The 400 Blows Quotes

judge: I think we should place your child under observation in a special home. Gilberte Doinel: Could it be by the sea, Your Honor? From The 400 Blows (1959)

he sacked Rome in 410, an event which shocked the Roman world much as 11 September 2001 shocked the United States, a huge, upsetting, symbolic blow to its self-confidence; but it was without other repercussions,

François Truffaut’s film 400 Blows

When asked if he had a special feeling for books, critic-turned-filmmaker Francois Truffaut answered, "No. I love them and films equally, but how I love them!" As an example, Truffaut gave the example that his feeling of love for "Citizen Kane" (USA, 1941) "is expressed in that scene in 'The 400 Blows' where Antoine lights a candle before the picture of Balzac.' My book lights candles for m any of the great authors of this world: Chinua Achebe (Nigeria), Angela Carter (UK), Saratchandra Chattopadhyay (India), Janet Frame (New Zealand), Yu Hua (China), Stieg Larsson (Sweden), Clarice Lispector (Brazil), Mario Vargas Llosa (Peru), Naguib Mifouz (Egypt), Murasaki Shikibu (Japan), and Alice Walker (USA) - to name but a few. Furthermore, graphic novels, manga, musicals, television, webisodes and even amusement park rides like 'Pirates of the Caribbean' can inspire work in adaptation. Let's be open to learning from them all. ("Great Adaptations: Screenwriting and Global Storytelling," 2)

When you assess something, you are forced to assume that a linear scale of values can be applied to it. Otherwise no assessment is possible. Every person who says of something that it is good or bad or a bit better than yesterday is declaring that a points system exists; that you can, in a reasonably clear and obvious fashion, set some sort of a number against an achievement. But never at any time has a code of practice been laid down for the awarding of points. No offense intended to anyone. Never at any time in the history of the world has anyone—for anything ever so slightly more complicated than the straightforward play of a ball or a 400-meter race—been able to come up with a code of practice that could be learned and followed by several different people, in such a way that they would all arrive at the same mark. Never at any time have they been able to agree on a method for determining when one drawing, one meal, one sentence, one insult, the picking of one lock, one blow, one patriotic song, one Danish essay, one playground, one frog, or one interview is good or bad or better or worse than another.

I set out for my first overnight training hike that I have been on since I was on the PCT in May, 2016. Starting at the Roby Lake, Missouri area, I made my way down an unfamiliar trail, with an intentionally overloaded pack. Two tents, two sleeping bags, and just about every piece of gear and trail clothing I own. I didn’t bother to weigh the pack, but it was the heaviest I have ever carried. Some distance into the trail I found a trail register – I stopped to register and was curious to see if I might come across any kindred souls. Nope, not a soul on the trail register for the past 12 days, I would very likely be totally alone. The trail meandered uphill and down, by ponds, and eventually to a nice creek with a small waterfall. Along the way I came to a pine grove atop a ridge and what a mess that was – we recently had freezing rain here in Missouri and it looks like it took out several dozen along the trail – they literally look like they just exploded – with the trail being impassable for about ¼ mile – resulting in some bushwhacking and hopefully me not getting lost. Unlike the PCT where I have Halfmile, Guthooks, and other apps that can tell you that you are 400’ west of the trail, and which direction you need to go to get back on trail, here you just need to pay more attention. When finally done tramping around the blow downs I continued down the trail, and back up on top of another ridge and into some pines. I set up camp about 4:30 PM which would usually be early, but it was dark, cloudy and wet – I wanted to find a decent campsite and took the 2nd one that I thought looked nice. As I set up camp I found I was just above a nice running creek, which made for a nice setting. There was no rain in the forecast but heavy fog came in, which collected on the trees and might as well have been rain. Of course I packed everything, except my rain fly it turned out. Yes I had another tent, but that is my PCT tent and I am not going to chance damaging it before I even get there. I decide it’s not too bad, occasional drips would splatter through the netting but all would be well – and I did have my bivy sack so I put my sleeping bag in there, inside the tent, and made sure most things were covered. There were signs of bear throughout, and I could not locate my paracord rope for hanging my food, so I put the food in my pack, put the pack a ways up a tree, and strapped it on to hope for the best. I had a time getting a campfire going, with everything being wet, but eventually enjoyed a nice campfire until bed time. Unlike being on the PCT where you never really feel alone because there are so many other hikers out there, I knew I was truly alone out here, there were no other footprints in the mud – see the pictures of the trail/river – and this was a bit unusual, really feeling alone and way out there. I enjoyed that. It was one of those nights when every noise piques your curiosity, and every drop falling from the trees landing in leaves sounds like a footstep of some kind – I did hear some animal grunt, possibly a ferel hog, bear, or deer even – couldn’t really tell. Nothing bothered my pack, and all was well in the morning – but much of my gear was wet. I set off back down to the trail head, surprised at how little muscle or back pain I was in considering the workout provided by the trail and the heavy weight I was carrying. I would feel it a bit later however, but that’s a good thing, that’s why I am training – trying to get some sense of trail legs before I hit the PCT exactly 60 days from now! I received my permission to enter Canada, I have my plane tickets, and in 3 more days I will apply for and get my PCT permit for March 21, 2017 – time is flying by… Morgan

Speculation still continues regarding the worst conditions produced by the storm, but in 2005, scientists at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) teamed up with the National Weather Service to create a computer simulation of what the weather conditions were probably like that night.  According to the simulation, by 4:00 on the afternoon of November 10, there were actually two storms hitting Lake Superior, and both had winds blowing in excess of 45 miles per hour.  Unfortunately, the worst winds were in the southeastern section of the lake, where the Fitzgerald was sailing. Since the Fitzgerald was so heavily loaded, it was already sitting lower in the water than it normally would, which would have exacerbated the effect of the waves on the ship.  Also, as the waves rolled over the top of the ship in one direction, they swirled around and pushed against the ship’s deeply seated hull.

Take a simple example: lottery tickets. Americans spend more on them than movies, video games, music, sporting events, and books combined. And who buys them? Mostly poor people. The lowest-income households in the U.S. on average spend $412 a year on lotto tickets, four times the amount of those in the highest income groups. Forty percent of Americans cannot come up with $400 in an emergency. Which is to say: Those buying $400 in lottery tickets are by and large the same people who say they couldn’t come up with $400 in an emergency. They are blowing their safety nets on something with a one-in-millions chance of hitting it big.

Humans have left more than 400,000 pounds of trash on the Moon.

Within its pages were row-upon-row of dark impressions; marked one-by-one by an array of blows arising from a basket of clustered steel typebars cast with embossed slugs upon their tips ‒ striking in sequential forward arcs, as if inhabited by a crew of nether-situated Lilliputians sitting side-by-side; wielding slender embossed hammers, forged character-by-character to smash against pigment-impregnated woven black ribbons; poised in turn overtop a seemingly endless succession of lily-white storyteller's leaves; each a direct byproduct of majestically beautiful, seasonally fragrant, faintly audible, partly edible, often climbable; utterly tangible trees ‒ its outer layer of fifteen pages having chronicled the antecedent evoked by this very beginning more than 400 billion harvested timber ago. So then to be more succinct, Nate’s story began again with yet another scurrying rat… In truth such recurrences aren't so terribly peculiar, though it may be altogether unsurprising if one were inclined to suppose otherwise. All things being equal, it would be no more and no less improbable than if each lad had been party to analogous cat encounters across this same interval of time. And ‒ as further happenstance would have it ‒ this is likewise, indeed one more similarly entwined detail connecting these distinct yet equally primal matters. Conceding that all things are rarely equal, of course. For instance it may be instructive to consider that rattus norvegicus tend toward predictable timidity while in striking contrast the felines in question were both tomcats ‒ often being prone to flouncing about in the manner of plumeless peacocks; if not pouncing onto the nearest familiar lap like typical felis catus. Nevertheless ‒ particularly given its generation spanning interlude ‒ such dual coincidence might be more fittingly viewed as a long past due inevitability. This owing to a perpetual abundance within the local feline population; the billions upon billions of rats that are right now scurrying to and fro in more places on this planet than you have likely imagined to exist; as well as an innate magnetism drawing the former to the latter ‒ as earnestly as that of a type hammer chasing a blank page. Then at last, to acknowledge that myriad and unstated goings-on must precede each beginning of every story.

China is also believed to be behind hacks of Anthem insurance (80 million records), Marriott (400 million records), and Equifax’s 146 million credit records covering nearly every adult in America.78 All of this information can be used to blow intelligence covers and identify and pressure vulnerable targets to betray the United States.79 It’s an intelligence bonanza for Beijing and a nightmare for Washington—the largest and most sophisticated intelligence database ever collected against an adversary. “You have to kind of salute the Chinese for what they did,” noted Director of National Intelligence James Clapper after the OPM breach.80 From an intelligence perspective, it was a masterstroke.

Take a simple example: lottery tickets. Americans spend more on them than movies, video games, music, sporting events, and books combined. And who buys them? Mostly poor people. The lowest-income households in the U.S. on average spend $412 a year on lotto tickets, four times the amount of those in the highest income groups. Forty percent of Americans cannot come up with $400 in an emergency. Which is to say: Those buying $400 in lottery tickets are by and large the same people who say they couldn’t come up with $400 in an emergency. They are blowing their safety nets on something with a one-in-millions chance of hitting it big. That seems crazy to me. It probably seems crazy to you, too. But I’m not in the lowest income group. You’re likely not, either. So it’s hard for many of us to intuitively grasp the subconscious reasoning of low-income lottery ticket buyers. But strain a little, and you can imagine it going something like this:

None of that however, is the form to which I’d referred. It was rather a yet-cited, five-inch thick, loosely bundled heap of paper which not fully three hours past our beginning, the former 15-year-old would then briefly waggle in his left hand as he stood near center of the very escape route alluded to in the same chapter. Within its pages were row-upon-row of dark impressions; marked one-by-one by an array of blows arising from a basket of clustered steel typebars cast with embossed slugs upon their tips ‒ striking in sequential forward arcs, as if inhabited by a crew of nether-situated Lilliputians sitting side-by-side; wielding slender embossed hammers, forged character-by-character to smash against pigment-impregnated woven black ribbons; poised in turn overtop a seemingly endless succession of lily-white storyteller's leaves; each a direct byproduct of majestically beautiful, seasonally fragrant, faintly audible, partly edible, often climbable; utterly tangible trees ‒ its outer layer of fifteen pages having chronicled the antecedent evoked by this very beginning more than 400 billion harvested timber ago. So then to be more succinct, Nate’s story began again with yet another scurrying rat…

None of that however, is the form to which I’d referred. [ever transforming tangible form] It was rather a yet-cited, five-inch thick, loosely bundled heap of paper which not fully three hours past our beginning, the former 15-year-old would then briefly waggle in his left hand as he stood near center of the very escape route alluded to in the same chapter. Within its pages were row-upon-row of dark impressions; marked one-by-one by an array of blows arising from a basket of clustered steel typebars cast with embossed slugs upon their tips ‒ striking in sequential forward arcs, as if inhabited by a crew of nether-situated Lilliputians sitting side-by-side; wielding slender embossed hammers, forged character-by-character to smash against pigment-impregnated woven black ribbons; poised in turn overtop a seemingly endless succession of lily-white storyteller's leaves; each a direct byproduct of majestically beautiful, seasonally fragrant, faintly audible, partly edible, often climbable; utterly tangible trees ‒ its outer layer of fifteen pages having chronicled the antecedent evoked by this very beginning more than 400 billion harvested timber ago. So then to be more succinct, Nate’s story began again with yet another scurrying rat…

None of that however, is the ever transforming tangible form to which I’d referred. It was rather a yet-cited, five-inch thick, loosely bundled heap of paper which not fully three hours past our beginning, the former 15-year-old would then briefly waggle in his left hand as he stood near center of the very escape route alluded to in the same chapter. Within its pages were row-upon-row of dark impressions; marked one-by-one by an array of blows arising from a basket of clustered steel typebars cast with embossed slugs upon their tips ‒ striking in sequential forward arcs, as if inhabited by a crew of nether-situated Lilliputians sitting side-by-side; wielding slender embossed hammers, forged character-by-character to smash against pigment-impregnated woven black ribbons; poised in turn overtop a seemingly endless succession of lily-white storyteller's leaves; each a direct byproduct of majestically beautiful, seasonally fragrant, faintly audible, partly edible, often climbable, utterly tangible trees ‒ its outer layer of fifteen pages having chronicled the antecedent evoked by this very beginning more than 400 billion harvested timber ago. So then to be more succinct, Nate’s story began again with yet another scurrying rat…

Ruling Venezuela as the unelected military strongman from 1948 to 1950 and as President from 1952 to 1958. The President of Venezuela was Marcos Pérez Jiménez, a Venezuelan General, who also considered himself to be a civil engineer. He spent much of the country’s oil profits modernizing the infrastructure, including the construction of the new Caracas to La Guaira highway. The new road was terribly expensive requiring bridges and tunnels. Two tunnels alone cost $20,000,000 and nearly broke the State Treasury, but the road was completed in 1953, just in time for me to ride on it up the mountains to Caracas. The old taxi went uphill at very steep angles, reaching an altitude of 7,400 feet before dipping back down into the city. Looking into the deep ravines next to what had been the old road, I could see wrecks of the vehicles that were unlucky enough to have gone off the road. Finally crossing the top of the Coastal ridge, we followed the winding road down into the extinct volcanic basin that housed the capital city. As we got closer to the downtown district, I noticed that the Guardia National police were everywhere! The traffic was horrendous and there was a layer of smog in the valley, but everything was reasonably quiet except for loud banging sounds. Since there was a noise ordinance in Caracas, cars were not permitted to blow their horns. Instead, the cabdrivers banged the side of their car door with their hand.

do you think you're going?" he says. "I'm going to Las Vegas. You can earn $400 for a blow job there, and I figured that I might as well earn money for what I do to you free." The husband thinks for a moment, goes upstairs, and comes back down, with his suitcase packed as well. "Where do you think you going?" the wife asks. "I'm coming with you...I want to see how you survive on $800 a year!!!" 27 A police officer was patrolling the highway when he sees a guy tied up to a tree, crying.