Teacher Par Quotes

Hora pars vitae. His Latin teacher had made them write it out in lines. Every hour is a part of life.

If we are to wield great magic, then let us learn from great teachers: the alchemists -- magicians par excellence.

The story of the Good Samaritan (Luke 1o) can he interpreted mystically in such a way that the question of the knowledge of God becomes its focus. The priest and the Levite, who walk past the man who fell among robbers and was seriously hurt, are pious God-fearing persons. They "know" God and the law of God. They have God the same way that the one who knows has that which is known. They know what God wants them to be and do. They also know where God is to he found, in the scriptures and the cult of the temple. For them, God is mediated through the existing institutions. They have their God - one who is not to he found on the road between Jerusalem and Jericho. What is wrong with this knowledge of God? The problem is not the knowledge of the Torah or the knowledge of the temple. (It is absurd to read an anti-Judaistic meaning into a story of the Jew Jesus, since it could just as well have come from Hillel or another Jewish teacher.) What is false is a knowledge of God that does not allow for any unknowing or any negative theology. Because both actors know that God is "this," they do not see "that." Hence the Good Samaritan is the anti-fundamentalist story par excellence. "And so I ask God to rid me of God," Meister Eckhart says. The God who is known and familiar is too small for him.

Commenting acidly on a writer whom I perhaps too naively admired, my old classics teacher put on his best sneer to ask: 'Wouldn't you say, Hitchens, that his writing was somewhat journalistic?' This lofty schoolmaster employed my name sarcastically, and stressed the last term as if he meant it to sting, and it rankled even more than he had intended. Later on in life, I found that I still used to mutter and improve my long-meditated reply. Émile Zola—a journalist. Charles Dickens—a journalist. Thomas Paine—another journalist. Mark Twain. Rudyard Kipling. George Orwell—a journalist par excellence. Somewhere in my cortex was the idea to which Orwell himself once gave explicit shape: the idea that 'mere' writing of this sort could aspire to become an art, and that the word 'journalist'—like the ironic modern English usage of the word 'hack'—could lose its association with the trivial and the evanescent.

Unlike my brother, I had no respect for authority. Very early on, Uncle Georg had told me the truth about teachers: that they were moral cowards who took out on their pupils all the frustrations they could not take out on their wives. When I was very young Uncle Georg impressed upon me that among the educated classes teachers were the basest and most dangerous people, on a par with judges, who were the lowest form of human life. Teachers and judges, he said, are the meanest slaves of the state--remember that. He was right, as I have discovered not just hundreds but thousands of times. No teacher and no judge can be trusted as far as you can throw him. Without scruple or compunction they daily destroy many of the existences that are thrown upon their mercy, being motivated by base caprice and a desire to avenge themselves for their miserable, twisted lives--and they are actually paid for doing so. The supposed objectivity of teachers and judges is a piece of shabby mendacity, Uncle Georg said--and he was right. Talking to a teacher we soon discover that he is a destructive individual with whom no one and nothing is safe, and the same is true when we talk to a judge.

Having to be somewhere at a specific time and performing according to others’ expectations can put pressure on them and create a paralysis of will. Because many people with AS are highly intelligent, they may have a hard time with teachers that are not up to par in their eyes, and bosses that don’t run things as well as they could. If they don’t quit because of any of the above, the know-it-all nature of an intelligent Aspie has been known to upset a few bosses here and there, causing termination of employment. As a result, many have gone through a series of jobs and have had unsatisfactory experiences which get more discouraging as the years pass.

A teach­er in Ok­la­homa re­flect­ed on the post-​grad­ua­tion af­ter­math of stu­dent so­cial di­vi­sions. “The in crowd al­ways hangs to­geth­er, even af­ter grad­ua­tion. They are the ones who will be­come debutantes af­ter their fresh­man year in col­lege. The oth­ers tend to drift away. They don’t get in­vit­ed to the par­ties, they are laughed at be­cause they aren’t wear­ing de­sign­er clothes, etc.,” she said. But when it comes down to the pop­ular stu­dents ver­sus the out­casts, the lat­ter “are more sure of them­selves (even with the ridicule), and usu­al­ly turn out to be more suc­cess­ful and well-​adjust­ed. I would take the out­casts in a heart­beat.” So would I.

my science teacher Sivasubramania Iyer, though an orthodox Brahmin with a very conservative wife, was something of a rebel. He did his best to break social barriers so that people from varying backgrounds could mingle easily. He used to spend hours with me and would say, ‘Kalam, I want you to develop so that you are on par with the highly educated people of the big cities.’ One day, he invited me to his home for a meal. His wife was horrified at the idea of a Muslim boy being invited to dine in her ritually pure kitchen. She refused to serve me in her kitchen. Sivasubramania Iyer was not perturbed, nor did he get angry with his wife, but instead, served me with his own hands and sat down beside me to eat his meal. His wife watched us from behind the kitchen door. I wondered whether she had observed any difference in the way I ate rice, drank water or cleaned the floor after the meal. When I was leaving his house, Sivasubramania Iyer invited me to join him for dinner again the next weekend. Observing my hesitation, he told me not to get upset, saying, ‘Once you decide to change the system, such problems have to be confronted.’ When I visited his house the next week, Sivasubramania Iyer’s wife took me inside her kitchen and served me food with her own hands.

Lucia Robson's facts can be trusted if, say, you're a teacher assigning her novels as supplemental reading in a history class. “Researching as meticulously as a historian is not an obligation but a necessity,” she tells me. “But I research differently from most historians. I'm looking for details of daily life of the period that might not be important to someone tightly focused on certain events and individuals. Novelists do take conscious liberties by depicting not only what people did but trying to explain why they did it.” She adds, “I depend on the academic research of others when gathering material for my books, but I don't think that my novels should be considered on par with the work of accredited historians. I wouldn't recommend that historians cite historical novels as sources.” And they sure don't. They wouldn't risk the scorn of their colleagues by citing novels. But, Lucia adds: “I think historical fiction and nonfiction work well together. … I'd bet that historical novels lead more readers to check out nonfiction on the subject rather than the other way around,” she says, and then notes: One of the wonderful ironies of writing about history is that making stuff up doesn't mean it's not true. And obversely, declaring something to be true doesn't guarantee that it is. In writing about events that happened a century or more ago, no one knows what historical ‘truth’ is, because no one living today was there. That's right. Weren't there. But will be, once a good historical novelist puts us there.

DOÏNA POUR LA POÉSIE La poésie est fraîche Comme nourrisson en crèche Comme la sage-femme Qui a perdu son âme. Poésie bébé À peine est-elle née Qu'elle a commencé Soit à pleurnicher Soit à tituber Puis elle est tombée Dans ta petite école Dans d'autres encore Teacher nous l'a donnée Tellement digérée La poésie mouche Mâchée dans sa bouche Nos cerveaux hurlaient Des oiseaux passaient The Wall grandissait Pink Floyd s'entendait (We don't need no EDUCATION) et inside chantaient les chœurs d'enfants on n'a plus envie de la poésie on n'a plus envie de la poésie chandelles incertaines étudiants par centaines élèves redoublants d'autres ... éminents un grand NON disaient dès qu'ils entendaient de la poésie poésie pourrie et autres lubies des dizaines - pourries des pleurnicheries lugubres envies ... et ils s’écœuraient et ils essayaient de se libérer de cette poésie tellement pourrie dont les profs voulaient toujours les gaver Têtes penchées pauvre mémoire mémoire-Tiroir ... Comme elle souffrait Comme elle tremblait Sanguinolait ... Et avalait Encore un poème Encore et encore La poésie-Chlore Poèmes, poésie Tellement out of vie Éloge de la patrie De n'importe quoi De n'importe qui Pour une fête scolaire Pour une thèse misère ... Oh, pauvre mémoire Qui s'évanouissait Imbécillisée ... Stupidifiée ... Pauvre petite cervelle Comme cigale frêle Quand vient le gel ! D'un coup comme un signe Le VENT dans la vigne Joli mois de mai Le vent PARACLET. J'ai vu s'avancer Les Muses d'antan Elles se mêlaient toujours À des Muses plus cool Pour l'artiste saoul La cervelle-moule ... Elles se méli-mêlaient Pour encore changer L''ère glaciaire Des cervelles amères L'ère glaciaire Des cervelles amères …