Short Biography Quotes

Instruction does much, but encouragement everything." (Letter to A.F. Oeser, Nov. 9, 1768)

The art of medicine is long, Hippocrates tells us, "and life is short; opportunity fleeting; the experiment perilous; judgment flawed.

Mom brought me some peanut butter cookies and a biography of Judy Garland. She told me she thought my problem was that I was too impatient, my fuse was too short, that I was only interested in instant gratification. I said, “Instant gratification takes too long.” The glib martyr.

The most monstrous monster is the monster with noble feelings

So that is marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing a ball.

Paintings of Jesus with long hair and a full beard and of first-century Jews in Persian turbans and Bedouin robes are fantasies of later artists. The Hellenistic world created by Alexander the Great was remarkably homogenous in style. From Britain to North Africa, from Spain to India, people affected Greek manners. The earliest paintings of Jesus depict him as the Good Shepherd with short hair, no beard, and wearing a knee-length tunic. This is probably far more what Jesus looked like than the paintings we know and love. The apostle Paul admonished men not to let their hair grow long (1 Cor 11:14), which he would hardly have done if the other apostles or the Sanhedrin had worn their hair long; he certainly would not have written that if Jesus had worn his hair long.

I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse perhaps to be locked in; and, thinking of the safety and prosperity of the one sex and of the poverty and insecurity of the other and of the effect of tradition and of the lack of tradition upon the mind of a writer, I thought at last that it was time to roll up the crumpled skin of the day, with its arguments and its impressions and its anger and its laughter, and cast it into the hedge.

marriage. The other thing, after all, came so much

you are an immensely ancient, complex, and continuous character, for which reason please treat yourself with respect and

Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860–1935) was a prominent American feminist, sociologist, novelist, writer of short stories, poetry, and nonfiction, and a lecturer for social reform.

Verdon R. Adams’s short biography Tom White: The Life of a Lawman.

A buyer persona profile is a short biography of the typical customer, not just a job description but a person description,” says Adele Revella,

Her locks an ancient lady gave Her loving husband's life to save; And men — they honored so the dame — Upon some stars bestowed her name. But to our modern married fair, Who'd give their lords to save their hair, No stellar recognition's given. There are not stars enough in heaven.

Google gets $59 billion, and you get free search and e-mail. A study published by the Wall Street Journal in advance of Facebook’s initial public offering estimated the value of each long-term Facebook user to be $80.95 to the company. Your friendships were worth sixty-two cents each and your profile page $1,800. A business Web page and its associated ad revenue were worth approximately $3.1 million to the social network. Viewed another way, Facebook’s billion-plus users, each dutifully typing in status updates, detailing his biography, and uploading photograph after photograph, have become the largest unpaid workforce in history. As a result of their free labor, Facebook has a market cap of $182 billion, and its founder, Mark Zuckerberg, has a personal net worth of $33 billion. What did you get out of the deal? As the computer scientist Jaron Lanier reminds us, a company such as Instagram—which Facebook bought in 2012—was not valued at $1 billion because its thirteen employees were so “extraordinary. Instead, its value comes from the millions of users who contribute to the network without being paid for it.” Its inventory is personal data—yours and mine—which it sells over and over again to parties unknown around the world. In short, you’re a cheap date.

I have been an elated reader of all the great Russian novelists and short-story writers since my early twenties and I have often written about them, though I know no Russian and have never been to Russia. The lure for me (I realize now) lay in John Bayley’s wonderful phrase—I believe in his learned introduction to Pushkin’s Letters—that the “doors of the Russian house are wide open”: we see people who speak out in the lost hours of the day as it passes through them.

As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three particulars." "And what are they?" "A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a very frequent ignorance of grammar.

Death is the meaning of life, the race against oblivion; man being the only animal who is conscious that he will one day die; there lies the seed of self-destruction, greed for more, even if only to be remembered a short time longer than others, as if it mattered to the other walking dead.

I have written a number of short biographical studies of insignificant personages from literary history. My interest has always been in writing biographies of the also-rans: people who lived in the shadow of fame in their own lifetime and who, since their death, have sunk into profound obscurity.

Indeed he seemed to her sometimes made differently from other people, born blind, deaf, and dumb, to the ordinary things, but to the extraordinary things, with an eye like an eagle’s. His understanding often astonished her. But did he notice the flowers? No. Did he notice the view? No. Did he even notice his own daughter’s beauty, or whether there was pudding on his plate or roast beef? He would sit at table with them like a person in a dream.

the fibres of our secular hearts are bent and bowed beneath the unaccustomed tempest.

A writer’s letters should be as literary as his printed works.

The very stone one kicks with one’s boot will outlast Shakespeare.

To Howard Goodkin, for the immense work he did in his short life so Hispanic children can stand tall and proud.

Deffand fell in love with him, and thought that at her age she could

Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall.

the ladies, young or old. There is no resisting a cockade,

your pen sticks upright by the nib in the carpet. If there were a cat to swing or a wife to murder now would be the time. So

as long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking).

I saw that mathematics was split up into numerous specialties, each of which could easily absorb the short lifetime granted to us,

What a delightful place Bath is," said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here.

The daughter of the literary biographer Leslie Stephen, and close friend of the innovative biographer of the Victorians, Lytton Strachey, Woolf herself put forward, in ‘The New Biography’ (1927) (reviewing work by another biographer acquaintance, Harold Nicolson), her own memorable theory of biography, encapsulated in her phrase ‘granite and rainbow’. ‘Truth’ she envisions ‘as something of granite-like solidity’, and ‘personality as something of rainbow-like intangibility’, and ‘the aim of biography’, she proposes, ‘is to weld these two into one seamless whole’ (E4 473). The following short biographical account ofWoolf will attempt to keep to the basic granitelike facts that Woolf novices need to know, while also occasionally attending in brief to the more elusive, but equally relevant, matter of rainbow-like personality.

There was the biography of a Norwegian resistance fighter who swam through chilly oceans and got gangrene and wandered through I think it might have been Finland or Lapland in a sweet short summer and everyone took him in and the dark Finnish women made him tea with honey in it on late afternoons and it was beautiful but also horribly sad because the book was only half over and you knew that bad things were going to happen.

It may be remarked, however, that, of all the events which constitute a person’s biography, there is scarcely one — none, certainly, of anything like a similar importance — to which the world so easily reconciles itself as to his death.

Johnson argued that the most truthful life-writing is when ‘the writer tells his own story’, since only he knows the whole truth about himself. (He does not use the word ‘autobiography’, which only came into circulation in the early 19th century.) Those who write about another may want to over-praise him or ‘aggravate his infamy’; those who write about themselves, he says – optimistically – have no ‘motive to falsehood’ except ‘self-love’, and we are all on the watch for that.

I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right: he is the only man I ever did or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it.

But that any other eyes should see the residue of her thirty-three years, the deposit of each day’s living mixed with something more secret than she had ever spoken or shown in the course of all those days was an agony. At the same time it was immensely exciting.

The belief in a definable, consistent self, an identity that develops through the course of a life-story and that can be conclusively described, breaks down, to a great extent, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, at a time when psychoanalysis, scientific discoveries such as the theory of relativity, and experiments in art forms, are producing a more indeterminate approach to identity. Western biography from this time has more to say about contradictions and fluctuations in identity, and about the unknowability of the self.

Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?" "Why not?" "Because they are not clever enough for you—gentlemen read better books.

Oh! My sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I know it would signify nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother would be my only choice.

I made tiny newspapers of ant events, stamp-sized papers at first, then a bit bigger, too big for ants, it distressed me, but I couldn’t fit the stories otherwise and I wanted real stories, not just lines of something that looked like writing. Anyway, imagine how small an ant paper would really be. Even a stamp would have looked like a basketball court. I imagine political upheavals, plots and coups d e’tat, and I reported on them. I think I may have been reading a biography of Mary Queen of Scots at the time…. Anyway, there was this short news day for the ants. I’d run out of political plots, or I was bored with them. So I got a glass of water and I created a flood. The ants scrambled for safety, swimming for their lives. I was kind of ashamed, but it made for good copy. I told myself I was bringing excitement into their usual humdrum. The next day, I dropped a rock on them. It was a meteorite from outer space. They gathered around it and ran up and over it; obviously they didn’t know what to do. It prompted three letters to the editor.

Graham spoke plainly and directly. Convinced that the average person had a working vocabulary of six hundred words, he made a point to stick with common words and short sentences. Though he never put it exactly this way, he instinctively grasped the import of Sister Aimee Semple McPherson’s recipe for rabbit stew: first “you have to catch the rabbit.

There was just that nagging question of character. Andrew was commanding, pragmatic, hardworking, personally incorruptible (so far), fierce in defense of his policies—and willing to compromise when absolutely necessary. In short, a strong leader. He was also vengeful, bullying, mean-spirited, conniving, not always true to his word, and very secretive.

Later, when the other Beatles arrived, the crowd in the street had swelled to an estimated twenty-thousand, some of whom were whipped up in a terrific heat. Others, many of them young girls who had been waiting since dawn, suffered from hunger and exhaustion. The police force, which had been monitoring the situation nervously, called in the army and navy to help maintain order, but it was short-lived. By late afternoon, with chants of "We want the Beatles!" ringing through the square, the shaken troops, now four-hundred strong, felt control slipping from their grasp. They didn't know where to look first: at the barricades being crushed, the girls fainting out of sight, the hooligans stomping on the roofs of cars or pushing through their lines. A fourteen-year-old "screamed so hard she burst a blood-vessel in her throat." It was "frightening, chaotic, and rather inhuman," according to a trooper on horseback. There most pressing concern was the hotels plate-glass windows bowing perilously against the violent crush of bodies. They threatened to explode in a cluster of razor-sharp shards at any moment. Ambulances screamed in the distance, preparing for the worst; a detachment of mounted infantry swung into position.

Biographers are not usually as explicit as philosophers such as Plato, Wittgenstein, Austin, or Moore on questions of the existence of an essential self, the extent to which a life can be lived according to a philosophical system, or the relation between acts and emotions. That is not their job – unless they are writing the Life of a philosopher. But biography is bound to reflect changing and conflicting concepts about

He learned from the Greek poets "not to expect too much from life; not to dream of a chimerical bliss, ... but to do his duty, without expecting to be rewarded ..., to cultivate his friends and love his country even to the point of self sacrifice." From ancient writers he learned the possibility of courageous resignation, and under their inspiration he worked out for himself a program which was little short of the heroic.

Although Dalton tried to avoid all honors, he was elected to the Royal Society against his wishes, showered with medals, and given a handsome government pension. When he died in 1844, forty thousand people viewed the coffin, and the funeral cortege stretched for two miles. His entry in the Dictionary of National Biography is one of the longest, rivaled in length only by those of Darwin and Lyell among nineteenth-century men of science.

He sank more and more into apathy; little interested him apart from dolls and other children’s toys. He still spoke occasionally, but mainly to produce stock sentences in the style of a brainwashed schoolboy. Franziska made a record of some of them: ‘I translated much’. ‘I lived in a good place called Naumburg’. ‘I swam in the Saale’. ‘I was very fine because I lived in a fine house’. ‘I love Bismarck’. ‘I don’t like Friedrich Nietzsche’. It would be a mercy to think that he experienced at least a kind of vegetative contentment, but this seems not to have been the case. He suffered from his life-long curse of insomnia, and visitors downstairs were often disturbed by groans and howls coming from the upstairs bedroom. Towards the end of Franziska recorded him uttering ‘More light!’ (Goethe’s dying words) and ‘In short, dead!’ suggesting that that is what he wanted to be.

Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours—but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression.

I am Orafoura, but you can call me Jarod Kintz. I’m fairly proud to proclaim that Dora J. Arod has me on her short list of “World’s worst writers.” The list couldn’t get any shorter, because I’m the only name on it. I should tell her to stop calling it a list, and change the title to “World’s worst writer.” If you’re wondering why I rate all my work one star, it’s because the rating system doesn’t have a zero star option, or better yet, go into negative numbers.

At the turn of the century, Edwin Binney and his nephew, C. Harold Smith, who were in the paint business, thought there might be a market for colored wax sticks and began experimenting with beeswax and some of the newer petroleum-based varieties. In 1903, they produced the first rainbow box of eight wax crayons, which they sold successfully to schools. Alice Binney, Edwin’s wife, christened them “Crayolas” by joining the French word craie, or chalk, with “ola,” short for “oleaginous,” or oily. Many

When I see the expression ' as cruel as a tiger' and ' as bloodthirsty as a tiger' in print, I think of a small boy armed with an old muzzle-loading gun—the right barrel of which was split for six inches of its length, and the stock and barrels of which were kept from falling apart by lashings of brass wire—wandering through the jungles of the terai and bhabar in the days when there were ten tigers to every one that now survives; sleeping anywhere he happened to be when night came on, with a small fire to give him company and warmth, wakened at intervals by the calling of tigers, sometimes in the distance, at other times near at hand; throwing another stick on the fire and turning over and continuing his interrupted sleep without one thought of unease; knowing from his own short experience and from what others, who like himself had spent their days in the jungles, had told him, that a tiger, unless molested, would do him no harm; or during daylight hours avoiding any tiger he saw, and when that was not possible, standing perfectly still until it had passed and gone, before continuing on his way. And I think of him on one occasion stalking half-a-dozen jungle fowl that were feeding in the open, and on creeping up to a plum bush and standing up to peer over, the bush heaving and a tiger walking out on the far side and, on clearing the bush, turning round and looking at the boy with an expression on its face which said as clearly as any words, 'Hello, kid, what the hell are you doing here?' and, receiving no answer, turning round and waiting away very slowly without once looking back.

At the end of my first attempt to write a biography of Muhammad, I quoted the prescient words of the Canadian scholar Wilfred Cantwell Smith. Writing in the mid-twentieth century shortly before the Suez Crisis, he observed that a healthy, functioning Islam had for centuries helped Muslims cultivate decent values which we in the West share, because they spring from a common tradition. Some Muslims have problems with Western modernity. They have turned against the cultures of the People of the Book, and have even begun to Islamize their new hatred of these sister faiths, which were so powerfully endorsed by the Qur’an. Cantwell Smith argued that if they are to meet the challenge of the day, Muslims must learn to understand our Western traditions and institutions, because they are not going to disappear. If Islamic societies did not do this, he maintained, they would fail the test of the twentieth century. But he pointed out that Western people also have a problem: “an inability to recognize that they share the planet not with inferiors but with equals.”   Unless

I’ve got black accountants at Trump Castle and at Trump Plaza—black guys counting my money!” Trump said, according to O’Donnell’s memoir, Trumped! “I hate it. The only kind of people I want counting my money are short guys that wear yarmulkes every day. Those are the kind of people I want counting my money. Nobody else. . . . Besides that, I’ve got to tell you something else. I think that the guy is lazy. And it’s probably not his fault because laziness is a trait in blacks. It really is; I believe that. It’s not anything they can control.

Marriage, in short, is a bargain, like buying a house or entering a profession. One chooses it knowing that, by that very decision, one is abnegating other possibilities. In choosing companionship over passion, women like Beatrice Webb and Virginia Woolf made a bargain; their marriages worked because they did not regret their bargains, or blame their husbands for not being something else--dashing lovers, for example. But in writing biographies, or one's own life, it is both customary and misleading to present such marriages, to oneself or to one's reader, as sad compromises, the best of a bad bargain, or scarcely to speak of them at all. Virginia Woolf mentioned that she, who is reticent about nothing, had never spoken of her life with Leonard. but we know that she said of him that when he entered a room, she had no idea what he was going to say, a remarkable definition of a good marriage. Such marriages are not bad bargains, but the best of a good bargain, and we must learn the language to understand and describe them, particularly in writing the lives of accomplished women.

Not they indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them—does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?" "I do not know indeed." "Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with last night, are not you?" "Yes. "Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a smart-looking girl." "Did you indeed?" "Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too." "It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a walk.

I suppose you mean Camilla?" "Yes, that's the book; such unnatural stuff! An old man playing at see-saw, I took up the first volume once and looked it over, but I soon found it would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be before I saw it: as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was sure I should never be able to get through it." "I have never read it." "You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can imagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man's playing at see-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not.

Shortly after finding Phantastes, Jack ordered a copy of British Ballads in the Everyman edition with a chocolate binding, a style of book binding that Arthur liked but Jack formerly did not. He joked to Arthur about being converted to all of Arthur’s views and then, adding to the joke, suggested that Arthur might even make a Christian of him.107 Jack’s jokes had a way of being prophetic. The extent to which his lust for beautiful editions of books had gotten the better of him is evident from an episode shortly after he had promised himself to read one of William Morris’s translations of the Icelandic sagas as soon as he finished The Faerie Queene. He found the very book he wanted in the cheap Walter Scott Library edition, but decided not to buy it because the edition simply was not pretty enough.

As with any great literature, there are probably as many ways to read William Faulkner’s writing as there are readers. There are hundreds of books devoted to interpretations of his novels, numerous biographies, and every year high school teachers and college professors guide their students through one or more of the novels. But after all is said and done, there are the books themselves, and the pleasure of reading them can be deep and lasting. The language Faulkner uses ranges from the poetically beautiful, nearly biblical to the coarse sounds of rough dialect. His characters linger in the mind, whether for their heroism or villainy, their stoicism or self-indulgence, their honesty or deceitfulness or self-deception, their wisdom or stupidity, their gentleness or cruelty. In short, like Shakespeare, William Faulkner understood what it means to be human.

Avital Ronell – a committed vegetarian – relates that one day, at a dinner with Chantal and René Major, she let one dish go by without taking a helping, which caused a certain embarrassment. When she said she had perfectly decent philosophical reasons for not eating meat, Derrida turned to ask her what they were. So Avital told him what it meant to her to incorporate the body of the other. Shortly afterwards, Derrida, who was extraordinarily receptive to this kind of thing, started to speak of carnophallogocentrism rather than phallogocentrism. Later on, with me and in front of me, he said he was a vegetarian. But one day, someone told me he had eaten a steak tartare, as carnivorous a kind of food as you can get. For me, it was as if he had betrayed me. When I spoke to him about it, he initially said I was behaving like a cop. Then he said, neatly: ‘I’m a vegetarian who sometimes eats meat.

But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment, could win Catherine from thinking that some very different object must occasion so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for hours, after the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely. There must be some deeper cause: something was to be done which could be done only while the household slept; and the probability that Mrs. Tilney yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving from the pitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse food, was the conclusion which necessarily followed. Shocking as was the idea, it was at least better than a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural course of things, she must ere long be released. The suddenness of her reputed illness, the absence of her daughter, and probably of her other children, at the time—all favoured the supposition of her imprisonment. Its origin—jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty—was yet to be unravelled.

After dinners in Ris-Orangis, Derrida would gladly offer to drive home any guests without transport. He enjoyed driving, and always went into Paris by car. He’d learned when still very young, on the job, with his father’s car. But since he had never studied the highway code, he had his own ideas about it, which could sometimes lead to spectacular results. He considered, for example, that most ‘no entry’ signs did not actually apply to him, and that big roads should automatically have priority over smaller ones. At the wheel, he rapidly lost his cool. In traffic jams, he could almost get hysterical. And, to crown it all, whenever he stopped for even a short time he would start taking notes. In a letter to Éric Clémens, he indicated in a PS: ‘Excuse the handwriting, I’m writing in the car (what a life!), but I’ve stopped, not even at a red light. I’ve just thought of the title for a book: Written at a Red Light . . .’33 But while he was not a reassuring figure at the wheel, he never had an accident.

Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have been fairly worn out these ten years at least—and as for the body! Upon my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the most devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God! we have got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty thousand pounds." "Good heavens!" cried Catherine, quite frightened. "Then pray let us turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let us turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how very unsafe it is." "Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if it does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent falling. Oh, curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how to drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! I would undertake for five pounds to drive it to York and back again, without losing a nail.

During the course of these chats, Raymond asked again about Mummy—why I hadn’t told her I’d been unwell, why she never visited me, or I her, until finally I gave in and provided him with a potted biography. He already knew about the fire, of course, and that I’d been brought up in care afterward. That, I told him, was because it wasn’t possible for me to live with Mummy afterward, not where she was. It was, I’d hoped, enough to keep him quiet, but no. “Where is she, then? Hospital, nursing home?” he guessed. I shook my head. “It’s a bad place, for bad people,” I said. He thought for a moment. “Not prison?” He looked shocked. I held his gaze but said nothing. After another short pause he asked, not unreasonably, what crime she had committed. “I can’t remember,” I said. He stared at me, then snorted. “Bullshit,” he said. “Come on, Eleanor. You can tell me. It won’t change anything between us, I promise. It’s not like you did it, whatever it was.” I felt a hot flush streak right up the front of my body and then down my back, a sensation I can only liken to being given a sedative prior to a general anesthetic. My pulse was pounding. “It’s true,” I said. “I honestly don’t know. I think I must have been told at the time, but I can’t remember. I was only ten. Everyone was really careful never to mention it around me . . .

But Ford’s experiment in paying a livable wage worked. He later described the pay hike as the best cost-cutting move he ever made. Turnover shrank, slashing training costs, and absenteeism decreased as productivity increased—the expectation from managers was that the increased wages deserved increased speed on the line. Wall Street investors and fellow automakers initially excoriated Ford for his wage scheme, but other carmakers eventually followed suit, propelled by Ford’s massive leaps in production while reducing his per-unit costs. A Model T that cost $850 in 1908, on par with cars sold by the new Cadillac company, dropped to $290 by 1920, helping make Ford one of the world’s wealthiest men. And the high wages made Detroit a magnet. Nondecennial surveys by the Census Bureau chart the impact. In 1909, Detroit had 81,000 wage earners who made $43 million working for 2,036 establishments that cranked out $253 million worth of products. In 1914, after Ford’s $5 day began, the same number of establishments employed nearly 100,000 people who made $69 million while producing $400 million worth of goods. In 1919, with World War I raging and the $5 day in full force across the automotive industry, 2,176 establishments were employing 167,000 people, who made $245 million as they produced $1.2 billion worth of goods. In short, the ranks of industrial workers more than doubled, and their wages and the value of the products they made nearly quintupled. Detroit’s ancillary businesses, from clothing stores to restaurants, thrived.

My faith isn’t in time, it’s in God.” “Then why are you hesitant to help your people? Why do you insist on pawning off the hard jobs to others? Tell me”—he leans forward again—“what is your purpose here?” I fumble for an answer. “To ask you questions. And to help Wilbur Sherrod with his work.” He shakes his head with a patient blink. “As much as I relish discussing Wilbur Sherrod’s skill with design, I must redirect you. Why are you here? In the world. The big picture.” I stare at him. He stares back, waiting, calm. I’m ruffled. “A-Actually, that’s one of my questions for you. How do I find out God’s plan for my life?” “He doesn’t have one.” My head jerks. “What do you mean? He’s God. Doesn’t He have a specific purpose for everything? Everyone? For me?” At this, the Preacher laughs. “Purpose?” he asks when he takes a breath. “Life is meaningless.” Anger just short of panic threatens to block my throat. “No, it’s not. He has a plan, I know it.” “What is it?” I throw my arms up. “I was hoping you’d help me find out. Is it to save Radicals? Write my biography? Start life over in Ivanhoe? Keep Mrs. Newton company? What is it?” “Tell me, are you a pregnant virgin?” My breath seizes and I’m in front of Trevor Rain again, answering whether or not I’ve been kissed. It’s so embarrassing I struggle against the urge to laugh. “No.” I shake my head. “I mean, no, I’m not pregnant, but yes . . .” I swallow. “I’m a . . .” He spares me. “Have you spoken to a burning bush?” My eyes narrow. “Are you mocking me?” “I’m just pointing out that if God has a specific plan for your life, He’ll tell you like he told Mary and Moses. But the disturbing truth is, you have to decide what you want, just decide it with prayer.” I stand limp. Defeated. “I don’t know what I want.” “If you were in a ditch with your life seeping out of you, what’s the one thing you’d want? What do you want today?

Hitler initially served in the List Regiment engaged in a violent four-day battle near Ypres, in Belgian Flanders, with elite British professional soldiers of the initial elements of the British Expeditionary Force. Hitler thereby served as a combat infantryman in one of the most intense engagements of the opening phase of World War I. The List Regiment was temporarily destroyed as an offensive force by suffering such severe casualty rates (killed, wounded, missing, and captured) that it lost approximately 70 percent of its initial strength of around 3,600 men. A bullet tore off Hitler’s right sleeve in the first day of combat, and in the “batch” of men with which he originally advanced, every one fell dead or wounded, leaving him to survive as if through a miracle. On November 9, 1914, about a week after the ending of the great battle, Hitler was reassigned as a dispatch runner to regimental headquarters. Shortly thereafter, he was awarded the Iron Cross Second Class. On about November 14, 1914, the new regimental commander, Lieutenant Colonel Philipp Engelhardt, accompanied by Hitler and another dispatch runner, moved forward into terrain of uncertain ownership. Engelhardt hoped to see for himself the regiment’s tactical situation. When Engelhardt came under aimed enemy smallarms fire, Hitler and the unnamed comrade placed their bodies between their commander and the enemy fire, determined to keep him alive. The two enlisted men, who were veterans of the earlier great four-day battle around Ypres, were doubtlessly affected by the death of the regiment’s first commander in that fight and were dedicated to keeping his replacement alive. Engelhardt was suitably impressed and proposed Hitler for the Iron Cross Second Class, which he was awarded on December 2. Hitler’s performance was exemplary, and he began to fit into the world around him and establish the image of a combat soldier tough enough to demand the respect of anyone in right wing, Freikorps-style politics after the war. -- Hitler: Beyond Evil and Tyranny, p. 88

Few world events are emblematic of a life, and form part of one's biography on the same footing as, and sometimes more profoundly than, personal events. I pride myself on having cut a single swathe from the Wall Street Crash of 1929 to the collapse of the Twin Towers in September 2001. From the one event to the other, there is something like a meteoric short-cut through an advancing globalism, following out its fateful course with an inexorable logic, beyond wars and 'historical' events, beyond the visible progress of societies. Something that must be described as monstrous unfolds in another dimension than that of the human efforts to control its course. The perfect crime supposes perfect guilt.

And often we find that some of those who had accepted our leadership get tired of the struggle forward and succumb to the temptations of those who promise benefits for not struggling - or short cuts such as religious fundamentalism, nationalism or fascism

Enoch and the Book of Comfort Enoch and ‘Those You Have Loved, and Who Love You No More’ Enoch and War Enoch and the Dark World Enoch and the Inventory of Miracles: Volume Two Enoch and God: Book One (Kindle only) * Riell Truth: Stay Angry! The Merciful Rebuke Satan: The Short Stories and Searing Vision of Howard Riell “God’s last words are those (H)e speaks to Job, the human being who dares to challenge not (H)is physical power but (H)is more authority… God never speaks again, and (H)e is decreasingly spoken of. In the Book of Esther… (H)e is never so much as mentioned… God does not die, but (H)e never again intervenes in human affairs.” – Jack Miles, God: A Biography Pray for…

To retrain the imagination and the natural impulses to resist the murky short-term delights of the pagan world is harder still. To make and sustain marriages of genuine mutual submission is perhaps hardest of all. Compromises and second-best solutions are easy. To go for the full version of discipleship is to sign on for spiritual warfare.

Contemporary non-Muslim sources confirm only scattered details about Muhammad, and the single seventh-century Islamic witness—the Quran—is not (nor does it purport to be) a biography. The historical quests for both Muhammad and Jesus thus face similar dilemmas.

Johnson’s Lives of the Most Eminent English Poets includes short biographies and appraisals of fifty-two poets—but Shakespeare, the divine bard, prince of poets and glory of Britain, is glaringly absent.

…it is supposed that all this publicity of self-revelation represents an interest in private life . . . It does really imply that nobody has any inner life; that man is not an end to himself, subject only to the glory of God; or, in short, that biography was not made for man but man for biography.

If we stop short and grow not, woe to us; for failure in all things, and specially in religion, is misery. If we be comparatively unfruitful, we may not be absolutely unhappy, but we can never know the fulness of joy; for it is only to the faithful servant that the words are spoken: "Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.

Established early on in life, and still is perhaps my favorite 'intuition pump' is the life of Emily Dickinson. I viewed a short biography recently where an expert, quite frankly states that she really didn't do a whole lot with her time. SHE DIDNT DO ANYTHING. She didn't even get that many poems published while she lived. I guess her parents were well off, but remember, this is the middle of the 19th century, people. So, remember, don't work too hard. and if you do, charge them a whole lotta money. Remember I have an 90 foot motor Yacht on my vision board?

there were books and authors to be discovered. A lifetime of reading lay ahead. Old books, new books, classics, thrillers, stories short and tall, travelogues, histories, biographies, comedies, comic strips, poems, memories, fantasies, fables…The adventure would end only when the lights went out for ever.

Why would a perfect being, such as God, need to create any less perfect beings? The answer, said Edwards, is that God is perfectly loving and so wishes to share that love with creatures capable of love. Edwards's starting point was that a loving God stands at the heart of the universe. So for Edwards the universe is most essentially personal; it is the creative expression of a person. Edwards's emphasis on personality at the center of reality presents a sharp contrast to most modern views. Since the Enlightenment many modern thinkers have built their theories on the premise that the universe is essentially impersonal, controlled by natural laws. Edwards challenged that view with a vital alternative: that at the core of reality is a loving God, and that love is the dynamic behind the creation of the universe and everything in it. Starting with a sense of God's love at the center of reality then shapes the way we think of true virtue. At the core of reality is the beauty of the love of God pouring forth, so that the highest good is to return that love to God.

Space sets no limitation when it comes to love.

She’d obsessed for weeks over her sister’s suggestion that she supply the elves a short biography of herself. Every night before she went to bed, she crossed out lines and crumpled ruined parchment as she tried to come up with a list of her accomplishments and skills—a list that was accurate but not conceited, adequately conveying her appeal as a wife and what she could contribute to the elvish court. When Ruga handed the note to their messenger, perspiring profusely, she sent up a prayer to the goddess that the elves wouldn’t retract the much-needed support over poor word choice. The elves sent back a note, ripped off from another piece of parchment, that declared the elvish princess “looked a lot like the king” and enjoyed archery. At its best, it was uninformative. At its worst, it was insulting.

But his sister, Nannerl, in a short biography in 1800, defended Mozart’s memory, saying “It is certainly easy to understand that a great genius, who is preoccupied with the abundance of his own ideas, and who soars from earth to heaven with amazing speed, is extremely reluctant to lower himself to noticing and dealing with mundane affairs.

this book is in English, and I prefer to use the English spelling of Bangalore. If a Kannada version appears some day, I shall insist on Bengaluru.

am struck by man’s unceasing struggle to make order out of chaos and the way he ends up making chaos out of order.

A city is a living, throbbing organism with a soul of its own and, it would often seem, a thinking mind. Cities have memories and dreams, they nurture ambition and bemoan failure.

Bombay’s strength, like New York’s, lay in its ability to absorb all comers and make them draw vitality and worth from one another, together building—and taking pride in—a cosmopolitan citadel of creativity and enterprise, optimism and goodwill. But, under the crush of a covetous political class, it grew beyond its capacity to absorb people even as more people came in. Violence and mayhem turned Bombay into a provincial town.

water and land were not the prime elements that led to the rise of Dubai; political will was.

information technology (IT), which turned Bangalore into a world city. This attracted not only job seekers in the tens of thousands but also highly qualified Indians who had struck roots abroad and now found the idea of Bangalore alluring.

It is a fact that the changes that overtook Bangalore from the 1990s onwards were deeper, faster and more far-reaching than earlier changes.

But information technology changed the nature of the narrative, changed even the city’s name from a noun to a verb; Barack Obama publicly objected to American jobs being Bangalored.

The IT boom, and other forces of rapid change, had altered Bangalore from within, as though unseen hands had reconstituted its DNA. It used to be a city at peace with itself. It was now a bundle of contradictions, a battleground of competing constituencies, where going forward resembled going backward.

Big companies like ITI, Bharat Electronics and HMT settled into their own well-planned, self-sufficient clusters where the companies assumed responsibility for their employees’ living quarters and schools and shops. IT tore this system apart. They set up fancy headquarters buildings with no thought to the living and commuting needs of their tens of thousands of employees.

IT people represented a kind of fashionable rootlessness.

Aesthetes remained at the centre of things. They created public taste, raised education to a creative vocation and administration to a mission, sustained the arts and fostered on the sidelines a distinct cuisine that was to become famous.

food was not just a physical element related to hunger but a subtle means to the understanding of ambrosia.

PhD time—Precious Hours of Drinking.

Food, not liquor, was YNK’s love. He should have defined PhD as Precious Hours of Dining, for he was always in search of new eateries and new dishes he could call ‘the world’s best’.

Sit?’ exclaimed YNK. ‘We don’t sit. We stand on the footpath and eat.

Explorations with YNK taught me that while food is notoriously localized (North Karnataka food is different in concept and taste from Mysore food just as Thanjavur sambar is quite unlike Mylapore sambar), the cuisine we were enjoying in and around Basavangudi was a speciality that could be called representative South Indian food. It was South Indian rather than area-specific because it was consciously designed to serve the purposes of tradition common to the south as a whole.

Explorations with YNK taught me that while food is notoriously localized (North Karnataka food is different in concept and taste from Mysore food just as Thanjavur sambar is quite unlike Mylapore sambar), the cuisine we were enjoying in and around Basavangudi was a speciality that could be called representative South Indian food. It was South Indian rather than area-specific because it was consciously designed to serve the purposes of tradition common to the south as a whole. It was developed by the professional culinary craftsmen of Karnataka and taken all over the world by the entrepreneurs of Karnataka, but it was generic in its South Indianness, symbolized in a word that became universal—Udupi.

The overall concept was that forty-eight items should be cooked every day as Lord Krishna’s neivedyam. The main segments of this spread were to be five sweets, five payasams, five fried items, five unboiled items (such as salads), five rasa (such as sambar, rasam), five anna (rice), five vyanjana (pickles, papads) and five jeernakara (digestives such as herbal chutneys). These were not to be repeated each day, a stipulation that forced the chief cooks to become innovators and improvisers, constantly in search of new variations.

A superior cuisine so scrupulously developed could have remained confined to the Brahmin habitats of South Canara. But the entrepreneurial spirit that propelled many of them did not allow that. They carried Udupi’s treasure beyond their district.