By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
When you look at pictures of Middlebury College in Vermont (founded in 1800), you look at a perfect campus, the kind that makes you wistful with the hope that you could go back in time, sit under a tree with brilliant fall foliage, your best pal and best gal next to you. The Green Mountains are glorious... so glorious that every time you look outside your dormitory window, you cannot believe just how privileged you are. This is what we see, this is what we want to see. And then, there is the incident of Thursday, March 2nd, 2017, where that picture perfect postcard became a playing field of violence, hatred, vulgarity, disgrace, and yes, dishonor, turning a great institution into a place of ignominy. The facts go like this. A campus organization did what they have always done throughout history; they selected a speaker to enliven one of their meetings. You can see them at their work, saying "He'd never come," "My father knows him," and "Let's give it a try and see whether he comes." Bringing special guests to campus is, you see, a long hallowed tradition. Since there is usually no money in the treasury, the game goes like this. Meet your guest... provide plane tickets, if possible, or even send one of the members to pick up the guest, the benefit being that extra time with a person of consequence. A dinner was customarily arranged at a fine local restaurant... the President, the officers of the club making sure they got to have dinner with the guest. Then the President of the club would escort his guest to the campus auditorium, where the number of seats filled was a direct indication of how popular, even how controversial the guest speaker was. The talk, of course, would be erudite, clever, humorous... a breath of real life. The speech was followed by a reception, ordinarily attended by the President of the institution, his wife, and any other guests he may have happened to have staying with him just then. The sherry, of course, was always mediocre (why did it have to always be that inferior brand?). But you were drunk more on the atmosphere than the vintage. It was a wonderful thing, that a person whose name you saw in the newspapers or even the movies could come sit next to you. You wanted the guest to autograph the program, but you were afraid your friends would see, and it would establish you as a weenie. Still, somehow, you got the autograph in the end. You still have it. Before you went to bed, you called your parents or wrote them a brief letter. After all they were footing a sizable portion of the bill (which in 2016 was just a shade under $50,000 a year). Still, it was a good thing to show your parents that there was value for money, your father particularly would be relieved. This is the way it was supposed to be. This is the way it had been so often before. Now, this longstanding tradition had been besmirched by people who manifestly failed to understand what a liberal arts college exists to do, and why the behavior of some caused consternation to the many. Enter M. de Voltaire (1694-1778) One of the most well known quotations on Earth is Voltaire's ringing declaration "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." Men and women have gone to war to defend this sacred oath. They died to preserve it. They gave up the ghost to defend for the rest of us a sacred trust that allowed us to say what we had to say without any fear of obstruction, retribution, or impediment of any kind. Generations came and went with near unanimous agreement. Defense of the indefensible constituted one of the great virtues of our Republic. We might abhor the thought, be disgusted by the thought, find the thought painful, revolting, even pernicious, but we also knew, and this is the point, our Great Republic had grown and flourished in part because we allowed those who thought differently than we did to have their unacceptable say without rancor or hostility, without physical abuse or frightening tactics. This freedom, found so infrequently around the globe, was one of the indelible glories of our Constitution, of our entire way of life, and we were right to exalt what was this treasure we had helped create and make more splendid yet. This is what had made the day in pristine Vermont so troubling to so many. Take a look at the facts. Charles Murray is a well known gadfly and columnist, whose particular bee in his bonnet is his firm belief that some are gifted with superior intelligence, and some have hardly any intelligence at all. He has gone about the country stirring up hatred and division. No reputable authority has stepped forward to say "We have Charles Murray, and he will show us the way." But this is not how it is when Charles Murray comes to college campuses. He looks out upon a sea of faces of every race and color and says some of these are at the bottom of the heap because of DNA, whilst others are at the top. Who is responsible for this state of affairs? Why, your DNA molecules, of course. Mr. Murray says his piece, the audience rolls its eyes on schedule, sniggers and disputes him. He picks up a nice check, gets his story in the New York Times, whilst the trustees of the institution congratulate themselves, having pulled off a quiet coup, no blood spilled, the institution's reputation for truth, justice, and the American way is sustained. The people in the audience look at each other and say smugly "That wasn't so bad. I even found things to agree with him about." And everyone is happy... except the self-proclaimed "revolutionaries" who have only pure thoughts and pure intentions, and a pocketful of shibboleths and "knowledge" which doesn't even rise to the status of cliche. They hear about the Murray visit and they determine upon a course of action that will sustain their purity, and turn them into heroes for each other. They plot their course... first, they make sure they look terrific, for after all they will be on the 11 o'clock news. Their clothes must be black, the de rigueur revolutionary color. No exceptions, except for the occasional red Che Guevara t-shirt, a hero they have adopted though they know nothing about him. Hair must be cropped irregularly. The whiff of many unwashed days must follow them like a rancid dog. And of course, they must wear masks, for while they're willing to go to any extent on behalf of what they believe, they want no one to know that they believe it. Oh yes, one last fashion touch. Since they will, as part of the choreography, turn their backs shunning the people they mean to overawe, what they write on their jackets must be short, sweet, and if at all possible misspelled. For their leader has said "What is misspelling compared to gross injustice? We stand for the right way, grammar be damned." These "revolutionaries" are expert now in these special touches. They make a positive religion out of it, and they approach battle as if they were the saints marching in. For after all, the saints may only march with the "revolutionaries", never with the people they are attacking. In Middlebury, Vermont, things followed the usual sneering course. The guest, Mr. Charles Murray was invited, and right at this moment when leadership was necessary, the College chose to stand on its tradition of civility and good fellowship. Though, bit by bit leaders of the institution began to understand that there could well be a ruckus. They believed that their strict admissions policies (only 16% of applicants are admitted) and their long years of enlightened behavior would protect them from any kafuffle. In short, just like M. de Launay, the governor of the Bastille in 1789, merely issuing an order should suffice to get the desired response. But as the grisly sight of M. de Launay's head riding on a pike proved, one could order, but one could never be sure of what would happen then. That is what a revolution means. And so, a group of up to 30 students and townies in short order destroyed the veneer of peace and security for one of America's great educational institutions... called a "mini Ivy" because as the students there will tell you, "We are just as intelligent, if not moreso, as our colleagues who went to Harvard or Yale." It is not true of course, but they would like to think so. And after all, it is a harmless enough delusion. This incident did not take place over merely one day. Professors met with their students, and students met with each other to prepare themselves for the event. It is doubtful whether even one of those students approached the entire business in an honest and non-judgmental way. As is the metier with today's students, who needs the truth when the object is publicity and mayhem. In my day, by comparison, you went to these meetings where the goal was learning at least a little something, rather than assuming that you already knew it. Today's students are a byword for laziness and nonchalance. Why should they be bothered to learn anything, when they already know everything? In this case, the first thing the "revolutionaries" did was make sure that Murray was not allowed to speak. Yes, one could almost hear the high principles of the institution being crushed by the elite of the nation. The program then moved to a new location where the guest was to be interviewed by Professor Allison Stanger and other college officials. Here, they had no more luck than before. The second attempt at ensuring the program took place was in an instant deranged by students pulling fire alarms... their shrill sound made anything else impossible. And so, Murray and the college officials left, and the attack began. A street sign with a heavy concrete base was thrown in front of the car Murray was in. At the same time, the other insurgents pounded and pumped on the car. Then, in the most serious event, someone had the audacity to pull Professor Stanger's hair, and injured her neck. She was immediately taken to the hospital. I ask you to consider for a moment the significance of what happened. An approved university guest was pushed off the stage, and given no chance whatsoever to do what he came to do. Here, 200 years and more after Voltaire said it, his great declaration is more relevant than ever. The guests thrust Murray off the stage, and at this moment Voltaire's great proclamation became more relevant than ever. We live in a nation where the virtues of the 1st Amendment are everyday made manifest, except at Middlebury College, nestled in the Green Mountains... a place not now just of beauty, but of embarrassment and chagrin. Today's students, for whatever reason, have no desire to learn any point of view but their own. Too many believe that everything said to them by any teacher or other authority figure is, by definition, useless baggage of no value whatsoever. To them, they can text; why do they need to study? Why do they need to consider anyone's point of view but their own? And so the nation, not just Middlebury College, is diminished daily by people who do not know, will not learn, will not think, but have power and money and the certainty that what they do is always the correct thing, no matter what that thing is... including relations with professors, College officials and yes, even parents. Sadly, the response of Middlebury officials, including the President of the College Laurie Patton, was inadequate. As of this date, the College has not yet made any announcement to those who are students and those who participated in the mob from the city and area. Remember, "Justice delayed is justice denied." So mild and futile has the College response been, that similar "revolutionaries" across the nation will say "The game is worth the candle," and carry forth with their heinous plans and ideas. The College instead should have had the trespassers arrested, and the students expelled. If you do not treat this crime as significant, then you are encouraging its growth. And that is why across the nation, the pride of America's educational establishments is rising up, oblivious, without having to worry about recriminations, or indeed, any punishment whatsoever. Moreover the sad thing is, with institutions fighting for the creme de la creme of the students, it may be the economics of this situation are determining what will be done. Administrators do not wish to take appropriate action, because if they do, they send a message to the other students who can afford to go elsewhere, and the institution cannot afford to squander even a single penny. And so these disgusting hijinx, so wicked cool, will continue. College presidents paid in the high hundreds of thousands of dollars will hesitate to use their authority, for if they do they might be forced to resign from the most lucrative job of their lives... the job where all they have to do is say the right thing, and never do it. Musical note For the music to accompany this article, I have selected "Ca ira" (1790). The "Ca ira" was the most revolutionary of songs. Its lyrics proclaimed the death of anyone who disagreed with the revolutionaries of 1789. The lyric was sharp; the tune catchy. Ca ira means "it'll be fine". A new world growing from the cascade of blood when the guillotine strikes. It will be good; it will be fine... they sang. It'll be fine. But will it? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_z3KCs4IR8 "Ah! It'll be fine, it'll be fine, it'll be fine aristocrats to the lamp post Ah! It'll be fine, it'll be fine, it'll be fine the aristocrats, we'll hang them!" "Ah! ca ira, ca ira, ca ira les aristocrates a la lanterne! Ah! ca ira, ca ira, ca ira les aristocrates on les pendra!" About the author Harvard educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant has written over 1,000 articles on a wide variety of subjects and 61 books. Find his complete corpus at www.drjeffreylant.com.
1 Comment
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
On February 28th, 2017, a remarkable thing happened which will reverberate through America's history for many years to come. Donald Trump, adjudged by many to be an accidental president, and condemned by millions for his lack of presidential stature, strode to the plate that is the well of the House of Representatives and knocked the ball out of the park. As he spoke, the media, who have judged him with often undue severity, sat back, relaxed, and watched an unexpected phenomenon taking place. This was not the Donald who astonished and embarrassed the nation with his vulgarity and incendiary remarks. This was not even the man of his inauguration as president, just a few weeks before. No indeed. Here we now have a president who delivered the finest State of the Union address not just of recent days, but back to Ronald Reagan's 1982 speech, which set the bar for what any president delivering the State of the Union address must say and do. However let's be real clear about what I am saying. I am telling you, and if you are willing to heed my message, and not let your own preconceptions drag you to an unhealthy and biased conclusion, that here was a man doing what every president must do, that is grow to fit the public's expectations, and use the powers of this most powerful of offices to move a nation. I imagine that most journalists who are expected to comment on the speech, both as it was delivered and when it was concluded, expected more of the same, for 99% of journalists who approach the subject, the man, his mission, thought, quite frankly, that he was not up to the job... that he had made too many mistakes in the first six weeks... that he had too many problems with his appointments and with his staff. Every time he tripped, the expectations about the man fell. And you could see from the media covering the event that they were bored, for they knew absolutely everything about the man and his capabilities, and none of it was good. Then something almost miraculous occurred. The man was not incompetent, as many have said. He was not a bigot, as so many have said. He was not a prime example of the Peter Principle either, namely: "the selection of a candidate for a position is based on the candidate's performance in their current role, rather than on abilities relevant to the intended role. Thus, employees only stop being promoted once they can no longer perform effectively, and 'managers rise to the level of their incompetence.'" No, he was not an example of the Peter Principle. Instead, he was an example of the Trump Principle... that is to say that he would do whatever is necessary to solve each pressing problem, environment, immigration, healthcare, etc. This common sense approach plays to Trump's strengths. And so, each media source was forced to recognize, before the very eyes of the vast audience across the world who saw what was happening and were forced to acknowledge the vision and determination of a man they had despised just days before. Hanging out in America's 8th most Democratic city. I come from a city called Cambridge, Massachusetts. Perhaps you have heard of it. It delivered the 8th highest concentration of Democratic votes in the 2016 election. It is arguably the most vehemently liberal community in the nation. 88% of the voters voted for Hillary Clinton. About 6% voted for Trump, including me. My colleagues, when they heard this news, treated me as a man whose vital senses had gone haywire... that I must have lost my marbles... that I couldn't possibly be serious about my choice... and that they would all come by in a kind of lamenting rotation to make sure my temperature and general mien were not worse, if that were even possible. For some days after this event, even after we knew he became the president elect, I remained shut up, incommunicado, not available. It was not merely that I did not wish to hear their opinions, but I grieved for such intelligent people behaving as they were. They of course pitied my lapse in judgment, and sometimes used the hottest and most wounding of words. The argument went something like this: Trump is not a team player. Trump's facts are often skewered and outright inaccurate. He shoots from the hip, which is his most prominent body part, save only his mouth. As these fetid comments and so many more circulated and recirculated around the globe, the great mass of liberal voters showed their true colors and allowed themselves the luxury which they would not allow for the president. One night I had one of these vehement and uninformed specimens for a drink. For half an hour or so I listened as this man poured forth the vile of the American Left... that Trump was a fascist, that Trump was a neo-Nazi, that Trump hated Jews, that Trump hated blacks, that Trump hated gay people, that Trump despised women... but they never mentioned the most important point of all... that Trump loves America. Thus if your vision of America is not his, yet nonetheless he is the president and entitled to your respect, if nothing more. I asked my visitor, "Has Donald J. Trump broken the Constitution? Has he deprived you of your right to even your most superficial and uninformed opinions? Has he given away himself to an avalanche of hatred, prejudice, or just plain bile? No, he has not." And that is appropriate, for I long to see how his vision of America grows and develops, the focus being always on the challenging, the bold, and on projects which are not easy, but are always necessary and essential. 02138 I have stood in my Harvard Square home across the street from what bills itself grandiloquently as the World's Greatest University, and I have felt shame for the students, ragamuffins every one, who have taken to the streets to denounce policies and an administration which has broken no Constitutional subject, and which understands that changes cannot take place without great visions and unsurpassed energy and tenacity. It has been clear to me for some time that most every student in America looks back to the bloody, scrambled days of 1968, where the classic model of liberal dissent was forged. That was living if you were on the Left. You learned from these chaotic days that bathing wasn't necessary, that illegal drugs were mandatory, that insult always trumped rational argument, that you bore no responsibility for anything, for it was your God given right to raise mayhem without proof, and to gather in thoughtless mobs, the elements of your facile credo all that was necessary. This was not a political movement, it was the antechamber to any psychiatrist's office you care to name. Every generation since those turbulent times of 1968 ensures that it too can rouse the scruffy and superficial to the level of mottos and epigrams, for only a few letters are needed to make a fatuous point. Thence, to raise your right hand in firm salute and scream “Say it loud! Say it clear! Refugees are welcome here!" or any other of the thousands of cursory sayings which passed for thoughtful study and considered opinion. We are in an unhappy period of history in this great nation, where thought is deemed unnecessary by the thoughtless, where an opinion immediately stated by the "right person" is immediately right and never wrong, where to be of any other moral, political, or religious point than your own is unthinkable and is certain to generate arguments delivered on spittle, with violence and hostility. For these people, Donald Trump is serving as the finest enemy one could ever imagine for the next four years at least. The Left will continue to disdain rational discussion in favor of laziness and sloth, with nary a common sense and proven principle necessary. Their goal is not to govern, it is to make all the functions of government grind to a halt because of their capricious thoughts and actions. Thus, this saying: "What the proprietorship of these papers is aiming at is power, and power without responsibility — the prerogative of the harlot through the ages." But does this make any sense? Donald Trump bears the responsibility for maintaining and building a greater America. The unwashed will want nothing more than slogans without sense, and a nation that supports them in so many ways that they do not support at all. Donald Trump is a builder, and I want to tell you something about what that means. In his State of the Union address, he gave numerous signals as to where his brain and heart are. He is a builder. My grandfather was a builder. My uncles were builders, too. Builders create for eternity. They do not bandy trivial points. Their goal is to take a place of promise, even one boarded up and shuttered, and turn it into a showcase where people can work, or live, or even read a book. Donald Trump is such a man, as two examples prove. The first president that Trump cited in his speech was Abraham Lincoln. Abraham Lincoln, had the Civil War never taken place, still would have gone down in history as a significant figure. Why? Because of his support and leadership on the Morrill Acts of 1862. These acts, in brief, created a national network of colleges and universities dedicated to the practical arts of agriculture, science, military science, and engineering. These institutions took young men principally from rural occupations to creating an infrastructure, providing education for the elite that built the nation. The second president cited by Trump was Dwight David Eisenhower, not in his role as general and hero of Normandy, but for his adamant support for the great ribbon of highways that bound Americans together. And so, Trump, in his telling speech, gave us a very clear idea of what he will do, and why he can become one of the greatest of all presidents. That's right, I said greatest of all presidents. Now the cards have been dealt. Trump stands forthrightly for maintaining, improving, and fighting for a nation that works, not for some spineless assembly whose members cannot bear the thought that they were wrong, that they are wrong, and that they will continue to be wrong until they look at the facts squarely, without rancor, with integrity... a thing they have been unwilling to do... preferring their parlor games of destruction and division. Of course, one speech does not an administration make. But this speech is a line in the sand. If he pursues the themes outlined on February 27th, 2017, you will see such a period of American prosperity as may be called the Golden Age. Wall Street, for one, has already declared its belief that such a period is coming, as one record close after another of the Dow Jones makes clear. Already the selfish and foolish behaviors of Trump's knee jerk critics, which were page one news just short days ago, look like artifacts from a dim distant past. The idiom indeed has changed. Now, Trump, against all odds, is the person to beat not beat up; carping criticism of him looks not merely ungenerous, but a clear indication of how picayune and small minded the Left in America has become. These are the beginnings of the great age of a greater America. Now, if you look squarely at the facts, we are beginning to see that Donald Trump, despite every flaw, defect, blemish, and imperfection, will lead us to a new and better place. This is the prediction almost no one would have been foolish enough to make just days ago, but which is now our exciting new national reality. About the author Harvard educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is well known internationally as the author of over 1,000 articles and over 60 books. To see all of his works go to www.drjeffreylant.com. by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Author's program note. When we left the Dolphin Seafood Restaurant that evening in 1981 it was pouring buckets. The car was blocks away; we had no umbrella; not even a newspaper to cover our heads. Within just seconds, we were soaked. Decisive action was necessary... and fast. Any port in a storm. Dramatis personae. There are just four people in this tale. First Chris Welsh, major league pitcher. His beautiful girl friend. Me, tale teller. And you, the immediate and ultimate beneficiary of this incident, now part of the literary repertoire and dinner party conversations everywhere. Let's get down to specifics... It all started with a phone number and my desire to have my prospects call me any hour of the day or night. Thus, my direct "call me now" message was plastered on everything from my pens, calendars, brochures, ads, proposals to my business cards (unrepentedly flashy with my count's coronet in real gold; I kid you not) tee-shirts, envelopes, memo pads. Get the picture? I liked cool cash and needed copious amounts given my (admittedly) lavish tastes. Keeping the telephone red hot with calls from "I want a piece of you and your brain, Dr. Lant," prospects was an essential part of my international Master Plan. And get this, the more times I put my moniker and phone number on every bloody thing under the sun, the more responses I got...and the richer I got. It was oh so sweet... and even my fiercest competitors were forced to admit, I was one cool dude. Then one fine day, I got a friendly call from a guy named Chris Welsh. Didn't know him. But he wafted some salubrious incense in my direction; lathering me with schmaltz sufficient to choke a horse. Of course, I liked him from that very first compliment... for Chris had all the persuasive moves and that all-important gift of the gab; perhaps a Kindred Spirit. "The Unabashed Self-Promoter's Guide." As it turned out, Chris was in Cambridge for an important family event. He had a few hours to kill and decided to spend them judiciously in what was then my favorite bookstore, Wordsworth, a grand place which allowed me (and the rest of their fiercely loyal clientele) to hang out, find a chair and thoroughly check out a potential purchase, or sit oblivious on the floor, no offense taken if bottom nudged by others immersed in A Book, a thing of telling force and compelling language. It was an incredible place... ... Not least because it stocked my books and placed not merely one order but, over time, many, many more. What's not to like? In this place of tales, dreams, reveries where the best and most lyric words were to be found all around you, just fingertips away, Chris Welsh found... me! And (never underestimate this key point) he also found my phone number along with this ultra clear, ultra important message: "I am standing by to hear from you RIGHT NOW. Call me and see for yourself." I meant every single word of this resonant declaration... and Chris, feeling the force and power of my adamant statement, knew it, too. He called. I answered. He told me he was on Brattle Street, at Wordsworth, and had just purchased a handful off my (weighty) tomes. Could he drop by and have me autograph them; a request no real author, no matter how eminent and renowned, can ever resist... because they know the power and importance of people like you... and so do I. Customer regard is essential for success, cannot be duplicated, and is always welcome, always and whenever. Wordsworth being just a hop, skip and a jump from my crib hard by the Cambridge Common, Welsh was punctual to the second. I liked that too. Chris Welsh, charmer, purveyor of my first and only signed baseball card. Before continuing my tale, I need to make what my many friends would regard as a completely superfluous and unnecessary mea culpa: namely that I don't know a baseball from a grapefruit, even if my (much valued) life depended on it. There, now you know the worst. Excoriate me, condemn, disdain, but remember I could have taken the Fifth... but chose brutal honesty instead. Chris Welsh and me, Kindred Spirits. Chris and I got on like a house afire. Born April 14, 1955 his (comparative) youth allowed me to tower over him, big brother like. More to like and more still when he asked to see all my books and bought all the ones he didn't have. Like I said, what's not to like? And then The Big Announcement, namely that Chris Welsh, born in Wilmington, Delaware, was one of the gods of creation, a certified, real baseball player with teams and colleagues who were all household names. Now at this point, our burgeoning kindred spiritship could have crashed and burned. But it didn't, not by a long shot. Why? Because I never condescend to merit, whatever field it's in and I have known all my life that my ears are my most important marketing asset. I wanted to learn; he was glad to teach me. And so the only major league baseball lecture of my life commenced. Dinner at the Dolphin. Given my complete and utter lack of knowledge and interest in major league or any other kind of baseball, I have to tell you I was proud of myself; my questions practical, short and to the point, the better to camouflage my sad relationship to the Great Republic's great past time. And so we passed a useful, companionable hour or so. He then invited me to dinner, ordained the cuisine and asked if he could bring the lady of his life along. Of course, for I am of "the more the merrier" school of entertaining. And so the night progressed, the lobsters just so, the Chardonnay crisp, the conversation witty, sharp, with that necessary dollop of malice the best raconteurs use to turn conversation to a practised art form. ""I Love A Rainy Night." But all good things come to an end... but not always when, how or where we might suppose. Thus I return to that moment of aquatic superfluity along Massachusetts Avenue in a storm that wouldn't quit. My new friends said they'd drive home as they were, a pair of drowned rats. I wouldn't hear of it. And so we walked home, Gene Kelly like, not missing a single puddle. In Harvard Square, we bought pounds of cheap candy, the kind you only share with your very best friends. Thus we arrived chez moi... with a problem. "Showers washed all my cares away." We were all wet, very wet, needing to do something right away. And so each in turn retired to my Roman-style bath, the better to doff their sodden clothes and wrap ourselves like so many enchiladas in big fluffy towels. Thus did our unexpected evening pass in high good humor and too much sugar for all, until it was time for Chris Welsh and his inamorata to get up, dress and depart. That was when he autographed one of his San Diego Padres baseball cards and handed it to me with a grin and these immortal words: "Five hours ago you were just a name on a book cover, now my girl and I are getting out of your bed". All true. And that's why I shall never ever take an umbrella to any restaurant on a rainy night and why I whistle Eddie Rabbitt's 1981 tune, "I love a rainy night," as a kind of incantation summoning serendipity. "Well, I love a rainy night... You know it makes me feel good." I hope it always will. Envoi Chris Welsh pitched for the San Diego Padres (1981-1983; Montreal Expos (1983); Texas Rangers (1985-1986); Cincinnati Reds (1986). Known as "The Crafty Left-Hander" because of his distinct style, he has been a sports commentator for the Cincinnati Reds for many years. He remains as charming and affable as ever. About the author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is well known internationally as the author of over 1000 articles and over 60 books. He is arguably the most well-known author of his generation. He has touched the lives of millions of people worldwide with his inimitable prose style. To see all of his works go to www.drjeffreylant.com. |
AuthorDr. Jeffrey Lant, Harvard educated, started writing for publication at age 5. Since then, he has published over 1,000 articles and 63 books, and counting. Archives
August 2018
Categories |