Tell me, can the joys of spring
Ever make this sadness flee,
Make the woods with music ring,
And the streamlet laugh for glee ?

When the summer moor is lit
With the pale fire of the broom,
And through green the shadows flit,
Still shall mirth give place to gloom ?

Sad shall it be, though sun be shed
Golden bright on field and flood;
E’en the heather’s crimson red
Holds the memory of blood.

Here that broken, weary band
Met the ruthless foe’s array,
Where those moss-grown boulders stand,
On that dark and fatal day.

Like a phantom hope had fled,
Love to death was all in vain,
Vain, though heroes’ blood was shed,
And though hearts were broke in twain.

Many a voice has cursed the name
Time has into darkness thrust,
Cruelty his only fame
In forgetfulness and dust.

Noble dead that sleep below,
We your valour ne’er forget;
Soft the heroes’ rest who know
Hearts like theirs are beating yet.

 
Alice Macdonell of Keppoch : Culloden Moor ( Seen in Autumn Rain )

One might think that however tragic the deaths on 9/11 — the destruction of the Towers sans deaths would merely be a blessing, as would be virtually every building since 1920 ( but including the deaths of all foul present modernist architects and scum bastard building workers everywhere who destroyed the old and erected the pointless vile concrete new ) — the swap of 30,000 Afghani civilians since would placate the manes of the 3000 murdered then

Anyway, for the demonic bin Laden, the present choices are: that he was either dead long ago in the Caves of Tora Bora; dead from his numerous ailments ( which included Marfan’s, kidney disease, liver disease etc. etc.); killed in Abottabad; or snatched for a life of imprisonment and torture under the auspices of the vengeful state — which has not treated those on Guantánamo, ever unclosed yet, whose guilt in much less culpable crimes than those of bin Laden was unproven, at all well. Or he may have escaped and a double killed, yet his charisma and mystique vanished.

The ‘DNA evidence’ is as valueless as anything else the propaganda machine issues, since we have to rely on, the retrieved bits actually coming from the corpse in Abottabad, the matching being done by the state who killed him, and the control sample actually having been taken from his sister’s corpse — bearing in mind that it was recently discovered that the piece of skull held by the Russians which they alleged was that of Hitler really belonged to some poor woman — and that in all reports the administration controls what information is released, and however generous they are in releasing in succession utterly different stories, this means believing in the good faith of Obama, a man rarely capable of understanding, let alone telling, truth; the Pentagon; and the various state security forces. One thing that is certain is that the corpse, real or not, was actually about his height: since the killers had omitted, understandably enough, to bring along a tape measure, one of them of a similar length lay down besides the body to provide a datum.

And even if the event is broadly true, whilst the raid was a credit to the hit squad, killing a bewildered old man was evidently preferred to capture, as execution of the unrighteous; especially since they said that anything less than utter submission — difficult to manage for the least alarmed when being shot at — didn’t qualify as surrender, and that attempting to retreat, as was the demonic bin Laden before he was rubbed out proved resistance. Since when they killed this sick old fellow crawling on the floor, in front of his 12 yr-old daughter, he seemed incapable of a fight to the death with tooth and nail, being unguarded and unarmed, which seems extraordinary carelessness on the part of a supervillain.

While this affair reminds one of the horrifying 2004 murder of Shiekh Yassin, which temporarily changed my internet signatures to:

‘If you could have heard the old man scream as he fell, and the noise of his bones upon the pavement !’

[ from The Story Of The Young Man With The Cream Tarts by RLS ]

&

I have to kill a 67-yr-old man
Considering he’s paraplegic, should I choose a knife fight ? Or as he’s blind, it might be pistols at dawn: in order to demonstrate my sheer fighting courage perhaps I should use a helicopter gunship when his wheelchair is exiting morning prayers.

the mention of dreary old Adolf may as well include here my very favourite joke, as told in Germany in late ’45, and perhaps almost relevant in this matter:

When they found the Führer’s body, there was a little note attached: ‘I was never a Nazi.’

 
Down in the Valley

And with all this cavilling, the fact remains the aging prisoner in Abottabad was wistfully planning yet more wacky mayhem: his computer files, as released by the administration showed his meticulous planning for a new atrocity. “…was looking into trying to tip a train by tampering with the rails so that the train would fall off the track at either a valley or a bridge.”; yet worse, this was to be specifically aimed at Amtrak’s 805 km per hour trains — which I’ll assume can cross the continent in three and a half hours — no doubt as the doleful plumes of smoke rose from the valley below the opera-glass gazing conspirators would toss their tophats into the air and fondle their waxed moustaches whilst cackling fiendishly.

For someone who hated America so, I’m guessing he had very little idea of daily life in America; let alone Amtrak.

And at the last the final question remains: What sort of person is terrified by a weird old loony such as bin Laden ?

Yanks of a liberal disposition now try to disassociate themselves and Bush-Lite from any suspicion of Obamamania, claiming that it was their opponents who fastened the unreal expectations of a new dispensation upon the reputation of a remarkably shifty candidate and soon to be dilettante president, yet none who actually lived through November of ’08 will forget the revolting genuflections and hosannas which accompanied that victory; like Boulanger, who twisted in turn to solicit support from correct legitimists and the slippery factions who composed the body politic of the corrupt Third Republic, orleanists, bonapartists, socialists, clericals etc. etc., all realising in turn that he lacked spirit to do good for any, and not even for himself, the president courted foolishly his alleged enemies for bi-partisan support without having much of a plan for even the semblance of victory. As to whether being a hollow man is better than being a criminal worshipped war-lord, I can’t say; but trying to be both is a respectable recipe for disaster.

As Gorman includes: In Politics one insisted to the last that one’s party was winning, and when one’s party did not win one spent the the next week inventing extraneous excuses for the defeat. The simple fact that one’s party had lost because it had not received as many votes as the other fellow’s party was never a conclusive explanation in itself. Politics, it appeared, was a constant self-justification. If I had done that, if I had done this, if the question had been properly presented, if my agent in that particular place… if the funds had been distributed as… if… if… if… Ah, that was politics. It was an absurd game of chess with crazy moves and cheating antagonists who stole your pawns when you were not looking. There was more politics, she thought, in republics than there were in kingdoms or empires for the simple reason that in republics there was no definitive iron hoof to stamp it out. That was good. So everybody said. The People spoke. Sometimes they spoke in a dozen clashing voices and nothing was resolved, or, if was resolved, it took a long time and the resolution lost a part of its strength. Like the American Congress. A wilful minority in that Paradise of democracy could indefinitely obstruct the will of the majority. That was called rule by the people. It sounded more like rule by the sediment that was too clotted to go down the drain. It held back everything.

Twilight was falling

Twilight was falling when the Prince, looking very much like a blown-up caricature of his august uncle, waddled into the large library with the General at his heels.
      “If you enter politics,” he was saying, “you will soon discover it to be a nasty and merciless business. Have you a fortune ?”
      “Not a sou, “replied the General.
      “Well,” said the Prince, as he thrust his hand into the front of his waistcoat, “if you run aground you will never be a stranger here.”
Thiébaud, who was standing by one of the glass cases of relics with Berthet-Leleux, turned smilingly towards the two men.
      “I have been thrilled by some of the objects in this case, Your Imperial Highness,” he declared. “Look here, my General. Here are some things that will stir your soldier’s heart.”
Boulanger advanced towards the relics eagerly, and the Prince followed, his broad face wreathed with smiles.
      “Yes,” he said, “I intended to show you some of these sacred souvenirs. Berthet-Leleux, hand me the keys.”
The four men gathered before the case, while the Prince awkwardly unlocked the glass-panelled door.
      “There are the spurs that He wore on the return from Italy,” he explained. “And there is the cockade that was in His hat the day He made them eat grapeshot at the Church of Saint-Roch. There are two of His pistols and the sash He wrapped around His middle when He drove the recalcitrant Council of the Five Hundred out of the Orangerie. And here… here…”
He reached into the case and withdrew an Egyptian sabre in a gold-plated and bejewelled sheath. He extended it towards the General.
      “This is the sword the First Consul carried at Marengo,” he said solemnly.
For an instant the magic of the Cult impregnated the still air in the library. Afterwards Thiébaud swore that he heard the distant grumble of grenadier drums as the General stretched forward a respectful hand and lightly touched the hilt of the glittering weapon.
      “Are you sure that this is the sabre of the First Consul ?” he demanded in a hushed voice.
The Prince smiled.
      “Do you think that this is bric-à-brac I have collected in flea-markets ?” he asked proudly.
      “It is a beautiful souvenir,” declared the General in a reverent tone.
His hand again caressed the hilt of the sword as lightly, as tenderly as though it were the upturned face of a beloved woman. Thiébaud saw the grave melancholy visage of a professional soldier to whom warfare was a religion and in whose eyes the saints wore burnished epaulets. Like the Moor in the English play his profession was his life and without it he would have no life at all… nothing, indeed, but existence. What, then ? What, then ? The journalist closed his mind to the answer. The Prince, too, observed the General’s emotion and instinctively understood it. After all, he was a Bonaparte. Turning, he carefully placed the sabre back on the velvet in the open case.
      “General,” he said, “when you have returned Alsace and Lorraine back to France I will offer you this sword.”
Justin entered the shadowy library with a lighted candelabra.

As elsewhere, earlier in the book, eternal truth remains for some of us outside all such montebanks of apparent power…

It was after four o’clock in the morning when the Polish waiter, leaning like an old collapsed scarecrow against the corridor wall, saw the door open and the octet emerge in a compact group. They were no longer laughing.
      “Remember,” said Laguerre. “My dinner is tonight. You are all invited. In the meantime…”
      “In the meantime we have accomplished nothing,” snapped Clemenceau.
      “We are moving to an understanding,” said the General mildly.
Ignace observed how Clemenceau turned a brief sour glance at the handsome gentleman with the blond beard.
      “Whose understanding ?” demanded the Breton abruptly.
Nobody answered.
As they were going down the stairs Ignace turned to Monsieur Frédéric.
      “They all detest one another,” he remarked in a surprised tone.
Monsieur Frédéric, who had been a maître d’hôtel for thirty years, shrugged his shoulders.
      “After all,” he replied, “we live under a Republic. They have the liberty to detest one another. As for me… I am a Royalist.”

He went past Prince’s Gate and turned. After all he had his work — ten-thirty at the office ! Road and Park and houses stared at him now in the full light of earliest morning. He turned from them into the Park and crossed to the Row side. Funny to see the Row with no horses tearing up and down, or trapesing past like cats on hot bricks, no stream of carriages, no rows of sitting people, nothing but trees and the tan track. The trees and grass, though no dew had fallen, breathed on him; and he stretched himself at full length along a bench, his hands behind his head, his hat crushed on his chest, his eyes fixed on the leaves patterned against the still brightening sky. The air stole faint and fresh about his cheeks and lips, and the backs of his hands. The first sunlight came stealing flat from trunk to trunk, birds did not sing but talked, a wood pigeon back among the trees was cooing. Soames closed his eyes, and instantly imagination began to paint, for the eyes deep down within him, pictures of her. Picture of her — standing passive in her frock flounced to the gleaming floor, while he wrote his initials on her card. Picture of her adjusting with long gloved fingers a camellia come loose in her corsage; turning for him to put her cloak on — pictures, countless pictures, and ever strange, of her face sparkling for moments, or brooding, or averse; of her cheek inclined for his kiss, of her lips turned from his lips, of her eyes looking at him with a question that seemed to have no answer; of her eyes, dark and soft over a grey cat purring in her arms; picture of her auburn hair flowing as he had not seen it yet. Ah ! but soon — but soon ! And as if answering the call of his imagination a cry — long, not shrill, not harsh exactly, but so poignant — jerked the blood to his heart. From back over there it came trailing, again and again, passionate — the lost soul’s cry of peacock in early morning; and with it there uprose from the spaces of his inner being the vision that was for ever haunting there, of her with hair unbound, of her all white and lost, yielding to his arms. It seared him with delight, swooned in him, and was gone. He opened his eyes; an early water-cart was nearing down the Row.

Soames rose and walking fast beneath the trees sought sanity.

John Galsworthy : Cry of Peacock, 1883 from On Forsyte ‘Change

Neighbour introducing new movee Mr. Handslip into neighbourhood:

“On your other side is Mrs. Egremont, a widow. A very nice lady, Philippa is marvellous, the children are OK, most of them.” with a quickening.
“How many got ?” startled.
“Four. Paul’s the oldest, he’s going in the Army when older. Not the sort of life I’d choose, but it’s a good thing we’re not all alike, isn’t it ? two girls, Ysobelle and Nancy, and… the youngest, James.” A stilted note modulated his enthusiasm, unnoted by the questioner.
“Any of them noisy ?”
“They won’t be any trouble at all.” Eagerly, “The girls are very pretty, and although they could be boisterous and cause difficulties, they don’t. The oldest lad is square strong affable, very decent young man.”
“And the younger ?”

“As I said Paul’s going into the Army, which I think such a waste.” Mr. Pigg was by way of being a pacifist, which the two boys had always respected with the great tolerance of which they were both very proud. “He really could do anything, very brilliant mind indeed.” respectfully, “And unassuming with it. You always feel he’s working out formulæ with a part of his mind while talking easily to one…”
“And the other ?” Handslip enquired bluntly. Mr. Pigg nearly cringed.
“Um, Jamie. Well, he’s different.”
“You mean, er, mentally disturbed ?” with a faint shyness intruding into the brusqueness of the bald enquiry.
“Good God no ! And you’d better not ever hint of such a thing. I doubt if he’d care a rush,” bitterly, “but any of the others, let alone his dear mama, would be very offended if anyone considered such a thing. No, he’s normal enough, and bright enough, even if he doesn’t shine at school from all I hear.”
He sighed, Philippa had confided at length enough times to weary him with the subject; but having done badly himself when young he was sufficently sceptical to wonder if schooling was as important as it was cracked up to be. Conversely he respected brilliance, and was anxious to get back to Paul’s mental prowess. In fact he had long decided never to initiate comment upon, or prolong discussion upon, James Egremont.

“Well, what’s wrong with him ?” bluntly
Pigg looked around.
“Jamie,” picking his words, “is not someone to annoy; or complain about; or piss off. Do not criticise any of the family where he can hear you. He has a strong family feeling. I said the others are no trouble: one reason is that they… continue, upon the lines he lays down. If any person confronts his feelings, or does something he construes as unpleasant, things sometimes happen.” Delicately.
“You mean he’s one of these violent youths ? Some kind of yob ?” wondering what sort of brute was going to appear.
Pigg was shocked and amused. “He’s only 11 or 12 ! I forget which; and weak with it. He’s as pretty as the girls in fact. I guess he’s bullied at school: but that’s there: in his patch, it’s different. As say, an old-fashioned squire visiting London might be vulnerable in the great world, but master of his own domain; which was one reason they usually preferred to cultivate their own gardens. With experience he may be able to grow and handle parts of the great world. I hope not. Very courteous. They all are: but him the most. He’s the hidden patriarch of a patriarchal clan. They do what he directs with only half knowing the fact.”

“You know we have an excellent Guy Fawkes Night and they all used to come. At least when it was the parents and the two older kids. Then the year before Mr. Egremont died that kid, he was very small, took against it — wasn’t scared by the bangs; some bloody nonsense about not liking the Guy being burnt: he knew it was just a, a lay-figure, not real: but he still hated the idea. Now you or I would have left him at home with a baby-sitter, but they’ve never come since.

I can’t imagine how anyone would listen to a bloody toddler, Philippa, well sometimes I reckoned she was weak-minded or something: I mean, yes well now, if he was my child, I’d probably do precisely what he said; life would be simpler that way, and he’s the sort of kid who would be right most of the time: but back then… he was so small. We thought well, she’s just lost a husband, that’s why not: but the next year they wouldn’t come. Asked her why not: ‘Jamie says it’s wrong to pretend to burn people, and you know, I think he’s right.’ Look, he… he wasn’t dominant back then, even in that weird family; he is now: back then he’d just argued at them. I’d have told him to take a running jump; some fucking small kid talking back at me. Pity that because Christian and Philippa were always generous about joining in village stuff.”

“So does one have to show him one’s friendly ?” uneasily.
“What’s to prove ? Just be nice to him and don’t say anything to make his mother unhappy.”
“About him ?”
“No.” He laughed at the mistake. “Not about him: about anything. What I meant was try never to do aught that doesn’t conduce to Philippa’s happiness in life. Mrs. Hutchinson, who is separated from her own husband, had a nervous breakdown and moved away a year ago. She’d been sniping at Philippa in the Mother’s Union. Apparently someone posted her phone number as emergency counsellor for marital breakdowns; a 24 Hour Plumbing consultant; and Police Liaison Officer for the local Police Authority, specialising in all reports from concerned victims for Follow-Up Action. I remember that,” he continued reflectively, “since it never stopped after she denied the post in the local rag, and the police, confused themselves since half the time they’ve no idea what further idiocy the Home Office has shoved at them, not only didn’t deny anything, they even referred a few people to her. That was actually the least annoying thing that happened to her. Both boys have an unpleasant sense of humour. Unlike Paul he acts on it.”

More below

“As I said they’re all polite; each will hold a conversation nicely if you stop them and talk. The boys chat about guns a bit too much — the mechanics,” hastily, “no fascination with actually using them at all — but then most lads think about that sort of thing. I did, expect you did. Paul will grow out of it and join the army. James won’t grow out of it, but I daresay he won’t ever bother to shoot a gun.
“Neither ever cracked even the hint of a smile at my name or modulated their intonation in any way; and believe me, when your name is Pigg, you certainly get even a hint if people do. You look out for it.”
“Paul’s reckless: he’ll always add the exact amount of yeast. The other, well, he’s cautious: he’d put in a bit too much. Jamie’s idea of a hint is a car-bomb. Paul has pointed out he has no idea of minimum force. In attack too much rather than just right. Double or treble strength in building work. Won’t fall down in five hundred years, but wasteful. He told me there were no definite maxims in war, a fluid business.”

“OK, the boy’s a terror, but how come people stand that sort of thing ?”
Mr. Pigg looked at him pityingly. Most of the time no proof, plus he is winning enough when you do things right. ‘Right‘ being how he assesses you should behave.
“How do you know it’s him then ?” naturally wondering if it was just rumour, possibly started by the boy himself to gain a reputation. He expressed this diffidently
Pigg breathed deeply: “You don’t want that sort of reputation. Not a roisterous cavalier but the quiet kind of kingsman who would suddenly hang half a dozen villagers then torch their homesteads because their favorite mare was stolen probably drinking up deep quietly the while. Anyway you wouldn’t consider it rumour if you found eight dead rats hidden about your home.”
Handslip looked surprised and confessed this had never entered his household oeconomy.

Pigg explained: “Gutherington, someone who was quite a friend of the family. Discovered a small but vibrant colony of rats were camping out in the back alley, on a piece of land which, to be truthful, is not claimed by anyone, just a few yards square, anyway it’s a tip. So he got an airgun and a couple of friends with airguns, and spent a few hours acting out a massacre of red injuns. The little blighter didn’t react in any way when they were told, Nancy most upset and screaming, but he seemed uninterested. Not even mentioning that he had been feeding the fucking pests and adopted them as friends. Three weeks later, after some extremely interesting smells had manifested in the Gutherington domain, they began the painful discovery of a deceased rat; and then another; and the smell not diminishing each day, another, until finally after paying sanitation people to inspect the house, the grand total of eight had been found: all tucked away in the most unlikely places. It being another week before the last came to light, I understand that one was really not at all nice. It was quite a warm May.”
“If he’d kept the existence of the rat family secret for their own safety, he’s quite prepared to lie about his system of revenge, so it’s no use tackling him at all. But simple logic eliminates most neighbours; and the other youth around here would not go into someone’s house to revenge rodents.”

Handslip had sniggered a bit
“Not that amusing,” coldly, “yes the boy is a holy terror, but also never forget he’s also nuts.”
“How so ?” composing himself.
“Well… he’s not hot on respect for elders: I don’t mean he’s not very polite, but he doesn’t revere us anymore than others: he tries,” — an aggrieved note at the condescension murmured through — “quite obviously at times” moodily “to be extremely polite to everyone. I tackled him once about this and explained that the older an adult was the more one should respect them.”
The little bugger looked at me like a great-grandfather and — politely — explained that respect was not due to anyone as an individual, even if earned, but had to be paid to all things as created beings. It was something given not to be demanded. Then he got weird and explained that age although a reality was an illusion — how he combined the two, I mean this wasn’t religious or philosophical, he really is not clever, I don’t know, just silliness really — but the totality of a person was that they existed in all their ages at once, since the person at 80 was an extension of the same person at 8 and vice versa. And in Eternity.

“Well, don’t people complain to his mother ? Or does that count as ‘bothering her’ ?” asked the sceptical Handslip.
Pigg looked thoughtful: “A moot point; but I reckon it’s not that because he’s a fair little sod. He’d be quite willing to argue the matter out with her. OK, she doesn’t spoil him at all, though she adores him: pity she doesn’t, he might be a lot more bearable. If she’d stop pushing him so hard about school particularly, he can’t help not being able: puts all his energies in establishing his presence. No, the main reason is that he doesn’t leave evidence behind. Those sort are cunning if not clever. When he plans things — I’m not saying he puts a lot of thinking into that, just roughs out a plan, tests it then expects to deal with matters on the fly only if something really unforeseen occurs — he makes sure he’s covered the bases.”
Handslip: “Boys’ cleverness is the most devious and annoying ingenuity in the world. Explains why they’re best at creative art when older;” he put up a hand, “yes, I know this chap’s not of a high mental standard: but I mean in that cleverness wherein they direct their energies.”
“He does that all right.” moodily. Somehow he felt better at having spoken so freely about the bête noire, so contrary to his usual practice

“Doubbel, the retired butcher. There was an old abandoned mannequin — male, half falling down, left on a skip at the dress-shop last May. Heaven knows why they had a male one left over; discussing it with the non-committal Paul later, he told me his dear brother had suggested the old bird who ran the shop had brought it in to make the female models feel wanted. That’s what I mean, a deeply unkind mind. Mind you,” reluctantly, “thinking about Mrs. Toye, now I can well imagine it might have been true: she was a dizzy old bird. Anyway, it disappeared. No-one thought anything about it, nor would have, until Doubbel came down for breakfast one morning and found the fucking thing seated in the lounge on his own chair. In a cloak. With horns added and the usual appurtenances of the Devil.”
“Beard made from wool and a couple of rams’ horns found somewhere. What sort of bloody mind is that ? Nearly gave him a seizure. Swapped homes half a year later. Explained he could never feel the same way about the house after that. More importantly: how do you prove something like that ? We know who we suspect, but there wasn’t even a particle of evidence, and whoever it was came in through the window. Not that locks bother him. Family firm all connected with damned locks. Probably unlatched the door to bring it in, then locked up from the inside and went out back the window. Little bastard.”
“Breaking and entering ? That’s illegal.”
“He never breaks and enters. Read up law. He might trespass for five minutes, but that’s about all you could complain of. And no-one has ever gone to the police. They’re bloody useless half the time. I reckon half of them around here are students building up a bit of good pay in temporary work: no dedication. Anyway he’s not a thief, nothing has ever gone missing. Just mischief.”

“Well, there was once someone went to the police, but that was for insurance: the Whittakers at 34. Had run over The Runyons’ dog, poodle. OK, freezing weather and probably skidded, but weren’t concerned. Week later somebody had emerged in the wee small hours, connected to the outside tap, and hosed the outside walls patiently for quite a while. Who’s going to see that at three in the morning ? Wore rags around the boots, no pattern in the snow; no trail leading down the lane. They found it was like staring through three of those old-fashioned circled sweet-shop windows at once the ice was so thick. And because it seemed a little chilly inside they put up the heating full blast. Cracked half the windows. A not unintended bonus for the perpetrator no doubt.”
“They didn’t suspect James. He’d never spoken to them or they to he. We didn’t suggest it,” Seeing Handslip’s surprise, he shrugged, “Well, they weren’t that nice as people anyway. But we guessed.”
“D’don’t, you think… you might be ascribing to him all the things others do, sometimes ?”
“The day before I heard him playing Tosca very loudly. That was a good enough clue for me.”

Milton when he undertook this answer was weak of body and dim of sight; but his will was forward, and what was wanting of health was supplied by zeal. He was rewarded with a thousand pounds, and his book was much read; for paradox, recommended by spirit and elegance, easily gains attention: and he who told every man that he was equal to his King could hardly want an audience.

His political notions were those of an acrimonious and surly republican, for which it is not known that he gave any better reason than that “a popular government was the most frugal; for the trappings of a monarchy would set up an ordinary commonwealth.” It is surely very shallow policy, that supposes money to be the chief good; and even this without considering that the support and expence of a Court is for the most part only a particular kind of traffick, by which money is circulated without any national impoverishment.

It has been observed that they who most loudly clamour for liberty do not most liberally grant it. What we know of Milton’s character in domestick relations is, that he was severe and arbitrary. His family consisted of women; and there appears in his books something like a Turkish contempt of females, as subordinate and inferior beings. That his own daughters might not break the ranks, he suffered them to be depressed by a mean and penurious education. He thought woman made only for obedience, and man only for rebellion.

Ground Zero

Footnote:>

The wisdom of the nation is very reasonably supposed to reside in the parliament. What can be concluded of the lower classes of the people, when in one of the parliaments, summoned by Cromwell, it was seriously proposed, that all the records in the Tower should be burnt, that all memory of things past should be effaced, and that the whole system of life should commence anew ?

Samuel Johnson : The Lives of the Poets — Milton

Let us suppose that God does not Exist. OK then, if not thrown by eventual nothingness — which on the contrary they gleefully embrace — there’s very little to be said; and certainly nothing of eternal value: however one may as well live one’s life out as pleasantly as possible according to one’s own choices. It is tough to spend half of that time labouring at a job one detests, yet this too is not a problem for them, since they enjoy whatever weird stuff they do — such as being a professor or economist; but time runs out no matter how one uses it. If mentally unstable they may substitute Humanity as their ersatz-religion of choice, chosen solely because they happen to be human, and insist on working for and lecturing to humanity, ( and if so inclined, working for the eradication of social elements opposed to their own social philosophy of choice for the betterment of all mankind [ except those elements eradicated ] ) despite the fact that all of humanity is destined for nothingness just as much as they when time runs out. And that nothing will be left of them, their acts and thoughts, nor those of any other, when time runs out.

So let us suppose one of these: he is say, 40, that gives him roughly 40 more years of existence until he is extinguished to the point that he will never know he was extinguished or was ever alive. Not to mention that the memory of him will be as vanished as most in 10,000 years. Allowing two-thirds of time for eating, sleeping, working, worrying about money or worrying about social stability etc., that leaves 13 years of possible enjoyment. Instead he uses up this time on earth self-righteously persuading others that they will go into nothingness and unimportance with no salvation, and arguing about a deity in whom he does not believe. All the time the clock clicks to his termination and his remaining time runs out, as in a death cell. This has to be a definition of insanity: to spend the sole amount of time you will ever have, not even in anger at not going on to an afterlife, but railing against a God one thinks non-existent, hating the idea that others believe they go on, and mocking those whose faith is sure.

 
Karl Marx was one such, and despite his seminal work as a social philosopher and economist, all for an aim he believed he could never be conscious to see and which would end in nothingness itself, was largely inspired by early nineteenth century romantic rebellion against the God he didn’t believe Existed, and Whom rationally he should not have cared about in the least, as a magnificent essay by Murray N. Rothbard I have referenced elsewhere makes clear.

 
Here are lyrics to Mother Nothingness ( The Triumph Of Ubbo Sathla ) from The Vision Bleak, and some of Marx’s poetry from that essay: try and guess first…

 
Worlds I would destroy forever,
Since I can create no world;
Since my call they notice never

I shall build my throne high overhead,
Cold, tremendous shall its summit be.
For its bulwark –– superstitious dread.
For its marshal –– blackest agony.

I shall howl gigantic curses on mankind.
Ha ! Eternity ! She is an eternal grief.
Ourselves being clockwork, blindly mechanical,
Made to be foul-calendars of Time and Space,
Having no purpose save to happen, to be ruined,
So that there shall be something to ruin
If there is a Something which devours,
I’ll leap within it, though I bring the world to ruins ––
The world which bulks between me and the Abyss
I will smash to pieces with my enduring curses.
I’ll throw my arms around its harsh reality:
Embracing me, the world will dumbly pass away,
And then sink down to utter nothingness,
Perished, with no existence – that would be really living !

In the steaming morass
Of a newborn earth
Lies the formless mass
Which to all gave birth

In a sea of sludge
Of immense extend
Lies the thoughtless mass
Which is source and end

We all must follow
Into her void
To her fetid womb
We all return

Her voiceless howl
Resounds through time
From primal mud
And fenses foul

A limbless thing
Mindless and coarse
This wretches guise
Is end and source

We all must follow
Into her void
To her fetid womb
We all return

Fall through the aeons
Onward to the earth in it’s prime
Fall through the aeons
Becoming the spawn
Of the great old slime

…the leaden world holds us fast
And we are chained, shattered, empty, frightened,
Eternally chained to this marble block of Being,
… and we – We are the apes of a cold God.

[See post to watch Flash video]

Budgie was a Welsh band of the 1970s ( Amazon ) and here there are pictures of them then and now. The music’s fine enough…

More recently, here I made a post a few years back reffing Robert Browning with a postcard — complete with camel in those innocent days — of pre-Great War Venice Beach. The almost imperceptible joke being that Venice Beach is rather different now and whilst still worldly enough to satisfy Browning’s magnificent judgemental gloom, has not the qualities to satisfy the exacting standards of the Haute Ton. Still, I daresay one can find cameltoes there if one looks sufficiently hard…

Although none of the comments can quite match mj88′s perfect critique of California in a City Data Forums’ thread

‘I’ve never been to CA but they both sound like great and lovely areas (NOCAL or SOCAL). I always seem to hear positive things about CA such as the weather, friendly people, and beaches. The one and only drawback I have heard is that it occasionally gets congested on that one freeway in LA – can’t remember its name at the moment.’

which carries subtlety to a new level, Yelp has a list of comments on Venice Beach which engagingly shows why it has an especial place in the hearts of it’s countrymen:

The best way to describe Venice Beach is as a psychiatric hospital on a beach. Depending on how you feel about that, you can easily be entertained…or lose faith in humanity. Classic examples include guy collecting funds to rebuild Death Star and recruiting to kill off Jedi, guy in alien mask reading book in corner, and kids telling me how marijuana is the cure all drug (i.e. stub your toe…smoke a joint). In a one mile stretch, there were no less than 25 of these kids passing out cards. The numerous stands and booths all get horribly repetitive. Essentially, the boardwalk plays like one of those old time cartoons where the artists just recycled the background over and over. Food options are limited to mainly pizza places with a few burger places sprinkled in…and the occasional fruit cart.

Incense wafted everywhere like a light, perfumed fog it coiled about and hung over the Strand to mask or enhance the transitory and brief wisps of burning sage, scented candles, marijuana and body odor. Furry freaks danced with bespeckled nerds while tattooed rastafarian wanna-bes pulled stunned, pale and overweight tourists into impromptu reels as drums pounded incessantly to the accompaniment of piano, flute and electric guitar. Bleached blond surfers, salt-licked from a morning go-out passed by ancient hippies still peddling peace signs while cops turned their heads like they never saw the kid with the fat joint.

I especially thought the bums with a “Parents killed by ninja monkey. Help me pay for karate lessons” sign and a “I’m not going to lie, I want weed” sign were special.

If you don’t like Venice Beach, you don’t belong in California…
No, seriously get the hell out! This place is awesome! I love the atmosphere! Everyone’s so chill. My only advice is be picky about the crazy people who perform their stunts, some of them aren’t worth it, lol and I think they just spend the money on crack

2. I always see that guy who sells tongue whistles. I think the price is 5 different whistles for a dollar. I can’t think of anything in this world that I would want less to spend a dollar on.

The creativity of the beggars is also notable. Just today I saw signs stating “Need fuel for my learjet”, “Will fuck for weed” and “the happy wino”.

I guess you have to love it or hate it. More on yelp love this place, but I have to disagree yet again with the yelpers. This place is nasty. Nasty in a dirty, homeless, shady, don;t bring your kids, way. My baby dropped her hat, (just purchased) and in 2 minutes it was gone. Someone stole a hat for a BABY that said Princess on it!!!! What real and I do mean real losers would do that? Even the homeless cannot possibly wear it.

What you get when you arrive, regardless of your reason for being there, is a dismal, despressing wasteland, and if you’re from Nebraska or somewhere else decidedly non-Californian, much of what you’ll see here you’ve already seen on your State Fair’s sad midway. Decrepit and depressing tattoo parlor after tattoo parlor, sad and dejected t-shirt shops, and grimly appointed pizza stands make up the bulk of the boardwalk. The same astonishingly depressing people from your State Fair midway are here, too.

Sadly, Mr. Mozena has not yet become mayor of LA, and worse will not become write-in governor of CA, although there is no possibility that he could do worse than the laughable Arnold or either unholy front-runner in the present race between rich retards. However, on the credit side, Venice Beach has inspired many, many artists.

If this school had not in its favor the imperious instinct of Progress, and aspiration after a better, it would not hold its ground. But it satisfies that craving, and thus deludes many minds into acquiescence. The poetical and enthusiastic disposition most readily acquiesces : preferring to overlook what man is, in its delight of contemplating what the poet makes him. To such a mind all conceptions of Man must have a halo round them, — half mist, half sunshine; the hero must be a Demigod, in whom no valet de chambre can find a failing ; the villain must be a Demon, for whom no charity can find an excuse.

Not to extend this to a dissertation, let me at once say that Goethe belonged to the objective class.”‘Everywhere in Goethe,”said Franz Horn, “you are on firm land or island ; nowhere the infinite sea.’ A better characterization was never written in one sentence. In every page of his works may be read a strong feeling for the real, the concrete, the living; and a repugnance as strong for the vague, the abstract, or the supersensuous. His constant striving was to study Nature, so as to see her directly, and not through the mists of fancy, or through the distortions of prejudice, — to look at men, and into them, — to apprehend things as they were. In his conception of the universe he could not separate God from it, placing Him above it, beyond it, as the philosophers did who represented God whirling the universe round His finger, “seeing it go.” Such a conception revolted him. He animated the universe with God ; he animated fact with divine life ; he saw in Reality the incarnation of the Ideal; he saw in Morality the high and harmonious action of all human tendencies ; he saw in Art the highest representation of Life.

George Henry Lewes : The Life & Works of Goethe

Title from Third Rock From The Sun.

With His Peculiar Look And Emphasis

As an extra… Lewes in a footnote adds a personal note of the old loon Carlyle:

‘I remember once, as we were walking along Piccadilly, talking about the infamous Büchlein von Goethe, Carlyle stopped suddenly, and with his peculiar look and emphasis, said, “Yes, it is the wild cry of amazement on the part of all spooneys that the Titan was not a spooney too ! Here is a god-like intellect, and yet you see he is not an idiot ! Not in the least a spooney !”

 
Readers not current in early 19th century England may note that ‘Spooney‘ means soppy, soft, wet: sissies, but not necessarily including the present-day connotation of sexual maladaption.

“We have received the turning tools, the quadrant, the cylinder, and the wooden clock. We greatly thank you for the trouble you have taken. One thing, however, you forgot: you did not mention how much more you expended, for the money I sent [ One guilder ] could not have been enough. For the present, we have got all we need, except you could send us some new machinery, which will turn by itself when Wolfgang is lazy or sleepy. The clock suits me perfectly, especially for showing the time to my drunken Saxons, who look more to the bottle than the hour, caring but little whether the sun, or the clock, or its hands show wrong.”

Wolfgang had been for some years in Luther’s service, and remained with him throughout his life. He was a worthy, honest fellow, devotedly attached to his master, and possessed but one failing, a frequent propensity to go to sleep over his work. This unconquerable drowsiness was often the subject of Luther’s mock complaint. The master, with his own immense capacity for work without much interval for rest, was amused by the dull, heavy somnolence of his honest famulus. On one occasion, Wolfgang built a floor, and upon it fixed a contrivance for catching birds. Luther, whose nature was loving and feeling as that of a child, did not approve of this plan to entrap the feathered songsters, and drew out a Bird’s Indictment against their foe. The birds besought Luther’s protection against Wolfgang, whose sleepiness, they said, maliciously, everybody knew, as he never left his bed until eight o’clock in the morning; they required that every evening he should spread grain for their morning meal, as they rose up hours before him; and that his attention throughout the day should be devoted to catching frogs, snails, daws, mice and other pests, whereby he would be enabled to gratify his destructive instincts, without endeavouring to ensnare the poor birds, whose songs fully paid for the little grain they consumed. The Bird’s Petition, brimful of soft pleadings on behalf of one of the Creator’s sweetest gifts to charm the ears of that lordly creature, Man, concluded with a threat that if Wolfgang, their enemy, did not mend his ways, they ( the birds ) would pray to God to cause fleas and other insects to crawl about him at night, and torment him beyond endurance.

Luther took great delight in the simple happiness to be gained in his garden, cultivating the flowers, listening to the plashing of the waters of the fountain he had himself erected, to the singing of the birds, and to the gambols of the fish in a small pond. These small matters often took from his mind much of the trouble and anxiety inseparable from his position, and broke the hard intensity of intellectual and spiritual care.

…on the 3rd of April [ 1530 ], the Elector, unarmed and accompanied by one hundred and sixty horsemen, set out from Torgau on his way to meet the Emperor at Augsburg. Luther, Melanchthon, Jonas, Agricola, and Spalatin were with him. When they reached Coburg, the Elector directed Luther to remain there. The ban of the Empire prevented his appearance at the Diet. Without hesitation Luther obeyed the command of his prince. He proceeded to the fortress of Coburg, where he remained during the time of the proceedings at Augsburg. The elector with his followers reached Augsburg on the 2nd of May, and there awaited the arrival of the Emperor, which did not take place until the 15th of June. Luther, from the castle, wrote constantly to the Elector, to Spalatin, and to Melanchthon. The solitude and inaction to which he was constrained to submit were irksome and distressing. Writing to Melanchthon on the 22nd April he says: “I have arrived at my Sinai; but of this Sinai I will make a Sion: I will raise thereon three Tabernacles, one to the Psalmist, another to the Prophets, and lastly, one to Æsop…” He was at this time engaged in the translation of these fables.

On the 9th of May he wrote to Spalatin an amusing account of the rooks and jackdaws, the denizens of the wood beneath the elevated part of the castle in which he lived.

“I am here in the midst of another diet, in the presence of the magnanimous sovereigns, dukes, grandees, and nobles of a kind different to those at Augsburg. Mine confer together upon State affairs with all the gravity of demeanour; they fill the air with unceasing voice, promulgating their decrees and their preachings. They do not seat themselves shut up in those royal caverns, you call palaces, but they hold their councils in the light of the sun, having the heavens for a canopy, and, for a carpet, the rich and varied verdure of the trees, on which they are congregated in liberty; the only limits to their domains being the boundaries of the earth. The stupid display of silk and gold inspires them with horror. They are all alike, in colour as in countenance — black. Nor is their note different one from the other; the only dissonance being the agreeable contrast between the voices of the young and the deeper tones of their parents. In no instance have I ever heard them speak of an Emperor; they disdain with sovereign contempt the horse which is so indispensible to our cavaliers; they have a far better means of mocking the fury of cannon. In so far as I have been able to comprehend their decrees, they have determined to wage an incessant war during the present year against barley, corn, and grain of all sorts; in short, against all that is most enticing and agreeable amongst the fruits and products of the earth. It is much to be feared that they may become conquerors wherever they direct their efforts; for they are a race of combatants, wily and adroit; equally successful in their attempts to plunder, by force or by surprise. As for me, I am an idle spectator, assisting willingly, and with much satisfaction at their consultations. But enough of jesting ! Jesting which is, however, sometimes necessary to dispel the gloomy thoughts which overwhelm me.”

The clamour of the rooks and crows, by which, as in another letter he wrote, “they charitably intend to bring sleep gently to my eyelids,” was not altogether successful in diverting his attention from the grave business of the diet.

John Rae : Martin Luther — Student, Monk, Reformer

 
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Note that the More tag no longer works on this particular blog – it destroys the lay-out: for which lack we apologise…