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Examine Reagan's word choice below. Which conveys the greatest intensity of feeling? Ladies and gentlemen, I'd planned to speak to you tonight to report on the state the Union, but the events of earlier today have led me to change those plans. oday is a day for mourning and remembering. Nancy and I are pained to the core by he tragedy of the shutlle Challenger. We know we share this pain with all of the teople of our country. This is truly a national loss. 2) Nineteen years ago, almost to the day, we lost three astronauts in a terrible accident on the ground. But weve never lost an astronaut in flight; we've never had a tragedy like this. And perhaps we've forgotten the courage it took for the crew of the shutile. But they, the Challenger Seven, were aware of the dangers, but overcame them and did their jobs briliantly. We mourn seven heroes: Michael Smith, Dick Scobee, Judith Resnik, Ronald McNair, Elison Onizuka, Gregory Jarvis, and Christa McAulifle. We mourn their loss as a nation together. (3) For the lamilies of the seven, we cannot bear, as you do, the full impact of this tragedy. But we leel the loss, and we're thinking about you so very much. Your loved ones. were daring and brave, and they had that special grace, that speclal spirit that says. "Give me a chaliengo, and i7I meet it with joy." They had a hunger to explore the universe and discover its truths. They wished to serve, and they did. They served all of us. We've grown used to wonders in this century it's hard to dazzle us. But for 25 years the United States space program has been doing just that.
The paradox of thrift demonstrates a delicate balance between individual financial prudence and its broader impact on the economy. When individuals or a household decides to save more (whether the reason be for financial security or a specific expense), this can unintentionally harm the overall economy. When people reduce their spending on goods and services, businesses experience decreased demand, potentially leading to layoffs and lower incomes. An example of the paradox of thrift is when an individual decides to save money by cooking at home instead of dining out. This seemingly sensible choice, while beneficial at a personal level, has broader repercussions. As fewer people frequent restaurants, the demand for their dishes decreases, leading to reduced production. Consequently, both restaurant owners and employees experience lower incomes. The reverse paradox of thrift is when people increase spending rather than saving. In theory, this boosts aggregate demand, stimulating production and the economy. However, caution is essential as overspending can lead to debt accumulation and potential financial instability. Moreover, excessive spending without adequate saving may also contribute to larger economic issues, such as inflation. Reflecting on the paradox of thrift, I realize that my focus on personal finances often overshadowed its wider impact. Previously, I considered only my household budget without fully appreciating how individual saving choices ripple through businesses and the economy. It's a valuable lesson in balancing saving and
where the road became a bridge over a dry riverbed, tangled with brush and clinging vines; the bridge of rustic logs, made for trysting, but virginal and untested by lovers; on up the road, past the buildings, with the southern verandas half-a-cityblock long, to the sudden forking, barren of buildings, birds, or grass, where the road turned off to the insane asylum. I always come this far and open my eyes. The spell breaks and I try to re-see the rabbits, so tame through having never been hunted, that played in the hedges and along the road. And I see the purple and silver of thistle growing between the broken glass and sunheated stones, the ants moving nervously in single file, and I turn and retrace my steps and come back to the winding road past the hospital, where at night in certain wards the gay student nurses dispensed a far more precious thing than pills to lucky boys in the know; and I come to a stop at the chapel. And then it is suddenly winter, with the moon high above and the chimes in the steeple ringing and a sonorous choir of trombones rendering a Christmas carol; and over all is a quietness and an ache as though all the world were loneliness. And I stand and listen beneath the high-hung moon, hearing "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God," majestically mellow on four trombones, and then the organ. The sound floats over all, clear like the night, liquid, serene, and lonely. And I stand as for an answer and see in my mind's eye the cabins surrounded by empty fields beyond red clay roads, and beyond a certain road a river, sluggish and covered with algae more yellow than green in its stagnant stillness; past more empty fields, to the sun-shrunk shacks at the railroad crossing where the disabled veterans visited the whores, hobbling down the tracks on crutches and canes; sometimes pushing the legless, thighless one in a red wheelchair. And sometimes I listen to hear if music reaches that far, but recall only the drunken laughter of sad, sad whores. And I stand in the circle where three roads
in a building rented strictly to whites, in a section of the basement that was shut off and forgotten during the nineteenth century, which I discovered when I was trying to escape in the night from Ras the Destroyer. But that's getting too far ahead of the story, almost to the end, although the end is in the beginning and lies far ahead. The point now is that I found a home-or a hole in the ground, as you will. Now don't jump to the conclusion that because I call my home a "hole" it is damp and cold like a grave; there are cold holes and warm holes. Mine is a warm hole. And remember, a bear retires to his hole for the winter and lives until spring; then he comes strolling out like the Easter chick breaking from its shell. I say all this to assure you that it is incorrect to assume that, because I'm invisible and live in a hole, I am dead. I am neither dead nor in a state of suspended animation. Call me Jack-the-Bear, for I am in a state of hibernation. My hole is warm and full of light. Yes, full of light. I doubt if there is a brighter spot in all New York than this hole of mine, and I do not exclude Broadway. Or the Empire State Building on a photographer's dream night. But that is taking advantage of you. Those two spots are among the darkest of our whole civilization-pardon me, our whole culture (an important distinction, I've heard)-which might sound like a hoax, or a contradiction, but that (by contradiction, I mean) is how the world moves: Not like an arrow, but a boomerang. (Beware of those who speak of the spiral of history; they are preparing a boomerang. Keep a steel helmet handy.) I know; I have been boomeranged across my head so much that I now can see the darkness of lightness. And I love light. Perhaps you'll think it strange that an invisible man should need light, desire light, love light. But maybe it is exactly because I am invisible. Light confirms my reality, gives birth to my form.
he wasn't lying. "Give me another beer," I said. Then someone called him from the back, and he drew the beer and left. I drank it slowly, hoping Brother Maceo would appear before I had finished. When he didn't I waved to Barrelhouse and left for the district. Perhaps Brother Tarp could explain; or at least tell me something about Clifton. I walked through the dark block over to Seventh and started down; things were beginning to look serious. Along the way I saw not a single sign of Brotherhood activity. In a hot side street I came upon a couple striking matches along the curb, kneeling as though looking for a lost coin, the matches flaring dimly in their faces. Then I found myself in a strangely familiar block and broke out in a sweat: I had walked almost to Mary's door, and turned now and hurried away. Barrelhouse had prepared me for the darkened windows of the district, but not, when I let myself in, to call in vain through the dark to Brother Tarp. I went to the room where he slept, but he was not there; then I went through the dark hall to my old office and threw myself into my desk chair, exhausted. Everything seemed to be slipping away from me and I could find no quick absorbing action that would get it under control. I tried to think of whom among the district committee I might call for information concerning Clifton, but here again I was balked. For if I selected one who believed that I had requested to be transferred because I hated my own people it would only complicate matters. No doubt there would be some who'd resent my return, so it was best to confront them all at once without giving any one of them the opportunity to organize any sentiment against me. It was best that I talk with Brother Tarp, whom I trusted. When he came in he could give me an idea of the state of affairs, and perhaps tell me what had actually happened to Clifton. But Brother Tarp didn't arrive. I went out and got a
There was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smily, in the winter of '49 - or maybe it was the spring of ' 50 - I don't recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume wasn't finished when he first come to the camp; but anyway, he was the curiosest man about always betting on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side, and if he couldn't he'd change sides - any way that suited the other man would suit him - any way just so's he got a bet, he was satisfied. But still, he was lucky - uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner. He was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn't be no solitary thing mentioned but what that feller'd offer to bet on it - and take any side you please, as I was just telling you; if there was a horse race, you'd find him flush or you'd find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dog-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he'd bet on it; why if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly first - or if there was a camp-meeting he would be there regular to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about here, and so he was, too, and a good man; if he even see a straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would take him to get wherever he was going to, and if you took him up he would follow that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smily and can tell you about him. Why, it never made no difference to him - he would bet on anything - the dangdest feller. Parson Walker's wife laid very sick, once, for a good while, and it seemed as if they weren't going to save her; but one morning he come in and Smily asked him how she was, and he said blessing of Providence she'd that she don't, anyway.