Gazette Quotes

It is a lie to write in such way as to be rewarded by fame offered you by some snobbish quasi-literary groups in the intellectual gazettes.

We only live once, so it's fine as long as we enjoy ourselves"~Ruki, The GazettE

Never regret something that once made you smile" Kai-The GazettE "My motto is “Impossible Is Nothing.” It’s like “If you set your mind to it, you can do anything.” Gazette was something where impossible was nothing." Ruki-the GazettE "Something unexpected always happens. Maybe you'll die tomorrow. So I try to live each second to the fullest. "Reita-The GazettE "Yeah, just do it. Even though you did not achieve what you dreamt of, you won't lose anything. You'll be gaining something great by just doing it. Having your dreams come true comes second. Take the first move, work for your dream." Aoi-The GazettE "When life gives you a hundred reasons to cry, show life that you've a thousand reasons to smile." Uruha- The GazettE, my favorite qoute

Whatever happens, don’t give up on your dreams! Be strong so that no one can control you!” ~Uruha The GazettE

My Iris,” he said, “there is no question that you are the brave one, all on your own. You were writing to me for weeks before I roused the courage to write you back. You walked into the Gazette and took me and my ego on without a blink. You were the one who came to the front lines, unafraid to look into the ugly face of war long before I did. I don’t know who I would be without you, but you have made me in all ways better than I ever was or could have ever hoped to be.

That gin-soaked little Nazi from the Gazette got pissed off when you didn’t doff your hat for the national anthem,” Burgin explained. “He kept bitching about you to the guy in charge of the press box, then he got that asshole who works for him all cranked up and they started talking about having you arrested.” “Jesus creeping shit,” I muttered. “Now I know why I got out of sportswriting.

My business in the Capital is concluded,’ Tamarind explained. ‘Kindly send a letter to Mr Kohlrabi’s lodgings, telling him that I require his presence as soon as he is back in the city, then bring me a dish of tea, the latest issue of the Gazette and a bag of dead cats.

As opposition leader, [Stephen Harper] wrote in the Montreal Gazette in the year before he came to power: 'Information is the lifeblood of a democracy. Without adequate access to key information about government policies and programs, citizens and parliamentarians cannot make informed decisions and incompetent or corrupt governments can be hidden under a cloak of secrecy.' When he became prime minister, his attitude appeared to undergo a shift of considerable proportions. It often took the Conservatives twice as long as previous governments to handle access requests. Sometimes it took six months to a year.

Tightwaddery without creativity is deprivation. When there is a lack of resourcefulness, inventiveness, and innovation, thrift means doing without. When creativity combines with thrift you may be doing it without money, but you are not doing without.

The relationship between ethics and thrift can be summed up in one sentence. It is wrong to save money at the expense of others. Period.

These, then, were the images in my mental gazetteer of Savannah: rum-drinking pirates, strong-willed women, courtly manners, eccentric behavior, gentle words, and lovely music. That and the beauty of the name itself: Savannah.

The manufacturing of most goods harms the environment in one way or another. The culprit is not the factory, but it is we who buy what it produces. Therefore we should think carefully about items we purchase.

I was a tongue, a gazette. The bearer of "the truth of the whispers." I knew of hollowed books, trunks with false bottoms, and the meanders of secret corridors. I knew how to open hidden drawers in your escritoire, how to unseal your letter and make you think no one had touched it. If I had been in your room, I left the hair around your lock the way you had tied it. If you trusted the silence of the night, I had overheard your secrets.

I want to protect the fans. I want to protect this music scene. We must protect the world before it gets any worse. And I can only do that through the band, the GazettE" -Reita

Think how the joys of reading a Gazette Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: Or if these do not move you, don't forget Such doom may be your own in aftertimes.

I want a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends forth a new one, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,        The age discovers he is not the true one;

Many Hollywoodians may have good taste and an interest in culture but they certainly hide it. They're afraid they'll be branded as sissies if someone finds out they write poetry or own a painting. They're so timid about culture.

Once in every few publishing seasons there is an Event. For no apparent reason, the great heart of the Public gives a startled jump, and the public's great purse is emptied to secure copies of some novel which has stolen into the world without advance advertising and whose only claim to recognition is that The Licensed Victuallers' Gazette has stated in a two-line review that it is 'readable'.

There you stand, lost in the infinite series of the sea, with nothing ruffled but the waves. The tranced ship indolently rolls; the drowsy trade winds blow; everything resolves you into languor. For the most part, in this tropic whaling life, a sublime uneventfulness invests you; you hear no news; read no gazettes; extras with startling accounts of commonplaces never delude you into unnecessary excitements; you hear of no domestic afflictions; bankrupt securities; fall of stocks; are never troubled with the thought of what you shall have for dinner - for all your meals for three years and more are snugly stowed in casks, and your bill of fare is immutable. (Moby Dick chap 35 p 153)

Aoi: "The old-man [referring to himself] has no physical strength… Let me rest a bit longer *laughs*

Holmes was charming and gracious, but something about him made Belknap uneasy. He could not have defined it. Indeed, for the next several decades alienists and their successors would find themselves hard-pressed to describe with any precision what it was about men like Holmes that could cause them to seem warm and ingratiating but also telegraph the vague sense that some important element of humanness was missing. At first alienists described this condition as “moral insanity” and those who exhibited the disorder as “moral imbeciles.” They later adopted the term “psychopath,” used in the lay press as early as 1885 in William Stead’s Pall Mall Gazette, which described it as a “new malady” and stated, “Beside his own person and his own interests, nothing is sacred to the psychopath.” Half a century later, in his path-breaking book The Mask of Sanity, Dr. Hervey Cleckley described the prototypical psychopath as “a subtly constructed reflex machine which can mimic the human personality perfectly. … So perfect is his reproduction of a whole and normal man that no one who examines him in a clinical setting can point out in scientific or objective terms why, or how, he is not real.

his business. On Denman's death he returned to his former trade, and shortly set up a printing house of his own from which he published "The Pennsylvania Gazette," to which he contributed many essays, and which he made a medium for agitating a variety of local reforms. In 1732 he began to issue his famous "Poor Richard's Almanac" for the enrichment of which he borrowed or composed those pithy utterances of worldly wisdom which are the basis of a large part of his popular reputation.

What about our right to an education?" Linda's quote [in the Davisburg Gazette] reads. "No one talks about that. The colored people aren't the only ones who should have rights.

On 6 January 1839 the Gazette de France made the momentous announcement of Louis Daguerre’s discovery of a photographic process,

If you will tell me why, or how, people fall in love, I will tell you why, or how, I happened to take up aviation. – louise thaden, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette,

I want a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends forth a new one, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, The age discovers he is not the true one:

Once every woman was a living gazette, a font of delicious slanders cast in beautiful language.

I decline utterly to be impartial as between the fire brigade and the fire,’ proclaimed Churchill defending the partisanship of the British Gazette in a Commons debate on the Strike on 7 July. ‘When you are in a great difficulty and in a fight of this kind, however unfortunate it may be, it is absolutely no use people pretending they do not know what side they are on.

the King gave orders that the page's salary was to be doubled. As he received no salary at all this was not of much use to him, but it was considered a great honor, and was duly published in the Court Gazette.

Et que faudrait-il faire ? Chercher un protecteur puissant, prendre un patron, Et comme un lierre obscur qui circonvient un tronc Et s'en fait un tuteur en lui léchant l'écorce, Grimper par ruse au lieu de s'élever par force ? Non, merci ! Dédier, comme tous ils le font, Des vers aux financiers ? se changer en bouffon Dans l'espoir vil de voir, aux lèvres d'un ministre, Naître un sourire, enfin, qui ne soit pas sinistre ? Non, merci ! Déjeuner, chaque jour, d'un crapaud ? Avoir un ventre usé par la marche ? une peau Qui plus vite, à l'endroit des genoux, devient sale ? Exécuter des tours de souplesse dorsale ?... Non, merci ! D'une main flatter la chèvre au cou Cependant que, de l'autre, on arrose le chou, Et donneur de séné par désir de rhubarbe, Avoir son encensoir, toujours, dans quelque barbe ? Non, merci ! Se pousser de giron en giron, Devenir un petit grand homme dans un rond, Et naviguer, avec des madrigaux pour rames, Et dans ses voiles des soupirs de vieilles dames ? Non, merci ! Chez le bon éditeur de Sercy Faire éditer ses vers en payant ? Non, merci ! S'aller faire nommer pape par les conciles Que dans des cabarets tiennent des imbéciles ? Non, merci ! Travailler à se construire un nom Sur un sonnet, au lieu d'en faire d'autres ? Non, Merci ! Ne découvrir du talent qu'aux mazettes ? Être terrorisé par de vagues gazettes, Et se dire sans cesse : "Oh ! pourvu que je sois Dans les petits papiers du Mercure François" ?... Non, merci ! Calculer, avoir peur, être blême, Préférer faire une visite qu'un poème, Rédiger des placets, se faire présenter ? Non, merci ! non, merci ! non, merci ! Mais... chanter, Rêver, rire, passer, être seul, être libre, Avoir l'œil qui regarde bien, la voix qui vibre, Mettre, quand il vous plaît, son feutre de travers, Pour un oui, pour un non, se battre, - ou faire un vers ! Travailler sans souci de gloire ou de fortune, À tel voyage, auquel on pense, dans la lune ! N'écrire jamais rien qui de soi ne sortît, Et modeste d'ailleurs, se dire : mon petit, Sois satisfait des fleurs, des fruits, même des feuilles, Si c'est dans ton jardin à toi que tu les cueilles ! Puis, s'il advient d'un peu triompher, par hasard, Ne pas être obligé d'en rien rendre à César, Vis-à-vis de soi-même en garder le mérite, Bref, dédaignant d'être le lierre parasite, Lors même qu'on n'est pas le chêne ou le tilleul, Ne pas monter bien haut, peut-être, mais tout seul !

For the most part, in this tropic whaling life, a sublime uneventfulness invests you; you hear no news; read no gazettes; extras with startling accounts of commonplaces never delude you into unnecessary excitements; you hear of no domestic afflictions; bankrupt securities; fall of stocks; are never troubled with the thought of what you shall have for dinner— for all your meals for three years and more are snugly stowed in casks, and your bill of fare is immutable.

The dieter will fail as long as he hates low-calorie food. The would-be athlete will fail as long as he hates exertion. The tightwad wannabe will fail as long as he views frugality as a lifestyle he has to endure, or was forced into by circumstance.

The next day Elizabeth was anxiously waiting in the hall on Promenade Street for deliveries of both the newspapers. The Times exonerated Ian by splashing across the front page: MURDEROUS MARQUESS ACTUALLY HARRASSED HUSBAND The Gazette humorously remarked that “the Marquess of Kensington is deserving, not only of an acquittal, but of a medal for Restraint in the Face of Extreme Provocation!” Beneath both those stories were lengthy and-for Elizabeth-deeply embarrassing accounts of her ridiculous explanations of her behavior.

Sometimes Father brought home Rivington’s Gazette from Verplancks. It was a Tory paper and he wasn’t supposed to have it; it was illegal, so he kept it hidden. It made me wonder how the war was going to make us freer if you couldn’t read any paper you wanted any more.

After you marry him—study him. If he is secretive—trust him. When he is talkative—listen to him. If he is jealous—cure him. If he favours society—accompany him. Let him think you understand him—but never let him think you manage him. —Western Gazette (August 1, 1930) Alice

I came here in a car like everybody else. In a car filled with shit I thought meant something and shortly thereafter tossed on the street: DVDs, soon to be irrelevant, a box of digital and film cameras for a still-latent photography talent, a copy of On the Road that I couldn’t finish, and a Swedish-modern lamp from Walmart. It was a long, dark drive from a place so small you couldn’t find it on a generous map...Does anyone come to New York clean? I’m afraid not….Yes, I’d come to escape, but from what? The twin pillars of football and church? The low, faded homes on childless cul-de-sacs? Morning of the Gazette and boxed doughnuts? The sedated, sentimental middle of it? It didn’t matter. I would never know exactly, for my life, like most, moved only imperceptibly and definitely forward...Let’s say I was born in late June of 2006 when I came over the George Washington Bridge at seven a.m. with the sun circulating and dawning, the sky full of sharp corners of light, before the exhaust rose, before the heat gridlocked in, windows unrolled, radio turned up to some impossibly hopeful pop song, open, open, open.

You can’t seriously believe in the curse.” “I believe in anything that might get me killed. Better safe than sorry is my motto.

So how do we sort it all out? The relationship between ethics and thrift can be summed up in just one sentence. It is wrong to save money at the expense of others. Period.

I didn’t find my husband by staying with the wrong guys.” She motions to the waiter to bring her another beer. “If this guy isn’t right for you, move on.

One gleeful headline drives me to the floor, kneeling, and all paint turns to gazette paper and all memory collides into photographs we could not say happened, that is us, that’s what we did. When you lose you become ancient but this time no one will rake over these bodies gently collecting their valuables, their pots, their hearts and intestines, their papers and what they could bury. This civilisation will be dug up to burn all its manifestos. No tender archaeologist will mend our furious writings concluding, “They wanted sweat to taste sweet, that is all, some of them played music for nothing, some of them wrote poems to tractors, rough hands, and rough roads, some sang for no reason at all to judge by their condition.

When I first came here copyboys wouldn't have been allowed to eat in the canteen with journalists." A smile twitched at one corner of his mouth. "I was a copyboy once, at the Lanarkshire Gazette. Can ye believe that?" He left a space for her to respond, so she did. "Can I believe that a man as important as you was ever a copyboy or that Lanarkshire has its own gazette?

In spite of himself, and although he often replied to what Mathilde was saying, he could not tear his soul away from the thought of the bedroom at Verrieres. He saw the Besancon Gazette on the orange taffeta counterpane. He saw the pure white hands clutching it convulsively; he saw Mme de Renal crying... He traced the course of each tear drop as it ran down her lovely face.

even in the Loyalist press inside British-occupied New York City by February 1779. The Royal Gazette, praising Benedict Arnold for being "more distinguished for valor and perseverance" than any other American, including Washington, wondered why the enemy was wasting his "military talents" and had permitted him "thus to fall into the unmerciful fangs of the executive council of Pennsylvania."1

The Cocoa-Nut Tree at Covent Garden? Why it's the finest confectioner in the capital and sells bonbons, macaroons, candied fruits, and ices,' I said in my proper reading voice. I had long studied their advertisement in Mr Pars' London Gazette after he'd left it by the kitchen fire. It was a beautiful advertisement, with little drawings of sugar cones, ice pots, and tiny men attending wondrous stoves.

In his competition with Bradford, Franklin had one big disadvantage. Bradford was the postmaster of Philadelphia, and he used that position to deny Franklin the right, at least officially, to send his Gazette through the mail. Their ensuing struggle over the issue of open carriage was an early example of the tension that often still exists between those who create content and those who control distribution systems.

Jim purchased a brand-new book called How to Fix Damn Near Anything. In horror I discovered a $15.95 price tag on the inside of the jacket. Upon interrogation he confessed that he purchased it at the thrift shop for $.25.

In this tropic whaling life, a sublime uneventfulness invests you; you hear no news; read no gazettes; extras with startling accounts of commonplaces never delude you into unnecessary excitements; you hear of no domestic afflictions; bankrupt securities; fall of stocks; are never troubled with the thought of what you shall have for dinner—for all your meals for three years and more are snugly stowed in casks, and your bill of fare is immutable.

For the most part, in this tropic whaling life, a sublime uneventfulness invests you; you hear no news; read no gazettes; extras with startling accounts of commonplaces never delude you into unnecessary excitements; you hear of no domestic afflictions; bankrupt securities; fall of stocks; are never troubled with the thought of what you shall have for dinner—for all your meals for three years and more are snugly stowed in casks, and your bill of fare is immutable.

The bitter irony was that Franklin had become a fervent advocate of smallpox vaccinations after they had been ridiculed in the New England Courant when Franklin worked there for his brother. In the years preceding Franky’s birth, he had editorialized in the Pennsylvania Gazette in support of inoculations and published statistics showing how effective they were. In 1730, for example, he wrote an account of a Boston epidemic in which most people who had been vaccinated were spared.

During World War II, the U.S. military was shipping so much meat overseas to feed troops and allies that a domestic shortage loomed. According to a 1943 Breeder’s Gazette article, the American soldier consumed close to a pound of meat a day. Beginning that year, meat on the homefront was rationed—but only the mainstream cuts. You could have all the organ meats you wanted. The army didn’t use them because they spoiled more quickly and because, as Life put it, “the men don’t like them.” Civilians

I was Pittsburgh Young, Black, and Successful. Pittsburgh Young, Black, and Successful meant Friday evenings downstairs at Savoy in the Strip District, and perhaps a table upstairs if it was your birthday. It meant Alpha and Que boat rides, NEED Scholarship dinners, and Ronald H. Brown Leadership Awards galas. It meant a stint on the Urban League Young Professionals executive board. It meant brunches at the LeMont on Mother’s Day and the Grand Concourse when you wanted to stunt. It meant frequent pictures in the Post-Gazette and the City Paper

Some centuries ago they had Raphael and Michael Angelo; now we have Mr. Paul Delaroche, and all because we are progressing. You brag of your Opera houses; ten Opera houses the size of yours could dance a saraband in a Roman amphitheatre. Even Mr. Martin, with his lame tiger and his poor gouty lion, as drowsy as a subscriber to the Gazette, cuts a pretty small figure by the side of a gladiator from antiquity. What are your benefit performances, lasting till two in the morning, compared with those games which lasted a hundred days, with those performances in which real ships fought real battles on a real sea; when thousands of men earnestly carved each other -- turn pale, O heroic Franconi! -- when, the sea having withdrawn, the desert appeared, with its raging tigers and lions, fearful supernumeraries that played but once; when the leading part was played by some robust Dacian or Pannonian athlete, whom it would often have been might difficult to recall at the close of the performance, whose leading lady was some splendid and hungry lioness of Numidia starved for three days? Do you not consider the clown elephant superior to Mlle. Georges? Do you believe Taglioni dances better than did Arbuscula, and Perrot better than Bathyllus? Admirable as is Bocage, I am convinced Roscius could have given him points. Galeria Coppiola played young girls' parts, when over one hundred years old; it is true that the oldest of our leading ladies is scarcely more than sixty, and that Mlle. Mars has not even progressed in that direction. The ancients had three or four thousand gods in whom they believed, and we have but one, in whom we scarcely believe. That is a strange sort of progress. Is not Jupiter worth a good deal more than Don Juan, and is he not a much greater seducer? By my faith, I know not what we have invented, or even wherein we have improved.

Why, I don’t exactly know about that,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘I am—’ ‘Not buff, Mr. Pickwick,’ interrupted Pott, drawing back his chair, ‘your friend is not buff, sir?’ ‘No, no,’ rejoined Bob, ‘I’m a kind of plaid at present; a compound of all sorts of colours.’ ‘A waverer,’ said Pott solemnly, ‘a waverer. I should like to show you a series of eight articles, Sir, that have appeared in the Eatanswill Gazette. I think I may venture to say that you would not be long in establishing your opinions on a firm and solid blue basis, sir.’ ‘I dare say I should turn very blue, long before I got to the end of them,’ responded Bob.

Sadly, the dark echoes of our time in Iraq still resonate with many of Echo Company, who battle with the effects of post-traumatic stress (PTS). Including me. I never refer to it as a disorder. A good friend of mine, Charles Adam Walker, taught me that. He wrote an article called “Postcombat Residue” in the December 2013 issue of the Marine Corps Gazette. It shaped the way I look at PTS today. Adam uses a prophetic analogy, likening the effects and residue of combat to those on a stained, well-used coffee mug. Indelibly tainted, yet still capable of performing its intended use day in and day out—but the residue will always remain.

Newspapers printed stories of variable accuracy, beginning with a twenty-six-line account in the loyalist Boston News-Letter on April 20, deploring “this shocking introduction to all the miseries of a civil war.” The New-Hampshire Gazette’s headline read, “Bloody News.” In barely three weeks, the first reports of the day’s action would reach Charleston and Savannah. Lurid rumors spread quickly: of grandfathers shot in their beds, of families burned alive, of pregnant women bayoneted. Americans in thirteen colonies were alarmed, aroused, angry. “The times are very affecting,” Reverend Ezra Stiles told his diary in Rhode Island on April 23.

But no literature grows in isolation, and looking at the history of Indian writing in English is like looking at a silent movie made up of static postcards of Delhi, or Mumbai, or any other thronged Indian city: the life, the colour, the hubbub of hundreds of eager new writers and high-minded editors, peacocking poets and fiery-eyed pamphleteers, all of that has been bled out of collective memory. In the same year that Dean Mahomet wrote his Travels, the Madras Hircarrah (1794) started up, joining Hicky’s Bengal Gazette (1780) and the India Gazette (1781); the first in a flood of periodicals and journals that would breathlessly, urgently take the news of India running along from one province to another. The

They later adopted the term “psychopath,” used in the lay press as early as 1885 in William Stead’s Pall Mall Gazette, which described it as a “new malady” and stated, “Beside his own person and his own interests, nothing is sacred to the psychopath.” Half a century later, in his path-breaking book The Mask of Sanity, Dr. Hervey Cleckley described the prototypical psychopath as “a subtly constructed reflex machine which can mimic the human personality perfectly. … So perfect is his reproduction of a whole and normal man that no one who examines him in a clinical setting can point out in scientific or objective terms why, or how, he is not real.” People exhibiting this purest form of the disorder would become known, in the jargon of psychiatry, as “Cleckley” psychopaths.

Born on January 17, 1706, he inhabited this planet until April 17, 1790. His talents were many and he was known to be a polymath. Being a politician and a “Founding Father of the United States” was just one of what he was known for. An author, printer, inventor and freemason he is known to have invented the Franklin stove and bifocal eye glasses. He published the Pennsylvania Gazette and the Poor Richard’s Almanac. A founder of the University of Pennsylvania he also served as the first United States Ambassador to France and Governor of Pennsylvania. About 20,000 people attended his funeral. He was interred in Christ Church Burial Ground in Philadelphia near the fence so that he could be close to where the ladies walked. His wit and sharp mind gave us many of his quotes!

In the Classic of Mountain and Seas, an ancient “gazetteer” that takes its reader on a field seminar through unfamiliar lands, the calls of the curious animals and birds that are encountered are in fact their own names. They (like most things) cry out what they would be. And having access to the “name” of something is not only a claim to knowing it in a cognitive sense, but more importantly, to knowing how to deal with it. Naming is most importantly the responsiveness that attends familiarity. Hence such knowing is a feeling and a doing: it is value-added. It is naming without the kind of fixed reference that allows one to “master” something, a naming that does not arrest or control. It is a discriminating naming that in fact appreciates rather than depreciates a situation.

Stanford commencement address; Andy Behrendt, “Apple Computer Mogul’s Roots Tied to Green Bay,” (Green Bay) Press Gazette, Dec. 4, 2005; Georgina Dickinson, “Dad Waits for Jobs to iPhone,” New York Post and The Sun (London), Aug. 27, 2011; Mohannad Al-Haj Ali, “Steve Jobs Has Roots in Syria,” Al Hayat, Jan. 16, 2011; Ulf Froitzheim, “Porträt Steve Jobs,” Unternehmen, Nov. 26, 2007. Silicon Valley: Interviews with Steve Jobs, Laurene Powell. Jobs, Smithsonian oral history; Moritz, 46; Berlin, 155–177; Malone, 21–22. School: Interview with Steve Jobs. Jobs, Smithsonian oral history; Sculley, 166; Malone, 11, 28, 72; Young, 25, 34–35; Young and Simon, 18; Moritz, 48, 73–74. Jobs’s address was originally 11161 Crist Drive, before the subdivision was incorporated into the town from the county.

under Polly’s eyes, her gaunt cheeks, and her shaking hands as she poured the tea. *   *   * Cat watches as her cab winds its way through the streets of Soho, thinking she would never stoop to that. It’s the lowest of the low. We’re supposed to be features writers, not news hacks. But behind her mutterings, behind her disdain, as unwilling as she is to admit it, lies a ribbon of insecurity. The Daily Gazette is the best paper she could ever imagine working for, but Cat, just past her mid-twenties, has yet to prove herself with a big story. She’s proving adept at the smaller fluff pieces—How to wear a scarf in thirty different ways! How to put the romance back into your marriage! (As if she would know anything about that.) How to revamp your wardrobe in five easy steps! But the big interviews, the ones that Poppy

the Illinois Gazette, published some handy “Rules for Wives,” among them these: A good wife will always receive her husband with smiles, leaving nothing undone to render home agreeable and gratefully reciprocate kindness and attention. She will study to discover means to gratify his inclinations in regard to food and cooking; in the management of her family; in her dress, manner, and deportment. She will in everything reasonably comply with his wishes, and as far as possible, anticipate them. These were rules that Sarah and Jay and most of their contemporaries took for granted. But there were rules for husbands, too. A good husband will always regard his wife as his equal, treat her with kindness, respect, and attention and never address her with an air of authority as if she were, as some husbands appear to regard their wives, mere housekeepers. Keseberg seems to have been one of those husbands who paid attention only to the first set of rules. Increasingly,

As the Harvard Gazette summarized in 2017: Close relationships, more than money or fame, are what keep people happy throughout their lives. . . . Those ties protect people from life’s discontents, help to delay mental and physical decline, and are better predictors of long and happy lives than social class, IQ, or even genes. That finding proved true across the board among both the Harvard men and the inner-city participants.[7] Men who’d had warm childhood relationships with their parents earned more as adults than men whose parent-child bonds were more strained. They were also happier and less likely to suffer dementia in old age. People with strong marriages suffered less physical pain and emotional distress over the course of their lives. Individuals’ close friendships were more accurate predictors of healthy aging than their cholesterol levels. Social support and connections to a community helped insulate people against disease and depression. Meanwhile, loneliness and disconnection, in some cases, were fatal.

Tina, who worked at the Hampshire Gazette and drank like a journalist in a movie, was loudly musing about getting her shadow altered to have a cat tail. “Guys love a tail,” Tina proclaimed, to protests by nearly everyone. Aimee thought Tina shouldn’t consider fetishes along a gender binary. Ian wanted it to be known that he thought it was disgusting, and that men did not want to molest animals. The artist agreed it was kind of hot, but his comic was about saucy mice. Charlie told Tina that maybe she had misunderstood what “getting some tail” actually meant. “Mermaids, right?” Vince asked, in such a clueless just-joined-the-conversation tone that it was hard to know if he was joking, or if he’d misheard the earlier part. It didn’t matter. Everyone laughed. It was funny either way. As Charlie poured more bourbon—with ice this time—she decided she was glad she’d come. She was just buzzed enough to feel an expansive warmth for the people in the room. See, she was fine being a normal person and doing normal-person things.

Suppose I am told that a certain sample of wheat comes from Lahore, and that I do not know where Lahore is. I look it out in the gazetteer and ascertain that it is the capital of the Punjab.… If I know nothing of geography, I shall get up with the idea that Lahore is in India, and that will be about all. If I have been properly trained in geography, the word Punjab will … probably connote to me many things. I shall see Lahore in the northern angle of India. I shall picture it in a great plain, at the foot of a snowy range, in the midst of the rivers of the Indus system. I shall think of the monsoons and the desert, of the water brought from the mountains by the irrigation canals. I shall know the climate, the seed time, and the harvest. Kurrachee and the Suez Canal will shine out from my mental map. I shall be able to calculate at what time of the year the cargoes will be delivered in England. Moreover, the Punjab will be to me the equal in size and population of a great European country, a Spain or an Italy, and I shall appreciate the market it offers for English exports.7

The Fifth Congress had recessed in July 1798 without declaring war against France, but in the last days before adjourning it did approve other measures championed by Abigail Adams that aided in the undoing of her husband—the Alien and Sedition Acts. Worried about French agents in their midst, the lawmakers passed punitive measures changing the rules for naturalized citizenship and making it legal for the U.S. to round up and detain as “alien enemies” any men over the age of fourteen from an enemy nation after a declaration of war. Abigail heartily approved. But it was the Sedition Act that she especially cheered. It imposed fines and imprisonment for any person who “shall write, print, utter, or publish…any false, scandalous and malicious writing or writings against the government of the United States, or either house of the Congress of the United States, or the President of the United States” with the intent to defame them. Finally! The hated press would be punished. To Abigail’s way of thinking, the law was long overdue. (Of course she was ready to use the press when it served her purposes, regularly sending information to relatives and asking them to get it published in friendly gazettes.) Back in April she had predicted to her sister Mary that the journalists “will provoke measures that will silence them e’er long.” Abigail kept up her drumbeat against newspapers in letter after letter, grumbling, “Nothing will have an effect until Congress pass a Sedition Bill, which I presume they will do before they rise.” Congress could not act fast enough for the First Lady: “I wish the laws of our country were competent to punish the stirrer up of sedition, the writer and printer of base and unfounded calumny.” She accused Congress of “dilly dallying” about the Alien Acts as well. If she had had her way, every newspaperman who criticized her husband would be thrown in jail, so when the Alien and Sedition Acts were passed and signed, Abigail still wasn’t satisfied. Grumping that they “were shaved and pared to almost nothing,” she told John Quincy that “weak as they are” they were still better than nothing. They would prove to be a great deal worse than nothing for John Adams’s political future, but the damage was done. Congress went home. So did Abigail and John Adams.

But the most powerful arguments in favor of "a tragic optimism" are those which in Latin are called argumenta ad hominem. Jerry Long, to cite an example, is a living testimony to "the defiant power of the human spirit," as it is called in logotherapy.8 To quote the Texarkana Gazette, "Jerry Long has been paralyzed from his neck down since a diving accident which rendered him a quadriplegic three years ago. He was 17 when the accident occurred. Today Long can use his mouth stick to type. He 'attends' two courses at Community College via a special telephone. The intercom allows Long to both hear and participate in class discussions. He also occupies his time by reading, watching television and writing." And in a letter I received from him, he writes: "I view my life as being abundant with meaning and purpose. The attitude that I adopted on that fateful day has become my personal credo for life: I broke my neck, it didn't break me. I am currently enrolled in my first psychology course in college. I believe that my handicap will only enhance my ability to help others. I know that without the suffering, the growth that I have achieved would have been impossible.

that every man in Eatanswill, conscious of the weight that attached to his example, felt himself bound to unite, heart and soul, with one of the two great parties that divided the town — the Blues and the Buffs. Now the Blues lost no opportunity of opposing the Buffs, and the Buffs lost no opportunity of opposing the Blues; and the consequence was, that whenever the Buffs and Blues met together at public meeting, town-hall, fair, or market, disputes and high words arose between them. With these dissensions it is almost superfluous to say that everything in Eatanswill was made a party question. If the Buffs proposed to new skylight the market-place, the Blues got up public meetings, and denounced the proceeding; if the Blues proposed the erection of an additional pump in the High Street, the Buffs rose as one man and stood aghast at the enormity. There were Blue shops and Buff shops, Blue inns and Buff inns — there was a Blue aisle and a Buff aisle in the very church itself. Of course it was essentially and indispensably necessary that each of these powerful parties should have its chosen organ and representative: and, accordingly, there were two newspapers in the town — the Eatanswill Gazette and the Eatanswill Independent; the former advocating Blue principles, and the latter conducted on grounds decidedly Buff. Fine newspapers they were.

NOBEL PRIZE–WINNER, British poet laureate, essayist, novelist, journalist, and short story writer Rudyard Kipling wrote for both children and adults, with many of his stories and poems focusing on British imperialism in India. His works were popular during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, even though many deemed his political views too conservative. Born on December 30, 1865, in Bombay, India, Kipling had a happy early childhood, but in 1871 he and his sister were sent to a boarding house called Lorne Lodge in Southsea, where he spent many disappointing years. He was accepted in 1877 to United Services College in the west of England. In 1882, he returned to his family in India, working as a journalist, associate editor, and correspondent for many publications, including Civil and Military Gazette, a publication in Lahore, Pakistan. He also wrote poetry. He found great success in writing after his 1889 return to England, where he was eventually appointed poet laureate. Some of his most famous writings, including The Jungle Book, Kim, Puck of Pook’s Hill, and Rewards and Fairies, saw publication in the 1890s and 1900s. It was during this period that he married Caroline Balestier, the sister of an American friend and publishing colleague. The couple settled in Vermont, where their two daughters were born. After a quarrel with his brother-in-law and grumblings from his American neighbors about his controversial political views, Kipling and his family returned to England. There, Caroline gave birth to a son in 1896. Tragically, their eldest daughter died in 1899. Later, Kipling’s son perished in battle during World War I. In 1907 Kipling was awarded the Nobel Prize. He died on January 18, 1936, and his ashes are buried in Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey.

The enemy won some points at the very beginning. On both of the two days preceding his remarks about Worth, Hitchcock notes that American deserters had been shot while crossing the Rio Grande. Probably they were just bored with army rations but there was some thought that they might be responding to a proclamation of General Ampudia’s which spies had been able to circulate in camp. Noting the number of Irish, French, and Polish immigrants in the American force, Ampudia had summoned them to assert a common Catholicism, come across the river, cease “to defend a robbery and usurpation which, be assured, the civilized nations of Europe look upon with the utmost indignation,” and settle down on a generous land bounty. Some of them did so, and the St. Patrick Battalion of American deserters was eventually formed, fought splendidly throughout the war, and was decimated in the campaign for Mexico City — after which its survivors were executed in daily batches.… This earliest shooting of deserters as they swam the Rio Grande, an unwelcome reminder that war has ugly aspects, at once produced an agitation. As soon as word of it reached Washington, the National Intelligencer led the Whig press into a sustained howl about tyranny. In the House J. Q. Adams rose to resolve the court-martial of every officer or soldier who should order the killing of a soldier without trial and an inquiry into the reasons for desertion. He was voted down but thereafter there were deserters in every Whig speech on the conduct of the war, and Calm Observer wrote to all party papers that such brutality would make discipline impossible. But a struggling magazine which had been founded the previous September in the interest of sports got on a sound financial footing at last. The National Police Gazette began to publish lists of deserters from the army, and the War Department bought up big editions to distribute among the troops. Taylor sat in his field works writing prose. Ampudia’s patrols reconnoitered the camp and occasionally perpetrated an annoyance. Taylor badly needed the Texas Rangers, a mobile force formed for frontier service in the Texas War of Independence and celebrated ever since. It was not yet available to him, however, and he was content to send out a few scouts now and then. So Colonel Truman Cross, the assistant quartermaster general, did not return from one of his daily rides. He was still absent twelve days later, and Lieutenant Porter, who went looking for him with ten men, ran into some Mexican foragers and got killed.

Real deprivation is not being able to afford the things that are high on your priority list.

Of all the great heavyweights of modern times, Joe Frazier was the unluckiest. He had to share an era with both Ali and Foreman.

Athenaeum, or Jonathan Edwards at thirteen entering Yale College, and while yet of a tender age shining in the horizon of American literature; while the same age finds H. W. Longfellow writing for the Portland Gazette. At fourteen John Quincy Adams was private secretary to Francis H. Dana, American Minister to Russia; at fifteen Benjamin Franklin was writing for the New England Courant, and at an early age became a noted journalist. Benjamin West at sixteen had painted "The Death of Socrates," at seventeen George Bancroft had won a degree in history, Washington Irving had gained

Patriot writers attempted to inculcate civic virtue through allusions to classical history, frequently Greek but even more often Roman, and ancient glory. A revolutionary writer in the Virginia Gazette, wishing to “secure this valuable blessing [of classical virtue], and learn the greatness of its worth,” wished to recommend to his “countrymen, especially the younger part of it, a thorough acquaintance with these records of illustrious liberty, the histories of Greece and Rome.” The writer intended this recommendation not as a theoretical or academic exercise, but rather as a spur to urge Americans to “a glorious emulation of those virtues, which have immortalized their names.” Classical examples would surely instill Americans with “a just hatred of tyranny and zeal for freedom,” and induce them to follow “the godlike actions of those heroes and patriots, whose lives are delivered down to us by Plutarch.

A generation is growing up around us which has never been disciplined, either at home or at school,’ said the Gazette in 1888. ‘So they grow up like wild asses’ colts, and are the despair of law and order.’159

The government of the day was able to use the prefectorial system to “make” elections. The benign side of this system involved funneling patronage through public institutions to local landlords or creditors, who would redistribute it to their clients. On the other side, however, local bosses or caciques could with utter impunity rely upon violence to deal with the recalcitrant because the judicial system was entirely under the control of the central government and closed its eyes to such election practices. This system of electoral management was so reliable that Spain’s official government gazette was able to report accurately the results of elections before they were actually held!

By contrast with this extensive Republican use of the press, the Federalists did little. Presuming that they had a natural right to rule, they had no need to stir up public opinion, which was what demagogues did in exploiting the people’s ignorance and innocence.37 Federalist editors and printers of newspapers like John Fenno and his Gazette of the United States did exist, but most of these supporters of the national government were conservative in temperament; they tended to agree with the Federalist gentry that artisan-printers had no business organizing political parties or engaging in electioneering.

sustainably produced. A less obvious suggestion includes creating a “price book.” Kept by thrifty housewives for decades and made famous by Amy Dacyczyn, author of The Tightwad Gazette,10 a price book enables you to recognize quickly the cheapest

Still appearing spent, Logan pulled back slightly to look at her. “What?” A little surprised at her own outburst, she gave her lower lip a sheepish nibble even as she smiled at him. “I’m just wondering if my butt is going to be tattooed with the ink from the front page of the Destiny Gazette.” Logan gave her a grin she felt all the way to her soul. “If the front page is on your butt, that might make reading it a lot more fun.

don’t you

How could she have been so stupid? That wasn’t like her. That was the kind of thing other people did. People who weren’t as cautious; weren’t as clever. Those were the people who were alive one second and dead the next. And in the Gazette the day after that.

ANTONIO PONTÓN’S TRIAL made front page headlines across major newspapers. On April 17, 1915, the Schenectady Gazette headline read, “Trial of Ponton on the Charge of Committing one of Most Startling Murders in History of County.

Gazette described his competitor,

Jealousy is a horrible emotion, envy even worse. * * * Cat likes to think of herself as a nice person. But right now she is sitting in the back of a taxi snarling every time she thinks of Louise, and the glory now being heaped upon her since she got an exclusive interview with Polly Goldman, in which the soap star talked about her drug bust. “Louise isn’t even a bloody news journalist,” Cat mutters to herself, as the cabby slides the glass panel open, half-turning his head and shouting: “What was that love? Did you say something?” “Nothing.” Cat attempts a bright smile before sinking back in her seat and muttering some more. She wouldn’t mind if it had been anyone else on the women’s desk who had scored an exclusive, but Louise! She isn’t even staff, she’s freelance for God’s sake. Not a full-time freelance like Cat, but God knows she’d like to be. As soon as Louise walked into the office, Cat saw how ambitious she was, willing to do whatever it took to get a story. She didn’t get an exclusive with Polly Goldman by asking for it, she doorstepped her as if she worked for the News of the World rather than the Daily Gazette! When the story came out, everyone gathered excitedly round Louise asking how she did it. She said she sat on the doorstep overnight, pressing the intercom every hour, explaining to Polly Goldman how her mortification over being caught could be assuaged by offering an exclusive to the Daily Gazette. By morning, poor Polly Goldman, exhausted by being woken up every hour by this woman who clearly wasn’t going away, reluctantly asked her in, and boom! The story was Louise’s, complete with descriptions of the bags under Polly’s eyes, her gaunt cheeks, and her shaking hands as she poured the tea. * * *

Cat watches as her cab winds its way through the streets of Soho, thinking she would never stoop to that. It’s the lowest of the low. We’re supposed to be features writers, not news hacks. But behind her mutterings, behind her disdain, as unwilling as she is to admit it, lies a ribbon of insecurity. The Daily Gazette is the best paper she could ever imagine working for, but Cat, just past her mid-twenties, has yet to prove herself with a big story. She’s proving adept at the smaller fluff pieces—How to wear a scarf in thirty different ways! How to put the romance back into your marriage! (As if she would know anything about that.) How to revamp your wardrobe in five easy steps! But the big interviews, the ones that Poppy

Jealousy is a horrible emotion, envy even worse. * * * Cat likes to think of herself as a nice person. But right now she is sitting in the back of a taxi snarling every time she thinks of Louise, and the glory now being heaped upon her since she got an exclusive interview with Polly Goldman, in which the soap star talked about her drug bust. “Louise isn’t even a bloody news journalist,” Cat mutters to herself, as the cabby slides the glass panel open, half-turning his head and shouting: “What was that love? Did you say something?” “Nothing.” Cat attempts a bright smile before sinking back in her seat and muttering some more. She wouldn’t mind if it had been anyone else on the women’s desk who had scored an exclusive, but Louise! She isn’t even staff, she’s freelance for God’s sake. Not a full-time freelance like Cat, but God knows she’d like to be. As soon as Louise walked into the office, Cat saw how ambitious she was, willing to do whatever it took to get a story. She didn’t get an exclusive with Polly Goldman by asking for it, she doorstepped her as if she worked for the News of the World rather than the Daily Gazette! When the story came out, everyone gathered excitedly round Louise asking how she did it. She said she sat on the doorstep overnight, pressing the intercom every hour, explaining to Polly Goldman how her mortification over being caught could be assuaged by offering an exclusive to the Daily Gazette. By morning, poor Polly Goldman, exhausted by being woken up every hour by this woman who clearly wasn’t going away, reluctantly asked her in, and boom! The story was Louise’s, complete with descriptions of the bags under Polly’s eyes, her gaunt cheeks, and her shaking hands as she poured the tea. * * * Cat watches as her cab winds

Franklin, "the most accomplished American of his age and the most influential in inventing the type of society America would become."[4] Franklin became a newspaper editor, printer, and merchant in Philadelphia, becoming very wealthy, writing and publishing Poor Richard's Almanack and The Pennsylvania Gazette. Franklin was interested in science and technology, and gained international renown for his famous experiments. He played a major role in establishing the University of Pennsylvania and Franklin & Marshall College and was elected the first president of the American Philosophical Society. Franklin became a national hero in America when he spearheaded the effort to have Parliament repeal the unpopular Stamp Act. An accomplished diplomat, he was widely admired among the French as American minister to Paris and was a major figure in the development of positive Franco-American relations.

Jealousy is a horrible emotion, envy even worse. * * * Cat likes to think of herself as a nice person. But right now she is sitting in the back of a taxi snarling every time she thinks of Louise, and the glory now being heaped upon her since she got an exclusive interview with Polly Goldman, in which the soap star talked about her drug bust. “Louise isn’t even a bloody news journalist,” Cat mutters to herself, as the cabby slides the glass panel open, half-turning his head and shouting: “What was that love? Did you say something?” “Nothing.” Cat attempts a bright smile before sinking back in her seat and muttering some more. She wouldn’t mind if it had been anyone else on the women’s desk who had scored an exclusive, but Louise! She isn’t even staff, she’s freelance for God’s sake. Not a full-time freelance like Cat, but God knows she’d like to be. As soon as Louise walked into the office, Cat saw how ambitious she was, willing to do whatever it took to get a story. She didn’t get an exclusive with Polly Goldman by asking for it, she doorstepped her as if she worked for the News of the World rather than the Daily Gazette! When the story came out, everyone gathered excitedly round Louise asking how she did it. She said she sat on the doorstep overnight, pressing the intercom every hour, explaining to Polly Goldman how her mortification over being caught could be assuaged by offering an exclusive to the Daily Gazette. By morning, poor Polly Goldman, exhausted by being woken up every hour by this woman who clearly wasn’t going away, reluctantly asked her in, and boom! The story was Louise’s, complete with descriptions of the bags under Polly’s eyes, her gaunt cheeks, and her shaking hands as she poured the tea. * * * Cat watches

World rather than the Daily Gazette! When the story came out, everyone gathered excitedly round Louise asking how she did it. She said she sat on the doorstep overnight, pressing the intercom every hour, explaining to Polly Goldman how her mortification over being caught could be assuaged by offering an exclusive to the Daily Gazette. By morning, poor Polly Goldman, exhausted by being woken up every hour by this woman who clearly wasn’t going away, reluctantly asked her in, and boom! The story was Louise’s, complete with descriptions of the bags under Polly’s eyes, her gaunt cheeks, and her shaking hands as she poured the

Cat watches as her cab winds its way through the streets of Soho, thinking she would never stoop to that. It’s the lowest of the low. We’re supposed to be features writers, not news hacks. But behind her mutterings, behind her disdain, as unwilling as she is to admit it, lies a ribbon of insecurity. The Daily Gazette is the best paper she could ever imagine working for, but Cat, just past her mid-twenties, has yet to prove herself with a big story. She’s proving adept at the smaller fluff pieces—How to wear a scarf in thirty different ways! How to put the romance back into your marriage! (As if she would know anything about that.) How to revamp your wardrobe in five easy steps!

At first, the smoke in the Fiction stacks was as pale as onionskin. Then it deepened to dove gray. Then it turned black. It wound around Fiction A through L, curling in lazy ringlets. It gathered into soft puffs that bobbed and banked against the shelves like bumper cars. Suddenly, sharp fingers of flame shot through the smoke and jabbed upward. More flames erupted. The heat built. The temperature reached 451 degrees and the books began smoldering. Their covers burst like popcorn. Pages flared and blackened and then sprang away from their bindings, a ream of sooty scraps soaring on the updraft. The fire flashed through Fiction, consuming as it traveled. It reached for the cookbooks. The cookbooks roasted. The fire scrambled to the sixth tier and then to the seventh. Every book in its path bloomed with flame. At the seventh tier, the fire banged into the concrete ceiling, doubled back, and mushroomed down again to the sixth tier. It poked around, looking for more air and fuel. Pages and book jackets and microfilm and magazines crumbled and vanished. On the sixth tier, flames crowded against the walls of the stacks, then decided to move laterally. The fire burned through sixth-tier shelves and then nosed around until it found the catwalk that connected the northeast stacks to the northwest stacks. It erupted into the catwalk and hurried along until it reached the patent collection stored in the northwest stacks. It gripped the blocky patent gazettes. They were so thick that they resisted, but the heat gathered until at last the gazettes smoked, flared, crackled, and dematerialized. Wind gusts filled the vacuum made by the fire. Hot air saturated the walls. The floor began to fracture. A spiderweb of hot cracks appeared. Ceiling beams spalled, sending chips of concrete shooting in every direction. The temperature reached 900 degrees, and the stacks' steel shelves brightened from gray to white, as if illuminated from within. Soon, glistening and nearly molten, they glowed cherry red. Then they twisted and slumped, pitching their books into the fire.

The most worthy of all compassion in the world is a gazette that hides or protests against the truth; it is nothing more than a resounding cymbal. Oma

Cable news is no more a town crier or gazetteer of the nation. It has gained the propensity of impinging on the power of the judiciary. Media trials during the prime time outmaneuvered and delineated the irreverent image to the power of judicial review. However, the presence of journalistic vulturism, sycophancy has downplayed their role as the fourth pillar of the state.

They caused the greatest disappointment,” wrote the Szolnok Gazette while the trials were taking place. “Instead of witches, demons and crafty murderers we see only kind, poor, old and broken women on the benches . . . Life has brought them little joy. However, they did not deserve anything better.

She looked like an African goddess…a full round face holding an even rounder set of eyes, all of it as dark as that gorgeous unruly hair. She had it in one thick crown of braids that circled her head. When my eyes moved down, the scenery got even better: one of those gazette necks, a compact chest, an invisible waist, and then what can only be described as a Bantu butt. I can’t remember anything about her legs or the turn of her ankles, my journey ended at that butt. Only a fool keeps traveling when the roads brought him to paradise.

Emch wrote, 'And if those agencies protect any of that information from the intrusive journalistic nose of the Gazette-Mail, then its confidential nature must be respected.' Intrusive journalistic nose wasn’t meant as a compliment, but our editors and reporters seized on the phrase in Twitter postings anyway.

What about after? Getting back through the lobby, I mean. Assuming you’ll need to leave at some point. For the bachelorette party, if nothing else.” “That’s not until the weekend.” He grinned. “Your point being?” “You know,” she said, tipping up on her toes and kissing his cheek, “I like it when you do the thinking.” “Well, I was going to mention that, but--” She pinched his butt, making him laugh. “Careful or I’ll swing you up and carry you up to my room over my shoulder.” Kerry spluttered a laugh, then said, “You know, it’s almost worth doing, just to blow everyone’s minds.” He pulled her closer. “Don’t tempt me.” She batted her lashes again. “But I thought you liked it when I tempted you.” Now he slid his hand behind her and gave her a little pinch, making her skip a little step but laugh at the same time. “I guess I had that coming.” “There’s a lot I’d like to do that has coming in the description.” “Okay, okay, so assuming I will have to leave your pirate’s lair at some point, then yes, how to do that without being the front-page story of the gossip gazette.” She looked up at him, her expression serious. “I could always come down the ramp carrying a box of tiddledywinks. Then no one would suspect for sure.” “A real funny one, you are,” he said dryly. “I was revisiting the whole black spandex cat burglar idea. Maybe you could sneak out under cover of darkness, shimmy down a rope from my window.” “Okay, you’ve given that particular scenario way too much thought.” They were still laughing when they reached the end of the pier.

Abner Larrabee’s wife, who is a social leader in town, wailed piteously in a letter to the editor of the Mammoth Falls Gazette that her prize peonies had been stoned to death just before they reached the full glory of their bloom. She complained bitterly about “wanton boys who create mischief with their teen-age pranks” and wondered when the mayor was going to do something about the problem of juvenile delinquency.

She was thinking she needed to post a letter in the Lonely Hearts column in the Silver Town Gazette: She-wolf seeking male wolf who believes in ghosts. No others need apply.

In early America, fear of failure loomed largest on Sunday. Monday morning dawned about the year i8oo. By then, "failure" meant an entrepreneurial fall from grace-"a breaking in business," as Caleb Alexander's Columbian Dictionary duly noted. Failure was an incident, not an identity, in lexicons and common usage. In awkward but typical phrasing, the Pennsylvania Gazette reported in 1793, "They have not yet indeed made a failure, but they can do very little business." Early Americans "made" failures, but it took a while before failures made-or unmade-men.