Mitchell Brothers Quotes

Good morning, Mr. Mitchell.” “It is a good morning, isn’t it, Sherry? Could you possibly give him the memo?” He pointed to his brother. “I think he missed it.

The organs of Venus are familiar to all, but oh, my brothers, the organ of Saturn is the bladder.

There was one rumor that “Susie Bright” and sex theorist “Pat Califia” were one and the same, and that this individual was not actually a woman at all but a pimp hired by an entity composed of the Mitchell Brothers and a Japanese porn syndicate, which was selling women as sex slaves overseas.

Enkidu, my brother, whom I loved so dearly, who accompanied me through every danger-- the fate of mankind has overwhelmed him. For six days I would not let him be buried, thinking, 'If my grief is violent enough, perhaps he will come back to life again.

So what are you doing here?" Dylan asked in between forkfuls of eggs. That was the first thing Dylan had said that bothered Joey. He didn't want Aaron thinking too much about it, either. Going for the kill, Joey said, "I suck your brother's cock and take it up my ass. Any more questions?" "Gross. Fuck no. Jesus." Dylan grabbed his plate and went into the living room. "If you spill anything clean it up," Aaron yelled after him.

KSM insisted that the brothers eventually will defeat the United States because Americans don’t have the will or stomach to do what must be done to stop them.

Oh God. Goddammit. I never got to see the pyramids. Or the Taj Mahal. I ...I never even got to leave the country." "Don't sweat it, brother. You got to live in NYC. You didn't miss shit.

Amias Mitchell,’ Kip said. ‘Born aboard the Asteria. Forty Solar days of age as of GC standard day 211/310. He is now, and always, a member of our Fleet. By our laws, he is assured shelter and passage here. If we have food, he will eat. If we have air, he will breathe. If we have fuel, he will fly. He is son to all grown, brother to all still growing. We will care for him, protect him, guide him. We welcome you, Amias, to the decks of the Asteria, and to the journey we take together.’ He spoke the final words now, and the room joined him. ‘From the ground, we stand. From our ships, we live. By the stars, we hope.

Big Brother has no interest in well-informed citizens capable of critical thinking. Big Brother wants you to shop at Wal-Mart, where He will control the media that influences your life. The media works with the government and with the large corporations to form mass culture, which is utilized to create public consent, and most folks aren’t even aware of this process as it goes on all around them. Big Brother is actively seeking the complacency of the wage-slaves. Big Brother doesn’t want you to know about the spoken word performances given by Henry Rollins, or Jello Biafra or Terrence McKenna- or a thousand other people- because they will crack your laminate of societal posturing. Big Brother doesn’t want you to know about Bill Hicks, because Brother Bill will provide you with the courage and impetus to spit in Big Brother’s face. The internet is but one facet of our mass-marketed popular culture, and everyone is plugged into it. If you’re reading this, you are a part of it, the internet, one large hive mind, a singular consciousness. And that can be a good thing, but too often, people let themselves slip into it, into this world, to the point where they are no longer able to differentiate between what they think, what they know, and what is thrust upon them. They have no access to their own point of view, or their own spiritual consciousness, for lack of a better way to phrase it. So, to answer your question, in a lengthy and circuitous fashion, I would say that disgust with intellectual sloth, puerile voyeurism and dissent are the primary proponents in my work.

In all of his agonizing visits to Vanves, Auguste Bartholdi would have spent a great deal of time staring at Charles. Across from him, hour after hour, Auguste Bartholdi had nothing to do but observe the face of the once-gifted brother he had loved.

But man's life is short, at any moment it can be snapped, like a reed in a canebrake. The handsome young man, the lovely young woman- in their prime, death comes and drags them away. Though no one has seen death's face or heard death's voice, suddenly, savagely, death destroys us, all of us, old or young. And yet we build houses, make contracts, brothers divide their inheritance, conflicts occur- as though this human life lasted forever. The river rises, flows over its banks and carries us all away, like mayflies floating downstream: they stare at the sun, then all at once there is nothing.

Liberality? Timidity in the rich!” “Socialism? The younger brother of a decrepit despotism, which it wants to succeed” “Conservatives? Adventitious liars, whose doctrine of free will is their greatest deception.” What sort of state does he want? “None! The better organized the state, the duller its humanity.

Sidney Hellman doesn't remember who he was the last time around, if there was a last time. But how can he? None of us do. Still, there are clues. For instance, he starts seeing things. Images of events from another life. Terrible images." --From the story "The Monster Inside," included in BROTHERS, FATHERS, AND OTHER STRANGERS, the new story collection by Mitchell Waldman

There is so much going on, but there is so much less of any real value happening. I don’t think that books or fiction in general is as important to the society or culture at large as it was in years gone by- we are the products of what I believe is a decidedly- and purposefully- less literate culture. To utilize a symbol everyone can understand intuitively, Big Brother WANTS you to be stupid- and He wants you to tune in to Joe Millionaire and Friends, to Wife Swap and Dog The Bounty Hunter, and a million other circuitous destinations where He will provide you with examples of precisely how brainless and inane He wants you to be. Stupid is as stupid does. Stupid citizens aren’t a threat to the status quo.

In 1927, Edwin Wakeman of Manchester committed suicide leaving this note: ‘I married a widow with a grown daughter. My father fell in love with my stepdaughter and married her – thus becoming my son-in-law. My stepdaughter became my stepmother because she was my father’s wife. My wife gave birth to a son, who was, of course, my father’s brother-in-law, and also my uncle, for he was the brother of my stepmother. My father’s wife became the mother of a son, who was, of course, my brother, and also my grandchild, for he was the son of my stepdaughter. Accordingly, my wife was my grandmother, because she was my stepmother’s mother. I was my wife’s husband and grandchild at the same time. And, as the husband of a person’s grandmother is his grandfather, I am my own grandfather.

Into this maelstrom, this present elaboration of the slave quarters, this rehearsal for a concentration camp, we place, armed, not for the protection of the ghetto but for the protection of American investments there, some blank American boy who is responsible only to some equally blank elder patriot… The white cop in the ghetto is as ignorant as he is frightened, and his entire concept of police work is to cow the natives. He is not compelled to answer these natives for anything he does; whatever he does, he knows that he will be protected by his brothers, who will allow nothing to stain the honor of the force. And he is assured of the rightness of his court and the justice of his bigotry every time Nixon, or Agnew, or Mitchell - or the governor of the state of California - open their mouths.

Hang on, Levon,” said Elf. “Hang on. Are you saying you want to sack Griff because his brother just died in a horrific car crash and he’s too full of grief to play? Seriously?” “I am laying out the facts. Because somebody has to. Or there is no band. Of course we give Griff time. Of course. But you heard Griff. You saw him. It is entirely possible he won’t be back.” “Drummers like Griff don’t grow on trees,” said Elf. “You think I don’t know that?” asked Levon. “I chose him! But a drummer who can’t drum isn’t a drummer. Jasper. Speak.” Jasper drew a spiral on the steamy glass. “Eight days.” “Speak English, not Cryptic Crossword. Please. I have a headache as big as East Anglia.” “My Dutch grandfather used to say, ‘If you don’t know what to do, do nothing for eight days.’ ” Dean asked, “Why eight?” “Less than eight is haste. More than eight is procrastination. Eight days is long enough for the world to shuffle the deck and deal you another hand.” Without warning, the train shuddered into motion. The passengers raised a weary ironic cheer.

A sigh escaped her as her brother’s truthful words battled her stubborn nature. Much as she hated giving in to their no driving order— well-intentioned or not— she wouldn’t operate a motor vehicle if she could prove a danger to others. “Fine, so if I can’t drive myself, then who is taking me home?” Six pairs of eyes found the ceiling suddenly intensely interesting. Irritation made her lips draw tight. “Oh, come on. Surely one of you idiots can handle my car?” Kendrick cleared his throat before speaking. “Um, the last time Mitchell drove your car, you almost castrated him because he didn’t shift it to your satisfaction. You told us never to touch your car again, or else.” Naomi blew out a breath. Pussies. How could they blame her for taking offence at the brutish manner with which they drove her baby? They’d deserved each, and every, smack. And then, they had the nerve to wonder why she wanted to get away from the shifters and their violence. They bloody well drove her to it. “I am not staying here.” Not with her mother due home within the hour from work. Once her mom walked through that door, Naomi would be lucky if she got to leave a bed within the next three days. The men in her family might fear their baby sister even as they coddled her, but everyone obeyed their mother. Nobody owned the balls not to.

Still dark. The Alpine hush is miles deep. The skylight over Holly’s bed is covered with snow, but now that the blizzard’s stopped I’m guessing the stars are out. I’d like to buy her a telescope. Could I send her one? From where? My body’s aching and floaty but my mind’s flicking through the last night and day, like a record collector flicking through a file of LPs. On the clock radio, a ghostly presenter named Antoine Tanguay is working through Nocturne Hour from three till four A.M. Like all the best DJs, Antoine Tanguay says almost nothing. I kiss Holly’s hair, but to my surprise she’s awake: “When did the wind die down?” “An hour ago. Like someone unplugged it.” “You’ve been awake a whole hour?” “My arm’s dead, but I didn’t want to disturb you.” “Idiot.” She lifts her body to tell me to slide out. I loop a long strand of her hair around my thumb and rub it on my lip. “I spoke out of turn last night. About your brother. Sorry.” “You’re forgiven.” She twangs my boxer shorts’ elastic. “Obviously. Maybe I needed to hear it.” I kiss her wound-up hair bundle, then uncoil it. “You wouldn’t have any ciggies left, perchance?” In the velvet dark, I see her smile: A blade of happiness slips between my ribs. “What?” “Use a word like ‘perchance’ in Gravesend, you’d get crucified on the Ebbsfleet roundabout for being a suspected Conservative voter. No cigarettes left, I’m ’fraid. I went out to buy some yesterday, but found a semiattractive stalker, who’d cleverly made himself homeless forty minutes before a whiteout, so I had to come back without any.” I trace her cheekbones. “Semiattractive? Cheeky moo.” She yawns an octave. “Hope we can dig a way out tomorrow.” “I hope we can’t. I like being snowed in with you.” “Yeah well, some of us have these job things. Günter’s expecting a full house. Flirty-flirty tourists want to party-party-party.” I bury my head in the crook of her bare shoulder. “No.” Her hand explores my shoulder blade. “No what?” “No, you can’t go to Le Croc tomorrow. Sorry. First, because now I’m your man, I forbid it.” Her sss-sss is a sort of laugh. “Second?” “Second, if you went, I’d have to gun down every male between twelve and ninety who dared speak to you, plus any lesbians too. That’s seventy-five percent of Le Croc’s clientele. Tomorrow’s headlines would all be BLOODBATH IN THE ALPS AND LAMB THE SLAUGHTERER, and the a vegetarian-pacifist type, I know you wouldn’t want any role in a massacre so you’d better shack up”—I kiss her nose, forehead, and temple—“with me all day.” She presses her ear to my ribs. “Have you heard your heart? It’s like Keith Moon in there. Seriously. Have I got off with a mutant?” The blanket’s slipped off her shoulder: I pull it back. We say nothing for a while. Antoine whispers in his radio studio, wherever it is, and plays John Cage’s In a Landscape. It unscrolls, meanderingly. “If time had a pause button,” I tell Holly Sykes, “I’d press it. Right”—I press a spot between her eyebrows and up a bit—“there. Now.” “But if you did that, the whole universe’d be frozen, even you, so you couldn’t press play to start time again. We’d be stuck forever.” I kiss her on the mouth and blood’s rushing everywhere. She murmurs, “You only value something if you know it’ll end.

He smiled and lifted a finger to stroke her cheek. Meredith’s stomach roiled. “Oh dear.” She quickly covered her mouth with one hand and her stomach with the other, thanking God for the excuse to cut their time together short. “I think something from lunch may not be agreeing with me.” That something being Roy Mitchell. An impatient frown darkened Roy’s face before he quickly replaced it with a look of concern. “Would you like to sit and rest for a moment? There’s a bench outside the drugstore across the street.” “No. I think I should lie down.” She hunched herself over and added a quiet moan for good measure. “Can you take me home, please?” “Are you sure?” Meredith nodded vigorously, keeping her hand over her mouth. “Very well.” Roy took her arm and helped her navigate the three blocks back to her uncle’s house. When they reached the front gate, however, he used his grip to slow her to a halt. “I’m so sorry to have ruined our afternoon,” she blurted, not wanting to give him the chance to ask her anything. Besides, the longer she thought about what he planned for Travis, the more ill she truly became. She looked up at the brick house, longing for the escape it promised. “Meredith, darling,” Roy said, turning her to face him, “please, just tell me that I can move ahead with our wedding plans.” The idea was so nauseating, Meredith didn’t have to prevaricate. Her stomach began to heave all on its own. Roy must have seen the truth in her face as she bent forward, for his eyes widened and he quickly stepped back. Meredith covered her mouth and ran for the house. “I’ll come by later this evening,” Roy called after her, but Meredith didn’t slow until she was safely inside.

No? And yet you are a part of it, like I was, and I’ll wager you don’t like it any more than I did. Well, why am I the black sheep of the Butler family? For this reason and no other—I didn’t conform to Charleston and I couldn’t. And Charleston is the South, only intensified. I wonder if you realize yet what a bore it is? So many things that one must do because they’ve always been done. So many things, quite harmless, that one must not do for the same reason. So many things that annoyed me by their senselessness. Not marrying the young lady, of whom you have probably heard, was merely the last straw. Why should I marry a boring fool, simply because an accident prevented me from getting her home before dark? And why permit her wild-eyed brother to shoot and kill me, when I could shoot straighter? If I had been a gentleman, of course, I would have let him kill me and that would have wiped the blot from the Butler escutcheon. But—I like to live. And so I’ve lived and I’ve had a good time…. When I think of my brother, living among the sacred cows of Charleston, and most reverent toward them, and remember his stodgy wife and his Saint Cecilia Balls and his everlasting rice fields—then I know the compensation for breaking with the system. Scarlett, our Southern way of living is as antiquated as the feudal system of the Middle Ages. The wonder is that it’s lasted as long as it has. It had to go and it’s going now. And yet you expect me to listen to orators like Dr. Meade who tell me our Cause is just and holy? And get so excited by the roll of drums that I’ll grab a musket and rush off to Virginia to shed my blood for Marse Robert? What kind of a fool do you think I am? Kissing the rod that chastised me is not in my line. The South and I are even now. The South threw me out to starve once. I haven’t starved, and I am making enough money out of the South’s death throes to compensate me for my lost birthright.

Why should I fight to uphold the system that cast me out? I shall take pleasure in seeing it smashed.' 'I never heard of any system,' she said crossly. 'No? And yet you are a part of it, like I was, and I'll wager you don't like it any more than I did. Well, why am I the black sheep of the butler family? For this reason and no other-I didn't conform to Charleston and I couldn't. And Charleston is the South, only intensified. I wonder if you realize yet what a bore it is? So many things that one must do because they've always been done. So many things, quite harmless, that one must not do for the same reason. So many things that annoyed me by their senselessness. not marrying the young lady, of whom you have probably heard, was merely the last straw. Why should I marry a boring fool, simply because an accident prevented me from getting her home before dark? And why permit her wild-eyed brother to shoot and kill me, when I could shoot straighter? If I had been a gentleman, of course, I would have let him kill me and that would have wiped the blot from the Butler escutcheon. But-I like to live. And so I've lived and I've had a good time. . . . When I think of my brother, living among t he sacred cows of Charleston, and most reverent toward them, and remember his stodgy wife and his Saint Cecilia Balls and his everlasting rice fields-then I know the compensation for breaking with the system. Scarlett, our Southern way of living is as antiquated as the feudal system of the Middle Ages. The wonder is that it's lasted as long as it has. It had to go and it's going now. And yet you expect me to listen to orators like Dr. Meade who tell me our Cause is just and holy? And get so excited by the roll of drums that I'll grab a musket and rush off to Virginia to shed my blood for Marse Robert? What kind of a fool do you think I am? Kissing the rod that chastised me is not in my line. The South and I are even now. The South threw me out to starve once. I haven't starved, and I am making enough money out of the South's death throes to compensate me for my lost birthright.

Aunt said you danced with him.” “I did . . . are you terribly upset? Someone had to.” “I’m glad! At least I know he didn’t linger and witness my further humiliation.” Such a true friend Lizzie was. “No. We danced. Although . . .” Her gaze crept toward mine. “What?” “His brother . . .” “Yes?” “He was there. Stayed there. With you. While you were . . . had . . . fainted.” He had? Somehow that was even worse. “But by that time, someone had found a doctor.

My dead father isn't talking to me. That he doesn't talk to me is odd, since every other spirit talks to me, they all do. But for some reason he's reticent, dumb, mute. No thoughts, no words, no sudden appearances to guide me, to give me direction or inspiration in my life and ways, good or bad. No words to explain why he was the asshole he was during his life, unavailable to me. He's fucking silent. Still." -- From "Spirits in the Night," included in Mitchell Waldman's forthcoming short story collection, BROTHERS, FATHERS, AND OTHER STRANGERS.

But Dora’s illnesses are mimetic copies: she had modelled herself on the hysterical aunt with the wasting disease. When she complains of piercing gastric pains, Freud asks her ‘Who are you copying now?’ Imitating we know not who, a specific constellation of her symptoms also indicates that through them she has gone through an imaginary childbirth. Her answer to Freud’s questions about bedwetting suggest that she may have been confused wTith her brother, for she too had been enuretic in childhood.

Nearly everybody mentioned sees doctors. Dora has made a profession of making sure they cannot help her. Nevertheless, she keeps consulting them. Why? At one point in the case history, Freud comments: The motives for being ill often begin to be active even in childhood. A little girl in her greed for love does not enjoy having to share the affection o f her parents with her brothers and sisters; and she notices that the whole o f their affection is lavished on her once more whenever she arouses their anxiety by falling ill. She has now discovered a means o f enticing out her parents’ love, an d will make use of that means as soon as she has the necessary psychical material at her disposal for producing na illness.

Brother. I’ll tell you,” Clive said. “I love Jesus the way Mouse loved Kelly. Unabashedly. I love Jesus like I love Duke Ellington and the great Satchmo, like I love the music of Bonnie Raitt and Joni Mitchell. I love Jesus like I love the opening paragraph of One Hundred Years of Solitude and all the books of P.G. Wodehouse. I love Jesus like Elvis loved his momma. For in Jesus is forgiveness, love, joy, and happiness.” Clive lifted his beer as if to toast them all.

Olsen, Anderson, and Olsen’s brother Stanley opened for business as DEC, the Digital Equipment Corporation.

Calvin, can I speak to my brother in private?" The Admiral looked at Steven, who nodded. He stood and bowed to them before exiting the room. "You need to show a little more respect, Mitch," Steven said. "He's an Admiral in-" "Frig that, Steve. And frig you, too. The Alliance set me up and sold me out, and yet I'm the one still desperately fighting to save our people? Me and a crew of incarcerated soldiers? Grab your crotch and make sure your balls are still there." "Mitch-" "Shut up, Steve. Look, I left out part of my story. When I was on Hell, I entered this virtual world the Tetron call a Construct. Origin left something for me in there. I don't know what it is, but according to it the other Tetron don't know it exists, and it's important enough that it can help us with the war effort." "You don't know what it is?" "No. But I know where it is. They etched the coordinates into my memory." "It altered your memory? Why didn't it implant the memory of what it was?" "Come on, Steve. This is advanced alien tech, how the frig do I know why it works the way it does? The point is, it's out there, and it will help. If Goliath doesn't show, that should be our next move." "Instead of trying to save what's left?" "Yes. If it makes you feel better, you can send a ship out into unexplored space with a few Adam and Eves on it. Let them find a nice planet to land on and frig like bunnies for a few thousand years. We're soldiers. We need to keep fighting. Your wife and daughter are out there." Steven's face twisted. "Don't you think I know that, Mitch? That they're out there, sitting on Earth wondering where I am and thinking that everything is going to be okay? This is bigger than both of us." "It's bigger than you. Not me. I have to be big enough to stop it. That's my fate, or destiny, or bad luck, or whatever the frig you want to call it. And I've never done it! I've never won this war. Humankind dies because of me, over and over again. No pressure, Mitch." Mitchell reached out and grabbed Steven by the shoulders. "I could use a lot of support in this. Especially from my big brother." Steven stared at Mitchell, his lip quivering. "Don't get all emotional on me," Mitchell said. "You're right. I know you're right. We'll fight, even if we die trying. You have my fleet, what little of it is left. We're beat up and out of ammo, but we make good targets." Mitchell laughed. "Thank you."  He gave Steven a short hug and backed away, turning his head to look out the viewport again. There was still no sign of the Goliath. Steven walked over to stand next to Mitchell. The two of them stared out into space. "How long do we wait?" Steven asked. "I don't know. A day?" "A day sounds good." Steven's eyes reached into the darkness.

Brothers, do not slander one another. Anyone who speaks against his brother or judges him speaks against the law and judges it. When you judge the law, you are not keeping it, but sitting in judgment on it. There is only one Lawgiver and Judge, the one who is able to save and destroy. But you—who are you to judge your neighbor?

This used to be a great country. Not now. Not anymore. I was laid off from the drugstore. Worked there almost thirty years. Worked my way up from the bottom, from Stock Boy to Manager, with little in the way of education -- I didn't graduate high school, was a semester shy when my dad got sick. I ran that damned place for the owner, Bud Wilkins. Then, when Bud retired, and had no one to carry on the business, this big chain bought him out and they discarded me like a badly worn sneaker. --From "After the Layoff", included in forthcoming collection, BROTHERS, FATHERS, AND OTHER STRANGERS

This used to be a great country. Not now. Not anymore. I was laid off from the drugstore. Worked there almost thirty years. Worked my way up from the bottom, from Stock Boy to Manager, with little in the way of education -- I didn't graduate high school, was a semester shy when my dad got sick. I ran that damned place for the owner, Bud Wilkins. Then, when Bud retired, and had no one to carry on the business, this big chain bought him out and they discarded me like a badly worn sneaker." --From the story "After the Layoff," included in forthcoming story collection BROTHERS, FATHERS, AND OTHER STRANGERS

This used to be a great country. Not now. Not anymore. I was laid off from the drugstore. Worked there almost thirty years. Worked my way up from the bottom, from Stock Boy to Manager, with little in the way of education -- I didn't graduate high school, was a semester shy when my dad got sick. I ran that damned place for the owner, Bud Wilkins. Then, when Bud retired, and had no one to carry on the business, this big chain bought him out and they discarded me like a badly worn sneaker. --From "After the Layoff," one of the stories in forthcoming collection BROTHERS, FATHERS, AND OTHER STRANGERS.

Sidney Hellman doesn't remember who he was the last time around, if there was a last time. But how can he? None of us do. Still, there are clues. For instance, he starts seeing things. Images of events from another life. Terrible images. --From the story "The Monster Inside," included in BROTHERS, FATHERS, AND OTHER STRANGERS, the new story collection by Mitchell Waldman

Sidney Hellman doesn't remember who he was the last time around, if there was a last time. But how can he? None of us do. Still, there are clues....." For instance, he starts seeing things. Images of events from another life. Terrible images. --From the story "The Monster Inside," included in BROTHERS, FATHERS, AND OTHER STRANGERS, the new story collection by Mitchell Waldman

The death toll had reached twenty-one. The survivors of the Gremlin Special were down to three: John McCollom, a stoic twenty-six-year-old first lieutenant from the Midwest who’d just lost his twin brother; Kenneth Decker, a tech sergeant from the Northwest with awful head wounds who’d just celebrated his thirty-fourth birthday; and Margaret Hastings, an adventure-seeking thirty-year-old WAC corporal from the Northeast who’d missed her date for an ocean swim on the New Guinea coast.