Vernon God Little Quotes

The problem with learning the truth about things is that you lose the confidence that comes from being dumb.

I sense a learning: that much dumber people than you end up in charge.

God knows I tried my best to learn the ways of this world, even had inklings we could be glorious; but after all that's happened, the inkles ain't easy anymore. I mean - what kind of fucken life is this?

She said Mom closed up the house one day, turned the oven on full, and sat by its open door. Apparently it's still a Cry For Help, even though our oven's electric.

For all the sirens, game-show buzzers, and drum-rolls of life, it is the nature of men to die quietly.

He thought he saw some horses, too, and a clown, but it was the faces of all those dead raptors that really bothered him. And maybe that clown a little bit.

People ought to be a lot quicker to listen to each other and a little slower to listen to something that calls itself a god.

This would never happen to Van Damme. Heroes never shit. They only fuck and kill.

She gets that fabulous edge that girls get to their voices, the edge that spells oncoming Tantrum From the Bowels of Hell, that says, 'I'll scratch the heavens down around you and suck the fucken air from your lungs and spit you to fucken hell and you know it.

What I'am learning is the world laughs through its ass every day, then just lies double-time when shit goes down. It's like we're on a Pritikin diet of fucken lies. I mean - what kind of fucken life is this?

Boy you really missed the boat. I’ll make it simple, so’s even fuckin you can understand. Papa God growed us up till we could wear long pants; then he licensed his name to dollar bills, left some car keys on the table, and got the fuck outta town”. Water rushes to his eye-holes. “Don’t be lookin up at no sky for help. Look down here, at us twisted dreamers”. He takes hold of my shoulders, spins me around, and punches me towards the mirror on the wall. “You’re the God. Take responsibility. Exercise your power

What happens with sassy music is you get floated away from yourself, then snap back to reality too hard. I hate that. The only antidote is to just stay depressed.

School never teaches you about this mangled human slime, it slays me. You spend all your time learning the capital of Surinam while these retards carve their initials in your back.

Where TV lets you down, I’m discovering, is by not convincing you how things really work in the world. Like, do buses stop anywhere along the road, to pick up any kind of asshole, or do you have to be at a regular bus stop?

Son of a stadium full of bitches.

...regardless of whether or not God actually exists, in my little world my experience of the Divine remains real and guides me in ways that I don't believe I would be guided if it were not real to me.

Her soul's already knotted over the choice of side-order, you can tell. She'll end up getting coleslaw anyway, on account of Mom says it's healthy. It's vegetables, see. Me, I need something healthier today. Like the afternoon bus out of town.

It just wasn't enough, in the end, I guess. The day he got his first thousand dollars, the neighbors must've got ten. Aim for a million bucks, you suddenly need a billion. I upgraded my computer, but it wasn't enough. No matter what, it ain't fucken enough in life, that's what I learned.

I sense a learning: that much dumber people than you end up in charge. Look at the way things are. I'm no fucken genius or anything, but these spazzos are in charge of my every twitch. What I'm starting to think is maybe only the dumb are safe in this world, the ones who roam with the herd, without thinking about every little thing. But see me? I have to think about every little fucken thing.

Surely--we argue--it is safer to make, at the Morning Offering, a virtual intention covering all the day, and then carry on with practical common sense. This sounds excellent in theory, but too often it breaks down in practice and merely ends in the making of the Morning Offering, while we slip through the day on a purely natural plane till we arrive at our prayers in the evening; and it is precisely our habit of thus meeting the smallest actions of our daily life on the natural plane which makes them more than we can cope with. Divorced from their true purpose, that of leading us out of ourselves to God and to our fellow-men, they imprison us within ourselves and make us give way to self-pity and discontent. On the other hand, if we do everything to please Our Lord we shall find ourselves becoming more and more alert to help others and far more conscious of the endless little opportunities around us, the value of which we had never realized before.

St. Therese saw things in their totality. She saw the smallest detail of life as part of an infinite whole; she saw the smallest suffering in its direct relation to heaven. What was it that enabled her to see things thus? it was her littleness, that very thing in her which we so readily misunderstand. To the really little, to the really humble, to the soul, that is to say, that is completely dependent upon God, the whole universe and every detail of human life within it is a unity. The smallest thing on earth is inseparably linked with heaven. It is the humble who see things in their totality, because for them, God is the centre of everything. Their life therefore is a harmony, and they are at peace. On the other hand, the more grown up we are, the more self reliant and independent we become, the more is this truth hidden from our eyes, precisely because, self being the centre, we see things only after a fragmentary fashion. Life is full of discord and conflict; we become anxious and rebellious and know no peace.

A sob pops in my throat. I choke it, and look around for a harmless visual distraction, but all I see is a stocky young woman with a baby, a few seats up. The baby is pulling the woman's hair, and she is faking this look of terror. 'Oh no', she says, 'How can you do that to mommy?' She pretends to bawl, but the baby laughs and gurgles like a psycho, and pulls even harder. I'm witnessing a fresh knife being laid into a brand-new soul. A training dagger. A maternity blade. Here's his mom quietly opening up the control incision, completely innocent in her dumbness to the world. 'Oh no, you've killed Mommy, Mommy's gone!' She plays dead. The little guy giggles for a minute, but only that long. Then he senses something's wrong. She ain't waking up. He killed her, she abandoned him, just like that, over a pull of hair. He pokes her with his finger, he gets ready to bawl. And there you have it: he takes the handle into his own tiny hands and pulls in his first blade, right up to the hilt. Just to bring her back. And sure enough, with the splash of his first tear, she wakes right up. 'Ha, ha, I'm still here! Ha, ha it's Mommy!' Ha, ha, that's the Scheme of Things.

...How do little children show their love? Through little things. A little child, just because it is little, is utterly unable to show its love in any other way. At some time or other we have all had evidence of that, if only we have had eyes to see it. The most superficial observation of human life shows us how very little children will continually offer little things to their mother- a toy, a picture, a flower - as evidence of their love. To show their love they relate everything to their mother, and the means they make use of are the insignificant details of their little world, the things that lie immediately to hand. We notice too that the mother, although she has no need of the toy, the picture, or the flower, loves the child to make these offerings, because she wants the love that lies behind them. In themselves they are nothing, but insofar as they express the love of her little child, those nothings become most precious. The lesson is obvious. We who desire in the spirit of little children to offer our lives to God as one continual act of humble and confident love can do so only through the little ordinary details which lie around us in our daily life....for this reason the little things we do for him, in themselves apparently so insignificant, are to him infinitely previous.

- ზოგჯერ საზოგადოებრივ აზრს უფრო მეტი გავლენა აქვს, ვიდრე შენ გგონია. ხალხს სამართლიანობის ზეიმის დანახვა სწყურია და მაგის არდანახვა არ შეიძლება. ჰოდა, მეც გეუბნები: მიეცი ხალხს ის, რაც სწყურია და რასაც მოელის. - მერე, მე რო მართლა არაფერი არ დამიშვებია? - ნწ, ეგ ჯერჯერობით არავინ არ იცის. ადამიანები დასკვნებს ხან ფაქტების საფუძველზე აკეთბენ, ხანაც - ფაქტების არარსებობის მიუხედავად. შენ თუ შენი სოროდან არ გამოძვერი და მაგათ შენი საკუთარი პარადიგმა არ მოუხაზე, შენ მაგივრად სხვა მოუხაზავს და მაშინ შენც მოგეხაზება. - ვერ გავიგე, რა უნდა მოვხაზო? - პა-რა-დიგ-მა. პარადიგმული გადატანა არასოდეს არ გაგიგია? აჰა, მაგალითი: ხედავ კაცს, რომელიც ბებიასენს ხელს ტრაკში უყოფს. რას იფიქრებ? - მე მაგის დედა... - ვერც ვერავინ გაგამტყუნებს, მართალი ხარ. მაგრამ მერე იგებ, რო თურმე ბებოს ტრაკში რაღაცა შხამიანი ხოჭო შეძრომია და იმ ღვთისნიერ კაცს თავისი ზიზღიანობა დავიწყებია და ბებიაშენი გადაურჩენია. ეხლა რაღას იტყვი? - გმირი ყოფილა. ამას ეგრევე ეტყობა, რო ბებიაჩემი არ უნახავს. - აი, ზუსტად ეგ არის პარადიგმული გადატანა. ქმედება არ შეცვლილა, შეიცვალა ინფორმაცია, რომელმაც მომხდარი სულ სხვა კუთხით დაგანახვა. ცოტა ხნის წინ მზად იყავი ტიპი მიგეთეთქვა, ეხლა კი გინდა მიხვიდე და ხელი ჩამოართვა. - არა, არ მინდა. - გადატანითი მნიშვნელობით გეუბნები, შე პატარა ვირისთავო, შენა, - იცინის და მუცელში მუშტს ისე მაზელს, რო ნეკნები შესამოწმებელი მიხდება, - ტელევიზორიდან ფაქტები შავ და თეთრ ფერებში აღიქმება, მაგრამ ყველაფერი ეგრე მარტივად რო დალაგდეს, მაგისთვის პროფესიონალების მთელ გუნდს ნაცრისფერი გორების ქექვა უხდება. საკუთარი თავის მიწოდება უნდა შეგეძლოს. იცი, დღეს ვინ ზის ციხეებში? ზუსტად ის ხალხი, ვინც თავისი თავის მიწოდება ვერ მოახერხა.

Another coupon tacked onto the pile I'll redeem when I get some power in my fucken life. Look around this life and all you see is folks' coupons tacked everywhere, what they'll do if, what they'll do when. Warm anticipation for shit that ain't even going to happen.

Anger cuts through a wide range of things. Cuts like a knife

Висновок: що глибше ти по вуха у гімні, то солодші твої плани на майбутнє.

My balls crawl up my throat.

So what’s up, you dirty boy?’ she teases on the escalator. ‘Shit, I don’t know where to start.’ ‘I’ll drag it out of you.’ She slips her dry little hand into my bunch of wet finger-meats, and coaxes me through the crowd. ‘We’ll check for my cousin, then maybe grab a juice, get private.’ A juice. Grab a private juice. What a woman.

This is a neighborhood where underwear sags low. For instance, ole Mr Deutschman lives up here, who used to be upstanding and decent.

უეცარი დასირების პოტენციური შესაძლებლობა, ოცნების ახდენის შემთხვევაში, პირდაპირპროპორციულია იმ დროისა, რომელიც ოცნების აგებაზე წაგივიდა. უდპშ = ოად. რაც იმას ნიშნავს, რო ყოველ წუთს შეიძლება ყველაფერი დაკარგო.

უკ­ვე ისე ვარ ამოს­ვრი­ლი, რო ქა­ქის ჩა­მო­ფერ­თხვას აზ­რი ეკარგება. ერ­თი რა­მ კი მინ­და გით­ხრათ, ქაქ­ში რაც უფ­რო ღრმად შეტო­პავ, მით უფრო ნაკ­ლე­ბად ამ­ჩნევ, რო ქაქ­ში ხარ. მა­ინც რა სის­ტე­მაა ეს? ვერ გა­მი­გია. მე, მა­გა­ლი­თად, ხალხს ქაქ­ში ამოსვრილ­თა სა­კით­ხებ­ზე მო­მუ­შა­ვე კო­მი­ტე­ტის პრე­ზი­დენ­ტად რო ავერ­ჩიე, შე­ვეც­დე­ბო­დი, ამოს­ვრი­ლე­ბის­თვის ჩა­მო­რეც­ხვის ამ­ბა­ვი გა­მე­ად­ვი­ლე­ბი­ნა. თუ ადა­მი­ა­ნი ამ ცხოვ­რე­ბა­ში სისუფთავის­კენ უნ­და მი­ის­წრა­ფო­დეს, მა­შინ მე ვთვლი, რო ჭუჭყის ჩა­მო­რეც­ხვა ყვე­ლა­სთ­ვის გა­ად­ვი­ლე­ბუ­ლი უნ­და იყოს.

რო­გორ გინ­და, სი­სუფ­თა­ვე­ზე იფიქ­რო, რო­ცა თა­ვი­დან ფეხებამდე ქაქ­ში ხარ ამოს­ვრი­ლი?!

It’s cause and effect, Vernon,

Lookit that,' she says. 'We just saved us the price of a Chik 'n' Mix.' Deep fucken trouble keeps my euphoria at bay.

The death of an infant, however, causes all of us to struggle with the will and purpose of God. It seems strange that God would grant the gift of life and then cause it to be snuffed out before it could blossom into a stage of usefulness. But we can be sure that there is a purpose in such a life, even if it is not immediately discernible. James Vernon McGee again says that when a shepherd seeks to lead his sheep to better grass up the winding, thorny mountain paths, he often finds that the sheep will not follow him. They fear the unknown ridges and the sharp rocks. The shepherd will then reach into the flock and take a little lamb on one arm and another on his other arm. Then he starts up the precipitous pathway. Soon the two mother sheep begin to follow, and afterward the entire flock. Thus they ascend the tortuous path to greener pastures. So it is with the Good Shepherd. Sometimes He reaches into the flock and takes a lamb to Himself. He uses the experience to lead His people, to lift them to new heights of commitment as they follow the little lamb all the way home.

Брехун — це психопат, який викладає сірі плями на білому і чорному. Мій обов’язок — повідомити вам, що сірих зон немає. Факти є фактами. Або ж вони є брехнею.

Його характер так гарно вписувався в його особистість, як ніжка у панчішку, в ті часи, коли ми були володарями всесвіту, коли бруд на кросівках був важливіший за самі кросівки.

Якщо речі не відбуваються, доки ти не побачиш, що вони відбуваються, то чи продовжують вони відбуватися, якщо ти думаєш, що вони відбудуться, але нікому про це не кажеш?

Я затямив одну річ — батьки завжди мають чим крити, бо в них є ретельно впорядкована база даних твоєї тупості й твоїх мерзот і вони готові щомиті застосувати її в бою. Вони вирубають тебе в секунду і безпомилково, не встигнеш і на крайчик дістати свою омріяну артилерію. З часом вони розуміють, що ти — не святе непорочне дитя, і в миті, коли їм нудно і нема чого робити, вони беруть довбуть тебе, просто так, заради розваги — щоб ти не розслаблявся.

Ви ж зауважте: кожного разу, як у вашому житті щось трапляється, ну наприклад закохуєтесь ви абощо, до цієї події неодмінно приліпиться якийсь мотивчик. Це мелодії Долі. Остерігайтесь цих гівнюхів.

З цього боку живе багато парочка, ну, принаймні будинок їхній пофарбований по-багатому. А отже, вони приділяють менше часу шпигуванню через сітчасті дверцята, на відміну від місіс Портер. Що люди багатші, то менш вони допитливі, якщо ви раптом не знали.

Запишіть собі на лобі: що глибше тебе засмоктує брехня, то важче стає її визнавати — Доля завжди робить так. Що за ідіотська система? Якби я був президентом Комітету Брехні, то полегшив би весь цей процес зізнання. Якщо ти вже зобов’язаний зізнаватися, то, бляха, нехай ця опція буде доступнішою, ну хіба не так?

Пам’ятаєте той старий фільм, з будинком на березі моря? Так-от: люди повинні так жити по-справжньому, і таких людей має бути багато. Ніде ж не сказано, що це опція лише для якихось обраних.

Ось тобі ще одна життєва істина, о любий друже: щойно ти усвідомлюєш усю правду життя, ти стаєш проклятим, бо більше вже не можеш діяти з благою впевненістю ідіота.

Бо ти реально можеш бути собою тільки тоді, коли тобі вже нема чого втрачати, січети?

قدم زنان که می رویم، یادم می افتد باید آن قدر مشکل تو آستین داشته باشم که دیگر برام مهم نباشد از چه حرفی خوشش می آید از چه حرفی بدش می آید. فقط وقتی می توانی واقعا خودت باشی که چیزی برای از دست دادن نداشته باشی، ملتفتی؟ این هم از کشفیاتم بود. شاید مضحک به نظر برسد، ولی وقتی رویاهات تحقق پیدا می کنند تازه کار سخت می شود. همچین وقت هایی حس می کنی بدبیاری در کمینت است، این را از من داشته باش. تازه، با فکر کردن بهش وضع را بدتر خراب می کنی. کشف کرده ام خریتی که با تحقق یک رویا ممکن است از آدم سر بزند با مدت زمانی که آدم صرف خیال بافی می کند نسبت دارد. خریت مساوی است با زمان خیال بافی به توان دو. یعنی بعید نیست الان عق بزنم.

It ain't my idea to leave before dawn. My ole lady decided to visit Nana, that's why the house stinks of hairspray. You know why she's leaving early: so nobody sees her scurry through town on foot. All she wants is for them to see her arrived, all hunky-dory. Not scurrying. It's a learning I made since the car went. 'Well I just can't believe there isn't a pair of Tumbledowns around town, I mean, I'll have to try down by Nana's.' She gives off breathy noises, and flicks her fingertips through my hair. Then she takes a step back and frowns. It means goodbye. 'Promise me you won't miss your therapy.' An electric purple sky spills stars behind the pumpjack, calling home the last moths for the night. It reminds me of the morning when ole Mrs Lechuga was out here, all devastated. I try not to think about it. Instead I look ahead to today. Going to Keeter's is a smart idea; if anybody sees me out there, they'll say, 'We saw Vernon out by Keeter's,' and nobody will know if they mean the auto shop, or the piece of land. See? Vernon Gray-matter Little. In return, I've asked Fate to help me solve the cash thing. It's become clear that cash is the only way to deal with problems in life. I even scraped up a few things to pawn in town, if it comes to that. I know it'll come to that, so I have them with me in my pack – my clarinet, my skateboard, and fourteen music discs. They're in the pack with my lunchbox, which contains my sandwich, the two joints, and a piece of paper with some internet addresses on it. As for the joints and the piece of paper, I heard the voice of Jesus last night. He advised me to get wasted, fast. If at first you don't succeed, he said, get wasted off your fucken ass. My plan is to sit out at Keeter's and get some new ideas, ideas borne out of the bravery of wastedness. I ride down empty roads of frosted silver, trees overhead swish cool hints of warm panties in bedclothes. Liberty Drive is naked, save for droppings of hay, and Bar-B-Chew Barn wrappers. In this light you can't see the stains on the sidewalk by the school. As the gym building passes by, all hulky and black, I look the other way, and think of other things. Music's a crazy thing, when you think about it. Interesting how I decided which discs not to pawn. I could've kept some party music, but that would've just tried to boost me up, all this thin kind of 'Tss-tss-tss,' music. You get all boosted up, convinced you're going to win in life, then the song's over and you discover you fucken lost. That's why you end up playing those songs over and over, in case you didn't know. Cream pie, boy. I could've kept back some heavy metal too, but that's likely to drive me to fucken suicide. What I need is some Eminem, some angry poetry, but you can't buy that stuff in Martirio. Like it was an animal sex doll or something, you can't buy angry poetry. When you say gangsta around here, they still think of Bonnie & fucken Clyde. Nah, guess what: I ended up keeping my ole Country albums. Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Johnny Paycheck – even my daddy's ole Hank Williams compilation. I kept them because those boys have seen some shit – hell, all they sing about is the shit they've seen; you just know they woke up plenty of times on a wooden floor somewhere, with ninety flavors of trouble riding on their ass. The slide-guitar understands your trouble. Then all you need is the beer.

Then a learning jumps to mind, that once you plan to do something, and figure how long it’ll take, that’s exactly how long Fate gives you before the next thing comes along to do.

Lord’. I help the pastor unload the car and carry stuff to a cake stand right next to the train tracks. He installs me there, as caretaker of the cake stand, and – get this – I have to wear a fucken choir gown. Vernon Gucci Little, in his unfashionable Jordan New Jacks, with fucken choir gown.

I help the pastor unload the car and carry stuff to a cake stand right next to the train tracks. He installs me there, as caretaker of the cake stand, and – get this – I have to wear a fucken choir gown. Vernon Gucci Little, in his unfashionable Jordan New Jacks, with fucken choir gown.

You’re the God. Take responsibility. Exercise your power.