Charlton Quotes

SIMON LEWIS, ERIC HILLCHURCH, KIRK DUPLESSE, AND MATT CHARLTON "THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTS" MAY 19, PROSPECT PARK BAND SHELL BRING THIS FLYER, GET $5 OFF YOUR ENTRANCE FEE!

Political correctness is tyranny with manners.

That having sex with someone you do not care for feels lonelier than not having sex in the first place, afterward. That it is permissible to want. That everybody is identical in their secret unspoken belief that way deep down they are different from everyone else. That this isn't necessarily perverse. That there might not be angels, but there are people who might as well be angels. That God — unless you're Charlton Heston, or unhinged, or both — speaks and acts entirely through the vehicle of human beings, if there is a God. That God might regard the issue of whether you believe there's a God or not as fairly low on his/her/its list of things s/he/it's interested in re you.

The Internet is for lonely people. People should live.

Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune!" I cried with all the venom of Charlton Heston. Oberon asked. "It's a Shakespearean word for whore." <"Cool word! It rhymes with trumpet. And pump it. Why didn't the Black Eyed Peas use it in their song? Aren't rappers always looking for cool new rhymes? They should kick it old school with the Bard.>

Men like you should be left to the mercy of women like me.

Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune!" I cried with all the venom of Charlton Heston. Oberon asked. "It's a Shakespearean word for whore."

In the sweep of its appeal, its ability to touch every corner of humanity, football is the only game that needed to be invented.

I didn`t change. The Democratic Party slid to the Left from right under me.

[Francesca] 'You really are a few biscuits short of breakfast.' His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 'You're a few colors shy of a rainbow?' she offered. 'Not pulling a full wagon? Knitting with only one needle? All foam and no beer? Your cheese slid off the cracker? You couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel?' [Nicodemus] 'All right. I get it.

God—unless you’re Charlton Heston, or unhinged, or both—speaks and acts entirely through the vehicle of human beings, if there is a God.

That which is original creates a new origin. That which is original, by definition, must stray off the previously worn paths. It must wander; it must err.

I can't change yesterday, but I can sure mess up today.

All my life, I've been trying to fill an emptiness inside. But that emptiness...I've built myself around it. Filling it in would be like filling in the empty space within a cathedral.

When you’re lost there’s nowhere to go but forward. One step at a time – and the way will show itself.

Political correctness is just tyranny with manners. I wish for you the courage to be unpopular. Popularity is history's pocket change. Courage is history's true currency.

If humankind ever spawns another dark age because we engage in a global thermonuclear war, perhaps we will all feel as Charlton Heston did when he screamed, “You maniacs! You blew it up!” But if that is the outcome we get, it won’t be because that’s what anybody wanted at the time.

[Nicodemus] 'Magistra DeVega, can I ask for your help?' [DeVega] 'You can ask,' she said with her usual calmness, 'but the clerics haven't developed a cure for death by idiotic leadership.

Open places make you consider yourself?" "Yeah," said Cooper. "Like the plains." "And the stars?" "Uh-huh. And the sea and the desert too, Pa says. But I dunno why that is." Peter shrugged. "Perhaps it's because they make us feel small." "No. They make me feel bigger, Peter.

If you believe in nothing, if life can have no real objective meaning and all is socially constructed; then pleasure is absolutely necessary as an analgesic, and distraction is the primary philosophical argument. The politically correct are nihilists, that is reality-deniers, and when there is no reality then the only positive is pleasure.

Newt Gingrich had his victory, too. Remember the Republican Revolution of 1994? Now the only people who still have any respect for it are cops, preachers, and creeps who hang out on the fringes of Klan rallies and worship Charlton Heston.

You’re not alone. You’re never alone. Use creativity to change what world you’re in at this moment.

There was a girl. Her name was Angie. She was fat.

Burn fear, not pages.

Nothing ever stayed the same. There was no force in this world strong enough to withstand the march of time.

Your library is a reflection of your ideal self

A change in direction was required. The story you finished was perhaps never the one you began. Yes! He would take charge of his life anew, binding his breaking selves together. Those changes in himself that he sought, he himself would initiate and make them. No more of this miasmic, absent drift. How had he ever persuaded himself that his money-mad burg would rescue him all by itself, this Gotham in which Jokers and Penguins were running riot with no Batman (or even Robin) to frustrate their schemes, this Metropolis built of Kryptonite in which no Superman dared set foot, where wealth was mistaken for riches and the joy of possession for happiness, where people lived such polished lives that the great rough truths of raw existence had been rubbed and buffed away, and in which human souls had wandered so separately for so long that they barely remembered how to touch; this city whose fabled electricity powered the electric fences that were being erected between men and men, and men and women, too? Rome did not fall because her armies weakened but because Romans forgot what being Roman meant. Might this new Rome actually be more provincial than its provinces; might these new Romans have forgotten what and how to value, or had they never known? Were all empires so undeserving, or was this one particularly crass? Was nobody in all this bustling endeavor and material plenitude engaged, any longer, on the deep quarry-work of the mind and heart? O Dream-America, was civilization's quest to end in obesity and trivia, at Roy Rogers and Planet Hollywood, in USA Today and on E!; or in million-dollar-game-show greed or fly-on-the-wall voyeurism; or in the eternal confessional booth of Ricki and Oprah and Jerry, whose guests murdered each other after the show; or in a spurt of gross-out dumb-and-dumber comedies designed for young people who sat in darkness howling their ignorance at the silver screen; or even at the unattainable tables of Jean-Georges Vongerichten and Alain Ducasse? What of the search for the hidden keys that unlock the doors of exaltation? Who demolished the City on the Hill and put in its place a row of electric chairs, those dealers in death's democracy, where everyone, the innocent, the mentally deficient, the guilty, could come to die side by side? Who paved Paradise and put up a parking lot? Who settled for George W. Gush's boredom and Al Bore's gush? Who let Charlton Heston out of his cage and then asked why children were getting shot? What, America, of the Grail? O ye Yankee Galahads, ye Hoosier Lancelots, O Parsifals of the stockyards, what of the Table Round? He felt a flood bursting in him and did not hold back. Yes, it had seduced him, America; yes, its brilliance aroused him, and its vast potency too, and he was compromised by this seduction. What he opposed in it he must also attack in himself. It made him want what it promised and eternally withheld. Everyone was an American now, or at least Americanized: Indians, Uzbeks, Japanese, Lilliputians, all. America was the world's playing field, its rule book, umpire, and ball. Even anti-Americanism was Americanism in disguise, conceding, as it did, that America was the only game in town and the matter of America the only business at hand; and so, like everyone, Malik Solanka now walked its high corridors cap in hand, a supplicant at its feast; but that did not mean he could not look it in the eye. Arthur had fallen, Excalibur was lost and dark Mordred was king. Beside him on the throne of Camelot sat the queen, his sister, the witch Morgan le Fay.

That God—unless you’re Charlton Heston, or unhinged, or both—speaks and acts entirely through the vehicle of human beings, if there is a God. That God might regard the issue of whether you believe there’s a God or not as fairly low on his/her/its list of things s/he/it’s interested in re you.

There was a girl. Her name was Angie. She was happy.

The word fit. It was the perfect size. And that was okay.

You're afraid of everything. And I know it. And that's why you don't like me.

If you want to make amends for the life you have led then start now.

If I only looked at what I've lost, I'd never be able to see what I have.

You spoke to Nicodemus?' Vivian asked. [Francesca] 'We did.' V: 'And he trusts you?' F: 'As much as one might after a first impression involving hatchets.

Magistra, if you save my student, I don't care a snap what you say about my heart. She snorted. "Typical of a man, caring only when an external organ is belittled.

Firearms are also good for you. Ask Charlton Heston, who once played Moses. Gunpowder has zero fat and zero cholesterol.

Twill be the end of us all when it comes... The moon will devour the sun... The sea will rise in a great wave and drown the world... The Realms will fall... Evil will crawl across the land.

Circumstances are seldom right. You never have the capacities, the strength, the wisdom, the virtue you ought to have. You must always do with less than you need in a situation vastly different from what you would have chosen.

English, as Charlton Laird has noted, is the only language that has, or needs, books of synonyms like Roget’s Thesaurus. “Most speakers of other languages are not aware that such books exist” [The Miracle of Language, page 54].

He was so jealous of that boy yesterday, the one with the chest like Charlton Heston in Ben-Hur. He wanted everything he had, that body, that girl, that car, that freedom, that way of thinking. That hair, that bloody hair. What he would give to have hair that moved so freely in the wind. But shouldn’t that boy be jealous of Karl? Shouldn’t he wonder what Karl had seen and done? Shouldn’t he look at Karl and think, If only I get to lead a life like yours?

Did it ever occur to you that when he told you he would come back he was lying? Many a man has done it. He probably meant no malice – he just did not want to see your tears and pleading. If you find him in Tarras you may not like what you discover. He won't thank you for crossing 'mountain and down' to find him. Life is not like the songs Avalon, tis far less pretty.

Witnessing at first-hand the failure of the Copenhagen Climate Conference and wondering what went wrong, Andrew Charlton realised the truth of a colleague’s words: “The world is split between those who want to save the planet and those who want to save themselves.

It was freezing and dark out, and Miriam’s house was homey and warm, and the idea of not being alone another night sounded rather nice.

I would never punish the daughter for the mother’s crimes.

That’s all.

This is why I like to handle things by myself. But when she offers her assistance, you really can’t control her.

And I haven’t even told you the best part. “He’s British.

Right now everything is exactly as it should be.

There had been no dancing Care Bears blasting belly rainbows in Fat Angie’s dreams either. But were Care Bears a symbol of gay-girl gay?

That was the way with folk; full of sympathy for the plight of others until something was asked of them.

It's not love giving up too much of yourself for someone else.

Because I support trans rights, I must be trans, because why would you care about something if it didn’t directly affect you?

When I was a kid I watched a documentary about the movie Planet of the Apes. The first one, with Charlton Heston. They were talking about how they would make up all the extras as various types of apes, like chimps and gorillas and orangutans, and then the extras would go to lunch and they would segregate. All the people made up like gorillas would sit with other gorillas, all the chimps would sit with chimps.

What is current in the media is definitive. Sin can be made into virtue, virtue into sin; propaganda can be made into truth, truth into propaganda; beauty can be reframed as Kitsch and ugliness celebrated as beauty.

Just as with the cruder totalitarianism of the mid-twentieth century, PC has created a population that lives in fear: fear of being denounced and losing everything – fear of committing (or indeed merely being accused-of) a thought crime or uttering a hate fact for which there is no defence; fear of the sanctions which range from social ostracism, through loss of job, financial penalties, up to directed mob violence and imprisonment.

We trained hard, but it seemed that every time we were beginning to form up into teams we would be reorganized. Presumably the plans for our employment were being changed. I was to learn later in life that, perhaps because we are so good at organizing, we tend as a nation to meet any new situation by reorganizing; and a wonderful method it can be for creating the illusion of progress while producing confusion, inefficiency and demoralization.

The eccentric passion of Shankly was underlined for me by my England team-mate Roger Hunt's version of the classic tale of the Liverpool manager's pre-game talk before playing Manchester United. The story has probably been told a thousand times in and out of football, and each time you hear it there are different details, but when Roger told it the occasion was still fresh in his mind and I've always believed it to be the definitive account. It was later on the same day, as Roger and I travelled together to report for England duty, after we had played our bruising match at Anfield. Ian St John had scored the winner, then squared up to Denis Law, with Nobby finally sealing the mood of the afternoon by giving the Kop the 'V' sign. After settling down in our railway carriage, Roger said, 'You may have lost today, but you would have been pleased with yourself before the game. Shanks mentioned you in the team talk. When he says anything positive about the opposition, normally he never singles out players.' According to Roger, Shankly burst into the dressing room in his usual aggressive style and said, 'We're playing Manchester United this afternoon, and really it's an insult that we have to let them on to our field because we are superior to them in every department, but they are in the league so I suppose we have to play them. In goal Dunne is hopeless- he never knows where he is going. At right back Brennan is a straw- any wind will blow him over. Foulkes the centre half kicks the ball anywhere. On the left Tony Dunne is fast but he only has one foot. Crerand couldn't beat a tortoise. It's true David Herd has got a fantastic shot, but if Ronnie Yeats can point him in the right direction he's likely to score for us. So there you are, Manchester United, useless...' Apparently it was at this point the Liverpool winger Ian Callaghan, who was never known to whisper a single word on such occasions, asked, 'What about Best, Law and Charlton, boss?' Shankly paused, narrowed his eyes, and said, 'What are you saying to me, Callaghan? I hope you're not saying we cannot play three men.

Genius has now all-but disappeared from public view; partly because intelligence (which is strongly genetic) is in decline in the West, partly because social institutions no longer recognize or nurture genius, and partly because the modern West is actively hostile to genius.

Here are some people who have written books, telling what they did and why they did those things: John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolf Hitler. Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr. X. Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or Books, telling what He did and why—at least to a degree—He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person… or, more properly, as a Person. Here are some people who have not written books, telling what they did… and what they saw: The man who buried Hitler. The man who performed the autopsy on John Wilkes Booth. The man who embalmed Elvis Presley. The man who embalmed—badly, most undertakers say—Pope John XXIII. The twoscore undertakers who cleaned up Jonestown, carrying body bags, spearing paper cups with those spikes custodians carry in city parks, waving away the flies.

It is often said that what most immediately sets English apart from other languages is the richness of its vocabulary. Webster’s Third New International Dictionary lists 450,000 words, and the revised Oxford English Dictionary has 615,000, but that is only part of the total. Technical and scientific terms would add millions more. Altogether, about 200,000 English words are in common use, more than in German (184,000) and far more than in French (a mere 100,000). The richness of the English vocabulary, and the wealth of available synonyms, means that English speakers can often draw shades of distinction unavailable to non-English speakers. The French, for instance, cannot distinguish between house and home, between mind and brain, between man and gentleman, between “I wrote” and “I have written.” The Spanish cannot differentiate a chairman from a president, and the Italians have no equivalent of wishful thinking. In Russia there are no native words for efficiency, challenge, engagement ring, have fun, or take care [all cited in The New York Times, June 18, 1989]. English, as Charlton Laird has noted, is the only language that has, or needs, books of synonyms like Roget’s Thesaurus. “Most speakers of other languages are not aware that such books exist” [The Miracle of Language, page 54]. On the other hand, other languages have facilities we lack. Both French and German can distinguish between knowledge that results from recognition (respectively connaître and kennen) and knowledge that results from understanding (savoir and wissen). Portuguese has words that differentiate between an interior angle and an exterior one. All the Romance languages can distinguish between something that leaks into and something that leaks out of. The Italians even have a word for the mark left on a table by a moist glass (culacino) while the Gaelic speakers of Scotland, not to be outdone, have a word for the itchiness that overcomes the upper lip just before taking a sip of whiskey. (Wouldn’t they just?) It’s sgriob. And we have nothing in English to match the Danish hygge (meaning “instantly satisfying and cozy”), the French sang-froid, the Russian glasnost, or the Spanish macho, so we must borrow the term from them or do without the sentiment. At the same time, some languages have words that we may be pleased to do without. The existence in German of a word like schadenfreude (taking delight in the misfortune of others) perhaps tells us as much about Teutonic sensitivity as it does about their neologistic versatility. Much the same could be said about the curious and monumentally unpronounceable Highland Scottish word sgiomlaireachd, which means “the habit of dropping in at mealtimes.” That surely conveys a world of information about the hazards of Highland life—not to mention the hazards of Highland orthography. Of

I had tracked down a little cafe in the next village, with a television set that was going to show the World Cup Final on the Saturday. I arrived there mid-morning when it was still deserted, had a couple of beers, ordered a sensational conejo au Franco, and then sat, drinking coffee, and watching the room fill up. With Germans. I was expecting plenty of locals and a sprinkling of tourists, even in an obscure little outpost like this, but not half the population of Dortmund. In fact, I came to the slow realisation as they poured in and sat around me . . . that I was the only Englishman there. They were very friendly, but there were many of them, and all my exits were cut off. What strategy could I employ? It was too late to pretend that I was German. I’d greeted the early arrivals with ‘Guten Tag! Ich liebe Deutschland’, but within a few seconds found myself conversing in English, in which they were all fluent. Perhaps, I hoped, they would think that I was an English-speaker but not actually English. A Rhodesian, possibly, or a Canadian, there just out of curiosity, to try to pick up the rules of this so-called ‘Beautiful Game’. But I knew that I lacked the self-control to fake an attitude of benevolent detachment while watching what was arguably the most important event since the Crucifixion, so I plumped for the role of the ultra-sporting, frightfully decent Upper-Class Twit, and consequently found myself shouting ‘Oh, well played, Germany!’ when Helmut Haller opened the scoring in the twelfth minute, and managing to restrain myself, when Geoff Hurst equalised, to ‘Good show! Bit lucky though!’ My fixed grin and easy manner did not betray the writhing contortions of my hands and legs beneath the table, however, and when Martin Peters put us ahead twelve minutes from the end, I clapped a little too violently; I tried to compensate with ‘Come on Germany! Give us a game!’ but that seemed to strike the wrong note. The most testing moment, though, came in the last minute of normal time when Uwe Seeler fouled Jackie Charlton, and the pig-dog dolt of a Swiss referee, finally revealing his Nazi credentials, had the gall to penalise England, and then ignored Schnellinger’s blatant handball, allowing a Prussian swine named Weber to draw the game. I sat there applauding warmly, as a horde of fat, arrogant, sausage-eating Krauts capered around me, spilling beer and celebrating their racial superiority.

Tag said I was aptly named. “Wasn’t Moses a prophet or something?” I just rolled my eyes. At least we weren’t talking about the fact that I’d been found in a basket. “MO-SES!” Tag said my name in a deep, echoing “God voice,” reminiscent of the old Charlton Heston movie, The Ten Commandments. Gigi had loved Charlton Heston. I’d spent an Easter with her the year I was twelve and we’d had a Charlton Heston marathon that made me want to smear red paint above everybody’s door and burn all the bushes in Levan. Come to think of it, I had smeared paint all over Levan, many times. It was all Charlton Heston’s fault.

Cooper didn't look away. His blue eyes pierced through the tendrils of his hair like a wolf in the woods. He held Peter's gaze. He didn't smile, but Peter saw one all the same. He didn't speak and yet they were speaking now as if for the first time. There was friendship waiting to come in from the cold. But it was more than that. There was closeness. Unbound possibility.

Golden tongues of fire licked the night-sky, lighting up Brenna’s ancient sky-line in terrible beauty. The wizard and his young companion watched the flames devour the city like a hungry beast. The knowledge they had only barely escaped from the Morg’s clutches did not fill them with relief but a sense of burgeoning panic – the sacking of Brenna was only a taste of what was to come.

Oh we’re not together. I mean, we’re sitting together and we came here together but obviously we’re not together-together. How could we be together?  I’m probably never going to see him again after today. We’re not even friends. I don’t even know him. I mean, you know, really-” I inclined my head toward her and a small laugh burst from my lips, “can you even imagine? It’d be like Planet of the Apes- and he’s Charlton Heston with all the muscles and such and I’m that girl ape. They can’t be together because it’d be like a Neanderthal with a human, cross species breeding…and that’s just not right. Although Neanderthals are closely related to humans and are in fact part of the same species- if you want to be precise- they are a sub-species or alternate species of human...

There are different kinds of anger. There is the kind that flares bright, like a fire devouring dry wood – an anger that dies as quickly as it ignites. There is the kind that takes its time to rise, but leaves devastation in its wake when it does. And then, there is the anger that is always there, in the pit of your belly – gnawing, biting and twisting – and reminding you of its presence every waking moment. This is the kind that can kill you, if given enough time.

Here are some people who have written books, telling what they did and why they did those things: John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolf Hitler. Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr. X. Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or Books, telling what He did and why—at least to a degree—He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person… or, more properly, as a Person. Here are some people who have not written books, telling what they did… and what they saw: The man who buried Hitler. The man who performed the autopsy on John Wilkes Booth. The man who embalmed Elvis Presley. The man who embalmed—badly, most undertakers say—Pope John XXIII. The twoscore undertakers who cleaned up Jonestown, carrying body bags, spearing paper cups with those spikes custodians carry in city parks, waving away the flies. The man who cremated William Holden. The man who encased the body of Alexander the Great in gold so it would not rot. The men who mummified the Pharaohs. Death is a mystery, and burial is a secret.

Here are some people who have written books, telling what they did and why they did those things: John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolph Hitler. Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr. X. Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or Books, telling what He did and why—at least to a degree—He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person . . . or, more properly, as a Person. Here are some people who have not written books, telling what they did . . . and what they saw: The man who buried Hitler. The man who performed the autopsy on John Wilkes Booth. The man who embalmed Elvis Presley. The man who embalmed—badly, most undertakers say—Pope John XXIII. The twoscore undertakers who cleaned up Jonestown, carrying body bags, spearing paper cups with those spikes custodians carry in city parks, waving away the flies. The man who cremated William Holden. The man who encased the body of Alexander the Great in gold so it would not rot. The men who mummified the Pharaohs. Death is a mystery, and burial is a secret.

Most people can swim a narrow river. Water is an alien element, but with labor we can force ourselves through it. A good swimmer can cross a wide river, a lake, even the English Channel; no one, as far as we know, has ever swum the Atlantic Ocean, or is likely to do so. Even a champion swimmer, if he had business which required to spend alternate weeks in Paris and London, would not make the trip regularly by swimming the English Channel. Although we can force ourselves through water by skill and main strength, for all practical purposes our ability to traverse water is only as good as our ships or our airplanes. And so with the activities of our brains. Thinking is probably as foreign to human nature as is water; it is an unnatural element into which we throw ourselves with hesitation, and in which we flounder once we are there. We have learned, during the millenniums, to do rather well with thinking, but only if we buoy ourselves up with words. Some thinking of a simple sort we can do without words, but difficult and sustained thinking, presumably, is completely impossible without their aid, as traversing the Atlantic Ocean is presumably impossible without instruments or submarine transportation.

It is hard to accept that almost everybody is evil, stupid or both. It is hard to live in a world where this is a plain fact (and a fact that is plainer every day).

but

It doesn’t matter how many times we love and lose, or how old we are, the pain from heartbreak is still as sharp as ever. We’re all excited, infatuated fifteen-year-olds trapped in ageing bodies.

mysteries. Similarly, Bobby Charlton, the third guest on the same show, occupies a special place in our hearts. Not only was he one of the greatest footballers of all time, and certainly assured of his place in any England team of any era, but his gentle, modest way and the dignity of his bearing make him a role model for any sportsman. That many of the modern players choose to ignore his example (although, it’s possible most of them don’t know who he is) is both their loss, and their shame. With the lovely Joanna Lumley I fronted the sixtieth anniversary of BAFTA at the New London Theatre. There was the usual crowd of autograph-hunters outside. Nowadays, they constitute two different categories – those who do it for love and those who do it for money. The latter is the largest category – by far. These

In doing so, I attempt to answer, among other questions, why so many people acquiesce to oppression and why some people not only individually resist these conditions but also actively organize to change them.

Oppression occurs when individuals are systematically subjected to political, economic, cultural, or social degradation because they belong to a social group. Oppression of people results from structures of domination and subordination and, correspondingly, ideologies of superiority and inferiority.

Whereas people with disabilities have always struggled to survive, many are now struggling to change their world as well. The replacement of the false consciousness of self-pity and helplessness with the raised consciousness of dignity, anger, and empowerment has meaningfully affected the way in which many people with disabilities relate personally and politically to society.

All governments treat disabled people badly. They all see us as a burden. All governments, whether socialist or capitalist, have separated us from the rest of society. By the end of the day, people are judged by their own activity. Until we are businessmen, politicians, community leaders, people at all levels of society, we will be marginalized and segregated.

Another example, one that touches more people, is the nursing home industry. Numerous studies have shown that living at home, in a house or an apartment, is better psychologically, more fulfilling, and cheaper than living in nursing homes.14 Yet these institutions prosper when federal programs that foster living in the community are cut. There are also funding disincentives that the U.S. Congress, through Medicare and Medicaid, has created to ensure the profit bonanza of nursing homes. According to the activist disability journal Mouth (1995), there are 1.9 million people with disabilities living in nursing homes at an annual cost of $40,784, although it would cost only $9,692 a year to provide personal assistance services so the same people could live at home. Sixty-three percent of this cost is taxpayer funded. In 1992, 77,618 people with developmental disabilities (DD) lived in state-owned facilities at an average annual cost of $82,228, even though it would cost $27,649 for the most expensive support services to live at home. There are 150,257 people with mental illness living in tax-funded asylums at an average annual cost of $58,569. Another 19,553 disabled veterans also live in institutions, costing the Veterans Administration a whopping $75,641 per person.15 It is illogical that a government would want to pay more for less. It is illogical until one studies the amount of money spent by the nursing home lobby. Nursing homes are a growth industry that many wealthy people, including politicians, have wisely invested in. The scam is simple: get taxpayers to fund billions of dollars to these institutions which a few investors divide up. The idea that nursing homes are compassionate institutions or necessary resting places has lost much of its appeal recently, but the barrier to defunding them is built on a paternalism that eschews human dignity. As we have seen with public housing programs in the United States, the tendency is to warehouse (surplus) people in concentrated sites. This too has been the history with elderly people and people with disabilities in nursing homes. These institutions then can serve as a mechanism of social control and, at the same time, make some people wealthy.

We do have better models and evidence of the superiority of these alternative models to nursing homes and other institutionalized living arrangements. People with severe disabilities who are living at home with personal assistance have demonstrated that living in an environment they control is far superior to institutionalized care. But according to the World Institute on Disability, “9.6 million people with disabilities live in the U.S. who need help with daily activities like washing, dressing and household chores. Less than 2 million receive paid assistance. Most rely on family and friends” (WID 1995). All of the 7.6 million people dependent on family or friends for personal assistance are thus vulnerable to future institutionalization.

LANGUAGE AND THE POWER OF DESCRIPTION We must take language very seriously. The feeling I have is that language is always a reflection of attitude. With the advancement of the disability movement you see a change in language. Michael Masutha, director of socioeconomic rights, Lawyers for Human Rights, Johannesburg, South Africa Language informs attitudes and beliefs because it is a medium of translation of expression and thought.

Oppression is a phenomenon of power in which relations between people and between groups are experienced in terms of domination and subordination, superiority and inferiority. At the center of this phenomenon is control. Those with power control; those without power lack control. Power presupposes political, economic, and social hierarchies, structured relations of groups of people, and a system or regime of power. This system, the existing power structure, encompasses the thousands of ways some groups and individuals impose control over others.

Students with disabilities, as soon as their disability is recognized by school officials, are placed on a separate track. They are immediately labeled by authorized (credentialed) professionals (who never themselves have experienced these labels) as LD, ED, EMH, and so on. The meaning and definition of the labels differ, but they all signify inferiority on their face. Furthermore, these students are constantly told what they can (potentially/expect to) do and what they cannot do from the very date of their labeling. This happens as a natural matter of course in the classroom. All activists I interviewed who had a disability in grade school or high school told similar kinds of horror stories—detention and retention, threats and insults, physical and emotional abuse.

It is possible to identify numerous ways that students with disabilities are controlled and taught their place: (1) labeling; (2) symbols (e.g., white lab coats, “Handicapped Room” signs); (3) structure (pull-out programs, segregated classrooms, “special” schools, inaccessible areas); (4) curricula especially designed for students with disabilities (behavior modification for emotionally disturbed kids, training skills without knowledge instruction for significantly mentally retarded students and students with autistic behavior) or having significant implications for these students; (5) testing and evaluation biased toward the functional needs of the dominant culture (Stanford-Binet and Wexler tests); (6) body language and disposition of school culture (teachers almost never look into the eyes of students with disabilities and practice even greater patterns of superiority and paternalism than they do with other students); and (7) discipline (physical restraints, isolation/time-out rooms with locked doors, use of Haldol and other sedatives).11

Paternalism lies at the center of the oppression of people with disabilities. Paternalism starts with the notion of superiority: We must and can take control of these “subjects” in spite of themselves, in spite of their individual will, or culture and tradition, or their sovereignty. The savages need to be civilized (for their own good). The cripples need to be cared for (for their own good). The pagans need to be saved (for their own good). Paternalism is often subtle in that it casts the oppressor as benign, as protector. The relation between ideology and power is expressed as natural to justify relations of oppression. In Roll, Jordan Roll, possibly the best-known exposition of paternalism, Eugene Genovese writes, The Old South, black and white, created a historically unique kind of paternalist society. . . . Southern paternalism, like every other kind of paternalism, had little to do with Ole Massa’s ostensible benevolence, kindness, and good cheer. It grew out of the necessity to discipline and morally justify a system of exploitation. . . . For the slaveholders, paternalism represented an attempt to overcome the fundamental contradiction in slavery: the impossibility of the slaves ever becoming the things they were supposed to be. Paternalism defined the involuntary labor of the slaves as a legitimate return to their masters for protection and direction. (1976:4–5)

Paternalism often must transform its subjects into children or people with childlike qualities. This is the most salient aspect of paternalism as it concerns disability. Paternalism is experienced as the bystander grabs the arm of a blind person and, without asking, “helps” the person across the street. This happens for wheelchair users as well. It is the experience of the waiter asking a companion of a person with a disability, “What does she want to eat?” It is the institutionalization of people against their wishes. It is the child taught only handicrafts, or the charity pleading for money to help cute crippled kids. It is these and a thousand other examples of everyday life. It is most of all, however, the assumption that people with disabilities are intrinsically inferior and unable to take responsibility for their own lives.

CHARLTON HESTON: A screenwriter has to recognize that film is a collaborative undertaking. You can’t write a film script totally in the typewriter. This is a highly controversial point, and the next time you have a writer in front of you, quote me and hear how mad it makes him.

Let's get her outside,' Charlton said, motioning with his hands to the door. The woman stepped outside and saw the Germans lined up on the road. Her face turned red and she began to talk faster, her hands on her hips as she spat at the prisoners. 'We should give her a rifle and put her in the company,' Williams said, watching as the woman berated the Germans who shrank back from her anger. 'Take care of the prisoners and see that this woman is, ah,' Charlton paused, searching for the right word. 'Safe.' 'I wouldn't fear for her sir, it's poor old Fritz I'm worried about,' Williams replied, laughing as the woman slapped the short German, sending his glasses spiralling to the floor. 'Indeed,' Charlton said, turning and hurrying back along the road to the village.

When it comes to the on-screen portrayals, however, filmmakers have fallen far short of doing justice to his life. Perhaps the worst incarnation of Buffalo Bill was in the movie Pony Express, starring Charlton Heston as Bill.

You’re thinkin’ too much again, sir. It’ll end badly.

It didn't make us happy Peter. None of it did. But having all that stuff did something very clever: it stopped us from ever noticing. It kept us busy and, in turn, compliant, as others busied to make more money out of us. We never questioned it. We were too busy. Busy behind our bright screens, busy behind our followers, our likes, our filters, our work, our chores, our box sets, our things. Even movie theatres and televisions, filling our head with other people's dreams. Keeping us quiet. Keeping us in the dark. We just keep filling in the hole, filling in the empty space, filling in our empty lives with stuff so we never even noticed that something else, something better, should always have been there in its place. Life. Life and the natural world around us.

I could though,' Fred persisted stubbornly. 'You're no pug, but you look like one, the best thing you can do for us is to go into the ring and get the shit knocked out of you,' Williams said. 'I'll see if I can suggest it to Lieutenant Charlton, he seems mad about sport so it should be right up his street.

My first copies of Treasure Island and Huckleberry Finn still have some blue-spruce needles scattered in the pages. They smell of Christmas still.

Six minutes earlier a message had been flashed from the touchline : 'Tell Bobby (Charlton) to move up front'. We were still searching for that elusive second goal. But fortunately, the message didn't have time to get through as Bobby, playing deep, engineered a move that led to (George) Best flicking a (Pat) Crerand ball round the defence for (David) Sadler to run in and snap home. Bobby still hadn't got the first message when another one came from the line : 'Tell Bobby to stay deep.

Hagh.

And finally, I get to meet the Breakup Coach" Ryan says before we can be introduced. "I'm a big fan of your work" he says with mock admiration as I turn around. I decide I like his voice. It's not a deep Charlton Heston-like voice, but it has just the right amount of husky in it.

She now discovered amidst them, the poet's flights of fancy, and the historian's seldom pleasing—ever instructive page. The first may transmit to posterity the records of a sublime genius, which once flashed in strong, but transient rays, through the tenement of clay it was given a moment to inhabit: and though the tenement decayed and the spirit fled, the essence of a mind which darted through the universe to cull each created and creative image to enrich an ever-varying fancy, is thus snatched from oblivion, and retained, spite of nature, amidst the mortality from which it has struggled, and is freed. The page of the historian can monarchs behold, and not offer up the sceptre to be disencumbered of the ponderous load that clogs their elevation! Can they read of armies stretch upon the plain, provinces laid waste, and countries desolated, and wish to be the mortal whose vengeance, or whose less fierce, but fatal decision sent those armies forth!

I won’t buy a food that will be cooked in the microwave if it says “at midpoint in the cooking, open the plastic wrap and stir the contents”…I consider that "cooking

The last thing DeMille added to his $13 million film before he delivered the final negative to Paramount was his introduction that ran before the opening credits, filmed with him standing behind a microphone in front of a blue-and-white curtain (the colors of the Israeli flag). His intention was to emphasize the “importance” of what the audience was about to see and how authentic the film really was, and to make the spiritual connection to the Holocaust. DeMille says, in part: “The theme of this picture is whether man ought to be ruled by God’s law, or whether they are to be ruled by the whims of a dictator like Rameses. Are men the property of the state or are they free souls under God? This same battle continues throughout the world today. Our intention was not to create a story, but to be worthy of the divinely inspired story, created three thousand years ago . . .” The introduction was almost always cut after the film’s initial run. That

Fat Angie may not have had a body worth promoting according to any number of fashion magazines on the market, but it was a healthier, stronger, and, quite honestly, ready-to-kick-ass-and-take-names body. With

Overall, it seems that we have to accept that Western civilization will decline. It is, essentially, inevitable.