John Schneider Quotes

You have got to be good in that town if you want to beat the crowd.' So says young John on his first sight of New York City. THE CROWD (1928)

I looked up in curiosity. Behind us stood the Brown and Eagle Wool Warehouse and Schneider's Cap Factory, both constructed with that wholehearted devotion to industry that sullied the word architecture.

Young people," McDonald said contemptuously. "You always think there's something to find out." "Yes, sir," Andrews said. "Well, there's nothing," McDonald said. "You get born, and you nurse on lies, and you get weaned on lies, and you learn fancier lies in school. You live all your life on lies, and then maybe when you're ready to die, it comes to you--that there's nothing, nothing but yourself and what you could have done. Only you ain't done it, because the lies told you there was something else. Then you know you could of had the world, because you're the only one that knows the secret; only then it's too late. You're too old." "No," Andrews said. A vague terror crept from the darkness that surrounded them, and tightened his voice. "That's not the way it is." "You ain't learned, then," McDonald said. "You ain't learned yet....look. You spend nearly a year of your life and sweat, because you have faith in the dream of a fool. And what have you got? Nothing. You kill three, four thousand buffalo, and stack their skins neat; and the buffalo will rot wherever you left them, and the rats will nest in the skins. What have you got to show? A year gone out of your life, a busted wagon that a beaver might use to make a dam with, some calluses on your hands, and the memory of a dead man." "No," Andrew said. "That's not all. That's not all I have." "Then what? What have you got?" Andrews was silent. "You can't answer. Look at Miller. Knows the country he was in as well as any man alive, and had faith in what he believed was true. What good did it do him? And Charley Hoge with his Bible and his whisky. Did that make your winter any easier, or save your hides? And Schneider. What about Schneider? Was that his name? "That was his name," Andrews said. "And that's all that's left of him," McDonald said. "His name. And he didn't even come out of it with that for himself." McDonald nodded, not looking at Andrews. "Sure, I know. I came out of it with nothing, too. Because I forgot what I learned a long time ago. I let the lies come back. I had a dream, too, and because it was different from yours and Miller's, I let myself think it wasn't a dream. But now I know, boy. And you don't. And that makes all the difference.

Rachel is, indeed, the very definition of red: fiery, passionate, and loving. Her reflection on her husband's tragic passing and everything surrounding it is powerful and is an important message in these trying times. -Lauren Lee, Writer and Editor

He could understand Schneider’s impatience—he knew of Schneider’s simple desire to fill his belly with civilized food, to surround his body with the softness of a clean bed, and to empty his gathered lust into the body of any waiting woman. But his own desire, though it may have included in some way all of those, was at once more intense and more vague. To what did he wish to return? From where did he wish to go?

Dr. Ryley. Mrs. Schneider looked a little surprised, then took on the role of hostess, pouring my coffee, offering sugar, cream. She pressed cookies on me,

Let everyone at this time forget the priest. It is not the priest, who in form and name is like ourselves, but it is the Supreme, Eternal High Priest Himself Who has accomplished this sacrifice, which He accomplishes eternally through His priests. On the holy table there lies not the symbol, not the appearance of the Body, but the actual Body of the Lord Who suffered on earth, endured blows, was spat on, was crucified, and buried, rose and ascended to heaven, and sits at the right hand of the Father. We can no longer see anything but the appearance of bread, which serves as nourishment for men, according to what the Lord himself said: “I am the bread” (John 6:35).75

I Never Knew I Had A Choice I never knew I had a choice. I thought I had to be what others saw in me. I never knew I had a voice. I felt I had to hide the things I held inside. Tears and years rolled slowly past. Somehow I knew it wouldn’t last. Now freedom calls my name. My life won’t be the same. I’m not afraid to change. And as I leave the past behind, it’s good to realize the choice is mine. I never knew I had inside the strength to carry on no matter what went wrong. I never knew I had the pride to search for something new to change my point of view. But it appears that I was wrong. I had it in me all along. Now freedom calls my name. My life won’t be the same. I’m not afraid to change. And as I leave the past behind, it’s good to realize the choice is mine. -Copyright by John Everett September 14, 1980

First John 3:8 says: “The Son of God appeared for this purpose, to destroy the works of the devil.” He did not come to tolerate the works of evil; He came to destroy them. Scripture teaches that the words holy and violence belong in the same sentence when you are battling demons. Satan does not go away if we address him—even persistently—with a passive spirit. Satan does not go away if we ask him politely to leave. Satan responds to a holy resolve. Think of the righteous anger

Rachel’s story will stay with you long after you turn the last page. If you’re facing your own hard season, I hope her story gives you comfort and strength. Remember, you don’t have to have it all figured out. Just take the next step, lean on your faith, and trust that grace will meet you where you are. Patty Aubery New York Times Bestselling Author Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul

traders who are honest with themselves, will admit that being consistently successful in this game is extremely hard. Some studies suggest that 95% of traders lose money, and “only 5% of traders can make a living at it,” or “only 1% of traders really make big money.” 39   John

For Bly is certainly not alone in this trait of withering away his talent with the years. Most poets have a prime of 35-50 years old. It takes a couple decades or so to ramp up your talent, shed your imitations, & gain the maturity to formulate a POV that is unique & not generic. After 50 youthful desire wanes, success weakens what age does not, & the mind loses its elasticity a bit, in most. Rare is the poet that improves with age (usually it’s stagnation, then regression)- among big-name English language poets only Wallace Stevens, W.B. Yeats, & Robert Hayden stand in contrast. Bly’s company includes Allen Ginsberg, W.S. Merwin, John Ashbery, Quincey Troupe, Carolyn Forche, Gwendolyn Brooks, Rita Dove, Gary Snyder, & dozens of recognizable names (at least among those who had some talent to begin with). Yet, that still does not absolve the individual, nor his/her work. For this Bly stands accused, tried, convicted, & sentenced to a slow fade away from any lasting import in American poetry. (...) But it highlights the frequency with which Bly falls into didacticism- a trait he always displays with audiences- reading & rereading the most inconsequential images, lines, stanzas, & poems as if of cosmic import. It’s also the dead giveaway of a man unsure of himself, his talent, & in need of constant reinforcement. But then he’s always played the “insecure liberal”, wasting time & energy in politics that should go to art, who needs to show his/her innate goodness, go to a [3rd World country/rehab center/orphanage/social activist group] to see how the other ½ lives, translate 5th rate poetasters into English, & leach bad poems from the transformative period so crucial to their growth as a poet/person.

Paul McCartney’s solo career, Willie Mays’ last season with the New York Mets, Robert De Niro in Cape Fear, William Jennings Bryan at the Scopes Monkey Trial, John Ashbery’s Flowchart, Georgia O’Keeffe’s last 10 years of paintings, T.S. Eliot’s plays, & John Glenn’s last flight as an astronaut. The Beatles’ Long and Winding Road, Jim Brown’s last season, Keats’ Odes, Mozart’s concertos, Sylvia Plath’s Ariel, Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock, Wilfred Owen’s lyrics, & Marie Curie in her laboratory. The former set we recall- if at all- because all of the folk were past their prime- way past. Almost embarrassing were their quests &/or achievements. The latter we recall- & will most likely always do so with fondness & fervor- because they left their respective quests at the height of their powers. It’s how we all hope to be recalled. When we think of an afterlife we always envision ourselves at the prime of our life. Who would want to inhabit a realm filled with yipping old yentas & crusty altacockers? It’s one of the oldest stereotypes there is about the creationary impulse: The fires of youth. One of the great sources of woe for a lot of artists is that just as they get enough time & experience under their belts to gain technical skill in their field, the impulse to do so wanes. There seems to be a brief nexus where the 2- skill & desire- meet & are sustaining. Too young & a lot of crap- with potential- is produced. Too old & little work is made- & what is is skilled but dull, repetitive, & uninteresting. Thus most artists, &/or scientists, have similar careers which graphed would form a nice slowly rising & falling horizontal arc whose rounded apex is between the years 35 & 50. But is it necessarily so? There are examples of such who defy the conventional wisdom in poetry. The 2 best examples in the English language are Wallace Stevens & William Butler Yeats- in fact their poetry probably kept improving with age. But for every Stevens & Yeats there’s the last 20 years of Whitman’s bloated poetry & terrible prose, Hardy’s verse, Pound’s Cantos, Ginsberg’s last 30 years, Ashbery, James Merrill, W.S. Merwin, Muriel Rukeyser, Gwendolyn Brooks, Robert Bly, Quincy Troupe, & on & on.

A final point on this poem, & RH as a poet. 1 of the great conflation made in criticism of poetry is the terms great & important. They are 2 different things. There are great poets who are not particularly important. In this camp would be an Edgar Allan Poe, Pablo Neruda, Emily Dickinson, Rudyard Kipling, Ezra Pound, Robinson Jeffers, & Countee Cullen, among some others. These are poets for whom there is no doubt that great poetry sprang from. BUT, their work did not have a profound effect on the advancement of the art form of poetry. They were either technically superb craftsmen who were the best at their craft but wrote on things, & in ways, similar to others. They were simply better. Here would be Poe, Kipling, & Cullen. Or they were inventive & unique, but while inspiring devotees, never gave rise to poetic heirs. Here is Dickinson. Or they were hit & miss poets who often set back the art. Here are Neruda- whose great personal, lyric, & love poems in a traditional vein were counterbalanced by his atrociously puerile political & ‘experimental’ poems. Also in this category- despite his High Modernist credentials, is Ezra Pound. Most of his great poems are in ancient forms, in mock fashion. An envelope-pusher he was not- although he spurred TSE to greater heights than he was capable of by himself. Then there is a Jeffers- a poet who was superb; yet mystifyingly left little impact- most likely due to his reclusive personae & political prophesying. Yet all these poets touched the ineffable at least a few times in their careers. A 2nd camp are those poets who are important but not really great poets. Their poems had significant impact on the art, but the poets’ work, overall, rarely touched greatness. In this camp would reside a T.S. Eliot- whose whole career consists of 5 or 6 near-great to great poems & a passel of shit, William Carlos Williams- whose prosaic approach to poetry overshadowed the fact that he only had 10 or 12 good 10 line or less poems in his arsenal, Arthur Rimbaud- whose impact was more on the ‘cult of the poet’ than on the art form, Anna Akhmatova- whose import was more as ‘functional state treasure’ than persuasive writer, Allen Ginsberg- who has 12 or so great poems that showed new boundaries & subject matter could work in poetry, but also wrote a passel of utter doggerel, & Derek Walcott- who, despite early promise, has a body of banal poetry, yet opened the way for several generations of non-European poets’ poetry to find a Western audience. None of these poets will stand too tall in the coming centuries for their work, but- their impact on varied aspects of the art is undeniable. This is the difference between the 2. Greatness is about how much the art succeeds & stands alone, Import is on the non-artistic aspects of the work & poet. Of course, a 3rd category exists for those poets that were great & important. Whose excellence & import is undeniable. In this camp would reside John Donne- the 1st English language poet with a Modern mindset, if not vocabulary, Walt Whitman- whose work revolutionized subject matter, & led to the war against formalism, Charles Baudelaire- who did the same as Whitman in French, Stephane Mallarmé- whose fragmenting of form led directly to Eliot, but whose work has held up far better despite being older, Hart Crane- who created lyric epopee, & whose verse reached in new directions in new ways- cracking the ekstasis of poetry open & truly inventing the REAL Language poetry of the 20th Century, Marina Tsvetaeva & Sylvia Plath- the 2 women who became iconic Feminist heroines with legions of acolytes worldwide, yet wove together brilliant poetry despite mental illnesses, & Wallace Stevens- whose great poetry has given heart to legions of poetry lovers who appreciate games played with beauty & philosophy.