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First clear attribution to Wilde was not until Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go. A version of this quote was published anonymously in an insurance magazine in The earliest attribution to Wilde was in ; no source in Wilde's writings has been found. True friends stab you in the front Also found in variants such as "A true friend stabs you in the front". The earliest known example of this quote comes from Walter Winchell's syndicated newspaper column in mid-January 'On Broadway, cynically reports Jimmy Nelson, "a true friend is one who stabs you in the front"' [6] The earliest version of this quote found in Google Books is from , where the quote "A true friend is one who stabs you in the front" is attributed to actor Steve Dunne.

In , a similar quote: "He is a fine friend. He stabs you in the front" was attributed to Hollywood writer and producer Leonard Levinson. In , an article in Ms. Magazine stated that "the Hollywood definition of a friend" was "someone who stabs you in the front". The earliest attribution to Oscar Wilde was from : "A good friend is one who stabs you in the front". No source was given.

I don't want to go to heaven. None of my friends are there No known source in Oscar Wilde's works. Earliest known example of a similar quote comes from a usenet post not attributed to Wilde Attributed to Wilde on Goodreads some time on or before January Bears some resemblance to Machiavelli's deathbed dream.

The one who was a young man, sometimes only a boy, happy on his farm and fishing in his creek, who had no idea really that war existed, or what it was. Of course nobody in the South and the North as well other than the men whose aggrandizement of property and power depends on wars, knew what war really was. A big war, that would murder hundreds of thousands, and leave stacks of amputated arms and legs and other parts in heaps wherever it tarried. I was born in Middle Georgia. Our Confederate soldier has stood in the middle of town, facing North, for as long as I can remember.

That told us a lot. Recently, a friend who lives there, mentioned in passing that our county refused, as long as it could, to join the Confederacy. Because people were happy enough as they were and saw no point.


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  • So What Is Poetry Good For?.

There he stood, basically ignored. Suppose he was thirteen? Sixteen, Seventeen? Suppose he had just fallen in love? Suppose he was really poor, as so many poor white folks were. Suppose there was nobody to look after his family once he was gone. It would probably have been some poor white and black folks, elders probably, who refused to let them starve, or have babies without company and assistance.

Those horrid monuments to slaughter of the innocents must be placed where everyone can really look at them. On a battlefield, is a great idea, as has been suggested. Black and white must write the truth, in stone, on the base of each one. And the ones in Richmond, Virginia, for instance, so large they tower over everything, should be right in the center.

Visitors should be invited to truly comprehend all the moving parts of a war that scarred the hearts of all our people, as deeply as it scarred the beautiful Southern countryside, and to shed their blind insistence on defending a history that did not exist. That would be so like us. Contrary, you know. Generally the space that slavery and segregation has left us in peace is our cemeteries.

We might place our stone there.

Between Solitude and Loneliness

In its modesty — something we can afford, collectively, without a lot of stress — it can blend with the earth, which does not relish the destruction of war, either. Many years of happiness, whole lifetimes, were stolen from you; we know how this feels. May our descendants not waste their time and their lives on wars that are planned to enrich the coffers of strangers, but instead stand together against all wars and spend their time on this beautiful planet smiling, bowing to its beauty, and dancing.

Por favor lea. Oir Omarosa. But this is where we are As a nation of cowards, As we follow a person, Who, as Omarosa warns us, Is falling over a cliff; His thumb near a button That might annihilate us all. His anger certain to be taken out On the children and their parents, Grandparents, housing and food stores, In Korea and Iran. Syria, and other places too. As well as on black people everywhere Whose feelings he consistently ignores And hurts. Lucky for dogs They do not feel this pain. They go about their business Same as always: An eternity of kindness In their expressive eyes; Aeons of concern and helpfulness; Offerings of joy In every Age.

Dogs are the winners here On Earth I think. They know what is Apparently impossible For many humans to learn: That there exists A kind of free Goodness In the soul that gives up All pretense Of being more of or better than: A kind of free happiness In being creatures With nothing to hide. Written in defense of dogs everywhere.

And of women, everywhere. Grow up. Nigger has a meaning You would have to live Lifetimes To comprehend. Niggers have at least one Honorable tradition, No matter how many Gold nooses, chains, and shackles They wear. They have never endangered a planet Or even destroyed part of one.

Graham Fawcett - writer, broadcaster, translator and teacher

Most still respect children. Spelman College students studying for classes while in jail in Atlanta. Early Sixties. Marian Wright later Edelman , not reading, displays the look and posture of so many young protesters of the time: there is courage, determination, and vulnerability. Download pdf kb. Principios de los One thing you can count on :. Wonders Never Ceasing. Ah, we say to each other: there is that wisdom, that tenderness, that togetherness, that love, that kept us going for so long.

This is what it can look like today, and is, today, apparently, for some people; though infrequently exhibited on television, where a gun or a car is so often exploding. If only my parents could have watched Queen Sugar. Farmers, they would at last have seen something they and their grandparents, and their parents and grandparents before them, would have understood. Love of Earth, love of the land, along with the understanding that humans who inhabit it are responsible for its care. They would have seen themselves, vividly depicted, in their daily, monthly, yearly, dramas.

Passionate and principled people — once some of them outgrew despair and gave up drinking — they would have relished seeing themselves as whole and capable, standing together as one stalk, though spread into infinity —and with so much variety!

The Epic of Gilgamesh: Crash Course World Mythology #26

It is a powerful gift, Queen Sugar. A wonder. And proves again that where the heart and brain are united in offering the very best that can be conceived, there too an art that encourages the people, and loves us into healthful growth, will be born. What History can be for: Knowing when something now happening to others has also happened to you. A friend, in passing, mentioned he was reading this book.

He was struck by the similarity of the suffering of poor people all over the world. I had not heard of it, but when he said it made him better understand the Irish Potato Famine of the s I realized I had wanted to understand this period better since the time, in college probably, I first learned of it. What exactly happened? And how did this catastrophe, in which over a million poor farmers starved to death, and, while in the process of starving, were evicted from their land and homes, connect with the hundreds of thousands of Irish people who immigrated to the United States?

How did their passage differ from that of other white emigrants? And how did they deal with the fact that while they were starving and dying and forced to leave Ireland because their potatoes -the primary diet -were diseased and inedible, the landowners whose potatoes were unaffected by the blight, shipped them abroad for a profit. What did they learn from their physical, psychic, and emotional journey? Had it profoundly changed them? What was Margaret Mitchell really showing us in this saga set in the deep South during the American Civil War, a mere twenty years after the Irish Potato famine.

What about Robert Kennedy who learned by being shown, in the s, that black children were starving in Mississippi, in America? And wept. The Star of the Sea is the name of the ship on which the emigrants sailed. It as book contains some of the most beautiful, intricate, deep, funny and sorrowful writing I have ever read. One photograph of the author shows someone otherworldly, as if this book though he has written many others was his assignment on being sent here.

I learned more about the history of England and Ireland —and the cruelty and greed of both their upper classes -from reading this book truly amazing on Audio than I had despaired of ever knowing. Or as a teaching on the concealed miseries of the Upper Classes who get all the toys and little of the soul.

It is quite true, one realizes anew, reading this book, that the world is not divided into countries as much as into classes.

A Coleridge Companion

A lot of energy goes into keeping this fact concealed. There are workers, in vast numbers, all over the earth, and there is the One Percent; who all seem to know each other. I listened to it twice, for the pleasure of the writing, and grasped most threads, I hope. Good luck. His voice is perfect for the story. Also for napping. This too seemed perfect. I recently ran across an earlier review I wrote of another book from Ireland that moved me deeply.

Read together some questions from Star of the Sea are answered. Even Charles Dickens, whom we appreciate for being the voice of so many abused children, is left in the dust. Managing to stay alive, only just, by her own wits, in a world determined to erase her life and to make her believe, in her very soul, that she is nothing.

It is a hair-raising read. That it is a best seller in Ireland and England gives me hope. Margaret Long is not being abandoned again. Still, it is so difficult a read one might ask: Why should we bother? Especially those children who, unwittingly, inherit the brutalities of colonialism, whether in Ireland, where this story is set, or the rest of the globe.

I was amazed to feel some of the English, Irish, Scottish ancestors of both enslaved Africans and indentured Europeans in the Americas showing up in the characters of the Dubliners Margaret Long depicts. And who, some of them, unfortunately, still walk among us. The destruction of our common humanity through the manipulation of imposed poverty, misogyny, alcoholism and drug abuse, is a major source of our misery, world-wide; and has been for a long time.

Into our love for ourselves And for our brown and black sons Who are so under attack. They are killing themselves And let us not forget That from Palestine to Los Angeles They are being killed By other youth and grownups, Who are themselves, in essence, Already murdered. We ask in our daze Of being so connected To everything in the Universe Except the murdered, The suicides;. Support Avaaz on this issue! It was a massacre!!

The stinking hypocrisy knows no bounds, and no shame. What clashes??

Reflections on two seasons of loss.

It IS a massacre. Another installment of 40 years of Israeli racist brutality and military repression. Avaaz battles racism everywhere. Israel today is an ethnic dictatorship — one of the most brutally racist regimes on the planet. It has become unhinged, and it deserves to be a pariah state. Other states have faced sanctions for far less. Take action to help save Palestinian lives!

Israel has marched steadily away from reason and peace and towards the far right. Members of Parliament called for the beating of Ahed Tamimi, the young Palestinian girl who slapped a soldier after her young cousin was shot in the face — and the Defence Minister himself ordered to punish her entire family. But we love Jews, as we love all people. The holocaust was real, Jews were brutally oppressed and still face anti semitism worldwide. Not just in words, but action. Like extremists everywhere, they dream of a world where sensible people lose their judgment and are pulled into two warring camps, one of which is led by them.

It has always calmed me To have them near. I like especially to see Jews standing firm With the same Realization I also have: That the dream of one humanity, Of one race of humankind Is being born each day In every one of us Who leave race and culture and religion Handed to us at birth behind. What happened to Japanese -Americans during that war, uprooted and forced to relocate in barren deserts, and other such desolate places, is an unknown among most Americans.

Partly this is because the Japanese- Americans, ashamed to have been treated so badly by white, European- Americans, rarely, if ever, wanted members of their communities to talk about it. But also, there was, there must have been, the belief that the suffering and humiliation they endured would eventually be forgotten. There is a suffering — especially when coupled with humiliation — that goes so deeply into the soul that it can never be forgotten. It must be faced. And, a place must be found for it.

That is what Julie Otsuka does in these two extraordinary books. She shows us what happened, the horrible treatment of the Japanese -American cooks and nannies and houseboys and gardeners, as well as the teachers, doctors, lawyers, and mothers and fathers and girls and boys, when the United States government decided that all yellow people were spies for the emperor of Japan.

For years. In their slender elegance — matched by a restrained, if tough and invincible pride of heritage -— these books represent a literary monument to all who were abused, all who suffered physical and spiritual wounds, all who managed to rise again, and all who fell. Every word, chosen by Otsuka as carefully as if it were a flower, is laid on an altar of literary beauty, so that those who endured and those who could not, might know, if only through their descendants, that they have been remembered in just the right way, and may rest.

My letter of support for your march will reach you too late to support your brave efforts of April 9th, to confront and somehow humanize your oppressors, the women and men, many of whom are only a few years older than you, of the Israeli military. I am deeply sorry for this because I think you are amazing human beings who demonstrate as much courage and resilience as any children the world has ever seen.

You have of course paid dearly for this and no words that I or anyone else can say will take away the pain that lies leaden in your hearts. You were commemorating, yesterday, someone that I loved very much when I was young: Martin Luther king. I met him briefly while I was a student; a blessing I hold dearer the older I get. Even as a child I saw this was as idiotic as separating people by the color of their hair. What the world will eventually understand, and by then it will be too late, is: As Gaza goes, so goes the world.

All human activity teaches something to the human race. What is happening in Gaza, and has been happening in Gaza, the brutality of the theft of the lives and livelihoods of a people, will be seared so deeply into common consciousness across the globe that it will become acceptable, even in areas where people assume they are safe. It is as if humans all have separate heads, but only one brain. In fact, I have written a poem about that. But never mind! I send you my love, my caring, my understanding of as much of your culture and history as I have been able to absorb.

I have considered this the duty of a conscious adult whose taxes are used, against my will, to finance much of the disaster befalling you. All adults owe you the respect of making the attempt to understand what you are up against; what you have been up against for decades. The world will continue to suffer from its neglect of you.

And what oppresses you today may well become what oppresses everyone in the not so distant future. As we pray for you, young ones, so dedicated to learning and growth, pray also for us. You have probably heard how the violence that you have faced for generations, as children and as adults, has now lodged in our own cities and schools in America.

In the case of Palestine, they demolish your homes and even drain away your drinking water. But true happiness comes from doing what is right, a rightness based on inner peace. It is this that both you, and Martin Luther King, demonstrate to the world. It is an offering that has cost you more suffering than most humans can even bear to learn about. It is nonetheless, because humans can be beautiful, and earth is in essence a paradise that we must protect, the only work at this moment that truly matters.

Grownups Must Behave! As long as there are children. Grownups must behave And stop acting like They are the only ones Around the place. They must study With suspicion Every word grownups say. Those same grownups Who are responsible For the combustible predicament We are in all over the Earth. Is a fiction. For what, on the evidence, Do they know? How to put the lives Of children -Who belong to everyone- In gravest danger! They must be protected From their devices. Remember the child in you. Protect her. Protect him. Protect them. Protect all the babies Of planet earth: Whether the fox Chased and torn apart by mad men and women Or the rhino shot and killed By mad men and women Or the elephant shot and killed By mad men and women.

Mighty Mother Earth Herself Has become In the hands of creatures Who never learned respect; And whose feelings of compassion were deleted, Assuming they ever existed, A very long time ago. But do not be discouraged. As your elder, it is my job to help you think Your way around this obstacle of taxes That have the blood of the children Of the world on them. What does this mean? You may well ask. It means that because money is all these so-called Grownups Appear to understand That we stop buying whatever new gadget They are selling.

We can withdraw the energy of our dollars Without saying a word. Of having to buy every bauble dangled Before my eyes As thousands of children and their parents Are traumatized and killed. Energy from anything That depresses us And sends us searching For painkillers Including Sex, Crack, alcohol, and opioids. By practicing non-compliance With whatever in the society Supports it. Especially an economy That endorses and promotes other criminal offenses, like private prisons For its mostly poor And of color populations.

Winnie Mandela We Love you. Winnie Mandela te amamos. See Search for poem. Those who love us never leave us alone with our grief. At the moment they show us our wound, they reveal they have the medicine. And where they, as slaves to cruel, or curious, or indifferent white persons with few exceptions existed in precarious suspension, disconnected from their real life, and where we also have had to struggle to protect our humanity, to experience joy of life, in spite of everything evil we have witnessed or to which we have been subjected.

Reading Barracoon one understands immediately the problem many black people, years ago, especially black intellectuals and political leaders, had with it. Who would want to know, via a blow by blow account, how African chiefs deliberately set out to capture Africans from neighboring tribes, to provoke wars of conquest in order to capture for the slave trade, people — men, women, children — who belonged to Africa?

And to do this in so hideous a fashion that reading about it two hundred years later brings waves of horror and distress. This is, make no mistake, a harrowing read. What is a Maestrapiece? It is the feminine perspective or part of the structure, whether in stone or fancy, without which the entire edifice is a lie. Poor Zora. An anthropologist, no less!


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A daughter of Eatonville, Florida where truth, what was real, what actually happened to somebody, mattered. And so, she sits with Cudjo Lewis. She shares peaches and watermelon. Imagine how many generations of black people would never admit to eating watermelon! How black people came to America, how we were treated by black and white. How black Americans, enslaved themselves, ridiculed the Africans; making their lives so much harder.

Fast enough. Machinery that could be mutilated, raped, killed, if the desire arose. Machinery that could be cheated, cheerfully, without a trace of guilt. His tender love for his wife, Seely, and their children. The horrible deaths that follow. We see a man so lonely for Africa, so lonely for his family, we are struck with the realization that he is naming something we ourselves work hard to avoid: how lonely we are too in this still foreign land: lonely for our true culture, our people, our singular connection to a specific understanding of the Universe.

But we see something else: the nobility of a soul that has suffered to the point almost of erasure, and still it struggles to be whole, present, giving. Growing in love, deepening in understanding. Which he does. Offering peace. That though the heart is breaking, happiness can exist in a moment, also.

And because the moment in which we live is all the time there really is, we can keep going. It may be true, and often is, that every person we hold dear is taken from us. From moment to moment, we watch our beans and our watermelons grow. We plant. We hoe.

We harvest. We share with neighbors. If a young anthropologist appears with two hams and gives us one, we look forward to enjoying it. Life, inexhaustible, goes on. And we do too. Carrying our wounds and our medicines as we go. Ours is an amazing, a spectacular, journey in the Americas. It is so remarkable one can only be thankful for it, bizarre as that may sound. Perhaps our planet is for learning to appreciate the extraordinary wonder of life that surrounds even our suffering, and to say Yes , if through the thickest of tears.

This so damaged the psyche of many black children that they grew up actually hating the fruit or, if they ate it, as adults, and liked it, this fact was hidden. I think the tender fragility of souls under extreme racist stress played a part in the denial of the African participation in the slave trade. I was delighted to meet and listen to Deepak Chopra at the Liberatum gathering in Mexico City this week. Rudolph E. Tanzi, Ph. Oops, time to learn that German and Swahili! Poetry, as Marti said, is more necessary to people than any other thing since it gives them the strength and the desire to live.

Much love from, Manuel. One Wise Saying. Of the Ancestors. Is Worth More Than a Thousand. Hundreds of years Of this. What are they declaring now? That you are a monkey? A donkey? A chimp? A baboon? A communist, A conspiracy theorist, An anti-Semite? A know nothing, A moron, A disgrace, A shrew? At almost every page I found myself plotting how I might help get this book into the hands of every literate African and African-American on the planet, because I knew it would startle, shock and amaze them. It would scare them into many kinds of soul searching; it would cure them of platitudes about Africa that have so stunted much discourse about the continent.

It would require a determined mind and strong stomach to confront the brutal misogyny that has been faced seemingly forever by African women, and it would necessitate a real evaluation instead of a fanciful one of male selfishness and sense of lordship that has meant, literally, the rape, selling out, and impoverishment of a continent that has since time immemorial been understood by natives and imperialists alike to be phenomenally wealthy.

While Ellen Johnson Sirleaf is the body and soul of the woman who has walked in all the lanes of the crooked road and is canny enough to get her people around the next bend. An understatement, of course, because, actually, Sirleaf is simply astonishing, as the woman who holds together a country not only in tatters from layers of bad government and rampant and hideous wars, but also a country stricken horribly by an Ebola epidemic just as it begins to stand up again, having been virtually slain by decades of unbelievably brutal male dictatorship. Do we trust some of the saviors who come to help?

Of course not. I am thankful they appeared, though some of them undoubtedly caused part of the disaster. Ellen Johnson Sirleaf Stood Up. The writer, Helene Cooper, is standing up. I believe with all my heart that this book can be a major force in correcting our misperceptions about a land most African Americans relate to more as myth than as reality, and can lead us all, African Americans, Americans, and indigenous Africans alike, to our true, as opposed to our mythical, home.

The work to be done is immense. Simply attempting to understand the politics involved in keeping poor countries enslaved by debt is mind boggling. Even so, let us be encouraged by the women of Liberia who, finally, had had enough. This is a book to help us grow our universal heart.

It is simply a great book, filled as such books often are, with insights into the unimaginably bitter residue of lives distorted by historical misadventures, and external, as well as internal, demonic forces. Spring Poem. For daisy, zinnia, petunia, jasmine, rose, tenzin, rebecca, rachel. Has been scattered. Tiny green faces Are everywhere. But mother has returned And she Is the gardener; She notices. The stunted plants Trying their best Still are stuck In rocky soil. It slips It slides Water drains Right through it. But the gardener Who knows The mother to the plants Has come home. She sees.

With her old and dullish trowel She sets about her work. For days she has carefully Noted All the uncomfortables. Now she moves. The stunted zinnias She can almost hear Gasping for breath She moves into big pots No matter that legend Is: they dislike being moved. The impatiens Fainting in the heat She transplants To dappled shade. No more letting seeds struggle Where they fall As if there is Justice In neglect. Placing our belief In the gardener The mother of the plants Who always returns After the winter thaw: Sees the condition Of each one of her green children And acts To bring nurturance, Happiness And radiance To them all.

Leer Poema De Primavera. Alice Walker keynote speech — Earth at Risk Conference. Somebody Died for Us:. Martin Luther King, Jr. We are the Ones We have been Waiting For. I saw folks going in. I had wondered about the lineup of small Buddhas outside the building. Of course! The bookstore and market! In I went. Not thinking this was not wise to do on day five of a weeklong silent retreat. I found so many lovely things inside!

Prayer flags! So many lovely things — and of course I chose many! Finally I realized there was — this being the up to date commercial age- no sales person! I saw the instructions for how to pay for my purchases by myself. I found them extremely complicated. My spaciness? Yes, but also, my kind of mind. Oh, I tried! And I am glad I made the effort. At least I was not defeated without some attempt to comprehend the machine. No dice.

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I was royally frustrated within minutes! Where is the humanity in this? Envisioning marketplaces in other parts of the world with kids and their grandparents and maybe even a goat or two around. Or the sales, for that matter? Came up the hill to meditation in something of a huff. Went straight to the Forgiveness dharma talk by Larry Yang in which he seemed to have watched the entire situation in the bookstore.

Especially my somewhat sour I bet! Poor thing! What clue could she have had? Anyway, a teaching about exchanging self for other. In other words, lighten up, not tighten up! This was all settled beautifully of course. As I was leaving the retreat with a friend she suggested we go inside the bookstore and re-select my would-be purchases. She was handy handling machines, she said. Her interaction with post- modernity up to date! In fact, they were all still on the counter, just where I left them! I got my Tibetan prayer flags, because by now all my old flags are gray and torn, literally shredded by the wind.

Rarely has a book touched so directly the places this revolutionary and poet needed, these days, to be touched. Scurrying this way, then that, they never find the silent Tao within. If they could find that silence, the country would transform itself. Simplicity and freedom from desire would become the natural way, and destructive habits would fall away, replaced by patient compassion for all life.

Leaders will never find that silence while serving the current system. Since dollars have become speech, the noise has overwhelmed all possibility of silence. No one in leadership has ears to hear the quiet among the cacophony of special interests. New systems must be founded on a stillness, a serenity where decisions can be considered from a place of wisdom, not from urgency or expediency. It is deeply troubling and positively deeply important. Encouraged by the Miracles of Life. The wisdom of the mango tree. Two years ago A hurricane Named Patricia -The worst storm ever to hit Earth according to those keeping record of relatively recent times- Destroyed two mango trees I planted thirty years Ago.

With sorrow, we pulled up one stump But while preparing To pull up stump 2 We noticed at the very top Of it Clinging for dear life, A tiny twig of a branch had started To grow. I grieved the huge tree The Mango used to be With luscious mangoes Hanging down And hanging as well A bright green swing I had placed on a stout branch For my grandchild.