On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached to all the gentiles: world without end. A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table. He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong.
It slapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, and laid them carefully on the table. And now his strongroom for the gold. These are handy things to have. This is for sovereigns. This is for shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. Symbols too of beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery.
You just buy one of these machines. The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same. Three times now. Three nooses round me here. I can break them in this instant if I will. Money is power. When you have lived as long as I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare say? He made money. A poet, yes, but an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating.
Mr Deasy cried. A French Celt said that. He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail. Can you feel that? Can you? Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings. Temple, two lunches. The lump I have is useless. But one day you must feel it.
We are a generous people but we must also be just.
Yeats Annual No.9
Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at the shapely bulk of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Wales. You fenians forget some things. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lie down. On the spindle side.
But I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do so. A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour! Two topboots jog dangling on to Dublin.
Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus, with some of your literary friends. I have a letter here for the press. Sit down a moment.
HUNTRESS' BOOK REVIEWS1
I have just to copy the end. He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and read off some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter. Just a moment. He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.
Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign. But prompt ventilation of this allimportant question Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen, over the motley slush. Fair Rebel! Even money the favourite: ten to one the field. Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in a medley, the joust of life. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock.
Just look through it. There can be no two opinions on the matter. May I trespass on your valuable space. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. By a woman who was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.
Foot and mouth disease. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns. You will see at the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can be cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They offer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with the department.
I am surrounded by difficulties, by England is in the hands of the jews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. I have seen it coming these years. As sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction. Old England is dying. He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam.
He faced about and back again. And you can see the darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the earth to this day. On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats.
Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their full slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. Vain patience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard heaped by the roadside: plundered and passing on.
Their eyes knew their years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh. He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear from me. From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick? All human history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God. Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked between his fingers. Looking up again he set them free. We have committed many errors and many sins.
A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was no better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many failures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of my days. But I will fight for the right till the end. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong. I know two editors slightly.
I wrote last night to Mr Field, M. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they? There is no time to lose. Now I have to answer that letter from my cousin. I like to break a lance with you, old as I am. He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield. The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate: toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight.
Mulligan will dub me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know that? And do you know why? A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air. Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot.
Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see. Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells.
You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of space. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes. I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side.
Tap with it: they do. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. Open your eyes now. I will. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. I will see if I can see. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. From the liberties, out for the day. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from nothing. What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of all flesh.
That is why mystic monks. Will you be as gods? Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one. Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She had no navel. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. Womb of sin. Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten.
By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. From before the ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warring his life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts.
Airs romped round him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming, waves. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds of Mananaan. And after? The Ship, half twelve. By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile. His pace slackened. Did you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately? And and and and tell us, Stephen, how is uncle Si?
O, weeping God, the things I married into!
De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little costdrawer and his brother, the cornet player. Highly respectable gondoliers! And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less! Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ! I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage. In his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. He has washed the upper moiety. The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. Bring in our chippendale chair.
Would you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. The rich of a rasher fried with a herring? So much the better. We have nothing in the house but backache pills. The grandest number, Stephen, in the whole opera. His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.
Houses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army. Come out of them, Stephen. Beauty is not there. For whom? The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. Abbas father,— furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Get down, baldpoll! And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it.
And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.
Yeats and Women
And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek. Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that, invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the transept he is lifting his and, rising, heard now I am lifting their two bells he is kneeling twang in diphthong. Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints.
You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street. Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still!!
On the top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: Naked women! What about that, eh? Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! No-one saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria?
Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough.
A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells. He halted. Am I not going there? Seems not. No-one about. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse. Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar MacMahon.
Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend. My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I want puce gloves. Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere. On the night of the seventeenth of February the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it: other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. You seem to have enjoyed yourself. Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like?
Forget: a dispossessed. Hunger toothache. Look clock. Must get. Hired dog! Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not hurt? Shake hands. See what I meant, see? Shake a shake. You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus.
Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: EUGE! Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the south wall.
He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is there, the slender trees, the lemon houses. Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets. Moist pith of farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air. Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores. Noon slumbers. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets.
A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. He curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to the tissue of his lips. A sweetened boy's breath. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico road, Dalkey. All laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round at his classmates, silly glee in profile.
In a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay. A thing out in the water. A kind of a bridge. Kingstown pier, sir. Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back bench whispered. They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Their likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the struggle. For Haines's chapbook. No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind.
What then? A jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master's praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Not wholly for the smooth caress. For them too history was a tale like any other too often heard, their land a pawnshop. Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death. They are not to be thought away. Time has branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing that they never were?
Or was that only possible which came to pass? Weave, weaver of the wind. A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork of his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text:. It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve where he had read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and in my mind's darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds.
Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having just remembered.
Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer's heart and lips and on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the tribute. To Caesar what is Caesar's, to God what is God's. A long look from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the church's looms. They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily:.
He stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries echoed dismay. They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly they were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their boots and tongues. Sargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an open copybook. His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading.
On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a snail's bed. He held out his copybook. The word Sums was written on the headline. Beneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal. Mr Deasy said I was to copy them off the board, sir.
Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a stain of ink, a snail's bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own.
Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been.
A poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped. Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem.
He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather. Sargent peered askance through his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the lumberroom: the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field. Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the Moors. Gone too from the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.
In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a word of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Amor matris: subjective and objective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands. Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My childhood bends beside me.
Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be dethroned. He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook back to his bench.
He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. When he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him. He turned his angry white moustache. Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed head. Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here.
As it was in the beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached to all the gentiles: world without end. A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor.
Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table. He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. It slapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, and laid them carefully on the table. And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and this, the scallop of saint James.
An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells. These are handy things to have. This is for sovereigns. This is for shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. Stephen's hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols too of beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it. You just buy one of these machines. You'll find them very handy. The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same. Three times now. Three nooses round me here. I can break them in this instant if I will.
You don't know yet what money is. Money is power. When you have lived as long as I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare say? Put but money in thy purse.
He made money. A poet, yes, but an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman's mouth? The seas' ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating. Mr Deasy cried. That's not English. A French Celt said that. He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail. I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can you feel that? I owe nothing. Can you? Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas.
McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings. Temple, two lunches. The lump I have is useless. But one day you must feel it. We are a generous people but we must also be just. Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at the shapely bulk of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Wales. I saw three generations since O'Connell's time.
I remember the famine in ' Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your communion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some things. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, the planters' covenant.
The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lie down. On the spindle side. But I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are all Irish, all kings' sons. He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do so. A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour! Two topboots jog dangling on to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus, with some of your literary friends. I have a letter here for the press. Sit down a moment.
I have just to copy the end. He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and read off some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, the dictates of common sense. Just a moment. He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.
Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence. Framed around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris , Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign.
He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds. But prompt ventilation of this allimportant question Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen, over the motley slush.
Fair Rebel! Even money the favourite: ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange. Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in a medley, the joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be slightly crawsick? Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock.
Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the slain, a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts. It's about the foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no two opinions on the matter. May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old industries.
Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. By a woman who was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue. Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch's preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses.
Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns. You will see at the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can be cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They offer to come over here.
I am trying to work up influence with the department. Now I'm going to try publicity. I am surrounded by difficulties, by England is in the hands of the jews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. And they are the signs of a nation's decay. Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. I have seen it coming these years.
As sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction. Old England is dying. He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam. He faced about and back again. And you can see the darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the earth to this day. On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats.
Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their full slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. Vain patience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard heaped by the roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew their years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.
He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear from me. From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick? All human history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.
Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked between his fingers. Looking up again he set them free. We have committed many errors and many sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was no better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of Breffni.
A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many failures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of my days. But I will fight for the right till the end. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher. You have two copies there. If you can have them published at once. I know two editors slightly. I wrote last night to Mr Field, M. There is a meeting of the cattletraders' association today at the City Arms hotel.
I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they? There is no time to lose. Now I have to answer that letter from my cousin. Thank you. I like to break a lance with you, old as I am. He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield.
The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate: toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know that? And do you know why? A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air. That's why. On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.
Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. By knocking his sconce against them, sure.
Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see. Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes.
If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably! I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the ends of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'. Won't you come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare? Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. No, agallop: deline the mare.
Open your eyes now. I will. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. I will see if I can see. Obligated only to accompany wealthy men in need of arm candy to their social functions, she sometimes takes advantage of the after-hours, off-the-books amorous perks.
Yet the encounters leave her dissatisfied. After a silver notebook mysteriously appears in her bag one day, Elle begins receiving erotic notes from an anonymous admirer. One evening, she meets the brilliant, charismatic media mogul David Barlet. Her silver notebook starts filling with not only erotic notes, but also demands, presumably from Louie. Yet others have an odd ring to them, such as her encounter with a man clad entirely in black latex wielding a whip, like a superhero deeply concerned about germ transmission. When widow Ronny Logan comes back to Rainbow Road, the once-shy loner will be wrapped into the lives of her neighbors, including an injured serviceman and two sisters who are hoping to finally change their lives.
After her husband died, Ronny traveled the world to get over him; then, unsure of what to do next, she came home to Harmony, Texas, and settled in an isolated cabin. Kieran is in town for a poker tournament, and Dusti Delaney asks him to help her enter, seeing it as an opportunity to win enough money to get her and her sister out of the financial hardship they fell into when their parents died.
Kieran, secretly nursing a longstanding crush on Dusti, agrees to help, though the possibility of competing against each other causes some tension. Popular romance author Thomas returns to Harmony with another book that moves forward apace, visiting with favorite characters and introducing new ones fans will appreciate. Readers will root for their happily-ever-after and will be satisfied in the end, but getting there involves a lot of telling rather than showing and some character and relationship jumps that involve broad strokes rather than detail work.
Gratifying emotional moments and resolutions mostly overcome some flawed storytelling. In the midth century, debate raged over a mathematical concept of the infinitely small—and nothing less than modernity as we know it was at stake. At its core, the public argument over the infinitesimal—the idea that a line is composed of an endless number of immeasurably small component parts—is rooted in the ideological scope of post-Reformation Europe.
The church, struggling to maintain autonomy over an increasingly disparate populace, fought to bar the infinitesimal from mathematical doctrine due to its implication that nature itself is not orderly, logical and completely subject to deductive reasoning. At the same time, leading intellectuals like Thomas Hobbes and John Wallis insisted that embracing the idea of the infinite in mathematics would open up a remarkable new opportunity to experimentally explore the world around us.
For the people of Europe, more than just academic success was on the line: The struggle for civil liberties and rebellion against the rigid doctrines of the establishment were entrenched in the conceptual war over the infinitesimal. The fact that progressive mathematics prevailed was unquestionably momentous, as the addition of the concept of the infinitesimal eventually led to calculus, physics and many of the technological advances that are the bedrock of modern science and society. The author navigates even the most abstract mathematical concepts as deftly as he does the layered social history, and the result is a book about math that is actually fun to read.
A fast-paced history of the singular idea that shaped a multitude of modern achievements. Barker, Tracy Seven Stories pp. Australian transplant and longtime Paris resident Baxter The Most Beautiful Walk in the World: A Pedestrian in Paris, has spent years trying to discover what it was that changed his grandfather so much when he returned from World War I. Was he injured; did he suffer or commit horrors; did he desert; did he fall in love? During his many years in Paris, the author only found a few facts with the help of a military historian.
Most residents were only concerned with the moment. Despite shortages, the theater muddled on, dinner parties were noted for the clever conversations rather than the cooking, and bombs were mostly ignored. Only the French could make austerity chic. In lesser hands, the narrative could have easily become confusing, even boring, but Baxter carries it off with aplomb. Nonetheless, Barker gave Halliburton the benefit of the doubt and traveled to Iraq. The author felt unprepared for the dangerous environment she encountered.
Security was lax, drugs and alcohol, though banned at the camp, were rampant, and a chaotic atmosphere reigned. When Barker lodged a complaint against her supervisor, her situation deteriorated quickly. She was held in a shipping container for three days and told she would lose her job if she attempted to leave.
After a co-worker raped her, Barker was abandoned in the desert. Upon her return to the States, she sought counseling and hired a team of attorneys. Her struggle for justice became as harrowing as her experiences in Iraq. Then, the system egregiously failed my family, my fellow citizens, and me. The author examines the reasons for his desperate Mississippi River crossing and what led to previous, similar episodes. The founder of a brand of Christianity that still fascinates and polarizes the world today, Smith was no less divisive a figure in his own time. Beam is the consummate journalist, precise about his research and offering judgment only where there is ample proof of wrongdoing.
- The Tao of Maggie: The Sound of One Hound Barking.
- James Joyce. Ulysses.
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However, the author shines in his behind-the-scenes explorations. In his case, the absence of chatter surrounding his possible failings speaks volumes about his success as a human being. Not the last word but an earnest, endearing homage to an outstanding actor.
A bittersweet biography of an intensely private artist. Unerringly tight-lipped throughout his career, actor James Gandolfini — exists as a kind of burly but amiable cypher who defies close examination. That he somehow managed, despite his media-shy disposition, to convince legions of Sopranos fans that they actually knew what made him tick is testament to his considerable powers as an artist.
Infectious disease specialist Blaser makes an impassioned plea for maintaining the biodiversity of the ecosystem that exists in and on our bodies: the human microbiome. The result is a shrinking of diversity, shifts in the ecosystem and a dangerous rise in antibiotic-resistant pathogens. The author is no foe of antibiotics; indeed, the drugs once saved him from death from typhoid fever.
However, he deplores the all-too-easy reach for the prescription pad to treat nonserious and nonbacterial runny noses and colds, not to mention the dosing of farm animals with antibiotics to promote rapid growth and weight gain. Blaser concentrates on gut bacteria—the richest sites of human colonization—and uses the example of H. Eliminating H. Credit Blaser for displaying the wonders and importance of a vast underworld we are jeopardizing but cannot live without. Two former Harvard Lampoon writers attempt a road trip of epic logistical proportions: 30 baseball games in 30 stadiums in 30 days.
Slate writer Blatt is passionate about two things: math and baseball. His travel companion, Brewster, is passionate about neither. But when Blatt wrote a computer program that plotted out the trip—an entire game every day, hitting every stadium, using only a car— Brewster reluctantly agreed to join his friend.
The math assured the pair that the trip was possible, albeit illogical requiring several dizzying loops of the country and stupid the average leg between games was a hour drive. Blatt and Brewster pepper their adventure with statistics—there was, they cheerfully point out in response to parental concerns, only a 0. At one point, they even constructed an OK Cupid profile for the romantically challenged Blatt and set him up with a date to a St.
Louis Cardinals game. Our intrepid narrators are charmingly self-deprecating and keenly aware of the pointlessness of their journey, and yet they still imbue it with some meaningful thoughts about friendship, community, and the beauty and total absurdity of obsessive fandom. Nate Silver numbers and James Thurber wit turn what should be a harebrained adventure into a pretty damn endearing one. Back in the U. The outbreak of war brought Lee to Washington to work with Donovan in his new intelligence service, and Lee began passing information to Mary Price, his first handler, a fellow Southerner working for Soviet agent Jacob Golos.
From Price, he would be passed to agent Elizabeth Bentley, whose eventual breakdown and confession to the FBI would out Lee and dozens of others, dragging them before the House Un-American Activities Committee in A murky effort exacerbated by myriad shadowy agencies and a deeply unsympathetic protagonist. Indeed, while Duncan Lee — did not seem to have done harm to the U. Conley Elsewhere, U. When a travel bottle of shampoo fell into the toilet and got stuck, Conley attempted to bribe his kid with money to fish it out for him; when the child refused, he switched to declaring her spoiled, which did the trick.
Will appeal to parents whose idea of comedy hews closer to Arrested Development than Leave It to Beaver—but do you want parenting advice from the Bluth family? A moving, lyrical memoir about how an American essayist fell in love with a Libyan-born Muslim man and learned to embrace the life she made with him.
Sun associate publisher Bremer was a wayward former California surfer girl just starting to build her life in North Carolina when she met Ismail. He was 15 years older than she and different from her in almost every possible way. A sweet and rewarding journey of a book. College, London; Delizia! The Camorra of Naples was a well-known, flashy group, while the Cosa Nostra, or Mafia, of Sicily proved to be much more mysterious. Even up until the mids, officials denied that there was one organization; it was just the Sicilian way of settling things outside of official channels.
A few decades ago, the road to parenting success was illuminated by a few trusted sources—Dr. In the Internet age, the One particular boss spent his entire adult life running his organization from prison. The author, who serves as a special White House adviser on health care reform, is optimistic that its glitches will be resolved within the year and that it will transform how patients are cared for over the coming decades. He reprises the complex. Since the Enlightenment, philosophers have attempted to displace the perceived superstitions of religion as a basis for Western civilization and to replace them with secular reason, with limited success.
In this rich, complex work, the author traces the course of this intellectual quest from 18th-century Germany through the Romantics and the writings of Matthew Arnold and Friedrich Nietzsche, who famously proclaimed the death of God, into a postmodern era of extreme relativism. Eagleton deftly explores the shifting relationships among reason, religion, culture, myth, art, tragedy and the modern sensibility of the absurd, all expressed with a dry wit and provocative epigrams.
The book, however, is neither intended nor recommended for general readers. This wealth of content can only be contained in a slender volume by assuming that readers are already familiar with philosophers from Kant to Kierkegaard; without this background, it will prove slow going, though still rewarding. The later inclusion of Medicare and Medicaid increased the complexity of the system. Emanuel details the many inequities that developed—most notably, the exclusion of people with pre-existing health conditions from the system and the financial vulnerability of the uninsured, who also frequently receive substandard treatment—e.
The author takes a long view of the reforms beginning with incentives and penalties for the adoption of uniform electronic health records in the Recovery Act. She died impoverished and alone. Unable to fathom life in hectic Brooklyn, Feldman pulled up stakes and moved to the countryside. Rich in details of Jewish life and the lives of her grandparents in the World War II era, the author sensitively portrays the inner struggles of accepting the pervasive feeling of survivor guilt and her own desires to understand the woman she was becoming.
An enthralling account of how one Orthodox Jewish woman turned her back on her religion and found genuineness and validity in her new life. A sympathetic biography of a troubled and troubling woman. A polarizing figure, Solanas was championed by such feminists as Ti-Grace Atkinson and Florynce Kennedy, the lawyer who defended her for attempted murder, but was reviled by others.
The National Organization for Women, founded in , was divided about associating itself with her. Manitoba, as well as at home in Colorado. Serious camping with knowledgeable outfitters, erudite guides, stoic lodge keepers and proficient companions fills his trip logs. The author also provides notes on fishing etiquette and stream hydrology, and he seems to remember every cast and every one that got away.
He writes convincingly of trying to outwit cutthroats, rainbows and steelhead. A journalist and author from Johannesburg uses maps to retrace the boundaries of his boyhood, the dimensions of apartheid and the geography of imagination. The author begins with some brief pages about the event, mentions it again a few times in the ensuing narrative it swims, sharklike, just below the surface of the text , then focuses on it in a page section near the end. The author, who is Jewish and gay, writes affectingly about both these aspects of his life, but it was geography, initially, that consumed him as a boy.
The game returns in the final section of his text. Gradually, Gevisser guides us through his life—his family, schooling, travels, love of books and writing, and his dawning awareness of his sexual orientation, apartheid and danger. He includes many maps and photographs, some of which sent him into library archives. He includes accounts of his interviews with people from all walks of Johannesburg life, including a woman who guided him through the township of Alexandra.
One of the most respected and practiced energy journalists in the United States, Gold the Wall Street Journal was most recently a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize for his reporting on the Deepwater Horizon disaster. He also tells the story of the big personalities that drove the industry. There are also little terrors: the revelation that America. Ultimately, he arrives at a rational middle ground, advocating fracking to bridge the gap between the age of oil and the arrival of clean energy. I fear carbon. Grimm, David PublicAffairs pp.
At issue is the evolving status of the cats and dogs who have traveled a long road with our species, from camp followers in our hunter-gatherer days to treasured family members today, helping to shape our civilization while being themselves transformed. This state of affairs is reflected in the growing number of laws protecting animals from abuse and the efforts of animal rights activists to shut down puppy mills, stop the confinement of chickens in factory farms and abolish the use of animals for medical experiments.
While some advocate direct action, others support the Animal Defense Fund, which models itself on the NAACP and draws an analogy between our treatment of animals and the treatment of black slaves—a comparison that some may well consider offensive. Grimm also reports the views of opponents of the ADF, who question putting animal abuse on par with child abuse, veterinarians who object to frivolous malpractice suits, and other critics.
A child of persecuted German Jews remembers his tormented, perished forebears—and makes peace with the country that hounded them to death. Louis bound for Cuba in May Rejected by Cuba, however, and in turn by the United States and Canada, the ocean liner, which contained more than Jewish refugees, was doomed to return to Nazi Germany if not for the humanitarian intersession of Morris Troper, who managed to find succor for the passengers by dividing them among Belgium, Holland, England and France.
Alex and his younger son were sent to France, soon to be occupied, and passed from camp to camp, finally hauled off to Auschwitz, where they perished in A well-researched, thorough reckoning of this shameful past. The first in a two-volume biography of Gandhi — by a seasoned Indian scholar distinguishes itself from legions of others by its clarity and many facets.
Being a vegetarian law student in London brought the young Gandhi into the eclectic circle of the London Vegetarian Society, influenced by the work of Henry Salt. Gandhi also befriended numerous people of different religions and backgrounds, cultivating the kinds of rich friendships across class, ethnic and gender lines that defined his evolving work as a social reformer.
Married as a teenager, he was always aware of having to provide for his family and educate his sons, a duty that spurred him initially to ply his trade as a journeyman lawyer in Durban. Establishing the newspaper Indian Opinion in , he wrote copiously, developing his ideas on diet, moral economy and passive resistance. Upon reading John Ruskin and Leo Tolstoy, Gandhi moved the newspaper out to Phoenix, outside of Durban, in the first experiment in utopian self-sufficiency.
A compendium of lighthearted, ofthe-moment essays that address the many ups and downs of life at On almost every page, she demonstrates a dogged commitment to elevating seemingly normal, even mundane happenings, such as buying moisturizer at the mall, and other encounters with people who include her husband, writer Jeff Kahn, and female friends, into situational comedies, frequently offering jokes at her own expense. Gurwitch makes for a highly likable, albeit sometimes-crass narrator who is willing to lay all of her cards on the table for the sake of entertainment.
Her neuroses show up in abundance—e. Casual, zingy observations. A newsworthy, must-read book about what prompted Edward Snowden to blow the whistle on his former employer, the National Security Agency, and what likely awaits him for having done so. Harding closes with the thought that Snowden may have no other home for some time to come—but that even wider implications remain to be explored, including the possibility that British activists might be able to introduce something like the First Amendment to protect its press in the future.
In , when Nightline co-anchor Harris filled in on Good Morning America, he suddenly suffered a debilitating panic attack during the live broadcast. That event was the culmination of years spent overextending himself personally, with recreational drug experimentation, and professionally, working for various news outlets across the country as well as stints in war-torn Iraq. The on-air meltdown spurred Harris to research nonmedicinal therapeutic remedies. It became a way to steel myself as I moved through the world. That was soon put to the ultimate test during a precarious interview with Paris Hilton.
Friendly, practical advocacy for the power of mindfulness and enlightenment. Can the tendency for criminally psychopathic behaviors be identified by analyzing neurological images? If so, what consequence does this have for science and society? Psychopaths are everywhere—an estimated 1 in adults qualify.
Most are nonviolent but not all: One subset of this group, criminal psychopaths, have aggressive and sometimesviolent tendencies and often fail to exhibit empathy or remorse despite knowing the difference between right and wrong. Many of them commit crimes and end up in jail. In an opportunistic twist of science and justice, these jailed criminal psychopaths provide a unique chance for researchers to study their brains, and there now exists enough reproducible neurobiological data to investigate the connection between brain structure and criminal behavior.
Science writer Haycock argues that it is possible to identify physical differences between the brains of psychopaths and nonpsychopaths by using sophisticated modern technologies like fMRI. The implications of this discovery are complex: How much do genetic markers and DNA play a role versus environmental factors like childhood abuse? Is it moral or legal to use this information to try to predict violent crimes or to influence a jury deciding a verdict? The author explores these tricky issues in accessible and insightful chapters that break down the science behind the data while using narratives of high-profile criminals—e.
Importantly, Haycock asserts that the definition of psychopathy itself remains a work in progress, but examining the brain activity of people across the psychopathic spectrum is a robust line of research that promises to yield increasingly intriguing results about evil human behavior. Part true crime, part neuroscience and a page-turner from start to finish. Pinchot viewed the forest as an asset to be managed for wise use and harvested regularly, while Muir valued the aesthetics supplied by untouched landscapes.
His books and magazines greatly influenced popular opinion about mountains, forests and glaciers. Henderson, Eleanor; Solomon, Anna—Eds. Farrar, Straus and Giroux pp. As his hometown of Dearborn, Mich. As he engaged in the punk rituals of angry music and destructive carousing, he tried to keep this lifestyle separated from his long-suffering mother and his fragile sister, a sensitive, earnest girl who went from bullied outcast to her own hedonistic scene, concealing the depths of her depression.
She committed suicide at 22 while hospitalized after several abortive attempts. Hoen writes with an acute eye and colorful yet controlled prose, but the overlong plot arc contains repetitive scenes of tour life and personal strife; this approach comes to feel rambling and slackens the power of his observations. Thirty-one female writers including the editors narrate their highly personal experiences of giving birth, beginning with the choices they made in advance, and how the reality compared with their expectations.
They remained friends and kept in touch, and the genesis of this book was an email from a very pregnant Henderson to Solomon asking for details about the birth of her first child. She felt overwhelmed with the wide range of choices to be made: Should she opt for natural childbirth and a midwife or an obstetrician? What about epidurals, and when is surgical intervention required? Despite the wealth of how-to books on pregnancy and parenting, what was missing from bookshelves was the kind of highly personal account that Solomon shared with Henderson.
The contributors chronicle their expectations and the nitty-gritty of the process from the onset of contractions to the moment of birth. As many of the stories illustrate, the feminist ideal of natural childbirth is appealing but not necessarily realistic. Unforeseen medical emergencies are part of the territory; both infants and mothers may be at the point of collapse during extended labor, requiring surgical intervention.
Compelling childbirth narratives told from fresh perspectives. His profiles of individuals, like a committed border agent who was expelled for mentioning that he is proud of his Mexican-American identity, are compelling and bring the work of Susan Orlean to mind. And when introducing readers to, for example, the Explorer Academy, which operates nationwide to teach teens the fundamentals of Customs and Border Patrol work, like chasing and handcuffing illegal immigrants, Miller strives to understand both the appeal of these programs and their sinister implications.
Unlike many reports from the border, Miller talks to both guards who often just want a job that pays the bills—and strive to feel proud of their work and frightened immigrants. He meets with politicians and people on the street. The first work of journalism he ever published was a photo of the Army Corps of Engineers constructing the border wall in Douglas, Ariz. Marshal Service, and the Bureau The vast array of thermal imaging systems, ready-to-eat pocket sandwiches with shelf lives of three years , unmanned aerial drones and Brief Relief plastic urine bags comes to vivid life.
The borders being monitored are no longer just between the U. In the small town of Ridgeland, S. Miller recalls a story of a Czech would-be immigrant who was caught trying to swim across a lake to Rochester, N. Border Patrol Nation spurs such awareness. Border Patrol Nation will be reviewed in an upcoming issue of Kirkus Reviews. Indeed, these— save the Philippines, still mired in American colonial dependency—have evolved into post—Cold War economic dynamos, with varying blends of democracy and authoritarianism.
As the U. An up-and-down examination in which the author claims that the future of the Pacific Rim will be decided not by what China does but by what America does. Before Emancipation, , etc. He helps readers see that slavery was pervasive in the American colonies—and not just in the South Rhode Island was a major player in shipping —and reminds us of the fierce New World competition among England, France and Spain.
But beneath these basics is an aquifer of information about slave revolts and the consequent fears of slaveholders. Horne takes us around the colonies, showing that the vast numbers of Africans were setting off alarms all over. As a result, slaves were soon flowing into Georgia, and Georgians soon began experiencing the same anxieties as the rest of the white colonists.
As England began to move more toward ending its slave trade not for humanitarian reasons , uneasy Americans rich white ones began to meet and bray about freedom and liberty, causing many, of course, to note the hypocrisy. Horne also examines the ever harsher laws passed by timorous whites against slaves who disobeyed or revolted—moves which, as the author shows, only intensified slave anger and resistance. As many as 20, slaves joined the Redcoats in the Revolution, and the author traces some of our lingering racism back to Clear and sometimes-passionate prose shows us the persistent nastiness underlying our founding narrative.
Women lack the kind of self-assertiveness and self-confidence that propel their male counterparts forward, and the. Random House pp. A foreign policy expert looks at the major players in the Southeast Asia Pacific Rim and their nervous watching. Their investigation took them from the basketball court, where they spoke with WNBA stars Monique Currie and Crystal Langhorne, to the bastions of the International Monetary Fund and a conversation with Christine Lagarde, one of the most powerful women in the world. Through these interviews, Kay and Shipman confirmed their beliefs about the significant contrast between the typical male approach of pushing forward aggressively e.
The authors attribute this to a lack of resilience and a drive for perfection, along with a tendency to dwell on past mistakes. After discussions with neuropsychologists and geneticists, they dismissed the importance of biological components e. A systematic, heady dose of American history by a frustrated, even outraged progressive thinker. Nearly every generation, from Socrates to today, has been convinced that its children are being raised by parents who are too permissive. Via research and interviews, Kohn closely examines the current media-backed perceptions of permissive and controlling parenting and contrasts them with actual data, deflating popular beliefs that children are now more spoiled and unruly than ever.
A thought-provoking, semicontroversial scrutiny of modern parenting practices. Kaye walks readers through the Roosevelt era to remind us of its greatest achievement: the recovery from an unprecedented Great Depression through a battery of mightily effective government agencies, public works and regulatory acts. Lavie, Carl J.
Notable writers talk candidly about their lives and work. Readers are likely to recognize some of the more famous writers—e. Journalists Roger Mudd and Ken Auletta are among the writers who discuss the responsibilities of the media in contemporary society. New insights into the pros and cons of body fat. Although no one can stop aging, numerous diets and exercise programs insist they can aid you in obtaining a perfect, thin body.
After examining the dangers of excess body fat—e. Numerous scientific studies show that being metabolically fit despite extra weight is actually healthier, leading to a longer life span than a thinner person who looks healthy but may have hidden health risks. The key is to balance body fat with moderate physical fitness. Comprehensible, practical advice that shuns yo-yo dieting and exhaustive exercise regimens for a more lenient lifestyle in which having some body fat is actually good for you.
Eventually, she abandoned her career when she could not tolerate the censorship she witnessed or the outright lies she saw published, and she retreated into university life. An artist, he expressed his opinions through his work, nervously aware of the tightrope he walked between ideological conformity and resistance. In this winner of the European Book Prize, Leo not only produces a moving family memoir, but also a probing exploration of the human need to believe and belong.
From mines, with transitions that are a little jagged, Lippard moves on to the Earth artists of the West, such as Robert Smithson and James Turrell. Art, garbage, history? Readers must be the judges. Centrifugal and sometimes hard to follow but always interesting, tracing the intersection of art, the environment, geography and politics.
A consideration of Christ, human and divine, from an on-native-ground perspective. The theological and ethical lessons that Martin draws from the biblical landscape are illuminating and unobjectionable even though he allows that some of that geography is suspect—e. An intelligent, lively travelogue, well-timed to arrive for the Easter season, and a welcome complement to a direct reading of the Gospels. New Press pp. This is no exception: On each page, a band of images speaks to the text below. That text, in turn, begins with an intensely local concern, namely, a gravel pit near her high desert home.
After a two-decade journalism career producing and anchoring syndicated newsmagazine programs, McGowan, a former Emmy-winning TV correspondent—turned—media-coaching entrepreneur, knows the tenets of effective communication and professional presentation. From his communications training company, Clarity Media Group, he now helps everyone—from authors to CEOs to career-changing job seekers—to achieve and project a greater public confidence level.
His approach is evenhanded and straightforward and brims with advice for anyone hoping to brush up on public speaking, effective presentation skills and interviewing prowess both within and outside of the contemporary workforce marketplace. McGowan cites many relatable scenarios, including a botched first impression with a large new client Facebook that was rescued with positive reinforcement and a polished, professional approach.
The author stresses that becoming a compelling speaker with engaging stage presence takes time and effort. His methodology is not meant to change the person seeking guidance but, with practice and preparation, to draw their strengths out and encourage diligence in achieving an increased level of interactive confidence. A proactive approach to mastering the art of interpersonal communication. How women can raise boys to become good men. Through research and interviews from her own practice, Meeker gives women the necessary tools to understand that perfection is not a realistic goal but that doing the best one can will ensure good results.
Equally useful to single mothers and women with husbands is the advice that sons need to know they are loved from a very young age, as this builds a foundation of confidence in a child, a base that allows a boy to gradually move away from his mother as he interacts with male peers and elders. Meeker recommends introducing boys to religion, prayer and the unconditional love that comes from having a strong faith to boost self-confidence. Solid, practical advice for women on how to properly nurture their sons.
An unabashedly admiring reappraisal of Douglas MacArthur — as supreme protector of a great fallen nation at the close of World War II. Above all, MacArthur was a keen student of history and modeled his magnanimity toward the vanquished Japanese on Gen.
by James Joyce
Robert E. Lee, among other examples, hoping to gain trust in his new charges rather than instill fear and provoke alarm from reactionary elements. A gung-ho, breezily entertaining study for lay readers. He includes lively biographies of the men—Wilhelm Roentgen, Enrico Fermi, Leo Szilard and others—who created this new age and of two remarkable women: the celebrated Polish-born Marie Curie and the almost forgotten Austrian Lise Meitner. For example, nuclear weapons are so dreadful that they have effectively prevented war between superpowers, but their production and maintenance have been a staggering waste of resources.
Nevertheless, Nelson contends that the nuclear era is now drawing to a close, as the acquisition of nuclear weapons is viewed only as the mark of a pariah regime, and the dishonesty of governments and industry has ruined the prospects for further development of nuclear power.
An engaging history that raises provocative questions about the future of nuclear science. An inside look at mothering three small children. Readers without children may wonder how the human race has survived as long as it has. Babies, breast-feeding and boobs play major roles in the narrative. Whether going shopping, attending PTA meetings, or traveling long distances to visit family and friends, each episode is full of the unconventional behavior of three rambunctious daughters and the mother who struggles to keep pace.
Although the baby talk of her daughters is age-appropriate, some readers may tire of some of the childish speech—e. Beginning with the discovery of X-rays in and ending with the disaster at the Fukushima nuclear power plant, the author examines the discovery of radium used for a while in everything from watches to toothpaste , the development of nuclear fission and fusion, and the use of the resulting new elements in nuclear weapons, medicine and power generation.
The author also shows how the development. I want to pway wif her. Not quite memoir, not quite history, this book provides an engaging reflection on international football in the World Cup era. Patton, Robert H. Pantheon pp. Exploration of some of the unsung early war correspondents in New York and London who created the model for vivid prose and humanitarian alarm.
All the New York newspapers—e. MacGahan and other American expat correspondents in Paris stumbled on the Franco-Prussian War; he was horrified by the bloody insurrection, taking pains to characterize the violence fairly in his emotional dispatches for the Herald, for which he was highly praised. Another visionary correspondent was the extraordinarily talented artist and writer Frank Millet, who plunged into covering the Russian-Turkish War of by crisscrossing Central Asia during an era of difficult land travel and illustrating his essays with tremendously moving sketches of the bloodied and wounded.
These correspondents became heroes of their time and doubled at times as capable explorers. The Philadelphia lawyer and his wife, both nonreligious Jews from well-to-do families, agreed to help engineer the transfer of Austrian Jewish children to America on behalf of a national Jewish fraternal organization, Brith Sholom, which was deeply concerned about the increasing prosecution of Jews in Germany and Austria.
Abandon all hope. The Krauses were warned against venturing to Germany at this time: A prominent Quaker contingent had recently been rebuffed by the Nazis; the U. After securing affidavits from 50 sponsors, completing the vast paperwork and achieving clearance from the State Department, Gil finally left in April and summoned Eleanor to come shortly after. The details around selection of the children, leave-taking of their parents and the tearful travels are heart-rending, but eventually, they were safely shepherded to a summer camp in Collegeville, Pa.
With a careful eye to detail and dialogue, Pressman vividly re-creates this epic rescue. Rockefeller figure prominently, along with lesserknown but equally important men like Winthrop Aldrich and Thomas Lamont, as they navigate the treacherous terrain of World War I and the crash, both butting heads with and coming to the aid of presidents from Theodore Roosevelt to Herbert Hoover.
As Prins writes, ties proved strongest during wartime, with banks working alongside politicians to sell bonds and bolster the finances of U. As the 20th century rolled on, however, power shifted north from Washington to New York, where deregulation and globalization created opportunities for bankers to create complex financial products that neither the public nor they themselves seemed to fully understand, which led to a series of market collapses and global recessions.