Monochromatic Quotes

The sky is like a monochromatic contemporay painting, drawing me in its illusion of depth, pulling me up.

I did my best to fight and claw my way back to the life I once knew, but panic had taken over and colors were swirling and fading all around me. It was all turning into a great cloud of blackness, just like the one I had seen in my dream. The looming cloud of nothingness I had feared for so long was finally grabbing me, wiping my world dark and blank. The darkness was thick and intense, an inky void that stretched to eternity in every direction. Eventually my panic burnt itself out and I simply stayed there in the dark, feeling as if someone had drained my adrenal glands. I was no longer responding to the dark with fear, but acceptance. In fact, curiosity was beginning to take over. The longer I let myself stare into it, the less dark it appeared. After some time, I realized that it was all different shades of murky black and foggy gray overlapping and undulating, just out of focus. I blinked mentally and suddenly she was there, standing above me with concern etched in sooty-colored lines on her monochromatic face.

The world can only appear monochromatic to those who persist in interpreting what they experience through the lens of a single cultural paradigm, their own. For those with the eyes to see and the heart to feel, it remains a rich and complex topography of the spirit.

Nothing ever happens like you imagine it will," she says. The sky is like a monochromatic contemporary painting, drawing me in with its illusion of depth, pulling me up. "Yeah, that's true," I say. But then after I think about it for a second, I add, "But then again, if you don't imagine, nothing ever happens at all.

The night following the reading, Gansey woke up to a completely unfamiliar sound and fumbled for his glasses. It sounded a little like one of his roommates was being killed by a possum, or possibly the final moments of a fatal cat fight. He wasn’t certain of the specifics, but he was sure death was involved. Noah stood in the doorway to his room, his face pathetic and long-suffering. “Make it stop,” he said. Ronan’s room was sacred, and yet here Gansey was, twice in the same weak, pushing the door open. He found the lamp on and Ronan hunched on the bed, wearing only boxers. Six months before, Ronan had gotten the intricate black tattoo that covered most of his back and snaked up his neck, and now the monochromatic lines of it were stark in the claustrophobic lamplight, more real than anything else in the room. It was a peculiar tattoo, both vicious and lovely, and every time Gansey saw it, he saw something different in the pattern. Tonight, nestled in an inked glen of wicked, beautiful flowers, was a beak where before he’d seen a scythe. The ragged sound cut through the apartment again. “What fresh hell is this?” Gansey asked pleasantly. Ronan was wearing headphones as usual, so Gansey stretched forward far enough to tug them down around his neck. Music wailed faintly into the air. Ronan lifted his head. As he did, the wicked flowers on his back shifted and hid behind his sharp shoulder blades. In his lap was the half-formed raven, its head tilted back, beak agape. “I thought we were clear on what a closed door meant,” Ronan said. He held a pair of tweezers in one hand. “I thought we were clear that night was for sleeping.” Ronan shrugged. “Perhaps for you.” “Not tonight. Your pterodactyl woke me. Why is it making that sound?” In response, Ronan dipped the tweezers into a plastic baggy on the blanket in front of him. Gansey wasn’t certain he wanted to know what the gray substance was in the tweezers’ grasp. As soon as the raven heard the rustle of the bag, it made the ghastly sound again—a rasping squeal that became a gurgle as it slurped down the offering. At once, it inspired both Gansey’s compassion and his gag reflex. “Well, this is not going to do,” he said. “You’re going to have to make it stop.” “She has to be fed,” Ronan replied. The ravel gargled down another bite. This time it sounded a lot like vacuuming potato salad. “It’s only every two hours for the first six weeks.” “Can’t you keep her downstairs?” In reply, Ronan half-lifted the little bird toward him. “You tell me.

Oh, please,” said Hessler. “It’s your standard false duality designed to draw gullible believers into a world of monochromatic enemies and strip away any moral ambiguity—usually utilized by the ruling government to bolster whatever policies it wishes to implement.

The sky is like a monochromatic contemporary painting.

1979. Coming to America after a childhood spent in the Soviet Union is equivalent to stumbling off a monochromatic cliff and landing in a pool of pure Technicolor.

She was silly, and confident, and so much her own person it almost made the rest of the world seem monochromatic.

But I'd done what I could to warm the place up. I'd started with a welcome mat. It had a happy face on it and was bright and colorful. It didn't say "Welcome." It said "!!!WELCOME!!!" I knew he wouldn't like it. I considered it more of an amusing test to see how open he was to change. He'd let me move in with him, but how flexible was he really willing to be? It disappeared the day after I placed it by the front door. It was just--poof!--gone. When I imagined the shocked look on his face when he would have first seen it, a spot of wacky and whimsical color in his otherwise monochromatic world, I started to laugh hysterically.

Colourful world has no meaning in Monochromatic dreams!

From now on, get used to nude nails or monochromatic tones of beige. For special occasions, Jin Soon’s “Nostalgia” is a shade of pink beige polish that I will allow.

Yūgen's hallmarks [are] mystery and depth .. . . it is characterized by sadness, unspoken connotations, imagery of a veiled, monochromatic nature, and an atmosphere of haunting beauty.

Witnessing a sorry state of affairs when one is not in power is by no means a monotone, monochromatic activity. It involves what Foucault once called a "relentless erudition," scouring alternative sources, exhuming buried documents, reviving forgotten (or abandoned) histories.

I can’t believe what you’ve done to me.” His hands gripped me harder, and I gasped, writing under his touch. “Everything before you was black and white, a monochromatic existence.” “And now?” “Now, it’s a kaleidoscope of color,” he said with a kiss. “Dizzying and maddening and beautiful.

I looked exactly like the female version of George Costanza when I was in sixth grade… I insisted on dressing myself in monochromatic outfits. All my shirts had an animal performing an action on them. I had a pink sweater with penguins knitting to match my pink ribbed leggings. A hunter green shirt with dogs painting.

Rude is declaring the dating pool of New York City tainted just because you managed to pick four assholes in a row." My throat warms, a lump of lava sliding down it. "Don't tell me I hurt your feelings," I murmur. "You of all people should know," he says, his gaze dropping to my mouth, "we 'surly, monochromatic literary types' don't have those.

We are both staring at the cloudless sky. 'Nothing ever happens like you imagine it will,' she says. The sky is like a monochromatic contemporary painting, drawing me in with its illusion of depth, pulling me up. 'Yeah, that's true,' I say. But then after I think about it for a second, I add, 'But then again, if you don't imagine, nothing ever happens at all.

blue whale, the ocean is not blue. Cone cells are unique to vertebrates, but other animals have wavelength-specific photoreceptors that play a similar role. Surprisingly, the cephalopods—octopuses, squid, and cuttlefish—have just one class of these, which means they are also monochromats.[*2] They can rapidly change the colors of their skin yet are unable to see their own shifting hues.

A source of white light-many colors mixed together-emits photons in a chaotic manner: the angle of the amplitude changes abruptly and irregularly in fits and starts. But when we construct a monochromatic source, we are making a device that has been carefully arranged so that the amplitude for a photon to be emitted at a certain time is easily calculated: it changes its angle at a constant speed, like a stopwatch hand. (Actually, this arrow turns at the same speed as the imaginary stopwatch we used before, but in the opposite direction-see Fig. 67.)

Colors matter to us. Color TVs, printers, and books are more prized than their black-and-white cousins. It’s natural to expect that an extra dimension of color would be a spectacular thing to see. To learn that it could be taken for granted threatens to drain color of its magic. But of course, all of us—monochromat, dichromat, trichromat, or tetrachromat—take the colors that we see for granted. Each of us is stuck in our own Umwelt. As I wrote in the introduction, this is a book not about superiority but about diversity. The real glory of colors isn’t that some individuals see more of them, but that there’s such a range of possible rainbows.

The state of mind above which my distraction floats like fog is suddenly perfectly clear, though the right word for it is less immediately available. Grief is too sharp and immediate; maybe it’s the high pitch of the vowel sound, or the monosyllabic impact of the word, as quick a jab as knife or cut. Sadness is too ephemeral, somehow; it sounds like something that comes and goes, a response to an immediate cause which will pass in a little while as another cause arises to generate a different feeling. Mourning isn’t bad, but there’s something a little archaic about it. I think of widows keening, striking themselves- dark-swathed years, a closeting of self away from the world, turned inward toward an interior dark. Sorrow feels right , for now. Sorrow seems large and inhabitable, an interior season whose vaulted sky’s a suitable match for the gray and white tumult arched over these headlands. A sorrow is not to be gotten over or moved through in quite the way that sadness is, yet sorrow is also not as frozen and monochromatic as mourning. Sadness exists inside my sorrow, but it’s not as large as sorrow’s realm. This sorrow is capacious; there’s room inside it for the everyday, for going about the workaday stuff of life. And for loveliness, for whatever we’re to be given by the daily walk.

Figure 18. As the thickness of a layer increases, the two surfaces produce a partial reflection of monochromatic light whose probability fluctuates in a cycle from 0% to 16%. Since the speed of the imaginary stopwatch hand is different for different colors of light, the cycle repeats itself at different rates. Thus when two colors such as pure red and pure blue are aimed at the layer, a given thickness will reflect only red, only blue, both red and blue in different proportions (which produce various hues of violet), or neither color (black). If the layer is of varying thicknesses, such as a drop of oil spreading out on a mud puddle, all of the combinations will occur. In sunlight, which consists of all colors, all sorts of combinations occur, which produce lots of colors.

Temperance Dews stood with quiet confidence, a respectable women who lived in the sewer that was St. Giles. Her eyes had widened at the sight of Lazarus, but she made no move to flee. Indeed, finding a strange man in her pathetic sitting room seemed not to frighten her at all. Interesting. “I am Lazarus Huntington, Lord Caire,” he said. “I know. What are you doing here?” He tilted his head, studying her. She knew him, yet did not recoil in horror? Yes, she’d do quite well. “I’ve come to make a proposition to you, Mrs. Dews.” Still no sign of fear, though she eyed the doorway. “You’ve chosen the wrong woman, my lord. The night is late. Please leave my house.” No fear and no deference to his rank. An interesting woman indeed. “My proposition is not, er, illicit in nature,” he drawled. “In fact, it’s quite respectable. Or nearly so.” She sighed, looked down at her tray, and then back up at him. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He almost smiled. Tea? When had he last been offered something so very prosaic by a woman? He couldn’t remember. But he replied gravely enough. “Thank you, no.” She nodded. “Then if you don’t mind?” He waved a hand to indicate permission. She set the tea tray on the wretched little table and sat on the padded footstool to pour herself a cup. He watched her. She was a monochromatic study. Her dress, bodice, hose, and shoes were all flat black. A fichu tucked in at her severe neckline, an apron, and cap—no lace or ruffles—were all white. No color marred her aspect, making the lush red of her full lips all the more startling. She wore the clothes of a nun, yet had the mouth of a sybarite. The contrast was fascinating—and arousing. “You’re a Puritan?” he asked. Her beautiful mouth compressed. “No.

With the thinnest possible layer of glass, we find that the number of photons arriving at A is nearly always zero-sometimes it's like 1. When we replace the thinnest layer with a slightly thicker one, we find that the amount of light reflected is higher-closer to the expected 8%. After a few more replacements the count of photons arriving at A increases past the 8% mark. As we continue to substitute still "thicker " layers of glass-we're up to about 5 millionths of an inch now-the amount of light reflected by the two surfaces reaches a maximum of 16%, and then goes down, through 8%, back to zero-if the layer of glass is just the right thickness, there is no reflection at all. (Do that with spots!) With gradually thicker and thicker layers of glass, partial reflection again increases to 16% and returns to zero-a cycle that repeats itself again and again(see Fig. 5). Newton discovered these oscillations and did one experiment that could be correctly interpreted only if the oscillations continued for 34,000 cycles! Today, with lasers (which produce a very pure, monochromatic light), we can see this cycle still going strong after more than 100,000,000 repetitions-which corresponds to glass that is more than 50 meters thick. (We don't see this phenomenon every day because the light source is normally not monochromatic.) So it turns out that our prediction of 8% is right as an overall average (since the actual amount varies in a regular pattern from zero to 16%), but it's exactly right only twice each cycle-like a stopped clock (which is right twice a day).

Like all disappearing forms, art seeks to duplicate itself by means of simulation, but it will nevertheless soon be gone, leaving behind an immense museum of artificial art and abandoning the field completely to advertising. A dizzying eclecticism of form, a dizzying eclecticism of pleasure - such, already, was the agenda of the baroque. For the baroque, however, the vortex of artifice has a fleshly aspect. Like the practitioners of the baroque, we too are irrepressible creators of images, but secretly we are iconoclasts - not in the sense that we destroy images, but in the sense that we manufacture a profusion of images in which there is nothing to see. Most present-day images - be they video images, paintings, products of the plastic arts, or audiovisual or synthesized images - are literally images in which there is nothing to see. They leave no trace, cast no shadow, and have no consequences. The only feeling one gets from such images is that behind each one there is something that has disappeared. The fascination of a monochromatic picture is the marvellous absence of form - the erasure, though still in the form of art, of all aesthetic syntax. Similarly, the fascination of trans sexuality is the erasure - though in the form of spectacle - of sexual difference. These are images that conceal nothing, that reveal nothing - that have a kind of negative intensity. The only benefit of a Campbell's soup can by Andy Warhol (and it is an immense benefit) is that it releases us from the need to decide between beautiful and ugly, between real and unreal, between transcendence and immanence. Just as Byzantine icons made it possible to stop asking whether God existed - without, for all that, ceasing to believe in him.

Suddenly drained of the nervous excitement which had made her forget momentarily her tiredness and the monochromatic dullness of this early morning, she buried her face in the edge of the bed. Otto, somewhat apathetically, began to stroke her bag beneath her nightgown. She was grateful that they had not fought—she didn't have the energy—but a sullen disappointment roiled about just behind her gratitude. Was Otto going to make love to her while the Negro in the street slept in his own vomit?

No fundamentalist undercurrent ran through the national culture before the first war. Sufism had always been the predominant Muslim sect, and Wahhabism was a foreign, wartime import. A few times a year, Arab Wahhabis came through the village in search of recruits. They promised rations, shelter, an eternity in Paradise, and, until that day of glorious martyrdom, a monthly salary of two hundred and fifty U.S. dollars. Few young men followed the monochromatic Wahhabi faith, but many were quite willing to be radicalized for a monthly salary that eclipsed what they would otherwise earn in a year. The war of independence so quickly conflated with jihad because no one cared about the self-determination of a small landlocked republic. Arab states would gladly fund a war of religion, but not one of nationalism. And in this way it didn’t matter who won the war between the Feds and fundamentalists: the notion of a democratic and fully sovereign Chechnya would be crushed regardless.

monochromatic

I grabbed a shard of glass and spun around, brandishing it in front of me. It was a pretty, stippled blue piece, nice and sharp. “Hold on, tiger. I give up.” A bear of a man stood in front of me, hands raised in mock surrender— well, except for the shotgun in his right hand. He towered well over six feet and was shaped like a linebacker, one who’d gone a little too long between haircuts. Dark curls hugged the collar of a basic black T-shirt that almost camouflaged a black shoulder holster holding some type of nasty-looking black handgun. It all matched his black jeans and boots. He looked like the poster child for an upscale GQ mercenary. The only shred of color on him was his eyes, and they were dark brown. Mr. Monochromatic. He laid the shotgun on the table near the door and stepped back, hands up, watching me from beneath hooded lids. A lesser woman would have noticed the thick muscles moving under his tanned skin when he raised his arms, or the T-shirt that fit just snugly enough to send a girl’s thoughts to the Promised Land. Good thing I don’t notice stuff like that. “If you want to search me for more weapons, I’m game.” My eyes shot back to his, and I felt my cheeks flush, hot and bothered on the way to angry. Leave it to a guy to open his mouth and ruin a perfectly good moment.

His first step in developing A Discourse is an attempt to discover how we develop knowledge, how we learn. His very starting premise is that the world is fundamentally uncertain, truth is an arena of combat, knowledge is a weapon, as is the capability to evolve one’s knowledge base. He warns against monochromatic views and argues that command organizations should consist of people with different frames of reference, thereby ensuring a variety of interpretations of one observation. Truth is dialogical, in postmodern terms; it arises from people in discourse. Assigning meaning to events, phenomena or objects is not just an individual process. The OODA loop itself indeed is an epistemological statement. It is an abstract and theoretical model of the way we derive knowledge from our environment.

She’s monochromatic in a white top and a black skinny skirt.

It was like The Wizard of Oz, instant beautiful color, only Quinn had been living in worse than black-and-white Kansas. He’d been trapped in a monochromatic world of beige, of nice, of going with the flow, not making waves. Eli was the whole super-sized box of crayons, with no rules about staying in the lines.

Empirical evidence is not what counts. Rational proof is the only acceptable criterion of truth. If you cannot provide a sufficient reason for an argument you make, you do not have an argument. Sensory evidence is not a sufficient reason. It is not an argument. Sensory evidence is simply raw data. A million people could provide a million different ways of interpreting it, hence it’s meaningless. It has nothing to do with proof. “Evidence” concerns an appearance from which inferences may be drawn. It concerns that which is obvious to the eye. Yet what does “obvious” mean? What is obvious about sensory data? Color blind people don’t know what “blue” is. Tetrachromats, with four cone types in the eye (cone cells are responsible for color vision, while rod cells code for monochromatic vision) see color radically differently from normal people (i.e. trichromats with three cone types). People with synesthesia have drastically different sensory experiences from normal people. So, everything about the senses is mired in ambiguity, uncertainty and subjectivity. These are no organs for truth, i.e. organs that show us the truth of a thing, exactly what it is and everything about it. We see things in our dreams even though our eyes are closed. How can we see without eyes, how can we sense without sense organs? What’s for sure is that scientific empiricism and materialism won’t be furnishing any answers.

Is it monochromatic? Oriental bird flashing?” he asked, insinuating that the Chinese might be pointing a laser at the satellite to confuse the Americans.

Airtight allegiance to place could make you a loser, left behind by the great sweep of a monochromatic, generalist world.

First, postmodern ideas influenced the church to give up on some of the negative effects of modernism. Modernists assumed that all people would see things the same way if they just used their reasoning abilities. What a sad, monochromatic-looking church that must have produced, denying our individual perceptions and perspectives. Second, postmodernists placed a practical limit on what human reason was capable of. Reason can be used to argue for God’s existence or to question it. But reason alone can’t be used to paint a complete picture of God and of salvation. Finally, postmodernism has revealed to us the rich diversity that God delights in, especially through worship

For those who cling to the days of monochromatic American identity, the sweep of change strikes a fundamental fear of not being a part of an America that is multicultural and multicolored. In their minds, the way of life that has sustained them faces an existential crisis, and the response has been vicious, calculated, and effective.

Monochromatic color schemes are lacking in contrast, which is why I start many of my canvas or paper pieces in this way. I can add layers of contrasting elements later on if desired. Adding tints and shades will give you a larger range of colors with which to create a richness of hues in your projects.

Lester Dent died thinking his name and works belonged to a pulp past destined to be forgotten. Just a year before his passing, he scoffed at the mention of his old Doc Savage novels, saying, “They would be so outdated today that they would undoubtedly be funny. Hell, when I wrote them, an airplane that could fly 200 miles per hour was science fiction. They would be of no interest any more.” Five years after his death, Bantam Books released three Doc novels to test a market in which pulp reprints of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan of the Apes were selling briskly. Thanks in part to James Bama’s powerful monochromatic covers, Doc Savage sales surged and surged until millions of copies were sold, making “Kenneth Robeson” one of the best-selling authors of the 1960s—a posthumous vindication which, for all his imaginative powers, Lester Dent himself never envisioned.

At the pole, the stars hover against the black of the universe. Below, a frozen ocean is lit by starlight and the thinnest paring of moon, its platinum surface pushed up into broken dunes, shadow rippling in the trenches between. Where the tides have tugged rips in the ice, narrow channels of open water breathe fog as they freeze over. Never has Marian seen a landscape so suffused with hush, so monochromatic and devoid of life.

120 stunning color combination ideas - We take you through the basics of combining colors and offer 120 stunning color combinations inspired by nature, wildlife, food & drink, and travel. Your choice of colors can set the tone of your entire project, so choosing wisely is crucial. After all, you don’t want your colors conveying a mood that is opposite to what the project calls for and you certainly don’t want a color combination that is off-putting or confusing to the eye. We briefly explain the science behind choosing the right mix of colors, and then give you 120 beautiful color combinations that you can start using immediately. Let’s jump right in! The science of combining colors Believe it or not, there’s a science to creating color combinations and it’s actually not complicated to grasp. All you need is the color wheel, and an understanding of five different combination styles that each has its own place in your bag of tricks. Complementary color combination Complementary refers to a 2-color combination where the colors are opposite from each other on the color wheel. The two colors complement each other through their contrast, which allows each color to stand out. Monochromatic color combination Monochromatic refers to a combination of different shades, tones and tints of the same color, by adding black, white or grey to the original color. A monochromatic color combination is traditional and subtle. Triadic color combination Triadic colors refers to a 3-color combination that forms a perfect triangle on the color wheel. There’s not as much contrast as there is with complementary colors, but there’s enough to let each color do its thing. Analogous color combination Analogous is another 3-color combination, this time colors that are adjacent to each other on the colour wheel. With this color combination, it’s best to make one color dominant and use the others as accents. Tetradic color combination Tetradic refers to a 4-color combination where the colors are placed in a perfect square around the color wheel (essentially two pairs of complementary colors). To achieve balance with so many colors, it’s best to keep one color dominant and use the rest as accents. Color combination based on nature Sometimes nature knows best. If you find a color combination that appears somewhere in nature, chances are it’s a winning combination, as you can see from the examples in many of the examples that follow.

As if to prove I was willing to give this new adventure as a visual storyteller my best shot, I'd searched for the most colorful piece of clothing I owned in my minimal, mostly monochromatic closet. The winner: a white vintage Polaroid tee with a band of pink, orange, yellow, and blue stretched across my chest. Nothing like living on the wild side.

But little was monochromatic in marriage and even in abuse, because there were other parts, too, parts she’d loved, parts that, when she wasn’t vigilant, still drew drops of unwilling tenderness from her.

Zen is Buddhism made simple again. The robes worn by Zen priests are plain black affairs (unlike the colorful getups favored by the Tibetans and their other Buddhist cousins), and even after receiving Transmission, the Zen master's daily dress is a dull brown robe. You can sit anywhere; Dogen Zenji said that the heart is the real zendo. This informs temple architecture. Plainness here is neither false humility nor a facade. It is true to the bone. Skeletal beams and rafters are seamlessly joined; they are not nailed or screwed into place; they are made to fit together. Inside a zendo, there is mostly open space, dimly lit, with a small central altar and a tan, a two-foot-high wooden platform built around the perimeter, where meditators sit on plain black cushions, facing the wall. There are few ceremonial objects—the teacher's staff, a stick of incense burning in a bowl—and it is rare to run into more than one or two bronze or wooden Buddhas. Zen rituals are spare, too. Music is reduced to an isolated ding or bong of a bell, the flat report of a mallet tapped against a slab of wood, and a thrumming bang from a giant bass drum. Even the chanting is monochromatic; students pitch their voices toward the deep, dark end of the register and grumble in unison.

Obsession can be your own prison.

Once upon a time ago, you loved me in Photoshop. When I was monochromatic, you gave me texture. You went through my layer mask and hit......'Reveal All'. I remember when you stared at me like I was saturated; but, sometimes I don't remember that once upon a time ago without seeing your background image losing its magic lens.

I took another step closer, until we were near enough to one another that I could see all the variations of color within his dark eyes. They weren't a monochromatic brown, like they appeared from a distance. His irises contained very subtle pinpricks of hazel as well, combining with the brown to create the richest, most beautiful eye color I'd ever seen.

Everything before you was black and white, a monochromatic existence.” “And now?” “Now, it’s a kaleidoscope of color,” he said with a kiss. “Dizzying and maddening and beautiful.

Everything before you was black and white, a monochromatic existence.” “And now?” “Now, it’s a kaleidoscope of color,

The existence of so many monochromats hints at one of the most counterintuitive things about color vision: It isn’t necessary.

On Christmas Eve, 1968, the Apollo 8 astronauts—Frank Borman, James Lovell, and William Anders—became the first human beings to see the far side of the Moon. The moment was as historic as it was perilous: they had been wrested from Earth’s gravity and hurled into space by the massive, barely tested Saturn V rocket. Although one of their primary tasks was to take pictures of the Moon in search of future landing sites—the first lunar landing would take place just seven months later—many associate their mission with a different photograph, commonly known as Earthrise. "Emerging from the Moon’s far side during their fourth orbit, the astronauts were suddenly transfixed by their vision of Earth, a delicate, gleaming swirl of blue and white, contrasting with the monochromatic, barren lunar horizon. Earth had never appeared so small to human eyes, yet was never more the center of attention. "To mark the event’s significance and its occurrence on Christmas Eve, the crew had decided, after much deliberation, to read the opening words of Genesis: "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth . . . ." The reading, and the reverent silence that followed, went out over a live telecast to an estimated one billion viewers, the largest single audience in television history.

So what is there to make of the simplistic thing I've come to utter in explanation, which is so drab, so monochromatic, so water on top of ice even though it's the most direct, most distilled path from my heart to my mouth: I feel better without her.

might be pertinent to add a qualification here: although the Church’s theology can indeed on occasion be narrow and monochromatic, nevertheless Chesterton asserts that when it is at its best, when it is being faithful to its own mission to teach the truth, the Church fully allows reality to speak in all its broad, glorious, and multi-colored complexity.

The hatred was, in a word, monochromatic.

The world often appears monochromatic until we venture into it with others.

IBM launched its Chess machine, renamed simply the Personal Computer, in August 1981, a scant four months after the Star. Judged against the technology PARC had brought forth, it was a homely and feeble creature. Rather than bitmapped graphics and variable typefaces, its screen displayed only ASCII characters, glowing a hideous monochromatic green against a black background. Instead of a mouse, the PC had four arrow keys on the keyboard that laboriously moved the cursor, character by character and line by line. No icons, no desktop metaphor, no multitasking windows, no e-mail, no Ethernet. Forswearing the Star’s intuitive point-and-click operability, IBM forced its customers to master an abstruse lexicon of typed commands and cryptic responses developed by Microsoft, its software partner. Where the Star was a masterpiece of integrated reliability, the PC had a perverse tendency to crash at random (a character flaw it bequeathed to many subsequent generations of Microsoft Windows-driven machines). But where the Star sold for $16,595-plus, the IBM PC sold for less than $5,000, all-inclusive. Where the Star’s operating system was closed, accessible for enhancement only to those to whom Xerox granted a coded key, the PC’s circuitry and microcode were wide open to anyone willing to hack a program for it—just like the Alto’s. And it sold in the millions.