James Webb Quotes

An idea is nothing more or less than a new combination of old elements (Quoted from Vilfredo Pareto)

In learning any art the important things to learn are, first, Principles, and second, Method. This is true of the art of producing ideas.

If they didn't want to know, they shouldn't have asked.

We tend to forget that words are, themselves, ideas. They might be called ideas in a state of suspended animation. When the words are mastered the ideas tend to come alive again.

Thus, words being symbols of ideas, we can collect ideas by collecting words. The fellow who said he tried reading the dictionary but couldn't get the hang of the story simply missed the point: namely, that it is a collection of short stories.

I settled in to watch a Dragnet rerun. I bought the judge in four of Jack Webb’s drunk-driving beefs. I shtupped Jack’s ex-wife, soaring songstress Julie London.

Self-discipline is never simple.

The production of ideas is just as definite a process as the production of Fords.” —James Webb Young

You know what we've lost, William? We've lost a sense of responsibility, at least on the individual level. We have too many people like Mark who believe that the government owes them total, undisciplined freedom. If everyone thought that way, there would be no society. We're so big, so strong now, that people seem to have forgotten that a part of our strength comes from each person surrendering a portion of his individual urges to the common good. And the common good is defined by who wins at the polls, and the policies they make. Like it or lump it.

When his parents announced the newest rules to Jamal, he defiantly announced back to them that, as a matter of principle, he would not be "manipulated or forced into complying with a Fascist parenting style.

My war is not as simple as yours was, Father. People seem to question their obligation to serve on other than their own terms. But enough of that. I fight because we have always fought. It doesn't matter who.

They have become spoilers because in their view America’s political elites, both Republican and Democrat, have grown together into an almost indiscernible “hybrid royalty” that offers them little to choose from in terms of how the nation is actually being governed.

In such a wild, uncharted place the book of God was vital, for it nourished their spirit and laid boundaries for their conduct. Other subjects simply had no relevance. Trigonometry and calculus would not help them find their way among the mountain trails. Adam Smith's economics were of no consequence in the matter of planting corn and breeding cattle. Nor did they need the essays of Plato or the plays of Shakespeare to teach them how to shoot a rifle, or to make clothes from animal skins, or to clear away the wilderness with their own bare hands.

I roamed L.A. by night. I got repeatedly rousted by LAPD. I sensed that a cop-street fool compact existed. I behaved accordingly. I denied all criminal intent. I acted respectfully. My height-to-weight ratio and unhygienic appearance caused some cops to taunt me. I sparred back. Street schtick often ensued. I mimicked jailhouse jigs like some WASP Richard Pryor. Rousts turned into streetside yukfests. They played like Jack Webb unhinged. I started to dig the LAPD. I started to grok cop humor. I couldn't quite peg it as performance art. I hadn't read Joseph Wambaugh yet.

I don't actually breakdance.

The Northern army was most often run like a business, solving a problem. The Southern army was run like a family, confronting a human crisis.

An idea, I thought, has some of that mysterious quality which romance lends to tales of the sudden appearance of islands in the South Seas.

In learning any art the important things to learn are, first, Principles; and second, Method. This is true of the art of producing ideas.

He’s wearing a dog tag. His name is Henry Webb. His unit is called BLM.” “What does it mean?” “Black Like Me. A solidarity movement, I suppose.

The reasonable man adapts himself to the world around him. The unreasonable man expects the world to adapt itself to him. Therefore all progress is made by unreasonable men.

Moshe watched spellbound from the wings as Webb, a tiny man with a curved spine clad in a white suit, roared with laughter and enthusiasm as he played, egging his band on from the rear with his masterful drumming, the thunderous band shaking the floor with rip-roaring waves of gorgeous sound. That man, Moshe decided, was a joymaker. And Moshe could not help but notice that Webb, like his lovely Chona, had a physical disability. Though he was a hunchback of some kind, he moved with a certain feeling of joy, a lightness, as if every moment were precious.

Riding horseback along a country lane I saw wild roses in bloom, against an old stone wall. The expensive, improved varieties in my garden have lost something. Sophistication always does.

They came with nothing, and for a complicated set of reasons, many of them still have nothing. The slurs stick to me, standing on these graves. Rednecks . Trailer-park trash. Racists. Cannon fodder. My ancestors. My people. Me.

But to tar the sacrifices of the Confederate soldier as simple acts of racism, and reduce the battle flag under which he fought to nothing more than the symbol of a racist heritage, is one of the great blasphemies of our modern age.

The consequence of this reality was that in virtually every major battle of the Civil War, Confederate soldiers who did not own slaves were fighting against a proportion of Union Army soldiers who had not been asked to give theirs up.

the cotton fields and strawberry patches of a much harsher world whose tragedies and daily burdens had blunted her temperament and quelled her emotions. But its most immediate impact on this teenage girl was not the lack of a demure coquettishness that otherwise might have defined her had she grown up in better circumstances; it was the visible evidence of the hardship of her journey. This was not a pom-pom-waving homecoming queen or a varsity athlete who had toned her body in a local gym. My mother never complained, but it was her struggles that had visibly shaped her shoulders, grown her biceps, and crusted her palms—while in a less visible way narrowing her view of her own long-term horizons. Decades later, when I was in my forties, I suppressed a defensive anger as I watched my mother sit quietly in an expansive waterfront Florida living room while a well-bred woman her age described the supposedly difficult impact of the Great Depression on her family. As the woman told it, the crash on Wall Street and the failed economy had made it necessary for them to ship their car by rail from New York to Florida when they headed south for the winter. Who could predict, she reasoned, whether there would be food or gasoline if their driver had to refuel and dine in the remote and hostile environs of small-town Georgia? My mother merely smiled and nodded, as

Government requires motion, perhaps even more than wisdom. And there is a constant temptation to depend on those who know how to keep it moving, rather than demanding that it stay on any particular course.

To them, joining a group and putting themselves at the mercy of someone else’s collectivist judgment makes about as much sense as

it represents a large, independent swing vote—whose key concerns are seldom passionately represented by either side in any election—rather than a force that affirmatively shapes the national agenda.

He sensed that it was all here, everything, and there was none of it there. All of life's compelling throbs, condensed and honed each time a bullet flew: the pain, the brother-love, the sacrifice. Nobility discovered by those who'd never even contemplated sacrifice, never felt an emotion worth their own blood on someone else's altar.

Radical Reconstruction was an attempt to impose by force the cultures of New England and the midlands upon the coastal and highland south.”4

Entrenched aristocracies, however we may want to define them, do not want change; their desire instead is to manage dissent in a way that does not disrupt their control. But over time, under the right system of government, a free, thinking people has the energy and ultimately the power to effect change.

My father’s graduation ceremony at the University of Omaha’s gymnasium was one of the most memorable moments of my young life. We sat in the front row of the bleachers as the Old Man walked proudly to the podium in the midst of wrinkle-free fellow graduates with not one grey hair on their twenty-something heads. Degree in hand, he then strode across the basketball court, explosively happy after his decades of effort, and waved the diploma in my face. “You can get anything you want in this country, and don’t you ever forget it!

And there was another memorable lesson. Such is the power of the written word that the works of a single thoughtful writer—and indeed sometimes just one powerful book—might focus the direction of a young person’s life.

Within weeks I would deploy to Vietnam, that endlessly debated but little-understood war that for the Marine Corps would bring three times the number of dead as were killed in Korea and more total killed and wounded than in any other war, including World War II.

This ever-expanding war had now consumed my personal and professional preparations for more than three years. As the country struggled to resolve what had originally been considered nothing more than a “dirty little war,” its impact on those of us who were serving, and on our loved ones, was persistent and overwhelming. The lieutenant who had been our next-door neighbor when we first moved into quarters at Quantico had deployed to Vietnam only two months before. I now owned his dog. And he was already dead.

There was serious reason to pay attention. Those of us who would be leading rifle platoons in the infantry had frequently been reminded that the odds of our being killed or wounded were better than 50 percent.

As we slowly made our way toward the front door of the farmhouse, the radio in the dining room began playing “Danny Boy,” sung by Johnny Cash. I am not sure that anyone other than God himself could have arranged the sweet sorrow of that moment. Johnny Cash was my favorite singer. “Danny Boy,” emblematic of our long-held Scots-Irish heritage of military service, is perhaps the greatest song ever written about the painful anguish of a father watching helplessly as his son marches off to war. Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling From glen to glen and down the mountain side The summer’s gone and all the roses falling ’Tis you, ’tis you, must go and I must bide. But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow ’Tis I’ll be here, in sunshine or in shadow Oh, Danny Boy, oh, Danny Boy I love you so. It was the only time I ever saw my father cry.

Well, so be it. But if they’re willing to accept the benefits of this society—like a Harvard education—they should also accept the burdens.” His father looked up at him. “I’m not happy you went into the Marines, Will. But I accepted it. I wouldn’t have been very happy if you’d refused the draft and gone to jail, but I could have accepted that. But I’d have buried my face in mortal shame if you’d done what Mark did. He ignored the law. He turned his back on the whole structure that binds our society.” Goodrich held his buzzing head in both hands. The world had just succeeded in finding the final little nudge that sent it topsy-turvy. “He didn’t do anything really wrong, Dad. I think I have the standing to say that.” “You were arguing with him when I came in—” “I don’t want him to tell me about Vietnam. But he isn’t wrong.” “You

In the living room Goodrich’s father sat in a large chair across from the sofa, motionless. He appeared very tired. His mother stood nervously behind the chair, obviously dreading his entrance into the room.

She had clothed herself, even at near-midnight, and brushed her platinum hair. “Where’s Mark?” His father eyed him tiredly. “He’s gone.” His mother kneaded the fabric of the chair in both her hands. “Oh, you have to tell him, Peter. You can’t just say that.” “All right.” His father stared straight ahead for another long moment, precisely into nothing

Goodrich eyed his parents with growing awareness. “How did the police find him?” “I called them.” They peered into each other’s faces for a long, mute moment, Goodrich pondering absently that he was looking into a mirror that reflected how he himself would appear in another forty years, if he somehow managed to survive the insanity that Vietnam had brought him and live that long.

Vietnam War was, to say the obvious, deeply controversial. One of its main dividing lines was whether a young American would step forward to serve or under what conditions he would find a way to stay here at home. It is beyond debate that many who opposed both the war and military service doubled down on their dissent by denigrating the value of serving and the morality of those who did the hardest fighting in the war.

You know what makes me the maddest?” Mark seemed confused and somewhat sullen. He took out his pipe and began to pack it from a leather pouch. “That I have to act like a criminal.

Like a MURDERER, for God’s sake! I have to sneak around and hide and always fear I’ll be discovered, every time I cross the magic boundary line between sanctity and rabidity. I have to act like a MURDERER just because I refused to participate in MURDER. You tell me the sense in that!” He lit his pipe. It seemed to calm him. “But, yes. I do get lonely. I miss my family. I’d like to be able to come over to your house like this and visit you every day, without having to sneak back and bang on your window.

Am I bad?” He puffed angrily on his pipe. “Why does the law create such absurdities?” He snorted. “The law. The law is an ass. Someone famous said that, once. Dickens, I think.” He looked up to Goodrich. “And it is. It doesn’t respond anymore. It’s a straitjacket. What kind of coercion is it when your alternatives are to kill or to go to jail?

In the living room Goodrich’s father sat in a large chair across from the sofa, motionless. He appeared very tired. His mother stood nervously behind the chair, obviously dreading his entrance into the room. She had clothed herself, even at near-midnight, and brushed her platinum hair. “Where’s Mark?” His father eyed him tiredly. “He’s gone.” His mother kneaded the fabric of the chair in both her hands. “Oh, you have to tell him, Peter. You can’t just say that.” “All right.” His father stared straight ahead for another long moment, precisely into nothing with

Don’t ask me how. I can’t tell you.” The secrecy seemed to make Mark uncomfortable. “I just spent a night with my parents at a motel near the campus. It was a good place. There were a lot of students and I didn’t stick out. And I know they’re watching my home.” “Who?” Mark darkened. “The pigs.” There were brushings on the living room carpet, faint clacks on the kitchen floor, and Goodrich’s mother appeared. She peered at Mark as if he were a visiting ghoul from some earlier life.

and he has flaunted the law by coming here from Canada.” “I can’t believe this.” Goodrich was nearing tears. “He hasn’t harmed anyone, Dad. He was only following his conscience. You have to respect him for that. It isn’t easy.” “Then respect me, too. I’m only following mine. And you’re wrong about the harm, Son. He’s harming a whole nation. Those people have no sense of country. They don’t look beyond themselves. That’s as far as their obligation goes.

the common good is defined by who wins at the polls, and the policies they make. Like it or lump it.

What about the duty to protest? What Mark was doing is as old as Thoreau. Civil disobedience is as American as—killing Indians!” His father smiled, just the smallest curving of his mouth. “That answers itself, Son.

They stared fondly at each other, remembering simpler days of unclouded idealism. Goodrich shook his head. “Solomon, you son of a bitch! What are you doing here?” Mark smiled exasperatedly, almost defensively. “I’ve been lonely for my family. Then I heard you were back. That did it. I came down.

I look at you and feel so old, Will. It’s been a hundred years of misery, all this. I feel ancient.” Goodrich sought to brighten him, falling back on their old pattern of challenge and retort as naturally as if it were two years before. “You are ancient, Mark. The suffering Jew.” He laughed, chiding his old roommate. “Duty-bound to suffer over wrongs. Perceived or otherwise.

His father peered solemnly at him. “It doesn’t take a martinet. You act like the boy did nothing more than steal a stick of bubble gum from some department store. To my mind, he committed the ultimate crime, Son. He rejected the society that nourished him.” He softened a bit, eyeing his son. “It wasn’t an easy thing for me to do, Will. I like Mark. But I can’t forget what he’s done and I can’t ignore it. He did it willingly, with his eyes open,

Thoreau went to jail, not to Canada. That’s civil disobedience. The other is self-interest, cloaked with morality.

Mark had obviously contemplated it and rejected it. He was livid. “And why should I go to jail? Am I a criminal? Have I hurt anyone

His father continued. “He should have known I would do it. In a way, I think he did know. He acted almost as if he expected it when he saw them. The only thing he said was—” “What did he say?” His father smiled faintly, almost daring to be amused. “He said, ‘So it’s time to come and lock the savage up.’ How about that? ‘The savage.’ ” “How could you do something like that, Dad?” Goodrich dropped

Well, so be it. But if they’re willing to accept the benefits of this society—like a Harvard education—they should also accept the burdens.” His father looked up at him. “I’m not happy you went into the Marines, Will. But I accepted it. I wouldn’t have been very happy if you’d refused the draft and gone to jail, but I could have accepted that. But I’d have buried my face in mortal shame if you’d done what Mark did. He ignored the law. He turned his back on the whole structure that binds our society.” Goodrich held his buzzing head in both hands. The world had just succeeded in finding the final little nudge that sent it topsy-turvy. “He didn’t do anything really wrong, Dad. I think I have the standing to say that.” “You were arguing with him when I came in—” “I don’t want him to tell me about Vietnam. But he isn’t wrong.” “You know what we’ve lost, William? We’ve lost a sense of responsibility, at least on the individual level. We have too many people like Mark who believe that the government owes them total, undisciplined freedom. If everyone thought that way, there would be no society. We’re so big, so strong now, that people seem to have forgotten that a part of our strength comes from each person surrendering a portion of his individual urges to the common good. And

You know what we’ve lost, William? We’ve lost a sense of responsibility, at least on the individual level. We have too many people like Mark who believe that the government owes them total, undisciplined freedom. If everyone thought that way, there would be no society. We’re so big, so strong now, that people seem to have forgotten that a part of our strength comes from each person surrendering a portion of his individual urges to the common good. And the common good is defined by who wins at the polls, and the policies they make. Like it or lump it.

I just look at you and say, ‘that used to be me. But it isn't anymore.

Well, what kind of hello is that? Besides. You wouldn't want me as a supply officer, Bagger. I'd fuck it up so bad you'd starve.

Until they became the British Empire’s greatest voyagers, indeed its greatest export, settling in odd places all around the world. And for that splinter of them that became my people, the Scots-Irish, this meant the Appalachian Mountains, their first stop on their way to creating a way of life that many would come to call, if not American, certainly the defining fabric of the South and the Midwest as well as the core character of the nation’s working class.

Their bloodline was stained by centuries of continuous warfare along the border between England and Scotland, and then in the bitter settlements of England’s Ulster Plantation in Northern Ireland.

They fought the Indians and then they fought the British, comprising 40 percent of the Revolutionary War army. They were the great pioneers— Daniel Boone, Lewis and Clark, and Davy Crockett among them— blazing the westward trails into Kentucky , Ohio, Tennessee, and beyond, where other Scots-Irishmen like Kit Carson picked up the slack.

Philadelphia became the Ulster Scots’ most popular port of entry for two reasons. The first was that the Pennsylvania colony had been created with an eye toward accommodating religious freedom and thus largely welcomed the Ulster dissenters , at least initially. And the second— equally as important—was that the communities in New England and New York wanted nothing to do with them.

As the American colonies moved toward declaring independence from Great Britain, the Scots -Irish were all but unanimous in their desire to be free of the English government. Although the trained minds of New England’s Puritan culture and Virginia’s Cavalier aristocracy had shaped the finer intellectual points of the argument for political disunion, the true passion for individual rights emanated from the radical individualism of the Presbyterian and, increasingly, Baptist pulpits.

The blood feuds of today’s Ulster— and their legacy in the journey of America’s Scots-Irish— have their roots in a decision made in 1610 by King James I of England, who also reigned as James VI of Scotland, to form a Protestant plantation on Irish soil.

The complicated formula that allowed these purchases included their assistance in obtaining Con O’Neill’s pardon, his release from prison, and, oddly, a knighthood for O’Neill balanced by a pledge from the two lairds to King James that the land would be “planted with British Protestants.” 6 Almost immediately, Montgomery and Hamilton began arranging the migration of large numbers of lowland Scots into their Ulster lands.

Finally, in August 1607, the cream of Ulster’s Irish aristocracy, including Hugh O’Neill himself, left Ireland for permanent exile. Other Irish were to follow these hundred or so key leaders until by 1614 “there were 300 Irish students and 3,000 Irish soldiers in Spanish territories alone.

Dr. Joseph Webb, the regimental surgeon and brother of Hayes’s wife, Lucy, released the tourniquet and treated the wound while providing the colonel with some brandy and opium. Hayes was later taken by ambulance to Middletown, where in the weeks ahead he recuperated in the home of Jacob Rudy, cared for by Lucy, who had traveled from their Ohio home. With Hayes’s departure, Major James Comly assumed command of the 23rd Ohio.56

or

I can tell from the crack of a rifle shot the type of weapon fired and what direction the bullet is traveling. I can listen to a mortar pop and know its size, how far away it is. I know instinctively when I should prep a tree line with artillery before I move into it. I know which draws and fields should be crossed on line, which should be assaulted, and which are safe to cross in column. ⁣ ⁣ I know where to place my men when we stop and form a perimeter. I can shoot a rifle and throw a grenade and direct air and artillery onto any target, under any circumstances. I can dress any type of wound, I have dressed all types of wounds, watered protruding intestines with my canteen to keep them from cracking under sun bake, patched sucking chests with plastic, tied off stumps with field expedient tourniquets. ⁣ ⁣ I can call in medevac helicopters, talk them, cajole them, dare them into any zone. I do these things, experience these things, repeatedly, daily. Their terrors and miseries are so compelling, and yet so regular, that I have ascended to a high emotion that is nonetheless a crusted numbness. I am an automaton, bent on survival, agent and prisoner of my misery. How terribly exciting. And how, to what purpose, will these skills serve me when this madness ends? ⁣ ⁣ What lies on the other side of all this? It frightens me. I haven't thought about it. I haven't prepared for it. I am so good, so ready for these things that were my birthright. I do not enjoy them. I know they have warped me. But it will be so hard to deal with a life empty of them.

We often find ourselves responding to what feels urgent rather than to what is important. Helping a child with homework after dinner may be more important than the business call that comes in and seems so urgent. If we pay attention to what is "important" versus what i "urgent", we are better able to counteract some of the pressures.

My dad loved to drive, but more than that he hated to stop. This made him at best a questionable tour guide. The hours would drone on as we crisscrossed the country in the dank and ever more malodorous car. The four of us would grow restless and cramped in the backseat, perennially arguing with each other and inventing games to fight off the monotony. My dad would press forward relentlessly, trying to make six hundred miles a day, every now and then invoking the three shut-ups rule and lashing out into the noise and cramped restlessness of the backseat. In the front seat my mom would patiently act as his navigator, reading the map, periodically making Wonder Bread and lunchmeat sandwiches, and now and then twisting the dial on the radio to try to find some music and local news. I finally figured it out. My dad’s mind had been shaped by flying a B-29 bomber on long-range missions. As he drove, my mother became the navigator, and we were the crew, although it wasn’t clear whom he wanted to bomb. You could see the business in his eyes. He smoked constantly, the strong odors of his Camel or self-rolled cigarettes or of his weird metal-stemmed pipe piercing our nostrils and often bringing the rear windows down, even in the most brutal heat of the day. His eyes were intent, never leaving the road in front of us. But every now and then an alert for a coming historical marker would pop up along the side of the road, causing my dad to suddenly snap out of his trance and remember that this was not actually his air crew sitting in the backseat. A teachable moment had arrived, giving him a quick opportunity to exercise his parenting skills and a chance to shower us with some much-needed cultural immersion. “Okay, guys, historical marker coming up on the right. I’m going to slow down to forty-five miles an hour. There it is, here it comes! Jim, read the SIGN!” I

He could understand, condone the massive use of force, but the terrors of its particularizations horrified him.

We been abandoned, Lieutenant. We been kicked off the edge of the goddamn cliff. They don’t know how to fight it, and they don’t know how to stop fighting it.

In the most common policy model, 50% of a test’s items have to be aligned at or above the cognitive level of the state standard (Webb et al., 2007) to achieve depth of knowledge consistency. Under this model, the state standards represent the minimum a student should know and be able to do at the end of the year. That is, a student is expected to grow beyond what is specified in the standards during the year.

Meanwhile, John Barentine, an astronomer with the Arizona-based dark-sky conservation organization Dark Sky Consulting, found a more accidental finding in one of JWST's first photographs. The image of the Southern Ring Nebula, which is 2,500 light-years away from Earth, was exceptionally clear. A fascinating galaxy seen on the edge-on (a unique vantage position for examining the galaxy's core bulge) popped into view off to the side, earlier misunderstood as part of the nebula itself. "We have this extremely sensitive equipment that will disclose stuff we didn't even know we were searching for," Barentine said. "It's worth looking about in the backdrop of practically every photograph Webb shoots.

The neglected genius is a familiar figure of mythology; but there are also neglected lunatics who are worthy of study.

Up till the Age of Reason, the collection of beliefs which modern occultists have used as a quarrying-ground can be shown to have had a certain consistency. this consistency is a mystical-philosophical-religious approach deriving from the religions displaced by Christianity. This approach remains the nucleus of occult Tradition.

In a nutshell, over the decades the national policies of the Republicans had raped the region while the actions of many state and local Democrats too often were designed to preserve the assets of a select few at the expense of just about everyone else.

both tariff rates and domestic charges for the use of railroad freight blatantly discriminated against the South, impeding its ability to grow and compete. The rates charged for shipping goods along the nation’s railways had for decades been rigged to protect Northern markets from Southern goods.

Benjamin Franklin had predicted as much nearly a century before, commenting that with the introduction of slavery, “the Poor are by this Means deprived of Employment, while a few Families acquire vast Estates; which they spend on Foreign Luxuries, and educating their Children in the Habits of those Luxuries; the same Income is needed for the Support of one that might have maintain’d 100.”57

Change the fabric of their culture? It hasn’t happened yet, not in two thousand years. And it won’t happen now.

James Vincent Suarea, a small time Florida con man, said this of his more adept brethren: “These guys, they’ve got minds like corkscrews, and all they can figure is big rip-off. They’re not happy unless they’re screwing somebody.” Marvin

Political editors were a truculent breed. Leggett’s boss, William Cullen Bryant, took a cowskin whip to William Leete Stone of the Commercial Advertiser in 1831, who riposted with a sword cane, a thrust Bryant parried with his whip until onlookers broke them apart. In 1836 James Watson Webb would assault James Gordon Bennet in the middle of Wall Street. By

Today’s Children, The Woman in White, and The Guiding Light crossed over and interchanged in respective storylines.) June 2, 1947–June 29, 1956, CBS. 15m weekdays at 1:45. Procter & Gamble’s Duz Detergent. CAST: 1937 to mid-1940s: Arthur Peterson as the Rev. John Ruthledge of Five Points, the serial’s first protagonist. Mercedes McCambridge as Mary Ruthledge, his daughter; Sarajane Wells later as Mary. Ed Prentiss as Ned Holden, who was abandoned by his mother as a child and taken in by the Ruthledges; Ned LeFevre and John Hodiak also as Ned. Ruth Bailey as Rose Kransky; Charlotte Manson also as Rose. Mignon Schrieber as Mrs. Kransky. Seymour Young as Jacob Kransky, Rose’s brother. Sam Wanamaker as Ellis Smith, the enigmatic “Nobody from Nowhere”; Phil Dakin and Raymond Edward Johnson also as Ellis. Henrietta Tedro as Ellen, the housekeeper. Margaret Fuller and Muriel Bremner as Fredrika Lang. Gladys Heen as Torchy Reynolds. Bill Bouchey as Charles Cunningham. Lesley Woods and Carolyn McKay as Celeste, his wife. Laurette Fillbrandt as Nancy Stewart. Frank Behrens as the Rev. Tom Bannion, Ruthledge’s assistant. The Greenman family, early characters: Eloise Kummer as Norma; Reese Taylor and Ken Griffin as Ed; Norma Jean Ross as Ronnie, their daughter. Transition from clergy to medical background, mid-1940s: John Barclay as Dr. Richard Gaylord. Jane Webb as Peggy Gaylord. Hugh Studebaker as Dr. Charles Matthews. Willard Waterman as Roger Barton (alias Ray Brandon). Betty Lou Gerson as Charlotte Wilson. Ned LeFevre as Ned Holden. Tom Holland as Eddie Bingham. Mary Lansing as Julie Collins. 1950s: Jone Allison as Meta Bauer. Lyle Sudrow as Bill Bauer. Charita Bauer as Bert, Bill’s wife, a role she would carry into television and play for three decades. Laurette Fillbrandt as Trudy Bauer. Glenn Walken as little Michael. Theo Goetz as Papa Bauer. James Lipton as Dr. Dick Grant. Lynn Rogers as Marie Wallace, the artist.

The church of England could never become the church of England's Empire. . . The sovereign and his heir [Charles II and James], by policy if not by conviction, were religious tolerationists even more in the empire than in England. In the colonies, the royal brothers were free from the predominance of the church, and they wielded overseas an authority far less fettered than it was in England. The duke and the king therefore ordered their viceroys to tolerate all religions privately practiced and peaceably conducted. Under the later Stuarts, "Greater Britain" became truly tolerant. Great Britain did not. (p193)

I can tell from the crack of a rifle shot the type of weapon fired and what direction the bullet is traveling. I can listen to a mortar pop and know its size, how far away it is. I know instinctively when I should prep a treeline with artillery before I move into it. I know which draws and fields should be crossed on line, which should be assaulted, and which are safe to cross in column. I know where to place my men when we stop and form a perimeter. I can shoot a rifle and throw a grenade and direct air and artillery onto any target, under any circumstances. I can dress any type of wound, I have dressed all types of wounds, watered protruding intestines with my canteen to keep them from cracking under sunbake, patched sucking chests with plastic, tied off stumps with field-expedient tourniquets. I can call in medevac helicopters, talk them, cajole them, dare them into any zone. I do these things, experience these things, repeatedly, daily. Their terrors and miseries are so compelling, and yet so regular, that I have ascended to a high emotion that is nonetheless a crusted numbness. I am an automaton, bent on survival, agent and prisoner of my misery. How terribly exciting. And how, to what purpose, will these skills serve me when this madness ends? What lies on the other side of all this? It frightens me. I haven’t thought about it. I haven’t prepared for it. I am so good, so ready for these things that were my birthright. I do not enjoy them. I know they have warped me. But it will be so hard to deal with a life empty of them. And there are the daily sufferings. You ghosts have known them, but who else? I can sleep in the rain, wrapped inside my poncho, listening to the drops beat on the rubber like small explosions, then feeling the water pour in rivulets inside my poncho, soaking me as I lie in the mud. I can live in the dirt, sit and lie and sleep in the dirt, it is my chair and my bed, my floor and my walls, this clay. And like all of you, I have endured diarrhea as only an animal should endure it, squatting a yard off a trail and relieving myself unceremoniously, naturally, animally. Deprivations of food. Festering, open sores. Worms. Heat. Aching crotch that nags for fulfillment, any emptying hole that will relieve it. Who appreciates my sufferings? Who do I suffer for?

In advertising an idea, results from a new combination of specific knowledge about. products and people, will general knowledge about life and events.

Ghosts walked beside Condley on the muddy trails, dirty and unshaven, burdened by helmets and packs and weapons, loping tiredly, all parts of their bodies half asleep while their eyes stayed bright with fear. The ghosts would always be there, young-faced and yearning, even as time itself erased the evidence of their passing. It was a burden rather than a talent that Condley could walk a village trail and be in two time zones at once, the past just as fresh as today.

Courage and honor, respect and even pity, justice and, yes, you may not like for me to say it, but let me use the word - love? Do you know these words, Mahn? A love for your children, so deep that you would die for them? Or maybe a love of justice, so pure that it demands that you speak out? These are the feelings that push the world forward.

Mud brothers, he thought. Sharers of a truth that could never be defined by the labels that had been created by outsiders. After all, what tiny fraction of America had ever even seen that nasty, vicious corner of the war, that corridor of terror and sorry that had so devoured the few who had?

Fort Ord would be lovely in the autumn, washed by the warm desert winds as an ugly winter descended upon Japan.

Up till the Age of Reason, the collection of beliefs which modern occultists have used as a quarrying-ground can be shown to have had a certain consistency. this consistency is a mystical-philosophical-religious approach deriving from the religions displaced by Christianity. This approach remains the nucleus of occult Tradition.