Massey Quotes

They must find it difficult, those who have taken authority as truth, rather than truth as authority.

Were you born this infuriating?" "It's taken me years of practice.

I often have the fantasy that curly girls are mermaids who have had to adapt to life on dry land. We come from the sea. The ocean is in our blood. It sings through our heart and lungs, our skin and hair. Our curls require the nourishment only a watery environment can provide. Both ocean waves and curly hair are forces of nature that can't be tamed. We can only accept and admire their power and beauty.

Remember this! It is never an entire people who is cruel; it is merely individuals who exert their will on others.

Crockery broke and fabric frayed. The delicate things I cared about perished, while the hard things like swords survived.

Christianity was neither original nor unique, but that the roots of much of the Judeo/ Christian tradition lay in the prevailing Kamite (ancient Egyptian) culture of the region. We are faced with the inescapable realisation that if Jesus had been able to read the documents of old Egypt, he would have been amazed to find his own biography already substantially written some four or five thousand years previously.

I decided that being called “crazy” by a man was not an insult but a challenge. It gives the woman an opportunity to say, “Crazy? Oh, I’ll show you fucking crazy.

The problem is he thinks he and Eli could be good for each other. Really good. Under different circumstances. In a different life. Or maybe, if he was just a little braver, in this one.

Calculus is homophobic,” Eli mutters. “What?” Alex says. “How?” “I’m gay, and it inconveniences me.

We worship differently, but we are not so far apart in our hearts,

I’ve come to see “Bitches be crazy” as less a statement by men that women are crazy or even a reappropriated statement by women defending their own madness. Instead, I see the phrase and imagine a colon after “bitches,” rendering it a command to other women, a battle cry. It is a way of saying, “We took back ‘bitch’ already. And now we have come for ‘crazy.

Once I put it down I couldn't pick it back up.

Curly Girl: It's more than just hair, it's an attitude.

Do you think two exclamation marks are excessive?” he asks. “Oh, yeah,” Jeff says. “He’ll for sure know you’re in love with him now.

Sometimes he felt as if he'd been born in the wrong century. The people of this time were all wrong for him, and he was all wrong for them. But he refused to become something he wasn't just for society's approval.

This document outlines our plan to perpetrate insurance fraud, insider trading, and character assassination. ...hopefully tripling our paycheck on this job. Okay, see? Those words I understand just fine. Use them more often. -Lieutenant Massey Reynstein & Captain Tagon

Going to open a quaint little bookshop and have a niche section called "Men's Interests" where we shelve the Western Cannon.

She had been meant to die, yet she’d cut her way out of that fate and back to the world she loved.

It is, in the words of Alana Massey’s essay “Against Chill,” a “laid-back attitude, an absence of neurosis.” It “presides over the funeral of reasonable expectations.” It “takes and never gives.

Sylvia was an early literary manifestation of a young woman who takes endless selfies and posts them with vicious captions calling herself fat and ugly. She is at once her own documentarian and the reflexive voice that says she is unworthy of documentation. She sends her image into the world to be seen, discussed, and devoured, proclaiming that the ordinariness or ugliness of her existence does not remove her right to have it.

Boys often have permission to become men without the forfeiture of their desirability. And so these men write stories that grasp at girls who are ghosts twice over: first by being dead and second by being shallow shadows of actual girls, the assorted fragments of men's aging imaginations rather than the deep and dimensioned creatures that real girls are.

he’s pretty sure he’s in love, and it’s terrible.

They know too well the violent hypnosis of those who hope to possess them-- men who can smell the blood on the places where a woman is breaking.

They must find it hard to take Truth for authority who have so long mistaken Authority for Truth.

Apparently, Alex doesn't know how to handle emotions, and he's a dumpster fire of a human being.

The boundaries communities drew around themselves seemed to narrow their lives—whether it was women and men, Hindus and Muslims, or Parsis and everyone else.

This misery of a gig called life is just a dream from which we all eventually awaken, he said. Nobody gets left behind. Even the most horrible dreams end.

Love is supposed to be a reckless thing. But all I’m made of is caution.

I like to think of personal discovery and developing your perception of self that way, a process of building that needs all the difficult and unsavory experiences at its foundation.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart.” I struggle to think of any line of thinking more linked to being a socialized female than to consider the declaration of simply existing to feel like a form of bragging. But that, of course, is the plight of the feeling girl: to be told again and again that her very existence is something not worth declaring.

Whence did the wond'rous mystic art arise, Of painting speech, and speaking to the eyes? That we by tracing magic lines are taught How to embody, and to colour thought?

Why didn't I ask him for his number, address, e-mail — anything? Why? Because I'm in a sodding war zone, that's why. And I'm a soldier. And this wasn't supposed to happen.

Even mercy can be cruel.

Go fuck yourself,” Damien says genially. “Fuck me yourself, you coward.” Damien trips on his skates. “Oh shit,” Rome says. “Are you okay?

I hate you,” Rome says, slamming the passenger door. “Don’t play,” Damien says. “You love me.” He might. It’s sort of becoming a problem.

Is this idea of yours to help the Cuttingmasters, or is it really to advance your career?” With a knowing smile, she said, “Is there any reason I can’t do both? That is what you have been doing all your life. Ambition is not a dirty word for men.

She turned her attention from Maharani Putlabai to Mirabai. Why was the younger queen on a chair and not a cushion? Perhaps it was a statement of her middling position—that she was not high enough for the zenana throne, but she was respected enough not to be somewhat elevated.

Because there’s definitely something there, he thinks. Something between them.

And Damien has fucked him up with his casual touching and easy affection because his first instinct is to hug her. He gives her a fist bump instead. “Hey,” he says.

Get out! No sanctuary here. Father sees all.

It was an odd habit, I thought, this insistence on driving a car in cities with public transportation.

He made a sound that was halfway between a fart and giving me strawberries.

In fact, is the idea of a serious comparison of American musicals and opera really so outrageous?

You are not a monster! You are a prince. My prince.

Next time you face a Fomorian, don’t offer parley. We don’t negotiate for surrender.

She was taking her own liberties with him. Was this liberation?

I was deeply embedded in a fat cake of lies

I should be trying to change the way people think, not just blindly following the shitty system that exists.

They fit together like a habit. Like an inevitability. Like a gift. Like a death sentence.

Right,” Rome snarled, “but sometimes violence is the question and the answer is yes.

The feelings I have for you are not gross.” And that—is a lot more than he meant to say. Shit. Shit. Shit. Rome is startled enough to look up at him. “All feelings are gross,” he says.

She’d started out the morning hating all young men. Then she’d become so angry with her law professor that she’d quit school. Finally, she’d gone to eat rice with a man she didn’t know.

off. Next I moved on to scrutinize the aged plaster walls near the desk. Beside a museum calendar featuring old woodblock prints was a taped-up paper that looked like a printed reproduction of an

Briggs was living in Toronto at the time and had started a studio called Thunder Sound. He recorded the Massey Hall show. He thought this live show should have come out right away and was disappointed and disagreed with my decision to instead put out Harvest-he thought it was not as good as the Massey Hall recording. "It's great, Neil," Briggs said. "Put it out there." But that was not to be. When I heard the show thirty-four years later while reviewing tapes for my archive performance series, I was a little shocked-I agreed with David. After listening, I felt his frustration. This was better than Harvest. It meant more. He was right. I had missed it. He understood it. David was usually right, and when I disagreed with him, I was usually wrong. Every time I go into the studio or onstage, he is missed.

Damien, who wants to know Rome’s weaknesses not so he can use those weaknesses against him, but so he can know how to love Rome better. Maybe. Or, maybe not love. He wonders if it is love though. He wants it to be love.

I’m an uninhibited woman.” Grace chuckled. Her eyes seemed to glow. “I freely admit it’s true. I love men, I love sex. Nothing is as exciting to me as the feeling of a man, engorged, captured up in my essence, utterly at my mercy.

Most moving of all was Raymond Massey’s voice, the voice that portrayed Lincoln in Bob Sherwood’s Abe Lincoln in Illinois, reading Stephen Vincent Benét’s Prayer for United Nations,2 which the President himself had once recited on Flag Day: “God of the Free, we pledge our lives and hearts today to the cause of all free mankind…. Grant us brotherhood in hope and union, not only for the space of this bitter war, but for the days to come which shall and must unite all the children of earth.

Though the boys never admit it as much, it is crucial the Lisbon sisters are all thin and beautiful within reason. There are a handful of imperfect features among them but nothing that would make the sum of each one's parts less than desirable. In the safety of being attractive, their eccentricities are as precious as their bodies. Their bodies protect all eccentricity from becoming "strange" or "gross" in the way similar predilections are characterized when possessed by heavier or uglier girls.

It all adds up: the interesting face; the long, wiry frame; the taut, fight-ready stance – to create a body that casting directors for edgy photoshoots would salivate over. The sort of photoshoots that, if they involve teeth, it isn't because people are smiling

No. I am retired from the post office for the last ten years. Most afternoons, it is my daily routine to arrive at three and leave at six.” “Your routine seems very pleasant.” Perveen imagined what her life might be like when she was alone and in her seventies.

Jesus,” Rome says. “I thought you were a poet.” “I do sometimes.” “You do what?” “Write poetry about you. Because you’re so… you could be so much, I think. If you weren’t—“ Damien sighs. “It helps… to write about you. Sometimes.” Rome suddenly feels a lot more sober, standing there in the hallway, for all intents and purposes, holding hands with Damien Raphael Bordeaux. “Yeah?” “Yeah,” Damien sighs, letting go of his hand. He stumbles a little, and Rome catches him before he can topple back down the stairs. “Don’t tell, okay?” Damien says, leaning into him. “About the poetry.” “Don’t tell who?” “Rome.” “Okay,” Rome agrees. “I won’t.

The thing is, he wants to be touched, now. He thinks he might even deserve it. But trying to reevaluate the various ways that his past has fucked up his understanding of interpersonal relationships is hard. Does he like Damien’s hand on his neck because it’s Damien’s hand? Or because it’s a modicum of physical kindness?

Lincoln Highway offered the kind of dramatic stories usually reserved for prime time, and thus began a trend toward quality programming on Saturday mornings. The stories were of people scattered along the 3,000–mile length of U.S. Route 30, which stretched from Philadelphia to Portland and was popularly known as the Lincoln Highway. Most surprising, even to radio insiders, was the long line of top performers willing to appear at that time of day. Listeners could rise on days off and hear Burgess Meredith portraying a young man who flees the city for farm life, or Raymond Massey as the owner of a trailer camp somewhere in middle America.

There was a rhythm to the process. First, a pot of equal parts water and milk was put on the hob. To this, Camellia added a few spoons of Assamese tea, two slices of ginger, and a fistful of fresh lemongrass leaves and mint. After arriving at a gentle boil, a tablespoon of sugar went in, and the brew cooked for five minutes.

But before the friends settled on a wrought-iron bench with distance from others, they stopped to buy their kulfi. Alice took pistachio, and Perveen had plain cardamom. There was a brief squabble about paying the vendor, which Perveen won. The cold, sweet ice cream was a most comforting taste after all the tension of the day.

You know, your story is not all that unique in the supernatural world. Many a were-creature has had a similar experience the first time they turned. And, similar to your predicament, many therianthropes have tried to commit suicide in the midst of their grief and self-loathing, only to wake up the next day with one less round in their gun.

Damien rests his elbows on the railing next to Rome, and Rome leans into him. Like it’s natural. Like they do this, together, all the time. Maybe it’s because Rome is cold. Maybe it’s because he wants to thank Damien for coming with him to the hearing, and the contact between them is the only way he knows to express appreciation. Maybe it’s because he wants to.

After a few months, I decided to do one more leg of the Le Noise tour and film the last show with Jonathan Demme in Toronto's Massey Hall/ It turned out to be a great night. Everyone was very happy because we had captured it. During a review of the digital files, we realized that the resolution was not full, it was a stepped down quality, not the best it could be. My own team's excuses were not adequate, because I was not informed of the decision to go to a lesser quality. Lesser quality is so accepted as normal now that even I had used it unknowingly. I went back to Massey Hall and set up a PA system like the one I used at the show, played back the mixes through the PA, and rerecorded the house sound at the highest resolution. I did the best I could with a bad situation. It does sound great now. Thankfully, the PA mix was only one step down from the highest resolution, so when it resonated in the hall and was rerecorded at the highest level, a high resolution hall sound was captured.

Those who accuse these women of fraud in their image craft seem not to have heard of David Bowie's successful alter ego Ziggy Stardust or even Bob Dylan, the folksy creation of a genius named Robert Allen Zimmerman. There is a tradition of male artists taking on personae that are understood to be part of their art. It is as though there is so much genius within them that it must be split between these mortal men and the characters they create. Women who venture to do the same are ridiculed as fakers and try-hards.

In the lower-brow selection of tabloids that report on the weight of celebrities, one statement that follows women struggling with their weight around more than any other is "She got her body back." Here you'll find near-constant Britney coverage. But barring any transcendent out-of-body experiences, these women were never separated from their bodies. They've occupied them across various weights. This phrase is not about a woman getting back something she lost as much as it as about our approval that she has returned to something we want her to be. What is meant by this phrase is "We got her body back." We got the body we felt entitled to.

The ordinary woman had perhaps been so busy that the veiled newspaper warnings of famine had not penetrated to her; but perhaps that was natural when the authorities kept repeating, “There is plenty of rice. Plenty of rice.” Perhaps there was plenty of rice, but in that case, who, women were beginning to ask, who were these people flocking into the towns and the city? Men and women and unclothed children, all with scarecrow legs and arms and ribs, and strange sunk eyes and swollen stomachs? Why did they settle in swarms on the pavements, round the rubbish bins, sleeping there through the nights, covering the streets with filth and cess? Why did no one come to move away? Why, rather did more and more come every day?

One day Lot went into Sodom, took office, tried to reform the evil city, succeeded in vexing his righteous, but unspiritual soul with the filthy conversation of the wicked, got down to the level of the natural man, lost his testimony and seemed to his friends and intimates like a madman or the most excuselessly inconsistent trifler when he attempted to take up once more his damaged testimony. Then there was a night when God’s angels came and snatched him out of the doomed city. The next morning the fire of God fell and Lot “saved so as by fire” looked on at the blaze and the burning of all his works of righteousness as wood hay and stubble, big in bulk but rejected of God. Looking forward to His Second Coming and backward for an illustration the Son of God declared as it was in the days of Lot so should it be when the Son of man should come again. There are good and righteous Christians—righteous enough but wholly unspiritual who are seeking to make spotless town of a world God has judged and doomed, failing to see the cross is not only the judgment of the individual, but equally the judgment of the world; that not only does the cross reveal the end of all flesh but the end in God’s sight of that system of things which men call the world; that on the cross the world is crucified to the Christian and the Christian to the world; and failing to see this, failing to get the mind of God are daily descending to the plane of the natural man, are losing and in many cases deliberately setting aside the testimony once for all delivered to the saints. Without warning, they will be snatched away to meet a descending Lord (if they be real and regenerated Christians) and this alone because their faith be it never so small holds them securely in the bonds of the covenant. After that the Lord will be revealed in flaming fire to execute judgment on the world and all the works of misguided social reformers because these works are built, not upon the righteousness of God, but the righteousness of man.

You can't light up someone else's path without brightening your own.

As I reviewed the social terrain of the right-leaning people I had come to know—the companies, the state government, the church, Fox News—I reflected on my keyhole issue. Everyone I was talking to was enduring a great deal of pollution and despite the silence from companies, politicians, and state officials, nearly everyone clearly knew it. To some, such as Lee Sherman and Harold and Annette Areno, exposure had become the defining experience of their lives. To others, it was a passing matter. While many, like Madonna Massey, spoke of their love of capitalism, the dominant industry in their economy presented a decidedly mixed story. Oil was highly automated and accounted for some 15 percent of jobs—and even some of those were going to foreign workers at lower pay. The state had made huge cuts to local jobs and social services in order to bring in companies and, instead of money trickling down, a third of it was leaking out. To some degree, the community had become the site of local production without being the site of local producers. They were victims without a language of victimhood.

All my life, I have run after false gold. You were the only treasure I ever had—and then I lost you.

transcends our own tiny allotment of days and hours if we are to keep at bay the "dim, back-of-the-mind suspicion that one may be adrift in an absurd world."' The name for that suspicion-for the absence or diminution of hope-is melancholy. Melancholy is the dark twin of hope. Ever since it acquired a name from the Greek words for black bile, melanos chole, it has been thought to exert a particularly strong hold on certain people, and, as the great anatomist of melancholy Robert Burton put it, to afflict certain "kingdoms, provinces, and Politickal Bodies [that] are subject in like manner to this disease.

What, for example, is one to make of Walt Whitman's comment that during the Civil War "the People, of their own choice, [were] fighting, dying for their own idea"? How could Whitman know this-and what, exactly, does it mean for a people to possess, or be possessed by, an idea? Who, indeed, were the people? And how do we place Whitman's remark in relation to the high rates of desertion in that war, or to the brutal draft riots that swept through New York City at its height, when white mobs pulled black men out of their homes for lynching, then dragged their bodies through the streets by the genitals? Was this really a war of, by, and for the people? Or was it a war between industrialists and slaveowners in which people were fodder?

America that has at its center the poisonous idea of race. This story runs from Thomas Jefferson's obscene remark that the Orangutan prefers "black women over those of his own species," to W. E. B. Du Bois's experience a century

brought the idea that overwhelmed the native cultures they encountered here) are known to us by a name given to them by their enemies. Derided as "precisians" or "precisionists," they were regarded by many of their fellow Englishmen as fanatics who insisted that the Anglican Church had been corrupted with garish ceremonies and needed to return to precise conformity with the pure forms of worship established by Christ's apostles sixteen hundred years before they were born. Among the names by which these people were mocked, the one that stuck was "Puritans."3 As

Why New England? Perry Miller once wrote that Virginia, no less than Massachusetts, found its "energizing propulsion" in religion. Miller insisted that Virginia's idea of itself as a trading colony "was conceived in the bed of religion," and that its publicly announced motives of evangelizing Indians and stopping the imperial designs of French and Spanish papists were more than disguises draped over the tobacco trade.

Ever since, there has been a good deal of speculation about why they went. Tocqueville thought "it was a purely intellectual craving that called them from the comforts of their former homes." But according to a less generous observer who lived in their own time, the real reason they left was their misanthropy: "A Puritan is such a one as loves God with all his soul, but hates his neighbour with all his heart." By the beginning of our own century, this view had become the prevailing one. According to D. H. Lawrence, they came "to get away"; and to his own rhetorical question "away from what?"-Lawrence replied, "in the long run, away from themselves." In an especially cruel assessment, William Carlos Williams called them "hard and little" people, as if they were

He even sported a high and tight, which probably made him look like an asshole to the younger crowd, but he was alright.

What the poet tells us is that, after the ordeals and adventures, after the revelation and the loss, the king must do two things: preserve the splendor of his city and tell his own story. Both tasks are complementary: both speak of the intimate connection between building a city of walls and building a story of words, and both require, in order to be accomplished, the existence of the other.

The identity of the city, because of the laws that define it, depends on some sort of banning or exclusion. The individual identity required the reverse: a constant effort of inclusion, a story reminding Gilgamesh that, in order to know who one is, we need two.

All reading is interpretation, every reading reveals and is dependent on the circumstances of its reader.

[On religious propaganda] Proclamations, gestures, articles of clothing, talismans, et cetera, become, through this propaganda, not symbolic of a belief but the demonstration of the belief itself.

She had never been happier than as a solicitor. Whether she was working on a rental contract or a business settlement, she was building Bombay. Her sense of duty to the city was almost as strong as to her family.

If the Epic of Gilgamesh carries a teaching, it is that the other makes our existence possible.

Since at the very start of the [Epic of Gilgamesh], the purpose of the encounter of the wild man with the civilized king was to restore justice to the city, the poem has, after all, a happy ending.

Monsters do not remain monsters forever. This is one of the revelations that stories offer us. Caught in words, transmitted through words, put forward to serve as the point of departure for reflection and dialogue, the monsters perceived beyond the pale of society's laws can suddenly be seen in all their tragic humanity, revealed not as creatures capable of monstrous acts because they are unlike us, but because they are very much like us, and capable of the same things. These are the facts, stories tell us, and these terrible events belong to our common circle of existence. These are not inconceivable, magically evil acts: they are acts of our flesh and blood, and flesh and blood can mourn them, and remember them, and perhaps (this seems impossible and yet it happens) one day even redeem them. Language has a powerful accounting capability.

From the farmer who plants on one acre to the companies who produce on hundreds of hectares knows Massey Ferguson by their hearts, it has been people’s first tractor and from their first unit, which was manufactured to the last, one till today it has a lion’s share in the farming industry. They have plants all over the world through which they manufacture their models and cater to the local market according to the buying powe

Don’t you understand about your dirty condition?

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He wants to touch him. He wants to write him. I wish I was smaller. I wish I was a tidy thing I could place in your hands. He has to look away, for a moment, to get the words in his head to quiet down. He can’t get his phone out and start composing a poem on the spot. That would be weird, even for him.

Early termination of the lease agreement requires payment in full of all remaining months. Security deposit is forfeited.

Actually, Rome,” Olly says, stupidly kind and completely unaware he’s ruining everything

He and Olly make a Pinterest board over breakfast.

I wish I was smaller. I wish I was a tidy thing I could place in your hands.

And that is so marvellously spiteful, so— so Rome that Damien could kiss him. And— Oh. Oh no. Damien wants to kiss him. With, like, feelings.

Kiss my black ass, bitch.