Nye Sayings And Quotes

Kindness Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness. How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop, the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever. Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness, you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive. Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.

Anyone who says, “Here’s my address, write me a poem,” deserves something in reply. So I’ll tell a secret instead: poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes, they are sleeping. They are the shadows drifting across our ceilings the moment before we wake up. What we have to do is live in a way that lets us find them.

only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say it is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.

Today you will say things you can predict and other things you could never imagine this minute. Don't reject them, let them come through when they're ready, don't think you can plan it al out. This day will never, no matter how long you live, happen again. It is exquisitely singular. It will never again be exactly repeated.

When they say Don't I know you? say no. When they invite you to the party remember what parties are like before answering. Someone telling you in a loud voice they once wrote a poem. Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate. Then reply. If they say we should get together. say why? It's not that you don't love them any more. You're trying to remember something too important to forget. Trees. The monastery bell at twilight. Tell them you have a new project. It will never be finished. When someone recognizes you in a grocery store nod briefly and become a cabbage. When someone you haven't seen in ten years appears at the door, don't start singing him all your new songs. You will never catch up. Walk around feeling like a leaf. Know you could tumble any second. Then decide what to do with your time.

The old, endless, approachable and always answering Sorrow," says my father Lucifer. "For who calls on me never goes unanswered. Only prayers to God go without answers.

If you’re a creationist reading this, and you want to remark something like, “Well, that’s the way he did it,” I’ll tell you right back, that is just not reasonable, nor is it satisfactory. If we were playing on a team right now, I’d say, “Get your head in the game.

One organism’s trash is another organism’s treasure, as I like to say.

You Have to Be Very Careful” You have to be careful telling things. Some ears are tunnels. Your words will go in and get lost in the dark. Some ears are flat pans like the miners used looking for gold. What you say will be washed out with the stones. You look for a long time till you find the right ears. Till then, there are birds and lamps to be spoken to, a patient cloth rubbing shine in circles, and the slow, gradually growing possibility that when you find such ears they already know.

A true Arab knows how to catch a fly in his hands,” my father would say. And he’d prove it, cupping the buzzer instantly while the host with the swatter stared. In the spring our palms peeled like snakes. True Arabs believed watermelon could heal fifty ways. I changed these to fit the occasion. Years before, a girl knocked, wanted to see the Arab. I said we didn’t have one. After that, my father told me who he was, “Shihab”—”shooting star”— a good name, borrowed from the sky. Once I said, “When we die, we give it back?” He said that’s what a true Arab would say.

A quantum is the smallest amount of energy there is. So when you hear someone say such and such a thing was or is a “quantum leap,” he or she is actually talking about the smallest possible leap of any kind found in nature. It’s an ironic use of the phrase. However, I’ll grant you that the quantum leap represents an enormous step in thought. In a quantum leap, a particle is either here, or it’s there—in an instant. This discovery changed the world.

From time to time, I meet someone who will say something like, "I am not afraid of dying." I don't buy it. Everyone is afraid of dying. It's part of the instinct that helps us survive as a species. It's a crucial feature of human evolution. It's also, I strongly suspect, a crucial reason why so many people have trouble believing evolution is true. Life can be ironic like that.

So many people saying, Let's improve these problems right now! Except extremists. Extremists never wanted things to improve. They just wanted to win. They needed psychiatrists.

Red Brocade" The Arabs used to say, When a stranger appears at your door, feed him for three days before asking who he is, where he’s come from, where he’s headed. That way, he’ll have strength enough to answer. Or, by then you’ll be such good friends you don’t care. Let’s go back to that. Rice? Pine nuts? Here, take the red brocade pillow. My child will serve water to your horse. No, I was not busy when you came! I was not preparing to be busy. That’s the armor everyone put on to pretend they had a purpose in the world. I refuse to be claimed. Your plate is waiting. We will snip fresh mint into your tea.

Since the landmark 1972 paper by Gould and Eldredge, many studies have been done both with real populations and with mathematical simulations. The results explain why evolution appears both fast and slow: It is both fast and slow. Large populations tend to stay genetically about the same. Paleontologists say populations tend toward stasis. Small ones can diverge quickly into new species.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.

The climate has always changed in the past and it will always change in the future. We just need to live with it.” I hear that sentiment, and variations on it, all the time. I also frequently hear people say, “We have to save Earth.” The two things sound like opposites, but they are actually two versions of the same colossal misconception that our primary concern is the well-being of the planet. We don’t need to save Earth; it is going to be here no matter what we do. And, we can’t ignore the way Earth is changing, because we stubbornly happen to live here. I encourage everyone to reject both of those sentiments and think instead, “We have to save Earth—for us! For us humans!

Valentine for Ernest Mann" You can’t order a poem like you order a taco. Walk up to the counter, say, “I’ll take two” and expect it to be handed back to you on a shiny plate. Still, I like your spirit. Anyone who says, “Here’s my address, write me a poem,” deserves something in reply. So I’ll tell a secret instead: poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes, they are sleeping. They are the shadows drifting across our ceilings the moment before we wake up. What we have to do is live in a way that lets us find them. Once I knew a man who gave his wife two skunks for a valentine. He couldn’t understand why she was crying. “I thought they had such beautiful eyes.” And he was serious. He was a serious man who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly just because the world said so. He really liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them as valentines and they became beautiful. At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding in the eyes of skunks for centuries crawled out and curled up at his feet. Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us we find poems. Check your garage, the off sock in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.

I have enough faith in my fellow creatures in Great Britain to believe that when they have got over the delirium of the television, when they realize that their new homes that they have been put into are mortgaged to the hilt, when they realize that the moneylender has been elevated to the highest position in the land, when they realize that the refinements for which they should look are not there, that it is a vulgar society of which no decent person could be proud, when they realize all those things, when the years go by and they see the challenge of modern society not being met by the Tories who can consolidate their political powers only on the basis of national mediocrity, who are unable to exploit the resources of their scientists because they are prevented by the greed of their capitalism from doing so, when they realize that the flower of our youth goes abroad today because they are not being given opportunities of using their skill and their knowledge properly at home, when they realize that all the tides of history are flowing in our direction, that we are not beaten, that we represent the future: then, when we say it and mean it, then we shall lead our people to where they deserve to be led.

All of us, everyone reading these words, have made it this far in life. None of us would be here if we weren’t genetically good enough. That’s a rather encouraging thought. We celebrate certain people’s appearance or their wit, but we are all so much more alike than we are different. The proof is in the living: We all made it. No matter how ugly you think someone else is, he or she got here just like (as) you did. There’s a lid for every pot, as the saying goes.

The man with laughing eyes stopped smiling to say, “Until you speak Arabic, you will not understand pain.” Something to do with the back of the head, an Arab carries sorrow in the back of the head, that only language cracks, the thrum of stones weeping, grating hinge on an old metal gate. “Once you know,” he whispered, “you can enter the room whenever you need to. Music you heard from a distance, the slapped drum of a stranger’s wedding, well up inside your skin, inside rain, a thousand pulsing tongues. You are changed.” Outside, the snow has finally stopped. In a land where snow rarely falls, we had felt our days grow white and still. I thought pain had no tongue. Or every tongue at once, supreme translator, sieve. I admit my shame. To live on the brink of Arabic, tugging its rich threads without understanding how to weave the rug…I have no gift. The sound, but not the sense. I kept looking over his shoulder for someone else to talk to, recalling my dying friend who only scrawled I can’t write. What good would any grammar have been to her then? I touched his arm, held it hard, which sometimes you don’t do in the Middle East, and said, I’ll work on it, feeling sad for his good strict heart, but later in the slick street hailed a taxi by shouting Pain! and it stopped in every language and opened its doors.

Self-compassion has the “gleam of the particulars,” as poet Naomi Shahib Nye might say. The details of our lives are necessary to contact the deeper meaning of our daily experience.

You can contrast the system in nature with a system in a human-built organization like a corporation. Hardly anything happens to benefit an organization unless someone somewhere makes a choice. Very few changes happen organically, that is, from the organization being affected automatically. Someone has to step in and hire or fire, invest or divest, buy or sell, or else nothing happens. Certainly nothing happens automatically to make a system more complex in a good way. You might say that human organizations depend on an intelligent designer. As

You’ve probably heard a good deal about Neanderthal [Nee-AND-er-tall] people or almost-people. Sometime around 500,000 years ago, the ancestors of Neanderthals and modern humans diverged. It’s a difficult business making inferences about ancient people from the limited remains available, often just a few fragments of bones and teeth. When I was in school, it was believed that the Neanderthal people were completely different from our kind of people. This is to say, it was believed that they and we were entirely different species and never mingled with each other, much less … um … got intimate. Now the evidence shows that our ancestors and Neanderthals not only were alive at the same time, but apparently they interacted. They may have traded with each other, but that’s not all they did. Groundbreaking genetic work by Swedish biologist Svante Pääbo and others shows that the two kinds of protohumans had sex with each other.

Are you engineering my bondage setup?” Maddy asked, incredulous, before she burst into delighted giggles. “Oh, dove. I’ve had men say a lot of things in this room, but never that and never quite like that. You’re Bill Nye–ing my sex rig.” Darren jerked up his head, his eyes wide. “I work in construction! Wood’s my thing!” “Well, it’s my thing, too, but I’m not sure we’re having the same conversation anymore.

When rocks are liquid or nearly liquid, what geologists call plastic, they contain a certain amount of rubidium and a certain amount of strontium. The mixture is measurable by diligent radiochemists. When that molten rock spews out of a volcano, say, it solidifies. By looking at the ratios of certain elements frozen in with rubidium and strontium, radiochemists and geochemists can determine how long ago the melt, as it’s called, turned solid. In the case of rubidium and strontium, we can count on precisely half of the rubidium-87 to transmute to strontium-87 (now with 49 protons) in 48.8 billion years.

Kindness - 1952- Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness. How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop, the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever. Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive. Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.

Say it now,” he entreated shakily. He wanted his name now? Mina seethed. “You nasty brute, Will Nye!” she upbraided him, panting. “That was not slow!” He gave a breathless laugh. “Does it hurt really bad?” “I feel like you’ve buried a sword into my belly!” she flung at him accusingly. “Oh God, Mina love,” he moaned. “You’re just going to make things worse for yourself.

Although it all starts with the familiar flames of oil, coal, and natural gas, the details of global warming are complex. I’d say it’s like rocket science, but the details of climate change are actually a great deal more complicated than rocket science, by quite a margin. After all, much of our own planet is still a mystery. More than five hundred people have flown in space and twelve people have walked on the moon, but only three humans in history have been to the bottom of the ocean. An orbit in space is clean and predictable, whereas key environmental processes, like the Gulf Stream’s interaction with Greenland’s ice sheets, are wildly complex. With that said, climate change and rocket science have major things in common: The basics are straightforward, and they’re both science. If you have a rocket, you know what to do: Light one end, and point the other end where you want it to go. (Come to think of it—it might be better to point that front end first, and then light the engine on the other end.) In climate science, we can see that we’ve already lit one end, and we know only too well where it’s pointed.

We are all driven to select a mate. Those of us who don’t do not pass our genes on to the future. A human female is apparently driven to select a mate that will provide for her and her offspring. If nothing else, such behavior or motivation would be consistent with the tenets of sexual selection. A human male selects a mate that is, by his reckoning, well suited to carrying his genes forward. The female has to make her genes appear valuable by “playing hard to get,” as the old saying was and is so often said. But really … all things in moderation. Look around. So much of what goes on in our society is motivated by the process of sexual selection, and there are many subtle and not-so-subtle things that affect that process: There’s mascara. Expensive watches. Amazing shoes. Sports cars, perfume, skirts, ties, jeans, boots, and on and on. Now, compare us to everybody else. By everybody else I mean dogs and cats and lions and tigers and bears … and squids and whales. All the other animals around, and all the plants, have seasons to their mating. We humans don’t seem to. When it comes to our babies, birthdays are pretty well distributed around the calendar.

To produce Dolly, researchers at the Roslin Institute in Scotland used the DNA from just one cell from a mammary gland of her mother. A cell that forms the body of an organism is called a somatic cell. Most of your cells are somatic; the only exceptions are stem cells and reproductive cells. They say that Dolly the sheep was named for Dolly Parton, who along with a wonderful voice and excellent musical artistry has memorable mammary glands. (I am not kidding; that’s really what the Roslin scientists told reporters.)

All of us, everyone reading these words, have made it this far in life. None of us would be here if we weren’t genetically good enough. That’s a rather encouraging thought. We celebrate certain people’s appearance or their wit, but we are all so much more alike than we are different. The proof is in the living: We all made it. No matter how ugly you think someone else is, he or she got here just like (as) you did. There’s a lid for every pot, as the saying goes.

The Christian School has a team called the Warriors--WELCOME BACK WARRIORS! shouts the banner over the road. But the billboard in front of the school says the "Trait for the Week" is peace. Victor feels alarmed about entering such a facility. He may come out confused. He may emerge wearing a black armband, carrying a spear.

According to Eden’s personal secretary, Oliver Harvey, his master was ‘horrified’ by Churchill’s plan and tried to talk him out of it. He failed. In despair, he rang the US ambassador, John Winant, who, similarly taken aback, advised that such a visit would not be appropriate until the New Year at the earliest. Harvey too was appalled, noting, ‘I am aghast at the consequence of both [Churchill and Eden] being away at once. The British public will think quite rightly that they are mad.’ If Eden called off his Moscow mission, however, it would send the wrong message entirely to the Kremlin, since ‘it would be fatal to put off A.E.’s visit to Stalin to enable PM to visit Roosevelt. It would confirm all Stalin’s worst suspicions.’20 Eden persisted. He phoned the deputy prime minister, Clement Attlee, who agreed with him wholeheartedly and undertook to oppose the prime minister’s scheme at Cabinet. His objection had no effect: nothing would divert Churchill from his chosen course. When Cadogan spoke to him later that evening, to explain that Eden was ‘distressed’ at the idea of their both being out of the country at the same time, Churchill brushed him aside, saying, ‘That’s all right: that’ll work very well: I shall have Anthony where I want him.’21 Though he did not put it quite so bluntly when discussing this personally with Eden, Churchill left him in no doubt that ‘a complete understanding between Britain and the United States outweighed all else’.22 This conviction was reinforced by the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and, according to the new CIGS, Brooke, the pressing need ‘to ensure that American help to this country does not dry up in consequence’.23 Eden’s opposition to Churchill’s visit had genuine diplomatic validity, but neither was he entirely disinterested, for, as Harvey put it, the prime ministerial trip would ‘take all the limelight off the Moscow visit’.24 The unfortunate Foreign Secretary was not only unwell but also disconsolate as HMS Kent set off into rising seas and darkening weather. The British party of Eden, Cadogan and Harvey, accompanied by Lieutenant General Sir Archibald Nye (the newly appointed Vice Chief of the Imperial General Staff) and a phalanx of officials, set foot on Russian soil on 13 December. Their arrival gave Cadogan (who was not a seasoned

At another level, Jesus invited his followers to treat children sacramentally. He offers us ordinary bread and wine and says that when we receive these we receive him. He also took an ordinary child, saying, ‘Whoever welcomes this child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me’ (Luke 9.48). In Chris Jamber’s view this is virtually the institution of another sacrament: ‘Jesus is the sacrament of God, the child is the sacrament of Jesus. Children are “thin places” where the mystical clue to the presence of the divine can break through.

My father was a man of iron will. He had a red beard and eyes like caves. He married my mother sensibly for the triple joy of her widowhood, the three estates, but he was concerned - as an English country gentleman and an epitome of the chivalric virtues - with the making of a son. Having heard well of the giant's child-inspiring powers, my father takes my mother by the hand and leads her up to him the night before their wedding. It had been a hot day, the hottest day that any man could remember, the skylarks swooning in the sticky air, milk turning sour in the cows' udders. At the end of that hottest day now it is suddenly Midsummer Eve and the giant stands out bold and wonderful and monstrous on his long green Dorset hill, the moon at the full above his knobbled club. My father lays my mother down on the giant's thistle, in the modest shade of Mr Wiclif's burgeoning fig tree. 'Dear hart,' he says, taking off his spurs and his liripipe hat, 'I shall require an heir.' If ever widow woman blushed then my mother blushed hot when she saw my father unbuttoned above her in the moonlight. 'My womb,' she says, 'is empty.' My father engages the key in the lock. It is well-oiled. He turns and enters and makes himself at home. 'I have been told,' he says, 'that any true woman,' he says, 'childless,' he adds, 'who lies,' he says, 'on the Cerne giant, - my father takes a shuddering juddering breath - 'conceives without fail,' he explains. My father goes on, without need of saying. It is sixty yards if it is an inch from the top to the toe of the giant of Cerne Abbas. The creature's club alone must be every bit of forty yards. 'O Gog,' says my mother eventually. 'O Gog, O Gog, O Gog.' 'I do believe,' says my father, 'Magog.' Now, in the moment of my conception, as a star falls into my mother's left eye, as the wind catches its breath, as the little hills skip for joy, and the moon hides her face behind a cloud - a bit of local history. When St Augustine came calling in those parts the people of Cerne tied a tail to his coat and whipped him out of their valley. The saint was furious. He got down on his knees and prayed to God to give tails to all the children that were born in Dorset. 'Right,' said the Omnipotence. This went on, tails, tails, tails, tails, until the folk regretted their pagan manners. When they expressed their regret, St Austin came back and founded the abbey, calling it Cernal because he was soon seeing his visions there - from the Latin, 'cerno', I see, and the Hebrew, 'El, God. That's enough history. I prefer mystery.

Based on telescope observations of the solar system, astronomers now estimate that there are at least one hundred thousand Earth orbit–crossing asteroids comparable in size to the one that finished off the ancient dinosaurs. If any one of these hit our planet this afternoon, that would be the end of everything we know. We as a society have an opportunity. We could direct a small fraction of our intellect and treasure to identify the dangerous objects and then build a spacecraft capable of nudging one of these things safely off of a collision course. I’m talking about giving certain line items priority in, say, the NASA, European Space Agency (ESA), Roscosmos, China National Space Agency, and JAXA (Japanese Exploration Agency) budgets. Detecting every single seriously dangerous object out there is perhaps a billion-dollar project. Put another way, it would cost the amount of money that the United States government spends every two hours. A two-hour investment could save all of humankind from the most unpleasant form of global change.