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Bit Ted
https://www.goodreads.com/bitted
“The point of being a teacher is to do more than impart facts, it's to shape the way students perceive the world, to help a student absorb the rules of a discipline. The teachers who do that get remembered.”
― The Social Animal: The Hidden Sources of Love, Character, and Achievement
― The Social Animal: The Hidden Sources of Love, Character, and Achievement
“You know, one of the things that made me come here, was that I am frightfully afraid of being alone. The fear of the dark is only a part of it. I wanted to break that fear in the middle, because I am afraid much of my existence is going to be more or less alone, and I might as well go into training for it. It comes on me at night mostly, in little waves of panic, that constrict something in my stomach. But don't you think it is good to fight these things? Last night, some quite large animal came and sniffed under the door. I presume it was a coyote, though I do not know. The moon had not come up, and when I run outside there was nothing to be seen. But the main thing was that I was frightened, even though I knew it could be nothing but a coyote. Don't tell anyone I am afraid. I do not like to be suspected of being afraid.”
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―
“I am leaving now; but know, Katerina Ivanovna, that you indeed love only him. And the more he insults you, the more you love him. That is your strain. You precisely love him as he is, you love him insulting you. If he reformed, you would drop him at once and stop loving him altogether. But you need him in order to continually contemplate your high deed of faithfulness, and to reproach him for his unfaithfulness. And it all comes from your pride. Oh, there is much humility and humiliation in it, but all of it comes from pride.”
― The Brothers Karamazov
― The Brothers Karamazov
“My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.”
― The Bell Jar
― The Bell Jar
“Dear Carl:
Here, on this paper, there are only you and me, and the things that each of us tries so hard to understand, clambering up through long, long researches into the past, and thinking ponderously and seeking, and finding that for which we looked a glorified question mark.
It would be desirable to be flung, unfettered by consciousness, into the void, to sail unhindered through eternity. Please do not think that I am riding along on baseless words, covering threadbare thoughts with garrulous tapestries. I am not. It is the words which are inadequate.
You know so much and I can tell you nothing, and I don't think I can even make you feel anything you have not felt more poignantly than I, who am a mummer in a brocaded boudoir.
I wrote about miners' faces around a fire. Their bodies did not show in the light, so their yellow faces seemed like dangling masks against the night. And I wrote about little voices in the glens which were the spirits of passions and desires and dreams of dead men's minds. And Mrs. Russell said they were not real, that such things could not be, and she was not going to stand me bullying her into such claptrap nonsense. Those were not her words, it was was her meaning, and then she smiled out of the corner of her mouth as nurses do when an idiot child makes blunders. And I could not stand that, so I swore at her because I had been out all night to make my pictures. And now she is very cold, and she means to flunk me in the course, thinking that she can hurt me thus. I wish that she could know that I do not in the least care.
I wish you were back, because you could understand the things I try to say, and help me say them better, and I know you would, because you did once.”
―
Here, on this paper, there are only you and me, and the things that each of us tries so hard to understand, clambering up through long, long researches into the past, and thinking ponderously and seeking, and finding that for which we looked a glorified question mark.
It would be desirable to be flung, unfettered by consciousness, into the void, to sail unhindered through eternity. Please do not think that I am riding along on baseless words, covering threadbare thoughts with garrulous tapestries. I am not. It is the words which are inadequate.
You know so much and I can tell you nothing, and I don't think I can even make you feel anything you have not felt more poignantly than I, who am a mummer in a brocaded boudoir.
I wrote about miners' faces around a fire. Their bodies did not show in the light, so their yellow faces seemed like dangling masks against the night. And I wrote about little voices in the glens which were the spirits of passions and desires and dreams of dead men's minds. And Mrs. Russell said they were not real, that such things could not be, and she was not going to stand me bullying her into such claptrap nonsense. Those were not her words, it was was her meaning, and then she smiled out of the corner of her mouth as nurses do when an idiot child makes blunders. And I could not stand that, so I swore at her because I had been out all night to make my pictures. And now she is very cold, and she means to flunk me in the course, thinking that she can hurt me thus. I wish that she could know that I do not in the least care.
I wish you were back, because you could understand the things I try to say, and help me say them better, and I know you would, because you did once.”
―
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