Theodore Roosevelt (1858-1919), on Those Who Count ::

It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is … Continue reading Theodore Roosevelt (1858-1919), on Those Who Count ::

Friedrich Nietszche (1844-1900), on Masters ::

Masters of the very first order can be recognised by the following characteristic: in all matters great and small they know with perfect assurance how to find the end, whether it be the end of a melody or the end of a thought, whether it be the fifth act of a tragedy or the end of a political action. The very best of the second-in-rank … Continue reading Friedrich Nietszche (1844-1900), on Masters ::

Why swim with elephants? ::

I’ve had three blogs prior to this one. None of them exist today. I designed them for specific purposes and named them accordingly. That was their death knell. When I became disinterested in that purpose or felt constrained, the blog went to the glue factory. So when I started ‘Swimming with Elephants’, my chief desire was that it survive. I had to defuse my desire … Continue reading Why swim with elephants? ::

Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821-1881) ::

For man sometimes loves suffering terribly much, to the point of passion, and that is a fact. Here there’s not even any need to consult world history; just ask yourself, if you’re a human being and have had any life at all. As for my personal opinion, to love just well-being alone is even somehow indecent. Whether it’s good or bad, it’s sometimes also very … Continue reading Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821-1881) ::

One hundred words on Palestine ::

Sir. The man had paid when the barista stopped him. Sir. She pointed to his cheek. You have a— He half-raised a hand and answered in vowels, Oh, I— She gestured with her hand. He hesitated. She gestured again. Here, she said. He leant forward and she lifted her finger, stroked it across his cheek and held the eyelash out. Like a birthday cake, she … Continue reading One hundred words on Palestine ::