Poser Quotes

Silver nitrate and water in a super soaker," he told her. "My own invention. Ought to be good at twenty feet, kind of like wasp spray." Oh. "You get me the nicest things." "Anybody can get jewelry. Posers

And, ah, who are you? What Horseman, I mean.” Thanatos swung around. “Death.” Cara swallowed. Audibly. “As in, the Grim Reaper?” He snorted. “That poser.

I know he wants to get serious. He's definitely not a player, not a poser, not a loser, not a user.

The whole time I pretend I have mental telepathy. And with my mind only, I’ll say — or think? — to the target, 'Don’t do it. Don’t go to that job you hate. Do something you love today. Ride a roller coaster. Swim in the ocean naked. Go to the airport and get on the next flight to anywhere just for the fun of it. Maybe stop a spinning globe with your finger and then plan a trip to that very spot; even if it’s in the middle of the ocean you can go by boat. Eat some type of ethnic food you’ve never even heard of. Stop a stranger and ask her to explain her greatest fears and her secret hopes and aspirations in detail and then tell her you care because she is a human being. Sit down on the sidewalk and make pictures with colorful chalk. Close your eyes and try to see the world with your nose—allow smells to be your vision. Catch up on your sleep. Call an old friend you haven’t seen in years. Roll up your pant legs and walk into the sea. See a foreign film. Feed squirrels. Do anything! Something! Because you start a revolution one decision at a time, with each breath you take. Just don’t go back to thatmiserable place you go every day. Show me it’s possible to be an adult and also be happy. Please. This is a free country. You don’t have to keep doing this if you don’t want to. You can do anything you want. Be anyone you want. That’s what they tell us at school, but if you keep getting on that train and going to the place you hate I’m going to start thinking the people at school are liars like the Nazis who told the Jews they were just being relocated to work factories. Don’t do that to us. Tell us the truth. If adulthood is working some death-camp job you hate for the rest of your life, divorcing your secretly criminal husband, being disappointed in your son, being stressed and miserable, and dating a poser and pretending he’s a hero when he’s really a lousy person and anyone can tell that just by shaking his slimy hand — if it doesn’t get any better, I need to know right now. Just tell me. Spare me from some awful fucking fate. Please.

True cynics kill themselves. The rest are posers, trying to use clever sarcasm and snarky remarks to hide insecurity and the fear that if they put themselves out there, they will fail.

Ove glares out of the window. The poser is jogging. Not that Ove is provoked by jogging. Not at all. Ove couldn’t give a damn about people jogging. What he can’t understand is why they have to make such a big thing of it. With those smug smiles on their faces, as if they were out there curing pulmonary emphysema. Either they walk fast or they run slowly, that’s what joggers do. It’s a forty-year-old man’s way of telling the world that he can’t do anything right. Is it really necessary to dress up as a fourteen-year-old Romanian gymnast in order to be able to do it? Or the Olympic tobogganing team? Just because one shuffles aimlessly around the block for three quarters of an hour?

True strength does not come out of bravado. Until we are broken, our life will be self-centered, self-reliant; our strength will be our own. So long as you think you are really something in and of yourself, what will you need God for? I don’t trust a man who hasn’t suffered; I don’t let a man get close to me who hasn’t faced his wound. Think of the posers you know—are they the kind of man you would call at 2:00 A.M., when life is collapsing around you? Not me. I don’t want clichés; I want deep, soulful truth, and that only comes when a man has walked the road I’ve been talking about.

Show me it’s possible to be an adult and also be happy. Please. This is a free country. You don’t have to keep doing this if you don’t want to. You can do anything you want. Be anyone you want. That’s what they tell us at school, but if you keep getting on that train and going to the place you hate I’m going to start thinking the people at school are liars like the Nazis who told the Jews they were just being relocated to work factories. Don’t do that to us. Tell us the truth. If adulthood is working some death-camp job you hate for the rest of your life, divorcing your secretly criminal husband, being disappointed in your son, being stressed and miserable, and dating a poser and pretending he’s a hero when he’s really a lousy person and anyone can tell that just by shaking his slimy hand—if it doesn’t get any better, I need to know right now. Just tell me. Spare me from some awful fucking fate. Please.

What if the opposite of good wasn't bad? What if the opposite of good was real?

not in the stupid-ass Miley Cyrus poser-sex way—and

I had discovered something; there was a pleasure in becoming something new. You could will yourself into a fresh shape. Now all I had to do was figure out how to do it out there, in my life.

Les hommes sont bizarres. Ils commettent le pire sans trop se poser de questions, mais ensuite, ils ne peuvent plus vivre avec le souvenir de ce qu'ils ont fait.

Losers sulk; posers talk; winners walk - choose wisely.

... Like having to be able to say to yourself, ‘I am pretending to sit here reading Albert Camus’s The Fall for the Literature of Alienation midterm, but actually I’m really concentrating on listening to Steve try to impress this girl over the phone, and I am feeling embarrassment and contempt for him, and am thinking he’s a poser, and at the same time I am also uncomfortably aware of times that I’ve also tried to project the idea of myself as hip and cynical so as to impress someone, meaning that not only do I sort of dislike Steve, which in all honesty I do, but part of the reason I dislike him is that when I listen to him on the phone it makes me see similarities and realize things about myself that embarrass me, but I don’t know how to quit doing them—like, if I quit trying to seem nihilistic, even just to myself, then what would happen, what would I be like?

Is it later yet?” Roth asked. Casting him a lingering look, I grinned as I rose fluidly, with a grace I never thought I’d ever be capable of. “Only if you can catch me.” Roth rose at once, capturing my hand before I could even take off, threading his fingers through mine. “Already did, Layla.” And so he had, a long time ago, when he strutted into a dark alley and took out a Poser demon. Truth be told, I really didn’t even want to run. This was love, and love could change people, even if that person was really a demon and the Crown Prince of Hell. “I love you,” I told him, and I told him that every day and I would tell him that over and over again. Roth lowered his forehead to mine as he brought our joined hands to his chest, placing them above his heart. “And I love you,” he said. “With every breath I take, I will always love you.

I thought Oliver was trying hard before, but now I realize it's quite the opposite-- he doesn't try, he just is, makes up his mind and doesn't check if it's going to work for his image or come off wrong. Since the rest of us are being so self-aware, his presence seems calculated. No one can possibly be that breezy, saying what he thinks, feeling what he feels. I can see why people don't like him for this very reason-- it's so much easier to call him a poser. Because if he's the real deal, then that makes the rest of us fakes.

Sur le point de m’en aller, je veux lui poser une question qui résume toutes les autres, une question qu’il n’y a que moi pour poser, sans doute: "Qui êtes-vous?" Et elle, sans hésiter: "Je suis l’âme errante.

To put it bluntly, your flesh is a weasel, a poser, and a selfish pig. And your flesh is not you.

La vie est comme un château de cartes. On met un temps infini à le construire, on essaie de poser des bases solides, on monte un étage après l'autre, et puis, un jour, tout s'effondre et quelqu'un les range dans une boîte.

I carefully lifted out of the pose and spoke up: "Uh, Fran? When I'm doing the pose (camel), I have this feeling in my chest, kind of a scary, tight feeling." Fran was adjusting someone across the room. She had a way of looking like a thoughtful seamstress when she made adjustments: an inch let out here, a seam straightened there, and everything would be just right. She might as well have had pins tucked between her lips and a tape measure around her neck. Without missing a beat or looking up she said, "Oh, that's fear. Try the pose again." Fear. I hadn't even known it was there.

And the poser has a girlfriend. Ten years younger. The Blond Weed, Ove calls her. Tottering around the streets like an inebriated panda on heels as long as box wrenches, with clown paint all over her face and sunglasses so big that one can’t tell whether they’re a pair of glasses or some kind of helmet. She also has one of those handbag animals, running about off the leash and pissing on the paving stones outside Ove’s house. She thinks Ove doesn’t notice, but Ove always notices.

When it comes to loving people, let's not allow it to be something we do on the side. Let's make it a lifestyle. Whether we are at the gas station, picking up groceries, even waiting to get our car repaired, there is always an open opportunity to love someone in need.

Ma grand-mère m’a appris très tôt comment cueillir les étoiles : la nuit il suffit de poser une bassine d’eau au milieu de la cour pour les avoir à ses pieds.

Quick Ben, tell me, who was the toughest Bridgeburner you ever knew? Think back, and think carefully. Get your ego out of the way. Ignore your favorites and the ones who spent all their time looking mean. Not the callous shits, not the back-stabbers, none of the posers. The toughest, Quick Ben. Day in, day out, good times, bad. Tell me. Who?" The High Mage squinted, glanced down at the ground at this feet, and then he sighed and nodded, looking up as he said, "I didn't need that list, Ganoes. I knew my answer right from the start. We all knew." "Who?" "Fiddler. There's no tougher man alive.

Martin Luther once said, “You cannot find a Christian who does not pray to God; just as you cannot find a living person without blood.

To put it bluntly, your flesh is a weasel, a poser, and a selfish pig. And your flesh is not you. Did you know that? Your flesh is not the real you.

Reality is an easy commodity in the Front Range. There's weather, and there are animals that are thinking about eating you, and there's all that beauty. It sort of whomps you on the head. It's strange that we use the word "unreal" to describe beauty-it's my experience that beauty drags us by the hair into the real.

And when we go to church, read our Bibles, have our quiet times, and go to Christian conferences, we too can build some impressive spiritual muscles, but unless we use those spiritual muscles to change our lives, build the church, love our neighbors, and care for the sick and the poor, we...are just posers. Let us not take God's truth for granted.

Et comme j’essayais de lui expliquer ce que c’était que ces mariages, je sentis quelque chose de frais et de fin peser légèrement sur mon épaule. C’était sa tête alourdie de sommeil qui s’appuyait contre moi avec un joli froissement de rubans, de dentelles et de cheveux ondés. Elle resta ainsi sans bouger jusqu’au moment où les astres du ciel pâlirent, effacés par le jour qui montait. Moi, je la regardais dormir, un peu troublé au fond de mon être, mais saintement protégé par cette claire nuit qui ne m’a jamais donné que de belles pensées. Autour de nous, les étoiles continuaient leur marche silencieuse, dociles comme un grand troupeau ; et par moments je me figurais qu’une de ces étoiles, la plus fine, la plus brillante ayant perdu sa route, était venue se poser sur mon épaule pour dormir..

A purple sash crosses his doublet, pinned to his chest by a dozen medals he's never won from a hundred battlefields he's never stepped foot on.

Your current situation and workplace are your personal mission field. Why? Because you can reach people a church can't. You're on the front lines!

A believer twists the Bible to fit his or her lifestyle. A follower works to make his or her lifestyle resemble the teachings of the Bible.

Thanatos swung around. “Death.” Cara swallowed. Audibly. “As in, the Grim Reaper?” He snorted. “That poser. He deals with evil souls.

The captain frowned. ‘It’s a funny thing,’ he said, ‘but why is it that the heathens and the barbarians seem to have the best places to go when they die?’ ‘A bit of a poser, that,’ agreed the mate. ‘I s’pose it makes up for ’em … enjoying themselves all the time when they’re alive, too?’ He looked puzzled. Now that he was dead, the whole thing sounded suspicious.

I gulped. But, I mean, everyone bends the truth sometimes to be friendly. What's really weird is that I'm the only one who seems to get in trouble for it. Anyway, what could possibly go wrong this time?

Your bet is only for Poser tickets, right?" he called. And for my self-esteem,but that was splitting hairs. "Yea,that's all." "Because if it was for more than that,I'd be sweet-talking nick right now and doing everything i could to pull out." "Oh,no you don't!" Chloe squealed. I think she meant to board between us and shove Josh away for affect. however, she didn't have enough control to do this,so she just crossed in front of him and fell in his path, which was somewhat anticlimatic.She shouted up at him, "You need to decide whether you stand with your sister or with the sexist pigs!" Even on her butt in the snow, Chloe was a formidable force. "yes,ma'am." Josh saluted with his mitten to his goggles.

The people ahead of you, living in the liberty of instinct-guided uniqueness, will welcome you, encourage you, and mentor you. They will inspire you to be a pioneer and not a poser. Only those incarcerated by their unwillingness to listen to their instincts and to take the risks required for success will seek to deter you.

Leaning over me with his chest bare, he pressed his wadded-up t-shirt to my ear. It was his Poser t-shirt that he wore to school at least twice a week,and he was willingly staunching my blood with it.He must be in love.

Who I dislike more than the church are the religious posers who take the parables of the Bible and use them as a weapon to hurt and control women. They’re like a Christian mullet—religion in the front, evil in the back.

Which makes one wonder if he had to take his Facebook picture carefully in low lighting." She glared at me. "moving on." Liz:Davis Goggins "Awww," Chloe and I both said. I reached out to pinch liz's cheek. She and Davis hadn't been dating long, but it was so sweet she'd thought about him that way back in seventh grade. Almost as if they were destined to be together. "I'm not sure anymore," Liz grumbled. "Ask me again after he pays for my Poser ticket.

For who would I be if I tried to be someone besides Jane? The poser of the world try so hard to be what they are not, and yet... how fatigued they must be Perhaps I am not smart enough to be one of them. Nor strong enough in constitution.

No matter where you go in the world, a German will have beaten you there, clad in a sweaty black T-shirt and a smug expression.

I love you so much, B.” “Times two, baby,” I murmured. “Times two.

A believer knows about Jesus. A follower knows Jesus as his or her Lord and Savior.

The real issue isn’t whether our generation is wearing enough bedazzled cross T-shirts; it’s whether we are allowing the message of Jesus to root deeper than our wardrobe, blog posts, music playlists, tweets, and Facebook statuses. We’ve become a tribe of people who rank our faith in a measurement of likes, re-tweets, and memory verses. We need to up our game.

You’re the only one who’s ever been in here. You’re the only one who’s ever had the most important part of me. You’re the one who turned a man who vowed to never love into one who loves completely.” “How do you do that?” she whispered, not pulling her face away from mine. “Do what?” I stroked the backs of my fingers across her cheek. “Pull me back in the second I start to drift away?” I smiled. “I told you I was dropping anchor.” “Don’t ever let me go, Braeden.” “Oh, baby.” I vowed, “Never.

Jonathan's voice was quiet now. "Thank you for sharing this evening with me. In yoga, we say 'Namaste,' which means 'I bow to the divine in you.'" He bowed his dork-knobbed head and said, "Namaste." We bowed back and mumbled, "Namaste." On my tongue, the new word felt as though it contained its own foreign spice.

Je me souviens qu'à un moment, m'étend appuyée à la machine, j'avais regardé le disque se lever, lentement, pour aller se poser de biais contre le saphir, presque tendrement, comme une joue. Et, je ne sais pourquoi, j'avais été envahie d'un violent sentiment de bonheur; de l'intuition physique, débordante, que j'allais mourir un jour, qu'il n'y aurait plus ma main sur ce rebord de chrome, ni ce soleil dans mes yeux.

Coluche disait « On ne peut pas dire la vérité à la télé, il y a trop de gens qui regardent ». La question à poser à la population belge est : pensez-vous être bien informés ? Croyez-vous que dans une région comme le Moyen-Orient avec toute la richesse du pétrole, on va vous dire la vérité ?

Hate the sin, not the sinner" isn't working...I encourage you to instead "Love the sinner, not the sin." Remove the word hate from your vocabulary, and start reflecting an image of Jesus that portrays him differently than a man standing on a soapbox wielding a megaphone. I can't ever recall a person who came to faith because of hate. Let's start a movement of people who are willing to take hate out of the equation and love people regardless of their sins

This was a conversation I had with a so-called-fellow-trekkie the other day: ''So Picard or Kirk?'' I asked. ''What?'' ''Star Trek...'' ''Oh, Kirk.'' ''Why?'' ''I like the name better.'' I could have slammed his head against the table.

He grabbed the back of my parka,but I got the distinct impression he was not trying to be a gentleman by helping me out of it.He just wanted his parka back. "When you feel cornered,you'll just fling whatever you've got at people, and you don't care who gets hurt with what." "I am not scared." I slid down from the truck seat into Liz's stepdad's galoshes, then turned to face Nick one last time. "I am not scared of boarding or you,and I will prove it to you tomorrow.If you think I'm going easy on you in the comp just because you have a debilitating injury from yesterday-" "That's what you think," he snarked. "I've been going yoga." "-you have another think coming.You will buy me those Poser tickets. And I'm not even taking you.You will hand the tickets over to me,and I'll take someone else." "Who? Your little brother's friends?" "No,Everett Walsh." I closed the door softly behind me so as not to alarm sleeping adults,because I was that mature. Even through the door and the rolled up window,I could clearly hear every filthy work Nick uttered, ending with, "Everett [cuss word] Walsh." I opened the passenger door. "Ask not for whom the fire-crotch burns;it burns for thee!" I'd meant this to be an insult.Then I realized it sounded like I wanted Nick.Or like I had a feminine problem.

As recently as the grunge era, there remained a bohemian cachet in casually mentioning that you didn’t own a TV. But nobody thinks like that anymore. Today, claiming you don’t own a TV simply means you’re poor (or maybe depressed). In one ten-year span, high-end television usurped the cultural positions of film, rock, and literary fiction.

- Offre ton identité au Conseil, jeune apprentie. La voix était douce, l’ordre sans appel. - Je m’appelle Ellana Caldin. - Ton âge. Ellana hésita une fraction de seconde. Elle ignorait son âge exact, se demandait si elle n’avait pas intérêt à se vieillir. Les apprentis qu’elle avait discernés dans l’assemblée étaient tous plus âgés qu’elle, le Conseil ne risquait-il pas de la considérer comme une enfant ? Les yeux noirs d’Ehrlime fixés sur elle la dissuadèrent de chercher à la tromper. - J’ai quinze ans. Des murmures étonnés s’élevèrent dans son dos. Imperturbable, Ehrlime poursuivit son interrogatoire. - Offre-nous le nom de ton maître. - Jilano Alhuïn. Les murmures, qui s’étaient tus, reprirent. Plus marqués, Ehrlime leva une main pour exiger un silence qu’elle obtint immédiatement. - Jeune Ellana, je vais te poser une série de questions. A ces questions, tu devras répondre dans l’instant, sans réfléchir, en laissant les mots jaillir de toi comme une cascade vive. Les mots sont un cours d’eau, la source est ton âme. C’est en remontant tes mots jusqu’à ton âme que je saurai discerner si tu peux avancer sur la voie des marchombres. Es-tu prête ? - Oui. Une esquisse de sourire traversa le visage ridé d’Ehrlime. - Qu’y a-t-il au sommet de la montagne ? - Le ciel. - Que dit le loup quand il hurle ? - Joie, force et solitude. - À qui s’adresse-t-il ? - À la lune. - Où va la rivière ? L’anxiété d’Ellana s’était dissipée. Les questions d’Ehrlime étaient trop imprévues, se succédaient trop rapidement pour qu’elle ait d’autre solution qu’y répondre ainsi qu’on le lui avait demandé. Impossible de tricher. Cette évidence se transforma en une onde paisible dans laquelle elle s’immergea, laissant Ehrlime remonter le cours de ses mots jusqu’à son âme, puisque c’était ce qu’elle désirait. - Remplir la mer. - À qui la nuit fait-elle peur ? - À ceux qui attendent le jour pour voir. - Combien d’hommes as-tu déjà tués ? - Deux. - Es-tu vent ou nuage ? - Je suis moi. - Es-tu vent ou nuage ? - Vent. - Méritaient-ils la mort ? - Je l’ignore. - Es-tu ombre ou lumière ? - Je suis moi. - Es-tu ombre ou lumière ? - Les deux. - Où se trouve la voie du marchombre ? - En moi. Ellana s’exprimait avec aisance, chaque réponse jaillissant d’elle naturellement, comme une expiration après une inspiration. Fluidité. Le sourire sur le visage d’Ehrlime était revenu, plus marqué, et une pointe de jubilation perçait dans sa voix ferme. - Que devient une larme qui se brise ? - Une poussière d’étoiles. - Que fais-tu devant une rivière que tu ne peux pas traverser ? - Je la traverse. - Que devient une étoile qui meurt ? - Un rêve qui vit. - Offre-moi un mot. - Silence. - Un autre. - Harmonie. - Un dernier. - Fluidité. - L’ours et l’homme se disputent un territoire. Qui a raison ? - Le chat qui les observe. - Marie tes trois mots. - Marchombre.

What do you think you know about me!? This is all I am! I have high hopes even though I'm powerless; I have all these dreams even though I'm dumb; I keep trying even though I can't do anything! I hate myself! I'm always nothing but talk! I'm worse than useless, but I'm still a world-class complainer! Who the hell do I think I am?! How dare I live such a shameful life this long?! I'm empty. I've got nothing inside me. Until I came here, until I met all of you, do you know what I was doing?! I wasn't doing anything. I didn't do anything... I didn't do one little thing! With all that time to do it! With all that freedom! I should have done lots of stuff, but I didn't do any of it! And this is the result! The man I am now is the result! I'm powerless, talentless, and all of it, all of it, is because of my rotten personality! I want to achieve something when I haven't done anything before--conceited doesn't even begin to describe it... I was lazy and imposed on other people; I wasted my whole life away; I killed you. I thought I could live here, but not a single thing's changed about me. That old man saw right through me, didn't he? During those days of training, the old man had spoken of those who wield the sword, but he had shaken his head and said, 'There is little point lecturing someone about what it takes to become stronger when he has already abandoned the choice to do so.' It's not like I really thought I'd get stronger or I'd be able to do anything... I just went through the motions. I was just a poser trying to justify myself. I wanted to say, I couldn't help it! I wanted other people to say it couldn't be helped! That's all it was! That's the only reason I pretended to put myself on the line like that! Even when you were helping me study, I was just putting on a show to cover up the embarrassment! I'm a small, underhanded, filthy guy down to the bone, always worrying about what other people think of me, and none of that's ever changed!

Jesus didn’t die an extravagant death so that we could live mediocre and comfortable lives.

Yoga is just gymnastics for uncoordinated people.

Don't try to be someone you are not...Be real.Nobody likes a poser

Every underground scene dies a long slow death as the tourists close in, until nothing’s left but posers ogling each other over the bleached remains. If

Ma grand-mère m’a appris très tôt comment cueillir les étoiles : la nuit il suffit de poser une bassine d’eau au milieu de la cour pour les avoir à ses pieds.

Il faut poser des actes d'une si complète audace, que même ceux qui les réprimeront devront admettre qu'un pouce de délivrance a été conquis pour tous.

À partir du moment où certains commenceraient à partir, les autres devraient se poser des questions sur eux-mêmes.

Vivent les fous qui sautent à pieds joints là où n'osent se poser les anges.

At one point in time, every friend was a stranger. Love changed that.

Sup, Andrews?” he says. ’Sup? He’s a white boy in a polo shirt. ’Sup is he’s a poser. I don’t respond.

He’d make Cujo hang his head in poser shame.

She gestured to the piano. It was a nine-foot Steinway. Because seven-foot Steinways are for posers.

Seule je tombe souvent dans le néant. Je dois poser le pied prudemment sur le rebord du monde, de peur de tomber dans le néant. Je suis forcée de me cogner la tête contre une porte bien dure, pour me contraindre à rentrer dans mon propre corps.

Quelles sont les images régnantes de la femme dans le patrimoine culturel marocain? Il s'agit certes de lire, mais que cette lecture se transforme le plus possible en écoute. Les questions à se poser, après l'écoute, sont les suivantes: 1°) Le patrimoine culturel marocain renferme-t-il une seule et même image de la femme? Le passage du droit musulman classique, des traités (du mariage) savants à la tradition orale implique-t-il un changement dans la perception de la femme? 2°) Dans quelle mesure les oppositions "savant/populaire" et écrit/oral appartiennent-elles à la problématique de la société étudiée? 3°) Peut-on rechercher les points de rencontre entre le féminisme et les formations discursives traditionnelles sans retomber dans le salafisme et le folklorisme?

Any diploma issued in the fields of Theology or Divinity isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on, especially the PhD. Someone who holds a doctorate in Theology or Divinity won’t be given the time of day by a real academic. They are posers. Fakes. Academic frauds.

« C’est pourquoi je hais les miroirs qui me montrent mon vrai visage. Seule, je tombe souvent dans le néant. Je dois poser le pied prudemment sur le rebord du monde, de peur de tomber dans le néant. Je suis forcée de me cogner la tête contre une porte bien dure, pour me contraindre à rentrer dans mon propre corps.»

Boire les étoiles au goulot était une technique pour bloquer la machine temporelle. Flouter le passé et le futur quelques heures pour se poser dans l'hyper-présent avec du whisky déguisé en Coca, du rhum caché dans des feuilles de menthe. Je voyais mes démons cavaler a travers les bulles, pieds au plancher comme l'hiver dernier. Je ne pensais qu'a une chose : retrouver un autre temps. Celui d'avant l'explosion de la centrale a rêves. Avant le tremblement de tête, avant les attentats a répétition. Quand on fabriquait des fusées sans ceintures de sécurité. Quand on chevauchait jusqu’à ce que la nuit fonde pour laisser le jour étirer ses grands bras de lumière.

You must take your chance on what you are. And you can't sit still. I know this double poser, that if you make a move you may lose but if you sit still you will decay. But what will you lose? You will not invent better than God or nature or turn yourself into the man who lacks no gift or development before you make the move. This is not given to us.

But what will you put in its place?’ A familiar question to any socialist, and on the face of it a formidable poser as well. It is extremely hard in the first instance to think of replacements for unemployment, racialism, war, poverty, exploitation, and oligarchy. But we’ll probably think of something.” [“Last Swing of the Crane,” New Statesman, 10/06/72]

If you let people shit all over your doorstep, you’re the one who looks like shit, not them. Go and shit on their doorstep. Or are you too liberal, prissy and up yourself for that? There’s nothing worse than dilettantes, posers and Ignavi. If you’ve got no fire in your belly, fuck off! Go and let someone shit on you. We’re not interested in coprophiliacs.

A life of praying means death to every identity that does not come from God.

Looking the part is not ‘being’ the part.

The way you walk, talk, and present yourself to others matters when it comes to your faith. Why? Because if you claim to be a Christian, then people are going to expect you to act like one. Simple. Your swagger truly matters. No matter how long or how briefly you’ve known Jesus as your Lord, you are held to a higher standard of accountability by those around you.

Elle avait failli à un moment... Elle était fatiguée, elle aurait dû poser ses coudes sur le bureau elle aussi, et lui raconter la vérité. Lui dire que si elle ne mangeait plus, ou si peu, c'est parce que des cailloux prenaient toute la place dans son ventre. Qu'elle se réveillait chaque jour avec l'impression de mâcher du gravier, qu'elle n'avait pas encore ouvert les yeux, que déjà, elle étouffait. Que déjà le monde qui l'entourait n'avait plus aucune importance et que chaque nouvelle journée était comme un poids impossible à soulever. Alors, elle pleurait. Non pas qu'elle fut triste, mais pour faire passer tout ça. Les larmes, ce liquide finalement, l'aidaient à digérer sa caillasse et lui permettaient de respirer à nouveau.

Amputée!… O soleil, si c’est vrai que je viens de toi, pourquoi m’as-tu faite amputée? Pourquoi m’as-tu faite une fille? Pourquoi ces seins, cette faiblesse, cette plaie ouverte au milieu de moi? N’aurait-il pas été beau le garçon Médée? N’aurait-il pas été fort? Le corps dur comme la pierre, fait pour prendre et partir après, ferme, intact, entier, lui! Ah! il aurait pu venir, alors, Jason, avec ses grandes mains redoutables, il aurait pu tenter de les poser sur moi! Un couteau, chacun dans la sienne -oui!- et le plus fort tue l’autre et s’en va délivré. Pas cette lutte où je ne voulais que toucher les épaules, cette blessure que j’implorais. Femme! Femme! Chienne! Chair faite d’un peu de boue de d’une côte d’homme! Morceau d’homme! Putain!

Je crois en l'apprentissage par le vécu, et je crois que le seul vrai apprentissage se fait par le voyage. Mon rêve le plus fou serait que tout candidat potentiel à la présidence d'un pays effectue un tour du monde à budget réduit avant de pouvoir poser sa candidature. Comment peut-on prétendre connaître le monde autour de soi lorsqu'on ne sort jamais des grands hôtels de luxe ?

Behold your valiant hero: a self-important, sermonising poser who’d never stoop to getting down in the mud where the real fight’s about to start because he might have to get his hands dirty and that would make him ‘no better than the bad guys’. Well, guess what? There’s a whole lot of mud down here, and we’re all neck-deep in it. Maybe it’s time somebody came along who’s ready to be worse than the bad guys.

Au moins, toi, tu touches des pourboires. — Quoi ? feint de s'étonner Vanessa. Ne me dis pas que les libraires n'en reçoivent jamais ? — Eh non... — Même pas quand tu conseilles un bon bouquin ? Il secoue la tête. — C'est un scandale, décrète-t-elle. Tu devrais poser un bocal sur le comptoir. — Que dirait l'étiquette ? demande-t-il en pianotant sur la table. « Les livres sont la nourriture de l'esprit. Les pourboires, celle du chat » ?

JAMES HALE sat at a side-street noodle-stall. The stall was set-up underneath the shade of a row of fruit trees. He watched a pair of pigeons courting beneath a fig tree. The male’s tail feathers were pushed up in self-promotion and his plumage was arrogantly puffed up. He danced his elaborate dance of love. The female didn’t look impressed. She turned her back to him. Birds were like gangster rappers, Hale thought. They sang songs about how tough they were and how many other birds they’d nested. They were egomaniacs with inferiority complexes. Posers in a leafy street. The bastards flew at the first sign of danger. They couldn’t make it on the ground. Hale hated birds with their merry chirps and their flimsy nests. Tweet. Tweet. Fucking. Tweet. The only thing Hale admired about them was the fact that they could fly. That would be cool. Right now, flying would be good.

What is this enemy that scripture calls “the world?” Is it drinking and dancing and smoking? Is it going to the movies or playing cards? That is a shallow and ridiculous approach to holiness. It numbs us to the fact that good and evil are much more serious. No, the world is not a place or a set of behaviors. It is any system built by our collective sin. It is all our false selves coming together to reward and destroy each other. Take all the posers out there, put them together in an office, or a club, or a church and what you get is what the scriptures mean by “the world.” The world is a carnival of counterfeits - counterfeit battles, counterfeit adventures, counterfeit beauties. Men should think of it as a corruption of their strength. “Battle your way to the top,” says the World, “and you are a man.” Why is it then that the men that get there are often the emptiest, most frightened, prideful posers around?

- Elles sont si proches, murmura Isaya à son oreille en désignant les étoiles. On dirait qu'elles vont se poser près de nous. Tu crois que c'est possible ? - Les étoiles ne se posent jamais près des hommes, répondit-il dans un souffle. Sauf la plus belle d'entre elles. Celle qui est maintenant ma femme. Il se penchait pour l’embrasser lorsqu'une petite main l'attrapa par l'épaule et le secoua avec détermination. - Papa ! Et la réponse du savant, c'est quoi ?

Je suis extrêmement ému. Pour faire diversion je demande où elle dîne. Et soudain cette légèreté que je n’ai vue qu’à elle, cette liberté peut-être précisément : "Où (le doigt tendu :) mais là, où là (les deux restaurants les plus proches), où je suis, voyons. C’est toujours ainsi. " Sur le point de m’en aller, je veux lui poser une question qui résume toutes les autres, une question qu’il n’y a que moi pour poser, sans doute : "Qui êtes-vous ? " Et elle, sans hésiter : "Je suis l’âme errante.

[...] car les pensionnaires qui étaient ici depuis de longs mois ou depuis plusieurs années avaient depuis longtemps appris à détruire le temps même sans distractions ni occupations intellectuelles, et à le faire s'écouler grâce à une virtuosité intérieure ; ils déclaraient même que c'était une maladresse de novices que de se cramponner dans ce but à un livre. Tout au plus devrait-on en poser un sur ses genoux ou sur le guéridon, cela suffisait parfaitement pour que l'on se sentît pourvu du nécessaire.

There are many things about God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit that we may never be able to fully understand, but that doesn’t mean we should stop believing or seeking to understand. If God was small enough to understand, he wouldn’t be big enough to call God.

A ce propos, il y aurait lieu de se poser certaines questions assez curieuses : ainsi, on pourrait se demander pourquoi la langue chinoise représente symboliquement l’indéfini par le nombre dix mille ; l’expression « les dix mille êtres », par exemple, signifie tous les êtres, qui sont réellement en multitude indéfinie ou « innombrable ». Ce qui est très remarquable, c’est que la même chose précisément se produit aussi en grec, où un seul mot, avec une simple différence d’accentuation... sert également à exprimer à la fois l’une et l’autre de ces deux idées : μύριοι, dix mille ; μυρίοι, une indéfinité.

The poser is jogging. Not that Ove is provoked by jogging. Not at all. Ove couldn’t give a damn about people jogging. What he can’t understand is why they have to make such a big thing of it. With those smug smiles on their faces, as if they were out there curing pulmonary emphysema. Either they walk fast or they run slowly, that’s what joggers do. It’s a forty-year-old man’s way of telling the world that he can’t do anything right. Is it really necessary to dress up as a fourteen-year-old Romanian gymnast in order to be able to do it? Or the Olympic tobogganing team? Just because one shuffles aimlessly around the block for three quarters of an hour?

Une erreur pernicieuse que nous devons signaler ici, et qui semble être un axiome pour les faux gourous d’Orient et d’Occident, est ce que nous pourrions désigner par le terme de «réalisationnisme» : on prétend que seule la « réalisation » importe et que la « théorie » n’est rien, comme si l’homme n’était pas un être pensant, et comme s’il pouvait entreprendre quoi que ce soit sans savoir où poser son pied. Les faux maîtres parlent volontiers du «développement d’énergies latentes» ; or on peut aller en enfer avec tous les développements et toutes les énergies qu’on voudra ; mieux vaut en tout cas mourir avec une bonne théorie qu’avec une fausse « réalisation ».

Je trouve étrange, extraordinaire, que pas une seule fois elle n'ait dit : « Je me sens seule sur terre... » Ces mots auraient certainement éveillé en moi de la compassion, mieux qu'un déluge de lamentations sur la destinée des femmes. Cependant, bien que ces mots de solitude ne soient jamais sortis de ses lèvres, tout son corps était enveloppé des effluves d'un isolement affreux ; à son contact mon propre corps s'enveloppait des effluves de la mélancolie plus ou moins cuisante que portais en moi ; toutes ces émanation se mêlaient. Comme « la feuille morte qui descend au fond de l'eau pour se poser sur le rocher », j'étais prêt à m'éloigner, par crainte et par angoisse.

Laissez-moi vous donner un exemple précis. Un médecin d’un certain âge est venu me consulter parce qu’il souffrait d’une grave dépression depuis deux ans. Il ne pouvait se remettre de la mort de sa femme, qu’il avait aimée plus que tout au monde. Que pouvais-je pour lui? Que lui dire? J’ai décidé de lui poser la question suivante: «Et si vous étiez mort le premier et que votre femme ait eu à surmonter le chagrin provoqué par votre décès? — Oh! pour elle, cela aurait été affreux; comme elle aurait souffert! — Eh bien, docteur, cette souffrance lui a été épargnée, et ce, grâce à vous. Certes, vous en payez le prix puisque c’est vous qui la pleurez.» Il n’a rien dit, mais il m’a serré la main et a quitté mon bureau calmement. La souffrance cesse de faire mal au moment où elle prend un sens. Elle devient alors un acte sacré, un sacrifice.

In an artistic sense, cool came to refer to someone with a signature artistic style so integral as to exude an authentic mode-of-being in the world: Miles, Bogart, Brando, Eastwood, Greco, Elvis, Lady Day, Sinatra. Such a person created something from nothing and gave the world some new artistic or psychological 'equipment for living,' to use a phrase of Kenneth Burke's. A signature style is yours and can only be carried by you: it cannot be abstracted except through dilution and commodification since it reflects an individual's complex personal experience. In this sense, cool was 'making a dollar out of fifteen cents,' to pull another phrase from the Africa-American vernacular. Lester Young was once at a bar when a tenor saxophone solo floated out of the jukebox. 'That's me,' he said happily. As he listened his mood collapsed - he realized it was one of his many imitators. 'No, that's not me,' he said sadly. To steal someone else's sound or style and capitalize on it has always been un-cool, the pretense of posers.

No, “the world” is not a place or a set of behaviors—it is any system built by our collective sin, all our false selves coming together to reward and destroy each other. Take all those posers out there, put them together in an office or a club or a church, and what you get is what the Scriptures mean by the world. The world is a carnival of counterfeits—counterfeit battles, counterfeit adventures, counterfeit beauties. Men should think of it as a corruption of their strength. Battle your way to the top, says the world, and you are a man. Why is it then that the men who get there are often the emptiest, most frightened, prideful posers around? They are mercenaries, battling only to build their own kingdoms. There is nothing transcendent about their lives. The same holds true of the adventure addicts; no matter how much you spend, no matter how far you take your hobby, it’s still merely that—a hobby. And as for the counterfeit beauties, the world is constantly trying to tell us that the Golden-haired Woman is out there—go for her.

[author quoting from his journal entry] "To feel safe is to stop living in my head and sink down into my heart and feel liked and accepted...not having to hide anymore and distract myself with books, television, movies, ice cream, shallow conversation...staying in the present moment and not escaping into the past or projecting into the future, alert and attentive to the now...feeling relaxed and not nervous or jittery...no need to impress or dazzle others or draw attention to myself...Unselfconscious, a new way of being with myself, a new way of being in the world...calm, unafraid, no anxiety about what's going to happen next...loved and valued...just being together as an end in itself." (p. 31)

Il y a un moment où il faut sortir les couteaux. C’est juste un fait. Purement technique. Il est hors de question que l’oppresseur aille comprendre de lui-même qu’il opprime, puisque ça ne le fait pas souffrir : mettez-vous à sa place. Ce n’est pas son chemin. Le lui expliquer est sans utilité. L’oppresseur n’entend pas ce que dit son opprimé comme un langage mais comme un bruit. C’est dans la définition de l’oppression. En particulier les « plaintes » de l’opprimé sont sans effet, car naturelles. Pour l’oppresseur il n’y a pas d’oppression, forcément, mais un fait de nature. Aussi est-il vain de se poser comme victime : on ne fait par là qu’entériner un fait de nature, que s’inscrire dans le décor planté par l’oppresseur. L’oppresseur qui fait le louable effort d’écouter (libéral intellectuel) n’entend pas mieux. Car même lorsque les mots sont communs, les connotations sont radicalement différentes. C’est ainsi que de nombreux mots ont pour l’oppresseur une connotation-jouissance, et pour l’opprimé une connotation-souffrance. Ou : divertissement-corvée. Ou : loisir-travail. Etc. Allez donc causer sur ces bases. C’est ainsi que la générale réaction de l’oppresseur qui a « écouté » son opprimé est en gros : mais de quoi diable se plaint-il ? Tout ça, c’est épatant. Au niveau de l’explication, c’est tout à fait sans espoir. Quand l’opprimé se rend compte de ça, il sort les couteaux. Là on comprend qu’il y a quelque chose qui ne va pas. Pas avant. Le couteau est la seule façon de se définir comme opprimé. La seule communication audible. Peu importent le caractère, la personnalité, les mobiles actuels de l’opprimé. C’est le premier pas réel hors du cercle. C’est nécessaire.

A i Burazer je umro. Kad kažem da je i on umro prosto me dođe sramota, pa i po tome vidim da je smrt bestidna. On grijeha nije imao, a hoće li gore odgovarati zato što je rakiju pio, to ne znam. Bogu, doduše, u početku nije ni na kraj pameti bilo da brani pit, ali kad je nakon šestotina godina uvidio da ljudi kvare rakiju, a rakija ljude, onda je moro. A da Burazer grijeha nije imao sudim po tome što je poštovao »nimet«. A evo kako. Pošao on jedared sa svojim pajdašima na akšamluk. Za one koji ne znaju šta je to akšamluk, a izgleda da to više niko ne zna, moram reći da je to: k a d s u n c e z a đ e k r a j k a k v e v o ­ d e u šu t n j i p i j e n j e r a k i j e u z m e z u. Može se koja i prozboriti, ali samo da bi se šutnja održala.. Svi su, određenu sumu dali »u paj«, ali Burazer nije imao sitnih, pa je ponudio đinar-dva više, što njegovi jarani odlučno odbiše. »Idi«, vele, »vrati se u čaršiju, razmijeni, pa donesi.« A bili su već preko mosta. Burazer se vrati, usitni i jedva ih stigne. To mu je već bilo načelo ćejf. Kupe rakiju, svakom polovka i jedno tridesetoro jaja. »Kako ćemo jaja?«—pitaju. »Sve u čimbur!« — odgovaraju. »Zašto sve u čimbur?«, pita Burazer, »zar nije bolje nešto skuhati?«...»Jok«, odgovaraju, »sve u čimbur.« Uzmu tepsiju, zapale vatru, ubiju tridesetoro jaja, pa onda odu još granja da sakupe, a Burazera ostave da pazi na čimbur. Krivo Burazeru što je moro u čaršiju da sitni novce, a ni oko jaja ga nisu poslušali, pa skine gaće i posere se po sred onog čimbura...»Izašlo«, tvrdio je poslije, »zdravo govno, mogli su ga okružiti, pa ono oko njega baciti, a ostalo pojesti...«Kada su se jarani pomolili i vidjeli šta je bilo s čimburom svima je ono granje poispadalo iz ruku. Uzeli su tepsiju i bacili je u potok. Burazeru su odmah odijelili njegovu polovku i taj dan sa njim nisu pili. — Da si ti kakav čovjek — govorili su — ne bi u nimet nuždu vršio! A Burazer je tvrdio: — Jaje nije nimet, jer je iz kokošije guzice izašlo...

Une nouvelle génération, donc, subit simplement l'état de choses ; elle ne se pose aucun vrai problème, et de la « libération » dont elle jouit, elle fait un usage à tous points de vue stupide. Quand cette jeunesse prétend qu'elle n'est pas comprise, la seule réponse à lui donner c'est qu'il n'y a justement rien à comprendre en elle, et que, s'il existait un ordre normal, il s'agirait uniquement de la remettre à sa place sans tarder, comme on fait avec les enfants, lorsque sa stupidité devient fatigante, envahissante et impertinente. Le soi-disant anticonformisme de certaines attitudes, abstraction faite de leur banalité, suit du reste une espèce de mode, de nouvelle convention, de sorte qu'il s'agit précisément du contraire d'une manifestation de liberté. Pour différents phénomènes envisagés par nous dans les pages précédentes, tels que par exemple le goût de la vulgarité et certaines formes nouvelles des mœurs, on peut se référer, dans l'ensemble, à cette jeunesse-là ; en font partie les fanatiques des deux sexes pour les braillards, les « chanteurs » épileptiques, au moment où nous écrivons pour les séances collectives de marionnettes représentées par les ye-ye sessions, pour tel ou tel « disque à succès » et ainsi de suite, avec les comportements correspondants. L'absence, chez ceux-là, du sens du ridicule rend impossible d'exercer sur eux une influence quelconque, si bien qu'il faut les laisser à eux-mêmes et à leur stupidité et estimer que si par hasard apparaissent, chez ce type de jeunes, quelques aspects polémiques en ce qui concerne, par exemple, l'émancipation sexuelle des mineurs et le sens de la famille, cela n'a aucun relief. Les années passant, la nécessité, pour la plupart d'entre eux, de faire face aux problèmes matériels et économiques de la vie fera sans doute que cette jeunesse-là, devenue adulte, s'adaptera aux routines professionnelles, productives et sociales d'un monde comme le monde actuel ; ce qui, d'ailleurs, la fera passer simplement d'une forme de nullité à une autre forme de nullité. Aucun problème digne de ce nom ne vient se poser.