Lens Cap Quotes

If life were a camera, I'd have the lens cap on.

She took the spyglass from a nearby shelf and held it to her eye. The world was a vast black emptiness, echoing like the mordant spaces between soul-wrought words... Ned leaned across and removed the lens cap, and poetry became science again.

I forgot to take off the inside lens cap cap... P.S. I quit." Dad threw off the covers and reached for his bathrobe. For the first time in two weeks he spoke: "I'll track him down to the ends of the earth," he croaked. "I'll take a blunt hook and pull his tonsils out by the byjingoed roots, just like I promised him. He doesn't quit. He's fired.

The Tableaux were simply high-quality transmission-ready photographs, scaled down to diorama-like proportions and fitted with a plastic holder over the videophone camera, not unlike a lens-cap. Extremely good-looking but not terrifically successfully entertainment-celebrities - the same sort who in decades past would have swelled the cast-lists of infomercials - found themselves in demand as models for various high-end videophone Tableaux.

eye cap is a simple ten-cent piece of plastic. It is slightly larger than a contact lens, less flexible, and considerably less comfortable. The plastic is repeatedly lanced through, so that small, sharp spurs stick up from its surface. The spurs work on the same principle as those steel spikes that threaten Severe Tire Damage on behalf of rental car companies: The eyelid will come down over an eye cap, but, once closed, will not easily open back up. Eye caps were invented by a mortician to help dead people keep their eyes shut. There have been times this

The shoot-to-kill order came through at zero one fifteen, relayed over a satellite radio. It’d been just three hours since the two-man reconnaissance team had reported the sighting. They lay in a shallow dugout on a windblown ridge, the leeward slope falling away steeply to an impassable boulder field. A desert-issue tarp all but covered the hole, protected from view on the flanks by thorny scrub. Shivering, they blew into their bunched trigger-finger mitts. The daytime temperature had dropped twenty degrees or more, and fine sleet was melting on their blackened faces. Darren Proctor extended the folded stock of his L115A3 sniper rifle. He split the legs of the swivel bi-pod and aligned the swivel cheek piece with the all-weather scope. Flipping open the lens cap, he glassed the terrain cast a muted green by the night vision. The tree line was sparse, a smattering of pines and cedars shuddering in the biting wind. Glimpsing movement on a scree slope fifty metres or so beyond, he focused in. The eyes of a striped hyena shone like glow sticks. He watched as the scavenger ripped at the carcass of an ibex or wild sheep. A second later it sniffed the air, ears pricked, and scampered off.

Look at The King’s Speech. For one thing, you can look at it: no lens caps left on there. What’s more, the story is simple. The world’s most important man can’t speak properly, so he gets taught to speak properly. But then disaster strikes! It looks like he might not be able to speak properly after all. Finally, in a triumphant climax, he speaks properly. It’s a feelgood ending for everybody, apart from the 450,000 Britons killed in the war he just announced on the radio.

The cold not only bears down on human bodies, but also bends sound. The forest sits under an inversion, chilled air pooling under a warmer cap. The colder air is like molasses for sound waves, slowing them as they pass, causing them to lag sound travelling in higher, warmer air. The difference in speed turns the temperature gradient into a sound lens. Waves curve down. Sound energy , instead of dissipating in a three dimensional dome, is forced to spread in two dimensions, spilling across the ground, focusing its vigor on the surface. What would have been muffled, distant sounds leap closer, magnified by the jeweler’s icy loupe. The aggressive whine of the snowmobile mingles with the churr and chip of red squirrels and chickadees. Here are modern and ancient sunlight, manifest in the boreal soundscape. Squirrels nipping the buds of fir trees, chickadee poking for hidden seeds and insects, all powered by last summer’s photosynthesis; diesel and gasoline, sunlight squeezed and fermented for tens or hundreds of millions of years, now finally freed in an exultant engine roar. Nuclear fusion pounds its energy into my eardrums, courtesy of life’s irrepressible urge to turn sunlight into song.

Always put your cap on your lens, because you never know which idiot will bump into your camera. And eventually that idiot will be you.

The others stared at the forgotten lens cap. Somehow it seemed to sum up the unbothered attitude of Lou’s parents. ‘Hey, don’t be too downcast!’ she chided them. ‘I have parents who couldn’t care less – so what? At least I get to stay here and do what I like and there’s money under the sink so I won’t starve and don’t really need to go catching fish, unless I feel like it! Let’s get that kettle boiling, have ourselves a cup of tea and cook up that lovely bacon and sausage.

So they found out all these exciting things about me, like: I drove an old pickup truck with cages in the back for my bird dogs, or I wore a Wal-Mart ball cap, or I got my hair cut at the barbershop just off the town square—somebody with a telephoto lens even snuck up and took a picture of me in the barber chair, and it was in newspapers all over the country.

Awe is not a lens through which to see the world but our sole path to seeing. Any other lens is not a lens but a veil. And I've come to believe that our beholding—seeing the veils of this world peeled back again and again, if only for a moment—is no small form of salvation. When I speak of wonder, I mean the practice of beholding the beautiful. Beholding the majestic—the snow-capped Himalayas, the sun setting on the sea—but also the perfectly mundane—that soap bubble reflecting your kitchen, the oxidized underbelly of that stainless steel pan. More than the grand beauties of our lives, wonder is about having the presence to pay attention to the commonplace. It could be said that to find beauty in the ordinary is a deeper exercise than climbing to the mountaintop. When people or groups become too enamoured with mountaintops, we should ask ourselves whether their euphoria comes from love or from the experience of supremacy. For example, whiteness, as a sociological force and practice, loves mountaintops. Being born of an appetite not for flourishing but for domination, it loves the ascent, the conquering. It will tell you about the view from there, but be assured that it is only its view of itself that rouses its spirit. It is about bravado and triumph. There is nothing wrong with climbing the mountain, but bravado tends to drown out the sound of wonder. Perhaps you've known that person who devours beauty as if it belongs to them. It is a possessive wonder. It eats not to delight but to collect, trade, and boast. It consumes beauty to grow in ego, not in love. It climbs mountains to gain ownership, not to gain freedom.

Under the current US system, federal deposit insurance is capped at $250,000 per account.24 This coverage limit reflects a consumer protection philosophy; small retail account holders presumably lack the capacity to monitor bank solvency. But if we view deposit insurance through the lens of panic prevention instead of consumer protection, then the justification for coverage limits becomes far murkier. As we will see in future chapters, sophisticated institutional accounts are far more likely than small retail accounts to redeem en masse, precisely because they are paying closer attention. If panic prevention is a key goal, then coverage limits may very well undermine it.

So, like the knights of old, I suited up in my trusty intern armor - brownish-green suit, sensible cap-toed oxfords, white button-down, and omnipresent LensCrafters glasses. If I wasn't able to shoot her, I could probably bore her to death.