The Thin Red Line Full Movie In Hindi Download

[Rozella Dibley]

Inthe first few weeks of the class, we explored why strategies leading up to and during the battle evolved. We also compared how tactics were carried out and what differentiated generals like Robert E. Lee from George Meade, Richard Ewell from Joshua Chamberlain, and John Buford from James Longstreet. We then dove deeper into where mistakes were made, opportunities seized, and gains taken or lost.

She was right. The fact that Lee had won so many battles under incredibly challenging circumstances with far fewer troops and resources seemed to have clouded his judgment, impaired his ability to both manage and control risk, and convinced him that victory was a preordained conclusion.

What Lee succumbed to at Gettysburg is not unique though. In fact, it is something countless people have experienced throughout history. Look no further than the collapse of the British, Austrian-Hungarian, and Roman Empires. Or in business, examples include Bear Stearns under Jimmy Cayne, General Electric under Jack Welch, Chesapeake Energy under Aubrey McClendon, and most recently WeWork under Adam Neumann.

The tricky part is that this increase in confidence is initially a positive because it is what enables a leader to take risks, expand, and grow. However, if success is sustained for long enough, an increase in confidence can morph from an advantage into a significant disadvantage.

The fact is confidence operates on a thin line. Possess too little and you will never take enough risk. Possess too much and you will inevitably take imprudent risks. This is why, as with most things in life, having the right balance is critical.

After dodging Ebola, SARS, and other outbreaks, people became overconfident that we could continue to evade pandemics. As a result, preventative measures were removed or neglected. We all know how this played out.

After decades of relative peace on a global scale following the end of the Cold War (namely a world without significant conflicts between major nation states), many grew confident that this was the natural state of affairs. Then hot wars broke out in Eastern Europe and the Middle East, while tensions with China continue to simmer.

For many years, Americans grew to believe that the surest path to economic prosperity came through obtaining a college degree. The trouble is few incorporated the cost of that degree into the equation.

If Robert E. Lee had looked up at Cemetery Ridge and decided that the risk/reward was not in his favor, what would he have chosen to do next? Would he have retreated into Virginia? Would he have maintained his forces in Pennsylvania? Would he have chosen to attack another point in the Union front?

Personally, I have found that confidence in investing is an endless struggle to find your balance. At some points, the markets will make you feel like a genius, while at other points they will make you feel anything but. However, one thing I know for sure is that every time I have crossed that thin line into the realm of overconfidence, I have been humbled shortly thereafter. As a result, the longer I do this, the more I realize that these are the moments when I need steer myself back towards that thin line and find my balance.

My stepsister Marcia and I share an occasional lust for high grease

breakfast foods, and over pancakes and eggs recently, she told me something

interesting. Marcia's daughter, Drennan, was with us -- a wily, emphatic

little girl who, at 4 years old, is young enough that one can still

spell words in her presence and elude -- just -- the clamp of her

curiosity. S-E-X is a big one, of course. Marcia is careful to spell out

the name of her ex-husband, Drennan's father, when speaking of him with

anything but the warmest affection. I was surprised, though, when Marcia

mentioned that she'd been on a D-I-E-T.

We both looked at Drennan, who was smacking her lips over fried eggs and

hash browns. I didn't have to ask what Marcia meant by "all that." We are

both 35, members of the vanguard generation of disordered eaters.

When Marcia and I were children, no one had heard of anorexia; I first

encountered the term at 13, in 1975, in a magazine article about a

girl who had emaciated herself for reasons no one understood. I remember

her picture: somber, willowy, standing on a bathroom scale, her shoulder

blades jutting out like wings. I looked at her and felt my whole being

compress into a single strand of longing. I wanted that. Anorexia. And I

got it, not in so dire a way that I was hospitalized with feeding tubes --

or even close. But at 14, when I began losing weight precipitously, I

inculcated myself into the cult of food consciousness and its attendant

elations and despairs. I joined the ranks of girls and women whose

notebook margins are dappled with obscure sums -- apple, 100; bagel, 200;

frozen yogurt, 150 -- women for whom countless meals are fraught with the

tension of trying to eat less than anyone else, who keep a section of their

closets full of "skinny" clothes that radiate desire and reproach, who

cancel doctor appointments because they're afraid of being weighed that

day, for whom "You look too thin" is perceived as a radiant compliment and

a growling stomach and a light head inspire feelings of triumph. These

rituals, and many others, were to circumscribe my thoughts and behavior for

the next 15 years.

It can be eerie, in light of our presumed uniqueness, to discover how

closely the experiences of one's contemporaries parallel one's own. I've

heard many women my age say, "I wanted to get anorexia," or even, "I

learned how to make myself throw up," as a prelude to prolonged and

desperate struggles with bulimia. Many of my friends at the University of

Pennsylvania were grappling with full-blown eating disorders; the rest were

wary and self-conscious about food. How could they not be? In the women's

restrooms at the Wharton Business School, where I sometimes studied at

night, food containers often lay right next to toilets. Donut boxes,

Twinkie wrappers, ice cream containers -- these remnants of desperation

frightened me the way nightmares do, grotesque distortions of things that

are, at bottom, deeply familiar. Here, eating no longer bore any relation

to nourishment or even to pleasure: It had been reduced to a brief

complication in the process of purgation, of emptying oneself.

My mother, who graduated from Vassar in 1959, finds these stories

incomprehensible. "We'd order in plates of French fries and hamburgers,

and we'd just eat it all and go to bed," she says. "We were all a little

overweight by today's standards, but I don't remember that troubling me in

the least." Marilyn Monroe was the beauty who floated in the minds of my

mother and her friends, voluptuous, pillowy. "The models in the fashion

magazines were skinny, but no one cared about them," my mother says. "They

were anonymous."

But attitudes toward food were the least of the differences between my

mother's college years and my own. "There were certain people who planned

to have careers," she says, "but the rest of us majored in English or

something, and the idea was that you would get married. I thought I'd

never have to earn a living. I'd be an even more ornamental accessory."

This promise -- that in exchange for being lovely and well educated, my

mother would be taken care of for life -- was one of many the world failed

to keep. By 26, she found herself divorced with a 2-year-old

daughter. It was 1965. Women only five or six years younger than she were

studying at universities awash in demands from all quarters -- for

equality, for opportunities -- demands my mother had never thought to make.

The world that she and her Vassar friends had been groomed to inhabit had

vanished from under their feet.

My fears of being overweight, which commenced when I was 9 or

10, have always been linked, in my mind, to my mother. She is a glamorous

woman with exquisite taste and a sumptuous wardrobe. Physically, I

resemble her to an almost uncanny degree; people have been doing

double takes at the sight of us for as long as I can remember. Perhaps

because she and my father were divorced before I was 3, my sense of my

mother and myself as a unit, a pair, an inseparable duo, feels ancient and

inviolable. When I was 5, we wore matching two-piece bathing suits.

I regarded my future stepfather as an unwelcome interloper in our

small, simple world. "He's just coming over for a bite to eat," my mother

would assure me, to which I would reply, "OK , one bite. And then make

him leave." But they married when I was 4 and moved to San Francisco,

taking me far from my father, who was still in Chicago. He, too,

remarried, and as both families began having more children, I struggled,

alongside much of my generation, in the role of stepchild, so perilous in fairy

tales and in life. My unease made me cleave all the more to my mother --

the unit of us two was the only one in my life that still felt intact.

I was an average little girl, not skinny, not fat, with white blond

hair, an enormous grin and an unrelenting sweet tooth. I remember my

mother suggesting at some point that I hold in my stomach when I stood; not

only would this look better, she said, but it would strengthen my stomach

muscles so that pretty soon, my stomach would stay tucked in of its own

accord (I'm still waiting for that part). This missive from the world of

adults was something I took quite seriously: I was careful to hold in my

stomach.

"Something odd happened in the '60s," my mother recalls.

"Fashions became very childlike. The models all had these knobby legs and

patent leather shoes ... women suddenly wanted to look like prepubescent

girls." Considering that many consumers of fashion in the 1960's were

women like my mother, bred to inhabit a world that was now in staggering

transformation, this yearning to return to puberty -- to start over -- seems

deeply reasonable. My mother was fashionable; she subscribed to Vogue and

Harper's Bazaar, and she followed their leads -- followed, too, the

ascension of those skinny, anonymous models from the status of clothes

hangers to that of stars. If feminine power in the '50s was measured in

overt sexuality, the ability to attract a man (a man who would take care of

you for life), in the '60s, a woman's power became vested in her ability to

regulate her sexuality -- most obviously with birth control, but also by

curbing the womanliness that would land her in the kitchen slinging pork

chops, as my mother's had.

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