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K Quotes

Browse famous quotes beginning with K. This page is a child index of the full Popular Quotes A-Z directory.

All K Quotes

“Kitabu cha KOLONIA SANTITA kinaweza kusomwa na watu wenye umri wa kuanzia miaka 13 na kuendelea. Katika umri wa miaka 13 fikra za mtoto huanza kuwa na maono na utambuzi wa vitu mbalimbali. Watoto katika umri huu wanao uwezo wa kuchambua dhana kadha wa kadha za kinadharia, na hali kadhalika wanao uwezo wa kuchambua nadharia tata zisizokuwa na uhakika, kama nadharia ya KOLONIA SANTITA.”

“Kitalifa ni utiifu kamili, woga, umbali (kwa maana ya kuwa mbali na biashara ya mamafia wengine mpaka kwa makubaliano maalumu) na nidhamu ya kutoshirikiana na mamlaka zote za serikali. Ukishtakiwa kwa kosa la madawa au ujambazi ambalo hukufanya, utatumikia kifungo mpaka mwisho bila kushirikiana na polisi (kwa maana ya kutaja aliyehusika au waliohusika na uhalifu huo) hata kama aliyehusika au waliohusika hana au hawana uhusiano wowote na Kolonia Santita. Falsafa ya Kitalifa ni Sheria ya Kitalifa ya Kiapo cha Swastika cha Kolonia Santita. Na adhabu ya kuvunja sheria hiyo ni kifo.”

“Kitanai, kiken, kitsui” è un modo di dire Giapponese, traducibile in “sporchi, pericolosi e umilianti” e si riferisce a quei lavori non qualificati e sottopagati che pochi sono disposti a fare. Fino a poco tempo fa, l’utilizzo di lavoratori non biologici era riservato quasi esclusivamente a queste 3K; tuttavia, negli ultimi anni, si è consolidata una nuova tendenza che vede il fenomeno dei robot, intelligenza artificiale e service automation sempre più in concorrenza con i lavoratori umani per impieghi più specializzati e meglio pagati.”

“Kitaplar hayat mücadelesine atılmış olanlara veya büyük ideal sahiplerinin geniş ufuklarına, yani ufuklar katmakta yardımcı olurlar. Demek ki okumak bir gaye değildir. Okumanın ve bilgi edindikten sonra mütalaada bulunmanın hedefi, dünya hakkında genel bir fikre ve görüşe sahip olmaktır. Sistemli biçimde okuyarak elde edilecek bilgiler, bir mozaik parçası gibi yerine yerleştirilmelidir. Böylece kitap okuyanın zihninde dünya hakkında genel bir fikir meydana getirilmelidir. Yoksa okuyucunun kafasında büyük bir değerden yoksun bir bilgi salatası meydana gelmemelidir. Bu bilgi salatası sahibine bir gurur vesilesi olsa da, herhangi bir işe yaramaz. Kafalarının içinde bilgi salatası taşıyan kimseler, kendilerinin çok şeyler bildiklerine hükmederler. Fakat bu gibi kimselerin hayatları ya bir hastanede ya da politika çukurunda son bulur.”

“Kitchen life is getting steamy. Charles looks up from prepping his mise en place for two seconds, blows me a kiss, and then his hand swipes a bowl of salt and the grains scatter on the counter. "I can't take it anymore," he says, lifting me up onto the prep station. My legs wrap around his waist, as his kiss starts off slow and then turns hungry. Vegetables scatter, cherry tomatoes rolling onto the floor. Dishes break. Not one burner is on, but the kitchen gets hotter. Oh, and hotter. Hello, volcano. His hand latches around my ponytail, tilting my head back. His mouth finds my neck, and he covers it with his kisses, slowly making his way down to my exposed shoulder, his fingers running along my clavicle.”

“Kitchen people understood that food didn't have to be gourmet to taste good, and that sometimes gourmet food didn't taste good at all. "Kiwis are a soulless fruit," my mother once said when she saw them in a fruit tart on the Ritz's dessert tray. "Don't ever use sun-dried tomatoes," my father told his staff. "They'll take your magic powers." Even junk food could be better. Once, for Jake's birthday, the staff laid out his favorite foods--- frozen meatballs and Twinkies--- on brass serving plates in the dining room. When they sliced the Twinkies horizontally to expose the cream, even my mother admitted they made an attractive dessert. At staff Christmas parties we served junk food, too: sour-cream-and-onion potato chips, chicken wings, and hot dogs, and for dessert more Twinkies. The rest of the year I never ate food like that, and by the holidays Cotswold tarts and melon wrapped in prosciutto bored me. In my black velvet dresses, I gnawed on fried drumsticks, with a napkin stuffed into my lace collars to catch the crumbs. "I'm not whipping up any foie gras for you tonight, kiddo," said Carla, who, in her olive-green T-shirt and holding a beer, looked the same as she did behind the line. "Fend for yourself.”

“Kitchens have their seasons. And in this subterranean world, hidden from rainstorms and eager winds, is a world of wheat, wine and herbs. Always herbs. Herbs with balm in their leaves and flavor in their throats. A harvest of herbs on the windowsill. Parsley, coriander, tarragon. Basil, of different varieties, Greek with its anise-clove flavor and 'Sweet Genovese' with its jumbo cinnamon leaves. By the stove, I am chopping mint, coriander, tarragon, basil and parsley. The leaves and stems will go into a soup inspired by a region that taught me just what can be done with herbs, the South Caucasus--- that is Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia. From springtime until winter, whole bouquets of herbs arrive ceremoniously to the table, sometimes so fresh that clumps of earth still cling to their pale whiskery roots. Vital as bread, drawing eyes and senses forward, they are the centerpiece of the table. Intensely fresh and fragrant, unbruised and unwilted, they are a meal, a feast. Vitamins after a long winter. Never an afterthought, a mere sprinkling, or worse, 'a pinch'. At breakfast, oozing omelettes filled with molten white cheese and blades of tarragon. At lunch, bulgur salad, always more leaf than wheat. Ice cream is mint, sorbet is basil, soda is tarragon. In warmer months, they are refreshing, health-giving and sanity-saving as the sun starts hammering down. So today, in this kitchen of a hundred crossroads, to welcome the beginning of spring, I will bless this soup with a crop of fresh herbs.”

“Kithairon sang of cunning Kronos and sacred Rhea who stole her son Zeus, mighty among immortals. Then the Muses asked the gods to put their ballot stones in the urn of gold. All stood up and Kithairon won the greater part. Hermes shouted loud, at once proclaiming sweet victory. The gods adorned his brow with flowers, and Kithairon rejoiced. But Helikon was stunned with bitter rage, and tore a massive boulder from the mountain. Insanely he shouted and lobbed the rock down on thousands of mortals below.”

“Kitne saleeke, iss zindagi ke.. Logon ne sikhaaye, kuch hum ne gir ke seekhe. - Gairon ne haske, kaafi gham baante.. Thode doston ke, hisse se chaante! -- Kitne saleeke, iss zindagi ke.. Logon ne sikhaaye, kuch hum ne gir ke seekhe. --- Jeene ke tareeqe, khusi mein ro ke.. They Kabhi tanha, bheed mein hoke. Uljhi ranjishein, dil se bhulaake.. Haar ko muskuraate, Gale lagaake. - Kuch dard piye, jhoothey sach kadwe.. kabhi hasi ke pal, thode feeke feeke.. -- Kitne saleeke, iss zindagi ke.. Logon ne sikhaaye, kuch humne gir ke seekhe.”

“Kitsch. Can't think of Engl. trans. for this word. A copy that's so proud of how close it comes to the original that it believes there's more worth in this closeness than in originality itself. "It looks like...!" Imposture of feeling over actual emotion; sentimentality over sentiment. Kitsch can also be in the eye: "The sunset looks like a painting!" Because artifice is now the ultimate standard, the original (sunset) has to be turned into a fake (painting), so that the latter may provide the measure of the former's beauty. Kitsch is always a form of inverted Platonism, prizing imitation over archetype. And in every case, it's related to an inflation of aesthetic value, as seen in the worst kind of kitsch: "classy" kitsch. Solemn, ornamental, grand. Ostentatiously, arrogantly announcing its divorce from authenticity.”

“Kitsch deprives feeling of its cost, and therefore of its reality; desecration augments the cost of feeling, and so frightens us away from it. The remedy for both states of mind is suggested by the thing that they each deny, which is sacrifice. Konstanze and Belmonte in Mozart’s opera are ready to sacrifice themselves for each other, and this readiness is the proof of their love: all the beauties of the opera arise from the constant presentation of this proof. The deaths that occur in real tragedies are bearable to us because we see them under the aspect of sacrifice. The tragic hero is both self-sacrificed and a sacrificial victim; and the awe that we feel at his death is in some way redemptive, a proof that his life was worthwhile. Love and affection between people is real only to the extent that it prepares the way for sacrifice—whether the petits soins that bind Marcel to Saint Loup, or the proof offered by Alcestis, who dies for her husband. Sacrifice is the core of virtue, the origin of meaning and the true theme of high art. Sacrifice can be avoided, and kitsch is the great lie that we can both avoid it and retain its comforts. Sacrifice can also be made meaningless by desecration. But, when sacrifice is present and respected, life redeems itself; it becomes an object of contemplation, something that ‘bears looking at’, and which attracts our admiration and our love. This connection between sacrifice and love is presented in the rituals and stories of religion. It is also the recurring theme of art. When, in the carnage of the Great War, poets tried to make sense of the destruction that lay all around, it was in full consciousness that kitsch merely compounded the fault. Their effort was not to deny the horror, but to find a way of seeing it in sacrificial terms. From this effort were born the war poems of Wilfred Owen and, much later, the War Requiem of Benjamin Britten. So there, if we can find our way to it, is the remedy. It is a remedy that cannot be achieved through art alone. In the words of Rilke’s ‘Archaic Torso of Apollo’: ‘you must change your life’. Beauty is vanishing from our world because we live as though it did not matter; and we live that way because we have lost the habit of sacrifice and are striving always to avoid it. The false art of our time, mired in kitsch and desecration, is one sign of this.”