Alma Mater Quotes

My alma mater was books, a good library.... I could spend the rest of my life reading, just satisfying my curiosity.

Good judgment comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgment.

An English writer telephoned me from London, asking questions. One was, ‘What’s your alma mater?’ I told him, ‘Books.

I certainly wasn't seeking any degree, the way a college confers a status symbol upon its students. My homemade education gave me, with every additional book that I read, a little bit more sensitivity to the deafness, dumbness and blindness that was afflicting the black race in America. Not long ago, an English writer telephoned me, asking questions. One was, "What's your alma mater?" I told him, "Books.

Not long ago, an English writer telephoned me from London, asking questions. One was "What's your alma mater?" I told him, "Books." You will never catch me with a free fifteen minutes in which I'm not studying something I feel might be able to help the black man.

Do not give them a candle to light the way, teach them how to make fire instead. That is the meaning of enlightenment.

I think the reason I choose the comic approach so often is because it's harder, therefore affording me the opportunity to show off.

Sex makes monkeys out of all of us. If you don’t give in to it, you wind up a cold, unfeeling bastard. If you do, you spend the rest of your life picking up the pieces. . . .

Gregory: Well, Dane, you could share your impression with my alma mater instead. Dane: It's a challenge. Gregory: Glad to hear that hasn't changed. And which part do you find the most challenging? Dane: Living up to your reputation.

If your employees, including your CEO, wish to give to their alma maters or other institutions to which they feel a personal attachment, we believe they should use their own money, not yours.

I have often reflected upon the new vistas that reading opened to me. I knew right there, in prison, that reading had changed forever the course of my life. As I see it today, the ability to read awoke inside me some long dormant craving to be mentally alive. I certainly wasn’t seeking any degree, the way a college confers a status symbol upon its students. My home made education gave me, with every additional book that I read, a little bit more sensitivity to the deafness, dumbness, and blindness that was afflicting the black race in America. Not long ago, an English writer telephoned me from London asking questions. One was, “What’s your alma mater?” I told him, “Books.” You will never catch me with a free fifteen minutes in which I’m not studying something I feel might be able to help the black man.

One big bonus: e-mail! Just like the days back on Hermes, I get data dumps. Of course, they relay e-mail from friends and family, but NASA also sends along choice messages from the public. I’ve gotten e-mail from rock stars, athletes, actors and actresses, and even the President. One of them was from my alma mater, the University of Chicago. They say once you grow crops somewhere, you have officially “colonized” it. So technically, I colonized Mars. In your face, Neil Armstrong!

Learning to Read”: I told the Englishman that my alma mater was books.

My Alma mater is the Chicago Public Library.

Hail to St. Aegolius Our Alma Mater. Hail, our song we raise in praise of thee Long in the memory of every loyal owl Thy splendid banner emblazoned be. Now to thy golden talons Homage we're bringing. Guiding symbol of our hopes and fears Hark to the cries of eternal praises ringing Long may we triumph in the coming years. - The Owls of St. Aegolius

One of them was from my alma mater, the University of Chicago. They say once you grow crops somewhere, you have officially “colonized” it. So technically, I colonized Mars. In your face, Neil Armstrong!

Nora Ephron explained in a 1996 commencement address at her alma mater, Wellesley College, about her own graduating class of 1962: “We weren’t meant to have futures, we were meant to marry them. We weren’t meant to have politics, or careers that mattered, or opinions or lives; we were meant to marry them. If you wanted to be an architect, you married an architect.” Both

To me, that's what makes college so great and unique, as opposed to the pros. This is your alma mater. This is a part of you.

Here beneath the towering pines, by the river blue Farragut will ever stand, alma mater true

I have changed my definition of tragedy. I now think tragedy is not foul deeds done to a person (usually noble in some manner) but rather that tragedy is irresolvable conflict.

Take for example the commencement address he [James Garfield] delivered at his alma mater Hiram College in the summer of 1880. ... The only thing stopping this address from turning into a slacker parable is the absence of the word 'dude'.

My alma mater implored me to send them a donation. If anything, I should write them an equal invitation.

College was an experience I'll always cherish. Now I fund a scholarship at my alma mater in my late father's name—he'd laugh to know that it's a science scholarship, when I can barely do math! I also fund a nursing scholarship at the Oglala Lakota College in Kyle, South Dakota, in the name of my mother, who was a nurse.

Something about absolutes, the cultish nature of them, made her wary of unconditional loyalty to sports teams, politicians, alma maters, never mind nation.

One of them was from my alma mater, the Universe of Chicago. They say once you grow crops somewhere, you have officially "colonized" it. So technically, I colonized Mars. In your face, Neil Armstrong!

Study after study has proven than only a small percentage of charitable donations from wealthy donors reach poor individuals. Most of it tends to go to alma maters or cultural institutions frequented by the wealthy.

Yale was notorious for its politics. Afterwards, one fierce Loyalist, Thomas Jones, recalled bitterly of his alma mater that it was nothing but “a nursery of sedition, of faction, and republicanism,” while General Thomas Gage, commander of the British forces in North America, branded the place “a seminary of democracy” full of “pretended patriots.

How has my industry raised prices at this rate without improving the product? At a few elite institutions, including NYU, we’ve leveraged scarcity. More than a business strategy, it’s become a fetish—believing you are a luxury brand instead of a public servant. Ivy Leagues have acceptance rates of 4–10%. A university president bragging about rejecting 90% of applicants is tantamount to a homeless shelter taking pride in turning away 90% of the needy that arrive each night. And this is not about standards or brand dilution. In an essay explaining his decision to stop conducting application interviews for his alma mater, Princeton, journalist Bryan Walsh observed, “The secret of elite college admissions is that far more students deserve to attend these colleges than are admitted, and there is virtually no discernible difference between those who make it and the many more who just miss out.” In support, he offered this statement from Princeton’s own dean of admissions: “We could have admitted five or six classes to Princeton from the [applicant] pool.”4 So, with a $26 billion endowment, the question becomes, Why wouldn’t you?

It was a superb spectacle while it lasted, and I was able to understand what people meant when they spoke of the Church Militant. A good deal to my regret it did not last long. Spode was full of the will to win, but Stinker had the science. It was not for nothing that he had added a Boxing Blue to his Football Blue when at the old Alma Mater. There was a brief mix-up, and the next thing one observed was Spode on the ground, looking like a corpse which had been in the water several days. His left eye was swelling visibly, and a referee could have counted a hundred over him without eliciting a response.

Many white children in this city never set foot in a public school. They follow in the footsteps of their parents and grandparents, attending private schools from the moment they hit kindergarten. This private school pipeline contributes to the racial disparity of the public schools, the same way my alma mater does in Farmville. Richmonders, like many in Prince Edward and around the country, have effectively given up on public school education. And the abandonment of Richmond's public schools by white and middle-income parents creates a self-fulfilling prophecy of schools that continue to perform poorly.

Outside the study hall the next fall, the fall of our senior year, the Nabisco plant baked sweet white bread twice a week. If I sharpened a pencil at the back of the room I could smell the baking bread and the cedar shavings from the pencil.... Pretty soon all twenty of us - our class - would be leaving. A core of my classmates had been together since kindergarten. I'd been there eight years. We twenty knew by bored heart the very weave of each other's socks.... The poems I loved were in French, or translated from the Chinese, Portuguese, Arabic, Sanskrit, Greek. I murmured their heartbreaking sylllables. I knew almost nothing of the diverse and energetic city I lived in. The poems whispered in my ear the password phrase, and I memorized it behind enemy lines: There is a world. There is another world. I knew already that I would go to Hollins College in Virginia; our headmistress sent all her problems there, to her alma mater. "For the English department," she told me.... But, "To smooth off her rough edges," she had told my parents. They repeated the phrase to me, vividly. I had hopes for my rough edges. I wanted to use them as a can opener, to cut myself a hole in the world's surface, and exit through it. Would I be ground, instead, to a nub? Would they send me home, an ornament to my breed, in a jewelry bag?

traveled in those days with a cheap tape recorder. (I had written to my alma mater, Columbia University, which had an oral history project, suggesting that they take time off from interviewing ex–generals and ex–secretaries of state and send someone south to record the history being made every day by obscure people. One of the nation’s richest universities wrote back saying something like, “An excellent idea. We don’t really have the resources.”) I recorded Gregory’s performance with my little machine. He spoke for two hours, lashing out at white Southern society with passion and with his extraordinary wit. Never in the history of this area had a black man stood like this on a public platform ridiculing and denouncing white officials to their faces. The crowd loved it and applauded

My parents have always worried that I’d take Amy too personally — they always tell not to read too much into her, And yet I can’t fail to notice that whenever I screw something up, Amy does it right: When I finally quit violin at age twelve, Amy was revealed as a prodigy in the next book. (“Sheesh, violin can be hard work, but handwork is the only way to get better!”) When I blew off the junior championship at age sixteen to do a beach weekend with friends, Amy recommitted to the game. (“Sheesh, I know it’s fun to spend time with friends, but I’d be letting myself and everyone else down if I didn’t show up for the tournament.”) This used to drive me mad, but after I wend off to Harvard (and Amy correct those my parents’ alma mater), I decided it was all too ridiculous to think about. That my parents, two child psychologists, chose this particular public form of passive-aggressiveness toward their child was not just fucked up but also stupid and weird and kind of hilarious.

Damn, Mari, it’s cold!” Carrow chafed her arms. “I dig the whole Narnian vibe you’ve got going on, I do. And I’ve been dutifully keeping an eye out for talking beavers wearing armor—but come on, this is getting ridiculous! If you miss the Scot so much, then just break free.” Elianna said, “Do you know he’s bought the property just next door to Andoain so he can scent you the minute you come home. And, well, because his house got blown up.” “Look, Mari, you have to come out of this and do something,” Carrow said. “Put him out of his misery—or—allow me to make him fall in love with dryer lint. You decide.” She shrugged. “I know you’d worried about Bowen not wanting to come near the coven, but we can’t get him to leave. Apparently, some of the witches admitted to him that you’re on a different plane—he can be really dogged with the questions—and now he’s determined to reach you here. Interestingly, he believes the information about the plane’s existence—but not about the fact that he can’t travel to it.” “He returns to Adoain daily, sometimes hourly, researching witchery,” Elianna said. Carrow glared, “Well, maybe if you and the others would stop sneakily setting out food for him, he wouldn’t keep coming back!” Crossing her arms over her chest, Elianna said in a mulish tone, “He wouldn’t eat otherwise.” “Whatever. But seriously, Mari, he’s having such a hard time with all this that even Regin feels sorry for what he’s been through.” Elianna added, “He’s watched your graduation video so many times, I’m sure he’s memorized your school’s alma mater.” “I don’t know what he does with the videos of your college cheerleading he brings back to his place”—Carrow waggled her eyebrows—“but I have suspicions.” Elianna coughed delicately. “Now that you’ve done what you were Awaited to do—well, part one at least—everyone’s grasping about for a new name for you,” Carrow said. “If you don’t kick this enthrallment, then I’m going to campaign for Mariketa the Glass Witch, or ‘Glitch.’ Come kick my ass if you don’t like it, otherwise . . .” Elianna squinted at Mari and sighed. “I think she wants to be called Mariketa MacRieve.

We danced to John Michael Montgomery’s “I Swear.” We cut the seven-tiered cake, electing not to take the smear-it-on-our-faces route. We visited and laughed and toasted. We held hands and mingled. But after a while, I began to notice that I hadn’t seen any of the tuxedo-clad groomsmen--particularly Marlboro Man’s friends from college--for quite some time. “What happened to all the guys?” I asked. “Oh,” he said. “They’re down in the men’s locker room.” “Oh, really?” I asked. “Are they smoking cigars or something?” “Well…” He hesitated, grinning. “They’re watching a football game.” I laughed. “What game are they watching?” It had to be a good one. “It’s…ASU is playing Nebraska,” he answered. ASU? His alma mater? Playing Nebraska? Defending national champions? How had I missed this? Marlboro Man hadn’t said a word. He was such a rabid college football fan, I couldn’t believe such a monumental game hadn’t been cause to reschedule the wedding date. Aside from ranching, football had always been Marlboro Man’s primary interest in life. He’d played in high school and part of college. He watched every televised ASU game religiously--for the nontelevised games, he relied on live reporting from Tony, his best friend, who attended every game in person. “I didn’t even know they were playing!” I said. I don’t know why I shouldn’t have known. It was September, after all. But it just hadn’t crossed my mind. I’d been a little on the busy side, I guess, getting ready to change my entire life and all. “How come you’re not down there watching it?” I asked. “I didn’t want to leave you,” he said. “You might get hit on.” He chuckled his sweet, sexy chuckle. I laughed. I could just see it--a drunk old guest scooting down the bar, eyeing my poufy white dress and spouting off pickup lines: You live around here? I sure like what you’re wearing… So…you married? Marlboro Man wasn’t in any immediate danger. Of that I was absolutely certain. “Go watch the game!” I insisted, motioning downstairs. “Nah,” he said. “I don’t need to.” He wanted to watch the game so badly I could see it in the air. “No, seriously!” I said. “I need to go hang with the girls anyway. Go. Now.” I turned my back and walked away, refusing even to look back. I wanted to make it easy on him. I wouldn’t see him for over an hour. Poor Marlboro Man. Unsure of the protocol for grooms watching college football during their wedding receptions, he’d darted in and out of the locker room for the entire first half. The agony he must have felt. The deep, sustained agony. I was so glad he’d finally joined the guys.

inglés, como auténticos comisarios de la justicia departamental. Contra el parecer de Napoleón, que confiaba en el «sexto sentido», a saber, la conciencia del pueblo llano, el Consejo de Estado limitó la capacidad del jurado para decidir a quién se encausaba. Otro aspecto esencial que marcará la «época napoleónica» es, desde luego, el sistema educativo. Como es sabido, en el Antiguo Régimen gran parte del peso de la enseñanza primaria recaía sobre el clero. Con la Revolución, los curas fueron separados de esta función en su mayor parte, pero nunca hubo dinero suficiente para que el Estado cubriese esta necesidad esencial de formar a la población en los rudimentos mínimos de una educación que mereciese tal nombre. Prácticamente no existían escuelas primarias; sí había «escuelas centrales» de secundaria, de buen nivel, pero muy escasas. Junto a ello, pervivían colegios privados de pago, destinados a formar a los hijos de las élites sociales. Las universidades llevaban años clausuradas… En suma, al acceder Napoleón al consulado no existía en Francia un sistema educativo vertebrado, estatal y eficaz. Como primera medida, Bonaparte abrió nuevamente las escuelas elementales, permitiendo el regreso de los sacerdotes católicos a ellas. A la vez, fundó más de trescientos colegios de educación secundaria, entre ellos treinta y nueve liceos, alma mater de la educación

UC Santa Cruz, home of the Fightin' Banana Slugs, was my alma mater. Sure, we had athletics and cheerleaders, but we were also Division 183 or something. So sports: yay?

2. Maria viveu sua vida no anonimato, motivo pelo qual é chamada de Alma Mater pela Igreja e pelo Espírito Santo: Mãe escondida e secreta. Sua humildade foi tão profunda que ela não teve neste mundo pretensão mais poderosa e mais contínua do que a de esconder-se a si mesma e a toda criatura, para ser conhecida unicamente por Deus.

I have often reflected upon the new vistas that reading opened to me. I knew right there in prison that reading had changed forever the course of my life. As I see it today, the ability to read awoke inside me some long dormant craving to be mentally alive. I certainly wasn’t seeking any degree, the way a college confers a status symbol upon its students. My homemade education gave me, with every additional book that I read, a little bit more sensitivity to the deafness, dumbness, and blindness that was afflicting the black race in America. Not long ago, an English writer telephoned me from London, asking questions. One was, “What’s your alma mater?” I told him, “Books.” You will never catch me with a free fifteen minutes in which I’m not studying something I feel might be able to help the black man.

The Roman Church maintains that it was not so much the seed of the woman, as the woman herself, that was to bruise the head of the serpent. In defiance of all grammar, she renders the Divine denunciation against the serpent thus: "She shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise her heel." The same was held by the ancient Babylonians, and symbolically represented in their temples. In the uppermost storey of the tower of Babel, or temple of Belus, Diodorus Siculus tells us there stood three images of the great divinities of Babylon; and one of these was of a woman grasping a serpent's head. Among the Greeks the same thing was symbolised; for Diana, whose real character was originally the same as that of the great Babylonian goddess, was represented as bearing in one of her hands a serpent deprived of its head. As time wore away, and the facts of Simiramis's history became obscured, her son's birth was boldly declared to be miraculous: and therefore she was called "Alma Mater," "the Virgin Mother." That the birth of the Great Deliverer was to be miraculous, was widely known long before the Christian era.

Harriet Vane in Gaudy Night dozing in her alma mater’s library after spending nights patrolling for mysterious vandals.

The superintendent of the new consolidated school, Emory Huyck, had been recommended for the job by his alma mater, Michigan State Agricultural College.1 He was born in 1894 in Butternut, Michigan, not far from Carson City, one of eleven children, all of whom would outlive him, as would both his parents, William and Mary. After graduating from high school at the top of his class, Emory briefly attended the Ferris Institute in Big Rapids, Michigan. Ferris had been founded in 1884 by future Michigan governor and US senator Woodbridge Nathan Ferris as an “industrial school” meant to provide both practical training and a basic liberal arts education “to all young men and women, regardless of their ages, regardless of their mental attainments, regardless of their present conditions, who desire to make themselves stronger and better.”2 In 1917, while teaching at a school in the Montcalm County village of Pierson, Emory registered for the draft. His registration card suggests that he was not merely willing but was keen to serve his country. To the question “Do you claim exemption from draft?” he answered with an emphatic “I do not,” rather than a simple “no,” as most young men did.3 Stationed at Camp Custer near Battle Creek during the war years, he served as a training officer. He would eventually be commissioned second lieutenant of cavalry in the Officers’ Reserve Corps.4

Then, when I was eighteen, the admissions officers at Columbia, Wesleyan, and Brown decided I should go to the University of Chicago. I love my alma mater, and it has changed a lot for the better since I was there, but back then it wasn’t exactly the sort of get-in-touch-with-your-feelings place that would help thaw my emotional ice age. My favorite saying about Chicago is this one: It’s a Baptist school where atheist professors teach Jewish students Saint Thomas Aquinas. The students there still wear T-shirts that read, “Sure it works in practice, but does it work in theory?” And so into this heady world I traipsed and…shocker, I fit right in.

Vem, Noite antiquíssima e idêntica, Noite Rainha nascida destronada, Noite igual por dentro ao silêncio. Noite Com as estrelas lantejoulas rápidas No teu vestido franjado de Infinito. Vem, vagamente, Vem, levemente, Vem sozinha, solene, com as mãos caídas Ao teu lado, vem E traz os montes longínquos para o pé das árvores próximas. Funde num campo teu todos os campos que vejo, Faze da montanha um bloco só do teu corpo, Apaga-lhe todas as diferenças que de longe vejo. Todas as estradas que a sobem, Todas as várias árvores que a fazem verde-escuro ao longe. Todas as casas brancas e com fumo entre as árvores, E deixa só uma luz e outra luz e mais outra, Na distância imprecisa e vagamente perturbadora. Na distância subitamente impossível de percorrer. Nossa Senhora Das coisas impossíveis que procuramos em vão, Dos sonhos que vêm ter connosco ao crepúsculo, à janela. Dos propósitos que nos acariciam Nos grandes terraços dos hotéis cosmopolitas Ao som europeu das músicas e das vozes longe e perto. E que doem por sabermos que nunca os realizaremos... Vem, e embala-nos, Vem e afaga-nos. Beija-nos silenciosamente na fronte, Tão levemente na fronte que não saibamos que nos beijam Senão por uma diferença na alma. E um vago soluço partindo melodiosamente Do antiquíssimo de nós Onde têm raiz todas essas árvores de maravilha Cujos frutos são os sonhos que afagamos e amamos Porque os sabemos fora de relação com o que há na vida. Vem soleníssima, Soleníssima e cheia De uma oculta vontade de soluçar, Talvez porque a alma é grande e a vida pequena. E todos os gestos não saem do nosso corpo E só alcançamos onde o nosso braço chega, E só vemos até onde chega o nosso olhar. Vem, dolorosa, Mater-Dolorosa das Angústias dos Tímidos, Turris-Eburnea das Tristezas dos Desprezados, Mão fresca sobre a testa em febre dos humildes. Sabor de água sobre os lábios secos dos Cansados. Vem, lá do fundo Do horizonte lívido, Vem e arranca-me Do solo de angústia e de inutilidade Onde vicejo. Apanha-me do meu solo, malmequer esquecido, Folha a folha lê em mim não sei que sina E desfolha-me para teu agrado, Para teu agrado silencioso e fresco. Uma folha de mim lança para o Norte, Onde estão as cidades de Hoje que eu tanto amei; Outra folha de mim lança para o Sul, Onde estão os mares que os Navegadores abriram; Outra folha minha atira ao Ocidente, Onde arde ao rubro tudo o que talvez seja o Futuro, Que eu sem conhecer adoro; E a outra, as outras, o resto de mim Atira ao Oriente, Ao Oriente donde vem tudo, o dia e a fé, Ao Oriente pomposo e fanático e quente, Ao Oriente excessivo que eu nunca verei, Ao Oriente budista, bramânico, sintoísta, Ao Oriente que tudo o que nós não temos. Que tudo o que nós não somos, Ao Oriente onde — quem sabe? — Cristo talvez ainda hoje viva, Onde Deus talvez exista realmente e mandando tudo... Vem sobre os mares, Sobre os mares maiores, Sobre os mares sem horizontes precisos, Vem e passa a mão pelo dorso da fera, E acalma-o misteriosamente, Ó domadora hipnótica das coisas que se agitam muito! Vem, cuidadosa, Vem, maternal, Pé antepé enfermeira antiquíssima, que te sentaste À cabeceira dos deuses das fés já perdidas, E que viste nascer Jeová e Júpiter, E sorriste porque tudo te é falso e inútil. Vem, Noite silenciosa e extática, Vem envolver na noite manto branco O meu coração... Serenamente como uma brisa na tarde leve, Tranquilamente com um gesto materno afagando. Com as estrelas luzindo nas tuas mãos E a lua máscara misteriosa sobre a tua face. Todos os sons soam de outra maneira Quando tu vens. Quando tu entras baixam todas as vozes, Ninguém te vê entrar. Ninguém sabe quando entraste, Senão de repente, vendo que tudo se recolhe, Que tudo perde as arestas e as cores, E que no alto céu ainda claramente azul Já crescente nítido, ou círculo branco, ou mera luz nova que vem, A lua começa a ser real.

He was a rich man but not, by the appearance of his will, an intellectual one. He did not mention any of the possessions typical of a Renaissance humanist: no books, no musical instruments, no maps. He did not remember any writer, though he is said to have associated and collaborated with other writers in the tightly connected world of literary London for more than two decades. For all his wealth, he did not make any bequest to the Stratford grammar school that had allegedly nurtured him, nor any provision for his eight-year-old granddaughter’s education. (Other men of letters often made bequests to their alma maters or provided money for children’s education.)

And Sophia studied animal science at Mattie’s alma mater, Lowe, having discovered a passion for beef cattle production.

Not to be outdone, in 2021 Billy Graham’s alma mater, Wheaton, held a racially segregated graduation ceremony for minority students,24 calling it a “Racial and Cultural Minority Senior Recognition Ceremony.”25 It also removed a nearly seventy-year-old plaque honoring one of its most famous sons, Jim Elliot, a 1950s missionary who was martyred while witnessing to an Ecuadorean tribe, because the inscription described his murderers as “savage.

I have a complicated spiritual history. Here's the short version: I was born into a Mass-going Roman Catholic family, but my parents left the church when I was in the fifth grade and joined a Southern Baptist church—yes, in Connecticut. I am an alumnus of Wheaton College—Billy Graham's alma mater in Illinois, not the Seven Sisters school in Massachusetts—and the summer between my junior and senior year of (Christian) high school, I spent a couple of months on a missions trip performing in whiteface as a mime-for-the-Lord on the streets of London's West End. Once I left home for Wheaton, I ended up worshiping variously (and when I could haul my lazy tuckus out of bed) at the nondenominational Bible church next to the college, a Christian hippie commune in inner-city Chicago left over from the Jesus Freak movement of the 1960s, and an artsy-fartsy suburban Episcopal parish that ended up splitting over same-sex issues. My husband of more than a decade likes to describe himself as a “collapsed Catholic,” and for more than twenty-five years, I have been a born-again Christian. Groan, I know. But there's really no better term in the current popular lexicon to describe my seminal spiritual experience. It happened in the summer of 1980 when I was about to turn ten years old. My parents had both had born-again experiences themselves about six months earlier, shortly before our family left the Catholic church—much to the shock and dismay of the rest of our extended Irish and/or Italian Catholic family—and started worshiping in a rented public grade school gymnasium with the Southern Baptists. My mother had told me all about what she'd experienced with God and how I needed to give my heart to Jesus so I could spend eternity with him in heaven and not frying in hell. I was an intellectually stubborn and precocious child, so I didn't just kneel down with her and pray the first time she told me about what was going on with her and Daddy and Jesus. If something similar was going to happen to me, it was going to happen in my own sweet time. A few months into our family's new spiritual adventure, after hearing many lectures from Mom and sitting through any number of sermons at the Baptist church—each ending with an altar call and an invitation to make Jesus the Lord of my life—I got up from bed late one Sunday night and went downstairs to the den where my mother was watching television. I couldn't sleep, which was unusual for me as a child. I was a champion snoozer. In hindsight I realize something must have been troubling my spirit. Mom went into the kitchen for a cup of tea and left me alone with the television, which she had tuned to a church service. I don't remember exactly what the preacher said in his impassioned, sweaty sermon, but I do recall three things crystal clearly: The preacher was Jimmy Swaggart; he gave an altar call, inviting the folks in the congregation in front of him and at home in TV land to pray a simple prayer asking Jesus to come into their hearts; and that I prayed that prayer then and there, alone in the den in front of the idiot box. Seriously. That is precisely how I got “saved.” Alone. Watching Jimmy Swaggart on late-night TV. I also spent a painful vacation with my family one summer at Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker's Heritage USA Christian theme park in South Carolina. But that's a whole other book…

While one was an undergraduate, one could feel virtuous and indignant at the vices of Oxford, at least at those which one did not indulge in, particularly at the flunkeyism and money-worship which are our most prevalent and disgraceful sins. But when one is a fellow it is quite another affair. They become a sore burthen then, enough to break one's heart.

When the author is not traveling, he works at an L-shaped desk, which affords a view north through a large sunny window. He writes everything on an electric typewriter because "it has to be a book from the first day," he explains. He has no daily routine because of all the traveling he does, but follows a very disciplined writing process. He writes each page six times, then places it in a three-ring binder with a DePauw University cover ("a talisman," he calls this memento from his alma mater). When he feels that he has gotten a page just right, he takes out another 20 words. "After a year, I've come to the end. Then I'll take this first chapter, and without rereading it, I'll throw it away and write the chapter that goes at the beginning. Because the first chapter is the last chapter in disguise." He always hands in a completed manuscript, and his editor is his first reader.

And as writer Nora Ephron explained in a 1996 commencement address at her alma mater, Wellesley College, about her own graduating class of 1962: “We weren’t meant to have futures, we were meant to marry them. We weren’t meant to have politics, or careers that mattered, or opinions or lives; we were meant to marry them. If you wanted to be an architect, you married an architect.” Both

I Do Believe You Ate My Salad Recently, I attended a luncheon at the George Lindsey (Goober of Mayberry fame) Film Festival at my alma mater, the University of North Alabama. Good manners and polite social behavior were at the top of my list, for I know how often business deals get made and people fall in love over meals--my goodness! Seated right next to me was my friend Buddy Killen, a legendary songwriter from Nashville, Tennessee. Everything seemed to be going fine until I looked over and saw that Buddy was eating my salad. I guess he forgot that your salad is always served on the right. Should I have ignored his faux pas? Skipped my salad to avoid making him uncomfortable? What was a Grits girl to do? I’ll tell you what: without a second thought, I turned to Buddy and said straight out, “Excuse me, sir, I do believe you ate my salad!” Never missing a beat, he waved the waiter over and said, “Sir, I’m afraid you forgot Edie’s salad!” With that, I got my salad and all honor was saved. Which just goes to show that being straightforward in a polite manner is never inappropriate. -Edie Hand

To look squarely at the suffering of the ordinary people whose misery is recorded in the transcripts makes me feel that I am not qualified even to be called a “survivor.” It is true that I was one of the last people to leave Tiananmen Square on June 4th, but I did nothing to volunteer myself during the bloody terror of the massacre’s aftermath, nothing to show that a kernel of my humanity had survived. After I left the square, I did not go to Beijing Normal University campus to check on the students from my alma mater who presumably had also left the square. Still less did I consider going out into the streets to minister to dead and wounded whom I did not know. Instead I fled to the relative safety of the foreign diplomatic housing compound. It is no wonder that the ordinary people who lived through the butchery might ask: “When great terror engulfed the city of Beijing, where were all those ‘black hands’ ”? Fifteen

Nora Ephron explained in a 1996 commencement address at her alma mater, Wellesley College, about her own graduating class of 1962: “We weren’t meant to have futures, we were meant to marry them. We weren’t meant to have politics, or careers that mattered, or opinions or lives; we were meant to marry them. If you wanted to be an architect, you married an architect.

I remember the day I jotted down that advice in the sage green notebook I used for my cyberbriefings. At the top I put a gold-and-purple logo sticker from LSU, my alma mater, and at the left corner below, a midnight blue circle with white letters that said VOTE FOR SETH RICH.

She was thinking about how her middle-school alma mater was now 75 percent Latino, when in her day it was 80 percent black. Thinking

For pretty much my whole life, I thought I was living to better myself, to create the best life possible. About a year ago, that mindset changed. I now believe I’m here to create the best world possible. This shift from me to everyone is what altered my entire understanding of passion, and my purpose. Ben Horowitz is one of my digital mentors (meaning I follow his blog). I find him very insightful. Whenever he says (or writes about) anything, I inevitably start nodding my head until my neck is sore. Here’s an excerpt from the commencement speech he gave at Columbia, his alma mater: “Following your passion is a very me centered view of the world, and as you go through life, what you’ll find is that what you take out of the world over time—be it…money, cars, stuff, accolades—is much less important than what you put into the world. And so my recommendation would be to follow your contribution. Find the thing that you’re great at, put that into the world, contribute to others, help the world be better. That is the thing to follow." Most of the time, if you follow your contribution, it’s either already a passion, or likely to become one. Doing something you’re good at is intoxicating, as is contributing to the world. Writing and launching The Connection Algorithm was a full year of hard work. It was the result of countless hours of reflection, deeply philosophical thinking, and brutal honesty. Throughout the entire process, I felt driven, passionate, and motivated. At first, I thought this was because I was doing it on my own. But I’ve come to realize it was something else—something far more profound. Shortly after the book was released, I began receiving emails from people who had read the book and been deeply impacted by it. A highschooler in Miami. An entrepreneur in Amsterdam. A small business owner in the midwest. People were also leaving reviews on Amazon—people I didn’t know, saying the book helped them live a better life. And on my Kindle, I could see passages that people were highlighting. People weren’t just reading my book, they were taking notes on useful things to remember. The craft of writing has been unbelievably fulfilling for me. And so I’m continuing the pursuit. My motivation is no longer to make a buck, or “win at life.” Rather, I’m working to improve the world. I think of myself as an inventor, creating a new piece of art for the world to discover. When you make the world better, you get rewarded. So find your craft, and then determine the best contribution you can make with it.

Vaughn nods. “Starting with our own alma mater.” Twenty years earlier, Philadelphia trial attorney Jim Beasley pledged $ 20 million to Temple University, in return for which the Temple University School of Law became the Temple University Beasley School of Law. More recently, one of Beasley’s protégés, Tom Kline, gifted $ 50 million to Drexel Law School, which became the Drexel University Thomas R. Kline School of Law. “And ending with my boss’s acquisition of the crown jewel.

Just before I left for Long Island and my new life, I got another call, this one from Dr. Ernest Sachs, up at Dartmouth Medical School. He was head of neurology at the time, and he invited me up to give a lecture. I was thrilled. I was to play the role of professor at my old alma mater! It was especially sweet because the very same medical school had rejected my application eleven years earlier, even though I was an undergraduate at Dartmouth and my brother was one of their stellar graduates. It is events like this in one’s past that fall off the story line. What if I had been accepted and gone? There would have been no split-brain work for me. How would that whole story have been different? I believe that things just happen in life, and pretty much after the fact, we make up a story to make it all seem rational. We all like simple stories that suggest a causal chain to life’s events. Yet randomness is ever present.

But I am given no choice of color, nor of odor, and so I proudly wear the orange, which after all is one of the trademark colors of my alma mater, the University of Miami. And

this will come with the expectation that you might ask about work hours or salary. This is the perfect time to make the shift and ask them more about themselves, check around for personal things in their office that might need to be asked about; maybe a diploma that reflects their alma mater. Just think of any conversation that you can engage it and will break the ‘mold’ to set you apart from a forest of identical resumes.

Bobby Hughes, the Brewers’ catcher who had gone to Matt’s alma mater, USC, hit a high fly ball to left field, and it hit a clock at the top edge of the fence. It almost went out of the park. Vasgersian was doing the call, and his voice went up in anticipation of a home run, and without batting an eye, he said, “Bobby Hughes just got clock-blocked!” It was one of the funnier moments of my time with him.

I think you guys already know this but if you’re thinking of starting your own company, never forget one major thing— networking. You need to sell your company shamelessly. Like everywhere. During the initial days of Alma Mater, I practically lived in one of our Cottonian hoodies. Networking is the key, and if you want be an entrepreneur, forget about being shy.

Nobody is, was, will be born smart. But for you to be smart, and act smart, you need to think smart always. It is not a subject of your alma mater, it is the side and fries of what the genius within can comprehend, comply and captivate. In every beginning has a twelve kick start, promotion of the relativity of your new thinking, the story of a bunch of math and the spirit of a wonder apple.

LA vida de María fue oculta. Por ello, el Espíritu Santo y la Iglesia la llaman alma mater. Madre oculta y escondida. Su humildad fue tan grande que no hubo para Ella anhelo más firme y constante que el de ocultarse a sí misma y a todas las creaturas, para ser conocida solamente de Dios.

we can’t always resist our desires, but we can change and reorder our desires by focusing on our higher loves. Focus on your love for your children. Focus on your love of country. Focus on your love for the poor and downtrodden. Focus on your love of your hometown or alma mater. To sacrifice for such things is sweet. It feels good to serve your beloved. Giving becomes cheerful giving because you are so eager to see the things you love prosper and thrive.

The six other members of the Traitorous Eight bought shares, and Robert Noyce saw to it that his small alma mater, Grinnell College, was invited to participate.

If Bryant knew, it was something of a secret to those hoping otherwise. The college recruiting letters arrived by the boatload—from Duke and North Carolina, from UCLA and USC, from Delaware and Drexel and Villanova and Temple. This was the fall of 1995, and at the time Joe Bryant was in his second year as an assistant at nearby La Salle University, his alma mater. He had been hired in 1993 by Speedy Morris, the head coach, and while the official reasoning was that the program needed a replacement for the recently departed Randy Monroe, the reality was different. “Did I think it’d help us get Kobe?” Morris said decades later. “Yes. Of course. Joe was not a good assistant coach. He didn’t work hard, he didn’t actually know that much. Nice guy. But he was there so we’d get his son.

I beg you, therefore, to take with you, when you go forth to assume the obligations of American citizenship, as one of the best gifts of your alma mater, a strong and abiding faith in the value and potency of a good conscience and a pure heart. Never yield one iota to those who teach that these are weak and childish things, not needed in the struggle of manhood with the stern realities of life. Interest yourselves in public affairs as a duty of citizenship; but do not surrender your faith to those who discredit and debase politics by scoffing at sentiment and principle, and whose political activity consists in attempts to gain popular support by cunning devices and shrewd manipulation. You will find plenty of these who will smile at your profession of faith and tell you that truth and virtue and honesty and goodness were well enough in the old days when Washington lived, but are not suited to the present size and development of our country and the progress we have made in the art of political management. Be steadfast. The strong and sturdy oak still needs the support of its native earth, and, as it grows in size and spreading branches, its roots must strike deeper into the soil which warmed and fed its first tender sprout. You will be told that the people no longer have any desire for the things you profess. Be not deceived. The people are not dead but sleeping. They will awaken in good time and scourge the moneychangers from their sacred temple.32

As Black Bereans later observed, the ruling set the stage for an estrangement of the races at their alma mater. The reinforcement of racial and gender barriers foreclosed possibilities for fellowship. From that moment on, the brightest hope for racial reconciliation in the South began to dim.

No soy anticlerical, no soy enemigo de la iglesia. Soy enemigo de ciertas actitudes que han sido terriblemente dañinas para el país y una de esas actitudes consiste en afirmar que la moral tiene que estar adscrita a normas -publicó en el periódico alma mater-. Eso ha ido en contra del proceso de secularización o proceso de entender los fenómenos en función de la razón y de la experiencia y no en función de supersticiones”.

This was America's new cable-wired, online nationalism, honey-combed lives intersecting during collective agony, the knee-pad titillation of Oval Office sex, the rubbernecking of celebrity violence. Until the Women's World Cup, the two biggest sports-related stories of the 1990s were the murder trial of O.J. Simpson and the knee-whacking shatter of figure skating's porcelain myth. Fans cheer for professional city teams and alma maters, but there is no grand, cumulative rooting in the United States except for the disposable novelty of the Olympics. With the rare exception of the Super Bowl is background noise, commercials interrupted by a flabby game, the Coca-Cola bears more engaging than the Chicago Bears.

The British public schools have become, so to speak, the property of the British public, through alumni who have given themselves to England. But American private schools have remained for the most part “private.” And, in the tradition of American private enterprise, which believes that a share of the profits should be plowed back into the corporation, American prep school alumni have given largely to the treasuries of their alma maters.

On February 1, 2005, Michael Oher held a press conference to announce where he intended to go to college. He faced a bank of microphones and explained how he’d decided he’d go to Ole Miss, as that’s where his family had gone. To hear him talk, you’d have thought he’d descended from generations of Ole Miss Rebels. He answered a few questions from reporters, without actually saying anything, and then went home and waited for all hell to break loose. Up in Indianapolis, the NCAA was about to hear a rumor that white families in the South were going into the ghetto, seizing poor black kids, and adopting them, so that they might play football for their SEC alma maters. But it was still weeks before the NCAA investigator would turn up in the Tuohy living room.

My alma mater was books, a good library…. I could spend the rest of my life reading, just satisfying my curiosity.

Chapter Five Already Gone In which the Oppenheimer triplets arrive and immediately commence to grow apart Lewyn’s first memory was of a rocky beach (later to be identified as the one behind our Vineyard cottage), and a long strand of brown seaweed he held up to the sun. Harrison’s first memory was of Jürgen the dog, growling at him. Sally’s first memory was of her brother Harrison grabbing a piece of apple out of her brother Lewyn’s grubby hand. What was the first shared memory? Settling on even that trifling common denominator would have required conversation and the acknowledgment of a shared history, and that was not to be, at least not while they were still children. Harrison, who did most things first, would opt out before the other two, but Sally wasn’t far behind. Lewyn, poor Lewyn, held on longer than would be reasonable to anyone else. In fact, he wouldn’t give up entirely until his sister dismissed him at the start of their shared freshman year at their mutual alma mater. But without the cooperation of the others, did it ever matter what Lewyn wanted? Only days before their arrival, the house in Brooklyn Heights had been cavernous and still, classically proportioned rooms full of air, with only an immobile woman upstairs in the bedroom and a lazy dachshund

In a different Google case, federal district judge James Ware rewrote the settlement to direct $500,000 to his own alma mater, Santa Clara University School of Law, where he taught classes. The money—I’m not joking about this—went to fund a center on ethics.8

I was under the impression clichés could ruin you, ruin your life, your hopes and dreams, bring down your whole operation if you didn't watch it. They were gateway language, leading straight to a business major, a golfy marriage, needlepoint pillows that said things about your golf game, and a self-inflicted gunshot to the head that your family called a heart attack in your alma mater announcements. Character suicide.

As my date—Harvey? Harvard?—brags about his alma mater and Manhattan penthouse, I take a bite of overpriced kale and watch his ugly thoughts swirl overhead.

Let me offer my own experience. I went to a dreadful college. My bachelor's degree was accredited, but I'm so embarrassed by my undergraduate alma mater that I don't even put it on my resume. (You'd be surprise how few people ask.) I went there because my parents, to the frank, didn't know that I should aim higher; because they were very conservative, and thought it would be a safe place for a sixteen-year-old freshman; because my grandfather loved the school; because we were broke, and the school offered me a full tuition plus room and board scholarship.

When I remember my college, my Alma mater, I remember the trees and the flowers. There were many fun, many celebrations, but only the trees have the lasting impressions.

In the waves of layoffs that accompanied these paroxysmal death-throes, this bearded shit-in-a-suit whacked the newspapers most profitable sections and bureaus and its best writers and shooters, all to protect his ring of beholden pets , a phalanx of talent-challenged ass-sniffers and the cadre of bulbous interns that he hired from his Midwest alma mater and it’s pretentiously name H—School of Journalism (there are two things that should never be named: j-schools and penises), an equally overrated institution that he hoped to eventually return to in some kind of endowed bean bag chair.

Its newsroom was filled with Ivy League graduates, with especially large contingents from Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. These ranks bore little resemblance to the men who came before, many of whom had not graduated from college or had gone to City College, the alma mater of the legendary editors Abe Rosenthal and Arthur Gelb.

The economists were talking about their alma maters (Dartmouth, William & Mary, MIT, Princeton), and Peter asked if Gibbs or I ever felt out of place because we didn't go to an Ivy League school. I could feel my face getting hot- remembering that awful day when I got skinny envelopes from Cornell, Brown, and Georgetown saying "Thanks, but no thanks." "Well, we all ended up at the same table, didn't we?" Gibbs - who went to North Carolina State - shot back. "Seems like we got a bargain!" Um, true.

The grandfather had died, Low undoubtedly loved him, but he was not as wealthy, or such a philanthropist, as his grandson made out. Neither was Low himself so charitable; the Jynwel Foundation had done little through 2012, while Low was busy raiding the 1MDB fund, even during his own cancer scare. It was true that the Jynwel Foundation had pledged more than $100 million to charities, although it had actually paid out only a fraction of that amount. Its activity began to pick up only in late 2013, just as negative media stories about Low were snowballing, and more so in 2014. In order to change the narrative, Edelman counseled Low to publicize his charitable endeavors, including pledges of tens of millions of dollars to National Geographic’s Pristine Seas endeavor and to the United Nations to save its news service from closure. Low was even planning to donate to his alma mater. At his request, an architect drew up plans for a new building at Wharton to be called the Jynwel Institute for Sustainable Business. Low was planning to make a $150 million commitment to build and operate the institute over thirty years, a munificent gesture, redolent of a Rockefeller or a Carnegie.

I remember the night Beau ran away. The memory is so vivid, so clear, so painstakingly unforgettable. That night we watched him cross the stage and receive his diploma. We were all so proud. Daddy was the proudest. They awarded his son a full-ride scholarship to the University of Alabama, his own alma mater. Roll Tide! It's all we've ever heard. Beau went to a grad party that night. I dropped him off. It was the last time we hugged. That morning, he was gone.

Drexel’s doctorate followed an honorary doctorate in literature from her alma mater, Pennsylvania College for Women, awarded on “moving-up day” in May, and one in science from Oberlin College in Ohio in June. Although Carson was besieged with requests from other institutions, she agreed only to these three and to an honorary degree in literature from Smith College the following June.

V信83113305：The University of Bologna, founded in 1088, holds the prestigious title of the oldest university in continuous operation in the world. Located in the vibrant city of Bologna, Italy, it has been a cornerstone of academic excellence for over nine centuries. Known as "Alma Mater Studiorum" (Nourishing Mother of Studies), the university pioneered the modern higher education system, shaping European intellectual traditions. Its historic campuses, adorned with medieval architecture, reflect its rich heritage. Today, the university remains a global leader in research and teaching, offering diverse programs across humanities, sciences, and technology. With a strong emphasis on innovation and international collaboration, it attracts students and scholars worldwide, maintaining its legacy as a beacon of knowledge and cultural exchange.，留学生买毕业证Università degli Studi di BOLOGNA毕业证文凭成绩单办理【V信83113305】, 高质UNIBO博洛尼亚大学成绩单办理安全可靠的文凭服务【V信83113305】, 博洛尼亚大学学位证书快速办理【V信83113305】, 购买博洛尼亚大学成绩单【V信83113305】, 博洛尼亚大学硕士毕业证【V信83113305】, 办博洛尼亚大学毕业证Università degli Studi di BOLOGNA Diploma【V信83113305】, UNIBO毕业证成绩单专业服务学历认证【V信83113305】

believe in Norwich, my Alma Mater, because within her halls throughout the years these tenets have found expression while men have been taught to be loyal to duly constituted authority in thought and word and deed; to view suffrage as a sacred privilege to be

What I need is something to stand out to college admissions, specifically to the Wharton School at UPenn. You would think Ma would understand since she is an alum, but it’s as if she’s completely forgotten the work ethic and level of determination it takes to get into her alma mater.

V信83113305：The University of Bologna, founded in 1088, holds the prestigious title of the oldest university in continuous operation in the world. Located in the vibrant city of Bologna, Italy, it has been a cornerstone of academic excellence for over nine centuries. Known as "Alma Mater Studiorum" (Nourishing Mother of Studies), the university has shaped the intellectual landscape of Europe, fostering groundbreaking advancements in law, medicine, and the humanities. Its historic architecture, including the iconic Archiginnasio, reflects its rich heritage. Today, the University of Bologna remains a leading institution, attracting students globally with its innovative research, diverse programs, and commitment to interdisciplinary learning. A symbol of tradition and progress, it continues to inspire generations of scholars.，博洛尼亚大学成绩单复刻【V信83113305】, 办博洛尼亚大学毕业证认证学历认证使馆认证【V信83113305】, 学历证书!学历证书博洛尼亚大学学历证书假文凭【V信83113305】, 办博洛尼亚大学毕业证Università degli Studi di BOLOGNA Diploma【V信83113305】, offer博洛尼亚大学在读证明【V信83113305】, 在线办理博洛尼亚大学毕业证成绩单【V信83113305】, 办博洛尼亚大学毕业证Università degli Studi di BOLOGNA-university【V信83113305】, 办理博洛尼亚大学文凭【V信83113305】

These three, I later learn, are old school friends. Their alma mater is Charterhouse in Surrey, a grand and exclusive—not to mention expensive—400-year-old Church of England private boarding school of significant educational repute. It’s a boys-only establishment that, by definition, prizes tradition, heritage, discipline, sporting and academic achievement, and much arcane phraseology and terminology. Former pupils like Mike, Peter and Tony are known as Old Carthusians.

【V信83113305】：The University of Bologna, founded in 1088, holds the prestigious title of the oldest university in continuous operation in the world. Located in the vibrant city of Bologna, Italy, it has been a cornerstone of European education and intellectual development for centuries. Known as "Alma Mater Studiorum," it pioneered the concept of the modern university, shaping academic traditions still followed today. The institution boasts a rich history, with notable alumni including Dante Alighieri, Nicolaus Copernicus, and Umberto Eco. Its historic campus, adorned with medieval architecture, reflects its enduring legacy. Today, the University of Bologna remains a leading research university, offering diverse programs and fostering innovation. Its commitment to academic excellence and cultural heritage continues to attract students and scholars from around the globe.，办理Università degli Studi di BOLOGNA大学毕业证-博洛尼亚大学, 博洛尼亚大学毕业证购买, 办理博洛尼亚大学文凭, UNIBO文凭制作, UNIBO毕业证认证, 修改Università degli Studi di BOLOGNA博洛尼亚大学成绩单电子版gpa实现您的学业目标, 留学生买文凭UNIBO毕业证-博洛尼亚大学, 博洛尼亚大学电子版毕业证与意大利Università degli Studi di BOLOGNA学位证书纸质版价格, 博洛尼亚大学文凭-UNIBO

【V信83113305】，原版CU哥伦比亚大学毕业证办理流程, 办理美国哥伦比亚大学毕业证Columbia University文凭版本, CU毕业证最新版本推荐最快办理哥伦比亚大学文凭成绩单, 哥伦比亚大学毕业证成绩单-高端定制CU毕业证, 哥伦比亚大学毕业证成绩单-高端定制CU毕业证, CU毕业证怎么办理-加钱加急, 高质哥伦比亚大学成绩单办理安全可靠的文凭服务, 购买哥伦比亚大学毕业证和学位证认证步骤, 硕士博士学历CU毕业证-哥伦比亚大学毕业证书-真实copy原件：常春藤盟校哥伦比亚大学，坐落于纽约曼哈顿晨边高地。它不仅是学术殿堂，更是思想交锋的熔炉。核心课程体系奠定了其博雅教育的基石，塑造着学生的批判性思维。从“原子弹之父”费米到诗歌巨匠金斯堡，无数先驱在此汲取灵感。校园里，巴特勒图书馆的肃穆与洛氏纪念图书馆的辉煌交织，而 Alma Mater 雕像则静观岁月流转。作为城市中的大学，哥大深深植根于纽约这座世界都会，将学术探索与都市脉搏紧密相连，在全球高等教育界持续发出独特而响亮的声音。

【V信83113305】，硕士文凭定制威廉玛丽学院毕业证书, W&M威廉玛丽学院毕业证成绩单学历认证最快多久, W&M毕业证成绩单办理威廉玛丽学院毕业证书官方正版, 办理W&M学历与学位证书投资未来的途径, W&M毕业证怎么办理-加钱加急, W&M毕业证书办理需要多久, 百分百放心原版复刻威廉玛丽学院W&M毕业证书, 办理College of William & Mary学历与学位证书投资未来的途径, 一流College of William & Mary威廉玛丽学院学历精仿高质：在历史悠久的威廉斯堡，威廉玛丽学院静立于美国记忆的深处。它不仅是英国王室特许成立的第二所学府，更是一所孕育了共和国先驱的摇篮。托马斯·杰斐逊在此汲取思想之火炬，乔治·华盛顿曾于此担任 Chancellor。它的红砖墙内，回荡着独立与自由的先声。 作为一所顶尖的公立大学，威廉玛丽学院将悠久的文理教育传统与前沿的研究创新融为一体。这里没有庞大的学生规模，却有着亲密无间的师生社群和严谨的学术氛围。它被誉为“ Alma Mater of a Nation ”（国家的母校），至今仍以培养富有公民责任感的领袖为己任，在静谧的校园中续写着影响国家未来的篇章。

【V信83113305】，办理美国Columbia本科学历, 哥伦比亚大学学位证毕业证, 原版哥伦比亚大学毕业证办理流程和价钱, 办理哥伦比亚大学学历认证回国人员证明, 想要真实感受Columbia哥伦比亚大学版毕业证图片的品质点击查看详解, Columbia毕业证办理多少钱又安全, Columbia University毕业证文凭哥伦比亚大学毕业证, 哥伦比亚大学学位证书快速办理, 定做哥伦比亚大学毕业证Columbia毕业证书毕业证：常春藤盟校哥伦比亚大学，坐落于纽约曼哈顿晨边高地。它不仅是学术殿堂，更是城市脉搏的一部分。从国王学院起步，它见证了美国独立，孕育出《美国宪法》序言的精神。核心课程体系铸就其灵魂，强调博雅教育，塑造学生共同的知识基因。校园里，洛氏纪念图书馆的阶梯是思想的交汇点，而 Alma Mater 雕像则静观岁月流转。这里走出了无数诺贝尔奖得主与各界领袖，但更独特的是其拥抱纽约城的开放姿态——城市即为课堂，世界的纷繁复杂都是研究的课题。自由与责任在此交织，驱动着对真理的不懈追寻。

【V信83113305】，学历证书!UNIBO学历证书博洛尼亚大学学历证书UNIBO假文凭, 网络办理UNIBO博洛尼亚大学毕业证官方成绩单学历认证, 购买博洛尼亚大学毕业证办理留学文凭学历认证, 意大利UNIBO学位证书纸质版价格, 加急办UNIBO博洛尼亚大学文凭学位证书成绩单gpa修改, 一比一原版博洛尼亚大学毕业证购买, 终于找到哪里办UNIBO毕业证书, 最便宜办理UNIBO毕业证书, 博洛尼亚大学毕业证书-一比一制作：博洛尼亚大学创立于1088年，被誉为“大学之母”，是西方最古老的现代高等教育机构。它奠定了欧洲学术传统的基础，其校徽上“Alma Mater Studiorum”（育人之母）的铭文彰显了其深厚历史地位。作为欧洲第一所大学，它开创了自治与学术自由的模式，影响了整个西方大学体系。但丁、哥白尼等杰出学者曾在此求学或执教。如今，它仍跻身意大利顶尖学府之列，以其法学、人文与科学领域的卓越研究延续着千年学术荣光，持续吸引着全球学子。

【V信83113305】，网上补办W&M毕业证成绩单多少钱, 快速办理W&M威廉玛丽学院毕业证如何放心, 极速办College of William & Mary威廉玛丽学院毕业证College of William & Mary文凭学历制作, 定制-威廉玛丽学院毕业证W&M毕业证书, 办理College of William & Mary大学毕业证威廉玛丽学院, 美国W&M毕业证仪式感|购买威廉玛丽学院学位证, W&M毕业证办理多少钱又安全, 硕士博士学历W&M毕业证-威廉玛丽学院毕业证书-真实copy原件, 购买威廉玛丽学院毕业证：威廉玛丽学院创立于1693年，是美国历史第二悠久的高等学府，以英国国王威廉三世和女王玛丽二世命名。作为著名的“公立常春藤”之一，学院虽规模较小，却以其卓越的本科教育与深厚的历史底蕴闻名。其独特的文理学院环境强调师生互动与跨学科学习，拥有美国首个荣誉行为准则。校园位于弗吉尼亚州历史悠久的威廉斯堡，红砖建筑与古典风貌见证了从《独立宣言》到美国早期发展的众多历史时刻，被誉为“ Alma Mater of a Nation”（国家的母校）。

【V信83113305】，W&M毕业证办理周期和加急方法, 原版W&M毕业证最佳办理流程, 挂科办理W&M威廉玛丽学院学历学位证, 一比一办理-W&M毕业证威廉玛丽学院毕业证, 美国学历购买, 网上补办威廉玛丽学院毕业证成绩单多少钱, 最佳办理W&M威廉玛丽学院毕业证方式, 威廉玛丽学院毕业证办理流程, 最爱-美国-W&M毕业证书样板：在历史悠久的威廉斯堡，威廉玛丽学院静立于岁月长河。它是美国历史第二悠久的高等学府，国父们的思想曾在此激荡。红砖砌就的校园里，知识与自由的火种早早点燃。这里不仅是华盛顿的母校，更以独特的“学院”自称，坚守着小而精的文理教育精髓。荣誉准则和本硕同堂的课堂，滋养着紧密的师生社群。从《独立宣言》的签署到公共教育的开创，它的血脉早已融入美利坚的肌理。这座“ Alma Mater of a Nation ”（国家的母校），至今仍在古老的橡树下，培育着改变世界的灵魂。

【V信83113305】，出售Columbia证书哪里能购买Columbia毕业证, 原版复刻美国哥伦比亚大学毕业证办理成绩单修改, Columbia毕业证成绩单办理哥伦比亚大学毕业证书官方正版, 一比一原版哥伦比亚大学毕业证购买, 仿制哥伦比亚大学毕业证Columbia毕业证书快速办理, 网上制作Columbia毕业证-哥伦比亚大学毕业证书-留信学历认证放心渠道, Columbia成绩单哥伦比亚大学毕业证快速办理方式, 加急定制-Columbia学位证哥伦比亚大学毕业证书, Columbia University哥伦比亚大学毕业证制作代办流程：常春藤盟校哥伦比亚大学坐落于纽约曼哈顿，其红砖建筑群在晨光中静默矗立。 Alma Mater 铜像的袍袖间，似乎还萦绕着《独立宣言》起草者的低语。从“一战”后核心课程体系的创立，到诺奖得主在实验室的彻夜灯火，这片学术沃土始终坚守着“在你的光中我们必得见光”的誓言。晨曦掠过Butler图书馆的拱窗，照在行色匆匆的学子肩头——他们正沿着杜威、摩尔根等巨匠的足迹，在理论与现实的交错地带，寻找照亮时代的光源。