Wh Questions Quotes

A writer, or at least a poet, is always being asked by people who should know better: “Whom do you write for?” The question is, of course, a silly one, but I can give it a silly answer. Occasionally I come across a book which I feel has been written especially for me and for me only. Like a jealous lover I don’t want anybody else to hear of it. To have a million such readers, unaware of each other’s existence, to be read with passion and never talked about, is the daydream, surely, of every author.

We cannot be deaf to the question: 'Do I love this world so well that I have to know how it ends?

Fairy tales are about trouble, about getting into and out of it, and trouble seems to be a necessary stage on the route to becoming. All the magic and glass mountains and pearls the size of houses and princesses beautiful as the day and talking birds and part-time serpents are distractions from the core of most of the stories, the struggle to survive against adversaries, to find your place in the world, and to come into your own. Fairy tales are almost always the stories of the powerless, of youngest sons, abandoned children, orphans, of humans transformed into birds and beasts or otherwise enchanted away from their own lives and selves. Even princesses are chattels to be disowned by fathers, punished by step-mothers, or claimed by princes, though they often assert themselves in between and are rarely as passive as the cartoon versions. Fairy tales are children's stories not in wh they were made for but in their focus on the early stages of life, when others have power over you and you have power over no one. In them, power is rarely the right tool for survival anyway. Rather the powerless thrive on alliances, often in the form of reciprocated acts of kindness -- from beehives that were not raided, birds that were not killed but set free or fed, old women who were saluted with respect. Kindness sewn among the meek is harvested in crisis... In Hans Christian Andersen's retelling of the old Nordic tale that begins with a stepmother, "The Wild Swans," the banished sister can only disenchant her eleven brothers -- who are swans all day look but turn human at night -- by gathering stinging nettles barehanded from churchyard graves, making them into flax, spinning them and knitting eleven long-sleeved shirts while remaining silent the whole time. If she speaks, they'll remain birds forever. In her silence, she cannot protest the crimes she accused of and nearly burned as a witch. Hauled off to a pyre as she knits the last of the shirts, she is rescued by the swans, who fly in at the last moment. As they swoop down, she throws the nettle shirts over them so that they turn into men again, all but the youngest brother, whose shirt is missing a sleeve so that he's left with one arm and one wing, eternally a swan-man. Why shirts made of graveyard nettles by bleeding fingers and silence should disenchant men turned into birds by their step-mother is a question the story doesn't need to answer. It just needs to give us compelling images of exile, loneliness, affection, and metamorphosis -- and of a heroine who nearly dies of being unable to tell her own story.

Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

History is, strictly speaking, the study of questions; the study of answers belongs to anthropology and sociology.

I have a story to tell. It is a tale for those who can still see, can still question. A story of where you are and how you got here. A tale foretold by your poets and prophets through the ages. Read their words, their thoughts, so that you may understand.

Iago’s treatment of Othello conforms to Bacon’s definition of scientific enquiry as putting Nature to the Question. If a member of the audience were to interrupt the play and ask him: "What are you doing? could not Iago answer with a boyish giggle, "Nothing. I’m only trying to find out what Othello is really like"? And we must admit that his experiment is highly successful. By the end of the play he does know the scientific truth about the object to which he has reduced Othello. That is what makes his parting shot, What you know, you know, so terrifying for, by then, Othello has become a thing, incapable of knowing anything. And why shouldn’t Iago do this? After all, he has certainly acquired knowledge. What makes it impossible for us to condemn him self-righteously is that, in our culture, we have all accepted the notion that the right to know is absolute and unlimited. […] We are quite prepared to admit that, while food and sex are good in themselves, an uncontrolled pursuit of either is not, but it is difficult for us to believe that intellectual curiosity is a desire like any other, and to realize that correct knowledge and truth are not identical. To apply a categorical imperative to knowing, so that, instead of asking, "What can I know?" we ask, "What, at this moment, am I meant to know?" – to entertain the possibility that the only knowledge which can be true for us is the knowledge we can live up to – that seems to all of us crazy and almost immoral. But, in that case, who are we to say to Iago – "No, you mustn’t.

The Unknown Citizen by W. H. Auden (To JS/07 M 378 This Marble Monument Is Erected by the State) He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be One against whom there was no official complaint, And all the reports on his conduct agree That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint, For in everything he did he served the Greater Community. Except for the War till the day he retired He worked in a factory and never got fired, But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc. Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views, For his Union reports that he paid his dues, (Our report on his Union shows it was sound) And our Social Psychology workers found That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink. The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way. Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured, And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured. Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan And had everything necessary to the Modern Man, A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire. Our researchers into Public Opinion are content That he held the proper opinions for the time of year; When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went. He was married and added five children to the population, Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation. And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education. Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

The lack of definitive answers to questions discussed in this book also reflects the fact that science is an ongoing process in wh ich the most important sign of progress is often that results of an experiment or observational study lead to a new set of questions. This is part of what makes science exciting and rewarding for scient ists, but it entails an important dilemma: how do we make the best pract ical and even ethical decisions based on incomplete scient ific knowledge?

Our researchers into Public Opinion are content That he held the proper opinions for the time of year; When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went. He was married and added five children to the population, Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation, And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education. Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

Why do you think I am like this?” It didn’t really sound like a question; there was no regret, or sorrow, or genuine tinge of curiosity. I didn’t think he expected a complex answer in any case, as I’m pretty sure we both knew that a team of neuroscientists and psychologists could work on Mad Dog for a decade and still not have all of the answers. Instead, I removed a sheet of paper from my legal folder and wrote one quatrain from a poem by W.H. Auden:             I and the public know             What all schoolchildren learn,             Those to whom evil is done             Do evil in return. He received this carefully and spent a moment looking it over. For the tiniest fraction of a second his face relaxed and his eyes softened and he seemed to shrink into himself as he breathed in. Then it was over, and he turned away from me, a dismissal if I ever saw one. He crumpled up my note angrily and tossed it away onto the floor. It was the last time we ever spoke.

Who are you?" she said, barely able to hear her own words as her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. He froze at her question and darted his eyes from her gaze, taking in, memorizing, her face and neck, the lines of her collarbone. He reached for a lock of hair that had spilled over her breast. "This is your dream, remember? Tell me who I am," he said smiling, absently coiling the long brown tendril around a finger. She narrowed her eyes at him, her tone firm. "If this is my dream, oneiroi, then answer my question. Who are you?" He was hearing her true voice- that of a natural ruler. His smile widened at her fearlessness, even though he was twice her size and loomed over her, caging her body with his. "I am not an oneiroi, sweet one." "What are you, then?" "Deathless," he said simply. "Like you." "Wh-who are you?" she whispered. He slowly lowered himself to her, hovering just above her, the heat of his chest making contact with her, making her quiver, making her want to pull the weight of his body down to cover hers. He whispered in her ear. "I am your lord husband.

I think of storytelling as a chance to know ourselves better, to really question wh oare are, where we've been, and who are want to be. Each person has an entire universe of stories inside of us. So my question to you all is, what is your story and how do you want to share it with the world? If you aren't ready to share tell your stories to yourself and let it nourish and guide you. Most importantly, your stories should please you and you alone. And when you are ready to share it, it'll be out there with other disabled narratives pushing back at that status quo.

When they rolled to a stop, she found herself pinned by a tremendous, huffing weight. And pierced by an intense green gaze. “Wh-?” Her breath rushed out in question. Boom, the world answered. Susanna ducked her head, burrowing into the protection of what she’d recognized to be an officer’s coat. The knob of a brass button pressed into her cheek. The man’s bulk formed a comforting shield as a shower of dirt clods rained down on them both. He smelled of whiskey and gunpowder. After the dust cleared, she brushed the hair from his brow, searching his gaze for signs of confusion or pain. His eyes were alert and intelligent, and still that startling shade of green-as hard and richly hued as jade. She asked, “Are you well?” “Yes.” His voice was a deep rasp. “Are you?” She nodded, expecting him to release her at the confirmation. When he showed no signs of moving, she puzzled at it. Either he was gravely injured or seriously impertinent. “Sir, you’re…er, you’re rather heavy.” Surely he could not fail to miss that hint. He replied, “You’re soft.” Good Lord. Who was this man? Where had he come from? And how was he still atop her? “You have a small wound.” With trembling fingers, she brushed a reddish knot high on his temple, near his hairline. “Here.” She pressed her hand to his throat, feeling for his pulse. She found it, thumping strong and steady against her gloved fingertips. “Ah. That’s nice.” Her face blazed with heat. “Are you seeing double?” “Perhaps. I see two lips, two eyes, two flushed cheeks…a thousand freckles.” She stared at him. “Don’t concern yourself, miss. It’s nothing.” His gaze darkened with some mysterious intent. “Nothing a little kiss won’t mend.” And before she could even catch her breath, he pressed his lips to hers. A kiss. His mouth, touching hers. It was warm and firm, and then…it was over. Her first real kiss in all her five-and-twenty years, and it was finished in a heartbeat.

Tate won’t like it that we kept the truth from him.” “I’m resigned to that,” Cecily said half-truthfully. “He would never have turned to me, anyway, even if he knew he had mixed blood. I’ve been living on dreams too long already.” “If you go away from him, he’ll follow you,” Leta said unexpectedly. “There’s a tie, a bond, between you that can’t be broken.” “There’s Audrey,” Cecily pointed out. “Honey, there have been other Audreys,” she replied. “He never brought them home or talked about them. They were loose relationships, and not very many at all-never any who were innocent.” “Audrey’s lasted a long time.” Leta searched her eyes. “If he’s sleeping with Audrey, Cecily, why can’t he keep his hands off you?” Cecily’s heart turned over twice. “Wh…what?” “Simple question,” came the droll reply. She grinned at the younger woman’s embarrassment. “When you came in the kitchen that last time you were here, before Tate left, your mouth was swollen and you wouldn’t look straight at him. He was badly shaken. It doesn’t take a mind-reader to know what was going on in my living room. It isn’t like Tate to play games with innocent girls.” “He doesn’t think I am, anymore,” she returned curtly. “I let him think that Colby and I are…very close.” “Uh-oh.” She scowled. “Uh-oh, what?” “The only thing that’s kept him away from you this long is that he didn’t want to take advantage of you,” Leta replied. “If he thinks you’re even slightly experienced, he’ll find a reason not to hold back anymore. You’re playing a dangerous game. Your own love will be your downfall if he puts on the heat. I know. How I know!” Cecily refused to think about it. She’d put Tate out of her mind, and she was going to keep him there for the time being. “I’ll worry about that when I have to,” she said finally. “Now you dry up those tears and drink some more coffee. Then we have to plan strategy. We’re going to take down the enemy by any means possible!

Here, where the possessive note is utterly silent and all events are tautological repetitions and no decision will ever alter the secular stagnation, at long last you are, as you have asked to be, the only subject. Who, When, Why, the poor tired little historic questions fall wilting into a hush of utter failure. Your tears splash down upon clinkers which will never be persuaded to recognise a neighbour and there is really and truly no one to appear with tea and help. You have indeed come all the way to the end of your bachelor's journey where Liberty stands with her hands behind her back, not caring, not minding anything. Confronted by a straight and snubbing stare to which mythology is bosh, surrounded by an infinite passivity and purely arithmetrical disorder which is only open to perception, and with nowhere to go on to, your existence is indeed free at last to choose its own meaning, that is, to plunge headlong into despair and fall through silence fathomless and dry, all fact your single drop, all value your pure alas.

thinking that he’d foiled her pathetic attempt. Then he let out a yelp of pain. “Wh-wh-what?” he stammered, confused by what was happening. “You already feel it, don’t you?” she said with a confident smile. “That’s a flower sea urchin. It’s got a pretty name, but what it does to your body is downright ugly.” He looked at the spiny sea creature in his hand. It was globular, about four inches wide, with tiny pink petals that resembled flowers. He dropped it to the floor, but it was too late. His palm was already beginning to swell. “That tingling in your hand,” she continued, “that’s caused by the poison on the petals. Pretty soon it will reach your bloodstream and that’s when the real trouble starts.” He looked at her with fear in his eyes. “First, your fingers will start feeling numb and then your lips,” she said. “Once it affects your tongue, you won’t be able to scream for help.” He went to say something but realized he could barely use his mouth. “So the question you have to ask yourself is this,” Brooklyn continued. “Do you want to keep chasing us until the poison overwhelms your entire body? Or do you want to leave us alone and drink the antidote that will save your life? It’s totally your choice.” He tried to answer but the best he could do was “Amp-li-dope.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t understand what you’re saying.” “Amp-li-dope!” he pleaded. “I still can’t understand, but I’m guessing it’s probably antidote,” she answered. “That would be the wise choice.

We’re all Malkuthians. And you know what? We’re all Theropods too.” “Wh-wh-what’s that?” “You know… Theropods. We’ve all got sharp teeth, we all walk on two legs, we all have arms shorter than our legs. For the most part, we’ve got two eyes, two hands, and a tail. I mean, some of us have more fingers and some of us have a horn or two, but how different does that really make us? We’re all just people, that’s what I’m saying. There shouldn’t be all this division and categorization. It just leads to more hate. It leads to more dysfunction. People look at me and think I’m privileged. People look at you and think you’re untouchable. They look at the two of us together and they think it’s fire and ice. It’s not right.

Okay, Eric Ovens,” she said. Eric Ovens shivered. His eyes filled with tears. Why me? he asked himself over and over again as he walked down the stairs. It’s my parents’ fault! Why did they have to name me Eric? Why couldn’t they name me Osgood? He tapped on the door to the principal’s office. “Come in!” bellowed Mr. Kidswatter. Eric Ovens gulped, then walked inside. He sat in the little chair in front of Mr. Kidswatter’s enormous desk. Eric Fry was nowhere to be seen. “Wh-what ha-happened to Eric Fry?” he asked. “I’ll ask the questions!” barked Mr. Kidswatter.

Okay, it’s done. But my dick kind of hurts, like still. Is that normal?” We’d cleared all the guards that were around us, so I was finally able to turn around and face him. “Your dick?” I questioned. “Why the hell does your dick hurt?” “Well, because of that needle,” he replied, looking at me like I’d lost my mind. “You said dense muscle.” “You gave yourself the shot in your dick? In the middle of a battle? Why would you do that? Like, wh–what—” I couldn’t even speak. I was done. “Your dick will be fine. Get back out there—we need to make sure Asrael doesn’t escape.

Simon kissed me and I just stood there like someone had cut the cord between my brain and my muscles. Finally, the connection caught and I did kiss him, but awkwardly, some part of me still holding back, my gut twisting, like I was doing something wrong, making a huge mistake, and— Simon stopped. For a moment, he hovered there, face above mine, until I had to look away. "Wrong guy, huh? he said, his voice so soft I barely caught it. "Wh-what?" He eased back, and his eyes went blank, unreadable. "There's someone else," he said. Not a question. A statement. "S-someone...? A boyfriend, you mean? From before? No. Never. I wouldn't—" "Go out with me if there was. I know." He took another step back, the heat of his body fading, the chill of night air moving in. "I don't mean a guy from before, Chloe. I mean one from now." I stared at him. Now? Who else...? There was only one other guy— "D-Derek? Y-you think—" I couldn't finish. I wanted to laugh. You think I like Derek? Are you kidding? But the laugh wouldn't come, just this thundering in my ears, breath catching like I'd been smacked in the chest. "Derek and I aren't—" "No, not yet. I know." "I—I don't—" Just say it. Please let me say it. "I don't like Derek." But I didn't. Couldn't.

Wh-what? What did you say?” “Hearing that, hearing you admit you love him, hurts just as much now as it did the first time.” “What do you mean?” I nearly yelled in a mixture of shock, anger, and confusion. “You knew? You remember?” He took a step toward me and held his hands up as if he was going to reach for me, but I stumbled away from him as Jentry hurried into the kitchen. Declan didn’t spare a glance for him, just moved one of his hands in Jentry’s direction as if silently asking him not to speak, then admitted hesitantly, “Yes, I remember that. I remembered when I woke up because it felt like just seconds after.” Jentry looked at me questioningly. “Declan already knew about us,” I choked out. “He knew when he woke up.” Jentry tensed and slowly looked over at him. “Dec, how could—do you . . . do you have any idea how much she has agonized over telling you again? And this whole time you’ve just been—Christ, you’ve just been pretending not to remember? And for what?” Declan’s head dropped and shook slowly as he spoke, but he still wouldn’t face Jentry. “Man, you’ve already taken her from me,” he growled in a low tone. “The least you could do is give me some fucking time alone with her.” “The least you could do is give me some time to come to terms with the fact that you used your coma to your advantage and have let me believe that you thought we were engaged,” I seethed. “Do you know how sick that is, Declan?” Without waiting for his response, I turned and walked from the house. The

What do you think of when you think of mourning?' Jenny asks. The question snaps me back to attention. I answer without really thinking. "I guess 'Funeral Blues' by W.H. Auden. I think it was Auden. I suppose that's not very original.' 'I don't know it.' 'It's a poem.' 'I gathered.' 'I'm just clarifying. It's not a blues album.' Jenny ignores my swipe at her intelligence. 'Does your response need to be original? Isn't that what poetry is for, for the poet to express something so personal that it ultimately is universal?' I shrug. Who is Jenny, even new Jenny, to say what poetry is for? Who am I for that matter? 'Why do you thin of that poem in particular?' "Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, / Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, / Silence the pianos and with muffled drum / Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.' I learned the poem in college and it stuck.

Everett's proposal raises two questions. If many worlds do exist, wh do we see only one and not all? Why do we not feel the world splitting? Everett answered both by an important property of quantum mechanics called linearity, or the superposition principle. It means that two processes can take place simultaneously without affecting each other. Consider, for example, Young's explanation of interference between two wave sources. Each source, when active alone, gives rise to a certain wave pattern. If both sources are active, the processes they generate could disturb each other drastically. But this does not happen. The wave pattern when both sources are active is found simply by adding the two wave patterns together. The total effect is very different from either of the individual processes, but in a real sense each continues unaffected by the presence of the other. This is by no means always the case; in so-called non-linear wave processes, the wave pattern from two or more sources cannot be found by simple addition of the patterns from the separate sources acting alone. However, quantum mechanics is linear, so the much simpler situation occurs.

Osaka: Ah got a question sensei... Ms Yukari Tanizaki: Wh-what? Osaka: It true they wear shoes in the house in America? Tanikaze: That's what I hear. Osaka: But then... ...wh-what if you stepped in dog poo outside... ... And you never noticed? And then... Tanikazi: ='\

I have a story to tell for those who can still see, can still question. A story of where you are, and how you got here. A story foretold by your poets and prophets through the ages. Read their words, their thoughts, so you may understand. - WH Wisecarver Author Resurrection Saga

I have a story to tell for those who can still see, can still question. A story of where you are, and how you got here. A story foretold by your poets and prophets through the ages. Read their words, their thoughts, so you may understand.

The mother discusses the past experience in rich detail. She asks lots of open-ended questions, which the researchers call “wh” questions: why, what, where, or who questions. For example, after a trip to the zoo, a highly elaborative parent might ask: “Who did you go to the zoo with? What animals did you see there?” This kind of question differs from yes/no “just the facts” questions, such as “Did you like the zoo?” By being asked questions, the child is invited to participate in the conversation, or co-construct it. The mother often repeats what the child says (“You saw a lion!”), thus encouraging the child to say more. As they go back and forth, the mother provides feedback to the child as well as more information: “The lion was growling. Was that a scary noise?” The mother shows a genuine interest in what the child is saying.

As he spoke the light bringer paced in front of the class, his chin frantic in motion as his mouth pulled up a line of drool that had tried to get away. Ash stood beside Ryse, Shyne, and Flare, the only children in the Stronghold who didn’t seem to believe that he might be a Song Weaver. They were the closest thing he had to friends, and they were all doing an outstanding job of avoiding eye contact with Hayze in case he asked them a question. Suddenly one of the children called out in alarm, pointing over the side of the battlements. “Light bringer! Wh-what’s that?” The snow below had been disturbed. Something was moving underneath it. “Aha! What did I tell you?” crowed Hayze. “They’re here! Gather round, children, and you will see something so awful it may turn your hair as gray as mine.” Ash was shoved hard as the class surged forward to get a closer look. “Outta the way, Song-freak!” sneered Thaw, a lanky, smug-looking older boy. Thaw was by far Ash’s least favorite person in the Stronghold, followed closely by his guffawing, bootlicking lackeys Raze and Frai, who stepped in line behind their leader. Ash said nothing but got as far away from the bullies as he could before peering over the battlements. The children held their breath. All was still. All was quiet. Then: “There!” cried Hayze in his most spit-spattering whisper. The snow had surged forward, leaving a trail behind it. There was something below, something that had sensed the sounds of the Stronghold, perhaps the vibrations of the western gate creaking

The answer to the question, in part, is-in heaven. But Pan] is seeking in Romans 8 to address another concern: Does the presence of sin in my life mean that I am not a Christian? Can I be in a right relationship with God (justified and adopted) and still sin as I do?