Smallpox Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
i-was-nauseous-and-tingly-all-over-i-was-either-in-love-or-i-had-smallpox
smallpox-is-natural-vaccine-aint-ogden-nash
they-ought-to-find-out-how-to-vaccinate-for-love-like-smallpox-leo-tolstoy
then-we-should-find-some-artificial-inoculation-against-love-as-with-smallpox-leo-tolstoy
to-loving-eye-even-smallpox-scars-are-beautiful-stephen-king
affectation-is-a-greater-enemy-to-the-face-than-smallpox
if-there-is-love-smallpox-scars-are-as-pretty-as-dimples-japanese-proverb-stephen-king
i-think-when-smallpox-was-eliminated-whole-world-got-pretty-excited-about-that-because-its-just-such-dramatic-success-bill-gates
columbus-brought-smallpox-to-the-natives-we-shall-recall-the-occasion-with-a-picnic-john-green
sanctimony-selfregard-are-as-american-as-smallpox-blankets-supersize-meals-colson-whitehead
the-physical-signs-measles-are-nearly-same-as-those-smallpox-but-nausea-inflammation-is-more-severe-though-pains-in-back-are-less-avicenna
you-dont-have-to-vaccinate-every-man-woman-child-in-country-if-you-have-couple-cases-smallpox-cropping-up
nature-is-that-lovely-lady-to-whom-we-owe-polio-leprosy-smallpox-syphilis-tuberculosis-cancer-stanley-norman-cohen
smallpox-in-blanket-which-us-army-gave-to-cherokee-indians-on-their-long-march-to-west-was-nothing-compared-to-what-id-like-to-see-done-to-these-michael-savage
oh-if-i-had-been-loved-at-age-seventeen-what-idiot-i-would-be-today-happiness-is-like-smallpox-if-you-catch-it-too-soon-it-can-completely-ruin-your-gustave-flaubert
the-highlanders-regale-themselves-with-whisky-they-find-it-excellent-preservation-against-winter-cold-it-is-given-with-great-success-to-infants-in-tobias-smollett
smallpox-was-worst-disease-in-history-it-killed-more-people-than-all-wars-in-history
if-there-is-love-smallpox-scars-are-as-pretty-as-dimples-ill-love-your-face-no-matter-what-it-looks-like-because-its-yours-stephen-king
i-hope-that-some-day-practice-producing-cowpox-in-human-beings-will-spread-over-world-when-that-day-comes-there-will-be-no-more-smallpox
i-hope-that-some-day-the-practice-of-producing-cowpox-in-human-beings-will-spread-over-the-world-when-that-day-comes-there-will-be-no-more-smallpox
someone-can-tell-you-all-your-life-that-youre-inferior-but-it-doesnt-matter-until-you-accept-it-allow-for-validation-once-validation-takes-place-its-then-that-colonial-malaise-se
benjamin-franklin-refused-to-have-one-his-children-vaccinated-against-smallpox-the-fouryearold-boy-died-franklin-wrote-later-how-mistaken-he-was-to-michael-specter
most-trouble-in-this-world-has-been-caused-by-folks-who-cant-mind-their-own-business-because-they-have-no-business-their-own-to-mind-any-more-than-william-s-burroughs
Here's the thing about Hazel: Almost everyone is obsessed with leaving a mark upon the world. Bequeathing a legacy. Outlasting death. We all want to be remembered. I do, too. That's what bothers me most, is being another unremembered casualty in the ancient and inglorious war against disease. I want to leave a mark. But Van Houten: The marks humans leave are too often scars. You build a hideous minimall or start a coup or try to become a rock star and you think, "They'll remember me now, " but (a) they don't remember you, and (b) all you leave behind are more scars. Your coup becomes a dictatorship. Your minimall becomes a lesion... We are like a bunch of dogs squirting on fire hydrants. We poison the groundwater with our toxic piss, marking everything MINE in a ridiculous attempt to survive our deaths. I can't stop pissing on fire hydrants. I know it's silly and useless-epically useless in my current state-but I am an animal like any other. Hazel is different. She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth. Hazel knows the truth: We're as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we're not likely to do either. People will say it's sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it's not sad, Van Houten. It's triumphant. It's heroic. Isn't that the real heroism? Like the doctors say: First, do no harm. The real heroes anyway aren't the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention. The guy who invented the smallpox vaccine didn't actually invent anything. He just noticed that people with cowpox didn't get smallpox... But then I wanted more time so we could fall in love. I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar... What else? She is so beautiful. You don't get tired of looking at her. You never worry if she is smarter than you: You know she is. She is funny without ever being mean. I love her. I am so lucky to love her, Van Houten. You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices. I hope she likes hers.

John Green
heres-thing-about-hazel-almost-everyone-is-obsessed-with-leaving-mark-upon-world-bequeathing-legacy-outlasting-death-we-all-want-to-be-remembered-i-do-too-thats-what-bothers-me-m
Van Houten, I'm a good person but a shitty writer. You're a shitty person but a good writer. We'd make a good team. I don't want to ask you any favors, but if you have time - and from what I saw, you have plenty - I was wondering if you could write a eulogy for Hazel. I've got notes and everything, but if you could just make it into a coherent whole or whatever? Or even just tell me what I should say differently. Here's the thing about Hazel: Almost everyone is obsessed with leaving a mark upon the world. Bequeathing a legacy. Outlasting death. We all want to be remembered. I do, too. That's what bothers me most, is being another unremembered casualty in the ancient and inglorious war against disease. I want to leave a mark. But Van Houten: The marks humans leave are too often scars. You build a hideous minimall or start a coup or try to become a rock star and you think, 'They'll remember me now, ' but (a) they don't remember you, and (b) all you leave behind are more scars. Your coup becomes a dictatorship. Your minimall becomes a lesion. (Okay, maybe I'm not such a shitty writer. But I can't pull my ideas together, Van Houten. My thoughts are stars I can't fathom into constellations.) We are like a bunch of dogs squirting on fire hydrants. We poison the groundwater with our toxic piss, marking everything MINE in a ridiculous attempt to survive our deaths. I can't stop pissing on fire hydrants. I know it's silly and useless - epically useless in my current state - but I am an animal like any other. Hazel is different. She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth. Hazel knows the truth: We're as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we're not likely to do either. People will say it's sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it's not sad, Van Houten. It's triumphant. It's heroic. Isn't that the real heroism? Like the doctors say: First, do no harm. The real heroes anyway aren't the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention. The guy who invented the smallpox vaccine didn't actually invented anything. He just noticed that people with cowpox didn't get smallpox. After my PET scan lit up, I snuck into the ICU and saw her while she was unconscious. I just walked in behind a nurse with a badge and I got to sit next to her for like ten minutes before I got caught. I really thought she was going to die, too. It was brutal: the incessant mechanized haranguing of intensive care. She had this dark cancer water dripping out of her chest. Eyes closed. Intubated. But her hand was still her hand, still warm and the nails painted this almost black dark blue and I just held her hand and tried to imagine the world without us and for about one second I was a good enough person to hope she died so she would never know that I was going, too. But then I wanted more time so we could fall in love. I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar. A nurse guy came in and told me I had to leave, that visitors weren't allowed, and I asked if she was doing okay, and the guy said, 'She's still taking on water.' A desert blessing, an ocean curse. What else? She is so beautiful. You don't get tired of looking at her. You never worry if she is smarter than you: You know she is. She is funny without ever being mean. I love her. I am so lucky to love her, Van Houten. You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices. I hope she likes hers.

John Green
van-houten-im-good-person-but-shitty-writer-youre-shitty-person-but-good-writer-wed-make-good-team-i-dont-want-to-ask-you-any-favors-but-if-you-have-time-from-what-i-saw-you-have
theyre-all-gone-my-tribe-is-gone-those-blankets-they-gave-us-infected-with-smallpox-have-killed-us-im-last-last-im-sick-too-so-sick-hot-my-fever-burning-hot-i-have-to-take-off-my
The Mercy The ship that took my mother to Ellis Island eighty-three years ago was named "The Mercy." She remembers trying to eat a banana without first peeling it and seeing her first orange in the hands of a young Scot, a seaman who gave her a bite and wiped her mouth for her with a red bandana and taught her the word, "orange, " saying it patiently over and over. A long autumn voyage, the days darkening with the black waters calming as night came on, then nothing as far as her eyes could see and space without limit rushing off to the corners of creation. She prayed in Russian and Yiddish to find her family in New York, prayers unheard or misunderstood or perhaps ignored by all the powers that swept the waves of darkness before she woke, that kept "The Mercy" afloat while smallpox raged among the passengers and crew until the dead were buried at sea with strange prayers in a tongue she could not fathom. "The Mercy, " I read on the yellowing pages of a book I located in a windowless room of the library on 42nd Street, sat thirty-one days offshore in quarantine before the passengers disembarked. There a story ends. Other ships arrived, "Tancred" out of Glasgow, "The Neptune" registered as Danish, "Umberto IV, " the list goes on for pages, November gives way to winter, the sea pounds this alien shore. Italian miners from Piemonte dig under towns in western Pennsylvania only to rediscover the same nightmare they left at home. A nine-year-old girl travels all night by train with one suitcase and an orange. She learns that mercy is something you can eat again and again while the juice spills over your chin, you can wipe it away with the back of your hands and you can never get enough.

Philip Levine
the-mercy-the-ship-that-took-my-mother-to-ellis-island-eightythree-years-ago-was-named-the-mercy-she-remembers-trying-to-eat-banana-without-first-peeling-it-seeing-her-first-oran
?Earn cash when you save a quote by clicking
EARNED Load...
LEVEL : Load...