The Company: A Novel of the CIA by Robert Littell
If I expect to get through 52 books in 2011, then I need to stop picking up 900 and 1100 page books. Littell's The Company clocks in at around 900 pages. At least 700 of those are well worth the time--I'm not going to quibble about the rest. Given that the book starts in pre-Wall Berlin, and the action ends with the August 1991 coup attempt in the Soviet Union, the length is understandable.
After finishing the book I was struck with a question of who and how much in the book was history and how much was fiction. Apparently mine was not the first mind to pose that question, given what I was able to track down on-line. The central protagonists are ostensibly fictive, but almost all of the other named characters (including numerous presidents, CIA officers, and civilians) are either historical figures or thinly disguised ones--which then leads to questions about how much of the action is "historical" or "thinly disguised." If the novel in fact hews closely to the truth I'm not sure whether I'm prouder of the C.I.A. than I ever expected to be or more appalled at the workings of both our and other governments than peace of mind can coexist with.
That said, Littell makes the characters, even minor or secondary characters like Boris Yeltsin and Kim Philby, leap off the page as people of conviction. I never thought I'd ever have any sympathy for either of them, but this book manages to make me feel that. When it comes to the main characters, he does that in spades--creating characters who can elicit a full range of emotions from the reader. I was impressed.
Apparently this author has written a number of books about modern espionage, especially the CIA. I'm going to see if any other them are shorter than this one--if yes, I'll probably read them. But now it's on to the tome on my night table. It's 200 pages longer than this one. What was I thinking?!
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Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Sunday, August 21, 2011
New Crayons
Tomorrow is the first day of the new academic year, at least where I teach. Every year I greet it with equal parts of fear, anxiety, and joy.
Beginnings are always scary--beginning a new semester, beginning a new relationship, beginning a new...anything. New, by its very nature, is "different" and we are hard-wired to be suspicious of the new, to be cautious, to assume it is dangerous until proven otherwise. That instinct has done us a lot of good over the ages. It has helped us become, among other things, the dominant lifeform on the planet. (It is also responsible for some not good things--like bigotry, prejudice, xenophobia, stagnation, and nationalism--but that is another issue, for another post.) So, there's that.
There's also that social anxiety that comes when you are going to meet new people. Tomorrow, based on enrollment counts and my scan of my rosters, I will meet 141 new people, each one of whom I, as their teacher, want to respect and who I want to respect me. It would also be nice if they liked me. Previous experience, both as a student and as a teacher for more than 20 years, tells me that won't happen. About 10% will come to like me, and an equal percentage will come to hate my guts. More than half will respect me, but at least 30% won't have more than casual disdain. So, tomorrow, I'm going to meet roughly 50 people who will never find anything I do "acceptable." So, no surprise there about the anxiety.
But they are anxious, too. About 60 of the people I meet tomorrow will be first time college freshmen. Talk about exciting and scary! Many will be living away from home for the first time, and no matter how liberating that can feel, it also feels lonely and unsafe. They will be trying to learn a new system of education, a new campus, a new life. And they will be surrounded by strangers. At least I have my colleagues, and familiar spaces. The new students have none of that.
But the beginning of a school year is also full of promise and possibilities. When we were children it was marked by new clothes, and new pencils, new folders and notebooks, and, if we were lucky, a new lunchbox with our favorite cartoon character/TV show/rock star on it. There was a new room, a new teacher, old friends in new seats, and the possibility of new friends. A new start. Maybe this year I'll be good at dodge ball. Maybe this year I'll like math. Maybe this year...
For me, the most emblematic signal of a new school year came in a yellow and blue box, labeled "Crayola." Nothing smells so much of possibility as a new box of crayons. And as you take one out of the box--the paper crisp and unblemished, the color clear, the end beautifully pointed (but flat on the end!), nothing holds so much possibility. Will you use the crayon to make a venn diagram? To color neatly in the lines? To create a beautiful image to go beside the poem you've selected to share with the class? To create a daringly individual self-portrait for the art show? To write in anger on the wall? To deface the desk?
Nothing so much in any school year is emblematic of choice, of the individual's ability to make something of their environment, to define themselves, as a box of crayons.
For all the new is dangerous, and requires caution, and good judgement, new is also about beginnings, and we can choose how we begin. And we must, for as we begin, so we go on.
I think I'll start with cerulean.
Beginnings are always scary--beginning a new semester, beginning a new relationship, beginning a new...anything. New, by its very nature, is "different" and we are hard-wired to be suspicious of the new, to be cautious, to assume it is dangerous until proven otherwise. That instinct has done us a lot of good over the ages. It has helped us become, among other things, the dominant lifeform on the planet. (It is also responsible for some not good things--like bigotry, prejudice, xenophobia, stagnation, and nationalism--but that is another issue, for another post.) So, there's that.
There's also that social anxiety that comes when you are going to meet new people. Tomorrow, based on enrollment counts and my scan of my rosters, I will meet 141 new people, each one of whom I, as their teacher, want to respect and who I want to respect me. It would also be nice if they liked me. Previous experience, both as a student and as a teacher for more than 20 years, tells me that won't happen. About 10% will come to like me, and an equal percentage will come to hate my guts. More than half will respect me, but at least 30% won't have more than casual disdain. So, tomorrow, I'm going to meet roughly 50 people who will never find anything I do "acceptable." So, no surprise there about the anxiety.
But they are anxious, too. About 60 of the people I meet tomorrow will be first time college freshmen. Talk about exciting and scary! Many will be living away from home for the first time, and no matter how liberating that can feel, it also feels lonely and unsafe. They will be trying to learn a new system of education, a new campus, a new life. And they will be surrounded by strangers. At least I have my colleagues, and familiar spaces. The new students have none of that.
But the beginning of a school year is also full of promise and possibilities. When we were children it was marked by new clothes, and new pencils, new folders and notebooks, and, if we were lucky, a new lunchbox with our favorite cartoon character/TV show/rock star on it. There was a new room, a new teacher, old friends in new seats, and the possibility of new friends. A new start. Maybe this year I'll be good at dodge ball. Maybe this year I'll like math. Maybe this year...
For me, the most emblematic signal of a new school year came in a yellow and blue box, labeled "Crayola." Nothing smells so much of possibility as a new box of crayons. And as you take one out of the box--the paper crisp and unblemished, the color clear, the end beautifully pointed (but flat on the end!), nothing holds so much possibility. Will you use the crayon to make a venn diagram? To color neatly in the lines? To create a beautiful image to go beside the poem you've selected to share with the class? To create a daringly individual self-portrait for the art show? To write in anger on the wall? To deface the desk?
Nothing so much in any school year is emblematic of choice, of the individual's ability to make something of their environment, to define themselves, as a box of crayons.
For all the new is dangerous, and requires caution, and good judgement, new is also about beginnings, and we can choose how we begin. And we must, for as we begin, so we go on.
I think I'll start with cerulean.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Paradigm Shift
Remember high school? Remember "pep rallies"? Remember gearing up for games by the cheerleaders making posters that hung all over the walls? Remember the special level of energy that filled the halls, the arena, when you were gearing up to meet that special "rival" team? Every school has an "arch-enemy"--the team that the stories are about, the team you "hated."
As a student of Morrisville-Eaton Central, one of the Warriors, our special foe was Hamilton Central's Emerald Knights. By the time I was in school, it was a little unfair. Because of consolidations, a rivalry that had at one time been a fair, even contest between Morrisville District and Hamilton, was now a contest between MECS and HCS, and MECS averaged 2.5 times the number of students as Hamilton. But the rivalry remained. And the prize, in football, was custody of "The Jug," a big ceramic liquor jug, that had a (probably scatalogical) story attached involving breaking and entering and crazy reckless drives down dark country highways at breakneck speeds in the wild 1950s. Whether true, or not, it was part of the lore of the rivalry. And high school students love a rivalry.
I lived smack on the border between the two districts. In fact, the village of Hamilton was 1.5 miles closer to my home than Morrisville was, and the Hamilton HS was 3 miles closer than the MECS HS out on Swamp Road. But I was in the MECS district, so there I went. But Hamilton was stronger in music, it was where my voice teacher was, and as a freshman I had been selected part of the county's traveling Select Chorus, and there were a number of Hamilton students there, and we became friends...and the rest is history. I have as many Facebook friends from Hamilton as from Morrisville. In fact, I caught a lot of grief from some people in Morrisville because I was such good friends with "Greenies." I was a traitor, and sometimes I paid for it, as only a high school student can pay for such "betrayal."
Hamilton has stayed a smaller school, and Morrisville has continued to grow (it is within what is today considered an easy commute to Syracuse), while Hamilton has frozen. With the increasing costs of running school districts, and the costs of athletic program, Hamilton's teams, especially football, has suffered. And Morrisville hasn't ever been a force to contend with on the gridiron (though we have had seasons of brilliance in basketball, wrestling, and cross country--and our girls under first Evelyn Vaughn, then her daughter Patti, were always strong). So, MECS has been having trouble recruiting players, and Hamilton has always had trouble fielding a full field, let alone having depth on the bench.
The solution? Merge the teams.
This year, the MECS/Hamilton Warriors will wear MECS red and white for home games, and Hamilton green and white on the road. We have met the enemy...and he is us.
If you listen hard at board meetings, and among those who pay attention to the hard facts of maintaining a school district, you know this is just the thin edge of the wedge. The districts are in talks to merge, and it will probably happen, creating a district that will run from Nelson to Earlville, Peterboro to Lebanon, more than 20 miles corner to corner.
The times, they are a changin.'
As a student of Morrisville-Eaton Central, one of the Warriors, our special foe was Hamilton Central's Emerald Knights. By the time I was in school, it was a little unfair. Because of consolidations, a rivalry that had at one time been a fair, even contest between Morrisville District and Hamilton, was now a contest between MECS and HCS, and MECS averaged 2.5 times the number of students as Hamilton. But the rivalry remained. And the prize, in football, was custody of "The Jug," a big ceramic liquor jug, that had a (probably scatalogical) story attached involving breaking and entering and crazy reckless drives down dark country highways at breakneck speeds in the wild 1950s. Whether true, or not, it was part of the lore of the rivalry. And high school students love a rivalry.
I lived smack on the border between the two districts. In fact, the village of Hamilton was 1.5 miles closer to my home than Morrisville was, and the Hamilton HS was 3 miles closer than the MECS HS out on Swamp Road. But I was in the MECS district, so there I went. But Hamilton was stronger in music, it was where my voice teacher was, and as a freshman I had been selected part of the county's traveling Select Chorus, and there were a number of Hamilton students there, and we became friends...and the rest is history. I have as many Facebook friends from Hamilton as from Morrisville. In fact, I caught a lot of grief from some people in Morrisville because I was such good friends with "Greenies." I was a traitor, and sometimes I paid for it, as only a high school student can pay for such "betrayal."
Hamilton has stayed a smaller school, and Morrisville has continued to grow (it is within what is today considered an easy commute to Syracuse), while Hamilton has frozen. With the increasing costs of running school districts, and the costs of athletic program, Hamilton's teams, especially football, has suffered. And Morrisville hasn't ever been a force to contend with on the gridiron (though we have had seasons of brilliance in basketball, wrestling, and cross country--and our girls under first Evelyn Vaughn, then her daughter Patti, were always strong). So, MECS has been having trouble recruiting players, and Hamilton has always had trouble fielding a full field, let alone having depth on the bench.
The solution? Merge the teams.
This year, the MECS/Hamilton Warriors will wear MECS red and white for home games, and Hamilton green and white on the road. We have met the enemy...and he is us.
If you listen hard at board meetings, and among those who pay attention to the hard facts of maintaining a school district, you know this is just the thin edge of the wedge. The districts are in talks to merge, and it will probably happen, creating a district that will run from Nelson to Earlville, Peterboro to Lebanon, more than 20 miles corner to corner.
The times, they are a changin.'
Sunday, July 3, 2011
"Parental Choice" or "Adventurees in logical fallacies"
Today, while sitting at my post at the OES rummage sale, a family came by. They came by in various configurations. First the mother with the 4 week old infant. Then the father with the 5-6 year old child. Then the mother with both children. Then the father with the boy again.
The child was...moderately ill-mannered, but I've seen far worse. Very careless of the objects he was investigating (I was manning the bake sale/kids toys table venue). The child picked things up, threw them down, a bit too violently or casually for someone like me who has well-loved and much-used toys and clothing from 45 years ago that are still in "nearly new" condition because I was taught to be careful of objects, clothing, people, and myself.
So the boy starting looking at the books, and decided he wanted the dinosaur book. The father took it from him to inspect it and make sure it was suitable (the book was something like The Mightiest Dinosaur, written for kindergartners/first graders). So dad is reading it, and says "Well, that's a lie." Turns another page. "Another lie." He then explains to me that "...all of that stuff about dinosaurs and extinction is a lie. They didn't die from some inability to survive in a changed environment. Humans hunted them to extinction." So then he tells me about this Eskimo carving of men hunting dinosaurs "that I have seen myself," and about carvings in the Yucatan Peninsula from only 1000 years ago showing people hunting a dinosaur, "So people were hunting dinosaurs as recently as 1000 years ago."
Then he explained to me that the world can't be millions of years old, citing Einstein and how the circumference of the sun reduces by 5 inches every year, and that if the earth and the sun were as old as evolutionists claim we would have been occupying the same physical space. And then he brought in the moon, which is moving away from us at "X" [I forget the number he gave] inches per year, "and if the earth was as old as evolutionists claim then the gravitational pull of the moon when it was as close to the planet as it would have had to have been then would have been so strong that it would have ripped our entire atmosphere away. And that is why my son doesn't go to public school--because they teach him all those lies which science proves are lies." Then he started to go on about this tail on bacteria "(that is only visible with an electron microscope) that rotates at 40,000 rpms," and how you couldn't make pulleys and gears to do that, but fortunately his son was getting restive, and the baby had woken up, and the wife wanted to feed the baby. But his son really wanted two books. The dinosaur book, and another one.
"No. You can't have them." Looks again. "Wait, maybe this one." So he took the other book, looked at it, flipped through it. "How much?"
"Twenty-five cents."
"Okay," and starts to hand it to the child, then stops. "Oh, wait." Turns to the wife. "Do we have this one?"
"Yes. Well, no. The one we have has scratch and sniff pages. So not that book. But that story."
He turns to the boy. "We have this at home. Why do you want it?"
"The other one has smells, but not this one."
"Okay. For 25 cents you can have it." And they walked away with the book. Without paying.
And the book it was okay to have, because it didn't have any lies?
It was about a talking rat, who saves a chef's career in a French restaurant in Paris. Ratatouille.
The child was...moderately ill-mannered, but I've seen far worse. Very careless of the objects he was investigating (I was manning the bake sale/kids toys table venue). The child picked things up, threw them down, a bit too violently or casually for someone like me who has well-loved and much-used toys and clothing from 45 years ago that are still in "nearly new" condition because I was taught to be careful of objects, clothing, people, and myself.
So the boy starting looking at the books, and decided he wanted the dinosaur book. The father took it from him to inspect it and make sure it was suitable (the book was something like The Mightiest Dinosaur, written for kindergartners/first graders). So dad is reading it, and says "Well, that's a lie." Turns another page. "Another lie." He then explains to me that "...all of that stuff about dinosaurs and extinction is a lie. They didn't die from some inability to survive in a changed environment. Humans hunted them to extinction." So then he tells me about this Eskimo carving of men hunting dinosaurs "that I have seen myself," and about carvings in the Yucatan Peninsula from only 1000 years ago showing people hunting a dinosaur, "So people were hunting dinosaurs as recently as 1000 years ago."
Then he explained to me that the world can't be millions of years old, citing Einstein and how the circumference of the sun reduces by 5 inches every year, and that if the earth and the sun were as old as evolutionists claim we would have been occupying the same physical space. And then he brought in the moon, which is moving away from us at "X" [I forget the number he gave] inches per year, "and if the earth was as old as evolutionists claim then the gravitational pull of the moon when it was as close to the planet as it would have had to have been then would have been so strong that it would have ripped our entire atmosphere away. And that is why my son doesn't go to public school--because they teach him all those lies which science proves are lies." Then he started to go on about this tail on bacteria "(that is only visible with an electron microscope) that rotates at 40,000 rpms," and how you couldn't make pulleys and gears to do that, but fortunately his son was getting restive, and the baby had woken up, and the wife wanted to feed the baby. But his son really wanted two books. The dinosaur book, and another one.
"No. You can't have them." Looks again. "Wait, maybe this one." So he took the other book, looked at it, flipped through it. "How much?"
"Twenty-five cents."
"Okay," and starts to hand it to the child, then stops. "Oh, wait." Turns to the wife. "Do we have this one?"
"Yes. Well, no. The one we have has scratch and sniff pages. So not that book. But that story."
He turns to the boy. "We have this at home. Why do you want it?"
"The other one has smells, but not this one."
"Okay. For 25 cents you can have it." And they walked away with the book. Without paying.
And the book it was okay to have, because it didn't have any lies?
It was about a talking rat, who saves a chef's career in a French restaurant in Paris. Ratatouille.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Three Hours
Last week, during my office hours, my office mate Roman was also holding his. Roman is first generation American (his parents both emigrating from Mexico before he was born), raised Mormon, and grew up in southern California. We were sitting there, he checking his email, me grading papers, doing that before I turned on the computer, since I know what a brain suck that can be. He turned his desk chair so it faced me and said, "Can I ask you a question?"
"This has come up before when we've gotten one of those 'sad news' emails, but, well, I just don't understand what exactly is "calling hours" and how does one behave...what does one do?"
What followed was a conversation where he learned about mourning customs and public bereavement here in the Northeast, and I learned about how things are done in the Southwest, or, as he put it, "at least, in California." And then a bit about how things are done in Catholic Mexican immigrant families (some of his childhood friends). And since I'd used Morguhn's service as an example, what is specific to a Mason's service and burial, which led to what is specific to a Mormon rite.
I think we tend to assume that we "know how it's done," if we're "American," but as we both learned--we don't. I think you just do the best you can, and hope you're getting it right.
And then Roman told me about the specific email that had led to his original question.
Ever since I've been on the faculty, one of the most kind, supportive colleagues I've had is Tim. He's one of the dramatically oversized people who elicits the "Oh, Tim, please lose some weight--we don't want to lose you" kind of thought in those he works with. But, of course, he never does. When his middle daughter, Elizabeth, was working on her nursing degree he put us in contact because she was doing a paper on fairy tales, and he knew I did a focused unit on fairy tales and asked if I could help her.
About two years before Morguhn died, he lost his wife, Susan. Susan had been ill for many years, in ways that traumatized her family, that exhausted Tim, and broke everyone's heart. She fought her demons for years, but finally she lost her battle. When Morguhn died Tim didn't come to the calling hours, but after I came back to work, he stopped and talked to me, calmly, with compassion and the kind of understanding I needed. "No one else 'gets it,' Rosemary, except those who have gone through it. I didn't, before I lost Susan. No one can say anything to make it better. But I get it." And we walked our separate ways, on to our classes.
Tim retired last month. Between his time as a public school teacher, and his time at the college, he had more than his 30 years in. He'd met someone, a wonderful guy who lives down near Ithaca, and was moving down there, and teaching online as an adjunct retired faculty for MV. He'd finished improving his house, so Elizabeth would have a warm, safe home to live in, as she was going to stay in the house they were sharing; his last chick to leave the nest was going to keep the nest he was leaving. He looked so good last month--his color good, a spring in his step to the extent his health allows.
Sunday, Elizabeth complained that she wasn't feeling too well. When she woke up Monday morning she was feeling even worse, frighteningly worse. Tim drove her to the hospital.
Three hours later she was dead.
Pulmonary embolism.
I went to the calling hours today. I knew, given when I could be there, that I would miss all the MVCC people, who would be there in the first hour. But Tim is one of those people who just wrapped himself around my heart, and I needed to go. So I went.
I knew no one. I stood there, after looking at the photographs of the girl I only knew through emails, of their family, intact. At adults I knew must be his children, but who I didn't know, and didn't know me. So I went and stood where Tim could see me, and listened as he talked to others. "About the only thing that could have been faster is if she'd been hit by a bus," he said with the wry humor that is actually a substitute for wails of grief. And then a pause. A look down. "I...don't know....I'll still processing Susan's death..." in a slightly puzzled, lost voice, still with all the music it always carries, but in a minor, diminished key. He held out his hand, and I took it. He squeezed it hard, as he kept talking to the people I didn't know. I leaned over and laid my cheek against his and kissed it. Then I stood, gave his hand another squeeze, and then left. I didn't say a word, and neither did he.
At times like these, I think you just do the best you can, and hope you're getting it right.
"This has come up before when we've gotten one of those 'sad news' emails, but, well, I just don't understand what exactly is "calling hours" and how does one behave...what does one do?"
What followed was a conversation where he learned about mourning customs and public bereavement here in the Northeast, and I learned about how things are done in the Southwest, or, as he put it, "at least, in California." And then a bit about how things are done in Catholic Mexican immigrant families (some of his childhood friends). And since I'd used Morguhn's service as an example, what is specific to a Mason's service and burial, which led to what is specific to a Mormon rite.
I think we tend to assume that we "know how it's done," if we're "American," but as we both learned--we don't. I think you just do the best you can, and hope you're getting it right.
And then Roman told me about the specific email that had led to his original question.
Ever since I've been on the faculty, one of the most kind, supportive colleagues I've had is Tim. He's one of the dramatically oversized people who elicits the "Oh, Tim, please lose some weight--we don't want to lose you" kind of thought in those he works with. But, of course, he never does. When his middle daughter, Elizabeth, was working on her nursing degree he put us in contact because she was doing a paper on fairy tales, and he knew I did a focused unit on fairy tales and asked if I could help her.
About two years before Morguhn died, he lost his wife, Susan. Susan had been ill for many years, in ways that traumatized her family, that exhausted Tim, and broke everyone's heart. She fought her demons for years, but finally she lost her battle. When Morguhn died Tim didn't come to the calling hours, but after I came back to work, he stopped and talked to me, calmly, with compassion and the kind of understanding I needed. "No one else 'gets it,' Rosemary, except those who have gone through it. I didn't, before I lost Susan. No one can say anything to make it better. But I get it." And we walked our separate ways, on to our classes.
Tim retired last month. Between his time as a public school teacher, and his time at the college, he had more than his 30 years in. He'd met someone, a wonderful guy who lives down near Ithaca, and was moving down there, and teaching online as an adjunct retired faculty for MV. He'd finished improving his house, so Elizabeth would have a warm, safe home to live in, as she was going to stay in the house they were sharing; his last chick to leave the nest was going to keep the nest he was leaving. He looked so good last month--his color good, a spring in his step to the extent his health allows.
Sunday, Elizabeth complained that she wasn't feeling too well. When she woke up Monday morning she was feeling even worse, frighteningly worse. Tim drove her to the hospital.
Three hours later she was dead.
Pulmonary embolism.
I went to the calling hours today. I knew, given when I could be there, that I would miss all the MVCC people, who would be there in the first hour. But Tim is one of those people who just wrapped himself around my heart, and I needed to go. So I went.
I knew no one. I stood there, after looking at the photographs of the girl I only knew through emails, of their family, intact. At adults I knew must be his children, but who I didn't know, and didn't know me. So I went and stood where Tim could see me, and listened as he talked to others. "About the only thing that could have been faster is if she'd been hit by a bus," he said with the wry humor that is actually a substitute for wails of grief. And then a pause. A look down. "I...don't know....I'll still processing Susan's death..." in a slightly puzzled, lost voice, still with all the music it always carries, but in a minor, diminished key. He held out his hand, and I took it. He squeezed it hard, as he kept talking to the people I didn't know. I leaned over and laid my cheek against his and kissed it. Then I stood, gave his hand another squeeze, and then left. I didn't say a word, and neither did he.
At times like these, I think you just do the best you can, and hope you're getting it right.
Monday, May 16, 2011
And then there was one
I just watched the Endeavor lift off.
Last night, during the end credits of Thor I nearly sobbed--you see, the end credits are like flying through shots from Hubble, and because it is 3D, and well done, it was...
I have no words for how it made me feel.
These two things, coming so close together, make me think of a childhood full of Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo. Of Enterprise. And Asimov, and Bradbury, and Clark.
And my heart is full, and my head packed with thoughts, and somewhere, way down inside, is anger.
And then there was one.
And then there will be none.
This deserves a long, thoughtful post. But for now, I will borrow words from another:
Last night, during the end credits of Thor I nearly sobbed--you see, the end credits are like flying through shots from Hubble, and because it is 3D, and well done, it was...
I have no words for how it made me feel.
These two things, coming so close together, make me think of a childhood full of Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo. Of Enterprise. And Asimov, and Bradbury, and Clark.
And my heart is full, and my head packed with thoughts, and somewhere, way down inside, is anger.
And then there was one.
And then there will be none.
This deserves a long, thoughtful post. But for now, I will borrow words from another:
"Ask ten different scientists about the environment, population control, genetics and you'll get ten different answers, but there's one thing every scientist on the planet agrees on. Whether it happens in a hundred years or a thousand years or a million years, eventually our Sun will grow cold and go out. When that happens, it won't just take us. It'll take Marilyn Monroe and Lao-Tzu, Einstein, Morobuto, Buddy Holly, Aristophanes .. and all of this .. all of this was for nothing, unless we go to the stars."
--Jeffrey Sinclair, "Infection," Babylon 5
J. Michael Straczynski
J. Michael Straczynski
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