Assignment 4.1 Models of Strategic ManagementDue Fifth Day of t.docx

Assignment 4.1: Models of Strategic Management
Due Fifth Day of the Week (Midnight CST) (20 Points)
Select an existing business that has experienced long-term
success. You may also use your own company. Consider how
this organization has developed their strategic management.
Then write an original article addressing how this organization
selected a model of strategic management, and how this model
is linked to their long-term success.
2005–2006 Stanford MLA Application Critical Writing Piece
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Politics and the English Language
by George Orwell
Most people who bother with the matter at all would admit that
the English language is in
a bad way, but it is generally assumed that we cannot by
conscious action do anything
about it. Our civilization is decadent and our language -- so the
argument runs -- must
inevitably share in the general collapse. It follows that any
struggle against the abuse of
language is a sentimental archaism, like preferring candles to
electric light or hansom
cabs to aeroplanes. Underneath this lies the half-conscious
belief that language is a
natural growth and not an instrument which we shape for our
own purposes.

Now, it is clear that the decline of a language must ultimately
have political and
economic causes: it is not due simply to the bad influence of
this or that individual writer.
But an effect can become a cause, reinforcing the original cause
and producing the same
effect in an intensified form, and so on indefinitely. A man may
take to drink because he
feels himself to be a failure, and then fail all the more
completely because he drinks. It is
rather the same thing that is happening to the English language.
It becomes ugly and
inaccurate because our thoughts are foolish, but the slovenliness
of our language makes it
easier for us to have foolish thoughts. The point is that the
process is reversible. Modern
English, especially written English, is full of bad habits which
spread by imitation and
which can be avoided if one is willing to take the necessary
trouble. If one gets rid of
these habits one can think more clearly, and to think clearly is a
necessary first step
toward political regeneration: so that the fight against bad
English is not frivolous and is
not the exclusive concern of professional writers. I will come
back to this presently, and I
hope that by that time the meaning of what I have said here will
have become clearer.
Meanwhile, here are five specimens of the English language as
it is now habitually
written.
These five passages have not been picked out because they are
especially bad -- I could
have quoted far worse if I had chosen -- but because they
illustrate various of the mental

vices from which we now suffer. They are a little below the
average, but are fairly
representative examples. I number them so that I can refer back
to them when necessary:
1. I am not, indeed, sure whether it is not true to say that the
Milton who once
seemed not unlike a seventeenth-century Shelley had not
become, out of an
experience ever more bitter in each year, more alien [sic] to the
founder of that
Jesuit sect which nothing could induce him to tolerate. -
Professor Harold Laski
(Essay in Freedom of Expression)
2. Above all, we cannot play ducks and drakes with a native
battery of idioms which
prescribes egregious collocations of vocables as the Basic put
up with for tolerate,
or put at a loss for bewilder. - Professor Lancelot Hogben
(Interglossia )
3. On the one side we have the free personality: by definition it
is not neurotic, for it
has neither conflict nor dream. Its desires, such as they are, are
transparent, for
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they are just what institutional approval keeps in the forefront
of consciousness;
another institutional pattern would alter their number and
intensity; there is little

in them that is natural, irreducible, or culturally dangerous. But
on the other side,
the social bond itself is nothing but the mutual reflection of
these self-secure
integrities. Recall the definition of love. Is not this the very
picture of a small
academic? Where is there a place in this hall of mirrors for
either personality or
fraternity? - Essay on psychology in Politics (New York)
4. All the "best people" from the gentlemen's clubs, and all the
frantic fascist
captains, united in common hatred of Socialism and bestial
horror at the rising
tide of the mass revolutionary movement, have turned to acts of
provocation, to
foul incendiarism, to medieval legends of poisoned wells, to
legalize their own
destruction of proletarian organizations, and rouse the agitated
petty-bourgeoise to
chauvinistic fervor on behalf of the fight against the
revolutionary way out of the
crisis. - Communist pamphlet
5. If a new spirit is to be infused into this old country, there is
one thorny and
contentious reform which must be tackled, and that is the
humanization and
galvanization of the B.B.C. Timidity here will bespeak canker
and atrophy of the
soul. The heart of Britain may be sound and of strong beat, for
instance, but the
British lion's roar at present is like that of Bottom in
Shakespeare's A Midsummer
Night's Dream -- as gentle as any sucking dove. A virile new
Britain cannot

continue indefinitely to be traduced in the eyes or rather ears, of
the world by the
effete languors of Langham Place, brazenly masquerading as
"standard English."
When the Voice of Britain is heard at nine o'clock, better far
and infinitely less
ludicrous to hear aitches honestly dropped than the present
priggish, inflated,
inhibited, school-ma'amish arch braying of blameless bashful
mewing maidens! -
Letter in Tribune
Each of these passages has faults of its own, but, quite apart
from avoidable ugliness, two
qualities are common to all of them. The first is staleness of
imagery; the other is lack of
precision. The writer either has a meaning and cannot express
it, or he inadvertently says
something else, or he is almost indifferent as to whether his
words mean anything or not.
This mixture of vagueness and sheer incompetence is the most
marked characteristic of
modern English prose, and especially of any kind of political
writing. As soon as certain
topics are raised, the concrete melts into the abstract and no one
seems able to think of
turns of speech that are not hackneyed: prose consists less and
less of words chosen for
the sake of their meaning, and more and more of phrases tacked
together like the sections
of a prefabricated henhouse. I list below, with notes and
examples, various of the tricks
by means of which the work of prose construction is habitually
dodged:
Dying metaphors. A newly invented metaphor assists thought by

evoking a visual
image, while on the other hand a metaphor which is technically
"dead" (e.g. iron
resolution ) has in effect reverted to being an ordinary word and
can generally be used
without loss of vividness. But in between these two classes
there is a huge dump of worn-
out metaphors which have lost all evocative power and are
merely used because they save
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people the trouble of inventing phrases for themselves.
Examples are: Ring the changes
on, take up the cudgel for, toe the line, ride roughshod over,
stand shoulder to shoulder
with, play into the hands of, no axe to grind, grist to the mill,
fishing in troubled waters,
on the order of the day, Achilles' heel, swan song, hotbed .
Many of these are used
without knowledge of their meaning (what is a "rift," for
instance?), and incompatible
metaphors are frequently mixed, a sure sign that the writer is
not interested in what he is
saying. Some metaphors now current have been twisted out of
their original meaning
without those who use them even being aware of the fact. For
example, toe the line is
sometimes written as tow the line. Another example is the
hammer and the anvil, now
always used with the implication that the anvil gets the worst of
it. In real life it is always
the anvil that breaks the hammer, never the other way about: a

writer who stopped to
think what he was saying would avoid perverting the original
phrase.
Operators or verbal false limbs. These save the trouble of
picking out appropriate verbs
and nouns, and at the same time pad each sentence with extra
syllables which give it an
appearance of symmetry. Characteristic phrases are render
inoperative, militate against,
make contact with, be subjected to, give rise to, give grounds
for, have the effect of, play
a leading part (role) in, make itself felt, take effect, exhibit a
tendency to, serve the
purpose of, etc., etc. The keynote is the elimination of simple
verbs. Instead of being a
single word, such as break, stop, spoil, mend, kill, a verb
becomes a phrase, made up of a
noun or adjective tacked on to some general-purpose verb such
as prove, serve, form,
play, render. In addition, the passive voice is wherever possible
used in preference to the
active, and noun constructions are used instead of gerunds (by
examination of instead of
by examining). The range of verbs is further cut down by means
of the -ize and de-
formations, and the banal statements are given an appearance of
profundity by means of
the not un- formation. Simple conjunctions and prepositions are
replaced by such phrases
as with respect to, having regard to, the fact that, by dint of, in
view of, in the interests of,
on the hypothesis that; and the ends of sentences are saved by
anticlimax by such
resounding commonplaces as greatly to be desired, cannot be
left out of account, a

development to be expected in the near future, deserving of
serious consideration,
brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and so on and so forth.
Pretentious diction. Words like phenomenon, element,
individual (as noun), objective,
categorical, effective, virtual, basic, primary, promote,
constitute, exhibit, exploit, utilize,
eliminate, liquidate, are used to dress up a simple statement and
give an air of scientific
impartiality to biased judgements. Adjectives like epoch-
making, epic, historic,
unforgettable, triumphant, age-old, inevitable, inexorable,
veritable, are used to dignify
the sordid process of international politics, while writing that
aims at glorifying war
usually takes on an archaic colour, its characteristic words
being: realm, throne, chariot,
mailed fist, trident, sword, shield, buckler, banner, jackboot,
clarion. Foreign words and
expressions such as cul de sac, ancien regime, deus ex machina,
mutatis mutandis, status
quo, gleichschaltung, weltanschauung , are used to give an air
of culture and elegance.
Except for the useful abbreviations i.e., e.g. and etc., there is no
real need for any of the
hundreds of foreign phrases now current in the English
language. Bad writers, and
especially scientific, political, and sociological writers, are
nearly always haunted by the
notion that Latin or Greek words are grander than Saxon ones,
and unnecessary words

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like expedite, ameliorate, predict, extraneous, deracinated,
clandestine, subaqueous, and
hundreds of others constantly gain ground from their Anglo-
Saxon numbers. The jargon
peculiar to Marxist writing (hyena, hangman, cannibal, petty
bourgeois, these gentry,
lackey, flunkey, mad dog, White Guard, etc.) consists largely of
words translated from
Russian, German, or French; but the normal way of coining a
new word is to use a Latin
or Greek root with the appropriate affix and, where necessary,
the size formation. It is
often easier to make up words of this kind (deregionalize,
impermissible, extramarital,
non-fragmentary and so forth) than to think up the English
words that will cover one's
meaning. The result, in general, is an increase in slovenliness
and vagueness.
Meaningless words. In certain kinds of writing, particularly in
art criticism and literary
criticism, it is normal to come across long passages which are
almost completely lacking
in meaning. Words like romantic, plastic, values, human, dead,
sentimental, natural,
vitality, as used in art criticism, are strictly meaningless, in the
sense that they not only do
not point to any discoverable object, but are hardly ever
expected to do so by the reader.
When one critic writes, "The outstanding feature of Mr. X's
work is its living quality,"
while another writes, "The immediately striking thing about Mr.
X's work is its peculiar
deadness," the reader accepts this as a simple difference

opinion. If words like black and
white were involved, instead of the jargon words dead and
living, he would see at once
that language was being used in an improper way. Many
political words are similarly
abused. The word Fascism has now no meaning except in so far
as it signifies "something
not desirable." The words democracy, socialism, freedom,
patriotic, realistic, justice have
each of them several different meanings which cannot be
reconciled with one another. In
the case of a word like democracy, not only is there no agreed
definition, but the attempt
to make one is resisted from all sides. It is almost universally
felt that when we call a
country democratic we are praising it: consequently the
defenders of every kind of
regime claim that it is a democracy, and fear that they might
have to stop using that word
if it were tied down to any one meaning. Words of this kind are
often used in a
consciously dishonest way. That is, the person who uses them
has his own private
definition, but allows his hearer to think he means something
quite different. Statements
like Marshal Petain was a true patriot, The Soviet press is the
freest in the world, The
Catholic Church is opposed to persecution, are almost always
made with intent to
deceive. Other words used in variable meanings, in most cases
more or less dishonestly,
are: class, totalitarian, science, progressive, reactionary,
bourgeois, equality.
Now that I have made this catalogue of swindles and
perversions, let me give another

example of the kind of writing that they lead to. This time it
must of its nature be an
imaginary one. I am going to translate a passage of good
English into modern English of
the worst sort. Here is a well-known verse from Ecclesiastes:
I returned and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the
swift, nor the battle to the
strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of
understanding, nor yet
favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them
all.
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Here it is in modern English:
Objective considerations of contemporary phenomena compel
the conclusion that
success or failure in competitive activities exhibits no tendency
to be commensurate
with innate capacity, but that a considerable element of the
unpredictable must
invariably be taken into account.
This is a parody, but not a very gross one. Exhibit (3) above, for
instance, contains
several patches of the same kind of English. It will be seen that
I have not made a full
translation. The beginning and ending of the sentence follow the
original meaning fairly
closely, but in the middle the concrete illustrations -- race,
battle, bread -- dissolve into

the vague phrases "success or failure in competitive activities."
This had to be so, because
no modern writer of the kind I am discussing -- no one capable
of using phrases like
"objective considerations of contemporary phenomena" -- would
ever tabulate his
thoughts in that precise and detailed way. The whole tendency
of modern prose is away
from concreteness. Now analyze these two sentences a little
more closely. The first
contains forty-nine words but only sixty syllables, and all its
words are those of everyday
life. The second contains thirty-eight words of ninety syllables:
eighteen of those words
are from Latin roots, and one from Greek. The first sentence
contains six vivid images,
and only one phrase ("time and chance") that could be called
vague. The second contains
not a single fresh, arresting phrase, and in spite of its ninety
syllables it gives only a
shortened version of the meaning contained in the first. Yet
without a doubt it is the
second kind of sentence that is gaining ground in modern
English. I do not want to
exaggerate. This kind of writing is not yet universal, and
outcrops of simplicity will occur
here and there in the worst-written page. Still, if you or I were
told to write a few lines on
the uncertainty of human fortunes, we should probably come
much nearer to my
imaginary sentence than to the one from Ecclesiastes. As I have
tried to show, modern
writing at its worst does not consist in picking out words for the
sake of their meaning
and inventing images in order to make the meaning clearer. It
consists in gumming

together long strips of words which have already been set in
order by someone else, and
making the results presentable by sheer humbug. The attraction
of this way of writing is
that it is easy. It is easier -- even quicker, once you have the
habit -- to say In my opinion
it is not an unjustifiable assumption that than to say I think. If
you use ready-made
phrases, you not only don't have to hunt about for the words;
you also don't have to
bother with the rhythms of your sentences since these phrases
are generally so arranged
as to be more or less euphonious. When you are composing in a
hurry -- when you are
dictating to a stenographer, for instance, or making a public
speech -- it is natural to fall
into a pretentious, Latinized style. Tags like a consideration
which we should do well to
bear in mind or a conclusion to which all of us would readily
assent will save many a
sentence from coming down with a bump. By using stale
metaphors, similes, and idioms,
you save much mental effort, at the cost of leaving your
meaning vague, not only for your
reader but for yourself. This is the significance of mixed
metaphors. The sole aim of a
metaphor is to call up a visual image. When these images clash
-- as in The Fascist
octopus has sung its swan song, the jackboot is thrown into the
melting pot -- it can be
taken as certain that the writer is not seeing a mental image of
the objects he is naming; in
other words he is not really thinking. Look again at the
examples I gave at the beginning

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of this essay. Professor Laski (1) uses five negatives in fifty
three words. One of these is
superfluous, making nonsense of the whole passage, and in
addition there is the slip --
alien for akin -- making further nonsense, and several avoidable
pieces of clumsiness
which increase the general vagueness. Professor Hogben (2)
plays ducks and drakes with
a battery which is able to write prescriptions, and, while
disapproving of the everyday
phrase put up with, is unwilling to look egregious up in the
dictionary and see what it
means; (3), if one takes an uncharitable attitude towards it, is
simply meaningless:
probably one could work out its intended meaning by reading
the whole of the article in
which it occurs. In (4), the writer knows more or less what he
wants to say, but an
accumulation of stale phrases chokes him like tea leaves
blocking a sink. In (5), words
and meaning have almost parted company. People who write in
this manner usually have
a general emotional meaning -- they dislike one thing and want
to express solidarity with
another -- but they are not interested in the detail of what they
are saying. A scrupulous
writer, in every sentence that he writes, will ask himself at least
four questions, thus:
1. What am I trying to say?
2. What words will express it?
3. What image or idiom will make it clearer?

4. Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?
And he will probably ask himself two more:
1. Could I put it more shortly?
2. Have I said anything that is avoidably ugly?
But you are not obliged to go to all this trouble. You can shirk
it by simply throwing your
mind open and letting the ready-made phrases come crowding
in. They will construct
your sentences for you -- even think your thoughts for you, to a
certain extent -- and at
need they will perform the important service of partially
concealing your meaning even
from yourself. It is at this point that the special connection
between politics and the
debasement of language becomes clear.
In our time it is broadly true that political writing is bad
writing. Where it is not true, it
will generally be found that the writer is some kind of rebel,
expressing his private
opinions and not a "party line." Orthodoxy, of whatever colour,
seems to demand a
lifeless, imitative style. The political dialects to be found in
pamphlets, leading articles,
manifestos, White papers and the speeches of undersecretaries
do, of course, vary from
party to party, but they are all alike in that one almost never
finds in them a fresh, vivid,
homemade turn of speech. When one watches some tired hack
on the platform
mechanically repeating the familiar phrases -- bestial,
atrocities, iron heel, bloodstained
tyranny, free peoples of the world, stand shoulder to shoulder --

one often has a curious
feeling that one is not watching a live human being but some
kind of dummy: a feeling
which suddenly becomes stronger at moments when the light
catches the speaker's
spectacles and turns them into blank discs which seem to have
no eyes behind them. And
this is not altogether fanciful. A speaker who uses that kind of
phraseology has gone
some distance toward turning himself into a machine. The
appropriate noises are coming
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out of his larynx, but his brain is not involved, as it would be if
he were choosing his
words for himself. If the speech he is making is one that he is
accustomed to make over
and over again, he may be almost unconscious of what he is
saying, as one is when one
utters the responses in church. And this reduced state of
consciousness, if not
indispensable, is at any rate favourable to political conformity.
In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defence
of the indefensible.
Things like the continuance of British rule in India, the Russian
purges and deportations,
the dropping of the atom bombs on Japan, can indeed be
defended, but only by arguments
which are too brutal for most people to face, and which do not
square with the professed
aims of the political parties. Thus political language has to

consist largely of euphemism,
question-begging and sheer cloudy vagueness. Defenceless
villages are bombarded from
the air, the inhabitants driven out into the countryside, the cattle
machine-gunned, the
huts set on fire with incendiary bullets: this is called
pacification. Millions of peasants are
robbed of their farms and sent trudging along the roads with no
more than they can carry:
this is called transfer of population or rectification of frontiers.
People are imprisoned for
years without trial, or shot in the back of the neck or sent to die
of scurvy in Arctic
lumber camps: this is called elimination of unreliable elements.
Such phraseology is
needed if one wants to name things without calling up mental
pictures of them. Consider
for instance some comfortable English professor defending
Russian totalitarianism. He
cannot say outright, "I believe in killing off your opponents
when you can get good
results by doing so." Probably, therefore, he will say something
like this:
While freely conceding that the Soviet regime exhibits certain
features which the
humanitarian may be inclined to deplore, we must, I think,
agree that a certain
curtailment of the right to political opposition is an unavoidable
concomitant of
transitional periods, and that the rigors which the Russian
people have been called
upon to undergo have been amply justified in the sphere of
concrete achievement.
The inflated style itself is a kind of euphemism. A mass of Latin

words falls upon the
facts like soft snow, blurring the outline and covering up all the
details. The great enemy
of clear language is insincerity. When there is a gap between
one's real and one's declared
aims, one turns as it were instinctively to long words and
exhausted idioms, like a
cuttlefish spurting out ink. In our age there is no such thing as
"keeping out of politics."
All issues are political issues, and politics itself is a mass of
lies, evasions, folly, hatred,
and schizophrenia. When the general atmosphere is bad,
language must suffer. I should
expect to find -- this is a guess which I have not sufficient
knowledge to verify -- that the
German, Russian and Italian languages have all deteriorated in
the last ten or fifteen
years, as a result of dictatorship.
But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt
thought. A bad usage can
spread by tradition and imitation even among people who
should and do know better. The
debased language that I have been discussing is in some ways
very convenient. Phrases
like a not unjustifiable assumption, leaves much to be desired,
would serve no good
purpose, a consideration which we should do well to bear in
mind, are a continuous
temptation, a packet of aspirins always at one's elbow. Look
back through this essay, and
Page 8 of 9

for certain you will find that I have again and again committed
the very faults I am
protesting against. By this morning's post I have received a
pamphlet dealing with
conditions in Germany. The author tells me that he "felt
impelled" to write it. I open it at
random, and here is almost the first sentence I see: "[The
Allies] have an opportunity not
only of achieving a radical transformation of Germany's social
and political structure in
such a way as to avoid a nationalistic reaction in Germany
itself, but at the same time of
laying the foundations of a co-operative and unified Europe."
You see, he "feels
impelled" to write -- feels, presumably, that he has something
new to say -- and yet his
words, like cavalry horses answering the bugle, group
themselves automatically into the
familiar dreary pattern. This invasion of one's mind by ready-
made phrases (lay the
foundations, achieve a radical transformation) can only be
prevented if one is constantly
on guard against them, and every such phrase anaesthetizes a
portion of one's brain.
I said earlier that the decadence of our language is probably
curable. Those who deny this
would argue, if they produced an argument at all, that language
merely reflects existing
social conditions, and that we cannot influence its development
by any direct tinkering
with words and constructions. So far as the general tone or
spirit of a language goes, this
may be true, but it is not true in detail. Silly words and
expressions have often

disappeared, not through any evolutionary process but owing to
the conscious action of a
minority. Two recent examples were explore every avenue and
leave no stone unturned,
which were killed by the jeers of a few journalists. There is a
long list of flyblown
metaphors which could similarly be got rid of if enough people
would interest themselves
in the job; and it should also be possible to laugh the not un-
formation out of existence,
to reduce the amount of Latin and Greek in the average
sentence, to drive out foreign
phrases and strayed scientific words, and, in general, to make
pretentiousness
unfashionable. But all these are minor points. The defence of
the English language
implies more than this, and perhaps it is best to start by saying
what it does not imply.
To begin with it has nothing to do with archaism, with the
salvaging of obsolete words
and turns of speech, or with the setting up of a "standard
English" which must never be
departed from. On the contrary, it is especially concerned with
the scrapping of every
word or idiom which has outworn its usefulness. It has nothing
to do with correct
grammar and syntax, which are of no importance so long as one
makes one's meaning
clear, or with the avoidance of Americanisms, or with having
what is called a "good
prose style." On the other hand, it is not concerned with fake
simplicity and the attempt to
make written English colloquial. Nor does it even imply in
every case preferring the
Saxon word to the Latin one, though it does imply using the

fewest and shortest words
that will cover one's meaning. What is above all needed is to let
the meaning choose the
word, and not the other way around. In prose, the worst thing
one can do with words is
surrender to them. When you think of a concrete object, you
think wordlessly, and then,
if you want to describe the thing you have been visualising you
probably hunt about until
you find the exact words that seem to fit it. When you think of
something abstract you are
more inclined to use words from the start, and unless you make
a conscious effort to
prevent it, the existing dialect will come rushing in and do the
job for you, at the expense
of blurring or even changing your meaning. Probably it is better
to put off using words as
long as possible and get one's meaning as clear as one can
through pictures and
Page 9 of 9
sensations. Afterward one can choose -- not simply accept -- the
phrases that will best
cover the meaning, and then switch round and decide what
impressions one's words are
likely to make on another person. This last effort of the mind
cuts out all stale or mixed
images, all prefabricated phrases, needless repetitions, and
humbug and vagueness
generally. But one can often be in doubt about the effect of a
word or a phrase, and one
needs rules that one can rely on when instinct fails. I think the

following rules will cover
most cases:
1. Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech
which you are used to
seeing in print.
2. Never use a long word where a short one will do.
3. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
4. Never use the passive where you can use the active.
5. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon
word if you can think of
an everyday English equivalent.
6. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright
barbarous.
These rules sound elementary, and so they are, but they demand
a deep change of attitude
in anyone who has grown used to writing in the style now
fashionable. One could keep
all of them and still write bad English, but one could not write
the kind of stuff that I
quoted in those five specimens at the beginning of this article.
I have not here been considering the literary use of language,
but merely language as an
instrument for expressing and not for concealing or preventing
thought. Stuart Chase and
others have come near to claiming that all abstract words are
meaningless, and have used
this as a pretext for advocating a kind of political quietism.
Since you don't know what

Fascism is, how can you struggle against Fascism? One need not
swallow such
absurdities as this, but one ought to recognise that the present
political chaos is connected
with the decay of language, and that one can probably bring
about some improvement by
starting at the verbal end. If you simplify your English, you are
freed from the worst
follies of orthodoxy. You cannot speak any of the necessary
dialects, and when you make
a stupid remark its stupidity will be obvious, even to yourself.
Political language -- and
with variations this is true of all political parties, from
Conservatives to Anarchists -- is
designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable,
and to give an appearance
of solidity to pure wind. One cannot change this all in a
moment, but one can at least
change one's own habits, and from time to time one can even, if
one jeers loudly enough,
send some worn-out and useless phrase -- some jackboot,
Achilles' heel, hotbed, melting
pot, acid test, veritable inferno, or other lump of verbal refuse -
- into the dustbin, where it
belongs.

Assignment 4.1 Models of Strategic ManagementDue Fifth Day of t.docx

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Assignment 4.1 Models of Strategic ManagementDue Fifth Day of t.docx