Brown writes: "Back in the go-go days of 2011 I got into some sort of
post-modern running conflict with a certain declining superpower that shall
remain nameless, and shortly afterwards found myself in jail awaiting trial
on 17 federal criminal counts carrying a combined maximum sentence of 105
years in prison. Luckily I got off with just 63 months, which here in the
Republic of Crazyland is actually not too bad of an outcome."
Barrett Brown. (photo: Nikki Loeher/Daily Beast)
Review of Arts and Letters and Prison: A Visit to the Sweat Lodge
By Barrett Brown, The Intercept
20 July 15
The Barrett Brown Review of Arts and Letters and Prison
ack in the go-go days of 2011 I got into some sort of post-modern running
conflict with a certain declining superpower that shall remain nameless, and
shortly afterwards found myself in jail awaiting trial on 17 federal
criminal counts carrying a combined maximum sentence of 105 years in prison.
Luckily I got off with just 63 months, which here in the Republic of
Crazyland is actually not too bad of an outcome.
The surreal details of the case itself may be found in any number of
mainstream and not-so-mainstream news articles, from which you will learn
that I was the official spokesman for Anonymous, or perhaps the unofficial
spokesman for Anonymous, or maybe simply the self-proclaimed spokesman for
Anonymous, or alternatively the guy who denied being the spokesman for
Anonymous over and over again, sometimes on national television to no
apparent effect. You'll also find that I was either a conventional
journalist, an unconventional journalist, a satirist who despised all
journalists, an activist, a whistleblower, a nihilistic and self-absorbed
cyberpunk adventurer out to make a name for himself, or "an underground
commander in a new kind of war," as NBC's Brian Williams put it, no doubt
exaggerating.
According to the few FBI files that the bureau has thus far made public, I'm
a militant anarchist revolutionary who once teamed up with Anonymous in an
attempt to "overthrow the U.S. government," and on another, presumably
separate occasion, I plotted unspecified "attacks" on the government of
Bahrain, which, if true, would really seem to be between me and the king of
Bahrain, would it not? There's also a book out there that claims I'm from
Houston, whereas in fact I spit on Houston. As to the truth on these and
other matters, I'm going to play coy for now, as whatever else I may be, I'm
definitely something of a coquette. All you really need to know for the
purposes of this column is that I'm some sort of eccentric writer who lives
in a prison, and I may or may not have it out for the king of Bahrain.
Over the last couple of years of incarceration, I've had ever so many
exciting adventures, some of which I've detailed in the prior incarnation of
this column, "The Barrett Brown Review of Arts and Letters and Jail." I've
watched two inmates get into a blood-spattered fight over the right to sell
homemade pies from a particular table. I have participated in an
unauthorized demonstration against an abusive guard and been thrown into the
hole as a suspected instigator. I've shouted out comical revolutionary
slogans while my Muslim cellmate flooded our tiny punishment cell in order
to get back at the officers who'd taken his Ramadan meal during a search.
I've found myself with nothing better to read than an autobiography by
Wendy's Old-Fashioned Hamburgers founder Dave Thomas, and read it, and found
it wanting.
I've stalked a fellow inmate who talks nonsense to himself all day due to
having never come down after a PCP trip, suspecting that he might say
something really weird that I could compare and contrast with the strange
William Blake poems I'd been reading and thought this might be a funny idea
for an article, and I was right, so do not ask me to apologize for this, for
I shall not. I've been extracted from my cell by a dozen guards and shipped
to another jail 30 miles away after the administration decided I was too
much trouble. I've spent one whole year receiving sandwiches for dinner each
night, but the joke's on them because I love sandwiches.
I've read through an entire 16th-century volume on alchemy out of pure
spite. I've added the word "Story" to the end of every instance of prison
graffiti reading "West Side" that I've come across thus far. I've conceived
the idea of writing a sequel to the Ramayana but abandoned the project after
determining that the world is not prepared for such a thing. I've been
subjected to a gag order at the request of the prosecution on the grounds
that the latest Guardian article I'd written from jail had been "critical of
the government." I've learned all sorts of neat convict tricks like making
dice out of toilet paper, popping locks on old cell doors, and appreciating
mediocre rap. I've managed to refrain from getting any ironic prison tattoos
and feel about 65 percent certain that I'll be able to hold out for the two
years left in my sentence. And I've read Robert Caro's four-volume biography
of Lyndon Johnson over the course of a month, in the process becoming
something of a minor god, beyond good and evil, unfazed by man's wickedness.
After being sentenced last January I released a statement reading:
"Good News! - The U.S. government decided today that because I did such a
good job investigating the cyber-industrial complex, they're now going to
send me to investigate the prison-industrial complex. For the next 35
months, I'll be provided with free food, clothes, and housing as I seek to
expose wrongdoing by Bureau of Prisons officials and staff and otherwise
report on news and culture in the world's greatest prison system. I want to
thank the Department of Justice for having put so much time and energy into
advocating on my behalf; rather than holding a grudge against me for the two
years of work I put into in bringing attention to a DOJ-linked campaign to
harass and discredit journalists like Glenn Greenwald, the agency instead
labored tirelessly to ensure that I received this very prestigious
assignment. Wish me luck!"
In fact I had no intention of doing anything of the kind; it was merely the
same manner of idle bluster that I've been putting out to the press for
years now because I'm a braggart. Actually I was hoping to just sort of
relax and maybe catch up on my plotting. But a month later, when I arrived
at the Fort Worth Correctional Institution to serve the remainder of my
sentence, the place turned out to be an unspoiled journalistic paradise of
poorly concealed government corruption and ham-fisted cover-ups. Even so, I
was still reluctant to grab at even this low-hanging fruit. I'd spent the 18
months prior to my arrest overseeing a crowd-sourced investigation into that
aforementioned "cyber-industrial complex," a subject which, although
important, I also happen to find personally distasteful; the research end
involved going through tens of thousands of emails stolen by Anonymous from
the toy-fascist government desk-spies and jumped-up quasi-literate corporate
technicians to whom the American "citizenry" have accidentally granted jus
primae noctis over several Constitutional amendments. I hate all this
computer shit and was actually a little relieved when the FBI finally took
me down, thereby sparing me from the obligation to read another million
words of e-Morlock jibber-jabber about Romas/COIN and Odyssey and persona
management and whatever else the public is just going to end up ignoring
until it's too late anyway.
So I was disinclined to sully the rest of my incarceration vacation by
having to memorize a book of Bureau of Prisons policies and court rulings on
due process rights for inmates to see which ones are being routinely
violated by the prison administration, and then run around secretly
interviewing inmates and getting copies of receipts and making Freedom of
Information requests and all that. After all, there already exists here a
clandestine network of inmates who do all of this and more, and who
routinely make significant discoveries ranging from procedural violations to
outright criminal conduct by staff and administrators - and, naturally, all
of these documented revelations are generally ignored by the incompetent
regional reporters to whom the inmates occasionally send such materials. As
I happen to know some of the 3 or 4 percent of U.S. journalists and editors
who are capable of doing their jobs, I figured I'd just hook one of them up
with the prisoner in question, hope that some instance of wrongdoing gets
exposed in print, take more than my share of the credit, put out a victory
statement reading, "No one imprisons Barrett Brown and gets away with it!
Mwah ha ha!!" or something to that effect, and then spend the rest of my
sentence doing whatever it is that I do for recreation.
In late March I put my awesome plan in motion, using the inmate email system
to follow up with a journalist I'd provided with contact info for one of the
inmate researchers and reiterating that the fellow had documented evidence
of corruption within the Bureau of Prisons. Then, an hour later, my email
was cut off. After a couple of days of inquiry I was pulled aside by the
resident head of security, a D.C. liaison by the name of Terence Moore, who
told me he'd been the one to cut off my email access, as I'd been "using it
for the wrong thing," which he clarified to mean talking to the press. When
I sought to challenge this plainly illegal move by turning in the BP-9 form
to begin the Administrative Remedy process that inmates are required to
exhaust before suing the federal official who's violated their right to due
process under what's known as a Bivens claim, the prison's Administrative
Remedy coordinator simply failed to log it into the system for over a month,
finally doing so only after the matter had been brought to the attention of
the press; finally on June 4 he deigned to register receipt of the BP-9,
thereby belatedly starting the clock on the 20 days the prison is allotted
in which to address one's grievance - and then he failed to respond even by
that illicitly extended deadline.
I've since learned that this sort of thing is common here, and that in fact
I was lucky to get my grievance officially acknowledged as received at all;
I've seen copies of forms that have yet to be logged five months after being
turned in to the unit staff. That would be problematic enough anywhere, as
it constitutes denial of access to the courts. But it's especially
despicable at an institution like this, which includes a medical unit for
inmates who require ongoing treatment - because to the extent that they
don't actually receive that treatment, the only recourse is to pursue the
Remedy process so that their complaints won't simply be tossed out of court
on the grounds that they've "failed to exhaust" that process before going to
the judge. I've included copies of the relevant documents in prior columns
and will continue to provide updates as I take my case to the regional
office, the national office, and finally to the courts, as of course it will
be interesting to see whether or not the BOP takes due process seriously or,
barring that, is at least willing to buy me off with a carton of Marlboros.
In the meantime, I continue to have neat adventures. Last month one of the
American Indian inmates invited me to attend their weekly sweat lodge
ceremony, which is held in a fenced-off area that each federal prison is
required to provide for ritual use by the Natives. The next morning I showed
up at the appointed time and, having determined that it wasn't an ambush, I
began helping the 20 or so resident Indians break up tree branches for fire
kindling, something I did very much with the air of a five-year-old who
believes himself to be "helping Daddy." Next we built a large bonfire (I
assisted by staying out the way and being good) by which to heat up several
dozen large rocks that would be used for "the sweat." The fire-making
process was expedited by strategically placed crumpled-up sheets of the Fort
Worth Star-Telegram, which I gather is not a strictly traditional aspect of
most shamanistic ceremonies. As if to acknowledge this, one of the Indians
declared, "The one good thing the white man ever did was invent paper."
Naturally all eyes were on me, and I knew that this might be my only chance
to win them over. "We didn't invent it," I blurted out. "We just stole it
from the Chinese." This produced appreciative chuckles all around. "I got a
laugh out of the Indians!" I thought exultantly, my triumph so complete that
I was unbothered by the fact that what I'd said wasn't really true.
By and by we crawled into the lodge, a wood-and-canvas structure with a dirt
floor, in the middle of which had been dug a pit to hold the heated rocks
that would be providing the extraordinary heat we would need to sweat out
our sins. The flap was then closed from the outside, leaving us in perfect
darkness, and thereafter began the first of the 15-minute "rounds" of the
sweat ceremony, which consisted of all manner of tribal songs, entreaties to
the spirits, and sometimes just discussions and announcements. At one point
my sponsor, a Lakota, declared that although superficially white, I might
nonetheless have an "Indian spirit." It was one of the nicest things anyone
had ever said about me, this polite supposition that I might not really be
descended from the fair-skinned race of marauding, treaty-breaking slavers
whose Novus Ordo Seclorum had been built on a foundation of genocide. But
insomuch as I'd spent the bulk of the ceremony not in prayer, but rather in
a state of neurotic concern over whether or not my self-deprecating comment
from an hour earlier about whites stealing paper could have perhaps been a
bit more crisply phrased, I'm afraid my spirit would seem to be Anglo-Saxon
after all.
Although undeniably majestic, the ceremony was also something of a
disappointment. I had gone into the thing hoping that I might mysteriously
know exactly what to do - how to pass the peace pipe and all that - and
maybe even start singing old Cherokee songs that the eldest of those present
would barely recall having heard from their own grandfathers. Stunned, the
Indians would collectively intone, "He shall know your ways as if born to
them," this being the ancient prophecy I had thereby fulfilled, and then I
would unite the tribes under my banner and lead the foremost of their
warriors on a jihad against our shared enemies, as Paul Muad'Dib did.
Instead, the Indians had to remind me several times not to just stand up and
start walking around during the ceremony.
I'm currently in the midst of another adventure, having been placed back in
the hole two weeks ago after a suspicious incident in which staff singled me
out for a search of my locker and found a cup of homemade alcohol, or
"hooch." Next time, then, we'll take a look at life here in the Special
Housing Unit, or SHU, as the hole is more formally known, and where I expect
to spend some 45 days. And when I get back, there better not be any more
Republican presidential primary contenders. You don't need three dozen
slightly different variations on right-Hegelian nationalist populism from
which to choose. That's just excessive.
Disparaging Comment of the Day about General Douglas MacArthur:
"He'd like to occupy a throne room surrounded by experts in flattery; while
in a dungeon beneath, unknown to the world, would be a bunch of able slaves
doing his work and producing the things that, to the public, would represent
the brilliant accomplishment of his mind. He's a fool, but worse, he is a
puking baby."
- Dwight Eisenhower
(Quoted by Jean Edward Smith, Eisenhower in War and Peace)
Error! Hyperlink reference not valid. Error! Hyperlink reference not valid.
Barrett Brown. (photo: Nikki Loeher/Daily Beast)
https://firstlook.org/theintercept/2015/07/16/barrett-brown-review-prison/ht
tps://firstlook.org/theintercept/2015/07/16/barrett-brown-review-prison/
Review of Arts and Letters and Prison: A Visit to the Sweat Lodge
By Barrett Brown, The Intercept
20 July 15
The Barrett Brown Review of Arts and Letters and Prison
ack in the go-go days of 2011 I got into some sort of post-modern running
conflict with a certain declining superpower that shall remain nameless, and
shortly afterwards found myself in jail awaiting trial on 17 federal
criminal counts carrying a combined maximum sentence of 105 years in prison.
Luckily I got off with just 63 months, which here in the Republic of
Crazyland is actually not too bad of an outcome.
The surreal details of the case itself may be found in any number of
mainstream and not-so-mainstream news articles, from which you will learn
that I was the official spokesman for Anonymous, or perhaps the unofficial
spokesman for Anonymous, or maybe simply the self-proclaimed spokesman for
Anonymous, or alternatively the guy who denied being the spokesman for
Anonymous over and over again, sometimes on national television to no
apparent effect. You'll also find that I was either a conventional
journalist, an unconventional journalist, a satirist who despised all
journalists, an activist, a whistleblower, a nihilistic and self-absorbed
cyberpunk adventurer out to make a name for himself, or "an underground
commander in a new kind of war," as NBC's Brian Williams put it, no doubt
exaggerating.
According to the few FBI files that the bureau has thus far made public, I'm
a militant anarchist revolutionary who once teamed up with Anonymous in an
attempt to "overthrow the U.S. government," and on another, presumably
separate occasion, I plotted unspecified "attacks" on the government of
Bahrain, which, if true, would really seem to be between me and the king of
Bahrain, would it not? There's also a book out there that claims I'm from
Houston, whereas in fact I spit on Houston. As to the truth on these and
other matters, I'm going to play coy for now, as whatever else I may be, I'm
definitely something of a coquette. All you really need to know for the
purposes of this column is that I'm some sort of eccentric writer who lives
in a prison, and I may or may not have it out for the king of Bahrain.
Over the last couple of years of incarceration, I've had ever so many
exciting adventures, some of which I've detailed in the prior incarnation of
this column, "The Barrett Brown Review of Arts and Letters and Jail." I've
watched two inmates get into a blood-spattered fight over the right to sell
homemade pies from a particular table. I have participated in an
unauthorized demonstration against an abusive guard and been thrown into the
hole as a suspected instigator. I've shouted out comical revolutionary
slogans while my Muslim cellmate flooded our tiny punishment cell in order
to get back at the officers who'd taken his Ramadan meal during a search.
I've found myself with nothing better to read than an autobiography by
Wendy's Old-Fashioned Hamburgers founder Dave Thomas, and read it, and found
it wanting.
I've stalked a fellow inmate who talks nonsense to himself all day due to
having never come down after a PCP trip, suspecting that he might say
something really weird that I could compare and contrast with the strange
William Blake poems I'd been reading and thought this might be a funny idea
for an article, and I was right, so do not ask me to apologize for this, for
I shall not. I've been extracted from my cell by a dozen guards and shipped
to another jail 30 miles away after the administration decided I was too
much trouble. I've spent one whole year receiving sandwiches for dinner each
night, but the joke's on them because I love sandwiches.
I've read through an entire 16th-century volume on alchemy out of pure
spite. I've added the word "Story" to the end of every instance of prison
graffiti reading "West Side" that I've come across thus far. I've conceived
the idea of writing a sequel to the Ramayana but abandoned the project after
determining that the world is not prepared for such a thing. I've been
subjected to a gag order at the request of the prosecution on the grounds
that the latest Guardian article I'd written from jail had been "critical of
the government." I've learned all sorts of neat convict tricks like making
dice out of toilet paper, popping locks on old cell doors, and appreciating
mediocre rap. I've managed to refrain from getting any ironic prison tattoos
and feel about 65 percent certain that I'll be able to hold out for the two
years left in my sentence. And I've read Robert Caro's four-volume biography
of Lyndon Johnson over the course of a month, in the process becoming
something of a minor god, beyond good and evil, unfazed by man's wickedness.
After being sentenced last January I released a statement reading:
"Good News! - The U.S. government decided today that because I did such a
good job investigating the cyber-industrial complex, they're now going to
send me to investigate the prison-industrial complex. For the next 35
months, I'll be provided with free food, clothes, and housing as I seek to
expose wrongdoing by Bureau of Prisons officials and staff and otherwise
report on news and culture in the world's greatest prison system. I want to
thank the Department of Justice for having put so much time and energy into
advocating on my behalf; rather than holding a grudge against me for the two
years of work I put into in bringing attention to a DOJ-linked campaign to
harass and discredit journalists like Glenn Greenwald, the agency instead
labored tirelessly to ensure that I received this very prestigious
assignment. Wish me luck!"
In fact I had no intention of doing anything of the kind; it was merely the
same manner of idle bluster that I've been putting out to the press for
years now because I'm a braggart. Actually I was hoping to just sort of
relax and maybe catch up on my plotting. But a month later, when I arrived
at the Fort Worth Correctional Institution to serve the remainder of my
sentence, the place turned out to be an unspoiled journalistic paradise of
poorly concealed government corruption and ham-fisted cover-ups. Even so, I
was still reluctant to grab at even this low-hanging fruit. I'd spent the 18
months prior to my arrest overseeing a crowd-sourced investigation into that
aforementioned "cyber-industrial complex," a subject which, although
important, I also happen to find personally distasteful; the research end
involved going through tens of thousands of emails stolen by Anonymous from
the toy-fascist government desk-spies and jumped-up quasi-literate corporate
technicians to whom the American "citizenry" have accidentally granted jus
primae noctis over several Constitutional amendments. I hate all this
computer shit and was actually a little relieved when the FBI finally took
me down, thereby sparing me from the obligation to read another million
words of e-Morlock jibber-jabber about Romas/COIN and Odyssey and persona
management and whatever else the public is just going to end up ignoring
until it's too late anyway.
So I was disinclined to sully the rest of my incarceration vacation by
having to memorize a book of Bureau of Prisons policies and court rulings on
due process rights for inmates to see which ones are being routinely
violated by the prison administration, and then run around secretly
interviewing inmates and getting copies of receipts and making Freedom of
Information requests and all that. After all, there already exists here a
clandestine network of inmates who do all of this and more, and who
routinely make significant discoveries ranging from procedural violations to
outright criminal conduct by staff and administrators - and, naturally, all
of these documented revelations are generally ignored by the incompetent
regional reporters to whom the inmates occasionally send such materials. As
I happen to know some of the 3 or 4 percent of U.S. journalists and editors
who are capable of doing their jobs, I figured I'd just hook one of them up
with the prisoner in question, hope that some instance of wrongdoing gets
exposed in print, take more than my share of the credit, put out a victory
statement reading, "No one imprisons Barrett Brown and gets away with it!
Mwah ha ha!!" or something to that effect, and then spend the rest of my
sentence doing whatever it is that I do for recreation.
In late March I put my awesome plan in motion, using the inmate email system
to follow up with a journalist I'd provided with contact info for one of the
inmate researchers and reiterating that the fellow had documented evidence
of corruption within the Bureau of Prisons. Then, an hour later, my email
was cut off. After a couple of days of inquiry I was pulled aside by the
resident head of security, a D.C. liaison by the name of Terence Moore, who
told me he'd been the one to cut off my email access, as I'd been "using it
for the wrong thing," which he clarified to mean talking to the press. When
I sought to challenge this plainly illegal move by turning in the BP-9 form
to begin the Administrative Remedy process that inmates are required to
exhaust before suing the federal official who's violated their right to due
process under what's known as a Bivens claim, the prison's Administrative
Remedy coordinator simply failed to log it into the system for over a month,
finally doing so only after the matter had been brought to the attention of
the press; finally on June 4 he deigned to register receipt of the BP-9,
thereby belatedly starting the clock on the 20 days the prison is allotted
in which to address one's grievance - and then he failed to respond even by
that illicitly extended deadline.
I've since learned that this sort of thing is common here, and that in fact
I was lucky to get my grievance officially acknowledged as received at all;
I've seen copies of forms that have yet to be logged five months after being
turned in to the unit staff. That would be problematic enough anywhere, as
it constitutes denial of access to the courts. But it's especially
despicable at an institution like this, which includes a medical unit for
inmates who require ongoing treatment - because to the extent that they
don't actually receive that treatment, the only recourse is to pursue the
Remedy process so that their complaints won't simply be tossed out of court
on the grounds that they've "failed to exhaust" that process before going to
the judge. I've included copies of the relevant documents in prior columns
and will continue to provide updates as I take my case to the regional
office, the national office, and finally to the courts, as of course it will
be interesting to see whether or not the BOP takes due process seriously or,
barring that, is at least willing to buy me off with a carton of Marlboros.
In the meantime, I continue to have neat adventures. Last month one of the
American Indian inmates invited me to attend their weekly sweat lodge
ceremony, which is held in a fenced-off area that each federal prison is
required to provide for ritual use by the Natives. The next morning I showed
up at the appointed time and, having determined that it wasn't an ambush, I
began helping the 20 or so resident Indians break up tree branches for fire
kindling, something I did very much with the air of a five-year-old who
believes himself to be "helping Daddy." Next we built a large bonfire (I
assisted by staying out the way and being good) by which to heat up several
dozen large rocks that would be used for "the sweat." The fire-making
process was expedited by strategically placed crumpled-up sheets of the Fort
Worth Star-Telegram, which I gather is not a strictly traditional aspect of
most shamanistic ceremonies. As if to acknowledge this, one of the Indians
declared, "The one good thing the white man ever did was invent paper."
Naturally all eyes were on me, and I knew that this might be my only chance
to win them over. "We didn't invent it," I blurted out. "We just stole it
from the Chinese." This produced appreciative chuckles all around. "I got a
laugh out of the Indians!" I thought exultantly, my triumph so complete that
I was unbothered by the fact that what I'd said wasn't really true.
By and by we crawled into the lodge, a wood-and-canvas structure with a dirt
floor, in the middle of which had been dug a pit to hold the heated rocks
that would be providing the extraordinary heat we would need to sweat out
our sins. The flap was then closed from the outside, leaving us in perfect
darkness, and thereafter began the first of the 15-minute "rounds" of the
sweat ceremony, which consisted of all manner of tribal songs, entreaties to
the spirits, and sometimes just discussions and announcements. At one point
my sponsor, a Lakota, declared that although superficially white, I might
nonetheless have an "Indian spirit." It was one of the nicest things anyone
had ever said about me, this polite supposition that I might not really be
descended from the fair-skinned race of marauding, treaty-breaking slavers
whose Novus Ordo Seclorum had been built on a foundation of genocide. But
insomuch as I'd spent the bulk of the ceremony not in prayer, but rather in
a state of neurotic concern over whether or not my self-deprecating comment
from an hour earlier about whites stealing paper could have perhaps been a
bit more crisply phrased, I'm afraid my spirit would seem to be Anglo-Saxon
after all.
Although undeniably majestic, the ceremony was also something of a
disappointment. I had gone into the thing hoping that I might mysteriously
know exactly what to do - how to pass the peace pipe and all that - and
maybe even start singing old Cherokee songs that the eldest of those present
would barely recall having heard from their own grandfathers. Stunned, the
Indians would collectively intone, "He shall know your ways as if born to
them," this being the ancient prophecy I had thereby fulfilled, and then I
would unite the tribes under my banner and lead the foremost of their
warriors on a jihad against our shared enemies, as Paul Muad'Dib did.
Instead, the Indians had to remind me several times not to just stand up and
start walking around during the ceremony.
I'm currently in the midst of another adventure, having been placed back in
the hole two weeks ago after a suspicious incident in which staff singled me
out for a search of my locker and found a cup of homemade alcohol, or
"hooch." Next time, then, we'll take a look at life here in the Special
Housing Unit, or SHU, as the hole is more formally known, and where I expect
to spend some 45 days. And when I get back, there better not be any more
Republican presidential primary contenders. You don't need three dozen
slightly different variations on right-Hegelian nationalist populism from
which to choose. That's just excessive.
Disparaging Comment of the Day about General Douglas MacArthur:
"He'd like to occupy a throne room surrounded by experts in flattery; while
in a dungeon beneath, unknown to the world, would be a bunch of able slaves
doing his work and producing the things that, to the public, would represent
the brilliant accomplishment of his mind. He's a fool, but worse, he is a
puking baby."
- Dwight Eisenhower
(Quoted by Jean Edward Smith, Eisenhower in War and Peace)
http://e-max.it/posizionamento-siti-web/socialize
http://e-max.it/posizionamento-siti-web/socialize
