Jungle Rules Quotes

What Darwin was too polite to say, my friends, is that we came to rule the earth not because we were the smartest, or even the meanest, but because we have always been the craziest, most murderous motherfuckers in the jungle.

At bottom, you see, we are not Homo sapiens as all. Our core is madness. The prime directive is murder. What Darwin was too polite to say, my friends, is that we came to rule the earth not because we were the smartest, or even the meanest, but because we have always been the craziest, most murderous motherfuckers in the jungle. And that is what the Pulse exposed five days ago.

We made this stupid rule and this stupid rule. Boys are not allowed to love each other. Then we painted a bison on the wall.

A student once asked anthropologist Margaret Mead, “What is the earliest sign of civilization?” The student expected her to say a clay pot, a grinding stone, or maybe a weapon. Margaret Mead thought for a moment, then she said, “A healed femur.” A femur is the longest bone in the body, linking hip to knee. In societies without the benefits of modern medicine, it takes about six weeks of rest for a fractured femur to heal. A healed femur shows that someone cared for the injured person, did their hunting and gathering, stayed with them, and offered physical protection and human companionship until the injury could mend. Mead explained that where the law of the jungle—the survival of the fittest—rules, no healed femurs are found. The first sign of civilization is compassion, seen in a healed femur.

No one should expect a caged lion to rule the jungle

Until a few months ago we had a code of honor, and even the worst ruffians behaved with decency. You could leave your gold in a tent with no guard and no one would touch it, but now all that has changed. The law of the jungle rules, the only ideology is greed. Don't let yourself be parted from your weapons, and always travel in pairs or groups, because this is a land of thieves.

...Nobody rose in Packingtown by doing good work. You could lay that down for a rule—if you met a man who was rising in Packingtown, you met a knave. That man who had been sent to Jurgis' father by the boss, he would rise; the man who told tales and spied upon his fellows would rise; but the man who minded his own business and did his work—why, they would "speed him up" till they had worn him out, and then they would throw him into the gutter.

The world is getting weirder. Darker every single day. Things are spinning around faster and faster, and threatening to go completely awry. Falcons and falconers. The center cannot hold. But in my corner of the country, I'm trying to nail things down. I don't want to live in Victor's jungle, even if it did eventually devour him. I don't want to live in a world where the strong rule and the weak cower. I'd rather make a place where things are a little quieter. Where trolls stay the hell under their bridges and where elves don't come swooping out to snatch children from their cradles. Where vampires respect the limits, and where the faeries mind their p's and q's. My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Conjure by it at your own risk. When things get strange, when what goes bump in the night flicks on the lights, when no one else can help you, give me a call. I'm in the book.

The rules of the jungle did not apply to those who wrote the rules of the jungle.

The edge of a colossal jungle, so dark-green as to be almost black, fringed with white surf, ran straight, like a ruled line, far, far, away along blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a creeping mist.

History is people with ships and weapons wiping out those who forgot to invent them. Every civilisation begins with a genocide. It is the rule of the universe. The immutable law of the jungle, even this one made of concrete. You can see it in the movement of the stars, and in the dance of every atom. The rich will enslave the penniless. The strong will crush the weak.

No man has the right to rule over another man, otherwise such a right necessarily, and immediately becomes the right of the strongest. As the tiger in the jungle rules over the defenceless antelope, so on the banks of the Nile a Pharaoh ruled over the progenitors of the fellaheen of Egypt. Nor can a group of men, by contract, from their own right, compel you to obey a fellow-man. What binding force is there for me in the allegation that ages ago one of my progenitors made a ‘Contrat Social,’ with other men of that time? As man I stand free and bold, over against the most powerful of my fellow-men. I do not speak of the family, for here organic, natural ties rule; but in the sphere of the State I do not yield or bow down to anyone, who is man, as I am.

There were red checkers and black checkers. The playing field was laid out in a strict grid, no tunnels or mountains or jungles. You knew where you stood. You knew the score. The pieces were out on the board, the enemy was visible, you could watch the tactics unfolding into larger strategies. There was a winner and a loser. There were rules.

Although neither the Freudians nor the Jungians come right out and say it, they strongly suggest that we may have a core, a single basic carrier wave, or-to use language with which Jordan is comfortable-a single line of written code which cannot be stripped.' 'The PD,' Jordan said. 'The prime directive'. 'Yes,' the Head agreed. 'At bottom, you see, we are not Homo sapiens at all. Our core is madness. The prime directive is murder. What Darwin was too polite to say, my friends, is that we came to rule the earth not because we were the smartest, or even the meanest, but because we have always been the craziest, most murderous motherfuckers in the jungle.

Don’t be afraid of being alone; a lion does not rule the jungle with sheep at its side.

A dog rules a farm. A fox rules a bush. A wolf rules a forest. A lion rules a jungle. A fish rules a pond. A crocodile rules a river. A shark rules a sea. A whale rules an ocean.

It is easier for a lion to rule a jungle than for sheep to rule a forest.

When you live in the jungle you have to live by its rules; the strong get to make it to tomorrow while the weak become food.

You try to understand human behavior. You try to explain it. Not me. I know we're smaller than gorillas, bigger than chimps, worse than both of them and, for all our rationality, our rules and laws, our baser drives are still straight out of the jungle.

Though we have been stuffing them into classrooms and cubicles for decades, our brains actually were built to survive in jungles and grasslands. We have not outgrown this.

Jurgis had come there, and thought he was going to make himself useful, and rise and become a skilled man; but he would soon find out his error—for nobody rose in Packingtown by doing good work. You could lay that down for a rule—if you met a man who was rising in Packingtown, you met a knave.

The edge of a colossal jungle, so dark-green as to be almost black, fringed with white surf, ran straight, like a ruled line, far, far away along a blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a creeping mist.

THE LAW OF THE JUNGLE Just to give you an idea of the immense variety of the Jungle Law, I have translated into verse (Baloo always recited them in a sort of sing-song) a few of the laws that apply to the wolves. There are, of course, hundreds and hundreds more, but these will do for specimens of the simpler rulings.

You can work it out by Fractions or by simple Rule of Three, But the way of Tweedle-dum is not the way of Tweedle-dee. You can twist it, you can turn it, you can plait it till you drop, But the way of Pilly-Winky’s not the way of Winkie-Pop!

And now in the union Jurgis met men who explained all this mystery to him; and he learned that America differed from Russia in that its government existed under the form of a democracy. The officials who ruled it, and got all the graft, had to be elected first; and so there were two rival sets of grafters, known as political parties, and the one got the office which bought the most votes. Now

he learned that America differed from Russia in that its government existed under the form of a democracy. The officials who ruled it, and got all the graft, had to be elected first; and so there were two rival sets of grafters, known as political parties, and the one got the office which bought the most votes. Now and then, the election was very close, and that was the time the poor man came in. In the stockyards this was only in national and state elections, for in local elections the Democratic Party always carried everything.

I remember reading once how some Stone Age Indians from the Brazilian rain forest with no knowledge or expectation of a world beyond the jungle were taken to Sao Paulo or Rio, and when they saw what it contained-the buildings, the cars, the passing airplanes-and how thoroughly at variance it was with their own simple lives, they wet themselves, lavishly and in unison. I believe I had some idea how they felt. It is such a strange contrast. When you’re on the AT, the forest is your universe, infinite and entire. It is all you experience day after day. Eventually it is about all you can imagine. You are aware, of course, that somewhere over the horizon there are mighty cities, busy factories, crowded freeways, but here in this part of the country, where woods drape the landscape for as far as the eye can see, the forest rules. Even the little towns like Franklin and Hiawassee and even Gatlinburg are just way stations scattered helpfully through the great cosmos of woods. But come off the trail, properly off, and drive somewhere, as we did now, and you realize how magnificently deluded you have been. Here, the mountains and woods were just backdrop-familiar, known, nearby, but no more consequential or noticed than the clouds that scudded across their ridgelines. Here the real business was up close and on top of you: gas stations, Wal-Marts, Kmarts, Dunkin Donuts, Blockbuster Videos, a ceaseless unfolding pageant of commercial hideousness.

A lion does not ask for permission to rule the jungle.

. . . Neither ecological nor social engineering will lead us to a conflict-free, simple path . . . Utilitarians and others who simply advise us to be happy are unhelpful, because we almost always have to make a choice either between different kinds of happiness--different things to be happy _about_--or between these and other things we want, which nothing to do with happiness. . . . Do we find ourselves a species naturally free from conflict? We do not. There has not, apparently, been in our evolution a kind of rationalization which might seem a possible solution to problems of conflict--namely, a takeover by some major motive, such as the desire for future pleasure, which would automatically rule out all competing desires. Instead, what has developed is our intelligence. And this in some ways makes matters worse, since it shows us many desirable things that we would not otherwise have thought of, as well as the quite sufficient number we knew about for a start. In compensation, however, it does help us to arbitrate. Rules and principles, standards and ideals emerge as part of a priority system by which we guide ourselves through the jungle. They never make the job easy--desires that we put low on our priority system do not merely vanish--but they make it possible. And it is in working out these concepts more fully, in trying to extend their usefulness, that moral philosophy begins. Were there no conflict, it [moral philosophy] could never have arisen. The motivation of living creatures does got boil down to any single basic force, not even an 'instinct of self-preservation.' It is a complex pattern of separate elements, balanced roughly in the constitution of the species, but always liable to need adjusting. Creatures really have divergent and conflicting desires. Their distinct motives are not (usually) wishes for survival or for means to survival, but for various particular things to be done and obtained while surviving. And these can always conflict. Motivation is fundamentally plural. . . An obsessive creature dominated constantly by one kind of motive, would not survive. All moral doctrine, all practical suggestions about how we ought to live, depend on some belief about what human nature is like. The traditional business of moral philosophy is attempting to understand, clarify, relate, and harmonize so far as possible the claims arising from different sides of our nature. . . . One motive does not necessarily replace another smoothly and unremarked. There is _ambivalence_, conflict behavior.

You can work it out by Fractions or by simple Rule of Three, But the way of Tweedle-dum is not the way of Tweedle-dee. You can twist it, you can turn it, you can plait it till you drop, But the way of Pilly Winky’s not the way of Winkie Pop!

To sum up: all nature-spirits are not the same as fairies; nor are all fairies nature-spirits. The same applies to the relationship of nature-spirits and the dead. But we may safely say that a large proportion of nature-spirits became fairies, while quite a number of the dead in some areas seem to take on the character of nature-spirits. We cannot expect any fixity of rule in dealing with barbaric thought. We must take it as it comes. It bears the same relationship to "civilized" or folk-lore theory as does the growth of the jungle to a carefully designed and meticulously labelled botanical garden. As Victor Hugo once exclaimed when writing of the barbaric confusion which underlies the creative function in poetry: 'What do you expect? You are among savages!

At first, I was scared to be alone. No routines. No rules. Just me. But I think..." Taylor wiped a tear away. "I think I was always in the jungle. Before. It was always there. I think I had to come out here to find the answer." "And what did you find?" "I love myself. They make it so hard for us to love ourselves." Taylor stared off into the dark. Her face gleamed with tears. Snot ran over her lips. "The judges won't like that answer." "Nobody's judging you." Taylor choked on a sob. "Always," she whispered.

It was a great help to a person who had to toil all the week to be able to look forward to some such relaxation as this on Saturday nights. The family was too poor and too hardworked to make many acquaintances; in Packingtown, as a rule, people know only their near neighbors and shopmates, and so the place is like a myriad of little country villages. But now there was a member of the family who was permitted to travel and widen her horizon; and so each week there would be new personalities to talk about,—how so-and-so was dressed, and where she worked, and what she got, and whom she was in love with; and how this man had jilted his girl, and how she had quarreled with the other girl, and what had passed between them; and how another man beat his wife, and spent all her earnings upon drink, and pawned her very clothes. Some people would have scorned this talk as gossip; but then one has to talk about what one knows. It

I remember Norman Bowker and Henry Dobbins playing checkers every evening before dark. It was a ritual for them. They would dig a foxhole and get the board out and play long, silent games as the sky went from pink to purple. The rest of us would sometimes stop by to watch. There was something restful about it, something orderly and reassuring. There were red checkers and black checkers. The playing field was laid out in a strict grid, no tunnels or mountains or jungles. You knew where you stood. You knew the score. The pieces were out on the board, the enemy was visible, you could watch the tactics unfolding into larger strategies. There was a winner and a loser. There were rules.

When I was a kid, summers were the most glorious time of life. Because my parents believed in hands-off, free-range parenting, I’d usually be out the door before ten and wouldn’t return until dinner. There were no cell phones to keep track of me and whenever my mom called a neighbor to ask where I was, the neighbor was often just as clueless as to her own child’s whereabouts. In fact, there was only one rule as far as I could tell: I had to be home at half past five, since my parents liked to eat dinner as a family. I can’t remember exactly how I used to spend those days. I have recollections in snapshot form: building forts or playing king of the hill on the high part of the jungle gym or chasing after a soccer ball while attempting to score. I remember playing in the woods, too. Back then, our home was surrounded by undeveloped land, and my friends and I would have dirt-clod wars or play capture the flag; when we got BB guns, we could spend hours shooting cans and occasionally shooting at each other. I spent hours exploring on my bicycle, and whole weeks would pass where I’d wake every morning with nothing scheduled at all. Of course, there were kids in the neighborhood who didn’t lead that sort of carefree existence. They would head off to camp or participate in summer leagues for various sports, but back then, kids like that were the minority. These days, kids are scheduled from morning to night because parents have demanded it, and London has been no exception. But how did it happen? And why? What changed the outlook of parents in my generation? Peer pressure? Living vicariously through a child’s success? Résumé building for college? Or was it simply fear that if their kids were allowed to discover the world on their own, nothing good would come of it? I don’t know. I am, however, of the opinion that something has been lost in the process: the simple joy of waking in the morning and having nothing whatsoever to do.

A shark does not ask for permission to rule the waters. A bear does not ask for permission to rule the woods. A wolf does not ask for permission to rule the forest. A camel does not ask for permission to rule the desert. A lion does not ask for permission to rule the jungle. Trees do not ask for permission to rule woodlands. Gravel does not ask for permission to rule mountains. Light does not ask for permission to rule summer. Wind does not ask for permission to rule autumn. Snow does not ask for permission to rule winter. Water does not ask for permission to rule the sea. Plants do not ask for permission to rule rainforests. Animals do not ask for permission to rule wildernesses. Stars do not ask for permission to rule the sky. Nature does not ask for permission to rule the world. An eagle achieves more than a turkey in a lifetime. A leopard achieves more than a hyena in a lifetime. A fox achieves more than a rabbit in a lifetime. A falcon achieves more than a vulture in a lifetime. A lion achieves more than a sheep in a lifetime. A leader achieves more than a student in a lifetime. A saint achieves more than a sinner in a lifetime. A prophet achieves more than a priest in a lifetime. A master achieves more than a disciple in a lifetime. A conqueror achieves more than a warrior in a lifetime. A hero achieves more than a villain in a lifetime. A maestro achieves more than an apprentice in a lifetime. A genius achieves more than a talent in a lifetime. A star achieves more than a critic in a lifetime. A legend achieves more than a champion in a lifetime.

But everywhere dark shapes were already melting into the night, seeking asylum in the undergrowth and the jungle. Those not caught in the first haul headed for the mountains, stealing canoes and boats to make their way upstream; they were unarmed, almost naked, but determined to return to the way of life of their ancestors, somewhere the whites would not be able reach them. As they passed the outlying plantations, they spread the news amongst their own people, and ten, twenty, more men would abandon their work, deserting the fields of indigo and clover, to swell the numbers of the runaways. And in parties of one hundred, two hundred at a time, followed by their wives carrying children, they moved off into the interior, through thickets and crags, in search of a place they could build a palisade. As they fled they scattered mullein seeds in the streams and rivulets, so that fish would be poisoned and infect the water with their miasma as they putrefied. Beyond this torrent, beyond that mountain clothed in waterfalls, Africa would begin again; they would go back to forgotten tongues, to the rites of circumcision, to the worship of the earlier gods, who had preceded the recent gods of Christianity. The undergrowth closed behind men who were retracing the course of history, to regain an age when Creation had been ruled by the fertile Venus, with her huge breasts and her ample belly, who was worshipped in deep caves where a hand was haltingly tracing its first configurations of the activities of the chase, and of ceremonies dedicated to the stars.

Today humankind has broken the law of the jungle. There is at last real peace, and not just absence of war. For most polities, there is no plausible scenario leading to full-scale conflict within one year. What could lead to war between Germany and France next year? Or between China and Japan? Or between Brazil and Argentina? Some minor border clash might occur, but only a truly apocalyptic scenario could result in an old-fashioned full-scale war between Brazil and Argentina in 2014, with Argentinian armoured divisions sweeping to the gates of Rio, and Brazilian carpet-bombers pulverising the neighbourhoods of Buenos Aires. Such wars might still erupt between several pairs of states, e.g. between Israel and Syria, Ethiopia and Eritrea, or the USA and Iran, but these are only the exceptions that prove the rule.

The beauty of life is its sudden changes. No one knows what is going to happen next, and so we are constantly being surprised and entertained. The many ups and downs should not discourage us, for if we are down, we know that a change is coming and we will go up again; while those who are up are almost certain to go down. My grandfather had a song which well expresses this and if you will listen I will sing it." "Of course I will listen to your song," returned Kitticut, "for it would be impolite not to." So Rinkitink sang his grandfather's song: "A mighty King once ruled the land—      But now he's baking pies. A pauper, on the other hand,      Is ruling, strong and wise. A tiger once in jungles raged—      But now he's in a zoo; A lion, captive-born and caged,      Now roams the forest through. A man once slapped a poor boy's pate      And made him weep and wail. The boy became a magistrate      And put the man in jail. A sunny day succeeds the night;      It's summer—then it snows! Right oft goes wrong and wrong comes right,      As ev'ry wise man knows.

The nahab are like the dead; their souls have escaped their breasts,” he said. “The nahab have no knowledge, they know nothing; they cannot spear a fish with a lance or fell a monkey with a dart, or climb a tree. They do not go dressed in air and light, as we do, but wear stinking cloth. They do not bathe in the river, they do not know the rules of decency or courtesy, they do not share their house, their food, their children, or their women. They have soft bones and their skulls split at the least blow. They kill animals and do not eat them, leaving them on the ground to rot. Wherever they pass they leave a trail of filth and poison, even in water. The nahab are so crazed that they try to take with them the stones of the earth, the sand of the rivers, and the trees of the forest. Some want the earth itself. We tell them that the jungle cannot be carried away on their backs like a dead tapir, but they do not listen. They speak to us of their gods but they do not want to hear of ours. Their appetites are unbounded, like the caimans’s. These terrible things I have seen with my own eyes, and I have heard with my own ears, and touched with my own hands.

(FIRE) THE BOOK OF SATAN THE INFERNAL DIATRIBE The first book of the Satanic Bible is not an attempt to blaspheme as much as it is a statement of what might be termed 'diabolical indignation'. The Devil has been attacked by the men of God relentlessly and without reservation. Never has there been an opportunity, short of fiction, for the Dark Prince to speak out in the same manner as the spokesmen of the Lord of the Righteous. The pulpit-pounders of the past have been free to define 'good' and 'evil' as they see fit, and have gladly smashed into oblivion any who disagree with their lies - both verbally and, at time, physically. Their talk of 'charity', when applied to His Infernal Majesty, becomes an empty sham - and most unfairly, too, considering the obvious fact that without their Satanic foe their very religions would collapse. How sad, that the allegorical personage most responsible for the success of spiritual religions is show the least amount of charity and the most consistent abuse - and by those who most unctuously preach the rules of fair play! For all the centuries of shouting-down the Devil has received, he has never shouted back at his detractors. He has remained the gentleman at all times, while those he supports rant and rave. He has shown himself to be a model of deportment, but now he feels it is time to receive his due. Now the ponderous rule-books of hypocrisy are no longer needed. In order to relearn the Law of the Jungle, a small, slim diatribe will do. Each verse is an inferno. Each word is a tongue of fire. The flames of Hell burn fierce... and purify! Read on and learn the Law.

Before dinner on the last night, while the guys were on the deck drinking whiskey and talking about Elon Musk, Liz and I went on a walk and she told me about a dream she’d been fixating on, a dream about what happens after mothers die. “We are all in this place. All the mothers who had to leave early.” (I would repeat her unforgettable phrasing—had to leave early—to Edward as we went to sleep that night.) “It’s huge, big as an airplane hangar, and there are all these seats, rows and rows, set up on a glass floor, so all the moms can look down and watch their kids live out their futures.” How dominant the ache to know what becomes of our children. “There’s one rule: you can watch as much and as long as you want, but you can only intervene once.” I nodded, tears forming. “So I sat down. And I watched. I watched them out back by the pool, swimming with Andy, napping on a towel. I watched them on the jungle gym, walking Lambchop, reading their Lemony Snicket books. I watched Margo taking a wrong turn or forgetting her homework. I watched Dru ignoring his coach. I watched Gwennie logging her feelings in a journal. And every time I went to intervene, to warn one of the kids about something or just pick them up to hold them, a more experienced mother leaned across and stopped me. Not now. He’ll figure it out. She’ll come around. And it went on and on like that and in the end,” she said, smiling with wet eyes, “I never needed to use my interventions.” Her dream was that she had, in her too-short lifetime, endowed her children with everything they’d require to negotiate the successive obstacle courses of adolescence, young adulthood, and grown-up life. “I mean, they had heartaches and regret and fights and broken bones,” she said, stopping to rest. “They made tons of mistakes, but they didn’t need me. I never had to say anything or stop anything. I never said one word.” She put her arm through mine and we started moving again, back toward the house, touching from our shoulders to our elbows, crunching the gravel with our steps, the mingled voices of our children coming from the door we left open.

By thinking that other people are inferior to oneself. By feeling that one has some innate superiority it may be wealth, or rank, a straight nose, or the portrait of a grandfather by Romney - for there is no end to the pathetic devices of the human imagination over other people. Hence the enormous importance to a patriarch who has to conquer, who has to rule, of feeling that great numbers of people, half the human race indeed, are by nature inferior to himself. It must indeed be one of the chief sources of his power. But let me turn the light of this observation on to real life, I thought. Does it help to explain some of those psychological puzzles that one notes in the margin of daily life? Does it explain my astonishment the other day when Z, most humane, most modest of men, taking up some book by Rebecca West and reading a passage in it, exclaimed, 'The arrant feminist! She says that men are snobs!' The exclamation, to me so surprising for why was Miss West an arrant feminist for making a possibly true if uncomplimentary statement about the other sex? - was not merely the cry of wounded vanity; it was a protest against some infringement of his power to believe in himself. Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size. Without that power probably the earth would still be swamp and jungle. The glories of all our wars would be unknown. We should still be scratching the outlines of deer on the remains of mutton bones and bartering flints for sheep skins or whatever simple ornament took our unsophisticated taste. Supermen and Fingers of Destiny would never have existed. The Tsar and the Kaiser would never have worn crowns or lost them. Whatever may be their use in civilized societies, mirrors are essential to all violent and heroic action. That is why Napoleon and Mussolini both insist so emphatically upon the inferiority of women, for if they were not inferior, they would cease to enlarge. That serves to explain in part the necessity that women so often are to men. And it serves to explain how restless they are under her criticism; how impossible it is for her to say to them this book is bad, this picture is feeble, or whatever it may be, without giving far more pain and musing far more anger than a man would do who gave the same criticism. For if she begins to tell the truth, the figure in the looking-glass shrinks; his fitness for life is diminished. How is he to go on giving judgement, civilizing natives, making laws, writing books, dressing up and speechifying at banquets, unless he can see himself at breakfast and at dinner at least twice the size he really is? So I reflected, crumbling my bread and stirring my coffee and now and again looking at the people in the street. The looking-glass vision is of supreme importance because it charges the vitality; it stimulates the nervous system. Take it away and man may die, like the drug fiend deprived of his cocaine. Under the spell of that illusion, I thought, looking out of the window, half the people on the pavement are striding to work. They put on their hats and coats in the morning under its agreeable rays. They start the day confident, braced, believing themselves desired at Miss Smith's tea party; they say to themselves as they go into the room, I am the superior of half the people here, and it is thus that they speak with that self-confidence, that self-assurance, which have had such profound consequences in public life and lead to such curious notes in the margin of the private mind.

We cannot seem to understand that we are playing for keeps in a deadly serious operation in which there are no rules, no umpire, no prizes for good boys, no dunce caps for bad boys. In this game good intentions are not worth a damn; moral principles are traps; weakness and indecision are fatal. This is what Americans have been taught since they went to Christian Endeavor meetings cannot and must not happen — “the law of the jungle,” where the judgment of nature upon error is death. And so we commit every error of every sort against nature. We make ourselves unworthy of the trust of our allies, we disregard their interests, we join with their and our enemies to weaken, humiliate and destroy them and our alliance with them. We believe for some incomprehensible reason that the U.N. is some disembodied moral force apart from ourselves. We are elated when it serves as the front for the combination of Russian and American power which crushes our allies. This is principle. We turn away when American desires running counter to Russian have no more effect than a peashooter on a tank. Dean Acheson to Harry S. Truman December 4, 1956

This is the opposite of the Judeo-Christian ideology that – whether or not one is religious – remains the historic basis of our civilization. In the Book of Genesis, God says to mankind: “Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground.” Subduing the Earth and filling the Earth with people is about as far from the ideology of the Sierra Club as one can get. The Sierra Club and fellow green ideologues may think that nature worship is something new. But, plenty of illiterate peoples living in jungles are a step ahead of the Sierra Club. When a paradise on Earth fails to emerge from the adoption of utopian ideas, totalitarianism often follows. Rather than changing their ideas, because they prove ineffective, ideologues double down and try to force their ideas on the population. That, of course, is the history of communism. The green ideologues in the U.S. are not communists. Rather than championing the workers, they champion the Earth. They also champion themselves.

A naval officer in a crisp blue uniform gave us a speech about the traditions of the sea, and how we were to uphold them throughout our upcoming careers. It all sounded glorious, but to us it seemed to drag on forever. There were others who added to these sentiments, also in glowing terms. In contrast to us, the officers all looked very professional and sharp in their dress uniforms. It made me very aware that I still didn’t even have my working boots, a belt or a white gob hat, but never mind, most of us were still out of uniform. I guess that’s why we were called muggs! Now with my right hand up, I swore to uphold the Constitution of the United States and obey the lawful orders of those appointed over me, which was just about everybody. Flash bulbs went off and suddenly, I was in the Navy! Wow! I was now a Midshipman in the U.S. Naval Reserve and did I ever feel proud. Unfortunately there wasn’t much time to bask in this solitary ray of light. The swearing in ceremony was hardly over and already I was late for lunch. I had to run double time between buildings, squaring all the corners along the way. So, doing my best to observe all of these new rules, I ran as fast as I could to the mess hall. Getting there just before they slammed the windows shut, I got the last two pre-made, soggy sandwiches. The sandwiches were wet and crushed, and I could swear they had greasy fingerprints on them. This sad excuse for food only looked appetizing because of my extreme hunger. With no time to waste, I washed lunch down with a glass of warm “jungle juice” reminiscent of Camp Wawayanda, before scurrying off to my next appointment, which was at the barbershop, also in the basement of Richardson Hall.

Dakar with a population of over a million people is the capital and largest city of Senegal. Counting the surrounding area the population would go well over 2,000,000. This would be our last landing for fuel, before our arrival in Liberia. We took a long turn over the Atlantic and made a slow decent to the runway of the “Aéroport international de Dakar” just north of Dakar. The Portuguese founded Dakar in 1444, as a base for the export of slaves. Dakar came under French rule in 1872 and was the capital of the Mali Federation for a year after 1959. On August 20, 1960, it became the capital of Senegal. It is here that the sand dunes of the North African desert, gives way to the dense tropical rain forests of Equatorial Africa. On a map of Africa, Liberia is on the western bulge, just 5 degrees north of the equator. This is where, during the blisteringly hot summer months it constantly rains, and just south of where the tropical depressions become the fierce hurricanes that threaten the Caribbean Islands and North America. The impenetrable jungle of Liberia is euphemistically called “The Bush.” This hell hot, humid, Garden of Eden, was to become my home for the next eighteen months.

Technically, Sheena predates even Superman, having first appeared in the primordial dawn of comic books in 1937. But her true origins are older than that. Sheena is often described as the female version of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ 1912 creation, Tarzan. The majority of Burroughs’ popular works revolves around a tension between the savage and the civilized, also seen in Sheena’s adventures. Burroughs’ work, like that of fellow adventure writer H. Rider Haggard, came out of the colonial era, and was written for men and boys who yearned for an escape from stifling modern life, through tales of dangerous worlds and exotic women. The common theme of these stories is that a man from the civilized world finds his way to a fantastic, often barbaric, world of adventure, where he falls in love with an intoxicating savage princess. While most of Burroughs’ heroines, like Dejah Thoris or Dian the Beautiful, were in need of rescuing, Haggard’s 1886 novel She introduced a stronger heroine. The novel’s English protagonist encounters the beautiful queen Ayesha, the ruler of a lost city in Africa. Ayesha is referred to as “she who must be obeyed,” and is a creature that provokes both fear and lust. Ayesha was the ultimate fantasy of civilized man: the beautiful, savage white queen, ruling a kingdom unhindered by the laws of modern morality. This brand of men’s fiction produced the swirling foam of exotic and erotic fantasy from which rose the jungle Venus known as Sheena. (...) Now that we have some historical context on these female monarchs, let’s talk about their specific origins. In the 1930s, there were several studios that produced art and stories for the various publishers who were getting into the new field of comic books. One of the most successful and prolific was the Universal Phoenix Studio, operated by two young artists named Will Eisner and Jerry Iger. In 1937, they created a female Tarzan-type character named Sheena for the British tabloid Wags. The strip was credited to the pseudonym W. Morgan Thomas, and the heroine’s name was meant to remind readers of H. Rider Haggard’s She. Demand for new comic book material was growing in the United States, and American pulp magazine publisher Fiction House was looking for material for a new comic book. Sheena made her American debut in 1938’s Jumbo Comics #1, just three months after Superman’s now legendary first appearance. She was the first female adventure character in comic books. This would be just one of her claims to fame.

​I stood there, on the gatehouse with the floodplain of the Kahan River in front of me and with raindrops softly pocking the stone parapet around my feet, and I looked and I thought.  Pakistan is a complex land, far more complex than its portrayal in the media would suggest, and Rohtas is the perfect example of its convoluted, tangled past.  It was built by a Pashtun hailing from the other side of the subcontinent in order to prevent a deposed fellow Muslim ruler from returning from exile and to keep another Muslim tribe suppressed and docile.  It contains the private residence of a later Moghul Emperor’s Hindu general and an abandoned Hindu temple, all but swallowed up by an encroaching jungle, and was later captured by the Sikhs who ruled over a large swathe of what is now Pakistan from 1799 to 1849; the nearby gurdwara testified to their presence.  Even the style of the fort’s construction told the same story: it contained elements of Persian, Afghan, Hindu and Turkish architectural forms.  The fort is a relic from a previous era, a time before the concept of the nation-state, a time when empires rose and fell, when warlords could carve out kingdoms for themselves which might last for a decade or for three centuries, a time of profound cultural and religious ferment.

Isabella’s legacy was visible everywhere in Panama, once the hub of Spain’s colonnial empire, where tons of gold and silver were transported to Europe so that the queen’s descendants could expand their power and dominion in the Old World. There were dozens of sites, mostly crumbling, abandoned ruins, covered in jungle vines, where the Spaniards had lived and worked when they ruled the planet. The derelict Castilla de San Lorenzo and the tumbled-down walls of Panama Viejo were evidence that even awesome political power can be fleeting. This made a vivid impression on me, a child of American empire overseas, then at the apex of its strength, both admired and resented around the world.

Women Know Best (The Sonnet) Wanna learn about running a world, go find a woman mentor, For women are better teacher and better leader. Society that glorifies men and objectifies women, Is but a jungle where primitivity never ceases to fester. Nature looks upon kindly any species that, Has realized the synonymity of sacred and feminine. Those who still fail to recognize the voice of women, Are basically violating the very reason for existing. Women know best what's best for the world, The world that comes out of her womb. They cuss us, they mock us, it's for our own good, All time is feminine, feminine is the rule. The world is but creation, women are the creator. Feminine is the idol, we are mere idolator.

The eagle may rule the sky, but the lion will always rule the jungle.

History is people with ships and weapons wiping out those who forgot to invent them. Every civilisation begins with a genocide. It is the rule of the universe. The immutable law of the jungle, even this one made of concrete. You can see it in the movement of the stars, and in the dance of every atom. The rich will enslave the penniless. The strong will crush the weak.

the ten pounds of sweat that soaked my jungle fatigues and caused them to stick and rub everything the wrong way.

East Timor in total contrast is much more interesting but desperately poor and has suffered a brutal history under Portuguese and Indonesian rule. It only finally gained independence in 2002 after a bloody civil war and UN peacekeepers were withdrawn a couple of years ago indicating that it is becoming safer. Still hardly any travellers come here, put off primarily by its dangerous reputation. Efforts are being made to build a tourism industry and if you come you will be greeted with an enormous amount of curiosity by locals. It's a fabulous destination for skuba diving with some stunning coral reefs and with great mountain and jungles treks it's certainly a destination for adventure travellers.

No matter how much territory the wolf conquers the lion will still rule the jungle.

A lion does not earn its crown quarreling with sheep.

Within there is regard for the law of marriage; without there isn’t any. Within, Sita is Rama’s wife. Outside, she is a woman for the taking. Ravana knows that if he enters Rama’s hut and forces himself on Sita he will be judged by the rules of society. But when he forces himself on Sita outside the Lakshmana-rekha, he will be judged by the laws of the jungle. Within, he will be the villain who disregarded the laws of marriage. Outside, he will be hero, the great trickster.

The jungle or the prairie, parrots or bobolinks—none of them ever has the opportunity to argue its own value as being, as things that deserve respect simply because they are. This reveals a grave spiritual flaw in their masters: the governors, developers, and agribusiness kings of the world. The ruling order has no moral right to rule because it makes its daily purpose the defeat of the future. The accountant’s logic that concludes that our “interest” is in “profit” assures a future defined by cruelty, but in the long run it will be understood as self-defeat. National

Doesn’t matter what’s playing as long as it isn’t an animal movie. I can’t stomach those, especially if it’s a talking animal movie. Those are the worst.  No cat sounds like Jude Law.  Everyone knows this. Although I did break this rule for the Jungle Book. Because Idris Elba. Okay, I also saw the new Tarzan because of Alex Skarsgård. Who wouldn’t make exceptions for those two? I could listen to Idris read me the AVMA journal all day, any day of the week ending in ay.

Human needs rules and penalties. Lessons require heroes and villains. Ignore them, then welcome to the jungle.

Think about what your children are observing about you. Do they see you playing by jungle rules (survival of the fittest), or by kingdom rules (mercy and grace freely extended to all)? The daily seeds of submission we plant both knowingly and unknowingly will have lifelong consequences for our children.

We follow the rules of Jungle. survival, survival, survival.

life is a fucking jungle, and there’s only one rule in it. Kill, or be killed.

What most women thought were "the rules" were simply precepts to keep women in their place. "Nice" was a comfortable, reassuring box where society told women if they stayed–if they didn't stray out of the nice box–they would be safe. But no one was safe. Safety was a lie, especially when it came to business. The only rules were about power: who had it and who could exercise it.

But as the British Empire pulled up its tent pegs and struck camp to head home, I realized that there would be anger and resentment towards my race. The white man has given India many things of great value but he has also taken far more than his share and, in many cases, imposed unjust prejudices and priorities on people who have lived under the yoke of foreign domination for nearly a century and a half. Whatever reprisals occur might not take the extreme forms of violence that erupted in 1857, when my grandfather and other family members were slaughtered during the Mutiny. Nevertheless, if politics spills into the streets it is a scourge that turns friends into adversaries, reducing human behaviour to a brute contest in which all rules are abandoned and there can be no victor, only the vanquished. Some journalists have described it as the ‘law of the jungle’, which is an odious comparison, for in the absence of man, most jungles exist in peaceful harmony, governed by laws of nature and the eternal, equitable balance between life and death.

The Jungle was alive. A throbbing entity with its own rules of engagement. And the rules were fairly simple. That you did not try to engage with it. That you had to let it own you. The Jungle had ears and eyes. It found your fears faster than you found your strength. And word travelled fast, really fast. Especially if raging waters criss-crossed through its hear. If you did not square off with your fears, the Jungle would square off with you.

Well, your choice is to spit out what's wrong, or I'm going to start guessing. I'm not going to stop until you tell me I've got it, and I'll warn you—I'm a shitty guesser, so this could take a while." I leaned back in my chair and glared at him. “Have it your way,” he said. William started to pace around the room while stroking his chin theatrically. “You were actually born to a convent of nuns, but you had a sex change and escaped years ago. Now they’ve found you, and they’re coming for your penis? Pun intended,” he added with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “That’s…” I closed my mouth and shook my head. “What kind of person even comes up with something like that?” “No? Okay, I got it. Hold on. You witnessed an alien abduction when you were a kid. Up until yesterday, you thought it was all just some weird dream induced by the aggressive case of chronic diarrhea you suffered from—and still suffer from to this day. But yesterday, those little green men came back, and now your world is shaken. Why? Because you’ve secretly harbored romantic feelings for them this whole time, and now you’ll have to face your budding sexuality for the first time.” “Are you seriously going to keep this up unless I tell you?” "Hmm. Not right, either? Okay, this time I really have it. It all started in the African jungles seven years ago when you found yourself trapped deep in the wrinkly clutches of an elephant's rectum. With no hope of escape, you realized the only choice you had was to go deeper. Only you went too deep. You dreamed too big, and now you can't—" “I give up,” I said. “I’ll tell you because I don’t think I can survive much more of this. I’ve been in a little bit of a dating rut for the past couple years, and—” “Let me stop you there, partner.” William held up his left hand and pointed to his wedding band. “I’m flattered. Really. But one, I have a strict no sword crossing rule. And two? I’m spoken for.

One who rules the jungle is greater than one who rules the forest.

Dogs rule kennels, lions rule jungles.

Marilyn Monroe (born Norma Jeane Mortenson; June 1, 1926 – August 5, 1962) was an American actress, model, and singer, who became a major sex symbol, starring in a number of commercially successful motion pictures during the 1950s and early 1960s. After spending much of her childhood in foster homes, Monroe began a career as a model, which led to a film contract in 1946 with Twentieth Century-Fox. Her early film appearances were minor, but her performances in The Asphalt Jungle and All About Eve (both 1950), drew attention. By 1952 she had her first leading role in Don't Bother to Knock and 1953 brought a lead in Niagara, a melodramatic film noir that dwelt on her seductiveness. Her "dumb blonde" persona was used to comic effect in subsequent films such as Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953), How to Marry a Millionaire (1953) and The Seven Year Itch (1955). Limited by typecasting, Monroe studied at the Actors Studio to broaden her range. Her dramatic performance in Bus Stop (1956) was hailed by critics and garnered a Golden Globe nomination. Her production company, Marilyn Monroe Productions, released The Prince and the Showgirl (1957), for which she received a BAFTA Award nomination and won a David di Donatello award. She received a Golden Globe Award for her performance in Some Like It Hot (1959). Monroe's last completed film was The Misfits, co-starring Clark Gable with screenplay by her then-husband, Arthur Miller. Marilyn was a passionate reader, owning four hundred books at the time of her death, and was often photographed with a book. The final years of Monroe's life were marked by illness, personal problems, and a reputation for unreliability and being difficult to work with. The circumstances of her death, from an overdose of barbiturates, have been the subject of conjecture. Though officially classified as a "probable suicide", the possibility of an accidental overdose, as well as of homicide, have not been ruled out. In 1999, Monroe was ranked as the sixth greatest female star of all time by the American Film Institute. In the decades following her death, she has often been cited as both a pop and a cultural icon as well as the quintessential American sex symbol. 수면제,액상수면제,낙태약,여성최음제,ghb물뽕,여성흥분제,남성발기부전치유제,비아,시알,88정,드래곤,바오메이,정력제,남성성기확대제,카마그라젤,비닉스,센돔,,꽃물,남성조루제,네노마정,러쉬파퍼,엑스터시,신의눈물,lsd,아이스,캔디,대마초,떨,마리화나,프로포폴,에토미데이트,해피벌륜 등많은제품판매하고있습니다 원하시는제품있으시면 추천상으로 더좋은제품으로 모시겠습니다 qwe114.c33.kr 카톡【ACD5】텔레【KKD55】 I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they're right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together

Though we know precious little about how the brain works, our evolutionary history tells us this: The brain appears to be designed to (1) solve problems (2) related to surviving (3) in an unstable outdoor environment, and (4) to do so in nearly constant motion. I call this the brain’s performance envelope. Each subject in this book—exercise, sleep, stress, wiring, attention, memory, sensory integration, vision, music, gender, and exploration—relates to this performance envelope. We were in motion, getting lots of exercise. Environmental instability led to the extremely flexible way our brains are wired, allowing us to solve problems through exploration. To survive in the great outdoors, we needed to learn from our mistakes. That meant paying attention to certain things at the expense of others, and it meant creating memories in a particular way. Though we have been stuffing them into classrooms and cubicles for decades, our brains actually were built to survive in jungles and grasslands. We have not outgrown this.

The world has always been ruled by violent people just as a jungle is ruled by a lion. Non-violent people have always had to submit to the onslaught of the violent people and lose their honour.The rule of non-violence i as utopian as the sheep ruling a jungle over lions.

I need you to do as I ask you,” he said in desperation, fighting the beast lifting its head hungrily. Her laughter was soft, enticing, the sound dancing over his skin. “No, you don’t. Too many people think your word is law. You need someone to defy you a little bit. I know you won’t hurt me, Mikhail. I can feel your fear of yourself. You think there’s something in you I can’t love, some kind of monster you’re afraid for me to see. I know you better than you know yourself.” “You are so reckless, Raven, so heedless of danger.” He gripped the back of a chair so hard the wood threatened to disintegrate into dust. As it was, it would hold the imprint of his fingers for all time. “Danger, Mikhail?” She tipped her head to one side, her hair falling in a slide over one shoulder. Her hands went to the top button of her blouse. “I would never be in danger from you, even if you were furious with me. The only danger right now is to my clothes.” She took a step back, laughing again, letting the sound warm him, ignite the fuse deep inside him. Heat coiled, spread; need slammed into him, hard and urgent. Hunger tore at him, a blind red haze. “You, little one, are playing with fire, and I am totally out of control.” He made one last attempt to save her. Why couldn’t she see how selfish he really was? How he had taken over her life and would never release her? He was the monster she couldn’t see. Perhaps with the rest of the world cold logic and justice ruled him, but not with her. With Raven he was taken over by emotions with which he was so unfamiliar that he could not control them. He did things he felt were unconscionable. He let her see the violence in his mind, tearing her clothes, taking her body without thought or control. She answered him in her mind, warmth, love, her body eager for his, receptive, accepting of his violent side. She had total trust and faith in his feelings for her, in his commitment to her. He swore softly, ripping the clothes from his fettered body, leaping upon her like an attacking jungle cat. “Mikhail, I love this dress,” she whispered against his throat, laughter still spilling into his mind. Laughter. Joy. No fear. “Get out of the damned thing,” he said hoarsely, not realizing he was confirming her belief in him. She took her time, teasing him by fumbling at buttons, making him find the hook in her skirt. “You do not know what you are doing,” he objected raggedly, but his hands were gentle on her body, carefully stripping away her clothes until she was all bare satin skin and long silky hair.

Saints seem to be enjoying and welcoming trials because it helps them prove their loyalty to the beloved. The immature seekers often misinterpret it and start treating it like a rule that one is supposed to starve, torture oneself to grow spiritually, even if they get mentally unfit and physically crippled in the process, and eventually spoil their growth prospects, due to their own foolishness. The philosophy that lies at the core of this belief is 'The worldly is bad', 'Material self should be discouraged to grow spiritually' and therefore the seeker should run away from everything worldly and disappear in the jungle to grow spiritually.

The Fringe is a massive concrete jungle; canyons of broken glass and rusting steel, skeletal giants choked by vines, rot and corrosion.

One of the fascinating things about the human psyche is that people don't begrudge a wealthy person's making money, but they very much resent someone of lesser means making "too much" money.  I had been found guilty of trying to violate one of the most sacred, unwritten rules of the Jungle—the rule that little guys don't have a right to make big money.  Marie Antoinette said, "Let them eat cake," which was kind of cute.  But this New York lender with a Ho Chi Minh personality went one step further and seemed to be saying, "Let loan brokers eat—but not too much.

When he was twenty-four, André floated down to Saigon and returned with a wife standing upon his prow. Eugenia was the eldest child of Pierre Cazeau, the stately, arrogant owner of the Hôtel Continental, on rue Catinat. She was also deaf. Her tutors had spent the first thirteen years of her life attempting to teach her how to speak like a hearing person, as was dictated by the popular pedagogy of the time. Her tongue was pressed, her cheeks prodded, countless odd intonations were coaxed forth from her lips. Cumbersome hearing horns were thrust into her ears, spiraling upward like ibex horns. It was a torture she finally rejected for the revolutionary freedom of sign, which she taught herself from an eighteenth-century dictionary by Charles-Michel de l’Épée that she had stumbled upon accidentally on the shelf of a Saigon barbershop.1 Based on the grammatical rules of spoken language, L’Épée’s Methodical Sign System was unwieldy and overly complex: many words, instead of having a sign on their own, were composed of a combination of signs. “Satisfy” was formed by joining the signs for “make” and “enough.” “Intelligence” was formed by pairing “read” with “inside.” And “to believe” was made by combining “feel,” “know,” “say,” “not see,” plus another sign to denote its verbiage. Though his intentions may have been noble, L’Epée’s system was inoperable in reality, and so Eugenia modified and shortened the language. In her hands, “belief” was simplified into “feel no see.” Verbs, nouns, and possession were implied by context. 1 “So unlikely as to approach an impossibility,” writes Røed-Larsen of this book’s discovery, in Spesielle ParN33tikler (597). One could not quite call her beautiful, but the enforced oral purgatory of her youth had left her with an understanding of life’s inherent inclination to punish those who least deserve it. Her black humor in the face of great pain perfectly balanced her new husband’s workmanlike nature. She had jumped at the opportunity to abandon the Saigon society that had silently humiliated her, gladly accepting the trials of life on a backwater, albeit thriving, plantation. Her family’s resistance to sending their eldest child into the great unknowable cauldron of the jungle was only halfhearted—they were in fact grateful to be unburdened of the obstacle that had kept them from marrying off their two youngest (and much more desirable) daughters. André painstakingly mastered Eugenia’s language. Together, they communed via a fluttering dance of fingertips to palms, and their dinners on the Fig. 4.2. L’Épée’s Methodical Sign System From de l’Épée, C.-M. (1776), Institution des sourds et muets: par la voie des signes méthodiques, as cited in Tofte-Jebsen, B., Jeg er Raksmey, p. 61 veranda were thus rich, wordless affairs, confluences of gestures beneath the ceiling fan, the silence broken only by the clink of a soup spoon, the rustle of a servant clearing the table, or the occasional shapeless moan that accentuated certain of her sentences, a relic from her years of being forced to speak aloud.

The rule of the professional jungle suggests that to win battles you have to embrace pressure and not be frightened.

So the tiger used to be the king of the jungle. Not the lion. Back then the tiger didn’t have any stripes. And he ruled with complete wisdom and mercy