2015年10月14日戴明博士生日，作一場他與Peter Drucker在紐約大學企管學院GSA的友誼。後來，嘗試將該主題寫成一書，繼續找資料，發現GSA校友發行SternBusiness 季刊，Drucker過世後有一期專刊，主題文章由過去3任院長共同寫作。
後來我讀到Stern商學院的電子刊物，是訪問品管大師Joseph Juran (1996年我翻譯出版他的大著【管理三部曲Mnagerial Breakthrough】的孫子，現在在Stern教書。
Stern商學院今年在某評鑑系統是全美MBA學校的第11名。
Richard Purdy Wilbur was an American poet and literary translator. Working primarily in traditional forms, his work is marked by its wit, charm, and gentlemanly elegance. Wikipedia
Born: March 1, 1921, New York City, New York, United States
Died: October 14, 2017, Belmont, Massachusetts, United States
Full name: Richard Purdy Wilbur
Spouse: Mary Charlotte Hayes Ward (m. 1942–2007)
We are deeply saddened by the passing of Candide lyricist Richard Wilbur.
Aside from his work with Leonard Bernstein, Wilbur was appointed the second Poet Laureate of the United States in 1987, and won the Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry in 1957 and 1989.
Take a moment to reflect on Wilbur's lyrics from the finale of Candide, "Make Our Garden Grow":
"Let dreamers dream what worlds they please;
Those Edens can't be found.
The sweetest flow'rs, the fairest trees,
Are grown in solid ground.
Those Edens can't be found.
The sweetest flow'rs, the fairest trees,
Are grown in solid ground.
We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good;
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house and chop our wood,
And make our garden grow.
And make our garden grow!"
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house and chop our wood,
And make our garden grow.
And make our garden grow!"
"Make our Garden Grow"
Music by Leonard Bernstein, Lyrics by Richard Wilbur
Music by Leonard Bernstein, Lyrics by Richard Wilbur
We invite you to enjoy this performance of "Make Our Garden Grow" at the BBC Proms / Royal Albert Hall with John Wilson conducting the John Wilson Orchestra with Julian Ovenden (Candide) and Scarlett Strallen (Cunegonde).
Kathleen Mansfield Murry was a prominent New Zealand modernist short story writer who was born and brought up in colonial New Zealand and wrote under the pen name of Katherine Mansfield. Wikipedia
Born: October 14, 1888, Wellington, New Zealand
Died: January 9, 1923, Fontainebleau, France
Partner: Ida Constance Baker
Risk! Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth.
Make it a rule of life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy; you can't build on it; it's only good for wallowing in.
I always felt that the great high privilege, relief and comfort of friendship was that one had to explain nothing.
"Whenever I prepare for a journey I prepare as though for death. Should I never return, all is in order."
–Katherine Mansfield,
Short story writer Katherine Mansfield was born in Wellington, New Zealand on this day in 1888.
“Regret is an appalling waste of energy, and no one who intends to be a writer can afford to indulge in it.”
--from "Je Ne Parle Pas Français" (1918)
--from "Je Ne Parle Pas Français" (1918)
Although Katherine Mansfield was closely associated with D.H. Lawrence and something of a rival of Virginia Woolf, her stories suggest someone writing in a different era and in a vastly different English. Her language is as transparent as clean glass, yet hovers on the edge of poetry. Her characters are passionate men and women swaddled in English reserve — and sometimes briefly breaking through. And her genius is to pinpoint those unacknowledged and almost imperceptible moments in which those people’s relationships — with one another and themselves — change forever. This collection includes such masterpieces as “Prelude,” “At the Bay” “Bliss,” “The Man Without a Temperament” and “The Garden Party” and has a new introduction by Jeffrey Meyers.
Randall Jarrell was an American poet, literary critic, children's author, essayist, novelist, and the 11th Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress, a position that now bears the title Poet Laureate.Wikipedia
Born: May 6, 1914, Nashville, Tennessee, United States
Died: October 14, 1965, Chapel Hill, North Carolina, United States
Nationality: American
A poet is a man who manages, in a lifetime of standing out in thunderstorms, to be struck by lightning five or six times.
The people who live in a golden age usually go around complaining how yellow everything looks.
One of the most obvious facts about grownups to a child is that they have forgotten what it is like to be a child.
Poet Randall Jarrell was born in Nashville, Tennessee on this day in 1914.
"The Old And The New Masters" by Randall Jarrell
About suffering, about adoration, the old masters
Disagree. When someone suffers, no one else eats
Or walks or opens the window--no one breathes
As the sufferers watch the sufferer.
In St. Sebastian Mourned by St. Irene
The flame of one torch is the only light.
All the eyes except the maidservant's (she weeps
And covers them with a cloth) are fixed on the shaft
Set in his chest like a column; St. Irene's
Hands are spread in the gesture of the Madonna,
Revealing, accepting, what she does not understand.
Her hands say: "Lo! Behold!"
Beside her a monk's hooded head is bowed, his hands
Are put together in the work of mourning.
It is as if they were still looking at the lance
Piercing the side of Christ, nailed on his cross.
The same nails pierce all their hands and feet, the same
Thin blood, mixed with water, trickles from their sides.
The taste of vinegar is on every tongue
That gasps, "My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?"
They watch, they are, the one thing in the world.
Disagree. When someone suffers, no one else eats
Or walks or opens the window--no one breathes
As the sufferers watch the sufferer.
In St. Sebastian Mourned by St. Irene
The flame of one torch is the only light.
All the eyes except the maidservant's (she weeps
And covers them with a cloth) are fixed on the shaft
Set in his chest like a column; St. Irene's
Hands are spread in the gesture of the Madonna,
Revealing, accepting, what she does not understand.
Her hands say: "Lo! Behold!"
Beside her a monk's hooded head is bowed, his hands
Are put together in the work of mourning.
It is as if they were still looking at the lance
Piercing the side of Christ, nailed on his cross.
The same nails pierce all their hands and feet, the same
Thin blood, mixed with water, trickles from their sides.
The taste of vinegar is on every tongue
That gasps, "My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?"
They watch, they are, the one thing in the world.
So, earlier, everything is pointed
In van der Goes' Nativity, toward the naked
Shining baby, like the needle of a compass.
The different orders and sizes of the world:
The angels like Little People, perched in the rafters
Or hovering in mid-air like hummingbirds;
The shepherds, so big and crude, so plainly adoring;
The medium-sized donor, his little family,
And their big patron saints; the Virgin who kneels
Before her child in worship; the Magi out in the hills
With their camels--they ask directions, and have pointed out
By a man kneeling, the true way; the ox
And the donkey, two heads in the manger
So much greater than a human head, who also adore;
Even the offerings, a sheaf of wheat,
A jar and a glass of flowers, are absolutely still
In natural concentration, as they take their part
In the salvation of the natural world.
The time of the world concentrates
On this one instant: far off in the rocks
You can see Mary and Joseph and their donkey
Coming to Bethlehem; on the grassy hillside
Where their flocks are grazing, the shepherds gesticulate
In wonder at the star; and so many hundreds
Of years in the future, the donor, his wife,
And their children are kneeling, looking: everything
That was or will be in the world is fixed
On its small, helpless, human center.
In van der Goes' Nativity, toward the naked
Shining baby, like the needle of a compass.
The different orders and sizes of the world:
The angels like Little People, perched in the rafters
Or hovering in mid-air like hummingbirds;
The shepherds, so big and crude, so plainly adoring;
The medium-sized donor, his little family,
And their big patron saints; the Virgin who kneels
Before her child in worship; the Magi out in the hills
With their camels--they ask directions, and have pointed out
By a man kneeling, the true way; the ox
And the donkey, two heads in the manger
So much greater than a human head, who also adore;
Even the offerings, a sheaf of wheat,
A jar and a glass of flowers, are absolutely still
In natural concentration, as they take their part
In the salvation of the natural world.
The time of the world concentrates
On this one instant: far off in the rocks
You can see Mary and Joseph and their donkey
Coming to Bethlehem; on the grassy hillside
Where their flocks are grazing, the shepherds gesticulate
In wonder at the star; and so many hundreds
Of years in the future, the donor, his wife,
And their children are kneeling, looking: everything
That was or will be in the world is fixed
On its small, helpless, human center.
After a while the masters show the crucifixion
In one corner of the canvas: the men come to see
What is important, see that it is not important.
The new masters paint a subject as they please,
And Veronese is prosecuted by the Inquisition
For the dogs playing at the feet of Christ,
The earth is a planet among galaxies.
Later Christ disappears, the dogs disappear: in abstract
Understanding, without adoration, the last master puts
Colors on canvas, a picture of the universe
In which a bright spot somewhere in the corner
Is the small radioactive planet men called Earth.
In one corner of the canvas: the men come to see
What is important, see that it is not important.
The new masters paint a subject as they please,
And Veronese is prosecuted by the Inquisition
For the dogs playing at the feet of Christ,
The earth is a planet among galaxies.
Later Christ disappears, the dogs disappear: in abstract
Understanding, without adoration, the last master puts
Colors on canvas, a picture of the universe
In which a bright spot somewhere in the corner
Is the small radioactive planet men called Earth.
留言
張貼留言