Pretty much every weekend, my wife and I have the shall-we-live-in-the-country conversation. I suppose it’s something to do with getting older and feeling I want to shed some of the things I’ve been doing for the last 20 years and go back to my roots.
Everybody hates a prodigy, detests an old head on young shoulders.
Fortune favors the audacious.
Humility is truth.
In fact, it seems to me that making strategic alliances across national borders in order to treat HIV among the world’s poor is one of the last great hopes of solidarity across a widening divide.
Nowadays the rage for possession has got to such a pitch that there is nothing in the realm of nature, whether sacred or profane, out of which profit cannot be squeezed.
I’ve found a different way to scent the air: already it’s a by-word for despair.
From being a patriotic myth, the Russian people have become an awful reality.
The idea that because you’re born in Haiti you could die having a child. The idea that because you’re born in you know Malawi your children may go to bed hungry. We want to take some of the chance out of that.
Women, can’t live with them, can’t live without them.