Thirteen Chairs Quotes

They'll be granted immunity!" I feel myself rising from my chair, my voice full of resonant. "You will personally pledge this in front of the entire population of District Thirteen and the remainder of Twelve. Soon. Today. It will be recorded for future generations. You will hold yourself and your government responsible for their safety, or you'll find yourself another Mockingjay!

Imagine ten or tweleve orange chairs arrainged in a circle, with the happy woen from the flyer sitting at opposite ends. Only problem was, from day one, they weren't happy. Someone, whoever made that flyer, must have digitally turned their frowns upside down. They wrote about death. About the evilness of men. About the destruction of-and I quote- "the greenish, bluish orb with wisps of white." Seriously, that's how they descibed it. They went on to call Earth a knocked-up gaseous alien needing an abortion.

I had so looked forward to her walking.” Maud carried her thirteen-month-old sister a few steps away and put her down on her feet. “Walk to Daddy,” Maud said, and the baby threw out her arms and took the few steps across the space to her father’s chair.

Genie In 1970 a child called Genie was admitted to a children’s hospital in Los Angeles. She was thirteen years old and had spent most of her life tied to a chair in a small closed room. Her father was intolerant of any kind of noise and had beaten the child whenever she made a sound. There had been no radio or television, and Genie’s only other human contact was with her mother who was forbidden to spend more than a few minutes with the child to feed her. Genie had spent her whole life in a state of physical, sensory, social and emotional deprivation. As might be expected, Genie was unable to use language when she was first brought into care. However, within a short period of time, she began to respond to the speech of others, to try to imitate sound and to communicate. Her syntax remained very simple. However, the fact that she went on to develop an ability to speak and understand a fairly large number of English words provides some evidence against the notion that language cannot be acquired at all after the critical period.

It took me a good thirty minutes to find Cal. That was actually a good thing, because it gave me plenty of time to come up with something to say to him that wasn't just a string of four-letter words. There are a lot of freaky things witches and warlocks do, obviously, but the arranged marriage thing was one of the grossest. When a witch is thirteen, her parents hook her up with an available warlock, based on things like compatible powers and family alliances. The entire thing is so eighteenth century. As I stomped across school grounds, all I could see was Cal sitting with my dad in some manly room with leather chairs and dead animals on the wall, chomping on cigars as Dad formally signed me away to him.They probably even high-fived. Okay,so it's not like either of them are exactly the cigar-and-high-fives type, but still.

You are far too generous,” he said. She smiled, a real smile this time. “I am rarely accused of that, Mr. Bridgerton.” He laughed. Right out loud in the middle of the ballroom. Kate realized with discomfort that they were suddenly the object of numerous curious stares. “You,” he said, still sounding most heartily amused, “must meet my brother.” “The viscount?” she asked with disbelief. “Well, you might enjoy Gregory’s company as well,” he allowed, “but as I said, he is only thirteen and likely to put a frog on your chair.” “And the viscount?” “Is not likely to put a frog on your chair,” he said with an utterly straight face. -Colin & Kate

THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS a bad case. Only a bad client. Judge Harry Ford, my mentor, had taught me that a long time ago. He’d been proven right. Time and time again. Sitting in a leather chair beside Bobby Solomon, I was reminded of Harry’s advice.

My daughter, who was thirteen years old at the time, would joke about this with me. That whole first week in the acting director’s chair, when I came home at night, she would say, Did you get fired today, Dad? Not today, honey, I would answer—but tomorrow’s a new day!

The doorbell rang and Grandma ran to get it. “It’s him,” she said to me. “It’s my honey.” My father got out of his chair in the living room and took his seat at the table. “I don’t care if he craps in a bag,” he said to Ranger. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you can scare him into marrying her and moving her into his room at the old people’s home.

Well,all she had to do was ask," one offended male replied. "I hope you're satisfied!" Lauren whispered furiously. "I'm not," Nick chuckled in her ear. "But I'm going to be." Fully intending to leave him to take his own notes, Lauren slammed her notebook closed and tried to shove her chair back. Nick's body blocked the chair. She twisted her head around to say something scathing, and his lips captured hers in a kiss that forced her head against the back of the chair, tripled her pulse rate and robbed her of thought. When he took his mouth away, she was too shaken to do anything except stare at him. "What do you think,Nick?" a voice asked over the speaker. "I think it gets better every time," he answered huskily. When the call was finally over, Nick pressed a button on the desk, and Lauren saw the door leading into Mary's office swing shut electronically. He grasped her arms and drew her out of the chair, turning her toward him. His mouth came closer to hers,and Lauren felt herself being helplessly drawn into his magnetic spell. "Don't!" she pleaded. "Please don't do this to me." His hands tightened on her arms. "Why can't you just admit you want me and enjoy the consequences?" "All right," she said wretchedly, "You win. I want you...I admit it." She saw the gleam of triumph in his eyes, and her chin lifted. "When I was eight years old, I also wanted a monkey I saw in a pet store." The triumph faded. "And?" he sighed irritably,letting go of her. "And unfortunately I got him," Lauren said. "Daisy bit me,and I had to have twelve stitches in my leg." Nick looked as if he was torn between laughter and anger. "I imagine he bit you for naming him Daisy." Lauren ignored his mockery. "And when I was thirteen, I wanted sisters and brothers. My father obliged me by remarrying, and I got a stepsister who stole my clothes and my boyfriends, and a stepbrother who stole my allowances." "What the hell does that have to do with us?" "Everything!

She could feel the coolness, a whole childhood of it, falling through her. Rain on the coral beach in Galway. White tennis balls on the broken court. Her brother at his shortwave radio. A nest of wires and voices. Her father's cattle huddled on a laneway. The broken church bell. A grass verge of green in the laneway. High windows. Too tall for the school chairs. The milk came in small silver cans. She would not cry or whimper. She had always refused him that.

No one chooses to become a banker. It just happens, like cancer, and then you try to live with it for as long as you can. After thirteen years in the industry, I was damn near terminal. With each step up the corporate ladder I received a slightly smaller laptop, a slightly-harder-to-adjust office chair. To compensate they offered free donuts and coffee cards. Weekends off. 401K vesting. Medical insurance that I had to have because they were turning me into a half-blind hunchback with diabetes. The

He walked steadily, feeling them behind him. His stride did not falter; he pretended they weren’t there. He pretended that all was well—that those hideous things knew nothing about what he had done earlier in the night. But each pumpkin he passed nearly leapt off its porch or railing or wooden chair, expanded and morphed and throbbed as if in a funhouse mirror, and joined the procession behind him. The wind picked up, suddenly and fiercely, and construction paper decorations adorning the houses that surrounded him flapped helplessly against their doors and windows. The man ducked against the cold wind, and from the pursuing army of the jack-o’-lanterns behind him. Cardboard skeletons with fastener joints and witches with shredded yarn hair and ghosts with cotton ball sheets and black crayon eyes escaped their thumbtacks and scotch tape and newspaper twine and they flashed and danced in his face. He brushed at them desperately with his hands, attempting to tear a hole through them and escape.

An ancient issue of J14, opened to a center page. The photograph of Henry, age thirteen. He glances up. “You knew?” “Of course I knew!” she says, flopping dramatically into the chair opposite him. “You were always leaving your greasy little fingerprints all over it! Why do you always assume you can get away with things?” She releases a long-suffering sigh. He looks down at the magazine and feels the corner of his mouth tug upward. He can’t believe June kept it all these years. “He looks so different,” he says after a long minute, gazing down at the baby Henry on the page and his easy, unfledged sureness. “I mean, like, obviously. But the way he carries himself.” His fingertips brush the page in the same place they did when he was young, over the sun-gold hair, except now he knows its exact texture.

Mom reeled away from the chair as if she’d been slapped. Deacon was up in a flash, letting the sword clank to the tiles as he clung to her skirt. Aristodeus raised his palms, and for a moment he looked genuinely sorry. “They will accept him, Gralia, but not until he’s turned thirteen, and not unless he’s proficient with a blade and fluent in Aeternam.” Mom’s breaths came in great heaves. She shut her eyes for a few seconds, her lips working silently over a prayer. She planted a kiss on Deacon’s head and sighed. “Six years, then.” Aristodeus nodded. “Six more years. He’ll be well on his way to manhood by then, Gralia, and I’m sure the last thing you and Jarl will want is a teenager on your hands.” Mom blinked back tears, and she shuddered as she drew in another breath. Deacon knew what she was doing: offering it all up to Nous in reparation for her sins and those of the whole world. Aristodeus stooped to pick up the sword and hand it back to Deacon.

On the first day of the meeting that would become known as the United States Constitutional Convention, Edmund Randolph of Virginia kicked off the proceedings. Addressing his great fellow Virginian General George Washington, victorious hero of the War of Independence, who sat in the chair, Randolph hoped to convince delegates sent by seven, so far, of the thirteen states, with more on the way, to abandon the confederation formed by the states that had sent them—the union that had declared American independence from England and won the war—and to replace it with another form of government. “Our chief danger,” Randolph announced, “arises from the democratic parts of our constitutions.” This was in May of 1787, in Philadelphia, in the same ground-floor room of the Pennsylvania State House, borrowed from the Pennsylvania assembly, where in 1776 the Continental Congress had declared independence. Others in the room already agreed with Randolph: James Madison, also of Virginia; Robert Morris of Pennsylvania; Gouverneur Morris of New York and Pennsylvania; Alexander Hamilton of New York; Washington. They wanted the convention to institute a national government. As we know, their effort was a success. We often say the confederation was a weak government, the national government stronger. But the more important difference has to do with whom those governments acted on. The confederation acted on thirteen state legislatures. The nation would act on all American citizens, throughout all the states. That would be a mighty change. To persuade his fellow delegates to make it, Randolph was reeling off a list of what he said were potentially fatal problems, urgently in need, he said, of immediate repair. He reiterated what he called the chief threat to the country. “None of the constitutions”—he meant those of the states’ governments—“have provided sufficient checks against the democracy.” The term “democracy” could mean different things, sometimes even contradictory things, in 1787. People used it to mean “the mob,” which historians today would call “the crowd,” a movement of people denied other access to power, involving protest, riot, what recently has been called occupation, and often violence against people and property. But sometimes “democracy” just meant assertive lawmaking by a legislative body staffed by gentlemen highly sensitive to the desires of their genteel constituents. Men who condemned the working-class mob as a democracy sometimes prided themselves on being “democratical” in their own representative bodies. What Randolph meant that morning by “democracy” is clear. When he said “our chief danger arises from the democratic parts of our constitutions,” and “none of the constitutions have provided sufficient checks against the democracy,” he was speaking in a context of social and economic turmoil, pervading all thirteen states, which the other delegates were not only aware of but also had good reason to be urgently worried about. So familiar was the problem that Randolph would barely have had to explain it, and he didn’t explain it in detail. Yet he did say things whose context everyone there would already have understood.

In the end, Lewis enjoyed a long and productive period at Cambridge, until ill health finally forced him to resign his chair with effect from October 1963. By my reckoning, Lewis wrote thirteen books and forty-four articles during his Cambridge years, not to mention numerous book reviews and several poems, and he edited three collections of essays. There were controversies, of course, perhaps most significantly the 1960 debate with F. R. Leavis and his supporters over the merits of literary criticism. Nevertheless, Lewis’s Cambridge period—while not being anything like Bunyan’s “Plain called Ease”—was certainly an oasis of creativity, resulting in some of his most significant works, including Till We Have Faces (1956), Reflections on the Psalms (1958), The Four Loves (1960), An Experiment in Criticism (1961), and The Discarded Image (published posthumously in 1964). Yet Lewis’s Cambridge period was dominated by an event in his personal life, which had a significant impact on his writings during this time. Lewis found a new—but rather demanding—literary stimulus: Helen Joy Davidman.

Despite Ogden Nash’s observation that “people who work sitting down get paid more than people who work standing up,” a growing chorus of exercists who nag us to exercise condemn sitting as a modern scourge.1 One prominent physician has declared that chairs are “out to get us, harm us, kill us” and that “sitting is the new smoking.”2 According to him, the average American sits for an unacceptable thirteen hours a day, and “for every hour we sit, two hours of our lives walk away—lost forever.” This admonition is obviously hyperbole, but other well-publicized studies estimate that sitting more than three hours a day is responsible for nearly 4 percent of deaths worldwide and that every hour of sitting is as harmful as the benefit from twenty minutes of exercise.3 By some estimates, replacing an hour or two of daily sitting with light activities like walking can lower death rates by 20 to 40 percent.4 As a result, standing desks are all the rage, and many people now wear sensors or use their phones to keep track of and limit their sitting time. We have become exercised about sitting.

The moment Jace Calder saw his sister's face, he feared the worst. His heart sank. Emily, his troubled little sister, had been doing so well since she'd gotten the job at the Sarah Hamilton Foundation in Big Timber, Montana. "What's wrong?" he asked as he removed his Stetson, pulled up a chair at the Big Timber Java coffee shop and sat down across from her. Tossing his hat on the seat of an adjacent chair, he braced himself for bad news. Emily blinked her big blue eyes. Even though she was closing in on twenty-five, he often caught glimpses of the girl she'd been. Her pixie cut, once a dark brown like his own hair, was dyed black. From thirteen on, she'd been piercing anything she could. At sixteen she'd begun getting tattoos and drinking. It wasn't until she'd turned seventeen that she'd run away, taken up with a thirty-year-old biker drug-dealer thief and ended up in jail for the first time. But while Emily still had the tattoos and the piercings, she'd changed after the birth of her daughter, and after snagging this job with Bo Hamilton. "What's wrong is Bo," his sister said. Bo had insisted her employees at the foundation call her by her first name. "Pretty cool for a boss, huh?" his sister had said at the time. He'd been surprised. That didn't sound like the woman he knew. But who knew what was in Bo's head lately. Four months ago her mother, Sarah, who everyone believed dead the past twenty-two years, had suddenly shown up out of nowhere. According to what he'd read in the papers, Sarah had no memory of the past twenty-two years. He'd been worried it would hurt the foundation named for her. Not to mention what a shock it must have been for Bo. Emily leaned toward him and whispered, "Bo's… She's gone.

On a wooden chair facing the elevator's control panel covered in black fur and wearing a pair of green Bermuda shorts from which protruded two hand-like callused feet, sat a monkey. It spun on its seat, wrapped its feet around the backrest of the chair, opened its coconut-shaped mouth and said, “Hello, Miss.

try to hypnotize Chris here,” Bear says, “and then we’ll teach him the Greek alphabet. Right, Sam?” “If Chris is a good subject, and I believe he very well might be, it should work,” Hutto says in a surprisingly deep voice. “But don’t fuck around with him,” the Bear warns. “Any funny stuff and I’ll break your goddamn neck.” Hutto’s look of fright is a visual contract that he won’t try any funny stuff. “You wanna’ try it, Chris?” I ask. He nods uncertainly. “OK, Sam. Let’s give it a whirl.” Hutto directs a study lamp and pulls a chair up close to the Martian’s, leaning forward against its back. At his nod, Dense turns out the overhead light. He removes a shiny fountain pen and holds it vertically in front of the Martian. The steady pen sparkles in the lamplight. “Now Chris,” he says softly, “I want you to relax

When I was thirteen, the Jesus film came to our neighborhood. We heard an announcement that a film was going to be shown in the street below. We were still in the middle of the war, but after three years of killing, people were so tired of fear and oppression that they were willing to risk their lives for a bit of light relief. We hadn’t been able to go to the cinema because of the war, so the film was a big deal for all of our neighbors. Nearly two hundred people attended, sitting on mats and chairs in the street in the early evening before it got dark. It was a big event, a celebration, and everyone was spellbound watching the story of Jesus of Nazareth. We loved watching Him become a carpenter and then perform many miracles with His disciples.

The next morning, Zephyr had seen a tall, lean thirteen-year-old boy in a torn shirt throw a chair through the ward window, his golden eyes red from crying, the pain in his body something she’d felt in hers in that moment. Alessandro Villanova had loved his mother to the point the nurses had to sedate him to ease his pained howls.

One study offers particularly provocative evidence of the benefits of vestibular stimulation. These researchers exposed babies, who ranged in age from three to thirteen months, to sixteen sessions of chair spinning: Four times a week for four weeks, the infants were seated on a researcher’s lap and spun around ten times in a swivel chair, each spin followed by an abrupt stop. To maximize stimulation of each of the three semicircular canals, the spinning included one or two rotations in each direction with the babies held in each of three positions: sitting, with the head tilted forward about 30 degrees, and side-lying on both left and right sides. Not surprisingly, the babies loved this treatment. They usually babbled or laughed during the rotation and became fussy during the thirty-second rest period between spins. In addition to this “trained” group, there were two groups of control infants, one that received no treatment, and one that came in for the same sixteen sessions but only sat on the researcher’s lap in the swivel chair; they did not get to spin. The results were striking. Compared with both control groups, the babies who were spun showed more advanced development of both their reflexes and their motor skills. The difference was particularly marked for motor skills like sitting, crawling, standing, and walking. In fact, the study included a set of three-month-old fraternal twins, of whom one received the training and the other did not. By the end of the study, when they were four months old, the twin who had experienced the vestibular stimulation had mastered head control and could even sit independently, while the unstimulated twin had only just begun to hold his head up.

You screamed and cursed like a woman possessed. Now you think he’s the greatest thing under the sun.” “Point taken. I just know it’s not going to be easy obeying the rules of a new kid on the block. Que sera, sera. Anyway, I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s no use worrying about things beyond my control.” The chief proved how well he knew her and asked, “Are you and Tom having problems?” He reached across the desk and placed a hand over hers. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. Without looking up she replied, “Sorry, sir. Slip of the tongue. Ignore me. That package probably affected me more than I realised.” He gripped her hand tightly. “Look at me, Lorne.” She obeyed him. “If you want to talk any time, you know where I am.” Easing her hand from under his, she said, “I’ll remember that, the next time we have an argument and I’m contemplating my life’s journey at three o’clock in the morning.” “Ah, don’t think the wife would be too keen on that idea, do you?” They both smiled, and Lorne stood up to leave the room. “I meant what I said, Lorne. Don’t ever forget it.” She nodded and left his office. As she headed down the corridor towards the conference room, she took a few deep breaths to help push down her bubbling emotions. Chapter 26 “What have we got?” Lorne asked, walking into the incident room. “At 4:32 AM, a suspect delivered the package. Take a look.” Pete nodded at Tracy, and she started the video. A shudder ran up Lorne’s spine as she watched a man, dressed from head to toe in black, deposit the box on the top step of the station. He arrogantly stopped to wave at the camera, obviously knowing his every movement was being taped. His hooded sweatshirt obscured his face; it was impossible to make out his features as he mocked the camera. “Is there any way we can find out how tall he is? It would be a start.” “I’ll line a few of the guys up—varying heights, of course. See what we can come up with. I’ll get on it straightaway,” Pete said. Lorne and Tracy checked the video, frame by frame, for clues. Nothing—no rings, no glimpses of tattoos. Nothing. Mitch burst into the room and threw himself into one of the vacant chairs. He placed a list on the table and slid it across to Lorne. “Fifteen perverts in and around the Chelling Forest area.” “By ‘perverts’, I take it you mean registered sex offenders, Mitch?” she asked, studying the list. “Actually, what I meant to say was, there are fifteen names on the list—thirteen sex offenders and two registered paedophiles.

Rudy Carp left in the room now. He was applauding, with what looked like a genuine smile on his face. Rudy stood up and said, “Congratulations, that was … impressive. I need five minutes of your time.” “What for?” “I want to know if you’d like to take second chair in the biggest murder trial this city has ever seen.

Ciao, papa,” she said in as deadpan a voice as she could manage. “You look very well this evening. Quite dashing.” He couldn’t help himself; he glanced down and preened for just a moment before he remembered that this was his daughter speaking. She hadn’t said anything that wasn’t sarcastic since she turned thirteen. He felt a touch of nostalgia for the twelve-year-old Silvia, who had prepared her bedroom walls with photos of clean-cut pop stars and cute puppies, who had begged to go to work with him just so they could be together, who had blushed if a neighbor chided her for being too loud . . . But that Silvia was gone. In her place was this, this alien who said everything with a sneer and eyed him disdainfully and made him feel like the oldest, most ridiculous man on earth. “More to the point, I am dressed appropriately,” he said. He realized that he was gritting his teeth. He remembered what his dentist had said about cracked molars, and made a conscious effort to relax his jaw. “You, on the other hand—” He glanced at the tattoo and closed his eyes in pain. “The invitation said formal,” she said, innocently. Her face darkened as she remembered that she had a grievance of her own. “I wanted to buy a new dress for this party, but you said it would cost too much! You said that the babies needed new high chairs! You said that our family now had different financial priorities! And this is the only formal dress I have, remember?” “Yes, and I also remember that there used to be a bit more of it!” her father hissed. Silvia glanced down complacently. “I know,” she said. “I altered it myself. It’s an original design.” “Original.” Her father glared at her. “You’ll be lucky not to be charged with indecent exposure. And if you are”—he gave her a warning look—“don’t expect any favors just because you’re the mayor’s daughter!” Silvia ignored this comment with the disdain it deserved. First, she never told anyone she was the mayor’s daughter. Second, her father was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an authority on fashion. She curled her lip at his tuxedo (which was vintage, but not in a good way), his high-heeled shoes (which kept making him lose his balance), and that scarlet sash (which made him look like an extra in a second-rate opera company). “Fine,” she said loftily. “If the police arrest me, I will plead guilty to having a unique and inventive fashion sense.” He remembered what his wife had said about keeping his temper and forced himself to smile.

In truth, Comte did not have much regard for literary culture. Chairs of literature and literary associations would be suppressed in the positivist era. He even seemed to discourage writing and reading anything after one's formal education was completed. A 'veritable positivist' - even a positivist priest - should reduce his library to one hundred volumes. Half of that library would be 'more historic than dogmatic' and thus would have 'little need to be reread.' People should read chiefly great poets pondering the human condition to enlarge their understanding. In the Catéchisme, he maintained that there were only thirteen great writers: Homer, Aeschylus, Dante, Ariosto, Tasso, Shakespeare, Caldéron, Corneille, Milton, Molière, Thomas à Kempis, Cervantes, and Walter Scott. There were perhaps another seven writers worth reading. Almost all the works of the others could be destroyed as harmful to the heart and mind, although he did allow for some of these works to be preserved as historical documents. At one point, Comte went so far as to announce that 'all of human knowledge' could be condensed into ten volumes. Moral activity now was most important to him

Bundled up in my gloves, woolen thirteen-button bell-bottomed uniform pants, navy blue shirt and pea coat, with the flaps up, I negotiated the slippery steep incline of High Street. I knew that I was in Maine, known for adverse weather, but this was unreal. It was all I could do to hang onto this precious cargo with my cold fingers in my wet gloves, and put one foot in front of the other. Little by little, I made progress against the elements but, the longer it took to walk the distance, the more I looked like a snowman. Now the white stuff was getting heavier, and started to pile up. It stuck to my uniform, turning the dark blue to white. By the time I got as far as Congress Street, my feet and fingers were totally numb again, and my ears frozen. The box was getting heavier by the moment and I couldn’t even cover my ears with my hands. Finally I just put the box down into the snow, crouched down against a building, and pulled my pea coat over my head. Breathing into it, I managed to generate a little heat. I pressed the flaps of the coat against my ears until I could feel them again. Aside from my frozen feet, I warmed up enough this way to be able to continue. Picking up the box, I got up and once again faced the harsh elements. There was little sign of life, and with this cold wind, I could easily have gotten frostbite. Most people who lived in Maine had better sense than to be out under these arctic conditions. The plows had not cleared the streets yet, and behind me I could see a lone car spinning its wheels, trying in vain to make the steep grade. Once again I had to put down the box. I took off my gloves and tried to warm my hands by blowing onto them, as I did a little dance stomping my feet, but nothing helped anymore; my hands and feet were numb. When I picked the box up again, the bottom was caked with snow, making matters even worse! With only a short distance left I thought about Ann and the aroma from baking brownies, so I continued trudging on. I could now see the statue of Longfellow, slouched in his massive chair. “Hi, Henry. What do you think of this glorious weather?” Not getting an answer, was answer enough. I was convinced that his bronze butt was frozen to the chair, but in spite of the weather, he still looked comfortable!