Meddlers Quotes

Son, never trust a man who doesn’t drink because he’s probably a self-righteous sort, a man who thinks he knows right from wrong all the time. Some of them are good men, but in the name of goodness, they cause most of the suffering in the world. They’re the judges, the meddlers. And, son, never trust a man who drinks but refuses to get drunk. They’re usually afraid of something deep down inside, either that they’re a coward or a fool or mean and violent. You can’t trust a man who’s afraid of himself. But sometimes, son, you can trust a man who occasionally kneels before a toilet. The chances are that he is learning something about humility and his natural human foolishness, about how to survive himself. It’s damned hard for a man to take himself too seriously when he’s heaving his guts into a dirty toilet bowl.

Unwanted favours gain no gratitude.

And the man clad in black and silver with a silver rose upon him? He would like to think that he has learned something of trust, that he has washed his eyes in some clear spring, that he has polished an ideal or two. Never Mind. He may still be only a smart-mouthed meddler, skilled mainly in the minor art of survival, blind as ever the dungeons knew him to the finer shades of irony. Never mind, let it go, let it be. I may never be pleased with him.

Acts 16:9 is the meddler's motto, simultaneously selfless and self-serving, generous but stuck-up. Into every generation of Americans is born a new crop of buttinskys sniffing out the latest Macedonia that may or may not want their help.

To show that I deserved this. That I'd fought for this with my blood, sweat, and tears, through the most frightening of storms and against even the most skeptical of mayors or meddlers. To show that someone like me could make her own dreams come true.

Must be frustrating being a scientist. There you are, incrementally discovering how the universe works via a series of complex tests and experiments, for the benefit of all mankind - and what thanks do you get? People call you "egghead" or "boffin" or "heretic", and they cave your face in with a rock and bury you out in the wilderness. Not literally - not in this day and age - but you get the idea. Scientists are mistrusted by huge swathes of the general public, who see them as emotionless lab-coated meddlers-with-nature rather than, say, fellow human beings who've actually bothered getting off their arses to work this shit out.

To The Manager, then, The Technician becomes a problem to be managed. To The Technician, The Manager becomes a meddler to be avoided. To both of them, The Entrepreneur is the one who got them into trouble in the first place!

Yeah, um. I’m a wizard. I meddle. It’s what we do.

Planetologist call it the conundrum of unforeseen ecological consequence. I call it the whack-a-mole rule of human meddling. She clasped both hands like a child hammering. WHACK! We change something here. Oops, that makes another problem pop up there where we didn't expect it. WHACK! So, we whack that mole. Oops! We're so smart that we're a menace.

Trudi’s gift lay in knowing. Knowing the words that named the thoughts inside people’s minds, the words that masked the fears and secrets inside their hearts. To force their secrets to the surface like water farts and let them rip through the silence. They called her a snoop, a meddler. But even though she was more inconvenient to them than ever before, they kept coming back—to borrow books, they liked to believe—yet, what they really came for, even those who feared Trudi Montag, were the stories she told them about their neighbors and relatives. What they brought Trudi in return were stories of their own lives, which they yielded to her questions or, unknowingly, to her ears as she overheard them talk to each other between the stacks; and they didn’t even miss what she had taken from them until the words they’d bartered in return for her tales had ripened into new stories that

Christmas Day has come and gone, the New Year lies ahead. Strange things happen Between the Years, in the days outside of time. Minutes go wild, hours vanish. Idleness becomes a clever thief, stealing the names of the days of the week, muting the steady tick of watches and clocks. These are the hours when angels, ghosts, demons and meddlers ride howling wind and flickering candlelight, keen to stir unguarded hearts and restless minds.

Sure, kid. Look, there's a very old saying in my family: 'Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is another wizard fucking with you.

A genius he may be, but he is still a habitual meddler and magnet for trouble.” The bodyguard winked at Artemis. “No offense, young sir, but you could turn a Sunday picnic into an international incident.

You should take no action unwillingly, selfishly, uncritically, or with conflicting motives. Do not dress up your thoughts in smart finery: do not be a gabbler or a meddler. Further, let the god that is within you be the champion of the being you are a male, mature in years, a statesman, a Roman, a ruler: one who has taken his post like a soldier waiting for the Retreat from life to sound, and ready to depart, past the need for any loyal oath or human witness. And see that you keep a cheerful demeanour, and retain your independence of outside help and the peace which others can give. Your duty is to stand straight - not held straight.

I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.” My friend smiled. “Holmes, the busybody!” His smile broadened. “Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!” Holmes chuckled heartily.

Churchill was exactly the kind of brilliant amateur meddler in military affairs that Hitler was. Both rose to power from the depths of political rejection. Both relied chiefly on oratory to sway the multitude. Both somehow expressed the spirits of their peoples and so won loyalty that outnumbered any mistakes, defeats and disasters. Both thought in grandiose terms, knew little about economic and logistical realities, and cared less. Both were iron men in defeat. Above all, both men had overwhelming personalities that could silence rational opposition when they talked.

The voice of Time, ' said the Phantom, 'cries to man, Advance! Time is for his advancement and improvement; for his greater worth, his greater happiness, his better life; his progress onward to that goal within its knowledge and its view, and set there, in the period when Time and He began. Ages of darkness, wickedness, and violence, have come and gone--millions uncountable, have suffered, lived, and died-- to point the way before him. Who seeks to turn him back, or stay him on his course, arrests a mighty engine which will strike the meddler dead; and be the fiercer and the wilder, ever, for its momentary check!

Say this to yourself in the morning: Today I shall have to do with meddlers, with the ungrateful, with the insolent, with the crafty, with the envious and the selfish.

He accused them of being untrained meddlers with an unhealthy interest in rape and murder. “WALTER MITTY DETECTIVE,” he wrote. By then I was convinced one of the Mittys was probably going to solve this thing.

Don't meddle, and you won't be spurned. Respect yourself, if you want to be respected. Be sparing rather than lavish with your presence. Arrive when wanted, and you'll be well received; never come unless called, nor go unless sent. Someone who gets involved on their own initiative receives all the ill-will if they fail, and none of the thanks if they succeed. A meddler is the target of scorn, and since they brazenly interfere, they are discarded ignominiously.

The excitement that filled Usaeil could barely be contained. She knew it wouldn’t take Taraeth long to corner Rhi. As she walked past a mirror on her way to the movie set, she paused and looked at herself. Perfection. There was no way Con would refuse her. He was making a show of it, but she knew he’d cave. It didn’t matter how long it took, the King of Kings would be hers. That was something else she’d tell Rhi right before the pesky meddler breathed her last. The need to have Rhi wiped from existence consumed her. Usaeil wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else until Rhi was gone. Forever. No one would stand between the Queen of the Light and what she wanted. Especially not someone like Rhi.

indeed, as the land of the free has grown increasingly coercive, the inference seems to run that “you’re eating for us now,” for 200-some million meddlers, any one of whose prerogative it is to object should you ever be in the mood for a jelly donut and not a full meal with whole grains and leafy vegetables that covers all five major food groups. The right to boss pregnant women around was surely on its way into the Constitution.

Seek no authority over the lives of men; of that the Omniwill is master. Nor seek authority over the goods of men; for men are chained so much to their goods as to their lives, and they distrust and hate the meddlers with their chains. But seek a way into the hearts of men through Love and Understanding; for once installed therein you can and better work to loose men of their chains. For love will guide your hand, while Understanding holds the lantern.

Is it just possible that the most vigorous and boldest idealists have been the worst enemies of human progress instead of its greatest creators? Possible that plain men with the humble trait of minding their own business will rank higher in the heavenly hierarchy than all the plumed souls who have shoved their way in among the masses and insisted on savings them?

He had been a strict socialist at Oxford. Everything ought to be run by the State; private enterprise and independent professions were for him the great evil. He then went away and became a schoolmaster. After about ten years of that he came to see me. He said his political views had been wholly reversed. You never heard a fuller recantation. He now saw that State interference was fatal. What had converted him was his experience as a schoolmaster of the Ministry of Education—a set of ignorant meddlers armed with insufferable powers to pester, hamper, and interrupt the work of real, practical teachers who knew the subjects they taught, who knew boys, parents, and all the real conditions of their work. It makes no difference to the point of the story whether you agree with his view of the Ministry; the important thing is that he held that view.

Where the parties speak different languages the chance for misinterpretation is compounded. For example, in Persian, the word “compromise” apparently lacks the positive meaning it has in English of “a midway solution both sides can live with,” but has only a negative meaning as in “our integrity was compromised.” Similarly, the word “mediator” in Persian suggests “meddler,” someone who is barging in uninvited. In early 1980 U.N. Secretary General Kurt Waldheim flew to Iran to seek the release of American diplomats being held hostage by Iranian students soon after the Islamic revolution. His efforts were seriously set back when Iranian national radio and television broadcast in Persian a remark he reportedly made on his arrival in Tehran: “I have come as a mediator to work out a compromise.” Within an hour of the broadcast, his car was being stoned by angry Iranians.

It is a shame that War should have flung all this aside in its greedy, base, opportunist march, and should turn instead to chemists in spectacles, and chauffeurs pulling the levers of aeroplanes or machine guns. But at Aldershot in 1895 none of these horrors had broken upon mankind. The Dragoon, the Lancer and above all, as we believed, the Hussar, still claimed their time-honoured place upon the battlefield. War, which used to be cruel and magnificent, has now become cruel and squalid. In fact it has been completely spoilt. It is all the fault of Democracy and Science. From the moment that either of these meddlers and muddlers was allowed to take part in actual fighting, the doom of War was sealed. Instead of a small number of well-trained professionals championing their country's cause with ancient weapons and a beautiful intricacy of archaic manoeuvre, sustained at every moment by the applause of their nation, we now have entire populations, including even women and children, pitted against one another in brutish mutual extermination, and only a set of blear-eyed clerks left to add up the butcher's bill. From the moment Democracy was admitted to, or rather forced itself upon the battlefield, War ceased to be a gentleman's game. To Hell with it! Hence the League of Nations.

Pinter is leaving for the day?” Isaac commented. “That’s a pity.” “Why?” “Haven’t you noticed how he looks at Celia sometimes? I think he might have set his sights on her.” “I thought so, too. Until just now.” “Just now?” “He did not react exactly as I expected when I-“ Oh, dear, perhaps she should not mention that. Isaac might not approve.” “Hetty?” Isaac prodded. “What mischief have you been up to now? You weren’t warning him off, were you?” The disapproval in his tone made her bristle. “And what if I was? The man is the love child of a light-heeled wench and God knows whom.” Isaac’s jaw tautened. “I didn’t know you were such a snob.” “I am not,” she protested. “But given his circumstances, I want to be sure he is interested in Celia for something other than her fortune. I watched my daughter marry a man whom she thought loved her, only to discover that he was merely a more skillful fortune hunter than most. I do not want to make that mistake again.” He sighed. “All right. I suppose I understand your caution. But Pinter? I’ve never seen a less likely fortune hunter. He talks about people of rank with nothing but contempt.” “And does that not worry you? She is one of those people, after all.” “What it tells me is that he doesn’t think much of marrying for rank or fortune.” She gripped his arm. “I suppose. And I must admit that when I hinted I could disinherit her if she married too low-“ “Hetty!” “I would not do it, mind you. But he does not know that. It is a good way to be sure how he feels about her.” “You’re playing with fire,” he gritted out. “And what did he say to it?” “He told me she would never marry anyone as low as him, then tried to convince me to rescind my ultimatum for her so she could marry a man she loved. And that was after I made it clear that it could not be him. He was very eloquent on the subject of what she deserved. Accused me of not knowing her worth, the impertinent devil.” “Good man, our Pinter,” he muttered. “I beg your pardon?” she said, bristling. “A man in love will fight to see that the woman he cares for is given what she deserves, even if he can’t have her.” Isaac eyed her askance. “Even if some meddler has dictated that marrying her would ruin her future forever.” A chill ran down Hetty’s spine. She had not considered her tactic in quite that light. “Be careful, my dear,” Isaac said in a low voice. “You’ve been dabbling in your grandchildren’s lives to such good effect you’ve forgotten that the heart is beyond your purview.” Was he right?

Marius,” he said softly, and in full command of classical Latin: “Count me a friend and not a meddler, I beg you. I have watched you for a long time from afar.

Whereas the NSA was the main eavesdropper, the CIA was the meddler, starter of wars, toppler of regimes, pusher of drugs, spreader of epidemics, maker of “kings,” and general confusers of truth.

The Cheltenham magician W.G. Gray was more specific, and held quite a different opinion to Raleigh, when he wrote in 1969 that magic is: ‘Man’s most determined effort to establish an actual working relationship through himself between his Inner and Outer states of being. By magic, Man shows that he is not content to be simply a pawn in the Great Game, but wants to play on his own account. Man the meddler becomes Man the Magician, and so learns the rules the hard way, for magic is concerned with Doing, while mysticism is concerned with Being’.

She doesn’t want to meddle. Her own parents were meddlers, and she knows how exhausting it can be, having that pressure looming, the weight of balancing a mother’s interference with your own private anxieties. Still, it’s hard work, biting her tongue, resisting the urge to fix a set of problems that aren’t hers to fix. She wants to tell him not to worry, to accept that- at least for a while things won’t work out as he imagined. She wants to remind him of all the awful jobs she had before deciding to go back to school. More than anything, she wants to tell him how Purpose, that awful thing that greeting cards tell him he was born with and that he just has to find, is actually something he’ll need to create; that it’s not until he feels the monotony of life that he’ll come to decide why he’s living it.

Say this to yourself in the morning: Today I shall have to do with meddlers, with the ungrateful, with the insolent, with the crafty, with the envious and the selfish. All these vices have beset them, because they know not what is good and what is evil.

Had Barsby named his ship after a Jack Blue novel ? Did that mean he was fond of the series? The idea seemed strangely unfair. Selfish villains shouldn’t have been allowed to enjoy reading about literary heroes. Were Jack Blue a real person , he was exactly the sort of swashbuckling meddler who would take pleasure in thwarting Barsby’s current plans.

You are a man without a heart, Dr. Leddell. And you, Mary Cooper, are a meddler. A woman can be forgiven for many transgressions but not that. I have been called worse. And by people I hold in more esteem than you. Ha! I pity the poor man unfortunate enough to marry you someday. He writes his own ticket to hell. If he does, then I'll make that hell as pleasant a place for him as I know how. But I won't deceive him and tell him it's heaven, then stoke the fires behind his back and cover it all with the scent of lilacs".

Three McCrae weddings in less than a year,” he commented, as if casually discussing the weather. Then he grinned. “Is it catching?” He could be so damn cute. And sexy as hell. His charisma and charm had been hard enough to resist before. Now that he’d unleashed it in full force, with every bit of his desire for her out there in the open for the world to see--and for her to feel--it was like being caught up in a kind of constant foreplay. It was one thing when she could just observe him in all his alpha-male glory, her thoughts about his sexy self and her desire to get all naked and personal with him safely hidden away inside her head for her own private enjoyment. But now he’d kissed her. And she’d kissed him back. And it had been so incredibly intimate, so ridiculously hot, so every other thing that usually requires full frontal nudity to experience, that she couldn’t even look at him without getting squirmy and tingly and far too turned on for her own--“I hate to disappoint you,” she blurted out, needing to get out of there, away from him. “But I really need to--” She lowered her hand and motioned to her truck and its trajectory as she backed out, right into where he was parked. “Lunch, then? Fergus said you’re off this shift.” “Oh, he did, did he?” No wonder she hadn’t heard him rummaging about in the apartment. He must have woken early and gone downstairs to his office. To hide. Old meddler. She’d have a little chat with him after the bridezilla brunch. “He also said he’s taken care of the orders, so no need to hurry back.” Kerry dipped her chin for a brief moment, then busied herself with wrangling the driver door open and all but shoving her basket in and across the bench seat of the ancient rig. She closed the door halfway, her sandaled foot still propped on the running board, and looked back at Cooper. “You’ve made yourself quite at home, I see.

I feel like all my stars have aligned, and Uranus wants to knock me out of orbit.

I liked to think I had written "scripts" when I was in high school, but looking back at them, they were about thirty pages of wannabe-Mamet dialogue with a staple through them. Work harder than everybody. Read scripts, watch movies. Help other writers, it makes you better. And probably move to LA.

Birsha, this is in your best interest!” I conveyed. “Go away Meddler, I have no business with you,” was the reply. “Should we break it down?” Michael asked preparing for mayhem. “No, he will not listen, this is on his head.” Gabriel assured. We left the city gates kicking the dust off our sandals. “Perhaps we shall have better reception from Bera?” I said but I had very little hope. As bad as the streets of Gomorrah were, the lakeside city was far worse.

His Majesty is under my protection, do not test me,” Apollos threatened. Pushing Isaac gently behind me I slipped in between them. “As is this man under my protection, do not vex me boy!” “My Lord, it is good to see you well.” Apollos said without even the slightest hint of affection, but only for a moment. Crunch! I believe those were my ribs breaking in his embrace. “Tsay-lose, you old meddler is that you? How is it I am so old and you have not even aged a day?” Abimelech beamed and hailed greetings. “It is the will of the Great Unseen.” I replied hoarsely.

Cotton Mather lusted all his life for the presidency of Harvard, a post his father had held, and which the son affected to despise, especially after others were chosen; he was a prig and a meddler; an unscrupulous ideologue and a windy orator; a scribbler who praised simplicity in flowery circumlocutions, so anxious to see his production in print that it might be said of him, with little fear of exaggeration, that he would rather lose his soul than misplace a manuscript.

Meddlers, both, we be, and always with the hope that our meddling will leave in our wake a more beautiful tapestry than that we first encountered.

Going to ground Your columnist, though he has never wanted to kill a fox, is cheered by this. It suggests the resilience of an interesting aspect of English culture, whatever social change and meddlers throw at it, for the good reasons that it is successful and loved. That is also why Steve, a well-built yokel who lays the fraudulent scent-trails, refers to the huntsman as “Sir”. It is his culture he respects; not, as Labour’s class-warriors might assume, a poshly spoken superior. As an expression of a similar commitment, Bagehot also enjoyed, he confesses, the explanation John, a retired terrierman, gave for there being no antis about that day. Was it because the country was remote? “No,” he said. “It’s cause we bashed ’em.” But it won’t do. The cost of the ban, one of Mr

Since the beginning of time men in pursuit of wisdom had routinely retreated to mountaintops, caves, and cabins in the woods. So, perhaps that is where one must eventually head, if one has any hopes of achieving enlightenment without the interference of meddlers

The government was jammed up, infested by ignorant bureaucrats who could be relied upon to make the wrong choice whenever they were confronted by a problem ... steered by idiots who claimed to believe the government was inherently racist and sexist and yet wanted to give the government even more power.  There seemed to be no room for someone who just wanted to be an honest human being, nowhere you could go to get away from the meddlers ... wherever you went, they’d simply follow you, daring you to resist.

The indirect harvesting of valued-per-click leisure time by corporations has led many technocapitalists to support projects like the Universal Basic Income (UBI), which would free up users’ time which could then potential y be spent generating valuable data and content on their own platforms. The driving force of this trend is the Pay Per Click (PPC) advertising campaigns that have grown simultaneously with corporations like Google over the last 15 years, but now the value of the click is not based only on the likelihood of purchasing success, as older models of Google AdWords and other targeted ad campaigns functioned. Instead, the click is conceptualised as a data-point that connects two or more actors in the network. It is those moments of connection between subjects and objects that have potential value to data-driven companies from corporate advertisers to election meddlers like Cambridge Analytica and policy influencers like Palantir. This only works because the user can be libidinally motivated to conduct the ‘free labour’ constituted by the click. The situation was prophetically predicted by one of the most historically influential Marxists still alive, Mario Tronti. His 1966 book Workers and Capital gave rise to the concept of ‘neocapitalism’, which anticipates the environment in which the digital worker operates today. For Tronti: At the highest level of capitalist development, the social relation is transformed into a moment of the relation of production. In this environment, the data-point connecting two people, generated at the moment of every click between social media pages, connects the social relation itself to a relation of production in real time. Seeing this in his own future, Tronti worried that society itself would run by the logic of the factory. Each interaction between individuals would incorporate a surplus value turned to profit by the class owning the means. dream lovers of social production. If the factory workers could be made to relate to each other in a way that was productive for the factory owners, so too could the entirety of social life be modified and edited for the profit of the capitalists. The whole of society is turned into an articulation of production, that is, the whole of society lives as a function of the factory and the factory extends its exclusive domination to the whole of society.

Your Goal: Preserve and Protect the Boundary. When dealing with meddling Meddlers who seek to first invade and then remotely run your life, your behavior must send an unmistakable signal that there is a boundary between you that will not be crossed. They must come to understand that while you appreciate their concern and interest, you have the outcome under control and a clear view of the details along the way. The best thing they can give you is their support, and the best thing you can give them is a well-defined boundary that they cannot cross.

The King has lived a full life out in the public as an outspoken environmental activist, an occasional meddler in politics, a successful businessman, a flawed father, and a philandering husband who destroyed the life of Princess Diana.

Now, that isn’t to say that I don’t think Cain should have at least counted to ten, like I was trying to do, but maybe Abel was a meddler, just like my sister. And perhaps, even though Cain had repeatedly told him to back off, Abel decided to stick his nose into his brother’s business one to many times—thus deserving a good wallop on the noggin after all.

No matter the journey, one will always face opposition, whether in the form of competitors, enemies, meddlers, saboteurs, incompetents, and the like. The simplest way to defeat them all is to accomplish what you set out to accomplish.

But...stonelore is as old as intelligence. It's all that's allowed humankind to survive through fifth Season after Fifth Season, as they huddle together while the world turns dark and cold. The lorists tell stories of what happens when people-political leaders or philosophers or well-meaning meddlers of whatever type-try to change the lore. Disaster inevitably results.