Category Archives: Literature

Game/PUA: George Orwell on Incels

The second great evil of a Tramp’s life – it seems much smaller at first sight, but it is a good second – is that he is entirely cut off from contact with women. This point needs elaborating. Tramps are cut off from women, in the first place, because there are very few women at their level of society.

One might imagine that among the destitute people the sexes would be as equally balanced as elsewhere. But it is not so; in fact, one can almost say that below a certain level society is entirely male. The following figures, publishes by the L.C.C. from a night census taken February 13th, 1931, will show the relative numbers of destitute men and destitute women:

(Figures from shelters, churches, casual wards, and hostels follow)

It will be seen from these figures that at the charity level men outnumber women by something like ten to one. The cause is presumably that unemployment affects women less than men; also that any presentable woman can, in the last resort, attach herself to some man. The result, for a tramp, is that he is condemned to perpetual celibacy.

For of course it goes without saying that if a tramp finds no women at his own level, those above – even a very little above – are as far out of reach as the moon. The reasons are not worth discussing, but there is little doubt that women never, or hardly ever, condescend to men who are much poorer than themselves. A tramp, therefore, is a celibate from the moment when he takes to the road. Having no hope at all of securing a wife, a mistress, or any kind of woman except – very rarely when he can raise a few shillings – a prostitute. It is obvious what the results of this must be: homosexuality, for instance, and the occasional rape cases.

But deeper than these is the degradation worked in a man who knows that he is not even considered fit for marriage. The sexual impulse, not to put it any higher, is a fundamental impulse, and starvation of it can be almost as demoralizing as physical hunger. The evil of poverty is not so much that it makes a man suffer as that it rots him physically and spiritually. And there can be no doubt that sexual starvation contributes to the rotting process. Cut off from the whole race of women, a tramp finds himself degraded to the rank of a cripple or a lunatic. No humiliation could do more damage to a man’s self-respect.

George Orwell, Down and Out in Paris and London, Chapter 36. (1933)

From George Orwell to Eliot Rodger, and not an inch of space between them. And speaking of Paris…

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, n’est-ce pas?

4 Comments

Filed under Gender Studies, Heterosexuality, Literature, Little or None, Man World, Psychology, Romantic Relationships, Sex

A Fake Charge: George Orwell Was an Anti-Semite

Here.

 

Orwell has long been charged as an anti-Semite. I accepted it at face value like the charges against T. S. Eliot and others. But I just read an article in the Israeli paper Haaretz charging Orwell with antisemitism. I was surprised that there was little there. In some of his books, notably Down and Out in Paris and London, he runs across several quite unpleasant, rude or uncivilized people. They happen to be Jewish. He notes this. In fact, he regularly notes a person’s Jewishness. Supposedly this is anti-Semitism right there. If I write about my life and point out that various people in my life were Jewish, I’m an anti-Semite! Because it’s anti-Semitic to even notice such things.

I disagree with the charge. The people he meets are simply rude, unpleasant, uncivilized individual humans who just so happen to be Jewish. Nowhere does Orwell attempt to say that all or most Jews act that way.

Around 1941, Orwell pointed out that many Jews worked at British media outlets and that others outright controlled a number of British newspapers. Supposedly this is anti-Semitic. Except that it’s not. If Jews are 2% of your population and far more than that among journalists or media titans, it’s surely not anti-Semitic to point that out!

Around the same time, Orwell heard that a lot of the people sleeping in the London subway area were Jewish. He resolved to go find out. He went there and while everyone there was not Jewish, there were quite a few Jews sheltering there. He notes that Jews tend to stand out wherever they are. Supposedly this is more anti-Semitism. I can’t see it. He hears that a lot of Jews are sleeping in the underground subway area. He goes to check it out. Sure enough there are quite a few Jews there. He notes that they somehow tend to stick out and distinguish themselves from non-Jews. This is anti-Semitism?

Orwell also wrote many times opposing anti-Semitism. Apparently this is not enough to absolve him of the charge. Instead it just makes him complicated. Or, I would argue, human, as we are all complicated, complex and even ambivalent about most things.

Let me tell you something. I have never once heard of one single anti-Semite who wrote works attacking anti-Semitism. Anti-Semites don’t do that. If you do that you are de facto not an anti-Semite. Period.

Orwell also had many Jewish friends. In fact, people were shocked by how many Jews came to his funeral. Do you think Jews would flock to the funeral of an anti-Semite? Why would they? Did Jews flock to Wagner’s funeral? Hell, some Jews still walk out of the room if you put him on the turntable, and that was over 100 years ago.

No.

Jews do not flock to the funerals of anti-Semites. You think they are stupid. Not all people Jews call anti-Semites are actual Jew-haters. Many are innocent. But on the other hand, most if not all actual anti-Semites are pegged properly as enemies by the Jews. The Jews definitely know who their enemies are. The only problem is they exaggerate their number. But this is one good thing about paranoia. The paranoid is very unlikely to be blind to any actual enemies in his life. He’ll spot them out before anyone.

Orwell also had many Jewish friends. Jews and Blacks and anti-racist idiots love the old chestnut “A lot of my friends are…” as a defense against racism. It is true that some mild racists have friends of the group they dislike. Their argument, appropriately enough, is that the friend is not like the rest of them. If the friend is just fine though, one wonders how racist the person really is as racists usually condemn the whole group.

Let me tell you something. I have known some real anti-Semites. I mean real hardcore Jew-haters. They came from different backgrounds but they all had one thing in common – not one of them had a single Jewish friend.

It’s the same with Blacks. People who truly hate Blacks don’t associate with any of them. I knew a racist who used to gather signatures for petitions as his job. He hated Blacks so much that if a Black man came up to sign the petition, he would not let him sign. Instead he would walk away, tell him to get lost, something like that. That’s not an unusual reaction. A lot of hardcore racists are exactly like that. An ex-wife of my cousin was from Southern Illinois. When the ex-wife was born, her father hated Blacks so much that he sent the wife to another hospital rather than have a Black physician deliver the baby.

So next time you hear some anti-racist scream, “Yeah, we know, a lot of your friends are _______. Sorry, that’s an old one. You’re still a racist!”

Think again. If you really do have one or God forbid quite a few friends of the hated group, you probably don’t really hate them that much.

6 Comments

Filed under Anti-Semitism, Jews, Literature, Race/Ethnicity, Racism, The Jewish Question, White Racism

“Mother Water”

This is a bit more of my creative writing. And yes, I have been published in literary journals, in case you were asking. I published a short story in a single literary journal. There were a lot of  unknown names in there, but there were also a couple of big names – Gary Snyder and Allen Ginsberg. I remember at the bar afterwards Gary Snyder said he liked Journey Through the Zone. That was my story.

Anyway, is this better as prose or as a poem?

The sea. Once again the sea. Again and again the sea. Always again the sea. The sea from which we came. The sea to which we will return. Our mother. Mother water.

Or:

Mother  Water

The sea
Once again the sea
Again and again the sea
Always again the sea
The sea from which we came
The sea to which we will return
Our mother
Mother water

It does make a neat little very short poem. As prose it would have to be part of a larger work or possibly a microfiction or flash fiction story.

And if you are looking for influences, check out Samuel Beckett. Maybe James Joyce too, who knows? Beckett for sure though.

3 Comments

Filed under Literary Excursions, Literature, Poetry, Writing

“Sad Song”

This a bit of my creative writing here.

Is this better as prose or as a poem?

The years. The long years. The sadness of the years.

Or:

The years
The long years
The sadness of the years

If you make it poetry, it’s almost a perfect little encapsulated haiku. If fiction, it would have to be part of a larger work or it could be a three-line microfiction flash fiction story.

Leave a comment

Filed under Literary Excursions, Literature, Poetry, Writing

Trailer for William S. Burroughs Documentary

Human faces tentative flicker in and out of focus. We waded into the warm mud-water. Hair and ape flesh off in screaming strips. Stood naked human bodies covered with phosphorescent green jelly. Soft tentative flesh cut with ape wounds. Peeling other genitals. Fingers and tongues rubbing off the jelly-cover. Body melting pleasure-sounds in the warm mud. Till the sun went and a blue wind of silence touched human faces and hair. When we came out of the mud we had names…

…Larval people whispering flesh. Eyes ejaculated spine mud. Black gum in member. Old junky coughing limestone in the obsidian morning: the sale mirror to red sky. Manipulated spasms puppets vestigial meat. Pulsing pink shell. Red pagodas and crystal accounts. Wet dream eyes hanging in lust of dead flesh patios. Boy chrysalis in streets of postcard. Eating birds patrol black lichen. Catatonic sports sear lungs of dream clay. Lust of mud bubble coal gas the insect street. Flesh ejaculation. Penis in the broken mirror rocks of Marwan. Serving the crystal dawn photo of sex. On the Brass and Copper Street…

An evil old character with sugary eyes that stuck to you…They were ripe for the plucking forgot way back yonder in the corn hole—Lost in little scraps of delight and burning scrolls…The man opposite me didn’t look like much—A thin gray man in a long coat that flickered like old film…in these times when practically anybody is subject to wander in from the desert with a quit claim deed and snatch a girl’s snatch right out from under her assets…When the boy peeled off the dry goods he gives off a slow stink like a thawing mummy…Crab men peer out of abandoned quarries and shag heaps some sort of vestigial eye growing cheek bone and a look about them as if they could take root and grow on anybody…

William S. Burroughs, The Soft Machine, 1963.

William S. Burroughs is one of those authors that people either love or hate, but that’s the objective, the purpose of his work – to be a human lightning rod of gesticulating and mercurial passion. Like yours truly, in other words.

Always wanted to see a good movie about this maniac, who has always been one of my favorite writers.

I gave out Naked Lunch to a few of my friends, and they would bring it back warily with shaking hands convinced that I was obviously gay. Well, Burroughs’ writing is full of gay sex, but that’s not a reason to read it. The sex is boring and repetitive anyway, but the descriptions of it like all his writing are often beautiful. Gay sex scenes usually disgust me, and I end up throwing the book at the wall. This often breaks the spine and pages fall out, but it’s just as well. That book deserved that wall for the audacious travesty of daring to put that awfulness in there. But Burroughs, that I can read.

Anyway, 90% of the people who read Burroughs aren’t gay. Burroughs is so much more than a gay writer. For a while there, he may well have been the greatest writer in America.

I read almost all of his writing. Most people thought I was a freak for liking the guy in the first place. But Burroughs is not only a Beat but the original avant-garde writer and the forerunner to punk rock. More than that: Burroughs actually was a punk, decades before his team. He’s been loved by hipsters, artists, and cutting edge freaks and psychos for decades. He’s very much worth reading.

His writing is a lot of things, but it’s often also beautiful, which is strange given its often ugly subject matter. But to find beauty in the awfulness of life, the sublime amidst the squalor, is one of the purposes of life.

Viewed one way, half of life is glorious and the other half is sad. Half of life wonderful and the other half is horrible. And that’s if you are lucky. I have counseling clients who are sad. I tell them that sadness is a natural part of life and that half of life is sadness, even if the other half is radiant happiness.

“When you feel sad,” I tell them. “Say to yourself, ‘Thank God for that feeling! Sit back somewhere alone and just immerse yourself in the sadness of life. Don’t kill yourself or do anything drastic. Just be part of the reality of life’s essential sadness.”

If half of life is sad (and that’s being generous – Jack Kerouac often said that that Buddhists said, ‘All of life is sadness’ – and in way he was correct), then it only makes sense to make yourself aware of that fact and even bask or immerse yourself in it if you dare. If you do that, you may find that there is even an a transcendent beauty in sadness, something the great artists and mystics have taken about forever. Ever seen a great sad movie that moved you to tears. It was awful and beautiful at the same time, right?

Burroughs led a very interesting life. He lived in Mexico City for a while with some other Beats. One night he was playing “William Tell” at a drunken party with his wife Joan (yes he was married for a bit and even fathered a child named Billy), trying to shoot a drink glass off her head. He missed and shot her in the head instead. Police interviewed and determined it was an accident and let him off. Talking about this with a friend who liked Kerouac a lot more than Burroughts, my friend shook his head, “He definitely went crazy after that,” he said. Maybe so. But Burroughs was always pretty crazy, even as a boy. The great writers and artists often are after all.

Your task: Identify the following famous Beats and hipsters in this short film:

  1. Allen Ginsberg
  2. Lucien Carr
  3. Patti Smith
  4. Herbert Huncke
  5. John Giorno
  6. James Grauerholz (twice)

Leave a comment

Filed under Cinema, Literature, Music, Novel, Philosophy, Punk, Rock

From Alchemy to Chemistry, with Rainbows

The name Chemistry is said to be derived from the Arabic word Kimia, something hidden or concealed, and from this to have been converted into Xyueia*, a word first used by the Greeks about the eleventh century and meaning the art of making gold and silver. Between the fifth century and the taking of Constantinople in the fifteenth century, says Dr. Thomson, in his History of Chemistry, the Greeks believed in the possibility of making gold and silver artificially; and the art which professed to teach the processes was called by them Chemistry. This idea, however, has long since been thoroughly discarded, and is now no longer heard of.

Revered Thomas Ruggles Pynchon, Introduction to Chemical Physics, 1881

My what a fine bit of trivia/pedantry I found here. The famous modern author, Thomas Pynchon, also has the name Thomas Ruggles Pynchon, but he is Thomas Ruggles Pynchon 5th to be precise. The 19th Century Thomas Ruggles Pynchon became president of Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut, where he taught chemistry and math.

We see here that the root of the word chemistry derives from alchemy, the process by which men for centuries tried to create gold and silver out of other metals via chemical means. The chemical process by which the alchemy was done was then called chemistry.  The original root is Arabic Kimia, hidden or concealed, as it was thought that the gold or silver was hidden somehow in ordinary metals and could be brought to the surface via chemical transformation.

When you open a copy of Introduction to Chemical Physics, the first thing you see, before the text even begins, are rainbows created via a chemical spectrometer.

rainbows

An illustration of rainbows in Principles of Chemical Physics, which appears before the text even starts.

When a material is heated to incandescence, it emits light that is characteristic of the atomic makeup of the material. Particular light frequencies give rise to sharply defined bands on the scale which can be thought of as fingerprints. For example, the element sodium has a very characteristic double yellow band known as the Sodium D-lines at 588.9950 and 589.5924 nanometers, the color of which will be familiar to anyone who has seen a low pressure sodium vapor lamp.

His descendant, the author Thomas Pynchon, is the author of one of the greatest works of modern English literature, Gravity’s Rainbow* (1973). Hence the descendant is foreshadowed by the ancestor, a man perhaps born a century too soon. And there is indeed a lot of science in Gravity’s Rainbow, much of which concerns the commercial applications of chemistry. So here the descendant offers a flashback to the ancestor and takes reverent bow at his gravestone.

* You know,  if you haven’t read it yet, you really need to read this book if you are into literature at all. It’s not easy reading at all. It’s on a par with James Joyce’s Ulysses and Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, and in fact, all three would be a good choice for the best English novels written since 1850. Don’t worry if you don’t understand what’s going on. Believe it or not, it doesn’t even matter if you understand what’s happening. It’s a magical mystery tour all the same. Just buckle your seatbelt, open the pages and sit back for the ride.

2 Comments

Filed under Arabic, English language, Linguistics, Literature, Novel, Science

Bob Dylan, “Idiot Wind”

Some truly great music from the truly great Bob Dylan off the truly great album Blood on the Tracks (1974), one of the greatest rock albums ever made. This is where Dylan really made his comeback. I think he had just turned Christian, but no matter really. I doubt if the Jews will ever forgive him for that ultimate transgression.

Actually this take and these alternate lyrics are from something called the New York Sessions which preceded the album. I know little about these sessions. There are a number of different versions of this song and the others on the album that were recorded in these sessions. The version on the album has very different lyrics and is the one people know best. The lyrics below are from this alternate take, which is actually nothing but an outtake!

There is a lot of discussion about which lyrics are better. I think that the final version on the album after he had rewritten the lyrics a number of times is better, but people go back and forth. The album version is acoustic, nothing but Bob, an acoustic guitar and a harmonica. This one has a bass and an organ. Some like it better and some don’t. I think the two new instruments add a great effect that actually makes this haunting version better than the one on the album. There is a bootleg version, perhaps on The Basement Tapes, that is said to be the best one of them all. Nonetheless, this session take is interesting and of course it’s important for Dylan completists.

I think there is a backstory to this. He’s obviously ranting at his enemies for some reason or another. It’s a great song if you’re feeling paranoid (I do not recommend this) or if you are in a mood for hating your enemies (I recommend this, but not all the time please – heart attacks are forever). It’s also good if you are in one of those rare moods where you hate the world and just want to go back to bed and hope it all goes away like a bad dream whenever you wake up many hours later. Thankfully, these moods are rare. Or is that how too many of us feel most every day? I don’t even know anymore. Life is so confusing. I feel like I am living in a Samuel Beckett novel:

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

– Samuel Beckett, Worstward Ho, 1962.

Then again, I’ve been feeling that way most of my life even before I read Molloy, had a life-changing experience, and saw God radiating through a marijuana haze in my college apartment in 1980.

I must go on. I can’t go on. I’ll go on.

– Samuel Beckett, The Unnameable, 1949

If you ever read that and think, “Story of my life!” I think we were probably separated at birth.

See you all at the re-runs, the sequels, the encores. After that, one for the road, the farewell tour, the curtain call, the taps, the wake.

The good ones. The best ones. Bob Dylan forever and ever the best. Never one better ever. Bobby Dylan, always.

Take a bow, Robert Zimmerman!

Someone’s got it in for me
They’re planting stories in the press
Whoever it is I wish they’d cut it out
But when they will I can only guess
They say I shot a man named Gray
And took his wife to Italy
She inherited a million bucks
And when she died it came to me
I can’t help it if I’m lucky

People see me all the time
And they just can’t remember how to act
Their minds are filled with big ideas
Images and distorted facts
Even you yesterday
You had to ask me where it was at
I couldn’t believe after all these years
You didn’t know me better than that
Sweet lady

Idiot wind
Blowing every time you move your mouth
Blowing down the back roads headin’ south
Idiot wind
Blowing every time you move your teeth
You’re an idiot babe
It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe

I threw the I Ching yesterday
It said there might be some thunder at the well
Peace and quiet’s been avoiding me
For so long it seems like living Hell
There’s a lone soldier on the hill
Watching falling pouring raindrops pour
You didn’t know it to look at him
That in the final shot he won the war
After losin’ every battle

I woke up on the roadside
Daydreamin’ about the way things sometimes are
Hoofbeats pounding in my head
At breakneck speed and makin’ me see stars.
You hurt the ones that I love best
And cover up the truth with lies
One day you’ll be in the ditch
Flies buzzin’ around your eyes
Blood on your saddle

Idiot wind
Blowing through the flowers on your tomb
Blowing through the curtains in your room
Idiot wind
Blowing every time you move your teeth
You’re an idiot babe
It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe

It was gravity which pulled us in
And destiny which broke us apart
You tamed the lion in my cage
But it just wasn’t enough to change my heart
Now everything’s a little upside down
As a matter of fact the wheels have stopped
What’s good is bad, what’s bad is good
You’ll find out when you reach the top
You’re on the bottom

I noticed at the ceremony
That you left all your bags behind
The driver came in after you left
He gave them all to me and then he resigned
The priest wore black on the seventh day
Waltzed around while the building burned
You didn’t trust me for a minute babe
I’ve never know the spring to turn
So quickly into autumn

Idiot wind
Blowing every time you move your jaw
From the Grand Coulee Dam to the Mardi Gras
Idiot wind
Blowing every time you move your teeth
You’re an idiot babe
It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe

We pushed each other a little too far
And one day it just jumped into a raging storm
A hound dog bayed behind your trees
As I was packing up my uniform
I figure I’d lost you anyway
Why go on? What’s the use?
In order to get a word with you
I’d have had to come up with some excuse
And it just struck me kind of funny

I been doublecrossed too much
I think I’ve almost lost my mind
Ladykillers load dice on me
Behind my back while imitators steal me blind
You close your eyes and part your lips
And slip your fingers from your gloves
You can have the best there is
But you it’s gonna cost you all you love
You won’t get it for money

Idiot wind
Blowing through the buttons of our coats
Blowing through the letters that we wrote
Idiot wind
Blowing through the dust upon our shelves
We’re idiots babe
It’s a wonder we can even feed ourselves

 

1 Comment

Filed under Literature, Music, Novel, Rock

A Motto of the Alt Left, Via Liberation Theology

La gente, unida! Jamas sera vencido!

The people, united! Will never be defeated!

– An old Castroite Marxist revolutionary chant from Central America and South America, with roots back especially to the great Sandinistas in Nicaragua, the FMLN in El Salvador (who I used to buy guns for), the URNG in Guatemala, probably the ELN in Colombia, and probably the great FARC in Colombia.

All of these movements except the FARC were “Christian Communists” or “Catholic Communists.” Most of the rank and file guerrillas all the way up to the leadership were Catholics. In Nicaragua, leader Daniel Ortega was and still is a practicing Catholic and one of the top leaders of the Sandinistas was Tomas Borge, a Catholic priest. The ELN was led by a former Catholic priest named Camilo Torres, who traded his frock for an AK-47 and led a guerrilla group in the mountains of northwestern Colombia. He was killed soon after he started the ELN in 1964. The ELN has never renounced its Catholic roots and is a de facto “Catholic Marxist” organization.

 

The Eastern Catholic Church or Eastern Orthodox have been much more progressive than the  Catholic hierarchy, but that was not so at the  beginning of the century when the Cheka executed over 12,000 top ranking Orthodox officials in first several years of the Revolution. The Russian Orthodox Church or at least many believers are quite leftwing these days. They often hobnob with Communists, Leftists and even monarchists. Even the monarchists are pretty leftwing in Russia today.  Russia is a place where everyone is leftwing. There is no Right in Russia. Well actually there is,  but the Right has only 10-15% support. Putin’s party is defined as “Russian conservatism” but Putin says he still believes in the  ideals of Communism and socialism which he regards as very similar to the Biblical values of the Russian Orthodox Church. This marriage is not unusual and high ranking Church officials even today regularly make pro-socialist and pro-Communist remarks. Sort of ” Jesus as a Bolshevik” if you will. Stalin himself was studying to be a priest in a sen\minary of the Georgian Orthodox Church when he gave it up to be a full-time bank robber/revolutionary.  The thing is that you cannot understand Stalin at all until you understand his deep background in the Orthodox religion. Although Stalin called himself an atheist, he remained deeply Orthodox in  his mindset until he died. He ever revived the Church during and after the war for patriotic reasons. Stalin was very much a social conservative and his social conservatism was deeply inflected by his Georgian Orthodox seminarian roots, which he never renounced.

The Orthodox Christian churches of the Arab World have always been leftwing, along with the Church in Iran and Turkey. George Habash, founder of the Marxist PFLP in Palestine, was a Greek Orthodox. Many of the rank and file even of the PFLP armed guerrilla have always been Orthodox Christians. The Greek Orthodox SSNP in Lebanon and Syria are practically Communists. Interestingly, this was the first group to widely use suicide bombings early in 1982 and 1983 in the first years of the Lebanese Civil War. Most of the first suicide bombings, up to scores or hundreds in first few years, were by Communists, often Christian Orthodox Communists. Many of these suicide bombers were even women. It was only later that the Shia adopted the technique.

The man who created the Baath Party, the Iraqi Michel Aflaq, was an Orthodox Christian. The party had Leftist roots as an officially socialist party. Tariq Aziz, high-ranking member of Saddam’s Baath party, was an Orthodox Christian and a Leftist. Assad’s party in Syria is a Leftist party. Most Syrian Orthodox Christians are strong supporters of Assad, the Baath Party and Leftism. Recently the Syrian Defense Minister was a Christian.

The few Orthodox Christians left in Turkey are typically Leftists.

Many Greek Orthodox are Leftists. Serbian Orthodox laypeople and hierarchy long supported Milosevic, who was a Communist.

The Russians who violently split away from Ukraine in the Donbass were so Leftist that they called their new states “people’s republics.” Most of the leadership and the armed forces are Orthodox Christians. The armed groups had priests serving alongside in most cases. They often led battlefield burials for the troops.

There are deep roots of this sort of thing in Russia. Tolstoy is very Christian in an Orthodox sense, but he is also often seen as a socialist. Dostoevsky’s work is uber-Christian from an Orthodox point of view and he is not very friendly to radicals. However, before he started writing, he was arrested for Leftist revolutionary activities and sentenced to prison in Siberia. Most of his colleagues were hanged and Dostoevsky only barely escaped by the tip of his nose. Dostoevsky was not very nice to the rich either. No Russian writer of that time was, not even Turgenev. The rich destroyed 19th Century Russia. Anyone with eyes can see that. It would have been hard for any artistic heart above room temperature to not hate the Russian rich and feel sympathy for the peasantry. Turgenev’s first books were paeans to the Russian peasantry, and he was raised on an estate!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1 Comment

Filed under Catholicism, Central America, Christianity, Colombia, Economics, El Salvador, Eurasia, Europe, Greece, Guatemala, Iran, Iraq, Latin America, Lebanon, Left, Literature, Marxism, Middle East, Nicaragua, Novel, Orthodox, Palestine, Politics, Regional, Religion, Revolution, Russia, Serbia, Socialism, South America, Syria, Turkey, USSR

PUA/Game: Women Love Writers

Yes, women (and girls) love to fuck writers. Bukowski said that, but he was not the first. We are romantics, you know. Artist types are romantic and romantic artist types set off the romantic drive that underlies the love instinct in females. Thing is you have to be good. Yes, women love writers, but my observation is that the only writers I have known who got women from their writing were damn good.

And they were usually writing some sort of literary type writing, either novels, short stories, poetry or literary nonfiction. Even a good journalist can get women if your prose really sings, say a music reviewer. If you are a writer but you don’t write well, I don’t think you will get women from your writing. It’s probably like that with any art. Yes, musicians, artists, writers, etc. can all get women, but only if they are damn good. If you are creative but you are not damn good, I don’t think it works to get women.

PS, when a woman tells a writer, “Oh! I love the way you write!” Um, that usually means she wants you. She’s in love with you or she wants to fuck you. Pretty much always. It doesn’t matter which because those two things are all jumbled up in females anyway.

2 Comments

Filed under Art, Gender Studies, Literature, Man World, Psychology, Romantic Relationships, Writing

Theological Question

Is redemption possible in Hell?

Standard Christian doctrine would say no. When you’re in Hell,  there’s no hope. The Catholics devised Purgatory, but that was for people like me who were not quite bad enough for Hell but were definitely not Heaven-bound. In Purgatory, it’s like an exercise regimen for that roll of flab around your belly – you’ve got to work it off. Sure, the tortures are horrible, but if you survive then, you get the Manna. Plus as awful as Purgatory is, it pales compared to the never-ending horror movie you will be starring in in Hell.

How about some radical Christian thinkers?

If you read enough Dostoevsky, he believes redemption is possible in Hell, and that’s just one of the great things about him. For instance, see Grushenka’s tale to Aloysha in The Brothers Karamazov (p. 340) when she tells the story of the woman in Hell who was offered an onion by her Guardian Angel as a ticket out of Hell. This is similar to Ivan’s tale of Mary’s visit to Hell, where Hell can abide both mercy and punishment.

In a conversation between Ivan and Aloysha (p. 259), the two discuss whether there is forgiveness for the worst of men, the torturer. Both agree that if there is universal harmony, then there will be forgiveness for the worst of men. However, Ivan says that there shall be no forgiveness for the torturer and therefore this is no universal harmony. Instead of agreeing with him, Aloysha says that “Christ can forgive everything, all and for all, for he gave his universal blood for all and everything.” In other words, the Kingdom of God is not complete until there is forgiveness for all, including torturers. Aloysha believes that no one is outside of redemption. Obviously, this must include people in Hell.

This doctrine is clearly absent from the OT and NT, but if you make your way through the wondrous Apocrypha, you will stumble upon. The little known Gospel of Peter is quite clear that there can be redemption in Hell. It’s a lot clearer about it than Dostoevsky. That’s what I love about the Apocrypha. Such wild and near-fantastic tales and even doctrine in there. The Apocrypha seem to be stretching Christian theology to its very limits or even beyond, but that’s part of why they are great. It’s almost as if they are applying a nascent scientific method to the Bible, to figure out what’s really lurking back there behind it all. It’s Fringe Theology, but the fringe is OK. Many of the finest discoveries in science came from Fringe Science and were derided as pseudoscientific at the time.

In any process of discovery of knowledge, from the prosaic to the sublime, the best results are found by pushing your inquiry to the absolute limits or beyond. The only real limit in any exploratory inquiry is the limit of your own imagination.

Why be rigid? Rocks are rigid. If you are rigid, you are basically a rock. And once you decide to go rigid, you are locked in ore forever more, and for what purpose? Peace of mind? How weak. That’s no way to be an ubermensch. Go up and beyond. Rise above. Transcend. The sky’s the limit.

References

Connolly, Julian W. 2013. Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Bloomsbury Publishing USA.

Gibson, Andrew Boyce. 2016. The Religion of Dostoevsky. Wipf and Stock Publishers.

14 Comments

Filed under Catholicism, Christianity, Literature, Novel, Philosophy, Religion, Science