The principle is this: We must not allow anything into our life that feeds our point of weakness. A soldier doesn't dance through a mind field any more than we should play with a hand grenade. When the enemy's entry points are boarded up, it frees us to hear clearly the voice of our Commander.
James Baldwin had an unrivaled understanding of politics and history and, above all, the human condition. His prose is laser sharp. His onslaught is massive and leaves no room for response. Every sentence is an immediate cocked grenade. You pick it up, then realize that it is too late. It just blows up in your face. And yet he still managed to stay human, tender, accessible.
There are 160,000 of our men and women in Iraq that wonder whether there is going to be a hand grenade or a missile lobbed into where they are sleeping at night. Those are people who make a real sacrifice.
My advice is to treat [credit cards] like what they are: little plastic grenades that must be handled very carefully.
'Cyberwar' has nothing to do with the destruction brought about by bombs and grenades and so on.
As a school boy I played with a plastic grenade, it was grey and with caps, it was loaded. In the dirt we would cry and dramatically die, as it flew through the air and exploded.
A lack of common sense usually ends in some heroic feat, much like the soldier who dives onto the grenade so that others may live.
If the submarines, the aerial torpedoes, the poison gas, the liquid fire, the long-distance guns, the hand grenades, the trench mortars, and all the other things injure without killing them, they are sent back again and again after being patched up until they are killed.
This is it. It's for all the marbles. I'm sitting in the house loading up the pump, I'm loading up the Uzis, I've got a couple of M-16s, couple of nines, couple of joints with some silencers on them, couple of grenades, got a missile launcher. I'm ready for war.
In the US. Infantry Manual published during World War II, the soldier was told what to do if a live grenade fell into the trench where he and others were sitting: to wrap himself around the grenade so as to at least save the others. (If no one "volunteered," all would be killed, and there were only a few seconds to decide who would be the hero.)
I write a lot of songs about being in love, how beautiful women are but I've definitely experienced that other side of love where you're in a situation where you love a girl so much but you just know for a fact that she doesn't love you the same. "Grenade" is the extreme way of saying "I'd do anything for you and why can't I feel you would do the same for me?
I do have fantasies of buying a helicopter and a lot of machine guns, but I don't know if I can do that. I'd like to have a lot of weapons, grenades and things. And I want to have a solar energy machine. And I want to have a sunken garden with a glass roof. I guess that's about it for now. I have a few other wants but I can't remember them.
Really, while gas is an awful thing to watch - the death is painful - to even watch these deaths - it's also bad to die from a bullet, a hand grenade, or a machete.
(At the back of the cave, Phoebe placed her hand against one of the stones where a spring release opened an elevator door. Chris gave an over exaggerated gape.) Holy Hand Grenade, Batman, it’s a bat cave. (Chris)
I've got a phone, answer machine, TV set, computer, hand grenade - everything you need to run a business in Los Angeles.
What I want to do is make films that astonish people, that astound people, and I hope you want to do that too. It's easy to make money. It's easy to make films like everybody else. But to make films that explode like grenades in people's heads and leave shrapnel for the rest of their lives is a very important thing. That's what the great filmmakers did for me. I've got images from Fellini, from Bergman, from Kurowsawa, from Bunuel, all stuck in my brain.
If I didn't have writing, I'd be running down the street hurling grenades in people's faces.
But now, for the first time, I see you are a man like me. I thought of your hand-grenades, of your bayonet, of your rifle; now I see your wife and your face and our fellowship. Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony - forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy?
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