Tahitian Quotes

Gracie: You have an unusual house. Have you lived here long? Bobby Tom: A couple of years. I don't much like it myself, but the architect is real proud of it. She calls it urban Stone Age with a Japanese Tahitian influence. I sort of just call it ugly.

Remember that life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away!

For the cocoa-tree and the island man are both lovers and neighbours of the surf.  ‘The coral waxes, the palm grows, but man departs,’ says the sad Tahitian proverb; but they are all three, so long as they endure, co-haunters of the beach.  The

I couldn't help wondering where porpoises had learned this game of running on the bows of ships. Porpoises have been swimming in the oceans for seven to ten million years, but they've had human ships to play with for only the last few thousand. Yet nearly all porpoises, in every ocean, catch rides for fun from passing ships; and they were doing it on the bows of Greek triremes and prehistoric Tahitian canoes, as soon as those seacraft appeared. What did they do for fun before ships were invented? Ken Norris made a field observation one day that suggests the answer. He saw a humpback whale hurrying along the coast of the island of Hawaii, unavoidably making a wave in front of itself; playing in that bow wave was a flock of bottlenose porpoises. The whale didn't seem to be enjoying it much: Ken said it looked like a horse being bothered by flies around its head; however, there was nothing much the whale could do about it, and the porpoises were having a fun time.

ketch all alone with a black crew from Malaita.  And Romance lured and beckoned before Joan’s eyes when she learned he was Christian Young, a Norfolk Islander, but a direct descendant of John Young, one of the original Bounty mutineers.  The blended Tahitian and English blood showed in his soft

Noa Noah shook his head and grinned. “He no savvee me Tahitian,” he explained.  “He savvee me wear pants all the same white man.” “You’ll have to give him a course in ‘Sartor Resartus,’” Sheldon laughed, as he came down and began to make friends with Satan. It chanced just then that Adamu Adam and Matauare, two of Joan’s

Tahitians, knew that it was madness to go on alone.  So he stood waist-deep in the grass and looked regretfully across the rolling savannah and the soft-swelling foothills to the Lion’s Head, a massive peak of rock that upreared into the azure from the midmost centre of Guadalcanar, a landmark used for bearings by every coasting mariner, a mountain as yet

English women made it harder to get them naked than Tahitian women, but he was a practiced bloke at such important life skills.

This is Clive Christian Number One. It's one of my favorite fragrances, and one of the most exquisite. It's made from entirely pure ingredients, mainly natural aged sandalwood from India and Tahitian vanilla, but a lot of the other ingredients - the ones that produce the fine top notes- they change slightly every year, depending on availability and the perfumers' preference." Using her skills, she smelled the scarf. "Pineapple, plum, mirabelle, and peach, heart notes of jasmine, ylang ylang, orris, and carnation. I'm betting this is the '08.

Who else would think to take running notes? With your nose rubbing constantly against the pages of scribbled life, while life, the real McCoy, lifted two fingers at you and went tumbling into the surf with a flock of Tahitian girls. Flowers in their hair and laughter on their lips. (Crossstitch, in Island of Nothing)

There are things I have experienced I will never again be able to experience for the first time: love, a kiss, Tchaikovsky, a Tahitian sunset, jazz, a hot dog, a Bloody Mary. That is the nature of things. History was - is - a one-day street. You have to keep walking forwards. But you don't always need to look ahead. Sometimes you can just look around and be happy right where you are.

Seeing how prominently Edmond had displayed the masterpiece, Langdon wondered if perhaps the painting itself might hold some clue as to what Edmond had discovered. At first glance, the painting’s subject seemed far too primitive to hint at an advanced scientific discovery. Its broad uneven brushstrokes depicted a Tahitian jungle inhabited by an assortment of native Tahitians and animals.

THE TAHITIANS don’t have a word that means “art.” The closest expression in their language translates to something like “I’m doing the best I can.” Ever since I heard this it has become a kind of mantra to me. I try and apply it to my own work, to my students and anyone who shares his or her work with me. If we live with the idea of perfection, we will never do anything. The notion paralyzes us, but doing the best we can, this is possible. I

The yellow bird sits on a windowsill for a while and then it flies away. That is nature. There are things I have experienced that I will never again be able to experience for the first time: love, a kiss, Tchaikovsky, a Tahitian sunset, jazz, a hot dog, a Bloody Mary. That is the nature of things. History was – is – a one-way street. You have to keep walking forwards. But you don’t always need to look ahead. Sometimes you can just look around and be happy right where you are.

We dropped in one evening, and found the ladies at home. My long friend engaged his favourites, the two younger girls, at the game of "Now," or hunting a stone under three piles of tappa. For myself, I lounged on a mat with Ideea the eldest, dallying with her grass fan, and improving my knowledge of Tahitian. The occasion was well adapted to my purpose, and I began. "Ah, Ideea, mickonaree oee?" the same as drawling out—"By the bye, Miss Ideea, do you belong to the church?" "Yes, me mickonaree," was the reply. But the assertion was at once qualified by certain, reservations; so curious that I cannot forbear their relation. "Mickonaree ena" (church member here), exclaimed she, laying her hand upon her mouth, and a strong emphasis on the adverb. In the same way, and with similar exclamations, she touched her eyes and hands. This done, her whole air changed in an instant; and she gave me to understand, by unmistakable gestures, that in certain other respects she was not exactly a "mickonaree." In short, Ideea was "A sad good Christian at the heart— A very heathen in the carnal part." The

shot through and through.  Cocked rifles swept the bush with nervous apprehension.  But there was no rustle, no movement; nothing but the humid oppressive silence. “Bushmen he no stop,” Binu Charley called out, the sound of his voice startling more than one of them.  “Allee same damn funny business.  That fella Koogoo no look ’m eye belong him.  He no savvee little bit.” Koogoo’s arms had crumpled under him, and he lay quivering where he had fallen.  Even as Binu Charley came to the front the stricken black’s breath passed from him, and with a final convulsive stir he lay still. “Right through the heart,” Sheldon said, straightening up from the stooping examination.  “It must have been a trap of some sort.” He noticed Joan’s white, tense face, and the wide eyes with which she stared at the wreck of what had been a man the minute before. “I recruited that boy myself,” she said in a whisper.  “He came down out of the bush at Poonga-Poonga and right on board the Martha and offered himself.  And I was proud.  He was my very first recruit—” “My word!  Look ’m that fella,” Binu Charley interrupted, brushing aside the leafy wall of the run-way and exposing a bow so massive that no one bushman could have bent it. The Binu man traced out the mechanics of the trap, and exposed the hidden fibre in the tangled undergrowth that at contact with Koogoo’s foot had released the taut bow. They were deep in the primeval forest.  A dim twilight prevailed, for no random shaft of sunlight broke through the thick roof of leaves and creepers overhead.  The Tahitians were plainly awed by the silence and gloom and mystery of the place and happening, but they showed themselves doggedly unafraid, and were for pushing on.  The Poonga-Poonga men, on the contrary, were not awed.  They were bushmen themselves, and they were used to this silent warfare, though the devices were different from those employed by them in their own bush.  Most awed of all were Joan and Sheldon, but, being whites, they were

None were particularly interesting, although I got a kick out of a note from the Philadelphia Zoo suggesting that since the tiger was not entirely reliable around humans, perhaps Mr. Willing would consider a leopard for his painting instead. It had been a pet until the demise (natural) of its owner and would, if not firmly admonished, climb into a person's lap, purring, and drool copiously. I pulled a sheet of scrap paper (the Stars spent a lot of time sending all-school e-mails about recycling) out of my bag and made a note on the blank side: "Leopard in The Lady in DeNile?" It wasn't my favorite, Cleopatra Awaiting the Return of Anthony. It was a little OTT, loaded with gold and snake imagery and, of course, the leopard. Diana hadn't liked the painting,either, apparently; she was the one who'd given it the Lady in DeNile nickname.I wondered if the leopard had drooled on her. None of the papers were personal, but they were Edward's and some were special, if you knew about his life. There was a bill from the Hotel Ritz in Paris in April 1890, and one from Cartier two months later for a pair of Tahitian pearl drop earrings. Diana was wearing them in my favorite photograph of the two of them: happy and visibly tanned, even in black and white, holding lobsters on a beach in Maine. "I insisted we let them go," Diana wrote in a letter to her niece. "Edward had a snit.He wanted a lobster dinner, but I could not countenance eating a fellow model.

I slice fresh garlic, rub it into the meat with olive oil, then insert the thin wafers into tiny slits I cut along the grain. After rinsing my hands, I hold them to my face, inhale the garlic perfume still on my skin. I could easily wipe it away on the faucet, a spoon, any piece of stainless steel, but I've never understood why people find it offensive. It's the smell of anticipation, the promise of a wonderful meal in the offing. Opening the spice cabinet, I breathe in the fragrance of all those jars I left behind: saffron threads, cardamom pods, star anise, Tahitian vanilla. I almost weep at the sight of my Fleur de Sel. No one ever gets my obsession with sea salt, especially expensive sea salt. They don't understand that it brightens the flavor of food, wakes it up, like a condiment. Regular table salt just makes food salty.

The pairing of Dick Haymes (who had made his name as a popular singer) and George Fenneman (one of radio’s smoothest announcers) as actors in an adventure series was unusual. As Crane, Haymes played a pilot whose seat-of-the-pants operation included one old DC-4, appropriately named “the Flying Eight-Ball.” The opening signature gave ample evidence of content: Flight 743 calling La Guardia Field … Is that you, Crane? What’re you bringing in, tea, teak, or teepee poles? I got a tradewind tan, a tall tale about a tribal treasure, a tropical tramp, and a torrid Tahitian tomato. You know me—I fly anything!

Did you know that in 2009, more chemicals caused by chemicals than motor vehicle accidents? Are you surprised? This is the real fact according to the Center for Disease Control and Preventon (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention). This is the reality we face today

There are things I have experienced that I will never again be able to experience for the first time: love, a kiss, Tchaikovsky, a Tahitian sunset, jazz, a hot dog, a Bloody Mary. That is the nature of things. History was – is – a one-way street. You have to keep walking forwards. But you don’t always need to look ahead. Sometimes you can just look around and be happy right where you are.

Utka Eskimos have no concept of “Anger.” The Tahitians have no concept of “Sadness.

Former slaves and natives. Eskimos and Hiroshima people, Amazonian Indians and Chiapas Indians and Chilean Indians and American Indians and Indian Indians. Australian aborigines, Guatemalans and Colombians and Brazilians and Argentineans, Nigerians, Burmese, Angolans, Peruvians, Ecuadorians, Bolivians, Afghans, Cambodians, Rwan-dans, Filipinos, Indonesians, Liberians, Borneoans, Papua New Guineans, South Africans, Iraqis, Iranians, Turks, Armenians, Palestinians, French Guyanese, Dutch Guyanese, Surinamese, Sierra Leonese, Malagasys, Senegalese, Maldivians, Sri Lankans, Malaysians, Kenyans, Panamanians, Mexicans, Haitians, Dominicans, Costa Ricans, Congoans, Mauritanians, Marshall Islanders, Tahitians, Gabonese, Beninese, Malians, Jamaicans, Botswanans, Burundians, Sudanese, Eritreans, Uruguayans, Nicaraguans, Ugandans, Ivory Coastians, Zambians, Guinea-Bissauans, Cameroonians, Laotians, Zaireans coming at you screaming colonialism, screaming slavery, screaming mining companies screaming banana companies oil companies screaming CIA spy among the missionaries screaming it was Kissinger who killed their father and why don’t you forgive third-world debt; Lumumba, they shouted, and Allende; on the other side, Pinochet, they said, Mobutu; contaminated milk from Nestle, they said; Agent Orange; dirty dealings by Xerox. World Bank, UN, IMF, everything run by white people. Every day in the papers another thing! Nestle and Xerox were fine upstanding companies, the backbone of the economy, and Kissinger was at least a patriot. The United States was a young country built on the finest principles, and how could it possibly owe so many bills? Enough was enough. Business was business. Your bread might as well be left unbuttered were the butter to be spread so thin. The fittest one wins and gets the butter.

Today, Mihir stopped a bomb from killing the Tahitian President but not from shattering his own collar bone. So, he is now in the operating chamber, undergoing his 250th reconstruction. The nurses have tied a balloon to his bed that says, “Don’t make it to 251!

In my eyes, all the pearls are beautiful, things born out of suffering and hard work, each one a baby of those amazing mollusks. Through them, the mother-of-pearl continues to live and travel not just the ocean, but different continents. Some will be treasured and taken care of. Others will be forgotten in some dark drawer. Their destiny will be as unique as they are.

For Tahitians there is nothing more desirable than love, being loved and making love. They are in love with the idea of love even more than they are with a real person. Love is free, passion unrestrained and wild, and all love stories, no matter how long they last, one day, a year or forever, are equally beautiful.

Tahitians don’t chase happiness. Happiness comes naturally to them. You only need to see them in the water, with a beer in their hand, splashing each other or waving to every stranger they see on the road, to know this. Happiness is in the air: in every hibiscus flower that opens early in the morning, in the sweet aroma of the pineapple plantations, in the smile of the people lolling around idly, resting slothfully in the warm breeze that ruffles the surface of the lagoon.

We know now that all the people of Polynesia carry taro root and coconut palm and breadfruit with them when they settle a new island, but they themselves will tell you that the gods planted these things here. Some of their stories are quite fabulous. They say that the breadfruit tree was crafted by the gods to resemble a human body, as a clue to humans, you see- to tell us that the tree is useful. They say that this is why the leaves of the breadfruit resemble hands- to show humans that they should reach toward this tree and find sustenance there. In fact, the Tahitians say that 'all' the useful plants on this island resemble parts of the human body, as a message from the gods, you see. This is why coconut oil, which is helpful for headaches, comes from the coconut, which looks like a head. 'Mape' chestnuts are said to be good for kidney ailments, for they resemble kidneys themselves, or so I am told. The bright red sap of the 'fei' plant is meant to be useful for blood ailments." "The signature of all things," Alma murmured.

She'd won a scholarship to Princeton, where she'd intended to focus on Chinese and Asian art history, but after taking a course on Postimpressionists, found herself gobsmacked by the discourse around Gauguin's Tahitian work. Where her classmates saw exotic beauty and a sense of alienation, she saw a pervert with mental illness objectifying Pacific Islanders as sex objects. "What I realized, Raquel," she said one day, "was that I was just as entitled to be a part of the Western art history conversation as I was to the Eastern art history conversation. In fact, perhaps my perspective as a woman of color made my voice more necessary in the first."

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Even more strikingly, just about every major French Enlightenment figure tried their hand at a Lahontan-style critique of their own society, from the perspective of some imagined outsider. Montesquieu chose a Persian; the Marquis d’Argens a Chinese; Diderot a Tahitian; Chateaubriand a Natchez; Voltaire’s L’Ingénu was half Wendat and half French.41 All took up and developed themes and arguments borrowed directly from Kandiaronk, supplemented by lines from other ‘savage critics’ in travellers’ accounts.

These kind and hospitable Tahitian ladies—whose bodies Alma had seen at morning baths, whose food she had shared, whose babies she had dandled upon her knee, whose voices she had heard uplifted in earnest prayer, and whose hair she had seen ornamented so prettily with flowers—rearranged themselves immediately into rival battalions of demonic hellcats. Alma could not determine whether the point of the game was, indeed, to seize the ball or to tear off the limbs of one’s opponents—or perhaps a combination of both. She saw sweet Sister Etini (Sister Etini!) make a grab for another woman’s hair and throw her to the ground—and her opponent had not even been near the ball!

Interestingly, King Kamehameha III decided to embrace older cultural traditions and worked to secure his kingdom against foreign interests for the good of his people. His upbringing saw him torn between the Christian teachings of Kaʻahumanu and the old Hawaiian traditions. He was influenced by a young Hawaiian-Tahitian priest named Kaomi, with whom King Kamehameha III was also intimate. Intimate same-sex relationships, moe aikane, were common among Hawaiian royalty and were accepted as normal and natural by Hawaiians for hundreds of years. This relationship earned Kamehameha III the anger and disapproval of the Christian missionaries.

Many of the very ancient accounts of Polynesian peoples were much alike. This indicates that they were common to the Polynesians before they separated and spread to their various islands. The Polynesian people—the Hawaiians, Tahitians, Samoans, Tongans, Marquesans, and Maori, to name the major people groups—are very close “cousins.

Most historians estimate that Pa‘ao came from Havai‘i around A.D. 1300. He arrived with his warriors, priests (kahunas) and new rulers (ali‘i). Havai‘i was the ancient name of Ra‘iatea of the Society Group. This group of islands is more commonly known by the main island of that group, Tahiti. (The author has elected to call these islands Tahiti in this book.) It seems that the earlier voyagers from Tahiti integrated more peacefully with the Menehune. Apparently, there was intermarriage with the Menehune inhabitants and the diminishing of class distinction between the Tahitian ali‘i and the commoners. The legends say that when Pa‘ao arrived, he regarded the high chief of Hawai‘i, Kapawa, a degenerate. The priests and ali‘i were not performing the rituals they had formerly performed in Tahiti to retain mana (divine power). They did not build the necessary heiaus (temples), perform the necessary human sacrifices, or wear the red feather malo (loincloth - the symbol of royalty in Ra‘iatea) of kings.

Greek dúō, Vedic dvá(u), Latin duo, Welsh dau, Old Church Slavonic dŭva, and so on. Banks’s chart is similarly persuasive: two is given as rua in Tahitian, loua in the language of the Cocos Islands, roa in New Guinea, rove in Madagascar. Seven is hetu in Tahitian, fitou in the Cocos, fita in New Guinea, fruto in Madagascar. Even allowing for errors, the overall effect is to suggest strongly that the languages in Banks’s set are related.

Missionary attempts to translate The Pilgrim’s Progress into Tahitian were similarly confounded. The Tahitians described it as “a very dark book,” not because of its emphasis on the wages of sin but because it “did not relate to any person but was entirely a ‘parau faau,’ figurative account. That is, a tale without foundation.

Many of the things Heyerdahl claimed were simply not true. Polynesians were not sun worshippers; the Tahitian word pahi did not translate as “raft”; the moai of Easter Island were not identical, or even very similar, to the megalithic sculptures of Tiwanaku; the languages of the Pacific Northwest were not related to those of Polynesia. And then there was the cringe-making problem of the “white god” Kon-Tiki. Much of Heyerdahl’s argument rested on the need, as he saw it, to explain the presence of sophisticated megalithic masonry and sculpture on the islands of eastern Polynesia. His solution—the arrival of a mysterious white civilization that then inexplicably vanishes, leaving behind evidence of its superior know-how and taste—is a familiar European fantasy trope of the 1920s and ’30s. Among professional anthropologists of the 1950s, it was impossible to take seriously, and a few were prepared to concede what is now obvious: that it was difficult “to avoid reading racism from this work.

ability of Tahitian vessels. Interestingly, Cook seems not to have considered a sailing rate of 120 miles a day overly optimistic for a Tahitian pahi, noting that these large canoes could sail much faster than a European ship.

Tupaia stepped forward and addressed the warriors in fluent Tahitian and, to the surprise of everyone present, he was immediately understood.

Suppose, for the sake of argument, that I actually was, as some New York Times letter writers suggested, 'manipulative,' 'sick,' 'twisted,' 'vulgar.' Even if I were all of those things, it should make no difference in the way the work is viewed, tempting as it is to make that moral connection. Do we deny the power of For Whom the Bell Tolls because its author was unspeakably cruel to his wives? Should we vilify Ezra Pound’s Cantos because of its author’s nutty political views? Does Gauguin’s abandoned family come to mind when you look at those Tahitian canvases? If we only revere works made by those with whom we’d happily have our granny share a train compartment, we will have a paucity of art.

Alma sat down and waited. She thought of the story the Reverend Welles had told her of Taroa, the original god of the Tahitians. Taroa, the creator. Taroa, born in a seashell. Taroa lay silently for countless ages as the only thing living in the universe. The world was so empty that when he called out across the darkness, there was not even an echo. He nearly died of loneliness. Out of that inestimable solitude and emptiness, Taroa brought forth our world.

Natives dipped a sharp comb into the sooty juice of burnt candlenut and beat the comb’s teeth into their skin with a mallet. “The stain left in the skin, which cannot be effaced without destroying it, is of a lively bluish purple, similar to that made upon the skin by gun-powder,” wrote the artist, Sydney Parkinson. He and several crewmen “underwent the operation” on their arms, becoming the first Europeans to adopt the badge of seamen ever since: the tattoo, or, as the Endeavour’s crew rendered the Tahitian word, tat-tow or tataow. (The

The Tahitian beauty is Tahitian Queen Obadia who believes the blue-eyed, blond-haired Nicholas has been sent to her by the island’s gods to give her the child she has never had.

This indifference startled the English. Where was the well-organized belligerence of the New Zealanders, or the urgent curiosity of the Tahitians?