Rst Quotes

How can you so desperately miss something you never had in the rst place?

I cannot escape it, what I’ve done, no matter how far I follow the tunnel. I am alone with my sin. This is why they rule. The Peerless Scarred know that dark deeds are carried through life. They cannot be outrun. They must be worn if one is to rule. This is their �rst lesson.

Many modern businesses have become proficient at mining data. In fact the mining of data is becoming almost routine. But as we advance further into the 21rst century and the 22nd century, the utilization of data begins to take priority. So it's not just about collecting all this data, but also about getting really creative with generating new ways to utilize that data in the quest to add value.

No, I’m no patriot, nor was I ever allowed to be. And yet, the country of my childhood lives within me with a primacy that is a form of love. It lives within me despite my knowledge of our marginality, and its primitive, unpretty emotions. Is it blind and self-deceptive of me to hold on to its memory? I think it would be blind and self-deceptive not to. All it has given me is the world, but that is enough. It has fed me language, percep- tions, sounds, the human kind .... no geometry of landscape, no haze in the air, will live in us as intensely as the landscapes that we saw as the fi rst, and to which we gave ourselves wholly, without reservation.

You are not really dying,” he said, the oddest tone to his voice, “are you?”Jem nodded. “So they tell me.”“I am sorry,” Will said.“No,” Jem said softly. He drew his jacket aside and took a knife from the belt at his waist.“Don’t be ordinary like that. Don’t say you’re sorry. Say you’ll train with me.” He held out the knife to Will, hilt rst. Charlotte held her breath, afraid to move. She feltas if she were watching something very important happen, though she could not have saidwhat.Will reached out and took the knife, his eyes never leaving Jem’s face. His fingers brushedthe other boy’s as he took the weapon from him. It was the rst time, Charlotte thought,that she had ever seen him touch any other person willingly.“I’ll train with you,” he said. Jem, Will’s parabatai, treated her with the distant sweet kindness reserved for the littlesisters of one’s friends, but he would always side with Will. Kindly, but rmly, he put Willabove everything else in the world.Well, nearly everything. She had been most struck by Jem when she rst came to theInstitute—he had an unearthly, unusual beauty, with his silvery hair and eyes and delicate features. He looked like a prince in a fairy-tale book, and she might have considered developing an attachment to him, were it not so absolutely clear that he was entirely inlove with Tessa Gray. His eyes followed her where she went, and his voice changed when hespoke to her. Cecily had once heard her mother say in amusement that one of theirneighbors’ boys looked at a girl as if she were “the only star in the sky” and that was theway Jem looked at Tessa.Cecily didn’t resent it: Tessa was pleasant and kind to her, if a little shy, and with herface always stuck in a book, like Will. If that was the sort of girl Jem wanted, she and henever would have suited—and the longer she remained at the Institute, the more sherealized how awkward it would have made things with Will. He was ferociously protectiveof Jem, and he would have watched her constantly in case she ever distressed or hurt him inany way. No—she was far better out of the whole thing.

When Pandora’s story rst met paper, they did not even have the grace to give her a name before they blamed her for every evil thing let loose in the world

Like most people, I acquired my initial sense of the era from books and photographs that left me with the impression that the world of then had no color, only gradients of gray and black. My two main protagonists, however, encountered the fl esh-and-blood reality, while also managing the routine obligations of daily life. Every morning they moved through a city hung with immense banners of red, white, and black; they sat at the same outdoor cafés as did the lean, black-suited members of Hitler’s SS, and now and then they caught sight of Hitler himself, a smallish man in a large, open Mer-cedes. But they also walked each day past homes with balconies lush with red geraniums; they shopped in the city’s vast department stores, held tea parties, and breathed deep the spring fragrances of the Tier-garten, Berlin’s main park. They knew Goebbels and Göring as social acquaintances with whom they dined, danced, and joked—until, as their fi rst year reached its end, an event occurred that proved to be one of the most signifi cant in revealing the true character of Hitler and that laid the keystone for the decade to come. For both father and daughter it changed everything.

I think of human existence as being like a two-story house. On the rst oor people gather together to take their meals, watch television, and talk. e second oor contains private chambers, bedrooms where people go to read books, listen to music by themselves, and so on. en there is a basement; this is a special place, and there are a number of things stored here. We don’t use this room much in our daily life, but some- times we come in, vaguely hang around the place. en, my thought is that underneath that basement room is yet another basement room. is one has a very special door, very di - cult to gure out, and normally you can’t get in there—some people never get in at all. . . . You go in, wander about in the darkness, and experience things there you wouldn’t see in the normal parts of the house. You connect with your past there, because you have entered into your own soul. But then you come back. If you stay over there for long you can never get back to reality.

As for wealth, we live in a civilization which piously denies that it is an end in itself, and treats it exactly this way in practice. One of the most powerful indictments of capitalism is that it compels us to invest most of our creative energies in matters which are in fact purely utilitarian. The means of life become the end. Life consists in laying the material infrastructure for living. It is astonishing that in the twenty-fi rst century, the material organization of life should bulk as large as it did in the Stone Age. The capital which might be devoted to releasing men and women, at least to some moderate degree, from the exigencies of labour is dedicated instead to the task of amassing more capital.

This is where these writers placed their bets, striking a dangerous balance between silence and art. How do writers and readers find each other under such dangerous circumstances? Reading, like writing, under these conditions is disobedience to a directive in which the reader, our Eve, already knows the possible consequences of eating that apple but takes a bold bite anyway. How does that reader find the courage to take this bite, open that book? After an arrest, an execution? Of course he or she may find it in the power of the hushed chorus of other readers, but she can also find it in the writer’s courage in having stepped forward, in having written, or rewritten, in the fi rst place. Create dangerously, for people who read dangerously. Th is is what I’ve always thought it meant to be a writer. Writing, knowing in part that no matter how trivial your words may seem, someday, somewhere, someone may risk his or her life to read them. Coming from where I come from, with the history I have—having spent the first twelve years of my life under both dictatorships of Papa Doc and his son, JeanClaude—this is what I’ve always seen as the unifying principle among all writers. This is what, among other things, might join Albert Camus and Sophocles to Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Osip Mandelstam, and Ralph Waldo Emerson to Ralph Waldo Ellison. Somewhere, if not now, then maybe years in the future, a future that we may have yet to dream of, someone may risk his or her life to read us. Somewhere, if not now, then maybe years in the future, we may also save someone’s life, because they have given us a passport, making us honorary citizens of their culture.

It is one of the great tragedies of our time that the masses have come to believe that they have reached their high standard of material welfare as a result of having pulled down the wealthy, and to fear that the preservation or emergence of such a class would deprive them of something they would otherwise get and which they regard as their due. We have seen why in a progressive society there is little reason to believe that the wealth which the few enjoy would exist at all if they were not allowed to enjoy it. It is neither taken from the rest nor withheld from them. It is the fi rst sign of a new way of living begun by the advance guard. True, those who have this privilege of displaying possibilities which only the children or grandchildren of others will enjoy are not generally the most meritorious individuals but simply those who have been placed by chance in their envied position. But this fact is inseparable from the process of growth, which always goes further than any one man or group of men can foresee. To prevent some from enjoying certain advantages fi rst may well prevent the rest of us from ever enjoying them. If through envy we make certain exceptional kinds of life impossible, we shall all in the end suffer material and spiritual impoverishment. Nor can we eliminate the unpleasant manifestations of individual success without destroying at the same time those forces which make advance possible. One may share to the full the distaste for the ostentation, the bad taste, and the wastefulness of many of the new rich and yet recognize that, if we were to prevent all that we disliked, the unforeseen good things that might be thus prevented would probably outweigh the bad. A world in which the majority could prevent the appearance of all that they did not like would be a stagnant and probably a declining world.

Don’t go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you nothing—it was here i rst. —MARK TWAIN, GREAT AMERICAN NOVELIST

like to thank the many people who have assisted and supported me in this work. First, thanks to the Johns Hopkins University Press and its editors, who have believed in me from the fi rst: thanks to Anders Richter, who shepherded me through the publication of the fi rst edition, and to Jacqueline Wehmueller, who inherited me from Andy after his retirement and encouraged me to write a second and now a third edition of the book. She has been a constant and steadfast source of inspiration and support for this and many other projects. Immeasurable thanks is owed to my teachers and mentors at Johns Hopkins, Paul R. McHugh and J. Raymond DePaulo, and to my psychiatric colleagues (from whom I never stop learning), especially Jimmy Potash, Melvin McInnis, Dean MacKinnon, Jennifer Payne, John Lipsey, and Karen Swartz. Thanks to Trish Caruana, LCSW, and Sharon Estabrook, OTR, for teaching me the extraordinary importance of their respective disciplines, clinical social work and occupational therapy, to the comprehensive treatment of persons with mood disorders. And thanks, of course, to my partner, Jay Allen Rubin, for much more than I could ever put into words. x ■ pre face

Any fanciful ambition involves an overloaded opinion of my own capability, a wrong evaluation in an upward direction. If, for example, my dream is to become one of the great philosophers of the world, then my fanciful ambition might be to solve the problem of time. Why is it dangerous to nourish such ambitions? Because the precious mirage of ‘I’m going to do’ gets in the way of ‘I do’. The fanciful ambition is thus the project that prevents you from doing. An example would be the project of reading the works of the great thinkers in the most fundamental way. This is a fanciful ambition, because there can be no definitive reading of the great philosophers. This time it is no longer a matter of personal projection: I start with myself and see myself as a great hero. This time we are dealing with a mystification at the level of action. He who nourishes fanciful ambitions is a man of action sabotaged by his own project of doing. He sets out to do in his own space something that he cannot do. He wants to catch a whale with a flimsy fishing line. It is the very grandeur of his project that puts the brakes on its achievement. This lack of adjustment to one’s own possibilities is another source of failure. In my generation there was a guy called Ştefan Teodorescu who was always making up ample tables of contents. He never even got as far as writing the introduction. However the nourisher of fanciful ambitions is not an agonized failure; his life becomes a dolce far niente, a sort of continuous waltz among a host of projects endlessly taken up and abandoned again. There is a Chinese proverb: ‘Every road starts with the fi rst step’. The nourisher of fanciful ambitions never manages to make that fi rst step. Or if he does, he leaves the road before he has trodden firmly on it.

Frequently, you find yourself in an awkward silence or a pregnant pause in the conversation. It is up to you to either invigorate the conversation or allow it to slowly grind to a halt. Do your part to charge up the conversation by being prepared with questions on the origin and history of those people you are with. History Lessons •How did you two meet? •How did you get started ______? •What got you interested in this area? •When did you fi rst know you wanted to be a ______? •What brought you to Colorado? •How do you all know each other? •What got you interested in marketing? •What gave you the idea for this business? •What happened fi rst?

Rule number one in paying yourself first is: Don’t get into consumer debt in the rst place.

Al-Ghazzâlî expectedly takes a rather different approach in the preliminaries of his standard work on the principles of jurispru- dence, the Mustasfâ. His preface (khutbah) sets the tone with a long paean on knowledge. The intellect comes -fi rst, and knowledge fol- lows it. However, knowledge clearly enjoys here much greater esteem and deserves particularly to be stressed in connection with juris- prudence: “Praised be God,” al-Ghazzâlî starts out, “who made the intellect the most desirable of treasures, and knowledge the most prof- itable of merchandise, the noblest of high glories, the most honored of effective and praiseworthy accomplishments, and the most lauded result of everything, so that through its asseveration pens and inkwells have been ennobled, through its study prayer niches and pulpits have been adorned, through the tracing of it pages and fascicles have been embellished, through its nobility lesser men have gained precedence over bigger men, through its splendor secrets and hidden things have been illumined, through its lights hearts and eyes have been -fi lled with light, in its brilliance the sun’s shining brilliance has assumed insignifi cance for the revolving sphere, and in its inner light the outward light of eyes and glances has become puny, so that as a result through its brilliance the armies of the hearts and minds have been enabled to delve into the deepest abysses of obscurities, even though the eyes were too weak for them and they were thickly covered by veils and curtains.” Obedience to God consists of knowledge and intelligence. In this respect, knowledge is again to be rated higher than the intellect.

A recent study of how men and women differ when it comes to the mall turned up this fact: Men, once you get them in the door, are much more in- terested in the social aspect of malls than the shopping part, whereas women say the social aspect is important but shopping comes rst. Men enjoy the mall as a form of recreation—they like watching people and browsing around in stores more than shopping. Maybe they’ll spend fteen minutes in a bookstore or a stereo store and leave without buying a thing. They treat it like an information-gathering trip. Men also like the nonretail parts—the rock-climbing walls, the food courts, anything that doesn’t actually require them to enter stores and look at, try on, or buy merchandise.

Anyway, the MI-17 made for one hell of a ride. It was a monstrous chopper, more like an armoured tank in the sky. Th e insides had a few metal seats on either side. First-come-fi rst-served, you sat wherever you found space. The mothers took the seats and the brats sat on the cold metal floor, among camouflage-green nets, wooden boxes and miscellaneous military cargo. As the chopper rose, I peered at my father waving from the small helipad made by plateauing a mountain top with the Army’s engineering expertise. Some moments stay with you forever. Th is particular one has stood the test of time. As we fl ew off to the safest military base, I stuck my nose against the tiny window and kept waving back till my father became an olive-hued speck on the concrete helipad.

Her shudder turned into a shiver as a urry of snowakes whirled past. She squinted upward, astonished to see that the sky, which had been blue just minutes ago, was now lling with soft winter clouds. White akes spiraled downward, spinning past the Royal Library’s dome, swirling around the bronze pegasus atop its spire, which she was convinced now reared in a slightly different position than before. Nathaniel had also stopped to take in the view. “Do you remember the last time it snowed in Hemlock Park?” “Of course.” Blood rushed to her cheeks at the look he was giving her. How could she forget? The frost and the candlelight, the way time had seemed to stop when they kissed, and how he had parted her dressing gown so carefully, with only one hand— She wasn’t sure which of them leaned in first. For a moment nothing existed outside the brush of their lips, tentative at rst, and then the heat of their mouths, all-consuming. “I seem to recall,” Nathaniel murmured as she twined a hand into his hair, “that this”—another kiss —“is a public street.” “The street wouldn’t exist without us,” she replied. “The public wouldn’t, either.” The kiss went on, blissful, until someone whistled nearby.

Libation . . . instead of pouring water on the ground, I pour words on the page. I begin with this libation in honor of all of those unknown and known spirits who surround us. I acknowledge the origins of this land where I am seated while writing this introduction. This land was inhabited by Indigenous people, the very rst people to inhabit this land, who lived here for thousands of years before the Europeans arrived and were unfortunately unable to co-habitate without dominating, enslaving, raping, terrorizing, stealing from, relocating, and murder- ing the millions of members of Indigenous nations throughout Turtle Island, which is now known as North America. I write libation to those millions of Indigenous women, men, and children; and those millions of kidnapped and enslaved African women, men, and children whose genocide, confiscated land, centuries of free labor, forced migration, traumatic memories of rape, and sweat, tears, and blood make up the very fiber and foundation of all of the Americas and the Caribbean.

They discriminate between a fi rst marriage and a remarriage. If a boy’s virginity is intact, there are those who will offer a large bride-price, the ‘three teas’ are not neglected, the ‘six rites’ are properly observed, and thus the wedding takes place with a formal go-between and ceremony. However, if the parents have not been strict and the boy has lost his virginity he will be called a ‘wilted willow’ or ‘faded fl ower’, and, although he might not be consigned to the dust-heap and there will still be purchasers, he will be at the mercy of the wind, going for whatever price is offered.

D!"#$% &'( )(*+$, '-./ +/ &'( 01&' *($&!"2, the central focus of biology was on the gene. Now in the 3rst half of the 21st century, the central focus of biology has shifted to neural science and speci3cally to the biology of the mind.

Gall 3rst had this idea as a young boy when he noticed that those of his classmates who excelled at memorizing school assignments had prominent eyes.