Durham Quotes

I just dont know how...to think less. If you know how, then teach me...

I knew you read the Symposium in the vac," he said in a low voice. Maurice felt uneasy. "Then you understand - without me saying more - " "How do you mean?" Durham could not wait. People were all around them, but with eyes that had gone intensely blue he whispered, "I love you.

In the realm of love and sex, it’s girls who are in the position of working hard to adapt themselves to the needs and fantasies of the mercurial males whose approval and attention they seek.

There's no shame in being afraid. Hell, we're all afraid. What you gotta do is figure out what you're afraid of because when you put a face on it, you can beat it. Better yet, you can use it.

Well, I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman's back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days. Crash Davis Bull Durham

It's okay to be yourself. An original always worth more than a copy. - Alif , Velvet di Durham -

Revenge is the easiest of emotions to understand and to manipulate.

Sooner I realized, he doesn't need to be big to be brave, because bravery is the courage found in the heart...

She would never be caught unprepared again, she swore to herself. She would never trust. Never love. Never put faith in other human beings again. She would learn all she could of the shape and substance of the world, and she would find a way to survive in it.

This is for kids.." "No, this is for everyone... though we're kids within ourselves.

He never even thought of tenderness and emotion; his considerations about Durham remained cold. Durham didn't dislike him, he was sure. That was all he wanted. One thing at a time. He didn't so much as have hopes, for hope distracts, and he had a great deal to see to.

You know, it’s been said that you should never meet your heroes, but I say better to know whom you place on that pedestal, don’t you agree?

When they sat it was nearly always in the same position – Maurice in a chair, and Durham at his feet, leaning against him. In the world of their friends this attracted no notice. Maurice would stroke Durham’s hair.

Sometimes, I am the beast in the darkness. Sometimes, I am the ghost.

She realized that she had naïvely believed that the workings of the world revolved around her and her family. Never before had she acknowledged that somebody else’s life might alter hers.

A witch is a wise woman aligned with the Earth, a healer. It’s a word that demands destigmatization at this crucial time in the planet’s history when we desperately need the medicine of the feminine to rise and rebalance humanity and the Earth.’ – SARAH DURHAM WILSON Being

Dont ask what the meaning of life is. You define it!

You've got to understand that the world's full of men who are little better than animals.... Problem is that a man is different from an animal. In the quiet afterward we know when we've done wrong.

The Hollow is your home and there’s no me beyond the edge

Sometimes a strikeout means that the slugger’s girlfriend just ran off with the UPS driver. Sometimes a muffed ground ball means that the shortstop’s baby daughter has a pain in her head that won’t go away. And handicapping is for amateur golfers, not ballplayers. Pitchers don’t ease off on the cleanup hitter because of the lumps just discovered in his wife’s breast. Baseball is not life. It is a fiction, a metaphor. And a ballplayer is a man who agrees to uphold that metaphor as though lives were at stake. Perhaps they are. I cherish a theory I once heard propounded by G.Q. Durham that professional baseball is inherently antiwar. The most overlooked cause of war, his theory runs, is that it’s so damned interesting. It takes hard effort, skill, love and a little luck to make times of peace consistently interesting. About all it takes to make war interesting is a life. The appeal of trying to kill others without being killed yourself, according to Gale, is that it brings suspense, terror, honor, disgrace, rage, tragedy, treachery and occasionally even heroism within range of guys who, in times of peace, might lead lives of unmitigated blandness. But baseball, he says, is one activity that is able to generate suspense and excitement on a national scale, just like war. And baseball can only be played in peace. Hence G.Q.’s thesis that pro ball-players—little as some of them may want to hear it—are basically just a bunch of unusually well-coordinated guys working hard and artfully to prevent wars, by making peace more interesting.

I sleep lightly and tread to keep my head out of the sea of dreams.

She realized that the world was a dance of a million fates. In this dance she was but a single soul.

One must find rhythms others’ ears don’t hear.

College families' were a new concept to me. At Durham, students in their second and third years paired up to act as a mentor team, or 'college parents' for a small group of incoming freshers, who were their 'college children'. I kind of loved it. It made a romance out of something absolutely mundane, which was something that I was incredibly experienced at.

You're not going to die in a rickshaw in Durham.

Worst of any, however, were the fertilizer men, and those who served in the cooking rooms. These people could not be shown to the visitor,--for the odor of a fertilizer man would scare any ordinary visitor at a hundred yards, and as for the other men, who worked in tank rooms full of steam, and in some of which there were open vats near the level of the floor, their peculiar trouble was that they fell into the vats; and when they were fished out, there was never enough of them left to be worth exhibiting,--sometimes they would be overlooked for days, till all but the bones of them had gone out to the world as Durham's Pure Leaf Lard!

I believe that if you speak from your heart each time you open your mouth, you cannot go wrong.

Haven’t you ever read something and felt like it was written just for you?

Outbreaks of magic started all kinds of ways. Maybe a tank coming in from the quarantined zone didn’t get hosed down properly. Maybe, like some people said, the refugees brought it up with them from Atlantia, the virus hiding out in someone’s blood or in a juicy peach pie. But when magic infected the slums of west Durham, in the proud sovereign nation of Carolinia, it didn’t matter how it got there. Everybody still died.

Miscommunication is the scandal that motivates the very concept of communication in the first place.

I needed pain; I needed blood. Judge me if you want, but I’m talking about my own body. My own catharsis. About marking myself with beauty instead of ugliness.

That little owl with a call as steady as my heartbeat was telling anyone who would listen, ‘I am here.’ We were listening. We’re listening still.

Durham Cathedral, like all great buildings of antiquity, is essentially just a giant pile of rubble held in place by two thin layers of dressed stone. But—and here is the truly remarkable thing—because that gloopy mortar was contained between two impermeable outer layers, air couldn’t get to it, so it took a very long time—forty years to be precise—to dry out. As it dried, the whole structure gently settled, which meant that the cathedral masons had to build doorjambs, lintels, and the like at slightly acute angles so that they would ease over time into the correct alignments. And that’s exactly what happened. After forty years of slow-motion sagging, the building settled into a position of impeccable horizontality, which it has maintained ever since. To me, that is just amazing—the idea that people would have the foresight and dedication to ensure a perfection that they themselves might never live to see.

I hadn't met a lot of openly queer people before. There'd been a crowd of people at school who Pip hung out with with from time to time, but there could only have been about seven or eight of them, max. I don't know what I expected. There was no particular type of person, no particular style or look. But they were all so friendly. There were a few obvious friendship groups, but mostly, people were happy to chat to whoever. They were all just themselves. I don't know how to explain it. There was no pretending. No hiding. No faking. In this little restaurant hidden away in the old streets of Durham, a bunch of queer people could all show up and just be. I don't think I'd understood what that was like until that moment.

Now here we are, smiling, all that stuff behind us, slates clean, fresh air, ready to laugh over new jokes.

There’s beauty in the unknown, but there’s also beauty in truth,” she answered. “I guess some of us like to believe … and some of us just have to know.

They were proof that it could all work out even if it shouldn’t. Proof that different didn’t necessarily equal broken, even when the math seemed so sure.

In reaching for stone, wood, water, and feather, I found my own edges softening, scars fading.

Every now and then it's nice to pick your head up from your book, reacquaint yourself with the world around you, take a hard pass, and immediately go right back to reading.

This is a society in which toxic patriarchal masculinity grooms us to stay terrified little girls who serve men and appease conflict and never build the confidence to listen to our inner wisdom.

jealousies and hatreds; there was no loyalty or decency anywhere about it, there was no place in it where a man counted for anything against a dollar. And worse than there being no decency, there was not even any honesty. The reason for that? Who could say? It must have been old Durham in the beginning; it was a heritage which the self-made merchant had left to his son, along with his millions.

Durham no podía esperar. La gente los rodeaba, pero con ojos que se habían vuelto intensamente azules murmuró: —Que te amo. Maurice se escandalizó, se horrorizó. Se estremeció hasta las raíces de su alma burguesa, y exclamó:"¡Oh, maldición!" Las palabras, los gestos, surgían de él antes de que pudiera evitarlo.

Open scatter is more fundamental than coupled sharing; it is the stuff from which, on splendid occasions, dialogue may arise.

To fatten a pig, a farmer will feed him well. The pig must think his life a paradise, never knowing he gorges himself so that he will be fatter for the knife later on.

The enemy always uses one or both of his two primary tactics in dealing with the church. His first tactic is to send in counterfeit spirits.

the innocence of a world where the rules were easy to follow

Respect flows two ways and can mean as much to the giver as to the one receiving.

Imagine, they said, living an existence where the words out of your mouth changed the very fabric of the world around you.

They fed him a diet made up entirely of knowledge.

The world was not to be trusted. Loved persons were always stolen. Dreams always squashed. That was life as she understood it.

Again he thought of his own losses, and he wondered why it was that the things a person had lost— or might lose— defined him more than the things he yet possessed.

Those times in life when a mask falls away and everything makes sense, even if just for a moment, you pay attention. Sometimes they involve an actual blindfold.

I was starting to realize that just living simply, even deliberately, is not going wild.

My mind flits around like that, darts and dives and twitches at times, and other times perches immobile, faintly ruffling in the breeze.

Do you belong to the city or the wilds? Are you human or animal? Are you sane or lunatic? Both? Neither? Yes.

It seems to me that it is the lens rather than the specimen that determines what we see … what we fear … what we pine for … what we try to kill or otherwise hold ever dear.

Maybe you were never actually lonely for other people. All along, maybe you were lonely for the earth.

This something sparked on a little island off the rocky coast of Maine would grow from a twinge to a hunger to a need you would spend years, a decade, a lifetime pursuing.

Was I hiding from reality, on the outside looking in? Or, was I living my reality, on the outside looking out?

A careful study of the court records of the northern English city of Durham suggests that “you” had replaced “thou” as the normal form of address in spoken English by about 1575.

Books you have read share a deep ontological similarity with books you haven't: both can be profoundly fuzzy. At times books you haven't read shine more brightly than those you have, and often reading part of a book will shape your mind more decisively than reading all of it; there is no inherent epistemic superiority to having read a book or not having read it.

Who can explain just how he became the person he is? It does not happen this day or that one. It is a gradual evolution that happens largely unheralded. He simply was who he now was.

lanning a wedding can be murder. Planning weddings for a living is nothing short of suicide. “Is there a patron saint for wedding consultants? Because I think after this wedding, I just might

Life’s a funny thing, isn’t it? You spend it waiting for that one blinding moment of clarity … that one magic thread that sews it all together. And then one day, you wake up an older thing than you ever thought you’d be, and you realize you’ve wasted your days looking for something that was never really there at all. There are no solutions in this life, Eamon. There are only moments in the sun … and moments in the shade … and the trick of it all is to understand where you’re standing before it’s too late to call it home. I wish you peace in the fields beyond, because you will not find it here.

The managers and superintendents and clerks of Packingtown were all recruited from another class, and never from the workers; they scorned the workers, the very meanest of them. A poor devil of a bookkeeper who had been working in Durham's for twenty years at a salary of six dollars a week, and might work there for twenty more and do no better, would yet consider himself a gentleman, as far removed as the poles from the most skilled worker on the killing beds; he would dress differently, and live in another part of the town, and come to work at a different hour of the day, and in every way make sure that he never rubbed elbows with a laboring man. Perhaps this was due to the repulsiveness of the work; at any rate, the people who worked with their hands were a class apart, and were made to feel it.

Here was Durham's, for instance, owned by a man who was trying to make as much money out of it as he could, and did not care in the least how he did it; and underneath him, ranged in ranks and grades like an army, were managers and superintendents and foremen, each one driving the man next below him and trying to squeeze out of him as much work as possible. And all the men of the same rank were pitted against each other; the accounts of each were kept separately, and every man lived in terror of losing his job, if another made a better record than he. So from top to bottom the place was simply a seething caldron of

She was a nightmare of beauty and menace living right there above them, a being part raptor, part human, part divine. She knew without question that she could sweep down on them and inflict upon all of them a terrible vengeance if she wished. She had the capacity for violence within her, residing beside her heart.

Scourge of the Betrayer is as harsh and profane as anything RichardK Morgan or Joe Abercrombie serves up. Fortunately, Saylards has the skills -and the humor - to pull it off. Snappy dialogue, political intrigue, shadycharacters, gripping action sequences, a poor guy that has no idea what he’sgotten himself into... Yeah, there’s a lot to like about this debut.

Did you know that more than 65% of the people who label themselves “born again Christians” seldom or never read the Bible? Of those who do read the Bible, did you know that the majority only read it during church or organized group Bible studies?

The movie Bull Durham was written by a man who grew up in the faith and was disillusioned by the church. It begins with the female lead saying, “I believe in the church of baseball. I've tried all the major religions and most of the minor ones … and the only church that truly feeds the soul is baseball.” Later in the movie the Kevin Costner character recites his creed: “I believe in the soul … the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch … I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in long, slow, deep, soft kisses that last three days.”4 My wife liked that one. A little too much. My wife is a Kevin Costner fundamentalist. Kevin said it; she believes it; that settles it.

After Jurgis had been there awhile he would know that the plants were simply honeycombed with rottenness of that sort—the bosses grafted off the men, and they grafted off each other; and some day the superintendent would find out about the boss, and then he would graft off the boss. Warming to the subject, Tamoszius went on to explain the situation. Here was Durham's, for instance, owned by a man who was trying to make as much money out of it as he could, and did not care in the least how he did it; and underneath him, ranged in ranks and grades like an army, were managers and superintendents and foremen, each one driving the man next below him and trying to squeeze out of him as much work as possible. And all the men of the same rank were pitted against each other; the accounts of each were kept separately, and every man lived in terror of losing his job, if another made a better record than he. So from top to bottom the place was simply a seething caldron of jealousies and hatreds; there was no loyalty or decency anywhere about it, there was no place in it where a man counted for anything against a dollar. And worse than there being no decency, there was not even any honesty. The reason for that? Who could say? It must have been old Durham in the beginning; it was a heritage which the self-made merchant had left to his son, along with his millions.

What sense does it make that one god would create all? Why would he create … rabbits. Soft and cuddly, yes? And then create foxes that hunt them down and tear them to shreds? Why do that? That god is no god to the rabbits. He is a demon that favors their enemies. But nor does that god honor the fox, for he creates other animals bigger than it. Creates wolves. Creates you Acacians. Even you, Rialus, could kill a fox if you were lucky and had the right weapon.” “And if the creature was lame or old,” Jàfith added.

- Durham, amo-te. Riu-se cinicamente. - É verdade: sempre te amei... - Boa-noite, boa-noite. - Digo-te, é verdade...vim cá para tu dizer...exactamente da mesma maneira que tu: sempre fui como os Gregos sem o saber. - Desenvolve esta afirmação. As palavras abandoram-no de imediato. Só conseguia falar quando não lhe era pedido. p.74, MAURICE, E.M. FORSTER -------------------------------------------------- Durham, I love you." He laughed bitterly. "I do — I have always —" "Good night, good night." "I tell you, I do — I came to say it — in your very own way — I have always been like the Greeks and didn't know." "Expand the statement." Words deserted him immediately. He could only speak when he was not asked to.

No one stops to question why boys are never the objects of the gaze; why, if being on display is so empowering, males don't embrace this form of sexual expression, too.

The wise say many things, enough to confuse the rest of us

Or was it just the eyes of the watcher that gave character to the world?

The moment you begin to consider having more than someone else, you begin to fear you might end up with less than someone else.

This really isn’t fair,” Mena said. “What is ‘fair’?” asked one of the watchers called Devoth. “I don’t know this word.

No, I haven’t decided where to live yet.” He thought, I haven’t decided if I want to live yet.

She said, A king is the best and worst of men. Of course. Of course.

I’d never seen such impeccably coiffed chest hair. He must have used mousse.

It’s a mass agitation of ambitious cocks!

Even his own mother had passed during childbirth, so to a young man who couldn’t possibly know any better, the gift of a lonesome life was always to be valued over the death of living otherwise. That sentiment was etched so deeply in his heart that it took Eamon years of painful adjustment to understand that nobody really cared enough about him to wish him any sort of hereditary mortal harm, and though that gave him some solace from his childhood anxieties, it also made him feel somehow more insignificant. There were times when he wished he was the center of some grand conspiracy, if only to feel like the focus of something other than a handful of utility bills at the end of the month. Times when he wished that somebody would pay enough attention to hate him. Anything really.

When John Robinson, Bishop of Woolwich, published Honest to God in 1963, stating that he could no longer subscribe to the old personal God “out there,” there was uproar in Britain. A similar furor has greeted various remarks by David Jenkins, Bishop of Durham, even though these ideas are commonplace in academic circles. Don Cupitt, Dean of Emmanuel College, Cambridge, has also been dubbed “the atheist priest”: he finds the traditional realistic God of theism unacceptable and proposes a form of Christian Buddhism, which puts religious experience before theology. Like Robinson, Cupitt has arrived intellectually at an insight that mystics in all three faiths have reached by a more intuitive route. Yet the idea that God does not really exist and that there is Nothing out there is far from new.

This magnificent poem [Exodus 15:1-21] has been much analyzed, dissected, scanned, and compared with an array of supposed precedent and counterpart works. It has been variously attributed and dated, and forced into a wide variety of forms and Sitze im Leben. There have been attempts to determine some parts of it as early and some parts as late, and to describe therefrom an evolution of both its form and its content. None of these attempts has been entirely successful. The best of them have amounted to no more than helpful suggestions, while the worst of them have been fiction bordering fantasy.

Jesus said, “Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves. Therefore be wise as serpents and harmless as doves.” (Matthew 10:16) To be fully prepared for spiritual warfare, we need to be trained on the weapons of our warfare. The primary purpose of this book is to provide this training for you and your church. The first step you must take is to educate yourselves, then to remain alert and aware.

The TVC universe will never collapse. Never. A hundred billion years, a hundred trillion; it makes no difference, it will always be expanding. Entropy is not a problem. Actually, ‘expanding’ is the wrong word; the TVC universe grows like a crystal, it doesn’t stretch like a balloon. Think about it. Stretching ordinary space increases entropy; everything becomes more spread out, more disordered. Building more of a TVC cellular automaton just gives you more room for data, more computing power, more order. Ordinary matter would eventually decay, but these computers aren’t made out of matter. There’s nothing in the cellular automaton’s rules to prevent them from lasting forever. Durham’s universe - being made of the same “dust” as the real one, merely rearranged itself. The rearrangement was in time as well as space; Durham’s universe could take a point of space-time from just before the Big Crunch, and follow it with another from ten million years BC. And even if there was only a limited amount of “dust” to work with, there was no reason why it couldn’t be reused in different combinations, again and again. The fate of the TVC automaton would only have to make internal sense - and the thing would have no reason, ever, to come to an end.

Winterset Hollow was one of those timeless, inimitable books that was simple and pure and patently entertaining on the surface, but so much more underneath. It spoke about life and loss and struggle, fear and bravery and sacrifice in a way that was so approachable it was almost easy to miss, and it immediately wormed its way under Eamon's skin and stayed there like good, strong ink from the day he first opened the cover.

House Rule Number One: Don't stop, talk or questions ask, beware of men wearing masks. House Rule Number Two: He may run and he may hide, but Shady must never go outside. House Rule Number Three: Lock your door with the Black Moon's rise, don't come out until morning shines. House Rule Number Four: Worn under sun and under moon, never remove the O'Chanters' rune. House Rule Number Five: If four fails and the bogs again crawl, don't break one, break them all.

It is a paradox that men will gladly devote time every day for many years to learn a science or an art; yet will expect to win a knowledge of the gospel, which comprehends all sciences and arts, through perfunctory glances at books or occasional listening to sermons. The gospel should be studied more intensively than any school or college subject. They who pass opinion on the gospel without having given it intimate and careful study are not lovers of truth, and their opinions are worthless.

Schopenhauer remarked that buying books would be better if you could also buy the time to read them. Books are different from natural objects in that they can overwhelm us in a way that nature’s abundance rarely does. There has always been too much to know; the universe is thoroughly baffling. When we walk into a bookstore, it is easy to feel oppressed by the amount of knowledge on tap. Why don’t we have the same feeling in a forest, at the beach, in a big city, or simply in breathing? There is more going on in our body every second than we will ever understand, and yet we rarely feel bothered by our inability to know it all. Books, however, are designed to make demands on our attention and time: they hail us in ways that nature rarely does. A thing is what Heidegger calls zunichtsgedrängt, relaxed and bothered about nothing. A plant or stone is as self-sufficient as the Aristotelian god or Heidegger’s slacker things, but books are needy. They cry out for readers as devils hunger for souls.

I was happy to oblige. As I posed with this family of four, I asked the names of the boys. “Tell the man,” their mother counseled. The ten-year-old smiled and said, “I’m Crash.” I looked at his younger brother and said, “I’m afraid to ask.” The boy looked up and said, “Yep, I’m Nuke.

John Durham, while he waited for Madame de Malrive to draw on her gloves, stood in the hotel doorway looking out across the Rue de Rivoli at the afternoon brightness of the Tuileries gardens. His European visits were infrequent enough to have kept unimpaired the freshness of his eye, and he was always struck anew by the vast and consummately ordered spectacle of Paris: by its look of having been boldly and deliberately planned as a background for the enjoyment of life, instead of being forced into grudging concessions to the festive instincts, or barricading itself

Nor could I fail to recall my friendship with Howard K. Beale, professor of American History at the University of North Carolina. There he was, one day in 1940, standing just outside my room in the men’s dormitory at St. Augustine’s, in his chesterfield topcoat, white silk scarf, and bowler hat, with his calling card in hand, perhaps looking for a silver tray in which to drop it. Paul Buck, whom he knew at Harvard, had told him to look me up. He wanted to invite me to his home in Chapel Hill to have lunch or dinner and to meet his family. From that point on we saw each other regularly. After I moved to Durham, he invited me each year to give a lecture on “The Negro in American Social Thought” in one of his classes. One day when I was en route to Beale’s class, I encountered one of his colleagues, who greeted me and inquired where I was going. I returned the greeting and told him that I was going to Howard Beale’s class to give a lecture. After I began the lecture I noticed that Howard was called out of the class. He returned shortly, and I did not give it another thought. Some years later, after we both had left North Carolina, Howard told me that he had been called out to answer a long-distance phone call from a trustee of the university who had heard that a Negro was lecturing in his class. The trustee ordered Beale to remove me immediately. In recounting this story, Beale told me that he had said that he was not in the habit of letting trustees plan his courses, and he promptly hung up. Within a few years Howard accepted a professorship at the University of Wisconsin. A favorite comment from Chapel Hill was that upon his departure from North Carolina, blood pressures went down all over the state.

Then it all came together—every particle of discontent, nostalgia, and resistance in England—fusing in the North. The North: two words to describe a territory and a state of mind. England was conquered and civilized from the South upwards, and as one approached the borders of Scotland—first through Yorkshire and then Durham and finally Northumberland—everything dwindled. The great forests gave way first to stunted trees and then to open, windswept moors; the towns shrank to villages and then to hamlets; cultivated fields were replaced by empty, wild spaces. Here the Cistercian monasteries flourished, they who removed themselves from the centers of civilization and relied on manual labour as a route to holiness. The sheep became scrawnier and their wool thicker, and the men became lawless and more secretive, clannish. Winter lasted eight months and even the summers were grey and raw, leading Northumberland men to claim they had “two winters—a white one and a green one.” Since ancient times these peripheral lands had gone their own way, little connected to anything further south. A few great warrior families—the Percys, the Nevilles, the Stanleys—had claimed overlordship of these dreary, cruel wastes, and through them, the Crown had demanded obeisance. But

There are women who stay in the underworld through no fault of their own: it is a byproduct of a male-dominated society. It goes like this: If women are not initiated into Mother through rites of passage, which are the tools of rebirth, they are unable to evolve. They age, but they never transform. They do not mature or self-actualize, so they remain infantilized and dependent.

Growing up, I was often told that you can’t just pick and choose which parts of the Bible you want to believe—it’s all or nothing. But every preacher, parent, picture book publisher, and Christian game developer must at least decide which Christian stories they want to highlight, just as all God-fearing Christians walk around with different versions of the Good Book in their heads, each impression distorted by the believer’s tastes, interpretations, and imperfect memory.

Richard Durham was a black writer whose credits in radio would run a gamut from Irna Phillips serials to prestige plays for such as The CBS Radio Workshop. But in Destination Freedom Durham wrote from the heart. Anger simmers at the foundation of these shows, rising occasionally to a wail of agony and torment. On no other show was the term “Jim Crow” used as an adjective, if at all: nowhere else could be heard the actual voices of black actors giving life to a real black environment. There were no buffoons or toadies in Durham’s plays: there were heroes and villains, girlfriends and lovers, mothers, fathers, brutes; there were kids named Joe Louis and Jackie Robinson, who bucked the tide and became kings in places named Madison Square Garden and Ebbets Field. The early historical dramas soon gave way to a more contemporary theme: the black man’s struggle in a modern racist society. Shows on Denmark Vesey, Frederick Douglass, and George Washington Carver gave way to Richard Wright’s Black Boy and the lives of Louis Armstrong, Fats Waller, and Nat King Cole. The Tiger Hunt was a war story, of a black tank battalion; Last Letter Home told of black pilots in World War II. The stories pulled no punches in their execution of the common theme, making Destination Freedom not only the most powerful but the only show of its kind.

Matthew 22:4 (“Everything is ready. Come to the wedding feast”), he addresses the issue of “those to whom the offer is made”: It is not one or two, or some few that are called, not the great only, nor the small only, not the holy only, nor the profane only, but ye are all bidden; the call comes to all and every one of you in particular, poor and rich, high and low, holy and profane. Then Durham continues: We make this offer to all of you, to you who are Atheists, to you that are Graceless, to you that are Ignorant, to you that are Hypocrites, to you that are Lazy and Lukewarm, to the civil and to the profane, we pray, we beseech, we obtest you all to come to the wedding; Call (saith the Lord) the blind, the maimed, the halt, &c and bid them all come, yea, compel them to come in. Grace can do more and greater wonders than to call such; it can not only make the offer of marriage to them, but it can make up the match effectually betwixt Christ and them. We will not, we dare not say, that all of you will get Christ for a Husband; but we do most really offer him to you all, and it shall be your own fault if ye want him and go without him. And therefore, before we proceed any further, we do solemnly protest, and before God and his Son Jesus Christ, take instruments this day, that this offer is made to you and that it is told to you in his name, that the Lord Jesus is willing to match with you, even the profanest and most graceless of you, if ye be willing to match with him, and he earnestly invites you to come to the wedding.28

What’s this thing?” The boss looked at the package with rolling eyes. “We don’t know. It was left in the bin outside.” “We answered a call on the desk phone and we were told to go look outside in the bin, the voice said.” The boss looked at the shit standing by the chair. “You answering calls now? Thought you two should be working along side Ritterman?” He looked at Ritterman. “I told them to man the phone.” Said Ritterman. “ Ritterman. These two are new detectives who need experience. I said take `em with you, always.” “First they need to learn the basics of handling strange objects.” Ritterman held up his hands. “Don’t do anything without a pair of these.” He waived his hands like a singer on stage. The two shit heads looked embarrassed. “Anyway, what? Who’s gonna open this and find out what’s inside? Ritterman?” Asked the boss. “Boss, maybe we should hand it over to forensic first and they can test it for substance. Before any of us get some horrible shit on our hands.