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Anything philosophy related.
inkspot
New member
There are some good books in that group. Not knowing your nephew, if he is an average kid I voted for "Into Thin Air"; honor student than the great philosophers might be interesting. I'd let him pick, he's reading it not you. I have a senior and the philosophers book would not be happening...ever lol
S
Spartacus
Guest
from SIEGE
(2003)
Chapter Twelve
Klenner was an eccentric fellow, enthused with his own enthusiasms, older than most of the others. At some point he had acquired a corporal's stripes, though he never exercised the slightest authority, even upon the newest recruit; his manner was tutorial, if anything. Most of the men simply found him strange, though some were drawn to his energetic, workmanlike habits. He worked with the supply people in the rear areas but often he would visit the forward positions on his own initiative, bringing fresh vegetables. He distributed these fresh things to anyone he came across, officers or men. Gardening was his enthusiasm and he would enlist muddy Landsers, off-duty, to follow him back to the rear where the gardens were, in those green shell-torn areas outside Velikiye Luki.
They all prized the things he grew, that spring and summer; because otherwise their rations were not so good, as in any army. He tended a small acreage outside the city; or you might consider it fairly large, if you knew that he alone had done almost all the digging in these plots, all the digging and caretaking. He had a few horses at his disposal, but often he would just harness himself to a small cart laden with manure, hauling this from the stables over to where his plots were. His body was lean from this hard work, his skin browner than so many others who spent too much time burrowed down in the trenches and dugouts of the forward line. He had helpers to help him from the supply battalions and cook's crews, but he did far more of the work than anyone else, and never chastised anyone for not keeping up with his pace.
So he didn't really need the assistance of any of the Landsers from the combat platoons, but still he would encourage them to come back and work with him, as if it were a kind of wisdom he was imparting. And there were enough who would follow him back there, into the sunshine, to weed and till for a few hours. It was peaceful there, most of the time. Apart from the Iltis operation, the front had been fairly quiet, during these warmer months.
Freitag had been up at one of the forward listening posts for ten hours. Duty in one of these positions was arduous, even while almost always dull and uneventful. But a man up there could not relax, and so upon being relieved he would always be stiff and tired. For the moment, though, Freitag did not want to go back and sleep in one of the dugouts, nor sit dully in those shadows and talk quietly or smoke or play cards. He did do that when he was empty and listless, or just had to sleep. Today he walked back that further mile or so, back to where Klenner was working.
There were a few other men back there too, hoeing or mounding soil at their own pace, while Klenner worked nearby with his own industriousness. Freitag worked and joked quietly with some of the others, among rows of beets and cucumbers, other things, clumps of manure and compost. It was peaceful. The countryside was large. Often they rested against the handles of their hoes or shovels, not because they were tired, but just to stand there quietly and absorb the satisfaction of seeing things growing at their feet, to smoke and stare about at the land without being threatened by fire. Klenner for all his continuous activity would sometimes join them, discoursing on growing things. The others would listen to him with interest but often he would talk on and on, his way of talking as compulsive as his physical energy, and so Freitag or some other man would listen abstractedly while letting their eyes wander across the land.
The land was marked, or anchored, by the city over to the right, white stone murky in heavy summer daylight. Then the cemetery, the birchbark cemetery of one of the regiments, on the outskirts near the bank of the Lovat. Then the moorlands, with birch trees clumped around the greener places—though all was green during these months, with a good deal of rainfall this summer—and part of the horizon anchored by the railroad embankment leading to Novo Sokolniki.
The same clouds were up as were up almost every day, their scattered masses spread far above serving also to spread the landscape underneath farther and farther, giving scale to the immensity and making it more forceful than it would be on a clear day. Sunlight in deep, mobile shafts walked slowly across the moors.
A man appeared at the edge of a forested area nearby, to the left of the railroad embankment. It was Kordts. Klenner looked up, saw Freitag studying him over there, and himself turned to watch, mumbling some words of approval or curiosity.
"He should be careful out there," said Klenner. "Is he a gardener?"
"Could be," said Freitag.
It was against regulations to wander so far afield, especially alone; though regulations not always strictly enforced. Most men instinctively stayed near to the company of others, but there were some who felt the need to wander back from the dull confinement of the trenches, when they had the opportunity from time to time. Kordts was one of these, walking off by himself into the hinterlands sometimes, when off-duty. He had asked Freitag to accompany him once or twice—stretch your legs, get some air, as he would say in one form or another—but the regulations, and the reports of partisans that were behind the regulations, made Freitag nervous. He had heard of no ambushes or murders this close to the city, but you never knew. The moors were wide and the forests scattered across the moors were deep enough.
In truth Freitag would have liked to wander off once in a while. He was a good talker, used to associating with people in close company, but he wouldn't have minded some solitude for a few hours. If Kordts had encouraged him more he might have let himself be persuaded. But Kordts while mentioning it had simply left it up to him; he seemed indifferent whether he wandered about alone or in someone's company.
"You don't feel nervous sometimes, out there?" Freitag had said one day.
"Oh. Maybe a little," Kordts had said. "Not so much though. I've felt a little easier lately. Might as well take advantage of it while it lasts, heh? Ha ha."
While it lasts. Freitag had guessed this to mean while his nerves lasted, before his nerves inevitably began to crawl in upon him, making him more reluctant to wander about under the distant sun-clouds. Freitag wasn't sure; maybe he was thinking of himself more than Kordts. A certain resigned glumness had gradually come over them all in the train, the nearer the train had brought them back to the front. You wouldn't expect much different. But Kordts seemed to have remained in fairly good spirits, even for some time afterwards.
Beside him Klenner said, "Wave him over this way, why don't you? He needs to set his back to something useful."
"Ah. Maybe," said Freitag. But he raised his arm. Kordts was coming their way, slowly, in the distance, between the forest and the railroad embankment. He raised his hand to acknowledge the signal. Another man nearby said someone should let off a few rounds out there, to make him jump a little. People laughed.
Freitag felt the need to talk and suddenly he was describing at length to Klenner the garden-plot he had tended with his mother, in the scrubby lot outside the large building where he had lived since childhood. He began to feel easier and more animated, explaining little tricks he had used to grow things in tired and scabby soil. Freitag did not even know Klenner's last name, calling him Fred as almost everyone did, as if it were natural to call a peculiar older non-com by his first name. Klenner never seemed to mind this and Freitag was taken aback when the man abruptly began berating him for being so full of himself.
"Be humbler," Klenner commanded. "It's unhealthy to be so full of notions. Listen more. It's all in the proportions. Soil is no different."
Freitag felt he had been talking agreeably enough and was somewhat insulted. He persisted in smiling in a friendly manner and tried to explain himself, but Klenner only glared at him and turned his back, stepping his shovel into the soil. He was shirtless and Freitag stared at his brown back and felt still more insulted. But he told himself the gardener was too peculiar to take all that seriously. He could not help feeling a little worked up but after a minute or two he just shrugged, swinging his shovel up on his shoulder, gratified when another man gave him a knowing look and nodded his head in Klenner's direction.
"Well, he's a funny one," said Kordts, too, when he came up a few minutes later, having a smoke with Freitag. Kordts was not inclined to do any gardening. It just reminded him of the trenches, he said. Walking was the only thing he could tolerate; walking or sleeping. He grinned crookedly. The grin seemed somewhat incongruous, set beneath eyes that often cast about with a dark fixation on the things around.
He walked back towards the forward positions, less than a mile away; though nothing whatever of them visible from this distance. Freitag stayed on a while, thinking he would take Klenner's measure by not being put in an ill-humor, talking to him again if he felt like it.
(2003)
Chapter Twelve
Klenner was an eccentric fellow, enthused with his own enthusiasms, older than most of the others. At some point he had acquired a corporal's stripes, though he never exercised the slightest authority, even upon the newest recruit; his manner was tutorial, if anything. Most of the men simply found him strange, though some were drawn to his energetic, workmanlike habits. He worked with the supply people in the rear areas but often he would visit the forward positions on his own initiative, bringing fresh vegetables. He distributed these fresh things to anyone he came across, officers or men. Gardening was his enthusiasm and he would enlist muddy Landsers, off-duty, to follow him back to the rear where the gardens were, in those green shell-torn areas outside Velikiye Luki.
They all prized the things he grew, that spring and summer; because otherwise their rations were not so good, as in any army. He tended a small acreage outside the city; or you might consider it fairly large, if you knew that he alone had done almost all the digging in these plots, all the digging and caretaking. He had a few horses at his disposal, but often he would just harness himself to a small cart laden with manure, hauling this from the stables over to where his plots were. His body was lean from this hard work, his skin browner than so many others who spent too much time burrowed down in the trenches and dugouts of the forward line. He had helpers to help him from the supply battalions and cook's crews, but he did far more of the work than anyone else, and never chastised anyone for not keeping up with his pace.
So he didn't really need the assistance of any of the Landsers from the combat platoons, but still he would encourage them to come back and work with him, as if it were a kind of wisdom he was imparting. And there were enough who would follow him back there, into the sunshine, to weed and till for a few hours. It was peaceful there, most of the time. Apart from the Iltis operation, the front had been fairly quiet, during these warmer months.
Freitag had been up at one of the forward listening posts for ten hours. Duty in one of these positions was arduous, even while almost always dull and uneventful. But a man up there could not relax, and so upon being relieved he would always be stiff and tired. For the moment, though, Freitag did not want to go back and sleep in one of the dugouts, nor sit dully in those shadows and talk quietly or smoke or play cards. He did do that when he was empty and listless, or just had to sleep. Today he walked back that further mile or so, back to where Klenner was working.
There were a few other men back there too, hoeing or mounding soil at their own pace, while Klenner worked nearby with his own industriousness. Freitag worked and joked quietly with some of the others, among rows of beets and cucumbers, other things, clumps of manure and compost. It was peaceful. The countryside was large. Often they rested against the handles of their hoes or shovels, not because they were tired, but just to stand there quietly and absorb the satisfaction of seeing things growing at their feet, to smoke and stare about at the land without being threatened by fire. Klenner for all his continuous activity would sometimes join them, discoursing on growing things. The others would listen to him with interest but often he would talk on and on, his way of talking as compulsive as his physical energy, and so Freitag or some other man would listen abstractedly while letting their eyes wander across the land.
The land was marked, or anchored, by the city over to the right, white stone murky in heavy summer daylight. Then the cemetery, the birchbark cemetery of one of the regiments, on the outskirts near the bank of the Lovat. Then the moorlands, with birch trees clumped around the greener places—though all was green during these months, with a good deal of rainfall this summer—and part of the horizon anchored by the railroad embankment leading to Novo Sokolniki.
The same clouds were up as were up almost every day, their scattered masses spread far above serving also to spread the landscape underneath farther and farther, giving scale to the immensity and making it more forceful than it would be on a clear day. Sunlight in deep, mobile shafts walked slowly across the moors.
A man appeared at the edge of a forested area nearby, to the left of the railroad embankment. It was Kordts. Klenner looked up, saw Freitag studying him over there, and himself turned to watch, mumbling some words of approval or curiosity.
"He should be careful out there," said Klenner. "Is he a gardener?"
"Could be," said Freitag.
It was against regulations to wander so far afield, especially alone; though regulations not always strictly enforced. Most men instinctively stayed near to the company of others, but there were some who felt the need to wander back from the dull confinement of the trenches, when they had the opportunity from time to time. Kordts was one of these, walking off by himself into the hinterlands sometimes, when off-duty. He had asked Freitag to accompany him once or twice—stretch your legs, get some air, as he would say in one form or another—but the regulations, and the reports of partisans that were behind the regulations, made Freitag nervous. He had heard of no ambushes or murders this close to the city, but you never knew. The moors were wide and the forests scattered across the moors were deep enough.
In truth Freitag would have liked to wander off once in a while. He was a good talker, used to associating with people in close company, but he wouldn't have minded some solitude for a few hours. If Kordts had encouraged him more he might have let himself be persuaded. But Kordts while mentioning it had simply left it up to him; he seemed indifferent whether he wandered about alone or in someone's company.
"You don't feel nervous sometimes, out there?" Freitag had said one day.
"Oh. Maybe a little," Kordts had said. "Not so much though. I've felt a little easier lately. Might as well take advantage of it while it lasts, heh? Ha ha."
While it lasts. Freitag had guessed this to mean while his nerves lasted, before his nerves inevitably began to crawl in upon him, making him more reluctant to wander about under the distant sun-clouds. Freitag wasn't sure; maybe he was thinking of himself more than Kordts. A certain resigned glumness had gradually come over them all in the train, the nearer the train had brought them back to the front. You wouldn't expect much different. But Kordts seemed to have remained in fairly good spirits, even for some time afterwards.
Beside him Klenner said, "Wave him over this way, why don't you? He needs to set his back to something useful."
"Ah. Maybe," said Freitag. But he raised his arm. Kordts was coming their way, slowly, in the distance, between the forest and the railroad embankment. He raised his hand to acknowledge the signal. Another man nearby said someone should let off a few rounds out there, to make him jump a little. People laughed.
Freitag felt the need to talk and suddenly he was describing at length to Klenner the garden-plot he had tended with his mother, in the scrubby lot outside the large building where he had lived since childhood. He began to feel easier and more animated, explaining little tricks he had used to grow things in tired and scabby soil. Freitag did not even know Klenner's last name, calling him Fred as almost everyone did, as if it were natural to call a peculiar older non-com by his first name. Klenner never seemed to mind this and Freitag was taken aback when the man abruptly began berating him for being so full of himself.
"Be humbler," Klenner commanded. "It's unhealthy to be so full of notions. Listen more. It's all in the proportions. Soil is no different."
Freitag felt he had been talking agreeably enough and was somewhat insulted. He persisted in smiling in a friendly manner and tried to explain himself, but Klenner only glared at him and turned his back, stepping his shovel into the soil. He was shirtless and Freitag stared at his brown back and felt still more insulted. But he told himself the gardener was too peculiar to take all that seriously. He could not help feeling a little worked up but after a minute or two he just shrugged, swinging his shovel up on his shoulder, gratified when another man gave him a knowing look and nodded his head in Klenner's direction.
"Well, he's a funny one," said Kordts, too, when he came up a few minutes later, having a smoke with Freitag. Kordts was not inclined to do any gardening. It just reminded him of the trenches, he said. Walking was the only thing he could tolerate; walking or sleeping. He grinned crookedly. The grin seemed somewhat incongruous, set beneath eyes that often cast about with a dark fixation on the things around.
He walked back towards the forward positions, less than a mile away; though nothing whatever of them visible from this distance. Freitag stayed on a while, thinking he would take Klenner's measure by not being put in an ill-humor, talking to him again if he felt like it.
S
Spartacus
Guest
excerted from my fiction selection for him
Siege
http://www.amazon.com/Siege-Novel-Eastern-Front-1942/dp/1582880468
Siege
http://www.amazon.com/Siege-Novel-Eastern-Front-1942/dp/1582880468
S
Spartacus
Guest
Before he died in 2000 at the age of 43, Russ Schneider wrote four books set in the Russo-German front during World War II. In addition to "Siege" (released posthumously by the Military Book Club and finally available in paperback), he published two collections of short stories and the nonfiction "Gotterdammerung 1945: German's Last Stand in the East."
"Siege" is a bracing exception to the formulaic ardor that often plagues the genre of "military fiction": its captivating story erases the reader's knowledge of the historical outcome; the reluctant yet resolute soldiers are hardly superhuman; the writing manages to be both evocative and lyrical; and the author empathizes with the misery endured by the troops--without ever sympathizing with the German effort itself.
Even the prologue hints at the uniqueness of this work. Emaciated and wretched Russian prisoners are released from the Siberian Gulag, corralled into cattle cars, and shipped to the front, where they are chained to the inside walls of bunkers, handed guns, and forced to face the German onslaught. After this brief representation of the despair and terror of Stalin's human fodder, the perspective shifts to the German side for the remainder of the novel. Yet the vileness of the opening scene is so searing that most readers won't forget that, for the men forced to fight on the Eastern front, the brutality and senselessness of both sides are indistinguishable.
The majority of "Siege" is based on real events. In January 1942, Russian forces surrounded, trapped, and outnumbered troops under the command of Generalmajor Theodor Scherer--over 5,000 men--in the town of Cholm, where they held out for 105 days during one of the harshest winters on record. Six months later, Scherer found himself frustrated by another siege, in nearby Velikiye Luki, but this time he was on the outside, separated from the remainder of his forces.
While Schneider depicts Scherer as a benign if overburdened leader, the novel's nucleus comprises three fictional characters. The insolent Kordts and the garrulous teenager Freitag are the only men ensnared in both sieges. Freitag is the type of youngster who is liked, and protected, by everyone; the pair's odd friendship provides a shield for Kordts, whose coolness is viewed with suspicion by his superiors and fellow soldiers alike. During the second siege, the two men encounter Sergeant Schrader, who is drawn toward their magnetism, and Schrader's partiality for Freitag increases when his own companion is wounded and when Freitag himself is separated from Kordts. "Siege" is, above all, a tale about the resilience of friendship amidst great peril.
In the minds of all three men, both sieges take place, appropriately, in a geographical, political, and historical vacuum. For the most part, the troops in the trenches rarely knew what was happening in the world at large, and most German and Russian soldiers had little sense of the events that pushed them to slaughter each other. True--Hitler makes a cameo appearance, and the Holocaust is mentioned obliquely when Kordts encounters a group of SS officers sent to the front, but these token scenes seem obligatory rather than intrinsic to the story.
Because Schneider didn't live to see his work published, the prose occasionally has an unpolished taint--but it's never enough to overcome the brilliance of the work as a whole. Furthermore, a map and a short glossary would have been thoughtful additions, since the Russo-German front is alien territory even for those with a background in World War II history. Nevertheless, because the setting is so claustrophobic--taking place almost entirely within the confines of two small towns--readers who don't usually peruse military fiction should be able to follow the action without recourse to a reference shelf.
With historical accuracy, compassionate characterization, and (above all) a page-turning finale, "Siege" portrays the unthinkable limits of human endurance amidst the horrors of war.
"Siege" is a bracing exception to the formulaic ardor that often plagues the genre of "military fiction": its captivating story erases the reader's knowledge of the historical outcome; the reluctant yet resolute soldiers are hardly superhuman; the writing manages to be both evocative and lyrical; and the author empathizes with the misery endured by the troops--without ever sympathizing with the German effort itself.
Even the prologue hints at the uniqueness of this work. Emaciated and wretched Russian prisoners are released from the Siberian Gulag, corralled into cattle cars, and shipped to the front, where they are chained to the inside walls of bunkers, handed guns, and forced to face the German onslaught. After this brief representation of the despair and terror of Stalin's human fodder, the perspective shifts to the German side for the remainder of the novel. Yet the vileness of the opening scene is so searing that most readers won't forget that, for the men forced to fight on the Eastern front, the brutality and senselessness of both sides are indistinguishable.
The majority of "Siege" is based on real events. In January 1942, Russian forces surrounded, trapped, and outnumbered troops under the command of Generalmajor Theodor Scherer--over 5,000 men--in the town of Cholm, where they held out for 105 days during one of the harshest winters on record. Six months later, Scherer found himself frustrated by another siege, in nearby Velikiye Luki, but this time he was on the outside, separated from the remainder of his forces.
While Schneider depicts Scherer as a benign if overburdened leader, the novel's nucleus comprises three fictional characters. The insolent Kordts and the garrulous teenager Freitag are the only men ensnared in both sieges. Freitag is the type of youngster who is liked, and protected, by everyone; the pair's odd friendship provides a shield for Kordts, whose coolness is viewed with suspicion by his superiors and fellow soldiers alike. During the second siege, the two men encounter Sergeant Schrader, who is drawn toward their magnetism, and Schrader's partiality for Freitag increases when his own companion is wounded and when Freitag himself is separated from Kordts. "Siege" is, above all, a tale about the resilience of friendship amidst great peril.
In the minds of all three men, both sieges take place, appropriately, in a geographical, political, and historical vacuum. For the most part, the troops in the trenches rarely knew what was happening in the world at large, and most German and Russian soldiers had little sense of the events that pushed them to slaughter each other. True--Hitler makes a cameo appearance, and the Holocaust is mentioned obliquely when Kordts encounters a group of SS officers sent to the front, but these token scenes seem obligatory rather than intrinsic to the story.
Because Schneider didn't live to see his work published, the prose occasionally has an unpolished taint--but it's never enough to overcome the brilliance of the work as a whole. Furthermore, a map and a short glossary would have been thoughtful additions, since the Russo-German front is alien territory even for those with a background in World War II history. Nevertheless, because the setting is so claustrophobic--taking place almost entirely within the confines of two small towns--readers who don't usually peruse military fiction should be able to follow the action without recourse to a reference shelf.
With historical accuracy, compassionate characterization, and (above all) a page-turning finale, "Siege" portrays the unthinkable limits of human endurance amidst the horrors of war.
S
Spartacus
Guest
Standing Fast: German Defensive Doctrine on the Russian Front During World War II
Prewar to March 1943
by Major Timothy A. Wray
http://www-cgsc.army.mil/carl/resources/csi/wray/wray.asp
In this Research Survey, Major Timothy A. Wray provides an excellent survey of the intricacies of employing defensive tactics against a powerful opponent. Using after-action reports, unit war diaries, and other primary materials, Major Wray analyzes the doctrine and tactics that the Germans used on the Eastern Front during World War II.
At the end of World War I, the Germans adopted the elastic defense in depth: and continued to use it as their basic doctrine through the end of World War II. However, because of limitations caused by difficult terrain, severe weather, manpower and supply shortages, Soviet tactics, and Hitler's order to stand fast, German commanders were unable to implement the Elastic Defense in its true form. Even so, innovative and resourceful unit commanders were able to adapt to the harsh realities of combat and improvise defensive methods that saved the German armies from complete annihilation.
U.S. Army unit commanders on the future battlefield, while battling a motivated and aggressive force, will also face hard battlefield conditions. Therefore, these commanders, in applying the AirLand Battle tenets of initiative, depth, agility, and synchronization, will have to demonstrate the same type of innovativeness and resourcefulness as the Germans did in Russia. To operate on the Airl-and Battlefield, U.S. soldiers must depend on sound doctrine and the ability to execute it intelligently. All Army officers will benefit from Major Wray's new and vital assessment of how German doctrine was modified by the test of war.
September 1986 FREDERICK M. FRANKS, JR.
Major General, USA
Deputy Commandant
Prewar to March 1943
by Major Timothy A. Wray
http://www-cgsc.army.mil/carl/resources/csi/wray/wray.asp
In this Research Survey, Major Timothy A. Wray provides an excellent survey of the intricacies of employing defensive tactics against a powerful opponent. Using after-action reports, unit war diaries, and other primary materials, Major Wray analyzes the doctrine and tactics that the Germans used on the Eastern Front during World War II.
At the end of World War I, the Germans adopted the elastic defense in depth: and continued to use it as their basic doctrine through the end of World War II. However, because of limitations caused by difficult terrain, severe weather, manpower and supply shortages, Soviet tactics, and Hitler's order to stand fast, German commanders were unable to implement the Elastic Defense in its true form. Even so, innovative and resourceful unit commanders were able to adapt to the harsh realities of combat and improvise defensive methods that saved the German armies from complete annihilation.
U.S. Army unit commanders on the future battlefield, while battling a motivated and aggressive force, will also face hard battlefield conditions. Therefore, these commanders, in applying the AirLand Battle tenets of initiative, depth, agility, and synchronization, will have to demonstrate the same type of innovativeness and resourcefulness as the Germans did in Russia. To operate on the Airl-and Battlefield, U.S. soldiers must depend on sound doctrine and the ability to execute it intelligently. All Army officers will benefit from Major Wray's new and vital assessment of how German doctrine was modified by the test of war.
September 1986 FREDERICK M. FRANKS, JR.
Major General, USA
Deputy Commandant
Any Questions?
When I was at Cornell I was asked to give a series of lectures once a
week at an aeronautics laboratory in Buffalo. Cornell had made an
arrangement with the laboratory which included evening lectures in physics
to be given by somebody from the university. There was some guy already
doing it, but there were complaints, so the physics department came to me. I
was a young professor at the time and I couldn't say no very easily, so I
agreed to do it.
To get to Buffalo they had me go on a little airline which consisted of
one airplane. It was called Robinson Airlines (it later became Mohawk
Airlines) and I remember the first time I flew to Buffalo, Mr. Robinson was
the pilot. He knocked the ice off the wings and we flew away.
All in all, I didn't enjoy the idea of going to Buffalo every Thursday
night. The university was paying me $35 in addition to my expenses. I was a
Depression kid, and I figured I'd save the $35, which was a sizable amount
of money in those days.
Suddenly I got an idea: I realized that the purpose of the $35 was to
make the trip to Buffalo more attractive, and the way to do that is to spend
the money. So I decided to spend the $35 to entertain myself each time I
went to Buffalo, and see if I could make the trip worthwhile.
I didn't have much experience with the rest of the world. Not knowing
how to get started, I asked the taxi driver who picked me up at the airport
to guide me through the ins and outs of entertaining myself in Buffalo. He
was very helpful, and I still remember his name -- Marcuso, who drove car
number 169. I would always ask for him when I came into the airport on
Thursday nights.
As I was going to give my first lecture I asked Marcuso, "Where's an
interesting bar where lots of things are going on?" I thought that things
went on in bars.
"The Alibi Room," he said. "It's a lively place where you can meet lots
of people. I'll take you there after your lecture." After the lecture
Marcuso picked me up and drove me to the Alibi Room. On the way, I say,
"Listen, I'm gonna have to ask for some kind of drink. What's the name of a
good whiskey?"
"Ask for Black and White, water on the side," he counseled. The Alibi
Room was an elegant place with lots of people and lots of activity. The
women were dressed in furs, everybody was friendly, and the phones were
ringing all the time. I walked up to the bar and ordered my Black and White,
water on the side. The bartender was very friendly, quickly found a
beautiful woman to sit next to me, and introduced her. I bought her drinks.
I liked the place and decided to come back the following week.
Every Thursday night I'd come to Buffalo and be driven in car number
169 to my lecture and then to the Alibi Room. I'd walk into the bar and
order my Black and White, water on the side. After a few weeks of this it
got to the point where as soon as I would come in, before I reached the bar,
there would be a Black and White, water on the side, waiting for me. "Your
regular, sir," was the bartender's greeting.
I'd take the whole shot glass down at once, to show I was a tough guy,
like I had seen in the movies, and then I'd sit around for about twenty
seconds before I drank the water. After a while I didn't even need the
water.
The bartender always saw to it that the empty chair next to mine was
quickly filled by a beautiful woman, and everything would start off all
right, but just before the bar closed, they all had to go off somewhere. I
thought it was possibly because I was getting pretty drunk by that time.
One time, as the Alibi Room was closing, the girl I was buying drinks
for that night suggested we go to another place where she knew a lot of
people. It was on the second floor of some other building which gave no hint
that there was a bar upstairs. All the bars in Buffalo had to close at two
o'clock, and all the people in the bars would get sucked into this big hall
on the second floor, and keep right on going -- illegally, of course.
I tried to figure out a way that I could stay in bars and watch what
was going on without getting drunk. One night I noticed a guy who had been
there a lot go up to the bar and order a glass of milk. Everybody knew what
his problem was: he had an ulcer, the poor fella. That gave me an idea.
The next time I come into the Alibi Room the bartender says, "The
usual, sir?"
"No. Coke. Just plain Coke," I say, with a disappointed look on my
face.
The other guys gather around and sympathize: "Yeah, I was on the wagon
three weeks ago," one says. "It's really tough, Dick, it's really tough,"
says another.
They all honored me. I was "on the wagon" now, and had the guts to
enter that bar, with all its "temptations," and just order Coke -- because,
of course, I had to see my friends. And I maintained that for a month! I was
a real tough bastard.
One time I was in the men's room of the bar and there was a guy at the
urinal. He was kind of drunk, and said to me in a mean-sounding voice, "I
don't like your face. I think I'll push it in."
I was scared green. I replied in an equally mean voice, "Get out of my
way, or I'll pee right through ya!"
He said something else, and I figured it was getting pretty close to a
fight now. I had never been in a fight. I didn't know what to do, exactly,
and I was afraid of getting hurt. I did think of one thing: I moved away
from the wall, because I figured if I got hit, I'd get hit from the back,
too. Then I felt a sort of funny crunching in my eye -- it didn't hurt much
-- and the next thing I know, I'm slamming the son of a gun right back,
automatically. It was remarkable for me to discover that I didn't have to
think; the "machinery" knew what to do.
"OK. That's one for one," I said. "Ya wanna keep on goin?"
The other guy backed off and left. We would have killed each other if
the other guy was as dumb as I was.
I went to wash up, my hands are shaking, blood is leaking out of my
gums -- I've got a weak place in my gums -- and my eye hurt. After I calmed
down I went back into the bar and swaggered up to the bartender: "Black and
White, water on the side," I said. I figured it would calm my nerves.
I didn't realize it, but the guy I socked in the men's room was over in
another part of the bar, talking with three other guys. Soon these three
guys -- big, tough guys -- came over to where I was sitting and leaned over
me. They looked down threateningly, and said, "What's the idea of pickin' a
fight with our friend?"
Well I'm so dumb I don't realize I'm being intimidated; all I know is
right and wrong. I simply whip around and snap at them, "Why don't ya find
out who started what first, before ya start makin' trouble?"
The big guys were so taken aback by the fact that their intimidation
didn't work that they backed away and left.
After a while one of the guys came back and said to me, "You're right,
Curly's always doin' that. He's always gettin' into fights and askin' us to
straighten it out."
"You're damn tootin' I'm right!" I said, and the guy sat down next to
me.
Curly and the other two fellas came over and sat down on the other side
of me, two seats away. Curly said something about my eye not looking too
good, and I said his didn't look to be in the best of shape either.
I continue talking tough, because I figure that's the way a real man is
supposed to act in a bar.
The situation's getting tighter and tighter, and people in the bar are
worrying about what's going to happen. The bartender says, "No fighting in
here, boys! Calm down!"
Curly hisses, "That's OK; we'll get 'im when he goes out."
Then a genius comes by. Every field has its first-rate experts. This
fella comes over to me and says, "Hey, Dan! I didn't know you were in town!
It's good to see you!"
Then he says to Curly, "Say, Paul! I'd like you to meet a good friend
of mine, Dan, here. I think you two guys would like each other. Why don't
you shake?"
We shake hands. Curly says, "Uh, pleased to meet you."
Then the genius leans over to me and very quietly whispers, "Now get
out of here fast!"
"But they said they would..."
"Just go!" he says.
I got my coat and went out quickly. I walked along near the walls of
the buildings, in case they went looking for me. Nobody came out, and I went
to my hotel. It happened to be the night of the last lecture, so I never
went back to the Alibi Room, at least for a few years.
(I did go back to the Alibi Room about ten years later, and it was all
different. It wasn't nice and polished like it was before; it was sleazy and
had seedy-looking people in it. I talked to the bartender, who was a
different man, and told him about the old days. "Oh, yes!" he said. "This
was the bar where all the bookmakers and their girls used to hang out." I
understood then why there were so many friendly and elegant-looking people
there, and why the phones were ringing all the time.)
The next morning, when I got up and looked in the mirror, I discovered
that a black eye takes a few hours to develop fully. When I got back to
Ithaca that day, I went to deliver some stuff over to the dean's office. A
professor of philosophy saw my black eye and exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Feynman!
Don't tell me you got that walking into a door?"
"Not at all," I said. "I got it in a fight in the men's room of a bar
in Buffalo."
"Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed.
Then there was the problem of giving the lecture to my regular class. I
walked into the lecture hall with my head down, studying my notes. When I
was ready to start, I lifted my head and looked straight at them, and said
what I always said before I began my lecture -- but this time, in a tougher
tone of voice: "Any questions?"
-Chapter from "Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman!".
When I was at Cornell I was asked to give a series of lectures once a
week at an aeronautics laboratory in Buffalo. Cornell had made an
arrangement with the laboratory which included evening lectures in physics
to be given by somebody from the university. There was some guy already
doing it, but there were complaints, so the physics department came to me. I
was a young professor at the time and I couldn't say no very easily, so I
agreed to do it.
To get to Buffalo they had me go on a little airline which consisted of
one airplane. It was called Robinson Airlines (it later became Mohawk
Airlines) and I remember the first time I flew to Buffalo, Mr. Robinson was
the pilot. He knocked the ice off the wings and we flew away.
All in all, I didn't enjoy the idea of going to Buffalo every Thursday
night. The university was paying me $35 in addition to my expenses. I was a
Depression kid, and I figured I'd save the $35, which was a sizable amount
of money in those days.
Suddenly I got an idea: I realized that the purpose of the $35 was to
make the trip to Buffalo more attractive, and the way to do that is to spend
the money. So I decided to spend the $35 to entertain myself each time I
went to Buffalo, and see if I could make the trip worthwhile.
I didn't have much experience with the rest of the world. Not knowing
how to get started, I asked the taxi driver who picked me up at the airport
to guide me through the ins and outs of entertaining myself in Buffalo. He
was very helpful, and I still remember his name -- Marcuso, who drove car
number 169. I would always ask for him when I came into the airport on
Thursday nights.
As I was going to give my first lecture I asked Marcuso, "Where's an
interesting bar where lots of things are going on?" I thought that things
went on in bars.
"The Alibi Room," he said. "It's a lively place where you can meet lots
of people. I'll take you there after your lecture." After the lecture
Marcuso picked me up and drove me to the Alibi Room. On the way, I say,
"Listen, I'm gonna have to ask for some kind of drink. What's the name of a
good whiskey?"
"Ask for Black and White, water on the side," he counseled. The Alibi
Room was an elegant place with lots of people and lots of activity. The
women were dressed in furs, everybody was friendly, and the phones were
ringing all the time. I walked up to the bar and ordered my Black and White,
water on the side. The bartender was very friendly, quickly found a
beautiful woman to sit next to me, and introduced her. I bought her drinks.
I liked the place and decided to come back the following week.
Every Thursday night I'd come to Buffalo and be driven in car number
169 to my lecture and then to the Alibi Room. I'd walk into the bar and
order my Black and White, water on the side. After a few weeks of this it
got to the point where as soon as I would come in, before I reached the bar,
there would be a Black and White, water on the side, waiting for me. "Your
regular, sir," was the bartender's greeting.
I'd take the whole shot glass down at once, to show I was a tough guy,
like I had seen in the movies, and then I'd sit around for about twenty
seconds before I drank the water. After a while I didn't even need the
water.
The bartender always saw to it that the empty chair next to mine was
quickly filled by a beautiful woman, and everything would start off all
right, but just before the bar closed, they all had to go off somewhere. I
thought it was possibly because I was getting pretty drunk by that time.
One time, as the Alibi Room was closing, the girl I was buying drinks
for that night suggested we go to another place where she knew a lot of
people. It was on the second floor of some other building which gave no hint
that there was a bar upstairs. All the bars in Buffalo had to close at two
o'clock, and all the people in the bars would get sucked into this big hall
on the second floor, and keep right on going -- illegally, of course.
I tried to figure out a way that I could stay in bars and watch what
was going on without getting drunk. One night I noticed a guy who had been
there a lot go up to the bar and order a glass of milk. Everybody knew what
his problem was: he had an ulcer, the poor fella. That gave me an idea.
The next time I come into the Alibi Room the bartender says, "The
usual, sir?"
"No. Coke. Just plain Coke," I say, with a disappointed look on my
face.
The other guys gather around and sympathize: "Yeah, I was on the wagon
three weeks ago," one says. "It's really tough, Dick, it's really tough,"
says another.
They all honored me. I was "on the wagon" now, and had the guts to
enter that bar, with all its "temptations," and just order Coke -- because,
of course, I had to see my friends. And I maintained that for a month! I was
a real tough bastard.
One time I was in the men's room of the bar and there was a guy at the
urinal. He was kind of drunk, and said to me in a mean-sounding voice, "I
don't like your face. I think I'll push it in."
I was scared green. I replied in an equally mean voice, "Get out of my
way, or I'll pee right through ya!"
He said something else, and I figured it was getting pretty close to a
fight now. I had never been in a fight. I didn't know what to do, exactly,
and I was afraid of getting hurt. I did think of one thing: I moved away
from the wall, because I figured if I got hit, I'd get hit from the back,
too. Then I felt a sort of funny crunching in my eye -- it didn't hurt much
-- and the next thing I know, I'm slamming the son of a gun right back,
automatically. It was remarkable for me to discover that I didn't have to
think; the "machinery" knew what to do.
"OK. That's one for one," I said. "Ya wanna keep on goin?"
The other guy backed off and left. We would have killed each other if
the other guy was as dumb as I was.
I went to wash up, my hands are shaking, blood is leaking out of my
gums -- I've got a weak place in my gums -- and my eye hurt. After I calmed
down I went back into the bar and swaggered up to the bartender: "Black and
White, water on the side," I said. I figured it would calm my nerves.
I didn't realize it, but the guy I socked in the men's room was over in
another part of the bar, talking with three other guys. Soon these three
guys -- big, tough guys -- came over to where I was sitting and leaned over
me. They looked down threateningly, and said, "What's the idea of pickin' a
fight with our friend?"
Well I'm so dumb I don't realize I'm being intimidated; all I know is
right and wrong. I simply whip around and snap at them, "Why don't ya find
out who started what first, before ya start makin' trouble?"
The big guys were so taken aback by the fact that their intimidation
didn't work that they backed away and left.
After a while one of the guys came back and said to me, "You're right,
Curly's always doin' that. He's always gettin' into fights and askin' us to
straighten it out."
"You're damn tootin' I'm right!" I said, and the guy sat down next to
me.
Curly and the other two fellas came over and sat down on the other side
of me, two seats away. Curly said something about my eye not looking too
good, and I said his didn't look to be in the best of shape either.
I continue talking tough, because I figure that's the way a real man is
supposed to act in a bar.
The situation's getting tighter and tighter, and people in the bar are
worrying about what's going to happen. The bartender says, "No fighting in
here, boys! Calm down!"
Curly hisses, "That's OK; we'll get 'im when he goes out."
Then a genius comes by. Every field has its first-rate experts. This
fella comes over to me and says, "Hey, Dan! I didn't know you were in town!
It's good to see you!"
Then he says to Curly, "Say, Paul! I'd like you to meet a good friend
of mine, Dan, here. I think you two guys would like each other. Why don't
you shake?"
We shake hands. Curly says, "Uh, pleased to meet you."
Then the genius leans over to me and very quietly whispers, "Now get
out of here fast!"
"But they said they would..."
"Just go!" he says.
I got my coat and went out quickly. I walked along near the walls of
the buildings, in case they went looking for me. Nobody came out, and I went
to my hotel. It happened to be the night of the last lecture, so I never
went back to the Alibi Room, at least for a few years.
(I did go back to the Alibi Room about ten years later, and it was all
different. It wasn't nice and polished like it was before; it was sleazy and
had seedy-looking people in it. I talked to the bartender, who was a
different man, and told him about the old days. "Oh, yes!" he said. "This
was the bar where all the bookmakers and their girls used to hang out." I
understood then why there were so many friendly and elegant-looking people
there, and why the phones were ringing all the time.)
The next morning, when I got up and looked in the mirror, I discovered
that a black eye takes a few hours to develop fully. When I got back to
Ithaca that day, I went to deliver some stuff over to the dean's office. A
professor of philosophy saw my black eye and exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Feynman!
Don't tell me you got that walking into a door?"
"Not at all," I said. "I got it in a fight in the men's room of a bar
in Buffalo."
"Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed.
Then there was the problem of giving the lecture to my regular class. I
walked into the lecture hall with my head down, studying my notes. When I
was ready to start, I lifted my head and looked straight at them, and said
what I always said before I began my lecture -- but this time, in a tougher
tone of voice: "Any questions?"
-Chapter from "Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman!".
S
Spartacus
Guest
I know days are safe
I didn't want to have a fight
It's too far to drive back, baby
I wanna drive her home tonight
You can jazz it up or play it slow
It's still the only song I know
It's 2 a.m. and traffic's slow
Another ladies' night in Buffalo
Well it ain't much all right I know
But it's the only song I know
2 a.m. and traffic's slow
Another ladies' night in Buffalo
This must be ladies' night in Buffalo
I didn't want to have a fight
It's too far to drive back, baby
I wanna drive her home tonight
You can jazz it up or play it slow
It's still the only song I know
It's 2 a.m. and traffic's slow
Another ladies' night in Buffalo
Well it ain't much all right I know
But it's the only song I know
2 a.m. and traffic's slow
Another ladies' night in Buffalo
This must be ladies' night in Buffalo
