenever something bad happens at the Vieux-Chene, a month later — a lunar month, that is, just twenty-eight days — the same thing happens at old La Frite’s place, but less serious. A kind of repeat performance. An echo Then he listed, and pointed out on the map, the most notable of those key sites whose power he or his friends had experienced. In conclusion he said, ‘I’m the biggest swindler there is, I’m prepared to be swindled myself, that’s fair enough. But not just anywhere. There are places where, if you lie, or think ill, it’s Paris you disrespect. And that upsets me. That’s when I lose my cool: I hit back. It’s as if that’s what I was there for.

It's not the end of the world if we lose," Francis said. "Don't lose sleep over it." She hated that about him - his willingness to accept a loss before it had even happened. It was his way of consoling his team, she guessed: he believed it was better to expect the worst and be pleasantly surprised than to be crushed by an unexpected loss. Dan thought a coach had no right to be so pessimistic. She didn't want a coach who softened the blow. She wanted a coach who believed in the impossible. "I can't afford to lose," she told him. "I need to make it to finals if I'm to catch a recruiter's eye." "Danielle, I need you to understand something." "I'm good," Dan insisted. "I'm more than good enough to make the cut." "You're very talented..." "Don't patronize me, Coach." "You're amazing," he said, "but it's not enough to be good. You're a girl." "That means nothing." "That means everything. Maybe it's not fair, but it's a fact. Men are faster and stronger. They can hit harder and throw further. Nothing you do can change that bias. If a coach can choose between a man and a woman, he will choose the man every time." "There are plenty of women playing for college teams." "I didn't say there aren't women," Francis said. "I'm saying they're the exception.

Those who insist on fairness fail to recognise that the current state of play is far from fair.

Unusual as this may seem, I was relieved that Nigel hadn’t fatally injured Silas,” Lucetta added as she inched just a little closer to Bram, enjoying the feel of his hand settled against her back and the fact that his large form was blocking her from some of the wind. “He’s an evil man—there’s no question about that—but . . . I wouldn’t have wanted him dead, no matter his transgressions.” Millie turned and considered Lucetta and Bram for a moment. “You do know that, as your acting chaperone, I’m supposed to insist that the two of you maintain a few inches of separation from each other at all times, and . . . I believe the recommended space to be maintained is six inches.” Lucetta blinked. “Is that an actual chaperoning rule, or one you just made up?” Frowning, Millie wrinkled her nose. “Abigail told me to enforce that particular rule at all times, but . . .” She gave a sad shake of her head. “I’m afraid I’ve been negligent in enforcing it, what with all the dangerous situations, arguments between you and your mother that pulled at everyone’s heartstrings, except perhaps Nigel’s—since I’m not certain he has a heart—and . . . Well, let us not forget the emotional toll returning to Virginia took on you in the first place.” Bram’s brows drew together as he caught Millie’s eye. “And what does that have to do with you being negligent in your duties?” “Lucetta needed comforting, of course, and I certainly wasn’t going to stand in the way of her getting that comfort from you.” As Bram and Millie continued bantering, Lucetta couldn’t help but think that Millie was exactly right. She had been emotionally exhausted throughout the time they’d spent in Virginia, coming to terms with her anger at her father, and coming to terms with the animosity she’d been holding for far too long against her mother. Bram had been a rock beside her through everything, and . . . oddly enough, she had not been opposed to the idea of leaning on that rock, nor had she been embarrassed that she’d needed his strength to soothe her when she felt a little overwhelmed, and . . . “. . . so don’t despair about your chaperoning abilities,” Bram was saying, tugging Lucetta straight back to the conversation at hand. “Since I’m fairly certain the six-inch rule isn’t a real rule, you’ve not failed as a chaperone just yet.” “I’m hoping I’m never called upon to chaperone again,” Millie said with an exaggerated sigh. “It’s far more difficult than I ever imagined, and definitely not for the faint of heart. Although . . . for the most part, you and Lucetta didn’t cause me too many difficulties.” Lucetta

Speaking of the children, aren’t you supposed to be watching them at the moment?” “Of course.” He glanced around the hallway. “Where are they?” “They’re perfectly fine.” She dropped her voice to the merest whisper. “I’ve tied them up in the nursery.” For a moment, he thought he’d misheard her. “Forgive me, but you didn’t just say you’ve tied up the children, did you?” “Indeed I did.” “It’s little wonder you get dismissed so often if you make a habit of tying up your charges while you wander through libraries perusing romance novels.” “Oh, I’ve never tied children up before today. . . . Well, except for some children in my youth, but that hardly counts, since I was a child myself.” She held up a hand. “Before you dismiss me—something your expression clearly states you long to do—the whole tying-up business was the children’s idea.” “You would have me believe they wanted you to tie them up?” The dimple on Millie’s cheek popped out again as she grinned. “Don’t be silly. If you must know, they insisted on tying me up first, but obviously, since I’m standing in front of you, I was able to free myself.” Her grin widened. “In the spirit of fair play, I convinced them it was their turn to be held captive, although I don’t think the children thought their little game was going to have this particular outcome.” Everett headed for the stairs. “I’m going to go release them.” “You’ll put a damper on our fun if you do.” Not

I’ve heard the most interesting rumors regarding you and the oh-so-dishy Mr. Haverstein,” Millie said. “I don’t believe dishy is a real word” was all Lucetta could think to respond. Millie waved that away with a flick of her dainty wrist. “I can’t be expected to know all the right words, Lucetta, and you’re stalling.” Lucetta blew out a breath, stirring the bubbles. “What have you heard?” “That you and Mr. Haverstein were caught in a most interesting situation in a storage room of all places, that he tried to save you from drowning twice in his, uh, moat from what I’ve been told, and . . . that he did save you once from a mad goat by the name of Geoffrey. I’ve also heard that you seem to enjoy his company, so much so that there’s been talk of marriage—but you rejected the marriage idea because of mysterious happenings occurring at Ravenwood.” “Bram didn’t save me from drowning twice. He almost caused me to drown both of those times.” “Again . . . stalling.” Tracing a finger through the bubbles, Lucetta took a second to gather her thoughts. “He’s explained away practically all the mysteries surrounding him, which has allowed me to come to the conclusion he’s not insane.” Millie’s eyes turned the size of saucers. “You had reason to doubt his sanity?” “He maintains a dungeon and has a castle where suits of armor go strolling about in the middle of the night—what else was I to conclude?” “A . . . dungeon?” “Yes, but I can’t explain that in any further detail, since the dungeon is part of a rather large secret that Bram has yet to divulge to anyone except his staff—and now me, of course.” Millie settled back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Fair enough, but . . . tell me this, how do you feel about the man, especially since his sanity is no longer in question?” “That’s a little tricky to answer.” Millie sent her a look that had exasperation stamped all over it. “It is not. And since you’re the one who insisted Harriet and I dwell on exactly what our feelings were for Oliver and Everett just a few months back, I’m going to extend you the same courtesy. So . . . feelings—yours for Mr. Haverstein—what are they?” “He, uh . . . did mention that he’d like to court me.” “Court you?” “Yes, you know, call on me, take me for drives, bring me flowers, and . . . well . . . court me.” “That’s incredibly romantic.” “Well, yes, it is, but . . .” “You don’t want to be courted because you see that as a weakness of being female.” “What?” Millie rolled her eyes. “Lucetta, you and I have been friends for a very long time, and while you never talk about yourself much—as in ever—it’s always been clear to me and Harriet that you’ve got this attitude, if you will, about being a female. It’s one of the reasons I believe you’ve held yourself so distant from any gentleman who has ever shown an interest in you. And, it’s why you’re incredibly wary of men like Bram Haverstein, who clearly—and this is without me even knowing that much about him—is an old-fashioned man, one who enjoys swooping in and saving the damsel in distress.” “There’s that romance novel lover I’ve been missing.” Millie sat forward. “You know I’m right.” “So

But Atkins also understood that an insistence on fair play often transcended racism in Boston’s white insular neighborhoods. It was one thing if a minority member was accosted, even assaulted, by a lone tormenter. If two or more assailants were involved, however, it was bad sportsmanship.

If only Rockefeller had played fair, Emery insisted, he would have ended up the more powerful oilman.