Advances in technology - hugely beneficial though they are - render us vulnerable in new ways. For instance, our interconnected world depends on elaborate networks: electric power grids, air traffic control, international finance, just-in-time delivery, and so forth.

The Internet is the most democratic communication platform in history, largely because we've had network neutrality rules that make sure all web traffic is treated equally, and no voices are discriminated against.

Our goal was to completely change transportation. Change traffic. And make it possible to get anywhere you want to go without owning a car.

I'm not a car guy. The subway gets me where I need to go efficiently and cheaply, and I don't worry about traffic.

I can't have my employees sitting in traffic when they should be in the office. Spending two-and-half hours in the car is a huge waste of productive time.

When kids run up to me and ask, 'What happened?' I just lean over and whisper, 'Cigarettes.' And once I was in a car and this girl at traffic lights was giving me the eye. She could only see my head, so I decided to do a 360 in the car seat to freak her out. Her face was like, 'Whoa, what is going on?' She sped off really quickly.

Normal is getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work, driving through traffic in a car that you are still paying for, in order to get to a job that you need so you can pay for the clothes, car and the house that you leave empty all day in order to afford to live in it.

In Japan, they have TV sets in cars right now, where you can punch up traffic routes, weather, everything! You can get Internet access already in cars in Japan, so within the next 2 to 3 years it's gonna be so crazy!

City life is stressful. Everybody is running around like crazy, stuck in traffic jams trying to make meetings, trying to make ends meet, trying to meet deadlines, trying to get kids to and from activities. There aren't enough hours in the day for all this business.

I am a natural beauty. I can wear sweatpants and running shoes and I stop traffic on the street - people have accidents when they drive and they spot me.

If somebody honks a horn in Cleveland, they're saying 'Hi.' It's so rare to be honked at in anger. When we have merging traffic, we just interweave. There's real courtesy.

When you're in the public eye, we all feel like we're constantly observed, so we don't let things out. Anger, sadness, happiness - when does that come out? Maybe when you're in traffic, because you're in the safety of your little metallic bubble.

In 'Hope Never Dies', the fictional Obama and Biden go up against drug traffickers, outlaw bikers, and other seedy opponents. They're forced to use skills they didn't know they had. Or, to put it another way, unlike Jordan Peele's Obama, this Obama doesn't need an anger translator.

I moved from a mountain with one traffic light to New York City when I was 17, and it was an amazing, eye opening, creative adventure. I would walk through the streets of Manhattan looking up at these huge buildings, amazed that I didn't know a single person in any of them.

A good science fiction story should be able to predict not the automobile but the traffic jam.

Every time, when you see people in Africa suffering, bleeding, being killed, kidnapped, slaved, raped, human trafficked and being poor. It is because of African leaders. In Africa we are being killed by our leaders.

After a noticeable silence, he'd recently published a book of technically baffling poems, with line breaks so arbitrary and frequent as to be useless, arrhythmic. On the page they look like some of Charles Bukowski's skinny, chatty, muttering-stuttering antiverses. Impossibly, Mark's words make music, the faraway strains of an irresistible jazz. It's plain to any reader, within a few lines-well, go read the poems and see, Marcus Ahearn traffics with the ineffable. He makes the mind of the speaker present, in that here-and-now where the reader actually reads-that place. Such a rare thing. Samuel Beckett. Jean Follain, Ionesco-the composer Billy Strayhorn. Mark calls his process "psychic improvisation" and referred me to the painter Paul Klee; the term was Klee's. "You just get out a pen and a notebook and let your mind go long," he told me.

The stalker, meanwhile, stepped into the road. Didn't even check for traffic. There wasn't any, but something told me this was lucky for traffic rather than the stalker.

There were people who believed their opportunities to live a fulfilled life were hampered by the number of Asians in England, by the existance of a royal family, by the volume of traffic that passed by their house, by the malice of trade unions, by the power of callous employers, by the refusal of the health service to take their condition seriously, by communism, by capitalism, by atheism, by anything, in fact, but their own futile, weak-minded failure to get a fucking grip.

There are no traffic jams on the extra mile.

The fact that a cloud from a minor volcanic eruption in Iceland-a small disturbance in the complex mechanism of life on the Earth-can bring to a standstill the aerial traffic over an entire continent is a reminder of how, with all its power to transform nature, humankind remains just another species on the planet Earth.

Normal is getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work and driving through traffic in a car that you are still paying for-in order to get to the job you need to pay for the clothes and the car, and the house you leave vacant all day so you can afford to live in it.

This isn't life in the fast lane, it's life in the oncoming traffic.

They were still in the happier stage of love. They were full of brave illusions about each other, tremendous illusions, so that the communion of self with self seemed to be on a plane where no other human relations mattered. They both seemed to have arrived there with an extraordinary innocence as though a series of pure accidents had driven them together, so many accidents that at last they were forced to conclude that they were for each other. They had arrived with clean hands, or so it seemed, after no traffic with the merely curious and clandestine.