War & Sanctions

The United States of America cannot exist without waging some war or 'conflict' around the planet. To justify these wars, the media waves are drowned in propaganda. This is an undisputed fact. Now that the US left Afghanistan after 20 years of death and destruction without anything to show for it (except billions of profits for weapon manufacturers) without even a blink, the Military-Industrial Complex has set its sites on Russia. The propaganda has been relentless. But if the US cannot have a hot war, congress is about to pass a bill laying down deadly sanctions on the country.

To the detriment of many sovereign nations around the globe, the US has a monopoly on international finance. This gives them the power to put an economic stranglehold on any country they deem their "enemy."In a sane world, no single nation should have such economic power. But that's beside the point. The sanctions they're about to put on Russia will affect the innocent population throughout the country. Basics like food, clothing, petrol, medical supplies will be affected. By international standards, this is a blatant war crime.

I was sickened to watch two US senators on a Sunday news program push this agenda to punish Russia with sanctions. These two relics of a bygone era, causing such misery on innocent men, women, and children, were elegantly psychotic. One of the senators referred to Russia as merely a 'gas station' and nothing more. The cultural ignorance and downright racism were astounding. The US is an intelligent country filled with brilliant people, so why do old men of this tragic character and low IQ manage to call all the shots. It was embarrassing to watch.

Sanctions this severe on any country is a war crime. Intending to murder innocent people is a crime against humanity. The US has been committing war crimes for a very long time with zero consequences. This latest move to punish Russia economically is a war crime. And by doing so will undoubtedly place Russia against the wall. This would have devastating results and a war no one wants except the MIC, MSM, and the weapon manufacturers.

The apparent stupidity of these cranky old politicians, bribed by corporations, is beyond the pale.

I remember at the beginning of the pandemic, rather than reach out and help nations deal with the virus, the US doubled down on their sanctions on Iran, Russia, Cuba, and Venezuela. This is definitely cruel and unusual and indeed sadistic and insane.

Watching US MSM, the sword rattling and apparent push for sanctions and war with Russia put my stomach in knots. I know they're 'talking heads' and mouthpieces, but many spoke with such hawkish relish. Unfortunately, I believe they believed their own BS.

We mustn't let these oligarchs, puppet governments, and media institutions drag us into another war. Russia is a nuclear power that seems to escape these corrupt old warmongers.

 

Joyce Carol Oates - A Fair Maiden - Review

There is one aspect of Joyce Carol Oates' writing that most readers, I believe, would agree with: and that is "disturbing." This writer can conjure the macabre in a way that sizzles under the surface, keeping the reader turning the pages, not knowing where the tale may lead.

The last novel that I read by this master was Beasts: another, of course, disturbing tale. It astonishes me that I have not read more of her work - but as the saying goes - so many great books and so little time.

In A Fair Maiden, without question, the novel could not be put down until the last page.

We have the main character, Katya Spivak, a woman about 16 years of age from the suburbs of New Jersey. She is the youngest sibling and daughter to a single mother because her husband deserted the family as he was a consummate gambler, and it can be deduced he left because of heavy gambling debts. Katya is a pretty girl: blond, athletic body, and beautiful eyes. Unfortunately, she also has terrible confidence that she shields from the world. Katya lands a nanny for a well-to-do family in the very wealthy Bayhead Harbor, New Jersey. Bayhead is a mixture of new money and old; her employers are of the new variety. Katya is happy with her job, mainly because she's away from her lower-middle-class roots. As Katya is happily feeding the birds in Bayhead Park with the three-year-old, Tricia and baby Kevin, enter the elegant yet eccentric older gentleman, Marcus Cullen Kidder.

Kidder is old money and refers to the new inhabitants of Bayhead Harbor as "Mayflies." But, as the reader discovers, Kidder is a true American Aristocrat: a highly educated painter, writer, musician, and philanthropist who becomes obsessed with Katya.

A Fair Maiden is about Katya's and Kidder's growing relationship. As the story evolves, the reader believes one thing; however, it turns out much different.

To say the least, A Fair Maiden is the most sophisticated and alluring piece of literary fiction that I've read for some time.

About a third way through the reading, I was making comparisons to Nabokov's "Lolita," but nothing can be further from the truth.

A Fair Maiden stands alone - a strange and touching love story.

My suggestion is to put A Fair Maiden on your reading list.

This novel will not disappoint.

Bouveresse - Wittgenstein Reads Freud - Review

A debate continues to rage in French academic circles about psychoanalysis being a proper science of mind or merely a theoretical construct, a philosophical theory, another approach to viewing and interpreting the mind. 

Jacques Lacan, for example, has exalted psychoanalysis to the status of a "meta-science" affecting all of the humanities and claims that philosophy is in current need of psychoanalytic "science" to legitimize it as a relevant subject of the humanities.

Be that as it may. However, those somewhat acquainted with Wittgenstein's thought realize that he proposed that we are limited by language. Therefore, the so-called "scientist" must restrain their impulse to say more than they actually know.

Wittgenstein believed Freud to be an extraordinary individual, though, in a letter to Norman Malcolm, he wrote, "Of course, (he) is full of fishy thinking & his charm & the charm of his subject is so great that you may be easily fooled." Freud believed himself to be a biological determinist and argued that psychoanalysis was, in fact, authentic science and used persuasive and clever forms of reasoning to "prove" the existence, for example, of the unconscious. It is alleged predictable, measurable, and ultimately, mechanical processes.

Wittgenstein proposed that psychoanalysis does not have much to do with science but is another form of representation, though highly seductive.

I found this to be a well-translated and well-written essay analyzing the central issues in Freud's arguments and using Wittgenstein's scattered conversations about Freud to back the counterarguments. Bouveresse tackles the Reason and Cause arguments, the `Generalizing Impulse" in regards to justifying a theory, and Freud's method of dream interpretation, and shows it fails on many counts when analyzed against the rigors of falsification and verification.

Although Wittgenstein views the tenets of psychoanalysis as "a manner of speaking" and not good science, he maintains Freud's power of persuasion and the originality of his thought. In the end, however, psychoanalysis is about effectiveness, telling the analysand that such a thing is the "cause" of their particular malady and influencing them to accept that diagnosis. These "explanations" have a specific charm for the analysand, whether they're actually the case or not.

This exciting discussion on Freud's theories and Wittgenstein's arguments against them. As a result, I have a better understanding of Freud and Wittgenstein. 

The Unusual Jam

 

The local musicians hang out was called 'The Scab', but its real name was The XXX, named after a holy Egyptian icon resembling a lobster and/or a beetle. Strangely the name suits the place as there is nothing like it in the entire city: the bar is small, and the owner, a Croatian with the energy of an Olympic marathon runner and is the spitting image of Robert Deniro ( xxx is bald as the day he was born.)

What makes this bar iconic is no one is permitted to be unhappy, argue or cause the slightest bit of trouble...otherwise, they're out on their ear faster than three blinks of an eye. One feels safe in this place for poets, musicians, writers, and people who just want to have a good time without worrying about a drunken lout in a baseball cap. The XXX is a 'holy' place like the ancient Egyptian icon: a refuge from the everyday dangers of a Saturday night.

Shaun O'Connor is a prematurely bald 24-year-old guitarist and singer whose passion for music exceeds the power of his two young lovers – his love is music. We met on a sunny afternoon in front of a grocery store while he sang his heart out, attempting to make a little money. We had a small chat and sang an old "Who" song, "Behind Blue Eyes," together while a small crowd gathered and paid for the music with a few coins that they'd toss in his guitar case. He told me he played at the "Scab" every other Thursday and invited me to come along. Since then, we've been friends.

It then became a ritual for me to go to the 'Scab' every other Thursday night and support the old boy with whistles and applause.

Then it was only a matter of time that I, too, played and sang on 'jam' night every Thursday and began to meet other musicians who simply played for the love of it: our pay for playing was a free drink on the house.

Working on a story for many hours on that Thursday night, getting my weeks mixed up, I decided to travel down to the 'Scab' a see Shaun – wrong night; a young man was playing who had the voice of an angel. Disappointed that my Thursday's had been crossed, I sat down anyway and listened to this young man and became increasingly impressed with his adeptness on the guitar and the few original songs he played.

After the first set ended, I sauntered outside for the obligatory cigarette.

Soon later, the guitar player followed with a friend – they appeared vaguely familiar.

The air was cool, a cold night, as you could see your breath.

Out of the cold and smoke, the guitar player asked, "Aren't you, Mr. Middleton?"

As a semi-old brain does, it takes a little longer to connect the dots; then, the memories return. These two 'boys' (now men) were once my students back in 2003. I remembered that both were not meant for the classroom and played-up; great kid's anyway. We reminisced about the "old" days for a while, and "S" returned to the stage. Feeling like playing, I asked to do a song with them. I played the steel-string acoustic, and "S" grabbed the electric, and we managed to play a tune that the crowd enjoyed.

Later they told me they were about to embark on a country adventure, essentially singing for their supper: real traveling troubadours, performing, playing music, and seeing the country.

I felt there was something Real yet romantic about this goal; a medieval quest these boys were meant to do.

We bid our farewells, and I wished them luck as the night ended.

It is a bit strange meeting old students, not meant for the classroom, feeling lost (at the time) that they might have not learned much. But seeing them again after many years while lying in bed that night, I felt secure that they were on the right road: good, kind, respectful, artistic, and certainly headed for a few exciting adventures.

Sleep came easy that night.

War with Russia is Absurd

 

The United States of Corporations requires an enemy to economically exist. There has to be a bogeyman out there somewhere for the US economy to remain solvent. Added to this morbid fact, every war that the US has waged since Korea was forged in deceit. The only way to get a country's people to back a war is by way of lies and relentless propaganda. An existential threat must be created to justify sending so many soldiers to their deaths. The most flagrant lie that comes to mind was the war in Iraq. The US invaded a sovereign nation based on many lies, the big one being WMDS. And like a pack of sheep we all fell for it.

The so-called Ukraine crises is a creation of the US and NATO. The relationship between Russia and Ukraine goes back centuries. The US at least since 2014 has been instigating upheaval within the population. The Obama administration orchestrated a coup, replacing a left leaning elected president with a right wing dictator who, gladly follows the State Departments orders. A "civil war" has been raging since – fuelled by the US including selling millions of dollars of weapons for the "rebellion" – a Nazi based pack of fascists.

Yes, that's correct: the US is selling weapons to Hitler loving Neo-Nazis. Why is this fact not reported in the MSM? The answer to that question is obvious as the MSM is the megaphone-voice of Empire.

I remember the Trump presidency when you couldn't turn on your TV, computer or I phone without hearing about Trump and his collusion with Russia during the 2016 presidential campaign. Government officials and ex-spooks appeared on CNN comparing this alleged collusion with Russia with 9/11 or Pear Harbour. The propaganda machine portraying Russia as the US's main enemy has been percolating in MSM for quite sometime.

(The Trump campaign did not collude with Russia as reported in the Mueller Report)

Because of a major pandemic and the many distractions that governments stir-up, most people do not have the time to understand geopolitics; listening to the knuckle heads at CNN and MSNBC is all they have time for. So it is understandable how people would come to believe Russia to be an enemy of the United States. This is absurd and simply not true.

The United States and their obese attack dog NATO, have been barking on the Russian border since the end of WWII. Around this time, NATO broke a treaty stating they would not advance their forces passed a certain border, and the US did it anyway. Right now, Russia is virtually surrounded by war hungry soldiers waiting for Russia to make a move.

This analogy has been used so many times that I'm reluctant to use it – but it illustrates Russia's Point of View. Imagine Russia and their allies mounting weapons and thousands of troops along the Canadian and Mexican borders respectively. Russia states: "You make one move into these country's territory WWIII is inevitable." That's exactly what is going on along the Ukrainian border.

The MSM are making out that Russia is the aggressor in this scenario. The opposite is true. The US has been stoking trouble in the Ukraine for years.

Face the facts, the US and their vassal States like Germany and the UK will follow the US into war with a country who has the second largest arsenal of nuclear bombs to only the United States. War with Russia is a corporate exercise not a moral one. It's purely for money. Freeing a country from oppression and promoting democracy has nothing to do with it... it's all about the bottom line.

War with Russia is absurd. 

Patricia Highsmith – Ripley Under Water - Review

This fourth installment in a series of five novels concerning the criminal adventures, schemes, ploys and cunning machinations of Tom Ripley, ranks as high as its predecessors.

Tom Ripley has to be one of the most interesting and memorable characters ever created in modern crime literature. A man born from humble beginnings, he has re-invented himself as a man of refined taste and breeding. Basic manners and knowledge of human nature, combined with a strong will and bloody attitude of mind, he will stop at nothing to achieve his goals. What makes Ripley psychologically fascinating, is his utter lack of conscience. He can murder without a hint of remorse, and has that uncanny ability to compartmentalize his thoughts and memories in order live with his many dastardly deeds. Moreover, Highsmith writes about Ripley entirely from his perspective, giving the reader an inside look at his thought processes, rationalizations and intrigues, creating a sympathy for the man, thus we cheer when he murders and are greatly relieved when he gets away with it. We want Ripley to succeed and he always does.

In this story, Ripley's chequered past catches up with him. An American couple, David and Janice Prichard, move into a villa down the way from his chateau at Villeperce. These people know Ripley from somewhere; know aspects about his past that Ripley would soon forget and then begin to relentlessly taunt him. How much do they really know? And how can Ripley handle this strange couple without implicating himself?

This book was difficult to put down in many ways. Because Ripley is such a fascinating character, the pages seemed to turn themselves to discover his next move against these people. There is a particular scene in Tangiers at a shady café, where Ripley confronts Prichard, and without warning, in a series of dangerous blows, knocks the vulgar Prichard unconscious. In fact, Highsmith's writing is so good, that I found myself cheering as Ripley pummelled him to the ground. This type of scene, really, has become Ripley's trademark: surprise with lethal violence, applied without mercy or second thought.

The Ripley novels are unique in modern crime fiction. Patricia Highsmith was not recognized in her native America, and was forced to move overseas to write, where she became a respected and best selling author. It is only in the last fifteen years, over a decade after her death, that she is receiving the acclaim that is so well deserved.

Anatomy Drawing's of da Vinci

 

Sometime while at university, we studied the Renaissance.

This was undoubtedly a time of "re-birth" and creativity that astounds all who witnessed the period's art, writing, sculpture, philosophy, etc.

Unfortunately, I cannot remember her name, but the lecturer was a beautiful French woman, her English perfect with that almost mesmerizing accent. She was a natural blond, tiny, and had the most striking blue eyes; however, she was a "Militant Feminist."

What does "Militant Feminist" mean, and what can one expect if one meets one?

Perhaps things have changed, but in those days, a militant feminist hated men in general. On a date, for example, paying for dinner was out of the question, and most times, we'd share the cost. (50/50.) Opening a door for one of these women almost created a confrontation, too many times to count, out of sheer habit, I would do so and the response: most often, vehement, to say the least.

My Renaissance lecturer fit the bill to the end degree.

Once we got to the topic of da Vinci's notebooks and his drawings of anatomy, her face would turn sour, and she would become so flustered that I thought she'd have a nervous breakdown in the lecture hall!

If you have the chance or opportunity to see these drawings, you'll find them uncannily accurate and beautiful at the same time.

The drawing above is of a fetus, perhaps in its second or third trimester.

Well, in no uncertain terms, 'Frenchy' went utterly ballistic.

I believed, anyway, that it was Leonardo's practice (though illegal) to hire men to dig up new graves to then perform 'autopsy's" to attain a better understanding of the human body. Then, he'd dissect the body himself and draw in his notebooks what he observed.

Frenchy believed that this drawing was performed while the mother was "alive" though unconscious for it to be accurate. To then be discarded by Leonardo's apprentices secretly and in the dark of night. 

Really?

I raised my hand in the vast lecture hall, "How can you know this? It is not written anywhere, so it must be your opinion."

Frenchy's face turned red, and it was then I knew, most certainly, I was in for one of those  "teachers- make -the -student -look stupid- exchanges."

"How would you know as you are a MAN, and the sound of your accent, makes you twice as stupid!"

(I'm Canadian, by the way.)

I remember mumbling something about 'proof,' but she ignored me for the rest of the lecture.

Viewing the drawing again is uncannily accurate, but da Vinci was not a murderer, even for his Art. However, it is a little morbid that he had his apprentices dig up bodies for him to study...the man was simply ahead of his time. Nothing more. So to accuse da Vinci of such an atrocity reveals the mind of a zeolite, an extremist....for she had no proof.

To my knowledge and still practiced in most medical schools, a med student must dissect a human body and draw what they see to remember...

Leonardo da Vinci was an extreme genius, but extremists' ideology is simply dangerous.

Joyce Carol Oates - Beasts - Review

This intense and brilliantly written novella by America's most prolific author in the last fifty years strikes with tasteful subtlety to the darker aspects of human nature. The text, too, is also an examination of exploitation and seduction, used by those in a position of power and authority the opportunity to satisfy their perverse desires.

One is reminded that education and 'class' has nothing to do with morality. The Nazi SS, for example, would drink expensive wine, listening to recordings of Mozart and Schubert while Jews mercilessly burned, just outside their windows. Education and good breeding do not equate to living an ethically good life. As history has shown, Plato was wrong. Evil is a separate issue to education; it presents in many forms... 

Beasts is a provocative tale about an inexperienced university student in the seventies who falls in love with her literature professor - an arrogant, bohemian literary type, that vomits clichés about the works of D.H. Lawrence and Fredric Nietzsche, but to a young girl, opens whole new vistas to the world of literature.

The professor is also married to an unconventional French artist whose derivative, aboriginal/erotic sculptures have caused violent responses from the town folk's middle-class sensibilities. This couple is unique relative to their surroundings, which draw hungry, inexperienced adolescent schoolgirls' into their elite though sordid lair. What scintillating and dark pleasures reside within their mysterious domain?

I've always believed that the mark of a good writer is the ability to communicate sensational subject matter in quiet, understated prose, thereby doubling the effect on the unsuspecting reader. Oates's control of her art form is clearly expressed in Beasts; she combines Gothic nuances with psychological insight and makes you believe every word.

Excellent reading. 

GERMAN EXPRESSIONISM – Self Portrait: Lovis Corinth

Gustav Klimt is famous for leading the 'Secession' movement of art during the end of the fin-de-siecle  Austro- Hungarian Empire before WW1. However, the 'father' of German Expressionism, Lovis Corinth (21 July 1858 - 17 July 1925), is less popular culture.

When one has the chance and time to see his paintings, Cornith's talent is assured. Still, as this particular art movement is known for, his work has a disturbing quality – a style of rebellion, politically motivated, and seemingly decadent.

Taken from a terrific website, a good definition for the 'Secession' originating in Vienna:

"The 'Secession' marks the first appearance of a free art market ever in art history; the artist's no longer work based on the instructions of their commissioners, but rather unleash their imagination."

These German artists painted what their imaginations conjured, a rebellion against "Monarchy," against convention, no longer concerned with economics.

And really, at times fascinating & daunting, German Expressionism creates feelings of danger, ugliness, and torment, preceding (some say foretelling) the horrendous acts of WW1 & WW2: mass slaughter and genocide.

What is admirable about Cornith was his willingness to experiment with various forms: religious and mythology, landscapes, interiors, still lives, portraits (many self-portraits) as above, experimenting with classical and impressionistic light and arrangement.

Cornith's 'nudes' are extraordinary, revealing the beauty and decadence of the artist's view of the female body.

Intense, outstanding, attitude, and a personality, Cornith led the movement against convention…and the world changed forever.

Source:

http://www.kettererkunst.com/bio/LovisCorinth-1858-1925.html 

History on Wittgenstein & New Book

 Reading a fascinating text at the moment called Mysticism and Architecture – Wittgenstein and the Meanings of the Palais Gainsborough by Roger Paden. A philosophical piece, Paden attempts to connect Wittgenstein’s philosophy to the Palais Stonborough, a “modernist” building mostly designed and built by Ludwig Wittgenstein for his sister during fin- de- siecle Vienna.

Ludwig Wittgenstein is known as one of the most controversial and popular philosophers of the twentieth century. He became famous throughout Europe after publishing the infamous, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, a difficult text dealing with the logical structure of propositions and the nature of logical inference, developing succinct arguments on Epistemology, Principles of Physics, Ethics and the “Mystical”. I’ve read this text several times and also various interpretations of the work from noteworthy philosophers but continue to find it troubling. Having only a background in continental philosophy, Logical Positivism is a hard reach for me, particularly having only a first year undergraduate knowledge of logic.

Nevertheless, Wittgenstein evolved his philosophy after WW1, lecturing at Cambridge University until his death in 1951. Wittgenstein’s last work, published posthumously, so named Philosophical Investigations to be sure, once one understands his foundational arguments, is a much more accessible work, and well worth the time exploring.

Before WW1, Wittgenstein studied engineering in Britain, however through his reading found the works of Russell and Frege to be fascinating, to then go to Cambridge to talk with Russell and ask if he was “suited” to study philosophy. Russell found the young man extremely intelligent, and well versed in mathematics and logic. Wittgenstein attended lectures at the university for almost two years, listening to luminaries such as Moore and Russell, to then attempt to re-think the direction these philosophers were headed. It should be noted that anyone at that time who had met the young Austrian, found his conversation and presence overwhelming yet compellingly brilliant.

WW1 began and changed the minds, attitudes and perceptions of Europe.

Wittgenstein came from one of the wealthiest families in the Austrian Hungarian Empire. Father Karl Wittgenstein made his fortune in manufacturing, steal, ore and financing, only to retire at an early age becoming a patron of the arts, supporting and developing gifted artists: famous artists, writers and composers such as Johannes Brahms, Gustav Mahler, Pablo Casals and Gustav Klimt. Margaret, one of Ludwig’s older sisters, and whom he designed and built Palias Stonborough, was a patient of Sigmund Freud for years, eventually responsible for getting the doctor out of Vienna during the Nazi occupation. Young Ludwig was raised in this environment. His brother Paul Wittgenstein, a well known pianist, lost his arm during WW1, only to have Maurice Ravel compose “Concerto for the Left Hand” for him, because after the war, taught himself to play the piano with only his left hand. (If you have not heard a recording of one of Paul Wittgenstein’s performances, it is actually quite astounding.)

Rich, smart and definitely full of himself, young Wittgenstein returned to Austria from England and joined to battle against the German enemy which included his English teachers and friends (An irony he was all too aware of.)

Somewhat difficult to understand, at the turn of the last (19th to 20th) century, war was seen as something heroic and romantic. Well, to say the least, after millions of innocent lives lost for the elite goal of power between the German, French and English aristocracies, absolutely no one would see war in the same positive light. The “Spirit of the Age” shifted and those that did battle, those that suffered and survived, viewed the world in a different way… so too Herr Wittgenstein.

After receiving commendations for bravery, etc, spending a year in an Italian prisoner of war camp, finishing the “Tractatus”, returned to Vienna a much different man.

During the Great War, Karl Wittgenstein died, leaving a huge inheritance for Ludwig… (In today’s money: many millions) but he gave most of it away to charities, friends and back to his sisters, he kept none of the money).

Wittgenstein, although Jewish but raised a strict Catholic, right after the war, attempted to join a catholic monastery…the monks found his reasons and his destiny not suited for their life, however hired him as a gardener for two years. Wittgenstein then decided that serving people was necessary thus attended teacher’s school for two years to become the only primary teacher in a small town outside of Vienna. He taught well but was accused of treating some student’s too harshly and resigned after five years of teaching to then return to Vienna.

It was during this time that he helped design and build Palais Stonborough.

Hermine and Margaret loved their little brother beyond measure, considering the two older brothers, under the hammer from “dad” to follow in the family business, both committed suicide.

Margaret was pleased to see her brother. Changed from the war, yes, though she could still see that light in his eyes…a project!

One can only imagine after their two older brothers reported dead from suicide, Hermine and Margaret, seeing their two younger brothers, Ludwig and Paul for the first time would have been emotional.

Margaret has piles of inheritance- cash and wants to build a house or a ‘salon’ to establish a place or haven to house the artists, writers, and musicians of the world…like her father…

Ludwig arrives from the monastery…finally home from the war.

One can only imagine her delight, to see her little brother home after so many years.

While a prisoner of war in Italy, Wittgenstein met a fellow intellectual, Paul Engelmann, an architect, a religious man to whom Wittgenstein could relate.

Like a good sister would, Margaret connected them after the war, where Engelmann was in the midst of designing her “salon”.

Surprisingly not, Margaret observed her brother dive into the design and building of the project with alacrity, as was his style and sensibility.

According to Paden, the home’s design and building is Wittgenstein’s sensibility from the door hinges to the window frames. In the end, the entire project was the philosophers creation down to every minute detail.

Why I chose to read this text is the theses of connecting a philosopher’s work to a moment in time of his past, and his creation of a beautiful building, how has this author managed to connect the two?

So far so good...

Paden understands architecture and philosophy…and Wittgenstein as well, but we shall see.

Memories of Childhood (The Challenge)

Ten-year-old boys have a way of spurring you to heights you would otherwise never imagine. Their cruelty as well would surpass the evilest of men.

Brent Fraser had charm, smarts, and natural leadership skills. He had the looks of an elite German Aryan: cropped blond hair, cold blue eyes, and spoke with the authority of an S.S. officer. He was handsome, brave, and intelligent, and we all looked up to him – he was also a Master bully.

Brent was the leader of the Belford Drive gang. A group of ten-year-old boys who thought they ruled the territory of our one-block street. As most boys at that particular age will do, Brent would put up dares or dangerous challenges, usually directed at a single member of the gang. If you complied and succeeded, your membership and acceptance in the team were assured. Non-compliance or failure resulted in banishment – an unthinkable fate worse than death.

The days of summer that year, 1967, were hot and long. Our small gang roamed the outer fringes of suburbia known as the field, the ditch, and the lake. We swam in the lake to escape the heat, played war games at dusk in the area using rocks and dirt clods as weapons in the field, and constructed secret fortresses made from pieces of wood and clay along the ditch.

One sweltering afternoon the gang decided to head for the lake to catch a swim. Upon our arrival, we found Brent standing beneath the most prominent tree at the shore of the lake with a coiled rope lying at his feet.

We all knew instantly that a challenge was about to be proposed.

"What's that for?" one of the gang asked.

Brent smiled. "It's a swing, you idiot!"

"Cool," David exclaimed. "What a neat idea!"

"And one of you pansy asses gotta climb that tree to tie it: Any volunteers?"

No one uttered a word.

Brent smiled. "See that branch up there – that's where it's gotta be tied."

Our gazes followed Brent's pointing finger to the thickest, highest branch of the tree. It had to be at least twenty meters from the lake's surface to the branch. (Sixty feet).

"Well, Brent shouted, who's it gonna be?"

"Why don't you do it, Brent? You're bigger than all of us." I said.

To this day, Brent's sardonic smile remains firmly in my memory.

"I don't think so, bubble butt. You do it!" Brent shouted.

The gang burst into laughter of embarrassment.

"Craig, the little wimp. Forget it. He'll fall and break his neck." Tim said in a harsh tone.

"Shut-up ass hole!" Brent shouted.

"C'mon, Craig. You've been putting up a lot of dares lately but not taking any!" Danny exclaimed.

"Yea, man!"

C'mon, pussy!"

"Yea, faggot – let's see you break your skinny neck."

The exclamations and insults reached a crescendo as I peered upwards towards the intended branch as the late afternoon sun blinded my vision.

"Well?" Brent asked. "Are you gonna do it or not?"

Brent's eyes scanned over the whole gang. Finally, he picked the rope up and walked towards me, smiling like a professional executioner whose pleasure in life resides in seeing someone else's pain. He tied the rope around my waist and pushed me towards the tree.

"You got a choice, faggot. Either you climb the tree, or we'll kick your skinny ass. It's up to you."

Let's face it, my honor was at stake. There was only one place to go, and that was straight up.

Small wooden boards acting as a makeshift ladder extended up the tree's trunk, only about two meters. The rest was an improvised guessing game between life and death.

Then something extraordinary happened.

Closing my eyes, Captain James T. Kirk from Star Trek began his preamble:

"Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission, to explore strange new worlds, seek out new life and new civilizations – to boldly go where no man has gone before!"

Opening my eyes slowly, I found myself horizontally wrapped around the tree's highest branch.

I could hear David below saying, "Hell, I've never seen anybody climb a tree that fast before."

Either by the hand of an angel or the extraterrestrial help of Captain James T. Kirk, I found myself hanging for dear life around the highest branch of this 300-year-old tree. Then, in an instant, the realization dawned on me: my angel or Kirk may have helped me up here, but they sure as hell were not going to help me down!

"Don't just lay there, stupid. Tie the rope!" Brent ordered.

My body had frozen – I couldn't move even my little finger.

"Are you gonna stay up there all day, pansy-ass?"

"He looks like he's dead or something."

Brent yelled, "Tie the rope, you little shit!"

Tim yelled, "Should we call the fire department or something?"

The gang all laughed in unison.

As afternoon turned to even and slowly into night, each gang member wandered off one by one, leaving me alone to deal with my own plight.

A calm wind skimmed across the lake, and the rustling of the leaves around me soon was the only sound…

"Damn, if I'm leaving my friend alone in some fricken tree."

Looking down through the shadows, I could see Dave pacing around the trunk of the tree.

"You gotta do something, man! You gotta jump. The water looks deep enough. Jump, man. Friggen JUMP."

A gust of wind thundered across the lake. I shut my eyes tightly and slowly loosened my grip around the branch. Letting go, my descent was fast and painless. Finally, I found myself submerged in the cold, murky water of the lake.

Coughing and spitting, my body finally surfaced. Dave had jumped in after me and now was dragging me to the shore.

We now sat side by side on the shore of the lake in the dark. Both drenched to the bone, we began to shiver from the cold.

"You wimp! Why didn't you jump four hours ago?"

"I don't know. I was just, you know…stuck."

We left the lake and walked home on that clear and warm summer night. We talked about important matters like Cathy, Jenny, and Sharon – the three "foxes" in our grade. We also talked about football and the last Star Trek episode on T.V., and for some reason, nothing about the day.

Later that night, after a hot shower and a beautiful dinner, I lay in bed thinking about Brent Fraser, Dave, and the Belford Drive gang. Was it essential to have a lot of friends? Or was it alright to just have one good one? I fell asleep that night without answering my thoughts.

As I grew older, the answer to these questions started to become apparent.

Although now living continents apart, Dave and I are still close friends. 

Will Durant – The Greatest Minds of...Review

 In these modern times of cynicism, worn as a garb of superiority, it has become intellectually fashionable, a pose of small minds, to negate greatness, revealing that our heroes are not heroes at all but mere historical constructs with feet of clay. But, unfortunately, this is a pathological symptom of democracy, where mediocrity must be exalted at all costs to maintain the notion of equality.

Men and women must be viewed as equal under the eyes of the law and society, for this is justice. But we are not equal in health, wealth, intelligence, and talent. What Will Durant has shown us unashamedly is "...that at the beginning and summit of every age some heroic genius stands, the voice and index of his time...the guide and pioneer into the future." (10)

This necessary little book presents six essays on the most significant thoughts, minds, and books of all time. The reader may occasionally disagree with his choices, though Durant compellingly argues his intentions from his informed view as a recognized historian, philosopher, and teacher.

The text is a snapshot of history, an opportunity to see the past and its significant historical figures through the eyes of a man who made it his life mission to celebrate what it means to be human.

Durant's humanism and enthusiasm are highly infectious - one comes away from his texts with a renewed hope that civilization was once great and can be great again. We have been submerged into Modernism's pessimistic, fragmented, and distilled perspectives for far too long. Durant's optimism slices like Excaliber through our fashionable cynicism about the world; he is the intellectual white knight, celebrating the miracle of existence and the endless potential of humanity.

At the moment, the world is filled with uncertainty and pessimism; therefore, this text is highly recommended, for it might cast a glimmer of hope and a renewed optimism about the world, the future, and us.

James Hilton – Good-bye, Mr Chips – Review

 

Good-Bye, Mr. Chips was James Hilton's most successful novel. Pushing for a deadline, he wrote the novella in long hand in less than four days. Most first drafts are altered for clarity; however, what you read today is essentially the original manuscript. Surprisingly, when the story appeared in the November 1933 issue of the British Weekly, its reception from the English readership was cool at best. It was only after Hilton mustered the courage to send the manuscript to the United States, appearing in the April edition of the Atlantic, that the novella's popularity hit the heights that writers dream about - it has been a classic ever since.

What makes this sentimental story of a schoolteacher so appealing for so many people? Well, I believe, if we're lucky, some of us have had the good fortune in our early school lives to have had Mr. Chips as a teacher. School -teachers can profoundly influence our lives, changing our destinies, instilling a single thought or lesson in our young minds that shaped our perceptions of the world. Mr. Chips was a schoolteacher and nothing else, a modest individual who knew his place in the world and performed his job to the best of his ability for over sixty years. He taught generation after generation of young men, a constant in the lives of many. This, I believe, is one of the secrets of teaching: assuming a stable position, being dependable and a consistent for students, because more often than not, their personal lives are chaotic and forever changing. Mr. Chips also deeply cared about his students and observed their progress through life even after they departed from the school. This is a great teacher.

When the novella was first published, critics back in the thirties called it "the most profoundly moving story that has passed this way in several years." The story has become a classic because it will, for some, never be forgotten. 

It is so easy for sentimentality to slide into mawkishness; however, Good-Bye Mr. Chips is not overly sentimental but touches the heart in just the proper manner, inciting our own experiences of individuals met who had a strong effect on our lives.

There have been many film adaptations of this novella, all outstanding in their own ways, but I suggest if you haven't read the original to do so, as it truly is a timeless classic.