Jet The Hawk Quotes

Hard to do that and get home to take you to dinner,” he noted. “Hawk, your jet is supersonic,” I reminded him. He burst out laughing and I smiled a relieved smile into the phone and listened. When he was done laughing, he said, “Babe, I had a supersonic jet, your ass would be in it, I’d take you to a hot, humid, tropical nation but only so you could spend the days in a bikini and I could fuck you on the beach.” Oh. Wow. “Your daydreams are way better than mine,” I breathed. “This shit gets done, Gwen, that won’t be a dream,” he replied, I sucked in another breath and then got dead air.

It would be like the Wright brothers inventing their little fabric-and-sticks airplane for Kitty Hawk and then, the next summer, rolling out a fighter jet.

The example of the jet engine can help us to clear up another confusion. Science, according to many scientists, concentrates essentially on material causation. It asks the “how” questions: how does the jet engine work? It also asks the “why” question regarding function: why is this pipe here? But it does not ask the “why” question of purpose: why was the jet engine built? What is important here is that Sir Frank Whittle does not appear in the scientific account. To quote Laplace, the scientific account has “no need of that hypothesis”.29 Clearly, however, it would be ridiculous to deduce from this that Whittle did not exist. He is the answer to the question: why does the jet engine exist in the first place?

booths fashioned from tarps and cast-off wood, a squalid tent city that housed vendors hawking tacky artifacts and articles of second-hand clothing. A retired Greyhound coach creaked as it entered the muddy lot, carrying a handful of intrepid tourists and commuters from the coastal suburbs. The tired air brakes hissed their protest as it pulled to a stop and disgorged its cargo, the rusting, graffiti-covered

Astonishingly expensive, operationally incoherent, sold by a shifting slate of senior officers and politicians and editorial-page hawks, the wars continued in varied forms each and every year after the first passenger jet struck the World Trade Center in 2001. They continue today without a satisfying end in sight.

Here is this muscular, tattooed man with jet black hair, wet with sweat hanging in his eyes, settling himself behind a petite brunette.

shuddered. Hawke nodded. “Well, whatever happened saved me. But I was under water for so long—terrified to surface—and all my bubbles disappeared, and I started drowning. I couldn’t tell which way was up or down . . . I was so disoriented. When I finally made it to the surface, I didn’t have enough energy to swim. I just laid there, floating, most of my hearts gone. Then I was attacked again, but a water type hatchamob. A squid. I must have bumped it while I was floating and made it mad or something. It blasted me with a water jet, and I flew out of the water. The last thing I remember was flying toward the shore of this island. I knew when I hit, I’d poof.” “I’m so glad you’re alive,” Ellie said, relief flooding every word out of her mouth. She couldn’t help it and hugged him again.