Inspirational quotes with mutant.
Dante laughed. "No cold soup, no goat cheese. I'll make a mental note. And no Gottfried Curse.""And for you it's no food at all. No sleep. And no tunnels.""I'm low maintenance.""Is that what you are? Because I've been trying to figure it out all semester.""And what have you concluded?""A mutant. A rare disease. A creature from the inferno. Dante.""And what if you found out you were right?" he asked. "What if it meant that I could hurt you?""I would say that I'm not scared. Everyone has the ability to hurt. It's the choice that matters.
For a long while I have believed – this is perhaps my version of Sir Darius Xerxes Cama’s belief in a fourth function of outsideness – that in every generation there are a few souls, call them lucky or cursed, who are simply born not belonging, who come into the world semi-detached, if you like, without strong affiliation to family or location or nation or race; that there may even be millions, billions of such souls, as many non-belongers as belongers, perhaps; that, in sum, the phenomenon may be as “natural” a manifestation of human nature as its opposite, but one that has been mostly frustrated, throughout human history, by lack of opportunity. And not only by that: for those who value stability, who fear transience, uncertainly, change, have erected a powerful system of stigmas and taboos against rootlessness, that disruptive, anti-social force, so that we mostly conform, we pretend to be motivated by loyalties and solidarities we do not really feel, we hide our secret identities beneath the false skins of those identities which bear the belongers’ seal of approval. But the truth leaks out in our dreams; alone in our beds (because we are all alone at night, even if we do not sleep by ourselves), we soar, we fly, we flee. And in the waking dreams our societies permit, in our myths, our arts, our songs, we celebrate the non-belongers, the different ones, the outlaws, the freaks.What we forbid ourselves we pay good money to watch, in a playhouse or a movie theater, or to read about between the secret covers of a book. Our libraries, our palaces of entertainment tell the truth. The tramp, the assassin, the rebel, the thief, the mutant, the outcast, the delinquent, the devil, the sinner, the traveler, the gangster, the runner, the mask: if we did not recognize in them our least-fulfilled needs, we would not invent them over and over again, in every place, in every language, in every time.
Like some huge, mutant chicken–I sat there hatching a gas-egg the size of a planet.
I can't believe there's a part of you that grows when you need it. You're like a mutant.""I'm a vampire," Baz says, "and can you hear yourself?
. . since [no] women whose acquaintance I had made in fiction had much to do with the life I led or wanted to lead, I was not female. . . . if Molly Bloom was a woman. what was I? A mutant or a dinosaur.
History repeats itself, in part because the genome repeats itself. And the genome repeats itself, in part because history does. The impulses, ambitions, fantasies, and desires that drive human history are, at least in part, encoded in the human genome. And human history has, in turn, selected genomes that carry these impulses, ambitions, fantasies, and desires. This self-fulfilling circle of logic is responsible for some of the most magnificent and evocative qualities in our species, but also some of the most reprehensible. It is far too much to ask ourselves to escape the orbit of this logic, but recognizing its inherent circularity, and being skeptical of its overreach, might protect the week from the will of the strong, and the 'mutant' from being annihilated by the 'normal'.
You can't stop a soldier from being frightened but you can give him motivation to help him overcome that fear. I have no such motivation. I can't have. I'm a witcher: an artificially created mutant. I kill monsters for money. I defend children when their parents pay me to. If Nilfgaardian parents pay me, I'll defend Nilfgaardian children. And even if the world lies in ruin - which does not seem likely to me - I'll carry on killing monsters in the ruins of this world until some monster kills me. That is my fate, my reason, my life and my attitude to the world. And it is not what I chose. It was chosen for me.
A pall fell over the room. A black shroud of disease and deathbeds and all the worst things from all the worst places. This mutant world, a tragic portmanteau, the unnatural marriage of two roots as different as could be. 'And do you, Ability take Vitriol to be your lawfully wedded suffix?' I wanted to scream objections to the unholy matrimony, but nothing came out. My mouth was clammy and dry, full of sand. Dr. Wilson smiled on, rambling about the benefits of Abilitol while my father nodded like a toy bobblehead immune to the deepening shadow in the room. As they spoke, I caught my mother's eye. I could tell by her face that she felt the deepening shadow too.Neither of us smiled.Neither of us spoke.We felt the shadow together.
The insidious reasons for a brown girl’s self-loathing won’t be surprising to any woman of color. I cannot rightly compare my own struggles to those of another minority, as each ethnicity comes with its own baggage and the South Asian experience is just one variation on the experience of dark-skinned people everywhere. As parents and grandparents often do in Asian countries, my extended family urged me to avoid the sun, not out of fear that heatstroke would sicken me or that UV rays would lead to cancer, but more, I think, out of fear that my skin would darken to the shade of an Untouchable, a person from the lowest caste in Indian society, someone who toils in the fields. The judgments implicit in these exhortations—and what they mean about your worth—might not dawn on you while you’re playing cricket in the sand. What’s at stake might not dawn on you while, as a girl, you clutch fast to yourself your blonde-haired, blue-eyed doll named Helen. But all along, the message that lighter skin is equivalent to a more attractive, worthier self is getting beamed deep into your subconscious. Western ideals of beauty do not stop at ocean shores. They pervade the world and mingle with those of your own country to create mutant, unachievable standards.
There are two Venices I know about and one of them is a hotel in Vegas. The other is an L.A. beach where pretty girls walk their dogs while wearing as little as possible and mutant slabs of tanned, posthuman beef sip iced steroid lattes and pump iron until their pecs are the size of Volkswagens.
Like if Leonardo from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles started being all bummed out about everything. How were we going to kick arse if our Leonardo was wearing a black eye-band instead of a blue one?
He felt split in two, one crazy man eating hair and one rational man watching a crazy man eat hair. He chewed and swallowed the last pieces of his father's life. He felt like he was building a museum of pain, a freak show, where he was the only visitor viewing the only mutant screaming the only prayer he knew: Come back, Daddy. Come back, Daddy. Come back, Daddy. Come back, Daddy. Come back, Daddy. Come back, Daddy. Come back, Daddy. Come back Daddy...
His eyes widened. “Are you some kind of mutant human? Like a fire user? And I use mutant as a compliment, you know. I wouldn’t think less of you.
Andrea: "....I think a dog is a great idea. I just never pictured you with a mutant poodle.” Kate: “He isn’t a poodle. He’s a Doberman mix."Andrea: “Aha. Keep telling yourself that.
I don’t need to look at your primal, white-hot, mutant pirate eyes, big guy. Just forget that I’m there, and I’ll try to block out the fact that I ever met you. Basically we’ll just act like we do every day.
In microbiology the roles of mutation and selection in evolution are coming to be better understood through the use of bacterial cultures of mutant strains.
I hate computers. My hatred is entrenched, and I nourish it daily. I’m comfortable with it, and no community outreach program will change my mind. I hate computers for getting their own section in the New York Times and for lengthening commercials with the mention of a Web site address. Who really wants to find out more about Procter & Gamble? Just buy the toothpaste or laundry detergent, and get on with it. I hate them for creating the word org and I hate them for e-mail, which isn’t real mail but a variation of the pointless notes people used to pass in class. I hate computers for replacing the card catalog in the New York Public Library and I hate the way they’ve invaded the movies. I’m not talking about their contribution to the world of special effects. I have nothing against a well-defined mutant or full-scale alien invasion — that’s good technology. I’m talking about their actual presence in any given movie. They’ve become like horses in a western — they may not be the main focus, but everybody seems to have one.
If we fail, the planet will grow sterile and your people will die in hunger, thirst and waves of plagues. Our people and the thrm's will die more slowly because the poisons here will render us unable to conceive. The skies will cease to be blue, the land will lose its verdure and the seas, well, the seas will be the first to go. Anything that does survive will be broken, mutant, discontinuous from us and mutually exclusive. It will be the new life of a shattered world, a world for chitinous, crawly things, not one for soft and tender emotion. I hope, child, I have answered your question."Meg said nothing. None of it made sense, but she still felt an urge to deny it, deny it, even though Ekaterina's strange, rolling words carried a ring of truth. Suddenly, the autumn chill cut through all her layers of bundling wraps. She could not stop shivering.
The food is ready,” Zil announced to loud cheers.“But we have something more important to do, first, before we can eat.”Groans.“We have to carry out some justice.”That earned a silent stare until Turk and Hank started raising their hands and yelling, showing the crowd how to act.“This mutant, this nonhuman scum here, this freak Hunter…” Zil pointed, arm stretched out, at his captive. “This chud deliberately murdered my best friend, Harry.”“Na troo,” Hunter said. His mouth still didn’t work right. Brain damage, Zil supposed, from the little knock on his head. Half of Hunter’s face drooped like it wasn’t quite attached right. It made it easier for the crowd of kids to sneer at him, and Hunter, yelling in his drooling retard voice, wasn’t helping his case.“He’s a killer!” Zil cried suddenly, smacking his fist into his palm.“A freak! A mutant!” he cried. “And we know what they’re like, right? They always have enough food. They run everything. They’re in charge and we’re all starving. Is that some kind of coincidence? No way.”“Na troo,” Hunter moaned again.“Take him!” Zil cried to Antoine and Hank. “Take him, the murdering mutant scum!”They seized Hunter by the arms. He could walk, but only by dragging one leg. They half carried, half marched him across the plaza. They dragged him up the church steps.“Now,” Zil said, “here is how we’re going to do this.” He waved his hand toward the rope that Lance was unspooling back through the plaza.An expectant pause. A dangerous, giddy feeling. The smell of the meat had them all crazy. Zil could feel it.“You all want some of this delicious venison?”They roared their assent.“Then you’ll all grab on to the rope.
Somatic hypermutation gives rise to B cells bearing mutant immunoglobulin molecules on their surface. Some of these mutant immunoglobulins have substitutions in the antigen-binding site that increase its affinity for the antigen. B cells bearing these mutant high-affinity immunoglobulin receptors compete most effectively for binding to antigen and are preferentially selected to mature into antibody-secreting plasma cells. The mutant antibodies that emerge from the selection do not have a random distribution of amino-acid substitutions. The changes are concentrated at positions in the heavy-chain and light-chain CDR loops that form the antigen-binding site and directly contact antigen. As the adaptive immune response to infection proceeds, antibodies of progressively higher affinity for the infecting pathogen are produced – a phenomenon called affinity maturation. Affinity maturation is a process of evolution in which variant immunoglobulins generated in a random manner are subjected to selection for improved binding to a pathogen. It achieves in a few days what would require thousands, if not millions, of years of classical Darwinian evolution in a conventional gene. This capacity for extraordinarily rapid evolution in pathogen-binding immunoglobulins is a major factor in allowing the human immune system to keep up with the generally faster-evolving pathogens.
Under the stars,I tried to sleep,but for once in my life couldn't.My mutant super power-the ability to nod off at at the drop of a hat,any time,anywhere-had deserted me.
Walking into Nova Hollywood, I remembered why I didn’t come here more often. I like a good slice of cheese as much as the next guy, but this place would be too cheesy for a giant mutant rat who had been starving for a week.
She could and had faced an armed laser in the hands of a mad mutant mercenary with less fear than she faced such unswerving emotion...
What are you doing?" my mom asked. One side of her mouth curled up."I'm trying to move that cup."My parents laughed. I concentrated on the coffee cup, but it didn't budge."I guess I'll have to work on this telekinesis thing. It'll come in handy when Ben is hogging the TV remote and forcing me to watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for the fifty-millionth time.
Go, Breeze,” someone yelled.But another voice yelled, “Quit showing off, stupid mutant.”Brianna stopped dead. Her dress settled back into place. “Who said that?”Zil. The same jerk who had picked on Jack over the phones.“Me,” Zil said, stepping forward. “And don’t bother trying to look tough. I’m not scared of you, freak.”“You should be,” Brianna hissed.Suddenly there was Dekka, up off her chair, hand extended between Brianna and Zil. “No,” she said in her deep voice. “None of that.”Quinn joined her. “Dekka’s right, we can’t be having fights and stuff here. Sam will shut this place down.”“Maybe we should have two different clubs,” a seventh grader named Antoine said. “You know, one for freaks and one for normals.”“Man, what is the matter with you?” Quinn demanded.“I don’t like her acting like she’s so cool, is all,” Zil said, stepping beside Antoine.“You should be on our side, Quinn. Everyone knows you’re a normal,” another kid, Lance, said. “Well…kind of normal. You’re still Quinn.
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