Ruffle Some Feathers Quotes

The teacher asks a question. You know the answer, you suspect you are the only one in the classroom who knows the answer, because the person in question is yourself, and on that you are the greatest living authority, but you don’t raise your hand. You raise the top of your desk and take out an apple. You look out the window. You don’t raise your hand and there is some essential beauty in your fingers, which aren’t even drumming, but lie flat and peaceful. The teacher repeats the question. Outside the window, on an overhanging branch, a robin is ruffling its feathers and spring is in the air.

Postscript And some time make the time to drive out west Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore, In September or October, when the wind And the light are working off each other So that the ocean on one side is wild With foam and glitter, and inland among stones The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans, Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white, Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads Tucked or cresting or busy underwater. Useless to think you’ll park and capture it More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there, A hurry through which known and strange things pass As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

Owing to the shape of a bell curve, the education system is geared to the mean. Unfortunately, that kind of education is virtually calculated to bore and alienate gifted minds. But instead of making exceptions where it would do the most good, the educational bureaucracy often prefers not to be bothered. In my case, for example, much of the schooling to which I was subjected was probably worse than nothing. It consisted not of real education, but of repetition and oppressive socialization (entirely superfluous given the dose of oppression I was getting away from school). Had I been left alone, preferably with access to a good library and a minimal amount of high-quality instruction, I would at least have been free to learn without useless distractions and gratuitous indoctrination. But alas, no such luck. Let’s try to break the problem down a bit. The education system […] is committed to a warm and fuzzy but scientifically counterfactual form of egalitarianism which attributes all intellectual differences to environmental factors rather than biology, implying that the so-called 'gifted' are just pampered brats who, unless their parents can afford private schooling, should atone for their undeserved good fortune by staying behind and enriching the classroom environments of less privileged students. This approach may appear admirable, but its effects on our educational and intellectual standards, and all that depends on them, have already proven to be overwhelmingly negative. This clearly betrays an ulterior motive, suggesting that it has more to do with social engineering than education. There is an obvious difference between saying that poor students have all of the human dignity and basic rights of better students, and saying that there are no inherent educationally and socially relevant differences among students. The first statement makes sense, while the second does not. The gifted population accounts for a very large part of the world’s intellectual resources. As such, they can obviously be put to better use than smoothing the ruffled feathers of average or below-average students and their parents by decorating classroom environments which prevent the gifted from learning at their natural pace. The higher we go on the scale of intellectual brilliance – and we’re not necessarily talking just about IQ – the less support is offered by the education system, yet the more likely are conceptual syntheses and grand intellectual achievements of the kind seldom produced by any group of markedly less intelligent people. In some cases, the education system is discouraging or blocking such achievements, and thus cheating humanity of their benefits.

SCREE! the strix yelled, ruffling its feathers. "What do you mean 'you need to kill us'?" Grover asked. Meg scowled. "You can talk to it?" "Well, yes," Grover said. "It's an animal." "Why didn't you tell us what it was saying before now?" Meg asked. "Because it was just yelling scree!" Grover said. "Now it's saying scree as in, it needs to kill us." I tried to move my legs. They seemed to have turned into sacks of cement, which I found vaguely amusing. I could still move my arms and had some feeling in my chest, but I wasn't sure how long that would last. "Perhaps ask the strix why it needs to kill us?" I suggested. "Scree!" Grover said. I was getting tired of the strix language. The bird replied in a series of squawks and clicks. Meanwhile, out in the corridor, the other strixes shrieked and bashed against the net of plants. Black talons and gold beaks poked out, snapping tomatoes into pico de gallo. I figured we had a few minutes at most until the birds burst through and killed us all, but their razor-sharp beaks sure were cute! Grover wrung his hands. "The strix says he's been sent to drink our blood, eat our flesh and disembowel us, not necessarily in that order. He says he's sorry, but it's a direct command from the emperor." "Stupid emperors," Meg grumbled. "Which one?" "I don't know," Grover said. "The strix just calls him Scree." "You can translate disembowel," she noted, "but you can't translate the emperor's name?

The Hand - 1952- The teacher asks a question. You know the answer, you suspect you are the only one in the classroom who knows the answer, because the person in question is yourself, and on that you are the greatest living authority, but you don’t raise your hand. You raise the top of your desk and take out an apple. You look out the window. You don’t raise your hand and there is some essential beauty in your fingers, which aren’t even drumming, but lie flat and peaceful. The teacher repeats the question. Outside the window, on an overhanging branch, a robin is ruffling its feathers and spring is in the air.

Don't be afraid of competitors. Competition in your market provides an opportunity to ruffle some feathers and get noticed.

Where Jolson conquered, Bing Crosby convinced and charmed, and like Astaire, Jolson too for that matter, he did not possess the physical gifts of a standard leading man (angles and ears and hair, yet again). Also like Astaire, he made it all seem easy, with the laid-back acting and the unforced way that devastating baritone could pour out and swing out. In one crucial sense he was more beholden to Jolson than Astaire, being primarily a solo performer who sang to people more than he sang with them. Recall: who was Crosby’s only steady partner on film? Bob Hope, in a partnership based in jokey rivalry. Other singers in Crosby films, besides Hope and Dorothy Lamour, seldom counted. Nor did most of Crosby’s films. Paramount, his home studio, was a formula-bound factory for most of the 1930s and ’40s, and the golden goose of the Crosby films did not countenance feather-ruffling. One after another, they were amiable time-passers, relaxed escapism that made a mint and sold tons of records and sheet music. For many then and some now, these vehicles offered unthreatening comfort—few chances taken, little deviation from formula, a likable guy ambling through some minor plot and singing mostly great songs. On occasion there was something as glaring as the ridiculous Dixie: as composer Dan Emmett, Crosby speeds up the title song into an uptempo hit only because the theater’s caught on fire. Generally, his films lacked even that cuckoo invigoration, which is why posterity dotes on Holiday Inn and its splashy, inferior semi-remake, White Christmas, and few of the others. While it would not be accurate to view Crosby as another megalomaniacal Jolson type, he lacked Astaire’s forceful imagination. Greater professional curiosity might have made his films—not simply his singing—transcend time and circumstance.

I will say again that Louisa should have been a cavalry officer. She has the gallantry for it and the excellent seat.” “Also the outspoken opinions and tendency to take charge of matters outside her authority.” “You can’t blame the girl if she takes after her mama in some regards.” Esther sat forward and aimed a glare at him, until he smiled at her ruffled feathers. She smiled too and subsided against him. “Shameless man, and you a duke.” “Also

The evening air smelled like secrets. The breeze that stirred his hair had been places Matt could only imagine. It had twined through trees and ushered clouds and whistled through caves. It had slid on its belly over desert sands and swirled snow on mountaintops. It had ruffled the feathers of baby eagles and extinguished the matches of sailors far out to sea. It had stolen balloons and floated bubbles. It was timeless. It had swept dust off the backs of dinosaurs, filled the lungs of pharaohs, and it would abrade the bones of the last human to fall on some distant, devastated plain. But tonight it was here, in this little town, fluttering curtains, rattling blinds, and caressing the face of a ten-year-old boy with a troubled mind.

clear my throat. “So you like Greg?” “What’s it to you?” The chill in Maggie’s voice makes Siberia sound tropical. “Just making idle chitchat.” “No need. You can go back to ignoring me.” I face her. “When have I ever, in the history of you and me, ever ignored you?” She rolls her eyes. “Perhaps ‘ignore’ isn’t the right word. Maybe I should say you avoid me.” “I don’t avoid you.” “Sure. Let’s go with that.” The parents are now dancing with the bride and groom. We have a minute, so I grab Magnolia’s elbow and tug her into a nearby hall. “What’s your problem?” “My problem?” she hisses. “Didn’t you know? It’s always been you. You have some damn nerve, acting like you and Vanessa didn’t keep me up half the night. Pretending you didn’t know your room was right next door to mine.” I still, my feet rooted to the ground. “What are you talking about? Vanessa left last night.” She scoffs. “Someone was howling, ‘oh, Daddy, hit it harder’ on the other side of my wall. I seem to recall you had that room. In fact, I saw you open that door this morning, half-clothed, so don’t lie.” Oh, shit. I laugh, relieved as hell, now that I understand why her feathers are all ruffled. “Michael Oliver, don’t you dare laugh at me.” Her face is flushed, and she looks like she might deck me. She’s beautiful in her fury. Ready to bust me up if I’m not careful. Makes me want to kiss the hell out of her. I hold up both hands. “Just listen, okay?

Jiyoung was sincerely hurt that Daehyun hadn't said a word while his family treated her like she had some big physical issue, and he said he had kept his mouth shut so as not to ruffle feathers and blow the problem out of proportion by taking her side. She couldn't understand his logic, and he said she was overreacting. She was saddened that he was dismissing her feelings as an overreaction, and the explanations he came up with turned into more ammunition for her to criticize him.

He doesn’t behave well?” Deanna tried to remember what she’d heard about the man. Most of it was connected to the Claremont Hotel, which had gradually become the most prestigious hotel in the city. She also thought she remembered his name being associated with a few different women, but certainly nothing so scandalous it dominated the local gossip. Lucy continued, “I understand he doesn’t believe in traditions—including marriage. As you might expect, this has led to some ruffled feathers in Savannah. Evidently, he does love his mother though, so at least he has that going for him.

Aud?” She touched my hand to make me look up. “I’m sorry I got you into all this.” “You didn’t,” I said tiredly. “Dornan did. Or Julia did, by dying. Or maybe I did, by loving her. It’s all connected.” Irony is rarely amusing. “Just one big happy human ecosystem, like the woods, with some trees trying to grow too fast and smother the rest.” “And you’re the axe,” she said. The fire popped. An axe, cold and unlovely. “Is that how you see me?” The old Tammy would have smiled and said, No, of course not! and tried to reassure and soothe my ruffled feathers, but though a fleeting regret showed in her sigh, she nodded. “You can use an axe to bang in nails, but that doesn’t make it a hammer. It’s still an axe. Cutting is still what it’s made for.

You've been keeping in touch with the reporter?" "He came by the diner the other day. And that reminds me, you told me he was a by-the-book detective. Calhoun has evidence to the contrary." He squared his shoulders and faced me head-on. Betsy was pushed out of the middle. "What are you implying?" he spat. "Hey, y'all," Betsy interjected. "I'm not implying anything. I just want to know if you still think Detective Thornton is a pristine detective." "Do you always believe everything people tell you?" Alex's jaw clenched. "No." I bared my teeth. If he wanted a fight, he'd certainly get one! He took a step closer to me. "You believe the reporter?" I jerked my head. His neck was corded and his arms tensed. Boy, was he angry. "Some asshole floats into town with tall tales, dangling bait in front of your pretty little face, and you just bite? You've known him for two damn seconds. Me, you've known your whole damn life." "Um... y'all," Betsy said louder. "Where is all this anger comin' from?" I shrieked. "Somebody is going around murdering people. And since the department had to march to the tune of a crooked cop, I felt I had to do something." That was a grave allegation I honestly didn't believe. He had ruffled my feathers and I was lashing out. "And your keen investigative skills led you to believe I was dirty? Perhaps you think I'm the one going around killing people?" His voice teetered on unhinged. "Don't be stupid," I said, more calmly. He felt patronized, that was beyond obvious. Guilt washed over me like a tidal wave and I was searching for the appropriate words to apologize effectively, when he said, "What's with you and older men? Daddy issues?" I gasped. "How dare you?" That was the ugliest thing he could have ever said in this moment. And he'd said it. His facial expression changed, and he took a step forward. I took one backward. Eddie's commanding voice boomed, "Enough." "I tried to warn y'all," Betsy said softly.

Some shit’s going down soon. I need someone to run things if I’m not around.” “And where would you be?” “You’ll hear about everything from Bryce,” Hunt said, holding his stare. “But I need a second in command right now.” Baxian smirked, though. “Who said you’re in charge?” Hunt rolled his eyes. “My wife, that’s who.” But he pressed, “So…will you? I need some who can fight. On the ground and in the air.” “Oh, you’re only asking because I have wings?” Baxian ruffled his black feathers for emphasis. “I’m asking,” Hunt said, noting the spark of amusement on the Helhound’s face, “because I trust you, asshole. For some weird reason.” “Asteri dungeon bonding at its finest.

When you accept the status quo, you become resistant to progress and change. Let not the contentment of your past successes stop you from achieving bigger and better goals. To push yourself up the ladder, to make things occur at a larger scale, you will have to rock the boat, ruffle some feathers and challenge the present circumstances.