It is this kindness of his that unsettles me most. I can dodge a blow or block a knife. I am impervious to poison and know a dozen ways to escape a chokehold or garrote wire. But kindness? I do not know how to defend against that.
Think outside the box, collapse the box, and take a f**king sharp knife to it.
Your afflictions may only prove that you are more immediately under the Father's hand. There is no time that the patient is such an object of tender interest to the surgeon, as when he is bleeding beneath his knife. So you may be sure if you are suffering from the hand of a reconciled God, that His eye is all the more bent on you.
I applied streaks and blobs of colors onto the canvas with a palette knife, and I made them sing with all the intensity I could.
1,2,3, I'm at the Chelsey Hotel, like, Sid and Nancy, with knife, and two grams of candy
Knowledge is like a knife. In the hands of a well-balanced adult it is an instrument for good of inestimable value; but in the hands of a child, an idiot, a criminal, a drunkard or an insane man, it may cause havoc, misery, suffering and crime. Science and religion have this in common, that their noble aims, their power for good, have often, with wrong men, deteriorated into a boomerang to the human race.
Science does not have a moral dimension. It is like a knife. If you give it to a surgeon or a murderer, each will use it differently.
Artificial intelligence is based on the assumption that the mind can be described as some kind of formal system manipulating symbols that stand for things in the world. Thus it doesn't matter what the brain is made of, or what it uses for tokens in the great game of thinking. Using an equivalent set of tokens and rules, we can do thinking with a digital computer, just as we can play chess using cups, salt and pepper shakers, knives, forks, and spoons. Using the right software, one system (the mind) can be mapped onto the other (the computer).
Editing might be a bloody trade. But knives aren't the exclusive property of butchers. Surgeons use them too.
Fill your bowl to the brim and it will spill. Keep sharpening your knife and it will blunt.
I would be scared to go under the knife, but you know, talk to me when I'm 50. I'll try anything. Except I won't do Botox again, because I looked crazy. I looked like Joan Rivers!
My brother got a .22 for his 12th birthday; I got a .22. He got a hunting knife; I got a hunting knife.
New York wasn't everything I thought it would be. It did not welcome me with open arms. The first year, I was held up at gunpoint. Raped on the roof of a building I was dragged up to with a knife in my back, and had my apartment broken into three times. I don't know why; I had nothing of value after they took my radio the first time.
It's amazing the relationships you forge in a kitchen. When you cooperate in an environment that's hot. Where there's a lot of knives. You're trusting your well-being with someone you've never before met or known.
There will be no justice as long as man will stand with a knife or with a gun and destroy those who are weaker than he is.
I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all hurt about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more or less. No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.
It hurts to look at the clouds, but it also helps, like most things that cause pain. So I need to run, and as my lungs burn and my back rebels with that stabbing knife feeling and my legs muscles harden and the half inch of loose skin around my waist jiggles, I feel as though my penance for the day is being done and that maybe God will be pleased enough to lend me some help, which I think is why He has been showing me interesting clouds for the past week.
I make sure to keep a good distance between us, just in case she decides to get happy with a knife or something.
Willem holds my wrist for a long moment, looking at that birthmark. Then he lifts it to his mouth. And though his lips are soft and his kiss is gentle, it feels like a knife jamming into the electrical socket. It feels like the moment when I go live
Carter was so taken aback by her attack he dropped his knife. “You knocked him stupid,” he bellowed. “No,” Emily corrected in what she believed was a reasonable tone of voice. “He was already stupid. I knocked him out.
He's so busy looking inside people to find the good that he misses the knife they're holding in their hand.
Don't know about my knives, but my gun's made of pain.
I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I do know how to count.
Giant agencies are wobbling like drunkards... the rest of you should be sharpening your knives.
Theatre is fake... The knife is not real, the blood is not real, and the emotions are not real. Performance is just the opposite: the knife is real, the blood is real, and the emotions are real.
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