Klein Blue Quotes

I turn and gaze at the bright blue sky, squinting. It’s like surfacing for air after giving up hope, after resigning to drown, suffocating

Mira, I'm about to be naked," Blue said as he whipped off his belt and tossed it on the floor. "So watch out. Well, in my underwear." "I've seen you in your bathing suit," Mira said. "It's the same thing." "It is not the same thing," Blue said. "When it's accompanied by seventies porn music, it's an X-rated strip show." Blue yanked off his shirt. "Freddie, you're kind of slow on the uptake. Eine kleine porn music, please." Freddie scrunched his forehead in distaste. "I don't want to plug my guitar in just so I can play some bow-chicka-wow-wow accompaniment to your strip show. Mira laughed. "Bow-chicka-what was that, Freddie?

When we marvel at that blue marble in all its delicacy and frailty, and resolve to save the planet, we cast ourselves in a very specific role. That role is of a parent, the parent of the earth. But the opposite is the case. It is we humans who are fragile and vulnerable and the earth that is hearty and powerful, and holds us in its hands. In pragmatic terms, our challenge is less to save the earth from ourselves and more to save ourselves from an earth that, if pushed too far, has ample power to rock, burn, and shake us off completely. That knowledge should inform all we do—especially

She’d heard my theory on funnel cake and celery stalker men before. Most men were either like funnel cake: delicious and interesting, but who at the end of the day just aren’t good for the heart or complexion. Or they were celery: a sensible, healthy choice that didn’t really bring much to the table but an occasional crunch. If you OD on celery, you end up bingeing on cake behind closed doors. Funnel cake, while warm and delicious, is difficult to make. But you go there because you long for it like the double-twist stomach-dropping roller coaster as soon as you arrive at the amusement park. Wet ribbons of batter crackle and pop until golden and crisp, yielding in the center. The steamy swirls of tender yellow dough absorb confectioners’ sugar like pores. When the luxurious fat melts on your tongue, you exhale. You’ve got sticky batter, dribbling down spouts, leaving rings on your clean countertops, splattering oil growing darker and beginning to smoke. Layers of paper towels and oil-draining weapons clutter your space. With funnel cake, you’ve got steps to follow. Procedures. Rules. No one makes rules about celery. It’s always around for the snacking. You choose it when you’re dieting or trying not to consume too many wings over football. Come to think of it, you don’t even bother eating it when you diet. Instead it’s a conduit for blue cheese. You use it to make stocks and stuffing. It becomes filler, pantry almost.

Mira, I'm about to be naked," Blue said as he whipped off his belt and tossed it on the floor. "So watch out. Well, in my underwear." "I've seen you in your bathing suit," Mira said. "It's the same thing." "It is not the same thing," Blue said. "When it's accompanied by seventies porn music, it's an X-rated strip show." Blue yanked off his shirt. "Freddie, you're kind of slow on the uptake. Eine kleine porn music, please.

"Even Dwarfs Started Small," Calla replied immediately. "In the original German: Auch Zwerge haben klein angefangen." Maura winced, though Blue couldn't tell if it was at the movie or at Calla's accent.

You know what? You had a rough weekend, but people are basically good. They really are. We’re all just on this crazy blue marble together.

[...] I hate Mondays, don't you?" "Not really

She never opened her mail in the middle of the day. Sometimes she forgot about it for a week or more until people rang to complain. Nor did she check her answering machine messages. In fact, it had only been in the last year that she had finally bought an answering machine, and she steadfastly refused to have a mobile, to the incredulity of all those around her, who didn’t believe that people could actually function without one. But Frieda wanted to be able to escape from incessant communications and demands. She didn’t want to be at anyone’s beck and call, and she liked cutting herself off from the urgent inanities of the world. When she was on her own, she liked to be truly alone. Out of contact and adrift.

Yves Klein said it was the essence of colour itself: the colour that stood for all other colours. A man once spent his entire life searching for a particular shade of blue that he remembered encountering in childhood. He began to despair of ever finding it, thinking he must have imagined that precise shade, that it could not possibly exist in nature. Then one day he chanced upon it. It was the colour of a beetle in a museum of natural history. He wept for joy.’ - "Zima Blue" by Alastair Reynolds

Ήταν άραγε κατάρα που η πόλη αυτή ήταν τόσο πολύ σημαδεμένη από το παρελθόν της ή μήπως αυτός είναι τελικά ο μοναδικός τρόπος μιας πόλης να υπάρχει;

She wanted to walk until her body and mind were exhausted. Her snug house felt like a distant goal, a place she had to achieve through enormous physical effort.

It’s called Betty Blue,” he said. “You watch, I’ll translate.

All I knew was the way that colour spoke to me, as if I'd been waiting my whole life to find it, to set it free." He thought for a moment. "There's always been something about blue. A thousand years ago Yves Klein said it was the essence of colour itself: the colour that stood for all other colours.

So we are left with a stark choice: allow climate disruption to change everything about our world, or change pretty much everything about our economy to avoid that fate. But we need to be very clear: because of our decades of collective denial, no gradual, incremental options are now available to us. Gentle tweaks to the status quo stopped being a climate option when we supersized the American Dream in the 1990s, and then proceeded to take it global. And it’s no longer just radicals who see the need for radical change. In 2012, twenty-one past winners of the prestigious Blue Planet Prize—a group that includes James Hansen, former director of NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies, and Gro Harlem Brundtland, former prime minister of Norway—authored a landmark report. It stated that, “In the face of an absolutely unprecedented emergency, society has no choice but to take dramatic action to avert a collapse of civilization. Either we will change our ways and build an entirely new kind of global society, or they will be changed for us.”28

Anger should be a weapon to be used discriminately, not a weakness and a loss of control.

You’ve got to let them make their own mistakes. All you can do is to follow and make sure they don’t scare the horses or get arrested or damage anyone apart from themselves.

He was forty-two, after all. This was just the age when men went off the rails, drank and bought motorbikes and had affairs, trying to be young again. But he didn’t want a motorbike and he didn’t want an affair. He didn’t want to be young again. All that awkwardness and pain, that sense of being in the wrong life.

The muted November light made everything seem gray and still, like a pencil drawing.

Frieda felt that her heart was like some old chest that had been heaved up from the seabed, its barnacled lid prized open after all this time. Who knew what treasures she would find inside?

identities. We don’t talk about big states and small states but about red states and blue states.

Once an issue becomes a red-blue collision, corporate cash often loses out to the zero-sum logic of partisanship or the fury of the base.

I am writing to console the part of me I lost somewhere between the moment of birth and death that keeps me searching and bound forever inside these ruins. I am writing to preserve the fragment of sensitivity that has survived, like a falling star that keeps burning despite the relentless pressure of the atmosphere to disintegrate into the calm blue void.

THE FIELDS TO CARL AUGUST KLEIN Salient curve of the silver sky Arches the endless expanse of your somnolent fields. Can you unriddle the fate which their furrows conceal, All that we two for years passed by? Under the willows dripping with new Catkins, the children are listening entranced to the sound Of a flute, buoyant and careless they caper and bound Into a dusk of vermilion and blue. Shining baubles weary the crone, and her gaze Turns to the gentler resplendence of Thuja trees, Only the care she bestows upon graves gives her ease, Dimly she croons of a region of rays. And those who slipped from the snares of delight, But who, like us, on terrestrial wishes are fed — Brooding friend, do you seek them in symbols and dread Our adventure into night?

Sometimes it seemed that half the people around her were in states of collapse.

but look,” he said, a little desperately. “What would the world be like if everyone settled things like this?” Frieda stood up. “What is the world like?” she said.

Simi cocked her head as if another thought came to her addled mind. “And I particularly like men all of a sudden.” She looked over at Zarek who involuntarily cringed. “But not that one. He’s too dark. I like them blue-eyed people ’cause they remind me of my card. People like that Calvin Klein model Travis Fimmel who was on this big billboard in New York the last time akri took me there. He mighty fine and makes me want to do things to him other than flame-broil him. He makes me all warm and tingly.

Sentì il suo capo posarsi delicatamente contro il petto e le sue braccia allungarsi, fino a cingergli il collo. «Anche se a volte esageri… non potrei pensare di non trascorrere le mie giornate senza di te…» Gli confidò, cercando di mantenere un tono distaccato mentre il leggero tremore della voce tradiva ben altri sentimenti. «Dubita che le stelle siano fatte di fuoco; dubita che il sole si muova; dubita che la verità sia bugiarda, ma non del mio amore non dubitare affatto…» gli rispose Keith, proseguendo il suo cammino. «Questa citazione non è tua, imbroglione.» «Shakespeare è di tutti,» ribatté il giovane aumentando il passo.

A note about Prozac: I am absolutely all for taking Prozac if that is the choice a person makes. Even if a person is beset by the existential blues, if they choose to change the way they feel via medication, they have made a personal choice I fully respect. I know staunch Existentialists would disagree. They say that taking a pill that not only changes your mood, but changes your entire outlook on life, is an act of “bad faith.” This pill-taker is “unauthentic,” because he is treating himself as an object rather than as a subject. He is acting as if his world outlook is just another “thing” to be manipulated. Perhaps. But when I read the book Listening to Prozac by Dr. Peter Kramer, I was struck by how many pill-takers stated that once their depression lifted, they felt more like their “true selves” than ever before.

There it is, forming behind us: The Fat Blue Phalanx. All the smug self-satisfied maleness you can drink, and free refills at the station house. It's all I can see in cops, that patriarchal bullshit that will never yield to a contract of mutual respect. That grunting fuck-obsessed inability to deobjectify you and treat you as a person, it’s a subclass of male that will never, ever change, no matter what. There they are with their uniforms and their discipline, an abstract and codified representation of all the construction workers who ever whistled at you and there you were, too polite to pee in their toolboxes in retaliation, too polite to challenge them, walking away red-faced because the worst part of it is that you were wondering whether they were really whistling like they’d whistle at Caprice or if they were just being sarcastic and were even now laughing at you with your short skinny legs and flat ass. Besides you’re not supposed to let it get to you. You’re supposed to have a sense of humour: they do. See them waving their cocks at each other and farting? You aren’t allowed to break the rules of their society which say that you are a cold uptight lesbian bitch if you don’t like their hohoho aggressive male ways so just hold your head high from your position of moral superiority and go home and tell your boyfriend (if you have one, which I don’t) who if you’re lucky will offer to go beat them up knowing you won’t take him up on it because you know perfectly well he’d probably get his ass kicked, most of the boys you know are highly ass-kickable because they’ve been brought up nicely. They were brought up in the luxury of knowing the money power of the military-industrial complex would protect them from the dirt and the grime of uneducated testosterone. its thanx to our weak boyfriends that we have cops at all, surrogate cock and balls to maintain ‘order’, whatever that is. Or was. And where does it really leave you as a prisoner of the suburbs? Fuming over some tiny incident that the aggressors have already forgotten about, but you have the sinking feeling you've just sniffed the true underbelly and the aroma was not what you get in Calvin Klein ads. Scratch 'n' sniff, scratch 'n' sniff, peel the onion... will you ever get down to the reality of what this place is about? And I know I shouldn't brand individual cops with the big blue brush but in my mind these guys are a symbol of the whole iron-cage Boy system that makes me always a victim, no matter what I do, it's a cage I can't escape. I'm the little princess. They dominate, they aggress, they protect.