In The Boat Captains Conundrum, author Tom Corbett completes an intellectual journey that reflects on his four-plus decades as a scholar and doer of social policy. That journey starts with Ouch, Now I Remember in which he recounts his early days growing up in a closed, working class, ethnic community from which he underwent several transformative experiences that broadened his worldview. In Browsing Through My Candy Store, the author shared his struggles while confronting many of the most vexing poverty and welfare battles of the last half century. This final volume, the Boat Captains Conundrum, completes the trilogy. This work takes the reader on quite a different journey, a path that goes deeper into how to think about the big policy issues and social challenges of our times. In the end, Corbett makes a number of compelling points. Becoming a successful policy wonk is more than conquering the technical skills of doing quantitative analysis. It demands that we do more than merely dissect issues with analytical acumen. Rather, doing good policy work requires creativity, imagination, breadth of interests, a nimble and acquisitive mind, historical depth, and just a little rebellious risk-taking. But if you can conjure up such traits, there is no better way to spend your professional life. Follow the author as he shares his take on how to do policy work well and even make a contribution to the public good. Get inside his head as he struggled to make sense out of the more daunting social challenges of the late twentieth century. Above all, enjoy his wistful and sometimes witty wanderings as seen through a policy wonks eye where he touches upon mind-numbing conundrums with deft insight. It is a great journey to be enjoyed both by students of policy and all those concerned with public life.
Jeremiah Joshua Connelly is about to retire from his academic position at the University of British Columbia. He anticipates a small ordinary affair of conventional speeches, farewell dinners, and the usual parting gifts and well-wishes. Instead, his past visits him in unexpected ways. He not only confronts people from the mists of a distant era he thought long lost but also accepts some truths about himself. Over the next week, Josh Connelly comes to terms with who he really is, with a past he tried to avoid, and with the people he had run away from for so long. This work takes us deep into the scars left by a war that tore the United States apart in the 1960s and which left an indelible mark on many who lived through that turbulent time. While a work of fiction, the novel touches upon the real emotions and struggles that many young people endured during this conflicted period. It explores the inner turmoil with which they contended as they fought to make sense out of competing claims upon their loyalty. This was a time where easy answers were not available, where each young man and woman who cared about this country had to arrive at their own interpretation of events. Each had to decide the contours of their personal character and for what principles they would stand. Each had to articulate their own moral compass. Tenuous Tendrils is the story of one such young man as he journeys from exile and isolation to reconnect and embrace a life he thought long lost.
The contributors to this book review the postindustrial subculture, emphasizing cross-disciplinary and cross-contextual inquiry, a central idiom of postindustrial organizational life. The essays consider alternative methods of understanding media that add variety to "meanings" within and without organizations. This multi-method approach in the search for meaning and the limits of words and symbols to express meaning generates a personally interpretive basis to science.
What if the pieces of life's jigsaw could be rearranged in a differing pattern? How would this new mosaic appear? Could we improve the picture, or would it be distorted by Would we like what we discovered, or would it vary from our hopes and dreams? This is the saga, of the many facets of a relationship, and the ambitions of a couple engaged in their race up the corporate ladder. It is about the effect of these events, which compound their relationship. One miserable morning, when Mike is on the way to his weekly confrontation with his boss; he sees and falls for a most beautiful girl, Angie. He has never met her, yet feels that he knows her well. After a disastrous introduction, he discovers to his dismay, that they are to set up part of a new look business at Raymonds behest, the start of his scheme to become the most successful director in Norway. There is an uneasy standoff until, Angie walks in to Mikes office late one evening, and starts to talk to him. It seems as though they have been friends for many years this throws Mike completely. They form a team, and succeed in implementing Raymonds scheme, to everyones delight. Initially, as the workplace becomes pressurised Angie seems to thrive in this atmosphere. After a euphoric start, Mike becomes more nervous and reticent. The determination of Angie intensifies his anxieties, and he seeks professional help. They delve into his earlier life, his feelings for Angie, and his aspirations. She discovers accidentally while trying hypnotherapy that Mike and Angie appear to have shared memories of a past experience. Circumstances complicate matters further. On a crucial business trip to England, Mike is hospitalized after an accident; Angie tries to piece everything together, and save the deal, but she also discovers the extent of her business talent and acumen. Mike is a disoriented person who falls in Love with Angie all over again, but has huge difficulties in trying to rebuild his mind. He is sidetracked by other affairs. His recovery is hastened in business venture by, Ibrahim, a unique friendship ensues. Angie in contrast, develops, into a powerful businesswoman. Mike, sinks to his lowest ebb and contemplates suicide, and is rescued again in a surprising fashion.
The short summer night was over; the stars were paling; there was a faint light above the hills. The flame in the ship’s lantern felt the day beginning. A cock in the hen-coop crowed, flapping his wings. The hour was full of mystery. Though it was still, it was full of the suggestion of noise. There was a rustle, a murmur, a sense of preparation. Already, in the farms ashore, the pails went clanking to the byres. Very faintly, from time to time, one heard the lowing of a cow, or the song of some fisherman, as he put out, in the twilight, to his lobster-pots, sculling with one oar. Dew had fallen during the night. The decks of the Broken Heart, lying at anchor there, with the lantern burning at her peak, were wet with dew. Dew dripped from her running rigging; the gleam of wetness was upon her guns, upon her rails, upon the bell in the poop belfry. She seemed august, lying there in the twilight. Her sailors, asleep on her deck, in the shadow, below the break of the quarter-deck, were unlike earthly sleepers. The old boatswain, in the blue boat-cloak, standing at the gangway watching the dawn, was august, sphinx-like, symbolic. The two men who stood above him on the quarter-deck spoke quietly, in hushed voices, as though the hour awed them. Even the boy by the lantern, far aft, stood silently, moved by the beauty of the time. Over the water, by Salcombe, the fishers’ boats got under way for the sea. The noise of the halliards creaked, voices called in the dusk, blocks piped, coils of rope rattled on the planks. The flower of the day was slowly opening in the east, the rose of the day was bursting. It was the dim time, the holy time, the moment of beauty, which would soon pass, was even now passing, as the sea gleamed, brightening, lighting up into colour. Slowly the light grew: it came in rosy colour upon the ship; it burned like a flame upon the spire-top. The fishers in their boats, moving over the talking water, watched the fabric as they passed. She loomed large in the growing light; she caught the light and gleamed; the tide went by her with a gurgle. The dim light made her larger than she was, it gave her the beauty of all half-seen things. The dim light was like the veil upon a woman’s face. She was a small ship (only five hundred tons), built of aromatic cedar, and like all wooden ships she would have looked ungainly, had not her great beam, and the height of her after-works, given her a majesty, something of the royal look which all ships have in some proportion. The virtue of man had been busy about her. An artist’s heart, hungry for beauty, had seen the idea of her in dream; she had her counterpart in the kingdom of vision. There was a spirit in her, as there is in all things fashioned by the soul of man; not a spirit of beauty, not a spirit of strength, but the spirit of her builder, a Peruvian Spaniard. She had the impress of her builder in her, a mournful state, a kind of battered grandeur, a likeness to a type of manhood. There was in her a beauty not quite achieved, as though, in the husk of the man, the butterfly’s wings were not quite free. There was in her a strength that was clumsy; almost the strength of one vehement from fear. She came from a man’s soul, stamped with his defects. Standing on her deck, one could see the man laid bare—melancholy, noble, and wanting—till one felt pity for the ship which carried his image about the world. Seamen had lived in her, seamen had died in her; she had housed many wandering spirits. She was, in herself, the house of her maker’s spirit, as all made things are, and wherever her sad beauty voyaged, his image, his living memory voyaged, infinitely mournful, because imperfect, unapprehended. Some of those who had sailed in her had noticed that the caryatides of the rails, the caryatides of the quarter-gallery, and the figurehead which watched over the sea, were all carven portraits of the one woman. But of those who noticed, none knew that they touched the bloody heart of a man, that before them was the builder’s secret, the key to his soul. The men who sailed in the Broken Heart were not given to thoughts about her builder. When they lay in port, among all the ships of the world, among the flags and clamour, they took no thought of beauty. They would have laughed had a man told them that all that array of ships, so proud, so beautiful, came from the brain of man because a woman’s lips were red. It is a proud thing to be a man, and to feel the stir of beauty; but it is more wonderful to be a woman, and to have, or to be, the touch calling beauty into life.
