You know what I like about disposable razors? They're disposable.
Everything is disposable now: disposable lighters, disposable blades, disposable stars. They inflate you up for one big deal and then they look for someone else.
My songs are like Bic razors. For fun, for modern consumption. You listen to it, like it, discard it, then on to the next. Disposable pop.
Virtually every society that survived did so by socializing its sons to be disposable. Disposable in war; disposable in work. We need warriors and volunteer firefighters, so we label these men heroes.
In today's disposable culture, we throw away people like we do razors, always assuming there's someone better out there to hang out with, or to work for- people who will never embarrass us, let us down or offend us.
We may be living in a world of disposable electronics, but working people are not disposable commodities.
I'm an environmentalist, and I don't want you to have a disposable aluminum can. I sure as hell don't want to have a disposable worker and I don't care who you vote for. You've got to have that as a moral position. Otherwise, my concern is, all we are is this petty interest group people who can't say anything back to a petty interest group of white nationalism.
I am talking about ordinary people making the link between their communities being treated as disposable and the assumption that the environments they depend on are disposable as well. What gives me hope is the kind of bridgework I'm seeing between social movements on the one hand, and young writers and artists on the other, all intent on opposing such pitiless, short-term thinking.
These words are razors to my wounded heart.
I went to electric razors so I would not have to look at myself in the morning.
Beauty walks a razors edge, someday I'll make it mine.
There never was a sounder logical maxim of scientific procedure than Ockham's razor: Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem. That is to say; before you try a complicated hypothesis, you should make quite sure that no simplification of it will explain the facts equally well.
A fellow in a market town, Most musical, cried razors up and down.
You don't know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night,
Scared at the thought of kissing razors
But it was like a dance across a field strewn with razors, and I bled with every step I took.
It is with wits as with razors, which are never so apt to cut those they are employed on as when they have lost their edge.