Tempo Best Quotes

At best Americans give but a limited attention to history. Too much happens too rapidly, and before we can evaluate it, or exhaust its meaning or pleasure, there is something new to concern us. Ours is the tempo of the motion picture, not that of the still camera, and we waste experience as we wasted the forest.

I wanted to smell the guitars. It's hard to explain but they have a smell. And the best way I could ever describe it would be to say they smell like potential. Ambition and desire. If such things had a smell.

Their chests were pressed against each other, and she wasn't sure if she was feeling her heartbeat or his. Perhaps they had the best tempo. - Flashback 15

And then both men begin moving, going slow to find the rhythm that suits us all best, because of course it's not about finding the best way for two people, but for three, and then they find it, that perfect tempo, their two cocks rubbing together inside my pussy the same way they rubbed together

Amanda olhou para ele - Tens de compreender que já não sou a rapariga que era dantes. Sou casada e sou mãe e, tal como toda a gente, não sou perfeita. Debato-me com as escolhas que fiz e cometo erros e passo grande parte do tempo a interrogar-me sobre quem sou realmente ou se a minha vida tem algum significado sequer. Não sou de modo nenhum uma pessoa especial, Dawson, e tens de perceber isso. Tens de compreender que sou apenas... uma pessoa vulgar.

Let the sun set on me. Let its crimson sweat of ferocity spill all over me. My heart is ready for the chill of the darkness. I put my best shirt on and wait for a bridge of the light. Let the darkness rise from me, the darkness that conceals the bruises of the light.

Cooking is like playing a violin. The bow is a tool used to play, as is the knives and other tools you use to prepare. (a chef's knife is even held in the same manner) Spices are the notes used in the score. The way the food is cooked and prepared is the rhythm and tempo. The ingredients are the violin themselves, ready to be played upon. The finished dish is the music played to its best melody. All of these things must be applied together at the right pace, manner, and time in order to create a flavourful rush of artwork and beauty.

Rommel, for instance, was renowned for his Fronter-führing, his sixth sense for the decisive point in battle. He had an acute ability to feel—even in the heat of the moment—the precise instance when going on the offensive would be most effective. It’s what allowed him to, repeatedly and often unbelievably, snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Where others saw disaster or, at best, simply the normal noise and dust of a battle, Rommel sensed opportunities. “It is given to me,” he said, “to feel where the enemy is weak.” And on these feelings he would attack with every iota of his energy. Seizing control of the tempo and never giving it up. Great

I continued on my way towards Hexham, very slowly, at what I call hymn-speed. I have not mentioned that I sing as I go along. I always do. Seldom loudly, more often in a murmur. I recognise few limits in my repertoire; I can treat myself to anything. I bellow in opera, warble in ballad. My choice on any particular occasion is governed by my speed, and governs my speed; my feet march in tempo. My favourite uphill song is "Volga Boatman," which suits my movements admirably: I find I can grind out a note with every step, and each verse earns a pause, a brief halt. For slow travel, or when I am tired, hymns are best; not the noisy modern tunes, but the old ones, the softer melodies: "Breathe on me, breath of God." "Jesus, Lover of my Soul." "When I survey the Wondrous Cross." "Nearer, my God, to Thee." "Lead, Kindly Light." and best of all, "Abide with me'" old familiar tunes which can never lapse and be forgotten; quiet tunes and comforting words learnt in childhood, and later loved. . . . Last of all are the rousing marching songs, which usually end the day, unless I am very weary, when my choice is invariably "Lead, Kindly Light.

keeping the first station busy, and it’s similar to first-in, first-out scheduling. But of course, now everyone knows that you don’t release work based on the availability of the first station. Instead, it should be based on the tempo of how quickly the bottleneck resource can consume the work.” I just stare at him blankly. He continues, “Because of how Mark was releasing work, inventory kept piling up in front of our bottleneck, and jobs were never finished on time. Every day was an emergency. For years, we were awarded Best Customer of the Year from our air freight shipment company, because we were overnighting thousands of pounds of finished goods to angry customers almost every week.” He pauses and then says emphatically, “Eliyahu M. Goldratt, who created the Theory of Constraints, showed us how any improvements made anywhere besides the bottleneck are an illusion. Astonishing, but true! Any improvement made after the bottleneck is useless, because it will always remain starved, waiting for work from the bottleneck. And any improvements made before the bottleneck merely results in more inventory piling up at the bottleneck.” He continues, “In our case, our bottleneck was a heat treat oven, just like in Goldratt’s novel, The Goal. We also had paint-curing booths that later became constraints, too. By the time we froze the release of all new jobs, you couldn’t even see the bottleneck work centers because they were surrounded by huge piles of inventory. Even from up here!” Despite myself, I laugh with him. It’s obvious in hindsight, but I can imagine that to Mark, it was anything but obvious. “Look, thanks for the history lesson. But I learned most of this already in business school. I don’t see how this could possibly be relevant to managing IT Operations. IT is not like running a factory.” “Oh, really?” he turns to me, frowning intensely. “Let me guess. You’re going to say that IT is pure knowledge work, and so therefore, all your work is like that of an artisan. Therefore, there’s no place for standardization, documented work procedures, and all that high-falutin’ ‘rigor and discipline’ that you claimed to hold so near and dear.” I frown. I can’t figure out if he’s trying to convince me of something I already believe or trying to get me to accept an absurd conclusion. “If you think IT Operations has nothing to learn from Plant Operations, you’re wrong.

FLETCHER: The truth is I don’t think people understand what it is I did at Shaffer. I wasn’t there to conduct. Any idiot can move his hands and keep people in tempo. No, it’s about pushing people beyond what’s expected of them. And I believe that is a necessity. Because without it you’re depriving the world of its next Armstrong. Its next Parker. Why did Charlie Parker become Charlie Parker, Andrew? ANDREW: Because Jo Jones threw a cymbal at him. FLETCHER: Exactly. Young kid, pretty good on the sax, goes up to play his solo in a cutting session, fucks up -- and Jones comes this close to slicing his head off for it. He’s laughed off-stage. Cries himself to sleep that night. But the next morning, what does he do? He practices. And practices and practices. With one goal in mind: that he never ever be laughed off-stage again. A year later he goes back to the Reno, and he plays the best motherfucking solo the world had ever heard. Now imagine if Jones had just patted young Charlie on the head and said “Good job.” Charlie would’ve said to himself, “Well, shit, I did do a good job,” and that’d be that. No Bird. Tragedy, right? Except that’s just what people today want. The Shaffer Conservatories of the world, they want sugar. You don’t even say “cutting session” anymore, do you? No, you say “jam session”. What the fuck kind of word is that? Jam session? It’s a cutting session, Andrew, this isn’t fucking Smucker’s. It’s about weeding out the best from the worst so that the worst become better than the best. I mean look around you. $25 drinks, mood lighting, a little shrimp cocktail to go with your Coltrane. And people wonder why jazz is dying. Take it from me, and every Starbucks jazz album only proves my point. There are no two words more harmful in the entire English language than “good job”.

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It was purely a case of responding to the best of my abilities to what was going on around me,’ says Mattacks, who now lives in Boston, Massachusetts. ‘I didn’t really get it until I’d been in the band about a year. I didn’t really understand the aesthetics of what they were doing. And then when I did, it had quite an effect on how I then perceived music, and my approach to my instrument and the kind of music I wanted to play.’ Mattacks was sympathetic to the ‘four-squariness’ inherent in British folk tunes, but ‘the danger with the worst of folk-rock is that it can sound ploddy, no matter the tempo. So the thing is to have that four-square thing to it, but make it swing.

El genio de la pintura es Rafael; el de la escultura, Miguel Ángel; el de la arquitectura, Brunelleschi y el de la imprenta, Aldo Manuzio. Piensen ustedes en el libro de bolsillo. Lo inventó Manuzio. ¿Y la cursiva que en inglés se llama italic? Manuzio. ¿Los best seller? Manuzio fue el primero en imprimirlos. Es el padre de la lectura por entretenimiento, inventa el placer de leer. Una verdadera revolución intelectual que transforma un instrumento utilizado para rezar o aprender en uno para disfrutar del tiempo libre.

Let the sun set on me. Let its crimson sweat of ferocity spill all over me. My heart is ready for the chill of the darkness. I put my best shirt on and wait for a bride of the light

Sei la mia migliore amica, il meglio di me, e non riesco a immaginare di rinunciare di nuovo a te." [...] "Forse non capisci, ma ti ho dato la parte migliore di me, e dopo che te ne sei andata niente è più stato come prima." [...] "So che hai paura, ho paura anch'io. Ma se lasciamo che tutto questo finisca, se fingiamo che non sia mai accaduto, non sono sicuro che ci verrà data un'alta occasione." [...] "Siamo ancora giovani. Abbiamo ancora tempo per ricominciare come si deve.

How could he not want more of her? How could she believe that he’d leave her alone? “Are you trying to draw attention to us?” he asked, pulling her into him. Those blue-green eyes narrowed at him. “We’re on the dance floor. So dance.” She glanced around them and seemed to notice for the first time that they were surrounded by the upper echelon of California royalty. Aiden recognized a few faces here and there. A half dozen politicians, a handful of celebrities, but mostly it was a collection of heirs and heiresses to various fortunes who had clearly had more than enough to drink. “What’s wrong with these people?” Frankie asked, allowing Aiden to draw her further onto the dance floor. Even the band was trashed, judging by the limping tempo to their song. “Oh, my god. Is that Meltdown?

Early in my happy adventures as a gigging musician, putting my ragbag of borrowed licks and boundless, puppyish enthusiasm before very kind audiences, I had an epiphany. Whatever my ambitions, I was not required to have mastered the piano completely before playing for people. The jazz world may be strewn with mighty saxophonists who turn up to gigs bellowing “any tune, any key, any tempo”. To me, they are God-like figures. But I did not have to be, indeed could never be, like them. Instead, I simply had to be able to play the tunes I was performing at that moment. Back then the audience did not need to know that there was not much else beyond the 10-song set they’d just heard. I would still be, and indeed remain, the best jazz pianist of all the British restaurant critics. There’s a lot to be said for being good over a narrow bandwidth; for doing a small number of things really well, rather than trying to prove your exhausting high-trapeze virtuosity.

The more I hear your voice, the more I realize that silence isn’t always golden. Your voice makes me put on my best dancing shoes and celebrate life.

To me, the best that music can be is a medium up-tempo twelve-bar blues in F.

...Pensa che tu sia intrappolato nella ricerca infantile dell’affetto che ti è stato negato da piccolo perché eri il fratello “normale” che veniva ignorato tutto il tempo, e che questo ti ha riempito di tutta una serie di schifosi comportamenti aggressivi che tu non riesci ad ammettere.