John Ware Quotes

Truth and understanding are not such wares as to be monopolized and traded in by tickets and statutes and standards.

Maybe it wasn’t only John Neville who stole April’s life. Maybe she has done the same.

In strange and beautiful wares. It sells the lovely animals of the sea, the sponges, tunicates, anemones, the stars and buttlestars, and sun stars, the bivalves, barnacles, the worms and shells, the fabulous and multiform little brothers, the living moving flowers of the sea, nudibranchs and tectibranchs, the spiked and nobbed and needly urchins,

As Kallistos Ware put it, “From this hour and moment I can start to walk through the world, conscious that it is God’s world, that he is near me in everything that I see and touch, in everyone whom I encounter.”[62]

She was being silly. He was probably just a lonely middle-aged man with no talent for taking a graceful brush-off. But one thing was for sure: she had absolutely no intention of asking John Neville for help, ever again.

Air and Angels Twice or thrice had I loved thee, Before I knew thy face or name; So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us oft, and worshipped be; Still when, to where thou wert, I came, Some lovely glorious nothing I did see. But since my soul, whose child love is, Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do, More subtle than the parent is, Love must not be, but take a body too; And therefore what thou wert, and who, I bid love ask, and now That it assume thy body I allow, And fix itself to thy lip, eye, and brow. Whilst thus to ballast love I thought, And so more steadily to have gone, With wares which would sink admiration, I saw I had love's pinnace overfraught Every thy hair for love to work upon Is much too much, some fitter must be sought; For, nor in nothing, nor in things Extreme and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere. Then as an angel, face and wings Of air, not pure as it, yet pure doth wear, So thy love may be my love's sphere. Just such disparity As is 'twixt air and angel's purity, 'Twixt women's love and men's will ever be.

I did another commercial. Don't lose your loved ones, I wrote, because of excessive radioactivity. Don't be a wallflower at the dance because of strontium 90 in your bones. Don't be a victim of fallout. When the tart on Thirty-sixth Street gives you the big eye does your body stride off in one direction and your imagination in another? Does your mind follow her up the stairs and taste her wares in revolting detail while your flesh goes off to Brooks Brothers or the foreign exchange desk of the Chase Manhattan Bank? Haven't you noticed the size of the ferns, the lushness of the grass, the bitterness of the string beans, and the brilliant makings on the new breeds of butterflies? You have been inhaling lethal atomic waste for the last twenty-five years and only Elixircol can save you.

Fine Knacks for Ladies Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new! Good pennyworths! but money cannot move. I keep a fair but for the fair to view. A beggar may be liberal of love, Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true. Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again; My trifles come as treasures from the mind. It is a precious jewel to be plain; Sometimes in shell the Orient’s pearls we find. Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain. Within this pack pins points laces and gloves, And diverse toys fitting a country fair. But in my heart, where duty serves and loves, Turtles and twins, court’s brood, a heavenly pair. Happy the heart that thinks of no removes!

He hunts the biggest of all game! Public enemies that even the G-men cannot reach! This 1939 signature was reportedly revamped after top G-man J. Edgar Hoover complained. For many years thereafter it was He hunts the biggest of all game! Public enemies who try to destroy our America! With his faithful valet, Kato, Britt Reid, daring young publisher, matches wits with the underworld, risking his life that criminals and racketeers within the law may feel its weight by the sting of the Green Hornet! And at the end, the inevitable newsboy, hawking his wares: “Special extry! Paper! Police smash smuggling racket! Foreign diplomat involved! Read all about it! Green Hornet still at large!

Something must be wrong then in art, or the happiness of life is sickening in the house of civilization. What has caused the sickness? Machine-labour will you say? Well, I have seen quoted a passage from one of the ancient Sicilian poets rejoicing in the fashioning of a water-mill, and exulting in labour being set free from the toil of the hand-quern in consequence; and that surely would be a type of man's natural hope when foreseeing the invention of labour-saving machinery as 'tis called; natural surely, since though I have said that the labour of which art can form a part should be accompanied by pleasure, so one could deny that there is some necessary labour even which is not pleasant in itself, and plenty of unnecessary labour which is merely painful. If machinery had been used for minimizing such labour, the utmost ingenuity would scarcely have been wasted on it; but is that the case in any way? Look round the world, and you must agree with John Stuart Mill in his doubt whether all the machinery of modern times has lightened the daily work of one labourer. And why have our natural hopes been so disappointed? Surely because in these latter days, in which as a matter of fact machinery has been invented, it was by no means invented with the aim of saving the pain of labour. The phrase labour-saving machinery is elliptical, and means machinery which saves the cost of labour, not the labour itself, which will be expended when saved on tending other machines. For a doctrine which, as I have said, began to be accepted under the workshop-system, is now universally received, even though we are yet short of the complete development of the system of the Factory. Briefly, the doctrine is this, that the essential aim of manufacture is making a profit; that it is frivolous to consider whether the wares when made will be of more or less use to the world so long as any one can be found to buy them at a price which, when the workman engaged in making them has received of necessaries and comforts as little as he can be got to take, will leave something over as a reward to the capitalist who has employed him. This doctrine of the sole aim of manufacture (or indeed of life) being the profit of the capitalist and the occupation of the workman, is held, I say, by almost every one; its corollary is, that labour is necessarily unlimited, and that to attempt to limit it is not so much foolish as wicked, whatever misery may be caused to the community by the manufacture and sale of the wares made.

In the words of John Scotus Eriugena, "Every visible or invisible creature is a theophany or appearance of God." The Christian is the one who, wherever he looks, sees God everywhere and rejoices in him. Not without reason did the early Christians attribute to Christ this saying: "Lift the stone and you will find me; cut the wood in two and there am I.

It was okay, Travis, when the world couldn’t see us consuming and consuming. Or hear us. Or taste some of our wares. But communication by cinema, satellite, radio, television tape, these have been like a light coming on slowly, being turned up like on a rheostat control in a dark cellar where all of mankind used to live. Now it is blinding bright, cruelly bright. And they can all look over into our corner and see us gorging ourselves and playing with our bright pretty toys. And so they want theirs now. Just like ours, God help them. And what is the only thing we can say? ‘Sorry. You’re a little too late. We used it all up, all except what we need to keep our toys in repair and running and to replace them when they wear out. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.’ What comes after that? Barbarism, an interregnum, a new dark ages, and another start a thousand years from now with a few million people on the planet? Our myth has been that our standard of living would become available to all the peoples of the world. Myths wear thin. We have a visceral appreciation of the truth. That truth, which we don’t dare announce to the world, is what gives us the guilt and the shame and the despair. Nobody in the world will ever live as well, materially, as we once did. And now, as our materialism begins to sicken us, it is precisely what the emerging nations want for themselves. And can never have. Brazil might manage it. But no one else.

Even assuming he knew the sappers were Muslim, Mustapha was not going to spare any lives so long as victory was on the line. Besides, Muslims killed in this manner would go straight to paradise. The benefits were most likely lost on the slaves themselves, some of whom, to avoid the assignment, chose to cut off their own ears.

Colonna was best known for having killed his mother-in-law two weeks after having married her fourteen-year-old daughter.

God’s primary concern, and I think I learned this from Bruce Ware and John Piper, is His own glory and reputation. People are a means to that end, not ends in themselves. Allow me to state this as clearly as possible so my point is not missed: My individual right to choose my own destiny is a deception of Western democracy. This is not to deny the benefits of personal freedom, but perhaps we have confused the blessings with the curses that accompany individual freedom. In other words, “What happens to God when I believe I control my own world?

For NBC’s grand opening on Nov. 15, 1926, the network was able to pull in the bands of George Olsen, Vincent Lopez, Ben Bernie, B. A. Rolfe, and Fred Waring from various locations. All were then nationally known. Bernie had been on the air intermittently in 1923. He was actually a “front man,” a showman whose success was rooted more in personal charm than musicianship. His trademarks were the glib tongue, the cigar, and the nonsense phrase, widely imitated, “yowsah, yowsah, yowsah.

Ware’s—in the Gazette, and I’ll continue to do

I think John Mearsheimer is quite correct in his theory in describing the United States and other European or European related countries. That is to say, we do react as Graham Allison described in his "Thucydides Trap" idea. We do react militarily. We try to oppose uh the rise of others. We insist on hegemony. That is our our our history, and it derives from Europe. I don't think it applies really very well in East Asia. Pacific Asia never had, or I should say not never, but for two millennia it has not had waring states, which are typical of Europe. I mean Europe is full of little countries that relatively small countries that have been at war with each other for much of history. That's not been the pattern in in Pacific Asia. It has been the pattern in India by the way. India, like Europe, is an extension of the Eurasian landmass a peninsula. It has had this same kind of pattern of states contending with each other by whatever means they can come up with. Very Machiavellian. Actually the Indians outdo Machiavelli in their own, they make him look like a very devout Christian. I think my problem with John Mearsheimer's theory is that, I think it is a strategic theory that does not take account of cultural factors, geography and history adequately. [...]I think the pattern in in Pacific Asia just doesn't fit the Mearsheimer's or the Allison's theory very well. But, of course, he has described our behavior very well. And I think we are very foolishly leading with our chin. And I think we're very likely to get into a war, and we're going to be very sorry about that, because we're not going to win it. (Excerpt from interview "Amb. Chas Freeman: The Dangerous Myths We Tell Ourselves About China, Russia, and Iran")

Si yo fuese un buen hombre de negocios y me preocupase un poquito por mis biznietos nonatos, cosa que no hago, reuniría toda la basura y los automóviles desechados, peinaría los basureros de la ciudad y amontonaría esos restos en montañas y lo rociaría todo con esa sustancia que utiliza la Marina en los barcos contra la polilla. Al cabo de cien años se permitiría a mis descendientes abrir la puerta de acceso a este tesoro oculto y serían los reyes de las antigüedades del mundo. Si los cachivaches maltrechos, agrietados y rotos de los que nuestros antepasados intentaron librarse dan hoy tanto dinero, pensad lo que valdrá en el futuro un Oldsmobile de 1945 o una tostadora de 1960… o una batidora Waring… ¡las posibilidades son infinitas, Dios mío! Cosas que tenemos que pagar para que se las lleven podrían producir fortunas.

Maar de ware schatten van de oude Grieken - de prestaties op het vlak van kunst en ambacht, de verworvenheden op het gebied van literatuur en denken - zouden voortleven als een gouden baken en dienen in het streven tot navolging.

On radio, the character’s name was Michael Waring. Each show began with a telephone ringing. It was always a woman calling. Waring, whose smooth voice was laced with a hint of the British, usually addressed her as “angel,” or some other endearment; inevitably he had to beg out of a date, using such excuses as “I’ve got to teach some gangsters that you can’t get away with murder, especially since the murder they want to get away with is mine.” This preceded the opening signature. Waring’s methods crossed somewhere between Ellery Queen and Richard Diamond: he had a certain eye for detail but was frequently on the outs with the cops. The police were usually portrayed as stumblebums, and Waring was quick to point that out in snappy, sarcastic dialogue.

Science Fiction. I have sold thirteen stories, two of which have not yet been published and none of which are any damn good. I have sold to Universe, Original, Future, Super, Analog, Amazing, If, and Galaxy. A fourteenth story was sold to Fantastic Universe, which proceeded to drop dead before they could publish it. Both John Campbell and Cele Goldsmith have asked me to write sequels to novelettes of mine they had bought (I haven’t written either, and won’t). In a desk drawer I have twenty-odd thousand words of a science fiction novel, which is good, but which I’m not going to finish because it isn’t worth my while. Avalon pays three hundred and fifty dollars for a book, and I wouldn’t support such piracy either by writing for them or buying their wares. John Campbell isn’t the hero, so it can’t be serialized in Analog. If finished, it would run a lot longer than forty-five thousand words, so that leaves out Ace. There’s no gratuitous sex, so that excludes Galaxy/Beacon (or would if they were still being published). It isn’t a silly satire about a world controlled by advertising agencies or insurance companies or the A&P, so it can’t be serialized in Galaxy Magazine. It’s in sensible English, so Amazing is out. It isn’t about the horrors of Atomic War, so no mainstream hardcover house would look twice at it. I’d like to write it anyway for my own amusement (you know, like a real writer-type), but unpublished manuscripts unfortunately have a low enjoyment quota, at least for me. So the hell with it.

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