'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?'
He really does have a thing for planes along the Hudson, doesn't he?
I think we are in rats' alley | Where the dead men lost their bones.
They saw his presidency in with a bang and out with a whimper.
'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
Does it not strike anybody as weird that 57-year old Captain Chesley B. Sullenberger III, a former F-4 Phantom fighter jock, flight leader, trainer, safety expert, and accident investigator is being lauded as "the consummate pilot"? Mayor Michael Bloomberg's already offered him a gold-plated key to the city of New York.
It's bollocks.
Surely most could drop a gliding commercial airliner's speed, having turned through 90 degrees from 3,200 feet, to less than 100 knots, touch down sufficiently 'nose high' and level to slow the craft further by dragging the tail and rear through the water, and 'land' it wheels up only when speed slowed to a point where the main engines would not rip off the wings and pull the plane under?
It's his job, damn it.
If a bunch of drunken Muslim womanisers, without flight experience or qualifications and low on sleep but high on speed and religious fervor, could manoeuvre two airliners at high speed and with pinpoint precision into the 85th floors of two World Trade Center towers — bringing down a third while they were about it, Ches might have asked one of the girls on cabin duty to take over the landing for him.
I mean, Chrissakes, it seems anybody in Manhattan airspace — or within a couple of miles of 'Ground Zero', can fly one of these things. Officially, anyway.
Or was it the "key to the city" thing? Did the Muslim guys, jealous of American freedoms, feel they had to prise open the city with box cutters?
'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
T.S. Eliot | The Wasteland
Eliot originally considered titling the poem He do the Police in Different Voices. In the version of the poem Eliot brought back from Switzerland, the first two sections of the poem – 'The Burial of the Dead' and 'A Game of Chess' – appeared under this title. This strange phrase is taken from Charles Dickens' novel Our Mutual Friend, in which the widow Betty Higden, says of her adopted foundling son Sloppy: "You mightn't think it, but Sloppy is a beautiful reader of a newspaper. He do the Police in different voices." This would help the reader to understand that, while there are many different voices (speakers) in the poem, there is one central consciousness.
Wikipedia
