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Answer Quotes

“Binti yako mwenye umri wa miaka kumi na nne kwa mfano, anaomba umnunulie gari kama ulivyofanya kwa kaka yake mwenye umri wa miaka kumi na nane. Mara ya kwanza unamwambia utamnunulia atakapofikisha umri wa miaka kumi na nane kama ulivyofanya kwa kaka yake. Lakini baada ya wiki moja binti yako anakuomba tena kitu kilekile, yaani gari. Utajisikiaje? Utakereka, sivyo? Jinsi utakavyokereka binti yako kukuomba kitu ambacho tayari ameshakuomba, ndivyo Mungu anavyokereka sisi kumwomba vitu ambavyo tayari tumeshamwomba. Ukiomba kitu kwa mara ya kwanza Mungu amekusikia, tayari ameshaandaa malaika wa kukuletea jibu. Unachotakiwa kufanya, baada ya kuomba, shukuru mpaka jibu lako litakapofika. Mungu huthamini zaidi maombi ya kushukuru kuliko maombi ya kuomba. Binti yako anachotakiwa kufanya baada ya kukuomba gari ni kukushukuru mpaka gari yake itakapofika, si kukuomba mpaka gari yake itakapofika.”

“You want to kill me?? - So I guess that truth hurts, but why it hurts? Lie doesn't but truth does?? How does it happen?? So you go... you say "Well, well pretty nice made knife..." and you are looking it by moving it like rotate and such type of stuff and one moment you want to kill me. But why?? Is it because I just "I lived" or it was because of "Listen" or it was because of "The Walk"?? or what's the answer?”

“Do you love me?” Diana asked. Caine’s eyes widened. She could actually see him twitch. Like a startled animal. Like a rabbit who had just heard a fox. “It’s a yes or no question,” Diana said acidly. “But I’ll accept a nod or a shake of the head or an incoherent grunt.” “I . . . I don’t know what you mean by that,” Caine said lamely. “When I jumped off the cliff, you saved me even though it meant letting Sanjit and the others escape.” “You didn’t give me much choice,” Caine said peevishly. “You had a choice. You wanted to destroy them.” “Okay.” “Why did you make that choice?” Caine swallowed and seemed to find his palms sweaty since he rubbed them on his sides. Diana walked to the door. She unlocked it and held it open. “Go away,” she said. “Come back when you figure out your answer.”

“The day she realised, it was not about the world but was all about her, she grew the wings. The day she understood she was not answerable to any of them who always blamed and pointed her, she had the fire blazing in her eyes. She raised and soared towards the sky. The whole world looked at her in awe and wished if only they could be her. She was not confined to be on the ground anymore. She had the wings of fire and she left a trail everywhere she went, for other to follow.”

“Maombi yako yasipojibiwa usikate tamaa, Mungu alishakusikia na tayari alishaandaa malaika wa kukuletea jibu. Jibu wakati mwingine huchelewa kufika kwa sababu ya nguvu za giza. Usiwe na haraka, muda wako ukifika utajibiwa.”

“Mimi na wewe na vitu vyote ulimwenguni ni wazito kwa sababu ya 'Higgs Boson', inayojulikana pia kama 'The God’s Particle'. Wanasayansi wa CERN wamekuwa wakiitafuta 'higgs' (iliyojificha ndani ya 'higgs field') kwa zaidi ya miaka hamsini sasa, kwa bajeti ya pauni za Uingereza bilioni sita. Chembe ya 'higgs' ikipatikana itawajulisha wanasayansi jinsi ulimwengu unavyofanya kazi na jinsi ulivyoumbwa, na jibu la kitendawili cha 'Standard Model' litapatikana.”

“Holden... One short, faintly stuffy, pedagogical question. Don't you think there's a time and place for everything? Don't you think if someone starts out to tell you about his father's farm, he should stick to his guns, then get around to telling you about his uncle's brace? Or, if his uncle's brace is such a provocative subject, shouldn't he have selected it in the first place as his subject—not the farm?' I didn't feel much like thinking and answering and all. I had a headache and I felt lousy. I even had sort of a stomach-ache, if you want to know the truth. 'Yes—I don't know. I guess he should. I mean I guess he should've picked his uncle as a subject, instead of the farm, if that interested him most. But what I mean is, lots of time you don't know what interests you most till you start talking about something that doesn't interest you most. I mean you can't help it sometimes. What I think is, you're supposed to leave somebody alone if he's at least being interesting and he's getting all excited about something. I like it when somebody gets excited about something. It's nice. You just didn't know this teacher, Mr. Vinson. He could drive you crazy sometimes, him and the goddam class. I mean he'd keep telling you to unify and simplify all the time. Some things you just can't do that to. I mean you can't hardly ever simplify and unify something just because somebody wants you to.”

“The rules were simple, as far as I could tell. Being correct had nothing to do with substance and everything to do with style. The correct answer was a matter of yelling loudly. Whoever yelled the loudest was telling the greatest version of the truth. The title of the show was Objectivity.”

“Wrong? So you are saying, I'm wrong okay then... It's not possible every time to be right, one moment you should be wrong in luck happens this and everywhere... But why?? Where?? And Prove! Under why - why do you think, I'm wrong? - Where? Is it in one of my books which I have written, is it by books which I have read?? - reviewed, rated, is it by the stuff I have said and made... Please tell the topic! - Prove, everything to go well as far as possible you should give a prove something which confirms your answer!”

“Do you like me? You know, like me like me?” I cringe the moment I ask and cover my face with my hands. The smell of blood and trail dirt wafts into my nose. Something sinks inside me. What is it? Oh, I know, any dignity I could possibly have left. “Can I take that back?” I ask softly from behind my hands. Nick’s voice is low and warm. “No.” I peek between my fingers. “No, I can’t take it back or no, you don’t like me?” His fingers wrap around my fingers and he pulls my hands from my face so he can look at me, I guess, or else so I can look at him. “No, you can’t take it back. That’s your question,” he says in a voice so deep and warm and full of things that I can’t get mad anymore. This has to be what people mean when they say they “melted.” I feel all wiggly. “Oh,” I say. “Okay.” I swallow. His eyes are deep and brown and . . . How can a man’s eyes be so ridiculously beautiful and gorgeous, so full of things that I want to know? “So, what’s your answer?” I whisper, afraid I might still screw it all up. Those eyes of his widen a little bit. I hold my breath. “I like you, Zara,” he says.”

“The atheists ask- “If God has created everything, then who has created God?” I politely tell them- the question is illogical and much unscientific because there is no creator of God! Let me explain- for example, if the atheists tell that ‘Z’ has created God, then another question appears- “Who has created ‘Z’?” Then, the atheists may answer ‘Y’. Later, a question will arise- “Who has created ‘Y’?” There will be such infinite illogical questions! So, it is proved that there is no creator of God!”

“I don’t want people’s beliefs and opinions about God. I want true knowledge of the true God. We all want the real thing though, don’t we? Deep down, we all crave the Absolute Truth, not just some nice, liberal idea that we think might make the world a better place. I don’t want to talk to my own unconscious, or my own subjective beliefs, then call it “God” … because it makes me feel good. I want to actually talk to God. I want the answers to all the big questions. I want to know what it’s really all about. What am I supposed to do with my life? How am I supposed to live? What’s the right thing to do? What’s the meaning of life? What’s the purpose of each and every one of us? What are the big explanations for everything? Is there a way to get all the way through to God, the true God?”

“Една приятелка изпитваше дълбок страх от поглед на кукли. Изпадаше в истински ступор, срещнеше ли оцъклените им очи. Ама те наистина гледаха страшно, някогашните кукли. Оказа се, че този страх е описан и си има име, нарича се гленофобия. Моят страх е дори по-ужасен, защото заплашителното може да е навсякъде. В никоя номенклатура на фобиите не съм го срещал и затова надлежно прилагам описанието му тук. Нека това бъде малкият ми научен принос към безкрайния Списък на страховете. Имам фобия от един въпрос. Кошмарен въпрос, който може буквално да изскочи иззад ъгъла, скрит в беззъбата уста на съседката или изломотен от продавача на вестници. Всяко позвъняване на телефона е заредено с този въпрос. Да, най-често се крие в телефонните слушалки: Как си? Спрях да излизам, не вдигах телефона, сменях местата, от които пазарувам, за да не завързвам тривиалните познанства на всекидневието. Блъсках си главата над това да изковавам защитни отговори. Нуждаех се от един нов щит на Ахил срещу глупостта. Как да се намери такъв отговор, който да не умножава бездарието, да не зацикля в клишето. Отговор, който да не те кара да ползваш готови фрази, отговор, който не лъже, но и не разкрива неща, които не искаш да разкриеш. Отговор, който да не предполага завързването на дълъг и безсмислен разговор. Коя фалшива традиция на етикета го е подготвяла, как се е шмугвал през вековете този лицемерен въпрос. „Как си?“, това е въпросът. That is the question. (Възвишеното „Да бъдеш или не“ се е сменило с това нищожно питане, ето ти доказателство за падение.) Как си? Как си? Как си? Как се отговаря на такова питане? Виж, англичаните са се изхитрили, като са го превърнали в поздрав. Обезкостили са го, отнели са му питащото жило.„Как си“ е обелката на банана, поставена с цялата любезност под крака ти, сиренцето, което те примамва към капана на клишето. Как си — слабата омаломощаваща отрова на всекидневието. Няма открит отговор на този въпрос. Няма. Знам възможните отговори, но се гнуся от тях, разбирате ли, гнуся се… Не искам да съм толкова предвидим, да отвръщам „благодаря, добре“ или „горе-долу, щом сме живи“, или „а бе оправяме се още“, или…Не знам как съм. Не мога да бъда категоричен. За да ви отговоря подобаващо, трябва да прекарам нощи, месеци, години, да изчета вавилонски кули от книги, да пиша, да пиша… Отговорът е цял роман. Как съм? Не съм. Точка. Нека това бъде първият ред. И оттук нататък да започне истинският отговор.”