Happy Halloween!

Wishing you a magical, mystical, safe, fun, and happy Halloween!

Put That In Your Pipe And Smoke It

On September 21st, 1937, a 45 year old University of Oxford professor, named John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, published a children's fantasy book called The Hobbit, to wide critical acclaim. And the rest, as they say, is history, both our own, and that of a strange, mythical realm named Middle Earth.

Although a cataclysmic world war, academic pursuits of the highest order, and the responsibilities of a growing family would intervene, J.R.R. Tolkien published again on July 29th, 1954. The book was called The Fellowship of the Ring, the first volume of a trilogy (it was intended as a complete work, but the publisher felt it would be more marketable as a set) that would come to be known and beloved worldwide as The Lord of the Rings.

Tolkien's stated intention was to write a high epic fantasy novel in the English language, ironic in the sense that he had to create several imaginary languages to do it. And in so doing, it has become the second best-selling novel ever written, with over 150 million copies sold.

I was introduced to Tolkien's world by my junior year English teacher, Miss Buczyna. We read The Hobbit in class, and noting my enthusiasm and understanding of the text, suggested that I might want to check out the author's more adult offerings. Suffice it to say that the words I read in my paperback copies blew my mind. I met with Miss Buczyna after class to discuss my thoughts about the books. She took me to a symposium on Tolkien in downtown Chicago. She also encouraged my own attempts at writing. Alas, no matter how much my adolescent fantasies may have desired it, there was no student-teacher affair.

For better or worse, the small shelf of books penned by J.R.R. Tolkien, including those compiled by his estate, pale in comparison to the amount of literature published about his work. Many of these "biographies" attempt to reveal the allegory or analyze the symbolism interwoven into the saga, based on Tolkien's environment and experiences. They seek to rationalize Tolkien's thoughts and emotions regarding these experiences into how they affected the thoughts and emotions that made their way onto the printed page.

Although this is a tricky, and ultimately futile exercise, I know that in my own case, I certainly approached The Lord of the Rings through my own prism, and that included my expanding foray into the marijuana counterculture. It is only to be expected then, that I should interpret Tolkien's extensive references to pipeweed throughout the story through that lens.

From the outset there are several problems with this viewpoint. Firstly, these books were written and published well before the drug culture was even on the map. Secondly, Tolkien had a lifelong affection for tobacco and his well-worn pipes. And finally and unavoidably, he specifically refers to pipeweed as tobacco - "a variety probably of nicotiana."

That being said, we do no harm to Tolkien or his legacy, by suspending our disbelief, and delving into the realm of speculation that even if pipeweed is not marijuana, it should be. With that in mind, we shall proceed.

Tolkien presents us with the impossibly bucolic existence that we all long for (at least I do): rolling green hills, gentle streams, forests carpeted with dry leaves and soft pine needles, blue skies dotted with puffy, white clouds by day, and a canopy of bright stars by night, then topping it off by packing a bowl full of pipeweed. We frequent rustic country pubs and village taverns with names like the Green Dragon, the The Ivy Bush, the Forsaken Inn, and the Golden Perch; and we eat fresh, healthy foods, grown locally and naturally.

But then when the call comes, we take up arms against tyranny, cross the rugged mountains and ford the mighty river, and put our lives on the line fighting the evil bastards. And the most important piece of our gear is still our trusty bowl and stash of pipeweed.

The common name for pipeweed in Gondor is "westmansweed." Although I've limited my source material to the three volumes of The Lord of the Rings, in Unfinished Tales, (1980), Christopher Tolkien, ed., Gandalf says to Saruman upon a meeting of the White Council,

"You might find that smoke blown out cleared your mind of shadows within. Anyway, it gives patience, to listen to error without anger."

Additionally, Gandalf learns to smoke pipeweed from the Hobbits of long ago, and delights in the making of magical smoke rings.

It is now time to look at the source material itself.

[All italics and highlighting throughout are mine.]

"Concerning Pipeweed": Prologue - The Lord of the Rings

There is another thing about the Hobbits of old that must be mentioned, an astonishing habit: they imbibed or inhaled through pipes of clay or wood, the smoke of the burning leaves of an herb, which they called 'pipeweed' or 'leaf'.... A great deal of mystery surrounds the origin of this peculiar custom, or 'art' as the Hobbits preferred to call it.

[Meriadoc Brandybuck remarks] "For ages, folk in the Shire smoked various herbs, some fouler some sweeter. But all accounts agree that Tobold Hornblower of Longbottom in the Southfarthing first grew the true pipeweed in his gardens in the days of Isengrim the Second, about the year 1070 of Shire Reckoning. The best home-grown still comes from that district, especially the varieties known as Longbottom Leaf, Old Toby, and Southern Star.

"It is thus quite possible that he learned of this plant in Bree, where now, at any rate, it still grows well on the south slopes of the hill. The Bree Hobbits claim to have been the first actual smokers of pipeweed.... And certainly it was from Bree that the art of smoking the genuine weed spread in the recent centuries among dwarves and other such folk, rangers, wizards, or other wanderers as still passed to and fro through that ancient road meeting."

The renowned Meriadoc (Merry) Brandybuck, Fellow of the Ring, Swordswain to the King of Rohan, and later Master of Buckland, saw fit to write a book entitled, Herblore of the Shire.

A passage in the chapter "Shadows of the Past" in The Fellowship of the Ring reads:

Gandalf was thinking of a spring, nearly eighty years before, when Bilbo had run out of Bag End without a handkerchief. His hair was perhaps whiter than it had been, and his beard and eyebrows were perhaps longer, and his face more lined with care and wisdom; but his eyes were as bright as ever, and he smoked and blew smoke rings with the same vigour and delight.

In "A Journey in the Dark," Gandalf says to Pippin,

"Get into a corner and have a sleep, my lad," he said in a kindly tone. "You want to sleep, I expect. I cannot get a wink, so I may as well do the watching. I know what is the matter with me," he muttered, as he sat down by the door. "I need smoke! I have not tasted it since the morning before the snowstorm." The last thing that Pippin saw, as sleep took him, was a dark glimpse of the old wizard huddled on the floor, shielding a glowing chip in his gnarled hands between his knees. The flicker for a moment showed his sharp nose, and the puff of smoke.

Our first impression, in the common room of the inn at Bree, of Aragorn, Strider, Ellesar, Elfstone, Isildur's heir, the Renewer, Wingfoot, Chieftain of the Dunadain, Lord of the West (who has many names) comes in the chapter, "At the Sign of the Prancing Pony."

Suddenly, Frodo noticed that a strange looking, weather beaten man, sitting in the shadows near the wall, was also listening intently to the Hobbit talk. He had a tall tankard in front of him, and was smoking a long stemmed pipe curiously carved.

One passage in the Chapter, "The Ring Goes South," sets the mood for the epic journey which is to follow -

Sam eased the pack on his shoulders and went over anxiously in his mind all the things that he had stowed in it, wondering if he had forgotten anything: his chief treasure, his cooking gear, and the little box of salt that he always carried and refilled when he could; a good supply of pipeweed (but not enough I'll warrant); flint and tinder...and various small belongings of his master's that Frodo had forgotten and Sam had stowed to bring them out in triumph when they were called for.

Further on in the same chapter, the company of the Ring is overtaken by crows, spies of the traitor Saruman, so they could light no fire. Peregrin Took complains that he had been looking forward to a good, hot meal.

"Well, you can go on looking forward," said Gandalf. "There may be many unexpected feasts ahead for you. For myself I should like a pipe to smoke in comfort, and warmer feet."

In The Two Towers, after the battle of Helm's Deep, King Theoden and his men ride up to the gates of Isengard, which are now in ruin, and behold a strange sight:

There they saw close beside them a great rubble heap and suddenly they were aware of two small figures lying on it at their ease, grey clad, hardly to be seen among the stones. There were bottles and bowls and platters laid beside them as if they had just eaten well and were now preparing to rest from their labor. One seemed asleep; the other, with crossed legs and arms behind his head, leaned back against a broken rock and sent forth from his mouth long wisps of little rings of thin blue smoke.

Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli are reunited with Merry and Pippin, in "Flotsam and Jetsam." A long passage ensues as the travelers relate the tales of their adventures amidst food, drink, and yes, pipeweed. Merry says,

"But first...you shall fill your pipes and light up. And then for a little while we can pretend that we are all back safe at Bree again, or at Rivendell."

He produced a small leather bag....

"We have heaps of it," he said.... "It was Pippin who found two small barrels washed up out of some cellar or storehouse, I suppose. When we opened them we found they were filled with this: as fine a pipeweed as you could wish for and quite unspoilt."

Gimli took some and rubbed it in his palms and sniffed it. "It feels good, and it smells good," he said.

"It is good!" said Merry. "My dear Gimli, it is Longbottom Leaf! There were the Hornblower brandmarks on the barrels, as plain as plain. How it came here, I can't imagine. For Saruman's private use I fancy."

Gimli asks the Hobbits if any pipes were to be had in all their plunder.

"No, I am afraid not," said Merry.... "We shall have to share pipes as good friends must in a pinch."

The passage concludes:

They smoked in silence for a while, and upon them shone the sun, slanting into the valley from among white clouds high in the West. Legolas lay still, looking up at the sun and sky with steady eyes, and singing softly to himself. At last he sat up. "Come now!" he said. "Time wears on, and the mists are blowing away or would if you strange folk did not wreathe yourselves in smoke. What of the tale?"

The cultural role that pipeweed played in the ethos of Middle Earth can be seen in this emotional exchange as Merry lies in Gondor in the Houses of Healing in the chapter by the same name. He has just been called back from the brink of death by Aragorn, after helping the Lady Eowyn destroy the Lord of the Nazgul, the dreaded Witch King of Angmar. Upon awakening, Pippin tells Merry that he can have anything he wants.

"Good!" said Merry. "Then I would like supper first, and after that a pipe." At that his face clouded. "No, not a pipe. I don't think I'll smoke again."

"Why not?" said Pippin.

"Well," answered Merry slowly, "Theoden, King of Rohan, is dead. It has brought it all back to me. He said he was sorry he had never had a chance of talking herblore with me. Almost the last thing he ever said. I shan't ever be able to smoke again without thinking of him."

"Smoke then, and think of him!" said Aragorn. "For he was a gentle heart and a great king and kept his oaths; and he rose out of the shadows to a last fair morning. Though your service to him was brief, it should be a memory glad and honorable to the end of your days."

In The Return of the King, on the journey home from their great adventures, Gandalf and the Hobbits arrive back at Bree, comfortably ensconced in their rooms in the Prancing Pony. Gandalf says to Barliman Butterbur,

"We were wet, cold and hungry, but all that you have cured. Come, sit down! And if you have any pipeweed, we'll bless you."

Somewhat dismayed by this request, Butterbur warns the Hobbits that all may not be well at home in the Shire.

We then come to the pivotal chapter "The Scouring of the Shire." Finding the gates barred against them, the Hobbits are forced to seek lodging in the ugly, hard gate-house. Sam says to one of the Hobbit guards,

"Well now, what about a smoke while you tell us what has been happening in the Shire?"

"There isn't no pipeweed now," said Hob; "at least only for the Chief's men. All the stocks seem to have gone."

"That's quite enough," said Sam. "I don't want to hear no more. No welcome, no beer, no smoke, and a lot of rules and orc talk instead."

The last of the Eldar Race in Middle Earth meet with the Hobbits on the quays of the Grey Havens. The Lady Galadriel, whose magic dust has helped restore the Shire, asks Sam about the fruits of his labors -

In the Southfarthing the vines were laden and the yield of leaf was astonishing; and everywhere there was so much corn at harvest time that every barn was stuffed.

If I may be permitted, I would like to share one last quote, that pertains to a particular side-effect of the smoking of pipeweed. So as we started with an excerpt from the Prologue, so too shall we end with one. Speaking of Hobbits, it states:

Their faces as a rule were good natured rather than beautiful, broad, bright eyed, red cheeked with mouths apt to laughter, and to eating and drinking. And laugh they did, and eat and drink, often and heartily, being fond of simple jests at all times, and of six meals a day, when they could get them.

Well, what else would you expect with all the smoking of pipeweed that was going on!?

2002 "Hobbit Pipe" by John Howe

Joke 'Em If They Can't Take A Fuck

My favorite Halloween costume (this was back in the early 80's and I was around 23 years old) that I ever wore was a union suit (a one-piece set of thermal underwear with the button flap in back, in white because I couldn't find red). Along with this I wore a cowboy hat, a red bandanna tied around my neck, cowboy boots, and a holster with a realistic toy six-shooter.

I was a cowboy who just got out of bed.

I wore a mustache in those days that added to the effect. I thought it was hysterical, but even on Halloween I got a lot of strange looks. We were at a (former) friend's apartment, and the friend's sister's boyfriend (who I think I'd seen around, but didn't like) came up to me and said,

"I get your costume, but next year you better wear some clothes." 

Happy Halloween to you too, buddy.

Just Because You're On A Diet, Doesn't Mean You Can't Look In The Bakery Shop Window

There are so many beautiful, attractive, gorgeous, alluring, desirable, sexy, intoxicating, amazing, provocative, wonderful, and sensual women out there.

But then I said, "I do."

And my wife said, "Not any more, you don't."

Now, whenever I get the itch, I turn to my wife, and see how good she still looks to me, and how much my love for her has grown, and I think, "I've got no regrets forsaking all others."

A Taste of Sleepy Hollow

Walt Disney Productions' "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" (release date: October 5, 1949) is an animated adaptation of Washington Irving's short story, narrated by Bing Crosby.

The amazing, classic Disney animation, the humor, the action, and the voice of Bing Crosby steal the show, but for me, one completely overlooked aspect, is the treatment of food throughout the film. These images add greatly to the richness and texture of the piece, yet they are so seamlessly interwoven into the plot that they are inseparable from the context of the story.

The feature begins with the narrator offering a brief history of the legend of Sleepy Hollow. We are then immediately introduced to the "burly, roistering blade" Brom Bones at the "Ye Olde Schnooker and Schnapps Shoppe." Displaying his prodigious strength, Brom whisks up a large cask and pulls the cork with his teeth. With one hand he easily handles the keg, filling a fistful of mugs in the other.

This is our first glimpse into the role that food, drink and agricultural products in general will play in shaping the story and moving the plot forward. As we will see, all of these images embody the "idealization" of what they depict. Indeed, the mugs that Brom fills are topped with rich, foamy heads. You can almost taste the crisp, refreshing grains, malts and hops.

We then see the eager town mutts and Brom's black charger licking their lips in anticipation. Brom breaks open the top of the barrel with a rap of his fist and sets it down so the animals can happily enjoy the contents. Then, in a very clever special effect, we see Ichabod strolling towards Brom through the clear bottom of the stein as Brom drinks, and the schoolmaster comes into focus as the level of the ale lowers as it is quaffed.

From there, we watch as the "tall but exceedingly lank" Ichabod Crane strides into town out of the rolling countryside on his impossible, stork-like legs. He uses his charms on the village lasses, and debonairly stops to open the gate for a bonny girl balancing a tray of pies on her head. In a smooth show of slight-of-hand, Ichabod doffs his tricorn hat, and produces one of the pies, which he quickly gobbles down. You can see the flakiness of the crust and the top is scored with crow's feet in a perfect pattern.

The next scene unfolds as Ichabod stalks the aisles of the schoolhouse, glancing into the lunch baskets of the students. He discovers a student drawing a caricature of the teacher, but withholds punishment after looking into the boy's basket overflowing with fresh fruit, sandwiches on home baked white bread and a slice of berry pie.

The scene fades from Ichabod smiling benignly at the boy, to Ichabod sitting at the dinner table of the boy's home, surrounded by platters of biscuits and corn on the cob. His pupil's mother presents him with a large serving dish, and when Ichabod removes the cover, wafts of steam from a perfectly browned turkey in a bed of greens, rises to his waiting nostrils.

Again the scene shifts, and Ichabod is home in bed. He plucks a turkey runner from his coat pocket and munches the meat from the bone in several quick bites. But since this is the ideal rendition of a turkey leg, he does not encounter any of the joints and tendons, that make eating a turkey leg so difficult. Would that it 'twere so. The sequence ends with Ichabod writing the word "Excellent" in his Social Calendar under the notation "Roast Turkey Dinner."

The story continues with Ichabod presiding over the Ladies Choral Society, and barely noticeable as the camera pans in to Ichabod seated at the piano, is a plate of doughnuts. Although this is very incidental, the director thought to include it as part of the food motif. After the humorous segment leaves the ladies in a swoon, Ichabod casually steps over them, takes a seat in the corner, and commences to devour a salad of perfectly formed, fresh garden vegetables.

Katrina van Tassel rides into the story in her father's carriage, and instantly draws the attention of all the male villagers, one who is eating a wide slice of juicy watermelon, whereupon the infatuated petitioners unload the cart of armfuls of picnic items. As Katrina leads the entourage to find the perfect spot, she passes Ichabod, who is on a picnic of his own, with a plump townswoman. Of course Ichabod is instantly smitten, and as he follows Katrina with his eyes, he sits down onto a delicious looking frosted, layer cake.

As the tale develops, we follow Katrina on a shopping trip in town, followed by her host of "rustic admirers" who are carrying her parcels. Katrina becomes piqued when Brom Bones scares off the competition for her affections, and seizes on Ichabod to challenge Brom's jealousy.

In the riotous scene that ensues, Katrina's packages are alternately scooped up by Ichabod, stolen away by Brom, spilled, scooped up, and spilled again, apples and potatoes rolling across the ground.

The story proceeds towards it's inevitable climax when Ichabod receives an invitation to the annual van Tassel Halloween frolic. This is the Halloween party I've always longed to attend. We approach the van Tassel estate, windows aglow, and the double doors open slowly before us, revealing a large open hall, bedecked with pumpkins and cornstalks around the pillars, swags of autumn leaves, and the country folk dancing to lively music. As Ichabod and Katrina waltz past the laden tables, Ichabod deftly reaches behind him, nabs a perfect wedge of spiced cake and consumes it without missing a step, nonchalantly licking his fingers.

The evening gets late, and as the roaring fire and the many carved jack-o-lanterns glow brighter, the revelers are seated, enjoying the bountiful banquet laid before them: hams, game hens, pickles, relishes, jello molds, and a variety of pastries and cakes. As Ichabod and the other partygoers partake of the delicacies  Brom sulks off in a corner with a plain looking sandwich until an idea comes to him how to use Ichabod's superstitions to his own advantage.

Katrina nurses a cup of tea, while nearby Ichabod sits with his heaping dish. As Brom relates the tale of the Headless Horseman, Ichabod eats enraptured. He inserts an entire game hen into his mouth and removes it, only the leg bones and ribcage remaining. Now, as his nerves get the better of him, Ichabod pours himself a cup of coffee, but is so frightened that he keeps spilling long after the cup has overflowed. As the party and Brom's story come to an end, Ichabod peels a hard boiled egg, and sprinkles it with a pepper shaker, but so entranced is he that he does not notice that the cap comes off the shaker, leaving a huge mound of pepper on the end of the egg, and the scene fades to black as Ichabod pops it into his mouth with fiery effect.

Of course, the entire story leads up to the incredible action sequence when Ichabod encounters the Headless Horseman in Sleepy Hollow. Although this scene is only about eight minutes long, it contains all the thrills and humor of a two-hour blockbuster, conceived as only the Disney animators in their heyday, could.

True to form, and to my thesis, the film ends as the narrator speculates on the demise of Ichabod Crane. Was he spirited away or did he merely run from the confines of Sleepy Hollow and into the willing arms of a wealthy widow in another county, where he sits at the head of a table, once again surrounded by heaping bowls of food, and his ubiquitous roast fowl?

There are other incidental food images such as when Brom bursts out of the root cellar with a bucket stuck on one foot and a long string of sausages wrapped around his neck,  but only the genius of Walt Disney could have brought these classic works of literature to the medium of popular entertainment. Walt Disney had and has many admirers and detractors (I am soundly in the former camp) but in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, he certainly stays true to the original's agrarian flavor.

Steve And Shellie Sitting In A Tree . . .

My Dear Wife,

Even after (or especially after) being together for 27 years, you are still cute as a button to me. You still look amazing when I glance over to sneak peeks at your profile. I still see the sweet, young (languishing) woman I fell in love with.

Of course, I have a vested interest in letting you sail out the door each morning knowing that your man thinks you're the cat's meow, and getting through the day at work secure in the knowledge that your husband loves you unconditionally, and that a sway of your hips can still give me palpitations. And that vested interest is your happiness.

You are the love of my life, my friend, my lover, my soulmate, my partner in crime, my Abigail to your John Adams.

I love when we are kissing and rub noses, not little Eskimo kisses, but rubbing our noses side to side and up and down.

Neither of us were virgins when we first made love, but neither of us had experienced the Big O until the first time we had sex that left our legs trembling and you screaming into your pillow. I have always loved making you scream into your pillow.

I still remember our first kiss like it was yesterday. We were sitting in the car, in the parking lot, after Jodie and Dr. Bernstein's Christmas party, where I hobnobbed with various chieftains of industry and other important and interesting people (as usual). I looked at you and asked if I could kiss you. I could see in your face that you knew we were crossing a line that we could never cross back over, but you said yes, and we did, and there was no going back, only forward. It was all we could do to keep our clothes on (we were both dressed to the nines) right then and there, but did we make love for the first time that night?

I remember making out with you, again in the car (what car was that?), again in a parking lot, but this time at a park, where we drew the attention of a group of cat-calling, wolf-whistling teenage boys, who I am sure wanted me to share the wealth.

I remember spending that stolen weekend in the hotel when our lives were topsy-turvy, the dinner we had overlooking the Illinois River at the Bluegrass Festival (and subsequently winning a prize for my essay), and hunting all over Disney World for a belt to keep my pants up (not that keeping my pants up was always your first priority).

I have loved the sex with you, the foreplay, the fulfillment, the crescendos.  I have loved my life with you. I have loved our marriage. I have loved never straying (all my flirtations, with everything on two legs, and some on four, notwithstanding), and I have loved honoring our commitment.

Has our marriage always been easy? No. Has it always been hard? Yes. But kissing your tender dupa has always made it worth it.

I am hopelessly, helplessly in love with you, and as I always do on the occasion of our wedding anniversary, I renew my vows to you in my heart, in my mind, and in my soul. I do not believe in a conscious afterlife, but I do believe that a love such as ours lives on.

Love, Your Husband

Somonauk, Illinois

Friday (we were married on a Friday) October 25th, 2013

The Little Tramp vs. The Great Dictator

"The Great Dictator" (1940) starring, written, produced, scored, and directed by Charlie Chaplin

I'm sorry, but I don't want to be an Emperor - that's not my business. I don't want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone, if possible - Jew, gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another; human beings are like that. We want to live by each other's happiness, not by each other's misery. We don't want to hate and despise one another. In this world there's room for everyone and the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone.

The way of life can be free and beautiful.

But we have lost the way.

Greed has poisoned men's souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical, our cleverness hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery, we need humanity. More than cleverness, we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost.

The aeroplane and the radio have brought us closer together. The very nature of these inventions cries out for the goodness in men, cries out for universal brotherhood for the unity of us all. Even now my voice is reaching millions throughout the world, millions of despairing men, women, and little children, victims of a system that makes men torture and imprison innocent people.

To those who can hear me I say, "Do not despair." The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed, the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress. The hate of men will pass and dictators die; and the power they took from the people will return to the people and so long as men die, liberty will never perish.

Soldiers: Don't give yourselves to brutes, men who despise you, enslave you, who regiment your lives, tell you what to do, what to think and what to feel; who drill you, diet you, treat you like cattle, use you as cannon fodder. Don't give yourselves to these unnatural men, machine men, with machine minds and machine hearts! You are not machines! You are not cattle! You are men! You have the love of humanity in your hearts. You don't hate; only the unloved hate, the unloved and the unnatural.

Soldiers: Don't fight for slavery! Fight for liberty! In the seventeenth chapter of Saint Luke it is written, "the kingdom of God is within man" - not one man, nor a group of men, but in all men, in you, you the people have the power, the power to create machines, the power to create happiness. You the people have the power to make this life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure.

Then, in the name of democracy, let us use that power! Let us all unite!! Let us fight for a new world, a decent world that will give men a chance to work, that will give you the future and old age a security. By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power, but they lie! They do not fulfill their promise; they never will. Dictators free themselves, but they enslave the people!! Now, let us fight to fulfill that promise!! Let us fight to free the world, to do away with national barriers, to do away with greed, with hate and intolerance. Let us fight for a world of reason, a world where science and progress will lead to all men's happiness.

Soldiers: In the name of democracy, let us all unite!!!

Hannah, can you hear me? Wherever you are, look up, Hannah. The clouds are lifting. The sun is breaking through. We are coming out of the darkness into the light. We are coming into a new world, a kindlier world, where men will rise above their hate, their greed and brutality.

Look up, Hannah. The soul of man has been given wings, and at last he is beginning to fly. He is flying into the rainbow - into the light of hope, into the future, the glorious future that belongs to you, to me, and to all of us. Look up, Hannah. Look up.