Jeans Attitude Quotes

Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you.

In certain situations, manifesting anger is the right attitude; in others it is not the right thing to manifest because it will only add to the violence. In the first case, anger unblocks the conflict and causes another to become more conscious. In the latter, it only adds to the unconsciousness and inflames the conflict. (73)

To be grounded in an attitude of compassion is to be capable of receiving and welcoming the suffering, which the other is giving us. This does not mean that we suffer for them, but that we offer them possibility of going beyond the separate self in which suffering is harbored. (59)

The very essence of politeness is to take care that by our words and actions we make other people pleased with us as well as with themselves.

I am never any one of my attitudes, any one of my actions

My dick is not moving from where it's lodged, pressed up against the zipper of my jeans. I think her holier-than-thou attitude might have even made it harder. Clearly, my dick has poor taste in women.

Alice was scrutinizing my boring jeans-and-a-T-shirt outfit in a way that made me self-conscious. Probably plotting another makeover. I sighed. My indifferent attitude to fashion was a constant thorn in her side. If I'd allow it, she'd love to dress me everyday―perhaps several times a day―like some oversized three-dimensional paper doll.

This is not to say that the point of the hard way is that we must be heroic. The attitude of "heroism" is based upon the assumption that we are bad, impure, that we are not worthy, are not ready for spiritual understanding. We must reform ourselves, be different from what we are. For instance, if we are middle class Americans, we must give up our jobs or drop out of college, move out of our suburban homes, let our hair grow, perhaps try drugs. If we are hippies, we must give up drugs, cut our hair short, throw away our torn jeans. We think that we are special, heroic, that we are turning away from temptation. We become vegetarians and we become this and that. There are so many things to become. We think our path is spiritual because it is literally against the flow of what we used to be, but it is merely the way of false heroism, and the only one who is heroic in this way is ego.

Rowdy, hopped-up college kids pass us in an endless, noisy blur like they're being mass produced or squeezed out of a tube - guys skulking in their T-shirts and cargo shorts, girls in low-slung jeans and flip-flops, pimples and breasts and tattoos and lipstick and legs and bra straps, and cigarettes; a colorful, sexy melange. I feel old and tired and I just want to be them again, want to be young and stupid, filled with angst and attitude and unbridled lust. Can I have a do-over, please? I swear to God I'll make a real go of it this time.

It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness; that is life.

On the other hand, looking careless could just be privileged give-a-shit Ivy League attitude, like wearing duct tape on loafers and jeans with holes in them, knowing all along that they were headed straight to Wall Street or Washington and three-piece suits.

...on doit se débarrasser de ce qui nous encombre. Fais le ménage. Elimine l'inutile...

For a hundred dead stories there still remain one or two living ones. I evoke these with caution, occasionally, not too often, for fear of wearing them out, I fish one out, again I see the scenery, the characters, the attitudes. I stop suddenly: there is a flaw, I have seen a word pierce through the web of sensations. I suppose that this word will soon take the place of several images I love. I must stop quickly and think of something else; I don't want to tire my memories. In vain; the next time I evoke them a good part will be congealed.

To be in communion means to be with someone and to discover that we actually belong together. Communion means accepting people just as they are, with all their limits and inner pain, but also with their gifts and their beauty and their capacity to grow: to see the beauty inside of all the pain. To love someone is not first of all to do things for them, but to reveal to them their beauty and value, to say to them through our attitude: “You are beautiful. You are important. I trust you. You can trust

How admirable the attitude of one who has made good use of the time granted him and who did not interfere by trying to be his own judge. Duration of human life belongs to those who mould each moment, sculpture it and do not trouble about the verdict.

In community, people let down barriers; appearances and masks disappear. But this is not easy. Many people have built up their personalities precisely by hiding their wounded hearts behind the barriers of independence and of the attitude, "I know, you don't". They are highly active and their activity is based on the need to assert, to succeed, to control, to do projects and to be recognized . . . A community comes about when people are no longer hiding from one another, no longer pretending or proving their value to another.

She had been born knowing that boldness erased fear, while cowardice invited it and earned her only more ill treatment. No matter how she shook with dread in private, she would never show fear before her questioners or her guards. In men's minds fear was a certain mark of guilt.

As proof that HOW we see things matters, Gen. Montgomery took a preprepared text that had been deemed an innocuous complement to his American troops and delivered it in such a way that his condescension prompted more division than unity.

the modern generation being flippant and superficial. He says that we are losing the old ideals of earnest endeavour and true scholarship; and particularly is this falling-off noticeable in our disrespectful attitude towards organized authority. We no longer pay a seemly deference to our superiors. I

...the presence of others has become even more intolerable to me, their conversation most of all. Oh, how it all annoys and exasperates me: their attitudes, their manners, their whole way of being! The people of my world, all my unhappy peers, have come to irritate, oppress and sadden me with their noisy and empty chatter, their monstrous and boundless vanity, their even more monstrous egotism, their club gossip... the endless repetition of opinions already formed and judgments already made; the automatic vomiting forth of articles read in those morning papers which are the recognised outlet of the hopeless wilderness of their ideas; the eternal daily meal of overfamiliar cliches concerning racing stables and the stalls of fillies of the human variety... the hutches of the 'petites femmes' - another worn out phrase in the dirty usury of shapeless expression! Oh my contemporaries, my dear contemporaries... Their idiotic self-satisfaction; their fat and full-blown self-sufficiency: the stupid display of their good fortune; the clink of fifty- and a hundred-franc coins forever sounding out their financial prowess, according their own reckoning; their hen-like clucking and their pig-like grunting, as they pronounce the names of certain women; the obesity of their minds, the obscenity of their eyes, and the toneless-ness of their laughter! They are, in truth, handsome puppets of amour, with all the exhausted despondency of their gestures and the slackness of their chic... Chic! A hideous word, which fits their manner like a new glove: as dejected as undertakers' mutes, as full-blown as Falstaff... Oh my contemporaries: the ceusses of my circle, to put it in their own ignoble argot. They have all welcomed the moneylenders into their homes, and have been recruited as their clients, and they have likewise played host to the fat journalists who milk their conversations for the society columns. How I hate them; how I execrate them; how I would love to devour them liver and lights - and how well I understand the Anarchists and their bombs!

iGen’ers’ drumbeats of growing up slowly, individualism, and safety all manifest themselves in their exceedingly cautious attitude toward relationships.

Self-confidence will take you places where degrees and money can't. beliefs in self will always make you a winner.

Use common sense; don’t magnify the importance of insignificant details; don’t worry about bygones; and keep it simple. Focus, common sense, simplicity, and attitude

I didn’t want my life to be an occasional adventure. I wanted adventure to be my life.

Go faster. Push harder. This is not pain you feel. It’s pure pleasure. Come on, you can go even faster.

I was stubborn, intent on following my own dreams because my parents said I couldn’t and shouldn’t, and because they never encouraged me.

An opportunity isn’t a free pass to success. It requires courage to try and a will to succeed.

It is in our toughest moments that we really discover who we are.

Each experience, good or bad, joyful or painful, is a piece of the puzzle that makes up our lives. It’s up to us to choose how complex the puzzle will be.

Feeling the need to be perfect is a curse. It didn’t make me perfect, it only prevented me from enjoying the moment because I couldn’t be satisfied with just being the best I could be.

Seventies macho was both a look – moustache, jeans, leather jacket – and an attitude – cool, heartless, virile – that were reactions against the old-style homosexuality of too much art and too much emotion.

Į žmones reikia žiūrėti iš aukštai. Būdavo, užgesinu šviesą ir atsistoju prie lango: jie nė neįtaria, kad juos galima stebėti ir iš viršaus. Jie rūpinasi savo priekiu, kartais užpakaliu, bet visi jų triukai skirti metro setyniasdešimties centimetrų ūgio žiūrovui. O ar kas nors kada pagalvojo, kaip atrodo katiliuko formos kepurė žvelgiant iš septinto aukšto? <...> Vieną vakarą man toptelėjo mintis pašaudyti į žmones.

Of your friend, I can find no trace,” said the man. “He seems to have been eaten by one of the thin hairless apes from the Okanti isles; all it does is screech at me. What became of the last leech to take a look at him?” “We left him in Talisham,” said Jean. “I’m afraid my friend’s attitude moved him to bring an early end to his own sea voyage.” “Well, I might have done the same. I waive my fee, in profound sympathy. Keep your silver—you shall need it for wine. Or poison.

The Age Of Reason 1. ‘Well, it’s that same frankness you fuss about so much. You’re so absurdly scared of being your own dupe, my poor boy, that you would back out of the finest adventure in the world rather than risk telling yourself a lie.’ 2. “ I’m not so much interested in myself as all that’ he said simply. ‘I know’, said Marcelle. It isn’t an aim , it’s a means. It helps you to get rid of yourself; to contemplate and criticize yourself: that’s the attitude you prefer. When you look at yourself, you imagine you aren’t what you see, you imagine you are nothing. That is your ideal: you want to be nothing.’’ 3. ‘In vain he repeated the once inspiring phrase: ‘I must be free: I must be self-impelled, and able to say: ‘’I am because I will: I am my own beginning.’’ Empty, pompous words, the commonplaces of the intellectual.’ 4. ‘He had waited so long: his later years had been no more than a stand-to. Oppressed with countless daily cares, he had waited…But through all that, his sole care had been to hold himself in readiness. For an act. A free, considered act; that should pledge his whole life, and stand at the beginning of a new existence….He waited. And during all that time, gently, stealthily, the years had come, they had grasped him from behind….’ 5. ‘ ‘It was love. This time, it was love. And Mathiue thought:’ What have I done?’ Five minutes ago this love didn’t exist; there was between them a rare and precious feeling, without a name and not expressible in gestures.’ 6. ‘ The fact is, you are beyond my comprehension: you, so prompt with your indignation when you hear of an injustice, you keep this woman for years in a humiliating position, for the sole pleasure of telling yourself that you are respecting your principles. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were true, if you really did adapt your life to your ideas. But, I must tell you once more…you like that sort of life-placid, orderly, the typical life of an official.’ ‘’That freedom consisted in frankly confronting situations into which one had deliberately entered, and accepting all one’s responsibilities.’ ‘Well…perhaps I’m doing you an injustice. Perhaps you haven’t in fact reached the age of reason, it’s really a moral age…perhaps I’ve got there sooner than you have.’ 7. ‘ I have nothing to defend. I am not proud of my life and I’m penniless. My freedom? It’s a burden to me, for years past I have been free and to no purpose. I simply long to exchange it for a good sound of certainty….Besides, I agree with you that no one can be a man who has not discovered something for which he is prepared to die.’ 8. ‘‘I have led a toothless life’, he thought. ‘ A toothless life. I have never bitten into anything. I was waiting. I was reserving myself for later on-and I have just noticed that my teeth have gone. What’s to be done? Break the shell? That’s easily said. Besides, what would remain? A little viscous gum, oozing through the dust and leaving a glistering trail behind it.’ 9.’’ A life’, thought Mathieu, ‘is formed from the future just like the bodies are compounded from the void’. He bent his head: he thought of his own life. The future had made way into his heart, where everything was in process and suspense. The far-off days of childhood, the day when he has said:’I will be free’, the day when he had said: ’I will be famous’, appeared to him even now with their individual future, like a small, circled individual sky above them all, and the future was himself, himself just as he was at present, weary and a little over-ripe, they had claims upon him across the passage of time past, they maintained their insistencies, and he was often visited by attacks of devastating remorse, because his casual, cynical present was the original future of those past days.

We need to reform our funeral industry, introducing new practices that aren't so profit-oriented, and that do more to include the family. But we cannot begin to reform—or even question!-our death systems when we act like little Jean de Brébeufs, falsely convinced we have it right while all these "other people" are disrespectful and barbarous. This dismissive attitude can be found in places you'd never expect. Lonely Planet, the largest guidebook publisher in the world, included the idyllic Trunyan cemetery in their book on visiting Bali. In Trunyan, the villagers weave bamboo cages for their dead to decompose in, and then stack the skulls and bones out in the lush green landscape. Lonely Planet, instead of explaining the meaning behind these ancient customs, advised wise travelers to "skip the ghoulish spectacle.

I realized that despite society’s molds, we had choices. We, and only we, could decide the course of our lives. There would always be obstacles. Like a river meeting a boulder, we could go over it or around it — that decision was ours to make. Or we could take an entirely new course. Nothing was impossible.

She could not comprehend the attitudes of young people these days. Not that they needed understanding—young people were the same in every generation—but this cockiness, this refusal to take seriously the gravest questions of their lives, nettled and irritated her. Jean Louise was about to make the worst mistake of her life, and she glibly quoted those people at her, she mocked her.

And I wonder, therefore, how James Atlas can have been so indulgent in his recent essay ‘The Changing World of New York Intellectuals.’ This rather shallow piece appeared in the New York Times magazine, and took us over the usual jumps. Gone are the days of Partisan Review, Delmore Schwartz, Dwight MacDonald etc etc. No longer the tempest of debate over Trotsky, The Waste Land, Orwell, blah, blah. Today the assimilation of the Jewish American, the rise of rents in midtown Manhattan, the erosion of Village life, yawn, yawn. The drift to the right, the rediscovery of patriotism, the gruesome maturity of the once iconoclastic Norman Podhoretz, okay, okay! I have one question which Atlas in his much-ballyhooed article did not even discuss. The old gang may have had regrettable flirtations. Their political compromises, endlessly reviewed, may have exhibited naivety or self-regard. But much of that record is still educative, and the argument did take place under real pressure from anti-semitic and authoritarian enemies. Today, the alleged ‘neo-conservative’ movement around Jeane Kirkpatrick, Commentary and the New Criterion can be found in unforced alliance with openly obscurantist, fundamentalist and above all anti-intellectual forces. In the old days, there would at least have been a debate on the proprieties of such a united front, with many fine distinctions made and brave attitudes struck. As I write, nearness to power seems the only excuse, and the subject is changed as soon it is raised. I wait for the agonised, self-justifying neo-conservative essay about necessary and contingent alliances. Do I linger in vain?

I come in here and you gotta be here; I’m thinkin’ about football, and you gotta be here with your tits and your ass and this tight shrunken clothes and these shriveled jeans, so that’s all I’m thinking about from the minute I see you is tits and ass. Football doesn’t have a chance against it. It’s like this invasion of tits and ass overwhelming my own measly individuality so I don’t have a prayer to have my own thoughts about my own things except you and tits and ass and sucking and fucking and that’s all I can think about. My privacy has been demolished. You think a person wants that kind of a thing to happen their heads - they are trying to give their problems some serious thought, the next thing they know there’s nothing in their brains as far as they can see but your tits and ass? You think a person likes that?

I can´t speak.I mean,I literally can´t seem to form words.Rush was always shockingly good looking.Tall,lean,dark hair,badass attitude,eyes so green they look like leaves in the sun.But now,he´s something else.He´s breathstealing.He´s wearing a black tank top and jeans that hang on his lean hips.Both arms are covered in vibrant ink,and lean,sexy muscle.And though he still has a boy´s wicked grin,he´s become a man everywhere else

Jax wears angst like an accessory. Black tends to be his aesthetic unless he needs to wear McCoy’s white branding. His daily wardrobe includes Doc Martens, T-shirts, and ripped jeans. He rocks jackets with slogans and decorates his tattooed fingers with rings. To put it lightly, he’s bad to the last British bone in his body. No matter how attractive he is, his guarded hazel eyes scream to stay the hell out of his way. Not to mention his attitude toward me is about as friendly as walking down a dark alley at midnight.

For a hundred dead stories there still remain one or two living ones. I evoke these with caution, occasionally, not too often, for fear of wearing them out, I fish one out, again I see the scenery, the characters, the attitudes. I stop suddenly: there is a flaw, I have seen a word pierce through the web of sensations. I suppose that this word will soon take the place of several images I love. I must stop quickly and think of something else; I don't want to tire my memories. In vain; the next time I evoke them a good part will be congealed.

When you feel tempted to judge yourself by the way you look rather than what you do; that is the way of the contemporary Male. A sad state of “looks before performance” is plaguing the world. If you think looks trump performance, ask the last girl you slept with. Skinny jeans, androgynous bodies and limp character populate Our World. I ask you, “What would Conan do?” Conan wouldn’t stand by and let others determine his attitude. He wouldn’t mope around like a sad, pathetic dog when things don’t go his way. And he sure as hell doesn’t tuck tail when defeated. Stand up and show the world who you are and what you can do. Bleed success. Eat. Sleep. Mate. Defend. – Jim Wendler

By becoming clearly contemplative in a matter of weeks, my prayer had been given a particular and novel cast; and this was matched by the distinctness in the reprecussions my daily sessions of exercises were having on my everyday life, as well as on the many different occupations which a monk is vowed to carry out. The genuine sense of euphoria that followed the exercises persisted in me and transfigured my day. During the early months I had to face up to the sort of difficulties which put one's nerves to the test, and which would certainly have put me on my back before. As it was, everything went off so smoothly and I took it all so well that I trained everyone under my charge to develop the attitude of 'accepting rather than undergoing.

The seventh symphony is in no way in time. It is therefore in no way real. It occurs by itself, but as absent, as being out of reach. I cannot act upon it, change a single note of it, or slow down its movement. But it depends on the real for its appearance: that the conductor does not faint away, that a fire in the hall does not put an end to the performance. From this we cannot conclude that the seventh symphony has come to an end. No, we only think that the performance of the symphony has ceased. Does this not show clearly that the performance of the symphony is its analogue? It can manifest itself only through analogues which are dated and which unroll in our time. But to experience it on these analogues the imaginative reduction must be functioning, that is, the real sounds must be apprehended as analogues. It therefore occurs as a perpetual elsewhere, a perpetual absence. We must not picture it (as does spandrell in point counterpoint by huxley as so many platonisms) as existing in another world, in an intelligible heaven. It is not only outside time and space as are essences, for instance it is outside the real, outside existence. I do not hear it actually, i listen to it in the imaginary. Here we find the explanation for the considerable difficulty we always experience in passing from the world of the theatre or of music into that of our daily affairs. There is in fact no passing from one world into the other, but only a passing from the imaginative attitude to that of reality. Aesthetic contemplation is an induced dream and the passing into the real is an actual waking up.

Finally, the tern 'asceticism' is also susceptible to being misunderstood by those who view Buddhism from the outside. Evola reminds his readers that the original meaning of the term asceticism is "practical exercise," or 'discipline' — one could even say 'learning.' It certainly does not mean, as some are inclined to think, a willingness to mortify the body that derives from the idea of penance, and even leads to the practice of self-flagellation, since it is believed that one must suffer in order to expiate one's sins. Asceticism is rather a school of the will, a pure heroism (that is, it is disinterested) that Evola, a real expert in this subject, compares to the efforts of a mountain climber. To the layman, mountain climbing may be a pointless effort, but to the climber it is a challenge in which the test of courage, perseverance, and hero-ism is its only purpose. In this we recognize an attitude that Brahmanism knew under certain forms of yoga and Tantrism. In the spiritual domain, the procedure is the same. Buddha, as we know, was tempted early in his life by a form of asceticism that was similar to that of a hermit living in the desert. This approach involved prolonged fasts and techniques aimed at breaking the body's resistance. Siddhartha, however, realized himself and achieved the Awakening only when he understood this type of asceticism to be a dead end. Turning away from the indignant protests of his early companions, he stopped mortifying his body, ate to placate his hunger, and returned to the world of human beings. But it was then that his detachment started to develop: the world no longer had a grasp on him, since he had become a 'hero,' or like the ancient Greeks would have said, a 'god.

Community as openness . . . Communities are truly communities when they open to others, when they remain vulnerable and humble; when the members are growing in love, in compassion and in humility. Communities cease to be such when members close in upon themselves with the certitude that they alone have wisdom and truth and expect everyone to be like them and learn from them. The fundamental attitudes of true community, where there is true belonging, are openness, welcome, and listening to God, to the universe, to each other and to other communities. Community life is inspired by the universal and is open to the universal. It is based on forgiveness and openness to those who are different, to the poor and the weak. Sects put up walls and barriers out of fear, out of a need to prove themselves and to create a false security. Community is the breaking down of barriers to welcome difference.

Well, was it especially necessary for people to be impassioned, carried away by hatred or love, for example; or did the exterior aspect of the event have to be great, I mean—what you could see of it. . . .” “Both . . . it all depended,” she answers ungraciously. “And the perfect moments? Where do they come in?” “They came afterwards. First there are annunciatory signs. Then the privileged situation, slowly, majestically, comes into people’s lives. Then the question whether you want to make a perfect moment out of it.” “Yes,” I say, “I understand. In each one of these privileged situations there are certain acts which have to be done, certain attitudes to be taken, words which must be said—and other attitudes, other words are strictly prohibited. Is that it?” “I suppose so. . . .” “In fact, then, the situation is the material: it demands exploitation.” “That’s it,” she says. “First you had to be plunged into something exceptional and feel as though you were putting it in order. If all those conditions had been realized, the moment would have been perfect.” “In fact, it was a sort of work of art.” “You’ve already said that,” she says with irritation. “No: it was . . . a duty. You had to transform privileged situations into perfect moments. It was a moral question. Yes, you can laugh if you like: it was moral.

This reaction to the work was obviously a misunderstanding. It ignores the fact that the future Buddha was also of noble origins, that he was the son of a king and heir to the throne and had been raised with the expectation that one day he would inherit the crown. He had been taught martial arts and the art of government, and having reached the right age, he had married and had a son. All of these things would be more typical of the physical and mental formation of a future samurai than of a seminarian ready to take holy orders. A man like Julius Evola was particularly suitable to dispel such a misconception. He did so on two fronts in his Doctrine: on the one hand, he did not cease to recall the origins of the Buddha, Prince Siddhartha, who was destined to the throne of Kapilavastu: on the other hand, he attempted to demonstrate that Buddhist asceticism is not a cowardly resignation before life's vicissitudes, but rather a struggle of a spiritual kind, which is not any less heroic than the struggle of a knight on the battlefield. As Buddha himself said (Mahavagga, 2.15): 'It is better to die fighting than to live as one vanquished.' This resolution is in accord with Evola's ideal of overcoming natural resistances in order to achieve the Awakening through meditation; it should he noted, however, that the warrior terminology is contained in the oldest writings of Buddhism, which are those that best reflect the living teaching of the master. Evola works tirelessly in his hook to erase the Western view of a languid and dull doctrine that in fact was originally regarded as aristocratic and reserved for real 'champions.' After Schopenhauer, the unfounded idea arose in Western culture that Buddhism involved a renunciation of the world and the adoption of a passive attitude: 'Let things go their way; who cares anyway.' Since in this inferior world 'everything is evil,' the wise person is the one who, like Simeon the Stylite, withdraws, if not to the top of a pillar; at least to an isolated place of meditation. Moreover, the most widespread view of Buddhists is that of monks dressed in orange robes, begging for their food; people suppose that the only activity these monks are devoted to is reciting memorized texts, since they shun prayers; thus, their religion appears to an outsider as a form of atheism. Evola successfully demonstrates that this view is profoundly distorted by a series of prejudices. Passivity? Inaction? On the contrary, Buddha never tired of exhorting his disciples to 'work toward victory'; he himself, at the end of his life, said with pride: katam karaniyam, 'done is what needed to he done!' Pessimism? It is true that Buddha, picking up a formula of Brahmanism, the religion in which he had been raised prior to his departure from Kapilavastu, affirmed that everything on earth is 'suffering.' But he also clarified for us that this is the case because we are always yearning to reap concrete benefits from our actions. For example, warriors risk their lives because they long for the pleasure of victory and for the spoils, and yet in the end they are always disappointed: the pillaging is never enough and what has been gained is quickly squandered. Also, the taste of victory soon fades away. But if one becomes aware of this state of affairs (this is one aspect of the Awakening), the pessimism is dispelled since reality is what it is, neither good nor bad in itself; reality is inscribed in Becoming, which cannot be interrupted. Thus, one must live and act with the awareness that the only thing that matters is each and every moment. Thus, duty (dhamma) is claimed to be the only valid reference point: 'Do your duty,' that is. 'let your every action he totally disinterested.

As for the square at Meknes, where I used to go everyday, it's even simpler: I do not see it at all anymore. All that remains is the vague feeling that it was charming, and these five words are indivisibly bound together: a charming square at Meknes. Unboubtedly, if I close my eyes or stare vaguely at the ceiling I can re-create the scene: a tree in the distance, a short dingy figure run towards me. But I am inventing all this to make out a case. That Moroccan was big and weather-beaten, besides, I only saw him after he had touched me. So I *still* know he was big and weather-beaten: certain details, somewhat curtailed, live in my memory. But I don't *see* anything any more: I can search the past in vain, I can only find these scraps of images and I am not sure what they represent, whether they are memories or just fiction. There are many cases where even these scraps have disapeared: nothing is left but words: I could still tell stories, tell them too well [...] but these are only the skeletons. There's the story of a person who does this, does that, but it isn't I, I have nothing in common with him. He travels through countries I know no more about than if I had never been there. Sometimes, in my story, it happens that I pronounce these fine names you read in atlases, Aranjuez or Canterbury. New images are born in me, images such as people create from books who have never travelled. My words are dreams, that is all. For a hundred dead stories there still remain one or two living ones. I evoke these with caution, occasionally, not too often, for fear of wearing them out, I fish one out, again I see the scenery, the characters, the attitudes. I stop suddenly: there is a flaw, I have seen a word pierce through the web of sensations. I suppose that this word will soon take the place of several images I love. I must stop quickly and think of something else; I don't want to tire my memories. In vain; the next time I evoke them a good part will be congealed.

The risibility of our altruistic 'understanding' is rivalled only by the profound contempt it is designed to conceal. For 'We respect the fact that you are different' read: 'You people who are underdeveloped would do well to hang on to this distinction because it is all you have left' . (The signs of folklore and poverty are excellent markers of difference.) Nothing could be more contemptuous - or more contemptible - than this attitude, which exemplifies the most radical form of incomprehension that exists. It has nothing to do, however, with what Segalen calls 'eternal incomprehensibility' . Rather, it is a product of eternal stupidity - of that stupidity which endures for ever in its essential arrogance, feeding on the differentness of other people. Other cultures, meanwhile, have never laid claim to universality. Nor did they ever claim to be different - until difference was forcibly injected into them as part of a sort of cultural opium war. They live on the basis of their own singularity, their own exceptionality, on the irreducibility of their own rites and values. They find no comfort in the lethal illusion that all differences can be reconciled - an illusion that for them spells only annihilation. To master the universal symbols of otherness and difference is to master the world. Those who conceptualize difference are anthropologically superior - naturally, because it is they who invented anthropology. And they have all the rights, because rights, too, are their invention. Those who do not conceptualize difference, who do not play the game of difference, must be exterminated. The Indians of America, when the Spanish landed, are a case in point. They understood nothing about difference; they inhabited radical otherness. (The Spaniards were not different in their eyes: they were simply gods, and that was that.) This is the reason for the fury with which the Spaniards set about destroying these peoples, a fury for which there was no religious justification, nor economic justification, nor any other kind of justification, except for the fact that the Indians were guilty of an absolute crime: their failure to understand difference. When they found themselves obliged to become part of an otherness no longer radical, but negotiable under the aegis of the universal concept, they preferred mass self-immolation - whence the fervour with which they, for their part, allowed themselves to die: a counterpart to the Spaniards' mad urge to kill. The Indians' strange collusion in their own extermination represented their only way of keeping the secret of otherness.

Due to these influences and many others, iGen is distinct from every previous generation in how its members spend their time, how they behave, and their attitudes toward religion, sexuality, and politics. They socialize in completely new ways, reject once sacred social taboos, and want different things from their lives and careers. They are obsessed with safety and fearful of their economic futures, and they have no patience for inequality based on gender, race, or sexual orientation. They are a the forefront of the worst mental health crisis ind decades, with rates of teen depression and suicide skyrocketing since 2011.

If fate was life, then Lene should just stay with the “wife-beater”, because every man she hooked up with would beat her. I couldn’t believe that was true, for her or for me. I had to believe my shitty life wasn’t some prearranged hell I could never escape. I wasn’t doing the best with decisions, or money, or finding someone to love me, but I hoped I was finally on the road to controlling my ‘crazy’. And just to prove I had control, I was going to turn this train-wreck of a night around. I stood, zipped up my jeans, and kicked open the stall door. “I’m goin’ to par-tay!” I sang out loud. Party, but not get laid, I reminded myself.

Tiffany and Mom’s bickering had become an almost constant din that kept the atmosphere around the house tense. Tiffany’s attitude exacerbated Mom’s dark moods and each one’s negative energy fueled the other’s. Tiffany would make an unnecessary, snide remark to Mom, and the back-and-forth would escalate until Mom was confiscating her favorite jeans, taking away her phone, or just hitting her with the closest object, like a hanger or a belt.

La actitud principal y necesaria en el discernimiento comunitario es la apertura, la búsqueda de la verdad y la confianza de que esta verdad será alcanzada

The Renaissance After the fall of the Roman Empire, Europe began a period that is called the Middle Ages, or the medieval period. The Middle Ages were dominated by war, illness, and concerns about mortality. During this time, Rome lost much of its former grandeur and vitality. It had perhaps no more than thirteen thousand residents in the 1300s. Around this time, attitudes began to change. The wealthy began thinking more about human achievement and the world around them. Explorers such as Columbus wanted to find new routes to Asia. Italian churchmen and scholars saw ancient buildings all around them and took an interest in the classical world of Rome and Greece. They began to spend money on beautiful buildings, art, and scholarship. This period came to be called the Renaissance, which means “the Rebirth.” It was the rebirth of classical learning after more than a thousand years.

Appearance Like it or not, appearance counts, especially in the workplace. Dressing appropriately and professionally is a minimum requirement when applying for a job. Do whatever you can do to make a favorable impression. Dressing appropriately is a way to say that you care about the interview, that it is important to you, and that you take it seriously. It also says you will make an effort to behave professionally once you are with the company. Keep in mind that you are owed nothing when you go on an interview. But behaving professionally by following appropriate business etiquette will nearly always gain you the courtesy of professional treatment in return. The following ideas will help you be prepared to make the best impression possible. In previous exercises, you have examined your self-image. Now, look at yourself and get feedback from others on your overall appearance. Not only must you look neat and well groomed for a job interview, but your overall image should be appropriate to the job, the company, and the industry you are hoping to enter. You can determine the appropriate image by observing the appearance and attitude of those currently in the area you are looking into. But even where casual attire is appropriate for those already in the workplace, clean, pressed clothes and a neat appearance will be appreciated. One young photographer I know of inquired about the style of dress at the newspaper he was interviewing with; informed that most people wore casual clothes, he chose to do the same. At the interview, the editor gently teased him about wearing jeans (she herself was in khaki pants and a sports shirt). “I guess your suit is at the cleaners,” she said, chuckling. But her point was made. Making the effort shows that you take the interview seriously. Second, you should carry yourself as though you are confident and self-assured. Use self-help techniques such as internal coaching to tell yourself you can do it. Focus on your past successes, and hold your body as if you were unstoppable. Breathe deeply, with an abundance of self-confidence. Your goal is to convey an image of being comfortable with yourself in order to make the other person feel comfortable with you.

Il est en souvent ainsi dans la vie, ou l'attitude qu'on a avec une femme qu'on vient de rencontrer , les discussions qu'on peut avoir avec elle, et plus tard, qui sait, les tendres attentions et les caresses, et meme les querelles et les brouilles ulterieures, poursuivent ou completent, corrigent ou amendent, celles qu'on a eues avec un'autre femme, comme si, dans notre solipsisme invetere, c'etait toujours a une seule et meme femme, qui englobair toutes les femmes de notre vie, que nous nous adressions. (p.80)

Materialism is the artist's foe, because it wastes or destroys in him the ideal and creative powers of his being. The genius of art is not to be reconciled to the ignoble attitude of materialism.

of the church in the distance, for which Millet used the church of Chailly-en-Bière in the Île-de-France as a model. Moments before, they had been busy at work harvesting their modest potato field, as shown by the pathetically small basket at their feet. Though it fetched only a small sum at the Salon of 1860, the work became wildly popular in the 1870s and eventually would be one of the most widely replicated images of the nineteenth century. Originally purchased for one thousand francs, it fetched as much as half a million francs just thirty years later, as a result of a bidding war between the Louvre and the American Art Association. Fig. 47. Jean-François Millet, The Angelus, 1859 While some interpreted The Angelus as a religious work, as an expression of simple and humble piety, others saw it as a socialist statement, in which Millet was supposed to have paid homage to the growing worker movement in France. It is unlikely that Millet intended either; as he later said, the picture was inspired by a childhood memory in which “my grandmother, hearing the church bell ringing while we were working in the fields, always made us stop work to say the Angelus prayer for the poor departed.” Dalí was fascinated by the picture. Like Vincent van Gogh, he used it as inspiration for his own work, including a series of paintings in the early 1930s entitled The Architectural Angelus of Millet and Gala and the Angelus of Millet Preceding the Imminent Arrival of the Conical Anamorphoses. He explained his fascination with the Angelus in an essay entitled “The Tragic Myth of Millet’s Angelus,” in which he revealed that “In June 1932 appears in my mind all of a sudden, without any recent recollection nor any conscious association that lends itself to an immediate explanation, the image of Millet’s L’Angelus.” It made a strong impression on him, he continues, because for him it is “the most enigmatic, the most dense, and the richest in unconscious thoughts ever to have existed.” Fig. 48. Salvador Dalí, Archaeological Reminiscence of Millet’s Angelus, c. 1934 In fact, the painting did not strike Dalí as a rural image of devotion at all but as a source of great inner disquiet and a perfect example of what the paranoiac-critical process could discern that others didn’t. What he saw was a man “who stands hypnotized—and destroyed—by the mother. He seems to me to take on the attitude of the

The rest of us wear our battle armour—ripped jeans and band t-shirts, leather jackets and bad attitudes.

He thinks he’s scaring me off with his snippy attitude. Little does he know, I’m thriving off his surliness. I open the door, revealing the outfit I was already wearing: jeans and a T-shirt and a kiss-my-ass grin. “Like this?” He eyes me head to toe, scowls, and turns to walk to his door. He only opens it a crack and practically wiggles inside before closing it quickly behind him.

All that clearly emerged from his attitude and expression was that he was in a state of strange indecision, seemingly adrift between the two extremes of death on the one hand and salvation on the other—ready to shatter that skull or to kiss that hand.

The man of faith judges active works by quite a different light from the man who lives in outward things. What he looks at is not so much the outward appearance of things, as their place in the divine plan and their supernatural results. And so, considering himself as a simple instrument, his soul is all the more filled with horror at any self-satisfaction in his own endowments, because he places his sole hope of success in the conviction of his own helplessness and confidence in God alone. Thus he is confirmed in a state of abandonment. And as he passes through his various difficulties, how different is his attitude from that of the apostle who knows nothing of intimacy with Christ! Furthermore,

Cover for Harper Lee's Novel Revealed Chris Schluep Shop this article on Amazon.com Go Set a Watchman by Harper Lee Arguably the most-discussed book of the year had its cover revealed on People.com this morning. It's Harper Lee's Go Set a Watchman , and it's a lovely homage to the classic cover of Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird . Here's what we said about Go Set A Watchman when it was first announced: What would Scout be like as a grown up? We're about to find out. Go Set a Watchman is set during the mid-1950s and features many of the characters from To Kill a Mockingbird some twenty years later. Scout (Jean Louise Finch) has returned to Maycomb from New York to visit her father, Atticus. She is forced to grapple with issues both personal and political as she tries to understand her father’s attitude toward society, and her own feelings about the place where she was born and spent her childhood. You can see the full post here . Shop this article on Amazon.com Go Set a Watchman Harper Lee Print Book Kindle Book     Posted: Mar 25 10:30 am

The “postmodernist” label has been attached to a wide variety of writers, including the philosopher Gilles Deleuze; his frequent collaborator the psychoanalyst Felix Guattari; sociologist Jean Baudrillard; psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan; and Luce Irigaray, whose writings deal with topics in many fields. So multifarious are these various manifestations of the postmodernist spirit that I can give only a very broad and impressionistic characterization of the attitudes and outlooks that tie them together.

I wanted to escape from the cynical attitude of life where an action was deplored only when it did not bring material advantage.

Écouter, c'est d'abord une attitude. C'est chercher à comprendre l'autre avec ses souffrances, ses désirs et son espérance, sans le juger ni le condamner. Écouter, c'est mettre l'autre en valeur pour lui donner vie et l'aider à avoir confiance en lui...Quand je suis trop centré sur mes projets, quand j'ai besoin de me prouver, j'ai davantage du mal à écouter

Nous comprenons assez bien, intuitivement tout au moins, que nous nous sommes fourvoyés dans une impasse et que ce ne sont pas seulement les méthodes pédagogiques (la guerre des écoles a un petit côté absurde, dérisoire et ringard) ni l'institution scolaire que nous devons radicalement changer, en tout cas pas frontalement, ni bureaucratiquement, ni par le biais d'une nouvelle et vaine réforme institutionnelle qui serait parachutée, sans l'acquiescement vrai, profond et spontané des acteurs de la relation éducative, ceux-là mêmes que l'on somme d'appliquer les réformes successives sur le terrain sans les avoir préalablement consultés, à moins qu'il ne s'agisse de consultations biaisées et devant ultérieurement servir d'alibi et de justification. C'est nous-mêmes qu'il conviendrait de changer en effet. Changer notre rapport aux autres et à nous-mêmes, changer notre rapport aux institutions, à la société, à l'histoire, notre rapport à la connaissance, aux savoirs et au monde. Nous ne pouvons pas passer tout notre temps à chercher des coupables à l'extérieur de nous-mêmes. Nous ne pouvons pas sans cesse stigmatiser l'attitude, certes inadaptée, déstabilisatrice et parfois condamnable de la hiérarchie (les inspecteurs sont des victimes de cette logique, en même temps qu'ils aident à sa perpétuation) ou dénoncer l'incurie ou l'indifférence, certes bien réelles elles aussi, des hommes politiques et des syndicats enseignants. Un professeur animé par une éthique jungienne de l'action éducative ne se décharge pas en permanence de ses responsabilités qui lui incombe en tant qu'acteur de sa propre vie et de la vie de la communauté à laquelle il appartient peu ou prou) sur les autres, sur la société, sur l'État et sur les institutions (phénomène de projection, de diabolisation, ressentiment et amertume érigés en art de viver). Un enseignant dont l'action s'inspire de l'attitude jungienne cherche à être instituant, c'est-à-dire à modifier un peu et dans la mesure de ses forces et du degré de réceptivité des autres - ses collègues mais aussi ses supérieurs hiérarchiques - les institutions de l'intérieur par son action au jour le jour (une action semée d'embûches), sans toutefois tomber dans l'activisme (pour échapper à son angoisse et se donner bonne conscience) et/ou le volontarisme (attitude faustienne et prométhéenne). (p. 113)

Going over to the side of the principle of Evil implies making a choice in every sphere that is not only critical but also criminal. In any society, even a liberal one (such as ours!), this kind of choice cannot be publicly expressed. A stated position in support of the non-human or of the principle of Evil will be rejected by any value system (by 'principle of Evil' here I mean nothing more than the simple stating of a few hard truths concerning values, law, power, reality, etc.). In this respect there is no difference at all between East, West, North or South. And there is not the slightest chance of seeing an end to this intolerant attitude, as opaque and crystalline as a glass wall, which no progress in the sphere of either morality or immorality has managed to modify. The world is so full of positive feelings, naive sentimentality, self-important rectitude and sycophancy that irony, mockery and the subjective energy of evil are always in the weaker position. At this rate every last negative sentiment will soon be forced into a clandestine existence. Already the merest gibe tends to meet with incomprehension. It will soon be impossible to express reservations about anything at all. We shall have nothing left but disgust and consternation.

What on earth have we to fear if we follow him? As his children, led and upheld by him, our whole attitude should be one of fearlessness. The terrors we meet on our journey are really nothing. They are sent only so that our lives may be more splendid by our overcoming them.

Ripped jeans and twenty dollar shirt, that's how we'll change the world.

the idea that mathematics expresses the essential reality of nature was first put explicitly, in modern times, by scientists, such as Sir James Jeans and Werner Heisenberg, but within a few decades, these ideas were being transmitted almost subliminally. As a result, after passing through graduate school, most physicists have come to regard this attitude toward mathematics as being perfectly natural. However, in earlier generations such views would have been regarded as strange and perhaps even a little crazy—at all events irrelevant to a proper scientific view of reality.

The idea of “crossdressing” is so fucked up, man, like what do actual women wear? Not big frilly dresses. T-shirts and jeans, yoga pants, fast fashion bullshit. So what’s crossdressing? That’s what I already wear. It’s just an attitude. I like the frilly lacy stuff as much as the next guy but I’m not trying to support the petticoat-industrial complex. It’s in the soul, man.

Were those gold flecks in his warm brown eyes or was it just the glitter of ill intent? Was that a smile or a smirk on his handsome face? Was the devil-may-care attitude masking something more sinister? And were those jeans molded to his narrow hips for ease of running away? Or to entice a sex-starved candy store employee who couldn't remember the last time she'd had a hookup?

Not only can there be no seduction, but there can be no rape either without a minimal signal. A being capable of truly extinguishing all signals and emitting no anticipated response would be protected even from violence. This is indeed the attitude we instinctively take when faced with physical aggression or aggressive demands – suppression of the signals of fear or desire.

A cultural value shift is also in order. College-educated people should consciously reconsider their attitudes toward skilled trades and give them the respect they deserve.

When warned on one occasion that the unions might become too powerful, he was quoted as replying, "Too powerful for what?" His attitude was that their power should prove an antidote for that of big business.

Kierkegaard was a born goader. He picked quarrels with his contemporaries, broke off personal relationships, and generally made difficulties out of everything. He wrote: ‘Abstraction is disinterested, but for one who exists his existing is the supreme interest.’ He applied the same argumentative attitude to the personnel of philosophical history. He disagreed, for example, with René Descartes, who had founded modern philosophy by stating Cogito ergo sum: I think, therefore I am. For Kierkegaard, Descartes had things back to front. In his own view, human existence comes first: it is the starting point for everything we do, not the result of a logical deduction. My existence is active: I live it and choose it, and this precedes any statement I can make about myself. Moreover, my existence is mine: it is personal. Descartes’ ‘I’ is generic: it could apply to anyone, but Kierkegaard’s ‘I’ is the ‘I’ of an argumentative, anguished misfit.

Mes amis, ce bougre-là nous a laissé ici ses culottes pleines de merde. Nous allons retourner en Europe et les lui appliquer sur la figure!

Nature sometimes mingles her effects and her spectacles with our actions with sombre and intelligent appropriateness, as though she desired to make us reflect. For the last half-hour a large cloud had covered the heavens. At the moment when Jean Valjean paused in front of the bed, this cloud parted, as though on purpose, and a ray of light, traversing the long window, suddenly illuminated the Bishop’s pale face. He was sleeping peacefully. He lay in his bed almost completely dressed, on account of the cold of the Basses-Alps, in a garment of brown wool, which covered his arms to the wrists. His head was thrown back on the pillow, in the careless attitude of repose; his hand, adorned with the pastoral ring, and whence had fallen so many good deeds and so many holy actions, was hanging over the edge of the bed. His whole face was illumined with a vague expression of satisfaction, of hope, and of felicity. It was more than a Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 179 smile, and almost a radiance. He bore upon his brow the indescribable reflection of a light which was invisible. The soul of the just contemplates in sleep a mysterious heaven. A reflection of that heaven rested on the Bishop. It was, at the same time, a luminous transparency, for that heaven was within him. That heaven was his conscience. At the moment when the ray of moonlight superposed itself, so to speak, upon that inward radiance, the sleeping Bishop seemed as in a glory. It remained, however, gentle and veiled in an ineffable half-light. That moon in the sky, that slumbering nature, that garden without a quiver, that house which was so calm, the hour, the moment, the silence, added some solemn and unspeakable quality to the venerable repose of this man, and enveloped in a sort of serene and majestic aureole that white hair, those closed eyes, that face in which all was hope and all was confidence, that head of an old man, and that slumber of an infant. There was something almost divine in this man, who was thus august, without being himself aware of it. Jean Valjean was in the shadow, and stood motionless, with his iron candlestick in his hand, frightened by this luminous old man. Never had he beheld anything like this. This confidence terrified him. The moral world has no grander spectacle than this: a troubled and uneasy conscience, which has arrived on the brink of an evil action, contemplating the slumber of the just.

Jamie got back to her apartment in nineteen minutes and forty-nine seconds.  It wasn’t a personal best for a five-kilometre run, but it was still fast.  She showered and dressed, pulled on her boots, and was out the door in seventeen minutes flat. Which probably was close to a personal best.  She was wearing jeans she picked up from a supermarket. She liked them because they had a three percent lycra content woven into the denim, which stretched a little and meant that she could more easily crouch, walk, and kick someone in the side of the head if the situation called for it. It hadn’t yet, but she had a long career ahead of herself, she hoped.  She jumped into her car — a small and economical hybrid hatchback which squeezed around the city easily — and headed north towards the Lea.  It took nearly forty minutes to get there in rush hour traffic, and by the time she pulled up, Roper was leaning against the bonnet of his ten-year-old Volvo saloon, smoking a cigarette. He was tall with thinning, short hair, and a face that looked like he was always squinting into a stiff wind.  His long black coat was pinned to his right leg in the breeze and his shirt looked like it’d been pulled out of the laundry hamper rather than a clean drawer. He was perpetually single, and it showed. There was no one to hold him accountable when he decided it was okay to skip a morning shower for an extra ten minutes sleeping off his hangover. What she hated most about him, beyond the cigarette stink and the pissed-at-life attitude, was that she always had to look twice to make sure he wasn’t her father.  Her mother had dragged her away from him in Sweden, and now, she’d been thrown together with a guy who seemingly had inherited all his bad habits. Her mum said it was because all detectives were like it if they did the job long enough. They saw too much and didn’t talk about it enough. Which led inevitably to drink, and drugs, and other women. She’d spoken from experience of course. And Jamie knew she hadn’t exaggerated.  Though moving them both to Britain seemed like a bit of a dramatic reaction. But then again, her father had given her mother gonorrhoea and couldn’t say which woman he’d gotten it from. So Jamie figured it was reasonable.  He would have turned sixty-one this year. Roper pushed off the Volvo and ground out his cigarette under the heel of his battered Chelsea boot. Jamie looked at it, stopping short of his odour-radius. ‘You gonna just leave that there?’ He looked between his feet, rolling onto the outsides of them as he inspected the flattened butt. ‘It’ll wash away in the rain.’ ‘Into the ocean, yeah, where some poor fish is going to eat it,’ Jamie growled, coming to a stop in front of him.

On the other hand, existentialist ideas and attitudes have embedded themselves so deeply into modern culture that we hardly think of them as existentialist at all. People (at least in relatively prosperous countries where more urgent needs don’t intervene) talk about anxiety, dishonesty and the fear of commitment. They worry about being in bad faith, even if they don’t use that term. They feel overwhelmed by the excess of consumer choice while also feeling less in control than ever. A vague longing for a more ‘real’ way of living leads some people to — for example — sign up for weekend retreats in which their smartphones are taken away like toys from children, so that they can spend two days walking in the country landscape and reconnecting with each other and with their forgotten selves.

iGen’ers bring new attitudes about communication. Many don’t understand why anyone uses email when texting is so much faster. “For a while, I thought email was what people meant when they referred to ‘snail mail,’ ” wrote 16-year-old Vivek Pandit in his book We Are Generation Z. “Eventually I realized that snail mail was the paper stuff that [takes] days to reach someone. I call that ‘ancient mail.

I do not need to obey your prophets to worship and praise God. Myths and the teachings of prophets are secondly to community. For me, no religion, nor prophet nor scripture will personally command me how to live my life. That is up to the dedicates of my own conscience. This attitude however does not stop me from worship at the Church, nor performing the final Prophet's prayer at the masjid. Thank you God for life.

It is not–I can’t emphasize this enough–that we don’t have it good. Far from it. If anything, kids today are struggling under the burden of too much pampering. According to Jean Twenge, a psychologist at San Diego State University who has conducted detailed research into the attitudes of young adults now and in the past, there has been a sharp rise in self-esteem since the 1980s. The younger generation considers itself smarter, more responsible, and more attractive than ever. “It’s a generation in which every kid has been told, ‘You can be anything you want. You’re special,’” explains Twenge.29 We’ve been brought up on a steady diet of narcissism, but as soon as we’re released into the great big world of unlimited opportunity, more and more of us crash and burn. The world, it turns out, is cold and harsh, rife with competition and unemployment. It’s not a Disneyland where you can wish upon a star and see all your dreams come true, but a rat race in which you have no one but yourself to blame if you don’t make the grade. Not surprisingly, that narcissism conceals an ocean of uncertainty. Twenge also discovered that we have all become a lot more fearful over the last decades. Comparing 269 studies conducted between 1952 and 1993, she concluded that the average child living in early 1990s North America was more anxious than psychiatric patients in the early 1950s.30 According to the World Health Organization, depression has even become the biggest health problem among teens and will be the number-one cause of illness worldwide by 2030.31

The day we stop dreaming is the day we stop living

Dreams aren’t fantasies to keep in the back of our mind, they are life goals to be pursued

The only limits are the ones we set for ourselves

It’s the mind that will win or lose today. It’s all in the head.

…cognitive challenges were the same as physical challenges: you learn, you train, and you set your own limits

…cognitive challenges were the same as physical challenges: you learn, you train, and you set your own limits.

Regardless of the outcome, each step we take toward following our dreams is a full day of life.

The adventure begins as soon as we start dreaming it.

A masculine man wears his attitude. He is as much comfortable wearing three piece suits as he is in wearing ripped torn jeans. He does not chase love, women, or power. He gets them anyhow. He would never ever give up his masculinity for anyone or anything in his life. He lives by his ideals that are tattooed to his soul. He does not believe in leading a comfortable life with luxuries. Rather he works hard to achieve his goals in life. He lives raw. He wanders often. And his life story becomes a testament to his masculinity!

Everything that seems impossible is possible. We’re all able to go twenty times beyond any boundaries we ever imagined. There are no limits to what we can achieve.

Le terme de génocide est souvent employé pour qualifier la traite et l'esclavage pratiqués par l'Occident. Alors qu'il convient de reconnaître que dans la traite transatlantique un esclave, même déshumanisé, avait une valeur vénale pour son propriétaire. Ce dernier le voulait d'abord efficace, mais aussi rentable dans le temps, même si son espérance de vie était des plus limitées. Il est sans doute difficile d'apprécier l'importance de la saignée subie par l'Afrique noire au cours de la traite transatlantique. Du Bois l'estime à environ quinze à vingt millions d'individues. P. Curtin, quant à lui, en faisant une synthèse des travaux esistants, aboutit en 1969 à un total d'environ neuf millions six cent mille escales importés, surtout dans le Nouveau Monde, plus faiblement en Europe et à São Tomé, pour l'ensemble de la période 1451-1870. Mais quelle que fût l'ampleur de cette traite, il suffit d'observer la dynamique de la diaspora noire qui s'est formée au Brésil, aux Antilles et aux États-Unis, pour reconnaître qu'une entreprise de destruction froidement et méthodiquement programmée des peuples noirs, au sens d'un génocide — comme celui des Juifs, des Arméniens, des Cambodgiens ou autres Rwandais —, n'y est pas prouvée. Dans le Nouveau Monde la plupart des déportés ont assuré une descendance. De nos jours, plus de soixante-dix millions de descendants ou de métis d'Africains y vivent. Voilà pourquoi nous avons choisi d'employer le terme d'«holocauste» pour la traite transatlantique. Car ce mot signifie bien sacrifice d'hommes pour le bien-être des autres hommes, même si cela a pu entraîner un nombre incalculable de victimes. En outre, la plupart des nations occidentales impliquées dans le commerce triangulaire ont aujourd'hui reconnu leur responsabilité et prononcé leur aggiornamento. La France, entre autres, l'a fait une loi — qualifiant la traite négrière et l'esclavage de «crime contre l'humanité» — votée au Parlement le 10 mai 2001. Ce qui a marqué clairement un changement d'attitude chez les Français face à une page de leur histoire jusqu'alors mal assumée. D'autres voix se sont élevées pour présenter les excuses d'un pays, telle celle du président Clinton, ou demander «pardon pour les péchés commis par l'Europe chrétienne contre l'Afrique» (Jean-Paul II, en 1991, à Gorée). [...] Seul le génocide des peuples noirs par les nations arabo-musulmanes n'a toujours pas fait l'objet de reconnaissance aussi nette. Alors que ce crime est historiquement, juridiquement et moralement imprescriptible. Car bien qu'il n'y ait pas de victimes ni de coupables hérédiatires, les descendants des peuples impliqués ne peuvent refuser d'assumer une certaine responsabilité. On pouvait cependant espérer que les résolutions adoptées par la conférence de l'ONU à Durban (2-9 septembre 2001) iraeient dans ce sense. Mais dans l'esprit, l'acte, si solennel fût-il, n'était qu'une entreprise fallacieusement orientée, doublée d'une dénonciation sélective. Durban n'a pas donné une vision d'ensemble honnête et objective de la terrible «tragédie noire» passée. Puisque, de nos jours encore, beaucoup associent par réflexe traite négrière au seul traffic transatlantique organisé à partie de l'Europe et des Amériquees, qui a conduit à la mort ou à la déportation de millions d'Africains dans le Nouveau Monde. La confusion vient du fait que la colonisation européenne de l'Afrique noire avec son système de travail forcé a suivi la fin de la traite transatlantique, ce qui incite à assimiler les deux évènements. Alors que la traite et le travail forcé des peuples noirs n'ont pas été une invention des nations européennes.

So she was still single. She wondered sometimes if Blake was being deprived of male companionship solely because of her attitudes. It bothered her, but she didn’t want to change. “Snow is awesome,” he sighed, using a word that he used to denote only the best things in his life. Cherry pie was awesome. So was baseball, if the Atlanta Braves were playing, and football if the Dallas Cowboys were. She smiled at his dark head, so like her own. He had her slender build, too, but he had his father’s green eyes. Bob had been a handsome man. Handsome and far too brave for his own good. Dead at twenty-seven, she sighed, and for what? She folded her arms across her chest, cozy in the oversize red flannel shirt that she wore over well-broken-in jeans. “It’s freezing, that’s what it is,” she informed her offspring. “And it isn’t awesome; it’s irritating. Apparently, the electric generator goes out every other day, and the only man who can fix it stays drunk.” “That cowboy seems to know how,” Blake said hesitantly. Maggie agreed reluctantly. “I know. Things were running great until our foreman asked for time off to spend Christmas with his wife’s family in Pennsylvania. That leaves me in charge, and what do I know about running a ranch?” she moaned. “I grew up on a small farm, but I don’t know beans about how to manage this kind of place, and the men realize it. I suppose they don’t have any confidence in working for a secretary, even just temporarily.” “Well, there’s always Mr. Hollister,” Blake said with pursed lips and a wicked grin. She glared at him. “Mr. Hollister hates me. He hates you, too, in fact, but you don’t seem to let that stand in the way of your admiration for the man.” She threw up her hands, off on her favorite subject again. “For heaven’s sake, he’s a cross between a bear and a moose! He never comes off his mountain except when he wants to cuss somebody out or raise hell!” “He’s lonely,” Blake pointed out. “He lives all by himself. It’s hard going, I’ll bet, and he has to eat his own cooking.” He sat up enthusiastically, his thick hair over his brow. “Grandpa said he once knew a man who quit working for Mr. Hollister just because the cook got sick and Mr. Hollister had to feed the men.” Maggie glanced at her son with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “He probably fed them some of his