Szabo Quotes

My love is a haunted house, a ghost possessing his own body, a fire that burns itself alive. A light almost too bright to look at, but I forced myself to look as long as I could.

Affection is when we can't find any flaws in the other. Maybe I could if I really wanted to, but I don't want to, I accept you as you are.

I sat with that for a long time. I thought of every person I had met, wondering how many of them had wolves inside them and just had never pulled them out. Or perhaps more horrible: how many of them, in a moment of fear, reached inside themselves for something to save them, and came up empty.

I don't love her, if that's what you mean," he says. "I just want her love to save me." I don't tell him that that's how it always begins: in selfishness, in ambition, in lust or desperation. That love starts out as something you want to bite into and ends as something that swallows you up.

It is madness to love someone: there is no greater feeling of estrangement that the ways in which they are different from you.

She told us as much about herself as she saw fit, but generally she said little, like a real mother whose past has become immaterial in her total concern for the future of her children.

They were unironic enthusiasts for all the mass pleasures the culture offered: television, NASCAR, cruises, Disney World, sports, celebrity gossip, and local politics. Szabo often wished that he could be as well adjusted as Melinda's family, but he would have had to be medicated to pursue her list of pleasures.

Just imagine, how much easier our lives would be if we were born with a ‘user guide or owner’s manual’ which could tell us what to eat and how to live healthy.

I don’t tell him that’s how it always begins: in selfishness, in ambition, in lust or desperation. That love starts out as something you want to bite into and ends as something that swallows you up.

the term “smart contract” has become more mainstream since the advent of first Bitcoin and then Ethereum, it was first coined by Nick Szabo in 1996, and thus precedes the development of blockchain networks.

A wall fell down and suddenly I could see in, as though it were a dollhouse. A family of flames seated at the dining room table, flickering children racing up and down the stairs.

I’ve been alone for so long that I can’t remember what it feels like to belong.

I never liked the influence of others when it came to feelings. I rather went through the painful process of analyzing everything half to death.

It is madness to love someone: there is no greater feeling of estrangement than the ways in which they are different from you.

My younger self can't see it from here, but I can; how charity can be just another form of spite.

I watched him and wondered if I was ever going to feel like I knew what I was doing.

I understood something about Mother then that I hadn’t before: that she was willing to give up just about anything about herself to make someone else happy.

And I realized suddenly that my father didn’t like me. Not even a little bit.

Don’t go any farther, Miss Marina,” warned Stanley, a half-grin on his face. “ ‘Tempt ye not the dragon’s wrath when his claws are yet to retreat.’ Dragon claws ya just can’t mess with.

This is the moment, I realize, when I loved my husband for the first time. When I forgave him for having parts of himself that did not belong to me, as I had parts of myself that he would never know.

to that place where no one could hear me but the sand when I walked upon it, where I could write and work, where I could read and sleep, where no one needed me except the shoreline to remark upon its incredible beauty.

I was alone again. The house, which often seemed too full when even a few of the family were around, suddenly felt vast and empty. Something about the sudden stillness made me freeze like a rabbit, conscious of the passage of time, but with no sense of what I was supposed to do next. It was like panic, but slower.

The old have less to gain from denying themselves. I've often noticed that the older you are, the more you become yourself

...bokros teendőire hivatkozott, amelyek közül a bokrok valóban ott voltak a ház aljában, a teendők azonban úgy elbújtak a bokrok között, hogy semmi sem maradt belőlük...

Szabo reckoned that the future of libraries was a combination of a people’s university, a community hub, and an information base, happily partnered with the Internet rather than in competition with it. In practical terms, Szabo felt the library should begin offering classes and voter registration and literacy programs and story times and speaker series and homeless outreach and business services and computer access and movie rentals and e-book loans and a nice gift shop. Also, books.

War was so many things, and not the least of which confusion. What was wrong? What was right, for that matter? Was killing right or wrong? Brave or cowardly? Human nature or unnatural behavior of creatures too smart for their own good? Loyalty, betrayal, hate, love, fear, friendship, teamwork, violence. War was connected to all of these. Hard work, sadness, suffering, discipline, chaos, questions, few answers, strategy, bravery, foolishness, death, life. And both winning and losing were only two small aspects of the word war.

The back of my neck went cold. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping I was still dreaming, that if I shut my eyes I’d wake up back in bed, and if I shut my eyes again I’d wake up in my room at Saint Brigid’s, and from there I could shut my eyes and wake up a child again, somewhere in some house just like this one, but where I’d be happy.

I see all of us, the past and the present and the future, unspooled inside his guts. And I see Arthur too. That he loved us. That before we shut him out, he would have done anything for us. That if we had found a way to welcome him in, we would have become a three-bodied creature of impossible size and power. An invincible ball of rolling monsters we would have become, if only we'd had the truths Arthur has inside of him.

All 250 + episodes to date can be found at tim.blog/ podcast and itunes.com/ timferriss Jamie Foxx on Workout Routines, Success Habits, and Untold Hollywood Stories (# 124)—tim.blog/ jamie The Scariest Navy SEAL I’ve Ever Met . . . and What He Taught Me (# 107)—tim.blog/ jocko Arnold Schwarzenegger on Psychological Warfare (and Much More) (# 60)—tim.blog/ arnold Dom D’Agostino on Fasting, Ketosis, and the End of Cancer (# 117)—tim.blog/ dom2 Tony Robbins on Morning Routines, Peak Performance, and Mastering Money (# 37)—tim.blog/ tony How to Design a Life—Debbie Millman (# 214)—tim.blog/ debbie Tony Robbins—On Achievement Versus Fulfillment (# 178)—tim.blog/ tony2 Kevin Rose (# 1)—tim.blog/ kevinrose [If you want to hear how bad a first episode can be, this delivers. Drunkenness didn’t help matters.] Charles Poliquin on Strength Training, Shredding Body Fat, and Increasing Testosterone and Sex Drive (# 91)—tim.blog/ charles Mr. Money Mustache—Living Beautifully on $ 25–27K Per Year (# 221)—tim.blog/ mustache Lessons from Warren Buffett, Bobby Fischer, and Other Outliers (# 219)—tim.blog/ buffett Exploring Smart Drugs, Fasting, and Fat Loss—Dr. Rhonda Patrick (# 237)—tim.blog/ rhonda 5 Morning Rituals That Help Me Win the Day (# 105)—tim.blog/ rituals David Heinemeier Hansson: The Power of Being Outspoken (# 195)—tim.blog/ dhh Lessons from Geniuses, Billionaires, and Tinkerers (# 173)—tim.blog/ chrisyoung The Secrets of Gymnastic Strength Training (# 158)—tim.blog/ gst Becoming the Best Version of You (# 210)—tim.blog/ best The Science of Strength and Simplicity with Pavel Tsatsouline (# 55)—tim.blog/ pavel Tony Robbins (Part 2) on Morning Routines, Peak Performance, and Mastering Money (# 38)—tim.blog/ tony How Seth Godin Manages His Life—Rules, Principles, and Obsessions (# 138)—tim.blog/ seth The Relationship Episode: Sex, Love, Polyamory, Marriage, and More (with Esther Perel) (# 241)—tim.blog/ esther The Quiet Master of Cryptocurrency—Nick Szabo (# 244)—tim.blog/ crypto Joshua Waitzkin (# 2)—tim.blog/ josh The Benevolent Dictator of the Internet, Matt Mullenweg (# 61)—tim.blog/ matt Ricardo Semler—The Seven-Day Weekend and How to Break the Rules (# 229)—tim.blog/ ricardo

Even Robot Girls get nervous sometimes. -Beatrice Szabo

...quand l'humanité marchera depuis longtemps à l'échelle des étoiles, ceux qui vivront alors seront loin d'imaginer la crèche barbare où, pour une tasse de cacao, nous avons livré nos pitoyables combats, seuls ou avec d'autres, mais même à ce moment-là on ne pourra toujours pas corriger le destin de celui qui n'a pas de place dans la vie de personne.p. 326

You got kids who act loony and take drugs left and right. They pretend they hate their parents who gave them everything in the world. These kids grow up, and their kids stick earrings in private places and get tattoos all over their bodies and don’t know whether to act like boys or girls. They think they love everybody. The truth is they love nobody, including themselves.

Szabo frequently preaches the gospel of the library as the people's university.

This is the thing about being a parent,” she said. “Do a good job, and your kids feel like they can take on the entire world, and sometimes that involves a world that’s not anywhere near you. Do a lousy job, and they cling to your skirt and suck their thumbs—which is not so attractive in an adult person—but you do get to see them. Like all the time. You’ve got to let go, Annie.” “I’ve

Autumn vineyards rolled up the hills in deep red lines behind my house.

As he was discussing this with Sarao, it occurred to me that a large part of a city librarian’s job is to be a property manager. Szabo is responsible for seventy-three large structures that are spread across the 503 square miles of the city of Los Angeles. To even visit each one of the branches is a major proposition. Szabo’s days seesaw between big thoughts on the future of global information systems and minutiae such as requisitioning a city gardener to trim the weeds around the Washington Irving library.

She studied the face in the mirror for a good half hour. Scarcely recognised the individual staring back at her. Wondered how much truly remained of the person she was. The turbulent existence, the traumas, the wear and tear, the physical injuries and mental scars... all left indelible marks over time on people like her. They warned her of that from the very outset. Baggage, they called it, because you carry it with you wherever you go. Some bags were heavier than others. Too heavy. Most eventually broke under the enormous strain, succumbed to the inevitable and just burned out. Or ended things in the only way they knew for sure was permanent, removed any variables in favour of a dead cert, you might say. Humans are frail creatures.

Do you understand?" I asked. He nodded, his eyes filling with tears. Sentimental creature. Good thing he had me to look after him. I threw my arms around his neckthen. I kissed him on the cheek. And then I melted back into the crowd,

Before Grigg, in the 1990s, another visionary had also seen the potential power of a digital ledger. Nick Szabo was an early Cypherpunk* and developed some of the concepts that underlie Bitcoin, which is one reason why some suspect he is Satoshi Nakamoto. His protocol has at its heart a spreadsheet that runs on a “virtual machine”—such as a network of interlinked computers—accessible to multiple parties. Szabo envisioned an intricate system of both private and public data that would protect private identities but provide enough public information about transactions to build up a verifiable transaction history. Szabo’s system—he called it the “God Protocol”—is now more than two decades old. Yet it is remarkably similar to the blockchain platforms and protocols that we’ll learn about in the chapters to come. Szabo, Grigg, and others pioneered an approach with the potential to create a record of history that cannot be changed—a record that someone like Madoff, or Lehman’s bankers, could not have meddled with. Their approach might just help restore trust in the systems we use to transact with each other.

Somewhere, two stories up, was my childhood bedroom, and maybe if I could make it in there, I would be transformed back into someone who belonged here.

It’s not until a woman gets loose and comfortable inside her own skin that she’s comfortable wrapping it around a man.” Mina

Back one hundred generations ago there was no people but Gypsies. Everything walked and talked. Flowers visited each other, so did rocks. As time passed they all lost their legs. Trouble didn’t. It still walks anywhere it wants. So do Gypsies. —Madame

Cheese is pretty radical, if I do say so myself

Please be quiet,” Ike said. “Sounds that surround our body at the time of death are our soul’s living blanket. The sound wraps us, carrying us to a city by cool waters, the place we reside after death. Chants remind the newly dead that they are no longer alive. As my voice grows dimmer, Hao’s soul will understand it is moving away from the earth. It’s necessary for peaceful transition—he’ll know his death isn’t a dream.

Back one hundred generations ago there was no people but Gypsies.  Everything walked and talked.  Flowers visited each other, so did rocks.  As time passed they all lost their legs.  Trouble didn’t.   It still walks anywhere it wants.  So do Gypsies. ~   Madame Mina Szabo, as learned from her grandmother     Jerry

Phoo,” Zoltan said to me. “Legal system. Police. All playground stuff humans invented to amuse themselves. It’s got nothing to do with real power.

I stood beneath the moon a little longer, soft and safe. In that reflected light, the sun’s harsh spirit dissolves to silver silk. The moon beds us, she fills our dreaming nights with immense possibility. The moon, giant mother, keeper of secrets, the one who says secrets aren’t really necessary, that every truth is hers and she’s big enough to hold them all. Somewhere

You came pretty late to my party— you’d better be able to dance until dawn

Some packages are wrapped in brown paper and go tick, tick, tick. Those you throw over a bad neighbor’s fence.

What happened to Love comes in all kinds of packages?” “Some packages are wrapped in brown paper and go tick, tick, tick. Those you throw over a bad neighbor’s fence.

Labels make death and disease easier to handle. They apply makeup to tragedy’s face.

Eight hundred forty-three television stations, and there didn’t appear to be much more worth watching than when we lived in the black-and-white wasteland of channels two through thirteen.

Soon after joining the agency, Marks set out to lessen the danger. His first step was to get rid of the codes that the agency had been using to communicate with its people in the field. They had come from MI6, which, for the first two years of SOE’s existence, had controlled its wireless circuits and provided its sets and coding. Marks was dismayed by the simplicity of the codes, which were based on classic English poems by Shakespeare and others that were “so familiar that an educated German was quite capable of recognizing them and guessing the cipher.” To replace them, he wrote poems of his own, ranging from ribald verses to tender love poems. He gave one of the latter, entitled “The Life That I Have,” to a twenty-one-year-old agent named Violette Szabo, who, after being parachuted into France in 1942, was eventually captured, tortured, and killed by the Gestapo. It read: The life that I have Is all that I have And the life that I have Is yours. The love that I have Of the life that I have Is yours and yours and yours. A sleep I shall have A rest I shall have Yet death will be but a pause For the peace of my years In the long green grass Will be yours and yours and yours. Since then, the poem has developed a life of its own. It has been used in a movie about Szabo’s life, found in poetry anthologies, reprinted on a 9/11 victims’ website, and recited by Chelsea Clinton and Marc Mezvinsky at their wedding in 2010. “Every code,” Marks would later say, “has a human face.

The best solutions are not custom made—they are customer-made. —Mike Goran

It was wrong. Szabo insiders knew that the whole thing was unspeakable, but they did it anyway. Because they believed sincerely at that point that the enemy was already within. War was upon them. It just hadn’t been declared yet.

Did you miss me?" she asks. "While I was away?" There isn't enough light in the whole house to answer.

Do you understand?" I asked. He nodded, his eyes filling with tears. Sentimental creature. Good thing he had me to look after him. I threw my arms around his neck then. I kissed him on the cheek. And then I melted back into the crowd,

Well then,” I said, “let’s get beyond the gossip and into the heart of the matter, the nub of the mystery. None of your disciples, from Marc Andreessen to Nick Szabo—has fully explained it. They prefer to talk of the ‘Byzantine Generals’ problem” or the double-spending conundrum or remembered lessons and lemmas from computer science classes. Even, if I may say so—my time with you being limited—even you yourself. You fail to illuminate the inner sanctums of your system.” “The ‘inner sanctums’? Bitcoin is a currency and a payment network, not a religion. What do you mean by ‘sanctums’?” “I mean the place or the process—I don’t know which—where your empty bits become valuable coins. Where and how does the transubstantiation occur? Is it in the ‘mine’? Or in the ‘mint’? How does it happen? Alchemy? Magic? Hope and change? Overclock your CPUs and GPUs, plunge them into the ice of liquid nitrogen, and prove your useless work? Then you just may win some chump change of coins that don’t even clink or tinkle?” I have to admit today that the chump change has been piling up.

This was in the early 1990s, the moment when Internet service providers were introduced to the general public, and for the first time in history, the status of libraries as the only and best storehouses of information was challenged. Szabo received his library degree just as people were beginning to wonder whether libraries were viable or even necessary in the newly wired world.

Love is blind. God is Love. Ray Charles is blind. Therefore Ray Charles must be God"14 Tom Waits was already a believer.

The museum can be found by taking the A49 from Hereford in the direction of Ross on Wye. The turning to Wormelow is alongside the Pilgrim Hotel at Much Birch, and Cartref is the first house on the left. Appendix VI . . . and finally. . .

The life that I have Is all that I have And the life that I have Is yours The love that I have Of the life that I have Is yours and yours and yours A sleep I shall have A rest I shall have Yet death will be but a pause For the peace of my years In the long green grass Will be yours and yours and yours.