Resume Title Quotes

Dorian looked down at the book. "This isn't one of the books that I sent you! I don't even own books like these!" She laughed weakly and took the tea from the servant as she approached. "Of course you don't, Dorian. I had the maids send for a copy today." "Sunset's Passions," he read, and opened the book to a random page to read aloud. "'His hands gently caressed her ivory, silky br-'" His eyes widened. "By the Wyrd! Do you actually read this rubbish? What happened to Symbols and Power and Eyllwe Customs and Culture?" She finished her drink, the ginger tea easing her stomach. "You may borrow it when I'm done. If you read it, you literary experience will be complete. And," she added with a coy smile, "it will give you some creative ideas of things to do with your lady friends." He hissed through his teeth. "I will not read this." She took the book from his hands, leaning back. "Then I suppose you're just like Chaol." "Chaol?" he asked, falling into the trap. "You asked Chaol to read this?" "He refused, of course," she lied. "He said it wasn't right for him to read this sort of material if I gave it to him." Dorian snatched the book from her hands. "Give me that, you demon-woman. I'll not have you matching us against each other." He glanced once more at the novel, then turned it over, concealing the title. She smiled, and resumed watching the falling snow.

Picture it. Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations. Digests, Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending.” “Snap ending.” Mildred nodded. “Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last as a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for reference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of Hamlet (you know the title certainly, Montag; it is probably only a faint rumor of a title to you, Mrs. Montag), whose sole knowledge, as I say, of Hamlet was a one-page digest in a book that claimed: now at last you can read all the classics; keep up with your neighbors. Do you see? Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there’s your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more.” Mildred arose and began to move around the room, picking things up and putting them down. Beatty ignored her and continued: “Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click, Pic, Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What, Where, Eh? Uh! Bang! Smack! Wallop, Bing, Bong, Boom! Digest-digests, digest-digest-digests. Politics? One column, two sentences, a headline! Then, in mid-air, all vanishes! Whirl man’s mind around about so fast under the pumping hands of publishers, exploiters, broadcasters that the centrifuge flings off all unnecessary, time-wasting thought!” Mildred smoothed the bedclothes. Montag felt his heart jump and jump again as she patted his pillow. Right now she was pulling at his shoulder to try to get him to move so she could take the pillow out and fix it nicely and put it back. And perhaps cry out and stare or simply reach down her hand and say, “What’s this?” and hold up the hidden book with touching innocence. “School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophies, histories, languages dropped, English and spelling gradually gradually neglected, finally almost completely ignored. Life is immediate, the job counts, pleasure lies all about after work. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling switches, fitting nuts and bolts?

No matter what danger you might face," the wizard resumed, "within this book is a magical solution." I did as Ebenzum bade, opening to a page titled "EZ Wizard's Index." I scanned quickly down the righthand column: Demons, who are about to eat you, 206, 211 Demons, who are about to tear you limb from limb, 207 Demons, who are about thrash you soundly, 206-7 Demons, who have already begun to eat you, 208 "As you can see," my master continued, "quick reference to this index can prepare you for virtually any eventuality.

You are not your resume, your neighborhood, your grades, your mis-takes, your body, your roles or titles. All these things are not you because they are change-able. There is a part of you that is indefinable and changeless, that does not get lost or change with age, disease, or circumstances. There is an authenticity you were born with, have lived with, and will die with. You are simply, wonder-fully, you.

Dear Miss Hummingbird,
 The leaves are turning green now, but not with envy. But they should be envious, because I, Jarod Ora Kintz, son of a thousand question marks, now have what every unemployed American most covets: a cat. Oh, and I’ve also got a new job. Almost forgot to mention it. “What will you be doing?” you may be wondering, and “Is it legal?” Those answers, as you can imagine, are gray. But so are elephants. Gray, I mean. Elephants are gray, not illegal, even though a certain political party in this country that’s represented by an elephant mascot certainly does things that to the normal citizen would be considered illegal. But I digress.
 Turns out that right under “Mayor of Orafouraville” on my resume, I can now add “Concierge at the Five-Star Hotel.” Concierge is just a fancy term that means something similar in Latin, I’m sure.
 My job will be to arrange activities for hotel guests for everything from opera tickets to dinner reservations to even organizing the burial of a loved one—though not if the disposal of the body is to be kept secret because a murder has occurred. Murder is such a ghastly (and ghostly) way to spoil dinner reservations for two, wouldn’t you agree? Or, rather, wouldn’t you not disagree?
 This job will allow me to meet interesting people from all over the planet, and possibly even other planets (like Pluto, if that’s still even a planet).
 It’s a full-time job, at least part of the time (40 hours per week out of a possible 168 hours). I’ll be expected to wear a shirt and tie. And, of course, pants—but that goes without saying. What also goes without saying are guests, but I hope some at least say goodbye before they go. 


The remaining months they named, from the order in which they came, the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth: Quintilis, Sextilis, September, October, November, December. Then Quintilis was called Julius after Julius Caesar, who conquered Pompeius; and Sextilis was called Augustus, after the second of the Roman Emperors. The next two months Domitian altered to his own titles, but not for any long time, as after his death they resumed their old names of September and October. The last two alone have preserved their original names without change.

I have a small mind, but big goals. I have a small heart, but big ambitions. I have a small soul, but big dreams. I have small eyes, but a big vision. I have small ears, but big understanding. I have small hands, but big reach. I have a small tongue, but a big opinion. I have a small nose, but a big sense. I have a small mouth, but a big lecture. I have a small message, but a big audience. I have a small title, but a big education. I have a small purse, but a big gift. I have a small lesson, but a big classroom. I have a small resume, but a big accomplishment. I have a small company, but a big project. I have a small budget, but a big profit. I have a small team, but a big success. I have a small reputation, but a big destiny.

Natiya’s questions ranged from how old I was to wondering which food I liked the best, but when she asked, “Are you really a princess?” the chatter in the tent stopped and they all looked at me, waiting. Was I? I had abdicated that role weeks ago when I left Civica and banished the phrase “Her Royal Highness” from Pauline’s vocabulary. I certainly didn’t look like or act like one now. Yet I had just pulled the title out of exile quite readily when it suited me. I recalled Walther’s words: You’ll always be you, Lia. I reached out and cupped her chin and nodded. “But no more than you are for bringing me this meal. I am truly grateful.” She smiled and lowered her long dark lashes, a blush warming her cheeks. The chatter resumed, and I went back to my last butter tart. *

Busyness lies. It tricks us into thinking that things are happening. That we’re going places, being productive, living a full life. The exhilarating effects of stress, not the quiet or stillness after chaos, is familiar. We would rather have something, than nothing, even if that something is…empty. We all do this. We look to relationships, drugs or distractions to fill so-called “voids” and assuage our loneliness or anxiety about who we are and the uncertainty of our futures. Isn't that why we tie our self worth to salaries and job titles in hopes that this will validate us? Isn't that why we justify the long hours, routine work, and deteriorating relationships as “real life?” How is it that we've become so complacent? I refuse to believe that with age, you need to be realistic and live out your decisions based on what’s been done or what’s expected of you. What if we stopped looking externally for validation or excitement, but found that within ourselves? See I want to feel like life is worth living. Not for culture, not for the societal structures and institutions in place, not for the security, none of that. Just life itself. The idea that being alive is enough…beautiful, even. I don’t want to be tied down to a job I despise or to be surrounded by people who take that shit too seriously. And by shit, I mean, jobs, resumes, salaries, kids, marriage, age, any of it. Others may be able to go through life’s routine and find their truth, or perhaps never bother finding it at all. But I can’t. I just can’t.

Then why are you called ‘Lady Holland’?” “Well…” Holly paused and laughed ruefully. “Now we're treading on more complicated territory. I am the daughter of an earl. Therefore, I have had the courtesy title ‘lady’ since birth.” “And you didn't lose it when you married George?” “No, when a peer's daughter marries a man who is not a peer, she is allowed to keep her own courtesy title. After I married, I still derived my rank from my father rather than from George.” Bronson turned his head and stared at her intently. Looking into his fathomless eyes at close range gave Holly a small, warm shock. She could see the glints of brown in the midnight depths. “So your rank was always higher than your husband's,” he said. “In a way, you married down.” “Technically,” she admitted. Bronson seemed to savor the information. Holly had the impression that for some reason the idea pleased him. “What would happen to your rank if you married a commoner?” he asked idly. “Like me, for example.” Flustered by the question, Holly drew away from him and resumed her seat. “Well, I… I would remain ‘Lady Holland,’ but I would take your surname.” “Lady Holland Bronson.” She started a little at the strange sound of her own name being joined with anything other than Taylor. “Yes,” she said softly. “In theory, that is correct.

Listed below are three basic rules that will help you become a successful candidate. Remember, however, that you need not be offered a job in every case to consider yourself successful. Rather, you are successful if you keep the job search process going in a professional manner. In working with countless people in the process of looking for a job, I have concluded that, for those who are currently unemployed, the full-time job should be just that: looking for a job. For those who currently have a job, but are openly seeking a better position with new challenges or a higher salary, take comfort in knowing you are working from a position of strength; use that knowledge to add to your self-esteem. In all cases, see yourself from the employer’s point of view. In their eyes, you are a more likely candidate if you behave professionally before and after the interview (with appropriate inquiry and follow-up—more on that later) and if you interact appropriately during the interview itself. As you continue to look for a job, remember the following tips for success: 1. When you call about a job prospect, get as much information as you can about the position and the company—including the name of the person doing the interviewing. Don’t be put off by feelings of anxiety—you have a right to “interview” them too. If possible, go to the library and research the company. By the time of your interview, you will feel more confident—and less anxious—because you will have resources from which to draw during your conversation. 2. If you have time to mail your resume before your scheduled interview, do so. But be sure to include a cover letter as well. While the resume gives background information about you, the cover letter explains why you are writing and briefly describes what makes you a good candidate for the job. Don’t allow low self-esteem to make you afraid to “sell yourself!” Only you can say why you would be an asset to the company. And one more thing—write the letter to a particular person, not “To Whom It May Concern” or “Dear Sir or Madam.” Most of the time, a prospective employer’s receptionist is willing to tell you exactly whom to contact. Use courtesy titles (“Dear Mrs. Smith”), unless the person is someone you already know on a first-name basis. 3. Do follow up. An appropriate measure of assertiveness goes a long way. Most employers appreciate someone who is diligent and communicates a genuine interest in the position. But don’t be aggressive. Limit your contact to a follow-up note, a phone call two weeks later, and perhaps a third one a few weeks after that. Be sure to let them know that if another, more appropriate, position comes along, you would be interested to learn about it. Again, by communicating properly and creating your own opportunities, you can achieve some control over your own destiny.

He pulled out a thick black volume. "You've never read this, for example." The Savage took it. "The Holy Bible, containing the Old and New Testaments," he read aloud from the title-page. "Nor this." It was a small book and had lost its cover. "The Imitation of Christ." "Nor this." He handed out another volume. " The Varieties of Religious Experience. By William James." "And I've got plenty more," Mustapha Mond continued, resuming his seat. "A whole collection of pornographic old books. God in the safe and Ford on the shelves. / —Sacó de la caja un grueso volumen negro—. Supongo que usted no ha leído esto, por ejemplo. El Salvaje cogió el libro. —La Sagrada Biblia, con el Antiguo y el Nuevo Testamento —leyó en voz alta. —Ni esto. Era un libro pequeño, sin tapas. —La Imitación de Cristo. —Ni esto. Y le ofreció otro volumen. —Las Variedades de la experiencia Religiosa, de William James. —Y aún tengo muchos más —prosiguió Mustafá Mond, volviendo a sentarse—. Toda una colección de antiguos libros pornográficos. Dios en el arca y Ford en los estantes.

Experience' is overrated. What matters is quality experience, i.e. where someone succeeded and knows why. Or where someone failed and learned why. Wheels spinning for ten years and then adding a title to your resume doesn't count for much. Yet too many people take other people's proclamations of 'I have years of experience' for granted. What KIND of experience? Verify. Verify. Always verify.

Six months,” he said, roughly. “I had it for six months. Maybe a little longer. I was in the military. A Captain. It was becoming increasingly clear that the war would not end easily or without significant blood. We’d been attacked. Azre, the Arch Commandant, wanted a successor chosen, in case of the worst. Me, Zeryth and Nura were among the candidates. And I wanted it. I wanted that title more than I’d ever wanted anything. So…” His voice trailed off, and when it resumed, it was rougher. “You signed that contract because it gave you the means to protect all the people you left behind. But me? I signed mine because I wanted to. Because I wanted power.” He spat the word, and I could feel his regret, his anger. “For awhile,” he said, “it seemed like I got that. Because Reshaye is wildly, insanely powerful. Nothing should be that powerful. My magic was my own, but… so much more. It was terrific, at first. But soon…” He let out a breath. Shook his head. “It’s unpredictable. Possessive. Vindictive. And it’s willing to crush whatever defies it.

The time period in question was before the proliferation of outsourcing, but there was already Craigslist as a “ready reserve” resource. I had to resolutely disregard interesting-but-unhelpful search terms with advertising of local people looking for “casual encounters” and “rants and raves.” In the possibly more helpful Craigslist category enigmatically titled “Gigs,” I typed in: Lawyer seeks help. College drop-out preferred. Long hours, pressure-cooker environment, unyielding schedule. Pays all the Ramen noodles you can eat. Great opportunity to broaden your horizons and enhance your resume! It was a truthful description of the job, and consequently, I did not expect many takers.

I am already betrothed,” she bluffed then. It was a futile ploy on her behalf. He knew everything there was to know about her. “Lord Simon Montbatten,” he said calmly. “Difficult indeed to marry a dead man, is it not?” Lord Simon had been of frail constitution. Two years ago, he had gone to Italy to aid his ailing lungs and take the waters. And he had never returned. From all accounts, Lady Calliope had been devastated by his death. Theirs had been a love match. Lord Simon had been the heir to Viscount Suttworth, an old title that hailed to the times of the Conqueror, much like the Dukes of Westmorland. The perfect dynastic union. Lady Calliope stiffened, inhaling sharply. “How dare you?” He stroked her pulse, reluctant to stop touching her. “How dare I speak truth?” She resumed her struggles. “How dare you speak of him so callously? He was a wonderful man, a true gentleman. Your better in every way.” “I have no doubt he was, but he will not save you, princess.” He dared to nip her ear, just to show her which of them held all the power in this odd dynamic. “Dead men cannot play Sir Galahad. No one can save you now.

At a forced labor camp in Kolyma, a remote Siberian Gulag, Russian writer Varlam Shalamov hoarded details about what he was enduring with the avidity of a starving man devouring food. A great master of the short story, Shalamov is like Chekhov in hell. A fifteen-hundred-page collection of his stories includes many with deceptively unassuming titles: “A Letter,” “Cherry Brandy,” “The Wheel-barrow.” His muted voice resonates with the poverty of his expectations. The constraints on his imagination continually reshape his understanding of the depths of brutality and tenderness. One story, simply called “Marcel Proust,” tells of his having stumbled, inconceivably, onto a copy of Le Côté de Guermantes at the bottom of a package of clothing sent to a doctor at his camp. Shalamov seized the volume and began to work his way through it, ravenously. Days of reading went by. Distracted by a question put to him by a fellow prisoner, he put the book down on a bench where he had been sitting and reading. Turning back to resume, he found it was gone. Theft was a reality of prison life, but Shalamov had managed to hold onto the book as long as he could. During that time he had sought out quiet corners to read, avoiding his barracks for many days. “Proust,” he wrote, “was more valuable than sleep.

Start with an opening sentence that states the candidate’s focus on their desired job title. ► Pull out a relevant bullet from their resume ► Pull out a second relevant bullet from their resume ► Pull out a third relevant bullet from their resume Specialties: List the most relevant skills for the desired job from their resume Here's the desired job title: And here's the resume: