I don't want to blame it all on 9/11, but it certainly didn't help matters.
This is not a book in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty... what you will.
Our business is not based on having information about you. You’re not our product. Our product are these, and this watch, and Macs and so forth. And so we run a very different company. I think everyone has to ask, how do companies make their money? Follow the money. And if they’re making money mainly by collecting gobs of personal data, I think you have a right to be worried.
When you meet people at dinner parties, you'll ask what they do and it might be a woman who'll say: "Oh I used to work but I'm only a housewife now." They'll put down what they've achieved, like raising kids. You want to say to people "well you're just a wonderful human, just because I have my gob on the telly and I've made some money, it doesn't make me successful or any better than you."
The market won't let us treat all data equally because there's a potential to make huge gobs of money not doing that. In the United States of America, people will pay to be first unless we do something to stop them. We don't have defenses built in because we haven't been investing in criticism that would help us mount a defense. I
One strange feeling, which I remember clearly, was a powerful link with the slain, particularly those that had fallen within the past hour or two. There was so much death around that life seemed almost indecent. Some men's uniforms were soaked with gobs of blood. The ground was sodden with it. I killed, too.
A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more books to be written, thank God. This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty . . . what you will.
I'm a firm believer that all this packaged stuff that Americans are buying up in gobs is making them fatter.
London keeps me grounded. We don't get praised every time we open our gobs there.
If you're not out front defining your vision, your opponent will spend gobs of money to define it for you.
Too often, executive compensation in the U.S. is ridiculously out of line with performance. That won't change, moreover, because the deck is stacked against investors when it comes to the CEO's pay. The upshot is that a mediocre-or-worse CEO - aided by his handpicked VP of human relations and a consultant from the ever-accommodating firm of Ratchet, Ratchet and Bingo - all too often receives gobs of money from an ill-designed compensation arrangement.
I can't wait for the oil wells to run dry, for the last gob of black, sticky muck to come oozing out of some remote well. Then the glory of sail will return.
How does it taste?” Carter wondered. Zia smiled. “Stick out your tongue.” To answer Carter’s question, the tattoo tasted like burning car tires. “Ugh.” I spit a blue gob of “order and harmony” into the fountain.
Jeez banana! Shut your freaking gob!
If you were mean to your parents, they'd give you a good belt in the gob and send you flying across the room.
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