“Zimbabwe, once the breadbasket of Africa, is now its dust bowl.”

— Ilana Mercer

“The Genocide in Democratic South Africa,” http://www.ilanamercer.com/phprunner/public_article_list_view.php?editid1=105 WorldNetDaily.com, January 19, 2007;
“The Kulaks of Democratic South Africa,” http://www.fmnn.com/Analysis/56/6789/kulaks.asp?wid=56&nid=6789 Free Market News Network, January 22, 2007.
2000s, 2007

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Ilana Mercer 288

South African writer

Aaron Weiss

February 1878.
Ten Stories

“Life is like a bowl of spaghetti.
Every once in a while, you get a meatball.”

Sharon Creech (1945) American writer of children's novels

“The dust we tread upon was once alive.”

George Gordon Byron Sardanapalus

Act IV, scene 1.
Sardanapalus (1821)

“Now that the lilacs are in bloom
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room”

T.S. Eliot (1888–1965) 20th century English author

Source: Collected Poems, 1909-1962

“The bones of the Sophists long ago turned to dust and what they said turned to dust with them and the dust was buried under the rubble of declining Athens through its fall and Macedonia through its decline and fall.”

Robert M. Pirsig book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Source: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (1974), Ch. 29
Context: The bones of the Sophists long ago turned to dust and what they said turned to dust with them and the dust was buried under the rubble of declining Athens through its fall and Macedonia through its decline and fall. Through the decline and death of ancient Rome and Byzantium and the Ottoman Empire and the modern states—buried so deep and with such ceremoniousness and such unction and such evil that only a madman centuries later could discover the clues needed to uncover them, and see with horror what had been done.

“There were dreams once upon a time, dreams now all but forgotten. On sad days I dust them off and fondle them nostalgically, with a patronizing wonder at the naivete of the youth who dreamed them.”

Glen Cook book The White Rose

Source: The White Rose (1985), Chapter 2, “The Plain of Fear” (p. 456)
Context: An old, tired man. That is what I am. What became of the old fire, drive, ambition? There were dreams once upon a time, dreams now all but forgotten. On sad days I dust them off and fondle them nostalgically, with a patronizing wonder at the naivete of the youth who dreamed them.