Mac Repair Quotes

You have to understand, and help him, dear. Not repair him.

Lord Nicholas St. John was their only hope, and she had been on the roof when he arrived, for heaven's sake. Ladies did not go traipsing about on rooftops. And certainly gentlemen did not frequent the homes of those ladies who did traipse about on roortops. It did not matter if the rooftop in question was in dire need of repair. Or that the lady in question had no choice.

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.) And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's. And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled, Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled, Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair - Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there! And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray, Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way, There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair - But it's useless to investigate - Mcavity's not there! And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say: 'It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away. You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs, Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums. Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity, There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity. He always has an alibi, and one or two to spaer: At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE! And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known (I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone) Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

I want this chimney to smoke worse than Lucifer's own fire. Let's add another brick to be certain. Dougal stiffened. He'd thought they were repairing the chimney, but they wanted it to smoke. What in the hell was going on?

Fortunately, ideas already exist for how to achieve every aspect of deconsumer society that appears in this book. Lifespan labeling can encourage product durability: new tax regimes and regulations can favour repair over disposability, job-sharing programs and shorter work days or work weeks can keep people employed in a slower, smaller economy. Redistribution of wealth can reverse income inequality, or prevent it from worsening in a lower-consuming world.

On the day Charles Barrett died, James MacNally closed the door to his study, sat down in his chair, and laid his head on the thick edge of his desk so he could weep. His wife, Nan, did not knock to be let in, though his rough, heavy sobs hit her like stones. She knew James’s own death would wring the same sounds from her, if he went first and left her adrift in the world, unmoored. Nan knew, full well, that life was a series of bereavements and each stole from her one load-bearing beam, one bone. Nan almost always believed, as her father had, that even deep wounds could be repaired, that God healed all parts of us like skin: no matter how sharp the cut, it would someday knit itself back together and leave only a scar.

I'm sorry your chair collapsed, but the furnishings are in as poor repair as the roof." He retrieved his abandoned glass of sherry. "I assume the rook leaks." "Only when it rains." His eyes warmed with laughter as he watched her over the rim of his glass. "I'm surprised you countenance this place." "I'm here for my father. Once he returns and you take the house, I will be on my way." "May I ask where?" "Italy,perhaps. Or France." She shrugged. "I haven't yet decided." "I love Italy." His voice deepened the faintest bit. "I imagine Italy would love you,too.

if I am not unfrequently sad, I yet cast no more of a shade on the earth, than most men who have lived in it as long as I. I have a strange feeling sometimes, that I am a ghost, sent into the world to minister to my fellow men, or, rather, to repair the wrongs I have already done. May the world be brighter for me, at least in those portions of it, where my darkness falls not.

Sophia had been hard pressed not to laugh when MacLean had tripped over one of the floorboards she and Angus had pried loose. Better yet, MacLean had ripped his lace-edged sleeve on a broken nail in the doorframe of his bedchamber. She knew because she'd heard his loud curse from the hallway. Sophia had expected him to roar at the servants and demand things be repaired, but all he did was ask Angus for a hammer to protect himself from the loose boards and stray nails that seemed to plague MacFarlane House. To Sophia's delight, Angus had gloomily replied that there weren't enough hammers in the whole of Scotland to do that. Since Angus had left MacLean in his bedchamber, they hadn't heard a word from him. Perhaps the man was sleeping, although how could anyone sleep in such a damp room and with such a lumpy mattress and smoky chimney? More likely, he was awake and seething at being forced to endure such horrid conditions. She wished she had been there to witness his reaction to the threadbare furniture with broken springs and flat cushions, the inadequate bed coverings for the chilly chamber (it faced north, where the wind was fiercest), a window that was nailed slightly open, and more.

It was as though the whole world was thrown back six or seven hundred years without having the organizations those ancient peoples had." He paused, breathing heavily. "Of course, there were many survivors who understood small skills. Some of them would repair small engines, but they couldn't manufacture them. They couldn't refine fuels. Fortunately a good many doctors who had practiced in small towns and in the country survived. They had their medical books, but they could no longer get the drugs they needed. Anyway, medicine survived after a fashion. Then gradually little patterns of order began to appear and another Bureaucracy came into being.

...[I]f the goal is a realistic sustainable future, then it’s necessary to take a look at what we can do to lengthen the lives of the products we’re going to buy anyway. So my ... answer to the question of how we can boost recycling rates is this: Demand that companies start designing products for repair, reuse, and recycling. Take, for example, the super-thin MacBook Air, a wonder of modern design packed into an aluminum case that’s barely bigger than a handful of documents in a manila envelope. At first glance, it would seem to be a sustainable wonder that uses fewer raw materials to do more. But that’s just the gloss; the reality is that the MacBook Air’s thin profile means that its components—memory chips, solid state drive, and processor—are packed so tightly in the case that there’s no room for upgrades (a point driven home by the unusual screws used to hold the case together, thus making home repair even more difficult). Even worse, from the perspective of recycling, the thin profile (and the tightly packed innards) means that the computer is exceptionally difficult to break down into individual components when it comes time to recycle it. In effect, the MacBook Air is a machine built to be shredded, not repaired, upgraded, and reused.

When we feel this rejected self, it will seem mangled beyond repair. What are we supposed to do with this? Where is the love we were promised?

It was okay, Travis, when the world couldn’t see us consuming and consuming. Or hear us. Or taste some of our wares. But communication by cinema, satellite, radio, television tape, these have been like a light coming on slowly, being turned up like on a rheostat control in a dark cellar where all of mankind used to live. Now it is blinding bright, cruelly bright. And they can all look over into our corner and see us gorging ourselves and playing with our bright pretty toys. And so they want theirs now. Just like ours, God help them. And what is the only thing we can say? ‘Sorry. You’re a little too late. We used it all up, all except what we need to keep our toys in repair and running and to replace them when they wear out. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.’ What comes after that? Barbarism, an interregnum, a new dark ages, and another start a thousand years from now with a few million people on the planet? Our myth has been that our standard of living would become available to all the peoples of the world. Myths wear thin. We have a visceral appreciation of the truth. That truth, which we don’t dare announce to the world, is what gives us the guilt and the shame and the despair. Nobody in the world will ever live as well, materially, as we once did. And now, as our materialism begins to sicken us, it is precisely what the emerging nations want for themselves. And can never have. Brazil might manage it. But no one else.

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Gavin…I’ve never felt anything like this. You’ll never be my friend again, never my surrogate brother. If I am the standard to which you hold the women in your life…then you are more than that for the men in mine. How will I ever find someone to compare to you? You, with your bold smiles and your brilliant mind and your handsome face…” She touched his cheek, running her fingers along his jaw. “You have quite ruined me for all others.” They kissed again, languishing in the feel of each other, before he raised his head and spoke, his voice deep and soft, “Now that you’ve wheedled your way into my heart and mind and tricked me into confessing my feelings for you, don’t you think you ought to be on your way…before someone finds us and I’ve damaged your reputation beyond repair? Although, I confess, right now I could think of worse ways to end this evening than betrothed to you…despite your opinions on the subject of marriage.” The

You often hear that a physician’s bedside manner is more or less irrelevant. The theory seems to suggest that you just want someone who coldly, mechanically, robotically does the job, who doesn’t get distracted by emotion, who lives by that old saw that you’d rather have a surgeon who cuts straight and cares less. Ingrid, Simon knew, believed the opposite. You want a real person—a caring, empathic person—to be your physician. You want a person who sees you as a fellow human being who is scared and hurting and in need of reassurance and comfort. It was a responsibility Ingrid took very seriously. When a parent brought their child to see her—well, step back and think about it: When are you ever more vulnerable? You’re stressed, you’re terrified, you’re confused. Physicians who do not understand that, who act as though you are an anatomical object in need of repair like a MacBook visiting the Genius Bar are going to not only make the experience more miserable but they will miss something in the diagnosis.

We have been professionally repairing devices since the original iPhone was released. We have fixed thousands of devices since we started and we look forward to fixing thousands more.

As representatives of all those who have served here before you—for nearly three decades, day and night, you have served at this crossroad between East and West. You have done so loyally, and with dedication.” Coming to the end of his speech, the American commandant paid tribute to the place they had served, and what the Allies’ role had now brought about: “A city long divided is repairing its severed arteries, and its pulse is growing stronger. For the contribution you have made to the freedom and the well-being of Berlin, you have earned the thanks of all free men.” The audience burst into applause. The

Different things are valued in different cultures; but whatever is valued, women are not that. If bottom is bottom, look across time and space, and women are whom you will find there. —Catharine A. MacKinnon, Feminism Unmodified

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May I help you?" She did not look up. "You've miscalculated column F." What in hell? "I have not." She pushed her glasses up her nose and tucked a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear, entirely focused on the ledger. "You have. The proper calculation should be one hundred and twelve thousand, three hundred forty-six and seventeen pence." Impossible. He stood, moving to look over her shoulder. "That's what it says." She shook her head, placing one long finger on the tabulation line. He noticed the tip of the finger was slightly crooked, leaning a touch to the right. "You've written one hundred twelve thousand, three hundred, forty-five and seventeen pence. You-" She looked up at him, eyes owl-like behind her spectacles as she took in his height and his bare chest. "You- you've lost a quid." He bent over her, deliberately crowding her and enjoying the way her breath caught at his nearness. "That is a six." She cleared her throat and looked again. "Oh." She leaned in and checked the number again. "I suppose you've lost your handwriting skills, instead," she said dryly, and he chuckled as she reached for a pencil and repaired the number. He watched, riveted to the callus at the tip of her second finger, before he whispered low in her ear, "Are you an accounting fairy sent in the dead of night to check my figures?" She leaned away from the whisper and and turned to look at him. "It's one o'clock in the afternoon," she said, matter-of-factly, and he had an intense desire to take her spectacles from her face and kiss her senseless, just to see what this odd young woman would say.

I saw MacRieve catch at least two bullets before you shoved me out," Travis said, "but he looks like he's just taking a nap." "Scottish men are . . . hardy?" The captain rubbed his hand over his face. "See, what I think happened is this—" "Travis," she interrupted in a steely tone. "You've got a head wound, you're a drinker, and if no one ever hears about what you think happened, then I'll pay for all the repairs to the boat. A lump sum." After a hesitation, he narrowed his eyes. "Quadruple it, and you'll see my memory go real fast.

Fortunately, ideas already exist for how to achieve every aspect of deconsumer society that appears in this book. Lifespan labeling can encourage product durability: new tax regimes and regulations can favour repair over disposability, job-sharing programs and shorter work days or work weeks can keep people employed in a slower, smaller economy. Redistribution of wealth can reverse income inequality, or prevent it from worsening in a lower-consuming world. I set out on my thought experiment as an observer, I wanted to see for myself where a world that stops shopping would lead, rather than be guided by others' theories. In the end, both approaches arrive at the same place. Movements for degrowth and a well-being economy-one measured not by GDP but by its ability to improve the quality of life of citizens-have been steadily refining a set of ideas and ways of life that could free us from the need for relentless, and relentlessly damaging, economic expansion. The alternative to consumer capitalism is not a constellation of possibilities, but increasingly a convergence.

Retouch me. Repair me. But let it be known that when you see me, I will be restored.

In April, his father, former vice president Joe Biden, announced he was running for president. Two weeks later, Hunter left his laptop at a Mac repair shop in Delaware and never came back.