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Jean-Jacques Hublin

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“George Armstrong Custer a massacré les Indiens Lakota. Sheridan a exterminé les bisons, pour faire mourir de faim le peuple des grandes plaines. Un crime organisé, froidement pensé et systématiquement mis en ouvre. Arrosé de whisky frelaté. Ensuite, et depuis, il y a eu la Corée, le Vietnam, Cuba, La Grenade, Haïti, le Guatemala, le Nicaragua, l'Irak, l'Afghanistan. L'Amérique n'est pas un rêve. Elle ne l'a jamais été. L'eau du Mississippi ne sera jamais lavée du sang et des larmes du peuple noir. Antiaméricain ? Je suis frère de Geronimo, de Mumia Abu-Jamal et de Noam Chomsky.”

“Goals and vision are different. They’re like the two magnifications in progressive eyeglass lenses. When you look down at what’s right in front of you—like you would with the “reading” lenses in progressives—you’re looking at goals. When you look out at the horizon—the “distance” lenses—you’re in vision. But when you try to look at both at once? That’s a recipe for blurriness, confusion, and a headache.”

“I’ve seen wishing and waiting turn too many entrepreneurs onto the dark roads of financial strain, burnout, and despair. They’ve invested everything in the belief that they will get there ... and yet, they still have no real idea where “there” is. They just know it’s better, and different, than here. To me, this is a huge reason why entrepreneurial failure is rampant. Most entrepreneurs don’t lack talent, heart, or even business sense. They simply don’t know how to turn their wishes into plans, and their plans into profits.”

“Some days I'm sure I'll be unravelled, That I'm just a piece of thread, Woven from everything I've heard And every book I've ever read. That someone will find my ending Or a spot where I've worn thin, And they'll pull me right apart Back to the place where I begin, Until they've found that every fibre Isn't one to call my own, Its from the thoughts and works of others Thats I've been so crudely sewn. And there's nothing I can make Or think or do or be or say, That isn't someone else Woven in just a different way. Then once I come undone, Once who I thought I was grows small, What if I look at all that's left And there is nothing there at all?”

“I have been in my bed for five weeks, oppressed with weakness and other infirmities from which my age, seventy four years, permits me not to hope release. Added to this (proh dolor! [O misery!]) the sight of my right eye — that eye whose labors (dare I say it) have had such glorious results — is for ever lost. That of the left, which was and is imperfect, is rendered null by continual weeping.”