Syllabus Quotes

Life is an exam where the syllabus is unknown and question papers are not set. Nor are there model answer papers.

I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to deal with the world. It seemed too big and demanding and there was no fixed syllabus.

No, but it was a close call. Brought you something.” “Turtle pee?” Cam laughed and shook his head as he reached into his backpack. “Sorry to let you down, but no.” He pulled out papers stapled together. “It’s a syllabus. I know. Thrilling shit right here.

What I envy most about you and everyone else heading back to school is the certainty of it all. You’ve got a prescribed set of requirements to guide you through the next few years. Focus your energy on the completion of those assignments and you’ll succeed. Guaranteed. Where’s my syllabus to guide me through life?

There is a peculiar aesthetic pleasure in constructing the form of a syllabus, or a book of essays, or a course of lectures. Visions and shadows of people and ideas can be arranged and rearranged like stained-glass pieces in a window, or chessmen on a board.

Religion is not a fractional thing that can be doled out in fixed weekly or daily measures as one among various subjects in the school syllabus. It is the truth of our complete being, the consciousness of our personal relationship with the infinite; it is the true center of gravity of our life. This we can attain during our childhood by daily living in a place where the truth of the spiritual world is not obscured by a crowd of necessities assuming artificial importance; where life is simple, surrounded by fullness of leisure, by ample space and pure air and profound peace of nature; and where men live with a perfect faith in the eternal life before them.

Because you scratched my itch and then you kissed me—both of which freaked me out because neither of which are in the course syllabus for laboratory experiments this semester. And, furthermore—

So if I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life's work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If I ask you about women, you'd probably give me a syllabus about your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You're a tough kid. And I'd ask you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, "once more unto the breach dear friends." But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much. And look at you... I don't see an intelligent, confident man... I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you're a genius Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my fucking life apart. You're an orphan right? [Will nods] Sean: You think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally... I don't give a shit about all that, because you know what, I can't learn anything from you, I can't read in some fuckin' book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I'm fascinated. I'm in. But you don't want to do that do you sport? You're terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief.

Where's my syllabus to guide me through life?

You are yet to catch up with the real world if you've never studied any concepts outside the school syllabus or read any books beside the texts books school forced you to read. Most people are just programmed not educated

There is no syllabus for life that outlines the steps you need to take to graduate to the next event. This life itself is the lesson and the test and there is no dean’s list and no gold stars. There is just the sum of your relationships and your actions, measured by how you feel when you lie down to go to sleep at night, and how many people heart your tweets. I

[David Starr Jordan] claims that salvation lies in the electricity of our bodies. “Happiness comes from doing, helping, working, loving, fighting, conquering,” he writes in a syllabus from around the same time, “from the exercise of functions; from self-activity.” Don’t overthink it, I think, is his point. Enjoy the journey. Savor the small things. The “luscious” taste of a peach, the “lavish” colors of tropical fish, the rush from exercise that allows one to experience “the stern joy which warriors feel.

I am convinced that one can buy in Harrods of London a kit that allows an enterprising Englishman to create a British school anywhere in the third world. It comes with black robes, preprinted report cards for Michaelmas, Lent, and Easter terms, as well as hymnals, Prefect Badges, and a syllabus. Assembly required.

She didn’t stalk after him, or look predatory in her approach, but he could tell she wanted something from him, and it wasn’t a new copy of the syllabus.

I do see why Nikki likes the novel, as it's written so well, but her liking it makes me worry now that Nikki doesn't really believe in silver linings. Because she says The Great Gatsby is the greatest novel ever written by an American, and yet it ends so sadly. One thing's for sure. Nikki is going to be very proud of me when I tell her I finally read her favorite book. Here's another surprise: I'm going to read all the novels on her American Literature class syllabus, just to make her proud. To let her know that I am really interested in what she loves.

As for your instruction here, this is what the First House asks of you.” The room drew breath together—or at least, all the necromancers did, alongside a goodly proportion of their cavaliers. Harrow’s knuckles whitened. Gideon wished that she could flop into a seat or take a sly nap. Everybody was poised in readiness for the outlined syllabus, and scholarship made her want to die.

Oh my. Molly put her hand to her no-doubt agape mouth. Oh my, oh my, oh my. After her divorce, she hadn’t thought this day would ever come again, but here it was, a second proposal. Life is funny, she thought, and she felt herself step back from the reality of her situation for a moment, lest its emotions overwhelm her and make her swoon like a damsel in those Middle English chivalric romances she taught in 10th-grade English. Yes, life was indeed funny. It had no syllabus, which was why Molly, always a diligent student, felt so unprepared for it. Life played tricks on you too, surprised you, with the biggest surprise that life, even at the nearly half-century mark, could still hold surprises. Like so: There is a man in my kitchen, a man I’m in love with, and he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. How strange and how very unconventional by its conventional, everyday setting.

Czar Nicholas the Second was overthrown by Lenin in 1917." I blink in surprise. "Yes," I say, "he was." "And do you think I want to know that? IT's not even on your exam syllabus. I never had to know that. So now it's your turn to pick up a few pairs of shoes and make ooh and aah sounds for me becuase Jo ate prawns and she's allergic and she got sick and couldn't come and I'm not sitting on a bus on my own for five hours, OK?" Nat takes a deep breath and I look at my hands in shame. I am a selfish, selfish person. I am also a very sparkly person; my hands are covered in gold glitter.

Non-photo blue pencils... After about a week of using them the class is smitten. It looks like thinking, this color of blue. Like words before you say them.

It is the joy of true education: of reading for the sake of a wonderful book rather than for an exam; of following up a subject because it is fascinating rather than because it is on a syllabus; of watching a great teacher’s eyes light up for sheer love of the subject.

You will encounter resentful, sneering non-readers who will look at you from their beery, leery eyes, as they might some form of sub-hominid anomaly, bookimus maximus. You will encounter redditters, youtubers, blogspotters, wordpressers, twitterers, and facebookers with wired-open eyes who will shout at from you from their crazy hectoring mouths about the liberal poison of literature. You will encounter the gamers with their twitching fingers who will look upon you as a character to lock crosshairs on and blow to smithereens. You will encounter the stoners and pill-poppers who will ignore you, and ask you if you have read Jack Keroauc’s On the Road, and if you haven’t, will lecture you for two hours on that novel and refuse to acknowledge any other books written by anyone ever. You will encounter the provincial retirees, who have spent a year reading War & Peace, who strike the attitude that completing that novel is a greater achievement than the thousands of books you have read, even though they lost themselves constantly throughout the book and hated the whole experience. You will encounter the self-obsessed students whose radical interpretations of Agnes Grey and The Idiot are the most important utterance anyone anywhere has ever made with their mouths, while ignoring the thousands of novels you have read. You will encounter the parents and siblings who take every literary reference you make back to the several books they enjoyed reading as a child, and then redirect the conversation to what TV shows they have been watching. You will encounter the teachers and lecturers, for whom any text not on their syllabus is a waste of time, and look upon you as a wayward student in need of their salvation. You will encounter the travellers and backpackers who will take pity on you for wasting your life, then tell you about the Paulo Coelho they read while hostelling across Europe en route to their spiritual pilgrimage to New Delhi. You will encounter the hard-working moaners who will tell you they are too busy working for a living to sit and read all day, and when they come home from a hard day’s toil, they don’t want to sit and read pretentious rubbish. You will encounter the voracious readers who loathe competition, and who will challenge you to a literary duel, rather than engage you in friendly conversation about your latest reading. You will encounter the slack intellectuals who will immediately ask you if you have read Finnegans Wake, and when you say you have, will ask if you if you understood every line, and when you say of course not, will make some point that generally alludes to you being a halfwit. Fuck those fuckers.

The seven men pressed on. They were tired of the designation of “capsule” for the Mercury vehicle. The term as much as declared that the man inside was not a pilot but an experimental animal in a pod. Gradually, everybody began trying to work the term “spacecraft” into NASA publications and syllabuses. Next

It was these Prussian schools that introduced many of the features we now take for granted. There was teaching by year group rather than by ability, which made sense if the aim was to produce military recruits rather than rounded citizens. There was formal pedagogy, in which children sat at rows of desks in front of standing teachers, rather than, say, walking around together in the ancient Greek fashion. There was the set school day, punctuated by the ringing of bells. There was a predetermined syllabus, rather than open-ended learning. There was the habit of doing several subjects in one day, rather than sticking to one subject for more than a day. These features make sense, argues Davies, if you wish to mould people into suitable recruits for a conscript army to fight Napoleon.

TBLT's solution is to employ an analytic (task) syllabus, but with a focus on form to deal with problematic linguistic features, and provision of opportunities for intentional learning to speed up the learning process and to supplement the adult's weaker capacity for incidental learning, especially instance learning.

Whether we like it or not, we can never sever our links with the past, complete with all its errors. It survives in accepted concepts, in the presentation of problems, in the syllabus of formal education, in everyday life, as well as in language and institutions. Concepts are not spontaneously created but are determined by their "ancestors." That which has occurred in the past is a greater cause of insecurity—rather, it only becomes a cause of insecurity—when our ties with it remain unconscious and unknown.

During the Government’s recent overhaul of GCSEs, I was asked to join a consultative group advising on the English Literature syllabus. It quickly became clear that the minister wanted to prescribe two Shakespeare plays for every 16-year-old in the land. I argued, to the contrary, that there should be one Shakespeare play and one play by anybody except Shakespeare. It cannot be in Shakespeare’s interest for teenagers to associate him with compulsion, for his plays and his alone to have the dreaded status of set books.

There's the drawing you are trying to make and the drawing that s actually being made- and you can't see it until you forget what you were trying to do.

Shaking her head, Vivi cleared her throat and reached for the least sexy thing she could think of, a copy of her syllabus.

Life is not contained in a syllabus and everyone should be ready to face "Out Of Syllabus" situations!

Syllabus for Advanced Creative Writing Suggested Reading The Speed Queen, Stewart O’Nan Zuckerman Unbound, Philip Roth Sister Carrie, Theodore Dreiser

Life is also a great teacher. Life gives you the exams, but doesn’t tell you the syllabus. It is up to us to set our own lessons.

Life hands us a challenging syllabus. We need all the help we can get.

Trump was a guy who “never went to class. Never got the syllabus.

Those who, in actual fact, generate the syllabus, who recognize, elucidate, and transmit the legacy of literacy in regard to textual, artistic, and musical creation, have always been, are a handful.

We were told [as TAs] to pick a Shakespeare play, a contemporary play, two novels, five stories, and a dozen or so poems and spread them out over the course of the semester, issuing regular tests and paper assignments. I picked works that I knew well, but Lucy saw teaching as a great chance to further her own education. With the exception of the Shakespeare and the poetry, her syllabus consisted of things she had always meant to read.

You're just a boy. You don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about. You've never been out of Boston. So if I asked you about art you could give me the skinny on every art book ever written...Michelangelo? You know a lot about him I bet. Life's work, criticisms, political aspirations. But you couldn't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling. And if I asked you about women I'm sure you could give me a syllabus of your personal favorites, and maybe you've been laid a few times too. But you couldn't tell me how it feels to wake up next to a woman and be truly happy. If I asked you about war you could refer me to a bevy of fictional and non-fictional material, but you've never been in one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap and watched him draw his last breath, looking to you for help. And if I asked you about love I'd get a sonnet, but you've never looked at a woman and been truly vulnerable. Known that someone could kill you with a look. That someone could rescue you from grief. That God had put an angel on Earth just for you. And you wouldn't know how it felt to be her angel. To have the love be there for her forever. Through anything, through cancer. You wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in a hospital room for two months holding her hand and not leaving because the doctors could see in your eyes that the term "visiting hours" didn't apply to you. And you wouldn't know about real loss, because that only occurs when you lose something you love more than yourself, and you've never dared to love anything that much. I look at you and I don't see an intelligent confident man, I don't see a peer, and I don't see my equal. I see a boy.

The room drew breath together—or at least, all the necromancers did, alongside a goodly proportion of their cavaliers. Harrow’s knuckles whitened. Gideon wished that she could flop into a seat or take a sly nap. Everybody was poised in readiness for the outlined syllabus, and scholarship made her want to die. There would be some litany of how breakfast would take place every morning at this time, and then there’d be study with the priests for an hour, and then Skeleton Analysis, and History of Some Blood, and Tomb Studies, and, like, lunchtime, and finally Double Bones with Doctor Skelebone. The most she could hope for was Swords, Swords II, and maybe Swords III.

In a classroom of students with varying levels of drawing experience, this way of drawing brings us to a common starting place that is like the starting place we all share: our first drawings of people made when we were little.

One other thing—two men are about four times as effective as one man. There’s actually a study about it. ‘Non-Linear Tactical Factors In Small-Unit Engagements,’ I think the title is. It’s part of the syllabus at Recon School.” “Marines really do know how to read, eh?

If you take spirituality/religion as a classroom, the syllabus is infinite. There is no end to symbolism, concepts, explanations, definitions. But you have to let go of all this if you wish to experience that which can't be symbolized, conceptualized, explained or defined.

Anyhow, high school is just…The. Worst.” “Funny that you became a high school teacher, then,” I say, and she laughs again. “Something I should talk to my therapist about. Speaking of which, you could speak to the school counselor if you want. We have a psychiatrist on staff. A life coach too.” “Seriously?” “I know, right? Finding ways to justify the tuition. Anyhow, if not them, feel free to come talk to me anytime. Students like you are the reason I chose to teach.” “Thanks.” “By the way, I look forward to your and Ethan’s ‘Waste Land’ paper. You’re two of my brightest students. I have great expectations.” Dickens is next on the syllabus. A literary pun. No wonder Mrs. Pollack was destroyed in high school. “We intend to reach wuthering heights,” I say, and as I walk by, she reaches her hand up, and I can’t help it—dorks unite! nerd power!—I give her a high five on my way out.

Rin knew he was right. The fault lay with her teaching. She just didn’t know how to explain things more clearly than she had. She wished she still had Chaghan with her, who knew the cosmos and its mysteries so well that he could easily break it into concepts they could understand. She wished she had Daji or even the Sorqan Sira, who could implant a vision in their minds that would shatter their conceptions of real or not real. She needed some way to break the logic in their brains like Jiang had done to her, but she had no idea how to replicate his yearlong syllabus, much less condense it down to two weeks.

I think many of us who are teachers and professors have forgotten that the syllabus serves the student, and all around us are teachers, administrators, and columnists who seem to believe that material should be hard for the sake of it and that education itself is best when rendered not in wonder but in force.

He doesn’t like intellectuals. Trump was a guy who “never went to class. Never got the syllabus. Never took a note. Never went to a lecture. The night before the final, he comes in at midnight from the fraternity house, puts on a pot of coffee, takes your notes, memorizes as much as he can, walks in at 8 in the morning and gets a C.

When we use any teaching approach, we need to be clear exactly what it's intended to achieve. This clarity should be apparent not just to us but also to students. So a lecture should begin with the lecturer explaining its purpose, its relevance to course goals and the syllabus, and its connection to earlier class sessions or assignments.

When I had all the answers, the questions changed.

Only a fool would let his enemy teach his children

Take inventory. Invent a story about the people you have hurt. Begin with yourself.

But I am so pathologically obsessed with usage that every semester the same thing happens: once I've had to read my students' first set of papers, we immediately abandon the regular Lit syllabus and have a three-week Emergency Remedial Usage and Grammar Unit, during which my demeanor is basically that of somebody teaching HIV prevention to intravenous-drug users. When it merges (as it does, every term) that 95 percent of those intelligent upscale college students have never been taught, e.g., what a clause is or why a misplace 'only' can make a sentence confusing or why you don't just automatically stick in a comma after a long noun phrase, I all but pound my head on the blackboard; I get angry and self-righteous; I tell them they should sue their hometown school boards, and mean it. The kids end up scared, both of me and for me. Every August I vow silently to chill about usage this year, and then by Labor Day there's foam on my chin. I can't seem to help it. The truth is that I'm not even an especially good or dedicated teacher; I don't have this kind of fervor in class about anything else, and I know it's not a very productive fervor, nor a healthy one – it's got elements of fanaticism and rage to it, plus a snobbishness that I know I'd be mortified to display about anything else.

Don’t lecture Trump. He doesn’t like professors. He doesn’t like intellectuals. Trump was a guy who “never went to class. Never got the syllabus. Never took a note. Never went to a lecture. The night before the final, he comes in at midnight from the fraternity house, puts on a pot of coffee, takes your notes, memorizes as much as he can, walks in at 8 in the morning and gets a C. And that’s good enough. He’s going to be a billionaire.

Daily practice with images both written and drawn is rare once we have lost our baby teething begin to think of ourselves as good at some things and bad at other things. It is not that this isn’t true, but the side-effects are profound once we abandon a certain activity like drawing because we are bad at it. A certain state of mind- (what McGilchrist might call “attention”) is also lost. A certain capacity of the mind is shuttered, and for most people, it stays that way for life. It is a bad trade.

I always start my class with a coloring assignment using crayons to color three pages from a variety of coloring pages pinned to the wall. Pick 3. Color them densely, trying to get as much of the crayon on the paper as possible. Students find it frustrating because crayons are surprisingly hard to work with, but they usually have some fun doing it. Until...when the finished pages were pinned to the wall, all of the pages were colored just the way I assigned— but all the joy was gone. Something went wrong. What was it? This: I told them to color hard in order to do it right. And go straight to using force— thinking I was showing them a short-cut—— this took away the way of coloring they would have found on their own. By telling them just how to do it, I took the playing-around away, the gradual figuring out that brings something alive to this activity, makes it worth-while, and is transferable to other activities. I realize now the best results came when I gave no instructions except, “spend time on this assignment.” That was 3 years ago. Why did it take me so long to figure this out?

General McMaster was going to get two hours with Trump. Bannon met with him at Mar-a-Lago and offered his usual advice: Don’t lecture Trump. He doesn’t like professors. He doesn’t like intellectuals. Trump was a guy who “never went to class. Never got the syllabus. Never took a note. Never went to a lecture. The night before the final, he comes in at midnight from the fraternity house, puts on a pot of coffee, takes your notes, memorizes as much as he can, walks in at 8 in the morning and gets a C. And that’s good enough. He’s going to be a billionaire.

It’s a red letter day, too: the new set of science textbooks has finally arrived. This may not seem much to you but I feel like bringing in champagne to celebrate or asking the Head for a half day’s holiday. In the past, we have shared one dirty, dog-eared textbook between two or even three children and it’s a book which doesn’t even cover the right topics for our syllabus. These new ones are written by the people who set the exam, so they must cover the relevant stuff. The Head of Department arrives carrying the books and hands them out to the kids, handling them with great reverence. ‘These books are brand new,’ he intones solemnly, placing one neatly on my desk. ‘They must be treated with great respect and care so that others may use them in the future.

Jefferson then distilled and enunciated these “essentials” in several personal works he shared with friends, his “Syllabus,” and two extracts from the Bible: “The Philosophy of Jesus of Nazareth,” and “The Life and Morals of Jesus,” sometimes called the “Jefferson Bible.” In these works Jefferson disputed core Christian doctrines while he omitted references to miracles and Jesus’ resurrection. Although his own spirituality apparently grew later in life, he remained a religious skeptic and on the fringes of unitarianism in his beliefs. Throughout his life he opposed religious orthodoxy and intolerance, and the government’s subversion of religion for political gain. “To the corruptions of Christianity I am, indeed, opposed,” Jefferson wrote Benjamin Rush, “but not to the genuine precepts of Jesus himself.”90

As he drones on, I examine one of the books. It has that pleasant smell of newly-printed paper and, like all modern textbooks, is a masterpiece of political correctness. It is chock-full of bright pictures of children from ethnic minority backgrounds doing science experiments and photographs of every kind of phenomena. Even the teachers are in wheelchairs. Any wrongdoing is illustrated by a white boy; here is one, foolishly sticking his fork into an electrical socket and being electrocuted. Here’s another, drinking from a test tube. What I cannot find, to my mounting horror as I flip through the book, are any questions. Oh, bloody hell!Why are all modern textbooks in every subject full of photographs but devoid of questions? I also notice that, actually, it doesn’t quite seem to cover the syllabus to which we have recently changed after the head of department assured us that it was ‘the easiest one yet’.

I don’t know that this mode of teaching is applicable everywhere—I don’t know that we can in all subjects be comrades. But I think many of us who are teachers and professors have forgotten that the syllabus serves the student, and all around us are teachers, administrators, and columnists who seem to believe that material should be hard for the sake of it and that education itself is best when rendered not in wonder but in force. I have never formally issued a “trigger warning” or explicitly carved out a “safe space.” But I know that all readers do not come to a text equally. Some come surviving a rape, and some come caged in their assigned bodies, and some come having spent their entire young lives in classrooms with fellow students who made mascots of them. There seems to be an opportunity here, for comradeship, an invitation to allow for a more conversational literature, to revisit accepted ideas of voice and authority, to recognize that students are humans to be challenged, not animals to be broken and tamed.

Our education system is like a money plant, which looks beautiful with big green leaves, but fails to produce any fruit or a flower. Undoubtedly, we are a home to the best doctors, scientists, poets, artists, and whatnot. But I feel, we miserably fail to evoke humanism, compassion, and tolerance in students. If we would count all the do’s and don’ts taught to us in our school, surely don’ts would exceed the number of the do's. I was forced to mug up certain things I was not interested in. Now, I understand the importance of questioning. I wish if our schools could teach us the art of questioning instead of just hunting for answers. Various facts are stuffed in delicate minds, but what about teachings on life, tutoring to never give up, and asking for students’ opinions on a subject? Yes, teaching these things would not directly increase the ‘GDP’ by creating human-machines, but would definitely create better minds and wonderful souls. I really wish our syllabus could preach to us the sheer value of knowledge, wisdom, and awareness. I wish our schools could nurture educated intellectuals, rather than literate persons. I wish we could pay more heed to the education ratio instead of just literacy ratio. We need more thinkers and fewer money makers. We are directed towards a goal already chosen for us, but not asked about our big fantasies and little dreams.

LE SYLLABUS Tout en mangeant d'un air effaré vos oranges, Vous semblez aujourd'hui, mes tremblants petits anges, Me redouter un peu; Pourquoi ? c'est ma bonté qu'il faut toujours attendre, Jeanne, et c'est le devoir de l'aïeul d'être tendre Et du ciel d'être bleu. N'ayez pas peur. C'est vrai, j'ai l'air fâché, je gronde, Non contre vous. Hélas, enfants, dans ce vil monde, Le prêtre hait et ment; Et, voyez-vous, j'entends jusqu'en nos verts asiles Un sombre brouhaha de choses imbéciles Qui passe en ce moment. Les prêtres font de l'ombre. Ah ! je veux m'y soustraire. La plaine resplendit; viens, Jeanne, avec ton frère, Viens, George, avec ta soeur; Un rayon sort du lac, l'aube est dans la chaumière; Ce qui monte de tout vers Dieu, c'est la lumière; Et d'eux, c'est la noirceur. J'aime une petitesse et je déteste l'autre; Je hais leur bégaiement et j'adore le vôtre; Enfants, quand vous parlez, Je me penche, écoutant ce que dit l'âme pure, Et je crois entrevoir une vague ouverture Des grands cieux étoilés. Car vous étiez hier, ô doux parleurs étranges, Les interlocuteurs des astres et des anges; En vous rien n'est mauvais; Vous m'apportez, à moi sur qui gronde la nue, On ne sait quel rayon de l'aurore inconnue; Vous en venez, j'y vais. Ce que vous dites sort du firmament austère; Quelque chose de plus que l'homme et que la terre Est dans vos jeunes yeux; Et votre voix où rien n'insulte, où rien ne blâme, Où rien ne mord, s'ajoute au vaste épithalame Des bois mystérieux. Ce doux balbutiement me plaît, je le préfère; Car j'y sens l'idéal; j'ai l'air de ne rien faire Dans les fauves forêts. Et pourtant Dieu sait bien que tout le jour j'écoute L'eau tomber d'un plafond de rochers goutte à goutte Au fond des antres frais. Ce qu'on appelle mort et ce qu'on nomme vie Parle la même langue à l'âme inassouvie; En bas nous étouffons; Mais rêver, c'est planer dans les apothéoses, C'est comprendre; et les nids disent les mêmes choses Que les tombeaux profonds. Les prêtres vont criant: Anathème ! anathème ! Mais la nature dit de toutes parts: Je t'aime ! Venez, enfants; le jour Est partout, et partout on voit la joie éclore; Et l'infini n'a pas plus d'azur et d'aurore Que l'âme n'a d'amour. J'ai fait la grosse voix contre ces noirs pygmées; Mais ne me craignez pas; les fleurs sont embaumées, Les bois sont triomphants; Le printemps est la fête immense, et nous en sommes; Venez, j'ai quelquefois fait peur aux petits hommes, Non aux petits enfants.

The office divinely committed to Us of feeding the Lord’s flock has especially this duty assigned to it by Christ, namely, to guard with the greatest vigilance the deposit of the faith delivered to the saints, rejecting the profane novelties of words and oppositions of knowledge falsely so called. There has never been a time when this watchfulness of the supreme pastor was not necessary to the Catholic body; for, owing to the efforts of the enemy of the human race, there have never been lacking “men speaking perverse things” (Acts xx. 30), “vain talkers and seducers” (Tit. i. 10), “erring and driving into error” (2 Tim. iii. 13). Still it must be confessed that the number of the enemies of the cross of Christ has in these last days increased exceedingly, who are striving, by arts, entirely new and full of subtlety, to destroy the vital energy of the Church, and, if they can, to overthrow utterly Christ’s kingdom itself. Wherefore We may no longer be silent, lest We should seem to fail in Our most sacred duty, and lest the kindness that, in the hope of wiser counsels, We have hitherto shown them, should be attributed to forgetfulness of Our office. GRAVITY OF THE SITUATION 2. That We make no delay in this matter is rendered necessary especially by the fact that the partisans of error are to be sought not only among the Church’s open enemies; they lie hid, a thing to be deeply deplored and feared, in her very bosom and heart, and are the more mischievous, the less conspicuously they appear.

You’re a fine one to talk about being late. Besides, sir, as this lesson doesn’t make it onto the official syllabus I’m not inclined to give a shit,

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Poems, like bodies, teach us that there are always multiple ways to be and to know,” my poetry syllabus responded. “The body remembers even when we dismiss its knowledge. And what happens when you lie to the body? What happens when you shame the body for what it wants?… Like bodies, poems refuse to respect the boundaries of what reason dictates.” Could there be another way to know, a richer way that lay inside and beyond and above fear’s cold dissection?

When you go to rake school, is driving a high perch one of the examinations?” she asked lightly. “Oh yes.” He immediately seemed to understand the game. “As is how to find secluded spots for seduction, cheat at cards and hold your drink. It’s a very comprehensive syllabus.

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It is said that people often read books that meet their syllabus, believe you me when people think beyond syllabus books that live a distinctive life.

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Aristotle says that virtues are found in the midpoint between two vices. Apparently, our two vices here would be following the syllabus blindly on one side, and, on the other side, following all and every student’s whims to design the course and lessons. After all, students are not the specialists and hired our, I mean, your services trusting you’d make the best decisions for them. – I understand. So, in this sense, a good lesson is one where the learning is relevant to students while also abiding by the course’s goals and objectives. Easier said than done, isn’t it?

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This is true in my own case, at any rate — plus also the “uncomfortable” part. I teach college English part-time. Mostly Lit, not Composition. But I am so pathologically obsessed with usage that every semester the same thing happens: once I’ve had to read my students’ first set of papers, we immediately abandon the regular Lit syllabus and have a three-week Emergency Remedial Usage and Grammar Unit, during which my demeanor is basically that of somebody teaching HIV prevention to intravenous-drug users. When it emerges (as it does, every term) that 95 percent of these intelligent upscale college students have never been taught, e.g., what a clause is or why a misplaced only can make a sentence confusing or why you don’t just automatically stick in a comma after a long noun phrase, I all but pound my head on the blackboard; I get angry and self-righteous; I tell them they should sue their hometown school boards, and mean it. The kids end up scared, both of me and for me. Every August I vow silently to chill about usage this year, and then by Labor Day there’s foam on my chin. I can’t seem to help it. The truth is that I’m not even an especially good or dedicated teacher; I don’t have this kind of fervor in class about anything else, and I know it’s not a very productive fervor, nor a healthy one — it’s got elements of fanaticism and rage to it, plus a snobbishness that I know I’d be mortified to display about anything else.

The first couple of days of school are always throwaway days of handing out books and syllabuses and figuring out where you're sitting and who you're sitting with. Now is when school really begins.

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Acaso reparara o abade, como a penumbra e as meias-tintas constituíam o ambiente grato à ordem eclesiástica? Penumbra nas naves das catedrais depois da penumbra nas catacumbas; penumbra no mental com o Syllabus depois da penumbra basilar dos Evangelhos: Felizes os pobres de espírito porque deles é o reino dos céus. Dir-se-ia que a Santa Madre Igreja tinha a premonição de que a claridade lhe era contrária, tanto a astral como a lógica, daí a sua aversão pelo ar livre, o céu aberto, o campo franco das ideias, e o refugiar-se litúrgica e teologalmente no lusco-fusco dos templos e da metafísica.

Other states also reoriented their telling of regional and national history. In Maharashtra, in the rewriting of history textbooks, a drastic cut was made in the book for class 7: the chapter on the Mughal Empire under Akbar was cut down to three lines.78 Uttar Pradesh simply deleted the Mughal Empire from some of its history textbooks,79 while the University of Delhi drastically reduced the study of this period in its history curriculum.80 In the syllabus of Nagpur University, a chapter that discussed the roles of the RSS, the Hindu Mahasabha, and the Muslim League in the making of communalism has been replaced by another one titled “Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) Role in Nation Building.”81 Alongside official examinations in Uttar Pradesh, the Sangh Parivar organized a test of general culture open to all schools in the state. According to the brochure designed to help students prepare for this test, which Amit Shah released in Lucknow in August 2017, India was a Hindu Rashtra, and Swami Vivekananda had defended Hindutva in Chicago in 1893.82 In Karnataka, after canceling Tipu Sultan Jayanti, the festival that the state used to organize to celebrate the birth of this eighteenth-century Muslim ruler, the BJP government also dropped the chapter dealing with this historical figure from the class 7 textbook in 2019.83 This decision was made in the context of the COVID-19 pandemic that had led the government of India to ask all states to reduce syllabi for students in classes 1 through 10 by 30 percent, in light of the learning challenges brought about by the lockdown.84 The decision of the Karnataka government, in fact, fit in with a larger picture. Under cover of the pandemic, the Central Board of Secondary Education (CBSE), India’s largest education board, decided that all over India “government-run schools no longer have to teach chapters on democratic rights, secularism, federalism, and citizenship, among other topics.”85 To foster assimilation of knowledge that amounted to propaganda, final exams have increasingly focused on the heroic deeds of Hindu icons and reforms initiated by the Modi government, even on the person of the prime minister.

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You dream in syllabus, questions. And see the lines that others cannot. And you waltz across the dance floor of the world with verses and wit. For this moment Is honest, simple. But does not truly exist, or last forever

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The person dissipates and circumvents his consuetudes by depolarizing or scathing himself through his inurements. Being unbrace onrushes a diddle possibility, where you mangle your ideology abradely; this is a kind of brawl which by foozle leads to social deface and denigrate. By the way, your internalism never wants to be abash or mortified because your aggression has to malediction or resentment your demean, In this disapproval, being squeezed personal nip as well as your own breakage by daminification pervades your nature and health, due to which your power turns into paroxysm; it makes an onslaught invasion, encroachment on people. It is an incursion in which the onset is razzia; your introduction becomes crumbly and your doings disintegrates, due to which your mentality becomes shredded. There is no sweetness and truthfulness expression in your sidelines and sideness layer. There is foolishness, and you need to mental cure because of the rusty syllabus; you need to dismiss its outrageous and disexacerbate act. These are acquaintances of irregularities, depreciates, and smirches.

In the classroom of adversity, the syllabus of patience teaches us the profound wisdom of waiting on God.

It is the business of education to wait upon Pentecost. Unhappily, there is something about educational syllabuses, and especially about examination papers, which seems to be rather out of harmony with Pentecostal manifestations. The Energy of Ideas does not seem to descend into the receptive mind with quite that rush of cloven fire which we ought to expect.

Happiness comes from doing, helping, working, loving, fighting, conquering,” he writes in a syllabus from around the same time, “from the exercise of functions; from self-activity.” Don’t overthink it, I think, is his point. Enjoy the journey. Savor the small things. The “luscious” taste of a peach, the “lavish” colors of tropical fish, the rush from exercise that allows one to experience “the stern joy which warriors feel.” Toward the end of the book, he quotes Thoreau—“There is no hope for you unless this bit of sod under your feet is the sweetest to you in this world—in any world”—and then he sends his readers off with a rousing dose of carpe diem. “Nowhere is the sky so blue, the grass so green, the sunshine so bright, the shade so welcome, as right here, now, today.

Ilich's academic syllabus motivated him much less than far-left politics, as he readily recognised: 'I acquired a personal culture by travelling in Russia and other countries. I learned to use Marx's dialectic method. It's an experience which is useful to all revolutionaries'. Fellow students describe him as passionate about Marxism, but as a romantic rather than an ideologue. An envoy of the Venezuelan Communist Party came to the conclusion that this young man had potential. But the offer of a post as its representative in Bucharest which Dr Eduardo Gallegos Mancera, a member of the party's politburo, made to llich when they met in Moscow did not tempt him. As his father had done, Ilich decided to keep the party at arm's length and turned Mancera down. His snubbing of the appointment did not endear him to the Venezuelan Communist Party, and he further blackened his name by supporting a rebel faction. Since 1964 a storm had been brewing back home following the refusal of the young Commander Douglas Bravo, in charge of the party's military affairs and loyal to Che Guevara's doctrine, to toe the official line. Party policy dictated that armed struggle as a means to revolution should be abandoned in favour of a 'broad popular movement for progressive democratic change'. The storm broke in the late 1960s when Bravo left the party. Ilich, still at Lumumba University, wholeheartedly supported him as a true revolutionary, and this led to his expulsion in the early summer of 1969 from the Venezuelan Communist Youth, the first political movement he had joined. Robbed of the backing of a Soviet-endorsed party, Ilich was an easy target for the university authorities, whom he had again angered earlier in 1969 when he joined a demonstration by Arab students. Moscow had no time for Bravo's followers: one Pravda editorial condemned Cuban-backed revolutionary movements in Latin America like Bravo's as 'anti-Marxist' and declared that only orthodox parties held the key to the future.

Same sex marriage is not an expression of human right but human wrong. Any nation that rationalizes same sex marriage as an expression of human right has lost control of the territorial integrity of its citizens' rights, and such nation should someday be ready to accept terrorism as an expression of human right.

personal email address, too. I knew that was not the official school email he had on his revised syllabus. I studied the email for a moment and wondered what the “J” stood for in “ajstone.” The last four numbers looked like they could possibly be his birthday. That meant he was an Independence Day baby. How cute. Bringing myself out of my mental tangent, I focused back on the topic of his email. I was planning on meeting up with Maddy

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Our teacher [Ms. Whitlock] assesses me, then continues to summarise our syllabus.

Relationships aren’t defined by an amount of time or a certain syllabus. They are simply the state of being connected to another human being.

*What is the best or most worthwhile investment you’ve made? “The best thing I ever did, besides getting sober 25 years ago, was shelving my restaurant career in 2002, selling my shares in my restaurant, and working for free for a local radio station, magazine, and TV station in an effort to create my own media syllabus. I wanted to create a product with a massive platform, and try to make a difference in the world, and I couldn’t do it without becoming a 40-year-old intern, learning everything I needed, and rebooting my career.

We were nobodies, two young lit. students chatting away in a rickety old house in a small town at the edge of the world, a place where nothing of any significance had ever happened and presumably never would, we had barely started out on our lives and knew nothing about anything, but what we read was not nothing, it concerned matters of the utmost significance and was written by the greatest thinkers and writers in Western culture, and that was basically a miracle, all you had to do was fill in a library lending slip and you had access to what Plato, Sappho or Aristophanes had written in the incomprehensibly distant mists of time, or Homer, Sophocles, Ovid, Lucullus, Lucretius or Dante, Vasari, da Vinci, Montaigne, Shakespeare, Cervantes or Kant, Hegel, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Heidegger, Lukács, Arendt or those who wrote in the modern day, Foucault, Barthes, Lévi-Strauss, Deleuze, Serres. Not to mention the millions of novels, plays and collections of poetry which were available. All one lending slip and a few days away. We didn’t read any of these to be able to summarise the contents, as we did with the literature on the syllabus, but because they could give us something.

To get the best out of the students allow them to pick their own syllabus.

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Let’s say you plan to teach a class on a subject you know well. How do you begin? You might create a syllabus, then prepare lectures for each topic in the outline. But is there a better way? Remember, you enjoy access to information and aren’t limited to trial and error. Perhaps you find a book called Make It Stick about the science of successful learning and encounter another mnemonic, RIGOR, that helps you teach different and better. [71]