Marguerite Yourcenar – Memoirs of Hadrian - Review

One of the most important skills a student must be acquirer when learning history, amongst others, is the ability to evoke a state of empathy for the time period under study. Names, dates, and events can only provide us with the obvious and superficial; however, in my opinion, to actually attempt to place oneself emotionally at a particular place on the time-line can give us greater insight and a much more profound understanding. Through this method, too, history is not merely words on a page, but something tangible and relevant.

Memoirs of Hadrian conjures the world of ancient times through the eyes of the Roman Emperor, Hadrian, with such sensual accuracy that, wholly or in part, a conscious attempt at 'suspension of disbelief' is not necessary, because one can sit back and let the author do it for you...Yourcenar is a magician at literary prose. In her 'Reflection on the Composition', she writes a curious comment:

"Time itself has nothing to do with it. It is always surprising to me that my contemporaries, masters as they consider themselves to be over space, apparently remain unaware that one can contract the distance between centuries at will." (276)

This is a unique and somewhat mysterious skill to have, and a skill every the historian should possess or at least learn because history is so vital to the present day.

This is a magnificent novel because it combines historical erudition with a superlative prose style, placing the reader into the time of one of the most fascinating Roman Emperors of the second century. As is well known to students of ancient Rome, Hadrian came to power after Trajan and stopped Rome's imperialist expansion, concentrating his efforts on domestic issues, enriching culturally, Rome and her colonies. Hadrian was an expert politician, a man of letters, artist, visionary, philosopher, investigator of the divine, poet, and lover. He is known as the traveling Emperor because he spent most of his reign abroad, visiting Rome's many colonies.

This exquisite text's overall theme is a man's confrontation with his mortality through recalling and narrating his life. Death is the central theme of this book. Hadrian is writing his memoirs to his benefactor, Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher Emperor, describing his life and passing on what wisdom he thought he had gained over a long and full existence. Here is a man who confronted life with a fundamental curiosity and wanted to face death with his eyes wide open...

This  novel is a classic and a must for historians and lovers of literature.

"Between Shouts and Bombs" - Letter - a short story.

 My dearest …

Between the shouts and bombs, the opportunity to write has arrived through this lucky window of opportunity that could well be short-lived.

My dearest… how I miss you so…

Currently crouched in a trench next to a sick friend; his body temperature is growing by the minute, but there is absolutely nothing I can do about it! We have been forced to remain in this hole because the gunfire begins at the slightest movement…we do not dare lift our vulnerable heads above the ground.

Yesterday the sounds of guns and bombs had been unrelenting. My dearest, I truly thought I would go absolutely mad. This war is not natural. Why do we continue to kill each other…in the name of what…the pride of our country, a dispute over a small slice of land?

Please forgive me, my dearest, ranting again, talking only about myself.

How is your mother? Has this wonderful woman’s condition changed at all, and have you managed to find some spare moments to work on your novel?

Thank you for sending the third chapter; it read like a tale that one would read many years ago, a romantic poetic piece of pure unrequited love.

My darling, this is what I feel for you.

(Sorry, my love, against your request, I let a few of the boys read the chapter, and they absolutely loved it!)

As the bombs pounded through the night, my thoughts were only of you…your beautiful smile, those deep hazel eyes, and that future time when we will meet again. The image of you has kept me sane, my love; the notion of meeting you at the train station, your lovely smile, those tender lips, and the thought of kissing them, over and over, has kept me alive through this stupid and evil war.

Please forgive my candor, but there is something I must tell you.

You are the only woman I have made love to…this may shock, considering I am a man of twenty-five, but you are the first…and may I say, the last.

Touching your white skin and merely the act of lying beside you, our toes, (of all things) touching, and feeling that moment would never come again, forcing myself to remain awake. I know this might sound thoroughly childish; however, my love, I adore those beautiful toes.

***

Sorry, but it has been a full day, a long one, since continuing this letter. The bloke who I mentioned before has died, you know, the one with the fever. To be brutally honest, this poor man’s death has disturbed me. I think it was the sounds he made while dying that upset me the most…but; the enemy, at that moment, launched another attack… My fellow dead is more solid than I, soon forgotten for fear of my OWN life.

(We are a selfish species!)

We are still trapped like rats in this hole for fear of our own deaths.

We have not moved for weeks.

I miss you so much: the almost hypnotic scent of your beautiful hair in the morning; the gentle and flattering lines around your hazel eyes; the whisper of your voice next to my ear; that unbelievable smile and the utmost feelings of ecstasy when we make love through the night. I desperately want to see and feel you again.

It is now late at night, and the bombs have finally stopped.

The sun is coming up over the Western Front, and the explosions have started again…please; think of me, my darling, and know, we will see each other again…in this life or perhaps, the next…

Remember me.

All my love,

Jack.

The UK is America's Bitch

Scanning through my city's newspaper today, I came across an article from London. The piece reports about an English Court of appeal overturning an earlier High Court ruling concerning who exactly is the rightful President of Venezuela.

Venezuelan gold, to the tune of $US1 billion, has been stored in the Bank of England for some time. The Venezuelan government, rightfully, through the Maduro-backed Banco Central Bank, has been attempting to get their money back into the country. The overturning of the appeal is based purely on political machinations. The British Court does not recognize the democratically elected president Maduro (winning by over 80% of the vote in the last election). Instead, not surprisingly, only recognizing the CIA installed puppet, a dubious character, by the name of Juan Guaido.

This is absurd, of course, because he (Guaido) is America's alternative re-placement, a capitalist imp trained in the halls of American universities, who, for the most part, the Venezuelan people have not even heard of, let alone elected.

In an article written last year, I criticized Trump's State of the Union address, where Juan Guaido was present, observing both sides of the isle, on Trump's behalf, applauded this obvious CIA cut-out, proclaiming him the true president of Venezuela. For an individual not aware of America's foreign policy in Venezuela, would find this antic as nothing out of the ordinary. The fact remains that the country has more oil reserves than that of Saudi Arabia. Venezuela has a socialist government, and does not recognize the US as their ally, and refuses to business with them, in terms of its oil reserves.

In effect, the UK has stolen the Venezuelan gold, refusing to give it back because the US has ordered them not to.

The U.S. Sanctions worldwide are the number one weapon to destroy any country they label as enemies or refuse to bow to their corporate demands. Over the last few years, the sanctions laid upon Venezuela by the American government has been devastating. Much need medical supplies, basic resources, and even clean water have been sanctioned against this country. In the latest UN reports, over 40.000 deaths (more likely much more) have occurred due to American sanctions. Sanctions are the new deadly weapon of war that strikes directly into the civilian populations. The United States are doing this around the world to their perceived enemies. But what is even more outrageous, the United States has threatened any country, allies, or otherwise, that they will be punished if they choose to do business with countries with those they are sanctioning.

Indeed the UK is one of those countries. The Venezuelan gold is theirs, and the UK refuses to release it to them. From the latest, the overturning of the appeal does not recognize Maduro as president, and only the CIA cut-out, Juan Guaido.

The UK is truly America's bitch. This recently has blatantly come to light with the recent extradition hearings of Julian Assange. Trump's fascist government want Assange in their country to simply put him in a dark hole, and hope the world forgets him. The reason: he revealed US war crimes in Iraq and around the world. If you have been watching these hearings will understand the real bias and ridiculous arguments the prosecution has presented across the entire proceedings.

What Even more telling, anyone understanding UK law knows that political prisoners cannot be extradited in their own law books. Anyone with an IQ above that of a sewer rat knows this law, and in itself, should be enough to have the entire case thrown out of court. Assange's defense has also been sabotaged through illegal surveillance by CIA contractors; one realizes that those above the Law are the ones pulling strings. All by order of the United States government.

The UK is making tons of interest in Venezuelan gold. Their only argument for not releasing the gold is the spurious reason that they don't recognize In many respects, a duly elected president reflects the once-great The UK as a sad, whining lapdog following orders.

The UK is the US's bitch, and it's all happening in plain sight.

Michael Crichton Writing as John Lang

Odds On – Review

During the time Michael Crichton was a medical honors student at Harvard University, in order to make ends meet, penned several novels from 1966-1972. Anyone who has attended university, let alone, medical school, wonders how any young man had the hours to write full-length novels. One of his first published crime thrillers, Odds On, reveals a novelist that understands his genre and subject matter. It also reveals Crichton's evolution as an author, the author to later become one of America's most-read novelists in the world.

The publisher, Hard Case Crime, has published many of Crichton's early works written under the pseudonym, John Lang. Other novel's by John Lang include Binary, Drug of Choice, Zero Cool and many others. The covers of these books are reminiscent of the crime magazines (pulp fiction) of the 30's and 40', when an author would be paid a penny a word for a short story. The cover of Odds On, is by the painter, Glen Orbic. And it certainly, in style, represents the tone of the text.

It is unclear why Crichton decided to write under the pseudonym of John Lang, but as one writer has said, Crichton enjoyed having “another identity”, and at the time it was an “open secret”. Other sources have claimed that he used the pseudonym, John Lang because he didn't want his patients to think he was using them for his characters. Many of his fans were not aware of these early works until after the author died of cancer at the age of 66 in 2008.

Odds On is a rather involved plan to run a heist at a luxury resort, Hotel Reina, in Costa Brava, Spain. The mastermind of the robbery is a tech-savvy, logically-minded American, Steven Jencks. He's a sophisticated and charming man with a rough and dangerous appearance. There are two other members of the crew: an elegant Englishman whose forte is money and a Mexican,, Miguel, whose expertise as a smuggler is unsurpassed.

Most of the women characters is this pot-boiler, are sexy cut-outs, all beautiful, and all untrustworthy. The modern reader, especially women would find these characters reprehensible as they are merely used props for the story, and description-wise, cliches.

In defense of Crichton in this instance, pulp fiction writers, including the greats like Raymond Chandler and James M. Cain characterized women in just the same way. Remember Odds On was written and published in 1966, when women, for the most part, were considered sex objects and baby-making receptacles to populate the world's population. Ridiculous but unfortunately, a reality of the time.

Personally as a fan of the great pulp-crime-writers, young Crichton, working towards a medical degree, managed to produce a noteworthy piece in the genre.

If you're a fan of Crichton, you will not be disappointed in these early novels.

 

Culture Shock and the Island (P.4 of 4)

 

Strategically, similar to chess, thinking plays ahead will give you an advantage. The 3 balls in the far corner pocket, in this instance, would become a set-up for the 5 to the side. All the balls were there for the taking. One stupid miss-shot, however, would hand victory to my opponent.

The music in the pub has been turned off because they were closing down for the night. Other than my opponent's contingency, a small group of observers, mainly staff, had gathered to watch the match. I had cleared the table in a manner of 2 minutes, sinking the 8 balls with a clever bank shot into the side pocket. It seemed half the crowd cheered, and the other stood there in silent resentment.

My defeated opponents girlfriend, the racist one, approached me with the $20, and said, “Meet us here tomorrow night for a re-match. 8:00 pm sharp.”

I returned to my bungalow to find my wife sleeping soundly on top of the sheets. The air-conditioning blasting and the air felt as cold as winter. I removed my tee shirt and lay down beside her to fall into a dreamless sleep.

The next day was hot, but an occasional cool breeze reached us from the sea. We lay together on separate lounge chairs, reading our respective novels. It was around two in the afternoon, when two indigenous boys approached, one I recognized as last night's staff member.

“You're that good pool player, mate?” he asked.

“Oh, you were there last night.” I said.

“You want to see something that the other tourists can't see,”? he asked.

Looking at my wife, she rolled her eyes and returned to her reading.

“Sure, lead the way,” I said.

We walked through the compound into dense bush. About 30 minutes had passed when we reached a beach on the other side of the island. An old, depleted peer extended about seven meters out to sea. The three of us walked to the peer's end.

“Watch this, mate.” he said.

The staff member put a knife between his teeth and dove into the ocean. Seconds later, he re-surfaced with an oyster in his hand. Opening the shell, he said, “Taste this, mate.”

Handing me the shellfish, already open, I swallowed it in one gulp, and, let me say, it tasted delicious. The other boy did the same, handing me the already shucked oyster, and again, swallowed it with pure pleasure.

Handing me the knife, my new friend said, “Your turn!”

Learning by example, I put the knife between my teeth and dove into the water. Murky, at first, my eyes focused on the wooden extensions of the peer. All along, one particular pole sat several shellfish. Removing the knife from my jaws, I worked frantically to remove a single shell. No joke, I was running out of the air, when, finally, the oyster let go, now swimming to the surface, bursting into the sun and the clean air. One of the boys helped me onto the peer. I shucked the fish and handed it to my new found friend. He downed the delicacy in a single motion, smiling.

This went on for near an hour, or until our hunger for shellfish had gone its natural course. Walking back to the resort, my new friend asked me, “Are you from America?”

“Yes. Though not by birth. I was born in Canada.”

He smiled, “Yea, you're quieter than the American's I've met on this island.”

It was a few years later that I read about Aboriginal deaths in custody. This travesty that continues to this day is an unspoken fact that it is not written about much in the mainstream media. At this time in history, Aboriginal deaths in custody, for the most part, known in the public sphere, was at its infancy.

There are racists everywhere, no matter what country or religion. In the US at the moment, the rioting for the out-right murders of black American's by cops is reaching its peak. People have had enough racism, yet the true racists, hiding behind an ideology of hate, appear to be yelling the loudest in many countries worldwide.

Culture Shock is a big term.

In many respects, it was moving to Australia from the bubble of suburban American “reality,” that finally my enlightenment about many issues, world-wide issues, came into view as a citizen of the planet.

Ideology is our greatest enemy. People are destroying each other over notions of what is right and wrong, based on spurious evidence.

One ideology makes sense, one of world-wide peace, and concerns about the planet's health, and revealing the dogs of war, and their main focus is destruction and power.

When finally leaving the United States, gaining different points of view, that my perceptions of the world changed. And despite the so-called cultural shock in daily manners, language, and political affiliations, it all started on this island paradise, playing pool, and diving for shellfish.

Carl Jung - Man and his Symbols - Review

 Reading Carl Jung can be a daunting task if one is not acquainted with the foundational tenets of analytical psychology. Like any school of thought, Jung's depth psychology has its own unique language, and understanding these specialized terms is essential to grasping even a small portion of the subject. In Jung's later years, he dreamed of speaking to many people about the collective unconscious and its symbols. This dream proved to be very important to the old doctor because he sincerely believed that modern civilization was coming to an end and thought it a dire necessity that his work is understood by the wider public for a kind of "collective-psychic-healing" to begin. In the end, he at least wanted the "educated layman" to have a fundamental understanding of the mind. Man and his Symbols is a successful attempt towards this goal.

Dr. Jung dictated part one of this book, "Approaching the Unconscious." For the most part, however, this is a collaboration of Jungians writing on the subject's most basic tenets, such as the nature of the unconscious, the collective unconscious, and its dreams and symbols.

In part two, "Ancient Myths and Modern Man," Dr. Joseph L. Henderson elaborates on historical symbols as archetypes, including the Hero myth and the Archetype as Initiation that has been seen and experienced throughout the ages.

In part three, the famed Jungian, M. L. von Franz, explores `The Process of Individuation," explaining the psyche's natural evolution towards a state of uniting its opposites and becoming whole. Franz details this abstract process straightforwardly, revealing all therapies' ultimate goal: balance, wholeness, and responsibility.

Aniela Jaffe, another one of the original Jungians, expounds on the nature of the symbol in the visual arts in part four. This is a revealing chapter as it illustrates how so many similar symbols have appeared in art throughout the world over thousands of years.

Jolande Jacobi, the famed Jungian analyst, in part five, relates the methods of Jungian analysis in terms of the importance of dreams and symbols.

Lastly, von Franz concludes with a brilliant essay on "Science and the Unconscious," summarizing the entire book and emphasizing the importance of symbols and the unconscious and their on-going interpretation in the effort to understanding ourselves.

As was the old doctor's wish, Man and his Symbols opened Jung's work to a wider public. It is an ideal text for anyone interested in analytical psychology. It explains the subjects' abstract notions of the mind and the psyche's relation to the world in highly accessible terms. It provides the necessary basics for a general understanding and is a perfect springboard for further study.

Culture Shock and the Island (P.3)

 

As a child growing up in the midwestern United States, racism would rarely raise its porcine head. Predominately a white suburb of Denver, we had a large population of Hispanics and a small percentage of black Americans. My first crush was on a beautiful Spanish girl who we remain friends to this day. A black family lived up the street, a medical doctor and his wife and two children that I attended high school with, and zero problems “race-wise” or any otherwise. My mother and father had an open-door policy, meaning everyone was welcome.

Perhaps because my parents came from Australia, outsiders, so to speak, race difference only came up over our kitchen table discussions on the weekends. Friends would gather and discuss the politics of the day and particularly the war in Vietnam. When Nixon came to power, my father, playing devil's advocate, would side with the Republicans and the rest of us arguing for civil rights, anti-war, and the hot topic of segregation. Governments wanted to bus white children to black schools and visa-visa. This never eventuated in our town. If there was racism in our neighborhood, it never even manifested on the surface. It wasn't until landing in Australia that I experienced true racism in the open.

Vacationing on an island has never been my first choice when traveling. You sleep, eat, drink, sunbathe, swim, eat, drink, and on this certain night, played a game of pool.

My wife had a big night when we arrived, so after dinner, she preferred to go back to the room and sleep. I found my way to the main bar, and the place was rocking as much if not more, than the night before. The only difference was there were no half-naked women dancing on the bar tops. Wading my way through clouds of cigarette smoke, made my way to the bar and ordered another beer. My back against the bar, I observed an intense game of 8 ball between an indigenous staff member and a tourist. Both looked to be good players. There was a considerable amount of cash on the table. A bet. A small crowd surrounded the game in silence.

As an aside, I grew up in our towns bowling alley. Most days after school, my friend and I would play the pool tables in the back to the sounds of bowling pins crashing in the air. Over many summers we became quite proficient in the game. This had become a skill that has never left. Unlike the guitar, where you drop it for a while, and return to the instrument a lesser player, for me, pool was different - the nuances of the game never left.

The game came down to the eight ball. A few shots later, the tourist made a silly shot, banging the ball, sinking it in the side pocket. This was not a skill but drunken luck. Money is exchanged as the small crowd cheered. For an instant, I felt anger at the tourist because he won the game with dumb luck. The crowd cheering felt to have a racist tone to it. The white man beats the black man. Right then, a young girl in her twenties turned to me and said,” That'll teach the Abo for being so smug.” This really pissed me off. Stepping forward, I asked the winner if he'd like to play a game. He looked at me in a drunken sneer and asked: “How much money do you have, mate?”

I thought this guy is alcoholically confident. But I knew from experience, that beating a dude like this in front of his friends, would only throw gasoline on a drunken situation. I reached in my pocket and found a twenty-dollar note.

“Twenty”. I said.

The inebriated champion of the night smiled and said, “Rack'em up!”

Anyone who knows pool understands the break is important for a variety of reasons. Merely touching the rectangle, will extend the game, revealing true skill. Smashing it can either win the game for you or after a single mistake, will give the win to your opponent I decided to break the rack somewhere in the middle, creating an equal battleground.

Because my drunken champion was so loose and nervous free, he began dropping balls one after the other. He made the game look like child's play. He missed the last stripe, the 11 ball, leaving all the solids and the black 8 on the table.

Only after a few wines at dinner and a single beer at the pub, I was pretty much sober as the day I was born. A small crowd had gathered, not only my opponent's followers but a group of staff members as well.

Examining the table, I knew the sequence of shots that would bring me to victory. (I desperately wanted to beat this racist). It was soon later I discovered that the twenty-something girl who was gleeful at the “Abo” loss, was my opponent's girlfriend. 

I made the first shot.