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B Quotes

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All B Quotes

“Based on the parts of this... this scene that are not covered in refuse, and the drawings you have done for me, I know you are an artist with talent. Maybe I have old-fashioned views, but I simply don't understand why you would spend your time creating something like this." He shrugged his shoulders. "The sort of art I am used to seeing is more..." I raised an eyebrow. "More what?" He bit his lip, as though searching for the right words. "Pleasant to look at, I suppose." He shrugged again. "Scenes from nature. Little girls wearing filly white dresses and playing beside riverbanks. Bowls of fruit." "This piece shows a beach and a lake," I pointed out. "It's a scene from nature." "But it's covered in refuse." I nodded. "My art combines objects I find with images I paint. Sometimes what I find and incorporate is literal trash. But I also feel that my art is more than just trash. It's meaningful. These pieces aren't just flat, lifeless images on canvas. They say something." "Oh." He came even closer to the landscapes, kneeling so he could peer at them up close. "And what does your art... say?" His nose was just a few inches from an old McDonald's Quarter Pounder wrapper I'd laminated to the canvas so it looked like it was rising out of Lake Michigan. I'd meant for it to represent capitalism's crushing stranglehold on the natural world. Also, it just sort of looked cool. But I decided to give him a broader explanation. "I want to create something memorable with my art. Something lasting. I want to give people who see my works an experience that won't fade away. Something that will stay with them long after they see it." He frowned skeptically. "And you accomplish that by displaying ephemera others throw away?" I was about to counter by telling him that even the prettiest painting in the fanciest museum faded from memory once the patrons went home. That by using things other people throw away, I took the ephemeral and make it permanent in a way no pretty watercolor ever could.”

“Based on the Waste." By Aron Micko H.B Pure hot chocolate milk love to drink; I've got a pen and my time is to start to think. I forgot to take a vitamin C with zinc; However, the moment is starting to sync. I lost along the way, not doublethink; Imagination runs fast, stare and wink. The right brain forgot the word critic; In some laziness of the left brain link. I saw my pastel lose the color pink. I drop accidentally all colors shrink; The smoke coming in the door stink; My nose starts to smell some sink. My hand start to flow no more think; Drop someone's chocolate milk drink. I drew strange lady, a blink; Trying to waste my mom's ballpen ink.”

“Based on theoretical analysis, clinical observations, and some research findings (e.g., Kluft & Fine, 1993; Nijenhuis, Van der Hart, & Steele, 2002; Putnam, 1997; Reinders et al., 2003, submitted; Steinberg, 1995), as well as on 19th and early 20th century literature on dissociation (cf., Van der Hart & Dorahy, in press), we propose that traumatization essentially involves a degree of dissociative division of the personality that likely occurs along the lines of innate action systems of daily life and defense— what has been called structural dissociation of the personality (e.g., Nijenhuis et al., 2002; Van der Hart, Nijenhuis, Steele, & Brown, 2004). Dissociation of the personality develops when children or adults are exposed to potentially traumatizing events, and when their integrative capacity is insufficient to (fully) integrate these experiences within the confines of a relatively coherent personality.”

“Based on what I experienced at the toxic W. M. Keck Observatory, this is the Mauna Kea workplace harassing procedure: 1. Hit the worker with multiple nasty surprise resignation meetings. 2. If they do not voluntary resign, make their working conditions intolerable by repeatedly changing their working conditions on a regular basis and extend their working hours. 3. If still present, put them on leave against their will and fire them while they are away from the workplace.”

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“Basement?' Hamish cried, then glanced at his brother. 'You hear this fellow? He thinks we can just go on down to the furnace and start tinkering?' Angus laughed. 'He probably wouldn't care at all if the whole place went boom, he wouldn't.' At this the guard bristled and stood up even straighter. 'Now see here---' 'No, you see, my good man. Out here, see, we've got snow. So in there, I'd bet, you've got heat. And where there's heat there's gas; and where there's gas there's...' Angus trailed off while his brother said, 'boom.”

“Basements had always intrigued Dale. He thought a man could be summed up by what was kept in his basement. He descended the stairs with a mischievous smile, imagining what he’d find. Maybe some dead bodies in a large freezer, or a neighbor decomposing in a bathtub full of lye. He gleefully rubbed his palms together in anticipation as he continued to step down the stairs.”

“Bashere bajó la voz hasta hablar en un murmullo. —No estáis razonando con claridad. Ése era un buen plan al principio, pero su general piensa con rapidez. Se desplegó para entorpecer nuestros ataques antes de que pudiéramos caer sobre ellos en una maniobra envolvente. Aun así, aparentemente le hemos infligido un duro castigo, y ahora está reuniendo de nuevo a todas sus tropas. No lo cogeréis por sorpresa. Lo que quiere es que vayáis por él. Está ahí fuera, esperando que ocurra. Asha’man o no Asha’man, si nos ponemos cara a cara con ese tipo, si nos encontramos a su altura, entonces creo que los buitres se darán un festín y nadie saldrá vivo. —Nadie se encuentra a la altura del Dragón Renacido —gruñó Rand—. Los Renegados pueden decírselo a ese hombre, sea quien fuere. ¿Verdad, Flinn? ¿Dashiva? —Flinn asintió vacilante. Dashiva se encogió—. ¿Pensáis que no puedo sorprenderlo, Bashere? ¡Pues observad! Sacó el envoltorio alargado y le quitó la tela que lo cubría; oyó exclamaciones ahogadas cuando las gotas de lluvia relucieron sobre una espada aparentemente hecha de cristal. La Espada que no es una Espada. —Veamos si se sorprende o no con Callandor en las manos del Dragón Renacido, Bashere.”

“Bashere shrugged, grinning brhind his grey-streaked moustaches, "When I first slept in a saddle, Muad Cheade was Marshal-General. The man was as mad as a hare in spring thaw. Twice every day he searched his bodyservant for poison, and he drank nothing but vinegar and water which he claimed was sovereign against the poison the fellow fed him, but he ate everything the man prepared for as long as I knew him. Once he had a grove of oaks chopped down because they were looking at him. And then insisted they be given decent funerals; he gave the oration. Do you have any idea how long it takes to dig graves for twenty-three oak trees?" "Why didn't somebody do something? His Family?" "Those not as mad as him, or madder, were afraid to look at him sideways. Tenobia's father wouldn't have let anyone touch Cheade anyway. He might have been insane, but he could outgeneral anyone I ever saw. He never lost a battle. He never even came close to losing.”

“Bashir walked toward a glass cabinet in the dining room. Dalia followed Bashir, and the two stood looking through the glass. "Look at the cabinet and tell me what you see," Bashir said. "Is this a test?" "It is a test. Please tell me what you see in the cabinet." Books, vases, a picture of Abdel Nasser. Maybe some things hiding behind. And a lemon." "You won," Bashir said. "Do you remember the lemon?" "What about it? Is there a story?" "Do you remember when me and my brother came to visit?...Yes? Do you remember that Kamel asked you for something as we left? And do you remember what you gave him as a gift?" Dalia was silent for a moment, Bashir would recall. "Oh, my God. It's one of those lemons from that visit. But why did you keep it? It has been almost four months now." They walked from the cabinet and took their seats in the living room. "To us, this lemon is more than fruit, Dalia," Bashir said slowly. "It is land and history. It is the window that we open to look at our history. A few days after we brought the lemons home, it was night, and I heard a movement in the house. I was asleep. I got up, and I was listening. We were so nervous when the occupation started. Even the movement of trees used to wake us. And left us worried. I heard the noise and I got up. The noise was coming from this room right here. Do you know what I saw? My father, who is nearly blind." "Yes," said Dalia. She was listening intently. "Dalia, I saw him holding the lemon with both hands. And he was pacing back and forth in the room, and the tears were running down his cheeks.”

“Basic anxiety can be roughly described as a feeling of being small, insignificant, helpless, deserted or endangered in a world that is out to abuse, cheat, humiliate, betray, envy... . And special in this is the child's feeling that the parents' love, their Christian charity, honesty, generosity ... may be only a pretense.”