Quotes About Judgment

An old Croatian proverb Adam had learned in college applied here: "The hunchback sees the hump of others—never his own.

if you are deluded and narcissistic enough to believe you should obey your gut rather than looking coldly at the facts

People, Win knew, made snap judgments based on appearances. No great insight there. And yes, there were the obvious prejudices against African-Americans or Jews or what-have-you. But Win was more concerned with the more garden-variety prejudices. If, for example, you see an overweight woman eating a doughnut, you are repulsed. You make snap judgments—she is undisciplined, lazy, sloppy, probably stupid, definitely lacking in self-esteem. In

The other mothers eyed her with suspicion. Adult suburbia can be a lot like high school.

Logan's overall score was a six-point-seven. Jimmy only has a score of six-point-four. Even with today's new math, six-point-seven is greater than six-point-four. I can show you with a graph if that would help.

The receptionist at Horne, Buckman and Pierce, a classic battle-ax who was comfortably past her prime, eyed Loren as if she'd recognized her from a sex offender poster. Full frown in place, the battle-ax told her to sit. Randal

Right now, maybe it was best to keep this black and white and stay away from the moral relativism.

Butterface." Then Thomas spoke slowly. "But. Her. Face.

FRANK TREMONT AND MICKEY WALKER followed Stanton down the corridor. "Hester Crimstein is an amoral shark with scruples that would shame a street hooker," Walker said to him. "You

Why do these guys keep thinking they have a chance with me?" "Because you look cute and perky." "I'm not perky." "No, but you look perky." "Seriously, do I look like that much of a loser?" "You look damaged," Stacy said. "I hate to say it. But the damage . . . it comes off you like some kind of pheromone that douche bags can't resist." They

The receptionist wore a hideous wig and looked at us as though we'd just plopped out of a dog's behind. I

I can't believe you still do this," Myron said. "Are we moralizing again?" Win asked with a smile. "How nice for us." "Let me ask you something." "Oh, please do." "Something I always wanted to know." "My ears are all atwitter." "Putting aside my repugnancy for a moment—" "Not on my account," Win said. "I so enjoy when you're superior.

The girl at the door was young. Eighteen, twenty, something like that. Nope, not a Jehovah's Witness. Didn't have that scooped-out-brain smile.

Flannery still wouldn't look at me. I didn't like that. Flannery was the kind of guy who lived for the Willy Loman world of shined shoes and eye contact. I knew the type. I didn't want anything to do with them, but I knew them.

Win stared at me as if I were defecating on the court.

An old Croatian proverb Adam had learned in college applied here: "The hunchback sees the hump of others—never his own." Three

Chick did that thing where you look the person in one eye, then the other, then back to the first. Myron just stood there and let him. You don't judge a guy by his appearance. Win was the walking, talking embodiment of that. The guy was also hurting. You could see that too. He might be a vainglorious asshat, but his son had been snatched away from him ten years ago. You could see that in Chick's face somehow, despite all he tried to do to cover it up. So

For one thing, Cole could have passed for Win's brother—blond, patrician-featured, well-to-do family. While everyone else in the picture was scraggly and long haired, Cole was freshly shaven with a conservative haircut, his one sixties concession being sideburns that went down a tad too far. Hardly your Hollywood-cast, radical leftist. But as Myron had learned from Win, looks could often be deceiving. He

The fathers in the corner had a group conniption: "Are you kidding me, ref?" "Bad call!" "You gotta be blind!" "That's BS!" "Call them both ways, ref!" The

Most people assumed that the vast majority of destructive trolls harassing people were unemployed losers furiously posting from Mommy's basement, but more often than not, they were educated, employed, financially comfortable enough.

Some people take no mental exercise apart from jumping to conclusions.

I can't bear these accounts I read in the Times and elsewhere of these poetry slams, in which various young men and women in various late-spots are declaiming rant and nonsense at each other. The whole thing is judged by an applause meter which is actually not there, but might as well be. This isn't even silly; it is the death of art.

He can't think, he can't write. There's no discernible talent.

How to read 'Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone'? Why, very quickly, to begin with, and perhaps also to make an end. Why read it? Presumably, if you cannot be persuaded to read anything better, Rowling will have to do.