Wyeth Quotes

Ethan Wyeth: I hope you're thirsty." Gideon Wyeth:"Why?" Ethan: "Cause your dumb and ugly, but I can do something about thirsty.

I prefer winter and fall, when you can feel the bone structure in the landscape---the lonliness of it---the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it---the whole story dosen't show.

I do an awful lot of thinking and dreaming about things in the past and the future - the timelessness of the rocks and the hills - all the people who have existed there. I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show.

I dream a lot. I do more painting when I'm not painting. It's in the subconscious.

Really, I think one's art goes only as far and as deep as your love goes

I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show.

There is only a black fence and a wide field and a barn of Wyeth red. The smell of anger chokes the air. Ravens of September rain descend. Some say a mad mad hermit man lived here talking to himself and the woodchuck. But he's gone. No reason. No sense. He just wandered off one day, past the onions, past the fence. Forget the letters. Forget love. Troy is nothing more than a black finger of charcoal frozen in lake ice. And near where the owl watches and the old bear dreams, the parapet of memory burns to the ground taking heaven with it.

I think a person permeates a spot, and a lost presence makes the environment timeless to me, keeps an area alive. It pulsates because of that.

If it [talent] isn’t strong enough to take the gaff of real training, then it’s not worth much.

I'm convinced that the best solutions are often the ones that are counterintuitive - that challenge conventional thinking - and end in breakthroughs. It is always easier to do things the same old way...why change? To fight this, keep your dissatisfaction index high and break with tradition. Don't be too quick to accept the way things are being done. Question whether there's a better way. Very often you will find that once you make this break from the usual way - and incidentally, this is probably the hardest thing to do—and start on a new track your horizon of new thoughts immediately broadens. New ideas flow in like water. Always keep your interests broad - don't let your mind be stunted by a limited view.

I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure in the landscape--the loneliness of it--the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it--the whole story doesn't show.

Steven Projan of Wyeth Research puts it, bacteria “are the oldest of living organisms and thus have been subject to three billion years of evolution in harsh environments and therefore have been selected to withstand chemical assault.

Or as Steven Projan of Wyeth Research puts it, bacteria “are the oldest of living organisms and thus have been subject to three billion years of evolution in harsh environments and therefore have been selected to withstand chemical assault.”10

Take that old sales pitch from Apple computers. 'Think different.' It's a nice sentiment for children, but what happens in real life? You come back proudly holding up what you found, but then people cover their eyes and scream, 'No, no! We didn't really mean for you to think different!' The truth is, if you just want to be weird on the surface, that's fine. They'll pay you handsomely as long as you go with the flow. But don't call the plan into question, otherwise they have to rewrite everything.

I think anything like that- which is contemplative, silent, shows a person alone- people always feel sad. Is it because we've lost the art of being alone?

A large banner above the teaching board read, 'Everything is racist. Everything else is a human right.

I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape-the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show.

I prefer Winter and Fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape- the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of Winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show.

I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape — the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.

Have we not already seen the cultural malaise of the past fifty years, as people living within this worldwide cargo cult have been divorced from the need to produce anything, as well as from the consequences of their own actions? They have incrementally been separated from the land, from their factories, from creating art, and now they even abandon marriage and reproduction.

Hey, now , enough of that.” Wyeth shook her again, gentler this time, then ducked his head and peered under the curtain of hair she was hiding behind. “Have faith in yourself, Saige. You can live your own life.” “But what if I make a right fine royal mess of it?” Wyeth chuckled . “That’s the beauty of it – you never know where your decisions are going to take you, but that’s the adventure of life.

EPIGRAPH “There was a very strange connection. One of those odd collisions that happen. We were a little alike; I was an unhealthy child that was kept at home. So there was an unsaid feeling between us that was wonderful, an utter naturalness. We’d sit for hours and not say a word, and then she’d say something, and I’d answer her. A reporter once asked her what we talked about. She said, ‘Nothing foolish.’” —Andrew Wyeth

All I wanted was something normal, a day like last Tuesday when Mimi was still alive, which was less than a week ago. I wanted to walk to Stoneybrook Middle School with Mary Anne, open the side door, which we sometimes use because it’s close to my locker, saunter through the halls, look for the other club members or maybe for Dorrie Wallingford or Ashley Wyeth or some other friend, and hope that a boy would notice my outfit and smile at me.

All these white folks that move to LA, they don't just come here looking for something. I think they also tryin' to get away from something. They are renouncing something about their white-bread Midwest world, and LA is the temple where they make the blood sacrifice to get their revenge.

The one image I eventually found of Alexis St. Martin as a whole young man is in a painting by Dean Cornwell entitled Beaumont and St. Martin—part of the Pioneers of American Medicine series commissioned in 1938 by Wyeth Laboratories for an ad campaign. Despite the unfortunate side-parted bob that St. Martin appeared to stick with all through his adult life, the man as Cornwell rendered him is striking: broad cheekbones, vertically plunging aquiline nose, and a firmly muscled, deeply tanned chest and arms. Beaumont is dashing but dandified. His hair is oddly waved and piled, like something squeezed from a cake decorator’s bag.

The prevailing mood of the painting is stoicism: one man enduring for the sake of science, the other for subsistence. Given the painting’s intent—the glorification of medicine (and Beaumont and Wyeth labs)—it’s fair to assume the emotional content has been given a whitewash. It can’t have been a hoot for either. At least once in his notes, Beaumont mentions St. Martin’s “anger and impatience.” The procedure was not merely tedious; it was physically unpleasant. The extraction of the gastric juices, Beaumont wrote, “is generally attended by that peculiar sensation at the pit of the stomach, termed sinking, with some degree of faintness, which renders it necessary to stop the operation.

And I know that we won't be able to escape it in deep space, either. We might succeed in ignoring this doubt for a while—keep everyone so busy doing what it takes to build the ships to get us out there. But eventually the bustle ends, and then we're left with ourselves again. It'll be the loneliest revelation ever—half a million miles from home.

He hated himself for allowing his heart to be tossed by the waves of her flicking tongue. This Earth Mother who in one moment offered limitless hope—a glorious horizon that would inspire him to perform any heroic deed she might require—before hurtling him into the hollow despair of her disdain. The goddess had chosen another! Or perhaps no one at all. What mattered was that the lovely warmth of her gaze no longer shone upon you.

Sometimes a sanctuary, sometimes a prison, that house on the hill has always been my home. I've spent my life yearning toward it, wanting to escapt it, paralyzed by its hold on me. (There are many ways to be crippled, I've learned over the years, many forms of paralysis.) Some sense memories fade as soon as they're past. Others are etched in your mind for the rest of your life. We should've sold this house when we had the chance. You're the inmate and I'm the warden. The words hand in the air between us. But as long as neither of us mentions them, we can pretend they were never said. The older I get, the more I believe that the greatest kindness is acceptance. There are many ways to love and be loved. Too bad it's taken most of a lifetime for me to understand what that means. Wyeth: Christina's World--The painting is more a psychological landscape than a portrait, a portrayal of a state of mind rather than a place. Like the house, like the landscape, she perseveres. As an embodiment of the strength of the American character, she is vibrant, pulsating, immortal.

The history of HRT use dates back to 1966 and the success of Dr. Robert Wilson’s best-selling book Feminine Forever, which he promoted vigorously. The premise of the book was that it was as natural and necessary for a menopausal woman to replace estrogen as it was for a diabetic to replace insulin. Dr. Wilson preached that doing so would keep a woman young, healthy, and attractive. He went so far as to declare that the lack of eggs and decline of reproductive hormones in a menopausal woman was a “galloping catastrophe”5 that could only be averted by taking estrogen supplements. He explained that with estrogen supplements, “Breasts and genital organs will not shrivel. Such women will be much more pleasant to live with and will not become dull and unattractive.” According to Dr. Wilson’s son, Ronald, all of his father’s expenses to write Feminine Forever were paid for by Wyeth-Ayerst, the maker of the synthetic estrogen supplement Premarin. He also said that Wyeth-Ayerst financed his father’s organization, the Wilson Research Foundation, which had offices on Park Avenue in Manhattan.

Wyeth was perhaps stupid. No, he was not stupid, he was surrounded and isolated by comfort.

I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape—the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show. —Andrew Wyeth (1917

The wonderful thing about Moab is that everything happens in a story-book setting, with illustrations by Maxfield Parrish and Wyeth and Joe Coll, and all the rest of them, whichever way you look. Imagine a blue sky—so clear-blue and pure that you can see against it the very feathers in the tails of wheeling kites, and know that they are brown, not black. Imagine all the houses, and the shacks between them, and the poles on which the burlap awnings hang, painted on flat canvas and stood up against that infinite blue. Stick some vultures in a row along a roof-top—purplish—bronze they’ll look between the tiles and sky. Add yellow camels, gray horses, striped robes, long rifles, and a searching sun-dried smell. And there you have El-Kerak, from the inside. From any point along the broken walls or the castle roof you can see for fifty miles over scenery invented by the Master-Artist, with the Jordan like a blue worm in the midst of yellow-and-green hills twiggling into a turquoise sea. The villains stalk on-stage and off again sublimely aware of their setting. The horses prance, the camels saunter, the very street-dogs compose themselves for a nap in the golden sun, all in perfect harmony with the piece. A woman walking with a stone jar on her head (or, just as likely, a kerosene can) looks as if she had just stepped out of eternity for the sake of the picture. And not all the kings and kaisers, cardinals and courtezans rolled into one great swaggering splurge of majesty could hold a candle to a ragged Bedouin chief on a flea-bitten pony, on the way to a small-town mejlis.

Now, at the end of the long journey from Vegas, as I turned into Patriots Landing and drove past the twin white lions, the fearful clench of my stomach finally eased. I glanced at the rearview mirror and let out a breath of relief at what I didn’t see as I passed the very model house where my wife and I had made our choice. The roads were lined with examples of all the houses we considered that day, each looking neatly squared away on its suitably sized lot, the Carter Braxtons, the George Wyeths, even the insipid Patrick Henrys with their fake-brick fronts.

Pondimin and Redux were both withdrawn from the market, “voluntarily,” according to Wyeth’s press statement.

It's the hardest work in the world to try not to work. - N.C. Wyeth

While Wyeth handled the technology, Tudor focused on business development. He gave ice cream–making demonstrations to confectioners, he offered coffee shop owners a water-cooling jug of his own design, and he came up with ice-block subscription models—customers could sign up for one or two deliveries a day, on a monthly plan. He even designed and built some of the earliest domestic iceboxes, which he called “Little Ice Houses,” so that customers could store their daily allowance of ice at home. Meanwhile, despite his self-pitying journal entries, Tudor had to admit that the nascent ice industry enjoyed some unique advantages. Ships departing New England ports were generally light on their outbound voyages, and frequently resorted to carrying stones as ballast, which they simply tossed overboard at their destination in order to return with foreign cargo. Once they were convinced that most of Tudor’s ice wouldn’t melt in transit, they gladly carried it at low rates: even a discounted cargo made more economic sense than a pile of rocks.

Wyeth—now Pfizer—claimed to be losing $20 in downstream liability for every dollar it earned on vaccine sales, and induced Congress to pass the National Childhood Vaccine Injury Act in 1986 shielding vaccine makers from liability.12

a 1983 NIH-funded UCLA study found that Wyeth’s DTP vaccine was killing or causing severe brain injury, including seizures and death, in 1 in every 300 vaccinated children.

Hall Jackson Kelley considered himself to be the Messiah of Oregon, but he was only its John the Baptist, crying in the wilderness. He inspired thousands who turned their eyes toward Oregon because of his burning message; most notable of whom were the other two members of that Massachusetts triumvirate, Nathaniel J. Wyeth and Captain Bonneville, who were to open up the Snake River country for the Americans.

Marnie, he can only hurt you if you let him. His power ends when you stop allowing it.

For those of you who still believe two plus two equals four, don't be afraid to walk out that door.' -Rev. Matthias G. Witherspoon

Shub Niggurath, Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young. Her love is felt across the cosmos and we happily fall under Her warm, eldritch embrace. Iä! Shub-Niggurath! Iä! Shub-Niggurath!

He began to understand how this idealistic accounting project would inevitably become a monolithic tool of vengeance, which lashed out blindly without context or other sympathetic considerations. Even as restitution milestones were reached over time, the system itself would never feel the human satisfaction that justice had been served. The insatiable bots would crawl on and on...

We all know what enhanced emotions can lead to. Love, hate, passion, pain! So if you wanna shut us down just because somebody pulls a trigger with tasties in their blood... Well, either the world gets boring real quick—or you create a lot more problems for yourself.

Why should everything that happens be the entire world's business?

It's a bunch of people with master's degrees coming in and using us as guinea pigs. … Because they think they're social workers. But their minds work like anthropologists or missionaries trying to save the natives. They're so out of touch from our experience. They've never suffered, they've never been desperate—so the ideas that work in their world just won't take down here.

It's as if every classroom has its own pied piper luring children away from their parents, from their own desires—from whatever they'd known to be true before entering that school building. Who gave them the right to access our minds? Why did they think they had that authority? We were innocent children!

A large banner above the teaching board read, Everything is racist. Everything else is a human right.

Everyone thinks their revolution is about to break out and win the day.

Remember and remember again, that in dark times all a man need do is seek the truth. Protect it and speak it. Then, even if he is a wanderer for years and years, righteousness shall survive while the tallest of castles crumble.

Yup, the whole world is comin' here to get paid. And our country's just one big strip-mining club, makin' it rain for everyone, hahahaha!

Detective, what I'm trying to tell you is that there's no point in my being at this desk. Or anywhere else! We set it all into motion perfectly, and now the system itself can see to everything. It's like they're just keeping us around as... I don't know. Furniture? To occupy themselves? Learn from us? Or... maybe it's a form of tribute.

Modestianity exists today because there was a pressing need for a philosophy that looked at the present in order to face the future, rather than looking backward for guidance today.

The best of that So Cal feeling really was something you wished you could bottle.

We are the ones who saw how perpetual motion, as realized by the Worker-Factory-Mechanic, could be the vanguard of an equitable future. All that was needed was a raw material capable of matching AI's tireless pace. We found it in that bountiful gift that comes from our dear Mother Earth: industrial-grade hemp.

And then what? Kate would teach this baby words… in order to tell her how privileged she was? To start planting those seeds of doubt and self-recrimination before she'd even taken her first steps? Make this child question herself, rather than blossom confidently?

He loved the game. The battle that raged inside each player's head. The little ball that sat motionless, defying you to hit it. No defenders, no game clock, no excuses. And maybe that's why the highs were so high and the lows felt so low. Could you in the moment quiet your thoughts and execute? It was glorious when you did!

Hearing Robert Plant and Steven Tyler wail and howl took him back to his own apprehensive first steps—when money was tight, hopes were unfulfilled only because they were untested—and everything still felt like it was possible. Fast forward twenty-five years, and now maybe the world looked more like a sadder version of the movie Rear Window. Where in each apartment you would see a lonely man quietly singing away his troubles in harmony with the rock 'n' roll gods whose voices transcended space and time.

Today your ancestors may hang in effigy because of the crumbling documents that survived long enough to be scanned, but tomorrow you will be stored in a comprehensive 3D dossier and dissected without context or empathy by future historians, social scientists, judges, and jailers.

She had a working theory about what was going on, which she called the dilemma of the steam valve. On one hand, the world was being built up and maintained virtually on autopilot by an interconnected network of machines that could assemble and repair themselves. But people still had doubts and flaws and uncontrollable passions that needed some kind of release. That didn't always make for a rosy picture.

I always stated it explicitly: All politics is war. All art is political. Therefore all art is a weapon of war. Don't wilt now at the first sight of your own blood. … You want a Purple Heart for your trouble? Fine! But really, you should be thankful to end up stacked in an unmarked mass grave, if in your dying moment you know that your life was given to win the sacred War for Equity.

Everybody wants to go to the nice place—instead of doing the work to make a place nice.

We aren't all Americans now—we're all just in America.

Catawamteak,” meaning “the great landing,” is what the Abenaki Indians called the early settlement that became Rockland, Maine. Thomaston and Rockland can be bypassed by Route 90, an eight-mile shortcut which I frequently used as a midshipman, but our bus stayed on the main road and stopped to let passengers on and off in both places. At one time Rockland was part of Thomaston, called East Thomaston, but the two towns have long since separated, having very little in common. In the beginning, Rockland developed quickly because of shipbuilding and limestone production. It was, and still is, an important fishing port. Lobsters are the main export and the five-day Maine Lobster Festival is celebrated here annually. The red, three-story brick buildings lining the main street of Rockland, give it the image of an old working town. I have always been impressed by the appearance of these small towns, because to me this is what I had expected Maine to look like. When I first went through the center of Rockland on the bus, I was impressed by the obvious ties the community had with the sea. The fishing and lobster industry was evident by the number of commercial fishing and lobster boats. Rockland was, and still is, the commercial hub of the mid-coastal region of the state. The local radio station WRKD was an important source of local news and weather reports. This was also the radio station that opened each day’s broadcasting with Hal Lone Pine’s song, recorded on Toronto's Arc Records label: “There’s a winding lane on the Coast of Maine that is wound around my heart....” The United States Coast Guard still maintains a base in Rockland, which is reassuring to the families of those who go fishing out on the open waters of Penobscot Bay and the Gulf of Maine. Rockland remains the home of the Farnsworth Art Museum, which has an art gallery displaying paintings by Andrew Wyeth, as well as other New England artists. The Bay Point Hotel that was founded in 1889 had a compelling view of the breakwater and Penobscot Bay. The Victorian style hotel, later known as the Samoset Hotel, had seen better days by 1952 and was closed in 1969. On October 13, 1972, the four-story hotel caught fire in the dining area due to an undetermined cause. Fanned by 20-mile-an-hour north winds, the structure burned to the ground within an hour. However, five years later a new Samoset Resort was founded.

I hadn’t heard it when I’d been in the house before, but when I was in the house before there’d been other people and things going on. Now the house seemed abandoned and desolate. Life in an Andrew Wyeth landscape.

It was during the summer of 1952 when I first came through the center of Rockland on the bus, “I was impressed by the obvious ties the community had with the sea. The fishing and lobster industry was evident by the number of commercial fishing and lobster boats. Rockland was, and still is, the commercial hub of the mid-coastal region of the state.” The local radio station WRKD was an important source of local news and weather reports. This was also the radio station that opened each day’s broadcasting with Hal Lone Pine’s song, recorded on Toronto's Arc Records label: “There’s a winding lane on the Coast of Maine that is wound around my heart....” The United States Coast Guard still maintains a base in Rockland, which is reassuring to the families of those who go fishing out on the open waters of Penobscot Bay and the Gulf of Maine. Rockland remains the home of the Farnsworth Art Museum, which has an art gallery displaying paintings by Andrew Wyeth, as well as other New England artists.

It's a bunch of people with master's degrees coming in and using us as guinea pigs. … Because they think they're social workers. But their minds work like anthropologists or missionaries trying to save the natives. They're so out of touch from our experience. They've never suffered, they've never been desperate—so the ideas that work in their world just won't take down here. -Nolan Simmons

Throughout her life, Henriette Wyeth has to decide: Love or work. Fidelity or freedom. Beauty or snark. East or west. Her father’s daughter or her husband’s wife. Her children’s mother or her artist’s heart—her palette or her paint, her feathers or her shells.

Greg knew he was just one little speck in this gauntlet that every person both ran and worked to maintain. The system that, while striving to let no part of a human life which could feed it go to waste, in turn left the potential for greatness to lie fallow. Better that a hundred thousand mundane tasks were done reliably, than to wait for the brilliant breakthrough that would turn the world on its axis.

The United States of America as it had been known for centuries was no more. Transformed in the blink of an eye without consulting anyone, let alone by royal decree. And the people being overrun were expected not to mourn the loss of their homeland, but just roll over and fade away.

Even the truncated trials of Wyeth’s RotaShield, conducted with no placebo, revealed serious side effects in babies, including “failure to thrive,” fevers high enough to cause brain injury, and a condition called intussusception, wherein a child’s intestines telescope into themselves, causing an agonizing blockage that, in some instances, results in death.

I don’t think that there is anything that is really magical unless it has a terrifying quality, said the painter Andrew Wyeth.

Andy put me where he knew I wanted to be. Now that I can’t be there anymore, all I do is think of the picture, and I’m there.