Nice Recreation Quotes

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Someone as locked down and in control as Jeter was probably not much tempted by gambling and recreational drugs. (His only admitted addiction is the nicely self-deprecating one of too much movie watching. “During the off-season, I go to the movies almost every day,” he’s told reporters. “You hear about women buying shoes? I buy DVDs. I definitely have a problem.”)
Joseph Bottum (The Swinger (Kindle Single))
To associate what is nice with what is evil happened easily in the sixteenth century. Comfortable houses, nice clothes, and orderly, easy lives belonged to the “world” and only dungeons, flight, torture, grief, and anxiety remained for the true followers of Christ. The Anabaptists, living in such an other-worldly atmosphere of persecution, had no time for humour or recreation. At first from necessity, but soon from a brotherhood emphasis on strict asceticism, they ruled out many normal comforts of life. In Switzerland the Anabaptists even condemned congregational singing as a frivolous concession to the senses.
Peter Hoover (The Secret of the Strength: What Would the Anabaptists Tell This Generation?)
Many females have a problem not only with stereotypes, but with other people’s opinions of them in general. They trust them too much... This vulnerability afflicts many of the most able, high-achieving females. Why should this be? When they’re little, these girls are often so perfect, and they delight in everyone’s telling them so. They’re so well behaved, they’re so cute, they’re so helpful, and they’re so precocious. Girls learn to trust people’s estimates of them. “Gee, everyone’s so nice to me; if they criticize me, it must be true.” Even females at the top universities in the country say that other people’s opinions are a good way to know their abilities. Boys are constantly being scolded and punished. When we observed in grade school classrooms, we saw that boys got eight times more criticism than girls for their conduct. Boys are also constantly calling each other slobs and morons. The evaluations lose a lot of their power. Even when women reach the pinnacle of success, other people’s attitudes can get them... The fixed mindset, plus stereotyping, plus women’s trust in people’s assessments: I think we can begin to understand why there’s a gender gap in math and science. That gap is painfully evident in the world of high tech. Julie Lynch, a budding techie, was already writing computer code when she was in junior high school. Her father and two brothers worked in technology, and she loved it, too. Then her computer programming teacher criticized her. She had written a computer program and the program ran just fine, but he didn’t like a shortcut she had taken. Her interest evaporated. Instead, she went on to study recreation and public relations. Math and science need to be made more hospitable places for women. And women need all the growth mindset they can get to take their rightful places in these fields.
Carol S. Dweck (Mindset: The New Psychology of Success)
I had incipient ulcers most of the years that I was at Bell Labs. I have since gone off to the Naval Postgraduate School and laid back somewhat, and now my health is much better. But if you want to be a great scientist you’re going to have to put up with stress. You can lead a nice life; you can be a nice guy or you can be a great scientist. But nice guys end last, is what Leo Durocher said. If you want to lead a nice happy life with a lot of recreation and everything else, you’ll lead a nice life.
Richard Hamming
No, Charlotte Carson. You might be the bully, but I’m the boss.” He smiles and hooks his left leg over mine, moving between my thighs and grabbing my ass to readjust my hips. “We’re going to recreate every scene in this book, starting with this one. The hero ties the heroine up after their wedding and takes her nice and slow. He doesn’t worry about his own pleasure until she’s shaking.” Church turns his head to the side and looks me over. “This should do.
C.M. Stunich (The Forever Crew (Adamson All-Boys Academy, #3))
As she passed the recreation room, she saw Mr. Preston, still sitting quietly in his chair, a blanket over his knees. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Fine thanks. Just gonna sit here a little longer, then I’ll head up.” She sat beside him, sharing the silence. “That friend of yours is a good sort,” he finally said. “Nice of him to stop in and say goodbye before going home to his folks.” “He did?” “Ayuh.” “What did he say?” The old man never turned his head to look at her, but the faintest of smiles touched his lips and he sat up a bit straighter in his chair. “He shook my hand and said, ‘Thank you for your service.’ Then he saluted me and left.” Jess felt tears prick her eyes, seeing how very much the gesture had touched this proud, quiet old man. Tanner hadn’t been happy when he’d left here, she knew that, yet he’d taken the time to reach out a hand in friendship and brotherhood to this complete stranger. What a good man. What an amazingly wonderful man. She’d found him twice in her life. Once she’d lost him due to fate and war and bad timing. This time, she’d let him slip right through her fingers. That was a mistake she could rectify. It wasn’t too late. She wouldn’t let it be.
Leslie Kelly (SEAL of My Dreams)
I've thought about that often since. I mean, about the word nice. Perhaps I mean good. Of course they mean nothing, when you start to think about them. A good man, one says; a good woman; a nice man, a nice woman. Only in talk of course, these are not words you'd use in a novel. I'd be careful not to use them. Yet of that group, I will say simply, without further analysis, that George was a good person, and that Willi was not. That Maryrose and Jimmy and Ted and Johnnie the pianist were good people, and that Paul and Stanley Lett were not. And furthermore, I'd bet that ten people picked at random off the street to meet them, or invited to sit in that party under the eucalyptus trees that night, would instantly agree with this classification-would, if I used the word good, simply like that, know what I meant. And thinking about this, which I have done so much, I discover that I come around, by a back door, to another of the things that obsess me. I mean, of course, this question of 'personality.' Heaven knows we are never allowed to forget that the 'personality' doesn't exist any more. It's the theme of half the novels written, the theme of the sociologists and all the other -ologists. We're told so often that human personality has disintegrated into nothing under pressure of all our knowledge that I've even been believing it. Yet when I look back to that group under the trees, and re-create them in my memory,suddenly I know it's nonsense. Suppose I were to meet Maryrose now, all these years later,she'd make some gesture, or turn her eyes in such a way, and there she'd be, Maryrose, and indestructible. Or suppose she 'broke down,' or became mad. She would break down into her components, and the gesture, the movement of the eyes would remain, even though some connection had gone. And so all this talk, this antihumanist bullying, about the evaporation of the personality becomes meaningless for me at that point when I manufacture enough emotional energy inside myself to create in memory some human being I've known. I sit down, and remember the smell of the dust and the moonlight, and see Ted handing a glass of wine to George, and George's over-grateful response to the gesture. Or I see, as in a slow-motion film, Maryrose turn her head, with her terrifyingly patient smile... I've written the word film. Yes. The moments I remember all have the absolute assurance of a smile, a look, a gesture, in a painting or a film. Am I saying then that the certainty I'm clinging to belongs to the visual arts, and not to the novel, not to the novel at all, which has been claimed by the disintegration and the collapse? What business has a novelist to cling to the memory of a smile or a look, knowing I so well the complexities behind them? Yet if I did not, I'd never be able to set a word down on paper; just as I used to keep myself from going crazy in this cold northern city by deliberately making myself remember the quality of hot sunlight on my skin. And so I'll write again that George was a good man.
Doris Lessing (The Golden Notebook)