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."

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

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

[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.

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.

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

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.

[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.

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

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

Burn fear, not pages.

Your library is a reflection of your ideal self

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

That’s all.

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.

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.

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

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?

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

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.

Alfredo di Stéfano is maybe the greatest player I have ever seen. I watched him in a match when Manchester United played against Real in the semi-final of the European Cup in Madrid the year before the accident. In those days, there was no substitutes' bench; if you weren't playing, you were in the stand. I felt like I was looking down on what looked like a Subbuteo table—I was that high up—but I couldn't take my eyes off this midfield player and I thought, Who on earth is that? He ran the whole show and had the ball almost all the time. I used to dream of that, and I used to hate it when anyone else got it. They beat us 3-1 and he dictated the whole game. I'd never seen anything like it before—someone who influenced the entire match. Everything went through him. The goalkeeper gave it to him, the full backs were giving it to him, the midfield players were linking up with him and the forwards were looking for him. And there was Gento playing alongside and Di Stefano just timed his passes perfectly for him. Gento ran so fast you couldn't get him offside. And I was just sitting there, watching, thinking it was the best thing I had ever seen. But I had been forewarned a bit by Matt Busby, the manager at the time, because he had been across and seen them play a match in Nice before the semi—in those days it wasn't easy to do that—and, when he came back, we asked him what they were like, but he didn't want to tell us. And I understood why he didn't when I saw them. I think he knew that, if he had said they were the best players he'd ever seen, it would have been all over for us before we'd started. And this was when Di Stefano was thirty. What must he have been like in his youth?

La difícil situación de algunas personas de clase trabajadora se presenta comúnmente como una «falta de ambición» por su parte. Se achaca a sus características individuales, más que a una sociedad profundamente desigual organizada en favor de los privilegiados. En su forma extrema, esto ha llevado incluso a un nuevo darwinismo social. Según el psiquiatra evolutivo Bruce Charlton, «los pobres tienen un coeficiente de inteligencia más bajo que el de gente más adinerada… y esto significa que un porcentaje mucho menor de gente de clase trabajadora que de clase profesional podrá cumplir los requisitos normales para entrar en las universidades más selectivas»

was

Swan felt enormous pride when in 2011 Euromoney magazine named him the world’s ‘finance minister of the year’. There was an almost audible dropping of jaws around the departments of Treasury, Finance, and Prime Minister and Cabinet. In fact, the core policy work throughout this period was undertaken by Ken Henry, Nigel Ray and David Gruen in Treasury, Jim Chalmers in the treasurer’s office, and Andrew Charlton and Steven Kennedy in my own. Swan’s talent, in fact, may have lain in knowing to not get in their way – and for some ministers, this was an important attribute.

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

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

Gawayne, bewildered, looked the other way, And wondered what she meant; for in that day The ready wit of man was under muzzle, And woman's heart was still an unsolved puzzle; And Gawayne, though in valor next to none, Wished that her heart had been a tenderer one. His sword was out for any foe on earth, And yet to face death for a lady's mirth Seemed scarce worth while. What honor bade, he'd do, But would have liked to see a tear or two.

Miracles do not happen:"—'t is plain sense, If you italicize the present tense; But in those days, as rare old Chaucer tells, All Britain was fulfilled of miracles.

By nightfall two thousand men were dead, amongst them many notables, including Lord Frey, Lord Lefford, Lord Bigglestone, Lord Charlton, Lord Swyft, Lord Reyne, Ser Clarent Crakehall, and Ser Emory Hill, the Bastard of Lannisport.

Yet, for a few weeks, Jackson had in front of him the chance of adapting Tolkien’s beloved bestseller, reviving Charlton Heston’s dystopian talking ape thriller, or remaking the film that had, in many ways, charted the course for his life. Which would, in fact, count as his second attempt to remake King Kong.

LINDA CULLEN: I am a lesbian feminist [and] didn’t necessarily want to get involved with the institution that is marriage. So that for me was the most interesting thing about this whole journey to marriage equality for all. That thing of kind of understanding myself that actually I do want to have this, not necessarily that I’m going to do it, but oh dear God, of course we should have it. That it was an issue of equality, and access. That actually took quite a while for myself even to come around to thinking. Well, it didn’t – it took one really good conversation actually! With Denise Charlton. We were talking about the KAL case, so presumably it was around 2004 – the KAL case was a huge motivator around those conversations. And it was that thing of, ‘Oh God, would you want to get married?’ I presume it was Denise who said, ‘But it is just an issue of equality, isn’t it?’ And I said, ‘Well, of course it is. I’m not saying I would want it, but I have the right to have it.

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

Down they went, into the darkness. Down ancient, worn steps coated in slippery mildew. Down into the deep recesses of the earth, far beneath the corridors of Deep-Spire.

Inside the myth of Australia's economic superheroes." We're living through the second longest boom in Australian history. You can't move for talk of the budget surplus.

What had happened, for instance, at one of the war's biggest battles, the Battle of Midway? It was in the Pacific, there was something about aircraft carriers. Wasn't there a movie about it, one of those Hollywood all-star behemoths in which a lot of admirals look worried while pushing toy ships around a map? (Midway, released in 1976 and starring Glenn Ford, Charlton Heston, and -- inevitably -- Henry Fonda.) A couple of people were even surprised to hear that Midway Airport was named after the battle, though they'd walked past the ugly commemorative sculpture in the concourse so many times. All in all, this was a dispiriting exercise. The astonishing events of that morning, the "fatal five minutes" on which the war and the fate of the world hung, had been reduced to a plaque nobody reads, at an airport with a vaguely puzzling name, midway between Chicago and nowhere at all.

In Dragon’s Tail, Andrew Charlton explores the supercharged rise of China and considers Australia’s future as the Chinese dragon stirs and shifts.

We now reflexly, and dishonestly, unmask all virtue as hypocritical, all beauty as Kitsch; and have become so jaded with simplicity and wholesomeness that we find Good insipid and crave the sharp stimulus of sin.

poverty and powerlessness are cornerstones of the dependency people with disabilities experience.

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!

Chapter

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

political correctness very obviously violates both common sense and logic, and is destructive of all that is good, beautiful and true.

What is a forgotten town? Well, there are a number of answers to that one, too. From our standpoint a forgotten town is one whose earlier days have seen a part, however small, in the developing life of the nation, one whose present contradicts its past and whose future may lose all contact with its birthright. A forgotten town is one that shrugged its shoulders and smiled, contented that a relative should be honored, when the spotlight centered on its more important neighbors. Most of the towns mentioned in this book will be revealed as those that were on the edge, but not in the midst, of the big doings. Sometimes these were a year or two ahead of the times; sometimes they gave up just a little too soon.

how was Beckenbauer to be used? With hindsight, Schön should perhaps have agreed with his assistant coach Dettmar Cramer, who argued that it would rob West Germany of a major creative force to have Beckenbauer mark Bobby Charlton. Then again, Beckenbauer readily agreed when Schön gave him orders to follow England’s play-maker – and hindsight is perfect but useless vision.

When PC subverts The Good and instead promotes Vice, Lies, and Ugliness this is self-perceived as merely humble experiments in pursuit of the Better.

Political correctness believes that humans, like animals, lack a soul – and believes that death is an end to consciousness. PC also believes that suffering is the worst evil. That combination should worry you.

The owner when we were there was Mrs. R. W. Meirs, of 2048 Locust Street, in Philadelphia, who naturally spent all the time she could away from the city.

This was Alec Yarr, who, many years ago, used to pilot a Haddon Avenue trolley from Camden to Haddonfield. Now there are no cars. Buses have answered demands for speed, at the cost of fuming the air and filling it with squeals and droning sounds.

But the town was Shelltown and Shelltown is now Ellisdale, a crossroads village near by with old houses of its own. Close by, too, is Arneytown, sinking among memories of the past, its Quaker meeting-house taken down and its red brick smithy closed. But Waln's Mill was apart from even these.

To have a part in helping the new New Jerseyan see the New Jersey it was given to me to find thirty years ago is a very special honor all by itself. HENRY CHARLTON BECK Hillcrest Farm, Robbinsville, New Jersey February, 1963 FOREWORD THE appearance of Forgotten Towns of Southern New Jersey was rewarded by a generous and somewhat surprising response. From the time of its publication and during the research for and preparation of More Forgotten Towns my letter-box has guarded, until my returning, friendly messages from all parts of New Jersey, as well as from a number of other States-some far away-bearing encouragement, suggestion, and additional information. Although so many of the old villages seemed destined to die unmourned, many who were born in or near them, or whose forebears called them home, have shown they were not utterly forgotten and that the memories refreshed concerning them make the exciting task worth while. I say "exciting" and I mean just that, for although the work was first begun and continued with the author convinced that he, and a few others, were a bit-potty, shall I say?-on the subject, these letters have shown that our quirkiness is not so exclusive. I have attempted, insofar as I have been able, to reply to all those who have revealed their interest in the romance of decadent things which, whether they call it that or something else, makes us friends. I hope I have shown my appreciation as best I may in this new book and in others that, Deo Volente, I hope to write. As long as there are places and people in danger of being forgotten, when they ought not to be, in spite of whatever change and chance may come, there will be a job to do. Many have asked, and perhaps will continue to ask, why this town or that has not been included among those recalled in this or the previous book. Such a question has required a variety of answers. Some towns are important today, even

He was simply the most intelligent football player I ever saw. If I had one player to choose, out of all of them, to save my life, he'd be the one.

How many Hail Marys would you have to say in penance before you received absolution for killing a bishop?’ She slapped him on his arm lightly with her gloved hand. ‘Naughty boy.’ The corners of her mouth twitched with amusement.