Spelling Contest Quotes

What do you think, Vi?" She smiled wide with a lascivious look. "You had me at werewolf wet t-shirt contest.

When we set children against one another in contests—from spelling bees to awards assemblies to science “fairs” (that are really contests), from dodge ball to honor rolls to prizes for the best painting or the most books read—we teach them to confuse excellence with winning, as if the only way to do something well is to outdo others.

Spelling bees are pretty much an English-speaking event, because other languages are much more consistent with spelling convention. Holding a spelling bee for a language with strong adherence to phonetics would be something akin to having a math bee in which contestants rattle off the numerals for a given number. "Bill, your number is one thousand and one.

He began quietly, “You recall, of course, that I won the Smallwood spelling contest every year I was there?” “Yes, Mr. Weston,” she replied evenly, eyes remaining on the portrait. “And you might also recall that your father declared my handwriting the best he’d ever had the privilege to read?” “Yes, Mr. Weston.” He looked at her composed profile and felt admiration fill him. When she said no more, he slowly shook his head, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “Well done, Miss Smallwood.” He started to turn away but paused to add, “He did admire you, you know. He just didn’t know how to show it.” She gave him an incredulous look. “Mr. Pugsworth?” “Yes,” Henry said, then walked away, thinking, Him too.

While an authoritarian state may have been fast for decision making, resource mobilisation and, nation building in the 1960s to the 1980s, Singapore's future success will depend on its ability to adapt and respond to a multitude of complex new challenges. This adaptability is best fostered by a properly functioning democracy that, by its very nature, promotes diversity and competition of ideas. Even though a growing number of Singaporeans share this liberal view of democracy's imperative, there are many others in the country who at best, are unconvinced, and worst, believe democratic liberalisation will spell the end of the Singapore fairy tale. The contestation between these two groups will determine the future of Singapore's democracy.

If you’re suddenly as curious as I am to find out if it was as good between us as it now seems in retrospect, then say so.” His own suggestion startled Ian, although having made it, he saw no great harm in exchanging a few kisses if that was what she wanted. To Elizabeth, his statement that it had been “good between us” defused her ire and confused her at the same time. She stared at him in dazed wonder while his hands tightened imperceptibly on her arms. Self-conscious, she let her gaze drop to his finely molded lips, watching as a faint smile, a challenging smile lifted them at the corners, and inch by inch, the hands on her arms were drawing her closer. “Afraid to find out?” he asked, and it was the trace of huskiness in his voice that she remembered, that worked its strange spell on her again, as it had so long ago. His hands shifted to the curve of her waist. “Make up your mind,” he whispered, and in her confused state of loneliness and longing, she made no protest when he bent his head. A shock jolted through her as his lips touched hers, warm, inviting-brushing slowly back and forth. Paralyzed, she waited for that shattering passion he’d shown her before, without realizing that her participation had done much to trigger it. Standing still and tense, she waited to experience that forbidden burst of exquisite delight…wanted to experience it, just once, just for a moment. Instead his kiss was feather-light, softly stroking…teasing! She stiffened, pulling back an inch, and his gaze lifted lazily from her lips to her eyes. Dryly, he said, “That’s not quit the way I remembered it.” “Nor I,” Elizabeth admitted, unaware that he was referring to her lack of participation. “Care to try it again?” Ian invited, still willing to indulge in a few pleasurable minutes of shared ardor, so long as there was no pretense that it was anything but that, and no loss of control on his part. The bland amusement in his tone finally made her suspect he was treating this as some sort of diverting game or perhaps a challenge, and she looked at him in shock, “Is this a-a contest?” “Do you want to make it into one?” Elizabeth shook her head and abruptly surrendered her secret memories of tenderness and stormy passion. Like all her other former illusions about him, that too had evidently been false. With a mixture of exasperation and sadness, she looked at him and said, “I don’t think so.” “Why not?” “You’re playing a game,” she told him honestly, mentally throwing her hands up in weary despair, “and I don’t understand the rules.” “They haven’t changed,” he informed her. “It’s the same game we played before-I kiss you, and,” he emphasized meaningfully, “you kiss me.” His blunt criticism of her lack of participation left her caught between acute embarrassment and the urge to kick him in the shin, but his arm was tightening around her waist while his other hand was sliding slowly up her back, sensuously stroking her nape. “How do you remember it?” he teased as his lips came closer. “Show me.

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What you are to a paper airplane, God is to you. Take a sheet of paper and make one. Contrast yourself with your creation. Challenge it to a spelling contest. Who will win? Dare it to race you around the block. Who is faster? Invite the airplane to a game of one-on-one basketball. Will you not dominate the court?

Somewhere in the middle of the second oration, an acrostic ode that simultaneously spelled out the name of the poet’s hypothetical lost beloved via the opening letters of each line and told a heart-wrenching story of his self-sacrifice to save his shipmates from a vacuum breach, Mahit had the sudden realization that she was standing in the Teixcalaanli court, hearing a Teixcalaanli poetry contest, while holding an alcoholic drink and accompanied by a witty Teixcalaanli friend. Everything she had ever wanted when she was fifteen. Right here.

Power is all around us, continuously confirmed and contested, and perceived with great accuracy. But social scientists, politicians, and even laypeople treat it like a hot potato. We prefer to cover up underlying motives. Anyone who, like Machiavelli, breaks the spell by calling it like it is, risks his reputation. No one wants to be called “Machiavellian,” even though most of us are.

Dad cocked his eyebrow at Rara. “You know, I used to be impatient like that. But now I just don’t have the time.”  Everyone in the room looked at him and Mom sighed. “Dear? Was that supposed to be funny?”  Dad shrugged trying—and failing—to hide a smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just explaining that it’s okay to take your time with things. After all, eating can be really time consuming. Especially if you’re eating a clock.”  Rara and Jack chuckled a little at that. Mom rolled her eyes.  “Especially if you go for seconds,” Dad continued. This time even Mom and Kate laughed.  Dad was encouraged by their laughing. “You know, I once tried to make a belt out of clocks. But it was a real waist of time.”  There was a round of chuckles and he continued. “I once saw a clock win a spelling contest. It was really clockwise.”  That one caused a groan, but Dad wasn’t going to let up yet. “You know, when a clock tells another clock some gossip, it’s second-hand information.”  “Okay, let’s go,” Mom broke in, looking right at Dad. “We don’t have all day, and your jokes are starting to tick me off.

[During the honeymoon at a Catskill resort] A quiz was held during the afternoon, and guests were invited to volunteer. I raised my hand, of course, and became one of the contestants.... I was third in line, and when I rose to field my question in the first round, spontaneous laughter broke out from the audience. They had laughed at no one else. The trouble was that I looked anxious, and when I look anxious I look even more stupid than usual. The reason I was anxious was that I wanted to shine and feared I would not. I knew that I was neither handsome, self-assured, athletic, wealthy, nor sophisticated. The only thing I had going for me was that I was clever and I wanted to show off to Gertruded. And I was afraid of failing and spelling "weigh" "WIEGH." I ignored the laughter as best I could, and tried to concentrate. The master of ceremonies, trying not to grin and failing, said, "Use the word 'pitch' in sentences in such a way to demonstrate five different meanings of the word." (Heaven only knows where he got his questions.) More laughter, as I paused for a moment to collect my thoughts. I then said, "John pitched the pitch-covered ball as intensely as though he was fighting a pitched battled, while Mary singing in a high-pitched voice, pitched a tent." The laughter stopped as though someone had pulled a plug out of the socket. The master of ceremonies had me repeat it, counted the pitches, considered them, and pronounced me correct. Naturally by the time the quiz was over, I had won.... I noticed, though, that winning the quiz did not make me popular at the resort. Many people resented having wasted their laughter. The thought apparently was that I had no right to look stupid without being stupid; that, by doing so, I had cheated.

Most institutional investors in the early 1970s, on the other hand, regarded business value as of only minor relevance when they were deciding the prices at which they would buy or sell. This now seems hard to believe. However, these institutions were then under the spell of academics at prestigious business schools who were preaching a newly-fashioned theory: the stock market was totally efficient, and therefore calculations of business value—and even thought, itself—were of no importance in investment activities. (We are enormously indebted to those academics: what could be more advantageous in an intellectual contest—whether it be bridge, chess, or stock selection than to have opponents who have been taught that thinking is a waste of energy?)

This was typical Trevor, refusing to reach out for help. “The marines provide guard services at all the navy hospitals. My little brother guards the office of the surgeon general. Since you’re conducting this study at the behest of the surgeon general, I expect the military might provide security.” For the first time, Trevor perked up. “They would do that?” “It couldn’t hurt to ask. Wait . . . I’ll ask. I don’t want you making a hash out of this.” A ghost of a smile hovered on his mouth. “Are you suggesting you’re better at dealing with people than I am?” She stood and shook out her skirt. “Trevor, on any given day you might beat me in trigonometry. Or chemistry. Or a footrace. On very rare occasions you will beat me in a spelling contest. But you will never, not even on your best day, beat me in the category of basic human warmth.” Amusement lurked in his dark eyes. “You’re probably right.” He stood and, to her great surprise, took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Thanks, Kate.” Then he let go of her hand and sauntered off in that long-legged stride of his. The spot where his lips had touched her hand tingled during the entire walk home.

Here in Alpha City, we have a common saying: “What we call ‘sky’ is merely a figment of our narrative.” The most dreamy-eyed among us seem to adorn themselves and their aspirations in that proverb and you’ll see it everywhere: in advertisements on the sides of streetcars and auto-rickshaws, spelled out in studs and rhinestones on designer jackets, emblazoned in the intricate designs of facial tattoos—even painted on city walls by putrid vandals and inspiring street artists. There is something glorious about kneading out into the doughy firmament the depth and breadth of one’s own universe, in rendering the contours of a sky whose limits are predicated only upon the bounds of one’s own imagination. The fact of the matter is that we cannot see the natural sky at all here. It is something like a theoretical mathematical expression: like the square-root of ‘negative one’—certainly it could be said to have a purpose for existing, but to cast eyes upon it, in its natural quantity, would be something akin to casting one’s eyes upon the raw elements comprising our everyday sustenance. How many of us have even borne close witness to the minute chemical compounds that react to lend battery power to our portable electronics? The sky is indeed such a concealed fixture now. It is fair to say that we have purged our memories of its true face and so we can only approximate a canvas and project our desires upon it to our heart’s dearest fancy. The most cynical among us would ostensibly declare it an unavoidable tragedy, but perhaps even these hardened individuals could not remember the naked sky well enough to know if what they were missing was something worthwhile. Perhaps, it’s cynical of me to say so! In any case, we have our searchlights pointed upwards and crisscrossing that expanse of heavens as though to make some sensational and profane joke of ourselves to the surrounding universe. We beam already video images of beauty pageants and dancing contests with smiling mannequins who look like buffoons. And so, the face of space cloaks itself behind our light pollution—in this respect, our mirrored sidewalks and lustrous streets do little to help our cause—and that face remains hidden from us in its jeering ridicule, its mocking laughter at this inexorable farce of human existence.

You girls have school tomorrow,” she said. “And Greta leaves for the state spelling contest in the afternoon. I think you’d better call it a night.” Suddenly, Greta jumped up. “Oh, I forgot,” she said. “You forgot the contest?” her mother asked. “No, I forgot why I called Lindsay over here.” Then she turned to me. “I won’t be able to look after the owl until I get back--which will probably be pretty quick, since I don’t expect to survive the first round.

While an authoritarian state may have been fast for decision making, resource mobilisation and, nation building in the 1960s to the 1980s, Singapore's future success will depend on its ability to adapt and respond to a multitude of complex new challenges. This adaptability is best fostered by a properly functioning democracy that, by its very nature, promotes diversity and competition of ideas. Even though a growing number of Singaporeans share this liberal view of democracy's imperative, there are many others in the country who at best, are unconvinced, and worst, believe democratic liberalisation will spell the end of the Singapore fairy tale. The contestation between these two groups will determine the future of Singapore's democracy. [Sudhir Vadaketh]

come next week to add new grass. The conversation turns back to the spelling bee. “I was in a bee once when I was your age,” remembers Dad. “I didn’t study much, so I didn’t do well. That’s why I want you to make sure you review all the words carefully after you sign up Monday.” I nod my head yes and fake a smile. I’m going to kill Cole. I had hoped to not sign up for the contest. Who wants to spend all their extra time studying