Ken Block Quotes

Out along the dim six-o’clock street, I saw leafless trees standing, striking the sidewalk there like wooden lightning, concrete split apart where they hit, all in a fenced-in ring. An iron line of pickets stuck out of the ground along the front of a tangleweed yard, and on back was a big frame house with a porch, leaning a rickety shoulder hard into the wind so’s not to be sent tumbling away a couple of blocks like an empty cardboard grocery box.

there's an old slang term in baseball: a dirt dog. Dirt dogs are scrappy. Dirt dogs have been around the block. they are hard working, and a bit rough around the edges. they never give up.

Our great stumbling block, in our stride toward freedom, is not the White Citizens’ Councilor or the Ku Klux Klanner. It’s the white moderate who is more devoted to order than to justice; who constantly says, like Bobby Kennedy: ‘I agree with the goal you seek, but I cannot condone your methods.’ He paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom.

Our great stumbling block, in our stride toward freedom, is not the White Citizens’ Councilor or the Ku Klux Klanner. It’s the white moderate who is more devoted to order than to justice;

Our great stumbling block, in our stride toward freedom, is not the White Citizens’ Councilor or the Ku Klux Klanner. It’s the white moderate who is more devoted to order than to justice; who constantly says, like Bobby Kennedy: ‘I agree with the goal you seek, but I cannot condone your methods.

Consider my life before I moved in with Mamaw. In the middle of third grade, we left Middletown and my grandparents to live in Preble County with Bob; at the end of fourth grade, we left Preble County to live in a Middletown duplex on the 200 block of McKinley Street; at the end of fifth grade, we left the 200 block of McKinley Street to move to the 300 block of McKinley Street, and by that time Chip was a regular in our home, though he never lived with us; at the end of sixth grade, we remained on the 300 block of McKinley Street, but Chip had been replaced by Steve (and there were many discussions about moving in with Steve); at the end of seventh grade, Matt had taken Steve’s place, Mom was preparing to move in with Matt, and Mom hoped that I would join her in Dayton; at the end of eighth grade, she demanded that I move to Dayton, and after a brief detour at my dad’s house, I acquiesced; at the end of ninth grade, I moved in with Ken—a complete stranger—and his three kids. On top of all that were the drugs, the domestic violence case, children’s services prying into our lives, and Papaw dying. Today, even remembering that period long enough to write it down invokes an intense,

Be creative, live a fun life, and don't be an asshole.

By the time I learned what a Pit Bull really was, it was too late; I was already in love. Of course I'd heard the stories, but I had never put these almost mythological urban tales together with the dogs in my neighborhood. I was living in Manhattan, just blocks away from a dog park, and dog watching was a spectator sport among those of us who were still dogless. There were dogs of every shape and size, but my eye kept going to the short, stocky, exuberant dogs that seemed like cartoons. You could tell by the gleam in their eyes they felt very lucky to be here, in the city, walking with the person they kept on the other end of the leash. Their heads were blocky and human. Their short coats made it seem like they were wearing costumes made of felt. It wasn't hard to imagine there might be a little person inside. And they were everywhere that there were people: in cafes, outside bodegas, eating at restaurants.

Our great stumbling block, in our stride toward freedom, is not the White Citizens’ Councilor or the Ku Klux Klanner. It’s the white moderate who is more devoted to order than to justice; who constantly says, like Bobby Kennedy: ‘I agree with the goal you seek, but I cannot condone your methods.’ He paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom

The alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge, natural to party dissension, which in different ages and countries has perpetrated the most horrid enormities, is itself a frightful despotism.

Ken knew he meant it. He had great respect for Judge Cogan. He was fair but stern, befitting his Scottish roots. Cogan returned to his birthplace every year and loved to hike.

Before he stepped into the elevator, Ken stopped at the art gallery at the back of the lobby. Every few months the courthouse featured a new exhibit by a local artist.

Judge Spatt then turned to Ken. “Mr. Williams, do you have an application?” “Yes, Your Honor, I would like the case to be set down promptly for a bail hearing.” “How about two days from now?” asked the judge. “Fine, Your Honor,” answered Ken. “One more thing. My client

Ken was pleased. Black had received high marks from the bar for his handling of the last Lemrick Nelson trial. He had a solid reputation for legal scholarship, and Ken liked the fact that he had written a number of opinions critical of civil rights violations, and also because of a book he had written, Disrobed. In it he called for more openness from judges, believing that they had a moral responsibility to demystify and humanize the judicial process.

Ken then asked Troy to stand. He was wearing his prison grays.

I learned such a glimpse cannot be gotten with half-hearted journeys and soft endeavors. Nor could I hope for such a glimpse merely by setting out to conquer some random geographic feature, like getting to the top of a mountain. Rather, I knew one must confront the very beasts and chasms that haunt our dreams, block our paths, and muffle the voice of the wild man howling in all of us, who calls for you to become you—the you who culture cannot shape, the you who is unalterable, uncivilizable, pure. You.

Ken had recently finished reading Michelle Alexander’s book, The New Jim Crow,

There are also examples of petrified wood occurring as a mere product of nature — even without the heat! As an example, Dr. Andrew Snelling recounts: From the other side of the world comes a report of the chapel of Santa Maria of Health (Santa Maria de Salute), built in 1630 in Venice, Italy, to celebrate the end of The Plague. Because Venice is built on water saturated clay and sand, the chapel was constructed on 180,000 wooden pilings to reinforce the foundations. Even though the chapel is a massive stone block structure, it has remained firm since its construction. How have the wooden pilings lasted over 360 years? They have petrified! The chapel now rests on “stone” pilings!

overcompensated and next thing the buggers aren’t dropping far enough, so they’re hanging there strangling!’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Gave the Yanks their cards, packed them off home, and Albert and me took over their quota.’ ‘What’s the most you ever done in a session at Nuremberg, Harry?’ someone asked. We were all quiet as we watched him and waited for his answer. ‘Mmmm, one afternoon we did twenty-seven in two hours forty minutes.’ ‘Bloody hell! So they weren’t left to hang for very long.’ ‘No, hadn’t the time. As soon as we put four down, the doc would go underneath the scaffold, ’ave a listen with his stethoscope, feel for a pulse. “Right, okay,” he’d say. We had these soldier orderlies. They’d go underneath and lift them up, take the weight, we’d take the ropes and bags off, the soldiers would put them onto trolleys and whisk them away to the temporary morgue. A couple of minutes later the next four were marching in.’ That had been the craic last night. As Ken and I sit having breakfast with the hangmen, I can’t rid myself of the contradictory feeling that, somehow, I’m letting Russell down by breakfasting with the men who are about to hang him. ‘How was he last night?’ Allen looks rather bleary-eyed. He’s on his second mug of hot, sweet tea. And at least his third cigarette. We tell him. He takes a deep draw. ‘I think this lad will go without any bother.’ As he speaks, the blue smoke spills out of his mouth. Just after ten to eight, from the kitchen door at the end of the mess, Ken, the two hangmen, Teddy Bear and I, watch as the Governor, Lord Lieutenant of the County and other official witnesses file quietly into the block. They enter the empty execution chamber. At three

It was safe and everything smelled good and tasted delicious, and those things are the fundamental building blocks of a great day.

Most of the time I feel like a regular person, but at times of heightened emotions, I feel as if I’m two people: one experiencing the emotion and the other weighing its validity. Having this newfound ability to detach from emotional situations not only allows me to retain a low level of negative emotions, it also helps me to dampen anger, block fear, and remain keenly alert in chaotic and frightening situations.

We managed to steer clear of all such pitfalls. If I were to take a stab at explaining the why, I would say that our clarity of purpose kept us on track, in much the same way that Vince Lombardi won football games and Steve Jobs pushed us to make a speedy first version of Safari. Since our focus on making great products never wavered—if for no other reason than that’s what Steve demanded—perhaps concentrating keenly on what to do helped us to block out what not to do.