Wus Quotes

Sudenly a gothic old man flu in on his broomstick. He had lung black hair and a looong black bread. He wus werring a blak robe dat sed 'avril lavigne' on da back. He shotted a spel and Vlodemort ran away. It was...DUMBLYDORE!

 “No acute attacks of guilt and self-hatred?” “Nope. I’ve taken Mr. Wu’s advice: never mind how hard the times are, he always says, carry a green branch in your heart and a songbird will settle on it.” “Wow—where on earth does Mr. Wu get all these hoary old sayings from?” 

He’s an engineer. Wu’s the same. They’re both technicians. They don’t have intelligence. They have what I call ‘thintelligence.’ They see the immediate situation. They think narrowly and they call it ‘being focused.’ They don’t see the surround.

In the brush at the bottom of Master Wu’s garden, something snuffles. I do not know whether ninjas snuffle. It seems to me that a very subtle sort of ninja might snuffle so as to make you think he was a neighbourhood dog, or just to let you know he was there and yet leave you guessing. On the other hand, maybe a ninja would regard this kind of trick as amateurish.

All five of Young Wu’s housemates are called names. They compare names. Chink, of course, and also slope, jap, nip, gook. Towelhead. Some names are specific, others are quite universal in their function and application. But the one that Wu can never quite get over was the original epithet: Chinaman, the one that seems, in a way, the most harmless, being that in a sense it is literally just a descriptor. China. Man. And yet in that simplicity, in the breadth of its use, it encapsulates so much. This is what you are. Always will be, to me, to us. Not one of us. This other thing.

I tried on the measured nobility of Milton’s epic verse. Gaining confidence, I added the romantic sensuality of a Byron matured by a Keatsish celebration of the language. Stirring all this, I seasoned the mixture with a dash of Yeats’s brilliant cynicism and a pinch of Pound’s obscure, scholastic arrogance. I chopped, diced, and added such ingredients as Eliot’s control of imagery, Dylan Thomas’s feel for place, Delmore Schwartz’s sense of doom, Steve Tem’s touch of horror, Salmud Brevy’s plea for innocence, Daton’s love of the convoluted rhyme scheme, Wu’s worship of the physical, and Edmond Ki Fererra’s radical playfulness. In the end, of course, I threw this entire mixture out and wrote the Cantos in a style all my own. — IF IT HAD not been for Unk the slumyard bully, I probably still would be on Heaven’s Gate, digging

Wu was lying on his back, his body already torn open by the big claw, and the raptor was jerking its head, tugging at Wu’s intestines even though Wu was still alive, still feebly reaching up with his hands to push the big head away, he was being eaten while he was still alive,

In the morning, Lian and I tuck into a breakfast of fluffy baozi, fresh from the bamboo steamers of Small Wu’s kitchen m. We pull the dough apart to reveal the filling within — ground pork mixed with chopped chives and drizzled with sesame oil — and blow to cool the steaming insides.

Wu’s reedy build had always reminded me of a malevolent grasshopper.

He’s all right. He’s an engineer. Wu’s the same. They’re both technicians. They don’t have intelligence. They have what I call ‘thintelligence.’ They see the immediate situation. They think narrowly and they call it ‘being focused.’ They don’t see the surround. They don’t see the consequences. That’s how you get an island like this. From thintelligent thinking. Because you cannot make an animal and not expect it to act alive. To be unpredictable. To escape. But they don’t see that.

It was Wu’s deepest perception that the park was fundamentally sound, as he believed his paleo-DNA was fundamentally sound. Whatever problems might arise in the DNA were essentially point-problems in the code, causing a specific problem in the phenotype: an enzyme that didn’t switch on, or a protein that didn’t fold. Whatever the difficulty, it was always solved with a relatively minor adjustment in the next version. Similarly, he knew that Jurassic Park’s problems were not fundamental problems. They were not control problems. Nothing as basic, or as serious, as the possibility of an animal escaping. Wu found it offensive to think that anyone would believe him capable of contributing to a system where such a thing could happen.

It’s a scent masker,” she explains. “We’ll be safe where we are, but it’s an extra precaution I like to take. Not only do you smell like a human, which means food, but you’ve been helping me load goat meat, which is her favorite. Dr. Wu’s team whipped this up for the trainers and vets a while back. It makes your scent blend into the other scents of the jungle so it’s harder for them to pinpoint it. It’s not perfect, but it’s a useful tool.

It is,” Dr. Wu acknowledges. “But a temporary solution has been found in the meantime. And the science will persist until a permanent one is discovered.” There’s something so balanced about Dr. Wu’s words…and his world. He is in control, ruler of this tremendous domain of science and steel, keeper of the kind of knowledge and talent and brilliance most people can’t even dream of.

Przejrzałem moje notatki i nie spodobały mi się. Spędziłem trzy dni w U.S. Robots, a równie dobrze mogłem zostać w domu i wertować Encyclopedia Tellurica.