Most Excellent Adventure Quotes

If the horse hurts an owner, the animal gets the blame. The BLM also created a program in which prisoners are given the opportunity to work with captive wild horses. They gentle them and get them to the point where they are ridable. This is an excellent idea.

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained

Make excellent mistakes. Too many people spend their time avoiding mistakes. They're so concerned about being wrong, about messing up, that they never try anything -- which means they never do anything. Their focus is avoiding failure. But that's actually a crummy way to achieve success. The most successful people spectacular mistakes -- huge, honking screwups! why? They're trying to do something big, but each time they make a mistake, they get a little better and move a little closer to excellence. Making mistakes seems risky. It is/ But it's more risky not to. I'm not talking about random, stupid, thoughtless blunders, though. I'm talking about good mistakes. Mistakes come from having high aspirations, from trying to do something nobody else has done.

To Sherlock Holmes she is always THE woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.

Why the devil couldn’t it have been blue?” I said to myself. And this thought—one of the most profound ever made since the discovery of butterflies—consoled me for my misdeed and reconciled me with myself. I stood there, looking at the corpse with, I confess, a certain sympathy. The butterfly had probably come out of the woods, well-fed and happy, into the sunlight of a beautiful morning. Modest in its demands on life, it had been content to fly about and exhibit its special beauty under the vast cupola of a blue sky, al sky that is always blue for those that have wings. It flew through my open window, entered by room, and found me there. I suppose it had never seen a man; therefore it did not know what a man was. It described an infinite number of circles about my body and saw that I moved, that I had eyes, arms, legs, a divine aspect, and colossal stature. Then it said to itself, “This is probably the maker of butterflies.” The idea overwhelmed it, terrified it; but fear, which is sometimes stimulating, suggested the best way for it to please its creator was to kiss him on the forehead, and so it kissed me on the forehead. When I brushed it away, it rested on the windowpane, saw from there the portrait of my father, and quite possibly perceived a half-truth, i.e., that the man in the picture was the father of the creator of butterflies, and it flew to beg his mercy. Then a blow from a towel ended the adventure. Neither the blue sky’s immensity, nor the flowers’ joy, nor the green leaves’ splendor could protect the creature against a face towel, a few square inches fo cheap linin. Note how excellent it is to be superior to butterflies! For, even if it had been blue, its life would not have been safe; I might have pierced it with a pin and kept it to delight my eyes. It was not blue. This last thought consoled me again. I placed the nail of my middle finger against my thumb, gave the cadaver a flip, and it fell into the garden. It was high time; the provident ants were already gathering around…Yes, I stand by my first idea: I think that it would have been better for the butterfly if it had been born blue.

The BLM also created a program in which prisoners are given the opportunity to work with captive wild horses. They gentle them and get them to the point where they are ridable. This is an excellent idea.

Oh yes," said Jana. "You want the birdbath." She let him down onto the rim of the birdbath, then watched as he dipped his head, lowered his chest into the water, and raised it. Having finished his bath, he did a dance of sheer joy, flapping his wings and shaking off the water in a circle of drops. "He enjoys life," said a voice. Mr. Powell the optometrist, a closed umbrella in hand, was letting his two dachshunds chase each other around the park. "As do your dogs," said Jana. "Yes," said Mr. Powell,"they have fun in a simpler and more joyous way than most humans do. Their pleasures seem more reliable. All you have to do is say the word 'walk' and they're wiggling from head to toe....

No adventure ever came to one for the asking.  He who starts on a deliberate quest of adventure goes forth but to gather dead-sea fruit, unless, indeed, he be beloved of the gods and great amongst heroes, like that most excellent cavalier Don Quixote de la Mancha.  By us ordinary mortals of a mediocre animus that is only too anxious to pass by wicked giants for so many honest windmills, adventures are entertained like visiting angels.  They come upon our complacency unawares.  As unbidden guests are apt to do, they often come at inconvenient times.  And we are glad to let them go unrecognised, without any acknowledgment of so high a favour.  After many years, on looking back from the middle turn of life’s way at the events of the past, which, like a friendly crowd, seem to gaze sadly after us hastening towards the Cimmerian shore, we may see here and there, in the gray throng, some figure glowing with a faint radiance, as though it had caught all the light of our already crepuscular sky.  And by this glow we may recognise the faces of our true adventures, of the once unbidden guests entertained unawares in our young days.

Brothels and colonies are two extreme types of heterotopia, and if we think, after all, that the boat is a floating piece of space, a place without a place, that exists by itself, that is closed in on itself and at the same time is given over to the infinity of the sea and that, from port to port, from tack to tack, from brothel to brothel, it goes as far as the colonies in search of the most precious treasures they conceal in their gardens, you will understand why the boat has not only been for our civilization, from the sixteenth century until the present, the great instrument of economic development (I have not been speaking of that today), but has been simultaneously the greatest reserve of the imagination. The ship is the heterotopia par excellence. In civilizations without boats, dreams dry up, espionage takes the place of adventure, and the police take the place of pirates.

ORDINARY PEOPLE Guess what? Most of us are ordinary people just trying to live our lives. We worry about paying bills, educating kids, our favorite team winning a championship, getting a promotion, caring for elderly parents, taking an occasional vacation, having time for a hobby, and relaxing now and then. We are more alike than we are different, and our commonality as human beings opens the door for connection and conversation. Even ordinary people have extraordinary things happen to them that make for excellent conversation. Every person I know has had an extraordinary experience of one kind or another. Lurking somewhere in your conversation is a hilarious event, a once-in-a-lifetime vacation, a ridiculous moment, an ex-citing accomplishment, a hair-raising happy-ending tale an uncanny coincidence, or an incredible adventure. Find it and bring it out! Almost anything is a conversation in the making.

Burley Coulter himself was one of the best perquisites of my office. Burley was nineteen years older than I was, old enough to have been my father, and in fact he was the same age my father would have been if he had lived. He was the most interesting man I ever knew. He was in his way an adventurer. And something worthy of notice was always going on in his head. I found him to be a surprising man, unpredictable, and at the same time always true to himself and recognizable in what he did. I had lived in Port William several years before I realized that Burley was proud of me for being a reader of books; he was not himself a devoted reader, but he thought it was excellent that I should be. It must have been 1940 or 1941 when he first came all the way into my upstairs room and saw my books in my little bookcase. “Do you read in them?” “Yes,” I said. He gave the shelves a long study, not reading the titles, apparently just assaying in his mind the number and weight of the books, their varying sizes and colors, the printing on their spines. And then he nodded his approval and said, “Well, that’s all right.” I knew him for forty years, about, and saw him endure the times and suffer the changes, and we were always friends.

Focusing on expanding our skills, pursuing excellence in a vocation, cultivating enriching hobbies, sculpting our mind and body, creating a network of inspiring friends, seeking adventures, and devoting ourselves to rewarding goals – this is how we make our solitary journey meaningful, and therein cultivate self-love. And with sufficient self-love, we do not need a relationship to thrive, and, paradoxically, this is when we are at our most attractive and capable of cultivating a healthy relationship that is based on the following foundation of realism: A romantic partner can support us and enrich our journey, just as we can support and enrich theirs. However, to use a relationship to flee the burdens of our existence and to look to another person to provide us fulfillment, is to damage the relationship and cripple ourselves with infantile dependencies. The earthly salvation that we seek can only be found by cultivating and affirming our individual journey; it cannot be found in the arms of another.

Starting today, declare your devotion to remembering the sublime soul, brave warrior and undefeatable creator that your natural wisdom is calling on you to be. The trials of your past have skillfully served to reinvent you into one who is tougher, more aware of the powers that make you special and more grateful for the basic blessings of a life beautifully lived—splendid health, a happy family, a job that fulfils and a hopeful heart. These apparent difficulties have actually been the stepping stones for your current and future victories. The former limits that have shackled you and the “failures” that have hurt you have been necessary for the realization of your mastery. All is unfolding for your benefit. You truly are favored. Oh yes, whether you accept this or not, you are a lion, not a sheep. A leader, never a victim. A person worthy of exceptional accomplishment, uplifting adventure, flawless contentment and the self-respect that, over time, rises steeply into a reservoir of self-love that no one and no thing can ever conquer. You are a mighty force of nature and a dynamic producer, not a slumbering casualty caught flat-footed in a world of degrading mediocrity, dehumanizing complaint, compliance and entitlement. And with steadfast commitment and regular effort, you will evolve into an idealist, an unusual artist and a potent exceptionalist. A genuine world-changer, in your own most honest and excellent way. So be not a cynic, critic and naysayer. For doubters are degenerated dreamers. And average is absolutely unworthy of you. Today, and for each day that follows of your uniquely glorious, brilliantly luminous and most-helpful-to-many life, stand fiercely in the limitless freedom to shape your future, materialize your ambitions and magnify your contributions in high esteem of your dreams, enthusiasms and dedications. Insulate your cheerfulness, polish your prowess and inspire all witnesses fortunate enough to watch your good example of how a great human being can behave. We will watch your growth, applaud your gifts, appreciate your valor and admire your eventual immortality. As you remain within the hearts of many.

You have to be strong and agile to ride a bicycle in city traffic. You need excellent balance and vision. (Children and seniors, for example, have worse peripheral vision than fit adults, and more trouble judging the speed of approaching objects.17) Most of all, you must possess a high tolerance for risk.18 Even the blood of adventurous riders gets flooded with beta-endorphins – the euphoria-inducing chemical that has been found in bungee-jumpers and rollercoaster riders – not to mention a stew of cortisol and adrenaline, the stress hormones that are so useful in moments of fight and flight, but toxic if experienced over the long term. The biologist Robert Sapolsky once said that the way to understand the difference between good and bad stress is to remember that a rollercoaster ride lasts for three minutes rather than three days. A super-long roller-coaster would not only be a lot less fun but poisonous. I personally like rollercoasters, and I loved the challenge of riding in the Paris traffic. But what is thrilling to me – a slightly reckless, forty-something male – would be terrifying for my mother, or my brother or a child. So if we really care about freedom for everyone, we need to design for everyone – not just the brave. This means we have got to confront the shared-space movement, which has gradually found favour since the sharing concept known as the woonerf emerged on residential streets in the Dutch city of Delft in the 1970s. In the woonerf, walkers, cyclists and cars are all invited to mingle in the same space, as though they are sharing a living room. Street signs and marked kerbs are replaced with flowerpots and cobblestones and even trees, forcing users to pay more attention as they move. It’s a bit like the vehicular cyclist paradigm, except that in a woonerf, everyone is expected to share the road.fn8

There is no public record of Barack Obama's (or Stanley Ann Dunham's) being in the CIA. Perhaps he was, perhaps he wasn't. The reader may consider the information and, based on background, life experiences, and ability to keep an open mind, may come to either conclusion. But any explanation of why Barack Obama would not have mentioned a word of his Most Excellent Pakistani Adventure in either of his two autobiographies requires a conspiracy theory that might cast doubt on either the sanity or the sincerity fothe person proposing it.

an undertaking was easy, someone else already would have done it.—If you follow in another’s footsteps, you miss the problems really worth solving.—Excellence is born of preparation, dedication, focus, and tenacity; compromise on any of these and you become average.—Every so often, life presents a great moment of decision, an intersection at which a man must decide to stop or go; a person lives with these decisions forever.—Examine everything; not all is as it seems or as people tell you.—It is easiest to live with a decision if it is based on an earnest sense of right and wrong.—The guy who gets killed is often the guy who got nervous. The guy who doesn’t care anymore, who has said, “I’m already dead—the fact that I live or die is irrelevant and the only thing that matters is the accounting I give of myself,” is the most formidable force in the world.—The worst possible decision is to give up.

Blé Sucré, an excellent little bakery overlooking a gorgeous square in the twelfth arrondissement.

Mustapha is 'The adventurer par excellence. He expects life to have something of the variety and flavor of The Thousand and One Nights, and if the pungency is lacking he does his best to supply it. A wholehearted believer in dangerous living, he often takes outrageous chances', due says Bowles, to 'a refusal to believe that action entails result. To him, each is separate, having been determined at the beginning of time, when the inexorable design of destiny was laid out .. It is the most monstrous absurdity to fear death, the future, or the consequences of one's acts, since this would be tantamount to fearing life itself. Thus to be prudent is laughable, to be frugal is despicable, and to be provident borders on the sinful. How can a man be so presumptuous as to assume that tomorrow, let alone next year, will actually arrive ? And so how dare he tempt fate by preparing for any part of the future ? either immediate or distant ?

Among American newspapers, the New York Times offered by far the best and most extensive coverage of the war in Angola, and it was the New York Times that first revealed the existence of a U.S. covert operation there. In a front-page article on September 25, Leslie Gelb wrote that “millions of dollars are being poured covertly into Portugal and Angola by East and West,” including the Soviet Union and the United States. (The Soviets, he hastened to say, were “far more” involved in both Portugal and Angola than the Americans.)60 The article provoked nothing but total silence. “It was, and still is, a mystery to me why the Gelb report had so little public impact in the United States when it was published,” Nathaniel Davis writes.61 The explanation is suggested by a stern editorial in the Washington Post that appeared two days after Gelb’s article. The editorial endorsed the covert operation in Portugal, but not that in Angola. “The operation there seems much closer to the questionable crudely anti-communist adventures that have so marred the CIA’s past,” it observed. But this was not the point. The point was that the secret had been betrayed: “The disclosures illuminate the strange new semi-public setting in which ‘secret’ operations must now be devised. . . . Some would consider this anticipation of exposure as a healthy deterrent or even as just retribution for past excesses. We find it deplorable. The United States still has, we believe, reason to conduct certain covert operations abroad—Portugal is an excellent example. It should not be necessary to point out that covert operations must be covert. ‘National security’ unquestionably has been overworked as a rationale for secrecy but it has not lost all validity.”62

Then she would eat what she liked, wear what she liked, and no one would tell her she had the body of a strumpet and had better take care not to look like one. She almost laughed. Some strumpet she was, considering she spent most of her evenings standing or sitting by a wall while other ladies danced or mingled.

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Excellence is born of preparation, dedication, focus, and tenacity; compromise on any of these and you become average. —  Every so often, life presents a great moment of decision, an intersection at which a man must decide to stop or go; a person lives with these decisions forever. —  Examine everything; not all is as it seems or as people tell you. —  It is easiest to live with a decision if it is based on an earnest sense of right and wrong. —  The guy who gets killed is often the guy who got nervous. The guy who doesn’t care anymore, who has said, “I’m already dead—the fact that I live or die is irrelevant and the only thing that matters is the accounting I give of myself,” is the most formidable force in the world. —  The worst possible decision is to give up.

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By the end of the fight,” he was saying, “I saw enough to recognize she had some natural talent with the sword. It was the way she moved. It was raw and instinctual, but I saw promise. You must understand that most of the students who come to me are there mostly because it is part of their coursework, or a clan tradition to receive weapons training. They hone traditional skills it is unlikely they will ever use. Minstrel students are more musician than warrior, but weapons training is required for them. The Guardians believe they should be prepared for the world they wander in, and I quite agree. But it is rare to find a student with actual interest and talent.” Stevic stared out the window. The courtyard had fallen into shadow and silence, empty of students. Even the pigeons seemed to have fled the grounds, giving it a gloomy and abandoned feel. “I had hoped Karigan would find a talent for something, but I never expected the sword.” “Ah, but the sword is just a beginning. I had heard about her from other instructors. Complaints, mind you, except from her riding instructor, Master Deleon. Del said she excelled at riding. When I saw Karigan put Timas Mirwell on the ground, I thought maybe I could get her to work for something else and the sword would be just a beginning, that it would inspire her to seek out whatever it was she wanted to do with her life.” Stevic turned his gaze to the arms master. “I am fortunate my daughter had such an instructor.” Rendle grinned. “She was fortunate to have such a father.” Stevic raised a brow. “I once asked her what she wanted to do with her life,” Rendle said. “She told me, something adventurous. She wanted to be a merchant like her father. It is not many children who choose to follow their parents’ footsteps.” Stevic stilled, letting it sink in. Then he slowly shook his head and turned back to the window and the shadows. He felt buffeted by a variety of emotions: elation, fear, sadness, desperation. Where was she? “She never told me.” His voice was taut.

For the most part the immortal gods were of little use to human beings and often they were quite the reverse of useful: Zeus a dangerous lover for mortal maidens and completely incalculable in his use of the terrible thunderbolt; Ares the maker of war and a general pest; Hera with no idea of justice when she was jealous as she perpetually was; Athena also a war maker, and wielding the lightning’s sharp lance quite as irresponsibly as Zeus did; Aphrodite using her power chiefly to ensnare and betray. They were a beautiful, radiant company, to be sure, and their adventures made excellent stories; but when they were not positively harmful, they were capricious and undependable, and in general mortals got on best without them.