EF Education First Pro Cycling's Alberto Bettiol claimed his first professional victory at this year's Tour of Flanders in Oudenaarde today.
"I still don't believe what I did. My first win, I don't believe it," said Bettiol.
The 25-year-old Italian finished the 267km course in 6:19:00, beating Kasper Asgreen (Deceuninck–Quick-Step) and Alexander Kristoff (UAE Team Emirates) into second and third respectively.
An early break formed just 3km in and consisted of Kenneth van Rooy (Sport Vlaanderen-Baloise), Hugo Houle (Astana Pro Team), Damien Touze (Cofidis Solutions Credits) and Jesper Asselam (Roompot-Charles).
Their gap to the peloton grew to 8'30" as the quartet reached Herzele, ahead of the 1.3km-long Lippenhovestraat cobbled section.
When the break hit the 1 500m Paddestraat section there was a crash in the peloton and defending champion Niki Terpstra (Direct Énergie) went down heavily and needed medical treatment. He was then forced to abandon the tour.
When the break hit Oude Kwaremont, which is 2 200m long with an average gradient of 4% and a maximum of 11.6%, Houle went clear alone.
The gap to the break was 5'45" when the cobbles ended with 147km remaining as the riders headed for the short but steep Kortekeer climb.
The breakaway riders reached the top of the Leberg climb with 122km to the finish and led by 5'25".
When the quartet hit the Berendries climb, their lead came down to 4'38".
An attack in the peloton drew out several riders, which created a 15-second gap back to the rest of the bunch.
The breakaway riders then hit Tenbosse, which was the seventh climb of the day, with a lead of 3'05".
The small chasing group was then caught by the peloton with 109km remaining.
The break was 1'30" ahead of the peloton as they reached the Muur-Kapelmuur. A clear split formed in the peloton, which forced the others to chase.
The split included Peter Sagan (Bora–Hansgrohe), Fernando Gaviria (UAE Team Emirates), Greg van Avermaet (CCC), Mathieu van der Poel (Corendon–Circus) and Alejandro Valverde (Movistar).
There were various attacks in this front group, which was a minute clear of the peloton as riders made their way to the final climbs in the last 50km.
When they hit the Kanarieberg climb Matej Mohorič (Bahrain–Merida) was off the front as the front group was caught by the peloton.
With 60km left Van der Poel had a flat, waved for service and then crashed over the bars after hitting a pot-hole. Shortly afterwards he was back chasing before Kwaremont.
At this point Sep Vanmarcke (EF Education First Pro Cycling) and Stijn Vandenbergh (AG2R La Mondiale) led as they hit Paterberg. They were then joined by Asgreen and led by 15 seconds with 48km left. Van der Poel was 30 seconds further back.
As they hit the 2 000m-long Mariaborrestraat cobbles, the leading four were ahead by 20 seconds.
When the riders passed through Ronse, the break extended their lead to 30 seconds with 30km to go.
With 25km to the finish, only Dylan van Baarle (Team Sky) and Asgreen remained up front with a 15-second gap.
Vanmarcke led onto the Oude Kwaremont with 19km to go, with Van Avermaet leading the chase.
Bettiol then closed the gap on Van Baarle. With 17km to go he led solo by 10 seconds as he made his way to the Paterberg.
Van Avermaet and Wout van Aert (Jumbo-Visma) led the chase.
With 7km to the finish, Bettiol's gap grew to 25 seconds. He managed to keep this gap and soloed to the finish, taking this year's Tour of Flanders title.


UPDATE: Highway 17 reopened at approximately 8 p.m. Sunday.
Earlier on Sunday, RCMP closed Highway 1 both directions between West Shore Parkway and Shawnigan Lake-Mill Bay Road to allow for the removal of stuck vehicles and for the passage of snow plows.
MainRoads operations manager Chris Cowley said crews are working to remove vehicles and a jackknifed transport truck blocking the route from snow plows.
RCMP, CVSE, Ministry of Transportation and MainRoads crews are all on scene.
The Malahat reopened at approximately 7:30 p.m. There are no injuries reported at this time.
Up to 10 centimetres of snow is forecasted for the region.


Completion of Bachelor s degree in MIS, CS, Technical Certification, etc. and/or 5 - 10 years of experience.
Thanks for applying for the position of Application Systems Architect (.Net) with Fusion Solutions, Inc. through Dice.


The hotel is only 500 meters away from the Hongqiao Airport. The hotel features a superior geological position. The subway line#2 (Jing'an stop) and the Nanjing Road can be accessed from the hotel within three minutes on foot.
In 2004, the hotel was completely renovated. There are 100 standard rooms and 5 suites available in the hotel. All rooms are cozy and spacious with complete facilities.
The restaurant serves Shanghai cuisine, and may hold 450 guests at the same time. A theater, meeting rooms and recreation facilities can also be found in the hotel.
Price for breakfast: Chinese breakfast ¥15 .


Books are our never failing friends Books, like a true friend stand by us through thick and thin. Books are always there for you, especially when friends aren't. You can completely disappear into a world of your choosing. You can curl up with a book in bed on a cold, winter's night. Compared to other activities, books don't cost very much. Even kids can afford second-hand books, and the library is free! Even Gandhiji kept books as his friend.
books will never leave us, until we leave them.
they are our real friends.
They enlighten, give us knowledge, entertain us and inform us We can carry books with us when we travel. They are our constant companions. when we are tired of reading we can close them, we can even read them at midnight. They fill our minds and hearts with hope and joy. Unlike human friends they never deceive or betray us.
When we read books, we are in the company of the best and the noblest minds of all ages. They enrich our minds by providing us with knowledge and widen our imagination They lift the poor out of poverty and the wretched out of misery. They make the burden bearer forget his burden and the sick his sufferings They bring light into darkness and sunshine into shadow Books like the Gita and the Mahabharta inspire us. They make us brave, daring and dauntless They are a treasure house of noble thoughts which are open to us day and night.
A book like the Ramayana is undoubtedly the best of companions. . .
Book Report "Stay With Me"


text:
Сѐлен (, в превод "тюленът") е малък шведски град в провинция Даларна, близо до границата с Норвегия. Той е известен със ски-пистите си и като стартова точка на ски-маратона Васалопет.

География
Разположен е на левия бряг в горното течение на река Вестердалелвен, в община Малунг, на 65 km на северозапад от общинския център Малунг. Населението му е 765 жители, по приблизителна оценка от декември 2017 г.

История
Селото е основано през Средновековието.

Туризъм
В околностите има 7 съоръжения за зимни спортове. Най-големи и най-известни са Линдвален-Хьогфелет (Lindvallen/Högfjället) и Тандодален-Хундфелет (Tandådalen/Hundfjället).

Има също съоръжения за забавление на деца – фигурата на снежния човек на върха Густавбакен (Gustavbackens topp) и гората на троловете в Хундфелет.

Източници

Градове в Швеция
Населени места в лен Даларна

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


Oh man I used to take literally hundreds of photos of the exact same thing all the time! I've ended up stopping that now though because it was just taking me way too much time to edit.
😁😁😁 Though I am new to this whole blogging scene but I do find this so relatable !!
Thanks 🙂 Just wait, the blogging bug only gets worse from here on out!
Why oh why are you in my head? Numbers 1, 2, 8, and 9 are me! Wonderful post!
Thank you! I'm glad you can relate 🙂 Happy New Year!
Awesome Post! and so very true!!
Thanks 🙂 I'm glad I'm not the only one!
This post was really cute! I love how you incorporate your artwork into your blogs!
Yes I have definitely been bitten by blogger bug!, awesome post, #thumbs up.
haha well don't worry – you're not alone!
Thank goodness I'm not alone!
That was so great and relateable!
sorry, no cure that I know of… you'll just have to embrace your inner blogger craziness!
So true! I can defiantly relate with #s 2, 8, 9, 12, and 13!
This post is so cute and so accurate! Great job!
Haha-the camera lighting and angles are so me!
Yep, I think I show symptoms of being a blogger. What now ;)?!?!
Embrace your inner blogger craziness!


text:
Essay: Charles Dickens's Characters
by bernard | Nov 1, 2011 | English, Sample Essays | 0 comments
Many scholars have claimed that Charles dickens was the most popular and successful English writer or novelist of the Victorian era. He was born in 1812 and died in 1870; many of his novels revolve around the theme of social reform. This has made him one of the most popular novelists of all times.
Most of his works is praised for dramatic masterly of styles like prose and creation of unique personalities like Pip and Abel Magwitch. Great expectations together with a tale of two cities are his most popular novels. In most of his works dickens has been known to use very memorable personalities as well as settings.
Charles Dickens's 'great expectations', is a story about a man' pursuit in life from childhood to adulthood. It is set inEnglandbetween 1812 and 1840. It revolves around the main Protagonist Pip from around the age of seven to adulthood. Being an orphan Pip is faced with many challenges in life. 'Great expectations' is a story about advancement in life both economically and socially. It is also a story about love and hatred. In writing the novel Dickens's uses an array of different literary styles that we shall look at in the paper.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


Note: Please visit the individual course page for individual course entry requirements.
To be admitted into any of the departments, interested applicants must apply through the student portal, having met the minimum 5 credit O'Level required by the department of interest in ONE sitting and must have passed the Institute screening examination.
Five credit passes including Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry, Biology and English Language.
Five credit passes including Mathematics, Physics, English Language plus two other Science subjects from Further Mathematics, Chemistry and Biology or Agricultural Science. At least a pass in chemistry and Biology is mandatory.


Quality of life experiments (QOL-X) is bringing an exclusive attraction to the San Diego Museum of Man. Through an interactive storytelling experience, you will answer the question WHO ARE YOU? During Maker Faire San Diego we will be giving individuals and families the opportunity to check out a storyteller.


Design Styles Architecture is honored to have attended the ribbon cutting and grand opening of the Boys & Girls Clubs – Sam and Laurice Hachem Foundation Club at Town N Country Park. The Club features a variety of dedicated spaces for gathering, learning and activities. As architects of the project it was our goal to present the Boys and Girls Clubs with a space that is not only fun and inviting but also efficient and effective for the kids and the staff. As you walk through the facility the center core of the space is an open collaborative bright and airy room with angled ceilings and linear lighting. Activity focused rooms boarder that main core. They include rooms dedicated to arts & crafts, music, technology, and other activities. The rear of the facility allows for a unique experience. The two larger activity spaces in the rear have garage lift doors that open up to the exterior patio, providing the staff and kids with fresh air and a fun open-concept experience. In the back of the club is also a butterfly garden, providing an opportunity for the kids to learn about nature and observe the beautiful butterflies.


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NC State HC Dave Doeren Says He 'Felt Lied To' By UCLA After Bruins Pulled Out Of Holiday Bowl
in NCAAF, Sports
by Nick Geddes December 29, 2021, 11:03 am updated December 29, 2021, 11:17 am 1 Comment
The scene was set on a beautiful evening inside Petco Park in San Diego, California.
The home of the Padres, turned site of the San Diego County Credit Union Holiday Bowl, was hours away from hosting UCLA (8-4) vs. No. 18 NC State (9-3).
Until, it wasn't.
With the game set for an 8:00 p.m. ET kickoff, UCLA backed out less than five hours before due to COVID-19 issues within the program, leading to the game being postponed. Making its way from Raleigh, North Carolina, NC State logged over 2,500 miles to make it to The Golden State. UCLA, meanwhile, had a much shorter trip just south down the west coast of California.
Wolfpack head coach Dave Doeren gave his thoughts on the situation, per ESPN's Mark Schlabach.
"Felt lied to, to be honest," Doeren said. "We felt like UCLA probably knew something was going on, didn't tell anybody on our side. We had no clue they were up against that. I don't feel like it was very well handled from their university. It would've been great to have had a heads-up, so two, three days ago we could've found a plan B. Disappointing.
"I don't want this to diminish what happened here this year. This was an unfair thing that happened, and like all other unfair things, there's not going to be a rationale that makes it feel good. We're going to have to deal with it and get ready for what's next."
NC State was notably looking for its 10th win of the season, done just once before in the program's history. That came in 2002, when the Wolfpack finished 11-3. Doeren said he had no idea about the Bruins' COVID-19 issues until NC State athletic director Boo Corrigan notified him the game was off, minutes before UCLA announced it.
UCLA athletic director Martin Jarmond issued a statement on Twitter, relaying his disappointment to everyone involved.
pic.twitter.com/bSyV30iWrQ
— Martin Jarmond (@MartinJarmond) December 28, 2021
NC State is currently looking for a replacement opponent. As it stands, this is the fifth game to get postponed or canceled due to COVID-19.
New FanDuel Sportsbook users can make their first bet risk-free up to $1,000. If the bet loses, the FanDuel Sportsbook will refund you in site credit. New users can lock in this offer NOW by clicking this link.
Follow Nick Geddes on Twitter @NickGeddesNews and on Instagram @nick.geddes.
Dave Doerenholiday bowlNC State WolfpackUCLA Bruins
Written by Nick Geddes
Nick is a 2021 graduate of the University of Central Florida with a bachelor's degree in journalism and a minor in political science. Nick is a life-long sports fan who is proud to say he suffered through 15 years of Bucs futility to witness a Super Bowl victory in 2020. Nick has a passion for writing and is proud to represent OutKick. Follow me on Twitter @NickGeddesNews and on Instagram @nick.geddes.
BobLee Says says:
It is worth noting that NC State "got screwed" in a very similar fashion this past summer in the CWS in Omaha. They had advanced to the CWS finals only to be "sent home" because of a single "positive".
Like 99% of college fan bases, NC State fans are prone to knee-jerk paranoia re: "crooked refs" and NCAA admin bureaucrats. In this case … their WTF ??? response seems 100% Justified.
More From: NCAAF
NCAA Board of Governors Updates Policy Regarding Transgender Athletes
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Michigan Sources Claim Jim Harbaugh Will Take Las Vegas Raiders HC Job
Stetson Bennett Announces He Will Return For One More Season At Georgia
by Trey Wallace January 19, 2022, 6:40 pm
Georgia QB JT Daniels Officially Enters The Transfer Portal, Along With WR Jermaine Burton


In consideration of you accepting this entry, I, the participant, intending to be legally bound do hereby waive and forever release any and all right and claims for damages or injuries that I may have against the Event Director, RunSignUp.com, RunGR, Road Runners Club of America, and all of their agents assisting with the event, sponsors and their representatives, volunteers and employees for any and all injuries to me or my personal property. This release includes all injuries and/or damages suffered by me before, during or after the event. I recognize, intend and understand that this release is binding on my heirs, executors, administrators, or assignees.
I know that running a road race is a potentially hazardous activity. I should not enter and run unless I am medically able to do so and properly trained. I assume all risks associated with running in this event including, but not limited to: falls, contact with other participants, the effects of weather, traffic, and course conditions, and waive any and all claims which I might have based on any of those and other risks typical found in running a road race. I acknowledge all such risks are known and understood by me. I agree to abide by all decisions of any race official relative to my ability to safely complete the run. I certify as a material condition to my being permitted to enter this race that I am physically fit and sufficiently trained for the completion of this event and that a licensed Medical Doctor has verified my physical condition. I agree to abide by all rules established by RunGR, including the right of any official to deny or suspend my participation for any reason whatsoever.


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Hoploscopa luteomacula is a moth in the family Crambidae. It is found on Sumatra.

References

Moths described in 1998
Hoploscopini


Melbourne Heart have beaten ladder leaders Central Coast for the first time in their short history.
Melbourne Heart have beaten ladder leaders Central Coast for the first time in their short history with 1-0 triumph at AAMI Park on Sunday afternoon.
Striker Eli Babalj netted the only goal of the game in the 50th minute with the victory moving the Heart above Newcastle into fifth place and three points clear of Sydney in seventh.
English import John Sutton spurned a glorious chance to equalise when his penalty hit the post leaving the Mariners just three points clear of Brisbane Roar at the top of the table.
Heart regained two of their Olyroos representatives with Aziz Behich and Mate Dugandzic rushed straight back into the starting XI.
The Mariners welcomed back Matthew Ryan in goal, but were without midfield dynamo Mustafa Amini, who was rested.
In a cagey opening neither side gave much away with referee Jarred Gillett the busiest person on the pitch, dishing out four yellows in the first 15 minutes.
Tomas Rogic had the first two genuine chances but both of his strikes from outside the area were hit straight at Bolton.
Adam Kwasnik almost found the back of the net with a great header from Pedj Bojic cross, but it flashed just wide of the post.
Heart captain Fred had his side's only real chance on goal, but his curling effort from outside the box was never going to trouble Ryan.
The match came to life in the 50th minute when Babalj broke the deadlock with a smart finish from close range.
Dugandzic charged down the right flank and found Fred unmarked on the edge of the area and his scuffed shot was trapped by Babalj, who beat Mariners defender Alex Wilkinson to the loose ball and found the back of the net.
With their tails up, Heart almost had a second minutes later but Behich-s curling effort flashed just wide of the post.
Up the other end, the Mariners had the perfect chance to equalise when Rogic was clumsily brought down by Fred in the area.
Debutant Sutton stepped up to take the spot kick but his effort crashed straight into the upright and Clint Bolton was then relieved when Patrick Zwaanswijk-s follow up lacked power with the goal at his mercy.
Graham Arnold replaced Sutton with Bernie Ibini and the youngster had an immediate impact with two shots in the space of a minute, but neither troubled Bolton.
Babalj had a glorious chance to put the game to bed in the 76th minute but after finding space in the area he blasted his shot over the bar.
The Mariners threw everything at the hosts in the closing stages but never really threatened Bolton-s goal as the Heart held on for a valuable three points.


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The Beast in His Belly
B.G. Gaylord
In August of 2010, three months after my father died, my mother brought me a plastic grocery bag full of my dead father's socks. She said Dad was proud of the socks and would want me to have them. Apparently, he'd found them at Rural King for a good price and stocked up. They were thick socks, she said, the kind that were good for your feet. She thought I could use them.
I thanked her, made some vague remark about everyone's needing socks, and toted the plastic bag upstairs, where, after square-knotting the handles closed, I dropped it onto the floor next to my dresser. The bag landed with a thud and settled in, its plastic skin stretched thin with dark green and blue sock balls.
That fall, the bag didn't budge, and neither did the thermometer. For eight months in a row, temperatures in Indiana had soared above normal. No relief came from the sky either. The month of August had been the third driest on record, and September and October were little better. Drought gripped the state like a sphinx. Under duress, the sugar maples coughed up their brittle leaves early, and hot, dry gusts from the south swept them away to the north. Field crop fires flared up throughout the state, and open burn bans were declared in fifty-nine counties.
At the end of October, after a historic storm pounded the Midwest, producing nine tornadoes in Indiana alone, I drove forty minutes southeast across this scorched and broken landscape to the small town of North Vernon to pick up my father's cinerary urn. As both a reader and a high school English teacher, I confess to finding comfort in the suffering of the Hoosier countryside, in its fallen limbs, its uprooted trees, its ossified topsoil. It appealed to my literary senses, flattered my vanity. Indiana had become my Denmark: 'Twas grievous hot, and I was sick at heart.
Of course, even literary fancy has its limitations, and no amount of intellectualizing the landscape was going to distract me from the fact that I was on my way to a two-bit funeral home in a Podunk town to pick up the eternal vessel of my father's ashes, an atique coffee tin that I'd bought on eBay and dropped off way back in June when the daylilies were still in bloom. Now, here it was just a few days shy of Halloween, on the wrong side of a four-month drought, and everything green, including the daylilies, was a distant, shriveled memory. In short, it had taken these rustic alchemists five months to glue a bronze nameplate on an old can. In the meantime, my dad, or the six pounds of ash that remained of him, had languished in a bag in another funeral home on the other side of the state while his socks had languished in a bag on my floor.
The drought officially broke in late November, which brought cold rain and Thanksgiving. I bundled up my son and daughter and loaded them, along with their potty seat and my dad's cinerary urn, into the family minivan. Then, with my six-month-pregnant wife in the seat beside me and Go, Diego, Go! on the DVD player behind me, I drove two hours north to my mom's house in Lafayette to eat turkey and give thanks. My sister had been there for three days already, helping Mom get through her first Thanksgiving alone. After dinner, I sneaked outside with my brother and transferred my dad's empty urn from my minivan to his SUV. He planned on picking up my dad's remains from the funeral home the next week. Dad, it turned out, would be home for Christmas.
He might just as well have skipped it. I wished I had. Christmas at Mom's felt like a visit to the ICU. The vital signs of Christmas had all been present—there was the tree and the garland and the ribbons and bows; there was fudge and pie and marshmallow créme fruit dip—but whatever Christmas spirit we still possessed had been on life support. Mom hadn't even done the grocery shopping when we arrived. I had to improvise a grocery list and take my three-year-old son and two-year-old daughter shopping with me just so we'd have something to eat. Meanwhile, back at the house, my now-seven-month-pregnant wife had sat on the couch and graded bad papers on her laptop while my mom had taken a shower and tried to pull herself together. If Santa had signed a do-not-resuscitate order, I would have pulled the plug on the Christmas lights long before we'd ever gotten to presents.
Finally, in January, with the holidays happily behind me, I tried turning my attention back to my growing family instead of my shrinking one. In two short months, we were going to have a baby, and so far I'd barely acknowledged his existence, let alone prepared for his arrival. Thus, with time running short, I ventured into the basement storage room, where, beneath the detritus of my family, I attempted to divine the location of the crib. I finally found it underneath a mountain of useless Fisher Price plastic and hauled its several parts upstairs to the master bedroom, where, with considerable help from my other two children, I wrestled it together again. Then, over the next couple of weeks, I continued to mine the basement storage room for baby items, pulling out a baby swing here, a car seat there, and a lot of primary-colored toys in between.
Meanwhile, upstairs, my wife was busy nesting, as the baby books had assured us she would do—vacuuming the rugs, mopping the floors, scrubbing the sinks, and fussing at her other two nestlings not to undo all of her hard work. Eventually, her efforts took her into our bedroom, where, after she'd cleaned the floors and dusted the furniture, after she'd filled and organized the drawers in the baby's hand-me-down dresser, she set her sights on the only thing left in the room that she hadn't cleaned or straightened yet: the plastic bag full of my dead father's socks.
By now, the bag had become part of the topography of the room, something to be stepped around. It was like an unplumb door that kept closing itself or a leaky faucet that needed turning just-so: an inconvenience I'd grown to live with, an imperfection I'd learned to overlook. Lying in bed at night, I no longer had to avoid looking at it; getting dressed in the morning, I no longer had to avoid bumping into it. For me, the bag had disappeared, become immaterial.
But, of course, the bag hadn't gone anywhere. It still slumped next to the dresser like a bag of dirty laundry—possessing mass, looking tumorous, collecting dust. And my wife, whose father hadn't died, whose mother hadn't begun sleeping in the closet next to her dead husband's clothes, still saw the bag and wondered very gently, when she found me in the basement, what I planned to do with it.
The winter before my dad got sick, A&E Networks began promoting a new television show called The Beast, starring Patrick Swayze as an undercover F.B.I. agent. I remember watching previews for The Beast and thinking that the only thing undercover about the show and its zealous promotion—and, then, hardly so—was the real source of its appeal: a morbid fascination with Swayze's declining health. Since March of the previous year, when Swayze's publicist had confirmed that the star was suffering from pancreatic cancer, people had been dying to catch a glimpse of the broken heartthrob. In late May 2008, for example, the appearance of a frail-looking Swayze at a Lakers game had the tabloids buzzing for months. Thus, that winter, if people were watching The Beast—and apparently plenty of viewers were—they were doing so only to track the progression of Swayze's emaciation.
Indeed, a random sampling of The Beast's early reviews reveals a barely restrained emphasis on Swayze's stricken appearance. Mary McNamara of the Los Angeles Times, for example, describes Swayze's face in the pilot as "worn craggy by age and his battle with pancreatic cancer." Similarly, Nancy Franklin of The New Yorker zeroes in on the "cragginess" of Swayze's face, noting that, in the pilot, it appears "craggier and more attractive than it was twenty years ago"—craggy, apparently, being television critic-speak for gaunt as hell. And while McNamara only mentions Swayze's battle with pancreatic cancer, both Franklin and Ginia Bellafante of the New York Times make a point of describing the grueling nature of Swayze's schedule during filming. It's clear, in other words, that after Swayze's diagnosis, the storyline of The Beast became secondary to the real drama unfolding on the screen: How long until our dying hero lays down his guns?
Because when the conflict of the story is pancreatic cancer, there can be only one ending. People don't "beat" pancreatic cancer, as they're said to do with other forms of cancer. With the pancreas, the game is rigged; the deck, stacked. Situated deep within the abdomen, sandwiched between the stomach and the spine, the pancreas is a silent killer. Early symptoms, such as back pain, nausea, and weight loss, are often vague and subtle enough to be confused or explained away, and by the time they do become pronounced enough to send someone limping to the doctor, it's usually too late. In fact, only fifteen percent of pancreatic cancers are detected before they've actually spread—when the disease is still operable, in other words—and since resection is the only hope for long-term survivability, the prognosis of most patients is frightfully grim.
To illustrate how grim, imagine that you've just been told you have pancreatic cancer. On average, you can expect to live another six months. If the disease doesn't kill you by then, you can be seventy-five-percent certain it'll kill you before the end of the year. And even if by some miracle you make it through the calendar, I still wouldn't make any long-term plans. According to the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network, "Pancreatic cancer is the only one of the top 10 cancer killers that still has a five-year survival rate in the single digits." It's seven percent, to be exact.
I had a better-than-average sense of what a beastly diagnosis pancreatic cancer was long before Patrick Swayze ever got sick. I couldn't have quoted exact figures, but I knew it was a death sentence. I'd always made it my business to know the many ways I could die.
Even as a child, I suspected we were all just an errant stone's throw away from a subdural hematoma. Consequently, I was afraid of everything—from dogs to Ferris wheels, from ticks to poison ivy, from sinkholes to background radiation. In little league baseball, I held my mitt in front of my face so the ball couldn't hit me in the eye. I remember reading about testicular cancer in my seventh grade health book and, after a week's agonizing about my phraseology, asking my dad if it was "normal for my testicles to feel lumpy." In high school, convinced that I had Hodgkin's disease, I palpated my lymph nodes so obsessively that my parents took me to the doctor just to get my hands off my neck. During my first year of college, a character on television remarked that flat fingernails were associated with coronary artery disease, so I spent the rest of the year fretting over how flat was too flat. A headache was never just a headache but an aneurysm. Gas pain was either appendicitis or ulcerative colitis. I monitored scratches for signs of necrotizing fasciitis.
Matters only got worse in medical school as I learned the names of ever more obscure and terrifying diseases. By the end of my first year—my only year—I had a compelling Rolodex of diseases that I could dial up for any occasion. Foot fall asleep? Could be Guillain-Barré. Otherwise, it's probably multiple sclerosis. Unproductive cough? Must be Gilchrist's disease.
In other words, I knew just enough to be dangerous. I wasn't a doctor. I was a medical school dropout with a barely checked case of obsessive-compulsive disorder. But when my mom, in an e-mail dated September 8, 2009, less than one week before Patrick Swayze's death, sent me a radiology report describing an obstruction at the head of my father's pancreas, I knew something was rotten in the state of Denmark.
Every winter, I have the dubious pleasure of teaching Hamlet to a bunch of seventeen-year-olds. Besides the obvious problem of teaching a metaphor like "the morn in russet mantle clad walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill" to a generation of students committed to insights of fewer than 140 characters, I have the added problem of personally disliking Hamlet. I find him whiny. Dressed always in his inky cloak, his eyes forever downcast, the Sweet Prince seems to enjoy his weltschmerz too much. Of course, if Hamlet were just sixteen, as some critics have proposed, instead of thirty, as the play states, I might find his crisis of conscience more compelling, but there are too many problems with this theory to make it convincing. Thus, what I'm left with is a grown man who can't make his own decisions, an adult son who can't get past his issues with his parents, and I'm afraid that this Hamlet wearies me. I've heard his story before.
In my childhood bedroom, on the wall above my desk, hung a framed poster of a sprawling seaside estate. The poster featured an oversized house sitting atop a palm-treed bluff. Behind the house lay the sun-streaked ocean. At the bottom, in a detached garage, five foreign sports cars were nestled all snug in their bays, while at the top, the words "Justification for Higher Education" were emblazoned against a perfect sunset.
I don't know when it was decided that I was going to be a doctor, but I remember as early as fourth grade memorizing the flow of blood through the pulmonary circulatory system. My parents never forced me to do this, of course, but they also never tired of telling everyone that their little boy was going to be a doctor someday. Around my house, doctors were revered. Doctors were smart. Doctors were successful. Doctors were socially productive. In short, doctors were everything that my dad, as a wage-earning postal worker, felt as though he wasn't.
The narrative of my dad's life—the narrative that I was told, the narrative that my dad bought into—was one of missed opportunities and failed potential. My grandparents blamed my mom; my mom blamed them; and my dad blamed himself. Regardless, everyone agreed that Dad was a failure, that he could've been more. He could build a barn, take apart an engine, answer all of Alex Trebek's questions, but he punched a time clock for a living. How sad, the story went. What a waste.
But I was supposed to be a different story. For me, there was still hope. In school, I demonstrated the same natural aptitude as Dad had, but the end of my story was going to be different because I was going to have "drive." Drive was a big word around my house. According to my parents, my dad lacked it, but I was going to have it, and, by having it, I was going to get where I needed to go.
On a fall day in 1998, my parents thought that I'd arrived at that place. After work, in their mailbox, they discovered a weighty manila envelope from the Office of Admissions at the Indiana University School of Medicine. The envelope was too thick, too substantial, to be a rejection letter. Those came in letter-sized envelopes and lacked mass. They were apt to float away on the breeze like the dreams they poked holes in. Not this. This had weight, was a package really. It wasn't floating away anywhere. My parents held the hefty envelope in their hands and felt the post-climactic satisfaction of a success story sliding gently toward happily ever after.
The next scene is the one that gets me. It's the one where my parents, excited by the news, thinking I'll be just as delighted as they are, rush through their dinner so they can hand-deliver the good news to me forty-five minutes away at college. I imagine their conversation, how proud they are, how good they feel about life. We've done a good job, they say. Our little boy is all grown up, almost a doctor. My dad thinks about what my face will look like when he hands me the envelope. For the moment, he doesn't feel the burden of a failed life. He wipes his mouth, finishing his meal without ever tasting his food.
The same week that I picked up my dad's cinerary urn, Nature published a study suggesting that pancreatic tumors, long thought to be one of the most aggressive cancers, actually take decades to kill. According to the study, researchers at the Sanger Institute and Johns Hopkins University mapped the genomes of primary and secondary tumors taken from seven pancreatic cancer patients. In doing so, they were able to reconstruct the evolutionary history of mutations in these patients' cancers. Since DNA mutates at a predictable rate, they were also able to determine how long these patients' tumors had been growing. To their surprise, they found that it takes, on average, fifteen years for a cell within the original tumor to evolve the ability to metastasize and another six years for the disease to kill. In other words, people who die of pancreatic cancer have been growing their tumors for an average of twenty-one years.
Twenty-one years is a long time. That means I was eleven when Dad started growing the tumor that would kill him. At eleven, I hadn't even gone through puberty yet. I was in sixth grade, and my biggest daily fear was having my woefully inadequate penis exposed during PE class. And when I wasn't busy hiding my hairlessness in the boys' locker room, I was constructing frontier dioramas in social studies or reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe in English. In science, we were dissecting earthworms, but the only thing we could concentrate on in there was Mrs. Irwin, who was rumored to have been an exotic dancer before she became a teacher. I forget what we were learning in math, but Miss Carlson, who was young and pretty and drove a Corvette, thought that I was cute. She said so one day when I was at the board working a fractions problem.
At home, I played army with my friends in the woods near our neighborhood. We killed Viet Cong and tried out words like gook and fuck. When we weren't playing army, we were playing sports. I was a devotee of ESPN. I knew who was leading the National League in on-base percentage. I had opinions on what player should win the Heisman Trophy. If there were rule changes under discussion, I understood the pros and cons of the proposals, as well as the players' and owners' positions on them.
On the other hand, my dad knew next to nothing about sports. He read National Geographic instead of Sports Illustrated, like my friends' dads, and he didn't follow a single team in any sport. He claimed to like the Chicago Bears, but he never watched their games. Instead, he worked outside on the yard or inside on the house, and when he wasn't engaged in home maintenance, he was upstairs sleeping. He worked nights, and I had to be quiet when I came home from school in the afternoons. He had a fan as big as a desk that he propped up on my mom's vanity and used to filter out the noise. Around six, we would eat dinner as a family, and then, a few hours later, Mom would kiss Dad goodbye, and he would trudge off to work until morning. He wore a leather bomber jacket and an Indiana Jones hat.
Twenty-one years is a long time. It makes everything that happened feel hopelessly fated. It means that Dad started growing the tumor that would kill him when I was in sixth grade. It means that this tumor was thriving by the time I graduated from high school. It means that when Dad found me in the college library and handed me my acceptance letter to medical school, his tumor was evolving the ability to spread, and by the time I handed him my newborn son eight years later, it already had. It means that when my wife became pregnant one year later, these secondary tumors were in a race with my daughter to see who could grow faster.
Dad's cancer ran away with the victory. During an attempted resection, Dad's surgeon discovered two tumors in his liver and aborted the procedure. Dad started chemotherapy two weeks later, exactly one week before my daughter's first birthday. At her party, he had to excuse himself during presents to go upstairs and cry. By the time she turned two, he'd been dead for five months.
In the final scene of Hamlet, Hamlet, finally reconciled to his fate, declares that there's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow: "If it be now," he says, "'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all."
Considerations of fate and free will are an inevitable part of my days as an English teacher. Stories, after all, are an attempt by people to make sense of a senseless universe, to impose order on a disordered world. "Life," writes John Gardner in On Moral Fiction, "is all conjunctions, one damn thing after another, cows and wars and chewing gum and mountains; art—the best, most important art—is all subordination: guilt because of sin because of pain." At root, we're all Heracliteans: we want to believe that good things happen to good people by virtue of their being good and that bad things happen to bad people by virtue of their being bad.
The problem, of course, is that we have the same narrative expectations of real life. Even now, when everything from God to the author is dead, when modern physics tells us that randomness is woven into the fabric of the universe, when neuroscientists can explain morality in material terms, when a few thousand dollars will get your personal genome mapped, we still look for meaning in the warp and woof of our lives. We desperately want to believe that our lives matter, that our stories cohere. This kind of fallacious thinking is fine so long as our lives are floating along in Panglossian fashion. It's when our pleasure cruises run aground that we discover that our worldview is full of holes.
For me, the discovery wasn't immediate. Years of reading fiction had so conditioned me to look for narrative logic in our lives that my faith in a character-driven explanation of human fortune proved shamefully buoyant. When I found out that my dad had pancreatic cancer, I blamed him. Of course he does, I thought. If there were a more choleric man than my father, I hadn't met him. He once threw a chair from the garage into the road because something went wrong while he was refinishing it. He was an Old Testament God—fiery and judgmental—and I had spent most of my childhood trying not to incur his wrath. Suddenly, everything—the grumpiness, the irascibility, the mood swings—made sense. My dad had been suffering from an excess of choler his whole life. No wonder his pancreas had quit on him; it had been drowning in bile for half a century.
According to Daniel Kahneman, this kind of flawed reasoning—looking for narrative logic in the roulette wheel of life—is hardwired even into the way that we record memories. In Thinking, Fast and Slow, Kahneman explains how we don't remember the total amount of pleasure or pain that we received from our experiences. Instead, we remember the highs and lows, and the ending, as with a story, disproportionately affects the memories of our experiences. Kahneman calls these two cognitive biases duration neglect and the peak-end rule, and he describes how they can lead people to prefer longer colonoscopies and shorter lives. They are also the reason that we believe that whole experiences, such as marriages and lives, can be ruined by a bad ending. Divorce casts a shadow on even a couple's fondest memories, and a fatal car accident makes an entire life seem doomed.
Kahneman describes this retrospective feature of memory as "the tyranny of the remembering self" because it makes us slaves to the rules of narrative. Under the remembering self's reign, no experience is safe from Chekhov's gun. Every memory must be sacrificed to the evolving narrative of our lives.
In the top drawer of my desk, for example, I have a photograph of Dad taken when he was in fifth or sixth grade, the same age I was when, according to the Nature study, Dad started growing his original tumor. My aunt sent me the photograph about a year after my dad died when she discovered it in a shoebox of my grandparents' old things. In the photograph, my dad is in uniform—a garrison cap perched on a golden head of hair, a Sam Browne belt strapped across a Jack Spratt chest, and a furled flag clamped in the crook of a sinewy arm. On the back in her careful script, my grandmother has identified Dad as a volunteer in the Highland Grade School Junior Safety Patrol.
Objectively, there's nothing mournful or star-crossed about the photograph. It's just a picture of a little boy mugging dutifully for the camera. But when I look at it, I see the full arc of my dad's tragedy—from the little boy trying to make his parents proud to the grown man being cannibalized by feelings of self-doubt and anger. Already, his shoulders look a little too slumped, his smile a bit too strained. The life has gone out of his eyes, as though he's lost all of his mirth, had his world grow dim with the pale cast of thought. Even the way he's holding the flag looks uncertain. I suspect he would've surrendered it to the first curious passerby.
Of course, when my aunt found the photograph and sent it to me, she saw none of these things. Instead, in her letter, she marked this as the proud beginning to Dad's military career. She saw a little boy who wanted to serve his country, a big brother who wanted to be like his dad.
I can't dispute the factual accuracy of my aunt's vision. My dad did serve in the Navy during Vietnam, exactly as my grandfather had done during World War II. But I reject the idea that my dad had a military career. The word career makes this chapter in my dad's life sound too volitional, as if going to Vietnam had been a choice. Instead, what my dad had was conscription. Drafted in 1968, he joined the Navy to avoid tramping through the jungles of Vietnam. His only choice had been to increase the likelihood that he would live to see his twenties. It had nothing to do with patriotism or filiopiety. It was pragmatism, plain and simple. Four years later, grateful still to be alive, discharge papers in hand, he used the GI bill to enroll in college. Twenty-five years after that, the State of Indiana issued him a license plate for his troubles.
If there are thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird, how many more of a man? My version of my dad may be no more or less accurate than my aunt's version. But I don't believe that all truth is subjective. Light may be a wave or a particle depending on how you design your experiment, but the truth is that it's both … and neither. Any failure to understand light results from the obscurities of language and perception and not from any lack of clarity on the part of light itself. Light owes us nothing—no explanation, no reason, no provenance. It's our burden to answer the questions that we pose, and if we fail to ask the right questions, if the answers we find fail to square with our understanding of the world, the failure is entirely our own.
When I learned that my dad was dying, I felt this burden directly. I knew how my dad rolled his sleeves, how he liked his eggs, and how he signed his name, but in the most essential ways—who he was when he lay awake at night, what he wanted when he awoke in the morning—my dad remained a stranger to me. I had no idea, for instance, what the eleven-year-old boy in the photograph had really been thinking when the photographer had asked him to cheese for the camera. Similarly, I couldn't have told you what my dad's dreams had been as a teenage seaman adrift in the South Pacific or how he'd felt as a twenty-seven-year-old college student surrounded by underage frat boys who'd heard of Vietnam only on the news. In fact, apart from the most impersonal names, dates, and places, my dad's life—who he was and who he'd been—was a black box. I knew a little about the inputs, a bit more about the outputs, but what went on inside—his thoughts, feelings, fears, and desires—remained hidden from view.
And I couldn't ask, either, because my dad and I didn't talk. Occasionally, we talked at each other or to each other, but we never talked with each other. My whole life, no matter how many times I'd asked, I'd gotten variations on the same answer to how my dad's day had been. "Great," he'd say, "Never had it so damn good." Then, depending on the flavor of that day's negativity—truly dark and imbued with self-loathing or just cynical and laced with self-deprecation—he'd say nothing more, or he'd go on to explain how he'd cured a couple of diseases, written a few operas, or tied up the many loose ends of string theory.
Growing up, I assumed that my dad and I would eventually learn to talk. I imagined we were like two brothers growing up on opposite sides of a generational Mason-Dixon Line. Someday, we would remember that, despite our differences, despite our embattled past, we shared a language and a history in common. The same blood coursed through our bodies, the same genes scripted our days. As soon as we recognized this, we would let down our guards and be ourselves.
It never happened. I graduated college, earned a master's degree, found a job, married a woman, and fathered a son, and none of it made a difference. My dad and I still didn't talk. Gradually, our conversations began to feel like contortion acts wherein the trick was to stretch the limits of appearance to avoid discussing anything of substance. Eventually, we just quit trying and fell silent. There is, after all, only so much a guy can say about the chance of rain or the price of gas.
And then my dad got sick, and I realized that we were out of time. In less than a year, my dad would be dead, and so too would be everything he ever thought or felt. All of his hopes and dreams, fears and sorrows, would die with him, and I would be stuck holding an empty black box in my memory, my mind bloody and raw from trying to pry it open.
So I started writing letters. Every morning, in the frigid predawn dark, I left my sleeping wife in our warm bed and tiptoed down two creaky flights of stairs to the even colder basement. My footfalls sounded loud and clumsy in the fragile quiet of a sleeping house, and with every step, I expected a sleepy "Daddy?" to puncture the silence. When my children did stir, which was often, I would creep into their bedrooms, smooth their hair, tell them it was okay, everything was fine, it was just Daddy, but it was still too dark and too early to get up, so they needed to go back to sleep and Daddy would wake them when it was morning. Then, in the basement, I would sit at my desk in the darkness and contemplate the lies I'd just told them.
I wrote my letters in longhand on yellow legal paper. The grief experts, of course, would say that I was trying to complete my relationship with my father, and I guess that I was, but I also just wanted to talk. Before he died, I wanted to have one true conversation with my dad. One conversation that wasn't superficial or one-sided.
That conversation never happened. Before he died, I wrote over four hundred pages' worth of letters, nearly one a day for seven months, and I never received a single letter in response, not one word. My mom and sister, of course, assured me that Dad carried on about my letters—rushed out to the mailbox to get them, shared his favorite parts with them, saved them in a special folder—but to me he hardly mentioned them. And they certainly never provided me with the privileged glimpse inside my dad's head for which I was looking.
In other ways, however, dying laid my dad bare for me. Before he died, I had the privilege of listening to his crying in the middle of the night, of holding him during a seizure, and of lifting him off a toilet in the emergency room. I also got a chance to clean his bile off the bathroom floor, help Mom sponge him clean in the shower, watch nurses shave his chest and belly, ride with him in an ambulance, hold him suspended over a bedside commode, push him in a wheelchair, listen to his vomiting while I tried to sleep, and sit with him in a wheat-colored room as a machine pumped poison through a catheter in his chest. Then, at the end, I had the opportunity to witness his dying gasps, and, afterward, I got to help Mom dress his cold body for its ride to the crematorium.
What, I wonder now, would a letter have given me that such physical intimacy didn't? Would it have answered all of my questions, translated my dad into a language I understood? Would it have exposed, like a photographic negative, the parts of my dad that were hidden in shadow?
I doubt it. My dad didn't talk about his life because he didn't want to. Dying wasn't going to change that. No matter how many pledge drives PBS has, Dr. Wayne Dyer won't convince me that people possess the power to change. Like migratory birds, we're fixed in flight patterns too ancient and too powerful to resist. My dad wasn't suddenly going to open up just because I'd written him a few letters. Any letter he might have written would have been stiff and collared like the cotton button-downs he kept pressed for work.
Besides, it's just as well that he didn't. Doing so might have deprived me of my script, and my script, as Daniel Kahneman says, is how I make sense of my life. "This is how the remembering self works," he writes, "it composes stories and keeps them for future reference." Even better, Kahneman continues, if the script is a flattering one, with a sympathetic lead: "Most important, we all care intensely for the narrative of our own life and very much want it to be a good story, with a decent hero." If my dad had opened up, if he'd responded to each of my letters with one of his own, I might not be able to cast him in the role of the distant father, and, by extension, I might not get to play the role of the wounded son. I might be forced to revise my script, and, like Hamlet, who is admonished by his mother for seeking his father in the dust, I've grown rather fond of seeking my own.
In her next breath, after reminding Hamlet of the banality of death—"Thou know'st 'tis common; all that live must die, passing through nature to eternity"—Gertrude asks Hamlet why his father's death weighs so heavily on him: "Why seems it so particular with thee?"
"Seems, madam!" Hamlet replies. "Nay, it is; I know not 'seems.'"
Five years on and still stalking the memory of my own father's death, I sympathize with Hamlet's grief. It may be, as Claudius says, "unmanly" and "unschool'd" to "persever in obstinate condolement," but it's also gratifying. To imagine yourself as wronged, aggrieved, a good man pitted against a hostile universe—"O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right"—is to dramatize one's experience. It is to write and to star in your own tragedy.
Although I've stopped short of the inky cloak, I still humor my tragic impulse. I see doom in old photographs of my dad, read ruin into childhood memories. I write essays in which I soliloquize about his death.
And yet, I'm no hero and my dad's death was no tragedy. I'm just a son who lost his dad, and my dad was just a man who lost his life. No story could be more natural, no fate more certain. Death is banal—as common as dust, as worthless as fame. Even Hamlet, by the end of the play, recognizes this.
"To what base uses we may return," Hamlet says to Horatio after setting down Yorick's skull in the graveyard scene. "Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bung-hole?"
"'Twere to consider too curiously," Horatio replies, "to consider so."
Curious, maybe, but hardly a stretch. We're all bungs in waiting. This is what Hamlet learns from his father's death. This is what makes his final resolution possible.
Two millennia haven't slid past since my dad's death, so he's not yet stopping any beer barrels. For the moment, his ashes still linger on my mom's living room bookshelf alongside Alistair Cooke's America, John Grisham's The Firm, and my childhood copy of Bible Stories for Children. On another bookshelf, the weathered coffee tin in which my dad's ashes bide their time might look out of place, but on my mom's bookshelf, cluttered with photographs of her grandchildren, porcelain bears from Hallmark, and random ornaments from our family tree, my dad's ashes look right at home, content for now to collect their own dust until given the opportunity to return to it.
In the meantime, the earth has continued to chase its tail around the sun, so while my dad's ashes haven't left her bookshelf, my mom has left her closet. She now sleeps in her bed instead of on the floor next to my dad's clothes, and though she's never said so directly, I understand that she doesn't always sleep alone. In fact, at some point, she must have discovered her dancing shoes in the bottom of her closet because lately she's strapped them on. She now goes to parties and concerts, relaxes on cruises and campouts. Every Tuesday, she meets a group of friends at the bar, and they listen to live music until last call. Last year, as I was getting ready for bed, she called from a Super Bowl party to ask if I was watching the game, and this year I had to mask my ignorance when she asked about the Chicago Cubs making the National League Championship Series.
Naturally, I prefer my mom's rubbing elbows with real people to my dad's mothballed shirts, but the Chicago Cubs? Three years ago, I could've told my mom that Wrigley Field was the site of a famous Civil War battle, and she would've believed me. Now she's at the pub watching the Cubs get clobbered by the Mets.
Of course, my mom isn't the only one who has been transformed by five years' advance. Those same little kids whom I wheeled around Wal-Mart on Christmas Eve no longer ride in the grocery cart when I take them to the store. Now, my little boy, suddenly all tendons and teeth, prefers to push the cart himself, and my once-toddling daughter glides along behind in the lithe-limbed body of a gymnast. Similarly, the baby brother whose crib they once helped wrestle together has grown into a four-year-old Viking, so I grip his hand to prevent his charging down the aisle like an angry muskox. My wife, meanwhile, still grades bad papers on the couch, but never again will her laptop have to compete with a growing baby for space on her lap. After three children, she's decided that she's cleaned enough cold macaroni off the floor to last a lifetime.
In short, life didn't stop when my dad died. The sun rose the next day, Apple released an iPhone the next month, and my youngest son was born the next year. Now, two thousand sunrises later, Apple has released several iPhones, and my youngest son has learned to read. High-rise jeans have also mounted a comeback, the Fukushima power plant has melted down, and ten million Syrians have fled their homes. Even North America has scooted half a foot away from Europe.
My dad, however, has stayed dead, just dead, for only in death do we find the assurance of constancy that we seek in life. In life, nothing is guaranteed—not our jobs, not our possessions, certainly not our bodies. Stock markets crash, tires go flat, arteries get plaque. Not so in death. In death, we know what tomorrow will look like. There's no uncertainty in nonexistence. The dead are just gone. Their gibes, their gambols, their flashes of merriment—all of it, everything, gone.
My dad's socks are gone now, too. After my wife found me in the basement and asked me what I wanted to do with them, I lugged them out to the van and loaded them into the back. They were still in the plastic bag my mom had brought me. I'd never opened it. Back inside, I told my wife to drop them at Goodwill next time she was out. Then I returned to the basement where I continued to resurrect baby items from the storage room.
About every six months, my mom will bring me something else of my dad—a tin cloth packer hat from Filson, a pair of wool mittens, two childhood pocket Bibles, an old bamboo fly rod, some back issues of National Geographic. I no longer fret, however, about what I'm going to do with the stuff that she brings me. I keep what I want and either throw or give the rest away. I recognize these semiannual deliveries for what they are—acts of remembrance, expressions of devotion. As soon as my mom starts to forget my dad, as soon as she senses his memory slipping out of reach, she brings me another of his coats. Never mind that the coat is two sizes too big for me or that I never wore the last one she brought; it was never about the coats anyway.
By the end of Hamlet, Hamlet's father has all but disappeared from the play. In fact, in the final act, Hamlet only references his father twice and then indirectly. Of course, we assume that his father's death is primary in his mind as he reflects in the graveyard on the skull of Yorick—"Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft"—but any direct mention of his father is notably absent. The dead, Hamlet's silence seems to be saying, have no existence beyond what we give them, and even that, we're made to understand, is illusory.
As a toddler, my daughter became convinced that life was cyclical, that mommies and daddies just switched places with their children when their lives were over. She would be sitting on my wife's lap, brushing her dolly's hair, getting her own hair brushed, when, almost wistfully, she would say, "Mommy, someday I will get to be the mommy, and you will get to be the little girl." And my wife, the weight of one child on her lap, the fluttering of another in her belly, would close her eyes a moment, letting the possibility breathe, before saying, "Oh, honey, I would love for you to be my mommy, but that's not the way nature designed it. You get to have your own babies, brand new special people whom you help to create." But my daughter, who wanted only for her mommy to be her little girl, didn't find this explanation compelling, so she persisted in her original belief: mommies had babies, who then had their mommies, who again had their babies—round and round the generations go.
There's method, of course, in my daughter's madness. We all desire a simple and compelling story to salve our fears about the uncertainties of existence. At two, my daughter already intuited the precarious nature of our lives. Without her consent, she'd been thrust into a strange and unpredictable world where, utterly helpless, she quickly learned to trust us to satisfy her needs. As the only certainties in her world, her only defenses against a dangerous disorder, we naturally became the prime movers in her personal cosmology. "You build the best possible story from the information available to you," writes Daniel Kahneman, "and if it is a good story, you believe it."
Fortunately, nature didn't leave a two-year-old in charge of design and development. We moms and dads, as Philip Larkin laments, muck up our children plenty well already. The last thing we need is for the generations to keep repeating themselves, for the child to become the literal father of the man. Think how much extra baggage we would schlepp into our relationships, how many added burdens we would load onto our loving. Our children need to come into our lives unencumbered by their own past so that they can inherit the weight of ours.
Including the dusty coffee tin I bought on eBay, my dad's ashes weigh six and a half pounds. The bag of his old socks weighed nearly five. Even together, both of these were burdens that I could bear. What I falter under is the weight of the unknown, the incalculable mass of my dad's unhappiness, the unspecific gravity of his disappointment. This isn't a burden that I can stick on a bookshelf next to a ceramic dancing bear or dump on my wife to haul to Goodwill. It's a bequest with a life of its own, a heavy-jawed beast that stalks my thoughts and preys on my memories. If I ever get a bead on it, I aim to put it down.
from Issue 29.1, winner of the Wabash Prize in Nonfiction
B. G. GAYLORD grew up in Lafayette, Indiana, just across the Wabash from Purdue University. He now lives in Columbus, Indiana, with his wife and three children.
Posted in: Nonfiction, Wabash Prize


1. Mix cream cheese and crab meat in bowl.
2. Place 1 teaspoon in middle of wonton skin; moisten edges with cold water; fold to form triangle; seal edges by pressing together.
3. Prepare remaining won tons in same manner.
4. Heat oil in uncovered wok at 375°. Fry won tons on both sides until golden.
5. Drain on paper towels; keep warm. Serve with Sweet and Sour Sauce for dipping.
1. Mix first 6 ingredients in wok; bring to boil at 225.
2. Stir cornstarch mixture; add to wok, stirring until sauce is clear and slightly thickened.


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Homage to a Couture Icon – The Yves Saint Laurent Paris Museum
9 December 2017 | Europe, France, Places | 4 comments
It all begins with paper dolls, for which the adolescent Yves Saint Laurent creates entire couture collections to the delight of his two younger sisters. This early passion for fashion design leads him straight to Paris, where he enrolls at the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture (school of the official trade association of French high fashion). His designs quickly gain the notice of Michel de Brunhoff, the then editor of French Vogue, who introduces him to Christina Dior. Monsieur Dior hires the barely the 19-year-old on the spot.
The process of creation begins with sketching and swatches
For the next two years the young prodigy works at the side the master. He learns every aspects of creating a collection of some 200 designs, from original sketches to final fittings. He earns his mentors' trust to the point that when Christian Dior suddenly dies of a heart attack in October 1957, it is revealed that he has named the young man as his successor. Yves Saint Laurent, age 21, is now artistic director of the most prestigious couture house in France. His first collection, unveiled four month later, is an immediate success. Side-stepping the cinched waists and voluminous skirts of the past decade, he introduces his Trapeze line of fluid dresses that flare from fitted shoulders. Its easy elegance appeals to active women everywhere. In retrospect, It changes the course of fashion.
His tenure at the House of Dior is cut short when he is replaced upon being drafted for mandatory military service in 1960.
The Saint Laurent Couture 1962 inaugural collection.
Fast-forward two years, and Yves Saint Laurent decides to create his own couture house with his partner Pierre Bergé. Saint Laurent Paris opens its doors at 30 bis, rue Spontini, in the tony 16th Arrondissement. His first collection in January 1962 is an unmitigated success. For the next twelve years he will continue to create here, inventing the modern woman's wardrobe. The pea coat and trench coat of his first collection are followed by the first women's tuxedo in 1966, then the safari jacket and the first women's pants suit in 1968.
A display assembles the emblematic early pieces.
These female adaptations of mainstays of the male attire are enthusiastically adopted, not only by the wealthy clients of the couture brand, but by all women. Now they can express their confidence and boldness while maintaining their femininity. For them, he opens his Saint Laurent Rive Gauche boutique in 1966. This first ready-to-wear store to bear a couturier's name paves the way for ready-to-wear fashion as we now know it.
5 Avenue Marceau
Jeweled jacket from the Spring-Summer 1990 collection
In 1974, the Yves Saint Laurent couture house moves to a mid-19th century mansion at 5, avenue Marceau, a stone throw away from the Pont de l'Alma. For the next three decades, it remains a symbol of fashion excellence. In his fourth floor studio he creates designs that are then brought to life by the nearly two hundred tailors and seamstresses of the in-house workrooms.
Jewelry is displayed in the Cabinet de Curiosités gallery.
After Saint Laurent announces his intention to end his career in 2002, the building undergoes extensive renovations before re-opening its doors two years later as the Pierre Bergé – Yves Saint Laurent Foundation for the preservation of the couturier's body of work. After functioning for a decade as exhibit space dedicated to fashion and then further extensive renovations, the mansion re-opens in October 2017 as the Musée Yves Saint Laurent, a permanent temple dedicated the French haute couture icon.
The YSL Museum
The visit begins in the Salon.
Today, the museum offers a unique opportunity to experience the designer's world. The visit starts on the first floor, in the salons where clients once sat for private showings of his work or were received by their personal saleswomen when they came for fittings. Then we experience YSL's process of creation, thoroughly documented with sketches, drawing and swatches, before entering a display of his most emblematic designs.
The Picasso evening dress from the autumn-winter 1979 collection.
In addition to the highlights of his 1962 debut collection, there are also nods to collections that pay homage to an era, intricately decorated jackets, theatrical designs and stunning custom jewelry. The last gallery includes his iconic Mondrian dress, other dresses inspired by great painters, including Picasso, Van Gogh and Matisse, and his Africa and Russia-inspired ensembles.
The studio is recreated in minute details.
Then on the fourth floor, we reach the heart of the house, his exactingly reproduced studio, filled with drawings, scraps of fabric, boxes of buttons and finished designs, which offers a vivid picture of the life and practices of a haute couture atelier. His signature glasses are still on the desk near his sketch pads and freshly sharpened pencils. His portrait by his friend Bernard Buffet hangs over the worktable. We can still feel the creative energy of the place. It's clear that everything happened here.
The projection room shows images of Saint Laurent's home.
The visit ends in the screening room, where a multi-image diaporama brings Yves Saint Laurent, the man and his career to life, narrated by Pierre Bergé, his partner in work and life. Bergé was the driving force in bringing the museum to completion, but sadly died just four weeks before the inauguration on September 28, 2017. A second YSL museum opened in Marrakech, Morocco on October14, 2017 near the former home of the two men.
A Few Souvenirs
YSL Museum
davidjkentwriter	on 9 December 2017 at 1:07 pm
Cool place. Never knew it existed.
Josette King	on 9 December 2017 at 1:46 pm
Neither did I, until just before it closed for the latest renovation in 2015. It's a fascinating experience for those of us unfamiliar with the world of Haute Couture.
Kathryn	on 9 December 2017 at 4:21 pm
Amazing. Simply amazing. Gorgeous. And I never knew any of that, either.
Carole Nadeau	on 10 December 2017 at 2:58 pm
Need to get back to Paris sometime… Thanks for the fascinating article.
Share your thoughts?	Cancel reply


2019 is an important year for ADA as they celebrate their 25th anniversary and organize the fourth edition of the SAM, African Microfinance Week, in October in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, which will focus on the real impact of inclusive finance.
Thus this year's 46th Midi de la Microfinance et de l'inclusion financière will be linked with these two important events. Discussions and debates will involve issues of how ADA and the inclusive finance sector could improve the positive impact on the lives of the end clients.
The next 25 years of ADA start today. This Midi will be a unique opportunity to discuss topics that will play a key role to impact the inclusive finance sector and the sustainable development in the future.
Gerhard Coetzee, the client centricity expert at CGAP, will present how the inclusive finance works in terms of the added value on the end clients.
Madji Sock, Founder and President of the Women's Investment Club Senegal, will focus on the importance of funding the small entrepreneurs.


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Efficacy of alternatives to antibiotics can vary considerably by species and purpose of use: Pew Trusts
By Aerin Einstein-Curtis contact
© iStock/grthirteen
Related tags: Antibiotic
Questions remain on most effective reasons to deploy antibiotic alternatives, which products are most effective and in which species, says researcher in new report.
The Pew Charitable Trusts released the report, Alternatives to Antibiotics in Animal Agriculture, on Monday. The document addressed information available on vaccines, probiotics, prebiotics, immune modulators and other alternatives products used in feed.
The report sought to collate data on alternatives to antibiotic use for disease prevention and growth promotion, along with highlighting areas where additional research or data are needed, said Karin Hoelzer, senior officer on the project. "What we tried to do was synthesize the currently available scientific evidence," she added.
She told FeedNavigator: "We hope that this will be helpful to see where more research is needed."
"What is the science? Where do we know that the alternatives work? And where do we have some indication that they might work, but we need more data or indications that the alternative doesn't work in a certain species."
Use of alternative products that support animal health and development could offer away to minimize the need for antibiotics to be used and reduce antimicrobial resistance, she said.
"We think this is a very promising way of addressing that without compromising animal health."
Report data
Many of the options presented are promising, said Hoelzer. However, there are other aspects that still need to be considered such as their cost effectiveness, she added.
Timing can be an important factor to consider, as some products like probiotics can be given for a lengthy period of time, while bacteriophages are most effective during an infection and vaccines should be given prior to possibility of infection, said the authors.
The group also compared known data about the efficacy of several alternative products such as probiotics, prebiotics, organic acids, in-feed enzymes, antimicrobial peptides, phytochemicals, copper, zinc and heavy metals, immune modulators, vaccines and bacteriophages across different animal species, they said. "The efficacy of alternative products can vary considerably by species and purpose of use," they added.
The authors were able to generate some conclusions based on the literature including that alternative products like probiotics and immune modulators have been demonstrated to be effective for disease prevention in milk-fed calves, while in-feed enzymes show better results for use in chickens and more work is needed to understand how they work for turkeys and swine.
Reactions to products tend to vary across species, production setup, herd disease status and may be altered by elements like feed composition or weather.
Synergy
It was encouraging to see the "synergy" that exists amount many of the products, said Hoelzer.
"A lot of the products work at the same time and have a benefit for the productivity of the animals," she said. "That is a double win for the farmer who might be using these alternatives."
However, there was a data gap for many of the products covered, she said. "Much of the data was studied in experimental studies – [in] relatively small operations or research farms that may not be directly applicable," she added.
There are still questions regarding how some of the alternatives would function if tested on a commercial scale, or in a commercial facility, she said. "[It is a] tremendous opportunity for public-private partnerships to collect that data on real world settings," she added.
Additionally, more research has been done with some animals compared to others – such as many products have been trialed with chickens but relatively few had also been studied with turkeys, said Hoelzer. "More data on each of the species is needed," she added.
There also is a lack of good data regarding how antibiotics are being used on farms, and access to that information could help guide future research, she said.
"One of the things that this identified is that there are many different research opportunities," she said. "But there's a need to prioritize, and in order to do that we need more information on how antibiotics are actually being used in animal agriculture."
Related topics: North America, Antibiotics, Regulation, R&D, Functional additives, Probiotics/prebiotics
Pig performance may see boost, but mode of action remains aloof in copper feeding trial
Prebiotic products failed to deliver in broiler study
UK poultry sector cuts antibiotic use by 50% in one year
EU interagency report urges research into link between antibiotics and resistance
Aim for zero: the ambitious total approach from Nuscience
Nuscience Group | 30-Oct-2018 | Technical / White Paper
Nuscience has developed a global approach to reduce dependency of pig producers toward antibiotics and Zinc oxide in a context of growing challenges for...


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PROZ may refer to:

Protein Z, a protein
ProZ.com, an online translators' community


Do you remember a time before smartphones? A time before every question could be answered instantly, a time when phone calls could only be made from specific places, or email could only be read in specific buildings or rooms? When mysteries and thrillers would hinge on plot devices like the intruder cutting the phone cord, or the hero not finding a pay phone? That kind of disconnectedness seems ridiculous now to most of us – but not to the landline-only crowd. There are many reasons why some seniors don't have or want a mobile phone, ranging from cost to lack of simplicity. But there are some conveniences of modern life that are only accessible via app, and some of these conveniences are very useful to seniors. Caregivers and home care aides can celebrate a southern California start-up called GoGoGrandparent that has bridged the gap between the app-less and the apps.
GoGoGrandparent is a new service that allows those without a smartphone to use on-demand services that are app-based by calling a real-life operator. Your loved one can call from a landline to reach a live person who will book an Uber ride, order dinner, or have medications delivered on their behalf. Now available in all 50 states, this start-up is adding services like concierge shopping, and status updates to families so everyone knows who is coming and going. Like many great ideas, this seems so obvious now that someone else has thought of it, because who needs mobility and on-demand delivery services more than independent seniors aging in place?
GoGoGrandparent was inspired by an 85-year-old Los Angeles grandmother who lost her vision, but none of her marbles. Betty Lou needed the occasional ride around Torrance, but she didn't (and doesn't) have a smartphone. Her 24-year-old grandson, raised in Chula Vista and already a tech entrepreneur, was living with her when she broke her leg. He realized that she needed access to the services that the smartphone generation takes for granted. Now his aging-in-place grandmother orders Uber rides through GoGoGrandparent's automated system to visit her friends and go to the doctor. Ten percent of GoGoGrandparent's users are in San Diego, and the service's call volume grow by 20 percent each week.
Seventy percent of people over 65 don't have a smartphone, which means that the largest segment of the population after Millennials is incapable of accessing mobile technology services. Researchers say the senior technology market – tech that makes aging in place easier – could reach $20 to $30 billion by 2020. Connecting seniors to mobile, on-demand services is not only smart business, it's smart caregiving.


Managing such initiatives demands technically advanced solutions as securing plants and facilities can be overwhelming due to their scope, size and concerns. Often perimeters offer challenges having ports and expansive land masses to defend. By the time issues of vulnerability are identified quite often it's too late in the game to mitigate. Protection of assets and individual safety are not always "threat" related but may be an event of human error.


Office of the Deputy Commissioner September Jobs 2017 are available. Office Deputy Commissioner / District Collector Additional Deputy Commissioner and All Assistant Commissioner officers have opened recruitment program for 3 years on contract basis. They are recruiting around 47 individuals for above office. Contract will be extended as per the satisfactory performance of the candidate. Both male and female can apply and age relexation will be given to Both. Disabled Persons, Women, Minorities quota are reserved which are 3%, 15% and 5% respectively.
Candidates are required to prepare each application for each post and they can apply more than one post as well for that they have to submit application seperately. There is no higher qualification required. Mostly vacancies are for Mashki. There is no Ta/DA will be admissible. Government and Semi-Government officers may apply through proper channel.


As the reigning Miss Cayman Islands Anika Conolly knows, all good things must come to an end. On Saturday, at the Westin Grand Cayman, she will pass her crown to the next lovely lady who wins the title of Miss Cayman Islands Universe.
There are seven contestants vying for the sash, the prizes, and the opportunity to represent the Cayman Islands at Miss Universe 2018 on Dec. 17 in Bangkok, Thailand.
Learn more about each of the contestants and their goals for the future.
As an actress and a model, Caitlin has always been propelled towards the arts and has embraced her Caymanian heritage so much more from her experience living abroad.
She attended Cayman Academy SDA school, Leading Edge and John Gray high schools, and Cayman Islands Further Education Centre before studying at UCCI for an associate degree in arts in literary studies. While at UCCI, she expressed interest in choir, piano, steel pan, dancing and choreography with the UCCI dancers and was a member of the KRI Performing Arts School.
Caitlin believes that Miss Cayman Islands should have the ability to clearly articulate herself as she uses her platform to bring positivity and change for the betterment of Cayman. She should also inspire others to live well, give back and be socially conscious.
Tiffany has been a member of the student council, has earned a Duke of Edinburgh bronze award and participates in a diverse set of extracurricular activities.
Manners and respect are of the utmost importance to her because above all other characteristics, they can take one much further in life than expected. She believes that people should be approachable and that humility should play a part in everyone's lives.
Miss Cayman Islands should always be proud to represent her country and keep its best interest at heart, according to Tiffany. She would be honored to share her love for Cayman with the rest of the world and looks forward to reaching new heights.
Vanessa prides herself as a scholarly student, having achieved high marks in her academic career. She enjoys playing netball and badminton, as well as pursuing 'do-it-yourself' projects and going to the beach. As a past pageant participant, Vanessa has developed a sense of self-confidence that she believes will take her to the next level. In addition to starting a charity foundation with another pageant sister, she hopes to start a global charity foundation for the less fortunate. Her interests also lie in the field of accounting and interior design.
For her, being a Miss Cayman Islands queen is a positive way to empower young women and inspire young ladies to enter. She looks forward to proudly representing Cayman and sharing its diverse culture with others.
Josani is proud of her culture and heritage and is passionate about promoting Caymankind to everyone in her reach. Along with possessing a bachelor's degree in finance, she enjoys a host of hobbies, such as music, volleyball, fitness and yoga.
She has also participated in the Caribbean Cultural Exchange Miss International Pageant, where she won Miss Photogenic.
To be an effective ambassador, she believes that Miss Cayman Islands should embody and embrace the values that come with being Caymanian, while being committed to the betterment of her community and fellow citizens.
A former Cayman Islands athlete, Nateisha is passionate about giving back to her community. She diligently strives to achieve her personal ambitions, while seeking to make an impact on those around her. Being raised with strong Christian values, she keeps God as the backbone of all her endeavors. After completing her associate degree in business administration, she continued to further her studies in business management. She aims to complete her master's degree in business marketing and minor in fine arts.
If she becomes the next Miss Cayman Islands Universe, Nateisha is looking forward to utilizing her artistic abilities to help raise awareness of mental illness in the Cayman Islands. To this end, she hopes to join forces with existing mental illness initiatives and advocates for mental health. Nateisha believes that Miss Cayman Islands should proudly and confidently represent her country, while educating others and embracing the Caymanian culture both locally and internationally.
A peer mentor, school prefect and literary studies graduate, Keilen is interested in photography, traveling and writing. She is self-confident and strives for the very best in herself and in others, and wants nothing more than to share the love and adoration she has for her country with others. Keilen is also an advocate for the youth living in the Cayman Islands. She strongly believes that they play a very important role in the development of her country and a successful future lies within their hands. Focusing on the goals and objectives of being Miss Cayman Islands is one of her priorities and she believes that hard work definitely pays off in the end.
She feels that when being chosen to be the next Miss Cayman Islands, one must possess certain strength of character and charisma to enable her to attract others for the better good. Miss Cayman Islands should take great pride in her country and want nothing but the best for the community and country's development as a whole. She should also have the ability and determination to overcome any obstacle that may get in her way.
An avid football player, Gabrielle also enjoys making thatch handbags, cooking, dancing and photography. Being a mentor to the younger generation is definitely on her bucket list, and she encourages them to set goals and dreams that they can achieve.
She aspires to be a "big sister" with whom they can share their stories or struggles and she wants to offer her support in any way possible.
For her, being Miss Cayman Islands means commitment, positivity, strength and poise. One should have a well-structured platform and demonstrate an outgoing personality while representing the Cayman Islands to the best of her ability.


CNN's iReport declares "A research group in Canada, has proven that the Old Testament has been massively mistranslated." Sr Gregor takes a look.
Of note, the group appears to possess no background or particular reason that they are qualified to attempt such translation (other than being Jewish, I guess), so it seems about as strong as "hey, my sister Jenn took a Spanish-to-English dictionary and he translated Simon Bolivar: A Bolvarian Revolution!".
1) Explicitly stated in the Bible, the Hebrew in which the Bible was written was the language of God, rather than an evolved language.
2 ) If this were not true, then the Torah would not be a valid holy document, but rather a collection of legends, by virtue of its own internal contradictions concerning their creation.
3) If this were true, then the Bible has always been horribly misconstrued and mistranslated, because it relies on the rules of mortal language construction and evolution, rather than divine rules.
So, generally speaking, they went with the first and third premises and tried to come up with a new way to translate the Bible. Short form is that they found specific two-glyph root words in each of the "words", which they then decided/discovered that they could parse out into 22 individual glyph-words, each of which was modified by the glyph-words that came after.
I think their largest leap comes when they assume that the language must be translated as literal translation, with no room for cultural (regional/temporal) colloquism - i.e. there would never be a word like "cool" meaning anything other than "to lose heat". It's by this argument that they propose that one of the initial words translates to "the supreme ones" rather than a singular God.
To be honest, I don't feel particularly qualified to make a judgement call on whether or not this has any truth to it. If true, it does raise questions as to how the Torah was intended to have been read, but it seems like someone might have come up with this before... I dunno. At the same time, does it really change anything? Even if the Torah were mistranslated, there are books aplenty that continue Jewish and Christian lore more or less based on the premises of the Torah, yes? Either way, I'm not sure that the researchers have necessarily proven anything. At best, they've established the Torah can be read in the manner they propose, but provide no real argument for why it should, as far as I can tell. To whit - what makes their translation more accurate to the authors' intentions than what has already been used?
Letters standing for words? Most likely. Massive mistranslation? Not necessarily. Just because at one point a letter like Alef was probably a symbol for a cow or something rather than a random scribble doesn't mean it can't be a letter.
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An alternative to school and formal education, the Lifeplayer could democratize education in Africa.
eco-friendly, and appropriate technologies in Africa for over a decade.
Pearson herself once played the Lifeplayer to a group of 100 people and it was audible, a feature she says makes it competitive.
Pearson is taking a "utilitarian and practical" approach, she tells Fast Company. The device is catered and tailored to the exact needs of her target markets–those in isolated, rural, developing areas, but especially women, children, and refugees. "It's absolutely fit-for-purpose for the environment it was created for," says Pearson.


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Brexit – Unchartered Waters: Quotes devoted to peace, harmony, respect and a progressive future
Our country is currently in the grip of the worst crisis since the Second World War. After deciding to leave the European Union, an institution that the UK joined in 1975 designed to bring countries in Europe closer to foster greater cooperation, enable free trade and unite behind a common identity, the aftermath has revealed deep and some would argue insidious divisions that have shaken the political, social and economic equilibrium of this country.
As we enter unchartered waters ahead, I hope the country can find a way forward with peace, harmony and respect for the betterment of all. Here are some quotes devoted to just that:
"One of the things I learnt when I was negotiating was that until I changed myself I could not change others. – Nelson Mandela, Former South African President (1918 to 2013)
"Challenges make you discover things about yourself that you never really knew. They're what make the instrument stretch — what make you go beyond the norm." – Cicely Tyson, American actress
"Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself." – Leo Tolstoy, Writer (1828 – 1910)
"The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams." – Eleanor Roosevelt, 1st chairwoman of the United Nations Human Rights Commission
"For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others." – Nelson Mandela, Former South African President (1918 to 2013)
It"s our duty to look after ourselves and, then, also to look after our neighbours." – Margaret Thatcher, Former British Prime Minister (1925 to 2013)
"Happiness cannot come from without. It must come from within. It is not what we see and touch or that which others do for us which makes us happy; it is that which we think and feel and do, first for the other fellow and then for ourselves." – Helen Keller, author, political activist, and lecture (1880 – 1968)
"An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity." – Martin Luther King Jr., U.S. civil rights leader, (1929 – 1968)
"Moral responsibility is not just a matter of avoiding harm to others; it also means helping people in need." – Michael Nedelsky, American educator
"When you're frightened don't sit still, keep on doing something. The act of doing will give you back your courage." – Grace Ogot, author, nurse, journalist, politician and diplomat (1930 – 2015)
Image Credit: Freeimages.com/ColinCochrane
This entry was posted in Inspiration & Motivation, Off Topic, Quotes and tagged Brexit, EU, harmony, hope, peace, respect on June 30, 2016 by zabekhanblog.
← Candidate Experience – The Final Frontier of Effective Recruiting! Assessing candidate fit – 5 alternatives for assessing a candidate's suitability →


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↑ 6.00 6.01 6.02 6.03 6.04 6.05 6.06 6.07 6.08 6.09 6.10 6.11 6.12 6.13 6.14 6.15 6.16 6.17 6.18 6.19 Millington, Barry (ed.) (2001), The Wagner Compendium: A Guide to Wagner's Life and Music (revised edition), London: Thames and Hudson Ltd. ISBN 0-02-871359-1.
↑ Wagner, Richard (1995b), vol. 5 Actors and Singers, Lincoln (NE) and London: University of Nebraska Press. ISBN 978-0-8032-9773-9.
↑ 8.0 8.1 Dahlhaus, Carl (1995), "Wagner: (Wilhelm) Richard Wagner", in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, London: Macmillan, vol. 20, 115–36. ISBN 0-333-23111-2.
↑ Cosima Wagner (1978) II, 647. Entry of 28 March 1881.
↑ Newman (1976) IV, 578. Letter from Wagner to the King of 19 September 1881.
↑ 原文为the music drama that most satisfactorily embodies the theoretical principles of 'Oper und Drama'... A thoroughgoing synthesis of poetry and music is achieved without any notable sacrifice in musical expression.
↑ 原文为Wagner's turn to Christian mythology, upon which the imagery and spiritual contents of 《帕西法尔》 rest, is idiosyncratic and contradicts Christian dogma in many ways.