Scott P. Richert
A few months after we moved to Huntington, Indiana, I was inducted into the Cosmopolitan Club, one of the country’s oldest extant discussion societies.
You never know what Lady Fortuna has in store for you next. Having quit college—after all, I knew what I wanted to do, and didn’t need lessons from some hippie in how to do it—I was shuttling between New York City and my parents’ house in the suburbs.
Aaron D. Wolf
The “Iran Nuclear Deal” was killed by President Trump on May 8, which came as no surprise to anyone who had heard a Trump campaign speech in 2016 or to those who were aware that Trump had recently hired John Bolton and Mike Pompeo.
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In the summer of 1998, a teenybopper friend and I went to see some big deal war movie. Afterwards, we walked back to her car with our minds full of weeping men and piles of guts. “Did you like that?” she asked. I said, “Are we supposed to?” This is how I imagine a pair of staff sergeants might feel walking out of Tully.
U.S. threats to crush Iran and North Korea may yet work, but as of now neither Tehran nor Pyongyang appears to be intimidated.
In countries around the world—in the Middle East, Asia Minor, Central Asia, Africa, even the Philippines—the appearance of U.S. drones in the sky (and on the ground) is often Washington’s equivalent of the camel’s nose entering a new theater of operations in this country’s forever war against “terror.”
Our world is perishing for the lack of heroes, for the lack of those Don Juans of Austria, for those new and courageous Stonewall Jacksons and for kings like John Sobieski or St. Louis of France, who would stand manfully against the onrushing tide of Modernity and decay in our civilization.