When Christ performs the miracle of the loaves and fishes do we condemn him for depriving fishmongers of hypothetical income? I say that the man who learns to conjure pasta sauce out of thin air will be one of humanity’s greatest benefactors, even if he drives the Olive Garden out of business.
“The search went on for a few more years until, eventually, just one box score remained — a game during the first season of the BAA between the St. Louis Bombers and Detroit Falcons. Traveling with his wife on business to Lansing, Pfander used a bit of free time to make his way to a state library. He can’t remember the paper, but while cranking the dial of the microfilm viewer, he scrolled just past what he knew was a box score. Like that, almost half a century’s worth of work was done. To date, his collection includes nearly 54,000 games including the regular season and playoffs.”—Robert Mays, on Dick Pfander, the man who collected every pro-basketball box score. Every single one.
I’m in full agreement, here. The difference between supporting Israel and an unconditional support for Israel is the greater part of what drove me crazy about my experience in a Jewish youth group: USY is bad on civics, and it is pernicious to encourage anyone, young people in particular, to support a foreign state no matter what and over and above the republic to which they belong as citizens with full rights and privileges.
Hello carrel, my old friend I’ve come to sit at you again Because a chapter softly creeping Left its seeds while I was sleeping And the chapter that was planted in my brain Still remains Within the bounds of Project.
In restless dreams I walked alone Narrow rows in printed tomes 'Neath the halo of my heat lamp I stretched my back to avoid a cramp When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a fluorescent light That sent me into the night And made me stop my Project.
And in the campus dark I saw Five hundred seniors, maybe more Seniors talking without speaking Seniors hearing without listening Seniors writing chapters that voices never share And no one dared Disturb my work on project
"Underclassman," said I, "You do not know How project like a cancer grows Hear my words and transfer now Before you wish to leap off of a prow” But my words, like silent raindrops fell And echoed In the wells of Project silence
And the Seniors bowed and wrote In the notebooks that they tote And then they fleshed out the warning In the chapters they were forming And they said, “The words of the prophets are written on the carrel walls And library halls” And typed: the sounds of Project.