The fibers of all things have their tension and are strained like the strings of an instrument.
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There is geometry in the humming of the strings, there is music in the spacing of the spheres.
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There is no such thing, at this date of the world's history, in America, as an independent press. You know it and I know it. There is not one of you who dares to write your honest opinions, and if you did, you know beforehand that it would never appear in print. I am paid weekly for keeping my honest opinion out of the paper I am connected with. Others of you are paid similar salaries for similar things, and any of you who would be so foolish as to write honest opinions would be out on the streets looking for another job. If I allowed my honest opinions to appear in one issue of my paper, before twenty-four hours my occupation would be gone. The business of the journalists is to destroy the truth, to lie outright, to pervert, to vilify, to fawn at the feet of mammon, and to sell his country and his race for his daily bread. You know it and I know it, and what folly is this toasting an independent press We are the tools and vassals of rich men behind the scenes. We are the jumping jacks, they pull the strings and we dance. Our talents, our possibilities and our lives are all the property of other men. We are intellectual prostitutes.
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The eating of meat was unknown up to the big flood, but since the flood they have put the strings and stinking juices of animal meat into our mouths, just as they threw in front of the grumbling sensual people in the desert. Jesus Christ, who appeared when the time had been fulfilled, has again joined the end with the beginning, so that it is no longer allowed for us to eat animal meat.
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Dateline Mesopotamia, 3500 B.C. That's when the multi-faceted sounds we call music got its humble beginnings. It seems clappers were sent out the the fields to scare evil spirits away. These clappers started getting into the beat of their duty and, bingo, you got drums. From there, horns, strings, reeds, the whole orchestral gestalt. So, born in staving off death, music continues to nourish us in a variety of forms as different as the colors of the spectrum.
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There is no such thing, at this date of the world's history, as an independent press. You know it and I know it. There is not one of you who dares to write your honest opinions, and if you did, you know beforehand that it would never appear in print. I am paid weekly for keeping my honest opinions out of the paper I am connected with. Others of you are paid similar salaries for similar things, and any of you who would be so foolish as to write honest opinions would be out on the streets looking for another job. If I allowed my honest opinions to appear in one issue of my paper, before twenty-four hours my occupation would be gone. The business of the journalist is to destroy the truth; to lie outright; to pervert; to vilify; to fawn at the feet of mammon, and to sell the country for his daily bread. You know it and I know it and what folly is this toasting an independent press. We are the tools and vassals of the rich men behind the scenes. We are the jumping jacks, they pull the strings and we dance. Our talents, our possibilities and our lives are all the property of other men. We are intellectual prostitutes.
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Love is like a violin. The music may stop now and then, but the strings remain forever.
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'A string walked into a bar, hopped on the barstool, and said, 'Bartender, gimme a beer.' The bartender said, 'I'm sorry, sir, we don't serve strings here.' Disappointed, the string hopped down from the stool and went to the next bar. He hopped on the barstool and said, again, 'Bartender, gimme a beer.' The bartender said, 'I'm sorry sir, we don't serve strings here.' The string continued down the row of bars in this fashion. At every bar, he hopped on the barstool and said, 'Bartender, gimme a beer.' The bartender at every bar in turn said, 'I'm sorry sir, we don't serve strings here.' Finally he got to the last bar in the area. He was tired, he was sweaty, all he wanted was a beer. He trudged inside, climbed on the barstool, and said, 'Bartender, gimme a beer.' This bartender, too, said, 'I'm sorry, sir, we don't serve strings here.' Tired and angry, the string walked outside to think. He was a hard-working string. He deserved a beer. Finally, he came up with an idea. He had a passerby tie him up into a bow and frazzle his ends. Then he went back into the bar, and climbed up on the barstool. 'Bartender, gimme a beer!' he said loudly. The bartender looked him over critically, and finally yelled, 'Hey, aren't you that string that was in here a few minutes ago?' The string replied coolly, 'Nope, I'm a frayed knot.''
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'A string walked into a bar, hopped on the barstool, and said, 'Bartender, gimme a beer.' The bartender said, 'I'm sorry, sir, we don't serve strings here.' Disappointed, the string hopped down from the stool and went to the next bar. He hopped on the barstool and said, again, 'Bartender, gimme a beer.' The bartender said, 'I'm sorry sir, we don't serve strings here.' The string continued down the row of bars in this fashion. At every bar, he hopped on the barstool and said, 'Bartender, gimme a beer.' The bartender at every bar in turn said, 'I'm sorry sir, we don't serve strings here.' Finally he got to the last bar in the area. He was tired, he was sweaty, all he wanted was a beer. He trudged inside, climbed on the barstool, and said, 'Bartender, gimme a beer.' This bartender, too, said, 'I'm sorry, sir, we don't serve strings here.' Tired and angry, the string walked outside to think. He was a hard-working string. He deserved a beer. Finally, he came up with an idea. He had a passerby tie him up into a bow and frazzle his ends. Then he went back into the bar, and climbed up on the barstool. 'Bartender, gimme a beer!' he said loudly. The bartender looked him over critically, and finally yelled, 'Hey, aren't you that string that was in here a few minutes ago?' The string replied coolly, 'Nope, I'm a frayed knot.''
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Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping,...
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No free people ever existed, or can ever exist, without keeping the purse strings in their own hands. Where this is the case, they have a constitutional check upon the administration, which may thereby by brought into order without violence. But when such a power is not lodged in the people, oppression proceeds uncontrolled in its career, till the governed, transported into rage, seek redress in the midst of blood and confusion.
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I believe in the total depravity of inanimate things... the elusiveness of soap, the knottiness of strings, the transitory nature of buttons, the inclination of suspenders to twist and of hooks to forsake their lawful eyes, and cleave only unto the hairs of their hapless owner's head.
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Talking is like playing the harp, there is as much in laying the hand on the strings to stop their vibrations as in twanging them to bring out their music.
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Generosity with strings is not generosity It is a deal.
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Remember that what pulls the strings is the force hidden within; there lies the power to persuade, there the life -- there, if one must speak out, the real man.
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The world is all gates, all opportunities, strings of tension waiting to be struck.
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Friends are like fiddle strings, they must not be screwed too tight.
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Remember that what pulls the strings is the force hidden within there lies the power to persuade, there the life,--there, if one must speak out, the real man.
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Generosity with strings is not generosity; It is a deal.
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There are some strings. They're just not attached.
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There are strings in the human heart that had better not be wibrated.
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All gods are homemade, and it is we who pull their strings, and so, give them the power to pull ours.
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We are all instruments endowed with feeling and memory. Our senses are so many strings that are struck by surrounding objects and that also frequently strike themselves.
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