Vague Star Wars Quotes

Fear and anger, Yoda had often warned him, were slaves to the dark side. Vaguely, Luke wondered which side curiosity served.

Fear and anger, Yoda had often warned him, were the slaves of the dark side. Vaguely, Luke wondered which side curiosity served.

It's an Imperial attack," she said. "Oh," he said. "Can they do that?" "We're at war," she reminded him patiently. "In war you can do just about anything the other side can't stop you from doing. How did you get in here, anyway?" "Oh, I cut myself an entry code a while back," he said, waving a vague hand, his eyes still on the tactical. "Haven't had much to do lately. Can't you stop them?" "We're certainly going to try," Leia said grimly.

At its best, Star Trek appears to function as pop-allegory/ pop metaphor, taking current events and issues (ecology, war, racism) and objectifying them for us to contemplate in a sci-fi setting. The world it presents may make no scientific sense but it is well and truly sufficient to lay out human questions for us to think about. Removed from our immediate neighborhoods, it is refreshing and even intriguing to consider earth matters from the distance of a few light years. Like the best science fiction, Star Trek does not show us other worlds so meaningfully as it shows us our own—for better or worse, in sickness and in health. In truth, Star Trek doesn’t really even pretend to show us other worlds—only humanity refracted in a vaguely hi-tech mirror.

I understood slavery as bad and I had a vague sense that it had once been integral to the country and that the dispute over it had somehow contributed to the civil war. But even that partial sense ran contrary to the way the civil war was presented in the popular culture, as a violent misunderstanding, an honorable dual between wayward brothers instead of what it was. A spectacular chapter in a long war that was declared when the first Africans were brought chained to American shores. When it comes to the civil war, all of our popular understanding, our popular history and culture, our great films, the subtext of our arguments, are in defiance of its painful truths. It is not a mistake that Gone with the Wind is one of the most read works of American literature, or that The Birth of a Nation is the most revered touchstone of all American film. Both emerged from a need for palliatives and painkillers, an escape from the truth of those five short years in which seven hundred fifty thousand American soldiers were killed, more than all American soldiers kill in all other American wars combined, in a war declared for the cause of expanding African slavery. That war was inaugurated, not reluctantly, but lustily by men who believe property in humans to be the cornerstone of civilization, to be an edict of god, and so delivered their own children to his maw. And when that war was done the now defeated god lived on honored through the human sacrifice of lynching and racist programs. The history breaks the myth. And so, the history is ignored and fictions are weaved in to our art and politics that dress villainy in martyrdom, and transform banditry into chivalry. And so strong are these fictions that their emblem, the stars and bars, darkens front porches and state capitol buildings across the land to this day.

And then, in a moment, something changed. Perhaps he remembered something heard in his youth a long time ago: an ancient prophecy of the Chosen One who would bring balance to the Force. Perhaps the vague outlines of someone named Shmi and a Jedi named Qui-Gon struggled to the surface of his consciousness. The most powerful, the most repressed thought of all could have emerged from the darkness: Padmé…and her undying love for someone he once knew well. And despite all the terrible, unspeakable things he’d done in his life, he suddenly realized he could not stand by and allow the Emperor to kill their son. And in that moment, he was no longer Darth Vader. He was Anakin Skywalker.

Does he look like a killer?" She was watching Cassian and Bodhi descend into the mud when she heard Chirrut's voice. She turned to look and saw he was speaking to Baze. "No," Baze said, after a moment of thought. "He has the face of a friend." "Who are you talking about?" she asked. Baze eyed her appraisingly. "Captain Andor," he said, flat. She should have been irritated by the curt explanation. Instead she could only muster vague confusion. "Why do you ask that?" she said, looking to Chirrut now. "What do you mean, Does he look like a killer?" "The Force moves darkly near a creature that's about to kill," Chirrut answered.

You can take mine to the ship, too, you little blue snitch.” The droid beeped something that translated vaguely to “All’s fair with standard programming,

Be this as it may, an increasing number of us find that something is missing . . . something vague . . . something—dare I say—spiritual. Even those of us who scoff at religious and spiritual institutions have to admit that there is something there—purpose, meaning, internal calm, a like-minded society, and a chance to serve our fellow man—all of which are admirable. We are attracted and repulsed at the same time, primarily because there seems to be a steep price to pay when we enter the so-called spiritual arena.

What had happened, for instance, at one of the war's biggest battles, the Battle of Midway? It was in the Pacific, there was something about aircraft carriers. Wasn't there a movie about it, one of those Hollywood all-star behemoths in which a lot of admirals look worried while pushing toy ships around a map? (Midway, released in 1976 and starring Glenn Ford, Charlton Heston, and -- inevitably -- Henry Fonda.) A couple of people were even surprised to hear that Midway Airport was named after the battle, though they'd walked past the ugly commemorative sculpture in the concourse so many times. All in all, this was a dispiriting exercise. The astonishing events of that morning, the "fatal five minutes" on which the war and the fate of the world hung, had been reduced to a plaque nobody reads, at an airport with a vaguely puzzling name, midway between Chicago and nowhere at all.

He bared his teeth and thumbed the carbine over to full auto. And hesitated. He had this instant, extraordinarily vivid vision of trying to explain to the sadly patient face of Luke Skywalker-- the man who had spared Nick's life a couple hours earlier based on nothing more than a pun and a vague intuition that he might be innocent-- how I just blew away thirty-some innocent men and women so I could dig you out of there, because he had an overpowering intuition of his own: if Luke Skywalker thought he might save thirty innocent lives by sacrificing his own, he wouldn't hesitate. Ten innocent lives. One. "Or, hell, one not-so-innocent life," Nick muttered. "Like mine." He flipped the carbine's power setting to stun. "I hate Jedi. Hate 'em. Really, really, really. Hate.