Resistance Is Futile Quotes

Not in this lifetime, buddy,” I said finally. “Resistance is futile, Kitten.” “So is your charm.” “We’ll see.

Always say “yes” to the present moment. What could be more futile, more insane, than to create inner resistance to what already is? what could be more insane than to oppose life itself, which is now and always now? Surrender to what is. Say “yes” to life — and see how life suddenly starts working for you rather than against you.

Resistance is futile, Kitten"..."So is your charm.

Mad Rogan: "Resistance is futile." Nevada: "You are not assimilating me!

Your resistance to my existence is futile.

He watched her from the fading dark, unseen and invisible, just another shadow in the trees. He wondered if he had been right to come here, to see her one last time, though he knew resisting her was futile. He couldn't leave without seeing her again, hearing her voice and seeing her smile, even though it wasn't for him. He had no illusions about his addiction to her. She had her fingers sunk firmly into his heart, and could do with it what she wished. He watched her walk away with the Iron faery and the dog, watched them leave to return to her own realm, back to a place he couldn't follow. For now.

I won't become part of the collective. I refuse to have your babies. Resistance isn't futile!

What could be more futile, more insane, than to create inner resistance to something that already is?

Resistance is futile, Kitten.” “So is your charm.

God, these guys were like fucking Terminators. Or Borg. Resistance is futile and all that shit. It was clear she wasn’t going to shake the Brothers From Hell.

Love? Love is about an unquenchable hunger, a passion so powerful it cannot be ignored. In the face of love,” he spoke softly, “all resistance is futile. Sex is momentary, ephemeral ecstasy at best without love. No one with a good opinion of themselves would trade sex by itself if they could have the true geld .. love with a worthy lover. It alters lives, and even the barest slice of true love … a moment, an evening, a day’s worth, can become a treasure to be pulled from the memory and ignite those feelings again many years after it has passed. It is the most powerful of all compulsions." Das

Always say “yes” to the present moment. What could be more futile, more insane, than to create inner resistance to something that already is? What could be more insane than to oppose life itself, which is now and always now? Surrender to what is. Say “yes” to life — and see how life suddenly starts working for you rather than against you.

If we’re to overcome our obstacles, this is the message to broadcast—internally and externally. We will not be stopped by failure, we will not be rushed or distracted by external noise. We will chisel and peg away at the obstacle until it is gone. Resistance is futile.

He smiled a slow, predatory grin. “Resistance is futile.” “You are not assimilating me.

Resistance to anything is like trying to change the outside pictures after they have been transmitted. It’s a futile pursuit.

Resistance is futile.

When Hitler marched across the Rhine To take the land of France, La dame de fer decided, ‘Let’s make the tyrant dance.’ Let him take the land and city, The hills and every flower, One thing he will never have, The elegant Eiffel Tower. The French cut the cables, The elevators stood still, ‘If he wants to reach the top, Let him walk it, if he will.’ The invaders hung a swastika The largest ever seen. But a fresh breeze blew And away it flew, Never more to be seen. They hung up a second mark, Smaller than the first, But a patriot climbed With a thought in mind: ‘Never your duty shirk.’ Up the iron lady He stealthily made his way, Hanging the bright tricolour, He heroically saved the day. Then, for some strange reason, A mystery to this day, Hitler never climbed the tower, On the ground he had to stay. At last he ordered she be razed Down to a twisted pile. A futile attack, for still she stands Beaming her metallic smile.

Because feminism is a movement for liberation of the powerless by the powerless in a closed system based on their powerlessness, right-wing women judge it a futile movement. Frequently they also judge it a malicious movement in that it jeopardizes the bargains with power that they can make; feminism calls into question for the men confronted by it the sincerity of women who conform without political resistance.

We do not make mistakes. Surrender at once! Resistance is fertile!" "Don't you mean futile?" "...That's what I said! Surrender or die!

Everyone is alien. And even when you are in love with someone, even when you think you know them better than you know yourself; even when you think you know everything about them and they you, and you live in each other's souls. Even then you know nothing about them at all.

She was making the case that we should resist on principle, even though it might be futile. I had just begun trying to make the case for hope in writing, and I argued that you don’t know if your actions are futile; that you don’t have the memory of the future; that the future is indeed dark, which is the best thing it could be; and that, in the end, we always act in the dark. The effects of your actions may unfold in ways you cannot foresee or even imagine. They may unfold long after your death. That is when the words of so many writers often resonate most.

Billy tries to imagine the vast systems that support these athletes. They are among the best-cared for creatures in the history of the planet, beneficiaries of the best nutrition, the latest technologies, the finest medical care, they live at the very pinnacle of American innovation and abundance, which inspires an extraordinary thought - send them to fight the war! Send them just as they are this moment, well rested, suited up, psyched for brutal combat, send the entire NFL! Attack with all our bears and raiders, our ferocious redskins, our jets, eagles, falcons, chiefs, patriots, cowboys - how could a bunch of skinny hajjis in man-skits and sandals stand a chance against these all-Americans? Resistance is futile, oh Arab foes. Surrender now and save yourself a world of hurt, for our mighty football players cannot be stopped, they are so huge, so strong, so fearsomely ripped that mere bombs and bullets bounce off their bones of steel. Submit, lest our awesome NFL show you straight to the flaming gates of hell!

No pen can give an adequate description of the all-pervading corruption produced by slavery. The slave girl is reared in an atmosphere of licentiousness and fear. The lash and the foul talk of her master and his sons are her teachers. When she is fourteen or fifteen, her owner, or his sons, or the overseer, or perhaps all of them, begin to bribe her with presents. If these fail to accomplish their purpose, she is whipped or starved into submission to their will. She may have had religious principles inculcated by some pious mother or grandmother, or some good mistress; she may have a lover, whose good opinion and peace of mind are dear to her heart; or the profligate men who have power over her may be exceedingly odious to her. But resistance is futile.

He was all healthy and in shape. She’d first poison him by introducing chocolate cake to his diet. And then bacon. No one could resist bacon. It was like the Borg from Star Trek. Any second now biomechanical humanoids would come marching out of the forest. “Resistance is futile. You will eat fattening chocolate.

Piano Man put up a fight but his resistance was futile. Hell hath no fury like a drunken girl at her bachelorette party in the mood to sing.

good news is that we’re all doomed, and you can give up any sense of control. Resistance is futile. Many things are going to get worse and weaker, especially democracy and the muscles in your upper arms. Most deteriorating conditions, though, will have to do with your family, the family in which you were raised and your current one. A number of the best people will have died, badly, while the worst thrive. The younger middle-aged people struggle with the same financial, substance, and marital crises that their parents did, and the older middle-aged people are, like me, no longer even late-middle-aged. We’re early old age, with failing memories, hearing loss, and gum disease. And also, while I hate to sound pessimistic, there are also new, tiny, defenseless people who are probably doomed, too, to the mental ruin of ceaseless striving. What most of us live by and for is the love of family—blood family, where the damage occurred, and chosen, where a bunch of really nutty people fight back together. But both kinds of families can be as hard and hollow as bone, as mystical and common, as dead and alive, as promising and depleted. And by the same token, only redeeming familial love can save you from this crucible, along with nature and clean sheets. A

we’re to overcome our obstacles, this is the message to broadcast—internally and externally. We will not be stopped by failure, we will not be rushed or distracted by external noise. We will chisel and peg away at the obstacle until it is gone. Resistance is futile.

Running away has been futile. Wherever I went life would be the same. Resisting my chains only seem to tighten them. Yet all around me women found ways to slip those bonds, to discreetly flout the rules and then return to their so-called captivity before anyone noticed.

[Slipped beneath the minnow Pea front door] Nollopton Monty No-way 6 Insane woman named Ella: Retreat is what we want. Go away. Let we alone. Anonymess

...But I'm so very glad that my resistance was futile!

What, in case they plot a graph?

In addition to “honorable,” it is apparently part of Mueller’s contract with the media that he must always be described as a “lifelong Republican.

I think everyone would recognize that we were in the middle of a fascist uprising.

The necessity of political struggle especially means confronting and contradicting those on the left who say that resistance is futile. Such people have no place in a movement for justice. For actionists who choose to work aboveground, this confrontation with detractors - and some of these detractors reject the idea of resistance of any kind - is one of the small, constant actions you can take. Defend the possibility of resistance, insist on a moral imperative of fighting for this planet, and argue for direct action against perpetrators. Despite what much of the left has now embraced, we are not all equally responsible. There are a few corporations that have turned the planet into a dead commodity for their private wealth, destroying human cultures along with it.

Our resistance to digital play is just like Socrates's resistance to writing. It is futile. Your kids need your help. And it's easy to provide. Parents, children, and families just need to start playing in the digital world together.

Another dogma among gun control supporters is that having a gun in the home for self-defense is futile and is only likely to increase the chances of your getting hurt or killed. Your best bet is to offer no resistance to an intruder, according to this dogma. Actual research tells just the opposite story. People who have not resisted have gotten hurt twice as often as people who resisted with a firearm. Those who resisted without a firearm of course got hurt the most often.

Tao is very often the Way that each individual has to follow if [one person] wishes to accord with the great cosmic principles that govern life instead of putting up a futile resistance to them at the cost of needless stress and frustration.52

Times like these are the great periods in world history because they represent an evolutionary advance and a further unfolding of the unknown Purpose (unknown as yet to us) which guides the evolutionary process. Such times bring about a liberation of the human spirit for higher and nobler achievements ahead. The forces guiding evolution are divine and purposeful and therefore cannot be thwarted by humanity. However, endowed as we are with free will, we have the choice of delaying progress or of hastening it. But in the end, resistance is futile.

Newspeak occurs whenever the primary purpose of language – which is to describe reality – is replaced by the rival purpose of asserting power over it. The fundamental speech-act is only superficially represented by the assertoric grammar. Newspeak sentences sound like assertions, but their underlying logic is that of the spell. They conjure the triumph of words over things, the futility of rational argument, and also the danger of resistance. As a result Newspeak developed its own special syntax, which – while closely related to the syntax deployed in ordinary descriptions – carefully avoids any encounter with reality or any exposure to the logic of rational argument. Françoise Thom has argued this in her brilliant study La langue de bois.5 The purpose of communist Newspeak, in Thom’s ironical words, has been ‘to protect ideology from the malicious attacks of real things’.

It’s the belief that the system is rigged against you and that all attempts to resist or challenge it are futile. That the decisions that affect your life are being taken by a bunch of other people somewhere else who are deliberately trying to conceal things from you. A belief that you are excluded from taking part in the conversation about your own life. This belief is deeply held by people in many communities and there is a very good reason for it: it’s true.

Now imagine an ultra-headstrong five-year-old, who never tires of whining, whose whining can’t be avoided, and whose behavior can’t be modified. The parents of such a child would quickly realize the futility of resisting the child’s entreaties. They would realize that in the long run, their life will be tolerable only if they give the child what he wants most of the time and save their energy for a few well-chosen battles. These parents will quickly get into the habit of saying yes to their child. Indeed, so quickly will they say yes that we—and maybe they as well—might forget that they have the power to say no.

guns. The Zulu were slaughtered by the thousands, but they never stopped fighting. The Xhosa, on the other hand, pride themselves on being the thinkers. My mother is Xhosa. Nelson Mandela was Xhosa. The Xhosa waged a long war against the white man as well, but after experiencing the futility of battle against a better-armed foe, many Xhosa chiefs took a more nimble approach. “These white people are here whether we like it or not,” they said. “Let’s see what tools they possess that can be useful to us. Instead of being resistant to English, let’s learn English. We’ll understand what the white man is saying, and we can force him to negotiate with us.” The

For possession of a single bullet, Shaykh Farhan al-Sa‘di, an eighty-one-year-old rebel leader, was put to death in 1937. Under the martial law in force at the time, that single bullet was sufficient to merit capital punishment, particularly for an accomplished guerrilla fighter like al-Sa‘di.57 Well over a hundred such sentences of execution were handed down after summary trials by military tribunals, with many more Palestinians executed on the spot by British troops.58 Infuriated by rebels ambushing their convoys and blowing up their trains, the British resorted to tying Palestinian prisoners to the front of armored cars and locomotives to prevent rebel attack, a tactic they had pioneered in a futile effort to crush resistance of the Irish during their war of independence from 1919 to 1921.

It would be futile to delude ourselves that at present, readers find every pathography unsavory. This attitude is excused with the reproach that from a pathographic elaboration of a great man one never obtains an understanding of his importance and his attainments, that it is therefore useless mischief to study in him things which could just as well be found in the first comer. However, this criticism is so clearly unjust that it can only be grasped when viewed as a pretext and a disguise for something. As a matter of fact pathography does not aim at making comprehensible the attainments of the great man; no one should really be blamed for not doing something which one never promised. The real motives for the opposition are quite different. One finds them when one bears in mind that biographers are fixed on their heroes in quite a peculiar manner. Frequently they take the hero as the object of study because, for reasons of their personal emotional life, they bear him a special affection from the very outset. They then devote themselves to a work of idealization which strives to enroll the great men among their infantile models, and to revive through him, as it were, the infantile conception of the father. For the sake of this wish they wipe out the individual features in his physiognomy, they rub out the traces of his life's struggle with inner and outer resistances, and do not tolerate in him anything of human weakness or imperfection; they then give us a cold, strange, ideal form instead of the man to whom we could feel distantly related. It is to be regretted that they do this, for they thereby sacrifice the truth to an illusion, and for the sake of their infantile phantasies they let slip the opportunity to penetrate into the most attractive secrets of human nature.

The meaning of this symbolism becomes clear in the light of what we said earlier: the forward-striving libido which rules the conscious mind of the son demands separation from the mother, but his childish longing for her prevents this by setting up a psychic resistance that manifests itself in all kinds of neurotic fears—that is to say, in a general fear of life. The more a person shrinks from adapting himself to reality, the greater becomes the fear which increasingly besets his path at every point. Thus a vicious circle is formed: fear of life and people causes more shrinking back, and this in turn leads to infantilism and finally “into the mother.” The reasons for this are generally projected outside oneself: the fault lies with external circumstances, or else the parents are made responsible. And indeed, it remains to be found out how much the mother is to blame for not letting the son go. The son will naturally try to explain everything by the wrong attitude of the mother, but he would do better to refrain from all such futile attempts to excuse his own ineptitude by laying the blame on his parents.

There is a world, to be sure; it impinges on our sense organs, filling our minds with sensory content and thereby preventing our thoughts from being hallucinations. But since we grasp the world only through the structures of our minds, we can't, wrote Kant, truly know the world in itself. All in all, it's not a bad bargain. Though we can never directly know the world, it's not as if one could know the world without some kind of mind, and the minds we are stuck with harmonize with the world well enough for science to be possible. Newton, for example, wrote that in his theory "absolute, true and mathematical time, of itself, and from its own nature flows equally without relation to anything," and that "absolute space, in its own nature, without relation to anything external, remains always similar and immovable." For Kant these are the mind's supports for negotiating reality, and it is futile to try to think without them or around them. He chides us with an analogy: "The light dove, cleaving the air in her free flight, and feeling its resistance, might imagine that its flight would be still easier in empty space.

History and social science, because they are written by an intelligentsia using written records that are also created largely by literate officials, is simply not well equipped to uncover the silent and anonymous forms of class struggle that [Page 37] typify the peasantry.20 Its practitioners implicitly join the conspiracy of the participants, who are themselves, as it were, sworn to secrecy. Collectively, this unlikely cabal contributes to a stereotype of the peasantry, enshrined in both literature and in history, as a class that alternates between long periods of abject passivity and brief, violent, and futile explosions of rage. He had centuries of fear and submission behind him, his shoulders had become hardened to blows, his soul so crushed that he did not recognise his own degradation. You could beat him and starve him and rob him of everything, year in, year out, before he would abandon his caution and stupidity, his mind filled with all sorts of muddled ideas which he could not properly understand; and this went on until a culmination of injustice and suffering flung him at his master’s throat like some infuriated domestic animal who had been subjected to too many thrashings.21

Judge Fisher permitted the defendants to explain how their opposition to the war had caused them to commit an act of resistance. He also permitted them to call as witnesses a wide range of people who supported resistance to the war, including both Daniel and Philip Berrigan. One by one, defense witnesses spoke of resistance to the government's war policy as an admired virtue central to understanding of American history and to maintaining a just society. One of the surprising witnesses was Major Clement St. Martin, the commander of the New Jersey State induction center in Newark from 1968 to 1971. Files under his control had been destroyed by the defendants. Nevertheless, he testified in their defense.He said he had become completely frustrated after years of making futile complaints through appropriate channels about the gross corruption in the way the draft forced the sons of the poor to serve in Vietnam and released the sons of the rich and sons of state and federal officials from service. His frustrations had grown particularly deep, he testified, in 1969 when a "very high" Selective Service official, responding to complaints filed by the major, told him, "Mind your business. We have twenty million animals to chose from.

Ryder turns off the radio and reaches for my camera, pointing it at me in the dark. It beeps, and a red light indicates that he’s filming. “Are you scared, Jemma?” I prop my head up on one elbow. “Yeah, I’m scared,” I say, carefully weighing my words. “But…we’ll be okay. This house has weathered plenty of storms through the years. It’ll keep us safe.” “I hope you’re right.” “Yeah, me too.” I hear him swallow hard. “I’m glad I’m here with you.” “I’m glad you are too,” I say automatically. But then…I realize with a start that it’s true. I am glad he’s here. I feel safe with him. More relaxed than I would be otherwise. He thinks I’m distracting him, making him forget his fears. But the truth is, he’s helping me just as much. Maybe more. I’m pretty sure I’d be a blubbering mess right about now if I were alone. “Thanks, Ryder,” I say, my voice thick. “For what?” “Everything.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Turn off the camera, okay?” He does, setting it aside before stretching out on the far side of the bed, facing me. Our gazes meet, and my stomach flutters nervously. There’s something there in his dark eyes, something I’ve never seen before. Vulnerability…mixed with a kind of dark, melty chocolate expression that I don’t recognize. Our hands are lying there on the bed between us, nearly touching. I lift my pinkie, brushing it against his. Chills race down my spine at the contact, my heart pounding against my ribs. I hear his breath catch. Slowly, his hand moves over mine, his fingertips brushing my knuckles until his entire hand covers mine. His skin is hot, the pressure reassuring. A minute passes, maybe two. It’s almost like he’s waiting, watching to see if I pull my hand away. I don’t. In one quick movement, he slides his hand under mine and threads our fingers together. We lie like that for several minutes, arms outstretched, hands joined, eyes wide open. The storm continues to rage around us, but it’s like we’re locked in this safe, calm place where nothing can touch us. My breathing slows; my limbs grow heavy. My lids flutter shut. I try to resist, but it’s futile. I’m exhausted. I drift off to sleep with a smile on my lips, Ryder holding me fast.

No,” she croaked, trying to shrink away from him. “You’re not supposed to be here. Don’t come near me; you’ll catch it. Please go—” “Quiet,” Kev said, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He caught Win as she tried to roll away, and settled his hand on her forehead. He felt the burning pulse beneath her fragile skin, the veins lit with raging fever. As Win struggled to push him away, Kev was alarmed by how feeble she had grown. Already. “Don’t,” she sobbed, writhing. Weak tears slid from her eyes. “Please don’t touch me. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you to get sick. Oh, please go. … ” Kev pulled her up against him, her body living flame beneath the thin layer of her nightgown, the pale silk of her hair streaming over both of them. And he cradled her head in one of his hands, the powerful battered hand of a bare-knuckle fighter. “You’re mad,” he said in a low voice, “if you think I would leave you now. I’ll see you safe and well no matter what it takes.” “I won’t live through this,” she whispered. Kev was shocked by the words, and even more by his own reaction to them. “I’m going to die,” she said, “and I won’t take you with me.” Kev gripped her more closely, letting her fitful breaths blow against his face. No matter how she writhed, he wouldn’t let go. He breathed the air from her, taking it deep into his own lungs. “Stop,” she cried, trying desperately to twist away from him. The exertion caused her flush to darken. “This is madness. … Oh, you stubborn wretch, let me go!” “Never.” Kev smoothed her wild, fine hair, the strands darkening where her tears had tracked. “Easy,” he murmured. “Don’t exhaust yourself. Rest.” Win’s struggles slowed as she recognized the futility of resisting him. “You’re so strong,” she said faintly, the words born not of praise, but damnation. “You’re so strong. … ” “Yes,” Kev said, gently using a corner of the bed linens to dry her face. “I’m a brute, and you’ve always known it, haven’t you?” “Yes,” she whispered. “And you’re going to do as I say.” He cradled her against his chest and gave her some water. She took a few painful sips. “Can’t,” she managed, turning her face away. “More,” he insisted, bringing the cup back to her lips. “Let me sleep, please—” “After you drink more.

Why does the mind habitually deny or resist the Now? Because it cannot function and remain in control without time, which is past and future, so it perceives the timeless Now as threatening. Time and mind are in fact inseparable. Imagine the Earth devoid of human life, inhabited only by plants and animals. Would it still have a past and a future? Could we still speak of time in any meaningful way? The question “What time is it?” or “What’s the date today?” — if anybody were there to ask it — would be quite meaningless. The oak tree or the eagle would be bemused by such a question. “What time?” they would ask. “Well, of course, it’s now. The time is now. What else is there?” Yes, we need the mind as well as time to function in this world, but there comes a point where they take over our lives, and this is where dysfunction, pain, and sorrow set in. The mind, to ensure that it remains in control, seeks continuously to cover up the present moment with past and future, and so, as the vitality and infinite creative potential of Being, which is inseparable from the Now, becomes covered up by time, your true nature becomes obscured by the mind. An increasingly heavy burden of time has been accumulating in the human mind. All individuals are suffering under this burden, but they also keep adding to it every moment whenever they ignore or deny that precious moment or reduce it to a means of getting to some future moment, which only exists in the mind, never in actuality. The accumulation of time in the collective and individual human mind also holds a vast amount of residual pain from the past. If you no longer want to create pain for yourself and others, if you no longer want to add to the residue of past pain that still lives on in you, then don’t create any more time, or at least no more than is necessary to deal with the practical aspects of your life. How to stop creating time? Realize deeply that the present moment is all you ever have. Make the Now the primary focus of your life. Whereas before you dwelt in time and paid brief visits to the Now, have your dwelling place in the Now and pay brief visits to past and future when required to deal with the practical aspects of your life situation. Always say “yes” to the present moment. What could be more futile, more insane, than to create inner resistance to something that already is? What could be more insane than to oppose life itself, which is now and always now? Surrender to what is. Say “yes” to life — and see how life suddenly starts working for you rather than against you.

I hate like hell to go, especially with things still so up in the air between us.” Liv was watching him from the bed. “Nothing’s up in the air. You’re determined to keep me and I’m determined to go.” His face darkened. “You’re not so damn determined when I have you in the bathing pool.” Liv felt a heated blush creep into her cheeks but she refused to back down. “Be that as it may, what I say or do in the, uh, in the heat of passion doesn’t change how I feel.” A look that was almost despair crossed over his chiseled features. “Damn it, Olivia, can’t you admit to yourself that you feel for me what I feel for you? Can’t you just try to imagine having a life here with me on the ship?” “I could…if I didn’t already have a life waiting for me back on Earth.” She sighed. “Look, let’s not fight about this right now. You have to go, fine. I’ll manage okay on my own here.” To be honest she was looking forward to a reprieve from the constant lust she felt while being cooped up with him in close quarters. He frowned. “I shouldn’t be leavin’ you alone during our claiming period. If I hadn’t had a direct order from my CO—” “It’s okay, really. I’ll find something to keep me occupied. I’ll try the translator and read one of your books. And I can work the wave well enough to make my own lunch without burning a finger off now.” “All right, fine.” He looked slightly mollified. “But whatever you do, stay in the suite. Don’t leave for any reason.” “Yes, sir!” She gave him a mocking salute. “To hear is to obey, oh my lord and master.” “Lilenta…” He sighed. “This is for your safety. I’m not trying to order you around for the hell of it.” “No, you just want to make my decisions for me. Stay here, don’t go there. Live the rest of your life on the ship instead of ever seeing your loved ones on Earth again. Why should this be any different?” Liv knew an edge of bitterness had crept into her voice but she couldn’t seem to help it. Baird scowled. “In time you’ll see that this is best. The only way I can protect you is to keep you close to me.” “Funny how much being protected feels like being owned.” “I thought you didn’t want to fight.” “You started it.” Liv knew it sounded childish but she didn’t care. He ran a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Olivia…” Then he shook his head, as though sensing the futility of any argument. He pointed a finger at her instead. “I’m going but I’ll be back tonight in time for the start of our tasting week.” “You…I’m surprised you want to…to do anything at all.” Liv worked hard to keep the tremble out of her voice but didn’t quite succeed. He raised an eyebrow. “You mean with you trying to pick a fight at every opportunity and generally resisting me every step of the way? I have news for you, Lilenta, none of that affects the way I feel for you—the way I need you—one bit.” He walked over to the bed where she was sitting on the edge and pulled her to her feet. “I still want you more than any other woman I’ve ever seen. Still need to be inside you, bonding you to me, making you mine,” he growled softly, pulling her close. “Baird, stop it!” She wanted to beat against his broad chest in protest but she somehow found herself melting against him instead. “Don’t you want to give me a kiss goodbye?” There was a flicker of bitter amusement in his golden eyes. “No, I guess you don’t. Too bad.” Leaning down, he took her lips in a rough yet tender kiss that took Liv’s breath away.

The idea that a story or the mobilization of a bunch of stories is futile flies in the face of everything we now about the history of social movements in the United States. The Labor Movement, the Women's Movement, the Civil Rights Movement, the Student Movement, the LGBT Movement, the movement to Occupy Wall Street--all of these social transformations & the legislation they inspired were sparked & carried on at particular moments by tales of unrest, resistance & desire that were somehow documented & shared widely.

You here to pick up your sister?” “As always.” “Thought maybe you decided to rejoin the rest of us drones.” His voice dropped into a robotic monotone. “We are the borg. You will be assimilated.” “Not a chance.” “Resistance is futile.” “Unless you do online school.

The sun starts to sink lower over the ocean, and Zach somehow magics up a fire from driftwood and kindling. And then he brings out the marshmallows. Not a bag of mass-produced, uniform white cylinders of sugar. But two not-quite-square, hand-made, artisanal marshmallows. I look up at him. “Are you kidding me right now?” The right side of his mouth kicks up in a smirk that says I gave him exactly the reaction he was looking for. “Nope,” he says. “I asked the baker and she made these special for us. After all, I did promise you.” He grabs a forked stick and roasts them for us. When they’re perfectly golden brown and sagging off the stick, he slides it onto a graham cracker, and adds a square of chocolate. I put the entire thing in my mouth. “Ohmigod!” I murmur. “This is amazing!” “Transcendent?” he teases. “Absolutely.” I agree, licking some of the sugar off my fingers. He grabs my wrist and the next thing I know, he’s licking the sugar off my fingers. Oh God, and now I’m thinking of last night and what else he licked. As I watch, his eyes get intense; he’s thinking the same. “We can’t have sex on the beach,” I say breathlessly. “Too sandy.” “You have a one-track mind, don’t you?” he teases. “I only brought you here for the sunset.” Aaaand now I feel like an idiot. “Right,” I cough, blushing. “Well, thank you.” “But …” He adds, his mouth curving into that sexy smile that kills me. “That doesn’t mean we can’t … kiss.” His hand comes up to push a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I nod because resistance is futile. The best I can do is make light of it so he can’t see the emotion coursing through me. “I’m pretty sure it’s the law that when you drink wine and eat artisanal marshmallows on the beach, you have to kiss.” I wave vaguely toward where we left the car. “I saw it on the sign by the parking lot.” “Well, if it’s a law,” he grins. A second later, his lips find mine. He tastes like wine and sugar, and pure Zach. I sigh in pleasure. This picnic, the marshmallows—everything—just might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me. But that perfect sunset? We totally miss it. After all, there are better things to do.

You can, indeed, refuse to admit this, but only at the cost of the immense and futile effort of spending your whole life resisting the inevitable

In our secular world, we no longer see eternal paradise as a carrot at the end of the stick of life, but try to cram as much as possible into our relatively short time on the planet instead. This is, of course, a futile endeavour, doomed to failure. It is tempting to interpret the modern epidemics of depression and burnout as the individual's response to the unbearable nature of constant acceleration. The decelerating individual - who slows down instead of speeding up, and maybe even stops completely - seems out of place in a culture characterised by manic development, and may be interpreted pathologically (i.e. diagnosed as clinically depressed).

The devil can’t make you do anything! Resistance is not futile. You can overcome temptation. Where

Nobody told me that resisting would feel like trying to breathe through a straw. Futile. Impossible. Unrealistic. So I’d pulled the straw away and filled my lungs with air, filled my lungs with Moses, pulling him in with great big gulps, unable to slow down or focus on anything but the next breath.

Resistance is futile when everything in the world is conspiring to destroy what we admire. We are always left, however, with an incorruptible soul, so that we might contemplate, judge, and disdain.

Lucky, it would seem resistance is futile.

we should resist on principle, even though it might be futile.

According to Ramses’s inscriptions, no country was able to oppose this invading mass of humanity. Resistance was futile. The great powers of the day—the Hittites, the Mycenaeans, the Canaanites, the Cypriots, and others—fell one by one. Some

If you no longer want to create pain for yourself and others, if you no longer want to add to the residue of past pain that still lives on in you, then don’t create any more time, or at least no more than is necessary to deal with the practical aspects of your life. How to stop creating time? Realize deeply that the present moment is all you ever have. Make the Now the primary focus of your life. Whereas before you dwelt in time and paid brief visits to the Now, have your dwelling place in the Now and pay brief visits to past and future when required to deal with the practical aspects of your life situation. Always say “yes” to the present moment. What could be more futile, more insane, than to create inner resistance to something that already is? What could be more insane than to oppose life itself, which is now and always now? Surrender to what is. Say “yes” to life — and see how life suddenly starts working for you rather than against you.

It would be a tragedy if, by the time we’d finally resolved to resist, such resistance were futile. The generations to come would have to get used to a world in which surveillance wasn’t something occasional and directed in legally justified circumstances, but a constant and indiscriminate presence: the ear that always hears, the eye that always sees, a memory that is sleepless and permanent.

Metin Başoğlu, a psychiatrist and trauma researcher, studied the psychological effects of torture on political POWs and war survivors from Yugoslavia and Turkey by comparing continuous versus intermittent torture. His findings showed that torture with breaks between abuses induced more severe psychological effects than continuous torture. Victims of intermittent torture had higher rates of depression, anxiety, and PTSD. The unpredictability and anticipation of more abuse heightened stress and anxiety, which then caused “learned helplessness,” making victims feel powerless and passive over time. This increased compliance because resistance seemed futile.

Strip, Doc.” “Giving me orders now, are you?” “Damned straight. I am, after all, the resistance leader. And I say resistance against what I plan is futile.” “That has to be the cheesiest seduction line I’ve ever had the misfortune to hear.

The SUVs stopped a dozen feet away and the cyborgs inside piled out, weapons pointing at Oliver and Maria. “Do not attempt to resist,” one said. “Resistance is…” “Futile?” Oliver asked. The cyborg considered that. “I was going to say useless, but you seem to have grasped the general idea.” “Start

Dinner? Oooh. I do so love a man who likes to eat.” She winked. He fought a blush. Him. A blush. What the hell? “Shouldn’t you return to your friends?” Before he did something crazy like invite her back to his place for dessert. “They can wait while I have dinner with my Pookie. I mean, I wouldn’t want to be rude on our first date.” “This is not a date.” “And yet, there’s you, me, and food!” She clapped as she exclaimed the last word, probably because the server arrived bearing a massive platter laden with a ridiculously large steak and all the fixings. Before he’d finished saying thank you to Claude for being so prompt with his meal, she’d sawed off a piece of his porterhouse and popped it in her mouth. As she chewed, eyes closed, she made happy noises. Noises that should not be allowed in public. Noise she should make only while he touched her. Noises that made him snap, “Do you mind? This is my supper.” “Sorry, Pookie. That was so rude of me. Here, have a bite.” The next piece of steak she cut she offered on the tines of her fork, a fork that had touched her lips. Refuse. We don’t share. We— He devoured it, the bite an absolute delight. Juicy, a slight hint of salt and garlic, butter-soft to chew. His turn to sigh. “Damn, that’s good.” “Make that noise again,” she growled. He glanced at her and noticed she stared at his mouth, avidly. Hungrily… It was both flattering and disturbing. He needed to stop this. Right now. “If you don’t mind, I would prefer to eat alone.” “Alone?” “Yes, alone. While I am complimented by your interest in me, I’m afraid you’re mistaken about everything else. We are not on a date. We are not mates. We are nothing. Zilch. Nada.” No point in sugarcoating it. Best to lay it all out now before she got any further with this crazy idea they belonged together. But we do belong to her. Leo ignored his inner feline as he waited for her outburst. Women never took rejection well. Either they resorted to tears and wailing, or they resorted to screaming and ranting. But honesty was best. However, Meena didn’t react as expected. Her lips stretched into a full grin, her eyes sparkled, and she leaned forward— pressing her breasts together, causing her neckline to droop and give him a peek at the shadowy valley they created. “Resistance is futile. But cute. Think of me later when you’re masturbating, I know I’ll be thinking of you.” With a last stolen bite of his dinner, she popped up from her seat and sashayed to the bar. Don’t look. Don’t look. Pfft. He was a cat. Of course he looked, and admired the hypnotic swish of her ass.

In this matter of monastic tradition, we must carefully distinguish between tradition and convention. In many monasteries there is very little living tradition, and yet the monks think themselves to be traditional. Why? Because they cling to an elaborate set of conventions. Convention and tradition may seem on the surface to be much the same thing. But this superficial resemblance only makes conventionalism all the more harmful. In actual fact, conventions are the death of real tradition as they are of all real life. They are parasites which attach themselves to the living organism of tradition and devour all its reality, turning it into a hollow formality. Tradition is living and active, but convention is passive and dead. Tradition does not form us automatically: we have to work to understand it. Convention is accepted passively, as a matter of routine. Therefore convention easily becomes an evasion of reality. It offers us only pretended ways of solving the problems of living— a system of gestures and formalities. Tradition really teaches us to live and shows us how to take full responsibility for our own lives. Thus tradition is often flatly opposed to what is ordinary, to what is mere routine. But convention, which is a mere repetition of familiar routines, follows the line of least resistance. One goes through an act, without trying to understand the meaning of it all, merely because everyone else does the same. Tradition, which is always old, is at the same time ever new because it is always reviving - born again in each new generation, to be lived and applied in a new and particular way. Convention is simply the ossification of social customs. The activities of conventional people are merely excuses for not acting in a more integrally human way. Tradition nourishes the life of the spirit: convention merely disguises its interior decay. Finally, tradition is creative. Always original, it always opens out new horizons for an old journey. Convention, on the other hand, is completely unoriginal. It is slavish imitation. It is closed in upon itself and leads to complete sterility. Tradition teaches us how to love, because it develops and expands our powers, and shows us how to give ourselves to the world in which we live, in return for all that we have received from it. Convention breeds nothing but anxiety and fear. It cuts us off from the sources of all inspiration. It ruins our productivity. It locks us up within a prison of frustrated effort. It is, in the end, only the mask for futility and for despair. Nothing could be better than for a monk to live and grow up in his monastic tradition, and nothing could be more fatal than for him to spend his life tangled in a web of monastic conventions.

Resistance is NOT futile.

I do doubt she ever felt so cluttered and noisy and jangled that she put her boot through the ice. As soon as I did it, I could just hear her saying in alarm, “Well. My stars!” But there are days I do feel that way, and I am beginning to know that it is because I hold on. I fight. I resist. It doesn’t even matter what I resist; there is simply something in me that tends to resist things as they are. I have been fighting since I was very small. And I believe that my addiction was a response, in some measure, to the fact that the fight was futile, and I could not tolerate that fact. I couldn’t tolerate the fact that I did not control the world. I could not, or would not, learn to accept it.

I don’t enjoy surprises that compel me to renegotiate my relationship with the past.

Stop trying to be a magician. The past won’t come back. It likes its safety in memory.

It was also not until many years later, Baldwin related, that he discovered that the Communists used these fronts as recruiting grounds for the Party. If the treasurer happened to be a party member, funds would be siphoned off for party purposes. Eventually Baldwin recognized the futility of working with the Communists. “I recognized the lesson many others—but, unfortunately, not all liberals—learned: that no movement in which communists participate can successfully resist

Resistance is futile, my little padawan.

After a thorough two-to-three-second consideration, I decide to focus on work stress. It highjacks you, clobbers you over the head, and drags you down into dark, murky water as you gasp for air and futilely try to resist. It leaves you wide awake, your brain churning, your eyes staring at the ceiling fan at four in the morning whereas other stress can usually be assuaged with a glass of wine. Or five.

Resistance was normal; however, it was generally futile as well. Being

I was starting to feel like my opposition was futile. Was my resistance worth the weariness that was seeping into my body? I couldn’t deny that I coveted him. I recognized my body’s demand for him for what it was and I had no disillusionments; I knew that I would enjoy the promises he tantalized me with.

Yet I provided you everything (almost) in my book, which the government denies you the access to. I was going to go deeper in details, but I figured it was futile. To make a long story short, you may divide my time in two big steps. (1) Pre-torture (I mean that I couldn’t resist): I told them the truth about me having done nothing against your country. It lasted until May 22, 2003. (2) Post-torture era: where my brake broke loose. I yessed every accusation my interrogators made. I even wrote the infamous confession about me planning to hit the CN Tower in Toronto, based on SSG ■​■​■​■​■​■​■​■​■​ advice. I just wanted to get the monkeys off my back. I don’t care how long I stay in jail. My belief comforts me.2

Resistance would be futile, and futility itself was, of course, to be resisted.

Thinker is dependent on thought for its existence . Resistance of the thinker against the knower arises out of its fear of death.since the arrival of knower implies futility of the presence of the thinker, knowing replaces the thinker with knower.

AI will become more potent and be able to regulate both the climate and the surroundings.

Activists will no longer be required or permitted to take part in campaigns against inequality since AI will be used by the community to solve problems.

As a Human Resource Professional, AI will become the most effective tools for Companies and Industries

If the fear of death were merely the fear of dying, it would be better dealt with by medicine than by argument. There is, or there might be, an art of dying well, of dying painlessly, willingly, and in season,—as in those noble partings which Attic gravestones depict,—especially if we were allowed, as Lucretius would allow us, to choose our own time. But the radical fear of death, I venture to think, is something quite different. It is the love of life. Epicurus, who feared life, seems to have missed here the primordial and colossal force he was fighting against. Had he perceived that force, he would have been obliged to meet it in a more radical way, by an enveloping movement, as it were, and an attack from the rear. The love of life is not something rational, or founded on experience of life. It is something antecedent and spontaneous. It is that Venus Genetrix which covers the earth with its flora and fauna. It teaches every animal to seek its food and its mate, and to protect its offspring; as also to resist or fly from all injury to the body, and most of all from threatened death. It is the original impulse by which good is discriminated from evil, and hope from fear. Nothing could be more futile, therefore, than to marshal arguments against that fear of death which is merely another name for the energy of life, or the tendency to self-preservation. Arguments involve premises, and these premises, in the given case, express some particular form of the love of life; whence it is impossible to conclude that death is in no degree evil and not at all to be feared. For what is most dreaded is not the agony of dying, nor yet the strange impossibility that when we do not exist we should suffer for not existing. What is dreaded is the defeat of a present will directed upon life and its various undertakings. Such a present will cannot be argued away, but it may be weakened by contradictions arising within it, by the irony of experience, or by ascetic discipline. To introduce ascetic discipline, to bring out the irony of experience, to expose the self-contradictions of the will, would be the true means of mitigating the love of life; and if the love of life were extinguished, the fear of death, like smoke rising from that fire, would have vanished also.

Stop," she cried, trying desperately to twist away from him. The exertion caused her flush to darken. "This is madness… Oh, you stubborn wretch, let me go!" "Never." Kev smoothed her wild, fine hair, the strands darkening where her tears had tracked. "Easy," he murmured. "Don't exhaust yourself. Rest." Win's struggles slowed as she recognized the futility of resisting him. "You're so strong," she said faintly, the words born not of praise, but damnation. "You're so strong…" "Yes," Kev said, gently using a corner of the bed linens to dry her face. "I'm a brute, and you've always known it, haven't you?" "Yes," she whispered. "And you're going to do as I say." He cradled her against his chest and gave her some water. She took a few painful sips. "Can't," she managed, turning her face away. "More," he insisted, bringing the cup back to her lips. "Let me sleep, please-" "After you drink more." Kev wouldn't relent until she obeyed with a moan. Settling her back into the pillows, he let her drowse for a few minutes, then returned with some toast softened in broth. He bullied her into taking a few spoonfuls. By that time Amelia had awakened, and she came into Win's room. A quick double blink was Amelia's only reaction to the sight of Win leaning back against Kev's arm while he fed her. "Get rid of him," Win told her sister hoarsely, her head resting on Kev's shoulder. "He's torturing me." "Well, we've always known he was a fiend," Amelia said in a reasonable tone, coming to stand at the bedside. "How dare you, Merripen?… Coming into an unsuspecting girl's room and feeding her toast.

These endless ankle-twisting contradictions underfoot, amorphous, resistant, cutting, dull, become the uncountable futilities heaped upon one’s own shores by the surrounding ocean of indifference. If then one could elevate gloom into metaphysical despair, see the human race as no taller than that most depressing of life-forms, the lichen that stains so many of these bare stones black, one might, paradoxically, march on with a weightier stride that would soon outwalk the linear desert. Instead, the interminable dump of broken bits and pieces one is toiling along stubbornly remains the merely personal accumulation of petty worries, selfish anxieties, broken promises, discarded aspirations and other chips off a life-worn ego, that constitutes the path to one’s own particular version of nowhere.

What could be more futile, more insane, than to create inner resistance to something that already is? What could be more insane than to oppose life itself, which is now and always now? Surrender to what is. Say “yes” to life — and see how life suddenly starts working for you rather than against you.

Yep, resistance wasn’t futile, but it was overrated.

It was unfortunate that they had been spotted by coincidence and hadn't been able to take out the man before he alarmed the camp, but in the end, it wouldn't make any difference. The outcome would simply be delayed by a few minutes. "Proceed as planned," he instructed his units on the ground, "Strike." The command was what Nephilim had been waiting for. Her artificial muscles sprang into action, and she rushed forward. So did the rest of her squad. Coming from all sides, they raided the settlement like a pack of hungry wolves. Within seconds the first houses were stormed and cleared without much effort. Most inhabitants were still half asleep and didn't give much of a fight when the blue-eyed killers invaded their homes, putting bullets through their heads. Screams of panic and agony could be heard everywhere, so loud that they almost drowned the shrill alarm. People tried to flee, ran helplessly in all directions, but there was no escape from an enemy that could move ten times faster. Others fell to their knees and begged for mercy, even though it was futile. The Angels knew no mercy. But soon it turned out that the inhabitants of the settlement weren't as helpless as recon had initially indicated. After the first few minutes, which had indeed been like a walk in the park, Nephilim and her comrades encountered heavy resistance. As they approached the inner area of the former industrial facility, the enemy opened fire. Through the eyes of her drone flying above her, Nephilim spotted shooters taking position on the roof of an old brick factory

Wi-fi password?” Calder handed it over, feeling at that point like resistance was futile. This was his life now. Overrun and bossed around by two twinks and a scary brunette with no filter. As soon as she connected,

But Pelosi had every reason to be furious. The House had already passed a budget resolution authorizing $3.5 trillion in spending. And Pelosi was driving House committees to furiously finish the donkey work required to create a fully realized bill. But Schumer knew that all that work was futile, and he hadn’t bothered telling her. They were producing language for a bill that Joe Manchin was never going to support. Why hadn’t he bothered telling Pelosi about that? The best Schumer could muster was that his agreement with Manchin wasn’t binding. In truth, Schumer was engaged in the very same process as Pelosi. He just wanted to press forward. When Manchin arrived in his office with the “contract,” Schumer agreed to sign it because it was the path of least resistance. Schumer needed Manchin’s support for a procedural vote advancing Build Back Better—and this contract was the condition of his support. If Manchin voted against the procedural vote, the whole bill would be stalled, if not effectively dead. So rather than attempting to negotiate with Manchin, he did what it took to move forward, even if it left him with a future mess. He could deal with the mess when the moment arrived. In the meantime, he just signed the damn thing. But he also handwrote an addendum onto the document that supplied him with cover. It read, “Will try to dissuade Joe on many of these.

The Thebans came to realize that their situation was dire and that resistance was futile.

It was impossible for my touch not to affect her and utterly futile for me to resist hers.

As soon as Jeremiah saw me, he sprang up. “Ladies and Gentlemen-men-men,” he began dramatically, bowing like a circus ringmaster. “I do believe it is time… for our first belly flop of the summer.” I inched away from them uneasily. Too fast a movement, and it would be all over—they’d chase me then. “No way,” I said. Then Conrad and Steven stood up, circling me. “You can’t fight tradition,” Steven said. Conrad just grinned evilly. “I’m too old for this,” I said desperately. I walked backward, and that’s when they grabbed me. Steven and Jeremiah each took a wrist. “Come on, guys,” I said, trying to wriggle out of their grasp. I dragged my feet, but they pulled me along. I knew it was futile to resist, but I always tried, even though the bottoms of my feet got burned along the pavement in the process. “Ready?” Jeremiah said, lifting me up under my armpits. Conrad grabbed my feet, and then Steven took my right arm while Jeremiah hung on to my left. They swung me back and forth like I was a sack of flour. “I hate you guys,” I yelled over their laughter. “One,” Jeremiah began. “Two,” Steven said. “And three,” Conrad finished. Then they launched me into the pool, clothes and all. I hit the water with a loud smack. Underwater, I could hear them busting up. The Belly Flop was something they’d started about a million summers ago. Probably it had been Steven. I hated it. Even though it was one of the only times I was included in their fun, I hated being the brunt of it. It made me feel utterly powerless, and it was a reminder that I was an outsider, too weak to fight them, all because I was a girl. Somebody’s little sister.

it’s a natural reaction against the futilities of so-called democracy. The people attempt a task which is beyond their powers, the governing of a modern state, and they are brought to a plight where they are glad to have a strong man get them out of it. The strong man studies the people, understands them better than they understand themselves, and promises them everything they want; he constructs a program with an appeal which they are powerless to resist. Say that he’s ‘fooling them,’ if you wish, but even so, he gets control, and having once got it, he keeps it—because modern weapons are so efficient that those who have them are masters, provided they are not afraid to use them. The machine gun and the airplane bomb with poison gas promise mankind a long era of firm government.

FREEDOM FROM UNHAPPINESS Do you resent doing what you are doing? It may be your job, or you may have agreed to do something and are doing it, but part of you resents and resists it. Are you carrying unspoken resentment toward a person close to you? Do you realize that the energy you thus emanate is so harmful in its effects that you are in fact contaminating yourself as well as those around you? Have a good look inside. Is there even the slightest trace of resentment, unwillingness? If there is, observe it on both the mental and the emotional levels. What thoughts is your mind creating around this situation? Then look at the emotion, which is the body’s reaction to those thoughts. Feel the emotion. Does it feel pleasant or unpleasant? Is it an energy that you would actually choose to have inside you? Do you have a choice? Maybe you are being taken advantage of, maybe the activity you are engaged in is tedious, maybe someone close to you is dishonest, irritating, or unconscious, but all this is irrelevant. Whether your thoughts and emotions about this situation are justified or not makes no difference. The fact is that you are resisting what is. You are making the present moment into an enemy. You are creating unhappiness, conflict between the inner and the outer. Your unhappiness is polluting not only your own inner being and those around you but also the collective human psyche of which you are an inseparable part. The pollution of the planet is only an outward reflection of an inner psychic pollution: millions of unconscious individuals not taking responsibility for their inner space. Either stop doing what you are doing, speak to the person concerned and express fully what you feel, or drop the negativity that your mind has created around the situation and that serves no purpose whatsoever except to strengthen a false sense of self. Recognizing its futility is important. Negativity is never the optimum way of dealing with any situation. In fact, in most cases it keeps you stuck in it, blocking real change. Anything that is done with negative energy will become contaminated by it and in time give rise to more pain, more unhappiness. Furthermore, any negative inner state is contagious: Unhappiness spreads more easily than a physical disease. Through the law of resonance, it triggers and feeds latent negativity in others, unless they are immune — that is, highly conscious. Are you polluting the world or cleaning up the mess? You are responsible for your inner space; nobody else is, just as you are responsible for the planet. As within, so without: If humans clear inner pollution, then they will also cease to create outer pollution.

freeze response is triggered when a person, realizing resistance is futile, gives up, numbs out into dissociation and/ or collapses as if accepting the inevitability of being hurt.

Almost inconceivable, like an elf, fairy, or indeed effective resistance to the modern state.