Fatalism

I'm saying to you, you're right.

Fatalism is not something you can prove if it has something to do with the '03 Braves, the, the '09, the whatever.

But it's hard to shake the feelings.

No, it is.

Yeah.

Fatalistic is a weird word.

And I don't like that.

Yeah.

Epitaphs 19.

For a Fatalist.

Life ushers some, as airs elect, To weather wind and gale.

Here lies a man whose ships were wrecked, Ere he could hoist a sail.

Wisdom and Marr Murray This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.

Recording by Expatriate in Bangor, Maine Book Four The Second Extract from Pechorin's Diary The Fatalist I once happened to spend a couple of weeks in a Cossack village on our left flank.

A battalion of infantry was stationed there, and it was the custom of the officers to meet at each other's quarters in turn and play cards in the evening.

On one occasion it was at Major S.'s, finding our game of Boston not sufficiently absorbing, we threw the cards under the table and sat on for a long time talking.

In fact, for them, the end of the world was so foreseeable you could have sent out invitations with an exact time and date.

Fatalists had rarely had it so good.

The barbarians, or at least their natural world equivalents, had arrived.

Enormous waves rocked the planet.