The French enjoyed it, as they must, without any of their hopes getting anywhere (they never do).
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French tennis never has been the same, but they do have a nice museum here, closed during tournaments. They give names to their stadiums, as to their streets, to keep the past alive.
Roland Garros, born 1888, was one of the first fighting aviators. A friend of his named Saulnier designed a machine gun that fired through the propeller. At the command of his plane, Garros could fight out-numbered. He was shot down in the summer of 1916, escaped, returned to his squadron, wreaked havoc among German airmen. He went down a second time, for good, a few weeks before the armistice.
I hoped they would be playing here again next year and for many years, but on the way back I stopped in the poets’ park and found the lines of another soldier of the Great War, who fell, too, in its last days.
Nous ne nous verrons plus sur terre
Odeur du temps brin de bruyère
Et souviens toi que je t’attends!
I cannot do justice to Guillaume Apollinaire’s lyricism, but he means, more or less:
We won’t meet again on earth
Smell of time sprig of heather
And remember I am waiting!
A man of faith in a godless age is hitting Americans where it hurts.
Mr. and Mrs. American Spectator Reader, let P.J. O’Rourke talk sense to your kids.
In Britain, defending your property can get you life.
The debacle of this president’s administration is both a cause and a symptom of the decline of American values. Unless Congress impeaches him, that decline will go on unchecked. An eminent jurist surveys the damage and assesses the chances for the recovery of our culture.
It won’t take long for conservatives to scratch this presidential wannabe off their 2008 scorecard.
The American Christmas, like the songs that celebrate it, makes room for everybody under the rainbow. Is that why so many people seem to be hostile to it?
Was the President done in by the economy, or by the politics of the economy?