Remake Our Life Quotes

Belief, like fear or love, is a force to be understood as we understand the theory of relativity and principals of uncertainty. Phenomena that determine the course of our lives. Yesterday, my life was headed in one direction. Today, it is headed in another. Yesterday, I believe I would never have done what I did today. These forces that often remake time and space, that can shape and alter who we imagine ourselves to be, begin long before we are born and continue after we perish. Our lives and our choices, like quantum trajectories, are understood moment to moment. That each point of intersection, each encounter, suggest a new potential direction. Proposition, I have fallen in love with Luisa Rey. Is this possible? I just met her and yet, I feel like something important has happened to me.

There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers and yet must needs call forth sleep from her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain.

Does it matter? In memory, in story, in the end, we can remake our lives any way we need. To be surprised, truly and utterly surprised by what came into your life - this, Winkler was learning, was the true gift.

...but life doesn't give us the option to remake our decisions, only the power to reconceive them

Once you know a habit exists, you have the responsibility to change it . . . others have done so . . . That, in some ways, is the point of this book. Perhaps a sleep-walking murderer can plausibly argue that he wasn’t aware of his habit, and so he doesn’t bear responsibility for his crime, but almost all of the other patterns that exist in most people’s lives — how we eat and sleep and talk to our kids, how we unthinkingly spend our time, attention and money — those are habits that we know exist. And once you understand that habits can change, you have the freedom and the responsibility to remake them. Once you understand that habits can be rebuilt, the power of habit becomes easier to grasp and the only option left is to get to work.

As meditation deepens, compulsions, cravings, and fits of emotions begin to lose their power to dictate our behavior. We see clearly that choices are possible: we can say yes, or we can say no. ... "All we are is the result of what we have thought." By changing our mode of thinking, we can remake ourselves completely.

The world, every day, is New. Only for those born in, say, 1870 or so, can there be a meaningful use of the term postmodernism, because for the rest of us we are born and we see and from what we see and digest we remake our world. And to understand it we do not need to label it, categorize it. These labels are slothful and dismissive, and so contradict what we already know about the world, and our daily lives. We know that in each day, we laugh, and we are serious. We do both, in the same day, every day. But in our art we expect clear distinction between the two...But we don't label our days Serious Days or Humorous Days. We know that each day contains endless nuances - if written would contain dozens of disparate passages, funny ones, sad ones, poignant ones, brutal ones, the terrifying and the cuddly. But we are often loathe to allow this in our art. And that is too bad...

I once believed that all we were is the sum of our memories,” Das Muni says, “but in this place, I found that it isn’t the memories that made us; it is what we decided to do with them. I tried to build a life down there, in the dark, based on the pain I’ve endured. But you can’t do that, can you? You have to . . . remake it. Transform. We are more than the sum of what’s happened to us, aren’t we?

God’s goal isn’t just to remove the bad things in our lives; He wants to replace them with good things. His plan is to remake us from within, by His Holy Spirit.

Our life is shaped by our mind, for we become what we think.” That is the essence of the Buddha’s universe and the whole theme of the Dhammapada. If we can get hold of the thinking process, we can actually redo our personality, remake ourselves. Destructive ways of thinking can be rechanneled, constructive channels can be deepened, all through right effort and meditation. “As irrigators lead water to their fields, as archers make their arrows straight, as carpenters carve wood, the wise shape their lives.

We human beings constitute and reconstitute ourselves through cultural traditions, which we experience as our own development in a historical time that spans the generations. To investigate the life-world as horizon and ground of all experience therefore requires investigating none other than generativity - the processes of becoming, of making and remaking, that occur over the generations and within which any individual genesis is always already situated. ... Individual subjectivity is intersubjectively and culturally embodied, embedded, and emergent.

Precarity is the condition of being vulnerable to others. Unpredictable encounters transform us; we are not in control, even of ourselves. Unable to rely on a stable structure of community, we are thrown into shifting assemblages, which remake us as well as our others. We can’t rely on the status quo; everything is in flux, including our ability to survive. Thinking through precarity changes social analysis. A precarious world is a world without teleology. Indeterminacy, the unplanned nature of time, is frightening, but thinking through precarity makes it evident that indeterminacy also makes life possible.

Death begins before birth. I have always found this an odd notion, but were it not for the death of certain cells during our initial development, humans would be born with webbed toes. Death moulds our physical being from the very start of our existence. It sculpts us, determines how we begin, and where we end. The events in life that define us, that break us and remake us, all stem from death—the death of a place, a time, a relationship, of those we hold most dear, and finally ourselves. Death is the one inescapable aspect of life, the only immutable force, the single thing in this world that cannot and should not be changed. But death is never the end. It is the beginning.

If you had witnessed life on Earth up to ten thousand years ago, that would not have prepared you for what was to come.

Creation, and so creativity, is the act of giving life, the nourishing and enhancement of life, in whatever way you choose to do it. And when we find our individual creative power, we can harness it and use it to fight for what we care about, to remake the world in our own image. But what might such a creative woman look like, and how might she do such a thing?

I believe in the remade life, the possibilities inherent in our lesbian and gay chosen families, our families of friends and lovers, the healing that can take place among the most wounded of us. My family of friends has kept me alive through lovers who have left, enterprises that have failed, and all too many stories that never got finished. That family has been part of remaking the world for me.

Habits are not as simple as they appear. As I’ve tried to demonstrate throughout this book, habits—even once they are rooted in our minds—aren’t destiny. We can choose our habits, once we know how. Everything we know about habits, from neurologists studying amnesiacs and organizational experts remaking companies, is that any of them can be changed, if you understand how they function. Hundreds of habits influence our days—

I am angry. We should all be angry. Anger has a long history of bringing about positive change. But I am also hopeful, because I believe deeply in the ability of human beings to remake themselves for the better." "We say to girls 'You can have ambition, but not too much. You should aim to be successful but not too successful, otherwise you will threaten the man. If you are the breadwinner in your relationship with a man, pretend you are not, especially in public, otherwise you will emasculate him.'" "Because I am female, I am expected to aspire to marriage. I am expected to make my life's choices always keeping in mind that marriage is the most important. Marriage can be a good thing, a source of joy, love and mutual support. But why do we teach girls to aspire to marriage, yet we don't teach boys to do the same?" "We are all social beings. We internalize ideas from our socialization.

On behalf of those you killed, imprisoned, tortured, you are not welcome, Erdogan! No, Erdogan, you’re not welcome in Algeria. We are a country which has already paid its price of blood and tears to those who wanted to impose their caliphate on us, those who put their ideas before our bodies, those who took our children hostage and who attempted to kill our hopes for a better future. The notorious family that claims to act in the name of the God and religion—you’re a member of it—you fund it, you support it, you desire to become its international leader. Islamism is your livelihood Islamism, which is your livelihood, is our misfortune. We will not forget about it, and you are a reminder of it today. You offer your shadow and your wings to those who work to make our country kneel down before your “Sublime Door.” You embody and represent what we loathe. You hate freedom, the free spirit. But you love parades. You use religion for business. You dream of a caliphate and hope to return to our lands. But you do it behind the closed doors, by supporting Islamist parties, by offering gifts through your companies, by infiltrating the life of the community, by controlling the mosques. These are the old methods of your “Muslim Brothers” in this country, who used to show us God’s Heaven with one hand while digging our graves with the other. No, Mr. Erdogan, you are not a man of help; you do not fight for freedom or principles; you do not defend the right of peoples to self-determination. You know only how to subject the Kurds to the fires of death; you know only how to subject your opponents to your dictatorship. You cry with the victims in the Middle East, yet sign contracts with their executioners. You do not dream of a dignified future for us, but of a caliphate for yourself. We are aware of your institutionalized persecution, your list of Turks to track down, your sinister prisons filled with the innocent, your dictatorial justice palaces, your insolence and boastful nature. You do not dream of a humanity that shares common values and principles, but are interested only in the remaking of the Ottoman Empire and its bloodthirsty warlords. Islam, for you, is a footstool; God is a business sign; modernity is an enemy; Palestine is a showcase; and local Islamists are your stunned courtesans. Humanity will not remember you with good deeds Humanity will remember you for your machinations, your secret coups d’état, and your manhunts. History will remember you for your bombings, your vengeful wars, and your inability to engage in constructive dialogue with others. The UN vote for Al-Quds is only an instrument in your service. Let us laugh at this with the Palestinians. We know that the Palestinian issue is your political capital, as it is for many others. You know well how to make a political fortune by exploiting others’ emotions. In Algeria, we suffered, and still suffer, from those who pretend to be God and act as takers and givers of life. They applaud your coming, but not us. You are the idol of Algerian Islamists and Populists, those who are unable to imagine a political structure beyond a caliphate for Muslim-majority societies. We aspire to become a country of freedom and dignity. This is not your ambition, nor your virtue. You are an illusion You have made beautiful Turkey an open prison and a bazaar for your business and loved ones. I hope that this beautiful nation rises above your ambitions. I hope that justice will be restored and flourish there once again, at least for those who have been imprisoned, tortured, bombed, and killed. You are an illusion, Erdogan—you know it and we know it. You play on the history of our humiliation, on our emotions, on our beliefs, and introduce yourself as a savior. However, you are a gravedigger, both for your own country and for your neighbors. Turkey is a political miracle, but it owes you nothing. The best thing you can do

This season in your life can be so productive spiritually if you use it to allow God to break you, shape you, and remake you,” she told him. “We’re always looking at what our spouses have done wrong, but God wants to deal with our own hearts first.

Life is the constant process of self-creation. We constantly make and remake our personal version of the self. Personal introspection is critical to ascertain who we want to become by ascertaining what traits we wish to eradicate and what qualities we wish to embody.

We’re face-to-face with our old foe: the combinatorial explosion. Therefore we do what we always have to do in life: compromise. We make simplifying assumptions that whittle the number of probabilities we have to estimate down to something manageable. A very simple and popular assumption is that all the effects are independent given the cause. This means that, for example, having a fever doesn’t change how likely you are to also have a cough, if we already know you have the flu. Mathematically, this is saying that P(fever, cough | flu) is just P(fever | flu) × P(cough | flu). Lo and behold: each of these is easy to estimate from a small number of observations. In fact, we did it for fever in the previous section, and it would be no different for cough or any other symptom. The number of observations we need no longer goes up exponentially with the number of symptoms; in fact, it doesn’t go up at all.

Coupled with our desire for the ideal, therefore, we must have an equally strong desire for the remaking of ourselves so that we may become equal to that ideal in every respect. If we want an ideal companion, we must not only wish for such a companion, but we must also desire the development of those qualities in ourselves that we know would make us agreeable to that companion. If we want a different environment we should wish for such an environment with all the life and soul we possess, and should at the same time wish for the increase of those powers in our own talents that can earn such an environment. If we want a better position we should desire such a position every minute and also desire that we maybe become more competent to fill it when it comes.

I don’t believe souls are split down the middle before they’re stuffed into our bodies, or that it’s our life’s goal to hunt down the missing half of ourselves, if that’s what you mean.” He tapped his tongs against the fryer. “I do believe that sometimes—whether it’s fate or accidental—we cross paths with someone who shatters us on a fundamental level and remakes us into a better version of ourselves.

The process of Life is to make us, break us, and to remake us. From birth to death, this process endures ceaselessly. Our lived experiences then are integral to how we are shaped – to how we are remade each time that we are broken. We emerge stronger, calmer, content and happy from each upheaval that we go through. That’s how we awaken to the sublime realization that the journey is indeed the only reward.

Before all else, men are expected to be good providers. Our parent's generation expects it of us, the family courts expect it of us, women on first dates often expect it, and in the event of an early death, our life insurance policies pre-suppose it. The simple mechanics of being a good provider excludes men from a number of other spaces, which, not coincidentally, are reserved for women. What more, as they aspire to switch traditional breadwinner roles with men in our evolving economy, even highly successful professional women collapse into the expectation that men are supposed to provide.

With William Wyler off in the Army, the fact that the Goldwyn Studio flourished during the war years was an accomplishment for which a former borscht belt comedian, Danny Kaye, should be given most of the credit. His first film for Goldwyn, Up in Arms, was a mediocre remake of Eddie Cantor’s 1930 hit Whoopee! The film was a big moneymaker for Goldwyn, and made an instant star of Danny Kaye. In 1948, Goldwyn was in danger of losing Danny, who was unhappy with the rehashed scripts he was being asked to do, particularly A Song Is Born, a dismal remake of Ball of Fire, a wonderful film Goldwyn had produced only seven years earlier starring Barbara Stanwyck and Gary Cooper. Goldwyn was smart enough to leave Danny alone, but he forced Virginia Mayo to watch Stanwyck’s performance in the original over and over. Used correctly, as Wyler used her in The Best Years of Our Lives, Virginia could be very effective, but she could never replicate Barbara Stanwyck, who was one of the most unique talents in the history of film.

limoncello I had made. We casually sipped our coffees and made the decision to get married that week: Let’s just do it! There was no downplaying the seriousness of this relationship anymore. It had found its way to a new, undeniably real level the day Jaim piped up with this little, nearly four-year-old voice calling Tom Dad. He had heard Tom’s girls call him that over and over again, the one night a week they were with him, and picked up the term for himself. It was real now, not a game we could play or a fling we could just keep casually engaging in for years. What Tom and I were doing held more weight than I had realized, and the weight of this one word, “Dad,” woke me up to the reality of what I was doing. Every decision I was making was impacting Jaim. As his mother, every big and little decision I made was shaping his world. This fling had become something greater and the responsible thing to do was to make it real, make it everlasting, make it right. Jaim liked Tom well enough, and Tom was kind enough to Jaim. Tom wasn’t

There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamored of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those who minds have been troubled with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black, fantastic shapes, dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room, and crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of the birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleeper, and yet must needs call forth Sleep from her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin, dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colors of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colors, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain.

Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret,

There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality... Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colors of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life... Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness... a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation and regret... It was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray to be the true object... of life.

I am progressing along the path of life in my ordinary contentedly fallen and godless condition, absorbed in a merry meeting with my friends for the morrow or a bit of work that tickles my vanity today, a holiday or a new book, when suddenly a stab of abdominal pain that threatens serious disease, or a headline in the newspapers that threatens us all with destruction, sends this whole pack of cards tumbling down. At first I am overwhelmed, and all my little happinesses look like broken toys. Then, slowly and reluctantly, bit by bit, I try to bring myself into the frame of mind that I should be in at all times. I remind myself that all these toys were never intended to possess my heart, that my true good is in another world and my only real treasure is Christ. And perhaps, by God’s grace, I succeed, and for a day or two become a creature consciously dependent on God and drawing its strength from the right sources. But the moment the threat is withdrawn, my whole nature leaps back to the toys: I am even anxious, God forgive me, to banish from my mind the only thing that supported me under the threat because it is now associated with the misery of those few days. Thus the terrible necessity of tribulation is only too clear. God has had me for but forty-eight hours and then only by dint of taking everything else away from me. Let Him but sheathe that sword for a moment and I behave like a puppy when the hated bath is over—I shake myself as dry as I can and race off to reacquire my comfortable dirtiness, if not in the nearest manure heap, at least in the nearest flower bed. And that is why tribulations cannot cease until God either sees us remade or sees that our remaking is now hopeless.

There was a mild, damp wind blowing. It was weather I was quite familiar with; and a sudden feeling and presentiment ran through me: that New Year’s Day was not a day that differed from any other, not the first day of a new life when I could remake the acquaintance of Gilberte with the die still uncast, as though on the very first day of Creation when no past yet existed, as though the sorrows she had sometimes caused me had been wiped out, and with them all the future ones they might portend, as though I lived in a new world in which nothing remained of the old except one thing: my wish that Gilberte would love me. I realized that, since my heart yearned in this way for the redesign of a universe which had not satisfied it, this meant that my heart had not changed; and I could see there was no reason why Gilberte’s should have changed either. I sensed that, though it was a new friendship for me, it would not be a new friendship for her, just as no years are ever separated from each other by a frontier, and that though[…]“it was a new friendship for me, it would not be a new friendship for her, just as no years are ever separated from each other by a frontier, and that though we may put different names to them, they remain beyond the reach of our yearnings, unaware of these and unaffected by them. Though I might dedicate this year to Gilberte, though I might try to imprint upon New Year’s Day the special notion I had made up for it, as a religion is superimposed on the blind workings of nature, it was in vain: I was aware that this day did not know it was called New Year’s Day, and that it was coming to an end in the twilight in a way that was not unknown to me. What I recognized, what I sensed “in that mild wind blowing about the Morris column with its posters, was the reappearance of former times, with the never-ending unchangingness of their substance, their familiar dampness, their ignorant fluidity.

There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room, and crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills, and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers, and yet must needs call forth sleep from her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain.

God’s kingdom in the preaching of Jesus,” explained Wright, “refers not to postmortem destiny, not to our escape from this world into another one, but God’s sovereign rule coming ‘on earth as it is in heaven.’ . . . Heaven, in the Bible, is not a future destiny but the other, hidden dimension of ordinary life—God’s dimension, if you like. God made heaven and earth; at the last he will remake both and join them together forever.

We are massively going against the grain of our culture by daring to give birth to ourselves anew as a way to recover from our childlessness. It is an act of colossal courage and given little regard, respect or credence by most others. There is very little support, hardly any recognition and no award ceremonies for remaking our lives around a new core of meaning.

At 2:30 a.m. on the night of August 2, 1943, Kennedy, the skipper of a PT boat on patrol in World War II, got the chance to play the hero in his own life story. An enemy destroyer rammed the boat and split it in half. Two members of the 13-man crew were killed. One man was terribly injured and would certainly die if left on his own to swim to safety. Kennedy took a strap of the man’s life jacket, put it between his teeth, and swam four hours to a tiny uninhabited island that was only 70 yards wide. “With the physical courage of which he’d shown himself to be capable, Jack Kennedy had turned his years of frailty and private suffering into a personal and public confidence that would take him forward,”10 writes Matthews. Stories of heroes and heroic actions challenge us to remake our own internal narratives.

Machine learning plays a part in every stage of your life. If

Decision trees instead ensure a priori that each instance will be matched by exactly one rule. This will be the case if each pair of rules differs in at least one attribute test, and such a rule set can be organized into a decision tree. For example, consider these rules: If you’re for cutting taxes and pro-life, you’re a Republican. If you’re against cutting taxes, you’re a Democrat. If you’re for cutting taxes, pro-choice, and against gun control, you’re an independent. If you’re for cutting taxes, pro-choice, and pro-gun control, you’re a Democrat. These can be organized into the following decision tree: A decision tree is like playing a game of twenty questions with an instance. Starting at the root, each node asks about the value of one attribute, and depending on the answer, we follow one or another branch. When we arrive at a leaf, we read off the predicted concept. Each path from the root to a leaf corresponds to a rule. If this reminds you of those annoying phone menus you have to get through when you call customer service, it’s not an accident: a phone menu is a decision tree. The computer on the other end of the line is playing a game of twenty questions with you to figure out what you want, and each menu is a question. According to the decision tree above, you’re either a Republican, a Democrat, or an independent; you can’t be more than one, or none of the above. Sets of concepts with this property are called sets of classes, and the algorithm that predicts them is a classifier. A single concept implicitly defines two classes: the concept itself and its negation. (For example, spam and nonspam.) Classifiers are the most widespread form of machine learning. We can learn decision trees using a variant of the “divide and conquer” algorithm. First we pick an attribute to test at the root. Then we focus on the examples that went down each branch and pick the next test for those. (For example, we check whether tax-cutters are pro-life or pro-choice.) We repeat this for each new node we induce until all the examples in a branch have the same class, at which point we label that branch with the class.

Inside Hod Lipson’s Creative Machines Lab at Cornell University, fantastically shaped robots are learning to crawl and fly, probably even as you read this. One looks like a slithering tower of rubber bricks, another like a helicopter with dragonfly wings, yet another like a shape-shifting Tinkertoy. These robots were not designed by any human engineer but created by evolution, the same process that gave rise to the diversity of life on Earth. Although the robots initially evolve inside a computer simulation, once they look proficient enough to make it in the real world, solid versions are automatically fabricated by 3-D printing. These are not yet ready to take over the world, but they’ve come a long way from the primordial soup of simulated parts they started with. The algorithm that evolved these robots was invented by Charles Darwin in the nineteenth century. He didn’t think of it as an algorithm at the time, partly because a key subroutine was still missing. Once James Watson and Francis Crick provided it in 1953, the stage was set for the second coming of evolution: in silico instead of in vivo, and a billion times faster. Its prophet was a ruddy-faced, perpetually grinning midwesterner by the name of John Holland.

Our individual loneliness, our anxiety, our depression, our broken and disappointed families, our fractured communities, are not what they are because of some choice we could easily unmake or remake.

And for Roosevelt, life threw a lot at him: He lost a wife and his mother in rapid succession, he faced powerful, entrenched political enemies who despised his progressive agenda, was dealt defeat in elections, the nation was embroiled in foreign wars, and he survived nearly fatal assassination attempts. But he was equipped for it all because of his early training and because he kept at it every single day. Are you similarly prepared? Could you actually handle yourself if things suddenly got worse? We take weakness for granted. We assume that the way we’re born is the way we simply are, that our disadvantages are permanent. And then we atrophy from there. That’s not necessarily the best recipe for the difficulties of life. Not everyone accepts their bad start in life. They remake their bodies and their lives with activities and exercise. They prepare themselves for the hard road. Do they hope they never have to walk it? Sure. But they are prepared for it in any case. Are you? Nobody is born with a steel backbone. We have to forge that ourselves. We craft our spiritual strength through physical exercise, and our physical hardiness through mental practice (mens sana in corpore sano—sound mind in a strong body).

That, in some ways, is the point of this book. Perhaps a sleepwalking murderer can plausibly argue he wasn’t aware of his habit, and so he doesn’t bear responsibility for his crime. But almost all the other patterns that exist in most people’s lives—how we eat and sleep and talk to our kids, how we unthinkingly spend our time, attention, and money—those are habits that we know exist. And once you understand that habits can change, you have the freedom—and the responsibility—to remake them. Once you understand that habits can be rebuilt, the power of habit becomes easier to grasp, and the only option left is to get to work.

Holiness is the remaking of our inward and hidden desires and affections, when the Holy Spirit of God dwells in our mortal bodies.

In his work on the sinner’s soul, Christ remakes the heart of stone into a heart of flesh, and he opens the sinner’s eyes to the incredible riches of God’s Word. This divine illumination comes from Christ alone as the Logos, or Word. Christ is our all-sufficient Prophet, our teacher, and the self-disclosure of the invisible God (John 8:26; 14:9; 17:8). Christ is the telescope by which we see God in creation, and the clue that leads us through the history of divine providence. Through Christ the Bible is applied to the hearts and lives of Christians.

Tom Mitchell, a leading symbolist, calls it “the futility of bias-free learning.” In ordinary life, bias is a pejorative word: preconceived notions are bad. But in machine learning, preconceived notions are indispensable; you can’t learn without them. In fact, preconceived notions are also indispensable to human cognition, but they’re hardwired into the brain, and we take them for granted. It’s biases over and beyond those that are questionable.

Most of all, we have to worry about what the Master Algorithm could do in the wrong hands. The first line of defense is to make sure the good guys get it first—or, if it’s not clear who the good guys are, to make sure it’s open-sourced. The second is to realize that, no matter how good the learning algorithm is, it’s only as good as the data it gets. He who controls the data controls the learner. Your reaction to the datafication of life should not be to retreat to a log cabin—the woods, too, are full of sensors—but to aggressively seek control of the data that matters to you.

I mean, he asked for the keys to the truck last night and brought them back earlier this morning.  Truck’s fixed.  I checked myself.  So, I’m wondering what you said to him.” My mouth popped open.  I couldn’t believe he’d actually listened to me.  A silly smile tugged at my mouth.  Did this really mean he’d let me go?  My barely formed smile faded.  Or would I just wake up back in this apartment tomorrow morning if I tried to leave? Sam continued to remake the bed with the clean sheets from the hidden compartment in the matching sofa ottoman. There had to be a catch.  Sam had told me a tied pair didn’t part until completing the Claim.  When Clay had scented me, and I’d recognized him openly, the Elders saw us as a pair.  They, in turn, announced it to everyone over their mental link.  Every werewolf, whether in a pack or Forlorn, recognized our tie.  If my words truly changed Clay’s mind, great—but Sam’s question caused me to begin to doubt that possibility, and I struggled to come up with what I’d overlooked. “The truth,” I said answering Sam’s question.  “Let’s say he is my Mate.  He’s an uneducated man from the backwoods.  How are we going to live?  I can’t turn on the fur like you guys can and live as a wolf like he’s done for most of his life.  Where does that leave us?  I just pointed out that I had to go to school to get the education I needed to land a good job to support myself because he can’t.” Sam had stopped remaking the bed and looked at me in disbelief. “Well, I said it nicer than that.” He gave me a disappointed look. “You don’t know anything about him, Gabby.  He may have lived most of his life in his fur, but it doesn’t mean he isn’t intelligent or that he’s more wolf than man.  You may have caused yourself more trouble than you intended.” I shifted against the door.  “Hold on, I didn’t say either of those things to him.”  Granted, I did tell him he needed to bathe.  “And what do you mean ‘more trouble’?” “He said that you suggested he live with you so you could get to know each other better.” I froze in disbelief.  That is not what I said. “Wait.  Did he actually talk to you?” “Well, I had to put on my fur to understand him since he was in his, but yes.” Sam’s kind communicated in several ways when in their fur—typically, through body language or howls.  Claimed and Mated pairs shared a special bond using an intuitive, mental link.  Once establishing a Claim, the pair could sense strong emotions as well as each other’s location.  Mated pairs had the same ability to communicate with each other as the Elders had with everyone in the pack. I closed my eyes and thought back to my exact wording. “I didn’t say we should live together, but that he should come back with me to get an education.”  Fine, I hadn’t worded it well, but how did he get “hey, we should live together” out of that? “Like I said, you’ve got trouble.”  He gave me another disappointed look, folded the bed back into the sofa, then picked up his bag from the floor.  He strode to the bathroom and closed the door on any further conversation. Crap.  I needed to talk to Clay again and find out what he intended.  I’d been counting on his feral upbringing and his need for freedom to cause him to reject my suggestion—a suggestion that hadn’t included him living with me.  I’d meant he should find a place nearby so we could go through the motions of human dating, which was the extent of my willingness to compromise.  I hadn’t thought he’d take any of it seriously but that, instead, he would just let me go. I

What can be known is that his words will be ones in keeping with his character—breathing life, making love bloom where there was no love, restoring justice, and remaking what is bent or broken. The Spirit’s voice—always, without exception—will bring the fruit of the Spirit that Paul lists in the letter to the Galatians: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things there is no law, on Sinai or in any valley. And so, whether the voice on the mountain burns like fire in the clouds, blisters us like the wind of the wilderness, rattles us like the quake of holy ground, or simply … whispers, it will speak. It will ask us questions that we do not want to answer, send us places we do not want to go, and remind us that the great goodness of a God of mountains is that however far our ascent to meet him may feel, his descent of love to meet us is infinitely greater.

as modernism sees it, the human body is nothing more than matter, to be molded, manipulated, and used. Devoid of divine purpose or meaning, it’s left for each of us, as individuals, to decide what we want to do with our body. We can ignore it and neglect it, or we can indulge its every appetite. We can nip it and tuck it, remaking it into whatever shape we desire, or we can cut it, starve it, and put it to rest when age, pain, or disease become too much to bear. We can give it away, again and again, to anyone we fancy in whatever ways we fancy, and we can do what we like with any new life that comes of that giving. When the body is seen as mere matter, anything goes. The body, however, isn’t mere matter. That’s a modernist fiction. Rather, as the Catholic anthropology of the theology of the body reminds us, man is a union of body and soul, made in the image of God. Which means our bodies are us. Your body is you. My body is me.

The Chinese worker-students who had gone to France during the war had been as unlucky as Vietnamese and Indian soldiers. Still, they returned to China radicalized by their harsh exposure to Europe. Deng Xiaoping later recalled the ‘sufferings of life and the humiliations brought upon [us] by… the running dogs of capitalists.’ Upon arrival in France, I learned from those students studying on a work-study program who had come to France earlier than two years after World War I, labour was no longer as badly needed as in the war time… and it was hard to find jobs. Since wages were low, it was impossible to support study through work. Our later experiences proved that one could hardly live on the wages, let alone go to school for study. Thus, all those dreams of ‘saving the country by industrial development,’ ‘learning some skills,’ etc., came to nothing.

Women’s brains in particular come into adulthood gifted with an excellent ability to recall specific aspects of verbal information, such as the precise details of a conversation, as well as episodic memory—the ability to recall details of past personal experiences, chiefly what, where, and when they happened. This fact may explain how so many women seem to possess crystal clear recall of conversations their husbands swear never occurred! All kidding aside, young adult women come equipped with a mature brain, a sharp memory, and fluent communication skills. At the same time, though, the internal processes that make and remake the brain (namely, the death and birth of neurons and their fluctuating activity) will rise and fall with each of our menstrual cycles, and throughout our lives. In fact, even once the brain has reached its mature state, it remains plastic, retaining the capacity to shift and change in response to our life experiences. These brain-body shifts are never more evident than . . . when a woman becomes pregnant.

Let us live by dreams and for dreams, undoing the Universe and remaking it, distractedly, as best suits our moment to dream. Let us do this conscious of its utter futility. Let us ignore life with every pore of our body, stray from reality with all of our senses, and abdicate from love with all our soul. Let us fill with useless sand the pitchers we take to the well, then empty them out, only to refill them and empty them again; the more futile the better. Let us weave garlands and, once they're finished, carefully, meticulously unpick them. Let us choose paints and mix them on the palette with no canvas before us to paint. Let us send for stone to chisel when we have no chisel and we are not sculptors. Let us render everything absurd and adorn our sterile hours with more utilities. Let us play hide and seek with our consciousness of being alive. Let us, with an amused, incredulous smile on our lips, listen to God telling us that we exist. Let us watch Time painting the world and finding the resulting picture not only false but hollow. Let us think with sentences that contradict one another, speaking out loud in sounds that aren’t colours. Let us affirm - and grasp, which would be impossible - that we are conscious of not being conscious, and that we are not what we are. Let us explain all this in an obscure, paradoxical way, saying that things have a divine, othersidedness to them, and let us not believe too much in that explanation so that we do not have to discard it. Let us carve out of empty silence all our dreams of speaking. Let us allow all our thoughts of action to slide into stagnant torpor. Yet dreamed landscapes are merely the smoke from known landscapes and the tedium of dreaming them is almost as great as the tedium of looking at the world. And hovering distractedly above all this, like a vast blue sky, the horror of living.

But almost all the other patterns that exist in most people’s lives—how we eat and sleep and talk to our kids, how we unthinkingly spend our time, attention, and money—those are habits that we know exist. And once you understand that habits can change, you have the freedom—and the responsibility—to remake them. Once you understand that habits can be rebuilt, the power of habit becomes easier to grasp, and the only option left is to get to work.

Christian marriage at its best is a beautiful picture of Jesus’s love for us. But it’s not the only one. “By this we know love,” John writes, “that [ Jesus] laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for the brothers” (1 John 3:16). In Christ we are one body together, brothers and sisters, comrades in arms, knit together in love. If Christians lived like this, the plague of loneliness would be over, and all of us—single or married, same-sex attracted or straight, old or young, widowed or newlywed—would be embraced into a family. These are the first tremors of the earthquake of God’s love that will remake the world when Jesus returns.

Life is in the transitions. His point is even more true today: We can’t ignore these central times of life; we can’t wish or will them away. We have to accept them, name them, mark them, share them, and eventually convert them into a new and vital fuel for remaking our life stories. The

We are capable of regaining our reverence for life, of replacing the drive to conquer with the will to cooperate, of remaking our engineered institutions, including our corporations, into living systems.

Knowledge in the abstract is merely a titillation of the intellect, an inconsequential stimulation of a segment of our total humanness. To fulfill itself, knowledge must find expression in the body. More than that, it must transmute the body by the power of its truth. And it is truth, not knowledge, which is replete with power. The power associated with knowledge is manipulative power, such as political leverage or overpowering influence. The power inherent in truth, however, is transformative in the deepest sense. It is capable of remaking the person in the light of truth. What truth? Or should we be speaking of truths? To hold true, truth must be singular. Always. A multiplicity of truths is a contradiction in terms. The custom of speaking of many truths arose out of the loss of truth and its substitution by countless facts. But facts are not truth. Only wisdom (prajnā) is truth-bearing (ritambharā) and therefore liberating. Truth is Reality without conceptual blinders. To the degree that the path of science is illumined by the ideal of truth, it has the capacity of guiding the scientist, step by step, to the discovery of truth—not merely factual truth but the kind of truth that sees everything in context and also preserves that context. A consideration of the larger context of human life must include reference to humanity’s evolutionary potential, including its possible spiritual destiny. Thus science can serve as a stepping-stone to the “evolutionary science” of Yoga, that is, to spiritual discipline through which our full potential is revealed. Yoga’s techniques of concentration and meditation, if mastered, disclose the transcendental possibilities of the mind, which allows us to experience truth at the highest level, as “ultimate Truth” (paramārtha-satya).

William James, the father of modern psychology, said it best nearly a century and a half ago, and his wisdom has been sadly forgotten. Life is in the transitions. His point is even more true today: We can’t ignore these central times of life; we can’t wish or will them away. We have to accept them, name them, mark them, share them, and eventually convert them into a new and vital fuel for remaking our life stories. The

The mystery of this place and its success still sometimes bewilders me. How could a restaurant in the middle of nowhere, run by all women (and one good man) with no formal training not only survive but thrive? Only one thing could explain it: love. We love our work because here, work feels joyful. We dance around the kitchen and dining room with a quiet grace—no yelling, no screaming, no put-downs. We are women, doing what we do best: caring for people.

Through each low moment, my sister remained absent. But I didn’t mourn her lack of presence: I was used to our nonexistent bond. Rooting me on wasn’t her style. Our relationship was riddled with decades-old decay and drifting apart that had yet to be repaired. We were anything but sisters, not even friends, really.

[M]achine learning will bring about not just a new era of civilization, but a new stage in the evolution of life on earth.

Don’t wish too much that all days be sunny, lest we doom ourselves with no days rainy. Don’t focus too much our minds on money, lest we miss each day’s far greater glory. Don’t dwell too much on our pains and heartaches, lest we lose the beauty of a remake. Don’t give too much of ourselves to loved ones, lest we forget ourselves—leave them at once.

in the Bible, is not a future destiny but the other, hidden, dimension of our ordinary life—God’s dimension, if you like. God made heaven and earth; at the last he will remake both and join them together forever. And when we come to the picture of the actual end in Revelation 21–22, we find not ransomed souls making their way to a disembodied heaven but rather the new Jerusalem coming down from heaven to earth, uniting the two in a lasting embrace.

almost all the other patterns that exist in most people’s lives—how we eat and sleep and talk to our kids, how we unthinkingly spend our time, attention, and money—those are habits that we know exist. And once you understand that habits can change, you have the freedom—and the responsibility—to remake them. Once you understand that habits can be rebuilt, the power of habit becomes easier to grasp, and the only option left is to get to work.

Meaning is all that's really left to me... There's a character in my remake of Bedazzled... and he says: 'Every time I reread Camus and Sartre I always say to myself: Why does the existential dilemma have to be so damned bleak? Yes, we're alone in the universe, life is meaningless and death is inevitable - but is that necessarily so depressing? It just puts the burden on us to fill our lives with joy and wonder and weirdness and adventure - whatever it is that makes your heart pound, your mind expand and your spirit soar.

In bringing to fruition this new self of our creation Nietzsche suggested that the use of deception may still be required. However, the deception in this case would not be rooted in the need to mask our weaknesses, as this only leads to stagnation. Rather in becoming what Nietzsche called “the true poets and continuous creators of life” he advocated the use of a subtle form of deception as a tool to initiate our transformation into the self we are striving to become. Nietzsche understood that very often it is our actions which precede a change in our emotions and belief structures. Thus, if one is striving to remake themselves, initially they will need to act in a somewhat fraudulent manner. Or in other words, they will need to act as the person they have not yet become, but wish to be.

Honor was wearing an ankle-length black skirt and a flowing blouse, with flat shoes that seemed to anchor her to the ground. Her gray-black hair shone in the spotlight. She was not a young woman. She had been through plenty. “I believe that we don’t choose our stories,” she began, leaning forward. “Our stories choose us.” She paused and took a sip of water. Her hand, I noticed, was steady. “And if we don’t tell them, then we are somehow diminished.” Diminished. The word went through me like a bolt. I pulled out the small notebook I carry with me and scribbled down what she had just found the grace to say. There it was. All of it. I thought of my favorite passage in the Gnostic Gospels: If we bring forth what is within us, it will save us. If we do not bring forth what is within us, it will destroy us. And what the Bhagavad Gita has to say about dharma: Better is one’s own dharma though imperfectly carried out than the dharma of another carried out perfectly. I knew about the struggle for authenticity. The mining for words to collect together what felt impossibly broken. I wanted to gather up in my arms all that was lost to me. I wanted nothing less than to remake my world. A writer afraid of her own subject—whatever it might be—is a frozen creature, trapped in the inessential.

In the information-processing ecosystem, learners are the superpredators. Databases, crawlers, indexers, and so on are the herbivores, patiently munging on endless fields of data. Statistical algorithms, online analytical processing, and so on are the predators. Herbivores are necessary, since without them the others couldn’t exist, but superpredators have a more exciting life.

Machine learning is the latest chapter in the arms race of life on Earth,

Habits are not as simple as they appear. As I’ve tried to demonstrate throughout this book, habits—even once they are rooted in our minds—aren’t destiny. We can choose our habits, once we know how. Everything we know about habits, from neurologists studying amnesiacs and organizational experts remaking companies, is that any of them can be changed, if you understand how they function.

One of the most important problems in machine learning—and life—is the exploration-exploitation dilemma. If you’ve found something that works, should you just keep doing it? Or is it better to try new things, knowing it could be a waste of time but also might lead to a better solution? Would you rather be a cowboy or a farmer? Start a company or run an existing one? Go steady or play the field? A midlife crisis is the yearning to explore after many years spent exploiting.

By the time we are aware we feel anxious, our thinking center is already engaged. Once that happens, we have access to more than just our habitual responses. We have access to choice. This is the start of control and change. Not just the perceptual kind, but the hardwired kind. Researchers have even put a number on how much control we actually have: 40 percent. According to data compiled by positive psychologist, Sonja Lyubomirsky and detailed in The How of Happiness, approximately 50 percent of variance in happiness is determined by genes, 10 percent of variance in happiness is determined by circumstance, and the rest of our happiness is determined by our actions.33 This is powerful information. “To understand that 40 percent of our happiness is determined by intentional activity,” Lyubomirsky writes, “is to appreciate the promise of the great impact that you can make on your own life through intentional strategies that you can implement to remake yourself as a happier person

analyze all aspects of American life. It provides a substitute narrative to compete with the traditional American philosophical and historical narrative that has shaped our culture and values. It establishes a new foundation for the continued promulgation of identity politics in America. By it, the Marxist hopes to facilitate the achievement of violent revolution, while the compassionate but ignorant “tool of reactionary intrigue” simply hopes to remake American society into something she has been trained to believe is more just and equitable.

Science, which has transformed the material world, gives man the power of transforming himself. It has unveiled some of the secret mechanisms of his life. It has shown him how to alter their motion, how to mould his body and his soul on patterns born of his wishes. For the first time in history, humanity, helped by science, has become master of its destiny. But will we be capable of using this knowledge of ourselves to our real advantage? To progress again, man must remake himself. And he cannot remake himself with out suffering. For he is both the marble and the sculptor in order to uncover his true visage he must shatter his own substance with heavy blows of his hammer. He will not submit to such treatment unless driven by necessity. While surrounded by the comfort, the beauty, and the mechanical marvels engendered by technology, he does not understand how urgent is this operation. He fails to realise that he is degenerating. Why should he strive to modify his ways of being, living, and thinking?