Died on April 25 — Quotes

Fleecy locks and black complexion Cannot forfeit nature's claim; Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same.

Amico, altri pensieri, altri lamenti, per piú alta cagione il tempo chiede. Ché non pensi a tue colpe? e non rammenti qual Dio prometta a i buoni ampia mercede? Soffri in suo nome, e fian dolci i tormenti, e lieto aspira a la superna sede. Mira 'l ciel com'è bello, e mira il sole ch'a sé par che n'inviti e ne console.

Our computers have no purpose. They are not alive.” “But if they were alive?” “Well, in that case, I suppose the ultimate purpose would be the storage of a universal data and its correlation.” “That perhaps is right,” they said. “We are living computers.” “Then there is no end for you. You’ll keep on forever.” “We are not sure,” they said. “But …” “Data,” they told me, pontifically, “is the means to one end only — arrival at the truth. Perhaps we do not need universal data to arrive at truth.

If the world like it not, so much the worse for them.

Chè fortuna quaggiù varia a vicenda,
Mandandoci venture or triste, or buone:
A' voli troppo alti e repentini Sogliono i precipizi esser vicini.

Fame, whose sweet voice whispers of phantom bliss
to you proud mortals, and who seems so fair,
is a mere echo, dream, dream lost in shade,
at every wind-puff scattered and unmade.

There are two basic ways market organization is brought about... Some combination of the two is usual the case:

For he has seen a road by healing waters
Hushed into wintry slate against the sand,
And spoken there with the wind's elfin daughters,
And mingled in their dusty saraband.

He has known winds that blow from blossomy closes,
Rich with the fruity smell of summertide,
And kissed warm faery lips... Now he reposes,
While we are not quite certain he has died.

God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm.

But it was shabby archaeology: U.S. archaeologist George P. Dales proved in 1964 that the owners of The said skeletons had lived in different periods; moreover, neither weapons nor any signs of war were found at the supposed sites of the “mythical massacre,” as he called it: “Despite the extensive excavations at the largest Harappan sites, there is not a single bit of evidence that can be brought forth as unconditional proof of an armed conquest and the destruction on the supposed scale of the Aryan invasion.”

Whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not.

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,
Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells
In heads replete with thoughts of other men;
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.
Knowledge — a rude, unprofitable mass,
The mere materials with which Wisdom builds,
Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place — Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much;
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.

The Talisman could be operated only by certain beings with certain types of minds and something else besides (could it be, he wondered, with certain kinds of souls?). "Sensitives" was the word he had used in his mental translation of the term for these kinds of people, but once again, he could not be sure if the word came close to fitting. The Talisman was placed in the custody of the most capable, or the most efficient, or the most devoted (whichever it might be) of the galactic sensitives, who carried it from star to star in a sort of eternal progression. And on each planet the people came to make personal and individual contact with the spiritual force through the intervention and the agency of the Talisman and its custodian. He found that he was shivering at the thought of it — the pure ecstasy of reaching out and touching the spirituality that flooded through the galaxy and, undoubtedly, through the universe. The assurance would be there, he thought, the assurance that life had a special place in the great scheme of existence, that one, no matter how small, how feeble, how insignificant, still did count for something in the vast sweep of space and time.

I was a stricken deer that left the herd Long since.

O solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.