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Promises to Keep: The Acclaimed Memoir of the Democratic Vice Presidential Candidate Taschenbuch – Illustriert, 25. August 2008
Kaufoptionen und Plus-Produkte
“I remain captivated by the possibilities of politics and public service. In fact, I believe that my chosen profession is a noble calling.”—Joe Biden
Joe Biden has both witnessed and participated in a momentous epoch of American history. In Promises to Keep, Joe Biden reveals what these experiences taught him about himself, his colleagues, and the institutions of government.
With his customary candor and wit, Biden movingly recounts growing up in a staunchly Catholic multigenerational household in Scranton, Pennsylvania, and Wilmington, Delaware; overcoming personal tragedy, life-threatening illness, and career setbacks; his relationships with presidents, with world leaders, and with lawmakers on both sides of the aisle; and his leadership of powerful Senate committees.
Through these and other recollections, Biden shows us how the guiding principles he learned early in life—to work to make people’s lives better; to honor family and faith; to value persistence, candor, and honesty—are the foundation on which he has based his life’s work as husband, father, and public servant.
Promises to Keep is an intimate series of reflections from a public servant who surmounted numerous challenges to become one of our most effective leaders and who refuses to be cynical about politics. It is also a stirring testament to the promise of the United States.
Praise for Promises to Keep
“A ripping good read . . . Biden is a master storyteller and has stories worth telling.”—The Christian Science Monitor
“A compelling personal story.”—The New York Times
“Moving . . . [Biden’s] response to tragedy and near death [is] both admirable and likable.”—Salon
- Seitenzahl der Print-Ausgabe408 Seiten
- SpracheEnglisch
- Erscheinungstermin25. August 2008
- Abmessungen13.18 x 2.34 x 20.32 cm
- ISBN-100812976215
- ISBN-13978-0812976212
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Produktbeschreibungen
Pressestimmen
“A compelling personal story.”—The New York Times
“Moving . . . [Biden’s] response to tragedy and near death [is] both admirable and likable.”—Salon
Über den Autor und weitere Mitwirkende
Leseprobe. Abdruck erfolgt mit freundlicher Genehmigung der Rechteinhaber. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.
At home I had constant encouragement from my mom, but I had a second spur there, too: Uncle Boo-Boo. My mom’s brother, Edward Blewitt “Boo-Boo” Finnegan, came to visit us in Wilmington just after Grandpop Finnegan died in 1956, and he stayed for seventeen years. Blewitt was a traveling salesman for Serta, the mattress company, but when he’d come off the road, he bunked in Mayfield with me and my brothers. Boo-Boo could be a great pal. He was a brilliant guy—the only person in the house with a college degree. He’d make me read the New York Times editorial page, then sit and argue politics with me and my friends. One day he drove Val and me to Washington, D.C., just to see the Capitol. He walked right up to Senator Everett Dirksen and introduced us.
Like my father, Blewitt could not stand vulgarity. When Jimmy or I started trying out curse words we’d picked up at school, Uncle Boo-Boo would scoff: Vulgarity is a sign of a limited mind trying to express itself, Joey. Why don’t you come up with something more creative in trying to express your displeasure?
But Uncle Boo-Boo had a terrible stutter his entire life, and he used it as a crutch, an excuse for everything he didn’t accomplish. He never married, never had children, and never made a home of his own. He had so much talent, and he squandered it. The day after Pearl Harbor my mom’s four brothers went down to sign up for war service. Three of them got in. My uncle Ambrose Jr. was a flier killed in New Guinea. Jack and Gerry did their part. But the army wouldn’t take Blewitt. Was it because of his stutter? With a few drinks in him, he would tell me how he really meant to be a doctor. He would have gone to medical school if it weren’t for his debilitating stutter. “That’s a damn lie, Edward Blewitt Finnegan,” my mom would say for all of us to hear. “You could have gone to medical school if it took twenty years.” My mom wouldn’t accept excuses.
Even as kids we noticed Uncle Boo-Boo drank a bit heavily. And as time went on, he became more and more bitter. If he was being made fun of—“Hu-hu-hu-hu-hey Bu-bu-bu-bu-Blewitt”—he’d hit back hard. “My n-n-n-name i-i-i-i-s F-f-f-f-f-finnegan, ya know. I bet you n-n-n-n-never even heard of F-f-f-f-Finnegans Wake! I’ll w-w-w-w-wager you don’t even know wh-h-h-h-h-o wrote it.” Then he’d turn to somebody else and say, “I-I-I-I-I’ll w-w-w-w-wager he’s never even r-r-r-r-read J-j-j-j-Joyce.” He could not stand rich guys. When my dad was making money during the war, he used to remind him he’d never been to college, that no Biden had. “B-b-b-b-Biden’s have money, L-l-l-l-Lord Joseph, but the Finnegans have education.” He grew more bitter with age and sometimes would even go lax on his own rule about vulgarity. “Money talks, Joey, and shit walks.”
I loved Uncle Boo-Boo, but I knew I never wanted to end up like him. So I’d stay in front of my mirror at night, studying my face as I talked: “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.” “Joey, it’s time to go to bed!” “With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict everything you said to-day.—‘Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.’—Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.”
I once even tried the old Demosthenes trick. Demosthenes, the greatest of all the Greek orators, I’d read, had been a stutterer, but he taught himself to speak by putting pebbles in his mouth and practicing elocution. The legend, as I remember it, was that he put these pebbles in his mouth, ran along the beach, and tried to make himself heard above the “roar of the sea.” We didn’t have any beaches or oceans nearby, but I was desperate, so I gave it a try. One of our neighbors in Mayfield was putting a little garden in their backyard, with little paths made of pebbles. So I grabbed about ten of these pebbles and went to the side of our little house, stuck them in my mouth, and tried to throw my voice off our brick wall. For the record, it doesn’t work. I nearly swallowed half the pebbles. So it was back to my room, back to the mirror.
I began to grow into myself at Archmere, literally. By my junior year I was a foot taller than when I entered. My grades were never much better than solid B’s, but I was popular with the girls and with my classmates. In almost any group I was the leader. I was class representative my sophomore year and class president my junior and senior years. I might have been student body president, but Father Diny wouldn’t let me run—too many demerits. And I knew not to cross him. If I was going to be a leader, I meant to lead the right way. I made sure to look out for the kid who was being made fun of. I knew how that felt. I’d pick up some freshman who was being razzed and give him a ride home, maybe stop by the Charcoal Pit so he could be seen with me. I took one younger kid to the prom along with my date.
Where I really worked to excel was sports. I was the leading scorer on our undefeated and untied football team my senior year, and I didn’t lack for confidence on the field. I still wanted the ball. In our last game in high school, at Friends Central in Philadelphia, we were coasting to an easy win when we got the ball back with just a few minutes remaining in the fourth quarter. I remember our quarterback, Bill Peterman, saying, “This is it, guys. Last possession of our career. We each get the ball once, one chance to score.” Counting the quarterback there were four of us in the backfield. He turned to me. “You first, Joe.” We were forty-five yards from the goal...
Produktinformation
- Herausgeber : Random House Publishing Group; Reprint Edition (25. August 2008)
- Sprache : Englisch
- Taschenbuch : 408 Seiten
- ISBN-10 : 0812976215
- ISBN-13 : 978-0812976212
- Abmessungen : 13.18 x 2.34 x 20.32 cm
- Amazon Bestseller-Rang: Nr. 1,629,113 in Bücher (Siehe Top 100 in Bücher)
- Nr. 2,132 in Biografien von Präsidenten & Staatsoberhäupter
- Nr. 3,733 in US-amerikanische Politik (Bücher)
- Nr. 3,866 in Staatsführung
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The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Pensaba que este libro se había editado por primera vez este año, pero no, la primera fue en el 2007.
Joe Biden ha sido siempre así, una persona alta y profundamente inspirada. Mi ignorancia no me ha permitido darme cuenta de ello hasta ahora.
Joe Biden💝💝💝
Lo que más me ha subyugado, y al leerlo no podía parar de llorar, es por las dos mujeres de su vida. Cito del libro cuando Joe Biden conoció a su esposa Neilia:
"When she turned toward me, I could see she had a beautiful smile and gorgeous green eyes." "She was lit by the unforgiving journey of a full afternoon sun, and I couln't see a single flaw."
Y lo que su esposa Jill le dijo:
"Anybody who can love that deeply once can do it again".
Jill es una gran mujer inspiradora para las mujeres del mundo.
(La foto de la portada es preciosa). He leído que la tipografía es Sabon...y que su creador era un entusiasta de la estética de la Bauhaus. Me cuesta leer por vista cansada y esta letra es perfecta, no me cansa nada la vista. Un 10.
As I was reading this I felt like I was in the room with joe Biden instead of just reading a book of his experiences and life in my home alone .