Intriguing Birthday Quotes

It was shortly after Raimund’s eighth birthday, over the evening meal, when Arvid announced, “The orphan is now old enough to earn his keep. He is coming with me tonight.

Intriguing." He sits back down. "I should do a study on the mass conditioning of people to harmonize with the birthday song. Essentially, it's brainwashing. Irene, do you think - Irene?" "I am going to kill you," I hiss. "But that would ruin your birthday." He smirks. "Really? Because I think it would make my birthday.

Experiments in attachment. My friend has just had his PC wired for broadband. I meet him in the cafe; he looks terrible - his face puffy and pale, his eyes bloodshot... He tells me he is now detained, night and day, in downloading every album he ever owned, lost, desired, or was casually intrigued by; he has now stopped even listening to them, and spends his time sleeplessly monitoring a progress bar... He says it's like all my birthdays have come at once, by which I can see he means, precisely, that he feels he is going to die.

This is the way that it goes. In your mid forties you have your first crisis of mortality (death will not ignore me); and ten years later you have your first crisis of age (my body whispers that death is already intrigued by me). But something very interesting happens to you in between. As the fiftieth birthday approaches, you get that sense that your life is thinning out, and will continue to thin out, until it thins out into nothing. And you sometimes say to yourself; That went a bit quick. That went a bit quick. In certain moods you may want to put it a bit more forcefully. As in: OY!! That went a BIT FUCKING QUICK!!!.... Then fifty comes and goes, and fifty-one, and fifty-two. And life thickens out again. Because there is now an enormous and unsuspected presence within your being, like an undiscovered continent. This is the past.

This was not where I was expecting this conversation to go, but I was intrigued. “I keep thinking about all the times when I was invited to the beach with my friends and didn’t go because of the way my stomach looked. All the birthday dinners I skipped because I made all my own meals so I could obsessively count calories. I even skipped out on having friends over on my birthday because I didn’t want to have to eat cake.” I realized I wasn’t breathing. “That definitely resonates with me,” I told her, while looking at the floor, ashamed that it must have been obvious. Elizabeth looked me dead in the eyes and said, “I felt like I had to tell you this because I see myself in you. I never anticipated dying at forty. I always thought I would have more time. I wish I would have spent more time with my loved ones. I wish I’d just eaten the damn cake.” “That’s good advice,” I said softly.

This is the way it goes. In your mid-forties you have your first crisis of mortality (death will not ignore me); and ten years later you have your first crisis of age (my body whispers that death is already intrigued by me). But something very interesting happens to you in between. As the fiftieth birthday approaches, you get the sense that your life is thinning out, and will continue to thin out, until it thins out into nothing. And you sometimes say to yourself: That went a bit quick. That went a bit quick. In certain moods, you may want to put it rather more forcefully. As in: OY!! THAT went a BIT FUCKING QUICK!!! ... Then fifty comes and goes, and fifty-one, and fifty-two. And life thickens out again. Because there is now an enormous and unsuspected presence within your being, like an undiscovered continent. This is the past.

When's your birthday?" I asked. "The twentieth of April." "A Taurus." "A what?" she asked. "Astrology. Do you follow it?" "Not only do I not follow it, I've never even heard of it." I paused, wondering if the girl was kidding, but I didn't detect a note of sarcasm in her voice. "I'm from Milwaukee- we don't believe things like that there, either. It's all hocus-pocus if you ask me." "Milwaukee's in Wisconsin. Wisconsin's capital is Madison. Its state bird is the robin and it's known as the Dairy State because it produces more cheese and milk than any other state," she said, as if reading from a teleprompter. "This thing called astrology- what is it exactly?" "That's a good question," I said. "It has something to do with the stars. I've never really understood it, either." "You mean astronomy, then?" "No, they're two different things- astrology and astronomy." "So what are you in astrology terms?" "A Scorpio." "A scorpion. In other words, you're an eight-legged, venomous creature to be wary of?" Her tone was deadpan. "No poison here, just a nice guy from Milwaukee." She let out a jovial laugh. She was a curious creature, and I was intrigued. Her manner of speech was officious and old-fashioned. She was interested and reserved, insecure and confident, coy and bold. She was unlike anyone I had ever met.

It is intriguing that, in the Christian Scripture’s story of creation, God says, “Let there be . . .” and then there is. (This has nothing to do with the question of evolution; oughtness makes reality, however it comes about.) I can relate to this easily when I think of all the birthday party games I invented over my children’s young lives, and all the classes I have invented over my students’ lives. I have said plenty of “let there be’s,” which have brought realities to be. Also, when my daughters each said “I do” at their weddings, they said something normative; they generously let something be, and that brought reality to be. If all real things require a “let there be,” a normative dimension, they require a larger context of persons in which promise and covenant and gift pertain.

To be clear, 83 per cent of images in the porn image section of Usenet were pornographic. That means 17 per cent of the images in the porn groups were not pornographic, and I’m sorry, that is far more intriguing. What were they? Cats? Birthday cakes?

(Diotima:) ‘On the birthday of Aphrodite there was a feast of the gods, at which the god Poros or Plenty, who is the son of Metis or Discretion, was one of the guests. When the feast was over, Penia or Poverty, as the manner is on such occasions, came about the doors to beg. Now Plenty who was the worse for nectar (there was no wine in those days), went into the garden of Zeus and fell into a heavy sleep, and Poverty considering her own straitened circumstances, plotted to have a child by him, and accordingly she lay down at his side and conceived Love, who partly because he is naturally a lover of the beautiful, and because Aphrodite is herself beautiful, and also because he was born on her birthday, is her follower and attendant. And as his parentage is, so also are his fortunes. In the first place he is always poor, and anything but tender and fair, as the many imagine him; and he is rough and squalid, and has no shoes, nor a house to dwell in; on the bare earth exposed he lies under the open heaven, in the streets, or at the doors of houses, taking his rest; and like his mother he is always in distress. Like his father too, whom he also partly resembles, he is always plotting against the fair and good; he is bold, enterprising, strong, a mighty hunter, always weaving some intrigue or other, keen in the pursuit of wisdom, fertile in resources; a philosopher at all times, terrible as an enchanter, sorcerer, sophist. He is by nature neither mortal nor immortal, but alive and flourishing at one moment when he is in plenty, and dead at another moment, and again alive by reason of his father's nature. But that which is always flowing in is always flowing out, and so he is never in want and never in wealth; and, further, he is in a mean between ignorance and knowledge. The truth of the matter is this: No god is a philosopher or seeker after wisdom, for he is wise already; nor does any man who is wise seek after wisdom. Neither do the ignorant seek after wisdom. For herein is the evil of ignorance, that he who is neither good nor wise is nevertheless satisfied with himself: he has no desire for that of which he feels no want.' 'But who then, Diotima,' I said, 'are the lovers of wisdom, if they are neither the wise nor the foolish?' 'A child may answer that question,' she replied; 'they are those who are in a mean between the two; Love is one of them. For wisdom is a most beautiful thing, and Love is of the beautiful; and therefore Love is also a philosopher or lover of wisdom, and being a lover of wisdom is in a mean between the wise and the ignorant. And of this too his birth is the cause; for his father is wealthy and wise, and his mother poor and foolish. Such, my dear Socrates, is the nature of the spirit Love. The error in your conception of him was very natural, and as I imagine from what you say, has arisen out of a confusion of love and the beloved, which made you think that love was all beautiful. For the beloved is the truly beautiful, and delicate, and perfect, and blessed; but the principle of love is of another nature, and is such as I have described.'.