Stuart Chase Quotes

Common sense is what tells us the earth is flat.

For those who believe, no proof is necessary. For those who don't believe, no proof is possible.

You can only chase a butterfly for so long.

People above the line of bare subsistence in this age, and in all earlier ages, do not use the surplus which society has given them primarily for useful purposes. They do not seek to expand their lives, to live more wisely, intelligently, understandingly, but to impress other people with the fact that they have a surplus.

It rang and it rand and it rang. I looked at the screen one last time, then at Stuart, and then I reached my arm back and threw the phone as hard as I could (sadly, not that far), and it vanished into the snow. The eight-year-olds, who were truly fascinated with our every move at this point, chased after it. 'Lost it,' I said. 'Whoops.

A word is not a crystal, transparent and unchanged; it is the skin of a living thought and may vary greatly in color and content according to the circumstances and the time in which it is used.

Citizens of a modern society need [...] more than that ordinary "common sense" which was defined by Stuart Chase as that which tells you that the world is flat.

For those who believe, no proof is necessary. For those who don't believe, no proof is possible." - Stuart Chase

The rich mistakenly believed their wealth was a servant, delivering them whatever they wanted. They were wrong. Wealth was their master, and it was the only voice they heeded. Friendships were sacrificed at its behest, principles trampled to protect it. No matter how much they had, it was never enough. They went mad chasing more until they sat lonely atop their hoard, despised and afraid. Arent had wanted more.

Labor-saving devices, led by the computer, are encouraging more production and more unemployment. Automation may thus be classified as both asset and liability. It can eliminate a great deal of dull, monotonous labor, but if unrelieved idleness is the end result, the cure may be worse than the disease. The evidence strongly indicates that man is a working animal—in the sense of needing an activity that involves hand and brain, and that makes sense to him.

Was his offer just another torment, a sliver of hope to go mad chasing?

For those who believe, no proof is necessary. For those who don’t believe, no proof is possible

The American people will never tolerate socialism; will never tolerate fascism; will never surrender their liberties; will never defy their Constitution.” How often have the changes been rung on these stirring statements? One might as well say, “The people of the moon will never tolerate green cheese.” Produce referents for “American people,” “socialism,” “fascism,” “liberty,” “defy their Constitution.” Otherwise such statements can elicit emotion, but little more.

I pulled my Taser and ordered him to stop.” “And he listened?” I asked. “Oh no,” Kevin said. “Not at all. He shoved me out of his way and tried to make a run for it.” “So what’d you do, chase him down and tackle him?” Summer asked. “Er . . . no,” Kevin replied. “When he pushed me, I tripped over a little kid and, uh, sort of accidentally fired my Taser.” “So you tasered James Van Amburg by accident?” Mom gasped. “No.” Kevin said. “I tasered a different guest by accident. But then she fell down and Van Amburg tripped over her and knocked himself unconscious on the curb.” Hoenekker cringed, looking mortified by this story. “Wow,” J.J. muttered. “This is a real crack staff we have here.” “Thanks!” Kevin said, failing to grasp J.J.’s sarcasm. “Any idea what this accidental tasing’s gonna cost me?” J.J. asked. “Well, the woman was pretty upset,” Kevin admitted. “Especially because it happened in front of her grandkids.” “You tased a grandmother?!” J.J. exclaimed, horrified.

The rich mistakenly believed their wealth was a servant, delivering them whatever they wanted. They were wrong. Wealth was their master, and it was the only voice they heeded. Friendships were sacrificed at its behest, principles trampled to protect it. No matter how much they had, it was never enough. They went mad chasing more until they sat lonely atop their hoard, despised and afraid.

Dewey mournfully remarks, “A certain tragic fate seems to attend all intellectual movements.” With no standard, no proof, anywhere in the premises, a brand of philosophy can be overthrown as easily as it can rise up. Said Thomas Huxley: Generation after generation, philosophy has been doomed to roll the stone uphill; and just as all the world swore it was at the top, down ic has rolled to the bottom again . . . until now the weight and the number of those who refuse to be the prey of verbal mystifications has begun to tell in practical life. Huxley’s grandson, Aldous, observes that philosophical arguments are mostly angry shoutings at one another by two people who use the same words but mean different things by them.

That words are not things. (Identification of words with things, however, is widespread, and leads to untold misunderstanding and confusion.) That words mean nothing in themselves; they are as much symbols as x or y. That meaning in words arises from context of situation. That abstract words and terms are especially liable to spurious identification. The higher the abstraction, the greater the danger. That things have meaning to us only as they have been experienced before. “Thingumbob again.” That no two events are exactly similar. That finding relations and orders between things gives more dependable meanings than trying to deal in absolute substances and properties. Few absolute properties have been authenticated in the world outside. That mathematics is a useful language to improve knowledge and communication. That the human brain is a remarkable instrument and probably a satisfactory agent for clear communication. That to improve communication new words are not needed, but a better use of the words we have. (Structural improvements in ordinary language, however, should be made.) That the scientific method and especially the operational approach are applicable to the study and improvement of communication. (No other approach has presented credentials meriting consideration.) That the formulation of concepts upon which sane men can agree, on a given date, is a prime goal of communication. (This method is already widespread in the physical sciences and is badly needed in social affairs.) That academic philosophy and formal logic have hampered rather than advanced knowledge, and should be abandoned. That simile, metaphor, poetry, are legitimate and useful methods of communication, provided speaker and hearer are conscious that they are being employed. That the test of valid meaning is: first, survival of the individual and the species; second, enjoyment of living during the period of survival.

Ignorance of the truth is a recipe for disaster.

replied. “I picked up a few new forensic techniques, learned how to be in a car chase while driving

Hey,” Alexander said, his chloroform haze finally dissipating. “Those people were trying to kill us! This isn’t fun at all!” “Nice of you to join us.” Cyrus turned toward the pier in New Jersey, where we’d started out that night, but now saw there were reinforcements coming from that direction. A lot of reinforcements. Twelve boats in all. Alexander’s eyes grew as big as golf balls with fear. “They’ve cut off our escape route!” “I noticed.” Cyrus cursed under his breath and reoriented us toward the tip of Manhattan. All the other boats slewed in the water a bit as they changed course behind us, then revved their engines and rejoined the chase. “Without an escape route, we can’t escape!” Alexander babbled. “What do we do now?

finding the door unlocked, I chase my hollered greetings inside.

THE NEXT DAY, GREG AND THE OTHER MUSKETEERS WOKE at the crack of dawn to ride to the royal hunting grounds along with the king—and the king’s staggeringly large entourage. There were four falconers, a squadron of soldiers, two dozen servants, and a coterie of distant relatives and other hangers-on. Despite all the attendants, King Louis was the only one allowed to participate in any of the actual falconry—although in truth, Louis really just sat on his horse and had other people do everything for him. The falconers brought him the birds. A stable boy held the reins of his horse. There were even servants armed with parasols to shade the king from the sun. And for what? At the far end of the field, a gamekeeper would release a previously captured dove. Then, with great fanfare, Louis would remove the blindfold from his falcon, which would take off—and kill the dove. That was it. To make it all worse, even if Greg had wanted to watch one bird kill another, the attack generally happened very far away, often quite high up in the sky, so that it merely looked like one dot flying into a slightly smaller dot. While Greg found the whole process mind-numbing, everyone else seemed absolutely enthralled. Even Aramis, who Greg wouldn’t have expected to root for the death of anything, was beside

hurling themselves off the rocks to her left, their laughter chasing them into the water.

Jesus,’ Stan groaned, as Fred swung his boot at his arse, making him jump forward. Jack broke into a tired run as the men jostled forward, the soldiers chased by Fred’s voice as he yelled incessantly after them.

loudly in the otherwise silent passage, giving away the path he’d chosen every time. He knew he had to try something different.

Edna Woolman Chase,

For those who believe no proof is necessary. For those who don't believe, no proof is possible.

We give our time away all day long, to emotions that gain us no advantages, to people who do not value our time, to inefficient habits. If you want to take back this time, you need to cut to the chase.

bands. I started out decently well, employing a Nook-Bhan-San move called “Fast as Lightning.” This wasn’t really an attack. Instead, I just darted about quickly in an unpredictable pattern, hoping that my opponent might grow tired of chasing me around before she got the chance to hurt me. It wasn’t the sort of technique that earned you an A, but then, it was a lot less painful than staying put and getting punched in the nose. Unfortunately, my opponent responded with a move called “Even Faster Than Lightning” where she simply moved quicker than I did,

Wealth was their master, and it was the only voice they heeded. Friendships were sacrificed at its behest, principles trampled to protect it. No matter how much they had, it was never enough. They went mad chasing more until they sat lonely atop their hoard, despised and afraid.

Hope has deserted me. I'm a man in purgatory, blind to the sins that chased me here.

fortnight.

We could be great again!’ Now of course I want her and her son and quiet husband to prosper. I want them to be happy. But when I hear talk like this, my heart sinks. What is this illusion, this phantasm of greatness these people chase? Is it the one where we trampled on the lives and rights of people all over the world and exploited them to death? Why do we yearn for some imagined greatness when right now England can’t feed its kids, heal its sick or run its trains? How about forgetting about being great? How about being happy? How about being competent? How about being sane?

There’s a pretty big mud pit in the middle of downtown Mogadishu,” Warren pointed out. He was so covered with mud that he was camouflaging himself without even trying. I could barely see him except for the whites of his eyes. “Maybe so,” Zoe said, “but the Mogadishans still don’t crawl through it. They go around it. We ought to be learning useful stuff, like how to do car chases on city streets and have knife fights on the tops of speeding trains, not this garbage.” “No CIA agent has had a knife fight atop a moving train since Kennedy was president,” Erica said, catching us all by surprise. As usual, we hadn’t even known she was near us. She was simply there beside us in the mud, as though she’d spontaneously popped into existence. “And it wasn’t even a speeding train. It was only a freight hauler moving at five miles an hour.

He rolled off the bed and unzipped his overstuffed duffel bag. Clothes erupted from it with such force that a pair of boxer shorts sailed across the room and nailed Warren in the face. Warren screamed in horror, stumbled backward over his own suitcase, and collapsed on the floor. “It’s not really supposed to be a vacation,” I warned them. “Erica says our lives could be at risk.” Chip laughed and shrugged this off. “Erica always thinks her life is at risk. Remember last year when she got all worked up about us having a mole in the school?” “Um . . . there was a mole,” I reminded him. “And our lives really were in danger. I almost got killed. Twice.” “Oh, yeah,” Chip recalled. “That’s right. Hey, I wonder if anyone will try to kill us this time.” “I hope so!” Jawa said excitedly. “That’d be amazing!” “Assuming they’re unsuccessful,” Warren pointed out. Chip pegged him in the face with another pair of boxers. “Well, duh. No one wants a successful attempt made on their life, you nitwit.” “What if it happened on the slopes?” Jawa asked, his excitement ratcheting up a few notches. “And we got to have an honest-to-goodness ski chase? How fantastic would that be?” “It’d be the best,” Chip agreed. “Warren, stop playing with my underwear, you pervert.” He snatched the boxers Warren had just removed from his head and tossed them into a drawer, along with a handful of random socks and gloves.

There was a cry and a thud from the lobby behind me. Dane Brammage and Joshua Hallal were chasing me and had bowled over a hapless Farkle grandmother in their haste.

Wealth was their master and it was the only voice they heeded. Friendships were sacrificed at its behest, principles trampled to protect it. No matter how much they had, it was never enough. They went mad chasing more until they sat lonely atop their hoard, despised and afraid

Wealth was their master and it was the only voice they heeded. Friendships were sacrificed at its behest, principles trampled to protect it. No matter how much they had, it was never enough. They went mad chasing more until they sat lonely atop their hoard, despised and afraid.

Bad language is now the mightiest weapon in the arsenal of despots and demagogues. Witness Dr. Goebbels.

Surely, there should be more? A chase, fear, warning of some sort. We shouldn’t simply die. It feels like a swindle. So much paid, too much asked.

It was like being chased by a rhinoceros. Except that rhinos are generally good-natured.

We’ll have to fall off that bridge when we come to it.” “Don’t you mean ‘cross that bridge’?” Milady asked. “Whatever.

RECRUITMENT Ripley Residence 2107 Mockingbird Road Vienna, Virginia January 16 1530 hours “Hello, Ben,” said the man in my living room. “My name is Alexander Hale. I work for the CIA.” And just like that, my life became interesting. It hadn’t been, up till then. Not by a long shot. That day had been a prime example: day 4,583, seven months into the twelfth year of my mundane existence. I had dragged myself out of bed, eaten breakfast, gone to middle school, been bored in class, stared at girls I was too embarrassed to approach, had lunch, slogged through gym, fallen asleep in math, been harassed by Dirk the Jerk, taken the bus home . . . And found a man in a tuxedo sitting on the couch. I didn’t doubt he was a spy for a second. Alexander Hale looked exactly like I’d always imagined a spy would. A tiny bit older, perhaps—he seemed about fifty—but still suave and debonair. He had a small scar on his chin—from a bullet, I guessed, or maybe something more exotic, like a crossbow. There was something very James Bond about him; I could imagine he’d been in a car chase on the way over and taken out the bad guys without breaking a sweat. My parents weren’t home. They never were when I got back from school. Alexander had obviously “let himself in.” The photo album from our family vacation to Virginia Beach sat open on the

A few years ago Stuart Chase’s article “How Language Shapes Our Thoughts” appeared in Harper’s, emphasizing how closely language and thoughts are integrated. According to Chase, language “molds one’s whole outlook on life,” for “thinking follows the tracks laid down in one’s language.” Knowing about this integration of language and thoughts helps us to understand that what we say often reflects what we are. The state of our heart and mind will show up in our words, for “out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh” (Matthew 12:34).

How lost do you have to be to let the devil lead you home? This lost, I decide. Precisely this lost. Easing myself off the tree, I lay the compass flat in my palm. It yearns for north, so I point myself east, against the wind and cold, against the world itself. Hope has deserted me. I’m a man in purgatory, blind to the sins that chased me here.

Aramis shrugged. “Ignorance of the truth is a recipe for disaster.

Anne doesn’t speak a word of French. Pero hablo bien el español.

Milady fixed him with a hard stare. “We’re not dead weight, you know. We can contribute as much to this mission as you do.” “Two girls?” Athos snorted. “Not a chance.” “Do any of you speak Spanish?” Milady asked. An uncomfortable silence fell over the Musketeers. “Do you?” Aramis asked. “I wasn’t given the job of handmaiden to the future queen simply for my charming personality,” Milady said curtly. “Anne doesn’t speak a word of French. Pero hablo bien el español.” “What’s that mean?” Athos asked. “That I’m going to be able to get along much better in Spain by knowing the language than you are by wielding a sword,” Milady replied. “What did you think you were going to do, barge around the country waving your weapons until everyone suddenly learned to speak French?” Even Aramis reddened at the insult to their plan. “We felt we could get by,” he explained. “I can speak Latin. Spanish derives from it, just as French does.” “Latin will serve you well if you find yourselves in ancient Rome,” Milady said. “But you’re going to Spain. Catherine and I can both speak the language. You need us.

THE CHASE

I’m a man in purgatory, blind to the sins that chased me here.