Mensa Quotes

It is not worth an intelligent man's time to be in the majority. By definition, there are already enough people to do that.

I've become convinced that genius is a vastly overrated commodity. I think this country is full of geniuses, guys and gals so bright they make your average card carrying MENSA member look like Fucko the Clown. And I think that most of them are teachers, living and working in small town obscurity because that's the way they like it.

May I remind you, Howard, that mens means "the mind" and mensa means "a table"? But I expect in your case the two things are the same. No, no, don't scratch your head, boy. You'll get splinters.

Foreign stars in the nights down there. A whole new astronomy Mensa, Musca, the Chameleon. Austral constellations nigh unknown to northern folk. Wrinkling, fading, through the cold black waters. As he rocks in his rusty pannier to the sea's floor in a drifting stain of guano. What family has no mariner in its tree? No fool, no felon. No fisherman.

A few weeks later, I’m in a fluorescent-lit classroom in Chelsea awaiting the start of the official Mensa test. I’m sitting next to a guy who’s doing a series of elaborate neck stretches, like we’re about to engage in a vigorous rugby match. He’s neatly laid out four types of gum on his Formica desk: Juicy Fruit, Wrigley Spearmint, Big Red, and Eclipse. I hate this guy. I hope to God he’s not a genius.

When I was twelve I was obsessed. Everything was sex. Latin was sex. The dictionary fell open at 'meretrix', a harlot. You could feel the mystery coming off the word like musk. 'Meretrix'! This was none of your mensa-a-table, this was a flash from a forbidden planet, and it was everywhere. History was sex, French was sex, art was sex, the Bible, poetry, penfriends, games, music, everything was sex except biology which was obviously sex but not really sex, not the one which was secret and ecstatic and wicked and a sacrament and all the things it was supposed to be but couldn't be at one and the same time - I got that in the boiler room and it turned out to be biology after all.

Here are the essentials of a happy life, my dear friend: money not worked for, but inherited; some land not unproductive; a hearth fire always going; law suits never; the toga rarely worn; a calm mind; a gentleman’s strong and healthy body; circumspect candor, friends who are your equals; relaxed dinner parties, a simple table, nights not drunken, but free from anxieties; a marriage bed not prudish, and yet modest; plenty of sleep to make the dark hours short. Wish to be what you are, and prefer nothing more. Don’t fear your last day, or hope for it either. Translated from original text: Vitam quae faciant beatiorem, Iucundissime Martialis, haec sunt: Res non parta labore, sed relicta; Non ingratus ager, focus perennis; Lis numquam, toga rara, mens quieta; Vires ingenuae, salubre corpus; Prudens simplicitas, pares amici; Convictus facilis, sine arte mensa; Nox non ebria, sed soluta curis; Non tristis torus, et tamen pudicus; Somnus, qui faciat breves tenebras: Quod sis, esse velis nihilque malis; Summum nec metuas diem nec optes.

Ci sono cose che lei ama molto.Quelle di cui parlate a mensa.Ma non è amore quello,solo sfrenatezza,lussuria.Quando si ama si vuol far qualcosa per il proprio amore,sacrificarsi per esso,servire.

No matter his faults, no matter how he fucked her over, she had to have him. When a man was seen as a hero, no matter what he did, he was forgiven. Love blinded us all. I had seen undying loving in his son’s eyes. I had seen confusion sparkle in M&M’s eyes. My head was no longer clouded. Chris was not a king. Not a warrior. He was the court jester. He was a Mensa, but he was a fool. Even a well-educated man could still remain a fool. Educated fools filled the world.

La puta de Mensa Mire, Kaiser, soy fundamentalmente un intelectual. Uno se puede buscar todas las furcias que quiera, claro. Pero mujeres inteligentes de verdad...no resultan fáciles de encontrar a corto plazo.

I have an IQ that could gain me admission to the damn Mensa Society, but that’s not what people see when they look at me. They can’t see any of that. They can only see the color of my skin. They see a six-foot-five black man. They see someone they think might be armed and dangerous.

Il Diavolo della Piccola Città: i pettegolezzi, le gelosie, l'acrimonia, la noia, le bugie. No, i veleni provinciali non aiutano. Qui la gente si annoia, è invidiosa, la sua vita è quella che è e quella che sempre sarà, e così, senza dubitare seriamente della storia, la riferisce: al telefono, per la strada, in mensa, in aula.

I’ve become convinced that genius is a vastly overrated commodity. I think this country is full of geniuses, guys and gals so bright they make your average card-carrying MENSA member look like Fucko the Clown. And I think that most of them are teachers, living and working in small-town obscurity because that’s the way they like it.

At first glance, this seems an improbable scenario due to both the Martians’ and Emily Dickinson’s dispositions. Dickinson was a recluse who didn’t meet anybody, preferring to hide upstairs when neighbors came to call and to float notes down on them.14 Various theories have been advanced for her self-imposed hermitude, including Bright’s Disease, an unhappy love affair, eye trouble, and bad skin. T. L. Mensa suggests the simpler theory that all the rest of the Amherstonians were morons.15 None of these explanations would have made it likely that she would like Martians any better than Amherstates, and there is the added difficulty that, having died in 1886, she would also have been badly decomposed.

Woody sat on the edge of the table and looked intently at one of his goons. “Ray, what do you do when your tooth hurts real bad? “I use a spanner, and yank it out real hard. The big ones you get at Walmart for $19.99 work really well.” Woody shook his head in despair. Ray wasn’t exactly a top contender for Mensa membership. This was going to be more difficult than Woody had thought.

Paul Bell in Mensa Magazine in 2002 (Mensa is the society of individuals with a high IQ, and their journal not surprisingly includes articles on the one thing that draws them together).56 Bell concluded: ‘Of 43 studies carried out since 1927 on the relationship between religious belief and one’s intelligence and/or educational level, all but four found an inverse connection. That is, the higher one’s intelligence or education level, the less one is likely to be religious or hold “beliefs” of any kind.

«Ai tempi di mio nonno» dice il generale «si metteva una pinta di vino davanti a ogni invitato. Era la dose che toccava a ciascuno. Una pinta, un litro e mezzo. “Vino da tavola” veniva chiamato. Mio padre raccontava che si metteva del vino da tavola in caraffe di cristallo anche davanti agli invitati del re. Una per ciascuno degli ospiti. Ecco perché si chiamava vino da tavola: perché stava lì e si poteva berne a volontà. I vini di qualità venivano serviti a parte. Questa era la regola che vigeva per le bevande alla mensa del re».

On New Year's Eve, when the children had gone up the hill to be with their father, I went to a Mensa party in San Francisco, but returned home relatively early, wanting to face the first few hours of the new year away from the noise and lurching of people who had drunk too much. I stood outside on the deck, in darkness, looking up at the star-frosted sky, letting myself feel without censoring the ache and hope that belonged to that night, and I sent out prayer for connection with someone who would be --finally -- the person I'd needed to be with all my life, someone who would have gone through his own changes and wars of the spirit and emerged a true adult. A grown-up man. Who wouldn't mind my being a grandmother, for Pete's sake. A man somewhat like Shura Borodin -- or what Shura seemed to be. I cried a bit because the wanting was so very intense and the clear night sky so very indifferent, and everything I was in body and soul might yet grow old without a lover and friend who could be to me what I was capable of being to him. I toasted myself, hope, the new year and the magnificent cold stars with a bit of wine, then went to bed.

Cuando están hablando Irina y Daniel en la reunión de Mensa en la que se conocen, Daniel habla del proyecto Human Brain Project. Todo lo que menciona al respecto son datos reales: es un proyecto internacional que se extiende hasta 2023, con un presupuesto de mil doscientos millones de euros, que pretende lograr la simulación detallada de un cerebro humano en un conjunto de supercomputadoras. El proyecto busca, entre otras cosas, integrar los conocimientos desarrollados por la neurociencia en las últimas décadas y aunar esfuerzos en la investigación sobre el cerebro de cara al futuro, de modo que se acelere el avance de la neurociencia. Si se consigue, el diagnóstico precoz y un mejor tratamiento de enfermedades como el Parkinson y el Alzheimer estarán al alcance de nuestra mano.

Kim stared hard at the plate. It was a look that persuaded most of her colleagues to bend to her will. Unfortunately it didn't work on biscuits. The recipe and instruction list had been taken from a website for kids and she had followed it to the letter. She was sure she had. The website also contained pictures sent in by twelve-year-olds who were proud of their end result. Kim would not be photographing hers. The title of the product said 'rock cakes' but hers did not look like rocks, they looked like oversize Frisbees. The dollops of mixture once placed in the oven had spread, as though trying to crawl away and escape. Cooking was her nemesis. She had tried complex dishes that took more concentration than a Mensa quiz and the end result had spilled across the plate like a liquefied stew.

La notizia si sparse per il Calypso dalla sala macchine al ponte, e tutti affollarono la mensa per vedere i reperti. Con gesto rituale Ichac alzò le coppe: «Sono state riunite insieme con i manici genelli ad angolo retto fra loro» disse separandole. «Io sto ora separando oggetti che uno specialista imballò in questo modo 2200 anni fa.» L'osservazione fece colpo sulla compagnia. Le coppe erano state tornite e riunite da esseri viventi i cui abili risultati erano passati dalle loro mani alle nostre attraverso un arco di duemila anni. Noi non intendevamo immergerci semplicemente per andare a pescare dei pezzi da museo, ma per avere notizia di quegli artigiani, per sapere come la loro merce delicata potesse giungere fin nelle acque della Gallia, e sopratutto - per marinai come noi - per avere dati sulla nave e sull'abilità marinara della ciurma. Che specie di nave era quella? Come era stata costruita? Che sorta di uomini l'avevano manovrata? Degli indizi sarebbero potuti uscire dalla fanghiglia sotto di noi per raccontare ogni cosa.

Ha più volte cercato di mettere nero su bianco i suoi pensieri su Marianne, nel tentativo di ricavarne un senso. È mosso dal desiderio di tradurre in parole e con esattezza il suo aspetto e il suo modo di parlare. I suoi capelli e il suo abbigliamento. La copia di La strada di Swann che legge a mensa durante la pausa pranzo, con un cupo dipinto francese in copertina e la costa color menta. Le sue lunghe dita che girano le pagine. Non ha la stessa vita degli altri. A volte si comporta in modo terribilmente blasé, facendolo sentire ignorante, ma può anche essere incredibilmente ingenua. Vuole capire come funziona la sua mente. Se mentre parlano decide segretamente di tacere una cosa, nel giro di un secondo o due Marianne gli chiede «cosa?» Quel «cosa?» gli sembra contenere un mondo: non solo un'attenzione investigativa al suo silenzio da cui scaturisce la domanda, ma un desiderio di comunicazione totale, l'idea che tutto il non detto sia una sgradita interruzione tra loro. Si appunta queste cose, periodi infiniti con troppe subordinate, talvolta connesse da spasmodici punti e virgola, come se volesse riprodurre una precisa copia cartaca di Marianne, come se potesse conservarla interamente per un futuro riesame. Dopodiché gira la pagina del taccuino per non dover guardare quello che ha fatto.

Ah...now they send Captain Perceptive. I knew there had to be a MENSA candidate in this bunch,

A che diavolo stavo pensando, per dire una cosa del genere? Luka si poggiò la fronte sulla mano. Con la mente, aveva rivissuto quella scena tutto il pomeriggio. In pratica, aveva detto a Nick, senza dirglielo esplicitamente, che era attratto da lui. E lo era davvero. Maledizione. Ma ciò non significava che avrebbe dovuto dire una cosa del genere. Nick sarebbe rimasto in clinica ancora per qualche settimana, ancora troppo tempo perché entrambi dicessero qualcosa di cui Luka, alla fine, si sarebbe pentito. Basta con Nick Ventura. Era ora di smetterla di pensare a lui, così avrebbe potuto combinare qualcosa. La sua scrivania era ingombra di scartoffie, e ce n’era una marea più del solito da quando aveva cominciato a passare così tanto tempo in palestra e in mensa con Nick. Ma il ragazzo aveva ancora bisogno del suo aiuto, perciò ne valeva la pena. Aveva davvero bisogno del suo aiuto, giusto? A Luka sarebbe piaciuto dire che quello era l’unico motivo per cui continuava ad allenarsi con lui, mangiare con lui, fare battute con la speranza di farlo ridere. Non aveva niente a che fare con quei grandi occhi blu, o con quella rottura di palle di una risatina contagiosa, che faceva venire voglia anche a lui di sorridere. Proprio nulla

«Vieni a trovarmi domani?» domandai senza poter resistere. «S-sì.» «Vieni all’ora di pranzo, quando tutti saranno in mensa» pianificai. «D’accordo.» Mi guardò ancora per qualche secondo, poi si staccò dalle sbarre. Nel vederlo andare via provai un senso di perdita così profondo che mi allungai e lo afferrai per trattenerlo. I suoi occhi grigi si legarono ai miei, confusi. «Promettimi che starai lontano da Oscar.» Quelle furono le parole che mi uscirono inaspettatamente dalla bocca. «E che farai attenzione.» Prese la mia mano tra le sue e se la portò alla guancia. Si strofinò come un gattino alla ricerca di coccole dal padrone, facendomi sfarfallare lo stomaco. «Te lo prometto.»

X-men are the vision, Mensa is the reality, X-Mensans are the future.

Mensa is a club restricted to high-IQ individuals, and one must pass IQ-type tests to be admitted. Yet 44 percent of the members of this club believed in astrology, 51 percent believed in biorhythms, and 56 percent believed in the existence of extraterrestrial visitors—all beliefs for which there is not a shred of evidence.

Mensa does not permit applicants to take its IQ test twice, because the organization ascribes to the view that intelligence doesn’t change much, so there’s really no point in retaking it. Either you got it or you don’t. And they require test takers to show a license or other official photo identification. That put a crimp in my plan to take the same test before and after my training regimen,

E gli credetti sul serio, almeno per qualche tempo. Perché volevo credergli, come gli altri bambini della mia età volevano credere a Babbo Natale. Ci aggrappiamo alle favole finché il prezzo da pagare per le nostre illusioni diventa troppo alto, e per me lo diventò un giorno in seconda elementare,quando Robbie Jensen mi tirò giù i pantaloni in mensa davanti ad una tavolata di bambine, annunciando che credevo nelle fate. Me l’ero cercata, raccontando ai compagni quelle strane storie. In pochi, umilianti secondi ebbi la certezza che il soprannome “ragazzo delle fate” mi avrebbe perseguitato per anni e, forse ingiustamente, diedi la colpa proprio al nonno.

I also really didn’t like the word slacks, but I felt vindicated recently when Mensa came out against that horrible word in an official statement proposing that it be removed from the vernacular.

Hawk’s on his way,” Anderson said. “Kelly wants him to have a look around before the rest of the gang gets here.” Dockendorf sighed. “You talkin’ about the new guy, from Oklahoma of all places, Daniel Fishinghawk, the crime scene genius? What do you know about him?” Anderson answered, “Rumor has it that his background is Cherokee Indian — though you could never tell by looking at him. I’ve heard he’s smart as hell — could be in Mensa if he wanted — a speed reader who digests over five books a week —” “I’m sick of that guy,” Dockendorf interrupted. “He makes the rest of us look bad. So he’s gotten lucky on a few cases. So what?

We’re going to stick out like . . . like Travis at a Mensa meeting.” I wasn’t sure what that meant but it sounded like an insult. “Hey!

After working my way through three security guards and a busy but very dignified outer office, I was finally handed off to a gray-haired woman at an enormous desk of steel and walnut. She looked like a member of MENSA who had been a supermodel in her youth before moving on to a career as a Marine Corps drill instructor. She looked me over with a steely, unflinching eye, and then nodded, stood up, and led me to the end of a hall, where a massive door stood open. She waved a hand to indicate that I might have the great boon of passing through the portal and into the Presence. I bowed to her formally and stepped into a large office, and found Frank Kraunauer standing by the window looking down at the beach. The window was actually a floor-to-ceiling wall of thick and tinted glass, but in spite of the huge expanse of window I didn’t think he could see very much detail from this high up. Still, the light from the window lit him with what looked like a full-body halo, the perfect effect for the Attorney Messiah. I wondered whether it was on purpose.

What really stopped me was that there was no way to try out for Mensa without looking conceited.

For a supposed genius, you are dense. You didn’t hire someone to follow Ava all these months to protect her for no reason. To be clear, I despise you for what you did, and I don’t want her to forgive you. But I love her more than I hate you, and she hasn’t been the same since Philly. I didn’t say anything at first because I thought you didn’t care, but now that I know you do—don’t insult me by denying it again. I may not have a MENSA-level IQ, but I’m not an idiot.

Honestly, Mensa should offer me membership for such a brilliant plan.

Bryce Almus, 32, is the VP of Acquisitions at Almus Capital and founded Almus Private Aviation. He’s a skilled commercial pilot, flight instructor, and member of MENSA, YPO, and AOPA. Bryce’s interests include classic car racing, photography, movies, and pickleball. He enjoys his Lake Michigan beach house and continually seeks new investment prospects.

She’s very bright. Really very bright. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was Mensa level.

Walk if you want to, but I'm going to fly.

Бывают прочные отношения сожития мужчины с женщиной без особенного равенства развития, основанные на удобстве, на хозяйстве, я почти скажу, на гигиене. Иногда это – рабочая ассосиация, взаимная помощь, соединенная с взаимным удовольствием; большей частию жена берется как сиделка, как добрая хозяйка, «pour avoir un bon pot-au-feu», как говорил мне Прудон. Формула старой юриспруденции очень умна: a mensa et toro, – уничтожь общий стол и общую кровать, они и разойдутся с покойной совестью. Эти деловые браки – чуть ли не лучшие. Муж постоянно в своих занятиях, ученых, торговых, в своей канцелярии, конторе, лавке – жена постоянно в белье и припасах. Муж возвращается усталый – все готово у него, и все идет шагом и маленькой рысцой к тем же воротам кладбища, к которым доехали родители. Это явление чисто городское; в Англии оно является чаще, чем где-либо; это та среда мещанского счастья, о котором проповедовали моралисты французской сцены, о котором мечтают немцы; в ней легче уживаются разные степени развития через год после окончании курса в университете, тут есть разделение труда и чинопочитание. Муж, особенно при капитале, делается тем, чем его назвал смысл народный – хозяин, «mon bourgeois» своей жены. Этим путем, и благодаря законам о наследстве, он не зарастет травой: всякая женщина постоянно остается женщиной на содержании, если не у постороннего, то у своего мужа. Она это знает.

He doesn’t realize that brilliance is a kind of binary thing. You either got it or you don’t. If you do, a 130 IQ and a 170 aren’t that different, so long as you know how to apply what you got. Richard Feynman, my personal hero and one of the greatest physicists who ever lived, scored a 128 on his army IQ test. That wouldn’t have gotten him into Mensa. Meanwhile, the guy with the highest IQ on record is a bouncer at a nightclub and spends his free time reading fantasy novels. Tell me that guy is smarter than the man who corrected Stephen Hawking’s science papers.

Monasterium sine libris est sicut civitas sine opibus, castrum sine numeris, coquina sine suppellectili, mensa sine cibis, hortus sine herbis, pratum sine floribus, arbor sine foliis

And then police come in the crib, looking all out the window And shorty come out the bathroom, mad as a schizo I wanna speak to her, but as a minority I had to hide the weed first, that's a priority

Lo disponemmo su due strofinacci, e mangiammo quel che avevamo, insieme, come fosse sempre possibile allestire una mensa, tra esseri umani, persino tra esseri umani stipati in uno spazio destinato alle merci, segregati in un carro merci. Si diventa amici così, nella segregazione.

in the Mundane world, dragons are liberal arts majors.

Is it not enough that species after species on this earth fades into extinction at a rate of one per minute?" I did some math. "That means every species on your planet would be extinct in ninety-six years. When did you start counting?

I am Jane, a savage wild child writer, Brit, Mensa member. I don't write fluff or you know the princess saves the damsel. I write hard core lesbian crime/Film/Noir/Erotica books, satiated with sex, rock n roll, guns, love, compassion, violence and above all acute honesty about my generation of plugged in gay girl kids. Seat Belt Required

Asimov was a long-time member and Vice President of Mensa International, albeit reluctantly; he described some members of that organization as "brain-proud and aggressive about their IQs", but he also stated that the only two people he had ever met who he would admit were more intelligent than himself were Marvin Minsky and Carl Sagan.

I’m no expert, no natural-born talent, definitely no guru. As you’ll soon learn, only through a colossal experiment in trial and error did I reach the sexual summit. Although I own up to having worn a cape in a few intimate scenarios, I don’t possess supernatural powers of any kind. Perhaps my IQ is slightly above average, but Mensa isn’t busting down my door. If pressed to define myself, I’d say I’m Horatio Alger between the sheets: a self-made swinging single male. . . with a hefty dose of Buster Keaton mixed in.

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