Entries Tagged 'books' ↓

Ah, the contempt of it. The glut of contempt we seem to have achieved. Our own disguised contempt for ‘primitives’, the contempt of those who left the Culture when the war was declared for those who chose to fight the Idirans; the contempt so many of our own people feel for Special Circumstances… the contempt we all guess the Minds must feel for us… and elsewhere; the Idirans’ contempt for us, all of us humans; and human contempt for Changers. A federated disgust, a galaxy of scorn. Us with our busy, busy little lives, finding no better way to pass our years than in competitive disdain.

I’ve been meaning for a while to write a little post about Seth Godin’s book The Dip, but procrastination had gotten the best of me. Now that Seth is asking in his blog for owners of a copy of the book to lend it to someone, I feel I have no excuse to put it off longer.

The Dip is, like most Godin’s posts, insightful, inspirational and brief (you could read the book in less than an hour). It also contains some great illustrations by Hugh McLeod.

The message of the book is deceptively simple: The Dip is the slog between starting and mastery. The Dip is the reason we are here.

Some quotes:

Winners quit all the time. They just quit the right stuff a the right time.

Just about everything you learned in school about life is wrong, but the wrongest thing might very well be this: Being well rounded is the secret to success.

In a competitive world, adversity is your ally. The harder it gets, the better chance you have of insulating yourself from the competition.

And yet the real success goes to those who obsess.

It’s easier to be mediocre than it is to confront reality.

The time to switch jobs is before it feels comfortable.

If you are in Zurich, you can borrow my copy. Just ask.

Tears came to him. He wept quietly, holding nothing back. He mourned mankind, and the blindness of men, who thought that the Kosmos had rules and limits that would shelter them from their own freedom. There were no shelters. There were no final purposes. Futility, and freedom, were Absolute.

“All ready.” She grinned. “You got the tickets?”

I waved them. She turned to the nearest ninja, dipped her chin a bit, and turned big green eyes up at him. “Could we get a cab?”

Four ninjas howled and leapt into Lexington Avenue, waving their swords about. A yellow cab swerved left and clipped one ninja, sending him flying ten feet back to splatter on the rear of a limo. Another ninja stood and watched in shock, which meant he wasn’t going to ninja his way away from the cab, which took him like a mad bull’s horns and flipped him over the roof. The cab mounted sidewalk and jammed on the brakes just as the fender bodyslammed ninja three. The cabbie leaned over and flung open the door, which opened hard on ninja four, batting him down. Scrawled in the dirt on the door were the letters WMD. Inside was an immense black man with an X carved into his forehead. Trix and I were the last ones standing. He grinned like a kid at Christmas and yelled, “Where we going, tiny white people?”

What? The person behind all this might be a copy of me? So she was just put to sleep, that’s all… Gosh, this is just like something the Puppeteer‘d do…Wha? No brain damage? She even has frontal lobes? Wow, am I ever lucky!