Who Would You Have A One2One With?
- Thread starter W3H5
- 38 comments
- 1,907 views
- 5,693
- Canada
Leon Trotsky.
I'd want to know what he would have done differently than Stalin, and how he'd be a better leader than Stalin was. Plus I like political views that aren't capitalistic (funny considering I take business courses in high school and like them).
I'd want to know what he would have done differently than Stalin, and how he'd be a better leader than Stalin was. Plus I like political views that aren't capitalistic (funny considering I take business courses in high school and like them).
- 15,855
- QLD, Australia
- Small_Fryz
Keef's mom.
Seriously, Albert Einstein. I just think it would be awesome to have conversations with him, I have always been a big fan of a lot of his quotes and his outlook on life in general.
Seriously, Albert Einstein. I just think it would be awesome to have conversations with him, I have always been a big fan of a lot of his quotes and his outlook on life in general.
- 2,007
- Los Angeles
- GTP_DrivingPark
- Finetales
Glenn Miller.
I would love to hear his stories about what it was like playing in the swing era, and for the troops in World War 2, and everything that he accomplished with his famous big band. Swing era big band music like that is some of my favorite music of all time, and I'm a trombone player like Glenn was too.
I would love to hear his stories about what it was like playing in the swing era, and for the troops in World War 2, and everything that he accomplished with his famous big band. Swing era big band music like that is some of my favorite music of all time, and I'm a trombone player like Glenn was too.
- 574
- Rugby
- LissaMR2
Wilfred Owen, the war poet, who was killed in action on 4 November 1918 during the crossing of the SambreOise Canal, exactly one week before the signing of the Armistice
I first came across his work when he was the poet we had to study for O level English Literature. Still love his poems today. I would like to know the man behind the poetry.
This is my favourite poem.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
Dulce et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
I first came across his work when he was the poet we had to study for O level English Literature. Still love his poems today. I would like to know the man behind the poetry.
This is my favourite poem.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
Dulce et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
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