Straightforward Deep Quotes

According to the Gita, these are the higher values and qualities: fearlessness, purity of mind, gratitude, service and charity, acceptance, performing sacrifice, deep study, austerity, straightforwardness, nonviolence, truthfulness, absence of anger, renunciation, perspective, restraint from fault finding, compassion toward all living beings, satisfaction, gentleness/kindness, integrity, determination.

The difference between what he had been then and what he now was, was enormous...Then he was free and fearless...now he felt himself caught in the meshes of a stupid, empty, valueless, frivolous life...He remembered how proud he was at one time of his straightforwardness, how he had made a rule of always speaking the truth...and he was now sunk deep in lies...lies considered as truth by all who surrounded him.

Rust’s central feature is ownership. Although the feature is straightforward to explain, it has deep implications for the rest of the language. All programs have to manage the way they use a computer’s memory while running. Some languages have garbage collection that constantly looks for no longer used memory as the program runs; in other languages, the programmer must explicitly allocate and free the memory. Rust uses a third approach: memory is managed through a system of ownership with a set of rules that the compiler checks at compile time. None of the ownership features slow down your program while it’s running.

But he doesn't understand that memory is abstract and chaotic. Memory isn't straightforward. It surfaces in sounds and images and feelings. He doesn't realised that in getting another person's memory, he will lose parts of himself

Change is rarely straightforward, and that is one of the central premises of this book. Sometimes it’s as complex as chaos theory and as slow as evolution. Even things that seem to happen suddenly arise from deep roots in the past or from long-dormant seeds.

People think Judaism and Christianity are radically different from one another, and that the difference is straightforward. But on Ascension Day, I am struck by the deep similarity that lies just underneath. Both Jews and Christians live in a world that is not yet redeemed, and both us await ultimate redemption. Some of us wait for a messiah to come once and forever; others of us wait for Him to come back. But we are both stuck living in a world where redemption is not complete, where we have redemptive work to do, where we cannot always see God as clearly as we would like, because He is up in Heaven. We are both waiting.

I don’t want this. I don’t want what we had last week. I don’t want what we could have had in the past. I don’t want superficial small talk or full-night deep conversation, or ugly, messy endings. I got people for that. Siddhartha means a lot to me as a crush. Brooding and handsome. Straightforward, yet bearing. I like Siddhartha. I like him a lot. With him, I wanted more. With him, I wanted a different world. I wanted to give meaning to all the ugly stuff and make them pink and shimmery. That’s what you do when you like somebody this much.

[M]ost Americans are still drawing some water from the Christian well. But a growing number are inventing their own versions of what Christianity means, abandoning the nuances of traditional theology in favor of religions that stroke their egos and indulge or even celebrate their worst impulses. . . . Both doubters and believers stand to lose if religion in the age of heresy turns out to be complicit in our fragmented communities, our collapsing families, our political polarization, and our weakened social ties. Both doubters and believers will inevitably suffer from a religious culture that supplies more moral license than moral correction, more self-satisfaction than self-examination, more comfort than chastisement. . . . Many of the overlapping crises in American life . . . can be traced to the impulse to emphasize one particular element of traditional Christianity—one insight, one doctrine, one teaching or tradition—at the expense of all the others. The goal is always progress: a belief system that’s simpler or more reasonable, more authentic or more up-to-date. Yet the results often vindicate the older Christian synthesis. Heresy sets out to be simpler and more appealing and more rational, but it often ends up being more extreme. . . . The boast of Christian orthodoxy . . . has always been its fidelity to the whole of Jesus. Its dogmas and definitions seek to encompass the seeming contradictions in the gospel narratives rather than evading them. . . . These [heretical] simplifications have usually required telling a somewhat different story about Jesus than the one told across the books of the New Testament. Sometimes this retelling has involved thinning out the Christian canon, eliminating tensions by subtracting them. . . . More often, though, it’s been achieved by straightforwardly rewriting or even inventing crucial portions of the New Testament account. . . . “Religious man was born to be saved,” [Philip Rieff] wrote, but “psychological man is born to be pleased.” . . . In 2005, . . . . Smith and Denton found no evidence of real secularization among their subjects: 97 percent of teenagers professed some sort of belief in the divine, 71 percent reported feeling either “very” or “somewhat” close to God, and the vast majority self-identified as Christian. There was no sign of deep alienation from their parents’ churches, no evidence that the teenagers in the survey were poised to convert outright to Buddhism or Islam, and no sign that real atheism was making deep inroads among the young. But neither was there any evidence of a recognizably orthodox Christian faith. “American Christianity,” Smith and Denton suggested, is “either degenerating into a pathetic version of itself,” or else is “actively being colonized and displaced by a quite different religious faith.” They continued: “Most religious teenagers either do not really comprehend what their own religious traditions say they are supposed to believe, or they do understand it and simply do not care to believe it.” . . . An ego that’s never wounded, never trammeled or traduced—and that’s taught to regard its deepest impulses as the promptings of the divine spirit—can easily turn out to be an ego that never learns sympathy, compassion, or real wisdom. And when contentment becomes an end unto itself, the way that human contents express themselves can look an awful lot like vanity and decadence. . . . For all their claims to ancient wisdom, there’s nothing remotely countercultural about the Tolles and Winfreys and Chopras. They’re telling an affluent, appetitive society exactly what it wants to hear: that all of its deepest desires are really God’s desires, and that He wouldn’t dream of judging. This message encourages us to justify our sins by spiritualizing them. . . . Our vaunted religiosity is real enough, but our ostensible Christian piety doesn’t have the consequences a casual observer might expect. . . . We nod to God, and then we do as we please.

Suddenly a violent noise leaped at them from no source that he could identify. He gasped in terror at what sounded like a man trying to gargle while fighting off a pack of wolves. “Shush!” said Ford. “Listen, it might be important.” “Im … important?” “It’s the Vogon captain making an announcement on the tannoy.” “You mean that’s how the Vogons talk?” “Listen!” “But I can’t speak Vogon!” “You don’t need to. Just put this fish in your ear.” Ford, with a lightning movement, clapped his hand to Arthur’s ear, and he had the sudden sickening sensation of the fish slithering deep into his aural tract. Gasping with horror he scrabbled at his ear for a second or so, but then slowly turned goggle-eyed with wonder. He was experiencing the aural equivalent of looking at a picture of two black silhouetted faces and suddenly seeing it as a picture of a white candlestick. Or of looking at a lot of colored dots on a piece of paper which suddenly resolve themselves into the figure six and mean that your optician is going to charge you a lot of money for a new pair of glasses. He was still listening to the howling gargles, he knew that, only now it had somehow taken on the semblance of perfectly straightforward English. This is what he heard … * Ford Prefect’s original name is only pronounceable in an obscure Betel-geusian dialect, now virtually extinct since the Great Collapsing Hrung Disaster of Gal./Sid./Year 03758 which wiped out all the old Praxibetel communities on Betelgeuse Seven. Ford’s father was the only man on the entire planet to survive the Great Collapsing Hrung Disaster, by an extraordinary coincidence that he was never able satisfactorily to explain. The whole episode is shrouded in deep mystery: in fact no one ever knew what a Hrung was nor why it had chosen to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven particularly. Ford’s father, magnanimously waving aside the clouds of suspicion that had inevitably settled around him, came to live on Betelgeuse Five, where he both fathered and uncled Ford; in memory of his now dead race he christened him in the ancient Praxibetel tongue. Because Ford never learned to say his original name, his father eventually died of shame, which is still a terminal disease in some parts of the Galaxy. The other kids at school nicknamed him Ix, which in the language of Betelgeuse Five translates as “boy who is not able satisfactorily to explain what a Hrung is, nor why it should choose to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven.

Gideon lowered her onto the bed, thankful that he’d felt no evidence of stays through her gown as he carried her. As soon as he slid his arms out from under her, she rolled over onto her side and grabbed the second pillow. She snuggled the downy square to her bosom and mumbled a few unintelligible words before settling herself. An unexpected tenderness rose within him as he watched her sleep. Could there be more to his feelings than simple attraction? Something deeper and more lasting? He’d escorted countless debutantes about London in the past, beautiful women who inspired ample appreciation within him for their feminine charms. But none of those women had created the tug of possessiveness he felt when he gazed at Adelaide. None of them stirred this desire to cherish and protect. And no matter how suitable their background and manner, none of them made him smile like his Addie. Addie. The name fit. Fanciful, whimsical—just like the woman herself. Yet there was strength in it, too. Simple, straightforward strength. He’d known she cared for Bella, yet until her relentless plea this morning, he hadn’t realized how deep her affections ran. Gideon couldn’t help hoping that some of those affections extended to him, as well.

Bram stared into a pair of wide, dark eyes. Eyes that reflected a surprising glimmer of intelligence. This might be the rare female a man could reason with. “Now, then,” he said. “We can do this the easy way, or we can make things difficult.” With a soft snort, she turned her head. It was as if he’d ceased to exist. Bram shifted his weight to his good leg, feeling the stab to his pride. He was a lieutenant colonel in the British army, and at over six feet tall, he was said to cut an imposing figure. Typically, a pointed glance from his quarter would quell the slightest hint of disobedience. He was not accustomed to being ignored. “Listen sharp now.” He gave her ear a rough tweak and sank his voice to a low threat. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do as I say.” Though she spoke not a word, her reply was clear: You can kiss my great woolly arse. Confounded sheep. “Ah, the English countryside. So charming. So…fragrant.” Colin approached, stripped of his London-best topcoat, wading hip-deep through the river of wool. Blotting the sheen of perspiration from his brow with his sleeve, he asked, “I don’t suppose this means we can simply turn back?” Ahead of them, a boy pushing a handcart had overturned his cargo, strewing corn all over the road. It was an open buffet, and every ram and ewe in Sussex appeared to have answered the invitation. A vast throng of sheep bustled and bleated around the unfortunate youth, gorging themselves on the spilled grain-and completely obstructing Bram’s wagons. “Can we walk the teams in reverse?” Colin asked. “Perhaps we can go around, find another road.” Bram gestured at the surrounding landscape. “There is no other road.” They stood in the middle of the rutted dirt lane, which occupied a kind of narrow, winding valley. A steep bank of gorse rose up on one side, and on the other, some dozen yards of heath separated the road from dramatic bluffs. And below those-far below those-lay the sparkling turquoise sea. If the air was seasonably dry and clear, and Bram squinted hard at that thin indigo line of the horizon, he might even glimpse the northern coast of France. So close. He’d get there. Not today, but soon. He had a task to accomplish here, and the sooner he completed it, the sooner he could rejoin his regiment. He wasn’t stopping for anything. Except sheep. Blast it. It would seem they were stopping for sheep. A rough voice said, “I’ll take care of them.” Thorne joined their group. Bram flicked his gaze to the side and spied his hulking mountain of a corporal shouldering a flintlock rifle. “We can’t simply shoot them, Thorne.” Obedient as ever, Thorne lowered his gun. “Then I’ve a cutlass. Just sharpened the blade last night.” “We can’t butcher them, either.” Thorne shrugged. “I’m hungry.” Yes, that was Thorne-straightforward, practical. Ruthless. “We’re all hungry.” Bram’s stomach rumbled in support of the statement. “But clearing the way is our aim at the moment, and a dead sheep’s harder to move than a live one. We’ll just have to nudge them along.” Thorne lowered the hammer of his rifle, disarming it, then flipped the weapon with an agile motion and rammed the butt end against a woolly flank. “Move on, you bleeding beast.

Gods? Demons? Elixirs? Fuck all of that! Hadjar didn’t need any reasons to fight when he was called to battle by his honor. Even the word ‘honor’... Who had invented it? What had it meant to the previous generations? What would it mean to the generations after his? Fuck that shit as well! All of it was just nonsense. There were no causes, no consequences, no honor, and no rules. There was only a path. Ant it wasn’t the path of cultivation. It was the path of Life. The path Hadjar had chosen to take. It wasn’t crooked. It had no turns, no ups or downs. There were no stops or breaks. It was a straightforward journey. It led somewhere beyond the horizon, to a place where no man had gone before. His own way. That was all that mattered in this life. Hadjar didn’t have to justify himself if he followed it. The fact that he’d almost strayed off it only confirmed what he already knew, deep down. Hadjar had always done what he’d had to do. When everyone said it was impossible, he did it. When no one believed he would get back up, he rose. When everyone thought he was going to die, Hadjar survived. Because that was his path.

these are the higher values and qualities: fearlessness, purity of mind, gratitude, service and charity, acceptance, performing sacrifice, deep study, austerity, straightforwardness, nonviolence, truthfulness, absence of anger, renunciation, perspective, restraint from fault finding, compassion toward all living beings, satisfaction, gentleness/kindness, integrity, determination

I took the breath allowing everything I felt to ring true, in the way I touched her, voicing the few words that came to me, my guard absent. No longer feeling like I was watching just outside my own life but participating in it. I was capable of taste again and savored hers. Touch turned into worship. With every deep thrust inside her, the burdens weighing me down were forgotten. Something so natural and straightforward for most . . . but so complicated for me. If fucking was all we had done, I’d already be home, finding another way to fill my time—but it wasn’t. I totally lost myself in her, and every second of it only ramped up the one before.

We hear communities endlessly debating whether this is good or bad for their community, and the hard truth is that when you’re one of these towns, you don’t get to make that decision,” Rumore told us. “This change will happen whether they like it or not, so instead the conversation needs to be ‘How do you protect the things you hold dear?’ ” A big hurdle, Rumore admits, is that many of these desirable rural western communities are politically polarized: liberal enclaves in a sea of deep conservatism. The ideological split can make something as seemingly straightforward as a community meeting incredibly fraught. But residents of smaller gateway communities tend to share a love of place—its natural beauty, or its seclusion, or its history. When you frame discussions around what’s worth preserving, it can bring people together, even if they disagree on the way to actually go about protecting the places and spaces they love.

He’s wearing an old, dark gray t-shirt that stretches across his broad chest and strains at his biceps, tapering at his slender waist. His faded jeans mold to his muscular thighs. He’s sex on a stick. And I’m ready for a serving. Am I hungry? I cock an eyebrow at him. “Depends. What’s on the menu?” His gray eyes smolder as he stares at me. He takes my hand, pulls me against him, bites my ear gently and whispers, “Then let’s get an appetizer,” before he leads me back to the living room where music washes over us as we melt into the crowd. At first I’m confused. Did I not just blatantly hit on the man? Admittedly, I’ve never done that before, but I thought my message was pretty straightforward. But then he stops in the middle of the room and wraps me in his arms. Oh. He wants to dance. Speaking of missing clues… Like I’m a middle schooler at her first dance, my heart melts. Rider wants to dance. With me. Don’t catch all the feelings, Gabriela. Just enjoy tonight. My pulse ratchets up as I hold up a finger, chug the rest of my beer, and toss the empty cup into the large bin in the corner. I step up to him. His hands grip my waist. I stare at the wall of man in front of me. He laughs, his voice deep and sultry. “Are you going to touch me or are you waiting for an invitation?” For some reason, that makes me respond like a smartass. “Do I need an invitation?” He shakes his head. “Not at all. You can touch me anytime you want.

Only as I passed the door of the forecastle, I heard a deep, quiet, trustful sigh of some sleeper inside. And suddenly I rejoiced in the great security of the sea as compared with the unrest of the land, in my choice of that untempted life presenting no disquieting problems, invested with an elementary moral beauty by the absolute straightforwardness of its appeal and by the singleness of its purpose.

It is also apparent, especially to those familiar with the old order, that all these improvements have evolved from a foundation of social relations and class power built around the architecture of white supremacy. Vestiges of that foundation remain visible within current arrangements, and it can seem commonsensical, therefore, to suspect that it continues to shape the limits of the new structures of routine life. That is one reason, for example, that discussions of the relation between race and life chances in the contemporary United States gravitate so easily toward allusion to the explicit racial hierarchies that defined the Jim Crow era as an alternative to deep examination of the discrete processes that ground and reproduce inequality in the present. But commonsense rests on projection of the familiar and thereby stresses continuity over change. Unquestioned power and deference persist in the region, but their connection to race is no longer straightforward or easily predictable. The tendency to mistake superficially familiar imagery for actual continuity threatens to obscure how the present differs most meaningfully from the past.

Hindus and Muslims are unlikely to resolve the issue of whether a temple or a mosque should be built at Ayodhya by building both, or neither, or a syncretic building that is both a mosque and a temple. Nor can what might seem to be a straightforward territorial question between Albanian Muslims and Orthodox Serbs concerning Kosovo or between Jews and Arabs concerning Jerusalem be easily settled, since each place has deep historical, cultural, and emotional meaning to both peoples. Similarly, neither French authorities nor Muslim parents are likely to accept a compromise which would allow schoolgirls to wear Muslim dress every other day during the school year. Cultural questions like these involve a yes or no, zero-sum choice.

Jon took a deep breath and took the plunge, deciding to be painfully straightforward. “I need Tom,” he said.

She ran her hands into Smith's wet hair, and he-- But why always Smith? Was it necessarily true, that because she seemed to HIM to be the ripe, round, straightforward antidote to the complications of his hopes, the scene looked as simple through her eyes? Was she not taking the greater risk here? Did she not have to set aside cautions, sorrows, hopes, fears, loyalties, to permit herself the role of the plump and ready siren in the steam-room? Have we not heard enough already of Mr. Smith's desire, and seen Mrs. Tomlinson quite sufficiently as he did? Should we not, at least, pay a little attention to Terpie's view of him, lounging like a freckly satyr on the wooden benches, grinning at her with a young man's lazy sense of entitlement now the surprise of her gift had faded; grown almost all the way into his strength but still long-limbed, with the knots of bone at his knees and his elbows giving him the lingering gawkiness of a foal; with the film of sweat on his chest, and his curls thickened to dark emphatic coils with water drops at the end; with the last unremoved traces of the paint around his eyes rimming his gaze in black depravity; with his wide mouth laughing, and his cock lolling? No, not lolling any more. Stirring, as she filled her hands with him, to her pleasure and his. The reader may imagine the occasional mismatches of desire or of endurance caused by their different ages. By the differences, at times in what followed, between twenty-four-year-old impetuousness and forty-six-year-old guile; between twenty-four-year-old muscles and forty-six-year-old backache. The reader may imagine, as she knelt on the bench en levrette--a technical term Terpie had learnt from a French gentleman, meaning with your bum in the air--that the pleasure of a boyish lover's deep wet rooting inside her did not entirely cancel the pinching of the skin of her knees between the wooden slats. And yet the two of them made for themselves, successfully, that little encompassing sphere of sensation which seems while it lasts to be, if not a home in the great world to be relied upon, at least a little world in itself, outside which not much matters, for a while. And yet, they arrived together, if not at rapture, then at those melting convulsions which come as close to it as you may, where gratitude and mutual greed are all you have to furnish the place of trust.

And I have a weakness for people with character. Those who you can see determination sparkling in their eyes. Straight-forward, knowing how to keep a fine line between being frank and being rude, confident and arrogant. You can read in their eyes what their hearts remain holding and their tongues refuse to say. Focused and compassionate.. They shine wherever they are. I can smell them from a distance.. My intuition never fails me. They guard their hearts with a firm look and a faint smile that, secretly, tell you about a deep pain they’re unwilling to share. Challenging? Yes, they are. And this is the exact thing that keeps me attracted. Up until they challenge me. That’s when everything changes and turns upside down. ‘Cause I’ll be up for the challenge and it’s often the end of it. Better not test me.

The whole process is straightforward and should not be the least bit intimidating. I ntricacies o f thought and great leaps of creative logic are no t required. This is no t the time for deep thinking

There is doggedness to genius. It is the ability to dig deep and hold on to the dream.

The moral case against objectifying others is fairly straightforward. It starts to get more complicated when the objectifier and the one being objectified are the same person—in other words, with self-objectification, which scholars define as viewing oneself from a third-person perspective that does not consider one’s full humanity.

But he doesn’t understand that memory is abstract and chaotic. Memory isn’t straightforward. It surfaces in sounds and images and feelings. He doesn’t realize that in getting another person’s memory, he will lose parts of himself.

What’s the real reason you’re here?” I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’m a confident person who might as well be straightforward. “I guess I’ll be blunt.” “Please. Your candor struck me from the very beginning,” he presses. “I want to figure out if you’re the man who is the perfect fuck or the man who has the potential to be more.” If a man ever had a winning grin, then Hudson Arrows just displayed it. He leans in, his lips brushing along my cheek up toward my ear where I feel the tingle of his stubbled chin. “Baby, I know I can be both, and I have every intention of showing you.

these are the higher values and qualities: fearlessness, purity of mind, gratitude, service and charity, acceptance, performing sacrifice, deep study, austerity, straightforwardness, nonviolence, truthfulness, absence of anger, renunciation, perspective, restraint from fault finding, compassion toward all living beings, satisfaction, gentleness/kindness, integrity, determination. (Notice that happiness and success are not among these values. These are not values, they are

How to successfully communicate a boundary: Be assertive, and follow these three easy (well, maybe not so easy, but doable) steps. Step #1 Be clear. Do your best to be as straightforward as possible. Mind your tone—don’t yell or whisper. People will miss the boundary if you use complicated words or jargon. Take a deep, deep breath, and focus on being precise. Step #2 Directly state your need or request, or say no. Don’t just mention what you don’t like; ask for what you need or want. Identify your expectations, or decline the offer. Step #3 Dealing with the discomfort that happens as a result of setting boundaries is the hardest part. Discomfort is the number one reason we want to bypass setting them. It’s common afterward to feel guilty, afraid, sad, remorseful, or awkward.