Tragically Hip Quotes

We live to survive our paradoxes.

Yes, You are my hamartia And my muse I don’t have any ex; I am a lover of one The tragic picture of our youth

I've been carving you to see what form you take. You were hiding in ivory. I just wanted to free your shape.

Wanting to be perceived as cool isn’t about wanting to be “The Fonz”—it’s about minimizing vulnerability in order to reduce the risk of being ridiculed or made fun of. We hustle for our worthiness by slipping on the emotional and behavioral straitjacket of cool and posturing as the tragically hip and the terminally “better than.” Being “in control” isn’t always about the desire to manipulate situations, but often it’s about the need to manage perception.

He was known to hit low, drive upward from the hips, and flip other boys over his shoulder and onto their backs, knocking the wind out of them on the glass-littered asphalt, sometimes causing a fumble and always inciting cheers from onlookers up and down the street––especially when he punctuated the hit with the words "Patent that!"...This permissible violence was unique in that it elicited respect from the victim rather than calls for retribution.

Wine talks; ask anyone. The oracle at the street corner; the uninvited guest at the wedding feast; the holy fool. It ventriloquizes. It has a million voices. It unleashes the tongue, teasing out secrets you never meant to tell, secrets you never knew. It shouts, rants, whispers. It speaks of great plans, tragic loves and terrible betrayals. It screams with laughter. It chuckles softly to itself. It weeps in front of its own reflection. It revives summers long past and memories best forgotten. Every bottle a whiff of other times, other places, every one- from the commonest Liebfraumilch to the imperious Vueve Clicquot- a humble miracle. Everyday magic, Joe had called it. The transformation of base matter into the stuff of dreams. Layman's alchemy. Take these six in Jay's cellar, for instance. The Specials. Not wines really meant for keeping, but he kept them all the same. For nostalgia's sake. For a special, yet-to-be-imagined occasion. Six bottles, each with its own small handwritten label and sealed with candle wax. Each had a cord of a different color knotted around its neck; raspberry red, elderflower green, blackberry blue, rose hip yellow, damson black. The last bottle was tied with a brown cord. Specials '75, said the label, the familiar writing faded to the color of old tea.

She gives just enough hints about him to make you wonder why he became so villainous. And if he dies, I’ll never learnt the answer.” Oliver eyes her closely. “Perhaps he was born villainous.” “No one is born villainous.” “Oh?” he said with raised eyebrow. “So we’re all born good?” “Neither. We start as animals, with an animal’s needs and desires. It takes parents and teachers and other good examples to show us how to restrain those needs and desires, when necessary, for the greater good. But it’s still our choice whether to heed that education or to do as we please.” “For a woman who loves murder and mayhem, you’re quite the philosopher.” “I like to understand how things work. Why people behave as they do.” He digested that for a moment. “I happen to think that some of us, like Rockton, are born with a wicked bent.” She chose her words carefully. “That certainly provides Rockton with a convenient excuse for his behavior.” His features turned stony. “What do you mean?” “Being moral and disciplined is hard work. Being wicked requires no effort at all-one merely indulges every desire and impulse, no matter how hurtful or immoral. By claiming to be born wicked, Rockton ensures that he doesn’t have to struggle to be god. He can just protest that he can’t help himself.” “Perhaps he can’t,” he clipped out. “Or maybe he’s simply unwilling to fight his impulses. And I want to know the reason for that. That’s why I keep reading Minerva’s books.” Did Oliver actually believe he’d been born irredeemably wicked? How tragic! It lent a hopelessness to his life that helped to explain his mindless pursuit of pleasure. “I can tell you the reason for Rockton’s villainy.” Oliver rose to round the desk. Propping his hip on the edge near her, he reached out to tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear. A sweet shudder swept over her. Why must he have this effect on her? It simply wasn’t fair. “Oh?” she managed. “Rockton knows he can’t have everything he wants,” he said hoarsely, his hand drifting to her cheek. “He can’t have the heroine, for example. She would never tolerate his…wicked impulses. Yet he still wants her. And his wanting consumes him.” Her breath lodged in her throat. It had been days since he’d touched her, and she hadn’t forgotten what it was like for one minute. To have him this near, saying such things… She fought for control over her volatile emotions. “His wanting consumes him precisely because he can’t have her. If he thought he could, he wouldn’t want her after all.” “Not true.” His voice deepening, he stroked the line of her jaw with a tenderness that roused an ache in her chest. “Even Rockton recognizes when a woman is unlike any other. Her very goodness in the face of his villainy bewitches him. He thinks if he can just possess that goodness, then the dark cloud lying on his soul will lift, and he’ll have something other than villainy to sustain him.” “Then he’s mistaken.” Her pulse trebled as his finger swept the hollow of her throat. “The only person who can lift the dark cloud on his soul is himself.” He paused in his caress. “So he’s doomed, then?” “No!” Her gaze flew to his. “No one is doomed, and certainly not Rockton. There’s still hope for him. There is always hope.” His eyes burned with a feverish light, and before she could look away, he bent to kiss her. It was soft, tender…delicious. Someone moaned, she wasn’t sure who. All she knew was that his mouth was on hers again, molding it, tasting it, making her hungry in the way that only he seemed able to do. “Maria…” he breathed. Seizing her by the arms, he drew her up into his embrace. “My God, I’ve thought of nothing but you since that day in the carriage.

There are some phases of modern physical degeneration in which most of us take part with remarkable complacency. We would consider it a great misfortune and disgrace to burn up the furniture in our homes to provide warmth, if fuel were available for the collection. This is precisely what we are doing with our skeletons by a process of borrowing, simply because we fail to provide new body repairing material each day in the food. You are all familiar with the tragic misfortune that overtakes so many elderly people through the accident of a broken hip or other fractured bone. Statistics show that approximately 50 per cent of fractured hips occurring in people beyond 65 years of age never unite. We look upon this as one of the inevitable consequences of advancing age. In Chapter 15 I have referred to the small boy whose leg was broken when he fell in a convulsion while walking across the kitchen floor. That bone did not break because the blow was hard but because the minerals had been borrowed from the inside by the blood stream in order to maintain an adequate amount of the minerals, chiefly calcium and phosphorus in the blood and body fluids. He had been borrowing from his skeleton for months because due to a lack of vitamins he could not absorb even the minerals that were present in the inadequate food that he was eating. The calcium and the phosphorus of the milk were in the skimmed milk that he was using but he needed the activators of the butter-fat in order to use the minerals. Simply replacing white bread with these activators and the normal minerals and vitamins of wheat immediately checked the convulsions

Epic" Can you feel it, see it, hear it today? If you can't, then it doesn't matter anyway You will never understand it cuz it happens too fast And it feels so good, it's like walking on glass It's so cool, it's so hip, it's alright It's so groovy, it's outta sight You can touch it, smell it, taste it so sweet But it makes no difference cuz it knocks you off your feet You want it all but you can't have it It's cryin', bleedin', lying on the floor So you lay down on it and you do it some more You've got to share it, so you dare it Then you bare it and you tear it You want it all but you can't have it It's in your face but you can't grab it It's alive, afraid, a lie, a sin It's magic, it's tragic, it's a loss, it's a win It's dark, it's moist, it's a bitter pain It's sad it happened and it's a shame You want it all but you can't have it It's in your face but you can't grab it What is it? It's it What is it?... The Real Thing (1989)

with the illusions of someday cast in a golden light - No dress rehearsal, this is our life.

We hustle for our worthiness by slipping on the emotional and behavioral straitjacket of cool and posturing as the tragically hip and the terminally “better than.” Being “in control” isn’t always about the desire to manipulate situations, but often it’s about the need to manage perception. We want to be able to control what other people think about us so that we can feel good enough.

I laughed - really hard. In my experience drummers tend to be outrageously funny people. Ditrich lends evidence to this observation - a superb drummer and a supremely funny writer. His novel is loaded with, to quote the book, “exotic descriptors gratuitously diacritical and absent of meaning”. It had me doubled over with laughter. It was a slow read as I was laughing so hard that I kept losing my place. Rob Baker, member of Tragically Hip and leader of Stripper’s Union

We hustle for worthiness by slipping on the emotional and behavioral straitjacket of cool and posturing as the tragically hip and terminally "better than." Being "in control" isn't always about the desire to manipulate situation, but often it's about the need to manage perception. We want to be able to control what other people think about us so that we can feel good enough.

It is a place where the tragically hip go to die, and people with more fashion sense than brain cells gather like moths to a flame.