Stieg Larsson - The Girl who Played with Fire - Review

 

This second installment of the Millennium Trilogy, beginning with The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, is by far superior to the first, and in most aspects overall, what constitutes a great thriller. Larsson spends more words on his protagonist, Lizbeth Salander, an anti-social genius, a world-class hacker, and now, is caught during a triple murder. The hard facts and all the circumstantial evidence point to her as the perpetrator of the crime.

We enter the mind of Salander and come to understand the reasons for her great hate for those males who exploit women. Men are portrayed as general misogynists, viewing women as inferior and mere objects of base sexual desire. Salander's unfortunate past is explored at some length, informing the reader of the prejudicial mindset of certain child welfare workers and those "experts" of the human mind, namely government mental health care officials having, in some cases, the extreme power in deciding the fate of societies fringe children.

Generally, this book exposes the shortfalls in Sweden's welfare system, including a disturbing look at a fundamental human right that has all but disappeared in most democratic states across the world: an individual accused of a crime must be viewed as innocent until proven guilty. Law enforcement and mainly the media are currently judges and juries, trying a suspect on a mass scale, where a suspect really doesn't have a chance once a case finally comes to trial. This important tenet of Law is reversed – guilty till proven innocent...and if one is interested, analyzing various "free" democratic countries will observe that this fundamental human right is maintained on paper though in reality no longer exists.

Larsson also focuses his pen directly on Sweden's mainstream media. Unfortunately, real journalism has become a rare bird over the last fifty years. Replaced with transparent bias in the protection of criminal governments, the "establishment" currently operates exclusively from a platform of entertainment, ensuring more viewers, higher readership, and more considerable advertising dollars. What is more disturbing is that the "public" at large continues to believe anything written or broadcast by a suit or pretty talking head on the television screen is the truth. 

The character of Lizbeth Salander is unique and a welcome protagonist for the thriller genre. There could well be some readers who would disagree with her unpredictable and vengeful behavior. One thing is for sure; however, every target of her wrath wholeheartedly deserves it in a big way. So we find ourselves cheering her on as she nails dangerous misogynists, slave traders of children, perverts in positions of power, and pedophiles.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is a beautiful novel, and this second installment of the trilogy is most certainly much better.

Death after War – Veteran Suicides

 

Veteran suicides as been labeled the silent epidemic because the rate has significantly risen since the so-called “War on Terror.” In 2001-2018 there were 419 suicides in serving and reserve & ex-serving ADF personal (Australian Defence Force). This number has gone up since these statistics were published. In the US., among veterans who served during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, suicide is the second leading cause of death for post 9/11 veterans accounting for 22.3% of all deaths. In 2014, an average of 20 a day died from suicide, or about 7,300 a year. For any “civilized” developed country, these deaths are unacceptable.

Some years ago, I discovered that the Australian government lied about the Japanese bombing of Darwin, under-reporting the number of deaths and military destruction. No need to go into the specifics. However, the place was devastated, and reporting the actual deaths, would put the Australian people into a “panic.” For this reason alone, believing statistics published by our government is always taken with a 'healthy suspicion.' - this includes the number of veteran suicides since 2001.

When we see how our government treats our veterans once they return from war is appalling. Certainly lack of adequate medical assistance and financial support has contributed to these suicides, but to come back from a war that you discovered was based on unadulterated lies, is also a huge factor for these soldiers taking their own lies.

Indeed a large array of problems, including drug addiction, alcoholism, divorce and a broken economic system have pushed these vets to seek no other alternative. But it is the 'action' of war, the unnatural crime of killing another human being for an ideal or the financial gain of corporations... that destroys the souls of these men and women.

During my time as a school teacher, as a history exercise, I had my Year 10 students attend a talk from an Australian Vietnam vet and an Australian who opted to go to jail for a year for refusing to be conscripted. The “draft dodger” that went to jail for a year explained his reasons which included not fighting in a foreign land for “stupid reasons.” He didn't believe the propaganda that now we know to be just that: lies to go to war. The man who served in Vietnam returned with what we now call PTSD. Because of his experiences, witnessing the murdering of innocents, he came back to protesters, a wife wanting a divorce to eventually slip into chronic alcoholism. It took the man-years to recover, and as he said, he came close to topping himself as well.

When we strip the flag-waving nationalism, the “serving your country,” and the lies given to us about going to war, it becomes clear that the whole construct of this destructive edifice is a racket designed to financially enhance the few and the acquisition of absolute power.

When we face these inconvenient truths about war, the reasons for veteran suicides become obvious.

As an added note, if a government is willing to send their sons and daughters to war, and if they return alive, they should take care of them for life. Currently, this is not the case.

Murakami – Underground – Review

 

Tokyo, Japan, March 20, 1995 – Under unusual circumstances, the Japanese Railway (JR) had been forced to stop three trains during peak hours. At one station, the announcement is that there has been an "explosion" along the tracks, and customers are ordered off the train. Many people existing are coughing on the Chiyoda Line, and a few are collapsing on the platform. A woman turns around to see a train attendant attempting to mop up a newspaper drenched in clear liquid (the attendant later died.) As she reaches street level from the escalators, people are lying on the road; a young woman of 21 years of age is vomiting in the corner of a building, covering her face out of shame. The entire area is in chaos. Unknown to the rest of the city, a similar catastrophe is occurring at other stations. There has been a terrorist attack, a chemical attack discovered later to be Sarin Gas. The terrorists are later discovered as a well-known cult in Japan, Aum Shinrikyo, its leader is a charismatic man, Shoku Asahara, the single guru of the cult.

In Underground (1997), the famous novelist, Haruki Murakami, takes a deep dive into this terrorist attack, interviewing several survivors, telling their experiences from their unique perspectives. In the Preface, Murakami clarifies that he wanted to put a 'face' and personality to the interviewees, avoiding what the Tokyo press described as “victims.” thereby creating an aura of shame around the survivors – some of these survivors were indeed later stigmatized, a currently popular term we now know as "victim shaming."

After the chaos turns to relative calm; a reported 13 deaths and 5,500 are affected in various levels of infection; however, all continue to experience trauma, stress, and Sarin symptoms years after the ordeal.

As readers of the famed novelist, we must ask why he spent almost two years researching, tracking down survivors, interviewing, getting doors slammed in his face and risking drudging up the memories of the survivors that they would rather forget? The author had left Japan six years before, writing and publishing novels and living abroad, believing he could better describe his country's settings and tones.

 When Murakami read of the event, he knew it was time to return to his home and re-evaluate the people, society and Japanese culture overall. One can see that this terrorist attack affected the man on many levels as a Japanese man and a human being.

In Part Two of the text, Murakami interviews current and ex-members of the cult. Interestingly, the 'guru,' Shoku Asahara, recruited and attracted not only young people in search of spiritual meaning and belonging but also highly educated surgeons, businessman, and scientists into the 'religion.' We also come to discover that Aum Shinrikyo is a well-run organization, capable of even greater destruction. After the economic “bubble” of the '80s, Japan went into a financial slump. This disabused much materialism in Japanese society, causing some to search for a greater spiritual purpose.

Murakami does his own autopsy of the event, analyzing Japanese society, and what possible beliefs and “forces” could lead to such a violent and senseless act.

This is certainly not your common Murakami subject or project, however for this reader, the text provided great insight into Japanese culture and the human condition.

The US's Perpetual 'conflicts' around the Globe

 

I remember it was the 2^nd invasion of Iraq under George Bush that forced anti-war protesters from all over the planet to hit the streets. Living in Melbourne at the time, the city was “standing room only”, and never have I seen a protest this size ever since. These anti-Iraq-war-protests ran across all the major cities in the US, including massive peaceful demonstrations across Europe. The world's people didn't want to go to war, the majority understanding that not only “Op Desert Storm” was based on propaganda, but pushing the blatant lie that Saddam Hussein possessed WMDs ready to bomb Israel, and strangely, that in some twisted logic, the Iraqi dictator was connected with Al Quida and 9/11. The world now knows this to be utter propaganda, yet American forces continue to occupy the country.

This, of course, begs the question: Why are the US and their allies still occupying Iraq when the reason for the invasion was based on falsehoods? For those running the perpetual war propaganda machine in the US, UK, France, Germany, and Australia, the response to this question is that...” it happened 18 years ago, and since new enemies have raised their heads, the war in the middle east is complicated and revealing the reasons we're there would be violating National Security...” and for the most part, the vast majority of people either believe this hogwash or don't have the time because they're simply trying to survive on a day-to-day basis. I believe it's a combination of both.

America's perpetual wars and 'conflicts' have been consistent since 1947. Beginning with Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Libya, Syria, and Yemen. Iraq and Libya, for example, has been bombed to absolute rubble. At the same time, Libya, a once-thriving North African country with successful educational programs and free medicare for its citizens, is now a 'failed state.' with warring factions and actual slave markets on the streets. As a whole, Syria is an international war crime par excellence, combining draconian sanctions, starving the Syrian people, while American troops occupy northern Syria to “guard the oil.” Northern Syria is also the country's land to grow their food, blocked by jihadists, Turkey and American troops. We are literally starving Syria out of existence.

Over the time of the US occupation of Iraq, it is estimated that over 1 million people (mostly children) have been killed. When you include the US sanctions of Iraq, the 'food for oil' program, thousands of children perished for lack of medicine blocked by the US and their brown-nosing allies. The elite war machine representatives will tell us that these massive deaths, equal to only the Holocaust, was worth it. Worth it for what...oil?

We must include the perpetual 'meddling' by the US into Latin American countries. San Salvador, Chile, Venezuela, Bolivia, and many that have not been reported to the world.

The US is doing to Venezuela what it is doing to Syria. A blatant attempt to starve the people through cruel sanctions, out of existence, to revolt against their respective governments. (It seems the Latin American people are aware of this considering the recent elections in Bolivia.) We must remember that these actions are actual international war crimes that the mainstream media conveniently ignores.

On this anniversary of the Iraq War, we must remember that they were staged based on lies. That is, millions of children have been killed based on World-Wide political propaganda.

The further crime is we continue to occupy this once sovereign nation despite the fact the reasons for being there in the first place is based on pure deceit and effective propaganda.

So whenever an “Intelligence agency” tells you that foreign agents are attempting to destroy our “democracy,” take it with a snowball-size- piece of salt...because it's more than likely BS, in order to justify the expansion of the American (and their allies) Empire.

Joan Didion – Political Fictions – Review

Joan Didion's Political Fictions (2001) is a collection of essays beginning in 1988-2000, ending just before the 2000 Presidential election between George Bush and Vice President Al Gore. The title of this collection is an obvious clue to Didion's "insider" view of the Washington DC political machine of both parties and the corporate media's influence on creating the right 'image' for politicians, particularly presidential candidates, that continues during their tenure in office, creating fictions and false personas. She paints an insular, self-referential, circular, and disconnected government whose only concern is getting elected and remaining in power. An image that came to mind is a snake swallowing its own tail.

Didion spends an entire essay on Ronald Reagan and his PR team and a slew of advisers and spins doctors, painting the ex-actor as the embodiment of stalwart "leadership" and the future and current myth that the man is the core representative of the Republican party. All presidents exploited into San Salvador, Grenada, and the Iran/Contra scandal; we see true American imperialism at its best without any justice for what many called treason at the time. But that's the deal in Washington, pardon the previous president from crimes, so the crimes you commit will be forgiven by the next, etc.

In the essays Political pornography and Clinton Agonistes, Didion focuses on the Clinton years and specifically 'Whitewater' and the Lewinsky sex scandal. This period indeed reveals the machinations of a two-party system, distracting the American people's attention from economic issues and foreign 'conflicts' to the morality of a president and the apparent moral denigration of the US people.

The media on both sides of the political spectrum pounced on this sex story and drained it for all it was worth. President Clinton was known to have a voracious sexual appetite bordering on the predatory amongst insider' circles; however, it seemed the American people generally didn't care about the president's sexual activities that, for right-wing politicians, signify that the people are simple, stupid, and without moral direction. Washington turned on their constituents, which turned its issues from economic to cultural. At this time, the Neo-conservative Christian Right moved into the halls of power. The separation of Church and State suddenly became a significant debate, and bible bashing seeped into the political discourse.

Didion spends a lot of time on the rise of the Christian Right. Many believe the president's actions with an intern and the many affairs in his past. The country needed to return to the fundamental values of 'faith' religion to "save our souls" from the sins of the democrats and any 'other' that does not believe in their evangelical doctrines. "America is God's country," Bush would scream, where, soon, prayer meetings would immediately follow the National Security meeting with the JCOS, NSA, and the CIA.

The bottom line is Washington. DC is a country in and of itself; politicians disconnected from their Constituents and a belt-way media, a central component of The Club, who often broadcast the lies and propaganda for corporations' industrial complex.

Although 20 years old, political fiction is relevant and gives the reader insight into an ongoing broken and corrupt political system.

U.S. 'Interventionist' Foreign Policy – the on-going Lie.

 

Bumbling about today, I came across a fascinating essay by the American author, Joan Didion, titled the West Wing of OZ. In this piece, she describes the massive slaughter of mainly women and children in the San Salvadorian town of El Mozote. The number of fatalities run to as far as over 900 and a low as 300. This incident happened during the early '80s under the Reagan Administration. The massacre occurred less than a decade after the US was defeated in the Vietnam War. US interventionist policy in Latin countries are well documented.

One would argue that El Salvador was one of the most horrific in terms of the number of executions of the indigenous peoples. The US was training and supplying weapons to the then right-wing Salvadorian Army. The El Mozote incident managed to be revealed by a New York Times journalist who was on the ground and submitting stories daily. Soon after the story was published, he was removed from the country and returned to the US and 'let go' by the paper. You see, US interventionist foreign policy has been around for a long time. Particularly since 2001, American bombing and killing in foreign lands have almost become the norm in western society. These crimes against humanity are ironically justified based on humanitarian reasons.

This should be plain to any observer of the events over the last 30 years: the US War machine requires an enemy or several foes to exist. This was blatantly revealed in a US Intelligence report released some days ago. In effect, Russia, Iran, Cuba, Hizballah, Venezuela and, to a certain extent, China had interfered in 2020 US presidential elections. There was no evidence provided, and one would not be surprised that the scribes of the empire, the MSM push this conspiracy theory as the next 9/11 or Pearl Harbour.

It was a wonder to me and quite absurd that the Trump Administration pushed the lie that the CIA puppet, Juan Guido, is the true 'president' of Venezuela. This man, hated by his countryman, attended the last State of the Union address by Donald Trump. What was truly astounding was when Trump announced him, every member of Congress stood up and applauded the puppet. This revealed that the US's duopoly government, democrat and republican, are pro-war and on board with interventionist foreign policy. The war machine is above politics and has a life of its own. Our elected officials' only role is to hand over the trillions to keep this interventionist war machine running.

In the Didion essay mentioned above, she exposes the Washington DC bubble, which only sees a world in terms of the acquisition of resources, wealth, and power. In her book, Political  Fictions, she reveals the insular DC who vomit the same old political rhetoric while ignoring the American people's needs and wishes. To call the regime-change ideologues and politicians in DC 'insular' would be a grand understatement. The US elite in Washington, including their lap-dog scribes live in an alternate reality, far removed from the common working folk's realities.

This is one of the reasons I'm so 'gobsmacked' or sincerely surprised why more people outside this sociopath bubble of wealth, money, and death are not more concerned or angry about this obvious state of affairs.

Those in the media that support interventionism, foreign policy is merely parroting the wishes of those who control them and pay them exorbitant amounts of money to spread lies as truths, pushing death in the name of “democracy” or humanitarianism.

One journalist I read once wrote, paraphrased, that those in government in the US need to keep the population poor, uneducated, and fighting amongst each other to retain power. This makes sense considering how the MSM spews nonsense daily.

To murder the elderly, women, and children for the sake of “democracy.” is a lie, and many need to realize this point.

We should continue to expose our governments' lies.

Murakami – “What I Talk about when I Talk...” - Review

Murakami adapted the title of this text from the American short story writer, Raymond Carver: What We Talk about When We Talk about Love, replacing the noun 'Love' with the verb 'Running,' and the pronoun 'we' to 'I.' This reveals the Japanese novelists admiration for the American writer and his love and somewhat obsessive occupation with the activity for long-distance running. Murakami manages to brilliantly weave his work as a novelist and this daily physical act, that both began around the same time in the man's life. 

As most of his readers are aware, Murakami began his working life as the owner of a jazz bar in Japan. Although the establishment was doing quite well financially, the soon-to-be novelist had a rare epiphany of sorts, in all places, while watching a baseball game. The batter hit the ball with that familiar 'pop' when, all at once, out of the blue, the young man decided to write a novel. Still working and managing his bar, he would sit at his desk in the dark early morning and finish at the first light of dawn. Against the advice of most in his family and social circle, he decided to be a full-time writer, sell the bar, and become a professional novelist. Murakami hasn't looked back since.

Many readers understand the work of the Japanese novelist as an exploration of metaphor, deep emotion, and the style commonly labeled '” magical realism.” Some critics, at least, have compared Murakami with the famous Colombian writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez. In a limited way this comparison is useful, but reading Murakami is an entirely different experience. They are, of course, different writers, pushing the boundaries of their own style and content. In What I talk about when I talk about Running we read the musings, passions and views of his personal existence focused on daily running and competitive marathons, though it's the struggle and pain he endures, coupled with the “pain” and intellectual- soulful stamina required to write a novel of any worth and magnitude.

This text can be categorized as many things: travelogue, memoir, journal or simply a collection of the author's thoughts over a four-month period, while he trains for the coup de grace of marathons, the New York City marathon in 2005.

After reading this enjoyable book, I struggled to find a comparison from the past: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance came to mind, but really overall, they're entirely different texts.

What I Talk about when I Talk about Running is truly unique, giving the reader insight into the mind of one of the most revered and popular novelists of the 21^st century.

“A Spit in the Wind” - a tainted love story.

 

“Can you talk?”

Her sensual laugh, soft and alluring, enters his ear through a mobile phone, excited, daringly sinful, and disturbed that this once potential lover has the courage to remain on the phone.

“Where are you?” he asks.

She laughs again, “I'm in the backyard watering the plants away from the crowd inside the house.” Her tone changes. “And if you ever call me again, I'll kill you.”

Thoughts of their encounter, the night before refuse to remove themselves from her memory, the images, all the pain fills her fragile soul. She cannot steel her heart from this gorgeous, drunken, and sadistic man.

Considering the time and place, the two new lovers' on their first date, managed to meet in secret, a rendezvous at a well-known train station in Melbourne. As the train ground to a stop, she did not see him at first, though turned her head around as he began to run in her direction at the end of the platform, calling her name above the chaos of a typical Friday night.

She turned her head and seeing him revealed her soul to him, softness in character, a beautiful smile, and a tinge of fear.

She looked absolutely magnificent. Feeling like a young man, he kissed her as the grinding train left the station, the young people looking their way. The kiss, as all lovers know, tells all, and only time will resolve the immensity of their current feelings.

“You actually are here!”

“Did you ever doubt me” she whispers.

Feeling slightly drunk, due to the few wines he sipped before her arrival, he lands in the Moment, total present time, and wonders why he has been so blessed.

She laughs again and kisses him on the lips, and asks, “Where are we going?”

Like many men, out of ego or lack of confidence, he acts in bravado, a man; a little boy, really, announces that a luxurious room is awaiting and a dinner that will be remembered for a life time.

What this 'has-been' adolescent has missed, is that the woman he now holds is a lady of experience and taste. She understands the young, the naive, the inexperienced in love. But somehow this particular middle-aged man, his strange ideas about life, his past, and his strange demeanor, is a mystery, something to be explored. She decides to go along with his romantic overtures, his sentimental and poetic view of life; a man from a distant past, or some deranged character from a bad novel. She finds him curious and this experience will prove or disprove her expectations about him. Thus she cautiously follows along.

Only two minutes from the station, they enter the pub/hotel, full of the regular Friday night crowd, expressing their frustrations about a meaningless existence. The pub is loud, happy and has the atmosphere of the unexpected.

They enter the room and she is delightfully surprised. High ceilings, 19^th century décor, and a comfortable bed; following his lead, he shows her to the spa, something she, as a woman of class, would never do with him at this early stage. What impresses the woman is that he made the effort to create “ambiance”, candles and low lamp lights bathe the room in a soft glow.

He offers her a glass of wine from the mini-bar that tastes like sour apples, the poor grapes having spent their short lives in the hot sun. She chooses to ignore this tiny mishap.

Her expression tells all, and they kiss, continue to kiss passionately, until she pushes the 'boy' away, stating that dinner would be a good idea.

Through dinner their conversation turns from the ideal to the absurd. She asks him about Mozart, current affairs, or politics; he looks confused and changes the subject to his “mates” at work, abusing the new apprentice on the job. He laughs embarrassingly loud, telling the cruel antics' played upon the young apprentice.

She realizes that this was not the man she thought she knew...

In a few short moments, he becomes belligerent, his new love, a forgotten side-line to his pseudo-masculine bravado, shouting, abusing the waiters, demanding service, complaining about the wine, as if his new lover, sitting across from him, would be impressed with his brutal displays.

'He's changed', she thought. He has transformed into a stereotypical vulgar male, the type of person she has had to put up with all her life; a bully, thug, and a man who has never really grown, matured, stopped mentally, somewhere in early adolescence. She feels a stab of fear as he stands up and demands that they go back to the room.

He stumbles to the register to pay the bill. Their waiter and the manager of the hotel spot the drunken lout and make a note.

He literally drags the lady to their room, fumbling with the lock as his eyesight has permanently blurred for the night.

He grabs, pushing, slapping, and demands she do his Will or, “You can get fucked whore!”

Under the circumstances, as had happened too many times before in her life, it was best forgotten, she relents, and the deed is over in a matter of moments. He turns away, instantly snoring, asleep for the remainder of the night.

As the first light from the dawn enters the windows of their hotel room, she carefully leaves the bed, finally, after a few moments, finds her shoes. She did not want to wake him, perhaps beginning the whole ugly scenario again.

It had happened too many times before...

Grabbing her bag, she opens the door like a thief in the night, leaving the drunken rapist to his convoluted dreams.

'Would my life ever change?' she thinks. Is it possible to free my self from these self-obsessed men, whose existence is shallow, a mere spit in the wind?'

'And why am I so different?'

Haggard, tired and feeling sorry for herself, she waits for the train back to the suburbs, back to her normal life.

Only a few stations from her stop, she dials a familiar number and her reliable daughter picks her up from the station.

“How was your night, mother?”

“A great night with the girls...we had a good time.”

The woman winces at the memory of the experience, her daughter oblivious to the truth.

As she enters the front door, that incredible emptiness about her long marriage stings like sunburn. Her husband greets her with his usual probing questions like she is a suspected terrorist from a third-world country. He is another bully from a long line of bullies.

She has all her bases covered and he seems to be satisfied with all her responses.

Life continues, as usual, ignoring the real issues and carrying on as though nothing has changed, and seemingly never will.

Later a good friend rings, and she finally breaks down, sobbing into the phone.

Amor Towles – A Gentleman in Moscow – Review

Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov returns to Moscow from Paris as the Bolsheviks now rule over the Soviet Union as they've defeated the White Russian opposition. He understands the Russian aristocracy are being executed daily; however, he returns to the family estate, Idlhour, to aid his family in all the chaos. The Count is captured and put on trial for a famous “political” poem he once published, and exiled to the famous Hotel Metropol, where he remains for over thirty years under house arrest.

Anyone reading this little synopsis would believe this to be a banal premise for a novel. A Gentleman in Moscow exceeds banal to the status of extraordinary, as we track along with this charming man's life within the halls of the hotel, while learning about old Russia before the revolution.

Count Alexander is intelligent, worldly, well-read, and nurtured in the finer things in life: great wine, gastronomic knowledge, and the stately manners of a lost generation. The Count's central redeeming attributes are kindness and care for his fellow human beings. Although very much aware of his lofty station, he never condescends and seems to have an uncanny comprehension of human nature. He takes his Fate as it comes, handling himself with integrity and humor.

The two other more central characters are Nina and Sofia. We meet Nina at the beginning of the text as a young girl of eight or nine: precocious with a strong sense of self, the Count and the child strike-up a unique relationship that is both loving and funny. The Count becomes “Uncle Alex” over a few years until her family must move out of the Hotel. Later, after many years, she returns with a young daughter of eight years of age, caught up in her duties of the State, and leaves Sofia with the Count. This relationship grows into a beautiful connection between kindred spirits.

The Count doesn't sit in his room simply reading and brooding, his life in the Hotel becomes productive and the many characters working within the Hotel, we come to intimately know and relate to... my favorites are the Hotel chef and the beautiful Soviet film star, whose connection to the count lasts for many years.

Published in 2016, A Gentleman in Moscow became an international bestseller. Over the years, I've never based my 12 month reading list on The New York Times Bestseller List, however. managed to come across the novel by accident, read the first chapter and bought it without hesitation.

A Gentleman in Moscow is an exceptional piece of literature: sensitive, educational, moving and a word of caution: the novel's ending just might leave you with a tear in your eye.

Truly astonishing.

“Love ain't no Stranger” - a travel tale.

 

The Utah desert's rocky edged skyline hung ominously like ancient gods as we drove eighty miles an hour along the winding highway. My father's car ran fine on flat surfaces but on ascents and long descents, the Oldsmobile's engine would die, and it was up to my driving sister to maneuver the beast to the side of the road to safety. Passing cars whooshed by a little too close for comfort. The car was stalled and would not start. After about two hours, no food, no water that the precariousness of the situation caused my nerves to fray, and it was then that I began to panic.

Finally my sister, always good in disasters, waved a car down, and I ran down the hill to meet them.

“My car is stalled. And I need a tow to the nearest city.”

“The nearest town is Green River, and that's over fifty miles from here.”

He was a young man of about twenty: dark, long hair and a little beard. His girlfriend was dark too and pretty, her eyes showing glimpses of fear. Just then, a policeman pulled up behind the Oldsmobile, and I could see my sister up the hill talking to him, her arms waving, her blond hair blowing in the hot wind.

“He'll take care of you, man.” the young guy and his pretty girlfriend sped off and disappeared down the mountain.

As luck would have it, the cop was sympathetic and radioed -in a tow truck. He drove away too, and we remained in the canyon alone again. Intuitively, I knew the car would start. I asked my sister to try and start her again, and she kicked on the first time. She put the sick beast into the drive, and we were mobile.

Big mistake.

The tow truck would be looking for us, and we would not be where we were supposed to be. If the car stalled again farther down the line, it could mean more trouble. Only ten miles later, my father's Oldsmobile died again and now in a much worse situation. If the Highway Patrol (we were in Mormon country)found us again it would mean at least a big fine and, depending on the people, jail.

The desert wind hummed at a low key through the cliffs as I sat contemplating dying of thirst and possibly spending the night in a Utah, predominately Mormon prison.

My sister got out of the car and looked wide-eyed at our surroundings.

The red and white hills and craggy rocks conveyed a kind of ancientness beyond our scope of comprehension. Without any hint of doubt, it was now understood that we were mere specks of insignificant energy within a vast universe: Alone.

Head in my hands without a clue, a single thought rang loudly like the Vatican church bells – that we were not wanted in this desert place. The Spirits of the land were telling us to get out and, in the meantime, making us suffer for trespassing in the first place. I raised my head from my hands and looked in the rearview mirror to see a huge, blue semi-truck jam to a squeaky stop directly behind the Oldsmobile.

“ Have'n car trouble, you kids?”

The semi-truck had taken a big chance in stopping his monstrous vehicle on the steep decline we were currently located. The truck was still running, and as I stood on the sideboard holding onto the handle of the open door, the air conditioning blasted on my face.

“I can take you two to town to call a tow truck. We're about twenty-five miles outside of Green River.”

My sister was already gathering our baggage and dragging it to the side of the road next to the truck.

“If it's not too much trouble; I would much appreciate it.”

Before long we were roaring along down the desert mountain in a brand new 96' Ford semi-truck: the largest transport vehicle of its kind in America.

“My name's Floyd. What're your names?”

After the necessary introductions and explaining the purpose of our trip to the U.S., our truck-driven-angel-of-mercy began expounding on the important highlights of his life over the last 54 years. Floyd was born in Louisiana, pronounced “Lozeyana.” He had been married twice, no kids, and worked for the most part on the shipping docks of New Jersey. Finally disabused from the ways of the infamous Teamsters Union purchased his semi-truck with his life savings and chose a life on the road, transporting fresh fruit from California to New York. Like some Americans I've met over the years, Floyd admitted to having Indian blood running through his veins. He claimed his father was an Irish immigrant and his mother a pure Algonquin native. The Algonquin tribe hunted and fished long ago on Manhattan Island and parts of New York State before the infectious influence of white civilization. He had, though, the Irish-whisky-nose and the dark eyes of an American Indian...I believed him.

My sister sat in the back of the cab on Floyd's comfortable-looking bunk sipping his Mountain Dew. The truck's engine's roar was almost too loud to make conversation, but Floyd persisted and continued telling us his life story despite the roar.

The sun was beginning to shed its last light as we thundered into Green River's only truck stop. Floyd circled the parking lot and docked the monster in a space left amongst a long line of similar machines. The truck stop was swarming with over-weight transporters wearing dirty baseball caps, sipping their coffee, and looking quite at home.

Floyd turned the engine off and slowly turned around to my sister.

“How 'bout you stay here with me. Your brother can go inside and see about getting a tow for that car of yours...?”

For an instant, my sister turned pale, squirmed slightly, and said, “You've given us no real reason to trust you. But I want to trust you - so I will.”

Floyd smiled and turned to me, “We can sit in the coffee shop and wait for you to get back with the car. I'm way ahead of schedule, so I've got a little time to kill.”

“Okay, Floyd. Sounds like a plan. I'll be back as soon as I can to fix things up.”

I gave a reassuring glance to my sister as I jumped out of the truck. My mind raced through a thousand negative possibilities: kidnapping, rape, theft, and so on. We were in a bad way that left few alternatives. Before walking through the shop doors, I turned around and made eye contact with my sister, and nodded my head to communicate that all, in the end, would be well.

Luck, the situation, time, place, or the grace of God, a tow truck was available to drag the old Oldsmobile into town.

After a few too many hours, the sun had all but disappeared. I walked into the coffee shop to find Floyd and my sister and a few other truckers sitting around a table, laughing and joking – a jovial scene that felt out of place for me, considering our circumstances.

Floyd stood up and put his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly fashion.

“Everything okay, son?”

"I think so. The car is parked down the road at the garage, Green River's only mechanic. The dude says it's the fuel pump. This little “excursion” has made a dent in our little budget. There's a hotel up the road for $30 a night. I guess we're stuck in this town for at least tonight or until they can fix the piece of...”

“Could be worse, son.”

“Yea, could be worse.” in the hot desert night, I detected a tone of sadness in Floyd's eyes.

Floyd helped us unload our luggage from his rig. Again I saw that sadness in his eyes.

“Well good friend, I want to say thank you for all your help. You are a true Samaritan and a gentleman. Really, I don't know where we would be right now...”

“That's okay. Just remember not to take it all too seriously, too hard. Once you're in a fix like this, you got no other choice but to move through it. Might as well do it with a smile on your face. Right?”

My sister gave Floyd a kiss on the cheek and a little hug. I shook his hand in the traditional, manly fashion, and we bade our farewells.

He started his engine and pulled his magnificent machine out of the parking lot. As we watched our angel of mercy throttle down the highway until his brake lights appeared to be tiny dots, red stars in the dark of night.

Needless to say, because our car trouble was slightly worse than we thought and my poor sister got sick because, I suspect, of the stress of our unusual plight, we remained in Green River, Utah, for another two days. The morning of the third day, we loaded up the Oldsmobile with our bags and drove out of Green River. Over the three days of our stay, I managed to meet some fascinating and nice people.

As we crossed over the border into the State of Colorado, a David Coverdale song boomed through the car speakers. The tune was, "Love ain't no Stranger.” Looking through the windshield and thinking about my recent father's death and his precious car, I decided that this was to be the theme song for our quest. I then thought of Floyd, our interesting circumstances, and decided to take his advice – and smile.

Bliss – Harvey Cushing – A Life in Surgery - Review

 

It is a strange mystery why a man of such accomplishments and medical innovation in the history of neurosurgery, the American pioneer, in fact, is not more well known in popular culture. Dr. Harvey Cushing has to be one of the most fascinating, complex, and astounding medical personalities in the last century. He became the first American medical man to be an international leader in this special field.

Harvey was part of a long line of medical men, his great grandfather, grandfather and father were all competent physicians. A Yale graduate, later attending Harvard Medical and working at John Hopkins, he paved the way, as he called "The Northwest Passage," in the area of brain tumor surgery, his OR innovations, insistence on sterile working conditions, the use of clips to prevent excessively bleeding and the diagnosis of brain tumors were all devised and applied by him, having operated on over 2000 patients with brain tumor-related illnesses during his long career. This man takes the term "workaholic" and takes it to an entirely new level. A tireless researcher, recorder, bibliophile, surgeon, and prolific writer, his drive and obsession for work and life, set the precedent for future surgeons. A truly remarkable individual.

Michael Bliss, however, is a competent biographer, revealing Cushing's genius as well as his many faults. Cushing was an irascible perfectionist with zero tolerance for any incompetence in the OR. His arrogance and caustic tongue became the stuff of legend; interestingly, as Bliss implies, his personality has become almost a stereotype for the brilliant surgeon, egotistic, sarcastic with no patience for mistakes while in surgery. He was a difficult man to work with and for, however, his care for his patients took priority over all other actions. Ambitious and single-minded with an insatiable appetite for knowledge, Cushing pioneered brain surgery, writing volumes of medical articles and essays, countless lectures, and even a Pulitzer Prize-winning two-volume biography on his mentor and world-renowned physician, William Osler.

There are numerous anecdotes in this fine biography, but the one that really stands out is Cushing's first experience with a patient who dies in front of his eyes. A young student at Harvard, he managed to get invited to assist with `etherizing' patients for surgery. Weeks pass and everything is moving along fine until one evening, he administers the ether to a young woman undergoing an operation for a strangulated hernia, whose chances for survival are next to nil. The patient dies before the operation commences, minutes after Cushing anesthetizes her. This, of course, devastated the young medical student, who walked the streets of Boston deciding to quit the profession. When he returned and told his teacher of his intent, he berated the boy, calling him "a damned fool" and to buck-up, for they had work to do. He continued on, of course, but remembered this incident over thirty years later.

As any good critical biography should be, it is written with erudition, (explaining medical terms and procedures for the laymen) as well as presenting a riveting narrative- this is an entertaining and inspiring work of an astonishing individual in American medical history.

Comment: Recent US bombings in Syria

 

Most antiwar pundits on social media and beyond knew that under a Biden Administration, the “conflicts” in the middle east would only escalate, and the bombing and murdering of innocents would continue. One merely needs to look back a few years during the Obama years to see the US war machine at its most deadly; and understand that under the current administration, the US's illegal occupation of the middle east will simply dig-in and expand over time.

The latest bombing(s) on Syria was justified and echoed in the MSM as a “defense strategy” targeting “Iranian” backed soldiers in the area. ( A response to rockets attacking the Green Zone in Iraq). The MSM doesn't tell you that these so-called Iranian-backed soldiers are indeed Iraqi-based freedom fighters, attempting to rid themselves of the US occupation in their country. The US didn't “democratize.” Iraq, but set-up a puppet government that ironically, voted to expel US troops from their country. Despite the overwhelming majority of votes to expel the Americans, not surprisingly, the US ignored the majority and has remained ever since.

We should remember that the US invaded Iraq based on an MSM propaganda campaign claiming Iraq had WMDs and were prepared to use them. We know now, of course, this to be an absolute lie. We must ask why The US is still occupying a sovereign nation considering the invasion was discovered to be pure propaganda. The answer is obvious and is the same reason for the US's recent bombing of Syria: Oil and Resources.

The obnoxious and bumbling right-wing previous US president, Donald Trump was at least honest when it came to occupying and fighting in Syria...”We're guarding the oil.” The Biden government is a slippery apparatus of war, pushing old excuses and continuing to name Iran is their sole enemy aside from China. Over the last 20 years, the US's intentions have been clear, and that is full dominance in the middle east with Israel at the helm.

These imperialistic intentions originally was a five-year plan, but blatant imperialism is a public relations nightmare. Thus the current wild censorship of independent journalists and anti-war pundits on social media. The elites and regime-change lobbyists, including chicken-hawk politicians, desire war because war lines their pockets. So only the MSM, the scribes for the State Department and the Pentagon, need to be *one voice*, bamboozling the people once again into WW III.

It is certainly outlandish how the establishment media and the government can explain away the killing of 22 people in the first bombing raid in Syria, by calling it self-defense!

All said and done, the US and its allies shouldn't be in Syria, Iraq or in any sovereign nation claiming they're keeping people safe.

One with only a slight knowledge of geopolitics, will understand and pierce through the war propaganda, and see that these last illegal bombings in Syria are merely furthering the plan of US imperialism in the middle east and around the globe.