Pogue Quotes

If nothing else, a house is a place to keep books in.

Human beings, in other words, are always already dead. This proleptic knowledge of finitude predetermines their most creative as well as their most destructive dispositions.

Soul and habitat--we are finally in a position to know this--are correlates of one another.

Give me,” says Pogue, “a big city for my vacation. Especially New York. I’m not much fond of New Yorkers, and Manhattan is about the only place on the globe where I don’t find any.

I'm not singing for the future I'm not dreaming of the past I'm not talking of the fist time I never think about the last

Walls protect, divide, distinguish; above all they abstract. The basic activities that sustain life . . . take place beyond walls.

(Streets of Sorrow) Oh, farewell you streets of sorrow Oh, farewell you streets of pain I'll not return to feel more sorrow Through the years I've lived through terror And in the darkened streets, the pain Oh, how I long to find some solace In my mind, I curse the strain So, farewell, you streets of sorrow And, farewell, you streets of pain

If you really want to be totally accurate about it, the day that really changed Abby's life wasn't the day she discovered her power. It was the day Ben sang to her in the Telekinesis lab.

Pogue seemed to be magically able to put half a sandwich into his mouth at once, without looking greedy or having anything fall out, and managed to wink at Celie at the same time.

Walls, no less than writing, define civilization. They are monuments of resistance against time, like writing itself. . .

Irony that does not deem itself ironic is the most dangerous irony of all.

Decadence begins with the loss of restraint.

And nothing . . . disquiets a rationalist more than a forest.

What if she doesn't worry about her body and eats enough for all the growing she has to do? She might rip her stockings and slam-dance on a forged ID to the Pogues, and walk home barefoot, holding her shoes, alone at dawn; she might baby-sit in a battered-women's shelter one night a month; she might skateboard down Lombard Street with its seven hairpin turns, or fall in love with her best friend and do something about it, or lose herself for hours gazing into test tubes with her hair a mess, or climb a promontory with the girls and get drunk at the top, or sit down when the Pledge of Allegiance says stand, or hop a freight train, or take lovers without telling her last name, or run away to sea. She might revel in all the freedoms that seem so trivial to those who could take them for granted; she might dream seriously the dreams that seem to obvious to those who grew up with them really available. Who knows what she would do? Who knows what it would feel like?

To be human means above all to bury,’ declares Robert Pogue Harrison in his study of burial practices, The Dominion of the Dead, boldly drawing on Vico’s suggestion that humanitas in Latin comes first and properly from humando, meaning ‘burying, burial’, itself from humus, meaning ‘earth’ or ‘soil’. We are, certainly, a burying species as well as a building species – and our predecessors were buriers too.

I do not know your situation. But I know the easy answer is almost always the wrong one. Search your heart. Where is your fear driving you?

Merry Christmas me bollocks. The words of the Pogues's 'Fairytale of New York' also came to mind: surrounded by scumbags and maggots, I prayed God it would be my last in Los Teques.

A few words in defense of military scientists. I agree that squad leaders are in the best position to know what and how much their men and women need to bring on a given mission. But you want those squad leaders to be armed with knowledge, and not all knowledge comes from experience. Sometimes it comes from a pogue at USUHS who’s been investigating the specific and potentially deadly consequences of a bodybuilding supplement. Or an army physiologist who puts men adrift in life rafts off the dock at a Florida air base and discovers that wetting your uniform cools you enough to conserve 74 percent more of your body fluids per hour. Or the Navy researcher who comes up with a way to speed the recovery time from travelers’ diarrhea. These things matter when it’s 115 degrees and you’re trying to keep your troops from dehydrating to the point of collapse. There’s no glory in the work. No one wins a medal. And maybe someone should.

You listen to me, Treadwell. You’re an office pogue. You never been anything but an office pogue. You don’t have the slightest idea what goes on in a working police division. But you keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told and I’ll see to it that you’re a captain someday and you can have your own station to play with. You don’t and I’ll have you in uniform on the nightwatch in Watts. Understand me, Treadwell?

Well, sometimes Reginald tries to ride Waya, and his pipe sticks out when he does it.” In the doorway behind him Rebecca made a choking sound. “His pipe?” she asked faintly. “That’s what Pogue says it’s called. A pipe and bags. Like a bagpipe. All boys have them.

The destructive impulse with respect to nature all too often has psychological causes that go beyond the greed for material resource or the need to domesticate an environment. There is too often a deliberate rage and vengefulness at work in the assault on nature and its species, as if one would project onto the natural world the intolerable anxieties of finitude which hold humanity hostage to death.

[T]here exists an allegiance between the dead and the unborn of which we the living are merely the ligature.

Why is Wi-Fi free at cheap hotels but $14 a night at expensive ones.

I actually prefer Abby," she said. "I'm sorry?" "Nobody calls me Abigail unless it's my mom and she's mad.

The forests were foris, 'outside.' In them lived the outcasts, the mad, the lovers, brigands, hermits, saints, lepers, the paquis, fugitives, misfits, the persecuted, wild men. Where else could they go? Outside of the law and human society one was in the forest. But the forest's asylum was unspeakable. One could not remain human in the forest; one could only rise above or sink below the human level.

Okay, Eliza. Now–you know–rise up! Think about those buffalos," Abby said. "Walking backward," added Ben. "Wearing diapers!" Ricky reminded her, giggling with glee. "I know how to do it!" Eliza snapped.

When I’m critical of modern approaches to ecology, I’m really trying to remind my reader of the long relationship that Western civilization has had to these forests that define the fringe of its place of habitation, and that this relationship is one that has a rich history of symbolism and imagination and myth and literature. So much of the Western imagination has projected itself into this space that when you lose a forest, you’re losing more than just the natural phenomenon or biodiversity; you’re also losing the great strongholds of cultural memory. (Source: discussing "Deforestation in a Civilized World.")

I just want to tell you something you don't want to hear. All I want is for you to say, why don't you just take me where i've never been before? know you want to hear me catch my breath. I love you till the end.

Our basic human institutions - religion, matrimony, and burial, also law, language, literature, and whatever else relies on the transmission of legacy - are authored, always and from the very start, by those who cam before. The awareness of death that defines human nature is inseparable from - indeed, it arises from, our awareness that we are not self-authored, that we follow in the footsteps of the dead. . . . Nonhuman species obey the law of vitality, but humanity in its distinctive features is through and through necrocratic. Whether we are conscious of it or not we do the will of the ancestors; their precedents are our law; we submit to their dictates, even when we rebel against them. Our diligence, hardihood, rectitude, and heroism, but also our folly, spite, rancor, and pathologies, are so many signatures of the dead on the contracts that seal our identities. We inherit their obsessions; assume their burdens; carry on their causes; promote their mentalities, ideologies, and very often their superstitions; and often we die trying to vindicate their humiliations. Why this servitude? We have no choice. Only the dead can grant us legitimacy. Left to ourselves we all bastards.

Facebook and Twitter, online petitions, comments sent from apps such as Countable, and boilerplate emails that come from advocacy-group websites. Don’t waste your time. Congresspeople don’t trust these channels; they’re too easy to hack, game, or blast out en masse.

The Buried Bishop’s a gridlocked scrum, an all-you-can-eat of youth: ‘Stephen Hawking and the Dalai Lama, right; they posit a unified truth’; short denim skirts, Gap and Next shirts, Kurt Cobain cardigans, black Levi’s; ‘Did you see that oversexed pig by the loos, undressing me with his eyes?’; that song by the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl booms in my diaphragm and knees; ‘Like, my only charity shop bargains were headlice, scabies, and fleas’; a fug of hairspray, sweat and Lynx, Chanel No. 5, and smoke; well-tended teeth with zero fillings, revealed by the so-so joke — ‘Have you heard the news about Schrodinger’s Cat? It died today; wait — it didn’t, did, didn’t, did…’; high-volume discourse on who’s the best Bond … Sartre, Bart Simpson, Barthes’s myths; ‘Make mine a double’; George Michael’s stubble; ‘Like, music expired with the Smiths’; and futures all starry; fetal think-tankers, judges, and bankers…power and money, like Pooh Bear and honey, stick fast — I don’t knock it, it’s me; and speaking of loins, ‘Has anyone told you you look like Demi Moore from Ghost?’; roses are red and violets are blue, I’ve a surplus of butter and Ness is warm toast.

What if she doesn’t worry about her body and eats enough for all the growing she has to do? She might rip her stockings and slam-dance on a forged ID to the Pogues, and walk home barefoot, holding her shoes, alone at dawn; she might baby-sit in a battered-women’s shelter one night a month; she might skateboard down Lombard Street with its seven hairpin turns, or fall in love with her best friend and do something about it, or lose herself for hours gazing into test tubes with her hair a mess, or climb a promontory with the girls and get drunk at the top, or sit down when the Pledge of Allegiance says stand, or hop a freight train, or take lovers without telling her last name, or run away to sea. She might revel in all the freedoms that seem so trivial to those who could take them for granted; she might dream seriously the dreams that seem so obvious to those who grew up with them really available. Who knows what she would do? Who knows what it would feel like? But if she is not careful she will end up: raped, pregnant, impossible to control, or merely what is now called fat. The teenage girl knows this. Everyone is telling her to be careful. She learns that making her body into her landscape to tame is preferable to any kind of wildness

The 'violent wrenching' of the world into constant movements has remained constant. Indeed, the only constancy of the past several decades has been change itself, that is, constant inconstancy. The paradox of this syndrome causes those who suffer from it to hope that change - or the right kind of change - will eventually put an end to the dread it induces through its endless turnover of the new. This is strange hope to hold to, yet it may be the only one available at a time when the unworlding of the world seems a fait accompli.

What if she doesn’t worry about her body and eats enough for all the growing she has to do? She might rip her stockings and slam-dance on a forged ID to the Pogues, and walk home barefoot, holding her shoes, alone at dawn; she might baby-sit in a battered-women’s shelter one night a month; she might skateboard down Lombard Street with its seven hairpin turns, or fall in love with her best friend and do something about it, or lose herself for hours gazing into test tubes with her hair a mess, or climb a promontory with the girls and get drunk at the top, or sit down when the Pledge of Allegiance says stand, or hop a freight train, or take lovers without telling her last name, or run away to sea. She might revel in all the freedoms that seem so trivial to those who could take them for granted; she might dream seriously the dreams that seem so obvious to those who grew up with them really available. Who knows what she would do? Who knows what it would feel like? But if she is not careful she will end up: raped, pregnant, impossible to control, or merely what is now called fat. The teenage girl knows this. Everyone is telling her to be careful. She learns that making her body into her landscape to tame is preferable to any kind of wildness. Dieting is being careful, and checking into a hunger camp offers the ultimate in care.

Lieutenant Smith was asked by Mister Zumwald to get him a drink,” Wilkes said. “She responded with physical violence. I counseled her on conduct unbecoming of an officer and, when she reacted with foul language, on disrespect to a superior officer, sir, and I’ll stand by that position. Sir.” “I agree that her actions were unbecoming, Captain,” Steve said, mildly. “She really should have resolved it with less force. Which I told her as well as a strong lecture on respect to a superior officer. On the other hand, Captain, Mister Zumwald physically accosted her, grabbing her arm and, when she protested, called her a bitch. Were you aware of that, Captain?” “She did say something about it, sir,” Wilkes said. “However… ” “I also understand that you spent some time with Mister Zumwald afterwards,” Steve said. “Rather late. Did you at any time express to Mister Zumwald that accosting any woman, much less an officer of… what was it? ‘The United States Naval services’ was unacceptable behavior, Captain?” “Sir,” Wilkes said. “Mister Zumwald is a major Hollywood executive… ” “Was,” Steve said. “Excuse me, sir?” Wilkes said. “Was a major Hollywood executive,” Steve said. “Right now, Ernest Zumwald, Captain, is a fucking refugee off a fucking lifeboat. Period fucking dot. He’s given a few days grace, like most refugees, to get his headspace and timing back, then he can decide if he wants to help out or go in with the sick, lame and lazy. And in this case he’s a fucking refugee who thinks it’s acceptable to accost some unknown chick and tell him to get him a fucking drink. Grab her by the arm and, when she tells him to let go, become verbally abusive. “What makes the situation worse, Captain, is that the person he accosted was not just any passing young hotty but a Marine officer. He did not know that at the time; the Marine officer was dressed much like other women in the compartment. However, he does not have the right to grab any woman in my care by the fucking arm and order them to get him a fucking drink, Captain! Then, to make matters worse, following the incident, Captain, you spent the entire fucking evening getting drunk with a fucktard who had physically and verbally assaulted a female Marine officer! You dumbshit.” “Sir, I… ” Wilkes said, paling. “And not just any Marine officer, oh, no,” Steve said. “Forget that it was the daughter of the Acting LANTFLEET. Forget that it was the daughter of your fucking rating officer, you retard. I’m professional enough to overlook that. I really am. There’s personal and professional, and I do actually know the line. Except that it was, professionally, a disgraceful action on your part, Captain. But not just any Marine officer, Captain. No, this was a Marine officer that, unlike you, is fucking worshipped by your Marines, Captain. This is a Marine officer that the acting Commandant thinks only uses boats so her boots don’t get wet walking from ship to ship. This is a Marine officer who is the only fucking light in the darkness to the entire Squadron, you dumbfuck! “I’d already gotten the scuttlebutt that you were a palace prince pogue who was a cowardly disgrace to the Marine uniform, Captain. I was willing to let that slide because maybe you could run the fucking clearance from the fucking door. But you just pissed off every fucking Marine we’ve got, you idiot. You incredible dumbfuck, moron! “In case you hadn’t noticed, you are getting cold-shouldered by everyone you work with while you were brown-nosing some fucking useless POS who used to ‘be somebody.’ ‘Your’ Marines are spitting on your shadow and that includes your fucking Gunnery Sergeant! Captain, am I getting through to you? Are you even vaguely recognizing how badly you fucked up? Professionally, politically, personally?

The keystroke to open the Preferences dialog box in every Apple program — Mail, Safari, iMovie, Photos, TextEdit, Preview, and on and on — is always the same: -comma. Better yet, that standard is catching on in other apps, too, like Word, Excel, and PowerPoint.

What if it's possible not to be thrown by transition - where life was before, where we believe it ought to go - but to respond to it with trusting faith by clinging even tighter to a constant God.

Just for fun, have a look at Miami. The nonprofit Union of Concerned Scientists calculates that by 2060, a staggering 58.5% of Miami’s inhabitable land will be underwater. By 2100, it’ll be more like 94%. Miami is going away.

For example, if you click Washington, DC, you learn that by 2080 it will feel like today’s Greenwood, Mississippi, which is 9.8° hotter and 75% wetter than today’s DC. And if you click Jacksonville, Florida, you discover that it will feel like the southern tip of Mexico—practically Belize.

The Great Lakes. If there’s a climate-change sweet spot in the United States, this is it: the Northern states that get their water from the Great Lakes. They’re Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Minnesota, New York, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin.

All of these states have vast, clean, reliable sources of fresh water. They won’t endure the blistering heat of the South. And except for a corner of New York, all of them are far from the coasts, so they won’t suffer from sea-level rise and hurricanes. Because they’re cooler and wetter than the West Coast, they’re even less prone to wildfires. The Great Lakes themselves have recently experienced massive algae blooms, some of which kill fish, birds, and turtles and poison our drinking water. Fertilizer and household cleaning products running into the watershed help to feed these blooms. The affected states have teamed up to study and fix the problem. Otherwise, though, many of the cities on the Great Lakes are ideally suited to a life in the new, hotter, drier, rainier world. Read on.

You love like it’s air you need to breathe. It’s what makes you special, but it’s also what will give you the most heartache.

His mother told him never to have children till he was rich. He was rich, he made millions with the Pogues, but he says now he's spent it all. 'If you hug money, you clog up the cash flow, know what I mean?

Walter Brennan, the on-screen grandfather, was also a grandfather on his ranch. Tammy, Mike’s daughter, remembered this period during a tour of Lightning Creek we took with Mike in July 2014. “When the lights were off, the lights were off,” Tammy recalled, “because of the gas generator. You had to find the bathroom in the dark.” “Grampy loved it,” Tammy said, “surrounded by quiet.” Still standing is the cathedral sized, handmade barn Ray Pogue set up just before selling the ranch to Walter, “212 feet long, about 65 feet wide,” Mike said. “I don’t know if Grampy had any funny things happen to him out here,” Tammy mused, perhaps wanting to help out a biographer. “No, none.” Mike said. “He just came out here, sat, and left,” Tammy suggested. “He’d come up and go deer hunting with us,” Mike added. “I don’t recall him ever shooting anything. I’d shoot something. I took the liver out of a deer. I didn’t have anywhere to put it, so I just tucked it in my shirt, the whole bloody thing. He’d get a kick out of it.

he said. He was surprised his voice didn't tremble. He took some confidence from that.

I have only 2 rules for you; 1) Don't Die, and 2) Have Fun. Everything else should be okie dokie

Solitude creates confidence so you can walk in a room and know whether surrounded or alone, you are already filled and more than enough.

Whatever your computer problem, somebody else has had it before. And you can find the solution with Google. Every single time! Here are some examples of what you can type: • page numbers won’t print in Microsoft Word • can’t turn off gridlines in Photoshop • how do I change ink cartridge in Canon Pixma iP7220 • Apple TV can’t connect to iPad • how do I delete photos from galaxy s4 phone Bonus tip: Add “solved” to your query, like this: “ipad won’t charge solved.” That way, Google will show you only the discussions where the question actually wound up answered.

Printed books are dirt cheap, never run out of power and survive drops, spills and being run over. And their file format will still be readable 200 years from now.

Use e.g. when you mean “for example”: “I like junk food—e.g., Doritos and Pringles.” (How to remember: “For eg-zample.”) Use i.e. when you mean “in other words”: “He ate Doritos and Pringles—i.e., junk food.” (How to remember: “in other words.”)

At a point where I finally had nothing to give anyone, I reached out, and there He was. When I opened my eyes to the awareness that faith is not something I have to muster up or reach on tiptoes to grasp, but accept as God continually pursues, it was here my faith came alive.

glanced at Pogue. From his pocket he withdrew earplugs. I was familiar with them. They block out the high decibels and pitch of gunfire but allow human voices through. He handed a pair to me. I shoved them in. I took a deep breath and let fly the piece of glass, which landed with a tink in the far corner of the room. The

POGUE AND I stood outside the closed door to the outbuilding. I observed him closely for the first time. The head beneath that sandy hair was long, a predator’s skull. His features were pinched—they’d circled in on themselves—and a scar curved forward from his chin, short and narrow, from a knife, not shrapnel. He didn’t smile or offer much expression and I doubted that he ever did. No wedding ring, no jewelry. I noted remnants of stitching where insignias had been removed from his green jacket. I supposed that it was a personal favorite and that he’d had the garment for years. His

We cannot change the lives we were given...but we can make the best of it...Perhaps that is what we are meant to do

Perhaps only as you are now can you thinks beyond what you were. What you thought you must be.

Birthdays come with too many expectations—expectations that someone needs to care about your birthday to begin with; there’s the inescapable disappointment when they don’t.

Your purpose has always been there, only now, it’s known.

Tom didn’t mind the tunes, with the exception of Cliff fucking Richards. Whenever he heard “Mistletoe and Wine” or “Saviour’s Day” he wanted to smash whatever was playing it. Mercifully, he managed to quell such wants and simply turn the music down or, better yet, off entirely. Currently, his favourite song was playing by The Pogues.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t equipped with enough life experiences to know that God longs to meet me in my conflicting emotions. When life is hard, it doesn’t necessarily mean I am depressed. When life is hard, it means I have a choice. I can press into the uncomfortable arenas change brings and experience Him in them, or I can fill them with busyness, people, work, whatever

had molded my teenage temper into a tool to be used by a grown woman, and had instilled in me the importance of embracing my heritage by teaching me her native language and traditions

Great, I’m an apocalyptic Disney princess. Zoe is going to laugh her ass off.

When the trucks halted for a moment and GIs tumbled out to urinate in squirming echelons on the road shoulders, civilians rushed up to plead for cigarettes with two fingers pressed to the lips, a gesture described by Forrest Pogue as the French national salute.

A nation can build for the future, invest in the future, and undertake industrial, social, or technological projects for the future, yet if it does not find ways to metabolize its past, it remains without genuine prospects. That means that its youth remains largely stagnant, culturally speaking. The greatness of Western civilization, for all its disfiguring vices, consists in the fact that it has repeatedly found ways to regenerate itself by returning to, or fetching from, its nascent sources. The creative synergy between Western wisdom and Western genius has always taken the form of projective retrieval—of birthing the new from the womb of antecedence. Thus retrieval, in this radical sense, has little to do with revival and everything to do with revitalization.

Pogue seemed to be magically able to put half a sandwich into his mouth at once, without looking greedy or having anything fall out,

No one today can credibly claim to know how the future will turn out. I have been told that while all frogs begin their lives as tadpoles, not all tadpoles become frogs. It seems that in certain artificially controlled environments - and who will deny that our environments are increasingly artificial - some will remain tadpoles their entire lives. At this point in our cultural history we are becoming like the tadpoles of a new kind of humanity. It remains to be seen of one day we will become frogs.

The technique differs slightly depending on whether you have an X-class phone (iPhone X, XR, XS, XS Max) or one with a home button:

We do not promote the cause of youth when we infantilize rather than educate desire, and then capitalize on its bad infinity; nor when we shatter the relative stability of the world, on which cultural identity depends; nor when we oblige the young to inhabit a present without historical depth or density. The greatest blessing a society can confer on its young is to turn them into the heirs, rather than the orphans, of history. It is also the greatest blessing a society can confer on itself, for heirs rejuvenate the heritage by creatively renewing its legacies. Orphans, by contrast, relate to the past as an alien, unapproachable continent - if they relate to it at all. Our age seems intent on turning the world as a whole into an orphanage, for reasons that no one - least of all the author of this book - truly understands.

The best compliment we ever got was that the Pogues were ‘like The Dubliners on-speed.’” Shane MacGowan

Mēs visi, itin visi esam ieprogrammēti - Lielās līnijās - Piedzimt, mīlēt (visvairāk sevi), nomirt. Kas par ģeniālu programmu! Kur ir tas Lielais Ģēnijs? Vai viņu meklēt Arī nav mūsos ieprogrammēts? Tad jau tā spēlīte vienkārša - Visam, ko tu dari, Nav nekāda svara. Jautājums paliek tikai šāds: Kāpēc, ak, cilvēk, tev vienmēr vajag svara? Vai tad putniņš, kas trallina gaisā, Nav ieprogrammēts? Un kas par to! Viņš tik un tā trallina, Atpūšas un atkal trallina Rīga, Viļņā un Tallinā, kā ari pie mana loga - ikreizes, kad piespiežu pareizo pogu.. Mazās līnijās Tas viss ir no liela svara.