Michael Owen. Quotes

Look at that! The entire Australian kit dates from the 1940s and the uniforms are falling apart at the seams, the fucking boots you have issued to us are the same and everything is rotten. As for bloody weapons, we are issued with the Owen sub-machine gun. While the gun is still a very good weapon, the 9mm ammunition it uses is old WW2 stock and its propellants have deteriorated to the point where I doubt if the round will penetrate the back-pack of a fleeing Noggie!

Sometimes your passion takes work and you shouldn't give up on it just because it isn't easy... [Owen Michaels, as quoted by daughter Bailey]

One of his closest friends, Owen Barfield, once said of Lewis that “what he thought about everything was secretly present in what he said about anything.”12

People need hope Michael, as much as they need a leader. You and Gabe are the answer to both of those things. You’ll lead the people of earth to victory and Gabe will give them the hope they need to keep going,” Mirada said, her voice sensitive, yet unwavering.

Again Gabe looked back at Michael, hoping he was about to step in, but all he did was give him a nod. A nod? Really? I don't need a nod. I need someone to stop this! Gabe thought.

Michael felt as if his heart might burst. With the death of the council he had felt as though he had lost everything that mattered to him, but here in his arms, he found the last piece of hope he had left in the world. “We have to go back and help Gabe.

he took out his harmonica and played the old song “Michael Row the Boat Ashore,” a yearning and melodic tune sung by slaves in the 1860s as they rowed boats to the mainland from the Sea Islands of South Carolina.

Michael staggered to his feet and turned to face his worst nightmare. Baal stood before him, a smirk on his face. He wore his signature grey, pinstripe, three-piece suit, and casually twisted his pinky ring on his long and slender well-manicured finger. As it rotated Michael caught a glimpse of the rubies in the skull’s eye sockets. His black hair was slicked back, the sight of his false appearance made Michael sick to his stomach.

More pertinent, however, is that capitalism tends to stultify the worker’s creativity, his human urge for self-expression, freedom, mutually respectful interaction with others, recognition of his self-determined sense of self, recognition of himself as a self rather than an object, a means to an end. Karl Marx called it “alienation.” Capitalism alienates the worker—and the capitalist—from his “fundamental human need” for “self-fulfilling and creative work,” “the exercise of skill and craftsmanship,”8 in addition to his fundamental desire to determine himself (whence comes the desire to dismantle oppressive power-relations and replace them with democracy). Alternative visions of social organization thus arise, including Robert Owen’s communitarian socialism, Charles Fourier’s associationist communalism, Proudhon’s mutualism (a kind of anarchism), Marx’s communism, Bakunin’s collectivist anarchism, Kropotkin’s anarchist communism, Anton Pannekoek’s council communism, and more recently, Murray Bookchin’s libertarian municipalism, Michael Albert’s participatory economics, Takis Fotopoulos’s inclusive democracy, Paul Hirst’s associationalism, and so on. Each of these schools of thought differs from the others in more or less defined ways, but they all have in common the privileging of economic and social cooperation and egalitarianism.

Caroline O’Day was one of those rare parochial-school girls who managed to wear her St. Michael’s uniform—her pleated flannel skirt and matching burgundy knee socks—as if she were a cocktail waitress in a lounge of questionable repute. With boys, Caroline O’Day was as aggressive as a Corvette, and Maureen Early enjoyed her company because Mr. Early thought the O’Days were vulgar.

He nodded. “From the first moment I saw you, I wanted you. It was the night of the Nethercourt gathering three years ago. You wore a green gown and your eyes seemed to be alive with color. You entered the room and I had to have you… I would have had you, except that Owen told me you were his new mistress.” Mariah blinked in increasing disbelief at the detail John could recount of the night of their first meeting. “I—I had no idea of your feelings.” “Of course not.” John frowned. “I made certain you did not, nor did Owen. I would not have betrayed him in such a manner. But my desire for you never decreased. Although I suppose that fact is rather clear since I have taken you not once, but twice in recent days. And without much finesse either time, for which I apologize.” Mariah set her cup away and leaned back in the chair to stare at him. “You act as though I received no pleasure from those encounters. I assure you, I did. A great deal, both times.” He smiled, almost in relief. “Good. I would hate to think I have left a poor impression.

H.P. Owen’s book “Concepts of Deity” provides a good standard version: “Theism may be defined as belief in one God, the Creator, who is infinite, self-existent, incorporeal, eternal, immutable, impassible, simple, perfect, omniscient and omnipotent” (Owen 1971, p. 1).

1840s, when Richard Owen first described giant bones in England, he named them Dinosauria: terrible lizards.

Later that day Julie and I got into a conversation about authorised biography after I told her about Owen. “It [authorised biography] verges on autobiography,” she said. “Yes, it does,” I agreed. “You’re not going to be able to put in the shit,” she declared. But she fully understood my position. “There have been a number of cases,” I pointed out, in which biographers had signed agreements with estates stipulating they could not interfere “because the biographer is afraid that as in a romance, when the family falls out of love with you, then you’re stuck. But I just think that changes the atmosphere, to face Michael with a contract and say, ‘Sign this.’ I couldn’t do it.” Julie agreed, “I don’t think that would work with Michael. He would put his back up.

At that time Michael said he couldn't know, not having had any himself, but that he certainly agreed with the French when they said you become an adult only when you lose your parents.

...the message being sent out by a broken window-the perception it invites-is that the owener of this building and the people of the community around it don't care if this window is broken: They have given up, and anarchy reigns here. Do as you will, because nobody cares.

So proud to be joining the best team in the world.

It's obvious that different players have different requirements. What I do in a game is maybe 50 sprints and walk; I hardly ever jog. My game is bang, go, whereas Didi Hamann would sprint maybe once in a game and jog around the rest of the time.

Back in the 1840s, when Richard Owen first described giant bones in England, he named them Dinosauria: terrible lizards.

But at the base of it all is trust, respect, affection, kindness. “The real trick is being with someone who brings out the best in you, who sees you—well, not in the way my old boss, Michael, saw me; that’s a story for another time—and makes you the best version of yourself. Someone who makes you feel safe so you can take risks, explore new places, conquer new challenges. That’s what’s important. And that’s

Once upon a time, when I first ventured out to cover war in the Middle East, I carted around palm-sized books of poems by early twentieth century poets like Wilfried Owen, and at night I would fall asleep beneath a dim lamp light submerged in beautifully written conflict memoirs by John Hersey and Michael Herr, comforted by the anecdotes of sadness and self-preservation. These days, I carry with me a hand-scrawled notebook of the above words of wisdom and reflection, treasuring the many inspiring humans who have welcomed me into their lives in their darkest and most triumphant moments. These beautifully ordinary people remind me that we all have the innate potential not only to surmount, but to thrive. Go forth and conquer. The choice is yours.

Which was a tragedy, of course,” said Elizabeth, without noticeable emotion, “although nobody could have reasonably expected it. Frankly, anybody who’s going to kill themselves because of a bad review has no business writing a novel in the first place. But naturally enough, Michael was livid with Owen and I think the more so because Owen got cold feet and denied authorship once he heard about Elspeth’s suicide. It was, perhaps, a surprisingly cowardly attitude for a man who liked to be thought of as fearless and lawless

What time is it?" he asked. "Nine o'clock. I just told you," said Mrs. Benson. "We'd better get going, Dad," Michael said. Mr. Benson lowered his newspaper. "It's only an hour's drive to the stadium and the game doesn't start until two." "But I want to be there before anyone. Owen Zabriskie likes to take early batting practice. He's probably there already." "Owen Zabriskie is probably still asleep," Mr. Benson said. "But, Dad, we could have a flat tire or get caught in a traffic jam..." "Calm down, Michael. What's gotten into you this morning? Are you trying to drive your mother and me crazy?

The Mayflower landed in 1620,” Owen pointed out. “There were European settlements in North America before then, more than a few of them, but we’ll let that go for now. Things really started moving toward revolution with the Stamp Act, which was in in 1765. There’s a hundred and forty-five years between those dates. It was a hundred and forty-five years between the second inauguration of George Washington and the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and I think a few events happened in between those two.

Albert is my name,” the old man said, offering his hand. Ezra took it carefully, mindful of old bones and thin skin, but Albert’s hand was steady, strong, and as dry and hard as a block of sanded wood. “And Ezra’s mine,” Ezra said. “Say, I’m lookin for someone. Maybe you might have seen him here in the park, sometime or another. He’s an older guy, maybe in his eighties, maybe even older than that. Strange clothes, looks like a costume. Long beard.” Ezra held a hand down at his waist to illustrate. “Long white hair.” Albert smiled. “You mean Owen! You’re looking for Owen?” Ezra nodded. That was way too easy, he thought. “Well let me tell you something, friend,” Albert said, tossing his butt. “You don’t go looking for the old man in the mountain. You can only find him.” “The hell’s that mean?” Ezra said with a grin. “Take it how you want it,” Albert said. “I’ve seen Owen from time to time, but never if I was looking for him. When I was a child, he used to tell stories to the children of the neighborhood. Right over there he did, under that old chestnut tree.” “When YOU were a kid?” Ezra said. “Owen’s older than you think, you see. A lot older. And he is a far traveler. Seen all of the world there is to see, Owen has- and some of it that should not be seen by anyone. But he’s no street person. You won’t find him among the great unwashed over by the war memorial, or in the institutions, or at a shelter. You will not find him at all, in fact-“ “If I’m lookin for him,” Ezra finished.