Dagens dybsindige citat

[Awesome]

Der er sagt så UENDELIGT meget forblommet sludder om tankeeksperimentet Schrödingers kat hentet fra kvantemekanikken.
Bedst illustreres det med et aktuelt indlæg, jeg lige faldt over, da jeg forsøgte at google mig frem til nedenstående digt:
http://www.thesargeants.net/dblog/ar...sp?articolo=92
*OMFG*

Hermed omtrent det eneste smukke, der er kommet ud af al snakken:

Fra T.S. Elliots' "McCavity Cat".

Schrödinger's cat's a mystery cat, he illustrates the laws
the complicated things he does have no apparent cause
he baffles the determinist and drives him to dispair
for when then try to pin him down - the quantum cat's not there!

Schrödinger's cat's a mystery cat, he's given to random decisions;
His mass is slightly altered by a cloud of virtual kittens;
The vacuum fluctuations print his traces in the air
But if you try to find him, the quantum cat's not there!

Schrödinger's cat's a mystery cat, he is very small and light
and if you try to pen him in, he tunnels out of sight
so when the cruel scientist confined him in a box
with poison-capsules triggered by bizarre atomic clocks
he wasn't alive, he wasn't dead - or half of each, I swear
that when they fixed his eigenstate - he simply wasn't there!

[Pipetown]

Bare 1 godt råd...

Tab for Alt ikke Lysten til at gaae; jeg gaaer mig hver Dag det daglige Velbefindende til og gaaer fra enhver Sygdom; jeg har gaaet mig mine bedste Tanker til, og jeg kender ingen Tanke saa tung, at man jo ikke kan gaae fra den.

Søren Kierkegaard

[+Christoffer+]

Jeg havde svært ved ikke at grine over de retoriske paralleler til noget vi kender alt for godt i fodboldens verden ....

Teksten er fra Bind 1 i Peter Øvig Knudsens "Blenkinge gade banden - Den danske celle", hvor et anonymt medlem af KAK (Kommunistisk arbejderkreds, hvis inderkreds udgjorde blekingegade banden) fortæller om hvordan det var at være i KAK.

Det er naturligvis en langsom og glidende proces. Men udbyttet for det enkelte medlem er et udsædvanligt stærkt fællesskab og en sikker identitet i forhold til omvederden. Ånden i KAK var kendetegnet ved, at medlemmerne kom til at betragtede sig selv som noget særligt - som de udvalgte. Det er en grænsereligiøst fænomen, næsten som disciplene omkring Jesus eller andre guruer. 'Vi er bedre end alle de andre.'

Stoltheden må have været kolossal KAK :-)

[thundersen]

Et citat fra en and, der ofte har noget klogt at sige:

[Perec]

Så kan vi ligeså godt tage et andet Arne And-citat mere, som er ligeså klogt:

[Ren_FC]

Det er ikke finkulturelt, ej heller dybsindigt?, men:

The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you've got it made.
Groucho Marx

R

[northyen.dk]

Jeg faldt forleden over dette dejlige sprog, i forbindelse med lidt research på bogen 'Fra det gamle København' af Jørgen Larsen.

I et læserbrev til bladet Politivennen anno 1816 stod der følgende-

»Det var ønskeligt, om politiet ville pålægge dem af stadens vægtere, der har post i Brolæggerstrædet og Badstuestrædet, men især den i Knabrostrædet, at udjage af gaden de utallige offentlige fruentimmer, der dagligt i skumringen indfinde sig i disse gader, for der at søge fortjeneste; thi foruden andre uordener, som de der afstedkommer, sammenhober de sig på hjørnerne eller midt i gaden, og opslår ofte en latter, der nødvendigvis må vække enhver, der har sengekammer til gaden.«

[Martin CX]

Rob McKenna was a miserable bastard and he knew it because he'd had a lot of people point it out to him over the years and he saw no reason to disagree with them except the obvious one which was that he liked disagreeing with people, particularly people he disliked, which included, at the last count, everybody.

He heaved a sigh and shoved down a gear.

The hill was beginning to steepen and his lorry was heavy with Danish thermostatic radiator controls.

It wasn't that he was naturally predisposed to be so surly, at least he hoped not. it was just the rain which got him down, always the rain.

It was raining now, just for a change.

It was a particular type of rain that he particularly disliked, particularly when he was driving. He had a number for it. It was rain type 17.

He had read somewhere that the Eskimos had over two hundred different words for snow, without which their conversation would probably have got very monotonous. So they would distinguish between thin snow and thick snow, light snow and heavy snow, sludgy snow, brittle snow, snow that came in flurries, snow that came in drifts, snow that came in on the bottom of your neighbour's boots all over your nice clean igloo floor, the snows of winter, the snows of spring, the snows you remember from your childhood that were so much better than any of your modern snow, fine snow, feathery snow, hill snow, valley snow, snow that falls in the morning, snow that falls at night, snow that falls all of a sudden just when you were going out fishing, and snow that despite all your efforts to train them, the huskies have pissed on.

Rob McKenna had two hundred and thirty-one different types of rain entered in his little book, and he didn't like any of them.

He shifted down another gear and the lorry heaved its revs up. It grumbled in a comfortable sort of way about all the Danish thermostatic radiator controls it was carrying.

Since he had left Denmark the previous afternoon, he had been through types 33 (light pricking drizzle which made the roads slippery), 39 (heavy spotting), 47 to 51 (vertical light drizzle through to sharply slanting light to moderate drizzle freshening), 87 and 88 (two finely distinguished varieties of vertical torrential downpour), 100 (post-downpour squalling, cold), all the seastorm types between 192 and 213 at once, 123, 124, 126, 127 (mild and intermediate cold gusting, regular and syncopated cab-drumming), 11 (breezy droplets) and his least favorite of all, 17.

Rain type 17 was a dirty blatter battering against his windscreen so hard that it didn't make much odds whether he had his wipers on or off.

He tested this theory by turning them off briefly, but as it turned out the visibility did get quite a lot worse. It just failed to get better again when he turned them back on.

In fact one of the wiper blades began to flap off.

Swish swish swish flop swish swish flop swish swish flop swish flop swish flop flop flop scrape.

He pounded his steering wheel, kicked the floor, thumped his cassette player till it suddenly started playing Barry Manilow, thumped it again till it stopped, and swore and swore and swore and swore and swore.

It was at the very moment that his fury was peaking that there loomed swimmingly in his headlights, hardly visible through the blatter, a figure by the roadside.

A poor bedraggled figure, strangely attired, wetter than an otter in a washing machine, and hitching.

'Poor miserable sod,' thought Rob McKenna to himself, realizing that here was somebody with a better right to feel hard done by than himself, 'must be chilled to the bone. Stupid to be out hitching on a filthy night like this. All you get is cold, wet and lorries driving through puddles at you.'

He shook his head grimly, heaved another sigh, gave the wheel a turn and hit a large sheet of water square on.

'See what I mean?' he thought to himself as he ploughed swiftly through it. 'You get some right bastards on the road.'

Splattered in his rear mirror a couple of seconds later was the reflection of the hitch hiker, drenched by the road side.

For a moment he felt good about this. A moment or two later he felt bad about feeling good about it. Then he felt good about feeling bad about feeling good about it and, satisfied, drove on into the night.

At least it made up for having been finally overtaken by that Porsche he had been dilligently blocking for the last twenty miles.

Adams

[Awesome]

Nature and nature's laws lay hid in night;
God said, Let Newton be! And all was light.

- Alexander Pope, gravskrift tiltænkt Isaac Newton.

mvh, Awesome, der synes MCX skylder at fortælle, at Rob McKennas karakter viser sig - til hans egen overraskelse - at være ret så regngudsagtig. Rent faktisk er han så meget en regngud, at han ender med at leve højt på at afpresse charterturistbureauerne mod at undlade at besøge deres destinationer i højsæsonen.

[k b hagen]

"We all have it in the back of our minds that our behavior is subject to psychologizing interpretation, and that we, creatures of multiple and obscure motive that we are, cannot protest our integrity in response".

fra http://www.prospect.org/cs/articles?...e=age_of_irony, venligt smidt i skakten af -smølle.

(...og nok værd at sprælle mod)

[giggs]

Det vel nok klogeste citat om software-udvikling nogensinde kommer fra Fred Brooks:

The bearing of a child takes nine months, no matter how many women are assigned.

Det er helt tilbage fra 1975 fra bogen The Mythical Man-Month, som beklageligvis ikke rigtig synes at være en del af pensum på projektlederskolen.

[A]

"Andy Botwin: [to Shane, re: masturbating] Alright, listen closely. I'm not going to beat around the bush. Ha ha ha. Your little body's changing - it's all good, believe me. Problem now is... every time we jerk the gerkin, we get a lot of unwanted sticky white stuff everywhere, right? Right. So... First order of business - no more socks. They're expensive, gumming up the works plumming-wise. Now you might be thinking to yourself, "But, Uncle Andy, what do I do with all that pearl jam if I can't spew it into Mr. Sock?" Glad you asked... You can have a lovely time tugging the tiger in the shower each morning - that eliminates the need for a goo glove. But, the day is long, masturbation's fun, so unless we want to take 4-5 showers every day, we're gonna need some other options. So let's start with the basics. Tissues. Perfectly acceptable backstop for all that Creamy Italian. They can be rough and dry on such soft, sensitive skin and it can stick to your d**k like a f**kin' band-aid - ouch. From there we move on to more lubricated flack catchers - specifically, bananas. Step one: Peel the banana. Step two: Slip the peel over your Randy Johnson and start pitching. Now for extra credit, warm up the peel in the microwave. Not too hot! Serious yowza. Also, olive oil, moisturizer, honey, spit, butter, hair conditioner, and Vaseline can all be used for lube. In my opinion, the best lube... is lube. So save your allowance and invest in some soon. Alright, moving on - when you tug your Thomas on the toilet - ffft - shoot right into the bowl. In bed - soft t-shirt, perhaps a downy hand towel of your very own that you don't mind tossing after tossing. There's no such thing as polishing the raised scepter of love too much. It reduces stress, it enhances immune function. Also, practice makes perfect. So work on your control now, while you're a solo artist, you'll be playing some long, happy duets in the future. Okay. Class dismissed."

Værsåartig.

[Langemand]

You say : "'Ere thrice the sun done salutation to the dawn"
And you claim these words as your own
But I've read well, and I've heard them said
A hundred times (maybe less, maybe more)
If you must write prose/poems
The words you use should be your own
Don't plagiarise or take "on loan"
'Cause there's always someone, somewhere
With a big nose, who knows
And who trips you up and laughs
When you fall

--------
'Cemetry Gates', The Smiths, fra albummet 'The Queen Is Dead', 1986

[Jannemaan]

Hope...

Somewhere right below Wishfull thinking and just above Rain dance

Rich Hall

[k b hagen]

"I like to explain the essence of Keynesian economics with a true story that also serves as a parable, a small-scale version of the messes that can afflict entire economies. Consider the travails of the Capitol Hill Baby-Sitting Co-op.

This co-op, whose problems were recounted in a 1977 article in The Journal of Money, Credit and Banking, was an association of about 150 young couples who agreed to help one another by baby-sitting for one another’s children when parents wanted a night out. To ensure that every couple did its fair share of baby-sitting, the co-op introduced a form of scrip: coupons made out of heavy pieces of paper, each entitling the bearer to one half-hour of sitting time. Initially, members received 20 coupons on joining and were required to return the same amount on departing the group.

Unfortunately, it turned out that the co-op’s members, on average, wanted to hold a reserve of more than 20 coupons, perhaps, in case they should want to go out several times in a row. As a result, relatively few people wanted to spend their scrip and go out, while many wanted to baby-sit so they could add to their hoard. But since baby-sitting opportunities arise only when someone goes out for the night, this meant that baby-sitting jobs were hard to find, which made members of the co-op even more reluctant to go out, making baby-sitting jobs even scarcer. . . .

In short, the co-op fell into a recession."

fra http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/06/ma...d=all&%2359;hp