Quotes in the category academy.
I wanted to pull away, remind him that I was a big girl, a highly trained operative, a spy - that I'd been training for this mission my entire life, and I wasn't going to be left on the sidelines. But in the dim space with Zach pressed tightly against me, only one thought came to mind. I kissed him - longer and deeper than I ever had before. The school was not watching us this time. There was nothing playful in the tone. We were just two people kissing as if for the first time, as if it might be the last. And then I broke away. "So," I asked, as if I got kissed like that all the time (which, believe me, I don't), "where is it you're taking me again?" "The tombs.
Nonsense has taken up residence in the heart of public debate and also in the academy. This nonsense is part of the huge fund of unreason on which the plans and schemes of optimists draw for their vitality. Nonsense confiscates meaning. It thereby puts truth and falsehood, reason and unreason, light and darkness on an equal footing. It is a blow cast in defence of intellectual freedom, as the optimists construe it, namely the freedom to believe anything at all, provided you feel better for it.
New dreams are like new wines; they grow sweeter over time. With patience, you will be able to climb your spiritual, financial, academic, marital and social ladders in Jesus' name!
Labelling is no longer a liberating political act but a necessity in order to gain entrance into the academic industrial complex and other discussions and spaces. For example, if so called “radical” or “progressive” people don’t hear enough “buzz” words (like feminist, anti-oppression, anti-racist, social justice, etc.) in your introduction, then you are deemed unworthy and not knowledgeable enough to speak with authority on issues that you have lived experience with. The criteria for identifying as a feminist by academic institutions, peer reviewed journals, national bodies, conferences, and other knowledge gatekeepers is very exclusive. It is based on academic theory instead of based on lived experiences or values. Name-dropping is so elitist! You're not a "real" feminist unless you can quote, or have read the following white women: (insert Women's Studies 101 readings).
Look, Aerin, preparation is only half the challenge of winning a debate.”“And the other half?”He had her now. “You have to choose the right side.”“Your side, you mean.” She bristled.“No, the losing side.”“What?”“Always choose the weaker side.”“Why would I do that?” Doubt edged her voice, but now she was sitting erect, her feet flat on the floor.“Because then you have further to go to prove your case.” He eased the feet of his chair down. “In a debate, there are two sides. If both make a good argument, then the less popular side wins because that side had further to go to prove its point. Simple logistics.”“If you don’t care which side wins.” She frowned.“It’s a debate. It doesn’t matter which side wins.”“You mean it doesn’t matter to you.” The tone in her voice unsettled him. Or maybe it was the fact that that her criticism disturbed him at all.“It’s a class,” he said. “The point is to flesh out the different sides of an argument.”“And you don’t care if the truth gets lost in the shuffle. Don’t you believe in anything?!
Scholarship that is indifferent to human suffering is immoral.
It did occur to him that perhaps he’d gone to the wrong Academy – the guys in the Space Fleet always had more interesting stories to tell at the spaceport bars. You know, tales about the dude who got vaporized in a plasma accident in the engineering section, or the fella who got turned into a blob of weird space jelly by some alien virus – or the time someone flew a starship into an astor-field at warp four by mistake (they were still trying to find the black box on that one). The Imperial Space Fleet’s recruiting office sure didn’t go around advertising ‘Join up, see the universe, meet interesting aliens and die screaming’, but it was known there were risks involved. It was part of the job after all, and yet somehow, they still got recruits signing up in droves. Yes, indeedy – the stories were far more interesting than his – took a load of ore to Gorda, took a load of mining equipment back to Tordrazil. Took a load of Florpavian Flame-birds to a zoo on Deanna, took a load of machinery to Salus. Picked up and dropped off a few passengers on the way. Still, Florpavian Flame-birds were a risky cargo… and damned tricky to transport – which is probably the only reason he’d had any entertainment at all on the last trip.
Why I felt the need to always disobey everyone around me was beyond me. But I guess being sixteen years old made me susceptible to bouts of irrational behaviour and the occasional notion that I was in fact smarter than everyone else, regardless of whether or not that was true.
The only thing better than imagining Dimitri carrying me in his arms was imagining him shirtless while carrying me in his arms.
There's nothing worse than waiting and not knowing what'll happen to you. Your own imagination can be crueler than any captor.
what's your name?"what?" i asked, squinting at the light.your name." I reconized Dr. Olendzki peering over me.you know my name."I want you to tell me."Rose. Rose Hathaway."Do you know your birthday?"Of course I do. Why are you asking me such stupid things? Did you lose my records?"Dr. Olendzki gave an exasperated sigh and walked off, taking the annoying light with her. "I think she's fine,
Not into older guys, huh?" asked Adrian once we were alone."You're imagining things," I said. "Clearly, my stunning beauty has clouded your mind.
Wow." I hadn't thought Dimitri could be any cooler, but I was wrong. "You beat up your dad. I mean, that's really horrible...what happened. But, wow. You really are a god."He blinked. "What?""Uh, nothing.
By the way, my name's Rose Hathaway. I'm seventeen years old, training to protect and kill vampires, in love with a completely unsuitable guy, and have a best friend whose weird magic could drive her crazy.Hey, no one said high school was easy.
That's pretty hot," he said."Punching me in the eye?""Well, no. Of course not. I meant the idea of getting rough with you is hot. I'm a big fan of full-contact sports.""I'm sure you are.
Well he didn't treat my mother very well. He did some horrible things.""Like..." I hesitated. "Blood-whore things?""Like beating-her-up kinds of things" he replied flatly."Oh God," I said "That's horrible. And she...she just let it happen?""She did." The corner of his mouth turned into a sly, sad smile. "But I didn't""Tell me, tell me you beat the crap out of him"His smile grew, "I did.
It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay. You can let go of the sword.""I can’t. I can’t leave him alone. I have to protect him.""You have.
Sweat isn't a bad thing," he said, leaning his head against the wall thoughtfully. "Some of the best things in life happen while your sweating. Yeah, if you get too much of it and it gets old and stale, it turns pretty gross. But on a beautiful women? Intoxicating. If you could smell things like a vampire does, you'd know what I'm talking about. Most people mess it all up and drown themselves in perfume. Perfume can be good...especially if you get one that goes with your chemistry. But you only need a hint. Mix about 20 percent of that with 80 percent of your own perspiration...mmm." He tilted his head to the side and looked at me. "Dead sexy.
Call me crazy for asking this, but, um, are Lissa and I going with you?""No""No?""No.
Тhere isnʹt much I wouldnʹt do for you. Тhe stupider, the better.
But once in a while . . . I don't know. I feel so close, Rose. So close to the edge. Like if I allow myself one small misstep, I'll plunge away and never come back. It's like I'll lose myself.
But I didn't know about the other story.""What other story?”"About how you and Adrian Ivashkov are—""No, whatever you heard it’s not true.""But it was really romantic""Then it’s definitely not true.
If it took me showing some warmth to get warmth in return, I'd do it.
They were frisky, eager and exuberant, and they had all been friends in the States. They were plainly unthinkable. They were noisy, overconfident, empty-headed kids of twenty-one. They had gone to college and were engaged to pretty, clean girls whose pictures were already standing on the rough cement mantelpiece of Orr's fireplace. They had ridden in speedboats and played tennis. They had been horseback riding. One had once been to bed with an older woman. They knew the same poeple in different parts of the country and had gone to school with each other's cousins.
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