Zod Quotes

1. Society needs laws. While anarchy can often turn a humdrum weekend into something unforgettable, eventually the mob must be kept from stealing the conch and killing Piggy. And while it would be nice if that "something" was simple human decency, anybody who has witnessed the "50% Off Wedding Dress Sale" at Filene's Basement knows we need a backup plan—preferably in writing. On the other hand, too many laws can result in outright tyranny, particularly if one of those laws is "Kneel before Zod." Somewhere between these two extremes lies the legislative sweet-spot that produces just the right amount of laws for a well-adjusted society—more than zero, less than fascism.

Kneel before Zod

He had to take sleep by surprise. Preparing for bed simply alerted insomnia, brought all the busy thoughts, the renegade remorses and guilts and recriminations.

Invisible Selling is like a superpower . It can be used like Superman or like General Zod. I request you to use it like Superman & not like Zod

A man like Zod is effective primarily in crisis situations. And so in order to hold on to his power, he has to create or maintain the state of emergency.

Adamha kheili zod dalile zendegye khod ra mi amozand. Shayad bekhatere hamin bashad ke kheili zod ham az an dast mikeshand.

Maybe we don’t really grow up until our parents die, she thought. Maybe her infant memory was forever looking to Zod and Pari to make things better because they always did. Because if our parents didn’t exalt us, we spend our adult lives blaming them—for not doing this, and not doing that, not being “supportive,” not making an appearance at our first recital, being overprotective or aloof, damaging our self-esteem. Yet at our best or worst, who sees everything? Who knows us best? Who waits and waits to see what we yet may be? Then one day they’re gone and it’s just you, and there’s nothing left to squeeze, no one to blame for the dismay over the course your life has taken. Once the tears have stopped, it’s just the here and now and the desire to do better, to be closer to the person you want to be. Noor

river in northern France?” She mumbled something and slouched away. What had they taught her in nursing school? he wondered. AFTER LUNCH THE TAXI driver safely returned them home and Zod, exhausted from the outing, dozed on the couch, snoring

The cuisine of Northern Iran, overlooked and underrated, is unlike most Persian food in that it's unfussy and lighthearted as the people from that region. The fertile seaside villages of Mazandaran and Rasht, where Soli grew up before moving to the congested capital, were lush with orchards and rice fields. His father had cultivated citrus trees and the family was raised on the fruits and grains they harvested. Alone in the kitchen, without Zod's supervision, he found himself turning to the wholesome food of his childhood, not only for the comfort the simple compositions offered, but because it was what he knew so well as he set about preparing a homecoming feast for Zod's only son. He pulled two kilos of fava beans from the freezer. Gathered last May, shucked and peeled on a quiet afternoon, they defrosted in a colander for a layered frittata his mother used to make with fistfuls of dill and sprinkled with sea salt. One flat of pale green figs and a bushel of new harvest walnuts were tied to the back of his scooter, along with two crates of pomegranates- half to squeeze for fresh morning juice and the other to split and seed for rice-and-meatball soup. Three fat chickens pecked in the yard, unaware of their destiny as he sharpened his cleaver. Tomorrow they would braise in a rich, tangy stew with sour red plums, their hearts and livers skewered and grilled, then wrapped in sheets of lavash with bouquets of tarragon and mint. Basmati rice soaked in salted water to be steamed with green garlic and mounds of finely chopped parsley and cilantro, then served with a whole roasted, eight kilo white fish stuffed with barberries, pistachios, and lime. On the farthest burner, whole bitter oranges bobbed in blossom syrup, to accompany rice pudding, next to a simmering pot of figs studded with cardamom pods for preserves.

In the midst of writing a poem, he suddenly realized that there was not a single pursuit he could think of that was so trivial, so superfluous to living. He was in an academic setting, of course, and that could have been part of the problem. Here poetry was published in slim, arch magazines and read by perhaps twenty-five people who published in the same journals. But it was not just this elitism that troubled Furman. He realized, in the midst of composition, that he could attach any adjective to any noun (the "arbitrary teapot" or the "truculent rose," for instance) and then cobble up some sort of meaning to suit the phrase. There seemed something despicable in this wordplay, a kind of intellectual self-abuse. Perhaps, he thought, it was only his own poetry that he despised. But no, he discovered that he hated the poetry of all his peers, and, incredibly, all poetry ever written. Behind every poem there seemed to crouch an immensely self-involved ego, the sort of man or woman who would let the infant cry in its cradle while seeking just the right nuance of tone and cadence. The people who wrote poetry were to be avoided as were the poems that emanated from them like methane gas seeping from a swamp.

In the Superman comics, all inhabitants of the planet Krypton possessed the power of laser vision, but only Superman and General Zod had completely mastered it. Their cells could absorb solar energy which they could emit through his eyes in the form of a heat laser beam.

a psychiatrist’s subconscious must be quite a swamp, a sort of public restroom.

He had to take sleep by surprise. Preparing for bed simply alerted insomnia, brought all the busy thoughts, the renegade remorses and guilts and recriminations. The trick was just to close his eyes. Sometimes he slept.

He just wanted the world to be bigger than it was, more fantastic. He wanted to believe in evil trolls and fairies and elves. Other children grew out of such fantasies. Raymond, alas, grew into them. They were very real for Raymond.

He stopped at a gas station, filled the car up, and realized he was empty himself. He lost track of his body sometimes, and he was always surprised when it announced its demands.

My little bundle of screams, he thought. My sweet mortification.

Just because of a single bad thing, you want to hurt everything with a hurt so bad that there will be a big nothing forever and forever and forever.

Instantly, the black water enfolded him, cooled him to his heart, and declared, "There is no hope; there never was." The darkness was absolute, and full of the silence of a trapped scream.

Instantly, the black water enfolded him, cooled him to his heart, and declared, "There is no hope; there never was." The saints was absolute, and full of the silence of a trapped scream.

Look," Harry told Dr. Moore. "I'm not the suicidal type. That's too melodramatic for me." Besides, Harry thought, the Great Tiredness was every bit as good as death. There was no color here, no pain, no emotional weather at all, just an occasional oddness that was the outside world trying to puff itself up into significance when, of course, the secret of the Great Tiredness, the truth of this realm, was that everything was arbitrary and meaningless.

Significantly, Superman’s first scene shows Jor-El rendering judgment, his deciding vote imposing the “Law of the Father ” on the criminal General Zod and his two followers, whose removal from Krypton’s symbolic order figuratively represents the castration associated with patriarchal punishment.

Zod twisted themself into a taller and more terrifying shape, really putting the writhe into their tentacles. The human made a little squeaking sound and held a hand out toward them.

She loved Harry and so, when he disappeared, when he withdrew into vagueness and alcohol, she had despised him passionately.

body bowed forward as though she were

Alone in the kitchen, without Zod's supervision, he found himself turning to the wholesome food of his childhood, not only for the comfort the simple compositions offered, but because it was what he knew so well as he set about preparing a homecoming feast for Zod's only son. He pulled two kilos of java beans from the freezer. Gathered last May, shucked and peeled on a quiet afternoon, they defrosted in a colander for a layered frittata his mother used to make with fistfuls of dill and sprinkled with sea salt. One flat of pale green figs and a bushel of new harvest walnuts were tied to the back of his scooter, along with two crates of pomegranates- half to squeeze for fresh morning juice and the other to split and seed for rice-and-meatball soup. Three fat chickens pecked in the yard, unaware of their destiny as he sharpened his cleaver. Tomorrow they would braise in a rich, tangy stew with sour red plums, their hearts and livers skewered and grilled, then wrapped in sheets of lavash with bouquets of tarragon and mint. Basmati rice soaked in salted water to be steamed with green garlic and mounds of finely chopped parsley and cilantro, then served with a whole roasted, eight kilo white fish stuffed with barberries, pistachios, and lime. On the farthest burner, whole bitter oranges bobbed in blossom syrup, to accompany rice pudding, next to a simmering pot of figs studded with cardamom pods for preserves.

It wasn't that Nina didn't make equally tasty buns, but Zod, her rogue apprentice, had refined the dough to a featherlight brioche with a subtle tang. He filled the pockets not just with beef and onions, but peach jam, saffron rice pudding, smoked sturgeon, potatoes and dill, cabbage and caraway apples, duck confit and chopped orange peel, and, once, even a pearl that fell into the lemon custard when Nina's necklace snapped, beads hitting the counter like hailstones.

I have just taught Soli to make borscht! Yesterday I bought beets with big, glossy leaves still caked with wet soil. Naneh washed them in the tub until her arthritis flared, but she's promised to make dolmas with the leaves. After we closed Soli tucked the beets under coals and roasted them all night. When I woke up I smelled caramel and winter and smoke. It made me so hungry, I peeled a hot, slippery one for breakfast and licked the ashes and charred juices off with my burnt fingertips. Noor, bruised from betrayal, remembered borscht, remembered stirring sour cream into the broth and making pink paisley shapes with the tip of her spoon, always surprised by the first tangy taste, each time anticipating sweetness. Her mother had called it a soup for the brokenhearted. She marveled at her father's enthusiasm for borscht, when for thirty years each day had been a struggle. Another man would've untied his apron long ago and left the country for a softer life, but not Zod. He would not walk away from his courtyard with its turquoise fountain and rose-colored tables beneath the shade of giant mulberry trees, nor the gazebo, now overgrown with jasmine, where an orchestra once played and his wife sang into the summer nights.

He desperately wanted to hear Lily say merci again, but Naneh Goli folded a piece of naan around a boiled egg, placed it in his knapsack, and pushed him out the door with a long list of instructions he didn't hear. All he could think was, I fell in love at eight fifteen on the morning of June 9. Later that afternoon he scurried around the kitchen, underfoot until Naneh Goli sent him to the storeroom for jam. The cellar, illuminated by a bulb on a string, was like a pharmacy, with shelves of rosewater, orange blossom water, quince syrup, lime syrup, vinegars, and jars of pickled vegetables, all painstakingly labeled in Agha (Mr.) Zod's shaky script. Karim paused to read the labels but found nothing to ease the knocking in his chest, so he took the last jar of fig preserves for Lily. His Lily jan (dear), Lily rose, Lily shirin (sweet), Lily morning, Lily moon, Lily merci.

Laid out before him were dishes detailed in gold inscription: Tourte de Faisan aux Truffes, Blanquette de Veau, Barbue aux Huîtres, Tripes à la mode de Caen. Simon explained the preparation of each dish so lovingly that it would have suited Zod to not eat at all and simply listen to this man as he translated the truffled pheasant in pastry, the creamy veal stew with pearl onions and mushrooms, the poached brill with oysters in brown butter, the baked tripe with calvados, and the wine they must order to accompany it,

In preparation for a feast to welcome the newlyweds, crates of melons, eggplants, tomatoes, basil, apricots, and figs were stacked in the shade. Naneh Goli sat at a table set outside the kitchen, stringing green beans to cook with minced beef in a bright tomato sauce for lubia polo- a favorite dish of Zod's boyhood. Forty game hens already lay in their saffron yogurt marinade, and tomorrow they would roast them over an open fire to serve with mounds of jeweled rice. All morning Yanik shaped lamb koofteh (meatballs) mixed with allspice and thyme, browning them in small batches and infringing on Nina's burners, which she needed to simmer mulberry preserves for parfait.

Well, hello handsome, what brings you here?” “My heart has been stolen, and I thought it might be possible to regain it if I come.

Quando eu ouvi a estória de Noé, eu jurava que ele era o herói, similar à chinesa, de um homem defendendo a humanidade de um Deus covarde. Eu mantive essa visão positiva de Noé até iniciar meus estudos que gerou esse livro. Um dia comecei a pesquisar, pensando em Noé como o herói da estória e fiquei sem entender nada: Noé ficou do lado de Deus. Isso nunca daria um filme de Hollywood. Superman abriu mão de sua família para defender a terra. Em um dos filmes, Superman quebra o pescoço do general Zod que queria testar até que ponto Clark Kent (Kalenji) iria com sua fidelidade ao humanos. Ao se incapaz de parar o raio mortal do general Zod, ele toma a decisão de matar o general, que era sua única família de verdade. Esse tipo de problema aparece na filosofia, e tem sido inclusive fruto de experimentos. Como exemplo, um experimento famoso, pessoas precisam decidir se desencarrilham um trem matando todos no trem para salvar uma pessoa no trilho. O experimento evolve dois cenários: um com uma pessoa com nome similar à pessoa que decide, e outro com nome de alguma nação historicamente inimiga. Eles até acham um hormônio expressado no momento da decisão, seria “o hormônio da camaradagem”.

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