Roger Stone Quotes

Roger stooped, picked up a stone, aimed and threw it at Henry-threw it to miss. The stone, that token of preposterous time, bounced five yards to Henry's right and fell in the water. Roger gathered a handful of stones and began to throw them. Yet there was a space round Henry, perhaps six yards in diameter, into which he dare not throw. Here, invisible yet strong, was the taboo of the old life. Round the squatting child was the protection of parents and school and policemen and the law. Roger was conditioned by a civilization that knew nothing of him and was in ruins.

Underneath this little stone Lies Robert Earl of Huntington; No other archer was so good - And people called him Robin Hood. Such outlaws as he and his men Will England never see again.

Oh," he said softly. It was like this wasn't even a word. It felt more like he was laying out a stone for me to step on, so that I could keep going.

The idea of Donald Trump and Alex Jones and Roger Stone and Stephen Bannon having power over us — that is terrifying.

Roy(Cohn) was not gay. He was a man who liked having sex with men.

Emotions cannot simply be erased or ignored, and to believe they can is a suicidally-naive approach to political competition.

To make the news, often you must create news.

Scots have long memories, and they're not the most forgiving of people. There's a clan stone out there with the name of MacKenzie carved on it, and a good many of my relatives under it. I don't feel quite so personal about it as some, but I haven't forgotten either. - Roger MacKenzie Wakefield

In the end, thirty-four people and three companies were indicted or pleaded guilty in the attack on the 2016 election or its cover-up, including Papadopoulos, Manafort, Manafort’s partner Rick Gates, Flynn, Kilimnik, Trump lawyer Michael Cohen, Roger Stone, twelve Russian intelligence operatives, thirteen Russian nationals, and three Russian companies. Before he left office, Trump pardoned those who had refused to cooperate with the Department of Justice: Flynn, Stone, Manafort, and Papadopoulos.

Stone's Rule #28 Never hold a meeting unless you know what result you want out of the meeting. In both politics and business, the amount of labor and time wasted in meetings is huge. It never ceases to shock me when I attend a meeting out to find out halfway into it that the organizers have no agenda and, by the end of it, have reached resolution on absolutely nothing. A strong leader meticulously plans and methodically orchestrates meetings in order to achieve a desired result, or he doesn't hold them.

As I traveled the country promoting my book, I was asked by many people, ‘What are you trying to prove here? Lyndon Johnson is dead. He can’t be prosecuted. What is the point of this other than an academic exercise?’ Here is the point: The government does not always tell us the truth. In fact, the government seldom tells us the truth. If ONE citizen understands by reading my book that everything the government says must be regarded with a healthy dose of skepticism, then I will have achieved my goal. Perhaps the best analysis comes from former federal prosecutor and US Attorney David Marston, who wrote to me, “You have viewed the JFK assassination through the prism of a murder investigator’s first question, cui bono (who benefits)? The shocking answer is that the primary suspect has been hiding in plain sight for fifty years: LBJ.

Ronald Kessler

Texas oil money. Chief among them was the owner of the Texas School Book Depository building and LBJ oil crony D. H. Byrd, the cousin of Senator Harry F. Byrd,

Trump won the votes of white women overall, 53 percent to Hillary’s 43 percent,

Why didn’t Heidi Cruz resign from Goldman Sachs instead of taking a leave of absence? That’s like saying Bill Ayers and Saul Alinsky have had no influence on Barack Obama.

Nixon had sought the treatment of a psychiatrist throughout the 1950s.

Of the CIA, John Kennedy vowed to shatter the agency, “into a thousand pieces and scatter it to the wind.” He asked for the resignation of the Bay of Pig planners:

Evelyn Lincoln. Kennedy and Johnson (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1968), 204–5.

words of Deputy Sheriff Eddy Walthers “the projectile struck so near the underpass, it was, in my opinion, probably the last shot that was fired and apparently went high and above the president’s car.”8 To

wrong. Ted Cruz is a smart, canny, talented guy who ran a great “long race” campaign. He aspires to be Reagan but, trust me, he’s Nixon—right down to the incredible discipline and smarts playing the political game.

The Sinhalese were perplexed by their endemic restlessness and their eating habits, declaring the Portuguese to be “a very white and beautiful people, who wear hats and boots of iron and never stop in one place. They eat a sort of white stone and drink blood.” Such

I believe that there is no country in the world, including the African regions, including any and all the countries under colonial domination, where economic colonization, humiliation, and exploitation were worse than in Cuba, in part owing to my country’s policies during the Batista regime,” Kennedy told French journalist Jean Daniel. “I believe that we created, built, and manufactured the Castro movement out of whole cloth and without realizing it. I believe that the accumulation of these mistakes has jeopardized all of Latin America.

And none would dispute the fact that Kali was queen of this Temple. Her tall, white-stone statue, within its gigantic shrine, dominated the inner courtyard. Her faint smile, perhaps contemptuous of the other gods and their worshipers, was, in its way, as arresting as the chained grins of the skulls she wore for a necklace. She held daggers in her hands; and poised in mid-step she stood, as though deciding whether to dance before or slay those who came to her shrine. Her lips were full, her eyes were wide. Seen by torchlight, she seemed to move.

What Clinton supporters in the mainstream media failed to understand was that in creating controversy, Trump was following a basic principle known to professional political operatives and campaign advisors—namely, dominate the media, even if what the media is saying about you is negative.

The alt-right’s small gains in popularity will not be enough to win Trump the election. This is not Germany in the 1930s. All that’s changed is that one of Alex’s fans — one of those grumpy looking middle-aged men sitting in David Icke’s audience — is now the Republican nominee. But if some disaster unfolds — if Hillary’s health declines further, or she grows ever more off-puttingly secretive — and Trump gets elected, he could bring Alex and the others with him. The idea of Donald Trump and Alex Jones and Roger Stone and Stephen Bannon having power over us — that is terrifying. THE

The Congregating of Stars They often meet in mountain lakes, No matter how remote, no matter how deep Down and far they must stream to arrive, Navigating between the steep, vertical piles Of broken limestone and chert, through shattered Trees and dry bushes bent low by winter, Across ravines cut by roaring avalanches Of boulders and ripping ice. Silently, the stars have assembled On the surface of this lost lake tonight, Arranged themselves to match the patterns They maintain in the highest spheres Of the surrounding sky. And they continue on, passing through The smooth, black countenance of the lake, Through that mirror of themselves, down through The icy waters to touch the perfect bottom Stillness of the invisible life and death existing In the nether of those depths. Sky-bound- yet touching every needle In the torn and sturdy forest, every stone, Sharp, cracked along the ragged shore- the stars Appear the same as in ancient human ages On the currents of the old seas and the darkened Trails of desert dunes, Orion’s belt the same As it shone in Galileo’s eyes, Polaris certain above The sails of every mariner’s voyage. An echoing Light from the Magi’s star, that beacon, might even Be shining on this lake tonight, unrecognized. The stars are congregating, perhaps in celebration, passing through their own names and legends, through fogs, airs, and thunders, the vapors of winter frost and summer pollens. They are ancestors of transfiguration, intimate with all the eyes of the night. What can they know?

With Yanukovych’s removal, Manafort was out of a job, and he owed about $17 million to allies of Yanukovych and Putin. His longtime friend and business partner Roger Stone was advising the floundering presidential campaign of Donald Trump, and Manafort stepped in to help. He did not take a salary, but immediately after getting the job, he did reach out to a Russian oligarch to whom he owed millions, asking him: “How do we use [this] to get whole?”[2] Manafort began to advise the Trump campaign in March 2016, and by April, according to the Senate Intelligence Committee, Putin had launched an effort to hurt the Clinton campaign in order to boost Trump’s chances.

Ironically, throughout his flirtation with the Reform Party nomination, critics in the press openly speculated whether he was indeed a serious candidate for the presidency, or if he was really more interested in promoting a new book. Let me tell you this: Trump was dead serious about running in 2000—and a lot of people were dead serious about voting for him. About

Despite Alex Jones’ enormous appeal, not one candidate was pushing for his support as the primaries drew closer—not Marco Rubio, not Ted Cruz, not Ben Carson, not Jeb Bush. No one! It was just mind-boggling how candidates chose to turn their backs on such a pool of potential voters as those millions of Americans who listen to or watch Alex Jones every day. Alex didn’t need any convincing

most memorable moment came when someone asked if Mr. Trump supported the Reform Party platform.”9 “Well. Nobody knows what the Reform Party platform is,” Trump loudly responded. A man offered Trump a copy of the platform as boos rang out from the crowd. The fact is that no one really cares about a party platform except those people who write it. Unfortunately, those were the exact people Trump was addressing.

When I see Ed Rollins on TV or get an email from him soliciting money, I prefer to think of him like Petyr Baelish (Littlefinger) from George R.R. Martin’s exemplary “Game of Thrones” novels. He will do and say anything to earn a quick buck and maintain his relevance and the appearance of power. This man would burn down the entire country with his stupidity, if only it meant he could rule over the gray waste and ashes that he left behind. The

SPEAKING OF BURNING HUMANS — actual ones, as opposed to ones who existed only in Alex’s imagination — in the late 1970s, a left-wing Filipino journalist named Satur Ocampo was arrested in Manila by President Ferdinand Marcos’ soldiers. He was manacled, blindfolded and electrocuted, while soldiers poured cola on him (which apparently makes the electrocution more painful). His nipples and genitalia were burned. He survived, but thousands of Marcos’ other enemies were “salvaged,” Marcos’ term for torturing and mutilating them before dumping them on a roadside for public display. Ferdinand Marcos was a client of Paul Manafort and Roger Stone’s lobbying firm. He paid it an annual retainer of $950,000 to “tamp down concerns about [his] human rights record,” according to Politico magazine’s Kenneth P. Vogel. Anti-elitism was Alex’s thing, but all that seemed pretty elitist to me. Did Alex care about that?

The Republican and Democratic parties have sadly morphed into one large, Wall Street–financed political establishment in which no matter which party gets elected, the erosion of our civil liberties continues and we pile up more debt, levy higher taxes on working people, and engage in endless foreign wars where America’s interests are sometimes vague. The close alliance of the Bushes and Clintons shows that party is meaningless in today’s political system.

The expectation of the Clinton campaign and the mainstream media was inconsistent with the prior trend, over fifty years, of African Americans giving 11 to 16 percent of their vote to Republican and Independent candidates in presidential elections. Among recent presidents, only Lyndon Johnson in 1964, Al Gore in 2000, and Barack Obama in 2008 and 2012 have received 90 percent or more of the black vote. Hillary Clinton received 88 percent of the African American vote. Stop the Steal, Inc. I

What . . . fellow?” The wind was cool, but I could see sweat trickling down the back of Jamie’s neck, dampening his collar and plastering the linen between his shoulders. Duff didn’t answer immediately. A look of speculation flickered in his small, deep-set eyes. “Don’t think about it, Duff,” Roger said, softly, but with great assurance. “I can reach ye from here with an oar, ken?” “Aye?” Duff glanced thoughtfully from Jamie, to Roger, and then to me. “Aye, reckon ye might. But allowin’ for the sake for argyment as how you can swim, MacKenzie—and even that Mr. Fraser might keep afloat—I dinna think that’s true of the lady, is it? Skirts and petticoats . . .” He shook his head, pursing thin lips in speculation as he looked at me. “Go to the bottom like a stone, she would.” Peter shifted ever so slightly, bringing his feet under him. “Claire?” Jamie said. I saw his fingers curl tight round the oars, and heard the note of strain in his voice. I sighed and drew the pistol out from under the coat across my lap. “Right,” I said. “Which one shall I shoot?

Perot went on to create the Reform Party three years later and became its presidential nominee for the 1996 election. Running against Clinton and Bob Dole, Perot still managed to pull in 8.4 percent of the popular vote. Although Perot’s vote totals had fallen in four years, the 1996 results were still dramatic for a third-party presidential candidate. Despite being mocked at times by the mainstream media for his political naïveté, Perot had managed to tap into a developing undercurrent of political distrust and disgust of career politicians by voters. Joining

I am Jack of Shadows!” he cried out. “Lord of Shadow Guard! I am Shadowjack, the thief who walks in silence and in shadows! I was beheaded in Igles and rose again from the Dung Pits of Glyve. I drank the blood of a vampire and ate a stone. I am the breaker of the Compact. I am he who forged a name in the Red Book of Ells. I am the prisoner in the jewel. I duped the Lord of High Dudgeon once, and I will return for vengeance upon him. I am the enemy of my enemies. Come take me, filth, if you love the Lord of Bats or despise me, for I have named myself Jack of Shadows!

When President Nixon was reelected in a landslide in 1972, film critic Pauline Kael famously said in disbelief, “I live in a rather special world. I only know one person who voted for Nixon. Where they are I don’t know. They’re outside my ken. But sometimes when I’m in a theater I can feel them.”14 Her statement has come to symbolize the insulation of the liberal elite, living in a bubble and hearing only the opinions of fellow liberals. It has become known as “Pauline Kael Syndrome” and its most virulent strain has been discovered in late 2016, complete with paranoid delusions of Russian hacking. Liberals

Wallace would never realize his political ambitions, but he would certainly play a part in seeing that Johnson realized his. After the assassination of President Kennedy, a fingerprint was found on a cardboard box in the sniper’s nest on the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository. It could not be linked with Oswald, any other employee of the Texas School Book Depository, or any law enforcement officer who had handled the box. Wallace’s print from his previous conviction and the one found on the box were a match, according to fingerprint expert A. Nathan Darby, former head of Austin’s police identification unit. Darby was the most experienced certified latent print examiner in America, with more than thirty-five years of military forensic and police experience. An initial comparison found a match between the two prints on fourteen unique points while Darby ultimately ascertained that the two prints had thirty-two matching points,65 far exceeding the requirement for identification and conviction. “I’m positive,” said Darby. “The finger that made the ink print also made the latent print. It’s a match.” In comparison, “the Dallas police found only three partial fingerprints of Oswald on only two of the boxes in the area.”66

Ted’s a Bushman with deep ties to the political and financial establishment. Ted and Heidi brag about being the first “Bush marriage”—they met as Bush staffers and that meeting ultimately led to matrimony. Ted was an adviser on legal affairs while Heidi was an adviser on economic policy and eventually director for the Western Hemisphere on the National Security Council under Condoleezza Rice. Condi helped give us the phony war in Iraq. And Chad Sweet, Ted Cruz’s campaign chairman, is a former CIA officer. Michael Chertoff, George W. Bush’s former Secretary of Homeland Security, hired Sweet from Goldman Sachs to restructure and optimize the flow of information between the CIA, FBI and other members of the national security community and DHS.

In 2009, Mukhtar Dzhakishev, a Kazakh official intimately involved in the transfer, claimed that then Senator Hillary Clinton put the screws to the Kazakhs, threatening to cancel an important diplomatic meeting unless a deal was reached. Dzhakishev said that Kazakh Prime Minister Karim Massimov “was in America and needed to meet with Hillary Clinton but this meeting was cancelled. And they said that those investors connected with the Clintons who were working in Kazakhstan have problems. Until Kazakhstan solved those problems, there would be no meeting, and all manner of measures would be taken.”550 Months after the deal, Giustra transferred $31.1 million to the Clinton Foundation and announced a multi-year commitment to donate $100 million to the foundation, as well as half of the future profits.

The accomplishment of the testimony was two-fold: It changed the death of Marshall from suicide to death by gunshot, and it brought into light bespectacled Johnson hit man, Malcolm “Mac” Wallace. At one point, Wallace, a former marine who had been the president of the University of Texas student body, had strong political aspirations. In 1946, Wallace was an organizer for Homer Rainey’s campaign for governor.44 Wallace eventually became indebted to Johnson, and the closest he would ever get to political office would be in administering of carnage for Johnson and his Texas business associates. Wallace was the Mr. X at the gas station asking Nolan Griffin for directions. Described as a “hatchet man”45 for Johnson by Lyndon’s mistress Madeleine Brown, Wallace was an important link in many of the murders connected to Johnson. Estes’s lawyer, Douglas Caddy, revealed Wallace’s and Johnson’s complicity in Texas-style justice in a letter to Stephan S. Trott at the US Department of Justice: My client, Mr. Estes, has authorized me to make this reply to your letter of May 29, 1984. Mr. Estes was a member of a four-member group, headed by Lyndon Johnson, which committed criminal acts in Texas in the 1960’s. The other two, besides Mr. Estes and LBJ, were Cliff Carter and Mack Wallace. Mr. Estes is willing to disclose his knowledge concerning the following criminal offenses: Murders 1.   The killing of Henry Marshall 2.   The killing of George Krutilek 3.   The killing of Ike Rogers and his secretary 4.   The killing of Coleman Wade 5.   The killing of Josefa Johnson 6.   The killing of John Kinser 7.   The killing of President J. F. Kennedy46

Where the parties speak different languages the chance for misinterpretation is compounded. For example, in Persian, the word “compromise” apparently lacks the positive meaning it has in English of “a midway solution both sides can live with,” but has only a negative meaning as in “our integrity was compromised.” Similarly, the word “mediator” in Persian suggests “meddler,” someone who is barging in uninvited. In early 1980 U.N. Secretary General Kurt Waldheim flew to Iran to seek the release of American diplomats being held hostage by Iranian students soon after the Islamic revolution. His efforts were seriously set back when Iranian national radio and television broadcast in Persian a remark he reportedly made on his arrival in Tehran: “I have come as a mediator to work out a compromise.” Within an hour of the broadcast, his car was being stoned by angry Iranians.

The laws of physics, which govern the behaviour of atoms and the movements of the stars, govern also the conduct of rational beings. And yet: Being is still enchanted for us; in a hundred Places it remains a source - a play of pure Powers, which touches no one, who does not kneel and wonder. Words still go softly forth towards the unsayable. And music, always new, from palpitating stones Builds in useless space its godly home. [Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus, n] This enchantment — revealed to us in the constant intimation of sacred things — belongs, not to the world of physical science, but to the Lebenswelt, which we ourselves construct through our collusive actions. The 'scientific realist' sees only a disenchanted world; and what he sees is real. But within reality we also make our home, and in doing so we provide the meaning that is lacking from the world of science.

The Czech novelist Milan Kundera made a famous observation. ‘Kitsch,’ he wrote, ‘causes two tears to flow in quick succession. The first tear says: How nice to see children running on the grass! The second tear says: how nice to be moved, together with all mankind, by children running on the grass!’ Kitsch, in other words, is not about the thing observed but about the observer. It does not invite you to feel moved by the doll you are dressing so tenderly, but by yourself dressing the doll. All sentimentality is like this: it redirects emotion from the object to the subject, so as to create a fantasy of emotion without the real cost of feeling it. The kitsch object encourages you to think ‘look at me feeling this; how nice I am and how lovable’. That is why Oscar Wilde, referring to one of Dickens’s most sickly death-scenes, said that ‘a man must have a heart of stone not to laugh at the death of Little Nell’.

Two days later, I started my job. My job involved typing friendly letters full of happy lies to dying children. I wasn't allowed to touch my computer keyboard. I had to press the keys with a pair of Q-tips held by tweezers -- one pair of tweezers in each hand. I’m sorry -- that was a metaphor. My job involved using one of those photo booths to take strips of four photographs of myself. The idea was to take one picture good enough to put on a driver’s license, and to be completely satisfied with it, knowing I had infinite retries and all the time in the world, and that I was getting paid for it. I’d take the photos and show them to the boss, and he would help me think of reasons the photos weren't good enough. I’d fill out detailed reports between retakes. We weren't permitted to recycle the outtakes, so I had to scan them, put them on eBay, arrange a sale, and then ship them out to the buyer via FedEx. FedEx came once every three days, at either ten minutes till noon or five minutes after six. I’m sorry -- that was a metaphor, too. My job involved blowing ping-pong balls across long, narrow tables using three-foot-long bendy straws. At the far end of the table was a little wastebasket. My job was to get the ping-pong ball into that wastebasket, using only the bendy straw and my lungs. Touching the straw to the ping-pong ball was grounds for a talking-to. If the ping-pong ball fell off the side of the table, or if it missed the wastebasket, I had to get on my computer and send a formal request to commit suicide to Buddha himself. I would then wait patiently for his reply, which was invariably typed while very stoned, and incredibly forgiving. Every Friday, an hour before Quitting Time, I'd put on a radiation suit. I'd lift the wastebaskets full of ping-pong balls, one at a time, and deposit them into drawstring garbage bags. I'd tie the bags up, stack them all on a pallet, take them down to the incinerator in the basement, and watch them all burn. Then I'd fill out, by hand, a one-page form re: how the flames made me feel. "Sad" was an acceptable response; "Very Sad" was not.

Billy Sol Estes, who died on May 14, 2013, rebuffed my many attempts to interview him. He had long stopped speaking publicly about the strange deaths or his knowledge of them, praying as he got older in years for a more spiritual solution to the murders. “I think there’s still a God in heaven, and I think that God will straighten history out,” Estes said. “I’ve decided that none of us can do it down here.”69 I did have access and the full cooperation of Billy Sol Estes’s personal attorney Douglas Caddy, who supplied interviews, source materials, and remembrances for this book. I can understand Estes’s reluctance to give interviews in his later years. By the time I asked him in 2012, he had already identified Lyndon Johnson as the ultimate perpetrator in the murder of President Kennedy and had implicated him in seven other murders on record, in interviews and with many credible media outlets. Both Bobby Baker and Billy Sol Estes were self-described wheeler dealers, operators, hustlers; both were in deep with Johnson, made money from his political influence, and eventually paid for it. Both overreached for personal gain, possibly believing that their leader could exonerate them. Johnson used them for his own wealth until they became a liability. Then, they were promptly cut off the tree and left to rot.

Statement Preliminary to the Invention of Solace Whether they bend as compliantly as black leaves Curved and hanging in the heavy dew in the grey dawn, Or whether they wait as motionless as ice-coated Insects and spears of roots on a northern cliff; Whether they tighten once like the last white edge Of primrose taken suddenly skyward By a gust of frost, or swallow as hard as stones Careened and scattered by a current of river; Whether they mourn by the bright light of grief Running like a spine of grass straight through the sound Of their songs, or whether they fall quietly Through indefinite darkness like a seed of sorrel Bound alive beneath snow; whether they mourn in multitudes, blessed like a congregation of winter forest moaning for the white drifting children of storms they can never remember, or whether they grieve separately, divided even from themselves, parted like golden plovers blown and calling over a buffeted sea; something must come to them, something as clear and fair and continuous as the eye of the bluegill open in calm water, something as silent as the essential spaces of breath heard inside the voice naming all of their wishes, something touching them in the same way the sun deep in the pit of the pear touches the spring sky by the light of its own leaf. A comfort understood like that must be present now and possible.

But its other characteristic it shares with almost anything Martian. It can last long periods in hibernation, or if that isn't necessary, in a state of lowered vitality and activity—say when there is no food available. But with any increase in the food supply, then at once—almost like throwing a switch—it expands, multiplies to the full extent of the food supply." "I'll say it does!" "Cut off the food supply and it simply waits for more good times. Pure theory, of course, since I am reasoning by analogy from other Martian life forms—but that's why I'm going to have to disappoint Lowell. Fuzzy Britches will have to go on very short rations." Her husband frowned. "That won't be easy; he feeds it all the time. We'll just have to watch him—or there will be more little visitors from heaven. Honey, let's get busy. Right now." "Yes, dear. I just had to get my thoughts straight." Roger called them all to general quarters; Operation Roundup began. They shooed them aft and into the hold; they slithered back, purring and seeking companionship. Pollux got into the hold and tried to keep them herded together while the others scavenged through the ship. His father stuck his head in; tried to make out his son in a cloud of flat cats. "How many have you got so far?" "I can't count them—they keep moving around. Close the door!" "How can I keep the door closed and still send them in to you?" "How can I keep them in here if you keep opening the door?

The picture of human life in the market-place, though its general tint was the sad gray, brown, or black of the English emigrants, was yet enlivened by some diversity of hue. A party of Indians—in their savage finery of curiously embroidered deerskin robes, wampum-belts, red and yellow ochre, and feathers, and armed with the bow and arrow and stone-headed spear—stood apart with countenances of inflexible gravity, beyond what even the Puritan aspect could attain. Nor, wild as were these painted barbarians, were they the wildest feature of the scene. This distinction could more justly be claimed by some mariners—a part of the crew of the vessel from the Spanish Main—who had come ashore to see the humours of Election Day. They were rough-looking desperadoes, with sun-blackened faces, and an immensity of beard; their wide short trousers were confined about the waist by belts, often clasped with a rough plate of gold, and sustaining always a long knife, and in some instances, a sword. From beneath their broad-brimmed hats of palm-leaf, gleamed eyes which, even in good-nature and merriment, had a kind of animal ferocity. They transgressed without fear or scruple, the rules of behaviour that were binding on all others: smoking tobacco under the beadle's very nose, although each whiff would have cost a townsman a shilling; and quaffing at their pleasure, draughts of wine or aqua-vitae from pocket flasks, which they freely tendered to the gaping crowd around them. It remarkably characterised the incomplete morality of the age, rigid as we call it, that a licence was allowed the seafaring class, not merely for their freaks on shore, but for far more desperate deeds on their proper element. The sailor of that day would go near to be arraigned as a pirate in our own. There could be little doubt, for instance, that this very ship's crew, though no unfavourable specimens of the nautical brotherhood, had been guilty, as we should phrase it, of depredations on the Spanish commerce, such as would have perilled all their necks in a modern court of justice. But the sea in those old times heaved, swelled, and foamed very much at its own will, or subject only to the tempestuous wind, with hardly any attempts at regulation by human law. The buccaneer on the wave might relinquish his calling and become at once if he chose, a man of probity and piety on land; nor, even in the full career of his reckless life, was he regarded as a personage with whom it was disreputable to traffic or casually associate. Thus the Puritan elders in their black cloaks, starched bands, and steeple-crowned hats, smiled not unbenignantly at the clamour and rude deportment of these jolly seafaring men; and it excited neither surprise nor animadversion when so reputable a citizen as old Roger Chillingworth, the physician, was seen to enter the market-place in close and familiar talk with the commander of the questionable vessel.

Our colleague Roger Fisher captured this phenomenon in a wry reflection on his days as a litigator : “I sometimes failed to persuade the court that I was right, but I never failed to persuade myself!

In January 1453 Mehmet ordered a test firing of the great gun outside his new royal palace at Edirne. The mighty bombard was hauled into position near the gate and the city was warned that the following day “the explosion and roar would be like thunder, lest anyone should be struck dumb by the unexpected shock or pregnant women might miscarry.” In the morning the cannon was primed with powder. A team of workmen lugged a giant stone ball into the mouth of the barrel and rolled it back down to sit snugly in front of the gunpowder chamber. A lighted taper was put to the touch hole. With a shattering roar and a cloud of smoke that hazed the sky, the mighty bullet was propelled across the open countryside for a mile before burying itself six feet down in the soft earth.

It really helps, in a negotiation, actually to know what you are doing and be stone-cold sober about the real interests of the other players.

Whenever an error pops up, the usual response is “Jeez, another screwup, what went wrong this time?” The creative thinker, on the other hand, will realize the potential value of errors, and perhaps say something like, “Would you look at that! Where can it lead our thinking?” And then he or she will go on to use the error as a stepping stone to a new idea. Indeed, the whole history of discovery is filled with people who used erroneous assumptions and failed ideas as stepping stones to new ideas. Columbus thought he was finding a shorter route to India. Johannes Kepler stumbled on to the idea of interplanetary gravity because of assumptions which were right for the wrong reasons. Thomas Edison knew 1,800 ways not to build a light bulb. Freud had several big failures before he developed psychoanalysis. One of Madame Curie’s failures was radium.

Were Beecher’s observations relevant to people with PTSD? Mark Greenberg, Roger Pitman, Scott Orr, and I decided to ask eight Vietnam combat veterans if they would be willing to take a standard pain test while they watched scenes from a number of movies. The first clip we showed was from Oliver Stone’s graphically violent Platoon (1986), and while it ran we measured how long the veterans could keep their right hands in a bucket of ice water. We then repeated this process with a peaceful (and long-forgotten) movie clip. Seven of the eight veterans kept their hands in the painfully cold water 30 percent longer during Platoon. We then calculated that the amount of analgesia produced by watching fifteen minutes of a combat movie was equivalent to that produced by being injected with eight milligrams of morphine, about the same dose a person would receive in an emergency room for crushing chest pain. We concluded that Beecher’s speculation that “strong emotions can block pain” was the result of the release of morphinelike substances manufactured in the brain. This suggested that for many traumatized people, reexposure to stress might provide a similar relief from anxiety.17 It was an interesting experiment, but it did not fully explain why Julia kept going back to her violent pimp.

Of course,” Wilfred said, “but our Russian friends, who are artful in these things, have a substance said to be made from two common household ingredients, which, when mixed, make a poison that works in a few minutes and is chemically untraceable.” “What are the ingredients?” Roger asked. “I don’t know—and I don’t want to know,” Wilfred replied. “If they became public knowledge there would be an immediate rash of unexplained domestic deaths in this country and around the world.

Chris was told he had been assigned to work in a communications vault that was the nerve center for this system of international espionage—a code room linking the TRW plant with CIA Headquarters and Rhyolite’s major ground stations in Australia. The continuing disclosures about the secret world fascinated Chris, and he was especially intrigued by what he saw as a bizarre contrast between the mechanical spies he had been told about and the location of the ground stations. The Rhyolite earth stations had been planted in a world that was about as close as man could find now to the Stone Age; they were situated near Alice Springs in the harsh Outback of Australia, an oasis in a desert where aborigines still lived much as Stone Age men did thousands of years ago. Under an Executive Agreement between the United States and Australia, Chris was told, all intelligence information collected by the satellites and relayed to the network of dish-shaped microwave antennas at Alice Springs was to be shared with the Australian intelligence service. However, Rogers told Chris, the United States, by design, was not living up to the agreement: certain information was not being passed to Australia. He explained that TRW was designing a new, larger satellite with a new array of sensors; the Australians, Rogers emphasized, were never to be told about it; anytime Chris sent messages that would reach Australia, he must delete any reference to the new satellite. Its name was Argus, or AR—for Advanced Rhyolite. Whoever in the CIA had selected the cryptonym must have enjoyed his choice, because it was appropriate. In Greek mythology, Argus was a giant with one hundred eyes … a vigilant guardian.

We clung to our small stones with shapeshifted feet, there on an outer current Chaos drifting, as at the whirlpool’s rim.

Oh, I'm going to let Dean do whatever he wants to this fucker. I'm going to watch Braxton peel his face back and dig needles into his muscles. And after that’s all said and fucking done, I’m going to shoot him right in the head like I did Roger Murphy and let Abel piss on his corpse before setting it on fire. More laughter rattles my chest. The devil isn't a little red man, I realize. The devil is in me. He's a vicious, wicked creature. Cruel and oh, I like him. So fucking much.

Mandor had mounted the battlementlike wall of stone. He stood as if he were a part of it, his arms upraised. I suppressed my first impulse, which was to shout at him to stop. He knew what he was doing. And I was certain he would not pay me the slightest heed, anyway.

When L.P. Hartley wrote ‘The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there in the opening lines of his 1953 novel 'The Go-Between', he created one of the most memorable and famous opening lines in English Literature. The distant past is indeed a foreign country for any mature person considering their youth, and every one of us has an unchangeable past that looks very different now than it did then. As memories accumulate and tumble in upon each other, and unresolved, discordant issues jostle, protrude and disturb the mind’s peace, the past all too often becomes an uncomfortable, grief-littered and unwelcoming country. The past, however, might as well be set in stone as there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that we can do to shade it differently to what it actually is ... and actually was.

They tortured Roger Murphy before I killed him. They did it like they had done the same thing a thousand times before. Easily. Without remorse. And if I was reading the three of them right, they liked it.

You should know why I was 'nice' to you in the shower, Ava. Think about it. Take a fucking guess as to how a girl like me would know what a chick like you is feeling.” The insinuation is clear. The only thing that could've made me act like that was … and if she knows, if she could tell, then … it’s because she’s felt it too. Instead of making me relate to her, however, it only makes me angrier. I deserve to feel angry for being betrayed. I deserve to want to punch her in the face and break her nose. I’m contemplating doing just that when Dean bangs a fist into the door, distracting me. "Avalon! Open the fucking door,” he yells through the wood. Not yet, I think. I'm not done. I keep my hands to my sides as I step even closer, my chest brushing against Rylie's. Her eyes widen as her back presses into the door all on its own now. A sick feeling enters my gut. Whatever she says, I need to know something. I need to know because if she had anything to do with Roger Murphy and Plexton then I need to—God, I don't want to hurt her, but I can't let anyone get away with doing that. I am not weak.

I think I know who told Roger where to find me," I say. "It was my mother.

dream about killing Roger Murphy—over and over again. In any way I can. A bullet to the brain had done the trick, but since then, my sick mind has come up with all other manner of ways I could've done the deed.

You want to know if I'm okay? Yeah? I'm fucking fine. I survived. I'm not so fucking weak that I let some piece of shit, small-town drug dealer like Roger-fucking-Murphy get to me.

And strangely, it doesn't get to me the way something else does. His death. Roger's murder at my hands. That's what I remember in clear monochrome sharpened detail. Every twitch of his face as I pressed the barrel of Dean's gun against his forehead and then the resistance against my finger as I squeezed the trigger.

Ailes won Bush over even as he berated him. “Don’t ever wear that shirt again! You look like a fucking clerk!” he roared when Bush sported a short-sleeved shirt during a speech. “Roger was the only guy strong enough to say to George Bush, ‘Jesus Christ, you look like a pansy on TV,’ ” recalled political operative Roger Stone,

Kessler

I feel that I am uniquely qualified to make the case that LBJ had John F. Kennedy killed so that he could become president.

George Parr

In the end, a six-point shift among blacks in markets targeted with Danney Williams videos likely had a profound impact on the outcome of the election.85

The Harvard discussions were chaotic, at least in part because the Trump team’s fractured leadership was overrepresented in many of the panels. Corey Lewandowski, for example, was included in both the primary-election panel and, inexplicably, the general-election panel. He seemed to play a bigger role at the conference than he had on the campaign trail. Incredibly, Lewandowski would tell the Harvard conference that he had written Trump’s announcement speech, which was ludicrous given that Trump spoke without notes and there was no prepared text to memorize. The

CONWAY: Hold on. Why is there no mandate? You’ve lost 60 congressional seats since President Obama got there. You lost more than a dozen senators, a dozen governors. 1,000 state legislature. You just reelected a guy who represents liberal New York and a woman who represents San Francisco as your leader. You’ve learned nothing from this election. And

Hillary’s 92-page senior thesis was entitled “THERE IS ONLY THE FIGHT … An Analysis of the Alinsky Model.”2 Hillary attributed her title to two lines from the second poem, “East Cokor,” in T.S. Eliot’s 1940 “Four Quartets,” that read: (1.) “There is only the fight to recover what has been lost,” and (2.) “And found and lost again and again.” In

He loved the guy.” It was clear the connection was genuine, said Roger Stone, “because Steve is a slob, and Trump hates slobs.

Inside Trump’s circle, the power of illegal immigration to manipulate popular sentiment was readily apparent, and his advisers brainstormed methods for keeping their attention-addled boss on message. They needed a trick, a mnemonic device. In the summer of 2014, they found one that clicked. “Roger Stone and I came up with the idea of ‘the Wall,’ and we talked to Steve [Bannon] about it,” said Nunberg. “It was to make sure he talked about immigration.

The idea of Donald Trump and Alex Jones and Roger Stone and Stephen Bannon having power over us — that is terrifying. THE END

His name was Roger Stone. And he was the man who first introduced Alex Jones to his close friend Donald Trump. *

If our imagined tribe just is not disposed to cross the boundaries as a matter of inclination, they do not in our sense have an institutional fact. They simply have a disposition to behave in certain ways, and their behavior is just like the case of animals marking the limits of their territory. There is nothing deontic about such markings. The animals simply behave in such and such ways, and “behave” here means they simply move their bodies in specific ways. But if we suppose that the members of the tribe recognize that the line of stones creates rights and obligations, that they are forbidden to cross the line, that they are not supposed to cross it, then we have symbolization. The stones now symbolize something beyond themselves; they function like words. I

In the late 1990s, the conservative gadfly Roger Stone began to observe, not disapprovingly, that popular culture had become more influential than politics.

In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists, and will persist.

George Bush is high-handed, secretive, and fueled by an incredible sense of entitlement.

Post election in 1988, he famously swept a copy of Bill Buckley’s National Review off a coffee table in his Kennebunkport, Maine home and said “well we don’t need this shit anymore.

Perhaps it was because George H. W. Bush has no fixed ideology that he was underrated within his own party.

While the rest of the country may have been fooled by his genius, I, in fact, knew that he had quietly trademarked the phrase “Make America Great Again” with the US Patent and Trademark Office only days after Romney’s defeat. He told me on New Year’s Day 2013 that he was running for president in 2016. When I pointed out that some in the media would be skeptical that he would actually run based on his previous flirtations with public office, he replied, “That will disappear when I announce.” And so it did. President

According to the Census Bureau, median family income is nearly $13,000 less than when Obama first took office, while the poverty rate under Obama has remained at or near 14.5 percent, and extreme poverty has grown more extreme—with

Five days after the last debate, on October 21, 2016, Politico reported that Clinton’s secretive transition team had “hit the gas pedal,” hiring staff and culling through résumés, while quietly reaching out to key Democrats.96 At

While Trump may have booked other appointments after mine, I know that his life was spared to save our Republic and restore our economic vitality. This was the point at which I realized that Trump had been put on Earth for this larger purpose. This was the point that I realized he would be President.

In our country, the presidency isn’t decided by the national popular vote. To whine about a free and fair election in which the winner of the popular vote did not win the White House is like claiming that the basketball team who completed the most passes should win the game. We don’t score it that way and the players all know it. “Hamilton Electors” Urge Electoral College “Vote-Switching” Scheme Perhaps the most desperate last-ditch effort to block Trump from the White House was organized by a group of citizens calling themselves “Hamilton Electors.

As Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Theodore H. White wrote, “There is no excitement anywhere in the world, short of war, to match the excitement of an American presidential campaign.’’ If only White had witnessed Donald Trump’s 2016 victory.2

But for those who experienced politics when television was in its infancy, Trump again drew much from Truman. “Truman was only one in a long line of campaigners who went to extremes to excite crowds, to rouse them to action, and to convince them to vote for him on election day,” Karabell observed.32 Truman’s political rhetoric could appear extreme, almost rabble-rousing to those whose political awareness developed in the age of television. Karabell noted that Truman realized that with his whistle-stop speeches, he was speaking almost exclusively to the small audience present in that town, with that speech. “If he went too far during a whistle-stop speech, if he played fast and loose with facts, or

One of Paul Manafort’s best decisions was hiring Republican pollster Tony Fabrizio to determine how to beat Hillary Clinton. In the end, it was the pugnacious and bulldog-like Fabrizio, who insisted that the Trump campaign had to expand the map into Wisconsin and Michigan, while doubling down on Pennsylvania. The campaign shifted digital paid advertising resources to the states but it was Trump’s personal barnstorming in all three states that made all the difference. Fabrizio insisted Trump could win only through this route. He was right. Trump

Trump succeeded in the age of television precisely because the broadcast media cooperated with the print media in excoriating him for a host of remarks Hillary characterized as deplorable. Trump used mainstream media criticism to energize millions of voters disaffected with Washington insiders, smug Clinton-supporting pundits and leftist reporters.

In total Clinton had taken 7 days off in August out of the first 14 days and was scheduled to continue with this approach. Donald Trump on the other hand had taken only two days off in August, Sunday August 7th and Sunday the 14th.36 He had 7 days where he participated in more than one campaign event.

On November 13, 2016, the Gateway Pundit noted Trump had nearly 1 million attend his rallies in the election campaign, while Clinton totaled 100,000. Hillary had taken fifty-seven days off since July without participating in campaign rallies, amounting to more than half the ninety-nine days between August and Election Day.39 Trump’s

An email exchange dated March 22, 2014, between Hillary’s campaign manager Robby Mook and her adviser/attorney Cheryl Mills, that included John Podesta, made clear all three had their doubts from the start about the likely success of a gender-based campaign focused on the premise that Hillary would be the first woman president. “In fact, I think running on her gender would be the same mistake as 2008, i.e., having a message at odds with what voters ultimately want,” Mook said.

Calling to Measure It’s an obsession now, this matching And measuring, comparing, for instance, The coral-violet of the inner lip Of a queen conch to the last rim of dusk On the purple-flowering raspberry To the pure indigo of the bird-voiced Tree frog’s twittering tongue, then converting The result to an accepted standard Of rose-scarlet gradations. It’s difficult to say which is greater- The brevity of the elk’s frosty bellow Or the moments of fog sun-lifted Through fragrances of blue spruce Or the fading flavor in one spoonful Of warm chocolate rum. I mark out space by ten peas Strung on a string. The pane perimeter Of my window, for instance, is twenty-eight Lengths, twelve lengths over. Seventy pea-strings stretch from bed To door, Four go round my neck. My longing for you is more painful Than the six-times folding, doubling And doubling, of a coyote’s Most piercing cry, more inconsolable Than a whole night of moonlight blinded By thunderclouds, more constant Than black at the center of a cavern Stone below leagues of granite. I gauge my cold by the depth Of stillness in the pod heart of a frozen Wren. I time my breath by the faltering Leaves of aspen in wind. I count the circles Of my dizziness by the spreading rings Of rain-lassos on the pond, by the repeating Bell chimes of the corridor clock, By the one unending ring of the horizon. Where is the tablet, where the rule, where The steel weights, the balance, the book, Properly to make measure of a loss So grand and deep I can spread and stitch it To every visible star I name- Arcturus, Spica, Vega, Regulus- in this dark Surrounding dark surrounding dark?

there were many contacts during the campaign and the transition between Trump associates and Russians—in person, on the phone, and via text and email. Many of these interactions were with Ambassador Kislyak, who was thought to help oversee Russian intelligence operations in the United States, but they included other Russian officials and agents as well. For example, Roger Stone, the longtime Trump political advisor who claimed that he was in touch with Julian Assange, suggested in August 2016 that information about John Podesta was going to come out. In October, Stone hinted Assange and WikiLeaks were going to release material that would be damaging to my campaign, and later admitted to also exchanging direct messages over Twitter with Guccifer 2.0, the front for Russian intelligence, after some of those messages were published by the website The Smoking Gun. We also know now that in December 2016, Trump’s son-in-law and senior advisor, Jared Kushner, met with Sergey Gorkov, the head of a Kremlin-controlled bank that is under U.S. sanctions and tied closely to Russian intelligence. The Washington Post caused a sensation with its report that Russian officials were discussing a proposal by Kushner to use Russian diplomatic facilities in America to communicate secretly with Moscow. The New York Times reported that Russian intelligence attempted to recruit Carter Page, the Trump foreign policy advisor, as a spy back in 2013 (according to the report, the FBI believed Page did not know that the man who approached him was a spy). And according to Yahoo News, U.S. officials received intelligence reports that Carter Page met with a top Putin aide involved with intelligence. Some Trump advisors failed to disclose or lied about their contacts with the Russians, including on applications for security clearances, which could be a federal crime. Attorney General Jeff Sessions lied to Congress about his contacts and later recused himself from the investigation. Michael Flynn lied about being in contact with Kislyak and then changed his story about whether they discussed dropping U.S. sanctions. Reporting since the election has made clear that Trump and his top advisors have little or no interest in learning about the Russian covert operation against American democracy.

Will you not bid me welcome, Brother?” the beast mocked. The dragon’s voice paralyzed Roger where he stood. Hearing it sapped his strength, stole his will, made him feel as though his mind had been crushed between slabs of stone. There was chaos in it, and destruction—a voice crafted of darkness and the death of worlds.