I measure success in terms of the connection with the audience, which we've been able to do in spades. I mean, it's very hard to do that. You think about it, you go back in time, you can say, 'Well, there's, like, 'Saturday Night Live' and 'Rolling Stone' or 'MTV.'' I think 'Vice' is in that category now.
I measure success in terms of the connection with the audience, which we've been able to do in spades. I mean, it's very hard to do that. You think about it, you go back in time, you can say, 'Well, there's, like, 'Saturday Night Live' and 'Rolling Stone' or 'MTV.' I think 'Vice' is in that category now.
The exponential rewards you receive as a reaction to the service that you give is phenomenal. If everybody understood that you get back in spades what you put in in terms of service, not only will everybody's lives be more fulfilling "" I mean can you imagine a society look like that? I'm Bill Courtney and I share hope.
I procrastinate in spades. In my defence, I also try to have all other distractions solved before I can concentrate on writing. My small theory is that to write for three hours, you need to feel like you have three days. To write for three days, you need to feel like you've got three weeks, and so on.
I come from a blue collar family, but my personal life isn't. I didn't get the gene that my grandfather had in spades. He was a local hero. Built the church that I went to. Built the house I grew up in. Steamfitter, pipefitter, electrician, mechanic and plumber. I wanted to do those things. But it just didn't come easy.
GATHERING LEAVES Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer Running away. But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face. I may load and unload Again and again Till I fill the whole shed, And what have I then? Next to nothing for weight, And since they grew duller From contact with earth, Next to nothing for color. Next to nothing for use. But a crop is a crop, And who's to say where The harvest shall stop?
One of these days in your travels, a guy is going to show you a brand-new deck of cards on which the seal is not yet broken. Then this guy is going to offer to bet you that he can make the jack of spades jump out of this brand-new deck of cards and squirt cider in your ear. But, son, do not accept this bet, because as sure as you stand there, you're going to wind up with an ear full of cider.
How can we find spiritual meaning in a scientific worldview? Spirituality is a way of being in the world, a sense of one's place in the cosmos, a relationship to that which extends beyond oneself. . . . Does scientific explanation of the world diminish its spiritual beauty? I think not. Science and spirituality are complementary, not conflicting; additive, not detractive. Anything that generates a sense of awe may be a source of spirituality. Science does this in spades. (158-159)
How can we find spiritual meaning in a scientific worldview? Spirituality is a way of being in the world, a sense of one's place in the cosmos, a relationship to that which extends beyond oneself... Does scientific explanation of the world diminish its spiritual beauty? I think not. Science and spirituality are complementary, not conflicting; additive, not detractive. Anything that generates a sense of awe may be a source of spirituality. Science does this in spades. (158-159)
I am not [...] asserting that humans are either genial or aggressive by inborn biological necessity. Obviously, both kindness and violence lie within the bounds of our nature because we perpetrate both, in spades. I only advance a structural claim that social stability rules nearly all the time and must be based on an overwhelmingly predominant (but tragically ignored) frequency of genial acts, and that geniality is therefore our usual and preferred response nearly all the time. [...] [T]he center of human nature is rooted in ten thousand ordinary acts of kindness that define our days.
Stephen Jay Gould
This was the moment when the 20th century really began, in all its viciousness and bloody-mindedness. Me, I had imagination in spades, though. I saw myself as a corpse, swept into this stream of fools against my will along with thousands, millions of other corpses, and I didn't like it one little bit. The other guys, still waiting on the platform at the Gare de l'Est, already saw themselves throwing back a well-earned beer on Alexanderplatz. Only the mothers really knew. They knew the babies in their arms were tomorrow's war orphans, and the cattle cars (8 horses, 40 men) were nothing but rail-mounted coffins joined end to end and headed for military cemeteries.
This is a valley of ashes--a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
STRIP ME DOWN 'TIL THERE'S NOTHING LEFT SATE YOUR HUNGER FOR MY BLOOD I AM THE OFFERING TAKE MY STRENGTH, MY MIND, MY HEART ALL OF MY SACRIFICE WILL SOON RETURN IN SPADES I'LL TAKE BACK MORE THAN WHAT YOU STOLE BEWARE THE VIRTUE IN GIVE AND TAKE AND THE PAIN THAT YOU FEEL WON'T BE IN VAIN BUT YOUR GREED HAS MADE YOU BLIND AND IN THE DARKNESS YOU WILL FIND THE LIGHT OF ANOTHER POISONED SOUL BREATHE NEW LIFE TO THIS WRITHING CORPSE YOUR REPENTANCE IS IN VAIN FULFILL THE VOID THAT EMPTIED ME I'VE SACRIFICED FOR YOU IMMORTAL HUSK YOU LAY STAND FORTH THIS BODY LIES IN YOUR WAKE I'M MORE THAN ONCE I WAS A LAMB OF RITUAL SACRIFICE ASCEND THE ALTER CHANGE OUR COURSE TO TURN BACK TIME
Earlier in this book I noted that one of my favorite sayings is 'You get what you tolerate.' This applies in spades to your relationships. Failing to speak up about something carries the implication that you are OK with it-that you are prepared to continue tolerating it. As a companion saying goes, 'Silence means consent.' If you tolerate snide or offensive remarks from your boss or colleague, the remarks will continue. If you tolerate your spouse's lack of consideration for your feelings, it will continue. If you tolerate the disregard of people who regularly turn up late for meetings or social engagements, they will continue to keep you cooling your heels. If you tolerate your child's lack of respect, you will continue to get no respect. Each time you tolerate a behavior, you are subtly teaching that person that it is OK to treat you that way.
Ever seen a two-year-old tattering around a garden? There might be a poison ivy, or rose bushes or hawthorne around the edges. There might be spades or secateurs lying on the lawn. The kid doesn't care. He just wants to play with all those brightly coloured things he sees. To him, the world is a safe place. And you might want to rush out and cut back all those sharp spiky plants so they can't hurt him, and you might want to clear away all those dangerous tools just in case, he picks them up and cut himself on them, but you know you shouldn't because if you keep doing that then he either will grow up thinking the can never hurt him, or he might go the other way, and think that everything is dangerous, and he should never go far from your side. So you just watch. And wait. And if he does get rush from the poison ivy or if he does cut his fingers off with the secateurs, then you get him to the hospital as quickly as you can, in the reasonably sure knowledge the he'll never make the same mistake again.
I RUN UP IN DA CYPHA HEAVILY ARMED WITH ENDLESS BARS OF METAPHORIC HARM A PYTHON WITH POISONOUS CHARM, EXTENDING MY ARM PUSHING FIGURES WAY TO THE BACK OUT OF YOUR REACH, EXCESSIVE LIKE FATAL ATTRACT FREEZE, A RENEGADE BAR STROKE, AN ACE OF SPADES I'LL KISS YOU WIT A BLADE WHEN I THINK I'M GETTIN PLAYED MADE WOMAN, YOU NEVER IN BED WITH THE SAME WOMAN YOU SAY YOU WANT IT, YOU DON'T WANNA SEE THE OMEN WHEN MY SIXTH SENSE START FLOWIN I BLESS LIKE HOLY WATER I DON'T WANNA DIE CUZ I'M MY DADDY'S ONLY DAUGHTER BUT YO, SOMETIMES I SEE THE WRITIN ON THE WALL YOU KNOW THE GHETTO TESTAMENTS, THE SHOOTOUTS, THE BRAWLS CLOSE FRAMES IN THE HALL, WILL YOU STAND OR WILL YOU FALL YOUR WHOLE CLICK IS ON THE RUN NOW WOULD YOU TELL IT ALL ABOUT THE NIGHT SHIFTERS, ME, I'MA CYPHER DRIFTER MY SIXTEEN BARS IS UP SO PEACE TO THE MIXES
The Duration Here they are are on the beach where the boy played for fifteen summers, before he grew too old for French cricket, shrimping and rock pools. Here is the place where he built his dam year after year. See, the stream still comes down just as it did, and spreads itself on the sand into a dozen channels. How he enlisted them: those splendid spades, those sunbonneted girls furiously shoring up the ramparts. Here they are on the beach, just as they were those fifteen summers. She has a rough towel ready for him. The boy was always last out of the water. She would rub him down hard, chafe him like a foal up on its legs for an hour and trembling, all angles. She would dry carefully between his toes. Here they are on the beach, the two of them sitting on the same square of mackintosh, the same tartan rug. Quality lasts. There are children in the water, and mothers patrolling the sea's edge, calling them back from the danger zone beyond the breakers. How her heart would stab when he went too far out. Once she flustered into the water, shouting until he swam back. He was ashamed of her then. Wouldn't speak, wouldn't look at her even. Her skirt was sopped. She had to wring out the hem. She wonders if Father remembers. Later, when they've had their sandwiches she might speak of it. There are hours yet. Thousands, by her reckoning.
But clouds bellied out in the sultry heat, the sky cracked open with a crimson gash, spewed flame-and the ancient forest began to smoke. By morning there was a mass of booming, fiery tongues, a hissing, crashing, howling all around, half the sky black with smoke, and the bloodied sun just barely visible. And what can little men do with their spades, ditches, and pails? The forest is no more, it was devoured by fire: stumps and ash. Perhaps illimitable fields will be plowed here one day, perhaps some new, unheard-of wheat will ripen here and men from Arkansas with shaven faces will weigh in their palms the heavy golden grain. Or perhaps a city will grow up-alive with ringing sound and motion, all stone and crystal and iron-and winged men will come here flying over seas and mountains from all ends of the world. But never again the forest, never again the blue winter silence and the golden silence of summer. And only the tellers of tales will speak in many-colored patterned words about what had been, about wolves and bears and stately green-coated century-old grandfathers, about old Russia; they will speak about all this to us who have seen it with our own eyes ten years - a hundred years! - ago, and to those others, the winged ones, who will come in a hundred years to listen and to marvel at it all as at a fairy tale. ("In Old Russia")