Love Disclaimer Quotes

Often in my lectures when I use the phrase “imperialist white-supremacist capitalist patriarchy” to describe our nation’s political system, audiences laugh. No one has ever explained why accurately naming this system is funny. The laughter is itself a weapon of patriarchal terrorism. It functions as a disclaimer, discounting the significance of what is being named. It suggests that the words themselves are problematic and not the system they describe.

[...] love was not something that was simply there because you were born of the same blood, and it should never come with a fucking disclaimer.

Vulnerability has to happen for love to be real.

The complete and utter lack of tolerance from his parents had shown him one very important thing -- love was not something that was simply there because you were born of the same blood, and it should never come with a fucking disclaimer.

And when I say I love you, I mean that you can show me your darkest fire your soul can produce, and I will love you enough to sit with you until the smoke clears. Leave your disclaimers at the door. There is no convincing me to not love you.

I thought about how I must look, wet, red-fingered from cold, cutting a hole in a perfectly good barn for no reason. "I don't want to tell you what to do," Shep began. This, I'd found, was a very common statement in the North Country. You're not considered rude if you don't return phone calls, or if you get drunk while working, or fail to show up as promised, but telling someone how to do something is bad form and requires a disclaimer.

We assent to wifedom because we are so used to having someone to blame and so unused to freedom. We prefer self-punishment to the conquest of our fears. We prefer our anger to our freedom. If women were totally conscious of the part of themselves that gives away power to men, the prediction of victory might prove true. But we are far from this self-knowledge. And we move further and further away as we retreat from the psychoanalytic model of the self. As long as we disclaim the importance of unconscious motivations, of the existence of the unconscious itself, we cannot root out the slave in ourselves. Freedom is hand to love. Freedom takes away all the excuses.

Nearly three thousand people died on 9/11. Imagine everyone you love, everyone you know, even everyone with a familiar name or just a familiar face—and imagine they’re gone. Imagine the empty houses. Imagine the empty school, the empty classrooms. All those people you lived among, and who together formed the fabric of your days, just not there anymore. The events of 9/11 left holes. Holes in families, holes in communities. Holes in the ground. Now, consider this: over one million people have been killed in the course of America’s response. The two decades since 9/11 have been a litany of American destruction by way of American self-destruction, with the promulgation of secret policies, secret laws, secret courts, and secret wars, whose traumatizing impact—whose very existence—the US government has repeatedly classified, denied, disclaimed, and distorted.

When we had done—when two sheets were covered with the language of a strongly-adherent affection, a rooted and active gratitude—(once, for all, in this parenthesis, I disclaim, with the utmost scorn, every sneaking suspicion of what are called “warmer feelings:” women do not entertain these “warmer feelings” where, from the commencement, through the whole progress of an acquaintance, they have never once been cheated of the conviction that, to do so would be to commit a mortal absurdity: nobody ever launches into Love unless he has seen or dreamed the rising of Hope’s star over Love’s troubled waters)—when, then, I had given expression to a closely-clinging and deeply-honouring attachment—an attachment that wanted to attract to itself and take to its own lot all that was painful in the destiny of its object; that would, if it could, have absorbed and conducted away all storms and lightnings from an existence viewed with a passion of solicitude—then, just at that moment, the doors of my heart would shake, bolt and bar would yield, Reason would leap in vigorous and revengeful, snatch the full sheets, read, sneer, erase, tear up, re-write, fold, seal, direct, and send a terse, curt missive of a page.

Kyle eased back in his chair, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “This is an interesting situation, Jordo . . . What’s it worth to you to keep this information under wraps? Because I’m going to need some income when I get out of this place, and I hear that wine business of yours is really taking off.” “Get real. You owe me.” Kyle sat up, indignant at that. “For what?” Jordan folded her arms on the table. “Sophomore year. You took Mom’s car out of the garage in the middle of the night—without a license—to drive over to Amanda Carroll’s. Dad thought he heard a noise when you tried to sneak back in, so I distracted him by saying that I’d seen a strange person in the backyard. While he was looking out my bedroom window, you crept by and mouthed, ‘I owe you.’ Well, now I want to collect.” “That was seventeen years ago,” Kyle said. “I’m pretty sure there’s a statute of limitations on IOUs.” “I don’t recall hearing any disclaimers, expirations, or caveats at the time.” “I was a minor. The contract’s not valid.” “If you want to weasel your way out of this, I suppose that’s true.” Jordan waited, knowing she had him. Despite the impression one might get from the orange jumpsuit, her brother was quite honorable. And he always kept his word. “Fine,” he grumbled. “I finally get some dirt on you, Ms. Perfect, for the first time in thirty-three years, and it’s wasted.” He grinned. “Good thing that trip to Amanda Carroll’s was worth it, or I’d be pretty pissed about this.” Jordan made a face. Way too much information. “I’m hardly perfect. I’m just a lot better at not getting caught than you.” She took in their surroundings. “Maybe I should’ve given you a few pointers.” Kyle nodded approvingly. “Nice one.

When Diana returned to work on Monday, September 16, she came directly to my bedroom and announced, “Mrs. Robertson, I have something important to tell you.” I could see out of the corner of my eye that she had a slight, mischievous grin on her face. “Go right ahead,” I said as I continued to blow-dry my hair in front of the mirror above the dresser. “No, Mrs. Robertson, I’d like your full attention.” I switched off my hair dryer and faced her as she stood in the doorway. “When you leave for work this morning, you’ll notice a lot of reporters and photographers at the entrance to the mews.” I wondered aloud if the press were following either Lord Vestey, a notorious international financier, or John Browne, a bright young M.P. known as one of “Maggie’s boys,” both of whom lived on our small street. “No, actually, Mrs. Robertson, they’re waiting for me,” Diana said with a great deal of blushing, staring at the floor, and throat clearing. “Good heavens, Diana, why?” “Well . . . I spent last weekend at Balmoral.” “With Prince Andrew?” I asked, remembering my friend Lee’s comment on the way to Glyndebourne. “No, actually, I was there to see Prince Charles.” More blushes and throat clearing, quickly followed by her disclaimer, “But he didn’t invite me. His mother did.” Hearing Diana speak of Her Majesty the Queen as “his mother” certainly gave me a clear picture of the circles in which Diana moved. I gasped and asked, probably rather tactlessly, “Gosh, do you think there’s any chance of a romance developing?” “Not really,” she said with noticeable regret. “After all, he’s thirty-one and I’m only nineteen. He’d never look seriously at me.” So modest, so appealing. I couldn’t imagine him not learning to love her. We certainly had. “Well, Diana, I wouldn’t be so sure,” I replied, thinking of my prediction from July.

Do you love her? Do you? It’s really that simple.” “Yes,” Steve said without hesitation. “Then you take her without reservation, disclaimer, parental demands, or otherwise. You take her as she is with all her faults, weaknesses, idiosyncrasies, and requirements. You take her without qualification, with no strings attached by anyone else, because that’s what loving someone means.

Come in,” she called without thinking. The door opened, and Caleb stepped inside. “I want to apologize for last night,” he said, his hat in his hands, his expression as innocent as an altar boy’s. “The truth is, I don’t think we should get married.” Lily was beginning to get disturbing ideas about the rolling pin in her hands. His disclaimer came as no surprise to her, of course; she’d known he was an out-and-out scoundrel all along. “Oh?” “We’d do nothing but fight. And make love, of course. I think we’d better just stay away from each other from now on.” Lily had prayed to hear these words that very morning. So why did they hurt so much? “What if I’m pregnant?” Caleb shrugged as though they were talking about the possibility of a splinter or a stubbed toe. “I’d take care of you both, of course.” “Like you took care of Bianca, I suppose.” Caleb’s grin was infuriating. “Yes.” Lily began tapping her palm with the rolling pin. “But you don’t think we should be married.” “Absolutely not,” Caleb replied firmly. “What if I think we should be?” He grinned. “If you propose to me, Lily-flower, I might reconsider. You’d have to be suitably humble, of course.” Lily made a strangled sound of rage and rounded the table, wielding the rolling pin like a battle ax. Caleb easily wrested it from her hand and tossed it aside before pulling her into his arms. She squirmed, but there was no escaping, and when he caught her chin in one hand and forced her head back for his kiss she was lost. When it was over, and Lily was breathless, Caleb set her away from him. “When you change your mind, you know where to find me.” Lily glared up at him. “I’ll dance in hell before I’ll come crawling to you, Caleb Halliday!” He laughed, more in amazement than good humor. “If I didn’t think you might be carrying my baby, I’d turn you over my knee right here and now and blister your behind!” “I’m not carrying your baby!” Lily stormed out of the house toward the woodshed, bent on getting kindling for the cook stove. Caleb followed, cornering Lily against a sawhorse, and said a possessive hand on her abdomen. “We’ll see about that in a few months,” he vowed.

Grace makes no disclaimer. It's true for all or none.

Sex and love with robots. A bit amazing, fantastic, inconceivable, nevertheless, imaginable and scientifically explainable. Nowadays you can disclaim this idea because of a scientific fiction, but you cannot argue that it is completely incredible and contradicts human sexuality and romantic experience. As it is known, whatever you experience, you experience due to what is going on in the brain. Your physical contact with the partner’s body is nothing more than merely a physiological act, sending signals to the brain. Without the signals that cause neurochemical activity in the brain, your sexual contact cannot give you any sexual experience on its own. Your brain has been automatically programmed before this contact concerning which kind of natural design of the partner’s body can send more intense signals to your brain, which, in turn, enable it to experience stronger sexual pleasure. The direct cause of your sexual experience is your brain program, your sexual partner’s body, from which you derive sexual pleasure, is just indirect cause of it. Orgasm occurs in the brain, but not in any part of the body. Now imagine higher technological progress than ours. High bioengineering allows us to construct artificial robots similar to us — which have artificial ‘flesh and blood’ that is indistinguishable by your sense organs. When you get in physical contact with her ‘body’, your brain program could discern nothing artificial there. The same input signals, as if there is nothing artificial, and the brain would automatically begin to satisfy its sexual desires. However, there would be a fundamental difference — an artificial partner would exist absolutely adequate to your will. Visually, ‘she’ would be the living embodiment of your dreams. Neuroengineering would allow us to construct ‘her’ brain and through it also her conscious mind and personality, as you would like them to be. An ideal personality for you. It would be like that you say to do something and she would do, or you say don’t, and she wouldn’t. However, there wouldn’t be any direct control. You would control only her brain program, her unconscious and conscious mind, delete unwished episodes from her brain. She wouldn’t know that she is a robot, as you couldn’t know, if you were a robot. She would think that she is the same as you, having free will, being capable of thinking, feeling, expressing herself, controlling her behavior, and so on, and so forth. It would be possible to program her brain against leaving or killing you, so in that context you future would be guaranteed. The ideal personality, the ideal physical appearance — welcome to heaven, but only for those who have a lot of money. Unfortunately, even in the cyber-future, those who would be short of money would have to content themselves with biosocial robots in hell, as most of us do now.

It was very difficult for me to learn to say no. I did it badly, awkwardly, sometimes too forcefully, and sometimes with so many disclaimers and weird ancillary statements that people actually had no idea what I was saying. I hovered endlessly after I said it—Was that okay? Are we okay? Because I love you—you know I love you, right? We’re okay? But like anything you learn, it gets easier over time.

  Fuck you very much, Leslie. You always manage to ruin everything, but you didn’t ruin this.   Disclaimer: You are NOT the Leslie we’re talking about. No, really. You’re not her. We swear. It’s another Leslie. One you don’t know and have never heard of. Camp Love Yourself Scout’s honor.

The state of things, however, under the New economy, is extremely different. For the great Proprietor and Lord of the Christian church, having absolutely disclaimed a kingdom that is of this world cannot acknowledge any as the subjects of his government, who do not know and revere him -- who do not confide in him, and sincerely love him. Having entirely laid aside those ensigns of political sovereignty, and those marks of external grandeur, which made such a splendid appearance in the Jewish Theocracy; he disdains to be called the King, or the God, of any person who does not obey and worship him in spirit and in truth. Appearing as the head of his church, merely under the character of a spiritual monarch, over whomsoever he reigns, it is in the understanding, by the light of his truth; in the conscience, by the force of his authority; and in the heart, by the influence of his love: for as to all others, his dominion is that of Providence, not that of Grace. --The New Testament affords no more ground for concluding, that our being descended from parents of a certain description, constitutes us the subjects of our Lord's kingdom; than it does to suppose, that carnal descent, in a particular line of ancestry, confers a claim to the character and work of ministers in the same kingdom.

I’m knackered now,” he admits. “I think you’re actually going to have to help me to the room.” I laugh. “Really, granddad? You rock stars should come with some sort of disclaimer, warning us that reality doesn’t always live up to the pretty package.

¡Ay, las faldas!” (“Oh, the skirts!”) he sighed, shaking his head and winking with a mischievous smile. While admitting women were his “Achilles heel,” Antonio, as many young men of the times did, also disclaimed responsibility, as though he had no control over his behavior or desires. Loving the opposite sex was “the natural thing to do for a man,” he thought.

To Mom and Dad. As promised, here's the disclaimer: None of the bad parenting in this book is based on my childhood memories. Love, Katie

Then you take her without reservation, disclaimer, parental demands, or otherwise. You take her as she is with all her faults, weaknesses, idiosyncrasies, and requirements. You take her without qualification, with no strings attached by anyone else, because that’s what loving someone means.

She loves her parents, she does, but it’s a prickly, complicated love, and suddenly Helen is swept up in a hopeless feeling that maybe all she’s capable of is prickly, complicated loving. Maybe even with Grant Shepard permanently, safely in the rearview mirror, she’ll never be able to love simply and without disclaimers.

Oh we’re all so good at covering up. Pretending everything’s absolutely lovely.

She ached to be fucked violently and loved tenderly, and for the life of her, she didn’t understand why. She wasn’t one of those women who needed a man, but she longed to be the kind of woman a man couldn’t live without. And while Matias’ intentions hovered somewhere between terrifying and soulless, the way he looked at her made her feel treasured. Protected.

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