THE FALL OF LA ALBICELESTE
The Argentine came down like a wolf on the crest,
And his cohorts were gleaming in white and celeste;
And the sheen of their boots was like stars o’er the hill,
When the blue wave rolled nightly on southeast Brazil.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at the twilight were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host at the sunset laid all withered and strown.
For at length die Mannschaft spread her wings on the blast,
And incised through the flank of the foe as she passed;
Saw the eyes of the keeper waxed deadly and chill,
And his heart but once heaved, and instantly grew still!
And there sat El Pipita with nostrils all wide,
But through them there rolled not the neat breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping laid white on the turf,
And frigid as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there stood Messidona distorted and pale,
With thick sweat on his brow, and foul mud on his mail;
And the fans were all silent, the banners alone,
The gonfalons unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
The plebeians of Pampas are loud in their wail,
Their spirit roundly crushed, their consolation fail;
And the might of the Lionel, unvanquished in Spain,
Hath been brought to his knees under Germany’s reign.
LeMay said, “If we’d lost the war, we’d all have been prosecuted as war criminals.” And I think he’s right. He, and I’d say I, were behaving as war criminals. LeMay recognized that what he was doing would be thought immoral if his side had lost. But what makes it immoral if you lose and not immoral if you win?
Robert Strange McNamara, “The Fog of War”
Injustice, poverty, slavery, ignorance — these may be cured by reform or revolution. But men do not live only by fighting evils. They live by positive goals, individual and collective, a vast variety of them, seldom predictable, at times incompatible.
Sir Isaiah Berlin, “Political Ideas in the Twentieth Century” (1950)
These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet;—
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;—
Under the laurel the Blue,
Under the willow, the Gray.
Francis Miles Finch, “The Blue and the Gray”
Dilbert: Evolution must be true because it is a logical conclusion of the scientific method.
Dogbert: But science is based on the irrational belief that because we cannot perceive reality all at once, things called “time” and “cause and effect” exist.
Dilbert: That’s what I was taught and that’s what I believe.
Dogbert: Sounds cultish.
Scott Raymond Adams, “Dilbert Comic Strip” (8 Feb 1995)
"You are going to fight that?" Ellaria Sand said in a hushed voice.
"I am going to kill that," her lover replied carelessly.
I’ve learned that no matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow.
I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.
I’ve learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you’ll miss them when they’re gone from your life.
I’ve learned that making a “living” is not the same thing as making a “life.”
I’ve learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance.
I’ve learned that you shouldn’t go through life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw something back.
I’ve learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision.
I’ve learned that even when I have pains, I don’t have to be one.
I’ve learned that every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back.
I’ve learned that I still have a lot to learn.
I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.
А мне, Онегин, пышность эта,
Постылой жизни мишура,
Мои успехи в вихре света,
Мой модный дом и вечера,
Что в них? Сейчас отдать я рада
Всю эту ветошь маскарада,
Весь этот блеск, и шум, и чад
За полку книг, за дикий сад,
За наше бедное жилище,
За те места, где в первый раз,
Онегин, видела я вас,
Да за смиренное кладбище,
Где нынче крест и тень ветвей
Над бедной нянею моей…
To me, Onegin, all this glory
is tinsel on a life I hate;
this modish whirl, this social story,
my house, my evenings, all that state -
what’s in them? All this loud parading,
and all this flashy masquerading,
the glare, the fumes in which I live,
this very day I’d gladly give,
give for a bookshelf, a neglected
garden, a modest home, the place
of our first meeting face to face,
and the churchyard where, new-erected,
a humble cross, in woodland gloom,
stands over my poor nurse’s tomb…
Алекса́ндр Серге́евич Пу́шкин/Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin, “Евге́ний Оне́гин/Eugene Onegin” (1825-1832), Ch. 8, st. XLVI