Short Intimidating Quotes

To the short-sighted, through the fog, God must be a monster.

I felt sad. I felt cold. I felt hurt. I felt forsaken and lonely. I felt doubtful and hesitant. I felt scared and deeply worried. I felt different, unknown, and unwelcome. I felt empty and woefully neglected. I felt weak and intimidated. I felt withdrawn and shy. I felt utterly hopeless. Then you held my hand, and I felt better.

Don't tell me I'm "too tall" just because my height happens to threaten your rather fragile sense of masculinity. The fact that men cannot physically look down upon women who are taller than them is the very reason that many men find tall women so intimidating.

His way of coping with the days was to think of activities as units of time, each unit consisting of about thirty minutes. Whole hours, he found, were more intimidating, and most things one could do in a day took half an hour. Reading the paper, having a bath, tidying the flat, watching Home and Away and Countdown, doing a quick crossword on the toilet, eating breakfast and lunch, going to the local shops… That was nine units of a twenty-unit day (the evenings didn’t count) filled by just the basic necessities. In fact, he had reached a stage where he wondered how his friends could juggle life and a job. Life took up so much time, so how could one work and, say, take a bath on the same day? He suspected that one or two people he knew were making some pretty unsavoury short cuts.

For we are opposed around the world by a monolithic and ruthless conspiracy that relies primarily on covert means for expanding its sphere of influence -- on infiltration instead of invasion, on subversion instead of elections, on intimidation instead of free choice, on guerrillas by night instead of armies by day. It is a system which has conscripted vast human and material resources into the building of a tightly knit, highly efficient machine that combines military, diplomatic, intelligence, economic, scientific and political operations. Its preparations are concealed, not published. Its mistakes are buried, not headlined. Its dissenters are silenced, not praised. No expenditure is questioned, no rumor is printed, no secret is revealed. It conducts the Cold War, in short, with a war-time discipline no democracy would ever hope or wish to match.

Barking at people earns their respect about as effectively as staring into the sun improves your vision.

You don’t need to bend over backward, buddy,” the boy said, leaning against a bookshelf. “There’s no reason you have to read intimidating books. Don’t try so hard — just enjoy the chance meetings.

A short scuffle, and then out into the gloom, her grey crest raised and her barred chest feathers puffed up into a meringue of aggression and fear, came a huge old female goshawk. Old because her feet were gnarled and dusty, her eyes a deep, fiery orange, and she was beautiful. Beautiful like a granite cliff or a thunder-cloud. She completely filled the room. She had a massive back of sun-bleached grey feathers, was as muscled as a pit bull, and intimidating as hell, even to staff who spent their days tending eagles.

Never be intimidated by what seems ominous, for BiG is only an accumulation of many smalls.

Next item—three ladies, all English, a mother and two daughters. Each wears a helping of whipped white of egg on the top of their head; rather remarkable. The daughters are old, like the mother. The mother is old, like the daughters. All three are thin, flat-chested, tall, stiff, and tired-looking; their front teeth are worn outside, to intimidate plates and men.

When people lead from the perspective of fear, they can be intimidating. They’re not open. They don’t listen. They’re not willing to admit when they’ve made a mistake. It’s always someone else’s fault.   That kind of leadership model is not sustainable. It might produce decent performance over a short period of time. But I don’t think you’re a leader when you lead through fear—you’re a manager.

Lastly, to the memory of my beloved niece Mayyada, who cut her life short by committing suicide to escape the hellish marriage imposed upon her under Islamic Sharia Law: May her tragic account be an eternal inspiration to all who are privileged to live in free societies. May her story encourage all those who have been subjugated to tyranny—especially women—to become well informed and to persevere beyond fear and intimidation. And a challenge: To those whose spirits uphold the principles of justice and freedom of speech—May Mayyada’s story, and that of many more whose stories have never been told, embolden you to speak up against the unjust and immoral treatment of women in the Muslim world.

Scythe Anastasia was equally dumbfounded. "You?" she said. "No," Morrison blurted, "not me! I mean, yes, it's me, but I'm not the Toll, I mean." Any hope of strong, silent intimidation was gone. Now he was little more than a stammering imbecile, which is how he always felt around Scythe Anastasia. "What are you even doing here?" she asked. He started to explain, but realized it was way too long a story for the moment. And besides, he was sure her story was a better one. The other scythe in her entourage—Amazonian by the look of his robe—chimed in, several beats behind the curve. "You mean to say you two know each other?" But before either of them could answer, Mendoza came up behind Morrison, tapping him on the shoulder. "As usual, you're in the way, Morrison," he grumbled, having completely missed the conversation. Morrison stepped aside and allowed the curate to exit. And the moment Mendoza saw Anastasia, he became just as befuddled as Morrison. Although his eyes darted wildly, he managed to hold his silence. Now they stood on either side of the entrance to the cave in their usual formation. Then the Toll emerged from the cave between them. He paused short, just as Morrison and Mendoza had, gaping in a way that a holy man probably never should. "Okay," said Scythe Anastasia. "Now I know I've lost my mind.

Well, I’m too intimidated to try something new and too scared of failure to commit to anything more than a string of short-term relationships and the same job I’ve had since I turned eighteen. Everyone keeps telling me I can be anything I want to be and do anything I want to do. And I’m just . . . paralyzed by it all.

The man was possibly the most intimidating person she’d ever seen, and he was walking their way. Tall and burly, he had short-cropped hair which added to his military appearance. But it was his clothes that really caught her attention, since he was wearing some kind of leather armour and… was that a sword strapped to his belt?

Another man of sheer violence was the late Stewart Boyd, he was killed in a car accident over in Spain’s Costa del Sol shortly after being released from prison in June 2003. But he certainly left his mark on the city streets of Glasgow. He was a force to be reckoned with, a gang enforcer. Murder and witness intimidation were high on his criminal charge sheet.

Well, I’m too intimidated to try something new and too scared of failure to commit to anything more than a string of short-term relationships and the same job I’ve had since I turned eighteen. Everyone keeps telling me I can be anything I want to be and do anything I want to do. And I’m just . . . paralyzed by it all.” I snort out a sad laugh. “I sound flighty to me.

Despite the liberal atmosphere of our time, it would be naive to assume that the distinction between “weird” and “normal” has disappeared. It stands as secure as ever, waiting to intimidate and herd back into line those who would question the normative limits of love and sex. It may now be deemed “normal” to wear cutoff shorts, expose belly buttons, marry someone of either gender, and watch a little porn for fun, but it also remains indispensably “normal” to believe that true love should be monogamous and that one’s desire should be focused exclusively on one person. To be in dispute with this founding principle is to risk being dismissed, in public or private, with that most dispiriting, caustic and shameful of all epithets: pervert. Rabih

Is anyone else coming?” I asked him when he didn’t say anything after setting his glass back down on the table. I’d overheard a couple of the guys talking about Rip’s half-hearted invitation when I had taken a bathroom break, but I hadn’t heard more than that. His gaze hadn’t left mine from the moment he had spotted me, and it didn’t go anywhere as he shrugged and said, “Doubt it.” I must have made a face because he added, casually, “I’m not exactly anybody’s favorite, Luna.” The smile fell right off my mouth, and I couldn’t help but frown at him. At the harshness of his words. At the… fact-like nature of them. That wasn’t very nice for him to assume. That wasn’t very nice to assume at all, and it bothered me… even if it was true that Mr. Cooper was my favorite person at the shop. And I was his. And Miguel’s— Crap. “I’m sure—“ I started before getting cut off. “I’m not,” he told me, tapping his short fingernails against the glass. Rip tipped his chin up a millimeter, giving me a slightly better view of the shading tucked up against his jawline. He swallowed, everything about his body language saying that he was telling me these words in this way because it wasn’t a big deal to him. He didn’t care. Why should he? His body said. His next words confirmed it. “I’m not around to be anybody’s friend.” All righty then. I wanted to tell him something that would make it seem that it wasn’t like anyone hated him or disliked him. Most of the guys were just… wary. Even I was wary, and he didn’t scare or intimidate me… unless I screwed up. But I didn’t know what to say to that comment. I hated liars as much as I hated aggressive drunk people and cooked carrots. So I did the only thing I could think of: I smiled at him and shrugged. He didn’t look even a little put out or hurt by what he’d been saying. Who was I to make it a big deal if he claimed he didn’t care? “Did you like your cake?

One way to approach the book today might be to think of it not as an intimidating, monolithic entity, but as its original readers experienced it—as eight utterly manageable short books to be read over the leisurely course of a year. Another way might be to admit that you do have time to read an eight-hundred-page book, perhaps even according to a swifter timetable than that of George Eliot’s first readers. You just need to reorder your priorities.

I kept thinking if I’m so miserably maladjusted to this life, my absence would only be felt for a short time. And anyway, my responsibilities with the family are over. They no longer look to me for guidance. It’s more like I’m the one they’re stuck being responsible for. My company isn’t sought after. Whatever I have allowed to happen has also brought on this horrible lack of confidence. I’m intimidated. I have no one to tell my concerns to, NO ONE. I’ve let myself come to a very sad state, not only sad, but stagnant.

But it is easy, as experience has proved, for unions, particularly with the help of one-sided labor legislation which puts compulsions solely on employers, to go beyond their legitimate functions, to act irresponsibly, and to embrace short-sighted and antisocial policies. They do this, for example, whenever they seek to fix the wages of their members above their real market worth. Such an attempt always brings about unemployment. The arrangement can be made to stick, in fact, only by some form of intimidation or coercion.

Chrissy felt tiny between the two gladiators flanking her. But while most women, or even men, would be intimidated by them, she wasn’t. These were the same guys who when they were fifteen had used Mrs. Daniels’s expensive eyeliner to paint lines under their eyes as camouflage before they went to toilet-paper the neighbor’s house. Within five minutes they had been caught and brought home to face the wrath of her dad and Mr. Daniels. All that camouflage on their faces, yet they’d worn yellow T-shirts and white shorts: Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

People always ask me how I got funny. The short answer is: I had to figure out a way to be liked. The long answer is more complicated because humor also developed as a survival mechanism to protect myself and disarm or intimidate people when I didn’t feel safe, to make fun of myself before other people could, to avoid having to feel sadness, or to mitigate the gravity of a situation because laughter was my anesthetic for pain. Also, my last name is Cummings, so as you can probably imagine, I had to learn to defend myself from insults pretty early on in life.

In short, our emotions don’t always lead us astray; sometimes, on the contrary, when we listen to them, they can save us. This can work not only when people are trying to make us live on the edge of radioactive landfill sites, but also in situations of harassment and abuse, like those outlined above. By giving some credit to their feelings—whether disgust, anger, rejection or resistance—by listening to the alarms going off in their bodies and minds, victims may find the strength to defend themselves, especially when the voice of reason is just a front for the debilitating, intimidating voice of authority.

language in other words which submits to its audience, rather than instructing, informing, moving, challenging and even entertaining them, is no longer a language which can carry the freight the Bible requires. It has, in short, lost all authority. The language of the King James Bible is the language of Hatfield, of patriarchy, of an instructed order, of richness as a form of beauty, of authority as a form of good; the New English Bible is motivated by the opposite, an anxiety not to bore or intimidate. It is driven, in other words, by the desire to please and, in that way, is a form of language which has died.

However, the fact that American forces continued to work with the warlords and pay them gave them new power in their communities. They intimidated local people by telling them they could call in airstrikes on their satellite phones. And to the horror of many of the Europeans, Rumsfeld and other US officials would visit them as if they were important leaders. ‘There is a certain illogic in trying to boost the authority of the central government on one hand and in conniving with local warlords on the other,’ complained Chris Patten, the European Union Commissioner, when he visited Kabul in May 2002. ‘There are things done in the short term which are unhelpful in the long term.

The source of Xi’s power over his own ranks remains intimidation. And that is certainly effective in the short term: during his first term in office, Party functionaries all over the country were paralyzed with fear of the dreaded Central Commission for Discipline Inspection—one of the country’s most secretive and powerful organizations—and the suicide rate among CCP workers doubled. Between 2009 and 2016, according to a study by the Institute of Psychology at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, 243 Party officials took their own lives (140 jumped to their deaths, 44 hanged themselves, 26 took poison, 12 drowned themselves, and 6 slit their wrists).21 These figures are likely to fall short of the true number.

Maxwell D. Kalist is a receiving teller at a city bank, Orwell and Finch, where he runs an efficient department of twenty two clerks and twelve junior clerks. He carries a leather-bound vade mecum everywhere with him – a handbook of the most widely contravened banking rules. He works humourlessly (on the surface of it) in a private, perfectly square office on the third floor of a restored grain exchange midway along the Eastern flank of Květniv’s busy, modern central plaza. Behind his oblong slate desk and black leather swivel chair is an intimidating, three-storey wall made almost entirely of bevelled, glare-reducing grey glass in art-deco style; one hundred and thirty six rectangles of gleam stacked together in a dangerously heavy collage.

Women have always desired equality and respect, but our current culture isn’t seeking it through the grace of Mary; rather, the culture seeks this equality and respect through the vices of Machiavelli: rage, intimidation, tantrums, bullying, raw emotion, and absence of logic. It is this aggressive impulse—this toxic femininity—that finds pride in calling oneself “nasty,” feels empowered by dressing as a vagina, belittles men, and sees the (tragically ironic) need to drop civility so that civility can somehow return again. The devil knows that all these marks of the anti-Mary—rage, indignation, vulgarity, and pride—short-circuit a woman’s greatest gifts: wisdom, prudence, patience, unflappable peace, intuition, her ability to weave together the fabric of society, and her capacity for a deep and fulfilling relationship with God. Instead, the father of lies promises power, fame, fortune, and sterile, fleeting pleasures.

But before my eyes, in a matter of a few short months, sushi had metamorphosed into steak, and nightclubs had changed into the front porch of Marlboro Man’s quiet house in the country. I hadn’t felt the reverb of a thumping club beat in months and months. My nervous system had never known such calm. That is, until Marlboro Man called one morning that August with his simple request: “My cousin Kim is getting married next weekend,” he said. “Can you come?” An uncomfortable wave washed over my body. “You there?” he asked. I’d paused longer than I’d intended. “Yeah…I’m here,” I replied. “But, um…will I…will I have to meet anyone?” Marlboro Man laughed. The answer, obviously, was yes. Yes, I’d have to meet “anyone.” In fact, I’d have to meet everyone: everyone in his extended family of cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and friends; and his family, by all accounts, was large. We’d talked about our families before, and he knew good and well that I had all of three cousins. Three. He, on the other hand, had fifty. He knew how intimidating a family wedding would be to an outsider, especially when the family is as large as his. He knew this would be way out of my comfort zone. And he was right.

Leonardo da Vinci, was brought to the Vatican in 1513 by the new pope, Leo X, and given a list of commissions to create for the greater glory of the pope and his family. After three years of living in the papal palace and exploring Rome, the great Leonardo had produced almost nothing. The furious Pope Leo decided to have a surprise showdown with the capricious artist and intimidate him into completing some of his commissions. In the middle of the night, surrounded by several imposing Swiss Guardsmen, the pope burst through the door to Leonardo’s private palace chambers, thinking to shake him out of a sound sleep. Instead, he was horrified to find Leonardo wide awake, with a pair of grave robbers, in the midst of dissecting a freshly stolen corpse—right under the pope’s own roof. Pope Leo let out a nonregal scream and had the Swiss soldiers immediately pack up Leonardo’s belongings and throw them and the divine Leonardo himself outside the fortress wall of the Vatican, never to return again. Shortly afterward, Leonardo decided it was probably healthier to get out of Italy and move to France, where he spent the rest of his days. This, by the way, is why the great Italian genius’s most famous oil paintings, including the Mona Lisa, are all in Paris, in the Louvre museum.

The modern world had lost the thing which informs every act and gesture of Hatfield, of the King James Bible, and of that incomparable age: a sense of encompassing richness which stretches unbroken from the divine to the sculptural, from theology to cushions, from a sense of the beauty of the created world to the extraordinary capabilities of language to embody it. This is about more than mere sonority or the beeswaxed heritage-appeal of antique vocabulary and grammar. The flattening of language is a flattening of meaning. Language which is not taut with a sense of its own significance, which is apologetic in its desire to be acceptable to a modern consciousness, language in other words which submits to its audience, rather than instructing, informing, moving, challenging and even entertaining them, is no longer a language which can carry the freight the Bible requires. It has, in short, lost all authority. The language of the King James Bible is the language of Hatfield, of patriarchy, of an instructed order, of richness as a form of beauty, of authority as a form of good; the New English Bible is motivated by the opposite, an anxiety not to bore or intimidate. It is driven, in other words, by the desire to please and, in that way, is a form of language which has died.

Pat and I smiled to see a small evening bag with a short handle hooked over her left elbow. We wondered why she would carry a handbag in her own home. What would she possibly need from it? I was longing to walk over to Her Majesty, the Queen, and tell her, mother to mother, “Your Majesty, we’ve known Lady Diana quite well for the past year and a half. We’d like you to know what a truly lovely young woman your son is about to marry.” A sincere and uncontroversial prewedding remark. Unfortunately, this was not only the groom’s mother but also Her Majesty, the Queen of England. Protocol prevented our approaching her, since we had not been personally introduced. I toyed briefly with the idea of walking up to her anyway and pretending that, as an American, I didn’t know the rules. But I was afraid of a chilling rebuff and did not want to embarrass Diana, who had been kind enough to invite us. Pat did not encourage me to plunge ahead. In fact, this time he exclaimed, “Have you lost your mind?” Maybe I should have taken a chance. Too timid again! Our next glimpse of the royal family was Prince Philip, socializing a room or two away from the queen and surrounded by attractive women. He was a bit shorter than he appears in photographs, but quite handsome with a dignified presence and a regal, controlled charm. Pat was impressed by how flawlessly Prince Philip played his role as host, speaking graciously to people in small groups, then moving smoothly on to the next group, unhurried and polished. I thought he had an intimidating, wouldn’t “suffer fools gladly” air—not a person with whom one could easily make small talk, although his close friends seemed relaxed with him. It was easy to believe that he had been a stern and domineering father to Prince Charles. The Prince of Wales had seemed much warmer and more approachable.

I'm unaccustomed to being cooped up all day-I really must insist that you permit me to enjoy a short walk." "Not on your life," Fletcher growled. From the sound, Breckenridge realized the group had moved closer to the tap. "You don't need to think you're going to give us the slip so easily," Fletcher said again. "My dear good man"-Heather with her nose in the air; Breckenridge could tell by her tone-"just where in this landscape of empty fields do you imagine I'm going to slip to?" Cobbins opined that she might try to steal a horse and ride off. "Oh,yes-in a round gown and evening slippers," Heather jeered. "But I wasn't suggesting you let me ramble on my own-Martha can come with me." That was Martha's cue to enter the fray, but Heather stuck to her guns, refusing to back down through the ensuing, increasingly heated verbal stoush. Until Fletcher intervened, aggravated frustration resonating in his voice. "Look you-we're under strict orders to keep you safe, not to let you wander off to fall prey to the first shiftless rake who rides past and takes a fancy to you." Silence reigned for half a minute, then Heather audibly sniffed. "I'll have you know that shiftless rakes know better than to take a fancy to me." Not true, Breckenridge thought, but that wasn't the startling information contained in Fletcher's outburst. "Come on, Heather-follow up." As if she'd heard his muttered exhortation, she blithely swept on. "But if rather than standing there arguing, you instead treated me like a sensible adult and told me what your so strict orders with respect to me were, I might see my way to complying-or at least to helping you comply with them." Breckenridge blinked as he sorted through that pronouncement; he could almost feel for Fletcher when he hissed out a sigh. "All right," Fletcher's frustration had reached breaking point. "If you must know, we're to keep you safe from all harm. We're not to let a bloody pigeon pluck so much as a hair from your head. We're to deliver you up in prime condition, exactly as you were when he grabbed you." From the change in Fletcher's tone, Breckenridge could visualize him moving closer to tower over Heather to intimidate her into backing down; he could have told him it wouldn't work. "So now you see," Fletcher went on, voice low and forceful, "that it's entirely out of the question for you to go out for any ramble." "Hmm." Heather's tone was tellingly mild. Fletcher was about to get floored by an uppercut. For once not being on the receiving end, Breckenridge grinned and waited for it to land. "If, as you say, your orders are to-do correct me if I'm wrong-keep me in my customary excellent health until you hand me over to your employer, then, my dear Fletcher, that will absolutely necessitate me going for a walk. Being cooped up all day in a carriage has never agreed with me-if you don't wish me to weaken or develop some unhealthy affliction, I will require fresh air and gentle exercise to recoup." She paused, then went on, her tone one of utmost reasonableness, "A short excursion along the river at the rear of the inn, and back, should restore my constitution." Breckenridge was certain he could hear Fletcher breathing in and out through clenched teeth. A fraught moment passed on, then, "Oh, very well! Martha-go with her. Twenty minutes, do you hear? Not a minute more." "Thank you, Fletcher. Come, Martha-we don't want to waste the light." Breckenridge heard Heather, with the rather slower Martha, leave the inn by the main door. He sipped his ale, waited. Eventually, Fletcher and Cobbins climbed the stairs, Cobbins grumbling, Fletcher ominously silent. The instant they passed out of hearing, Breckenridge stood, stretched, then walked out of the tap and into the foyer. Seconds later, he slipped out of the front door.

German voters never gave the Nazis a majority of the popular vote, as is still sometimes alleged. As we saw in the last chapter, the Nazis did indeed become the largest party in the German Reichstag in the parliamentary election of July 31, 1932, with 37.2 percent of the vote. They then slipped back to 33.1 percent in the parliamentary election of November 6, 1932. In the parliamentary election of March 6, 1933, with Hitler as chancellor and the Nazi Party in command of all the resources of the German state, its score was a more significant but still insufficient 43.9 percent. More than one German in two voted against Nazi candidates in that election, in the teeth of intimidation by Storm Troopers. The Italian Fascist Party won 35 out of 535 seats, in the one free parliamentary election in which it participated, on May 15, 1921. At the other extreme, neither Hitler nor Mussolini arrived in office by a coup d’état. Neither took the helm by force, even if both had used force before power in order to destabilize the existing regime, and both were to use force again, after power, in order to transform their governments into dictatorships (as we will see shortly). Even the most scrupulous authors refer to their “seizure of power,” but that phrase better describes what the two fascist leaders did after reaching office than how they got into office. Both Mussolini and Hitler were invited to take office as head of government by a head of state in the legitimate exercise of his official functions, on the advice of civilian and military counselors. Both thus became heads of government in what appeared, at least on the surface, to be legitimate exercises of constitutional authority by King Victor Emmanuel III and President Hindenburg. Both these appointments were made, it must be added at once, under conditions of extreme crisis, which the fascists had abetted. Indeed no insurrectionary coup against an established state has ever so far brought fascists to power. Authoritarian dictatorships have several times crushed such attempts.

They were intimidating, big, and didn’t appear to trust me. I wondered if I seemed dangerous to them, all five feet six inches of me. I glanced down at my skimpy white shorts and purple tank top and wondered if they considered the fact it would be impossible to hide weapons in this outfit.

Women love balls, but you do not have to risk your life to attract women, and I would advise that you not do so. Life is too short as it is. However, you do have to face your fears if you are afraid of things that are harmless. Many males are, and the ones least successful with women are even intimidated by women.

Question: when you picture Jesus ministering to others, how do you see Him? Certainly not with the stressed-out, hurry-up attitude we often have. Don’t you get an image of Him ministering in a quiet, tranquil peace? That’s a trait you need to develop too. As ambassadors of Christ we need to become more like our Master in dealing with others. Paul writes, ‘Live in peace, and [then] the God of love [Who is the Source of affection, goodwill, love, and benevolence toward men] and the Author and Promoter of peace will be with you.’ When you resort to force, argument, intimidation, anger, and coercion, you’re on your own. But when you demonstrate affection, goodwill, love, and benevolence towards people, God has promised to be with you

The rate of time flow perceived by an observer in the simulated universe is completely independent of the rate at which a computer runs the simulation, a point emphasized in Greg Egan's science-fiction novel Permutation City. Moreover, as we discussed in the last chapter and as stressed by Einstein, it's arguably more natural to view our Universe not from the frog perspective as a three-dimensional space where things happen, but from the bird perspective as a four-dimensional spacetime that merely is. There should therefore be no need for the computer to compute anything at all-it could simply store all the four-dimensional data, that is, encode all properties of the mathematical structure that is our Universe. Individual time slices could then be read out sequentially if desired, and the "simulated" world should still feel as real to its inhabitants as in the case where only three-dimensional data is stored and evolved. In conclusion: the role of the simulating computer isn't to compute the history of our Universe, but to specify it. How specify it? The way in which the data are stored (the type of computer, the data format, etc.) should be irrelevant, so the extent to which the inhabitants of the simulated universe perceive themselves as real should be independent of whatever method is used for data compression. The physical laws that we've discovered provide great means of data compression, since they make it sufficient to store the initial data at some time together with the equations and a program computing the future from these initial data. As emphasized on pages 340-344, the initial data might be extremely simple: popular initial states from quantum field theory with intimidating names such as the Hawking-Hartle wavefunction or the inflationary Bunch-Davies vacuum have very low algorithmic complexity, since they can be defined in brief physics papers, yet simulating their time evolution would simulate not merely one universe like ours, but a vast decohering collection of parallel ones. It's therefore plausible that our Universe (and even the whole Level III multiverse) could be simulated by quite a short computer program.

of stimulating reward pathways in the brain, such as drugs, sex, aggression, and intimidating others, could become relatively more attractive and less constrained by concern about violating trusting relationships. The ability to modify behavior based on negative experiences may be impaired.30 Hard-core drug addicts, whose lives invariably began under conditions of severe stress, are all too readily triggered into a stress reaction. Not only does the stress response easily overwhelm the addict’s already-challenged capacity for rational thought when emotionally aroused, but the hormones of stress also “cross-sensitize” with addictive substances. The more one is present, the more the other is craved. Addiction is a deeply ingrained response to stress, an attempt to cope with it through self-soothing. Maladaptive in the long term, it is highly effective in the short term. Predictably, stress is a major cause of continued drug dependence. It increases opiate craving and use, enhances the reward efficacy of drugs, and provokes relapse to drug seeking and drug taking.31 “Exposure to stress is the most powerful and reliable experimental manipulation used to induce reinstatement of alcohol or drug use,” one team of researchers reports.32 “Stressful experiences,” another research group points out, “increase the vulnerability of the individual to either develop drug self-administration or relapse.”33

Eyes wide, Jamie. Don’t give them an inch. Don’t even let them think they can take one. Not even for a second. That’s what her dad would have said. What he had said to her. A hundred times. He was no stranger to stepping into the wrong parts of the city. And he used to do it with the sort of attitude that scared most guys off. The kind of try it and see what happens, shit-bag stare that sent most people scampering.  She tried to carry that look. The look that conveyed that her crescent kick could crack a skull and they’d never see it coming. She didn’t know if she could pull it off as well as her dad. He was six-three with the frame of a Scandinavian bison, after all, and about as intimidating. She, on the other hand, had her mum’s frame. Though that did have its advantages. Mostly in part to the fact that if she did need to hit someone, they’d never expect it.  Roper pulled up short of the first tent and put his hands on his hips, looking around.  Narrow walkways wound around the little squats, making the thirty-by-sixty-foot space a veritable micro favela by all accounts. There must have been fifty different shelters made up in there — of all varying sizes, shapes, and constructions. ‘Jesus,’ Roper grumbled. ‘How the hell are we going to find Grace’s tent in all this?’ Jamie surveyed the exteriors. All the heads seemed to shrink back inside as they got close. ‘Reggie said that the tent was too nice to be here. So I guess we just look for the one that sticks out.’ He made a humming sound and pursed his lips, inhaling sharply. ‘Grace Melver,’ he called loudly, verging on yelling. ‘Grace Melver!’  Nothing stirred. ‘Smooth, Roper,’ Jamie mumbled, sidestepping to look around the battered old four-man in front of them. Behind it a blue tarp had been hung from the girders overhead with what looked to be electrical wire.

Celia as she continued the tour of the newly renovated office space. Her legs were longer than his, which made him have to move quickly to keep up. Her height was also intimidating, but being short was never something he ever complained about. Celia must’ve been four or five inches taller! From Ragert’s estimation, Celia might have been pushing two and half feet! At just under two feet himself, or 22 inches tall, he’d always been the little elf. “And this section of cubicles is part of our emergency dispatch team,” Cilia said, looking back at Ragert. “I hope you’re listening to me, mister.” Ragert nodded nervously. “Of course I am! I wouldn’t want to miss a thing,

To overcome the Fortress Fallacy, all you have to do is recognize that you tend to dream beyond your current abilities. Don’t let your own dream intimidate you into not starting, or lead you into burnout when you do start. Instead, like Evel Knievel’s dream of jumping over the Grand Canyon, let your dream be a guide. Like Hugh MacLeod’s business-card doodles, start small, and over time, you’ll build closer and closer to that dream. Dream of a Michelin-star restaurant, but start with a dinner party. Dream of a novel, but start with a short story. Dream of a feature film, but start with a short film. Instead of building a fortress, start with a cottage.

Quinn pauses his sit-ups on his punching bag. “What…like her…?” He gestures to his crotch. I roll my eyes and unravel my black hand-wraps. Donnelly tosses his towel over his shoulder. “Her clit? It’s not a big bad word.” Oscar butts in, “Everyone lay off Quinn—alright, my little bro is young, impressionable, and still has his innocence and virtue; whereas the rest of us have lost our ever-loving minds.” Quinn chucks his green boxing glove at his older brother, ten years apart in age. “Bro, I can say clit every day easily. Clit, clit, clit, clit—” “We get it,” I say, dropping my hand-wraps on the mats. Quinn scratches his unshaven jaw, sweat built on his golden-brown skin, and a tiny scar sits beneath his eye. Likewise, his nose is a little crooked from a short stint and bad blow in a pro-boxing circuit. Oscar has similar lasting marks. Security jokes that no matter how many punches Oscar and Quinn have taken as pro-boxers in the past, they’ll always be handsome motherfuckers. “I purposefully censored myself,” Quinn clarifies. “I wasn’t about to mention a teenage girl’s…you know.” “Clit,” Donnelly says. “Jelly bean,” Oscar adds. “Magic button.” Donnelly smirks. Quinn shakes his head like we’re all the fucked-up ones. My brows spike. “You’re the one who assumed ‘clitoris piercing’ at the word ‘unmentionable’.” I tilt my head at him. “And weren’t you like a teenager like one year ago?” Oscar and Donnelly laugh loudly, and Quinn gives me a faint death-glare. He needs to work on his “intimidation” a bit—he’s very green: brand new to security detail, and at twenty, he’s the youngest bodyguard in the whole team. If he screws up, that

As the United States has fed more of its citizens and residents into prisons and immigrant detention centers, in cities and towns, the country’s populace faces a life under high-tech, well-equipped police forces. The spread of more vigorous, extensive, and militarized police forces is a key example. These forces wield technology and gear to control black and brown poor neighborhoods. They fuse dramatic neighborhood spectacles with intimidating displays of personnel and weaponry that further consolidate a theatrics of state terror. Police thus are often on the front-line of enforcing what Molly of Rikers Island jail described as “short-term terror and revulsion.” In

A prime example of intimidation at the polls that reveals the Obama administration’s disappointing attitude toward election crimes occurred in the 2008 federal election when two members of the New Black Panther Party stood in a doorway of a polling place in Philadelphia. They were in black paramilitary uniforms and one of them carried and brandished a nightstick. They argued with passersby and shouted racial insults at poll watchers. They attempted to block a poll watcher from entering the polling place and were recorded by a poll watcher with his video camera. At the time, Robert Popper was a deputy chief in the Voting Section of the Civil Rights Division of the US Justice Department. He was assigned to prosecute a civil action against these men for intimidation and attempted intimidation under the relevant federal statute, Section 11(b) of the Voting Rights Act. The case against the defendants was strong, and they subsequently defaulted by refusing even to answer the charges against them. But the case was abruptly curtailed and all but shut down by the newly appointed officials of the Obama administration. In the end, they ordered Popper to settle the case for a short, limited, and toothless injunction against only one of the four defendants. There was never a convincing explanation from Eric Holder or the administration as to why the case was cut short. Popper believes that it was a partisan abuse of what are supposed to be neutral law enforcement efforts to enforce the Voting Rights Act. This was only the beginning of the Obama administration’s abuse of its power over elections. The damage to the reputation of the Justice Department was enormous and enduring, and the damage to the public’s perception of the integrity of elections was incalculable.

John Basilovich I. has been considered as one of the founders of the Russian empire; but his accession did not take place till the middle of the fifteenth century. He arose, like Bonaparte, in a period of national dismay, confusion, and calamity; and though described as a man of impetuous vices and violent passions, intrepid, artful, treacherous, and having all the ferocity of a savage, has been hailed as the deliverer of his country, and dignified by the appellation of the Great. It is a title which oppressed intimidated people have frequently bestowed upon tyrants. Until his time, however, Tartars were lords of Moscow -- the tsars themselves being obliged to stand in the presence of their ambassadors, while the latter sat at meat, and to endure the most humiliating ceremonies. Basilovich shook off the Tartar yoke; but it was a long time before the Russians, always children of imitation, ceased to mimic a people by whom they had been conquered. They had neither arts nor opinions of their own: every thing in Moscow Tartarian -- dress, manners, buildings, equipages -- in short, all except religion and language, Basilovich, at the conquest of Casan, was solemnly crowned with the diadem of that kingdom, which is said to be the same now used for the coronation of the Russian sovereigns.

Look, in the course of time, these Parayans will ask for our girls in marriage. Hope you know. I have seen many Pariahs twirling their mustache and licking the leftovers from their teeth to eat. Eleyee! They are not as terrific as the Pallan, in my in-laws village. They will brawl acchee Poochu! ‘The Pallans there are very ruthless. I brought some Pallans from Ramanathapuram district and I know what they are really capable of. You know these Pariahs there were joining communist parties and doing all scheming jobs to intimidate us. You know what happened? They cannot even own 1/3rd of their Kuli (wage). But these Bloody bums! Have now started asking questions and resisting us since they think they are educated. What's their problem now? We are only asking them to follow their ancestral tradition and the jobs they performed for generations; like how they would for other communities,” twirling his mustache, Meesaikarar threateningly called, “Hey Ponna !

The mountains may appear intimidating and insurmountable, but each step we take towards them teaches us more about our strength and fortitude.

The flattening of language is a flattening of meaning. Language which is not taut with a sense of its own significance, which is apologetic in its desire to be acceptable to a modern consciousness, language in other words which submits to its audience, rather than instructing, informing, moving, challenging and even entertaining them, is no longer a language which can carry the freight the Bible requires. It has, in short, lost all authority. The language of the King James Bible is the language of Hatfield, of patriarchy, of an instructed order, of richness as a form of beauty, of authority as a form of good; the New English Bible is motivated by the opposite, an anxiety not to bore or intimidate. It is driven, in other words, by the desire to please and, in that way, is a form of language which has died.

Most of the times we are mere spectators in the stadium, watching us run the race of our life. This race is not a defined format either; it could be a combination of short exhilarating sprints, strategic middle distance running, high hurdles, low hurdles or grueling marathons. The biggest challenge is the element of mystery in the format; each lap may require us to get into a rhythm to run a different kind of race and the number of laps assigned to us in the format is never known to us. We have to put our best performance irrespective of the outcome; we might blaze away to glory or we might pale into the oblivion, the race has to be run. We also share the track with fellow runners and each of them is engrossed in running their own race as per the format prescribed to them. Do not ever get intimidated by runners who zoom past us; we must plan to run our race at our own pace. Remember, the beauty of this format is that there is no competition among runners; the key is to concentrate on our own race and wish others well.

We could express this power in the following way: Most of the time we live in an interior world of dreams, desires, and obsessive thoughts. But in this period of exceptional creativity, we are impelled by the need to get something done that has a practical effect. We force ourselves to step outside our inner chamber of habitual thoughts and connect to the world. At these moments, suddenly exposed to new details and ideas, we become more inspired and creative. Once the deadline has passed or the crisis is over, this feeling of power and heightened creativity generally fades away. We return to our distracted state and the sense of control is gone. The problem we face is that this form of power and intelligence is either ignored as a subject of study or is surrounded by all kinds of myths and misconceptions, all of which only add to the mystery. We imagine that creativity and brilliance just appear out of nowhere, the fruit of natural talent, or perhaps of a good mood, or an alignment of the stars. It would be an immense help to clear up the mystery—to name this feeling of power, and to understand how it can be manufactured and maintained. Let us call this sensation mastery—the feeling that we have a greater command of reality, other people, and ourselves. Although it might be something we experience for only a short while, for others—Masters of their field—it becomes their way of life, their way of seeing the world. And at the root of this power is a simple process that leads to mastery—one that is accessible to all of us. The process can be illustrated in the following manner: Let us say we are learning the piano, or entering a new job where we must acquire certain skills. In the beginning, we are outsiders. Our initial impressions of the piano or the work environment are based on prejudgments, and often contain an element of fear. When we first study the piano, the keyboard looks rather intimidating—we don’t understand the relationships between the keys, the chords, the pedals, and everything else that goes into creating music. In a new job situation, we are ignorant of the power relationships between people, the psychology of our boss, the rules and procedures that are considered critical for success. We are confused—the knowledge we need in both cases is over our heads. Although we might enter these situations with excitement about what we can learn or do with our new skills, we quickly realize how much hard work there is ahead of us. The great danger is that we give in to feelings of boredom, impatience, fear, and confusion. We stop observing and learning. The process comes to a halt. If, on the other hand, we manage these emotions and allow time to take its course, something remarkable begins to take shape. As we continue to observe and follow the lead of others, we gain clarity, learning the rules and seeing how things work and fit together. If we keep practicing, we gain fluency; basic skills are mastered, allowing us to take on newer and more exciting challenges.

For more than a century they were a major force for white colonial expansion pushing out Mexicans through violence, intimidation, and political interference. In some cases, whites would raid cattle from Mexican ranches and then, when Mexican vaqueros tried to take them back, call in the Rangers to retrieve their “stolen property.” Mexicans and Native Americans who resisted Ranger authority could be killed, beaten, arrested, or intimidated. Mike Cox describes this as nothing short of an extermination campaign in which almost the entire indigenous population was killed or driven out of the territory.24

I guess you might say that it was a paradox of sorts in that I prepared for long-term success by bracing myself against the effects of short-term failure.  I again emphasize that this philosophy works only if you are prepared to succeed.  It does not work if you simply use it as an excuse to fail in a situation where it may have been possible to succeed had you tried harder or been more persistent.

At first I was a bit apprehensive about no longer specializing in second-mortgage loans, because I had worked so hard to learn the business and establish some great contacts.  When I finally made the decision, however, the reasoning I used was destined to become an integral part of my thinking for the rest of my life. That reasoning is encapsulated in the Leapfrog Theory, which states:  No one has an obligation—moral, legal, or otherwise—to "work his way up through the ranks."  Every human being possesses an inalienable right to make a unilateral decision to redirect his career and begin operating on a higher level at any time that he, and he alone, believes he is ready. If one aspires to great accomplishments, he must recognize that the quickest way to the top is not by fighting his way through the pack, but by leapfrogging over it.  There is, however, a catch.  If you aren't prepared to rise above the competition, then, in spite of any bold proclamations, the realities of the Business World Jungle will knock you right back into the pack in short order.  In other words, even though you have a perfect right to proclaim that you're ready to move beyond your competitors, no amount of chest-pounding can overcome reality.

Legalman would immediately begin to implement the "he-we-I" evolution strategy.  At the outset, he would talk in terms of he (the seller) in discussing the property and the closing.  Then, in a relatively short period of time, the word he would subtly evolve into we (i.e., the seller and Legalman).  At that point, the seller was no longer in full control of his destiny.  Nay, it was now he and Legalman who were making the decisions.  Finally—you guessed it—Legalman, in a galling display of arrogance, would magically transform we into I (as in Legalman).  Some things in life are inevitable, and Legalman's "he-we-I" evolution strategy is one of those inevitabilities.  From that point on, it was entirely Legalman's deal.  The buyer and seller had been reduced to nothing more than bothersome but necessary bystanders to Legalman's closing.

The political left’s cultural revolution on the sexual-gender-family front is ubiquitous, as is its intolerance of any dissenters. We see it in the culture of fear and intimidation by the self-prided forces of “diversity” and “tolerance” who viciously seek to denounce, dehumanize, demonize, and destroy anyone who disagrees with their brazen newfound conceptions of marriage and family, even as their inventions are at odds with the prevailing position of 99.99 percent-plus of human beings who have bestrode the earth since the dawn of humanity. Instead, traditional Christians are the ones portrayed as the outliers, as abnormal, as extremists, as bigots, as “haters.” That is a fundamental transformation of a culture and a nation. That is evidence of a true revolution by the heirs of Marx and other radicals. “The Most Radical Rupture in Traditional Relations” To “fundamentally transform.” Here was, in essence, an inherently Marxist goal declared to a sea of oblivious Americans, whether Barack Obama explicitly or fully understood or meant it himself. It is highly doubtful that Obama had Marx (or a Marcuse or Millett or Reich) on the mind at that moment.665 Obama was merely riding a wave that began as a ripple over a century or so ago. And typically, most of those surfing or floating along have little notion who or what helped give the initial push. Nonetheless, the goal of Karl Marx and the Marxist project from the outset was one of fundamental transformation, permanent revolution, and unrestrained criticism of everything—nothing less than “the ruthless criticism of all that exists.”666 Marx’s ideas were so radical, and so (as Marx openly conceded) “contrary to the nature of things,” that they inevitably lead to totalitarianism; that is because they are totalitarian in the strictest sense, as they seek to transform human nature and the foundational order. We have seen passages from Marx to that effect throughout this book. Here is a short summary: Marx in the Manifesto said that communism represents “the most radical rupture in traditional relations.” Marx in the Manifesto acknowledged that communism seeks to “abolish the present state of things.” Marx in the Manifesto stated that “they [the Communists] openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions.” Marx in the close of the Manifesto: “Communists everywhere support every revolutionary movement against the existing social and political order of things.” Marx in a letter to Arnold Ruge called for the “ruthless criticism of all that exists.” Marx had a favorite quote from Goethe’s Faust, “Everything that exists deserves to perish.” • Marx in his essay declaring religion “the opium of the people” said that “the criticism of religion is the beginning of all criticism.” (Recall that in that essay he used the word “criticism” twenty-nine times.) Beyond

During a lecture in the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York on April 27, 1961, he said: “For we are opposed, around the world, by a monolithic and ruthless conspiracy, that relies primarily on covert means for expanding it's sphere of influence, on infiltration instead of invasion, on subversion instead of elections, on intimidation, instead of free choice, on guerrillas by night, instead of armies by day, It is a system which has conscripted vast material and human resources into the building of a tightly knit, highly efficient machine that combines military, diplomatic, intelligence, economic, scientific, and political operations. Its preparations are concealed, not published. Its mistakes are buried, not headlined. Its dissenters silenced, not praised. No expenditure is questioned. No rumor is printed. No secret is revealed.” Kennedy came up against FBI director Edgar Hoover and Allen Dulles’ CIA that had maneuvered him into going along with the Bay of Pigs action. He wanted want to splinter the CIA into a thousand pieces and scatter it to the winds. Kennedy also offended the Military-Intelligence complex. Amongs others for the reason that he decided to pull out of Vietnam.[81] He was against a continuation of Western colonialist domination of Vietnam and criticized the U.S. alliance with the French effort to retain its empire. During his presidency he opposed a massive commitment of U.S. forces to fight a war that he felt the Vietnamese had to fight primarily on their own. He consistently rejected recommendations to introduce U.S. ground forces. Shortly before his assassination he started withdrawing U.S. troops from Vietnam.

Say that you are writing a 100,000 word book for your project. That can be very intimidating. It's best to split the project into smaller chunks to keep yourself from getting overwhelmed. Splitting your main goal into daily, weekly and monthly goals will allow you to make a little bit of progress every day. If you fall short on a daily goal, make sure not to beat yourself up too much over it. Even the best writers, businesspeople and bloggers in the world miss a deadline every so often. Deal with your temporary laziness and move on.

Coach Phil’s shorts probably fit him okay twenty, thirty pounds ago. His red polo shirt with the word “Coach” stitched in script across the left breast was also snug enough to double as sausage casing. He had the look of an ex-jock gone to seed, which, Maya surmised, he probably was. He was big and intimidating, and his size probably scared people. Keeping

Suppose, for example, that I am highly overreactive to my children. Suppose that whenever they begin to do something I feel is inappropriate, I sense an immediate tensing in the pit of my stomach. I feel defensive walls go up; I prepare for battle. My focus is not on the long-term growth and understanding but on the short-term behavior. I’m trying to win the battle, not the war. I pull out my ammunition—my superior size, my position of authority—and I yell or intimidate or I threaten or punish. And I win. I stand there, victorious, in the middle of the debris of a shattered relationship while my children are outwardly submissive and inwardly rebellious, suppressing feelings that will come out later in uglier ways.

AT 3:00 P.M. SHARP on August 23, 2012, Colonel Edgar escorted the two men into Mattis’s office on MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa. The sixty-one-year-old general was an intimidating figure in person: muscular and broad shouldered, with dark circles under his eyes that suggested a man who didn’t bother much with sleep. His office was decorated with the mementos of a long military career. Amid the flags, plaques, and coins, Shoemaker’s eyes rested briefly on a set of magnificent swords displayed in a glass cabinet. As they sat down in a wood-paneled conference room off to one side of the office, Mattis cut to the chase: “Guys, I’ve been trying to get this thing deployed for a year now. What’s going on?” Shoemaker had gone over everything again with Gutierrez and felt confident he was on solid ground. He spoke first, giving a brief overview of the issues raised by an in-theater test of the Theranos technology. Gutierrez took over from there and told the general his army colleague was correct in his interpretation of the law: the Theranos device was very much subject to regulation by the FDA. And since the agency hadn’t yet reviewed and approved it for commercial use, it could only be tested on human subjects under strict conditions set by an institutional review board. One of those conditions was that the test subjects give their informed consent—something that was notoriously hard to obtain in a war zone. Mattis was reluctant to give up. He wanted to know if they could suggest a way forward. As he’d put it to Elizabeth in an email a few months earlier, he was convinced her invention would be “a game-changer” for his men. Gutierrez and Shoemaker proposed a solution: a “limited objective experiment” using leftover de-identified blood samples from soldiers. It would obviate the need to obtain informed consent and it was the only type of study that could be put together as quickly as Mattis seemed to want to proceed. They agreed to pursue that course of action. Fifteen minutes after they’d walked in, Shoemaker and Gutierrez shook Mattis’s hand and walked out. Shoemaker was immensely relieved. All in all, Mattis had been gruff but reasonable and a workable compromise had been reached. The limited experiment agreed upon fell short of the more ambitious live field trial Mattis had had in mind. Theranos’s blood tests would not be used to inform the treatment of wounded soldiers. They would only be performed on leftover samples after the fact to see if their results matched the army’s regular testing methods. But it was something. Earlier in his career, Shoemaker had spent five years overseeing the development of diagnostic tests for biological threat agents and he would have given his left arm to get access to anonymized samples from service members in theater. The data generated from such testing could be very useful in supporting applications to the FDA. Yet, over the ensuing months, Theranos inexplicably failed to take advantage of the opportunity it was given. When General Mattis retired from the military in March 2013, the study using leftover de-identified samples hadn’t begun. When Colonel Edgar took on a new assignment as commander of the Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases a few months later, it still hadn’t started. Theranos just couldn’t seem to get its act together. In July 2013, Lieutenant Colonel Shoemaker retired from the army. At his farewell ceremony, his Fort Detrick colleagues presented him with a “certificate of survival” for having the courage to stand up to Mattis in person and emerging from the encounter alive. They also gave him a T-shirt with the question, “What do you do after surviving a briefing with a 4 star?” written on the front. The answer could be found on the back: “Retire and sail off into the sunset.

The general public always thought of cold cases as impossible to solve. They weren’t completely wrong, but oftentimes, Will found that the passage of time gave witnesses more perspective. Mostly, it came down to the simple fact that they weren’t scared anymore. The bullies and thugs who’d intimidated them had either died young or ended up in prison. Marriages dissolved. Love ran out. Reputations were damaged or rebuilt. In short, a long stretch of time could lend more focus to past events.

the sentence length and chapter content carefully guided by neuro-bio-monitored responses on a test group of 638 average hardfax readers. The book was in novel form, short enough not to intimidate the potential buyer at Food Mart checkout stands,