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All I Quotes

“It was 1984, and journalist Bernard Kalb had been on the State Department beat for eight years. As a veteran of the New York Times, CBS News and NBC News, Kalb knew the frustrations of trying to squeeze information out of tight-lipped government officials like State Department spokesman John Hughes, whom Kalb faced almost daily. In his 38 years of reporting. Kalb had dealt with countless government spokespeople, and so when Hughes decided to leave the department and move back home to Cape Cod, Kalb at first anticipated just another routine change of faces. But the change was to be unlike any in Kalb’s experience. On 28 November 1984 Secretary of State George Shultz announced that he had recruited someone to replace Hughes as his assistant secretary of state for public affairs. State’s new mouthpiece would be—that’s right— Bernard Kalb. And so for the next two years Kalb’s former colleagues struggled to squeeze information out of him—with no greater success, of course, even though they addressed him at press conferences as “Bernie.” How did the Reagan administration know that Kalb, seemingly a longtime adversary as a journalist, could be trusted to speak for its side and routinely tell journalists less than he knew? The answer, put simply, is that Kalb was a professional. At one level, journalism and public relations are conflicting professions, yet the hack and the flack have the same essential qualifying attribute. The administration expects its spokespeople to answer questions at contentious press conferences without making even the slightest ideological slip. Kalb, with his decades of experience maintaining the very strict ideological discipline that is required of New York Times and network television news reporters, had the essential skill for the new job. The administration knew that his transition would be an easy one and that they could train him to be a public relations professional in a matter of days; to train a nonprofessional for such a job would take years. Politically, professionals are interchangeable parts.”

“It was 1993. I was eighteen years old when I walked into my first therapy appointment in a stifling hot upstairs office with one window, no air conditioner, to see a counselor with teased bangs and a frizzy bleached perm. Mama had just signed herself into a psychiatric ward for the fourth extended treatment, each months long at a time. Dad had fallen into a vortex of depression [...] I tell myself this, try to believe this: no past can earmark you when you’ve heard the divine whisper of who you can still become.”

“It was 2002, we all got guitars for Christmas and started playing in my garage that summer, rehearsed there and in a warehouse for a bit for about a year. We did our first gig in June 2003 and we played a few gigs in and around Sheffield for a bit then started doing gigs outside of Sheffield about this time last year, recording demos while all this was going on.”

“It was 2008, I was age thirty eight and fighting chronic fatigue and mental functioning issues daily. Coffee was my best friend! But the coffee did not fix me, it just helped perk me up to get me to work daily. I was living the “American Dream”. I had my green card work visa, I was a resident of the USA and I could work for any employer I wanted to! But I felt lousy every day. Getting out of bed was hard after a poor night of sleep.”

“It was 25 Long Years Ago I threw away the good gifts that God sent my way Because my heart and mind were hung up on What I didn’t have, couldn’t have, or wouldn’t ever have. My heart, entangled in longing, couldn't escape the snare, Loving you was a torment but a burden I loved to bear. Damn, my heart… Damn my soul Why did I fall so much in love with you? It’s going to be 25 long years soon Since our paths first crossed But your memories are so firmly embossed in my heart. Those fluttering sensations, like butterflies in flight, Still reside within me, igniting a warm, gentle light. That one moment when our eyes accidentally met There were so many things my heart could never forget, A silent connection, emotions so hard to suppress, In that fleeting gaze, love's sweet caress. I dreamt of a future when we'd finally unite, But life's plan took a different route, an unexpected flight. We never met again; our paths diverged and parted, Leaving behind cherished memories, though we never officially started. Now, we both have different lives, But in the quiet domain of my heart, my unrequited love still survives, What if my love remained unreciprocated? A question that lingers in memories, fated. I cherish that one single day when we met, With regrets unabated. My love for you knows no boundaries, It may be unrequited, but It’s timeless, boundless, and endless for all eternity.”

“It was 4 or 5 years into my first design job before the idea of doing graphic design on computers started taking hold. I started working in 1980, the Macintosh was introduced in 1984, then the real desktop publishing only started coming around in 85-86, but it wasn't really until the end of the decade that the transition became irresistible.”

“It was 42 degrees outside. It was hell on earth. Naturally, once we got inside the cafe, I immediately ordered a cold beer. The waitress had the kind of facial expression that said, “Kill me, please.” Which I liked for I could relate with it. What I didn’t like were waitresses that gave you that big old American bullshit smile, that fake smile. Fuck that; being a waitress sucks ass. Especially in the middle of nowhere for low pay. So why the fuck were they supposed to treat you like royalty?”

“It was a bad night to be about with such a feeling in one's heart. The rain was cold, pitiless and increasing. A damp, keen wind blew down the cross streets leading from the river. The fumes of the gas works seemed to fall with the rain. The roadway was muddy; the pavement greasy; the lamps burned dimly; and that dreary district of London looked its very gloomiest and worst. ("The Old House In Vauxhall Road")”

“It was a bad one, the Winter of 1933. Wading home that night through flames of snow, my toes burning, my ears on fire, the snow swirling around me like a flock of angry nuns, I stopped dead in my tracks. The time had come to take stock. Fair weather or foul, certain forces in the world were at work trying to destroy me.”

“It was a basic tenet of faith with men of Ranulf’s class that a knight, trained in the ways of war since boyhood, could easily vanquish lesser foes, as much a belief in the superiority of blood and breeding as in the benefits of battle lore and killing competence. Ranulf had accepted this comforting conviction, too, but no one seemed to have told his assailants that they were inferior adversaries.”

“It was a battle all day with our M&M's Camry. I don't know why, we just didn't have what we needed. We never seemed to have the ticket we needed today. We got better all day, which was a positive and salvaged something out of nothing -- so all things considering it was okay. It's so late in the year, you're just running laps now and getting what you can get and seeing if you can win next weekend at Homestead to finish the year.”

“It was a beautiful day. Children played in the park. Cars and buses drove down the road and people were wearing sunglasses and light jackets and drinking coffee outside the cafes. It seemed to me that everything should have stopped, that some of what was happening inside me should have an effect on my surroundings - even just a cold breeze, or a dark cloud passing across the sun. But the world would not be moved.”

“It was a beautiful garden: the proportions, the plants, the feeling of enclosure granted by the surrounding stone wall. The fragrance, too, was heady: a hint of late-blooming jasmine mingled with lavender and honeysuckle. Birds flitted in the gaps between leaves, and bees and butterflies hovered over flowers in the ample garden beds. The gate through which she'd come was the side entrance, Juliet saw now, for another, larger path led away from the house towards a solid wooden gate set into the stones of the front wall. The wider path was lined on either side by standard roses wearing soft pink petals, and at its end was a large Japanese maple tree that had grown to reach across the front entrance.”

“It was a beautiful ride.” “Yes, But I will go a little faster on the way back. I want to be home before dark, and more speed will remind me of my youth. Ha! Ha!” I smiled. Speed was one of the things youth was all about. I certainly liked to speed in cars. But why? With speed, you just got from one place where you didn’t know what was going on to another where you didn’t know what was going on, only faster. What was the point? And I was always speeding. My car was just an extension of my thought process. I wanted to get from uncertain ground as fast as  possible but never could find the solid ground.”

“It was a beautiful room, not an office at all, and much bigger than it looked from outside--airy and white, with a high ceiling and a breeze fluttering in the starched curtains. In the corner, near a low bookshelf, was a big round table littered with teapots and Greek books, and there were flowers everywhere, roses and carnations and anemones, on his desk, on the table, in the windowsills. The roses were especially fragrant; their smell hung rich and heavy in the air, mingled with the smell of bergamot, and black China tea, and a faint inky scent of camphor. Breathing deep, I felt intoxicated. Everywhere I looked was something beautiful--Oriental rugs, porcelains, tiny paintings like jewels--a dazzle of fractured color that struck me as if I had stepped into one of those little Byzantine churches that are so plain on the outside; inside, the most paradisal painted eggshell of gilt and”