On Ethos

A-Consecration.txt

Louis Untermeyer, ed. (1885–1977). Modern British Poetry.  1920.
 
John Masefield. 1878–
 
97. A Consecration
 
NOT of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteers	 
Riding triumphantly laurelled to lap the fat of the years,—	 
Rather the scorned—the rejected—the men hemmed in with the spears;	 
  
The men of the tattered battalion which fights till it dies,	 
Dazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries.	         
The men with the broken heads and the blood running into their eyes.	 
  
Not the be-medalled Commander, beloved of the throne,	 
Riding cock-horse to parade when the bugles are blown,	 
But the lads who carried the koppie and cannot be known.	 
  
Not the ruler for me, but the ranker, the tramp of the "road,	  
The slave with the sack on his shoulders pricked on with the goad,	 
The man with too weighty a burden, too weary a load.	 
  
The sailor, the stoker of steamers, the man with the clout,	 
The chantyman bent at the halliards putting a tune to the shout,	 
The drowsy man at the wheel and the tired look-out.	  
  
Others may sing of the wine and the wealth and the mirth,	 
The portly presence of potentates goodly in girth;—	 
Mine be the dirt and the dross, the dust and scum of the earth!	 
  
Theirs be the music, the colour, the glory, the gold;	 
Mine be a handful of ashes, a mouthful of mould.	  
Of the maimed, of the halt and the blind in the rain and the cold—	 
Of these shall my songs be fashioned, my tales be told.	 
  
AMEN.

Andre_Zirnheld.txt

I'm asking You God, to give me what You have left.
Give me those things which others never ask of You.
I don't ask You for rest, or tranquility.
Not that of the spirit, the body, or the mind.
I don't ask You for wealth, or success, or even health.
All those things are asked of You so much Lord,
that you can't have any left to give.
Give me instead Lord what You have left.
Give me what others don't want.
I want uncertainty and doubt.
I want torment and battle.
And I ask that You give them to me now and forever Lord,
so I can be sure to always have them,
because I won't always have the strength to ask again.
But give me also the courage, the energy,
and the spirit to face them.
I ask You these things Lord,
because I can't ask them of myself.

- André Zirnheld

DH_Lawrence.md

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.

• David Herbert Lawrence

Ethos.md

Spartan

• A Spartan pushes their mind and body to their limits.
• A Spartan masters their emotions.
• A Spartan learns continuously.
• A Spartan gives generously.
• A Spartan leads.
• A Spartan stands up for what they believe in, no matter the cost.
• A Spartan knows their flaws as well as they know their strengths.
• A Spartan proves themselves through actions, not words.
• A Spartan lives every day as if it were their last.

FATHER FORGETS.txt

FATHER FORGETS
Listen Son, I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little hand crumpled under your cheek
and blonde curls sticky over your wet forehead. I have broken into your room alone. Just a few
minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me.
Guilty, I came to your bedside.
There are things which I am thinking, son; I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you
were dressing for school because you gave your face a mere dab with the towel. I took you to
task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angnly when you threw some of your things on the
floor.
At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You
put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. As you started off to
play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, "Goodbye, Daddy!" I
frowned, and said in reply, "Hold your shoulders back!".
Then it began all over again late this afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down
on your knees, playlng marbles. There were holes in your socks. I humiliated you before your
friends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Socks were expensive, and if you had to buy
them you would be more carehl! Imagine that son, fiom a father.
Do you remember later, when I was reading in the library, how you came timidly, with
sort of a hurt look in your eyes? I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption; you
hesitated at the door. "What is it that you want?" I snapped.
You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, threw your arms around my
neck and kissed me, your small arms tightened with affection that God had set blooming in your
heart, which even neglect could not wither. Then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.
Well, Son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible
sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, or
reprimanding; this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you: it
was that I expected too much of you. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.
There is so much that was good, fine and true in your character. The little heart of yours
was as big as the dawn itself over the hills. Thls was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush
in and kiss me good night. Nothing else mattered tonight. Son, I have come to your beside in the
darkness, I have knelt there, ashamed!
It is a feeble atonement; I know that you would not understand these things which I have
told you in the waking hours. Tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, suffer
when you suffer and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I
will keep saying as if it were a ritual: "He is nothing but a boy--a little boy."
I am afiaid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, Son, crumpled and
weary in your bed. I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother's arms,
your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much!
Instead of condemning and criticizing others, perhaps we it would be better to try to understand them, to
try tofigure out why they do what they do. That's a lot more profitable and intriguing than criticism; and it
breeds sympathy, tolerance and kindness, rather than contempt...!!! 

jrr_tolkien.md

One has indeed personally to come under the shadow of war to feel fully its oppression; but as the years go by it seems now often forgotten that to be caught in youth by 1914 was no less hideous an experience than to be involved in 1939 and the following years. By 1918, all but one of my close friends were dead.

• J.R.R. Tolkien, forward to The Lord of the Rings

All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring; Renewed shall be blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king.

• J.R.R. Tolkien.

mine.md

Feel the air, its freshness as it sips into your lungs. Smell the flowers, their beauty and reflection under the sun. Touch the grass, softly as it moves under your hand. Above all, embrace those you love, smell their hair, feel their hand toch your face. When the time comes, and there is nothing left aside from piss and blood. When there is no hope, other than the love you still have for those above. You will know you lived and had enough.

• berngp.

peter_dale_wimbrow.txt

The Man In The Glass 
Peter Dale Wimbrow Sr.  
 	 
When you get what you want in your struggle for self
And the world makes you king for a day
Just go to the mirror and look at yourself
And see what that man has to say.

For it isn’t your father, or mother, or wife 
Whose judgment upon you must pass
The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass.

He’s the fellow to please – never mind all the rest
For he’s with you, clear to the end
And you’ve passed your most difficult, dangerous test
If the man in the glass is your friend.

You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass
But your final reward will be heartache and tears
If you’ve cheated the man in the glass. 

Quotes.md

Computing is pop culture. […] Pop culture holds a disdain for history. Pop culture is all about identity and feeling like you’re participating. It has nothing to do with cooperation, the past or the future—it’s living in the present. I think the same is true of most people who write code for money. They have no idea where [their culture came from]… Alan Kay Dr Dobb’s Journal (2012)

RUDYARD_KIPLING.txt

If
BY RUDYARD KIPLING
(‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies)

If you can keep your head when all about you   
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;   
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;   
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!