Pseudo review of Empire of the Summer Moon: Quanah Parker and the Rise and Fall of the Comanches by S.C. Gwynne

What to do as an eternal skeptic and an unwilling expat, dear worst-reader? Shutting down, as in, tuning out, might be an alternative. Yet, my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant is most certainly continuing its de-evolution, don’t you know. For example.

Can you believe what happened the other night (see link below)? A seventeen year old from Illinois illegally crossed his state’s border carrying the infamous AR-15 to a peaceful but over-curfew protest in neighbouring Kenosha, Wisconsin, and ended up, almost at the behest of local law enforcement (depending on your political bent, of course), killing some of those protestors as they tried to take little big-man’s gun away.

Did you get that?

Shall I repeat that… another worst-way? Indeed.

A seventeen year old militia-boy aka wannabe [The Comedian](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comedian_(character), excluding the smiley-face, got in a pseudo vigilante row with other young people protesting the brutality of white-man, hate-man, WASP-sicko, crack-pottery that seems to so casually shoot black people (seven times in the back, don’t you know) on account they’re all to afraid of the shadows their ignorance has made because there is no intellect available to process the realities of politics post the death of the #Americant dream–aka that which #OKBoomer killed.

Indeed. Those who would raise a boy to seventeen so that he could go join his elders in replacing cerebral-ism with reactionary WWE (which now included MMA) batshittery all on account fear-monger shadow-making white people can continue to avoid facing the reality that they’re fcuked and the reason they’re fcuked is their own doing and it’s been going on with the inception of the greed shit-show that is #Americant post Ronald Reagan, baby.

But I digress.

And while I’m on the subject of white people avoiding truth, justice but adhering to the wanton will to be stupid… While all this #Americant dip-shittary, deprivation and delusion is going on, I just finished reading that Pulitzer Prize nominated, easy-read history book, almost written like a novel, about the end of the Comanche nation.

And get this.

The book kinda sucks. Or. Put in other worst-words, anybody could’ve written it and considering how and what is written (in it), it doesn’t give me the feeling that it hasn’t already been written. Wait. That makes no sense. #Nomatter. Let’s worst-write on, shall well.

Empire of the Summer Moon is yet another white-man whitewash of the single greatest and most successful genocide in all of human history. I mean. If you put the horror show that is the culling of Native Americans together with slavery… Heck. You got a royal fcukfest of death. Am I wrong? It’s no wonder that my beloved & missed #Americant has devolved into a death-cult that can only culminate in the likes of president pee-pee hair and the shitshow that is fail-upwards capitalism forever seeking its nadir.

But. Again. Before I get too far off worst-subject.

Empire of the Summer Moon is actually a pretty good read–if you’re not up-to-date on #Americant history and also have a bit of interest in Native American history. Since I’m already somewhat versed in that history, the reason for giving this book a read was because I thought it was going to be more about Cynthia Ann Parker. Although I’m somewhat familiar with the story of her son, the last Comanche chief, Quanah Parker, I’ve never read a book about his mother. Unfortunately, I still haven’t read one about her. I know. I know. I have to get my shit together. There are a few books out there about her. On the other hand, since this book uses those books as source material, I was hoping to get more from it.

Again. Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. I need a book from the point of view of the Native American. The entire story I’ve been told about these people has always been from the POV of… wait for it. That’s right. White people. Or. Of course. Hollywood. Heck, I even dabbled years ago in the original screenplay that became a novel that then became a screenplay and ended up being the film Dances With Wolves. Even though I love the movie and owe a little chunk of my heart to Kevin Costner for making such a masterpiece of a film, of the half dozen or so times I’ve seen the movie, crying every time Wind In His Hair yells from that cliff top that Dunbar is his friend, I can’t stop the cynical gremlins in my mind that remind me I’m watching whitewash galore.

But I will hand the author of Empire of the Summer Moon, S. C. Gwynne, this. He did write a few lines in (t)his pseudo-history that threw me for a loop. Here’s one of those lines:

They [Indians] were three to four millennia behind the Europeans and Asians, and the arrival of Columbus in 1492 guaranteed that they would never catch up.

If civilisation began in and around the Fertile Crescent and from there humans spread across the globe, those who left the Middle East for the far east and who eventually ended up crossing the Baring Strait, must be the ones that became the peoples that Europeans encountered post Columbus’ treasure hunt. We already know that the reason these peoples are called Indians is because Columbus thought he landed in India. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m just boggled with this question: Are these people from the Fertile Crescent or from before that?

The thing that gets me about this book is that I’ve completely lost touch with a thought or three about the origins of the American Indian. Are they from the Stone Age or even before that? Or perhaps they are a people that freed themselves from the seed of human greed-hate early enough to live thousands of years in harmony with nature–until that greed-hate hit them with the arrival of Europeans. The origins of these people, of course, is what gives way to the evils of the white man’s prejudices. Hence the enslavement of Africa and the genocides of North America. Indeed. White Europeans have most certainly allowed their greed-hate to prosper in the (new) world–and through out history. Or am I the only one to notice that it’s still thriving today?

And so. Hail President Pee-Pee-Hair and his Eurowasteland origins and/or those who would write whitewash books well enough to be nominated for a Pulitzer.

And so. As the #Americant saying goes (via worst-writer): put some butter and sugar on it and all will be well as you swallow forever the lie of the mind.

Rant on.

-T

Links:

• https://www.npr.org/sections/live-updates-protests-for-racial-justice/2020/08/27/906901940/kenosha-shooting-suspect-charged-with-six-criminal-counts-including-homicide

America is the wealthiest nation on Earth, but its people are mainly poor, and poor Americans are urged to hate themselves. To quote the American humorist Kin Hubbard, ‘It ain’t no disgrace to be poor, but might as well be.’ It is in fact a crime for an American to be poor, even though America is a nation of poor. Every other nation has folk traditions of men who were poor but extremely wise and virtuous, and therefore more estimable than anyone with power and gold. No such tales are told by the American poor. They mock themselves and glorify their betters. The meanest eating or drinking establishment, owned by a man who is himself poor, is very likely to have a sign on its wall asking this cruel question: ‘If you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?’ There will also be an American flag no larger than a child’s hand–glued to a lollipop stock and flying from the cash register.

– Howard W. Campbell, Jr. via Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughter House 5, Chapter Five

It’s been twenty years (or so) since I last read this book, which was my second re-read. The first time I read it I was already on a plane ride to Frankfurt, around 1986 (or so), which would become the beginning of my expatriation. And so. What a joy to read it a third time. Of course. I was motivated to read it because my years as an expat in Germany have put me up against several claims to either have survived the Dresden fire-bombing or to have been born from it. Heck, even my wife’s mother went there to find refuge because Dresden was, at the time, one of the only places in all of Germany that hadn’t yet been bombed to $hit. Yeah, people thought they’d be safe there. Yet, the most extraordinary thing about this book, is that it is the source of a telling fact–at least a telling fact for worst-moi from the time I first read it. That fact is this: more people died during the fire-bombing of Dresden that used conventional weapons than died in Hiroshima where an Atomic weapon was used. But does such info even matter in these days of perpetual wars-of-choice? I mean, how many people have died since Dresden and Hiroshima because of wars-of-choice, bombings-of-choice, etc.?

Vonnegut has a knack for writing about my beloved & missed Americans, too–which makes it even more worthwhile to re-re-read.

Rant (and read) on.

-T

Subtitle: Or at least we now know where all the crazy comes from.

While approaching the end of Mythos by Stephen Fry, I was happy (relieved?) he threw this in at the end of his retelling the story of Narcissus. Take special notice of the cynical or sarcastic asterisk.

Narcissistic personality disorder and echolalia (the apparently mindless repetition of what is said) are both classified in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, which medically and legally defines mental illnesses. Narcissistic personality disorder, much talked about these days, is marked by vanity, self-importance, a grandiose hunger for admiration, acclaim and applause, and above all an obsession with self-image. The feelings of others are railroaded and stampeded, while such considerations as honesty, truthfulness or integrity are blithely disregarded. Bragging, boasting and delusional exaggeration are common signs. Criticism or belittlement is intolerable and can provoke aggressive and explosively strange behaviour.*

Perhaps narcissism is best defined as a need to look on other people as mirrored surfaces who satisfy us only when they reflect back a loving or admiring image of ourselves. When we look into another’s eyes, in other words, we are not looking to see who they are, but how we are reflected in their eyes. By this definition, which of us can honestly disown our share of narcissism?

*No one we know, of course…

-Stephen Fry – Mythos, from the chapter Echo and Narcissus, The Gods Take Pity

Once this book started to veer towards mortals and their stories–as opposed to the stories of just The Gods–I started to get bored. Not that Fry’s writing is boring, don’t you know. Of course, I probably don’t understand most of his wry British humour anywho. No. Indeed. Yet even though Fry’s writing is fantastic, there is a level of boredom and monotony when it comes to the endeavours of mortals and their being sucker subjects of The Gods.

Note: I’ve read these Fry Greek retelling books out of order. Here my worst-thoughts on his second book, which I read first. Speaking of which. I liked Fry’s Heroes more than Mythos. Reason? Heroes felt more like story telling whereas Mythos feels more like a textbook that tries to also be entertaining. The good news, though, is that Mythos also feels more biblical and paternal. which might be good for my life-long endeavour to understand the origin of human-stupidity. Where Heroes entertains, Mythos informs. And that’s a good thing, right? But I’m not referring to information about Greek mythology. There’s something else at play here. At least in my worst-mind there is.

I’ve always been curious about the stories that gave way to that which has steered the world for that past two thousand to twenty-five hundred years. I’m worst-writing, of course, about human-stupidity galore aka religion. In my limited and redneck reading of and about religion, the thing that’s always been clear is that it really is nothing but a story told over and over and over and… Indeed. It is a story that people want/need to believe–and never question. Once you get people hooked on that, you got ’em! That’s where politics and religion mix, right? That’s their secret, right? Hence the world we live in today. With that in mind, though, what came before The Story?

Fry in no way, shape or form answers my worst-question. And I probably shouldn’t expect an answer from him–at least not in these books. But his writing does motivate me to think anew as he has become quite the conduit to writings I’ve previously failed to comprehend. For example. Humanity went from polytheism to monotheism thousands of years ago. And I can only imagine that the transition was bloody and horrific–but it is all part of a true story that can be retrieved from stories told over and over and over, etc. For example. The story of religion. In this story we know that monotheism replaced polytheism. But what was before polytheism? I mean, could there have been a time where man didn’t rely on irrational thought to deal with his reality? If so where is the story about that? I know. I know. I’m batting at the wind.

The thing I’m gonna take away from reading these two books by Stephen Fry is this: Greek mythology and Christianity are the same joke told by the same joke maker that humanity fails to laugh at enough so that we can wake up from stupid-time. For some that might be exciting. You know, on account you can actually comprehend the classics. For others, it’s a turn-off on account they could give a hoot if all the classics once again conveniently burn away in Alexandria. But since I just recently found out what the term “bottoming” means, I think I’m making progress in my quest to understand life, the universe and why men want to stick their dicks in anything that moves.

So. Yea. That’s what I got out Mythos. The Greek Gods, especially the main-god Zeus, really did a number by sticking his dick in anything and everything that moved. How convenient that it only took a thousand years or so to reign in men trying to be their own little Zeus, hence the advent of prudery aka Christianity, of which Jesus Christ must have been well aware–since most of his life was probably spent in Alexandria, Egypt. Is there a coincidence here? Irony? I mean, isn’t Alexandria where the whole Greed world kinda ended? You know, and then all that Roman shit stepped in until monotheism could finally get a hold on everything? Oh. What the hell do I know? And so…

Good luck with loving the story of your faith fiction that tells the lie fo the mind of your bitter-sweet nothingness prudery that dates back to something like… three to five thousand B.C. where dicks reigned supreme on account they could be stuck anywhere and in anything. But on that note, I do die-gress.

Rant and read on.

-T

Alternative title to this worst-post: How Stephen Fry read it all so I could finally cheat-it-all and thereby get a grip on some seriously ancient literature stuff. Thank you Stephen!

Question: Were you there, dear worst-edumacated-reader? You know. Were you there… while you was in college? Or was I the only one fiddling around with my girl’s button-downs (while in college) and thinking I was gonna get me some edumacation? Seriously. Was I the only one drinking too much at the local pub after every $hitbag tutor session from you-know-who professor that must have been so much like just another Harvey Weinstein? And after it was all said & drunk… Was I the only one trying to pay attention to whatever ENG201 or LIT301 class at University of… How To Fill The World With $hitbags?

Yeah. I’m sure you were there. In your college. Or is there another way to read worst-writer dot com?

But here’s a question for all my worst-readers: While attending so-called higher education in order to make a buck or three in a future of no-fate, did you ever ask yourself this: was it really your intention to become just another college grad $hitbag automaton that would steer the world to where it is today? Or did you have something else in mind?

Indeed. And enough with worst-writer’s non-sense about how the edumacated have ruined everything for the rest of us by thinking/assuming they learned something/anything during those years of post-adolescence put on hold. Then again, I’m dreary at times, if not inebriated, when I think of those days gone, days long gone, where I had my way with that one girl’s button-downs who was really my everything–and she got away. And on that note, I do die-gress.

Although I had hoped college would be different than high school, not unlike Barry-O’s presidency so many years later, I was wrong. The only difference between high school and college in my beloved & missed #Americant–you know, the place that has given way to Stupid-Rule (as opposed to the lie of Democracy)–is that in college, as they say, you are of-age. That is, you don’t have to worry about parenting anymore by erstatz-parents, aka teachers and school authoritarians. You also don’t have to worry about $hitbag siblings or dirty uncles who do funny things with fingers in your body parts, etc. In college the only thing you have to worry about is the police–and their being the final score in raising you to know who’s boss in this world of how little freedom you really have. Of course, there’s another form of authority you have to deal with post high school $hitbaggery. In other worst-words…

I quickly realised what it is like to be part of the lower middle classes once I got to college. College forced me to really get to know my poverty. You know, as in, the financial police are dictators of behaviour as you starve for a few nights in order to afford being able to purchase reading material so that you can listen and adhere to even more dictates of some $hitbag tenured professor who would rather be fiddling with your girl’s button-downs. Wait. In other worst-words…

I remember reading Oedipus Rex in college and having somewhat of a good time with it–because, other than a good time in #Americant, there is nothing else to do in college. That is, even though I had already read Oedipus Rex, whereas most of my colleagues read CliffNotes of it, I decided to turn my knowledge of the play into an attack on that $hitbag tenured professor–who thought he owned me. In fact, I still have the used paperback version of the play that I bought for a previous class and was subsequently scolded by the $hitbag tenured professor for trying to save money thereby not buying the recommended book for his class–which would have cost three or four times more that what I could afford. While professor $hitbag scolded me and said that I wasn’t playing along in his $hitshow and that would result in my final grade, I proceeded with a written and oral argument about the illegitimacy of Oedipus Rex being a king because he, ultimately, he is not part of a kingly bloodline. And since I knew my professor was a semi-professional priest, I proceeded in making a Jesus vs. Oedipus comparison that would rock his world. I argued, in line with Greek mythology, that Jocasta was nothing but yet another tainted and über-angry woman–married to a tainted and über-angry man–and no one quite knew where the key to her chastity belt was. Unlike Jesus’ mother, though, everyone knew where her chastity belt was. I then threw in a few examples of ancient Demi-gods and how those Demi-gods were nothing more than the result of war-torn booty-calls–especially booty-calls from the likes of Zeus & Co., who all have the eternal keys to not just war-torn losing side females, but also their tainted chastity belts. And so… Like all Greek mythology, the entirety of Christianity is a narrative for suckers and blind believers and/or those unwilling to not only question EVERYTHING but to even think critically about answers found or avoided by questioning EVERYTHING. And so… I really pissed off that tenured $hitbag professor with my pseudo comparison that was also a bloated $hit on his religious beliefs. You know, he was a devout evangelical #Americant $hitbag who couldn’t keep his lying eyes off my girlfriend’s button-downs on account his wife was probably more frigid than Zeus’ ice-cock. So at the end of my oral argument I said something akin to Oedipus shouldn’t even be studied anymore on account it does the same damage to unquestioning minds that the fcuking bible does. But enough of my sentimentalising about how much I hated having been edumacated in #Americant.

After five or so years of struggling with tenured $hitbag professors who never taught me a thing, I finally gave up on college. Degree-less and wanton of something other than becoming just another automaton, I swore then and there that there were two things that I would never trust for the rests of my life. The first is systematic and collective edumacation. I had attended three colleges in my beloved & missed #Americant. I attended a fourth college in #Eurowasteland. Considering that college is a stepping stone (or is it step-ladder?) to get anywhere in life in the past thirty to fifty years, it’s no wonder that the world is so fcuked up. I mean, can you believe it, dear worst-reader? Look at all those college grads! Look at all those higher-edumacated dunces running corporations, governments, the media. Even President Stupid, über-$hitbag #Trump himself, proudly claims that he is edumacated from an elite and privileged class of… University of Free to be Stupid. Yeah, just look at what school can do. But here’s the real-sad thing about my days trying to get some knowledge on.

1. All I wanted was to learn and I wasn’t allowed to do so because I’m actually poor.
2. I wanted, potentially, possibly, to become a teacher because, while failing in college, I did realise that I loved the interaction of teaching and learning–and I wanted to be a teacher that wasn’t a $hitbag.
3. Even though, for all practical purposes in the game of getting by in life, I learned nothing from either high school or college and to this day, there is something seriously wrong with that.

I know. I know. Perhaps I’m a bit idealising that whole learn(ing)-thing. Considering the meritless situation the world is in right, learning might not be all it is cracked up to be. Still. Every few weeks or so, I yearn to get a book in my hands–as it’s been my sole source of learning for the past thirty or so years. Heck, I’m even so far & wide with reading, I yearn to download another book on my iPad if I go a few weeks without reading something–even if there appears to be nothing out to read. Yeah. Ain’t nothing wrong with reading books on hand-held computers out boredom. Or? Nomatter.

The other day I came across a book that I just had to give a try. After reading a few sample pages of it (electronically) and then seeing that purchasing the paperback version was cheaper than the electronic version, guess what? I bought Stephen Fry’s “Heroes”–in real book form. As in… I bought a physical book. As soon as it arrived, though, it sat on my coffee table for about a week before I picked it up to actually read it. Reason? It’s the first time I ordered a physical book in two or three years. It took time for the whole idear of having purchased a real book to settle in. I actually swore way-way back that I was done with physical books. So. When a real book arrived with snail-mail, I kept staring at it while it rested on my coffee table. It’s actually real, I thought to myself. I mean, don’t get me wrong, dear worst-reader. In 2018 I bought new bookshelves so my better-half and I could finally combine all our physical reading material in one place. You know, a bookshelf for decorative and sentimental reasons. Our own little library, if you will. So I didn’t stop buying real books because I have something against them. No. It’s just that…

Once I started reading Fry’s brilliant re-write of Greek mythology, I couldn’t stop. Reason? From beginning to end, I can’t recall ever reading something so familiar but, at the same time, reading something so new. In fact, I killed the over four hundred pages of this book in three days. Just before worst-writing this worst-post, I re-read the chapter on Bellerophon, too. So get this…

I did not know anything about Bellerophon. Of course, I knew about Pegasus. I even had a vague recollection of Pegasus’ birth out of the neck of Medusa. But Bellerophon? Whaaaaaaa? And Fry doesn’t stop there teaching anyone willing everything that need be known about Greek mythology. I did not know that Heracles freed Prometheus from that whole side-of-mountain thing during one of his labours where a bird eats his liver every day. Whaaaaaaa? And then there’s Medea. Wow. What a witch-chick that one was, eh! Anywho.

Fry really nails it with this book. If anyone is interested in a concise and precise cliff-note-like, yet beautifully narrated summary of everything Greek mythology, this is the book. What a joy.

Rant and read on.

-T

PS Although out of order, reading Heroes first, has lead to reading Mythos next, which is Fry’s first book of the two. Yeah, out of order is fine.

Just a little surprised at the size of the packaging for a single paperback. It also took several weeks to get here even though it was sent from a book store in Engaland. Then again, if my expectations of this read turn out to be warranted, how it got here doesn’t matter. 

Rant (and read) on. 

-T

Subtitle: Thoughts on re-read of Milan Kundera’s The Joke (the 1982 English translation)

“Optimism is the opium of the people! A healthy atmosphere stinks of stupidity! Long live Trotsky!” -from The Joke by Milan Kundera

According to Ludvik the quote above is from a postcard he sent to woman of interest as a joke. I suppose when written to a person while in the midst of love-lust confusion and during the striving days of the Soviet Unions’ new-beginnings in early 1960s Czechoslovakia, Milan Kundera considers the twisting of Marx’s Religion is the opium of the people more than just a joke. But what can one do if/when the thing you are really joking about is a system that depends on the control of not just words written but also of words thought?

As I ride it gayly and march ambiguously into the twilight of western democracy’s funny-train (the #Trump-era), I’m often wondering if I’ll see the day when the same type of total control (totalitarianism) that Kundera deals with, I’ll also have to deal with. Considering how things have turned out since 1991 and the fall of the Soviet Union, I also wonder if the whole socialist experiment was just one big joke played on humanity by some dirtbag she-goddess with a grudge–that stems back tens of thousands of years because of how males grabbed females by the HAIR and dragged them into caves. You know, as in, grab ’em by the… But I digress.

“You used to say that socialism sprouted from the soil of European rationalism and skepticism, a soil both nonreligious and anti-religious, and that it is otherwise inconceivable. But can you seriously maintain that it is impossible to build a socialist society without faith in the supremacy of matter? Do you really think that people who believe in God are incapable of nationalising factories?” -from The Joke by Milan Kundera

Then again, of the political and economic systems alive & kicking in the world today, there really is only one that has past the test of (recent) time. If you’re thinking Capitalism is that system, dear worst-reader, you’d better think again. Socialism is kicking butt right now. From both sides of China’s Great Wall to Vladimir Putin’s total ownership of Red Square to the various interpretations of Socialism in the vastness of #Eurowasteland’s epic confusion, Socialism is way ahead of #Americant… Sorry. Way ahead of Capitalism.

“‘As Communists we are responsible for everything that is going on here.’ I nearly laughed in his face. Responsibility was unthinkable without freedom, I told him. He said he felt free enough to act like a Communist and that he had to prove, would prove himself a Communist. His jaw trembled as he spoke. Today, years later, I can still remember it clearly, but now I realise that Alexej was not much more than twenty at the time, a child, an adolescent, and his destiny hung on him like the clothes of a giant on a little boy.” -from The Joke by Milan Kundera

In worst-short, Capitalism in its current iteration is nothing but a reimagining of Feudalism. Feudalism was a system of lords and serfs, including inbred monarchs. What lead to Feudalism was Slavery. Slavery had the longest run of the three. Slavery goes back to Egypt, don’t you know. It was also used in Ancient Greece, Rome and, of course, it was used to build my beloved & missed #Americant. But then $hit started to hit the fan as that whole Enlightenment thing took hold after the 16th century. Btw, I will always admire the French for one-upping the US when it comes to social and political revolutions derived out of human oppression. Indeed. The French nailed it. (Well, they nailed it in the revolution but fcuked it up in the counter-revolution.)

“Rationalist skepticism has been eating away at Christianity for two millennia now. Eating away at it without destroying it. But Communist theory, its own creation, it will destroy within a few decades.” -from The Joke by Milan Kundera

The thing to keep in mind when worst-writer says that Socialism is currently outlasting, winning, kicking the a$$ of capitalism, is the state of things in the strongest Capitalist strongholds, the US and the UK. Is it any concern to anyone how small these remaining Capitalist nation-states are? Or should one consider how large China is? So even if my claim here is kinda out of whack, the fact remains, China is on the verge of over taking #Americant as the largest economy in the world–and it is far from being a Capitalist nation. Will we someday soon consider Capitalist nations and their extreme isolation a joke? Think about that worst-thought.

“Nobody liked people who relied on pull.” -from The Joke by Milan Kundera

It’s all a joke. Seriously. The state of things in the Capitalist West is a fcuking joke and it can only be comparable to the fcuking joke of the former Soviet Union (and its failure) and to the success of China along with a few places in #Eurowasteland. (I’ve always said that Germany is the last Communist State in the West.) And the thing about a joke is sometimes you’re in on it and other times it’s in on you. I mean, come on. Crooked, lock-her-up #Hillary won something like four million more votes than #Trump and she wouldn’t have done much to counter the chilling effects of the post FDR years where Capitalism has pretty much run amok. Is that not a joke? The Capitalist democracy joke? Is the manipulation of #Americant’s electoral college combined with bailing out banks that act like loan sharks the joke teller? Jokes galore, dear worst-reader. An audience of joke lovers.

Milan Kundera’s idear of the perfect joke: Helena, one of Ludvik’s lovers, attempts suicide by stealing pills from a young man. It turns out the pills are laxatives hidden in a prescription jar of pain killers. While in a panic and trying to save her, she is found hysterical sitting on toilet.

The Joke was Kundera’s first book. Although I started reading it years ago, I never got around to finishing it. Having read three others (Laughable Loves, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Immortality), I knew that I would eventually get around to this one again as it waited patiently for me in my Kundera collection. After picking it up the other day and having a first sitting with it, I realised that I had actually read more than I initially remembered. All the markings, underlines, etc., that I had made so many years ago woke my memory of having read through it one night while gloriously penetrating a bimbo I met in Amsterdam. Yeah, Dankyavel was her name. I would fcuk her for a bit and while in my refractory period I’d read from this book. We’d then fcuk some more and with each subsequent fcuk I’d need a longer refractory period where I could read more. Hence I feel safe considering this a re-read. Btw, the only thing I miss from youth is cumming in or on or around a woman smarter than me ten times a day.

“Pray tell, dear friend, Why doth this honest groom desire to take this honest maid to wife? Is’t for the flower or the fruit?” -from The Joke by Milan Kundera

Most of The Joke is a joy to read. But I can understand why some might consider Kundera’s narrative style a bit cumbersome. (At least that’s what my wife says.) To me, Kundera is an author that has unlimited creative prowess, he maintains a thread that permeates all his work (which I really dig), and his word sculpting never ceases to amaze. But the thing that always brings me back to Kundera–let’s say as a reference source, especially in times of trouble where Mother Mary doesn’t come to me–is the fact that I have always been touched by his exasperations regarding Stalinism. Along with Vaclav Havel, Kundera introduced me to a new reality of political thought. The fact that Kundera is able to combine (his) musings about love, passion and desire from the POV of political oppression, makes his work even more interesting. (Btw, that’s the thread that permeates.)

When I first started reading Kundera, back in the early 90s, capitalist and/or economic oppression hadn’t shown its #Trump face yet. In other words, Reaganomics hadn’t made the full turn to ugly (Deplorables) yet. The Soviet Union was in free-fall but the former oppressed were suddenly free to buy jeans, Marlboro reds, travel, etc. Yet the whole time I couldn’t help but feel that the oppression of the Soviet Union wasn’t isolated nor was it bound by politics. Oppression is oppression, eh. As we all now know, the only thing the peoples of the Soviet Union really wanted was jeans, Marlboro reds and…. blah, blah, blah. What was once authoritarian oppression has now become economic oppression–the difference between the two being jeans, Marlboro reds, blah, blah, blah.

My first read of Kundera was The Unbearable Lightness of Being and it was like being struck by lightening. From the get-go, Tomas became my secret hero. His heroism, btw, has nothing to do with his fight against the Soviet-Man. No. Tomas was about love and the conquest of love and then eventually losing yourself in love. Tomas, to me, was the kind of lover I sincerely wanted to be. Was I ever able to find my Tereza or my Sabina? Of course not–although I did enjoy trying (to find her.) But until the power, the anger and the need to fcuk finally subsided (resulting in the true cute ugliness of feminine payback aka marriage), all I ever wanted was to fcuk like Tomas. The real beauty of Kundera’s The Joke is that Ludvik is Tomas’ predecessor, if not Tomas’ character in spirit. It’s almost like reading Tomas in a beta version.

“Yes, suddenly I saw it all clearly: most people willingly deceive themselves with a doubly false faith; they believe in eternal memory (of men, things, deeds, peoples) and in rectification (of deeds, errors, sins, injustice). Both are sham. The truth lies at the opposite end of the scale: everything will be forgotten and nothing will be rectified. All rectification (both vengeance and forgiveness) will be taken over by oblivion. No one will rectify wrongs; all wrongs will be forgotten.” -from The Joke, Milan Kundera

Kundera’s The Joke is really one big joke. It’s brilliant!

-Rant on

T

Links that motivated this post:
– Opium of the people | Wiki

There are two things I always think about when I think about the tale of Beowulf. The first is the connection the story has to religion, specifically monotheistic religion. At the time the story was written polytheism was still relatively common in Northern Europe. Even though it is a very minor part of the original text, I believe the slight mention of Christianity is a significant one because the story stems out of a time period where northern Europeans were determining their fate and considering carefully what was going on to their geographical south. Indeed. Odin and Thor and Loki were obviously not enough as the roar of the Roman + Christian empire(s) just below them glowed large and all-powerful.

In the original Beowulf text the Christian religion is mentioned during a debate with the King of the Danes that maybe they should hire the Romans–as in the Christ believers–instead of Beowulf to help them fight Grendel. It is because of that question I’ve always believed that Grendel is not an individual but instead a group or a tribe. Btw, the same applies to Beowulf. In other words, although the story can be about an individual or a few individuals and the heroism that entails–as it’s been interpreted through out the centuries–I believe that the story is actually about tribes that were in a perpetual state of war not only about power and possessions but also beliefs, dogma and Gods. So what were they fighting over?

The second thing I think about is the role of matriarchy in society (tribes) and how rule by the feminine has pretty much been annihilated–even to this day. That is, Grendel and Grendel’s mother represented a tribe(s) where matriarchy ruled. Such rule was unacceptable to the King of the Danes and Beowulf–i.e. two macho-tribes that teamed up. Hence, the Roman Christ God, its patriarchy, its dogma, its weapons and techniques of war, was an acceptable alternative for the macho-pigs in their quest to take over (everything). At the least, this other form of religion put the women-folk in their place. Ultimately, the macho-pigs, embodied in the macho Beowulf, fulfilled this fledgling dogmatic image and, at least in the short term, saved the King of the Danes by defeating–annihilating–not only rival tribes but the rivalry of matriarchy itself. This, in-turn, was the final straw that lead to the Christianisation of Northern Europe that The Universal Church (that would eventually become The Catholic Church) up to that point had been unable to tame. So was Beowulf the north’s first sacrificed saviour? But on that note, I digress.

So much for worst-writer’s interpretation of the Poem of Everything. Instead, dear worst-reader, let’s focus on someone else’s interpretation of Beowulf. Someone who I think has nailed it. I just finished The Mere Wife by Maria Dahvana Headley. Talk about interpretation, baby! And not only can this chick fcuking write–she has created a glorious text to read–and she’s even come up with a pretty good interpretation of Beowulf. But only pretty good!

Set in the modern suburban-hell of my beloved & missed & war-torn #Americant, Headley has kinda done a reverse and inverse of Beowulf. Her interpretation is not hero centric but instead heroine centric. By turning the story inside-out and telling it through the point of view of the feminine, who must cope with the fcuked-up world created and facilitated by male driven war, if not penis-driven suburbia, she has masterfully concocted a story of the trials, pains and tribulations of a once great nation run amok–and what that’s done to the chicks. Even though I don’t actually like her feminising my favourite man-cave text–and I’m especially not sure if I would like it if I wasn’t already familiar with the original–she writes with such lyrical precision and word-beauty that I’m ready to give one of her other books a go. Yeah, baby. Queen of Kings is next?

The Mere Wife deserves every bit of praise it gets. In fact, I’m gonna have to search the #interwebnets for whether or not anyone doesn’t like what Headley has done with Beowulf. And if/when I find someone who doesn’t like it, I’m gonna hunt them down and stick a big fcuking knife in their neck and drink their blood till the roar of Beowulf booms out of me. Argh!

-Rant (and read) on.

T