Preston & Child – Crimson Shore – Review

If anything, the Preston & Child Pendergast series, is addictive. Thinking back, I could not remember every novel read, though for certain it's in the double digits. Crimson Shore is a special installment for many reasons. We find Special Agent Pendergast and his beautiful and mysterious 'ward', Constance Green, working together on a case. One can see flashes of Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes in the novel, echoing somewhat to The Hound of the Baskerville. Overall, however, the plot is original and quite detailed.

In the opening scene of the text, we find Constance playing a classical piece on the harpsichord and Pendergast studying an old manuscript, when there is a knock at the door, at their mansion on 891 Riverside Drive. Uninvited visitors or visitors in general is not common. The visitor announces himself as Percival Lake, the world renowned modern sculptor. The man is permitted entry and has a request: he wants to hire Pendergast to solve a case. Lake's million dollar wine cellar has been robbed. All the collection is stolen except for one case, the most expensive wine in the whole collection. Pendergast initially refuses to take-on the case, but is persuaded when he hears the brand of French wine. If he solves the case, as payment, all he wants is a single bottle of the rare wine. Mind you a single bottle is worth many thousands of dollars.

Percival Lake lives in a refurbished Light House in a little seaside town in northern Massachusetts called Exmouth. Pendergast and Green drive up to the town in their vintage Porsche roadster, and as little town's go, on their arrival, turns many heads. Especially interested in the couple is the Chief of Police who immediately tickets Pendergast for a parking violation. The Chief is six months from retirement and his known for his laziness. He particularly targets Pendergast bordering on harassment, though severely regrets it later on.

What kicks-off the investigation in earnest, is while Pendergast is observing the crime scene in the wine cellar, he discovers a hidden chamber behind the brick wall. Inside the chamber are old chains, revealing that someone in the past was chained and locked in the chamber until his death. Pendergast deduces that the thieves were not after the wine but the skeleton remains and something else of great value.

Crimson Shore has all the signature attributes of the other novels: murder, a dark background to the town, including its citizens, and a hint of the macabre and supernatural. The novel turns out to be a complex though compelling story of shipwrecks, ritualistic murders, witchcraft and the occult.

Similar to the other novels in the series, the reader is confronted with a dramatic cliff hanger, inviting the reader to read the next book.

Again, good fun for those entertained by modern thrillers with a hint of the Gothic.

A Young Writer's Diary (2)

November 1, 1951

The dream is always the same: I’m sitting on a boat train floating into Paris, gazing at the little red rooftops and the old men along the shore, dinking wine, laughing and arguing, and dancing together with expressions of pure joy. Sometimes I’m flying from Marseilles, free without a plane, wishing only to be with my lover and my cat beside a blazing fire and a book.

Then I wake from this dream looking up at the ceiling in utter excitement: “I’m finally here…I’ve finally made it!”

I roll out of bed and start a small fire to warm our tiny bungalow. She is asleep. After drinking my first cup of strong coffee, I sit down at my little desk and resume writing the tale already in progress. Looking out our window, the winter light of the Paris morning is beautiful, despite the dark clouds and the patter of rain upon the sea of multi-shaded roof tops extending over the Latin Quarter and beyond. Below my window I hear the shop keepers opening their doors for the day’s trade. Along the gravel paths, too, young Parisian girls are riding to school on their bicycles, ringing their bells” “Bon jour, Bon jour” - Ting-Ting Ting-Ting.

After writing for some hours, the clouds dissipate and my friend is still asleep due to too much wine and conversation and love. Completing the day’s work, I walk down the winding staircase outside onto our narrow street. The air is crisp and pungent with the smells of fresh bread. Sitting at my usual table at the “Rue de Fleurus”, I order an old red wine and notice a beautiful woman at a table in the corner, writing frantically, like the fate of her soul depended on its completion. A strange looking little man joins her and her eye’s sparkle with joy. As my French is poor, they speak very quickly and I only here certain words, names of philosopher’s, I believe: Husserl, Kierkegaard, and Heidegger. Finishing my wine, I leave the beautiful writer and her little friend with the wandering eye to their soft debate.

‘Is she still sleeping, I wonder.’

Climbing the stairs to our our flat, I open the door to find her sitting by the fire, wrapped in her red dressing gown and a woolen scarf around her shoulders. She is reading my morning’s writing.

“This very strange, and at the same time very beautiful.” she whispers.

“It isn’t finished.”

“You don’t have to finish it. It is beautiful just the way it is.”

Our old cat yawns, stretches and jumps on her lap. The three of us stare into the fire as day turns to night.

A Young Writer's Diary continued...

November 10, 1951

Scribbling page after page of rubbish at the “Dome” this afternoon. So immersed in my work, I lose track of time and come to realize the restaurants dinner patrons have begun to arrive. The owner of the establishment, Henri, has always been unusually patient with my lack of purchasing power: two cups of tea and a little glass of port the entire day. In the end, finally, after a few disturbing looks, he approaches my table.

“How is my little Australian poet today?”

“Disappointed, Henri.”

“Why, monsieur?”

“The words are flowing but lack meaning and heart.”

“Ah. Possibly a glass of wine to start your artistic blood boiling!”

“Possibly, Henri.”

Henri’s expression turns suddenly curious and he asks:

“Was any of your family in the Great War, monsieur?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. My grandmother’s brother, Jack Reeves, fought on the battlefields of France against the German’s in the Great War.”

Henri sits down in the chair opposite me and rests his chin on his hand looking even more curious and sentimental.

“I do not mean to pry, monsieur, but did he survive?”

“He lasted until the end. But because of excessive exposure to Mustard Gas, he died within three months of arriving back in Australia.”

“I’m very sorry, monsieur.”

“That’s alright, Henri, war is war and is always a terrible thing.”

The noise level had risen as more guests arrived and filled the tables around us. Henri remained seated in front of me gazing above my head as if remembering some important and sad chapter in his life. After a moment, his eye’s cleared and stood up from the table and disappeared behind the counter and soon reappeared with two waiters, a bottle of wine and a handful of glasses. He passed the glasses all round and poured the wine then slowly raised his hand in the air as if to make a toast.

“Ladies and Gentlemen”, his voiced boomed across the restaurant in English. “I want to toast my little Australian writer but, more so, his Grandmother’s brother, Jack. Who fought bravely on the battlefields of France against the German’s in the Great War!”

Henri raised his glass higher in the air: “TO JACK!”

Reminiscent of the glory war films of the 30’s and 40’s, everyone in the “Dome” stood and raised their glasses and in unison toasted my grandmother’s brother, Jack.

“TO JACK!”

“Viva la France!”

“Viva la France!” the crowd resounded.

After a delicious meal and several bottles of wine later, Henri and I closed the “Dome” for the evening. He escorted me back to my little apartment, our arms around each other, stumbling and singing through the foggy streets. At my doorstep, he drunkenly planted two sloppy kisses, one on each cheek – sentimental kisses – and bade me adieu!

Walking up my stairs, I could hear him singing, (out of tune) “Waltzing Matilda” in his thickly accented, baritone voice. I waited on the landing, propped up against the banister, until that wonderful song faded into the soft light of the Parisian dawn.

Preston & Child – Bloodless – Review

 

I've been reading Preston & Child novels, particularly the Pendergast series, since the early 2000s. Generally one can describe the genre as Crime/Gothic. The main character, Pendergast, comes from an old aristocratic southern family, and speaks as if he was from the late 18^th century. Constance Green, Pendergast's “ward”, appears in the early novels though her identity and true origins are not revealed until the later novels. She's also an enigma, beautiful, educated with the air of a 19^th century American elite, straight from Henry James. Green's history is revealed in Bloodless.

Compared to the earlier novels, Bloodless is truly “out there”.In a attempt not to spoil the story, I can safely say that the genre combines Gothic, strange crime and now Science Fiction. Once the antagonist is revealed two thirds in the book, from an investigative perspective it makes sense. I was a science fiction reader in my late teens and lost interest soon thereafter. Of course a surprise to the reader, the authors manage to pull it off, leaving the reader at the end of the tale hanging off a cliff.

Bloodless picks up after Versus for the Dead. (See review Synchronicity1 Blogspot 12 July 2022). At the end of this case, Agent Coldmoon and Pendergast almost lose their lives. All are looking forward to a well deserved time off; Coldmoon transferring to Colorado and Constance and Pendergast returning to Manhattan. Their helicopter suddenly changes course, landing in Savannah, Georgia. Because of the strangeness of this new case, their special skills are required.

In the American city known for its past and legends of haunting spirits, dead bodies are showing up totally drained of their blood. The people of the city are talking about the return of the Savannah Vampire.

Pendergast and Constance Green appear to be right at home in this well-known Gothic town. As is his habit, Pendergast books rooms in a high-end hotel who's owner is a mysterious and wealthy old woman with an unknown past. Is it possible that she is connected to the bloodless victims showing up around the city?

Again without giving too much away, the case is somehow connected to the famous D.B. Cooper case, where he hijacked Flight 305, collecting a ransom of $200,000, escaping by parachuting out of the jet in the dead of night. In reality, this case was never solved. How this real-life mystery is incorporated into the novel and solved is very creative.

One of the more colorful characters in the tale is the award winning documentary filmmaker who is filming the investigation, and turning it into a lame episode of Ghost Hunters. The man's arrogance and hubris doesn't fare well for him by the book's end.

Bloodless truly ends on a cliffhanger, leaving the reader wanting for more.

Good fun.

Forgetting One's life.

 

A life well lived, a life of goodness and kindness, faith in something greater than yourself and driven to learn, then, well, is a calling. As a child, I dreamt of becoming a monk, giving myself to God and study.

As I developed into puberty and later, adolescence, my sex-drive clouded any dreams of becoming a priest.

Sex was a sin unless you were married; I committed this sin, too many times.

As an adult, somewhat an old man now, my views have changed.

What makes me happy is the joy in some one's eyes; two people in-love, holding hands and that indescribable energy that emanates around them.

I think, " Love is Real and very close to God."

The light is pure and bright...

I grew up to believe that there are Good people on this planet. Women and men who go out of their way to help someone in need.

This belief makes my life worth living.

We live on a very strange planet.

Why would a man devoted to his family and a minister of a church, who only preached the value of kindness, develop a devastating disease that makes one lose their memory? This disease aggressively pushes the memory of your life OUT, to the extent of forgetting your family, one's son, one's wife, who you are...!

For the last week, my mind was constantly on my ex-brother-in law's father, a Minister of a church. He had been diagnosed with this particular disease four years ago; a quiet conversation between his son and I some years ago , he said, "I'll know it will only get worse and everyday I pray for the guts to deal with him."

I tried to contact the Uncle of my son, to no avail.

I found the Minster's number and I made the call.

Surprisingly, he answered.

The man is Scottish, thus, because of his accent, I knew I was talking to the right man.

"My name is Craig, your old grandchild's' uncle!

"Who?"

"Remember I came to your church one time and listened to your sermon about love and kindness."

Silence.

In his thick Scottish accent, he said, "No, I do not remember you."

"I know it is you. You have a son named, Paul."

Silence- at least 15 seconds...

"No, I do not have a son named, Paul."

The poor man's mind was gone.

"I'm sorry I bothered you, sir."

"That's okay", he said,

"It's nice to hear a friendly voice." he said.

Then he hung-up the phone.

I have to admit, I cried after the phone call.

To have lived a life devoted to helping others' to strive to become a good person, to then have one's memory taken away is... cruel.

Life is a beautiful and a cruel mystery, yet somehow in the deepest recesses of my memory, we are meant to forget.

Family Friend Passes On…(A Personal Remembrance)

 

Doug had been sick for some time, complications from a few serious diseases, which finally took his life on November 18th last year; he was fifty years of age.

The man was the father of my nephew, Daniel.

Doug goes back along time. He was considered to be too wild for my sister: hard drinking, a consumer of recreational mind-altering substances, (as most of us were in the 70’s) this boy was handsome, the Johnny Depp of our generation.

Doug was generally a happy fellow but when he drank too much, anything could happen. He loved his alcohol and drank for many reasons far beyond the received wisdom on the subject. Doug was the unluckiest individual that I have ever encountered in real life or in fiction.

Doug was actually hit by lightening, not once but twice, on two separate occasions. The man nearly died in both cases and lived to tell the tale.

In the prime of his life, mid to late twenties, riding his motorcycle along I. 25, a semi truck switched lanes without looking, slamming into Doug at 70 miles an hour. The consequences of this tragic accident were devastating. Most of his bones had compound fractures, but the skin on his face had been ripped off leaving only bone and a little muscle. Entering the emergency room the attending E.R. staffs believed the man was a lost cause, a slab of unrecognisable meat surrounding a heart that continued to beat… working into the night, Doug came through and lived to see the morning.

Physically he never bounced back as the injuries were too severe. After some years and many plastic surgeries, a mere shadow of his original face appeared and remained a miracle, really, but Doug looked to be an entirely different person. The once handsome lad, struck by lightning twice and obliterated on the highway from a semi truck, came back, but looked like a second rate Frankenstein. He wanted to live again, despite the past, despite his face, though his future proved to turn to more tragedy, more negatives, more bad luck.

I can only imagine the man’s feelings and responses to this tragedy. Nothing anyone has experienced, (because we are all different) can accurately understand Doug’s heart and mind in his battle to become “normal” again. Only that individual who has gone through such hardship, really only understands the pain and fears from attempting to fit back into one’s family, one’s friends… society in general.
Nothing was the same.

Doug’s mother, a strong and caring person, raising young Daniel, unemployed and on welfare because she had a slow, lingering cancer, her boy arrives home from the hospital and baby Daniel is crying, and all Doug wants to do is hold him, which he does and feels somehow that life must get better, because it surly can’t get any worse.

But it does…

Life has its major tragedies but mostly it is a series of missed opportunities, wrong choices, the day to day problems and mishaps…cars breakdown, hearts are broken, friends met and lost; the electricity turned off for weeks and freezing in the dead of winter because the bill was paid a few days late, etc.
America is a harsh country if you are disadvantaged and unable to work. Their Welfare and Medical systems, respectively, are disasters, almost fascist in their system and approach, and in the eyes of the rest of the “free” world is an antiquated joke, a creation of right-wing elites.

Doug and his mother including little Daniel felt the brunt of this system: life was a daily struggle against impending disaster, a fight, on a daily bases, for basic needs.

On this side of the world, my mother gave what she could and when she was able to give more, she would, but at that stage of the game, the dye had been cast.
Doug’s mother died soon later of her lingering cancer and their world changed again as the two boys’s had lost their anchor, their carer, their mother.

Rather than plunge into the details over the next fifteen years, let me just say that Doug tried and tried hard to provide a “normal” home and an existence without strife. From little information I have, he accomplished this noble goal in various ways. He was not always successful and at times contributed to the strife, (he missed his mother) but his intentions were pure.

The last time I talked to Doug was in 2000. We were in Denver visiting a good friend who lived in the mountains close to Breckenridge. The rendezvous time was made to meet my nephew, Daniel, and my wife at the time and I travelled down the mountain to a suburb in Denver. The rendezvous place turned out to be a rocken cowboy bar next to a trailer park. It was around dusk, and Daniel was thirty minutes late. Just as I was about to call the show off, a strange looking man pulled up on an old bicycle.

“Hi Craig. It’s me, Doug.”

At first startled, then looking into his eyes, I knew it was the father of my nephew. He did not in anyway look like the boy I knew before: his face disfigured, scarred and uneven, but those deep brown familiar eyes remained the same.

“Daniel is always late. Had a big night last night and just now got home. Hope you two haven’t been waiten long.”

I responded, “No, mate, all’s fine.”

He smiled and back peddled on the bike, “You don’t have a very good Australian accent after being there so long.” he laughed, continuing to move back and forth on the bike as if wanting to say something important to me.

Right then, Daniel arrived and had an expression on his face exactly like my father would when up to something troublesome. I was astounded how the boy had the same demeanour and cheeky smile like my father…

Doug reached over and shook my hand. He was about to bicycle off, when my wife stopped him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Doug smiled, seeming to like the affection, and peddled off and that was the last time we ever-laid eyes on the man again.

Life was never meant to be easy.

When I begin to winge and complain about how “awful” my life has become, wishing for something better and wallowing in self pity, I only need to become aware of my friend, my next door neighbour, a disadvantaged student in my classroom, the young girl crouched on the ground like a Dickens character in the pouring rain with a little umbrella, soaked to the bone, selling flowers on the edge of the highway on Christmas afternoon.

I believe Doug did it hard but managed to maintain a focus, although not a “pillar” of the community, he showed me that no matter what happens, life is a gift and truly worth fighting for.

Farewell old boy.

We’re all proud of you.

Written Christmas Day – 2016.

Donna Tartt – The Goldfinch – Review

 

It was the early 90's while working at a major daily newspaper selling ad space to Melbourne's entertainment industry, that Donna Tartt's A Secret History, landed on bookstore shelves across the country. A photographer friend turned me on to the novel, singing its praises. I immediately purchased the book and began reading it on the 6:30 train home to Hawthorne, a few blocks from the university. Sleep was impossible that night, and managed to finish the book by sunrise. I remember loving the book so much that a few months later, I emailed her publisher to find out if another novel was in the pipeline. A week later, the response was that Ms. Tartt spends years on her projects, and they didn't expect another novel for at least a decade. To be certain, I was disappointed.

Flash forward 30 some years and The Goldfinch came on the scene. My Little Friend had been released in 2002, and for a variety of reasons never got around to reading it. That said, both novels sat on my bookshelf peering at me untouched for years. A few weeks ago, I came across an interview of Ms. Tartt in some Dutch country about The Goldfinch. Listening to her read a page of the novel, instantly walked to my shelf and cracked its covers. And what a tale it is.

One can term the The Goldfinch as an American epic. Spanning 30 years, a 13 year old Manhattan kid, Theo Drecker, living with his single mother attend an art show in the city when tragedy strikes: bombs explode in the museum killing dozens of patrons including Theo's beautiful mother. In the aftermath: smoke, dust, concrete debris and the cries of the wounded, Theo helps an old man by sitting with him until he dies. They have a connection, a fateful connection, where the old man gives the boy his expensive ring, and turns his attention to a unassuming painting: The Goldfinch by Carel Fabritius (1654). In a fit of unconscious desperation, young Theo grabs the painting, placing it under his coat, and manages to escape the crumbling museum. Of course the boy's loss is devastating and a pain he never really loses.

The painting is at the center of this story that reflects all aspects of existence: pain, loss, slavery, freedom, friendship, love and the dregs of capitalism. It is also that enduring connection for Theo and his mother.

Tartt is a master of characterization. All the players in the tale have a certain depth and sympathetic attributes that, for me at least, created a bond between the character and the reader. I would have to say that Boris, a Ukrainian son of an oil engineer, who Theo meets in Las Vegas, is the most complicated and who's zest for living and philosophy of life is admirable: at bottom a con, a criminal with a heart of gold and the loyalty of a German Shepherd, one cannot help comparing him to some Dickens character. Then of course there is Hobie, the furniture restorer who was the partner of the dead old man in the museum. The relationship between Theo and Hobie is something to be envied – a beautiful soul.

Tartt's narrative style is elegant, descriptive and her storytelling compelling. I would actually propose her to be the new modern master of literary prose.

Reading The Goldfinch was a experience, a experience that I will no doubt return to in years to come. 

Young Love

 

It was late afternoon last week when sitting out side writing in my journal at an attempt to describe those people and objects around me.

The afternoon had been very hot and a cool change, a soft wind, soon made the area more comfortable.

It seemed I had been writing a long time, looking at the sky turn crimson, when I noticed two young people half laying on the grass and gazing into each other's eyes.

There is no doubt that I was observing "young love", reminding me of a sentimental scene from some forty's film.

As a writing exercise, I tried to describe both their emotions and body language.

Then, I suspect, the boy must have said something to the beautiful young woman for she suddenly stood up, turned in a huff, and walked in the opposite direction. The young man called out to her but she ignored his pathetic apologies and left through the door.

The poor boy looked devastated, running after her like a broken hearted puppy.

Oh, the games we play in love!

What I found interesting was how sudden their mood changed from a love scene to a "lover's spat."

Sometime I miss the intensity and almost unendurable passion of young love. Then only a few seconds pass and I remember the pain and loss that young love brings as well. Is it worth the pain? At times I think "no", and other times remember the passion and overwhelming pleasure of it all to then ask myself if it was even worth the trouble.

"It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." as the saying goes.

Looking back, for me at least, it was worth the trouble, because thankfully, the heart is a resilient muscle.

Daniel - God's most Beloved...

 

Briton Riviere (1840-1920) painted this famous biblical tale at the young age of 37, (1872) of one of God’s favourites, Daniel who, in the entire Old Testament, Daniel is the only man God refers to as the “Greatly beloved”. (Daniel 10:11)

This painting was always and will continue to be my favourite depiction of a scene from the Old Testament.

I remember our huge, golden bible as a child, and the full scales print of this beautiful painting; laying on my bed staring at the picture wondering why the hungry lions would not eat the old man.

He looks upward from the Den in prayer as the morning sun shines upon him as the lions walk around the dungeon, uninterested in his presence. (Observe the lion looking up in the direction Daniel is looking and the lion's expression)

Daniel became the enemy of the Devil because of God’s great Love for him. Daniel also, one of the designated “princes” for the King of Persia, recently known as Babylon, and conquered by the Persians, rises through the political ranks and becomes one of King Darius’s most valued consultants.

"Then this Daniel was preferred above the presidents and princes, because an excellent spirit was found in him; and the king thought to set him over the whole realm" (Daniel 6:3).

Satan filled the hearts of the other “princes” with envy, thus they plotted against him, finally finding one act or transgression, he prayed to his own God and not the King – this was law in the new Babylon.

Daniel is thrown into the lion’s Den, and to the shock and dismay of his enemies, the lions ignore the “most beloved”, and over time grow to love him.

Riviere preferred to paint animals more than any other subject matter. In this painting it is evident he has payed special attention and time to the lions: perfect in form with natural expressions.

The original currently resides in the Manchester Museum in the U.K.

Norman Malcolm - Ludwig Wittgenstein- A Memoir - Review

Norman Malcolm's memoir of his friend and colleague, Wittgenstein, is a very personal account of the man that gives the reader a human side to this enigmatic and austere philosopher. Malcolm's descriptions of Wittgenstein delivering his unorthodox lectures in the philosopher's minimalist rooms at Cambridge - students crammed sitting and standing shoulder to shoulder, the philosopher glaring at any late comer, gesticulating in silence like a suffering mime to achieve a crystalline synthesis of thought, has now become legend.

Wittgenstein was an extemporaneous lecturer, never using notes, uncannily picking up the thread of his thoughts from the previous weeks lecture. Malcolm admits that he didn't really begin to understand Wittgenstein until years after attending these "conversations". However this memoir is not about Wittgenstein's philosophy, but about Wittgenstein the man, by way of personal anecdotes and an eleven-year correspondence up until only thirteen days before Wittgenstein's death from prostate cancer.

There are many moving and humorous anecdotes in this memoir, however two in particular really stand out: While visiting Cambridge, Malcolm and his wife would occasionally have Wittgenstein over for dinner. More often than not, he would insist on doing the dishes, but preferred to do them in the bathtub with extremely hot water and a fair amount of soap. This way, he insisted, was the only method to wash dishes to ensure their utter cleanliness. He would often scold Malcolm for not drying the plates properly. This incident may seem minor, but it really exemplifies Wittgenstein's intense character, and what ever he put his attention on, it would be done to the best of his ability.

On one spring evening, after washing up, Wittgenstein, Malcolm and his wife set off on one of their many walks around campus. Wittgenstein began talking about the planets in the solar system and their relationships. He told Malcolm's wife that she was the sun and to continue walking; Malcolm was told he was the earth and to run around her, orbit, counter clockwise; Wittgenstein took the role of the moon, the most difficult, and ran around Malcolm at top speed. Anyone observing this spectacle from afar must have thought they were crazy, but Malcolm said it was extremely difficult and exhilarating experience.

Overall the text is divided into three sections: a well-written biographical sketch by Wittgenstein's colleague at Cambridge, G.H. von Wright. The second section is Malcolm's moving and humorous memoir, ending in the third section with a collection of correspondence from Wittgenstein to Malcolm spanning over eleven years. It is these letters that show the human side of Wittgenstein, his tireless work ethic and his concern for the well being of his friends.

If you have any interest in the character of this interesting philosopher, Malcolm's memoir is an excellent text.

Loneliness & Genius (A story of a gifted child).

 

He was a terribly sensitive lad, so inward-looking, so self conscious, that even rising out of bed in the morning required every ounce of courage he could muster. His mother understood her son, realizing early on that he was a special boy, a being with special gifts way beyond those of his peers. He too was aware of these gifts but felt ashamed because it distanced him from his classmates because they really believed he was a freak of nature. The boy’s gifts were indeed extraordinary, an insight and natural skill for drawing realist depictions of nature and writing brilliant essays on life and love.

The young man’s teachers were astounded at his stories, including myself, however a few superficial teachers believed the quiet boy plagiarized his writings, copied the words from the great masters because really, they could not even write half as well as the boy. These small hearted and malice teachers soon had to relent in their accusations because, one day a few years back, the lad was made to sit in a classroom alone, a test of his integrity, and asked to write on a particular subject. The topic was unfairly a first year philosophy subject, Existentialism: and for any average Year 9 student, this was an absurd task. He was given one hour, and the question read as follows:

“Explain why the philosophy of Existentialism had such a major impact in post WW2 France?”

To be fair, most educated adults would struggle with this obscure question.
What truly upset me at the time was the attitude of these “teachers”; out of their small and black hearts, they wanted the lad to fail, reveal some sort of fraud therefore appearing “right” to the rest of the world. Of course this is pathetic, but I felt worse as these were teachers, my apparent fellow educators, one of the last Noble Professions, and they were smearing its name across the boards; treating a special child with contempt, jealousy and spite – I felt embarrassed and mostly shame.

(This was not one of the high points of my career).

Needless to say, our quiet lad sat for the hour and turned in a hand written 3000 word essay. This had been the most sensitive, insightful and informed piece on existentialism that it has been my good fortune to read. (I still have the hand written essay in my study as evidence…)

He turned the paper in to the doubters, and out of denial, psychosis or extreme anti- social behaviour, would not believe the lad had written the piece.

This is the point that I jumped in and attempted to set the record straight.

“You people are truly a cancer in our profession. The lad was not given a clue what the subject of the essay would be; you, like true fascists, searched him for hidden microphones and receivers and found absolutely nothing. We all observed him throughout the hour writing his little heart out…and still you do not accept the boy’s gifts!”

The ugly, and most sarcastic of the three, Mr. B, a teacher that is hated by most students, (and he likes it!) piped up: “Mr. M… though we appreciate your unbounding enthusiasm, this boy is obviously a fraud and it is our job to prove the fact.”

This teacher was not in the profession to nurture young people but to rise to power in his little pond of influence: though a small fish a very nasty one.

“Mr. B, you have had the opportunity to prove that our student is a fraud and you have failed. What is your next port of call...torture, getting the boy to admit to cheating as he is electrocuted to the point of passing out from the pain!?”

Startlingly, the worm’s eyes looked up to the ceiling, revealing my suggestion might have some credence! His reptilian eyes came back to mine, squinting like a snake in the desert sun.

“Mr. M…we do believe your arguments have some value. Let the committee come back to you with our judgement.”

Mr. Reptile, after making this statement, disappeared out the back, his shrivelled, pathetic cronies following in tow.

Our young lad waited outside in the hall looking like the end of the world had actually arrived in his lifetime, pale like a sheet; eyes full of fear and as large as an owls…his right leg shook at top speed to the point where I thought the boy was on the brink of a Cardiac arrest!

“You did fine, son. C’mon mate, I’ll buy you a coke…what do you say?”
He seemed to relax, and agreed to the coke, but after that experience, he never, really trusted people again.

The lad’s school work duly followed this change in attitude, his marks plummeted. He just did not try anymore.

Mr. B. and his legion of snakes looked smug, happy with themselves that our lad was a fraud and they had revealed this fact to the school.

It was a few years later that our lad reached Year 12. To be fair, I had to fight the committee again to let him into VCE (Year 12 curriculum) and with a little blood and sweat…and a few tears, he was permitted entry.

What followed was nothing less than astounding!

Every test the boy sat for he aced: 100%, perfect. And the snake patrol could do nothing because he followed State protocols and won top marks every time.

It was mid year that the lad began to look more sick than usual, he began to miss class too much, particularly for VCE, as this is frowned upon and affects one’s overall grade.

I began to become aware that our lad was slowly shrinking from the world. He gradually began to literarily disappear, fading like an evaporating fog in winter. By July, however, he made his exit, passed away to the other side, faded into invisibility with an appreciative, lovely smile. I believe he died because of the harshness of life.

As I sit in my study and read those wonderful works of literature and poetry, gaze at his art folio and marvel at the realistic brilliance of his style, I continue to wonder where he is now, such a beautiful, gifted young soul.

A true pleasure to know and teach …

I miss this lonely genius...