Title Defended Quotes

[Jürgen Habermas' obituary to friend and philosopher, Richard Rorty] One small autobiographical piece by Rorty bears the title 'Wild Orchids and Trotsky.' In it, Rorty describes how as a youth he ambled around the blooming hillside in north-west New Jersey, and breathed in the stunning odour of the orchids. Around the same time he discovered a fascinating book at the home of his leftist parents, defending Leon Trotsky against Stalin. This was the origin of the vision that the young Rorty took with him to college: philosophy is there to reconcile the celestial beauty of orchids with Trotsky's dream of justice on earth. Nothing is sacred to Rorty the ironist. Asked at the end of his life about the 'holy', the strict atheist answered with words reminiscent of the young Hegel: 'My sense of the holy is bound up with the hope that some day my remote descendants will live in a global civilization in which love is pretty much the only law.

Only five of the Bodyguards reached Fal Moran alive, every man wounded, but they had the child unharmed. From the cradle they taught him all they knew. He learned weapons as other children learn toys, and the Blight as other children their mother’s garden. The oath sworn over his cradle is graven in his mind. There is nothing left to defend, but he can avenge. He denies his titles, yet in the Borderlands he is called the Uncrowned, and if ever he raised the Golden Crane of Malkier, an army would come to follow. But he will not lead men to their deaths. In the Blight he courts death as a suitor courts a maiden, but he will not lead others to it.

Hemingway signed the contract, and got up from the couch. Then he said, “Never ran as no genius, but I’ll defend the title again against all the good young new ones.

I don't care whose son he is. I won't go belly-up like a timid pup. If he's fool enough to take a poke at me, I'll snap the finger clean off that does the poking.

If you only notice human proceedings, you may observe that all who attain great power and riches, make use of either force or fraud; and what they have acquired either by deceit or violence, in order to conceal the disgraceful methods of attainment, they endeavor to sanctify with the false title of honest gains. Those who either from imprudence or want of sagacity avoid doing so, are always overwhelmed with servitude and poverty; for faithful servants are always servants, and honest men are always poor; nor do any ever escape from servitude but the bold and faithless, or from poverty, but the rapacious and fraudulent. God and nature have thrown all human fortunes into the midst of mankind; and they are thus attainable rather by rapine than by industry, by wicked actions rather than by good. Hence it is that men feed upon each other, and those who cannot defend themselves must be worried.

Child, from this day forth you are the successor to the position of Sun Knight. So long as you stand firm in the face of tribulation, grow in courage with each trial you encounter, and defend your knight’s honor no matter what difficulty or temptation you face, you will receive from my hands the title of Sun Knight the day you come of age.” “Teacher, may I recant my decision ?” “No !” “Why ?” “Because I forgot to choose a back-up Sun Knight.” “...

Winning a war such as this was not about planting flags or defending territory or building fancy villas. It was not about titles or promotions or offices. It was not about democracy or jihad, freedom or honor. It was about resisting the categories chosen for you; about stubbornness in the face of grand designs and schemas. About doing what you had to do, whether they called you a terrorist or an infidel. To win a war like this was to master the ephemeral, to plan a future while knowing that it could all be over in an instant. To comfort your children when the air outside throbs in the middle of the night, to squeeze your spouse’s hand tight when your taxi hits a pothole on an open highway, to go to school or the fields or a wedding and return to tell about it. To survive.

and conferred on Henry the title of Fidei Defensor, ‘Defender of the Faith’. It was not supposed to be inherited, but the royal family have used it ever since.

In 1960, The New York Times printed an advertisement titled “Heed Their Rising Voices” that attempted to raise money to defend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. against perjury charges in Alabama. Southern officials responded by going on the offensive and suing the newspaper. Public Safety Commissioner L. B. Sullivan and Governor Patterson claimed defamation. A local jury awarded them half a million dollars, and the case was appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court. In a landmark ruling, New York Times v. Sullivan changed the standard for defamation and libel by requiring plaintiffs to prove malice—that is, evidence of actual knowledge on the part of the publisher that a statement is false. The ruling marked a significant victory for freedom of the press, and it liberated media outlets and publishers to talk more honestly about civil rights protests and activism.

I arrived always at the same, disquieting place: the history of Western exploration in the New World in every quarter is a confrontation with an image of distant wealth. Gold, furs, timber, whales, the Elysian Fields, the control of trade routes to the Orient—it all had to be verified, acquired, processed, allocated, and defended. And these far-flung enterprises had to be profitable, or be made to seem profitable, or be financed until they were. The task was wild, extraordinary. And it was complicated by the fact that people were living in North America when we arrived. Their title to the wealth had to be extinguished.

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,   How to divide the conquest of thy sight;   Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,   My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.   My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,—   A closet never pierc'd with crystal eyes—   But the defendant doth that plea deny,   And says in him thy fair appearance lies.   To side this title is impannelled   A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;   And by their verdict is determined   The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part:     As thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part,     And my heart's right, thy inward love of heart.

More important, however, Henry’s book found its mark in Rome. He had long resented the pope’s gift of glorious titles to the kings of Spain (“the Catholic King”) and France (“the Most Christian King”), while England was left out. Now, finally and after some negotiation, Henry got his prize and became “Defender of the Faith.

I will reluctantly teach you enough trivia for a passing mark on the Ministry-mandated portions of your first-year finals. Since your exact mark on these sections will make no difference to your future life, anyone who wants more than a passing mark is welcome to waste their own time studying our pathetic excuse for a textbook. The title of this subject is not Defence Against Minor Pests. You are here to learn how to defend yourselves against the Dark Arts. Which means, let us be very clear on this, defending yourselves against Dark Wizards. People with wands who want to hurt you and who will likely succeed in doing so unless you hurt them first! There is no defence without offence! There is no defence without fighting! This reality is deemed too harsh for eleven-year-olds by the fat, overpaid, Auror-guarded politicians who mandated your curriculum. To the abyss with those fools! You are here for the subject that has been taught at Hogwarts for eight hundred years! Welcome to your first year of Battle Magic!

You may have no computer, but thank The Divine One for giving you a brain. You may have no television, but thank The Divine One for giving you an imagination. You may have no counselor, but thank The Divine One for giving you a conscience. You may have no binoculars, but thank The Divine One for giving you eyes. You may have no megaphone, but thank The Divine One for giving you a mouth. You may have no defender, but thank The Divine One for giving you hands. You may have no food, but thank The Divine One for giving you teeth. You may have no car, but thank The Divine One for giving you feet. You may have no degrees, but thank The Divine One for giving you talents. You may have no job, but thank The Divine One for giving you potential. You may have no career, but thank The Divine One for giving you inspiration. You may have no money, but thank The Divine One for giving you ambition. You may have no possessions, but thank The Divine One for giving you character. You may have no titles, but thank The Divine One for giving you honor. You may have no magic, but thank The Divine One for giving you intuition. You may have no friends, but thank The Divine One for giving you angels.

Elide said quietly, “Marion was my mother’s name. She died defending Aelin Galathynius from her assassin. My mother bought Aelin time to run—to get away so she could one day return to save us all. My uncle, Vernon, watched and smiled as my father, the Lord of Perranth, was executed outside our castle. Then he took my father’s title and lands and home. And for the next ten years, my uncle locked me in the highest tower of Perranth Castle, with only my nursemaid for company. When I broke my foot and ankle, he did not trust healers enough to let them treat it. He kept bars on the tower windows to keep me from killing myself, and shackled my ankles to keep me from running. I left for the first time in a decade when he shoved me into a prison wagon and dragged me down to Morath. There, he made me work as a servant—for the humiliation and terror he delights in. I planned and dreamed of escaping every day. And when the time came … I took my chance. I did not know about the ilken, had only heard rumors of fell things being bred in the mountains beyond the Keep. I have no lands, no money, no army to offer Aelin Galathynius. But I will find her—and help her in whatever way I can. If only to keep just one girl, just one, from ever enduring what I did.

He was held in great respect. Who remembered now that he was a forger, a perjurer, a murderer and something of a sorcerer? Who would have dared remind him of it? He was Monseigneur Robert, a giant beginning to grow old but still possessed of surprising strength and immense self-assurance, who, invariably dressed in red, was leading an English army into France. Nor did it matter to him that his soldiers were foreigners. Indeed, this was not the sort of thing to which any count, baron or knight gave a thought. Their campaigns were family matters; their battles quarrels over inheritance; the enemy was a cousin, the ally another. It was to the population who would be massacred, whose houses would be burnt, barns looted and women raped, that the word foreigner meant enemy; not to the princes who were defending their titles and asserting their rights.

The more we are recognized as winners, the more we know ourselves to be losers. That is why it is rare for the winners of highly coveted and publicized prizes to settle for their titles and retire. Winners, especially celebrated winners, must prove repeatedly they are winners. The script must be played over and over again. Titles must be defended by new contests. No one is ever wealthy enough, honored enough, applauded enough. On the contrary, the visibility of our victories only tightens the grip of the failures in our invisible past.

Of special significance was the action of Henry VIII of England. Not content with ordering Luther s writings to be publicly burned in London, he also turned theologian and wrote a book of 78 quarto pages dedicated to the pope, denouncing Luther and defending the Catholic positions on the sacraments. Henry's book so pleased the pope that he issued a special bull declaring that it was written with the help of the Holy Spirit, granting an indulgence of ten years to everyone who would read it, and bestowing upon Henry and his successors the title 'Defender of the Faith.

Al’Akir and his Queen, el’Leanna, had Lan brought to them in his cradle. Into his infant hands they placed the sword of Malkieri kings, the sword he wears today. A weapon made by Aes Sedai during the War of Power, the War of the Shadow that brought down the Age of Legends. They anointed his head with oil, naming him Dai Shan, a Diademed Battle Lord, and consecrated him as the next King of the Malkieri, and in his name they swore the ancient oath of Malkieri kings and queens.” Agelmar’s face hardened, and he spoke the words as if he, too, had sworn that oath, or one much similar. “To stand against the Shadow so long as iron is hard and stone abides. To defend the Malkieri while one drop of blood remains. To avenge what cannot be defended.” The words rang in the chamber. “El’Leanna placed a locket around her son’s neck, for remembrance, and the infant, wrapped in swaddling clothes by the Queen’s own hand, was given over to twenty chosen from the King’s Bodyguard, the best swordsmen, the most deadly fighters. Their command: to carry the child to Fal Moran. “Then did al’Akir and el’Leanna lead the Malkieri out to face the Shadow one last time. There they died, at Herat’s Crossing, and the Malkieri died, and the Seven Towers were broken. Shienar, and Arafel, and Kandor, met the Halfmen and the Trollocs at the Stair of Jehaan and threw them back, but not as far as they had been. Most of Malkier remained in Trolloc hands, and year by year, mile by mile, the Blight has swallowed it.” Agelmar drew a heavyhearted breath. When he went on, there was a sad pride in his eyes and voice. “Only five of the Bodyguards reached Fal Moran alive, every man wounded, but they had the child unharmed. From the cradle they taught him all they knew. He learned weapons as other children learn toys, and the Blight as other children their mother’s garden. The oath sworn over his cradle is graven in his mind. There is nothing left to defend, but he can avenge. He denies his titles, yet in the Borderlands he is called the Uncrowned, and if ever he raised the Golden Crane of Malkier, an army would come to follow. But he will not lead men to their deaths. In the Blight he courts death as a suitor courts a maiden, but he will not lead others to it. “If you must enter the Blight, and with only a few, there is no man better to take you there, nor to bring you safely out again. He is the best of the Warders, and that means the best of the best.

So what’s the most-read book?” “Up until now or forever and all time?” “For all time.” The Cat thought for a moment. “In fiction, the most-read book ever is To Kill a Mockingbird. Not just because it is a cracking good read for us, but because of all the Vertebrate überclassics it was the only one that really translated well into Arthropod. And if you can crack the Lobster market—if you’ll pardon the pun—a billion years from now, you’re really going to flog some copies. The Arthropod title is tlkîltlílkîxlkilkïxlklï, or, literally translated, The Past Nonexistent State of the Angelfish. Atticus Finch is a lobster called Tklîkï, and he defends a horseshoe crab named Klikïflik.

Among the most brazen agents of partisan intolerance in the early 2000s was Ann Coulter. Coulter wrote a series of bestselling books attacking liberals and Democrats in a McCarthyite voice. The books’ titles speak for themselves: Slander (2002); Treason (2003); Godless (2006); Guilty (2009); Demonic (2011); Adios, America! (2015). Treason, published around the time of the U.S. invasion of Iraq, defends Joseph McCarthy and embraces his tactics. The book claims that anti-Americanism is “intrinsic to [liberals’] entire worldview” and accuses liberals of having committed “fifty years of treason” during the Cold War. While doing publicity for Treason, Coulter declared, “There are millions of suspects here….I am indicting the entire Democratic Party.” The book spent thirteen weeks on the New York Times bestseller list.

And yes, many of us became fathers to fully understand what it means to be a father. Albert Einstein once said: "Every man is a genius but if you judge a fish by its ability to climb trees, it will spend the rest of its life believing that its stupid." To the men who never let other people’s metrics of success become the yardstick with which they measure theirs. It is no coincidence that we are diagrammatically represented by a circle with an arrow on the edge that points out. To all of us who may not always be "there" so that we can always "be there", To every hunter, every fighter, every missionary, To every planter and tiller of a garden of eden, To every warrior, conqueror of territories, every man always going out so he can bring something home. To every provider and protector of his family. Every defender of his domain and representative of God in the lives of his dependants. To every man that choose character over caliber, Every Major General, Lord of the Rings, Lion of the Tribe of his house. To every correcter with a shout, Every tough and tender 9-ribbed carrier of his cross. For every skill, strength, qualification and effort that we put into building meaningful relationships with our women, bonds with our children, and shield through tough times. For every ‘crave’ for success without substituting values. For the unconditional love, unflinching sacrifice, and diehard determination to go places our parents never imagined for themselves. To those who happily lead, as though money, fame and power didn’t exist. To those who stand tall and sit straight, Who understand that it doesn't take a 6-figure to be a Father figure. Happy Father's Day to every man who understands the responsibility and deserves the title. *Happy Father's Day to You and Me.*

Hannity & Colmes was another management challenge. Despite its bipartisan billing, the show was a vehicle for Sean Hannity’s right-wing politics. An Irish Catholic from Long Island, Hannity came of age as two revolutions, Reagan conservatism and right-wing talk radio, sent the country on a new course. He harbored dreams of becoming the next Bob Grant, the caustic New York City radio commentator who provided an outlet for incendiary views on blacks, Hispanics, and gays. Radio personalities like Grant, Hannity said, “taught me early on that a passionate argument could make a difference.” In his twenties, Hannity drifted. He tried college three times but dropped out. By the late 1980s, he was living in southern California working as a house painter. In his spare time, he called in to KCSB, the UC Santa Barbara college station, to inveigh against liberals and to defend the actions of his hero Colonel Oliver North in the Iran-Contra affair. His combative commentaries impressed the station management. Though he was not a student, Hannity was soon given an hour-long morning call-in show, which he titled The Pursuit of Happiness, a reference to Reagan’s 1986 Independence Day speech.

In the wake of the Cognitive Revolution, gossip helped Homo sapiens to form larger and more stable bands. But even gossip has its limits. Sociological research has shown that the maximum ‘natural’ size of a group bonded by gossip is about 150 individuals. Most people can neither intimately know, nor gossip effectively about, more than 150 human beings. Even today, a critical threshold in human organisations falls somewhere around this magic number. Below this threshold, communities, businesses, social networks and military units can maintain themselves based mainly on intimate acquaintance and rumour-mongering. There is no need for formal ranks, titles and law books to keep order. 3A platoon of thirty soldiers or even a company of a hundred soldiers can function well on the basis of intimate relations, with a minimum of formal discipline. A well-respected sergeant can become ‘king of the company’ and exercise authority even over commissioned officers. A small family business can survive and flourish without a board of directors, a CEO or an accounting department. But once the threshold of 150 individuals is crossed, things can no longer work that way. You cannot run a division with thousands of soldiers the same way you run a platoon. Successful family businesses usually face a crisis when they grow larger and hire more personnel. If they cannot reinvent themselves, they go bust. How did Homo sapiens manage to cross this critical threshold, eventually founding cities comprising tens of thousands of inhabitants and empires ruling hundreds of millions? The secret was probably the appearance of fiction. Large numbers of strangers can cooperate successfully by believing in common myths. Any large-scale human cooperation – whether a modern state, a medieval church, an ancient city or an archaic tribe – is rooted in common myths that exist only in people’s collective imagination. Churches are rooted in common religious myths. Two Catholics who have never met can nevertheless go together on crusade or pool funds to build a hospital because they both believe that God was incarnated in human flesh and allowed Himself to be crucified to redeem our sins. States are rooted in common national myths. Two Serbs who have never met might risk their lives to save one another because both believe in the existence of the Serbian nation, the Serbian homeland and the Serbian flag. Judicial systems are rooted in common legal myths. Two lawyers who have never met can nevertheless combine efforts to defend a complete stranger because they both believe in the existence of laws, justice, human rights – and the money paid out in fees.

He began, “There is absolutely no doubt in the mind of a very overwhelming number of Americans, that the best immediate defense of the United States is the success of Britain in defending itself. “Now, what I am trying to do is eliminate the dollar sign. That is something brand new in the thoughts of everybody in this room, I think—get rid of the silly, foolish, old dollar sign. “Well, let me give you an illustration,” he said, and then deployed an analogy that distilled his idea into something both familiar and easy to grasp, something that would resonate with the quotidian experience of countless Americans. “Suppose my neighbor’s home catches fire, and I have got a length of garden hose four or five hundred feet away: but, my Heaven, if he can take my garden hose and connect it up with his hydrant, I may help him put out the fire. Now, what do I do? I don’t say to him before that operation, ‘Neighbor, my garden hose cost me $15; you have got to pay me $15 for it.’ What is the transaction that goes on? I don’t want $15—I want my garden hose back after the fire is over. All right. If it goes through the fire all right, intact, without any damage to it, he gives it back to me and thanks me very much for the use of it. But suppose it gets smashed up—holes in it—during the fire; we don’t have to have too much formality about it, but I say to him, ‘I was glad to lend you that hose; I see I can’t use it any more, it’s all smashed up.’ “He says ‘How many feet of it were there?’ “I tell him, ‘There were 150 feet of it.’ “He says, ‘All right, I will replace it.’ ” That became the kernel of an act introduced in Congress soon afterward, numbered H.R. 1776 and titled “A Bill Further to Promote the Defense of the United States, and for Other Purposes,” soon to receive its lasting byname, the Lend-Lease Act. Central to the proposal was the idea that it was in the best interests of the United States to provide Britain, or any ally, with all the aid it needed, whether it could pay or not.

I counted my years and discovered that I have fewer years left to live compared to the time I have lived until now. I feel like a boy who won a package of treats. The first he eats with pleasure, but when he realizes that there are a few left, he then starts to contemplate upon them. I no longer have time for endless meetings that achieve nothing as statuses, rules, procedures and regulations are discussed. Neither do I have time to give encouragement to absurd people who, despite their age, have not grown up. I don't have time to deal with mediocrity. I don't want to be in meetings where egos parade. I won't tolerate manipulators and opportunists. I am bothered by envious people, seeking to discredit the able ones, to usurp their places, talents and accomplishments. I hate to witness the ill effects, generated by the struggle for a better job, among ambitious people. I detest people who do not argue about content but titles. My time is too precious to discuss titles. I want the essence, my soul is in a hurry. Not many treats are left in the packet. I want to live among human people, very human. People, who can laugh at their mistakes. Who do not become full of themselves because of their triumphs. Who do not consider themselves elite, before they have really become one. Who do not run away from their responsibilities. Who defend human dignity. Who do not want anything else but to walk along with truth, righteousness, honesty and integrity. The essential thing is what makes life worthwhile. I want to surround myself with people who can touch the hearts of others. People who despite the hard knockouts of life, grew up with a soft touch in their soul. Yes, I am in a hurry. So that I can live with the intensity, which only maturity can give me. I intend not to waste any of the treats I have left. I am sure they will be more exquisite compared to the ones I have eaten so far. My goal is to reach the end satisfied and at peace with my loved ones and my conscience. I hope yours is the same, because the end will come anyway...

Does your husband dictate where you can and cannot go?” The woman looked as though she expected to be proven right. “My husband would never do that.” Rose informed her coolly. “Although there will always be unsavory characters at any social gathering, my husband trusts me to decide the ones I wish to attend.” The woman flushed, and Rose felt a certain amount of satisfaction in knowing that her barb had struck a nerve. “If that’s true, he must have changed immensely since the days when we were acquainted.” Ahh. Now the claws came out. No wonder the woman had made such vile aspirations earlier. She was jealous. “He has.” Rose held the other woman’s gaze, not caring a whit for how she said the word “acquainted.” This woman had slept with her husband, and oddly enough she wasn’t the least bit jealous. She did, however, feel sorry for the woman because Grey had been a different man back then. “My husband is very attentive and courteous to my wishes. I couldn’t be more satisfied with my situation.” Oh God, had she actually said that? The innuendo practically stood up on its own and waved to everyone in the room. What was it about Grey-no, about this woman-that made her feel as though she had to defend her marriage, and brag about her sex life? It was just so pretty. “You were once a friend of the duke’s, were you not, Lady Devane?” The woman-whose name Rose could not remember-slanted a devious glance in the blonde woman’s direction. Everyone looked at Lady Devane, because everyone knew the rumors and everyone wanted to see not only Rose’s reaction, but Lady Devane’s as well. Vultures. Eve pressed her knee against Rose’s, giving her some well-needed support. “I was, Lady Gosling,” Lady Devane replied smoothly. “But that was a long time ago, back when he was a man who never thought to marry.” She smiled at Rose. “And then he met the one woman who could tempt him. I believe you must be an extraordinary woman, Your Grace.” Rose could have kissed her, for in that one moment, the woman who could have easily become her enemy proved herself a friend. And not only a friend, but she let every woman in that room know what she thought of their vicious tongues. “Thank you, Lady Devane.” Rose flashed a genuine smile. “But I feel that I am the fortunate one.” Lady Gosling-what a ridiculous title!-said nothing. Tight-lipped, she turned away and went off in search of other prey. Yes, Rose thought, as Eve discreetly squeezed her hand and whispered, “Old hag,” she was fortunate. But Grey was obviously the smarter of the two of them, because he had enough sense to stay the hell at home.

Doremus Jessup, so inconspicuous an observer, watching Senator Windrip from so humble a Boeotia, could not explain his power of bewitching large audiences. The Senator was vulgar, almost illiterate, a public liar easily detected, and in his "ideas" almost idiotic, while his celebrated piety was that of a traveling salesman for church furniture, and his yet more celebrated humor the sly cynicism of a country store. Certainly there was nothing exhilarating in the actual words of his speeches, nor anything convincing in his philosophy. His political platforms were only wings of a windmill. Seven years before his present credo—derived from Lee Sarason, Hitler, Gottfried Feder, Rocco, and probably the revue Of Thee I Sing—little Buzz, back home, had advocated nothing more revolutionary than better beef stew in the county poor-farms, and plenty of graft for loyal machine politicians, with jobs for their brothers-in-law, nephews, law partners, and creditors. Doremus had never heard Windrip during one of his orgasms of oratory, but he had been told by political reporters that under the spell you thought Windrip was Plato, but that on the way home you could not remember anything he had said. There were two things, they told Doremus, that distinguished this prairie Demosthenes. He was an actor of genius. There was no more overwhelming actor on the stage, in the motion pictures, nor even in the pulpit. He would whirl arms, bang tables, glare from mad eyes, vomit Biblical wrath from a gaping mouth; but he would also coo like a nursing mother, beseech like an aching lover, and in between tricks would coldly and almost contemptuously jab his crowds with figures and facts—figures and facts that were inescapable even when, as often happened, they were entirely incorrect. But below this surface stagecraft was his uncommon natural ability to be authentically excited by and with his audience, and they by and with him. He could dramatize his assertion that he was neither a Nazi nor a Fascist but a Democrat—a homespun Jeffersonian-Lincolnian-Clevelandian-Wilsonian Democrat—and (sans scenery and costume) make you see him veritably defending the Capitol against barbarian hordes, the while he innocently presented as his own warm-hearted Democratic inventions, every anti-libertarian, anti-Semitic madness of Europe. Aside from his dramatic glory, Buzz Windrip was a Professional Common Man. Oh, he was common enough. He had every prejudice and aspiration of every American Common Man. He believed in the desirability and therefore the sanctity of thick buckwheat cakes with adulterated maple syrup, in rubber trays for the ice cubes in his electric refrigerator, in the especial nobility of dogs, all dogs, in the oracles of S. Parkes Cadman, in being chummy with all waitresses at all junction lunch rooms, and in Henry Ford (when he became President, he exulted, maybe he could get Mr. Ford to come to supper at the White House), and the superiority of anyone who possessed a million dollars. He regarded spats, walking sticks, caviar, titles, tea-drinking, poetry not daily syndicated in newspapers and all foreigners, possibly excepting the British, as degenerate. But he was the Common Man twenty-times-magnified by his oratory, so that while the other Commoners could understand his every purpose, which was exactly the same as their own, they saw him towering among them, and they raised hands to him in worship.

Positional Leaders Feed on Politics When leaders value position over the ability to influence others, the environment of the organization usually becomes very political. There is a lot of maneuvering. Positional leaders focus on control instead of contribution. They work to gain titles. They do what they can to get the largest staff and the biggest budget they can—not for the sake of the organization’s mission, but for the sake of expanding and defending their turf. And when a positional leader is able to do this, it often incites others to do the same because they worry that others’ gains will be their loss. Not only does it create a vicious cycle of gamesmanship, posturing, and maneuvering, but it also creates departmental rivalries and silos.

I do not reproach 'naive' people for defending the weak who are unjustly oppressed. I reproach them for exalting weakness and viewing it as a sign of election and title of glory. I reproach them for not helping the weak to become strong. It is not a matter of opposing the strong against the weak, but rather of opposing a system that values strength against a system that values weakness.

Into some such a situation as this, Jesus defends himself by saying, “My Father is always at his work to this very day, and I too am working” (5:17). This utterance establishes at least three things. First, by referring to God as “my Father,” Jesus is implicitly saying that he himself is God’s Son. Second, because in the context Jesus is arguing that he has the right to do things on the Sabbath that other human beings do not have the right to do, he is declaring his sonship to be unique. Third, because the warrant for Jesus’s work on the Sabbath is grounded in the fact that God, his Father, works on the Sabbath, Jesus is implicitly claiming he has the prerogatives of God.

In the shop window you have promptly identified the cover with the title you were looking for. Following this visual trail, you have forced your way through the shop past the thick barricade of Books You Haven't Read, which were frowning at you from the tables and shelves, trying to cow you. But you know you must never allow yourself to be awed, that among them there extend for acres and acres the Books You Needn't Read, the Books Made For Purposes Other Than Reading, Books Read Even Before You Open Them Since They Belong To The Category Of Books Read Before Being Written. And thus you pass the outer girdle of ramparts, but then you are attacked by the infantry of the Books That If You Had More Than One Life You Would Certainly Also Read But Unfortunately Your Days Are Numbered. With a rapid maneuver you bypass them and move into the phalanxes of the Books You Mean To Read But There Are Others You Must Read First, the Books Too Expensive Now And You'll Wait Till They're Remaindered, the Books ditto When They Come Out In Paperback, Books You Can Borrow From Somebody, Books That Everybody's Read So It's As If You Had Read Them, Too. Eluding these assaults, you come up beneath the towers of the fortress, where other troops are holding out: the Books Dealing With Something You're Working On At The Moment, the Books You Want To Own So They'll Be Handy Just In Case, the Books You Could Put Aside Maybe To Read This Summer, the Books You Need To Go With Other Books On Your Shelves, the Books That Fill You With Sudden, Inexplicable Curiosity, Not Easily Justified. Now you have been able to reduce the countless embattled troops to an array that is, to be sure, very large but still calculable in a finite number; but this relative relief is then undermined by the ambush of the Books Read Long Ago Which It's Now Time To Reread and the Books You've Always Pretended To Have Read And Now It's Time To Sit Down And Really Read Them. With a zigzag and a dash you shake them off and leap straight into the citadel of the New Books Whose Author or Subject Appeals To You. Even inside this stronghold you can make some breaches in the ranks of the defenders, dividing them into New (for you in general) and New Books By Authors Or On Subjects Completely Unknown (at least to you), and defining the attraction they have for you on the basis of your desires and needs for the new and the not new (for the new you seek in the not new and for the not new you seek in the new). All this means that, having rapidly glanced over the titles of the volumes displayed in the bookshop, you turn toward a stack of If on a winter’s night a traveler fresh off the press, you have grasped a copy, and you have carried it to the cashier so that your right to own it can be established. You cast another bewildered look at the books around you (or, rather: it was the books that looked at you, with the bewildered gaze of dogs who, from their cages in the city pound, see a former companion go off on the leash of his master, come to rescue him), and out you went. You derive a special pleasure from a just-published book, and it isn’t only a book you are taking with you but the novelty as well, which could also merely be that of an object fresh from the factory, the youthful bloom of new books, which lasts until the dust jacket begins to yellow, until a veil of smog settles on the top edge, until the bindings become dog-eared, in the rapid autumn of libraries. No, you hope always to encounter true newness, which having been new once, will continue to be so. Having read the freshly published book, you will take possession of this newness at the first moment, without having to pursue, to chase it. Will it happen this time? You can never tell. Let’s see how it begins.

In 1986, shortly after Chris’s fourteenth birthday, came a moment that would permanently alter drug enforcement polices moving forward. On June 19, just two days after being selected second overall by the defending champion Boston Celtics, Len Bias died from an overdose, and the world stopped. Bias was a basketball superhero. He had dominated college basketball at the University of Maryland with a combination of force, beauty, grace, and destruction that made him a true one-of-one. In joining the Celtics, he was pinned to become Michael Jordan’s greatest rival (the two had phenomenal duels in college) and prolong the dynasty in Boston, where Larry Bird had led the team to three titles in the last six years. Rumors spread in the press that Bias died after smoking crack. Cocaine, usually associated with lavish white communities and those living in the lap of luxury, was seen as an addiction. But crack was a crime. The drug, far cheaper than powder cocaine, was largely associated with Black communities and was being held significantly responsible for the erosion of society’s moral fabric.

2007. Greg is a lawyer and the president of the Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression, which has long helped students defend their rights against censorious campus administrators. In 2014, he saw something strange happening: Students themselves began demanding that colleges protect them from books and speakers that made them feel “unsafe.” Greg thought that universities were somehow teaching students to engage in cognitive distortions such as catastrophizing, black-and-white thinking, and emotional reasoning, and that this could actually be causing students to become depressed and anxious. In August 2015, we presented this idea in an Atlantic essay titled “The Coddling of the American Mind.

The uniform of a policeman, the coat of a doctor or someone's title are all powerful vehicles for authority. The principle works in two ways. First, we will obey without thinking and, second, we don't permit ourselves to challenge it.

The more we are recognized as winners, the more we know ourselves to be losers. That is why it is rare for the winners of highly coveted and publicized prizes to settle for their titles and retire. Winners, expecially celebrated winners, must prove repeatedly they are winners. The script must be played over and over again. Titles must be defended by new contests. No one is ever wealthy enough, honored enough, applauded enough. On the contrary, the visibility of our victories only tightens the grip of the failures in our invisible past.

The language of martyrdom and persecution is often the language of war. It forces a rupture between “us” and “them” and perpetuates and legitimizes an aggressive posture toward “the other” and “our enemies,” so that we can “defend the faith.” Without this posture and the polarized view of the world upon which it relies, we might—without compromising our religious or political convictions—be able to reach common ground and engage in productive government, and we might focus on real examples of actual suffering and actual oppression.

Jail is more commonly-suited to those less-commonly able to finance a defense (or to potentially pander the prosecution). The choices for council is either a retained lawyer or, by default, a public defender. In the later of these two, the common title in jail was 'public pretender'.

The Lockean logic of custom suggests strongly that open-source hackers observe the customs they do in order to defend some kind of expected return from their effort. The return must be more significant than the effort of homesteading projects, the cost of maintaining version histories that document “chain of title”, and the time cost of making public notifications and waiting before taking adverse possession of an orphaned project. Furthermore, the “yield” from open source must be something more than simply the use of the software, something else that would be compromised or diluted by forking. If use were the only issue, there would be no taboo against forking, and open-source ownership would not resemble land tenure at all. In fact, this alternate world (where use is the only yield, and forking is unproblematic) is the one implied by existing open-source licenses. We can eliminate some candidate kinds of yield right away. Because you can’t coerce effectively over a network connection, seeking power is right out. Likewise, the open-source culture doesn’t have anything much resembling money or an internal scarcity economy, so hackers cannot be pursuing anything very closely analogous to material wealth (e.g. the accumulation of scarcity tokens). There is one way that open-source activity can help people become wealthier, however — a way that provides a valuable clue to what actually motivates it. Occasionally, the reputation one gains in the hacker culture can spill over into the real world in economically significant ways. It can get you a better job offer, or a consulting contract, or a book deal. This kind of side effect, however, is at best rare and marginal for most hackers; far too much so to make it convincing as a sole explanation, even if we ignore the repeated protestations by hackers that they’re doing what they do not for money but out of idealism or love. However, the way such economic side effects are mediated is worth examination.

In the Christmas season of 1822, Clement Clarke Moore, a prosperous New York scholar and landowner, wrote a series of verses in a lively anapestic rhythm for the amusement of his daughters.13 Legend has it that they were inspired by the portly figure of his fur-clad sleigh driver as he returned home from a shopping trip through the snowy streets. The poem appeared anonymously in the Troy Sentinel a year later under the title “Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas”:

Jeff’s quarters were small, but he’d done a lot with it over the last year and a half. The wall above his bed was covered with sheets of paper that he’d taped together, upon which he’d drawn an elaborate mural. Here was the Mars over which the Emperor had reigned: boat-like aircraft hovering above great domed cities, monstrous creatures prowling red wastelands, bare-chested heroes defending beautiful women with rapiers and radium pistols, all beneath twin moons that looked nothing like the Phobos and Deimos we knew. The mural was crude, yet it had been rendered with painstaking care, and was nothing like anything we’d ever seen before. That wasn’t all. On the desk next to the comp was the original Phoenix disk, yet Jeff hadn’t been satisfied just to leave it behind. A wire-frame bookcase had been built beside the desk, and neatly stacked upon its shelves were dozens of sheaves of paper, some thick and some thin, each carefully bound with hemp twine. Books, handwritten and handmade. I carefully pulled down one at random, gazed at its title page: EDISON’S CONQUEST OF MARS by Garrett P. Serviss. I put it back on the shelf, picked up another: OMNILINGUAL by H. Beam Piper. I placed it on the shelf, then pulled down yet another: THE MARTIAN CROWN JEWELS, by Poul Anderson. And more, dozens more… This was what Jeff had been

Course it does, but I also know fate wouldn’t have brought us into the same vicinity if the plan was to take you away from me. It also wouldn’t have given us her or him. You’re gonna fight and you’re gonna win because it’s what you were meant to do. To defend your title and keep your own name. Though I support whatever you wanna do, I also know your heart.” Her reassurance

I faced Pat Smith in the finals, the man who I had previously beaten. This time, I lost 7-6. Pat became the first four-time NCAA champion. I was winning with less than thirty seconds to go when we went out of bounds. To this day, I remember every thought and every second of every position. A few nights before the NCAA finals, I had dinner with my technical coach, Jimmy Zalesky. Jimmy was a three-time NCAA champ who helped me, as did his older brother, Lenny. These brothers were tough and technical. They’re great men who are both college head coaches and good friends. When I went out of bounds, I remembered the conversation between Jimmy and me the week before. I asked him what it felt like to win his first title. As my opponent and I walked back to the center, I allowed my brain to recall that previous evening’s conversation. As soon as my foot was on the line in the center of the mat, the referee blew the whistle. Pat shot and got to my ankle. A scramble ensued, and he came out on top with twelve seconds to go. I fought hard to get out, which sent the match into a tough back and forth battle in the final seconds. Ultimately, I couldn’t escape and lost the NCAA final match. That was the biggest loss of my life. I squared up with my foot on the line, thinking I was seconds away from winning. I had the mindset of protect and defend. Simultaneously, Pat squared up, thinking he was seconds away from also winning. He had the mindset of attack and score. It was a battle of mindsets, and his prevailed.

I am al’Lan Mandragoran,” Lan bellowed. “Lord of the Seven Towers, Defender of the Wall of First Fires, Bearer of the Sword of the Thousand Lakes! I was once named Aan’allein, but I reject that title, for I am alone no more. Fear me, Shadow! Fear me and know. I have returned for what is mine. I may be a king without a land. But I am still a king!

You could look back and, with the advantage of hindsight, locate the moment when the tide began to turn in the 1960s. In 1963 Leonard Levy published Jefferson and Civil Liberties: The Darker Side, which, as its title announced, found Jefferson’s record as a liberal defender

Other states also reoriented their telling of regional and national history. In Maharashtra, in the rewriting of history textbooks, a drastic cut was made in the book for class 7: the chapter on the Mughal Empire under Akbar was cut down to three lines.78 Uttar Pradesh simply deleted the Mughal Empire from some of its history textbooks,79 while the University of Delhi drastically reduced the study of this period in its history curriculum.80 In the syllabus of Nagpur University, a chapter that discussed the roles of the RSS, the Hindu Mahasabha, and the Muslim League in the making of communalism has been replaced by another one titled “Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) Role in Nation Building.”81 Alongside official examinations in Uttar Pradesh, the Sangh Parivar organized a test of general culture open to all schools in the state. According to the brochure designed to help students prepare for this test, which Amit Shah released in Lucknow in August 2017, India was a Hindu Rashtra, and Swami Vivekananda had defended Hindutva in Chicago in 1893.82 In Karnataka, after canceling Tipu Sultan Jayanti, the festival that the state used to organize to celebrate the birth of this eighteenth-century Muslim ruler, the BJP government also dropped the chapter dealing with this historical figure from the class 7 textbook in 2019.83 This decision was made in the context of the COVID-19 pandemic that had led the government of India to ask all states to reduce syllabi for students in classes 1 through 10 by 30 percent, in light of the learning challenges brought about by the lockdown.84 The decision of the Karnataka government, in fact, fit in with a larger picture. Under cover of the pandemic, the Central Board of Secondary Education (CBSE), India’s largest education board, decided that all over India “government-run schools no longer have to teach chapters on democratic rights, secularism, federalism, and citizenship, among other topics.”85 To foster assimilation of knowledge that amounted to propaganda, final exams have increasingly focused on the heroic deeds of Hindu icons and reforms initiated by the Modi government, even on the person of the prime minister.

Some may view this book and its title as alarmist. Good. We should be awake to the assault on democratic values that has gathered strength in many countries abroad and that is dividing America at home. The temptation is powerful to close our eyes and wait for the worst to pass, but history tells us that for freedom to survive, it must be defended, and that if lies are to stop, they must be exposed.

In its conclusion, the report argued, "The wholesale condemnation of all comics magazines is one of the worst mistakes of some of the critics. The fact is both sides are right. The books are not all bad, as the more extreme critics say; nor are all good, as some of their publishers and defenders content. Like all other creative products, they must be judged individually. And that is what most critics, parents, and public officials have failed to do." Still, the city council found a third of published comics to be "offensive, objectionable, and undesirable," and, on February 2, 1949, it appointed a board to monitor news dealers' compliance with a blacklist of titles.

Defender. Despite what he may have thought, he did not challenge Joséphine’s apparent bigamy. Later some diligent reporters, having determined that there was no marriage record and that the count title was fake, learned that the whole episode was a publicity stunt. Joséphine dropped the countess title. By the time the sham was

In China under the power market economic system, the ability to succeed in anything depends on relationships with key power-holders. The process of selling official positions and titles has formed a shadow network of personal bondage and gangs as power wielders at various levels serve one another's needs and utilize one another in a hotbed of corruption and protection removed from social justice. The ordinary people covered by this huge shadow network are powerless to defend justice or appeal against unjust treatment.

So in reality there was just one functioning channel, which came on at around 5 p.m., shutting down at 11 p.m. At seven o’clock, there was a news program for twenty-five minutes, almost exclusively about Kim Jong-il. There was no live film, just old photographs of him visiting factories, and the newscaster would read, verbatim, whatever he had supposedly said on those occasions. Next there was a thirty-minute music program, in which the lyrics scrolled across the screen karaoke style. The songs had titles like “Defend the Headquarters of Revolution,” which described the North Korean people as “bombs and bullets.” Then there was a slot for a drama or film, followed by another news program on the more recent movements of Kim Jong-il. This was the news that my students had mentioned watching each night. There were, of course, no commercials, but the news was sometimes interrupted by Kim Jong-il quotations that filled the screen.

Madame Lorraine was a rich French woman who lived in an old mansion, which she inherited from her husband. The family had already had many possessions, however, they were ruined in the Revolution. For defending the monarchy, they lost their titles, lands and servants. Madame Lorraine's husband, the old Earl, died in the Reign of Terror, as did her children. The wife, however, had hidden the jewelry at the beginning of the revolution and had left in secret for Switzerland. After the restoration, she returned to France, but with few resources she had, she bought a house in Paris. She complained of loneliness and adopted a little orphan, named Juliette, who she used as a servant. When the girl complained about being overworked, as she had to take care of the entire house alone, her stepmother told her: “your complaints hurt me, you see, I lost everything and I only have you, your mother didn't want you, but I I adopted you and took care of you and you don’t even appreciate that.” The girl, then, victim of emotional blackmail, got used to serving, without complaining. The problem is that every day more and more was demanded – the girl never reached perfection, said Madame Lorraine: “look at the silverware, look at the floor, look at the walls, you will never be able to get married”. However, Madame Lorraine did not tell the girl that perfection is never achieved: it is just a resource to dominate the poor in spirit, who see in the light of their own craft a hope of transcendence. Another thing that Madame Lorraine had not taught the girl – even if the Revolution had taught humanity: that they were free. The girl then grew older and became an object of exploitation every day, her arms becoming weaker, her mind increasingly taken over by obedience. One day, the girl went to the market in the square, and hardly talked to anyone – Madame Lorraine told her that everyone wanted to abuse her and that she shouldn't trust anyone. That day, however, she was exhausted and stopped at a farmer's stand selling tomatoes and said to her: “young man, what's your name, I always see you running around here and you never talk to anyone”. She decided to talk to him: “I'm the old widow's daughter, she says that everyone wants to exploit me, that I shouldn't trust strangers”. The salesman, already aware of the girl's situation from the stories that were circulating in the village, said to her: “Isn't it just the opposite, girl, maybe you haven't learned a lie all your life and now you're trying harder and harder to keep this lie as if it were the truth – see, God made everyone free.” The girl then quickly returned to the house, but doubt had entered her heart and there she began to take root and grow. Until, one day, the old lady released the drop that would overflow her body and said to her: “Well, Juliette, you don't do anything right, look how my dresses are, you didn't sew them perfectly”. The girl then got up, looked the vixen in the eyes and said: “if it’s not good, do it yourself” and left. It is said that she married the farmer in the sale and, from that day on, she was the best wife in the world. Not because she did everything with great care, with an almost divine perfection, that she was modest or because she had freed herself from the shrew who exploited her, but simply because she recognized the value of freedom itself.

Defending a title is exhausting. Defending two titles is excruciating. Defending three titles - when the world is sick of your existence and people everywhere seek your demise and the hunger you once possessed has been satiated by caviar and lobster - is nearly impossible. You stop wanting it the way you once wanted it. Someone punches you, and you don't have the energy to duck. You're Mike Tyson against Buster Douglas. The upstart possesses the edge, because the upstart is edgy. The endless praise softens you. The free meals fatten you.

I’ll fight for your rights just like I will the rights of any conservatives or anything in between. But I won’t defend your right to take that right away from others. That’s not what this country was built upon.

In the mid-eighteenth century, some gloriously titled reformist books by women were published, such as: *Woman Not Inferior to Man* (1739) by the anonymous "Sophia," and *Inquiry into the Causes Preventing the Female Sex from Studying* (1742) by Dorothea Erxleben, the first female medical doctor in Germany. However, these works were hard to find a few decades later when, after the Reign of Terror in France and the execution of women's rights defender Olympe de Gouges, a more conservative movement gained ground across Europe and numerous philosophers, doctors, and anthropologists agreed that women were different from and inferior to men.

Rhys smiled a bit, but the amusement died as he said, 'Tamlin was younger than me- born when the War started. But after the War, when he'd matured, we got to know each other at various court functions. He...' Rhys clenched his jaw. 'He seemed decent for a High Lord's son. Better than Beron's brood at the Autumn Court. Tamlin's brothers were equally as bad, though. Worse. And they knew Tamlin would take the title one day. And to a half-breed Illyrian who'd had to prove himself, defend his power, I saw what Tamlin went through... I befriended him. Sought him out whenever I was able to get away from the war camps or court. Maybe it was pity, but... I taught him some Illyrian techniques.' 'Did anyone know?' ... 'Cassian and Azriel knew,' Rhys went on. 'My family knew. And disapproved.' His eyes were chips of ice. 'But Tamlin's father was threatened by it. By me. And because he was weaker than both me and Tamlin, he wanted to prove to the world that he wasn't. My mother and sister were to travel to the Illyrian war-camp to see me. I was supposed to meet them halfway, but I was busy training a new unit and decided to stay.' My stomach turned over and over and over, and I wished I had something to lean against as Rhys said, 'Tamlin's father, brothers, and Tamlin himself set out into the Illyrian wilderness, having heard from Tamlin- from me- where my mother and sister would be, that I had plans to see them. I was supposed to be there. I wasn't. And they slaughtered my mother and sister anyway.' I began shaking my head, eyes burning. I didn't know what I was trying to deny, or erase, or condemn. 'It should have been me,' he said, and I understood- understood what he'd said that day I'd wept before Cassian in the training pit. 'They put their heads in boxes and sent them down the river- to the nearest camp. Tamlin's father kept their wings as trophies. I'm surprised you didn't see them pinned in the study.' I was going to vomit; I was going to fall to my knees and weep. ... Rhys merely continued. 'When I heard, when my father heard... I wasn't wholly truthful to you when I told you Under the Mountain that my father killed Tamlin's father and brothers, I went with him. Helped him. We winnowed to the edge of the Spring Court that night, then went the rest of the way on foot- to the manor. I slew Tamlin's brothers on sight. I held their minds, and rendered them helpless while I cut them into pieces, then melted their brains inside their skulls. And when I got to the High Lord's bedroom- he was dead. And my father... my father had killed Tamlin's mother as well.' I couldn't stop shaking my head. 'My father had promised not to touch her. That we weren't the kind of males who would do that. But he lied to me, and he did it, anyway. And then he went for Tamlin's room.' I couldn't breathe- couldn't breathe as Rhys said, 'I tried to stop him. He didn't listen. He was going to kill him, too. And I couldn't... After all the death, I was done. I didn't care that Tamlin had been there, had allowed them to kill my mother and sister, that he'd come to kill me because he didn't want to risk standing against them. I was done with death. So I stopped my father before the door. He tried to go through me. Tamlin opened the door, saw us- smelled the blood already leaking into the hallway. And I didn't even get to say a word before Tamlin killed my father in one blow.' 'I felt the power shift to me, even as I saw it shift to him. And we just looked at each other, as we were both suddenly crowned High Lord- and then I ran.' He'd murdered Rhysand's family. The High Lord I'd loved- he'd murdered his friend's family, and when I'd asked how his family died, he'd merely told me a rival court had done it. Rhysand had done it, and- 'He didn't tell you any of that.

Rhys smiled a bit, but the amusement died as he said, 'Tamlin was younger than me- born when the War started. But after the War, when he'd matured, we got to know each other at various court functions. He...' Rhys clenched his jaw. 'He seemed decent for a High Lord's son. Better than Beron's brood at the Autumn Court. Tamlin's brothers were equally as bad, though. Worse. And they knew Tamlin would take the title one day. And to a half-breed Illyrian who'd have to prove himself, defend his power, I saw what Tamlin went through... I befriended him. Sought him out whenever I was able to get away from the war camps or court. Maybe it was pity, but... I taught him some Illyrian techniques.' 'Did anyone know?' ... 'Cassian and Azriel knew,' Rhys went on. 'My family knew. And disapproved.' His eyes were chips of ice. 'But Tamlin's father was threatened by it. By me. And because he was weaker than both me and Tamlin, he wanted to prove to the world that he wasn't. My mother and sister were to travel to the Illyrian war-camp to see me. I was supposed to meet them halfway, but I was busy training a new unit and decided to stay.' My stomach turned over and over and over, and I wished I had something to lean against as Rhys said, 'Tamlin's father, brothers, and Tamlin himself set out into the Illyrian wilderness, having heard from Tamlin- from me- where my mother and sister would be, that I had plans to see them. I was supposed to be there. I wasn't. And they slaughtered my mother and sister anyway.' I began shaking my head, eyes burning. I didn't know what I was trying to deny, or erase, or condemn. 'It should have been me,' he said, and I understood- understood what he'd said that day I'd wept before Cassian in the training pit. 'They put their heads in boxes and sent them down the river- to the nearest camp. Tamlin's father kept their wings as trophies. I'm surprised you didn't see them pinned in the study.' I was going to vomit; I was going to fall to my knees and weep. ... Rhys merely continued. 'When I heard, when my father heard... I wasn't wholly truthful to you when I told you Under the Mountain that my father killed Tamlin's father and brothers, I went with him. Helped him. We winnowed to the edge of the Spring Court that night, then went the rest of the way on foot- tot he manor. I slew Tamlin's brothers on sight. I held their minds, and rendered them helpless while I cut them into pieces, then melted their brains inside their skulls. And when I got to the High Lord's bedroom- he was dead. And my father... my father had killed Tamlin's mother as well.' I couldn't stop shaking my head. 'My father had promised not to touch her. That we weren't the kind of males who would do that. But he lied to me, and he did it, anyway. And then he went for Tamlin's room.' I couldn't breathe- couldn't breathe as Rhys said, 'I tried to stop him. He didn't listen. He was going to kill him, too. And I couldn't... After all the death, I was done. I didn't care that Tamlin had been there, had allowed them to kill my mother and sister, that he'd come to kill me because he didn't want to risk standing against them. I was done with death. So I stopped my father before the door. He tried to go through me. Tamlin opened the door, saw us- smelled the blood already leaking into the hallway. And I didn't even get to say a word before Tamlin killed my father in one blow.' 'I felt the power shift to me, even as I saw it shift to him. And we just looked at each other, as we were both suddenly crowned High Lord- and then I ran.' He'd murdered Rhysand's family. The High Lord I'd loved- he'd murdered his friend's family, and when I'd asked how his family died, he'd merely told me a rival court had done it. Rhysand had done it, and- 'He didn't tell you any of that.

The articles were written by a journalist under the pseudonym Amos Dixon. An introductory note in the first installment described Dixon as a white southerner who had covered the murder trial in Sumner and “talked freely to those who knew what happened.”79 Unlike Huie, Dixon maintained that Milam and Bryant had accomplices, and he names them. His account aligns more closely with the testimonies of Willie Reed, Mandy Bradley, and Add Reed, which “Shocking Story” ignored completely. Midway through publication of the series, a thirty-five-page booklet appeared, titled Time Bomb: Mississippi Exposed and the Full Story of Emmett Till, and it told a similar story as Dixon had provided. It was written by Olive Arnold Adams, wife of New York Age Defender publisher Julius Adams. A seven-page chapter dealt specifically with the Till case.80 Dr.

It seems indeed that the Church today is one of the few institutions in the world willing to defend human rights regardless of who the oppressor is.

In attempting to defend himself against these accusations, Varela drew the court’s attention to the fact that he had never provoked or encouraged racial hatred and that as a historian, he “has the moral duty to tell the truth.” In support of his personal integrity, Varela stated, “Every historian must be skeptical of everything and must also review what has been said thus far. Revisionists question the scope and degree of the alleged persecutions of National Socialist Germany.” In his concluding statement, Varela reiterated his innocence before the court, reaffirming that he had never committed, advocated, or otherwise promoted genocide or any other form of violence directed against innocent people. The court took no apparent notice of Varela’s impassioned protestations of innocence and fined the accused the equivalent of $5,000 in addition to the five-year sentence. In addition, the court ordered that his entire inventory of 20,000 books be consigned to the flames, in spite of the fact that only 30 titles out of 200 had been deemed to be in violation of the law.

the same researchers turned to a database of death penalty cases tried in Philadelphia between 1979 and 1999. In a provocative paper titled “Looking Deathworthy,” they showed that when the victim was white, black men who looked stereotypically black were dramatically more likely to receive a death sentence than were black men who looked less stereotypically black. Whereas stereotypically black men tended to receive a death sentence in 58 percent of all cases, black men who did not look stereotypically black received a death sentence in only 24 percent of all cases. These results held even when the researchers carefully removed the effects of other variables that may have inflated the difference, like the defendants’ and victims’ socioeconomic status.

Tiff rolled her eyes like her brother before her. “Just because you can use big words doesn’t mean you’re smart okay”. “My apologies my Princessness” Pae said making fun of her title. “I wasn’t aware that you can’t understand three syllable words”. “I understand what you just said better than you do. I bet you don’t even know a word longer than three syllables” Tiff argued. “Well then maybe it is simply inadequacy of sleep which motivates your insufficient comprehension of stratification” Pae replied. “Okay Shakespeare” interrupted Pen. “I think that’s enough for the day. Why don’t you go back to our rooms while we spend the next three days determining what you just said”.

Deprived of their direct ties with Central Asia -- and with it their access to Turkish slaves, mercenaries and war horses -- the later Ghaznavids lost their wider, imperial vision an acquired the character of a regional, North Indian state. They were certainly not seen as menacing aliens who might have posed a civilzational threat to Indian culture. Contemporary Sanskrit inscriptions refer to the Ghaznavids not as Muslims but as 'turushkas' (Turks), an ethnic term, or as 'hammiras', a Sanskritized rendering of 'amir' (Arabic for commander), an official title. For their part, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries Ghaznavid rulers in India issued coins from Lahore bearing the same legends that had appeared on those of their Indian predecessors, the Hindu Shahi dynasty (c.850-1002). These included Śiva's bull Nandi and the Sanskrit phrase 'śri samanta deva' (Honourable Chief Commander) inscribed in Devanagari script. Such measures point to the later Ghaznavids' investment in establishing cultural and monetary continuity with North Indian kingsdoms. Moreover, despite the dynasty's rhetoric about defending Sunni Islam, religion posed no bar to military recruitment, as Indians had always been prominent in Ghaznavid armies. In 1033 Mahmud of Ghazni gave the command of his army stationed in Lahore to a Hindu general, and in Ghazni itself Indian military contingents had their own commanders, inhabited their own quarter of the city, and were generally considered more reliable soldiers than the Turks. Crucially, the Ghaznavids brought to the Punjab the entire gamut of Persianate institutions and practices that would define the political economy of much of India for centuries to come. Inherited from the creative ferment of tenth-century Khurasan and Central Asia under the Samanid rulers of Bukhara, these included: the elaboration of a ranked and salaried bureaucracy tied to the state's land revenue and military systems; the institution of elite, or military, slavery; an elaboration of the office of 'sultan'; the courtly patronage of Persian arts, crafts and literature; and a tradition of spiritually powerful holy men, or Sufis, whose relations with royal power were ambivalent, to say the least.

Djugashvili had furnished evidence in writing of the theoretical learning that he was to display in the Baku prison. In a series of articles published in Bolshevik newspapers in Tiflis under the general title Anarchism or Socialism?, he defended Marxism against critical attacks that were being leveled against it by Georgian followers of the Russian anarchist philosopher Pyotr Kropotkin.

the important thing is that the place of solitude remain a simple, uncluttered place. There we dwell in the presence of the Lord. Our temptation is to do something useful: to read something stimulating, to think about something interesting, or to experience something unusual. But our moment of solitude is precisely a moment in which we want to be in the presence of our Lord with empty hands, naked, vulnerable, useless, without much to show, prove, or defend. That is how we slowly learn to listen to God’s small voice.