Conspiracy Against Me Quotes

Eve talking to someone on her computer and having trouble with the language translator. ...."I have two like crimes. Your data and your input on Leclerk would be very helpful" Marie pursed her lips and humor danced in her eyes. "It says you would like to have sex with me. I don't think that is correct" "Oh, for Christ sake" Eve slammed a fist against the machine.....

He watched Attolia out of the corner of his eye. She was still cool, like a breath of winter in the warm evening air, but in the last few days he had begun to sense a subtle humor in her chilly words. When Gen had complained earlier that evening that Petrus, the palace physician, should stop fussing over him like a worried old woman, Attolia had asked, archly,"And me as well?" "When you stop fussing," Gen had said, slipping to his knees beside her couch, "I will sleep with two knives under my pillow." Attolia had looked down at him and said sharply, "Don't be ridiculous." Only when Eugenides laughed had Sounis realized her implication: If she ever turned against Eugenides, a second knife wouldn't save him. He almost swallowed the olive in his mouth unchewed.

optimism, where it is not merely the thoughtless talk of those who harbor nothing but words under their shallow foreheads, seems to me to be not merely an absurd, but also a really wicked, way of thinking, a bitter mockery of the most unspeakable sufferings of mankind

These are the voices which we hear in solitude, but they grow faint and inaudible as we enter into the world. Society everywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members. Society is a joint stock company in which the members agree for the better securing of his bread to each shareholder, to surrender the liberty and culture of the eater. The virtue in most request is conformity. Self-reliance is its aversion. It [That is, conformity.] loves not realities and creators, but names and customs. "Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist. He who would gather immortal palms must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but must explore if it be goodness. Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of our own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world. I remember an answer which when quite young I was prompted to make to a valued adviser who was wont to importune me with the dear old doctrines of the church. On my saying, What have I to do with the sacredness of traditions, if I live wholly from within? my friend suggested--'But these impulses may be from below, not from above.' I replied, 'They do not seem to me to be such; but if I am the devil's child, I will live them from the devil.' No law can be sacred to me but that of my nature. Good and bad are but names very readily transferable to that or this; the only right is what is after my constitution, the only wrong what is against it. A man is to carry himself in the presence of all opposition as if everything were titular and ephemeral but he. I am ashamed to think how easily we capitulate to badges and names, to large societies and dead institutions. Every decent an well-spoken individual affects and sways me more than is right. I ought to go upright and vital, and speak the rude truth in all ways.

Cats don’t have dark sides. That’s all a shadow is—and though you might be prejudiced against the dark, you ought to remember that that’s where stars live, and the moon and raccoons and owls and fireflies and mushrooms and cats and enchantments and a rather lot of good, necessary things. Thieving, too, and conspiracies, sneaking, secrets, and desire so strong you might faint dead away with the punch of it. But your light side isn’t a perfectly pretty picture, either, I promise you. You couldn’t dream without the dark. You couldn’t rest. You couldn’t even meet a lover on a balcony by moonlight. And what would the world be worth without that? You need your dark side, because without it, you’re half gone. Cats, on the other hand, have a more sensible setup. We just have the one side, and it’s mostly the sneaking and sleeping side anyway. So the other Iago and I feel very companionable toward each other. Whereas I expect my drowsy mistress Above would loathe this version of herself, who is kind and quiet and lonely and rather dear, all the things the original is not. My love stands for both. This one pets me more; that one let me pounce on anything I wanted.

I wanted to tell him a story, but I didn't. It's a story about a Jew riding in a streetcar, in Germany during the Third Reich, reading Goebbels' paper, the Volkische Beobachter. A non-Jewish acquaintance sits down next to him and says, "Why do you read the Beobachter?" "Look," says the Jew, "I work in a factory all day. When I get home, my wife nags me, the children are sick, and there's no money for food. What should I do on my way home, read the Jewish newspaper? Pogrom in Romania' 'Jews Murdered in Poland.' 'New Laws against Jews.' No, sir, a half-hour a day, on the streetcar, I read the Beobachter. 'Jews the World Capitalists,' 'Jews Control Russia,' 'Jews Rule in England.' That's me they're talking about. A half-hour a day I'm somebody. Leave me alone, friend.

Oh, my darling, why is it that love makes me hate the world? It's supposed to have quite the opposite effect. I feel as though all mankind, and God, too, were in a conspiracy against us.

Many accepted authors simply do not exist for me. Their names are engraved on empty graves, their books are dummies, they are complete nonentities insofar as my taste in reading is concerned. Brecht, Faulkner, Camus, many others, mean absolutely nothing to me, and I must fight a suspicion of conspiracy against my brain when I see blandly accepted as “great literature” by critics and fellow authors Lady Chatterley's copulations or the pretentious nonsense of Mr. Pound, that total fake. I note he has replaced Dr. Schweitzer in some homes.

Oh, my darling, why is it that love makes me hate the world? It’s supposed to have quite the opposite effect. I feel as though all mankind, and God, too, were in a conspiracy against us.” “They are, they are.” “But we’ve got our happiness in spite of them; here and now, we’ve taken possession of it. They can’t hurt us, can they?” “Not tonight; not now.

They treated me like I'm a fascist, yet they were the ones trying to deny me my free speech. That's the left today.

My death conceals an appalling conspiracy against our religion, our traditions and the way we see the world. Open your eyes, discover why the enemies of the life in which you believe, of the life you’re living, and of Islam, have destroyed me. Learn why one day they might do the same to you.

Within sixty-minute limits or one-hundred-yard limits or the limits of a game board, we can look for perfect moments or perfect structures. In my fiction I think this search sometimes turns out to be a cruel delusion. No optimism, no pessimism. No homesickness for lost values or for the way fiction used to be written. Everybody seems to know everything. Subjects surface and are totally exhausted in a matter of days or weeks, totally played out by the publishing industry and the broadcast industry. Nothing is too arcane to escape the treatment, the process. Making things difficult for the reader is less an attack on the reader than it is on the age and its facile knowledge-market. The writer is the person who stands outside society, independent of affiliation and independent of influence. The writer is the man or woman who automatically takes a stance against his or her government. There are so many temptations for American writers to become part of the system and part of the structure that now, more than ever, we have to resist. American writers ought to stand and live in the margins, and be more dangerous. Writers in repressive societies are considered dangerous. That’s why so many of them are in jail. Some people prefer to believe in conspiracy because they are made anxious by random acts. Believing in conspiracy is almost comforting because, in a sense, a conspiracy is a story we tell each other to ward off the dread of chaotic and random acts. Conspiracy offers coherence. I see contemporary violence as a kind of sardonic response to the promise of consumer fulfillment in America... I see this desperation against the backdrop of brightly colored packages and products and consumer happiness and every promise that American life makes day by day and minute by minute everywhere we go. Discarded pages mark the physical dimensions of a writer’s labor. Film allows us to examine ourselves in ways earlier societies could not—examine ourselves, imitate ourselves, extend ourselves, reshape our reality. It permeates our lives, this double vision, and also detaches us, turns some of us into actors doing walk-throughs. Every new novel stretches the term of the contract—let me live long enough to do one more book. You become a serious novelist by living long enough.

He fixed me with his Mad Rogan stare. “If you find the connection between Brian’s disappearance and the conspiracy, I want to know about it. Not eventually, not when it’s convenient, but immediately.” “Yes, sir. I was going to kiss you good night, but now I can’t. It’s against the rules to fraternize with my superior officer.” “Hilarious,” he said.

When people are toxic, it is always a conspiracy against aliveness, including their own. Somebody acts toxically when he or she sees me not as I am, or as I attempt to be, but instead sees me filtered through his or her own fears and expectations. People are toxic when they consider themselves deeply inferior and therefore wish to control everything simply so that alleged truths about themselves do not come to light. People are toxic when they are not only afraid but also allow themselves to be led by the nose by these fears, and then unconsciously blame others in order to cover up their panic.

So we call upon the author to explain (Doop doop doop doop dooop) Our myxomatoid kids spraddle the streets, we've shunned them from the greasy-grind The poor little things, they look so sad and old as they mount us from behind I ask them to desist and to refrain And then we call upon the author to explain (Doop doop doop doop dooop)Rosary clutched in his hand, he died with tubes up his nose And a cabal of angels with finger cymbals chanted his name in code We shook our fists at the punishing rain And we call upon the author to explain (Doop doop doop doop dooop) He said everything is messed up around here, everything is banal and jejune There is a planetary conspiracy against the likes of you and me in this idiot constituency of the moon Well, he knew exactly who to blame And we call upon the author to explain (Doop doop doop doop dooop) Prolix! Prolix! Nothing a pair of scissors can't fix! Prolix! Prolix! Nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!(Doop doop doop doop dooop) Well, I go guruing down the street, young people gather round my feet Ask me things, but I don't know where to start They ignite the power-trail ssstraight to my father's heart And once again I call upon the author to explain (Doop doop doop doop dooop ...)We call upon the author to explain Who is this great burdensome slavering dog-thing that mediocres my every thought? I feel like a vacuum cleaner, a complete sucker, it's fucked up and he is a fucker But what an enormous and encyclopaedic brain I call upon the author to explain (Doop doop doop doop dooop ...) Oh rampant discrimination, mass poverty, third world debt, infectious diseease Global inequality and deepening socio-economic divisions Well, it does in your brain And we call upon the author to explain (Doop doop doop doop dooop ...) Now hang on, my friend Doug is tapping on the window (Hey Doug, how you been?) Brings me back a book on holocaust poetry complete with pictures Then tells me to get ready for the rain And we call upon the author to explain (Doop doop doop doop dooop ...) I say prolix! Prolix! Something a pair of scissors can fix Bukowski was a jerk! Berryman was best! He wrote like wet papier mache, went the Heming-way weirdly on wings and with maximum pain We call upon the author to explain (Doop doop doop doop dooop ...) Down in my bolthole I see they've published another volume of unreconstructed rubbish "The waves, the waves were soldiers moving". Well, thank you, thank you, thank you And again I call upon the author to explain Yeah, we call upon the author to explain Prolix! Prolix! There's nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!

This book is not the memoir of a contented man. It's not the poignant reflections of a white-haired guru who has finally figured out the secret to contentment. It's more like sweaty, bloody, hastily scribbled notes from a battlefield. I'm still struggling to escape the sinister fingers on this conspiracy. I'm still waging war against the discontentment that rages in my life. I can see contentment in the distance, like a hazy oasis, but I have to pick my way through a minefield to get there. I'm not the contented man God wants me to be, but I'm fighting to get there. I'm writing this book the hope that you'll join me in the fight.

Perhaps I may make out five minutes just to write this, for he is playing in the passage with a child of the house, but even so much is doubtful. He has made very good friends with a girl here, and Arabel has sent her maid ever so often to tempt him away for half an hour, so as to give me breathing time, but he won’t be tempted: he has it in his head that the world is in a conspiracy against him to take ‘mama’ away after having taken ‘Lily,’ and he is bound to resist it.

. As George Seldes told me, “If you are saying anything in general about the fight against fascism in America, it seems to me that a point to emphasize is that the entire Redbaiting wave which culminated in the McCarthy era was successful in inundating the anti-Fascists by making every anti-Fascist, whether liberal, socialist, or Communist, a Red.

Even unrelated members of a clan who exhibit such positive attributes trigger in our brains a moral pattern: (A) Og was nice to me, so (B) I should be nice to Og; and (C) if I help Og, (D) Og will return the favor. In The Mind of the Market I demonstrated that this effect can be seen between clans and tribes when they participated in mutually beneficial exchanges, also known as trade. Even in the modern world, opening trade borders between two countries tends to lower tensions and aggressions between them, and closing trade borders—imposing trade sanctions—increases the likelihood that two nations will fight. These are both good examples of moral patternicities that have worked for and against our species.3

I am angered and hurt by surprises of every sort; even those surprises that are organized to bring me pleasure always end with a leaden aftertaste of sorrow and self-pity, a sensation that I have been planned against and exploited for somebody else’s delight, that a secret has been kept from me, that a conspiracy has succeeded from which I was excluded. (I am not the easiest person to live with.) I loathe conflict

I have no idea. You know what’s really scary?” “What?” “No one will tell you.” “Like who?” “Anyone. It’s the damnedest thing. I really want to know what I’m up against. So I ask my best friend, she’s had two. She says, ‘Oh, when you see what you get it’s worth it.’ That’s no answer, right? So I ask someone else who didn’t use any anesthesia. She says, ‘Oh, you’ll forget all about it when you see the baby.’ That’s not an answer either. And my mom was knocked out, old-style, when she had me. So she can’t tell me, and she probably wouldn’t. It’s some kind of mom conspiracy.

She wasn’t going to be able to navigate the wet very well in those high heels, but I was sure glad she’d worn them. The graceful, unaffected feminine sway of her as she walked was a sight to see. She began making a bee-line for Murphy’s as quickly as she dared in those heels on the concrete, and then the wet slippery street. Proving there’s no fool like a desperate one, I timed my dash through the rain so I’d arrive in time to open the door for her. It is a risk in today’s climate to open a door for a woman, much less make a play for her — clumsy or otherwise. There was an elegance about her though; I could feel it, even from a distance. She didn’t strike me as the hateful, victimhood-embracing type at all; but perhaps I was simply lonely enough to risk a withering gaze or a tongue-lashing accusing me of being part of some dark, patriarchal and misogynistic conspiracy against her kind. It’s a big word, misogynistic, one of those two-dollar words, as my uneducated old man used to say. Misandrist comes before it in the dictionary, but the type of women who throw the word misogynistic around more often than a teenage girl plays with her hair to flirt, act as if misandrist isn’t a real word too.

My Butterfly. An Elegy THINE emulous fond flowers are dead, too, And the daft sun-assaulter, he That frighted thee so oft, is fled or dead: Save only me (Nor is it sad to thee!) Save only me There is none left to mourn thee in the fields. The gray grass is not dappled with the snow; Its two banks have not shut upon the river; But it is long ago— It seems forever— Since first I saw thee glance, With all the dazzling other ones, In airy dalliance, Precipitate in love, Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above, Like a limp rose-wreath in a fairy dance. When that was, the soft mist Of my regret hung not on all the land, And I was glad for thee, And glad for me, I wist. Thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high, That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind, With those great careless wings, Nor yet did I. And there were other things: It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp: Then fearful he had let thee win Too far beyond him to be gathered in, Snatched thee, o’er eager, with ungentle grasp. Ah! I remember me How once conspiracy was rife Against my life— The languor of it and the dreaming fond; Surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought, The breeze three odors brought, And a gem-flower waved in a wand! Then when I was distraught And could not speak, Sidelong, full on my cheek, What should that reckless zephyr fling But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing! I found that wing broken to-day! For thou are dead, I said, And the strange birds say. I found it with the withered leaves Under the eaves. Robert Frost, A Boy’s Will. (1st World Library - Literary Society February 20, 2006) Originally published 1913.

Universities are fueled in large measure by what's called overhead of the grant...so if you get a million dollar grant, half or more will go to your university, right? So that's what builds the buildings and fuels the place. So the university has an incentive to get as many people to file grant applications as they can, and they have an incentive to hire people whose grant applications will be large rather than small. So this, for example, is one of the reasons that science has taken up arms against theory –that is to say, proper scientific theoreticians like me – and it has instead hired people who run big expensive experiments: Because big expensive experiments have big grants, and those big grants bring in money. But if you were a university and what you wanted was to have people writing big expensive grants who were capable of getting them, then what you would want to do is...you would want to free those people from teaching, and you would want to get people who weren't so expensive to do the work of the university...and the way you do that is: you bring them on as graduate students; and you pay them an appalling wage; you claim that they are not actually workers, that they are students; and they do most of the teaching, and they do a lot of the work of the university, for incredibly low amounts of money; they live under poor conditions; and increasingly they have to come from abroad where they are in some sense getting a deal that still makes sense. But this means that we overproduce PhDs. We give people degrees instead of money to do the work of the university, in order that people who are capable of getting the grants spend almost full time doing that job. And it's a racket. The person who knows the most about this is actually Eric, my brother. So...what he unearthed was actually that there was an explicit conspiracy to game the visa system in order to keep this system running...that effectively a fake shortage of science students was created to allow the universities to basically flood the market, to drive the wages down.

The German Volk will believe me when I say that I would have chosen peace over war. Because for me, peace meant a multitude of delightful assignments. What I was able to do for the German Volk in the few years from 1933 to 1939, thanks to Providence and the support of numerous excellent assistants, in terms of culture, education, as well as economic recovery, and, above all, in the social organization of our lives, this can surely one day be compared with what my enemies have done and achieved in the same period. In the long years of struggle for power, I often regretted that the realization of my plans was spoiled by incidents that were not only relatively unimportant, but also, above all, completely insignificant. I regret this war not only because of the sacrifices that it demands of my German Volk and of other people, but also because of the time it takes away from those who intend to carry out a great social and civilizing work and who want to complete it. After all, what Mr. Roosevelt is capable of achieving, he has proved. What Mr. Churchill has achieved, nobody knows. I can only feel profound regret at what this war will prevent me and the entire National Socialist movement from doing for many years. It is a shame that a person cannot do anything about true bunglers and lazy fellows stealing the valuable time that he wanted to dedicate to cultural, social, and economic projects for his Volk. The same applies to Fascist Italy. There, too, one man has perpetuated his name for all time through a civilizing and national revolution of worldwide dimensions. In the same way it cannot be compared to the democratic-political bungling of the idlers and dividend profiteers, who, in the Anglo-American countries, for instance, spend the wealth accumulated by their fathers or acquire new wealth through shady deals. It is precisely because this young Europe is involved in the resolution of truly great questions that it will not allow the representatives of a group of powers who tactfully call themselves the “have” states to rob them of everything that makes life worth living, namely, the value of one’s own people, their freedom, and their social and general human existence. Therefore, we understand that Japan, weary of the everlasting blackmail and impudent threats, has chosen to defend itself against the most infamous warmongers of all time. Now a mighty front of nation-states, reaching from the Channel to East Asia, has taken up the struggle against the international Jewish-capitalist and Bolshevik conspiracy. New Year’s Proclamation to the National Socialists and Party Comrades January 1, 1942

Even though I was driving, writing, I shut my eyes, and they all became available to me: the venation of leaf and insect wing, the Lichtenberg figure in the grass where the discharge took place, delicate crazing in blue grass, the network of vessels against the black back of the lids, self-similar golden spirals, the fractals formed by riverbeds and neurons, honeycomb lattices, habits, all the beautiful conspiracies, which means "to breath together," the ancient dream of poetry.

The lesser my personality, the more I take things personally. The more insignificant my contribution or influence in society, the more I’m convinced that the whole world is against me.

…I am a storyteller. From barstools to back porches, from kitchen tables to campfires, from podiums to park benches, I have spun my yarns to audiences both big and small, both rapt and bored. I didn’t start out that way. I was just a dreamer, quietly imagining myself as something special, as someone who would “make a difference” in the world. But the fact is, I was just an ordinary person leading an ordinary life. Then, partly by design, partly by happenstance, I was thrust into a series of adventures and circumstances beyond anything I had ever dreamed. It all started when I ran away from home at eighteen and hitchhiked around the country. Then I joined the Army, became an infantry lieutenant, and went to Vietnam. After Vietnam, I tried to become a hippie, got involved with Vietnam Veterans Against the War (VVAW), and became a National Coordinator for the organization. I was subsequently indicted for conspiracy to incite a riot at the Republican Convention in 1972—the so-called Gainesville Eight case—and one of my best friends turned out to be an FBI informant who testified against me at the trial. In the early eighties, I was involved with the New York Vietnam Veterans Memorial Commission, which built a memorial for Vietnam veterans in New York City and published the book Dear America: Letters Home from Vietnam. In the late eighties, I was part of a delegation of Vietnam veterans who went to the Soviet Union to meet with Soviet veterans of their Afghanistan War. I fell in love with a woman from Russia, married her, and spent nine years living there, during which I fathered two children, then brought my family back to the U.S. and the suburban middle-class life I had left so many years before. The adventures ultimately, inevitably perhaps, ended, and like Samwise Gamgee, I returned to an ordinary life once they were over. The only thing I had left from that special time was the stories… I wrote this book for two reasons. First and foremost, I wrote it for my children. Their experience of me is as a slightly boring “soccer dad,” ordinary and unremarkable. I wanted them to know who I was and what I did before I became their dad. More importantly, I hope the book can be inspiring to the entire younger generation they represent, who will have to deal with the mess of a world that we have left them. The second reason is that when I was young, I had hoped that my actions would “make a difference,” but I’m not so sure if they amounted to “a hill of beans,” as Humphry Bogart famously intoned. If my actions did not change the world, then I dream that maybe my stories can.

The Golem, The Monster was in love with herself; the Goy was in love with her too. She was in love with Club Golan. A perfect storm was approaching and I could almost feel it. I didn't know what was wrong with my beautiful girlfriend as her face gradually began to look like a monster's and she started treating me like garbage. What was controlling her mind? Who was behind her, making her get so sick again so quickly after meeting some new people at the beach bar? Why did Sabrina say that I would die lonely and sad, and why was Martina's perception of me so wrong and unreal? How was their plan on track, I didn't understand while I was running after Martina and I couldn't understand where our happiness had slipped out of our hands again? I was desperately trying to figure out what had happened to my life, my career, and what had happened to my pretty girlfriend, what had happened to my baby? It was almost like my girlfriend's perceptions were all wrong somehow. She had seen me as a useless homeless bum and she had seen the only value or service in Europe and Barcelona which could make a living or money as, 'short shorts and loose legs'. I felt hopeless and I didn't understand what the spell was. How was my 'Stupid Bunny' a Frankenstein? I could feel it on my skin, and I could see it in Martina's eyes, that the criminals' plans were in play and had been working since the moment Adam arrived in Spain, or maybe even before that somehow. Before I even met Martina. Before we even broke all up with Sabrina. Before the Red Moon, the last date and before the provocation the following night. I felt like 10-20 criminals were trying to bully me and trying to woo Martina and outsmart me with her, but I was so worried for her and was so busy trying to save her every day with her on my mind, as if I too was under spells, under possession and couldn't do anything about it to help her or break the illusions keeping her possessed, even when supposedly she was, we were, rid of the bad people. I felt like I was in a screenplay in the set up stages of a drama. I felt like someone had sat down with a piece of paper and a pen, and was drawing plans against my life. I felt like someone had written a screenplay on how to play this out, how to take the club from me and Martina. Someone must have written a list of characters. Casting. I never called Sabrina a bitch. Adam and Martina both called her “bitch.” Martina said “The Bitch” and Adam said “that Crazy Bitch.” ’The Goy’ ’The Bitch’ ’The Gipsy’ ’The Giants’ ’The Golem’ ’The Lawyer’ ’The Big Boss’ ’My Girlfriend’ ’The False Flag’ ’The Big Brother’ ’The Stupid Bunny’ ’The Big Boss Daddy’ ’The Italian Connection’, etc. I was unable to break any illusion, the secret, the code; I was dumbstruck in love with “my girlfriend” (who I thought was my “stupid bunny”), being the ‘false flag’, and maybe it was actually “the bitch” portrayed by Sabrina who was my true love perhaps, putting me to the tests, with Adam and the rest, using Martina and her brother, playing with strings, with her long pretty fingernails, teaching me a lesson for cheating when I thought she was cheating too and making me unhappy when I thought she was unhappy with me. As if I knew, Sabrina had been behind my new girlfriend, Martina playing roles; I had seen all the signs and jokes. I just couldn't comprehend it having a cover over my eyes. I was unsure what should I do what would be real wise? I didn't think Sabrina would be capable of hurting me at all. Why did Martina keep saying, Tomas you are so nice and tall?

Did I bring Adam and Sabrina together or did the fact that I got a new girlfriend do that? I was asking the wrong questions. There were so many of them playing mind games that I had to try different angles to find answers. It seemed like Adam was manipulating Martina with an idea of Sabrina and the club. But how could Adam do that if Sabrina and Ruan already knew each other most likely, working for Adam? How could Adam paint two different pictures of Sabrina to Ruan and Martina? Mabye couldn't convince Ruan of any wrongdoing; perhaps he wanted to warn me or Martina, and his arm broke for certain reason. Or was Sabrina playing the same role that Adam painted about her to Martina? Was Adam paying Sabrina to play this game while also trying to sell registration apps to clubs downtown? It seemed like it was a cover up. What was the prize besides the club and the marijuana grow? Who wanted to kill me and why were all these people daring to mess with me? How did they form a group against me? Who or what made them a criminal group? Who was their real leader? Who did they think was the leader, Adam? He was afraid of me. Then who, Sabrina? She wasn't afraid of me, but she wouldn't step over me in my life, my job, or my career unless she had an open field and open goal. Why did she do that? Why did Adam invite her to such strange games? What was the fun? What was the joke? What was the reason why these people thought they were bullying me and wouldn’t get slapped? Why was it my impression that everyone was laughing at me? I felt like Adam didn't have the courage, and his father was not their leader either. I felt like their leader was much less intelligent than Adam or Ferran. I felt like they were being manipulated by someone much less intelligent, or they were acting like that for some reason, or they didn't seem to be hiding how stupid of a leader they had, who wanted to kill me personally, as if the rest of them were just bystanders eating popcorn while I plotted to do the same with Martina once we thought they had taken away my club and the Camorra would take it away from them anyhow. Did Nico say the word “Camorra” to try and scare me? Who told Nico that I knew about the Camorra and what they were up to? Adam, Nico and Martina were aware that the Camorra were one of my clients. Who could have seen Roberto Saviano's book “Gomorrah” in Cantabria, Urgell, and Radas which I bought in the last days of 2011? All of them. I do not know the exact number of particular books that have influenced these events thus far.

Dear Voyagers, Your cameras have shown us the vastness of the universe, Our eyes too can gaze upon the heavens and revel in nature, But behind our eyes, There’s something called a mind that processes it all. What we call the mind Spins countless tales and stories, With such variety that one could say, For every human that has ever lived, there exists a different image, emotion, analysis, and worldview, and this can be beautiful and at the same time terrifying. I imagine mapping the universe completely, Discovering life in other systems and galaxies, Might be much sooner than charting the map that could explain human existence. So many questions remain for me, Like if, In the coming decades, poverty is eradicated, Freedom is universal, Mars is colonized, and people live there, Cities rise above Venus, Plant-based diets replace meat, Equality reaches every person and no one is questioned for their beliefs, orientations, or thoughts, Diseases are cured, Physical labor becomes meaningless, and robots end the hardship of human toil, Earth’s climate change is halted, Firearm possession is made free, and today’s concerns are all resolved—will everyone then live in peace? My mind, my eyes, they know the answer: “No.” Probably then, Conspiracy theorists Would say it all happened in a studio, Some would claim that veganism’s goal is to destroy chakras, Others would start revolts against order and law, criticizing even that beautiful state. This dissatisfaction doesn’t belong to any specific class or group, It’s what we all are. Environment and culture matter, but I think even if a brain chip were made To transfer every piece of knowledge on Earth, All fields of science, memories, Experiences, languages, and the stories of every civilization, every human, and everything ever experienced to our minds, We’d still harbor doubt. Our efforts to prove ourselves to each other Will be in vain. Perhaps the right path Is to continue and enjoy the unknown, Or maybe to accept and find joy in never truly experiencing joy. I play Hans Zimmer’s “Stay,” Yet my mind continues to drift, Time passes, Those around me age as I move forward towards an unknown destination. Perhaps someone, something, 4.5 billion light years away, Is staring at a point in the sky, They don’t know I’m here in an existential crisis, That Earth is in a fight for survival, How I envy them, Staring into that dark spot in the sky, They too are fortunate for not existing in this moment, Or for their light not having reached me. If Earth’s light reaches them, They would surely grieve for these restless, lost souls, For human history is tied to sorrow, pain, separation, and nothingness. Perhaps the Big Crunch, Absolute nothingness, Is the only cure for this pain— The pain of being and existing. Dear Voyagers, When your signal to Earth is lost, It will feel like the death of a loved one, Even though I know you’re alive somewhere, traversing an unknown path, Something I doubt will happen after human death, And even if it does, It wouldn’t lessen the grief of those left behind who have yet to join that unknown journey. I fear oblivion, I fear the oblivions that disappear from history and memories, as if they never were, Like the meal of a Native American grandmother a thousand years ago, Or the kiss of two lovers and the story of their union and parting, never recorded anywhere.

At this late date, it’s hard for me to believe that anyone with intelligence or objectivity can continue to believe the Warren Commission’s ludicrous claim that President Kennedy was assassinated by a lone gunman named Lee Harvey Oswald, and that no conspiracy existed. We now know that Oswald was a US intelligence asset who had worked for both the CIA and FBI and that both agencies lied to the Warren Commission about their previous knowledge of him and his activities. Important to note are the systematic seizing of witnesses whose testimony bolstered the Commission’s conclusions while at the same time ignoring multiple witnesses who contradicted the Commission’s version of events. These witnesses provided evidence additional to the fingerprint evidence which tied Johnson’s gunman Wallace to the crime, i.e. multiple witnesses described a man who fit the description of Wallace, heavyset, and bespeckled, wearing a brown sports coat. It adds to the evidence that Lee Harvey Oswald was not the shooter from the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository building; Malcolm Wallace, LBJ’s longtime hitman, was.

Perhaps you grew up in a legalistic spiritual environment as I did. With legalism, Christianity is all about conforming to a code of conduct that has been added to the precepts and principles of the Bible and then judging people on the degree to which they conform to the extrabiblical code. “I’m a good Christian because I don’t do the ‘filthy five’ (or the ‘dirty dozen’).” That kind of legalistic focus produces external conformity, like in the military, but not the kind of true life change we are looking for. Actually, I believe there’s more disobedience to God in the legalistic Christian subculture than anywhere else, because so often there has been no real heart change. Instead, sinful patterns that God wants to change are forced under the surface—a sort of conspiracy of silence. Legalistic Christians are hiding the real truth of who they are from everyone around them. The result? Biblical fellowship is hindered and true life change becomes very difficult. Legalism is a stifling environment where lasting heart change is impossible. Over the Christmas holidays, my family and I visited a church caught in legalism. I didn’t want to go, but I had no choice and so I went. The problem was I forgot about the dress code. I was sort of “dress casual,” if you know what I mean. Then we got in the building. Oops! Every single male from three years of age to ninety-nine had a suit on, and those ties sure looked tight. Now to their credit, they were friendly, but even the handshake itself was kind of compassionate. “Oh, poor brother. We hope you’ll soon be within the reach of the gospel.” You know, that feeling you get when people are judging you because you’re not quite like they are. Anyway, I snuggled up my coat, brought my kids in, and sat down. Being familiar with this approach, I was doing really well until they started a baptismal service where the pastor walked right into the baptistery with his suit on, coat and all. I just wanted to stand up and go, “What are you thinking! It’s not about rules! Jesus died so we could have a genuine intimacy with Him, not just look the part, or what you think looks the part. Won’t you ever learn that rules by themselves don’t change us? They just force our sinful natures under the surface and help us hide behind externals and pretend we’re closer to God than we really are.” Of course, God is not for or against suits. Dressing up for church when motivated by reverence and not religion can be good. Similarly, dressing down can be

APRIL 13 I HAVE LOOSED YOU FROM SATANIC AND DEMONIC CONSPIRACIES MY CHILD, REMEMBER My great goodness, which I have laid up for those who fear Me. If you will keep your trust in Me, My goodness will be yours in the presence of the sons of men. I will hide you in the secret place of my presence and will keep you hidden from the evil plots of wicked men. You will be loosed from any evil, demonic conspiracies that the enemy has plotted against you. I have hidden you from their secret plots and from the rebellion of the workers of iniquity who sharpen their tongues like swords and bend their bows to shoot arrows of bitter words at the blameless. I have preserved your life from the fear of the enemy’s secret plots. PSALMS 31:19–20; 64:2–4 Prayer Declaration Hear my voice, O God, in my meditation; preserve my life from fear of the enemy. Hide me from the secret plots of the wicked, and from the rebellion of the workers of iniquity. Though they talk secretly of laying snares for me and believe they have perfected a shrewd scheme, You will make them stumble over their own tongues, and all who see them will flee far from them. I shall declare Your wonderful works.

Frustrated with accusations that InfoWars was a Russian hashtag generator, Alex Jones posted a photo of his Russian business visa and tweeted mockingly, “Looking forward to Putin giving me the new hashtags to use against Hillary and the dems…”34 Little did he know he was revealing something not far from the truth. Jones had been a highly reliable source of fake news for the Russian propaganda warfare structure and his conspiracy theories were hashtagged like crazy by the RF-IRA. His nutty commentary is widely admired by some of Russia’s leading politicians, and thanks to his own tweet he revealed he had been issued a long-term business visa to keep his special brand of conspiracy mongering alive.

The stench of death and blood hit me hard. In the room's corner, blood had pooled and hardened over parts of the slated wood floor near the bedroom window. There was also blood spattered against the corner walls. The room was sparse, filled with the essentials of an old man. The bed looked slept in. A small painting in an ornate frame hung on the wall above it. It was a print from one of William Turner’s works, an English painter from the early 1980s. It depicted a ship, capsized with its crew in lifeboats struggling against a powerful storm.

India neither respects UN Security Council resolutions nor has the intention to build peace in the region. Indian Intelligence Agencies have always tried for conspiracy against Pakistan and caused economic damage with false propaganda and collaboration of international media, writers, scholars, and such ones, who became of them a chess propaganda army everywhere. The fools, traitors, and idiots having no brain became delicious chocolate for the Indian Intelligence. It is not an illusion or delusion, or table made, story; it is a real and significant truth ever since, as they tried to buy me as well; I am authentic evidence of it. Sold figures harp their voice, motives, and advocacy for them, with the crocodile tears, on the fears of deaths. While such ones never realize the killing of innocent children, elderly and mothers, in Kashmir. When selfishness and greediness dominate upon one, who became sold is unworthy, whether having academic or dynasty background. The peace lies in Indian ruling minds, the biggest democracy in the world if that, realize and accomplish the regulations of the Security Council; indeed, peace shall prevail.

Don’t crowd me, Daniel-‘ ‘The hell I will! I’ll do more than crowd. You’ve had your fun tonight, Kathleen. Now it’s my turn .. .’ There was a rough, cold, aggressive passion in the threat that prompted her to struggle until he put his mouth against hers. The contact burned so much that the recoil was instant and mutual. There was no sound but Kat’s ragged breath. Daniel wasn’t breathing at all. Oh, dear heaven, no! was her last thought before the face above her cleared of its dark, rigid shock and displayed instead a hungry curiosity that swept resistance before it. The second kiss was equally tumultuous, but this time there was no drawing back. The thrust of his tongue in her mouth allowed no polite preliminaries; it was a furious battle for ascendancy, Kat’s arms rising stiffly to lock around his neck, her fingers sliding up into the thick black hair at his nape as he wrapped her breasts and hips against his lean hardness. His hands spanning her waist, Daniel suddenly swung her around, pushing her backwards over the thick carpet until Kat walked into the side of the padded brown leather couch half-way across the room. He arched her over the high back, tipping her hips into his until she gasped into the dark, echoing cavern of his mouth.

Self-Righteous Script Readers What makes movie stars’ opinions so important, anyway? These are people with a bloated sense of self-worth, little accountability, and practically no original thought. Without a Hollywood scriptwriter, most of them couldn’t talk their way out of a telemarketing call. When they shoot a scene for a movie, they get twenty-one takes to get it right. How many takes do you get in your life? Real people get one shot. If we make a mistake, we must live with it. Not so for the stars. They get pass after pass and then send their assistants to fetch grande lattes for them. My own daughter Kiki took acting lessons for almost a decade—singing, dancing, theater. When she was sixteen, she told me she didn’t want to act anymore. Stunned, I asked her why. “I want the words that come out of my mouth to be mine,” she said. That from a sixteen-year-old! So, to all the actors and fellow haters out there: get a life. Real people—not actors, not ideologues—elected Donald Trump president. Real people. The forgotten men and women who live normal, hardworking lives and who, by the way, buy the movie tickets that pay for your pampered, cushy lives. All of this would be bad enough if the product they were putting out was any good, but it’s not. Hollywood is dead. If it’s not dead, it’s on a respirator. Look at the numbers.

Every conspiracy is a story of people. The protagonists of this one are two of the most distinctly unique personalities of their time, Nick Denton and Peter Thiel. Two characters who, not unlike the cowboys in your cliché western, found that the town—whether it was Silicon Valley or New York City or the world’s stage—was not big enough for them to coexist. The gravitational pull of the two figures would bring dozens of other people into their orbit over their ten-year cold war along with the FBI, the First and Fourth Amendments, and soon enough, the president of the United States. It somehow dragged me in, too. In 2016, I would find myself the recipient of unsolicited emails from both Peter Thiel and Nick Denton. Both wanted to talk, both were intrigued to hear I had spoken to the other. Both gave me questions to ask the other. And so for more than a year, I spent hundreds of hours researching, writing about, and speaking to nearly everyone involved. I would read more than twenty thousand pages of legal documents and pore through the history of media, of feuds, of warfare, and of strategy not only to make sense of what happened here, but to make something more than just some work of contemporary long-form journalism or some chronological retelling of events by a disinterested observer (which I am not). The result is a different kind of book from my other work, but given this extraordinary story, I had little choice. What follows then are both the facts and the lessons from this conflict—an extended meditation on what it means to successfully conspire, on the one hand, and how to be caught defenseless against a conspiracy and be its victim, on the other. So that we can see what power and conviction look like in real terms, as well as the costs of hubris, and recklessness. And because winning is typically preferable to losing, this book is about how one man came to experience what Genghis Khan supposedly called the greatest of life’s pleasures: to overcome your enemies, to drive them before you, to see their friends and allies bathed in tears, to take their possessions as your own. The question of justice is beside the point; every conqueror believes their cause just and righteous—a thought that makes the fruits taste sweeter.

Without a word, he leaned in to kiss me. It was both a total surprise and exactly what I’d been waiting for. His lips brushed mine, and I kissed him back, hoping it wasn’t obvious I didn’t exactly have a whole lot of practice in that area any more than I did with magic – and then forgetting that worry as his free hand rose up to trace his fingers into my hair. His touch sent sparks shooting over my skin. His mouth moved against mine, hot but gentle. This, this was magic. Even better than the stuff we’d generated between us before. Jonathan eased back, only halfway to where he’d started. His hand slid down to my shoulder. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked abruptly, adorably shy. “Was that all right?” he said. “I mean…” He didn’t seem to know how to continue, so I helped him out. “Completely okay. Very, very good, in fact.” Maybe I shouldn’t have been quite that emphatic, but I was also grinning like a maniac, so it wasn’t like he could miss how much I’d enjoyed the kiss. Jonathan’s eyes brightened, his usual assurance returning. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “In that case, maybe we could do it again?

Confusion and Dilemma *** “The criminals neither let investigation nor investigate crimes; indeed, it is it that authenticates itself an authentic proof of their involvement and conspiracy.” ― Ehsan Sehgal I live in a highly civilized country where human rights, equality, justice, and freedom of expression are core principles and laws. However, in my case, they have never been realized or practically evident. Even the European Union and the United Nations have ignored my requests for an investigation against the Dutch state, which has criminally neglected me and consistently remained silent for many decades. Human rights organizations, Dutch journalists, and media outlets have failed to demonstrate their fairness, neutrality, and freedom of the press. I have continuously remained a victim. Criminals have significantly succeeded in their unlawful motives. I am still waiting, suffering from paralysis in both legs, a medical victim of circumstance, hoping for a miracle from someone who will recognize and understand the need to help before I can no longer share my story. Note: This article was written on August 22, 2020, about Social Media; no, I am republishing it on Medium. I know there will be no response; one cannot expect justice from criminals. Confusion and Dilemma When naturopathy experts and spiritual figures predict with significant certainty that I have no prostate cancer, it confuses, surprises, and creates suspicious feelings in my mind, whereas European doctors have diagnosed metastatic prostate cancer. What should I believe and what not? However, my enemies are still awaiting my death. I breathe, expecting and waiting for the miracle of Allah; it will soon happen, I believe. I neither feel trust in Dutch urologists and oncologists nor do I have the satisfaction of their treatment. I always realize that they do not tell the truth about how serious my disease is, but they never discuss it. Today, the urologist called me, asking how I was feeling. I told him that I was suffering from mucus, shortness of breath, and swallowing difficulty; he didn’t pay notice and said that the endoscopy showed nothing dangerous. I asked him, I have planned to visit my family in Pakistan and will stay longer than I used to stay; therefore, I need medicine for that period. He replied in an unsympathetic way that medicine is costly if you pass away there; it costs insurance money. I requested an MRI scan to make sure that the cancer is not spreading to other parts of the body; he declined, saying PSA stays down, so there is no need for this. It saddened me that they think about the insurance provider but not the patient. On the other side, my insurance provider, VGZ, has refused to pay the costs of a new treatment in Germany, which I would try again. Indeed, such a situation has put me on the track of a dilemma; however, God has given me the enormous power and courage to bear two severe and mysterious incidents since 1980. My experience proves that none of the medicines heal, whether those are homeopathy, allopathy, naturopathy, or even spiritual healing. It seems the rivals continuously attack to harm and damage me: Who are they? The answer is simple: they are in first place, Qadiyyanis, and second place are evil-minded individuals, criminals, and intelligence agency murderers. My fate stands as a barrier in front of me that no one sees or realizes how I have faced, and I am still facing that. God is great, and one day, such criminals will be in court for their criminal deeds to taste transparent justice. Factually, I remain sure that Dutch institutions have provided me with workers through private bureaus; those are trusted or risky ones since intelligence agencies can hire them as well. It is a valid question that requires an authentic answer.

The city is in a perpetual state of being not quite ready to talk about it. Instead it lashes its wind against the banners of the art museum. Moody light changes down Market, the cars bitch toward City Hall. Puddles yearn toward the sewers. The unrequited city dreams up conspiracies and keeps its buildings low to the ground. You are never allowed to dream higher than the hat of William Penn. Dear World, you think you’re better than me? Suck a nut. Yours sincerely. A slip of a woman, trench coated, dips in and out of the shadows on Pine Street, toward the train. Restless wind dissects her. Good night, Sarina. Good night.

When I told the local Yablokites I wanted to join the party, they gave me suspicious looks and asked why I would want to do that. "You have a job, right? You are a real lawyer, right?" This pissed me off. Everything was chaotic and nobody was doing anything practical. I was keen to get things done, preferably right now. They told me that first I would need to go through a standard admission process: become a supporter, then a candidate for party membership, collect favorable references, and wait a year. Then they would accept me. Most people joined Yabloko because they admired its leader, Grigory Yavlinsky. I did not share the depth of those feelings. If during my enthusiasm for Yeltsin I could not stand Yavlinsky and saw him as someone who was taking votes away from Yeltsin, my attitude toward him now became more nuanced and I began to consider him a decent, honest politician. The former Communist Party bureaucrats who had surreptitiously sidled over from their Soviet offices into the offices of the Russian Federation were thieves, but he was a man with values. He stood up for his ideology and, overall, the Yabloko party acted consistently. It was nervous about doing anything decisive and preferred to conduct intellectual discussions, but at least its members believed what they were saying. I gradually detected that the unanimous admiration of Yavlinsky was so strong it sometimes tipped over into a leadership cult. The party leaders and he himself were unchallengeable, and the hierarchy within the party was strictly observed. Hence, they were wary of newcomers, in case someone daring came along and tried to take over the party! They looked askance at me because I didn't fit their image of a standard political activist. I took a shower in the mornings and I had a job. I must have been asked a hundred times why, when they had little or no money, I was staying with them. I still can't shake this off. People still suspect there's a catch. After all, if you have a good education and a good job, why would you be fighting against Putin? Why are you doing your investigations? Perhaps you're getting leaks from competing towers of the Kremlin, or perhaps you're a Kremlin stooge yourself. Or a stooge of the West. All my life people have been inventing conspiracy theories about me to somehow explain my interest in politics. If nowadays I find it amusing, back then it was annoying. The fact that Yabloko found me so baffling indicated they had no faith in their own strength. I went into politics to fight against people who are wrecking my country, are incapable of improving our lives, and act solely in their own interests. I intended to win. I found campaigns absorbing. After getting involved as an election observer, I noticed two things: first, my legal experience was going to come in very handy; and, second, I could see what was going on in the campaigns far better than the average party lawyer. The main motivation, though, was that this was real legal work. When I started my studies, this is exactly what I pictured working as a lawyer would be: a courtroom, a judge sternly calling everyone to order. I am defending my client, waving papers in the air, arguing, conclusively proving things, and at that moment I am only too aware that I'm fighting the bad guys. It may sound corny, but it's true: I wanted my efforts to make the world a better place. My company, building offices in Moscow, offered no such opportunities. I shuddered at the thought that my whole life might be spent helping certain people make an extra couple of million dollars. Slowly, I began distancing myself from corporate work. I didn't dump it right away, because even after I was admitted to Yabloko, I remained a volunteer for a long time and received no salary. When I did start receiving one, it was $300 a month, though I didn't always get paid...I had a family to support, so I continued working as a lawyer.

I know to whom Apulia has been allotted, who has Etruria, who the Picenian territory, who the Gallic district, who has begged for himself the office of spreading fire and sword by night through the city. They know that all the plans of the preceding night are brought to me. I laid them before the senate yesterday. Catiline himself was alarmed, and fled. Why do these men wait? Verily, they are greatly mistaken if they think that former lenity of mine will last forever. What I have been waiting for, that I have gained,—namely, that you should all see that a conspiracy has been openly formed against the republic; unless, indeed, there be any one who thinks that those who are like Catiline do not agree with Catiline. There is not any longer room for lenity; the business itself demands severity. One thing, even now, I will grant,—let them depart, let them be gone. (Speech 2.6)

A camp is pitched in Italy, at the entrance of Etruria, in hostility to the republic; the number of the enemy increases every day; and yet the general of that camp, the leader of those enemies, we see within the walls—yes, and even in the senate, —planning every day some internal injury to the republic. If, O Catiline, I should now order you to be arrested, to be put to death, I should, I suppose, have to fear lest all good men should say that I had acted tardily, rather than that any one should affirm that I acted cruelly. But yet this, which ought to have been done long since, I have good reason for not doing as yet; I will put you to death, then, when there shall be not one person possible to be found so wicked, so abandoned, so like yourself, as not to allow that it has been rightly done. As long as one person exists who can dare to defend you, yet shall live; but you shall live as you do now, surrounded by my many and trusty guards, so that you shall not be able to stir one finger against the republic: many eyes and ears shall still observe and watch you, as they have hitherto done, though you shall not perceive them. For what is there, O Catiline, that you can still expect, if night is not able to veil your nefarious meetings in darkness, and if private houses cannot conceal the voice of your conspiracy within their walls;—if everything is seen and displayed? Change your mind: trust me: forget the slaughter and conflagration you are meditating. You are hemmed in on all sides; all your plans are clearer than the day to us; let me remind you of them. (Speech 1 Chapter 5-6)

The origin of my use of the word “mole” to describe a long-term penetration agent is a small mystery to me, as it was to the editors of the Oxford English Dictionary, who wrote to me asking whether I had invented it. I could not say for certain. I had a memory that it was current KGB jargon in the days when I was briefly an intelligence officer. I even thought I had seen it written down, in an annexe to the Royal Commission report on the Petrovs, who defected to the Australians in Canberra some time in the Fifties. But the OED couldn’t find the trace and neither could I, so for a long time, I thought perhaps I had. Then one day, I received a letter from a reader, referring me to page 240 of Francis Bacon’s Historie of the Reigne of King Henry the Seventh, published in 1641: As for his secret Spialls, which he did imploy both at home and abroad, by them to discover what Practices and Conspiracies were against him, surely his Case required it: Hee had such Moles perpectually working and casting to undermine him. Well, I certainly hadn’t read Francis Bacon on moles. Where did he have them from? Or was he just having fun with an apt metaphor? The other bits of jargon—lamplighter, scalp-hunter, baby-sitter, honey trap and the rest—were all invented, but they too, I am told, have at least in part since been adopted by the professionals.