“We ARE most amused.” 43,000 pages of Queen Victoria’s journals posted online… as we dig into royal reality.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Author’s program note. In 1979 my first book “Insubstantial Pageant: Ceremony & Confusion at Queen Victoria’s Court” was published by Hamish Hamilton in London and Taplinger in New York. It was treated as front page news in England, because it was based on hitherto unknown and unreported papers, including unpublished documents made available to me by Her Gracious Majesty The Queen.
Aside from their undeniably important content, something else was significant about this matter; the fact that it was the research of an American, indeed the very first Yank ever admitted to the treasure trove that resides in the Royal Archives at Windsor Castle. In fact, so far as I know, I remain all these many years later the only American still. And so I am uniquely qualified to write this story.
Hear more in my recent book “Happy and Glorious. Encounters With the Windsors.”
“Soldiers of the Queen”.
As every monarch has known, a royal story goes better with a strong, rousing tune, and this one is no exception. Thus I have selected one of the best marches of the Empire on which the sun never set, “Soldiers of the Queen.” It was written and composed by Leslie Stuart in the1890s for the opening of the Manchester Ship Canal. Its lyrics were not merely catchy, they were very gospel to the people who thrilled to their imperial achievement.
“It’s the soldiers of the Queen, my lads Who’ve been, my lads, who’ve seen, my lads In the fight for England’s glory lads When we’ve had to show them what we mean.”
Go now to any search engine and find this pip of a tune which you’ll probably recall from Shirley Temple’s 1939 film “The Little Princess.” It is sure to get your blood stirring if you’ve got even a drop of the old English about you.
Enter by the tradesmen’s door.
To gain access to the sovereign’s private papers, you must apply to the Royal Librarian, in my day Sir Robin Mackworth-Young. The key to entry was being a “recognized scholar.” This meant being a known author or having secured the Ph.D. from a known university. In my case it necessitated being patient until I took my Ph.D. from Harvard University in 1975. As soon as I had it in hand, I left for England, for Windsor, for the papers I needed to complete my book.
Perhaps only a scholar given such access can know and understand the thrill, the giddy excitement as you travel to such riches. But reality entered the picture at once. I was told to go to the tradesmen’s entry where a footman in powdered hair handed me a quill pen and told me to sign in. Me? Tradesmen’s entry? The sage of Cambridge?
More sobering reality.
The footman then picked up a candelabrum and a giant key. “This way,” he said (“doctor” and “sir” omitted), as if I were the butcher’s boy; leading me the few steps to the door at the base of the Round Tower. He unlocked the massive door and told me to ascend the stairs to the top where another heavy door would be unlocked.The concrete stairs were steep; it was cold. There was no light. I was a prisoner in the Tower, locked in at their pleasure, wondering how to get out. Now I was thrilled no longer; I was in a story that could easily be written by Edgar Allan Poe or M.R. James, both masters of the macabre.
“We’ve been expecting you.”
Then as I reached the top, the door swung open, there was light, warmth and a greeting from Miss Jane Langton. She showed me my room, told me which papers they had laid out and explained the rules, viz that I must take tea with the staff daily and leave for luncheon. I resented both rules; I had come a long way to gather what I needed… and luncheon was immaterial. Still I was logged out then, too, to log in again in 60 minutes sharp.
Her Majesty The Scribbler.
Victoria became sovereign by birth, merit being no part of the matter. But she became a writer by hard work, assiduous effort, and the constant perfecting of her craft. I liked that about her from the start, for she knew the burden of the blank page… and she knew the necessity to write regularly, frequently, and follow the writer’s first rule: to write about what she knew. She did, publishing two best-selling books, writing thousands of letters (only a fraction in print) and creating the most important royal journal ever written.
Thus each day I was allowed in the Round Tower, I was in direct, personal converse with the majesty that reigned over a preponderance of the known world. At first, of course, there were her quirks and abysmal handwriting to learn. This wasn’t easy for Queen Victoria was famous for her illegible hand and abbreviations… the text messaging of her day. However, in due course I mastered both to the extent that the staff would bring me papers they were working on and asked for my opinion. Thus, I built bridges with people not keen on my American heritage and became a known master of royal cryptograms, to the extent the staff would often compliment my proven skills… and in truth I earned their regard, though there were frustrating times when the Queen’s execrable handwriting defeated us all.
Now available to the world at.
Now thanks to the generosity of Queen Elizabeth II you need not demonstrate that you are a “recognized scholar” to gain access. No interview required with a pompous minor member of the royal staff; no forced tea or luncheon… just you and the great Queen, from the comfort of your home. All this deserves the highest praise and gratitude and as the complete collection is indexed (a gigantic task indeed), your praise should swell, too.
But now it is time to dip into Her Majesty’s actual words, where you find from the very first a woman of honesty, directness, of strong sentiments, but no pretence at all. See for yourself…
On her birthday, May 24, 1837. “Today is my eighteenth birthday! How old! and yet how far I am from being what I should be. I shall from this day take the firm resolution to study with renewed assiduity, to keep my attention always well fixed on whatever I am about, and to strive to become every day less trifling and more fit for what, if Heaven wills it, I’m some day to be.”
On proposing to her adored Prince Albert, (October 15, 1839). “My mind is quite made up, and I told Albert this morning of it. The warm affection he showed me on learning this gave me great pleasure. He seems perfection, and I think that I have the prospect of very great happiness before me. I love him more than I can say…”
And this effusion: “I really cannot say how proud I feel to be the Queen of such a nation.” She entered it into her journal the evening of her coronation, June 28, 1838… but she felt this way every day of her life. I felt this commitment strongly as I worked busily in the Round Tower so many years ago! Now this feeling can be yours wherever you are as you dig in to her most private thoughts. God save the Queen… and every word she ever wrote.
About the Author
Dr. Jeffrey Lant is known worldwide. He started in the media business when he was 5 years old, a Kindergartner in Downers Grove, Illinois, publishing his first newspaper article. Since then Dr. Lant has earned four university degrees, including the PhD from Harvard. He has taught at over 40 colleges and universities and is quite possibly the first to offer satellite courses. He has written over 60 books, thousands of articles and been a welcome guest on hundreds of radio and television programs. He has founded several successful corporations and businesses including his latest at …writerssecrets.com
His memoirs “A Connoisseur’s Journey” has garnered nine literary prizes that ensure its classic status. Its subtitle is “Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.” A good read by this man of so many letters. Such a man can offer you thousands of insights into the business of becoming a success. Connect with Dr. Lant at www.drjeffreylant.com
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note.
It is exactly 463 miles from Maywood, Illinois where I was born on February 16, 1947, to Duluth, Minnesota, where Bob Dylan was born May 24, 1941. In these few facts, there is a multiplicity of meaning… for I, a deep-rooted Midwestern boy myself, take my hat off to you Shabtai Zisl ben Avraham, aka Robert Allen Zimmerman, and then, at various times and various places, Elston Gunnn, Blind Boy Grunt, Bob Landy, Robert Milkwood Thomas, Tedham Porterhouse, Lucky Wilbury, Boo Wilbury, Jack Frost, and Sergei Petrov.
Our lives have crossed often, as I will show you here. But an understanding between Bob Dylan and Jeffrey Lant is the work of a lifetime, and your true importance is that through sentiments which often seem to drive us apart, came your rendition of the great truths which have kept and must keep us together.
“Get that Jew out of my kitchen”.
It is hard to see amidst so many travels the small tight-knit Jewish community he was born into. Neither Minnesota nor Illinois, its very near neighbor, were particulary welcoming to Jews, especially ones which in Dylan’s family came from the Eastern European countries of Ukraine and Lithuania, places they particulary despised, avoided, and condemned.
I had a vision… I had a shocking vision into what the “real” Midwestern Americans thought about Jews. When I brought home from school the brightest boy (next to me of course) in my class, he was a New Yorker, he looked “ethnic”, and was sharp as a tack.
I remember as if it were yesterday, what my grandmother said when I brought him home to the house through the kitchen entrance, used only by family and friends. I introduced him… not a word was said about Judaism until completely without warning, she shrieked “Get him out of my kitchen! Get him out now!”
I’ve never told this story before, but now is the time to do so, since it demonstrates how even amongst the “best families” anti-antisemitism was rife, if not voiced. I know, and I was appalled.
I, as the son of a leading family, was promptly forgiven for my picadillo. As for my grandmother, she never mentioned it again, in any way, shape, or form. Bob Dylan faced his situation in a vastly different way than I did with mine. For him, there were no swimming parties, no lazy afternoons at the club house, no finding golf balls hit by errant duffers. All this came to me as if by right, for so we regarded it, by right.
For Dylan, things were different. And where I watched the Lennon Sisters, where Lawrence Welk directed his lily white Champagne Music Makers, and had two-toned shoes just like Pat Boone, and a cap like Davey Crockett wore, Bob Dylan fled his boyhood home in Hibbing to the bigger world of the University of Minnesota, where he enrolled in 1959, and where I taught as a lecturer many years later.
I stayed in school, never left, attended 12 universities, and got four degrees, including a Ph.D. from Harvard. I chose the comfortable route. Dylan, by contrast, had heebie jeebies, ants in his pants. There was always something new with him… that never changed.
Rock’n’roll was here to stay, but not for Dylan.
Studying was never his objective… American folk music was. But only for a short time, providing yet another escape hatch from dead end rock’n’roll.
“The thing about rock’n’roll is that for me anyway it wasn’t enough… There were great catch-phrases and driving pulse rhythms… but the songs weren’t serious or didn’t reflect life in a realistic way. I knew that when I got into folk music, it was more of a serious type of thing. The songs are filled with more despair, more sadness, more triumph, more faith in the supernatural, much deeper feelings.”
With strongly held sentiments like these, and just a few bucks in his pocket, Bob Dylan did what every aspiring, counter cultural artist did: fled to New York… the Big Apple even then; de rigeur if your politics were Left, you had a world of drugs to sample, and your sexuality was promiscuous, but ardent.
Here, young Bob Dylan and I diverged again. I went to Cornell College in Mount Vernon, Iowa (Harvard only came later). My agenda included “God Bless America” and staying straight and squeaky clean in a place where one may safely send one’s children, and where the “real world” scarcely made an appearance at any time. As for sex… that wasn’t even invented until 1968, remember?
It was about this time, I can date it almost to the minute, when Bob Dylan’s America and mine broke apart. The chasm between us was so deep, it still exists today, and worse than it ever was. He was on his track, I was on mine.
He, from February 1961, played at clubs around Greenwich Village. He was a magpie, picking up a song there, a lyric here, a soused composer somewhere else, and a singer whose golden voice failed to obscure the fact she was a heroin addict, at $25 a day. She would sit on his lap, and look in deeply at what she could only see. Bob Dylan saw this, as he saw everything. For without even knowing the word, he was a humanitarian… and therfore a friend to all, whatever they thought of him. And what they thought was often unnecessarily hostile, mean spirited, and dismissive.
In my case, because I came from West Los Angeles, I was appointed by the administration as the master of interracial relations, and the cataclysms which, like East Los Angeles (called Watts), frightened the bejesus out of America, as it watched black marauders destroy the basis of their lives, and what they could do to yours if they weren’t stopped.
By this time, Robert Dylan (he had legally changed his name again in 1962), was becoming savvy about the record business, but not savvy enough. In 1968, the BBC took a film recording of “Madhouse on Castle Street”, starring Dylan, and gratuitously destroyed it. There is no copy extant today, because those bozos thought he was a has been.
My path and Dylan’s didn’t cross much anymore after he changed his musical direction as easily as he shed and gained a new name. He was looking for something, but what was it? Perhaps he didn’t even know.
Then one day I got myself trapped in a booth at a local restaurant here in Cambridge. I had just recently been diagnosed with having Parkinson’s Disease, and I acted like no one in the world ever had a disease before and certainly pointed fingers and laughed at mine. It was pathetic, self-pitying, a dead end. Then, I remembered a song I had used as background music for a poetry reading once upon a time. It was Bob Dylan’s version of “Forever Young”, published in 1974.
I had spent my whole life doing what was expected, doing it when expected, doing it with as little ruckus as possible, and above all, doing it oneself, becoming a burden to no one. How I could get out of my coat, wedging me as it did in the booth, so that I could go neither forward or back, I did not know. But then, these lines, rose as if by magic from my roiling brain:
“May you always do for others
And let others do for you”
There was Bob Dylan, masquerading as the voice of God, and doing a damn good job of it, too. I was ready to change my modus operandi of a lifetime. I was ready to let people help me for a change, and it was Bob Dylan right there before me who made me willing to have it happen. He was the one who pointed to the insidious refrain…\
“May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you”
And so far, I’ve been doing pretty well listening to his advice.
On December 10, 2016, on a splendid evening soon to come in another memorable event in the Swedish dynasty, they will have front row seats as the Swedish Academy bestows its highest honor, the Nobel Laureate for Literature.
Bob, if I may advise you in a small sartorial matter, do not appear in white tie with tails. It is not you. Come instead as the man who has shown the world not just about various kinds and types of music, but about how music can beautify and cleanse a world so deeply disunited.
And, remember when King Carl XVI Gustaf (b. 1946) hands you your glittering prizes, you will have no greater admirer than I, for you deserve the thanks of the world for having a full heart, and knowing what to do with it.
As for His Majesty and his beautiful commoner Queen, Silvia Sommerlath (b. 1943), you can be sure they had a helpful hand in this election, after all, they are the same age we all are, and love your music in all its varieties.
Sing them, “The Times They Are a-Changin'” (1964), for they certainly are. Skol!
Here’s the musical link:
About the author:
Now 70, a bonafide septuagenarian, Harvard educated Dr. Lant looks upon his much favored life with happiness and joyful acclimation. Author of nearly 60 books and well over 1,000 articles, this is a man who knows how to tell a story and tell it well. To see his complete oeuvre, go to www.drjeffreylant.com
A Gift from Dr. Lant – a FREE Copy of “Create An E-Book Today. Publish It On Amazon.com. Profit From It for the Rest Of Your Life!” by Dr.Jeffrey Lant As a bonus you will also receive news from Dr. Lant, hear of other Free and Special Offers and keep updated on what’s happening at Writers Secrets.
Jeffrey Lant Associates, Inc.
All Rights Reserved
For this 53rd anniversary of what has been deemed one of the greatest speeches of the 20th century, the historic speech “I Have a Dream” by Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr.
www.writerssecrts.com proudly presents a revisiting of that speech with words of what might have been Martin Luther King’s if he had been alive to speak to the people today.
Excerpts from the book
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Available at: http://amzn.to/2iz28fz
Tune in to a special reading by the Author Dr. Jeffrey Lant and read along with the text below.
Author’s Program Note
Good day, my fellow Americans and my fellow citizens of
Planet Earth. We have gathered today to hear one of the
greatest orators in the history of our species. He has let it
be known that he has something of epochal importance
to impart…. and we have gathered in our billions to hear it.
I do not overstate the case when I say “billions”, for Dr. King’s
audience today is composed of more people than any other
event in human history. Why so many? They know this man…
They respect his vision… He has helped them before, and they
feel certain he will help them again, touching their hearts, changing
their lives, soothing their troubled spirits.
“I Have A Dream”
The last time he called us together was August 28th, 1963, for what
came to be known as the “I Have A Dream” Speech. He reminded us
that without dreams there can be no progress and without progress the
people suffer and die, tragic evidence of our undeniable culpability.
That was a great day for dreamers and visionaries across the globe;
a day when light replaced darkness for so many and millions felt
hope for the first time in their challenged and overburdened lives;
blessed at last by “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness”; mere
words no longer but active possibilities to be used and enjoyed.
“Sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation.”
Consider the man and his titanic mission. An entire race danced noxious
attendance upon an anxious majority of the population; the one determined
to preserve its superior position; the other oppressed and fearful they would
make even some trivial error against the baleful Jim Crow system of profound
segregation, thereby calling upon them their “betters” certain and severest
Trust between the races was non-existent; cooperation unknown; amity
as fleeting as a frosty smile that didn’t last. The richest soil of the nation
produced only a bumper crop of fear, hatred, and the “strange fruit” of
premature death and hideous disfiguration, no one safe, black or white,
north or south, day or night, no matter how acquiescent or careful.
Let us now consider this man and the responsibility he shouldered, always
at terrible risk. He was in the prime of his productive life when he heard and
took to heart the words of the old Negro spiritual, “Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.”
He has come here today to bring freedom to us all, freedom and joy.
Part 1 Dr. Lant introduces the program and comments on the action.
Good-Day, World. Welcome to the WritersSecrets Sky Box high above the
stern, majestic Lincoln Memorial, scene of so many historic moments in the
life of our Great Republic, including Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr’s iconic
1963 “I Have A Dream” speech.
We have gathered here and around our tumultuous globe to hear a revered
and venerable man of God help us at a time of earthly crisis and unparalleled
challenge. The program begins with the greatest of Martin Luther’s hymns, “A Mighty
Fortress Is Our God”, written in 1529 by a man so honored by Reverend Michael
King, Sr. that following a 1936 trip to Germany he renamed himself the Reverend
Martin Luther King, Sr. and his seven year old son Martin Luther King, Jr. Access
any search engine and feel the power of the church militant tapped by the Reverends
King for their great endeavors; available, too, for yours.
“With our powers we will fail/ We would soon be defeated/
But for us fights the chosen man/Whom God Himself elected.”
And so the adamant, soaring words are lifted higher today on the largest video
screens available. Now the colors… the music… the lyrics punch the sky as we
move gently in Washington, D.C. from radiant afternoon to expectant evening.
One senses destiny here today. It is the kind of day you will relate to your
grandchildren with pride. “I was there!”, and those who had neither time nor vision
will rue this day of loss for a lifetime, bowing their heads in shame…
“There you catch a glimpse of Dr. King being helped out of his car, to be greeted
by the Mayor of Washington, DC at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial. His son Michael
King, Jr. helps him out and hands him his cane. This cane was given to him by a
former member of the Georgia Ku Klux Klan who participated in lynching a young
black man. A silver plaque was engraved, “Father forgive me.” When questioned as
to why he used this cane, his invariable response was, “There but for the grace of
“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”
On the night of November 18,1861 Julia Ward Howe went to bed as usual and
slept quite soundly, waking up to await the cool gray of dawn. Then, all of a sudden,
she experienced the thrill that is creation, long lines of a desired poem clear in
“I must get up,” she said, “So, with a sudden effort, I sprang out of bed and found
in the dimness an old stump of a pen which I remembered to have used the day
before. I scrawled the verses almost without looking at the paper.” As so was
born “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”, with its perpetual call to action and robust
certainty indicating purity of heart and God’s will and glory.
Now these irrefutable words are playing above me for the world to know, along with
the inspired music. For this night at least, God’s in his Heaven, all’s right with the
world. Find it in any search engine for here is happiness, too long deferred, too little
known, our right, pilgrim that you are.
“Glory, glory Hallelujah/ His truth is marching on, and you are called to join “while
God is marching on
Part 2 “Here in my heart I do believe.”
The most mild of twilights is now the most perfect of nights, the huge crowd
disciplined and respectful, intent alone upon listening to the final notes of Julia
Ward Howe’s magnificent poem on freedom’s cost.
Then her notes of adamant purpose are superseded by the anthem of the
Civil Rights Movement, the cause that changed America and brought
international leadership and renown to Martin Luther King, Jr.
The man, his moment, his anthem, his message all come together here,
now. If there is kismet, it is here.
The crowd leaps to its feet as if by a single movement. There are cheers,
shouts, whistles, and most of all a million clenched fists, the symbol of
revolution and what its supporters can and will give towards its success,
not just now… but every day in its ineluctable purpose. This is why Dr.
King has come again to the Capital of the Great Republic. And so this 87
year old leader is wheeled to a shared destiny, for we have all travelled with
him and shared in the important results we have achieved together.
Thus the men’s chorus of Morehouse College serenades with the greatest
tune in their repertory, sung to the most famous of its alumni (class of 1944,
aged 15). “You can do anything” they have been told since birth… and today they
believe it and know they have never walked alone.
“We’ll walk hand in hand”… “We shall live in peace”
and then alternating on the vast screens;
“We are not afraid…” and “We shall overcome.” Like so many worldwide I
brushed away a tear, then another, and said a private prayer, for I knew, we
all knew, we could do this thing and be the better for it, or we could die by certain
inches, excuses, denials, expert only in looking the other way.
When I looked up, this man of men was at the platform, frail, held so he would
not fall; the prophet who had come so far over so long a distance. He knew what he
must do to ensure we would do what we must do. If this could be done, then anything
could be done, and we must work hard to ensure it would be, for our chances were
dwindling, the planet, our single home, at greater risk every single minute; our end
if not yet predictable, at least imaginable.
After wave after wave of cheers, the acclaim began to subside. A professional
to his fingertips, he knew just when to step in and take command. After several
raucous minutes, he grasped the podium. We knew he would give his last drop
of blood, willingly, joyfully, with gratitude, glad to have what he needed, the
support of generations, including even the love of those who had once upon a time
hated and despised him, anguish and murder their ready tools.. These, too,
against all predictions had learned from him. “Father forgive me…” The power of
redemption was always near at hand when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was nigh.
As he took his place at the podium, each and every one of the giant screens
burst forth with the most famous of his many famous quotations, “I Have A Dream”
and as these words took flight to the very gates of Heaven, the crowd was on its
feet again, with their thousands of approbations, approvals, enthusiasms, and
motivations. The crucial connection between Prophet and people took place
making this a thrilling experience for all.
Just then a gust of wind blew through the assembled masses, his striking
doctoral gown from Boston University billowed, reminding us that here was a
scholar, a theologian, a pastor, an historian, a writer, an orator, a visionary,
a thinker and most of all a seeker after Truth. He had done his work, and it was
well and truly done. Hallelujah!
“I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest
demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.”
This is how I began my remarks to you in 1963 and this is how I begin them to you
today. My words were candid and urgent then. My words are candid and urgent
to you today. Let me begin with gratitude.
So many of you here today, so many of you around the globe have worked
together that I can report with pride this day dawns better than yesterday, and we
stand together to ensure tomorrow will be better yet. This is good news
indeed, and we can feel proud of what we have done and what I know we will do
There are many reasons why we are better off today than then, and I place them
before you now. We achieved them together. Let us then celebrate them together
too, always remembering that further progress is dependent upon maximum unity.
I call upon you now for that essential unity. I have a dream… and that dream is
your complete and utter commitment to freedom here! Freedom now! Freedom
forever and ever. Amen!
Will you, dear friends and colleagues, join me in making that commitment,
for the good of all is dependent on the work of each?
I have a dream that all are equal before the law, no one above the other, fairness
and equality our constant and never-ending goal.
I have a dream that the benefits of education be available, and joyfully too, to every
child, and that this education include art, music, and all the liberal arts, for these
contain the essential wisdom of our species.
I have a dream that no one should want for health care. No people, no nation
can be great when so many lack the basics of sustained health and necessary
nutrition. Now is the time to achieve this goal.
I have a dream where women who want to work do so with equal pay for equal
work. A great nation must be a fair nation and that fairness, long overdue, must
I have a dream that air be clean…. that water be pure… that animals be
protected and plants as well.
And most of all, I have a dream that there be peace on Earth, good will towards men.
This is the most important dream of all, and the most pressing.
Whether these dreams stay dreams or whether they become hard-won reality and not
just philosophical possibility depends on each of us. If a single person hearing this
message declines to help implement it, the dream must wither and die. You see, we
either ascend together or we decline together to that extent.
That is why, as I conclude my visit with you, I remind you all not just that we shall
overcome but that we are not afraid. We know the work is long and arduous. We
know many will obstruct and deride. We know this is not the goal of days, weeks,
or even decades.
However, we must take up the burden for it is not just my dream that is at stake.
It is the dream of every one of us, all children of God wherever we are, however we
pray. Be not afraid we shall fail, rather be afraid we must fail if we do not walk
together hand in hand. If we do this, failure is unthinkable, our victory sure and
certain; once blind, now found, each and every one of us by amazing grace
that saved a wretch like me.
Having finished his historic remarks, he slumped in the arms of his first
son. But he wanted just a minute more, to look at the site of his great triumphs.
He was tired now and it showed. But what also showed was his confidence
that his message was even now growing, his life’s work secure.
All over the great mall people were singing “Amazing Grace”, the well-known
lyrics on every screen. and holding hands, each link a bridge to tomorrow..
One giant screen showed Dr. King shaking hands with the people great and
small who came to touch him and see him off. In a moment, he was in
his car, now speeding into the dark night of eternity, his home for the ages.
This e-book is dedicated to Patrice Porter who urged me to write it and watched
it grow until her tears showed me I had written it just as she had wished it to be…
About the Author
Dr. Jeffrey Lant is known worldwide. He started in the media business
when he was 5 years old, a Kindergartener in Downers Grove, Illinois,
publishing his first newspaper article. Since then Dr. Lant has earned
four college degrees, including the Ph.D. from Harvard.
He has taught at over 40 colleges and universities, quite possibly the
first to offer satellite courses. He has written over 50 books, thousands
of articles and been a welcome guest on hundreds of radio and television
He has founded several successful corporations and businesses
including his latest at … www.drjeffreylant.com
His memoirs “A Connoisseur’s Journey” have garnered nine prizes
that ensure its classic status. Its subtitle is “Being the artful memoirs
of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.” You’ll enjoy the read by
this man of so many letters.
Such a man can offer you thousands of insights into the business of
becoming a successful writer.
Be sure to sign up now at www.writerssecrets.co
Tune into the original “I Have a Dream” speech given Aug. 28th 1963
An event you will never forget.
Two connoisseurs in ebullient conversation about life, money, collecting, and the joy of MORE!
F. Scott Fitzgerald said, “The really rich are different from you
and me”… Come see for yourself on Thursday, March 24, 2pm ET
when your host Dr. Jeffrey Lant, internationally known author
and commentator, goes toe-to-toe with plutocratic, billionaire
whose appearance reminds us “living well is the best revenge.”.
Kip is the Maecenas of our dull as dishwater days. (In case your
Roman history is rusty, the good Maecenas has come down from
the time of Octavius Caesar as a byword for a wealthy, generous
and enlightened patron of the arts… and so say all of us.
Motor cycle hot shot.
I first became aware of Kip’s joyful family when I was a student at
Harvard. Father Malcolm (1919-1990) was a motorcycle fanatic. He was
indeed the leader of the pack as they gathered at the end of Holyoke
Street where I resided in what were credited as the apartment of
Franklin D. Roosevelt’s valet. With this splashy opening le tout
Harvard Square knew when this impresario imp of the unpredictable
was in town. Here was a man who knew how to generate buzz, lots
of buzz, and keep ’em smiling, sugar.
I advise my students that if they want a guarantee they’ll be rich
and comfy they should carefully select just the right parents,
and here Malcolm’s two sons (Steve, born 1947 and Christopher,
born ( ) showed they got the message.
Daddy was rich, granddaddy (a Scottish emigrant with a slew of relations
in the noble Clan Forbes) was rich… get the picture? The key
wasn’t just making money, it was having fun while keeping what
they got and getting more.
Not for the father nor the sons was wealth a matter of grim drudgery
and punishing responsibilities. They knew that wealth must mean
happiness or its cost is too high. Wealth was never their master; always
their servant. To be around a Forbes is to feel joy and experience their
kindness in sharing. They resurrect a penetrating phrase “Noblesse oblige”,
an aspect of wealth no wealthy person can afford to forget or postpone,
even if what can be given is no more than the widow’s mite..
“Ars longa. Vita brevis.”
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“A Connoisseur’s Journey: Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy”
A multi-awards winning, gloriously written and unique memoir by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
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