Flies Without Wings

Looking back in retrospect, I should have kept it to myself. Maybe not say anything to her about it at all but, I did. I got the reaction I thought I would but in reality I'd hoped for something different. "I wish you would have told me when it happened, I would have killed that bastard" is what she said. That angered me more than the act itself because I believed she knew. After all, it wasn't the first time that molestation charges would be brought against him and obviously it wouldn't be the last. Or maybe it was. I'll never know. Year's later he was found dead as a door knob.

From a renowned horsewoman and gifted storyteller comes this groundbreaking new book that explores a powerful relationship like no other: the magical kinship between women and horses. Drawing from myth and literature, the author’s own experiences, and interviews with countless women, we learn, through women’s deeply personal stories, how horses enrich our lives and connect us to nature–making us readers of rhythm and invisible signs, helping us harness our youthful sexuality, sharing the “horsepower” we need to reach our dreams. And here we see how, for thousands of years, the deep kinship between women and horses has connected us to our most intimate feelings of delight, helped us learn to solve problems, and set our creativity free. From the poetry of Geoffrey Chaucer to the fiction of Jane Austen to folktales from around the world, She Flies Without Wings uses great literature and myth to encompass a wide spectrum of beliefs and perspectives–and creates a true celebration of speed, air, and the spectacular animal that connects us with both. Filled with the moving lessons–-about sensuality, commitment, power, nurturance, and spirituality–women riders have known for centuries, written with a loving hand by an expert equestrian, She Flies Without Wings is an eloquent paean to a pairing that enlivened history, inspired literature, and continues to enchant us all.

In little more than a hundred years the evolutionary theory of Charles Darwin has conquered the thinking world. No other body of ideas has enjoyed such unrivaled success. But precisely because of its scientific status, Darwinism has sometimes been invoked to sustain other ideas and beliefs with a much less solid foundation. Darwinian Evolution is a study of the historical background of Darwin's ideas, of their logical structure, and of their alleged and actual implications. Flew explores the Scottish Enlightenment, an important and often neglected aspect of Darwin's intellectual background. He compares Darwin with such figures as Adam Smith, Thomas Malthus, and Karl Marx, emphasizing not the similarities, but the differences between the natural and social sciences. Flew argues that social science must do what natural science does not: take account of individual choice. He examines the creationist controversy in Britain and the United States and discusses the possibility of a human sociobiology. In his new introduction, Flew updates his book by discussing relevant works that have appeared since it was published thirteen years ago. He discusses two different tendencies among both social scientists and those who develop or promote social policies according to various findings in the social sciences: (1) to assume there is no such thing as human nature; and (2) to take no account of the possibility that differences between sets of individuals may be genetically determined. Flew maintains that both these tendencies violate Darwin's theory. Darwinian Evolution is an intriguing study that should be read by sociologists, biologists, philosophers, and all those interested in the impact of Darwin and his work.

This is a reprint of the 1920 edition of an important but almost unknown work. When Atwood made her suggestive inquiry into what was termed "The Hermetic Mystery," she supposed that the adept Hieophants put the candidate into a deep trance and his soul was led into something that was for her the Supreme Oneness of everything.

The clerk was a newcomer in El Paso, hardly yet wonted to the freakish humor and high spirits that there flourish unrebuked—and indeed, unnoticed. But he entered into the spirit of the occasion. “Is there anything I can do?” he inquired. “I am Mr. Hibler’s chief—and only—clerk.” “No-o,” said the visitor doubtfully, letting his eyes wander from his thumbs to the view of white-walled Juarez beyond the river. “No-o—That is, not unless you can sell me his Rainbow ranch and brand for less than they’re worth. Such is my errand—on behalf of Pringle, Beebe, Ballinger and Bransford. I’m Bransford—me.” “Jeff Bransford? Mr. Hibler’s foreman?” asked the young man eagerly. “Mr. Jeff Bransford—foreman for Hibler—not of,” amended Bransford gently. His thumbs were still upreared. Becoming suddenly aware of this, he fixed them with a startled gaze. “Say! Take supper with me!” The young man blurted out the words. “Mr. Hibler’s always talking about you and I want to get acquainted with you. Aughinbaugh’s my name.” Bransford sat down heavily, thumbs still erect, elbows well out from his side, and transferred his gaze, with marked respect, to the clerk’s boyish face, now very rosy indeed. Jeff’s eyes grew big and round; his lips were slightly parted; the thumbs drooped, the fingers spread wide apart in mutual dismay. Holding Aughinbaugh’s eyes with his own, he pressed one outspread hand over his heart. Slowly, cautiously, the other hand fumbled in a vest pocket, produced notebook and pencil, spread the book stealthily on his knee and began to write. “‘A good name,’” he murmured, “‘is rather to be chosen than great riches.’” But the owner of the good name was a lad of spirit, and had no mind to submit tamely to such hazing. “See here! What does a cowboy know about the Bible, anyway?” he demanded, glaring indignantly. “I believe you’re a sheep in wolves’ clothing! You don’t talk like a cowboy—or look like a cowboy.” Jeff glanced down at his writing, and back to his questioner. Then he made an alteration, closed the book and looked up again. He had a merry eye. “Exactly how does a cowboy look? And how does it talk?” he asked mildly. He glanced with much interest over as much of his own person as he could see; turning and twisting to aid the process. “I don’t see anything wrong. Is my hair on straight?” “Wrong!” echoed Aughinbaugh severely, shaking an accusing finger. “Why, you’re all wrong. What the public expects——” Mr. Bransford’s interruption may be omitted. It was profane. Also, it was plagiarized from Commodore Vanderbilt. “You a cowboy! Yah!” said Aughinbaugh in vigorous scorn. “With a silk necktie! Everybody knows that the typical cowboy wears a red cotton handkerchief.”