Redeployment Quotes

God always offers forgiveness,” I said, softening my tone, “to those who are truly sorry. But sorry isn’t a feeling, you understand. It’s an action. A determination to make things right.

[Prayer] will not protect you. It will help your soul. It's for while you're alive.

She spent all his combat pay before he got back, and she was five months pregnant, which, for a Marine coming back from a seven-month deployment, is not pregnant enough.

We are part of a long tradition of suffering. We can let it isolate us if we want, but we must realize that isolation is a lie.

Maybe you didn’t understand American foreign policy or why we were at war. Maybe you never will. But it doesn’t matter. You held up your hand and said, “I’m willing to die for these worthless civilians.

There are two ways to tell the story. Funny or sad. Guys like it funny, with lots of gore and a grin on your face when you get to the end. Girls like it sad, with a thousand-yard stare out to the distance as you gaze upon the horrors of war they can’t quite see. Either way, it’s the same story.

I don’t require much to feel far-removed; to impose my wanderings on what’s close. Because of this, my friend and I have started calling ourselves nook people. Those of us who seek corners and bays in order to redeploy our hearts and not break the mood. Those of us who retreat in order to cubicle our flame. Who collect sea glass. Who value a deep pants pocket. Who are our own understudies and may as well have shadowboxes for brains.

And glad as I was to be in the States, and even though I hated the past seven months and the only thing that kept me going was the Marines I served with and the thought of coming home, I started feeling like I wanted to go back. Because fuck all this.

And that was my homecoming. It was fine, I guess. Getting back feels like your first breath after nearly drowning. Even if it hurts, it's good.

All That You Can Be’?” I said. “I don’t know. That was the slogan for me, growing up. And then it was ‘Army of One,’ which I never understood, and then it was ‘Army Strong,’ which is about as good a slogan as ‘Fire Hot’ or ‘Snickers Tasty’ or ‘Herpes Bad.’ A better slogan would be, ‘You Can’t Afford College Without Us.

I was new to the cc game, a game played with skill by staff officers throughout the military, but I knew enough to know that the more senior people you could comfortably cc on your e-mails, the more everyone had to put up with whatever bullshit your e-mails were actually about.

And yet, I have this sense that this place is holier than back home. Gluttonous, fat, oversexed, overconsuming, materialist home, where we’re too lazy to see our own faults. At least here, Rodriguez has the decency to worry about hell.

Getting back feels like your first breath after nearly drowning. Even if it hurts, it’s good.

there are circumstances that trump personal feelings.

I was angry. I’d gotten a lot of Thank You For Your Service handshakes, but nobody really knew what that service meant, you know?

Sin is a lonely thing, a worm wrapped around the soul, shielding it from love, from joy, from communion with fellow men and with God. The sense that I am alone, that none can hear me, none can understand, that no one answers my cries, it is a sickness over which, to borrow from Bernanos, “the vast tide of divine love, that sea of living, roaring flame which gave birth to all things, passes vainly.” Your job, it seems, would be to find a crack through which some sort of communication can be made, one soul to another.

late for that,” said Major Zima. “Besides, if there’s one thing I’ve learned doing Civil Affairs in Iraq, it’s that it’s hard to come in and change people’s culture.

But platitudes are most appealing when they’re least appropriate.

Reading the e-mail was like getting an ice pick to the brain. I stared blankly at my computer, all higher mental functions short-circuited, and resisted the urge to punch the screen.

First time was instinct. I hear O’Leary go, “Jesus,” and there’s a skinny brown dog lapping up blood the same way he’d lap up water from a bowl. It wasn’t American blood, but still, there’s that dog, lapping it up. And that’s the last straw, I guess, and then it’s open season on dogs.

Chaplain Vega’s a tall Mexican guy with a mustache that looks like it’s about to jump off his face and fuck the first rodent it finds. Kind of mustache only a chaps could get away with in the military.

We took my combat pay and did a lot of shopping. Which is how America fights back against the terrorists.

We've got some PTSD vets," Sarah says, making it sound like she's keeping them in jars somewhere.

Somebody said combat is 99 percent sheer boredom and 1 percent pure terror. They weren’t an MP in Iraq. On the roads I was scared all the time. Maybe not pure terror. That’s for when the IED actually goes off. But a kind of low-grade terror that mixes with the boredom. So it’s 50 percent boredom and 49 percent normal terror, which is a general feeling that you might die at any second and that everybody in this country wants to kill you. Then, of course, there’s the 1 percent pure terror, when your heart rate skyrockets and your vision closes in and your hands are white and your body is humming. You can’t think. You’re just an animal, doing what you’ve been trained to do. And then you go back to normal terror, and you go back to being a human, and you go back to thinking.

You can’t describe it to someone who wasn’t there, you can hardly remember how it was yourself because it makes so little sense. And to act like somebody could live and fight for months in that shit and not go insane, well, that’s what’s really crazy. And then Alex is gonna go and act like a big hero, telling everybody how bad we were. We weren’t bad. I wanted to shoot every Iraqi I saw, every day. And I never did.

House Speaker Nancy Pelosi invited me to breakfast on the eighteenth. Five days before, she had issued a news release saying, “The president’s strategy in Iraq has failed,” and “The choice is between a Democratic plan for responsible redeployment and the president’s plan for an endless war in Iraq.” With those comments as backdrop, at the breakfast I urged her to pass the defense appropriations bill before October and to pass the War Supplemental in total, not to mete it out a few weeks or months at a time. I reminded her that the president had approved Petraeus’s recommendation for a change of mission in December and told her that Petraeus and Crocker had recommended a sustainable path forward that deserved broad bipartisan support. She politely made clear she wasn’t interested. I wasn’t surprised. After all, one wouldn’t want facts and reality—not to mention the national interest—to intrude upon partisan politics, would one?

Soon I’ll no longer have to worry about death; now it’s life I have to worry about. It’s now time for me to be a man, and it’s the scariest thing I’ll ever do. It really scares me. It really scares me that I won’t have what it takes. That’s a scary thought.

Thanks also to many writers, including but not limited to Nathaniel Fick, whose book One Bullet Away helped illuminate one Marine lieutenant’s thinking; Tim O’Brien for The Things They Carried, which sure cleared up one young man’s idea of war as glamorous; Phil Klay for Redeployment, which was a personal revelation for me as both reader and writer; and David Finkel for the reporting and writing in Thank You for Your Service. These last three should be required reading for all aspiring architects of future wars.

And when I started at NYU and I met all those kids right out of undergrad, I thought, Hell, yeah, I’m a fucking Marine. Some of them, highly educated kids at a top five law school, didn’t even know what the Marine Corps did. (“It’s like a stronger Army, right?”) Few of them followed the wars at all, and most subscribed to a “It’s a terrible mess, so let’s not think about it too much” way of thinking. Then there were the political kids, who had definite opinions and were my least favorite to talk to. A lot of these overlapped with the insufferable public interest crowd, who hated the war, couldn’t see why anybody’d ever do corporate law, didn’t understand why anyone would ever join the military, didn’t understand why anyone would ever want to own a gun, let alone fire one, but who still paid lip service to the idea that I deserved some sort of respect and that I was, in an imprecise way that was clearly related to action movies and recruiting commercials, far more “hard-core” than your average civilian. So sure, I was a Marine. At the very least, I wasn’t them.

David Abrams’s Fobbit, Giorgio Agamben’s The Open, Omnia Amin and Rick London’s translations of Ahmed Abdel Muti Hijazi’s poetry, Peter Van Buren’s We Meant Well, Donovan Campbell’s Joker One, C. J. Chivers’s The Gun, Seth Connor’s Boredom by Day, Death by Night, Daniel Danelo’s Blood Stripes, Kimberly Dozier’s Breathing the Fire, Nathan Englander’s What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank, Siobhan Fallon’s You Know When the Men Are Gone, Nathaniel Fick’s One Bullet Away, Dexter Filkins’s The Forever War, David Finkel’s The Good Soldiers, Jim Frederick’s Black Hearts, Matt Gallagher’s Kaboom, Jessica Goodell’s Shade It Black, J. Glenn Gray’s The Warriors, Dave Grossman’s On Killing and On Combat, Judith Herman’s Trauma and Recovery, Kirsten Holmstedt’s Band of Sisters, Karl Marlantes’s Matterhorn, Colum McCann’s Dancer, Patrick McGrath’s Trauma, Jonathan Shay’s Odysseus in America and Achilles in Vietnam, Roy Scranton’s essays and fiction, the Special Inspector for Iraq Reconstruction Report Hard Lessons, Bing West’s The Strongest Tribe and No True Glory, Kayla Williams’s Love My Rifle More Than You.

I don’t know if any of you know Wilfred Owen. He was a soldier who died in the First World War, a war that killed soldiers by the hundreds of thousands. Owen was a strange sort. A poet. A warrior. A homosexual. And as tough a man as any Marine I’ve ever met. In World War One, Owen was gassed. He was blown in the air by a mortar and lived. He spent days in one position, under fire, next to the scattered remains of a fellow officer. He received the Military Cross for killing enemy soldiers with a captured enemy machine gun and rallying his company after the death of his commander. And this is what he wrote about training soldiers for the trenches. These are, by the way, new soldiers. They hadn’t seen combat yet. Not like he had. “Owen writes: ‘For 14 hours yesterday I was at work—teaching Christ to lift his cross by numbers, and how to adjust his crown; and not to imagine he thirsts until after the last halt. I attended his Supper to see that there were no complaints; and inspected his feet that they should be worthy of the nails. I see to it that he is dumb, and stands at attention before his accusers. With a piece of silver I buy him every day, and with maps I make him familiar with the topography of Golgotha.

armed revolt that broke out in October 1937 swept the country. It was only brought under control two years later through a massive use of force, just in time for crack British military units (by then there were a hundred thousand troops in Palestine, one for every four adult Palestinian men) to be redeployed to fight World War II.

[The plane's captain] reads off some message about how general orders stay in effect until you reach the States, and you're still considered on duty. So no alcohol. Well, our CO jumped up and said, "That makes about as much sense as a goddamn football bat. All right, Marines, you've got three hours. I hear they serve Guinness." Oo-fucking-rah.

Yet only the economic in the narrow sense will allow us to get beyond the economic. By redeploying the resources capitalism has so considerately stored up for us, socialism can allow the economic to take more of a backseat. It will not evaporate, but it will become less obtrusive. To enjoy a sufficiency of goods means not to have to think about money all the time. It frees us for less tedious pursuits. Far from being obsessed with economic matters, Marx saw them as a travesty of true human potential. He wanted society where the economic no longer monopolised so much time and energy. That our ancestors should have been so preoccupied with material matters is understandable. When you can produce only a slim economic surplus, or scarcely any surplus at all, you will perish without ceaseless hard labour. Capitalism, however, generates the sort of surplus that really could be used to increase leisure on a sizeable scale. The irony is that it creates this wealth in a way that demands constant accumulation and expansion, and thus constant labour. It also creates it in ways that generate poverty and hardship. It is a self-thwarting system. As a result, modern men and women, surrounded by an affluence unimaginable to hunter-gatherers, ancient slaves or feudal serfs, end up working as long and hard as these predecessors ever did. Marx's work is all about human enjoyment. The good life for him is not one of labour but of leisure.

For power to be withdrawn, power itself would have to be understood as the retractable operation of volition; indeed, the heterosexual contract would be understood to be sustained through a series of choices, just as the social contract in Locke or Rousseau is understood to presuppose the rational choice or deliberate will of those it is said to govern. If power is not reduced to volition, however, and the classical liberal and existential model of freedom is refused, then power relations can be understood, as I think they ought to be, as constraining and constituting the very possibilities of volition. Hence, power can neither be withdrawn nor refused, but only redeployed.

Your attempts to bring transgressions to command attention are salutory. But as for your religious duties, remember these suspected transgressions, if real, are but the eruptions of sin. Not sin itself. Never forget that, lest you be inclined to lose your pity for human weakness. Sin is a lonely thing, a worm wrapped around the soul, shielding it from love, from joy, from communion with fellow men and with God. The sense that I am alone, that none can hear me, none can understand, that no one answers my cries, it is a sickness over which, to borrow from Bernanos, “the vast tide of divine love, that sea of living, roaring flame which gave birth to all things, passes vainly.” Your job, it seems, would be to find a crack through which some sort of communication can be made, one soul to another.

Phil Klay’s collection of 21st century war tales resonates in Redeployment (Penguin Press, March). For more commercial debuts, there is Naomi Wood in a cross between The Paris Wife and The Women with Mrs. Hemingway (Penguin, June), while Australian Samantha Hayes tackles turbo-charged domestic suspense in Until You’re Mine (Crown, April), and Shane Kuhn looks at the homicidal side of office work in The Intern’s Handbook (S&S, April). Finally, debut novels from well-known personalities include one by Ruth Reichl, the memoirist and former Gourmet editor-in-chief, moving to fiction for the first time with Delicious! (Random House, May). Musician and former soap opera star Rick Springfield also tries his hand at fiction with Magnificent Vibration (Touchstone, May).

So it’s 50 percent boredom and 49 percent normal terror, which is a general feeling that you might die at any second and that everybody in this country wants to kill you. Then, of course, there’s the 1 percent pure terror, when your heart rate skyrockets and your vision closes in and your hands are white and your body is humming. You can’t think.

Somebody said combat is 99 percent sheer boredom and 1 percent pure terror. They weren’t an MP in Iraq. On the roads I was scared all the time. Maybe not pure terror. That’s for when the IED actually goes off. But a kind of low-grade terror that mixes with the boredom. So it’s 50 percent boredom and 49 percent normal terror, which is a general feeling that you might die at any second and that everybody in this country wants to kill you.

where the universe is rational and the God watching over maneuvers us like chess pieces, His fingers deep into the sides of the world.

while it is true capital’s deployment and redeployment of labor power overturns all barriers, an increasingly intensified competitive struggle within the working class determines who can sell her labor power and who will be forced into the reserve army of labor. There is nothing about this process that implies equality of opportunity among wage slaves, nor any tendency toward homogenization of their wages. With the improvement in the productivity of labor, wages fall and competition between workers becomes increasingly fierce precisely because this struggle is a matter of life and death for each of them. It only makes sense to assume that those workers who enjoy special advantages arising from purely historical causes, will employ these advantages with the utmost ruthless urgency as conditions of the class as a whole deteriorate. To lose in this competition means hunger and homelessness for the worker and for her family.

that’s the MRAP. And hajji’s here. Yeah, I could just see him, poking

That’s not what prayer is for.” “What?” “It will not protect you.” I didn’t know what to say to that. “Oh,” I said. “It’s about your relationship with God.

No one’s hands are clean except Christ’s,” I said. “And I don’t know what any of us can do except pray He gives us the strength to do what we must.

Rising to his own challenge, Mr. Cruz called for “the locusts” of the Environmental Protection Agency to be stifled and for padlocking the Internal Revenue Service, then redeploying its agents to secure the Southern border.

When I told the story, everything was clear. I made diagrams. Explained the angles of bullet trajectories. Even saying it was dark and dusty and fucking scary made it less dark and dusty and fucking scary. So when I thought back on it, there were the memories I had, and the stories I told, and they sort of sat together in my mind, the stories becoming stronger every time I retold them, feeling more and more true. Eventually, Staff Sergeant would roll up and say, “Shut the fuck up, Suba. Hajji shot at us. Lance Corporal Suba shot back. Dead hajji.

I am Iraqi,” she’d said on my previous visit. “I am used to promises that are good but not real.

Agamben speaks of the difference between men and animals being that animals are in thrall to stimuli. Think a deer in the headlights. He describes experiments where scientists give a worker bee a source of nectar. As it imbibes, they cut away its abdomen, so that instead of filling the bee up, the nectar falls out through the wound in a trickle that pours as fast as the bee drinks. You’d think the bee might change its behavior in response, but it doesn’t. It keeps happily sucking away at the nectar and will continue indefinitely, enthralled by one stimulus—the presence of nectar—until released by another—the sensation of satiety. But that second stimulus never comes—the wound keeps the bee drinking until it finally starves.

Who here thinks,' I asked the small group of Marines who'd gathered for Sunday Mass, 'that when you get back to the States no civilians will be able to understand what you've gone through?' A few hands went up. 'I had a parishioner whose six-month-old son developed a brain tumor. He watched his child go through intense suffering, chemotherapy, and finally a brutal, ungraceful death. Who would rather go through that than be in Ramadi?' ...'Now, I wouldn't be surprised if this man supported the insurgency...But clearly this man has suffered. And if this man, this father, does support the insurgency, it's because he thinks his suffering justifies making you suffer. If his story about his beating is true, it means the Marines who beat him think their suffering justifies making him suffer...All of us suffer. We can either feel isolated, and alone, and lash out at others, or we can realize we're part of a community. A church. That father in my parish felt as if no one could understand him and it wasn't worth the effort to make them try. Maybe you don't think it's worth trying to understand the suffering of that Iraqi father.' ...'We are part of a long tradition of suffering. We can let it isolate us if we want, but we must realize that isolation is a lie. Consider Owen. Consider that Iraqi father and that American father. Consider their children. Do not suffer alone.

Levin had been hit in the neck. PPE wouldn't have helped. But I guess the sergeant major, like most people, needed death to be sensible. A reason for each casualty. I'd seen the same feeble theodicy at funerals in the civilian world. If lung disease, the deceased should be a smoker. If heart disease, a lover of red meat. Some sort of causality, no matter how tenuous, to sanitize it. As if mortality is a game with rules where the universe is rational and the God watching over maneuvers us like chess pieces. His fingers deep into the sides of the world.

...but you spend enough time alone and you end up feeling somehow defective.

I will remember the sounds PFC made. I will remember that I was his NCO, so he was my responsibility. And I will remember PFC himself as though I loved him. So I won't really remember PFC at all--not why I gave him low PRO/CONs, not why I told him he'd never make E4.

And there is is--the least hint of approval from a real Marine and I'm swelling with pride. Though I'm not even sure he actually approves. There was a German zoologist, Jakob von Uexküll, who claimed a tick would try to feed off any liquid at the temperature of mammalian blood. Law school has left me starving, and I'll take what I'm offered.

And then it was ‘Army of One,’ which I never understood, and then it was ‘Army Strong,’ which is about as good a slogan as ‘Fire Hot’ or ‘Snickers Tasty’ or ‘Herpes Bad.’ A better slogan would be, ‘You Can’t Afford College Without Us.

Rapier Squadron was transferred from Mirrin Prime and redeployed aboard a refitted Mon Calamari cruiser called Echo of Hope.

THE PENGUIN PRESS Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) LLC 375 Hudson Street

Nature is like a lazy baker who crafts a bewildering variety of concoctions by repurposing, copying, modifying, and redeploying ancient recipes and ingredients.

Under the ferocious attack of aggressively priced, high-quality Japanese DRAMs, we were forced to retreat and cut prices to a level where being in the DRAM business brought us major losses. Ultimately, the losses forced us to do something extraordinarily difficult: to back out of the business that the company was founded upon, and to focus on another business that we thought we were best at—the microprocessor business. While this adjustment sounds quite logical and straightforward in theory, in reality its implementation required us to move and redeploy a lot of our employees, let some of them go, and shutter a number of factories. We did all this because under this strong attack, we learned that we must lead with our strength. Being second best in a tough environment is just not good enough.

I don’t like it. A retreat is still a retreat, no matter what you call it, even if you call it a ‘strategic redeployment of forces.’” The Marshall spat on the sawdust floor of the tavern.

I had at least thought there would be nobility in war. I know it exists. There are so many stories, and some of them have to be true. But I see mostly normal men, trying to do good, beaten down by horror, by their inability to quell their own rages, by their masculine posturing and their so-called hardness, their desire to be tougher, and therefore crueler, than their circumstance. And yet, I have this sense that this place is holier than back home. Gluttonous, fat, oversexed, overconsuming, materialist home, where we’re too lazy to see our own faults.

Factors that drive turnover for the S&P 500 and Wilshire 5000 stem from market-related events. When a company exits the S&P 500 through merger, acquisition, or bankruptcy, a committee-chosen replacement takes the departing company’s place. The Wilshire 5000 passively accepts the ebb and flow of company creation and elimination, making as-frequent-as-necessary adjustments to the composition of the index. Bankrupt companies disappear, cash merger deals require redeployment of proceeds, and stock-for-stock transactions lead to elimination of the line item of the acquired company. Public offerings of securities force full-replication Wilshire 5000 index-fund managers to raise cash to acquire newly issued shares, while spinoffs simply require adding another line to the list of security holdings. In somewhat different fashion, both the S&P 500 and the Wilshire 5000 produce extremely low, investor-friendly levels of portfolio turnover.

bureaucracy … Grants excessive credence to the views of precedent-bound leaders Discourages rebellious thinking Creates long lags between sense and respond Calcifies organizational structures Blinds silo-dwelling leaders to new opportunities Suboptimizes trade-offs Frustrates the rapid redeployment of resources Discourages risk taking Politicizes decision making Creates long and tortuous approval pathways Misaligns power and leadership capability Caps opportunities for individual contribution Undermines frontline accountability Systematically devalues originality

I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to keep Marines alive,” the sergeant major said, haranguing the men only a few days afterward, “and the fact of the matter is, when a Marine comes in and he wasn’t wearing his PPE when he was hit, because it’s hot, and he doesn’t want to wear it while he’s at the OP, I’m the one who’s got to say the thing nobody wants to say.” Levin had been hit in the neck. PPE wouldn’t have helped. But I guess the sergeant major, like most people, needed death to be sensible. A reason for each casualty. I’d seen the same feeble theodicy at funerals in the civilian world. If lung disease, the deceased should be a smoker. If heart disease, a lover of red meat. Some sort of causality, no matter how tenuous, to sanitize it. As if mortality is a game with rules where the universe is rational and the God watching over maneuvers us like chess pieces, His fingers deep into the sides of the world.

As a young priest, I’d had a father scream at me once. I was working in a hospital. He’d just lost his son. I thought my clerical collar gave me the right to speak, so right after the doctors called time of death, I went and assured him his infant son was in paradise. Stupid. And of all people, I should have known better. At age fourteen, I lost my mother to a rare form of cancer similar to what struck that father’s son, and every empty condolence I received after my mother’s death only deepened my angry teenage grief. But platitudes are most appealing when they’re least appropriate

Do you need to do all of this? No, of course no. But as you gradually implement it, you can either bank and invest the gains, redeploy the spending to accomplishing other key priorities you’ve got,

In the Army we had a saying,” I said. “Perception is reality. In war, sometimes what matters isn’t what’s actually happening, but what people think is happening. The Southerners think Grant is winning Shiloh, so they break and run when he charges, and so he does, in fact, win. What you are doesn’t always matter. After 9/11 my family got treated as potential terrorists. You get treated as you’re seen. Perception is reality.

Redeployment" first appeared in Crania, "After Action Report" in Tin House, and a portion of "Ten Kliks South" in Cuemica.

Opposing redeployment US and Dutch ambassadors were making more robust action impossible.

The ideal business is one that earns very high returns on capital and that keeps using lots of capital at those high returns. That becomes a compounding machine,” Buffett said. “So if you had your choice, if you could put a hundred million dollars into a business that earns twenty percent on that capital—twenty million—ideally, it would be able to earn twenty percent on a hundred twenty million the following year and on a hundred forty-four million the following year and so on. You could keep redeploying capital at [those] same returns over time. But there are very, very, very few businesses like that...we can move that money around from those businesses to buy more businesses.

Everyone standing on the road as the body went past had been so utterly silent, so still. There was no sound or movement except for the slow steps of the Corpsmen and the steady progress of the corpse. It’d been an image of death from another world. But now I know where that corpse was headed, to the old gunny at PRP. And if there was a wedding ring, the gunny would have slowly worked it off the stiff, dead fingers. He would have gathered all the personal effects and prepared the body for transport. Then it would have gone by air to TQ. And as it was unloaded off the bird, the Marines would have stood silent and still, just as we had in Fallujah. And they would have put it on a C-130 to Kuwait. And they would have stood silent and still in Kuwait. And they would have stood silent and still in Germany, and silent and still at Dover Air Force Base. Everywhere it went, Marines and sailors and soldiers and airmen would have stood at attention as it traveled to the family of the fallen, where the silence, the stillness, would end.

Homelessness and crime have been recharacterized and redeployed so that “public space” is increasingly seen as a protected preserve open only to the law-abiding and the

Democratic army would stage a military raid on Washington and declare Tilden the winner. To guard against this menace, Grant and Sherman redeployed troops from the interior to Washington and secured the federal arsenal along with three critical bridges leading to the capital.

In general, it is harmful to depend on modules that contain more than you need. This is obviously true for source code dependencies that can force unnecessary recompilation and redeployment—but it is also true at a much higher, architectural level.

A reason for each casualty. I'd seen the same feeble theodicy at funerals...As if mortality is a game with rules where the universe is rational and the God watching over maneuvers us like chess pieces. His fingers deep into the sides of the world.

Ferber redeployed Curtis’s argument about the intuitive genius of American blacks into a critique of the overschooled 1920s stage.

I’m certainly not knocking these books. But whether you say “pivot” or “moving on to the next chapter” or “strategic redeployment,” all of these things are, by definition, quitting. After all, stripped of its negative connotation, quitting is merely the choice to stop something that you have started.

Why has the idea of Māori privilege been so durable? In the first hundred years of colonisation, the idea of Māori privilege aided and abetted the taking of Māori lands and resources. This loss was framed as a ‘privilege’, a necessary step towards amalgamation and the innumerable benefits it would bring to Māori. In the latter half of the twentieth century and the early decades of the twenty-first century, Māori privilege has again been put to use. Notions of privilege, first used to dispossess Māori, are now being redeployed to consolidate the ill-gotten gains of the previous centuries.

Something big was tearing through the jungle. And it appeared to be coming straight for him. “Sir, I advise a tactical redeployment,” Moriarty said quickly. Anders ran.

Only two professions allow you to know it all – creative writing and journalism. On Monday your beat his religion. It changes to History and International Politics on Tuesday. On Wednesday you are redeployed to another beat – maybe crime. On Thursday, your beat might be Education and on Friday you might be writing about Science and the Ozone Layer. On Saturday, it is the Stock Exchange and Sunday, you might write about Culture, Language, and Heritage. That’s why writers and journalists hardly have a stable life. Our brains don’t really settle – they work like a clock. ~E.T.H…AINA

He's nineteen, one of our baby-wipe killers, and all he's killed so far in the Corps has been paper.

I put 1st Fire Team in support. Corporal Moore's team. Moore's a bit of a motard, always thinks his fire team should be main effort, like it's a fucking prize. He could be less oo-rah, but he's good to go.

I put 3rd Fire Team in reserve, as usual. They're Malrosio's, and he's dumber than Fabio on two bottles of NyQuil.

Of all these now-familiar Johannine themes, echoed and redeployed by Ignatius, none are as striking as those of being, through martyrdom, a living human being and a word of God.

Worshipers in meditation literally lose themselves in a sense of oneness with the universe, as shown by the quieting of their parietal lobes. The Franciscan nuns use the Latin of their faith to describe the experience, unio mystica (mystical union). Buddhists call it “unitary consciousness.” Newberg says that “Unity is . . . the foundational notion in pretty much every religious tradition . . . people often describe unity as more ‘fundamentally real’ than anything else they’ve ever experienced. More real than reality.” In a survey of 2,000 people who had enlightenment experiences, over 90% report that they’re more real than everyday reality. This sense of hyperreality may occur because in these states the energy saved by the 40% deactivation of the parietal lobe is redeployed to enhance attention. Newberg says, “It’s an efficiency exchange . . . energy normally used for drawing the boundary of self gets reallocated for attention. At that moment, as far as the brain can tell, you are one with everything.” Newberg notes that this produces a sense of awe. Meditators don’t feel alone. They describe a sense of connection with everyone and everything in the universe, part of an infinitely large picture. On the material level, like everyone else, you still have vibrant connections with family and friends. But you also have a source of social support that isn’t dependent on the availability of other human beings. As you merge with universal consciousness, you feel one with all beings and the universe itself. An overview of meditation studies by a panel of top experts shows that this opens up “what have been termed ‘nonlocal’ aspects of human consciousness . . . people report experiences of perceiving information that does not appear limited to the typical five senses or seems to extend across space and time, such as precognition, clairvoyance, and mind-matter interactions (described as ‘siddhis’ in the Hindu yogic traditions).

Imagine a whole company of believers rethinking their lives, redeploying their energy, reassessing their purposes. The path is to love God, not party, not ideology, not pet project, but God’s will for steadfast love that is not deterred by fear and anxiety.

My own recommendation, then as always, was that no operations should be undertaken in the Mediterranean except as a directly supporting move for the Channel attack and that our planned redeployment to England should proceed with all possible speed. Obviously a sufficient strength had to be kept in the Mediterranean to hold what we had already gained and to force the Nazis to maintain sizable forces in that area.

Nomad’s appetite for reasonable businesses selling at unreasonably low prices made sense, given the opportunities available at the time. But this strategy had one drawback. When stocks like these rebounded and were no longer that cheap, they had to sell them and hunt for new bargains. But what if nothing particularly attractive was on sale when they sought to redeploy those winnings? An obvious solution to this reinvestment risk was to buy and hold higher-quality businesses that were more likely to continue compounding for many years.

That Saturday I went to a documentary with Ed-the-banker. It was Ed’s idea. The film was about veterans dealing with civilian life, the four main characters ranging from a congressional candidate

Machiavelli’s redefinition of virtue and his redeployment of virtue in relation to the state makes war a natural condition for the strong state that is seeking greatness and glory.

If adopting DevOps could enable us, through better management and increased operational excellence, to halve that waste and redeploy that human potential into something that’s five times the value (a modest proposal), we could create $2.6 trillion of value per year.

Jensen has agreed to join us,” said the metallic symbol. “I honestly had my doubts, but what do I know?” “You should have believed me,” said the human. “Fine,” came the reply. “That’s a ten-spot I owe you.” “This is good news.” The cube’s flat, mechanical voice robbed the statement of any potency. “With Jensen in play, we can increase the tempo of our operations. We can redeploy Saxon and Kelso, and some of the others.

Conditions can’t be any better. Clear skies, tide going out, and an offshore wind are gifts from God. A sailor can’t ask for any more.” The admiral drained his pewter mug and called to the landlord for more ale. “I wish you fair winds, my friend. And just ask God for luck. Don’t ask for anything else. It’s too confusing. See, if he grants you good luck, that covers everything else.” The Marshall looked down into his ale and swirled it around. “You know what this means.”  He drained the mug. The admiral nodded, but said nothing. “I don’t like it. A retreat is still a retreat, no matter what you call it, even if you call it a ‘strategic redeployment of forces.’” The Marshall spat on the sawdust floor of the tavern.

redeployment” (I studiously avoided the word “withdrawal” as it tended to trigger endless debate between the parties) of the troops of both countries; as well as respect for the commitment to the avoidance of conflict (the terms “cessation of conflict” or “ceasefire” proved far too contentious).