Op Quotes

The thing about people who are truly and malignantly crazy: their real genius is for making the people around them think they themselves are crazy. In military science this is called Psy-Ops, for your info.

(text message) CMDR ROOT. TRBLE BELOW. HAVN OVRRN BY GOBLINS. PLCE PLAZA SRROUNDED. CUDGEON + OPL KBOI BHND PLOT. NO WPONS OR CMMUNICATIONS. DNA CNONS CNTRLLED BY KBOI. I M TRPPED IN OP BTH. CNCL THNKS IM 2 BLM. IF ALIVE PLSE HLP. IF NOT, WRNG NMBR.

I have to get back there." I said to Adrian. "Into that door." He arched an eyebrow. "What, like sneaking in? How very black ops of you. And oh, you know— dangerous and foolish." "I know." I said, surprised at how calm I sounded as I admitted that. "But I have to know something, and this may be my only chance." "Then I'll go with you in case that guy comes back," he said with a sigh. "Never let it be said Adrian Ivashkov doesn't help damsels in distress.

Leef hard en goed en schoon en wild. Kijk goed, voel beter. Wees niet bang. Kies voor wat u blij maakt, wat het ook moge zijn. Durf proberen wat te lastig lijkt. Leg de lat hoog genoeg. Koester en laat u koesteren. Geef anderen wat ze verdienen, en uzelf minstens ook. Blijf hopen, willen, dromen, wensen.

And in that vast emptiness, two heads bobbed above the surface without a sound, just one hundred feet from them.

Who shot him? I asked. The grey man scratched the back of his neck and said: Somebody with a gun.

That’s the second time you’ve apologised in less than a minute, Remo. When you have to do that to an admiral it could be your career on the line.

Whoever he said he was, thought Marsh, he was not from the immigration department, and the web that he was convinced Walsh had been weaving was beginning to unravel with disastrous and dangerous consequences.

It is offensive that so many people feel that it is okay to publicly refer to transsexuals as being “pre-op” or “post-op” when it would so clearly be degrading and demeaning to regularly describe all boys and men as being either “circumcised” or “uncircumcised.

The boy registered them but didn’t answer, already turned inward. He was counting backward from a thousand in multiples of four while working multiplication tables of seven until they met.

Be careful in the company of monsters that you don't become one.

Ik denk: ik wil begrijpen wat de liefde is, onthouden dat dat alles is, of toch bijna. Ik wil redden wat er te redden valt, mijzelf bijvoorbeeld, ik wil weten wat ik waard ben, kiezen voor wat klopt en goed is, geloven dat dat mag. Ik denk: dat is het, ik wil durven, eindelijk. Ja.

Het vervelende met gedachten is dat je ze niet kan ont-denken.

Lots of things went into creating a monster, but nothing had prepared her for actually being caught by one.

The demon is a liar. He will lie to confuse us; but he will also mix lies with the truth to attack us. His attack is psychological, Damien. And powerful.

Ten years old. Seemed perfectly normal, which under the circumstances, according to the doctor who first interviewed him, meant he probably wasn’t. Years later that would be amended. “He has a talent for violence.

To get what he wanted, a man had to give other people what they wanted.

I haven't laughed so much over anything since the hogs ate my kid brother.

You are a light that will always guide me, a whisper I'll always strain to hear.

She smiled again and the sun came back out. Raced backward up from the sea and lit her face. He told himself to ignore it. It wasn’t that special. Not really. He couldn’t be sure, but if his display of ignorance could make her do it again, it might be worth checking out.

Te veel kennis over onszelf doen we op uit de blikken van anderen. Wij vertrouwen eerder op hoe wij gezien worden dan op hoe wij onszelf zien.

All's fair in love and war--and black ops.

Ieder mens heeft geloof ik het gevoel, dat hij er eigenlijk niet bijhoort, bij het leven van de andere mensen. Dat hij op een of andere manier iets anders is, een gast, en hij doet alle mogelijke moeite om te zorgen, dat de anderen dat niet zullen merken. Dat is het gevoel, dat alle mensen gemeen hebben, en daardoor horen ze juist bij elkaar.

Improving daily work is even more important than doing daily work.

The face she made at me was probably meant for a smile. Whatever it was, it beat me. I was afraid she'd do it again, so I surrendered

Doe mij maar onzekerheid, dan is er tenminste nog hoop.

Any improvements made anywhere besides the bottleneck are an illusion.

I've found peace here at the co-op. You could stay with us, if you want. Become a ROFLcopter.

Do you know, every time I've seen you you've been like the Grim Reaper of goodwill and cheer. You should find another profession.

Laten we ons nergens wat van aantrekken en op de gewone tijd gaan eten.

Misschien, als het erop aankomt, kan niemand voor iemand iets doen.

People get addicted to feeling offended all the time because it gives them a high; being self-righteous and morally superior feels good. As political cartoonist Tim Kreider put it in a New York Times op-ed: “Outrage is like a lot of other things that feel good but over time devour us from the inside out. And it’s even more insidious than most vices because we don’t even consciously acknowledge that it’s a pleasure.

I pray. I go to mass. I even remember to respect my elders and help little old ladies across the street. What the hell did I do to deserve this?

A great team doesn’t mean that they had the smartest people. What made those teams great is that everyone trusted one another. It can be a powerful thing when that magic dynamic exists.

Play with murder enough and it gets you one of two ways. It makes you sick, or you get to like it.

The point is, the brain talks to itself, and by talking to itself changes its perceptions. To make a new version of the not-entirely-false model, imagine the first interpreter as a foreign correspondent, reporting from the world. The world in this case means everything out- or inside our bodies, including serotonin levels in the brain. The second interpreter is a news analyst, who writes op-ed pieces. They read each other's work. One needs data, the other needs an overview; they influence each other. They get dialogues going. INTERPRETER ONE: Pain in the left foot, back of heel. INTERPRETER TWO: I believe that's because the shoe is too tight. INTERPRETER ONE: Checked that. Took off the shoe. Foot still hurts. INTERPRETER TWO: Did you look at it? INTERPRETER ONE: Looking. It's red. INTERPRETER TWO: No blood? INTERPRETER ONE: Nope. INTERPRETER TWO: Forget about it. INTERPRETER ONE: Okay. Mental illness seems to be a communication problem between interpreters one and two. An exemplary piece of confusion. INTERPRETER ONE: There's a tiger in the corner. INTERPRETER TWO: No, that's not a tiger- that's a bureau. INTERPRETER ONE: It's a tiger, it's a tiger! INTERPRETER TWO: Don't be ridiculous. Let's go look at it. Then all the dendrites and neurons and serotonin levels and interpreters collect themselves and trot over to the corner. If you are not crazy, the second interpreter's assertion, that this is a bureau, will be acceptable to the first interpreter. If you are crazy, the first interpreter's viewpoint, the tiger theory, will prevail. The trouble here is that the first interpreter actually sees a tiger. The messages sent between neurons are incorrect somehow. The chemicals triggered are the wrong chemicals, or the impulses are going to the wrong connections. Apparently, this happens often, but the second interpreter jumps in to straighten things out.

Mensen op schepen wuiven altijd terug. Zo gauw je op een andere manier vervoerd wordt dan een ander, ga je wuiven.

Wat zou er trouwens veranderen als er op andere planeten ook mensen woonden? Ik heb nooit gehoord dat de Europeanen zich minder eenzaam voelden, toen Columbus ontdekte dat Amerika bestond en dat er daar ook mensen waren.

Ik wil graag zien, denk ik, omdat ik dat kan, en leven, voluit en gretig, omdat ik dat toch moet en het dan maar beter goed kan doen.

Als ik één ding kan is het liefhebben. Dat lijkt niet veel bijzonders, maar ik ben er trots op. Ik heb het geleerd zoals een zwerfhond leert zwemmen: omdat hij met de rest van de worp in een jutezak werd gepropt en in een snelstromende rivier is geworpen. Die ene die het tegen alle verwachtingen in gered heeft, dat ben ik. Met in mijn oren nog het gejank van degenen die het niet haalden, moest ik leren ergens van te houden. Ik ben niet onder gegaan. Ik heb de kant bereikt. Ik heb lief. Andere mensen dragen hun verdriet in hun hart. Ongezien holt dat hen vanbinnen uit. Het is mijn redding geweest dat ik mijn verdriet aan de buitenkant draag, waar het niemand kan ontgaan.

Pandora's box had been opened and monsters had come out. But there had been something hidden at the bottom of Pandora's box. Something wonderful. Hope.

Being able to take needless work out of the system is more important than being able to put more work into the system.

Ik wil eindelijk worden wie ik ben, niet wie ik altijd dacht dat anderen wilden dat ik was.

Zo komt elke angst in de wereld, zomaar, omdat iemand op een dag besluit te geloven dat er een gevaar bestaat.

Het is niet erg dat onze woorden soms even op zijn. We hadden ze van bij het begin toch al niet nodig.

Toen ging hij slapen, met zijn hoofd op de woorden waar hij het meest van hield: warm, alles, altijd, ik.

Het is met je ziel als met je huid, hij wordt er van alle littekens niet mooier op, alleen dikker.

Operation 'forget bossy werewolf guy' has been green-lighted?" Sally asked. Jen covered her face and groaned at Sally's words. "Did you seriously just say that? Operation forget bossy werewolf guy? Really, Sally?" Sally nodded in all seriousness. "Well, if you're going to call our night out an operation – and you know how I love ops– at least get it right. It's operation 'forget freaking fine, brooding, bossy werewolf guy'," Jen supplied. "Good call.

Where is the graveyard of dead gods? What lingering mourner waters their mounds? There was a time when Jupiter was the king of the gods, and any man who doubted his puissance was ipso facto a barbarian and an ignoramus. But where in all the world is there a man who worships Jupiter today? And who of Huitzilopochtli? In one year - and it is no more than five hundred years ago - 50,000 youths and maidens were slain in sacrifice to him. Today, if he is remembered at all, it is only by some vagrant savage in the depths of the Mexican forest. Huitzilopochtli, like many other gods, had no human father; his mother was a virtuous widow; he was born of an apparently innocent flirtation that she carried out with the sun. When he frowned, his father, the sun, stood still. When he roared with rage, earthquakes engulfed whole cities. When he thirsted he was watered with 10,000 gallons of human blood. But today Huitzilopochtli is as magnificently forgotten as Allen G. Thurman. Once the peer of Allah, Buddha and Wotan, he is now the peer of Richmond P. Hobson, Alton B. Parker, Adelina Patti, General Weyler and Tom Sharkey. Speaking of Huitzilopochtli recalls his brother Tezcatlipoca. Tezcatlipoca was almost as powerful; he consumed 25,000 virgins a year. Lead me to his tomb: I would weep, and hang a couronne des perles. But who knows where it is? Or where the grave of Quetzalcoatl is? Or Xiuhtecuhtli? Or Centeotl, that sweet one? Or Tlazolteotl, the goddess of love? Of Mictlan? Or Xipe? Or all the host of Tzitzimitl? Where are their bones? Where is the willow on which they hung their harps? In what forlorn and unheard-of Hell do they await their resurrection morn? Who enjoys their residuary estates? Or that of Dis, whom Caesar found to be the chief god of the Celts? Of that of Tarves, the bull? Or that of Moccos, the pig? Or that of Epona, the mare? Or that of Mullo, the celestial jackass? There was a time when the Irish revered all these gods, but today even the drunkest Irishman laughs at them. But they have company in oblivion: the Hell of dead gods is as crowded as the Presbyterian Hell for babies. Damona is there, and Esus, and Drunemeton, and Silvana, and Dervones, and Adsullata, and Deva, and Bellisima, and Uxellimus, and Borvo, and Grannos, and Mogons. All mighty gods in their day, worshipped by millions, full of demands and impositions, able to bind and loose - all gods of the first class. Men labored for generations to build vast temples to them - temples with stones as large as hay-wagons. The business of interpreting their whims occupied thousands of priests, bishops, archbishops. To doubt them was to die, usually at the stake. Armies took to the field to defend them against infidels; villages were burned, women and children butchered, cattle were driven off. Yet in the end they all withered and died, and today there is none so poor to do them reverence. What has become of Sutekh, once the high god of the whole Nile Valley? What has become of: Resheph Anath Ashtoreth El Nergal Nebo Ninib Melek Ahijah Isis Ptah Anubis Baal Astarte Hadad Addu Shalem Dagon Sharaab Yau Amon-Re Osiris Sebek Molech? All there were gods of the highest eminence. Many of them are mentioned with fear and trembling in the Old Testament. They ranked, five or six thousand years ago, with Yahweh Himself; the worst of them stood far higher than Thor. Yet they have all gone down the chute, and with them the following: Bilé Ler Arianrhod Morrigu Govannon Gunfled Sokk-mimi Nemetona Dagda Robigus Pluto Ops Meditrina Vesta You may think I spoof. That I invent the names. I do not. Ask the rector to lend you any good treatise on comparative religion: You will find them all listed. They were gods of the highest standing and dignity-gods of civilized peoples-worshiped and believed in by millions. All were omnipotent, omniscient and immortal. And all are dead.

Hoe dat precies moet, leven, daar ben ik nog niet helemaal achter, maar ik kan redelijk goed doen alsof. Dat is een begin, vind ik. Ik kan ook verdienstelijk uitleggen aan anderen hoe het misschien zou moeten, en daar wordt soms naar geluisterd, merk ik, wat mij dan een beetje verbaast.

Why are we sitting way back here?" "This way we can see the whole room and do some recon." "Great, here we go with the black op lingo. Were you a Navy SEAL or some special forces officer in a past life?" Sally asked. "It's a gift. It comes so naturally that you think I've had formal training." Jen winked. "Yeah, that's exactly what I was thinking. And, by the way, Hogwarts accepted you and is awaiting your arrival." "Ha ha, good one," Jen said dryly. "You have my vote – you'll be mayor in no time.

Mensen leren lachen met de dingen waar ze nooit over uitgehuild zullen geraken.

Gentlemen,” he said. “I give you The Eagle’s Covenant.

Ik sta op de rand der wereld en roep: 'Waar zijt Gij?' De echo antwoordt: 'Zijt gij? Gij?

Damn, this op has been like a fucking Love Boat episode.

Like I said before, I don't know how helpful Inez will be, " she explained. "She's very eccentric and controlled by her whims. If she likes you, she might tell you something. If she doesn't, well..." Ms. Terwilliger shrugged. "Then maybe we'll have time for photo ops." "Score," said Adrian. When I shot him a look, he added quickly, "But of course she'll like you.

Wrangler butts drive me nuts.

In the face of adversity, we have a choice. We can be bitter, or we can be better. Those words are my North Star.

Soms ben ik het sterkste wijf ter wereld en soms ben ik een kwartelei.

Als je lang genoeg wacht, hoef je niet te kiezen.

She couldn't turn away from the eyes that held her. Eyes as deep, as Dark as the night, yet there was something that sparked with warmth, that kept those eyes from being cold.

Ik ben, wellicht op een verkeerde manier, bezeten van boeken. Altijd, dag en nacht, moet er een boek bij me in de buurt zijn. Zonder boek naar bed of naar de w.c. gaan is voor mij onmogelijk. Blijk ik in een trein een boek of blad vergeten te zijn, dan stap ik uit en schaf me drukwerk aan. Verblijf ik bij iemand die geen boeken in huis heeft, dan word ik rusteloos en agressief.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder…

Als kind had je dat vaak. Je werd 's morgens wakker en de muren van je kamer stonden verkeerd om je heen. In gedachten moest je de kamer een slag draaien zodat alles weer klopte en je op kon staan, de deur door, de dag in.

(Hoe kun je met hetzelfde hoofd dat ongerust is jezelf kalmeren?)

We need to see people other than ourselves in order to empathize. If we don't live around others we do ourselves and our society damage because our ability to relate becomes impaired. It's easy to demonize, or simply dismiss, people you don't know or see...It's nearly impossible to commiserate with the unseen and unknown.

Alles waar je je wil en je aandacht op richt, wordt onzichtbaar, onbereikbaar, dat is tenminste mijn ervaring. Je ziet de dingen pas werkelijk uit je ooghoeken, als je eigenlijk ergens anders mee bezig bent. Het is net of de werkelijkheid zich dan gepasseerd voelt, het niet neemt en zich aan je opdringt.

This damned burg's getting me. If I don't get away soon I'll be going blood-simple like the natives.

Kijk,' zei zijn moeder. Ze stond voor het gasstel en wees achter zich op het aanrecht. 'Bedoel je die fles?' vroeg hij. Er stond een fles met donkerrode vloeistof. Op de hals zat een oranje capsule. Hij trad naderbij. 'Wat is dat?' vroeg hij. 'Ik heb een fles wijn gekocht voor vanavond ,' antwoordde ze, een aantal oliebollen uit de braadpan wippend. 'Dat is prachtig,' zei Frits. Hij nam de fles bij de hals op. Er zat een blauw etiket op met een gele rand. 'Bessen-appel,' las hij zacht. 'Bessen-appel,' zei hij bij zichzelf, 'bessen-appel. Help ons, eeuwige, onze God. Zie onze nood. Uit de diepten roepen wij tot u. Verschrikkelijk.

Het leven is simpel. Het is de vaat doen. Een mens maakt borden vuil, wast ze schoon, wrijft ze droog, bergt ze weg en haalt ze weer uit de kast, maakt ze vuil, wast ze schoon, wrijft ze droog, bergt ze weg en haalt ze weer uit de kast, en op een dag valt de hele stapel uit je handen.

Live for something rather than die for nothing. —George Patton

Hoe dat precies moet, leven, daar ben ik nog niet helemaal achter, maar ik kan redelijk goed doen alsof. Dat is een begin, vind ik.

You're not the first Elite Ops agent to fall in love and you won't be the last," Ian informed him (Nik). "I've watched four of you fall so far, and I'll be here to watch your commander go down fighting as well. Protecting your woman isn't your problem; it's protecting your heart.

We staan elke dag op, doen wat van ons verwacht wordt, en gaan dan weer slapen, en dat noemen we leven. We saboteren onszelf zonder het te beseffen, omdat we nadoen wat ons ooit is voorgedaan, en dan denken we dat het zo móet gaan. En ondertussen organiseren we de dingen zo, dat we geen tijd hebben om stil te staan bij dat wat we ten diepste voelen. We vergeten wat we waard zijn en durven niet te geloven dat we het goeie wel degelijk verdienen. We vinden het makkelijker om te berusten bij ons leed, om onszelf te troosten na de pijn, dan te kiezen voor wat ons echt gelukkig zou maken.

Cthulhu seems like kind of a wuss if he can be trapped by a sinking island or killed by a boat." "That’s just because the stars aren’t right. When the stars are right, it don’t matter how many boats hit him. He’ll sink whole continents and lick off the people like salt off a pretzel." "Says you." "You keep talking smack like that, he’s gonna eat you first.

The real enemy" is the totality of physical and mental constraints by which capital, or class society, or statism, or the society of the spectacle expropriates everyday life, the time of our lives. The real enemy is not an object apart from life. It is the organization of life by powers detached from it and turned against it. The apparatus, not its personnel, is the real enemy. But it is by and through the apparatchiks and everyone else participating in the system that domination and deception are made manifest. The totality is the organization of all against each and each against all. It includes all the policemen, all the social workers, all the office workers, all the nuns, all the op-ed columnists, all the drug kingpins from Medellin to Upjohn, all the syndicalists and all the situationists.

Because they're probably long gone. Are you hurt?" Gabe asked with enough urgency that she realized he must have felt shiver in delayed reaction to the hole in the door. "No. No, I'm okay. What a about you? Are you hurt?" "Only if you count the fact that you damned near ripped off my plumbing groping around for my phone." She made a sound of exasperation. "Now? You pick now to become a comedian?" "It's all about timing," he whispered back.

So that's the way you scientific detectives work. My god! for a fat, middle-aged, hard-boiled, pig-headed guy, you've got the vaguest way of doing things I ever heard of.

She dug around in her bag, found what she was looking for, and brought the little stuffed dog back to bed with her. Childish, yeah. She didn't care. He was soft and cuddly-unlike Jones-and she had a need for soft and cuddly right now. She'd like to meet a woman who could breeze through a shotgun blast and not need something to hold on to. Even if it was just an old stuffed pup.(...)She swallowed hard,then caught her breath when he opened his eyes, turned his head on the pillow toward her. He searched her face in the dark. "Come here," he whispered. When she hesitated, he reached for her. "The dog can come, too.

One of my many horrors is to become the man with the frayed jacket and unfastened flies standing at the Co-op counter with egg on his shirt and more too because the mirror in the hall has given up the ghost. A shipwrecked man without an anchor in the world except in his own liquid thoughts where time has lost its sequence.

Damn," Crystal sputtered, looking up from the dictionary in disbelief. "Oenophlygia: the state of being dunk. It really is a word". Johnny gloated unabashedly. "Just wouldn't listen, would you? Just couldn't stand that I might be way ahead of the game. Word to the wise," he added with a superior smirk. "Don't mess with a man of my experience in that arena.

Something seems wrong in a world where half the e-mail messages sent are urgent. Can everything really be that important?

Ik duim voor dromen die zo mooi zijn dat ze eeuwig mogen duren Ik duim dat ge nu zijt waar het prachtig is ergens hoog of ver ik weet het niet maar bij voorkeur alvast vele hemels boven de zevende

Now let's try that again. Ask my wife nice, and maybe I'll let you sleep in the same bed as your teeth tonight.

Ik denk soms dat dé waarheid niet bestaat, alleen maar versies van de feiten die bovenal iets vertellen over degene die ze uitspreekt, en mensen horen alleen datgene wat ze kunnen horen, of willen horen, en soms is dat hetzelfde.

In Venezuela Chavez has made the co-ops a top political priority, giving them first refusal on government contracts and offering them economic incentives to trade with one another. By 2006, there were roughly 100,000 co-operatives in the country, employing more than 700,000 workers. Many are pieces of state infrastructure – toll booths, highway maintenance, health clinics – handed over to the communities to run. It’s a reverse of the logic of government outsourcing – rather than auctioning off pieces of the state to large corporations and losing democratic control, the people who use the resources are given the power to manage them, creating, at least in theory, both jobs and more responsive public services. Chavez’s many critics have derided these initiatives as handouts and unfair subsidies, of course. Yet in an era when Halliburton treats the U.S. government as its personal ATM for six years, withdraws upward of $20 billion in Iraq contracts alone, refuses to hire local workers either on the Gulf coast or in Iraq, then expresses its gratitude to U.S. taxpayers by moving its corporate headquarters to Dubai (with all the attendant tax and legal benefits), Chavez’s direct subsidies to regular people look significantly less radical.

Sommige dingen die je hebt verloren, kun je maar beter niet proberen terug te vinden. Het verleden is bijna altijd mooier dan het echt was. En niets is zo funest voor het verleden als het te willen opwarmen als de kliekjes van een ooit memorabele maaltijd of om er als een banneling in het heden naar terug te verlangen als een verloren en sindsdien onveranderlijk gebleven vaderland. Vroeger is dromenland, een kinderboek dat ooit een onuitwisbare indruk op je heeft gemaakt en dat je vooral niet moet willen herlezen. (p. 167)

technical debt’ that is not being paid down. It comes from taking shortcuts, which may make sense in the short-term. But like financial debt, the compounding interest costs grow over time. If an organization doesn’t pay down its technical debt, every calorie in the organization can be spent just paying interest, in the form of unplanned work.

I first heard Personville called Poisonville by a red-haired mucker named Hickey Dewey in the Big Ship in Butte. He also called his shirt a shoit. I didn't think anything of what he had done to the city's name. Later I heard men who could manage their r's give it the same pronunciation. I still didn't see anything in it but the meaningless sort of humor that used to make richardsnary the thieves' word for dictionary. A few years later I went to Personville and learned better.

Oh, now my Erin, she'd smile down on me no matter where I walked." Grandpop smiled that little smile again. "But I'd be separated from her, and I'd feel that separation in my soul, you see?" Nathan shook his head. Grandpop sighed. "You have the Irish eyes, boy. One of these days, you'll see from eyes, not your own, feel with a heart outside your chest. Wild Irish eyes. Nathan. When you love, love well and love true, and take care, lad, because those Irish eyes are windows into not just your own soul, but the soul of the one you love." Grandpop looked out at his Erin's grave. "And when you lose that heart, you can't leave the places where your memories are the best. And if I left her, I'd not be buried beside her.

Verdriet is niet deelbaar, datdenk ik, omdat woorden niet genoeg zijn, omdat armen die omarmen het gevoel niet wegnemen, omdat begrijpen, echt begrijpen, simpelweg niet bestaat, zelfs niet tussen uzssen die de blikken kennen van hun ouders, en het geluid van harten die aan flarden worden geschoten, en het stikken in de dichte lucht van salons en woonkamers en keukens waar ze met veel woorden zitten te zwijgen tegen mekaar.

Ik wou dat ik iemand was, dat denk ik ondertussen, en dat ik alles kon, of toch datgene wat ze van mij wilden. Ik wou het zelfvertrouwen van dat ene kind met die grote oren. En het grapje waar die mevrouw met dat haar, daar achter dat ene raam, zo om moet lachen. Ik wou stoute schoenen om aan te trekken. Ik wou glanzend geluk en onwerkelijk grote liefde. Ik wou troost voor mij en voor iedereen die dat nodig heeft. Ik wou dat ik steengoed was in wat ik deed. Ik wou dat ik hem kon geven wat hij dan verlangt. Ik wou een vader die ik meer kon helpen. Ik wou de mist boven de bergen, dingen om nooit meer te vergeten, en onweerstaanbaar zijn, dat ook nog.

Which is your bad shoulder?" His brows knit together. "The left," he said carefully. She slugged him in the right. He staggered. Steadied himself. Grinned. "Is that like some weird Wyoming mating ritual thing I should know about?" "Damn you," she cried, flying into his arms. Finally. "Damn you, damn you, damn you!" He wrapped his arms around her, held her tight. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was such a coward.

I can't help but recall, at this point, a horribly elitist but very droll remark by one of my favorite writers, the American "critic of the seven arts", James Huneker, in his scintillating biography of Frédéric Chopin, on the subject of Chopin's étude Op. 25, No. 11 in A minor, which for me, and for Huneker, is one of the most stirring and most sublime pieces of music ever written: “Small-souled men, no matter how agile their fingers, should avoid it.” "Small-souled men"?! Whew! Does that phrase ever run against the grain of American democracy! And yet, leaving aside its offensive, archaic sexism (a crime I, too, commit in GEB, to my great regret), I would suggest that it is only because we all tacitly do believe in something like Hueneker's' shocking distinction that most of us are willing to eat animals of one sort or another, to smash flies, swat mosquitos, fight bacteria with antibiotics, and so forth. We generally concur that "men" such as a cow, a turkey, a frog, and a fish all possess some spark of consciousness, some kind of primitive "soul" but by God, it's a good deal smaller than ours is — and that, no more and no less, is why we "men" feel that we have the perfect right to extinguish the dim lights in the heads of these fractionally-souled beasts and to gobble down their once warm and wiggling, now chilled and stilled protoplasm with limitless gusto, and not feel a trace of guilt while doing so.

Most people, when directly confronted by evidence that they are wrong, do not change their point of view or course of action but justify it even more tenaciously. Even irrefutable evidence is rarely enough to pierce the mental armor of self-justification. When we began working on this book, the poster boy for "tenacious clinging to a discredited belief" was George W. Bush. Bush was wrong in his claim that Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction, he was wrong in claiming that Saddam was linked with Al Qaeda, he was wrong in predicting that Iraqis would be dancing joyfully in the streets to receive the American soldiers, he was wrong in predicting that the conflict would be over quickly, he was wrong in his gross underestimate of the financial cost of the war, and he was most famously wrong in his photo-op speech six weeks after the invasion began, when he announced (under a banner reading MISSION ACCOMPLISHED) that "major combat operations in Iraq have ended.

God leeft in mijn hoofd. Zijn velden zijn er onmetelijk, zijn tuinen staan er vol schoone bloemen, die niet sterven, en statige vrouwen wandelen er naakt, vele duizenden. En de zon gaat er op en onder en schijnt laag en hoog en weer laag en 't eindeloze gebied is eindeloos 't zelfde en geen oogenblik gelijk. En breede rivieren stroomen er door met vele bochten en de zon schijnt er in en ze voeren 't licht naar de zee. En aan de rivieren mijner gedachten zit ik stilletjes en genoeglijk en rook een steenen pijpje en voel de zon op mijn lijf schijnen en zie 't water stroomen, voortdurend stroomen naar 't onbekende. En 't onbekende deert mij niet. En ik knik maar eens tegen de schoone vrouwen, die de bloemen plukken in mijn tuinen en hoor den wind ruischen door de hooge dennen, door de wouden der zekerheid, dat dit alles bestaat, omdat ik 't zoo verkies te denken. En ik ben dankbaar dat mij dit gegeven is. En in ootmoed pijp ik nog eens aan en voel mij God, de oneindigheid zelf. Doelloos zit ik, Gods doel is de doelloosheid. Maar voor geen mensch is het weggelegd dit bij voortduring te beseffen.

First item in the crew roster is given name, so I'll input 'Skippy'. Second item is surname-" "The Magnificent." "Really?" "It is entirely appropriate, Joe." "Oh, uh huh, because that's what everyone calls you," I retorted sarcastically, rolling my eyes. Not wanting to argue with him, I typed in 'TheMagnificent'. "Next question is your rank, this file is designed for military personnel." "I'd like 'Grand Exalted Field Marshall El Supremo'." "Right, I'll type in 'Cub Scout'. Next question-" "Hey! You jerk-" "-is occupational specialty." "Oh, clearly that should be Lord God Controller of All Things." "I'll give you that one, that is spelled A, S, S, H, O, L, E. Next-" "Hey! You shithead, I should-" "Age?" I asked. "A couple million, at least. I think." "Mentally, you're a six year old, so that's what I typed in." "Joe, I just changed your rank in the personnel file to 'Big Poopyhead'." Skippy laughed. "Five year old. You're a five year old." "I guess that's fair," he admitted. "Sex? I'm going to select 'n/a' on that one for you," I said. "Joe, in your personnel file, I just updated Sex to 'Unlikely'." "This is not going well, Skippy." "You started it!" "That was mature. Four year old, then. Maybe Terrible Twos." "I give up," Skippy snorted. "Save the damned file and we'll call it even, Ok?" "No problem. We should do this more often, huh?" "Oh, shut up.

Bella. "Nathan Malone is dead." He caught her shoulders, shook her. "No!" she screamed back. And she couldn't hit him. She wanted to, and she couldn't. "look at me," he yelled. "Look at me, Bella. What happened killed the man you loved. All that is left is this. The man you see now.The name name I carry now. Anything else is no possible." "No!" She pulled away from him, stumbled to her feet, and shook with the rage pounding through her. "The name may be dead, but you are not dead. "You weren't just a SEAL," she cried. "You weren't just a friend, or a son, or a grandson, or a brother. You weren't just a warrior." She clenched her fists, pressed to her stomach as the agony swell up through every cell of her body. "You are my husband. My lover. It doesn't matter if your name is Nathan, Noah, or hey fucking you, you are my my lover. My soul. My heart.

No" she jerked back, stared up at him. Her eyes were like thunderclouds. He'd never seen them like that. Shock and fear filled them. Her face was paper white. Her body shuddering. "Don't you leave me!" She gripped his shirt and tried to shake him, tears falling from her eyes. "Don't you leave Noah." His head lowered. He touched her lips with his and knew this woman held the best part of him. The memories of the husband he had been, the man he had been. He couldn't destroy that. He refuse to. He pushed her to Jordan slowly, loath to let her go. To release her. Knowing that releasing her was the only way to save the memories she held. "Don't you leave!" She screamed the order, eyes blazing, her lips trembling as tears fell and hysteria threatened to overwhelm her. "If you leave me, Noah Blake, if you don't come back when this is over, don't bother coming back at all. He touched her cheek. Ran his thumb over her lips. "You are the best part of me," he whispered. "Always remember that, Sabella. The best part of me." Before she could grab him, hold him to her, he pulled away, grabbed one of the rifles Mike had set on the table across the room. And left.

The first school shooting that attracted the attention of a horrified nation occurred on March 24, 1998, in Jonesboro, Arkansas. Two boys opened fire on a schoolyard full of girls, killing four and one female teacher. In the wake of what came to be called the Jonesboro massacre, violence experts in media and academia sought to explain what others called “inexplicable.” For example, in a front-page Boston Globe story three days after the tragedy, David Kennedy from Harvard University was quoted as saying that these were “peculiar, horrible acts that can’t easily be explained.” Perhaps not. But there is a framework of explanation that goes much further than most of those routinely offered. It does not involve some incomprehensible, mysterious force. It is so straightforward that some might (incorrectly) dismiss it as unworthy of mention. Even after a string of school shootings by (mostly white) boys over the past decade, few Americans seem willing to face the fact that interpersonal violence—whether the victims are female or male—is a deeply gendered phenomenon. Obviously both sexes are victimized. But one sex is the perpetrator in the overwhelming majority of cases. So while the mainstream media provided us with tortured explanations for the Jonesboro tragedy that ranged from supernatural “evil” to the presence of guns in the southern tradition, arguably the most important story was overlooked. The Jonesboro massacre was in fact a gender crime. The shooters were boys, the victims girls. With the exception of a handful of op-ed pieces and a smattering of quotes from feminist academics in mainstream publications, most of the coverage of Jonesboro omitted in-depth discussion of one of the crucial facts of the tragedy. The older of the two boys reportedly acknowledged that the killings were an act of revenge he had dreamed up after having been rejected by a girl. This is the prototypical reason why adult men murder their wives. If a woman is going to be murdered by her male partner, the time she is most vulnerable is after she leaves him. Why wasn’t all of this widely discussed on television and in print in the days and weeks after the horrific shooting? The gender crime aspect of the Jonesboro tragedy was discussed in feminist publications and on the Internet, but was largely absent from mainstream media conversation. If it had been part of the discussion, average Americans might have been forced to acknowledge what people in the battered women’s movement have known for years—that our high rates of domestic and sexual violence are caused not by something in the water (or the gene pool), but by some of the contradictory and dysfunctional ways our culture defines “manhood.” For decades, battered women’s advocates and people who work with men who batter have warned us about the alarming number of boys who continue to use controlling and abusive behaviors in their relations with girls and women. Jonesboro was not so much a radical deviation from the norm—although the shooters were very young—as it was melodramatic evidence of the depth of the problem. It was not something about being kids in today’s society that caused a couple of young teenagers to put on camouflage outfits, go into the woods with loaded .22 rifles, pull a fire alarm, and then open fire on a crowd of helpless girls (and a few boys) who came running out into the playground. This was an act of premeditated mass murder. Kids didn’t do it. Boys did.