Forty years long was I grieved with this generation

Sunday the 22d October was the 20th Sunday after Trinity. That workaday Season of the Church is hasting to its yearly end: soon enough, it shall be Advent-tide, and then Christmas, the birthday and New Year of the Church. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

(O that men would therefore praise the Lord for his goodness : and declare the wonders that he doeth for the children of men!)

Sunday the 22d October was a morning of complex skies which some should no doubt have called confused. There were clouds of several classes at separate strata in the column of air above us, and the winds aloft blew in divers directions, and blew them accordingly. (The wind bloweth where it listeth…) I did not regard the sky, the clouds, or the winds aloft as confused: I saw contrary motion. Fugal. Baroque. Bach.

But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

Writers are very kittle cattle indeed.

A middling-distant cousin of mine some generations back once wrote, The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure. The natural diet, the meat and drink, of writers, is in two sources: in words, notably including the words of others; and in natural sense experience. Both must be consumed to nourish the writer: to eliminate either from a balanced diet makes a scurvy writer and scurvy writing. Writers are kittle cattle—as kittle, as self-willed and headstrong, as any wild kine in the history of domestication and its failures—, and, however kittle, require a nicely calculated diet if they are to flourish.

We spoke the other day of the merits of observing the natural world and its phenomena. We must now speak of words.

A very dear, very generous, and very patient friend of mine, an editor, author, and poet, reminded me a week or so ago that my mind … does not work after the fashion of other minds. I know. A decade ago, after my triple bypass, one of the lawyers at my old firm (the invariable dream-setting of all my anxiety dreams and nightmares), still occasionally contracting with me for appellate assistance and writing, said, in response to my warning that I had lost a step, that that meant only that the rest of them could at last keep up. That was not flattery … because it was not commendatory, or not altogether, nor meant to be: I do have—and everyone knows it—an ill-regulated, ungoverned, and Catherine-wheel mind, an inability to imagine that others are not on the same proverbial and metaphoric page, and no patience whatever. I stand at one Altuve in height, and my patience and my temper are shorter than I am.

Frankly, I’m simply thankful that I avoided synæsthesia with the rest of it.

As it happens, I am possessed of, and am not, I fear, always unfeignedly thankful to possess, a retentive but ill-directed memory. I forget what I ought not to forget, and I cannot forget things any normal person had long forgotten.

Decades ago, I ran across, and yet remember, something in The (old) New Yorker: something itself decades old at the time, which cannot have been printed any later, I think, than the earliest Fifties. Shawn might have passed it, but it seems more likely to date to the dying days of Ross as editor. What I remember of it is the setup and the punchline; I could not now tell you if it were a squib or a cartoon. The main character was a Southern Literary Figure at a Manhattan cocktail party, who had clearly moved North to the flesh-pots but continued to work the same old vein of literature; the punchline, his rather self-defensive remark, Thank God, Ah’ve kept my sense of loss.

As a Southerner and a writer, that tends to stick with me. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

My grandfathers—whom I mention in this context because both outlived my grandmothers—saw in the course of their lives vast changes. Both were born before the Wright Brothers took to the sky: both lived long enough to see men land on the Moon. They saw out two World Wars and innumerable smaller conflicts, beginning with the Spanish-American War; they saw the fall of empires. They saw seventeen US presidents and six British monarchs. The pace of change, and particularly the pace of social change, much of it but by no means all of it salutary, was greater by some magnitude than any known by their ancestors in recorded history: because it embraced changes in kind as in degree. In most material aspects, my late parents’ lives and mine have seen change yet more frenetic; but, save in material aspects, only in degree. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

In the United States, society has atomized: and not voluntarily, as a byproduct of expansion and the frontier: as was the case in elder days. Neither major political party bears any resemblance to its founding principles or its founding ethos, and neither is now fit for a gentleman to belong to. Politics is the art of the possible: even the salutary social changes of the past century were compromised from their beginnings, as they must necessarily have been to have occurred; and now their virtues are mostly spent and the disadvantages and dross and dirty deals which attended their success alone remain. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

The secondary school I attended no longer exists as such. My native city has changed out of all recognition. My old university, and its law school—for I was a Seven-Year Man—, now exists in name only, and those responsible for that sea change are bent upon dispensing with the name so soon as they can be assured that it shall not cost them a bankrupting drop in alumni contributions. It is only for the moment that they are content to continue trading under the old name to trade upon the confidence of the public. But it is a long-firm fraud, and must come in time to an end.

Thank God, Ah’ve kept my sense of loss.

But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

(My brain works differently to the brains of others; be patient: we are getting somewhere relevant with this.)

I am naturally a man of conservative temperament. This, in the United States, has nothing to do with what the current so-called Right in America has become, but is dedicated to conserving the founding principles, the Classical Liberal principles, of the Republic, as held and expressed and codified by the Founders and the Framers. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

I am naturally a man of conservative temperament. This is not a reaction, emotional and sub-rational, to the childhood disappointment and anger of having my one trip to Disneyland interrupted and ruined by the Yippies’ takeover of the park. It proceeds rather from my conviction that babies ought not to be thrown out with the bathwater, that there is a profound difference between growth and mere change, that precedent matters, that one may trust more safely in the tested than in the theoretical untested, that, as Mr. Justice Holmes put it, the life of the law is not in logic but in experience. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

My life today, like perhaps all lives, has been a long series of losses and of desperate rearguard actions. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

Thank God, Ah’ve kept my sense of loss.

(My brain works differently to the brains of others; be patient: we are getting somewhere relevant with this.)

I have a clear visual memory of having seen, decades ago, a cartoon from The New Yorker which cannot date to later than the 1930s or pre-Pearl Harbor ’40s and which as a matter of style was unquestionably by Peter Arno. It involved a crowd of socialites on the pavement or sidewalk outside a brownstone. One of these was a gormless-looking man about town in a dinner suit, soft shoes, a Panama hat, and a look of settled dim confusion, whom I immediately set down as likelier a Yale man than a Harvard man. He was in the foreground, but he was not the central character. Within the brownstone, there was clearly a social gathering, perhaps a cocktail party, and the window was open. Calling out to the crowd within, at the open window, was the protagonist of this little drama, a woman with a mouth as wide as Martha Raye’s, urging the partygoers to tag along with her companions, as they were all ‘going to the Trans-Lux to hiss Roosevelt’: that is, going to the cinema to jeer at the newsreels when FDR appeared.

The cartoon was of course in black and white, and, I think, wash. But I recognized that woman immediately. From her shoes to her clutch to her furs to her hair to the color of her lipstick and the color of her complexion and quite possibly of her teeth and her pearls, she was a symphony in various shades of fawn; and her voice was long marinated in a bottle of booze and five packs of cigarettes a day. Allowing for slight differences in latitude and geography, I knew her precisely: the Junior League, the Tuesday Musical Club, a benefactress of the opera and the symphony, utterly self-centered, the progenitrix of Karens, and quite probably a nominal Anglican. My late mother, although a brunette, as the Welsh tend to be, had none of these vices: music, yes; a sincere Anglicanism unquestionably; popping by the Junior League certainly, at least for the orange-glazed rolls; yet a lady of a wholly different quality to the woman in the cartoon. Moving, however, in those circles, she knew a right smart of that woman’s sisters or daughters.

Mumsie, the daughter and niece of clergymen, expended her energies on better objects, at the parish and the parish church: the Thrift Shop, the ECW, the Altar Guild. Protesting all along that she was not clever—a reaction to having both a husband and a son who were both, there being no more pleasant way of putting it, smart-asses—, she read theology for fun. She had no real use for earthly politics. A daughter of the Great Depression, who had seen rural parishes during the Great Depression, she was utterly free of snobbery. (In this she differed somewhat from my great-uncle, her father’s brother, whose all-consuming ambition to be made a bishop was so obvious that he never became one.) As you may imagine, I was effectively raised a ‘sanctuary brat’, forever in and out of the church, rather a chorister than an acolyte.

All things change: πάντα ῥεῖ; πάντα χωρεῖ καὶ οὐδὲν μένει. The question is whether things merely change, or whether they grow in accordance with their natures. Loss is bearable in the second case, but not in the first.

I do not now, as I did in university, attend local and committee meetings of the Democratic Party, as my father’s grandfather, landowner and local chairman, did before me. I do not, whether on a Sunday after Trinity or at the great Feasts of the Church, Christmas and Easter, attend my local services. I cannot do either in good conscience. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

There is no point in my expatiating all the reason for the former abandonment, that of active engagement in the secular faith of my fathers. You’d not be interested in that, and it is of doubtful relevance.

As for the Anglican Communion… Well, Thank God, Ah’ve kept my sense of loss.

(My brain works differently to the brains of others; be patient: we are getting somewhere relevant with this.)

I am absent from my local parish church because I am an orthodox (and thus Continuing) Anglican, and St.-Tendentia-the-Trendy’s is not in my view Anglican at all. (Rite CCCXII for Stardate 2207.9, ‘contemporary’ worship muzak, people with their hands in the air, a mosh pit in the pews, all the liturgical, ecclesiological, and theological rigor of a Baptist shad-planking, and not a validly ordained priest in fifty miles.) I enjoy but can no longer play my beloved Bach: my left hand no longer works to the necessary extent, as some miserable SOB ran over me—in a crosswalk, with the right of way, the lights, and all signals in my favor—in his pickup truck, thereby retrospectively making a waste of years of my being tutored in, and playing, violin; I have not now wind enough, after my triple bypass a decade ago, to thunder amongst and amidst the other bassos. But this has not cost me my love of—or the glories in—Bach, and in Handel. I cannot drive now, let alone an hour and more to the nearest High Anglican, ACNA church; yet I remain an Anglican.

Peter Arno’s dowager Karen should nowadays, as her great-grand-daughter Karens now do, expend her excess of unintellectual energy, assuage her self-important sense of injur’d merit, and satisfy her Wille zur Macht in right-on political campaigning and activism or MAGA-Karenism, and quite possibly in seeking pretended ordination, or even purported consecration to episcopal orders: a deaconess in togs above her station. The majority of the non-GAFCON Anglican Communion has managed, as only Anglicanism could have done, to do what was beyond the power and authority of Pope Leo XIII (who, at the time, was in any case mistaken in his facts), and invalidate the Anglican Communion’s Apostolic Succession and the validity of her orders. But you’ll not be interested in that, and are perhaps doubtful of its relevance.

(My brain works differently to the brains of others; be patient: we are getting somewhere relevant with this.)

I do not pretend that birding and morning walks and observations of the sky substitute for, or compensate for, the absence in my life of being able in good conscience to attend, to find, a proper Anglican Eucharist: for the means of grace, and for the hope of glory.

But if all things flow and all things change, they not infrequently repeat, in stretto or in contrary motion, fugally.

There is a difference between growth and mere change. It is only in the surreal logic of dreams and fantasies that things do not grow according to their natures but rather change without reason. The drupe becomes a damson, not a dragon, save in dreams; save in grim and Grimmish Hausmärchen, the House Martin begets House Martins, not hydras. Writers of fantasy especially must know the lands and fields we know, and know them thoroughly, if they mean to write of lands and fields we do not know and carry the reader with them to that land and those fields, amid the alien corn.

You do well to be interested in that truth; and must not doubt its relevance.

There have been times before when churches have been closed or in which none of the faithful could, without eating and drinking their own damnation, in good conscience attend them. At the beginning of the 13th Century, in England, and in Wales, there was a period of five years in which all the realm lay under interdict and the monarch had been excommunicated. This was the fault of perhaps the most despised of all my more despicable ancestors, a 21st great-grandfather of mine. The effects were felt even by foreign visitors, not to say hostages, at the royal court, so long as they were there. They did not quite cause a revolution, but they clearly embittered politics and contributed markedly to the scarred survivors’ approach to the First Barons’ War and its savageries, which followed after the interdict was lifted.

When, later, a great-uncle of mine and a first cousin of mine many generations back re-enacted this quarrel, they had to hand a continuing church as refuge. When, later still, cousins of mine revisited these follies, yet other cousins had that consolation, and, even when forbidden openly to practice their religion, had resources and sustenance.

They, like all writers and many a non-writer, fell back upon and found their nourishment in words. Words received from their fathers before them. The words of other authors. Part of the natural diet of the writer. You do well to be interested in that truth; and must not doubt its relevance.

There is always a grace and a refuge, an Island of Athelney in the direst times: and for the writer and the reader, that is commonly words. As matters stand, in the parlous state of the Anglican Communion in the Global North, I have fallen back upon the Daily Offices and The Book of Common Prayer.

(My brain works differently to the brains of others; be patient: we are even now come somewhere relevant with this.)

Regardless of your religion or irreligion, your faith or lack of it, your opinion of faith and religion, you must as a writer be interested and find this relevant. The sources of the modern English language, in Britain, in Australia and New Zealand, in Canada, in the United States of America, in South Africa, in India and Pakistan and Sri Lanka, in Hong Kong, and throughout the globe, have but a few major sources and tributaries. We get very little immediately from the Beowulf poet, or Cædmon, or even from Great Alfred. We get little more from Chaucer or Langland, or, save indirectly, from Wycliffe. The sources of our common tongue, its poetry and its prosody, rest primarily and fundamentally upon the Authorised Version—the ‘KJV’—, the 1662 BCP, and Shakespeare, topped up only a little by Bunyan and by Milton. And of these sources, only Shakespeare is secular.

Regardless of your religion or irreligion, your faith or lack of it, your opinion of faith and religion, you must as a writer immerse and ground yourself in these sources of our common tongue: for many of the phrases and metaphors and figures, and the moods and modes, of the speech you use and write daily are like the Order of Battle at Agincourt in Willie the Shake’s play: names familiar in the mouth as household words:

… Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester—
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’ed.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberèd…

Aldo Leopold wrote, in ‘Round River’, ‘a species must be saved in many places if it is to be saved at all’: and that is true of language as of the natural world. ‘Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’ / We are not now that strength which in old days / Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are…’ This ought to be written above the desk of every writer; as ought panta rhei. All things change; but if they are to grow rather than transmute without reason—which should in no long time make communication impossible—, the writer must hew to the ‘hard sayings of old’.

Most writers are aware of the debt the language owes to Shakespeare. It owes no less a debt to the BCP and the Authorised Version. …In whom we live and move and have our being. We, thy needy creatures. Humble praises. This our morning sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving. Peace in our time. In the midst of life we are in death. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust… To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, til death us depart. In the beginning. Lift up your hearts. Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee. Grace at this time with one accord. Desires and petitions. From lightning and tempest; from earthquake, fire, and flood; from plague, pestilence, and famine; from battle and murder, and from sudden death, Good Lord, deliver us. Long-suffering. Almighty God, unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid. Ye that do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins. It is very meet, right, and our bounden duty. The peace of God, which passeth all understanding. Try reading, speaking, or writing English without being influenced by any of these: I’ll watch. And if you’re betting on your success, I’ll take that wager against you.

Good luck speaking, reading, or writing English without these, too. Or even listening to music in English, from Messiah to Molly Hatchet to Motown; in bluegrass, big band, or Carolina beach music; at rock concert, rodeo, or Remembrance Sunday. In the beginning was the Word. Scapegoat. Feet of clay. Peacemaker. Reap the whirlwind. Kill the fatted calf. A leopard cannot change its spots. A man after his own heart. The apple of his eye. Lost sheep. The love of money is the root of all evil. They shall beat their swords into ploughshares. Pearls before swine. Pride goeth before a fall, misquotation though it be. The powers that be. Rise and shine. Vale of tears. Three score and ten. Holier-than-thou. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Filthy lucre. An eye for an eye. The fly in the ointment. The road to Damascus. Coals of fire. Merciful kindness. The valley of the shadow of death. A word fitly spoken. The Greeks gave us a golden apple; but not apples of gold in pictures of silver. Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein. He made a pit, and digged it, and is fallen into the ditch which he made. The rock whence ye are hewn. Lift up your heads, O ye gates. Glorious appearing. Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Principalities and powers. All we like sheep. Many are called, but few are chosen. Things invisible and unseen. Faithful servants. Behold, I tell you a mystery. The trumpet shall sound. O death, where is thy sting? His yoke is easy. The day of His coming. More precious than rubies. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.

The language you use has been shaped by these words. I don’t ask it shape your soul; but as it is going to shape your writing and your thought—and good luck trying to think or write without it—, I suggest you get the heft and feel of its shape.

I mentioned Bach and Handel for a reason. The rhythms of our language are reflected in Anglican plainchant, in its syllabic stresses; the Augustan love of Latinate meter is an affectation, though it has its uses. What the language did inherit from Beowulf, from Cædmon, from Deor and Widsith and The Ruin, from The Seafarer and Vainglory and The Wanderer and all the Exeter Book, from The Dream of the Rood, from the Finnsburh Fragment and The Battle of Maldon, are these things:

an innocent, or at least a naïve, delight in pomp—and in secular fame;

a sense of deep abyssal history, an unknown and unknowable past which looms over and dwarfs a diminished present: in fact, a carefully cherished and nurtured … sense of loss;

a luxuriating in melancholy coupled with heroic resolve which stands out the more against a blackened sky—

Hige sceal þē heardra,   heorte þē cēnre,
mōd sceal þē māre,         þē ūre mægen lytlað.

Thought be the harder, heart the keener, / Courage the greater, as our might lessens:—,  

the template for

Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them;

The fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the courage and conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy leaves us only the choice of brave resistance, or the most abject submission. We have, therefore, to resolve to conquer or die; I shall never surrender or retreat.

…I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible & die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor & that of his country—Victory or Death;

There is Jackson standing like a stone wall. Let us resolve to die here, and we will conquer. Rally behind the Virginians!;

Whatever happens, there will be no turning back … I propose to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer;

We shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone; We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender—;

the love of riddles and riddling talk, often bawdy;

the springing alliterative line and its balances, an equipoise which surpasses the Latinate and persists in Gibbon; and

a tough-minded and often sarcastic and self-deprecatory irony, notable in Alfred’s translations.

Alliteration largely left the literary language later. Where it reappears, it is in itself of little moment. Where it succeeds, it does so because it shares with its original what has persisted, the balance of opposing figures, the tension, the Anglo-Saxon cæsura which appears in Gibbon and in Pope and in Dr Johnson as it did in Langland and in Shagsper: and that inheritance was passed down by the balanced and contrasting phrases of the Authorised Version, building upon Wycliffe and Tyndal and Coverdale, the Henrician Great Bible and the Elizabethan Bishops’ Bible, and by the BCP from its 1549, 1552, 1559, and 1604 versions to its crowning glory of 1662. (The 1662 BCP in the C of E and the 1928 US BCP are the last flowering, in a literary sense: everything since has been puerile. None of the new nonsense has affected the language, save perhaps by coarsening it, by infantilizing it, and by unmooring it yet further from reason and beauty both; and I doubt any of these miserable mutilations shall ever be a discernible influence on our common tongue.)

Observe: We have erred, and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we ought not to have done

Note how contrapuntal and fugal is this: …that we may be effectually restrained from sin, and incited to our duty. Imprint upon our hearts such a dread of thy judgments, and such a grateful sense of thy goodness to us, as may make us both afraid and ashamed to offend thee. And this: temperate in all things, and diligent in our several callings. These figures run through the whole of the language; they are in its linguistic DNA.

I mentioned Bach and Handel for a reason. Long before the Baroque, and without the Baroque efflorescence of ornamentation, the English language had invented the fugue. English prose, demotic and literary alike, is inherently contrapuntal. It is by its nature polyphonic. It is compound of subject and exposition, answer, episode, false entry, contrary motion, counter-exposition, modulation, stretto, tonic, cadence, coda… It thrives on inversion, imitation, ricercare, augmentation, and diminution. Its balances and equipoises are structurally fugal. It is a supremely well-tempered instrument.

I don’t recommend that you listen to Bach and Handel in order to be converted to a religion. I don’t suggest that you immerse yourself in the Authorised Version and the BCP in order that I may convert you away from your religion or irreligion, let alone into mine. I do say and shall say, I do and shall maintain, that the language you use, the language in which you write or wish to write, cannot well be used and written, and cannot be written and used properly, unless and until you immerse yourself in these resources (so far of course as your faith or conscience permits), even if purely as a literary exercise and education.

O taste and see.

The secret utility of mist and fog: observations on observing

This morning was a morning of mist and fog. Some should no doubt casually label it autumnal. I do not, quite, because I do not particularly measure by weather or by equinox: to me, Autumn has come when first I hear the geese overhead.

Fog and mist are not commonly welcome in history or law or the literary art, in the main. They are dangerous by themselves in theology as well: the mystic and the hesychast are sadly misled and likely to fall by the wayside if they have not a thorough grounding in the clarity of theology. And yet this quietude and this veiling obscurity have their uses.

Ten days or so ago was a brilliant morning. My hours are dictated by the seasons and the Sun, as I am possessed of a South-facing window in my bedroom. That morning, I looked out as I ever do: on this day, upon bright clarity. The daily, matutinal cloudbank just at and offshore was a tumbled, solid-seeming blueness behind the tree-line, an image of far blue hills beneath the dawn. We had had rain at last, after a summer of drought and oppressive Sun. My windows look over a channel which debouches into the lower Brazos a few miles away; and look over the local Roman Catholic church and the Regional Hospital, itself a Roman Catholic institution. (At my age, and in my present state of health, it is pleasant to know that, disgruntled Continuing Anglican that I am, I am within not so many yards of a validly ordained priest, though one not of my communion, and of a competent medical facility.) My smaller and more casual set of field glasses, which I keep by my bedside, I trained upon the channel. My field of view was suddenly filled and eclipsed by a raptor winging northwards, too large, too near, too fast for identification: the first I had seen in quite some time. When my vision cleared, I saw something on the channel’s waters which caused me immediately to seize my highest-powered and best field glasses and hie me to my best vantage point overlooking the channel. It had cleared and filled with the recent rains, and the Egrets were returned. That was exciting; but what gripped me was that in their midst were six Roseate Spoonbills, pink as the poster for the Barbie movie.

After a period of observation, I returned home to ring up Cousin Ann, also a birder and one rather better at it than I. (I am an enthusiastic but inexpert birder, in enthusiasm and dedication almost a twitcher, but betrayed by the limitations of my eyesight in my middle age, which is not what it was and never has been: which is curious as I, the possessor of that faculty, have ever been a has-been.) I gabbled into her voicemail with a message, being so excited that I momentarily said Flamingo and had to correct myself a few moments after. Later that afternoon, she rang me up with the news that she had driven to the bridge over the channel, which links the Roman Catholic parish church and the hospital, to photograph the Roseate Spoonbills.

That had been a day of visual clarity and good light; but so had been many previous days almost without observable birds because of the lack of rain. It had been the grateful rains which had made that observation possible and brought birds back to us.

This morning was different again. It was a morning of mist and fog. Dew pearled on every surface. Sound was hushed. And in that dove-grey nun-quiet morning, I was reminded of a great truth. There is merit and utility, there is opportunity, in fog and mist and stillness. If the birder’s eye is hampered, his ear must be the keener. His horizons limited, his eye must be sharper. The more muffled his footstep, the greater his opportunity. The less certain his footing, the sharper his attention must be. And as in birding, so also in life entire.

When was the last time you observed—not saw, but observed—the panels let into sidewalk and road for the visually impaired and those with mobility issues? They are remarkable things in their pattern. They form an arrangement of Greek crosses within Greek crosses, chess-squared with squares: in them are the memory of Mycenæan tiles as at Knossos and Pylos; of Roman pavements, floor-mosaics; of Orthodox vestments.

When last were you thrown back upon the resources of hearing for the dawn chorus and the identification of the choristers unseen?

This morning’s notable visual identification was made possible by the fog and mist, and made the more certain by them. It was a Cormorant, the first for weeks. In the monochrome world of near-silhouettes on a foggy, misty morning, it were impossible to mistake it even at a distance for an Anhinga. It was easy to identify it as a Neotropic Cormorant, Nannopterum brasilianum, rather than a Double-Crested, Nannopterum auritum, precisely because of the sharp silhouetting of the bird against the grey near-solid background. The difference in the orange facial skin at the base of the bill between these two was rather enhanced than diminished in this greyscale world of morning.

The Cormorant is always worth seeing, and particularly as it perches on a telephone wire, as this morning, and spreads its wings preparatory to preening itself for its next foray after fish. The Eagle of Greek and Russian and Germanic heraldry has its particular attitude, and that same attitude appears in its infrequent uses in Gallo-British heraldry and in the civic symbolism of the United States. Iberian and Hispano-American heraldry, as, for example, under Iturbide, and that of Bonaparte, tends to represent the eagle in the attitude of the Cormorant. The seeing eye and the retentive mind is receptive to connotation, associaton, and symbol, and has a remembrance of unlike things, and synthesizes the whole of the human experience even in the sighting of a bird.

Mist and fog can clarify can concentrate, can isolate the essential. They can direct attention to the important and mute the common noise and distraction. They can and they do force a focus upon what matters.

This is the lesson of a misty, foggy morning; and it is one worth learning and heeding: a true saying, and worthy of all men to be believed; one we do well to read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest.

Here endeth the Lesson.

Luke, geese, and Anglican humor: a miscellany in times of trouble

Briefly tearing my eyes, at once enraged and horrified, from the spectacle of barbarism that is Hamas, I note that today is the Feast of Saint Luke. In a world in dire need of spiritual physic, not to say an emetic of the soul, and of Greek logic and learning, that is no bad thing. It is also for half the world, though one can hardly feel it here, more or less Autumn. I am not celebrating ‘Fall Day’: for me, Autumn begins when I hear the first geese overhead. Even so, it is the time of year in which one turns to rereading Aldo Leopold and John Graves. And darkling though the world seems—if one discounts the Providence of Almighty God—, there is time even in a dire time for a little Anglican humor for those who can bear it. To wit:

The Texas Doxology (Anglican)

Praise God, th’ Eternal Trinity:
For barbecue and H-E-B,
Tex-Mex, the ’Stros, and the Gulf Coast,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 

The Virginia Doxology (1928) (Anglican)

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow:
For Cohee and for Tuckahoe:
Spoonbread and Smithfield hams we boast;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 

The Kentucky Doxology (Anglican)

Praise God, whose blessings fall like dew,
On bourbon, horses, and burgoo;
Let this be our Call to the Post:
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 

The Chester County, Pennsylvania Doxology (before 1789) (Anglican)

Praise God, from whom all blessings come:
We, far from Severn and from home,
’Midst Friends, Lenape, folk named ‘Jost’,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 

Finis Palæstinæ. Delenda est.

It is impressed upon me that those with close personal ties to the region, or with family present in the warzone, particularly but by no means exclusively Jews or Israelis, may find my necessary afterword too much to read as they mourn or wait in dreadful suspense for news of their families, friends, and neighbors. I comprehend that. I bitterly and furiously regret the necessity of the concluding part, and I encourage them to pass it in silence, unread, and to limit their reading only to Part I of this essay. The very last thing I wish to do is to add to their pain. Part II exists only because it is essential to preempt the usual false claims from the usual suspects which are directed against any supporter of Israel who is not Jewish. And I am incandescent with rage that I have been compelled to write it; rightly and righteously angry that I have been driven to the necessity of refuting these usual canards with facts which, at a time when the Jewish people, inwith and outwith Israel, are mourning their dead without yet knowing who has been murdered and who, taken hostage by barbarians, it is obscene to have been forced to adduce. And yet, even now, in order to preempt the non-argument derailments of little lapsed Unitarian pricks at Harvard in keffiyeh scarves, right-on Congresscritters, hereditary isolationist Kluxers and Bundists, Trumpshirts, Islamists, supercilious diplomats, second-rate academics, swivel-eyed Labour councillors, incarnate EU pomposities, and other offscourings of nominal humanity ‘dipping their poisonous tongues into pools of blood’, I am driven in Part II to making clear—even as doing so must give unspeakable pain to them that mourn—that this is everyone’s, every decent person’s, fight; and that I cannot be debarred from speaking by their maliciously false assertions that I must be Jewish to support Israel, that I must be a Prot religious nutter to do so if I’m not Jewish, that I am ‘too white’ and somehow—or thereby—too ignorant to have a say in any case, and/or that I must be being paid to do so. May Almighty God everlastingly damn these people to the lowest circle of Hell.

Part I: Ceterum censeo… Smite the Amalekites.

The whole point and purpose of the Geneva Conventions is to limit their protections to those who observe the laws of war, regulars and irregulars alike. The entire reason for this is to incentivize that observance and to visit consequences upon those who do not observe the laws of war. The State of Israel observes and is observing these, both as to ius ad bellum and ius in bello. The terrorists (and their patrons and supporters)—axiomatically—do not.

Immediately upon Israel’s having been attacked, civilized nations’ governments and many of their citizens, including those with elevated public profiles, asserted sympathy and solidarity with Israel and Israelis as victims. Well within the succeeding week, the tone has changed, to deprecate almost any response by Israel to the crimes of which it has been victim. We saw this in September of 2001: on 12 September, it was ‘we’re all Americans now’, swiftly followed by ‘those vulgar, violent Americans mustn’t hit back’; we saw this in January of 2015, when attitudes turned on a dime from ‘Je suis Charlie’ to ‘there must be no disproportionate response’, and again in November 2015, and again, and again, including towards the criminal invasion of Ukraine by Russia: this swift oscillation of sentimental ‘support’ followed by outright hostility to countermeasures and counterstrikes. And it invariably happens when it’s Israel under attack.

Part of this, when the State of Israel is attacked, is simple Jew-hatred, however sublimated and clothed in the similitude of respectability. Much of this, no matter who is attacked, is mere human nature: the relief that one’s country and oneself is not the victim; the thrill of posing as sympathetic; the joy of patronizing those suffering even whilst pretending that patronizing them is help; the malign pleasure of seeing someone else in difficulties, as La Rochefoucauld knew; the wish that the victim continue helplessly a victim to be condescended to—and the resentment when he does not. And of course the mainspring is mere sentimentality, an exaggerated care for the guilty as much as for the guilty party’s innocent victim, with the fillip of a sense of superiority in wishing a plague on the houses of both These Little People in their ‘petty quarrel’ which is beneath us because we’ve avoided being a part of it. That’s where isolationism comes from, after all: a remote, aloof, pro forma tut-tutting of far-off disasters in ‘less happier lands’ and of ‘quarrels in a faraway country, between people of whom we know nothing’. It is also the source of actually defending, in the guise of disinterested and magisterial judgment, with much babble of ‘root causes’ and ‘we are all guilty’, actual crimes against humanity.

It is no kindness to anyone, it is indeed a special sort of evil, to let evildoers off the consequences of their evil acts. The State of Israel, having been attacked unlawfully by quasi-state and non-state terrorists and their paymasters and accomplices, has an inalienable and absolute right, by war and otherwise, to destroy these enemies and their power to work evil: to abate their pride, assuage their malice, and confound their devices. And the United States—remember the Second Barbary War, and the Perdicaris Affair as well, and the Tampico Affair, too—and the United Kingdom—recall the Don Pacifico affair, amongst many, many others—have similar rights, as their citizens have been murdered by these same savages. (If you are wondering, No, I’m not a ‘Progressive’: never mind Reagan, I’m a Goldwater Democrat, and rather to the rightwards of Margaret Thatcher. Suck it up and deal with it.)

Extending unwarranted protections to terrorists merely encourages them to behave unlawfully without consequences. Hamas, Hezbollah, & Co. deserve no quarter not absolutely required by law and are owed no such protections. Their Charters—the demonic inverse of that asserted in ‘Rule, Britannia!’, for theirs condemn common Palestinians ever to be slaves to terror-masters—call for genocide and terror. They oppress, terrorize, and torture their own people. They take women and infants hostage. They behead children. That is their Charter, and not theirs alone; and their Charter—for which they claim religious sanction—is their Mein fucking Kampf: only fools—or sympathizers with terror—ignore, defend, or diminish it, or attempt to explain it away. They told and tell us their intentions; their actions declare them; they have shown who and what they are, and only fools—or sympathizers with terror—do not believe them to be what they are. Like the Serbian Black Hand in 1914, or Wagner, they are effectively akin to hostes humani generis, and frankly, as is true also of pirates, ought once more to be so regarded under international law. Diluting consequences is a grievously misplaced, and a murderous, sentimentalism. Rewarding bad behavior merely encourages more of it. Those who dilute the distinctions between lawful and unlawful combat, who extend the former’s protections to the latter, who consequently wink at hostage-taking, rape, the targeting of children, genocide, mass murder, torture, attacks upon discrete civilian gatherings, the siting of military targets amidst civilian populations, the emergence of fighters without distinguishing apparel and a chain of command from a noncombatant populace and their melting back into it and hiding in its midst, bear moral responsibility, guilt, of an order equal to the terrorists’, for the casualties thus befalling the noncombatants and protected sites amongst whom and which these abject cowards hide.

Supporters of evil and of evil deeds, their paymasters, their accomplices, their defenders, and anyone whose name crops up when one asks, Cui bono?, must suffer the utmost and most stringent consequences. They are guilty under the law of parties.

The PA and its dictator for life, currently in the second decade of a five-year elected term, must also be so treated and regarded. (They are not a legitimate government by the measure defined by Thomas Jefferson; and the idea that Abbas ‘was elected’—as if that excuses his actions since—merits the riposte that so were Cæsar, the younger Bonaparte, Mugabe, Marcos, Erdoğan, Putin, and that Austrian corporal … prior to their self-coups.) He and they and the unlawful combatants are solely responsible for civilian casualties by their having unlawfully placed legitimate military targets in civilian areas. The moral responsibility for civilian casualties is entirely on the terrorists who have emplaced legitimate military targets amongst the civilian population, and is upon them only. A foggy-minded sentimental shudder at the consequences is precisely what they are aiming for in order to paralyze resistance to their war crimes. And to escape the consequences of them. This is how indulgent parents, in spoiling their children, raise psychopaths and sociopaths.

Macaulay, Sherman, and Jackie Fisher were right. So was Vegetius. Ignoring their maxims as the West has done, and international diplomats have done, leaves these Western sentimentalists and the pinstriped brigade with blood on their hands—and upon their souls, presuming they have any such organs.

I’d like to think that at last the FCO and Foggy Bottom Camel Corps, and Jew-haters in all political parties (o Jeremy Corbyn, Rashida Tlaib, Ilhan Omar, Marjorie Taylor Greene, Paul Gosar, the Squad and the Trumpshirts and all isolationists, the ‘Palestinian’s Pals’ Battalions, Iran-normalizers, ’Murica-Firsters, and Little Englanders), and UNRWA and the WHO and the EU’s aid agencies—for the common or garden Palestinian is given these opiates of the masses and remains complicit in or compliant with their terrorist leaders in consequence, carefully kept ready for radicalization and dependent upon the terror-state complex for distribution of aid—, thumb-sucking pundits, professional distributors of aid whose jobs rely on the continuation of misery, every weasel in the West, et al., shall have ceased to look at the Palestinians and think, What lovely people: let’s give them a state. They’d have done much better over the past seven decades to have echoed what King Harold said at Stamford Bridge. The invading Harald III Sigurdson Hardråde, Harald III ‘Hardrada’ of Norway, sought land in England—and, frankly, the Crown—for himself, and land for his puppet-ally, Harold’s exiled brother Tostig. King Harold’s counteroffer? ‘Six feet of ground or as much more as he needs, as he is taller than most men.’ The last time the Palestinians, so-called, had a state of their own was before the arrival of Nebuchadnezzar. They were and are not autochthonous to the region, even in the common usage of that term. They are a mix of Minoans, Cretans, other Sea Peoples and pirates, Nabatæans, Macedonians, Bedouins, Syrians, Roman auxiliaries, apostate Byzantines who converted for the tax breaks, invading Arabs, Crusaders’ by-blows, Bosniaks on the run, Turks, and the bastards of Allenby’s Anzac cavalry troopers circa 1917, all topping up a prior meager population of lost Jews and Canaanites and Edomites and Early Inhabitants hanging about since the Chalcolithic.

No criticism there: such is the common history of man. (Innumerable groups complaining of ‘settlers’, ‘occupiers’, ‘colonizers’, or any group they can label as such with whatever degree of truth they can manage, always resort to telling those whom they resent to Go Back to Where They Came From (and not, alas, to a Beatles tune), just as certain repugnant people do to perfectly legal immigrants. What they do not realize is that they are exposing themselves to a valid tu quoque: we can all go back to where we came from, the complainers included; but Olduvai Gorge and the Great Rift Valley generally are going to be damned crowded.)

The Western idolization of the Palestinians is rooted in Jew-hatred; sentimentalism and the pleasure of playing almoner and patronizing the poor and the distressed; and Orientalist exoticizing—and eroticizing in some cases (Thesiger and Lawrence both come to mind, though the idea that anyone ever saw the chinless Arafat as Rudolf Valentino is bizarre. There is I think no fetishizing of the women—having seen them, I understand why not—because the terrorists are visually presented as young men, and they are the group swooned and eroticized by fools of either sex, after their habit with that little shit ‘Che’ Guevara).

But, although the Palestinians have Arabized, and weaponize their Arabization, I for one am at a loss to understand the absurd hold they possess over the Pan-Arab mind, if that is not an oxymoron. I equally stand astonished that a people who have in their time been governed by Rome, the Eastern Roman Empire, the Persians, the Umayyads, Outremer, and the British can, even allowing for a period of Ottoman government—or misgovernment—, have remained in or reverted to the state of savagery and barbarism in which they appear to rejoice and upon which they seem determined to pride themselves. There is a reason why one reaches to the Balkans for analogies when dealing with these people, the rabid Karens of the Levant. They are as vicious and as bent on provoking a world war as were the Serbian irredentists and irreconcilables of 1914, whom they seem bent on emulating. They are as irresponsibly murderous and as willing to ignore the laws of nations and of war as the Villistas of that period, or Raisuni. All the same, they were offered a state, as part of a two-state solution—that mirage, that chimæra—in 1947, and not only rejected it—and are pledged to reject it yet—, but participated in and cheered on the attempted invasion of Israel by all her neighbors. And lost. Well … vae victis. They are complicit in their own oppression—which is at the hands of their own people only—and have not the backbone to rise against it. Unable or unwilling to come out from under the porch and take on the big dogs, the snarling little feists bite only the hands that feed them.

A people who have supinely acquiesced in their immiseration are pathetic—and not in any commendatory sense. The Jews of old resisted and revolted against Rome as against the Seleukídai and their predecessors; against the overwhelming material might of the Nazis, the Jews formed the Bielski partisans, the Parczew partisans, l’Armée Juive—including Scriabin’s daughter, mind you—in the French Resistance and the Comité de Défense des Juifs in the Belgian, the Rab Battalion of Tito’s ‘National Liberation Army and Partisan Detachments of Yugoslavia’, and the ŻZW and ŻOB in occupied Poland; they rose against their oppressors in the Battle of Muranów Square, in the Slonim Ghetto, the Łachwa Ghetto, the Mizocz Ghetto, the Mińsk Mazowiecki Ghetto, the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising in conjunction with the Battle of Muranów Square, the Częstochowa Ghetto, the Będzin-Sosnowiec Ghetto, the Białystok Ghetto… They rose even in the death-camps, at Treblinka, at Sobibór, even at Auschwitz itself. Where not under the Nazi grip, they joined SOE’s Jewish Parachutists of Mandate Palestine, the Jewish Infantry Brigade Group, Eighth Army, in HM Forces, and the Special Interrogation Group.

The Palestinians? Their leaders (if that’s the word)—to an extent their chosen leaders, bitterly though they repent them of that choice after—, from Hitler’s pet Großmufti Mohammed Amin al-Husseini to Fatah and Hamas, have carefully inculcated in them resentment, privation, a sense of ill-usage; and have directed their calculatedly cultivated hatreds towards those not responsible for their privations, for the leaders’ own purposes and power. It’s legitimately Orwellian. When they have risen, it has been in the ranks and at the behest of their own oppressors and not against their actual enemies: that is the infantilism of the intifadas.

Oh, they haven’t a state, poor dears? They have been living as refugees (cue the Tom Petty track) for seven decades in a camp writ large? Well: whose fault is that?

They have made no attempt to better their situation or gentle their condition. Imagine what Gaza and the West Bank should be in the hands of Singaporeans, Hong Kongers, the Dutch, the Swiss, or the Americans. Nor have they directed any attempt at their liberation of themselves against their actual, home-grown oppressors: contemplate what twelve Highlanders with a piper, ten families from rural Virginia, a handful of Texans, or any five Poles or Ukrainians had done in such circumstances. Israel should then not need to deal with Hamas: if Palestinians were like other peoples, they’d have strung the bastards up themselves.

They were offered a two-state solution in 1947; they screamed and held their breath until they turned blue—or green. These people have the political instincts of King John, VV Putin in Ukraine, 1914-vintage (and current) Serbs, Hillary Clinton, the late Merovingian rois fainéants, and the Provos, combined. Which is to say, all the cunning of Wile E. Coyote. Their neighbors won’t take them in: the Jordanians tried, and the Palestinians attempted a back-stab, a coup, and a civil war. Lebanon tried: same result. No one trusts them, and with cause: their sworn word is meaningless, always. They are like the Great Heathen Army in the 870s and before, never keeping their word, always coming back for more plunder and rapine. Well: the Vikings got their Danelaw and eventual assimilation into England, all right: after Alfred curb-stomped them at Ethandun and extracted the Treaty of Wedmore from Guðrum, and made him and his successors keep its terms. Israel is having to do the same—and with much more moderation than Texans, say, or Scipio, should have shown.

Peace is the child only of victory. Grant and Lee between them ensured military peace—which the politicians then screwed up civilly—with the imposition of unconditional surrender on the one side and a renunciation of guerilla warfare and ‘continuing the struggle in the hills and mountains’ on the other. The Germans’ halting progress in their application for readmission to the human race has been made possible only by the Allies’ having won the War and NATO’s having won the (first) Cold War. France was able to rejoin the community of civilized nations only because Wellington won at Waterloo.

If—if—any good thing comes out of this latest irruption of the irrational, of barbarism and savagery, I should like to think that it is, or shall be, the far overdue realization that the Palestinians—and their state and non-state supporters—must take the consequences of their actions and of their past choices, and that the West needs to stop waffling in an access of sentimentalism. (Yes: looking at you, Varadkar, and you, Darroch, and you, Egeland, and all your needy, seedy crew.)

I don’t ‘pray for peace’. I pray for victory.

‘If—if—any good thing comes out of this latest irruption of the irrational, of barbarism and savagery…’ Yes: if. It’d be nice. However, my weary cynicism suggests otherwise. That leaves but one option: that of removing their capacity—and that of their state and non-state supporters, accomplices, and co-conspirators—to effect their malicious designs ever again; the removal of their having the strength to do so. (Iran, as presently constituted, is, for example, a prime candidate for … deletion.) So… Delenda est.

I implore my Jewish friends, and all who have lost innocent kin to these barbarians, to end their reading here. The next bit is going to be incandescently profane and very angry.

Part II: This is the cause of all who love liberty, and all free men have a stake in the consequences—and no, caring for and supporting Israel is not and must not be limited to Jews. So stuff your attempted ad hominem, your genetic fallacy, your Bulverism, your conspiracy theories, and your demand that I ‘declare my interest’.

It is difficult even when doing or attempting to do the right thing always to avoid possibly being unintentionally insensitive. Particularly in a moment of peril and disaster at the blood-boltered hands of barbarous tyrants. That is why I have recommended that those with ties—close ties; personal ties—to Israel skip this part, which exists only to spike the guns of those who would seek to dismiss my remarks for the usual horseshit reasons. For all the Ellis Island mythos of the late 19th and early 20th centuries in the United States, many of us do not have the close familial ties and emotional connections to the countries from which our ancestors immigrated which are had by some; and the same is I think true for most Britons who are not Black Britons—or of course who are not British Jews, or members of parts of the Subcontinental diaspora. More recent immigrants in any Western country may well feel those ties to an extent, but those who have been in one or another Western country for 400 years or more tend not to—with one exception. There are of course, for example, some rather sad Anglophiles and Royal-watchers, and, even now, Diana-manes, in the United States, just as there are Plastic Paddys wondering where the NORAID boxes went at their favorite fake Irish pub; but they are a distinct minority. One of my old university friends and contemporaries, for example, is a dual citizen of the United States and the United Kingdom, with immediate family in both; but not even he, to my knowledge, reacted to the London Tube bombings in quite the same visceral fashion in which we all reacted to September 11th. And I don’t think there is a very great deal of Italian-American interest in day-to-day events in Italy any longer, after so many generations; nor so very much attention regularly paid to affairs in los Estados Unidos Mexicanos even by Chicano families in the Rio Grande Valley. Quotidian Finnish affairs are, I think, of little moment even to most Finnish-Americans, even in Minnesota or in Delaware. But Israel is not merely a small embattled beacon of hope and liberty in a very dark part of the world: for many Jews in the West, it is something rather more, to an extent the rest of us cannot grasp. I may be exasperated by the continuing echoes of The Troubles, materially annoyed by the SNP, contemptuous of Plaid, driven to despair by the C of E and much of the rest of the Anglican Communion, or naturally outraged by Russian FSB thugs spreading poison in Wiltshire, but these things cannot strike me with the gravity with which terror and war in Israel must necessarily strike any Jew of the Diaspora, some of whose families have been in the United States for at least three centuries or longer. The only justification for these concluding remarks, then, is preemptively to dismiss the usual ad hominem attacks directed towards anyone, not himself Jewish, who defends, as we ought all to defend, Israel.

Let’s get this out of the way at once: as the usual braying jackasses shall raise it. I have no recorded Jewish ancestry. The one candidate in my recorded genealogy for that honor is the unknown mother of Ebles, Ebalus, II Manzer, Duke of Aquitaine, a 29th great-grandfather of mine. I do not support Israel on the ground that I am Jewish: because I am not.

‘He’s insisting he’s not Jewish. That means he’s secretly Jewish.’ No, it means you’ve misspelled genealogist, you jackass.

Like JRR Tolkien, I can only regret that I appear to have no ancestors among that gifted people. If I did, and I thought Israel to be in the wrong, I’d say so. I don’t, they’re not, and I shan’t. I’m an Ó Cearbhaill of Éile on both sides of the family, I’m a 31st great-grandson of Brian Bóruma mac Cennétig, Rí na h’Éireann and a 33d great-grandson of Cellach of the Hard Conflicts, Cellach mac Cerbaill, King of Osraige; and I’m ashamed to share an ethnicity with most of Ireland, North and South, on a far too regular basis—and especially when I see the latest rot from the contemptible Leo Varadkar. When I look at the Republic, and remember that, on the English side, our Ludlow cousins and connections were Cromwellians when we were Cavaliers, I suddenly feel that perhaps more of the Irish ought to have been sent to Hell and fewer to Connacht. I’m descended of every King of Scots who left descendants, from Cináed mac Ailpin to James V, inclusive; and I’m embarrassed to share that ethnicity with a plurality of modern Scots a majority of the time—especially the Nats, and especially under their current vile leader. And so it goes: the English regularly disappoint me; even the Welsh sometimes embarrass me; once in a while, a few Cornishmen manage to make me resent our kinship. As to the Continent, let alone those lasting humiliations My Fellow Americans… Well, as a 25th great-grandson of Giacomo Tiepolo and a 22d of Pietro Gradenigo, as a 19th great-grandson of Bernabò Visconti, as a 24th great-grandson of Friedrich Barbarossa, a 28th great-grandson of Robert Guiscard, a 26th great-grandson of Bjørn Haraldsen Ironside, a 27th great-grandson of King Inge Stenkilsson the Elder, a 29th great-grandson of Vladimir II Monomakh Vsevolodovich, as a 21st great-grandson of Philippe IV ‘le Bel’, Roi de France (is that Gentile enough for y’all?) … all I can say is, vaffanculo, va te faire enculer, and the various local equivalents.

Do the EPs of the 1st Hamas Demolition Brigade (Derailment Company) have even a tenuous grasp of what they’re doing—and the consequences? I’d be right surprised if they did. Jews—noncombatant, civilian Jews, including women and children, protected by the laws of nations and of war—have been murdered, kidnapped, tortured, massacred—and you demand no one speak up for them if the speaker could possibly be Jewish? A crime against humanity is in progress at your filthy hands, and you decline to hear the victims’ and their families’ testimony? Fuck you.

Cowards want to hit and not be hit back, and if they are hit back, want to tattle, and enlist Mommy or Teacher. Hamas, whatever that Day-Glo orange toad Trump says, are cowards, not (‘very stable’) geniuses, or smart. They are counting on waffling weasels in the West—who are already emerging like cockroaches—to ‘support-Israel-but’ and to ‘counsel restraint’ and all that happy horseshit. Not happening; not here. Not from me. My mood is near to being that of my 24th great-grandfather by one line Simon V de Montfort, 5th Earl of Leicester, his son Amaury VI, Comte de Montfort, a 24th great-grandfather of mine by a slightly different path, Philip II Augustus, King of France, yet another of my 24th great-grandfathers, and his son King Louis VIII le Lion of France, a 23d great-grandfather of mine (blame the Stuarts, the Leslies, and the Erskines of Mar for these pedigrees), at the siege of the Cathar stronghold of Béziers. (Sufficiently Gentile for y’all?)

The State of Israel is being a right smart nicer and more restrained than I’d be.

Jew-hatred—Islamist, nominally Christian, Marxist, secularist—always has at its shriveled, evil heart some foul, false notion of collective guilt and collective punishment. If that’s the sauce you want for the goose, Abu Gander… No one is responsible for any sins or any soul save his own.Æðelred Unrǣd is, lamentably, a 28th great-grandfather of mine. I’ve had my share of clusterfucks in this life; but I never ruined a kingdom, and I’m not responsible for his having done so. The despicable Noll Cromwell is a fifth cousin of mine—something even I find it difficult to be cavalier about—; but it’s on him, not me, that he went from a devout, psalm-singing tax protester and religious fanatic to a proto-fascist, tyrannical Sullan dictator. (Low Churchmen … sigh. They’re hopeless.) Richard de Malbiche, a first cousin of mine, my Percy and Darell cousins, and my 24th great-grandsire Sir Peter de Fauconberg were the main players in the massacre of the Jews of York in 1190. They shall have exchanged this life for all the sad variety of Hell, where I trust they are burning screaming; I bear no responsibility. Benedict Arnold is an 11th cousin of mine, and Alger Hiss a 15th; I never sold my country. That rabid racist Theodore G. Bilbo is one of my 12th cousins; I am not he, and the Baldwins of Aston Clinton and Dundridge who are our common ancestors, MPs and a Chief Justice of the Common Pleas and All That, aren’t responsible for the son of a bitch either. Senator Bilbo is merely a minatory example of the downward social mobility and moral degeneration which so often attends the colonial and frontier experience in the British and Irish. So is Nathan Bedford Forrest, an 11th cousin of mine: I cannot claim his brilliance as a cavalry commander and am not guilty of his sins, and no more are any other common descendants of the Savages of Rocksavage and Clinton. I have seen it suggested that that smarmy, smirking sociopath Matt Gaetz is, like me, a descendant of Bjørn Haraldsen Jærnside and Princess Katarina Ingesdotter; if so, that’d make the pedo-looking bastard a 28th or so cousin to me. I don’t know the whoreson, don’t care to, and bear no responsibility for him. (Though I do say that had either Bjørn Ironside—the Ragnarsson of that name being ostensibly a 31st great-uncle to me—encountered said Congresscritter on some witless Witan, they’d have marked him down for the blood-eagle as soon as his usefulness had ended. Vikings were always happy to use the treacherous … and then reward them as they deserved.)

Gentile enough for you?

I have saints in the family: Ælfred Micela, Alfred the Great, a 33d great-grandsire of mine; Ēadgār the Peacemaker, one of my 31st great-grandfathers; Eberhard of Friuli, one of my 32d; Louis IX of France, one of my 23d; Ferdinand III, King of Castile & León, also a 23d great-grandfather of mine; Margaret of Wessex, Queen Consort of Scots, a 25th great-grandmother of mine: but I take no credit or sanctity by them. Nor should anyone in such case; any more than any of us answers for sins and crimes in which we did not participate.

There is no collective sin; no collective guilt; no collective punishment. The complicit and the collaborators, on the other hand, are liable to consequences: something Hamas and its pals—including the both-siders, the restraint-counselors, the both-houses-‘humanitarians’, the support-but set, the whatabouters, and Winken, Blinken, and Nod—really ought to contemplate quietly and with dread. Because if that argument, and consequent weaponry, is turned on them… Fortunately, Israel is infinitely more moral than they.

And the Let’s Not Be Beastly to Hamas crowd can drop this derailing horseshit right sharpish.

Hamas’ hellhound, Hell-bound whores want a Judenrein defense of Israel? Challenge. Fucking. Accepted. Game. Fucking. On.

‘He supports Israel? Oh, he must be Jewish if he does that, whatever he claims.’ No, Dr. Bulver; merely attuned to elementary morality. And monumentally Gentile.

Like not a few figures in Western European history in the late 9th and in the 10th and 11th Centuries, Ebles Manzer managed to succeed his father despite his being illegitimate. William the Bastard of Normandy, one of my 25th great grandsires (Gentile enough for you?), who after 1066 rejoiced in the slightly superior sobriquet of William the Conqueror, did the same. Particularly in polities such as Normandy which were founded by Vikings who decided to settle, marriages more Danico and uncanonical marriage generally, as well as the usual royal or noble bastardies, were not infrequent: how the hell else did you think I descend of my 29th great-grandparents Harold II Godwinson and Ealdgȳð Swann hnesce, through their daughter Gytha of Wessex and her husband Vladimir II Monomakh? (Gentile enough for you?) Ebles was unique only in being known for his illegitimacy as ‘the Manzer’ or ‘Mamzer’—the Hebrew term—rather than ‘the Bastard’, ‘le Bâtard’. None of the other ruling bastards swanning about at the time were thus designated. Some people find that distinction in epithets suggestive, and posit that the unknown mistress of his father, Ranulf II of Aquitaine, was Jewish. No one knows, and I could not care less if I put my mind to it. Is that sufficiently Gentile for the critics? If the House of Poitiers picked up a certain genetic introgression of Jewish descent in the Year of Our Lord 870 or thereabouts, it clearly did not slow Ebles down or affect his career and that of his descendants—or make him less of a prick, as one should otherwise have expected. (I know effectively no bad Jews. I become a complete misanthrope when I survey the mass of my fellow Gentiles.) Ebles’ direct descendant Eleanor of Aquitaine, one of my 22d great-grandmothers, hardly comes across in the historical sources as a stereotypical Jewish mother, either. I am approximately as ‘Jewish’ as Harald Hardrada, supra, a 30th great-grandfather of mine, and a ghastly sod with it, or Thomas Jefferson, supra, a 9th cousin of mine, as it happens—all of which is important only to this Part II. And it is obscene that I must go into all this to preempt the usual deflections of the usual Jew-haters; and more obscene yet that I must do so even as Jews worldwide and the citizens of the State of Israel are once again wondering, as too often in history, what has become of their relations, and who are to be prayed for as dead, and who, as captive, their names not yet being verified and released.

‘Oh, another American who says he’s not Jewish but supports and defends Israel. He must be some subliterate snake-handler, some trailer-trash tethered to some tin tabernacle, some guns-an’-Jesus backwoods Bible-thumper, some redneck enraptured of eschatological fantasy.’ Well, son, that’s a hell of a way to describe a learnèd Anglican of good family.

I am, much to my displeasure, compelled to clear the air and show my cards in this fashion because the softer sort of modern Jew-hater—the sort who do not march about with tattoos and armbands—quite as much as the usual pitiable Kluxers, European neo-pagans, Rodnovers, Putin’s putaines, Said-ists, Saddam-ites, Camel Corps diplomats, catchpenny academics, and other sweepings and scourings of mudsill, white-trash, trailer-park Karens in togs above their station, tend to say two things about anyone who supports Jews, the Jewish people, and the State of Israel. The first is to award us the undeserved honor, which I must decline, of being one of that admirable people. The second is to charge them, us, with being the sort of eeeee-vangelical ’Murrican nominally Protestant redneck who says nice things about Israel as a country in between telling ‘Jew jokes’ and taking huge chomping bites of a three-pound bacon cheeseburger. I have no objection to a Whataburger, though my cardiologist does on my behalf, and if I get one, it will be sans bun, owing to my Type 2 diabetes. But I am a High, Trad, Continuing Anglican, an Anglo-Catholic—not surprising in a man one of whose 15th great-uncles was Henry VIII and one of whose first cousins fifteen times removed was Good Queen Bess. (Fat Harry’s sister Margaret married James IV, King of Scots, and they are 14th great-grandparents of mine. Their son, James V, my 13th great-grandfather, had, he being a Stuart, a right smart of bastards (ahem), though only one surviving legitimate child). Europeans, particularly on the Continent, have this vision of redneck, burger-chomping, Nonconformist Protestant cowboys as being the only supporters of the State of Israel, or of Americans as being, at the least, too unsophisticated to grasp the balanced, remote, aloof disapproval of both sides, the nuances so clear to the ever-so-sophisticated European mind: which does not exist. There’s a reason the English-speaking nations have spent several centuries rescuing the nuanced, ever-so-sophisticated, supremely wise, frightfully enlightened Europeans from their own dictators and those of their neighbors. (Armada Year comes to mind.) In comparing the histories of the nations of continental Europe—which are in their present forms in many cases younger than the United States—and the histories of the United States of America and of the United Kingdom, I for one fail to see how the English-speaking nations have anything to learn from, or are in want of the tutelage of, the heirs of John Lackland (my 21st great-grandfather, alas), Ivan IV Vasilyevich Grozny (my 8th cousin, sadly), Louis XIV (my 7th cousin, regrettably), Bonaparte (a 17th cousin, and I despise the fact), Petain (no relation, blessedly), Wilhelm II (another 17th cousin I prefer not to contemplate), Nicholas II (same again, barkeep), Mehmed Talaat,Lenin, Mussolini, Stalin, and Hitler (all of them, laus Deo, no kin of mine).

‘Typical pro-Israel American: doesn’t know anything about the matter, or the nuances, and is a racist against the poor oppressed Palestinians.’ Oh, horseshit. Your ‘nuances’ are running lower than the Nueces in a drought.

Those who believe that one must be partly Jewish—or must be, to use the vile Spanish canard of old, a ‘crypto-Jew’—to support the State of Israel, presumably also believe in the sort of ethnic or racial essentialism, some one-drop rule, whereby one’s sympathies must be enlisted on the side of the enemies of the State of Israel if one shares any of their DNA. I mention post-Reconquista Spain for a reason: of all the puerile obsessions which have taken hold of the human mind, that period’s Iberian insistence upon ‘purity of blood’ is perhaps the most ludicrous, given the genetic history of the Iberian Peninsula. Peasants—my ancestral Pastons, initially, for example—may marry within their kin-groups. Monarchs and peers do not; and the extra, and the illegitimate, children and grandchildren of monarchs and peers soon become commoners, squires, the County gentry. And further accidents, including economic and religious, can reduce those families and their circumstances further still, or put them on the first boat to the colonies.

My family too has its history with the region: Raymond III of Tripoli is one of my second cousins; Guy I of Lusignan, King of Jerusalem and Cyprus jure uxoris, a 25th great-uncle; his wife Sibylla of Anjou, Queen of Jerusalem, a first cousin of mine; Conrad I de Montferrat, King of Jerusalem, a 25th great-uncle; Baldwin III, King of Jerusalem, a 24th; Baldwin I, King of Jerusalem, a 29th great-uncle; Baldwin IV the Leper, King of Jerusalem, a first cousin; Fulk V, King of Jerusalem, one of my 24th great-grandfathers; and Baldwin II, King of Jerusalem, one of my 28th great-grandfathers. They were, on religious rather than racialist grounds, not precisely known as friends to Jews, Arabs (the yet-Christian ones included), or—explaining the preceding—Orthodox rather than Roman Christians, equally. Such was the temper of the times. And my family, like the Palestinians, were but transient late-comers to Israel, the homeland of the Jewish people for long ages to which the memory of man runneth not to the contrary. Tell me I don’t understand the history and background of the region…

‘Listen, we’re not going to accept this sort of lecturing from some white-bread American.’ Well, it’s nearer to cornbread. Or naan. Or shelpek. Or pit(t)a.

The Eastern Roman Emperor Nikephoros I Logothetes is one of my 42d great-grandfathers … because descendants of his married into Italian and French ducal and comital houses (and the House of Árpád): including eventually that of Burgundy, and thence that of Savoy, thence into the House of Saluzzo, and thus into the Fitzalans of Arundel. Modern Palestine was a territory of the Eastern Roman Empire. And Nikephoros I, an Orthodox Christian, naturally, was nearly certainly a Levantine Arab of the Banu Ghassān, which tribe originated in Arabia Felix as Sabæans and removed to the Roman Levant consule Zeno.

People do not grasp what having a thoroughly British and Irish descent actually means. It means being related to ancestors, cousins, and connections half a world to the East of East Anglia and Easter Ross and the East Neuk of Fife. My 16th great-grandfather Edmund Tudor, 1st Earl of Richmond, the father of Henry VII, was descended, through Naples, Anjou, Aragon, Bavaria, and Valois, from steppe people of Western and Central Asia, and South Siberia. Cue the Borodin.* This is because my 25th great-grandfather, Stephen V of Hungary and Croatia, married my 25th great-grandmother, Elizabeth of the Cumans. István was of course anÁrpád, a Magyar, they being originally a tribe from the steppes of Central Asia; Erzsébet, the daughter of the Khan of the Qipchak-Kumans, a Turkic steppe tribe. (Tonight’s encore by Borodin: the Polovtsian Dances.) Like an astonishing number of persons of English descent, I am descended of the Skleroi, a Rhangabe or two, various Phocids, the Komnenoi, Laskares (Stephen V’s mother was a Laskarina), Palaiologoi, Angelids, Doukai, Dalassenoi, Byzantine-Armenians of the Kourkouas family, the Bulgarian royal family of the Kometopuli (the Bulgars also being formerly a semi-nomadic steppe people), and so on—and of the Bagratids as well, marching through Georgia: with the result that my cousins and connections, and those of unknowing millions of persons of British descent, include, ultimately, the Hamdanid emirs of Mosul and Aleppo; Alā ad-Dīn Kayqubād I ibn Kaykhusraw, Sultan of Rûm; Batu Khan of the Golden Horde; Saladin; and Timur the Lame: Tamerlane. Not terribly Wonder Bread, is it. So let’s drop the race-baiting and the whole nonsense of ‘I can speak because I am browner than you’, shall we, Karen al-Husayni?

Similarly, in the fragments of what later became Spain, in the 9th Century there was Musa ibn Musa al-Qasawi, a Muwallad wali in Tudela, Arnedo, Huesca, Zaragoza, and parts adjoining, always rebellious and often victorious. He was the uterine half-brother of the Basque hero Eneko Aritza, Íñigo Arista de Pamplona, the first King of Pamplona; and their descendants intermarried thoroughly within a century’s time. Íñigo Arista is one of my 35th great-grandfathers; Musa ibn Musa is one of my 36th … through the marriage of the Infanta Isabella of Castile to Edmund of Langley, the first Duke of York, they being among my 19th great-grandparents. (Always assuming that my 18th great-grandsire Richard of Conisburgh, 3d Earl of Cambridge, was Edmund’s son and not a product of Isabella’s rumored affair with John Holland, 1st Duke of Exeter, who is in any case one of my 19th great-grandfathers through his daughter Constance, Countess of Norfolk.) And Edward I of England married Eleanor of Castile and León, my 21st great-grandparents through three of their great-grandsons: Edmund of Langley aforementioned, John of Gaunt, John of Gaunt, 1st Duke of Lancaster, 1st Earl of Richmond, one of my 18th great-grandfathers, and Lionel of Antwerp, 1st Duke of Clarence, one of my 21st great-grandfathers. Pretty damned Gentile, if you ask me… It is also through the numerous Plantagenet-Iberian marriages that I am a first cousin to Abd al-Rahman III, the 1st Caliph of Córdoba, a descendant of Musa ibn Musa in five generations. His great-aunt Toda Aznárez—in euskara, Tota Aznar—of Pamplona was Queen Consort of Pamplona married her children into the Houses of León, Castile, and Galicia, and is an ancestress of mine—and the Plantagenets at issue—many times over, most nearly in my case one of 32d great-grandmothers. Gentile enough for you?

In any event, the Infanta Isabella of Castile—like Eleanor of Castile and León and like John Holland, 1st Duke of Exeter—is a descendant of Musa ibn Musa: he being in turn a direct descendant in five generations of the Caliph Marwân I ibn al-Hakam al-Qurayshi, the fourth Umayyad caliph, who, for the benefit of Muslim readers, was in his youth one of the sahaba, the Companions.

In this inane game of ticking boxes by the Hamas apologists’ own metrics, I get to speak, being, by their litmus tests, of recognized Indigenous descent (Basque), as much a POC as Rashida Tlaib (I being of Arab—of the Quraysh, at that—and Central Asian descent), and, hell, let’s throw in Hispanic (being descended of every post-Roman and mediæval Christian ruling house in the Iberian Peninsula, before and after the Reconquista) whilst we’re at it.

As for my not knowing the territory or its history, allow me further to point out the irony that Sir Mark Sykes is an 11th cousin of mine (and François Marie Denis Georges-Picot one of my 10th cousins), and T. E. Lawrence, a 12th … and that the most recent common ancestor I share with Lawrence of Arabia was herself a descendant of the Caliph Marwân. (My and Georges-Picot’s MRCA was likewise a descendant of Marwân I’s, as it happens.) Oh—and Allenby was one of my 13th cousins once removed (and himself a distant Marwanid). (Hell, from the days of Marwân I, Nikephoros I, Michael I Rhangabe, Basil I ‘the Macedonian’, and Leo VI the Wise, through the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem, to the Arab Revolt and the Sykes-Picot Agreement, my family has been fucking the region up for fifteen centuries. Tell me I don’t know the territory…)

Ethics and morality are not tribal.

Those who think that this disposes me to think highly of or to support the Palestinians; or who think that it ought to do; or who consider me some sort of—to use a term associated with the sort of scum who think in these terms—‘Rassenverräter’ not to do; or who think that I am somehow a bigot or even a ‘racist’ towards the Palestinians because I do not … ought to go home, because they’re drunk, or too Goddamned stupid to be let out without a keeper.

I’m an historian. I’m well aware of How We Got Here. And I know who bears the war guilt here. It isn’t Israel.

I should love to see the Palestinians freed of oppression. That’s why I support Israel: they’re the only ones trying to liberate those poor bastards.I regret that the civilian Palestinians are in the position they’re in … those of them who have any claim to innocence; but it’s the consequence of their own choices and their own actions—or inactions. They have been supine at best, collaborationists at worst, not resisting—or actively participating in—their own degradation at the hands of their own home-grown lunatics. As Cousin Tom Jefferson wrote to William Stephens Smith—Smith was married to Abigail Adams the younger, daughter of my 13th cousin John Adams; his sister Sally Smith married one of Adams’ sons, Charles Francis Adams (is this Gentile enough for you?)—‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.’ The Palestinians have chosen not to tend their garden. As John Stuart Mill—a distant connection of mine by marriage and no kinsman to me—noted, ‘A man who has nothing which he is willing to fight for, nothing which he cares more about than he does about his personal safety, is a miserable creature who has no chance of being free, unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.’ Call that a Western, Christian-informed, Gentile view if you like; that does not refute it. My sympathy for the oppressed attenuates to the vanishing point when they who claim oppression are the instruments of their own oppression and have not the testicular fortitude to rise against their oppressors, or even to bug out for a freer land—and who are abject cowards who, worse still, at their oppressors’ bidding, assail the enemies of their oppressors—: which precisely describes the inert mass of Palestinians.

I shall always side with the civilized man rather than with the barbarian and the terrorist. In Israel as in Ukraine, all free men have a stake in this battle against terror, aggression, oppression, and the spread of tyranny, be their fathers who they may. The blood of those slain by terrorists cries out for vengeance.

‘Well, if he supports Israel and he’s not Jewish and he’s not some religious nut-case, that must mean the Jews are paying him to do so.’ … Seriously? To paraphrase a 13th cousin of mine, Willie the Shake, ‘stand not upon the order of your pissing, but piss off at once,’ you pathetic, abject morons.

Oh—and to round out the trifecta of idiocy, No, I’m not being paid by whatever non-existent Jewish ‘controllers’ and ‘paymasters’ the phantom presences of whom inhabit your pitiable delusions, you pathetic little halfwits. Nor am I in the pay of the See of Rome, the Freemasons, any alleged Illuminati (who must be pretty geriatric by now), Hubbard’s cupboard of crooks and crackpots, the Mor(m)ons, or David Icke’s pet lizard—as my bank could glumly attest. (Banks are professionally amoral.) Hell, I’m as poor as a Grub Street hack of old, nowadays, and the embodiment of, If you’re s’ damn smart, why the hell ain’t you rich? So shove your idiot pamphlets and forged Protocols up your asses. Alongside a 12-gauge shotgun, and go out with a bang, exchanging this life for all the sad variety of Hell.

It is utterly absurd, intolerable, and appalling that I have needed to declare my non-interest and establish my bona fides in this fashion; but this is the moronic, intellectually dishonest world in which we live. That being got out of the way … read Part I again.

__________

* Aleksandr Porfiryevich Borodin, Александр Порфирьевич Бородин, a 20th cousin of mine. Gentile enough for you?

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: they shall prosper that love thee.

Exsurgat Deus:

Let God arise, and let his enemies be scattered : let them also that hate him flee before him.

Like as the smoke vanisheth, so shalt thou drive them away : and like as wax melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish at the presence of God.But let the righteous be glad and rejoice before God : let them also be merry and joyful.

The end of the beginning

Well. That was an amusing and instructive four-and-twenty hours. And the lessons appointed for the feast of Saint John Baptist were remarkably apt to it.

This is going to be a very quick and no-frills commentary. Let us rehearse what happened. Gruppa Vagnera pulled out of the line, and, led by its proprietor, Yevgeny Viktorovich Prigozhin, embarked upon a Mussolini-style black-shirt march on the capital. The excuse, a very traditionally Russian one, was that they intended to rescue the tsar from his evil counsellors: for, if only the Little Father knew what things were being done and mismanaged in his name… The actual occasion of the march, call it mutiny or call it insurrection, was the prospect that the Wagner employees were to be folded into and come under the command, such as it is, of the regular forces of the Russian Federation. Which meant military discipline, military pay, and being commanded by that prize pair of idiots, Sergei Kuzhugetovich Shoigu and Valery Vasilyevich Gerasimov.

Extraordinary scenes followed. The march was effectively unopposed. Rostov-na-Donu—the site of the Southern Military District headquarters, and a major transport hub—fell readily into Yevgeny Viktorovich’ hands. Deputy Defense Minister of the Russian Federation Yunus-bek Bamatgireyevich Yevkurov and staff officers attempted to treat with Prigozhin and were simply berated, by him, for their pains.

Live.

On Russian social media.

Priggy and the lads marched on, to Voronezh, seizing, apparently, its military facilities; and then onwards, into the Lipetsk and Ryazan oblasts. Moscow panicked. It’s not only that people fled. It’s not only that barricades were erected. It’s that Russian authorities destroyed their own transport infrastructure leading into Moscow in order to stop the March.

A showdown between ChVK Wagner and the old Chekist in the Kremlin seemed inevitable.

Then, suddenly, a deal was announced. Purportedly, a deal, brokered between Yevgeny Viktorovich and the Belarussian dictator Alyaksandr Ryhoravich Lukashenka, and allegedly signed off on and made at the instance of Vladimir Vladimirovich, provided that all charges against Yevgeny Viktorovich should be dropped and all Wagner fighters not materially implicated in the march should be given the opportunity to sign contracts with the regular forces, contingent upon Priggy’s going into exile in Belarus; and Sergei Kuzhugetovich and Valery Vasilyevich should be removed from post.

This immediately raises Aretha Franklin’s memorable if ungrammatical question, who’s zoomin’ who. Well, we shall see. But we can see some things already.

Authorizing and accepting this deal is not precisely indicative of a strong position for Vladimir Vladimirovich. It is diagnostic of weakness. Yevgeny Viktorovich Prigozhin and Gruppa Vagnera are Putin’s creatures. So also is Alyaksandr Ryhoravich. The mere existence of PMCs, which are theoretically prohibited under the law of the Russian Federation, was an admission of weakness. And Gruppa Vagnera is at best scotched, not killed. A Stalin should never have left Prigozhin and Wagner alive. Little Volodya may have thought himself clever in treating with Yevgeny Viktorovich through a proxy; but all he has done is to elevate Alyaksandr Ryhoravich and to give him more power than the meagre and scant scraps he had previously had as a puppet. This is precisely what he had done with Prigozhin and Wagner, and it is precisely as likely to come back and bite him in the hindquarters.

Diplomatically, Putin has not shot himself in the foot so much as he has inflicted upon himself a wound likely eventually to prove fatal. At Tilbury, during Armada year, my first cousin fifteen times removed, Elizabeth I, said scornfully, of the Duke of Parma and the King of Spain, let tyrants fear—as she should not. Well, tyrants always do fear. And so they damned well ought. Tyrants do not have the only legitimacy which my ninth cousin seven times removed Thomas Jefferson believed in: that is, democratic legitimacy: the consent of the governed. Uncrowned tyrants do not have the mystic legitimacy conferred upon them in many eyes by their being anointed kings. Vladimir Vladimirovich and others of his kidney are doomed the minute they flinch and show weakness.

No one thinks that Prigozhin truly believed the Ukraine war to be unjust. Nevertheless, he said, and social media in Russia broadcast his claim, that there was no ground, no casus belli, for launching it. That can neither be ignored nor taken back.

Unit cohesion, such as it was to begin with, if any, in the regular forces of the Russian Federation, is now a dead letter. They are not competent. There shall inevitably be friendly fire incidents, if only from sheer cack-handedness. The very next time one of these occurs, and particularly if any former Wagner Group fighters are integrated anywhere in the regular forces, there shall be panicked cries of treason, a flurry of accusation and counteraccusation, witch-hunts. And eventually the whole thing shall devolve into infighting.

Moreover, the pirates of Wagner were the most effective troops Russia had in Ukraine. If they are integrated into the regulars, they shall necessarily either gain ascendancy over the conscripts and bypass the chain of command, or be promoted over the conscripts, or be a running ulcer in the regular forces. (If they are not sent into the fight, the regulars shall collapse all the faster.) The regular forces were already war criminals; this is going to be a lot worse, not only for the victims of this invasion but for the Russian regular forces as well. Nor can any commander of regular forces feel a great deal of confidence in commanding troops who were either conscripts with effectively no training or the sweepings of every jail and prison in Russia. Wellington might have managed them. There is nobody in Russia who can. Once again, morale and unit cohesion are shot to rag dolls.

Russia has systemic societal issues with drug and alcohol abuse, not least among the conscripts in its regular forces. Leaven those forces with violent drug offenders brought over from the Wagner Group, and it’s Afghanistan 1979 all over again.

Of course, the Russian regular armed forces can try to substitute Chechen fighters for Wagner fighters, on the presumption that these mujahedeen are likely to live puritanically. This creates a small propaganda problem. A holy war for Holy Mother Russia, in the dog-whistle interest of ethnic Russian, blood-and-soil unification, to the greater glory of Orthodoxy, is a little hard to sell when your crack troops are Chechen Muslims and the commanders you have hitherto relied on and bigged up in the state-controlled press are a Tuvan, an Ingush, and a Tatar. And Priggy and the Wagnerites, ranging from blood-and-soil ethno-fascists to Rodnovers, can be relied upon to point that out loudly at every opportunity.

Then there is power projection, from Syria to the Central African Republic. The regular forces of the Russian Federation cannot project power in their own backyard. Russian power projection under the Putin regime has relied primarily upon PMC Wagner. Well, you can kiss that goodbye. If, which God forbid, I were Assad, I’d be very, very nervous right now. The Mediterranean is about to become Lake NATO again.

Vladimir Vladimirovich thinks he’s dodged a bullet for now. But he has shown weakness, which can have no other end than his rather messy removal. Once a tyrant has shown signs of panic, and has been forced, even at arm’s length, to treat with his challengers, it’s all over. The next time there is so much as a whiff of unrest, for example, Winnie-the-Xi and the de facto government currently exercising power in Beijing, whose protestations of unlimited friendship come always at a very steep price, shall almost certainly, protesting Xi’s loyalty to and support of Putin and the Putin regime, show his solidarity therewith by putting troops in the Russian Far East … ‘to preserve order.’ And there they shall stay, until dislodged … by someone other than the Russians. Obviously, no one who’s not a complete fool could trust any promise of Putin’s. Lukashenka and Prigozhin alike now necessarily suspect themselves to be in that man’s crosshairs: it is ill to be one to whom a tyrant feels humiliatingly indebted. No one wishes either of them to live: they’re both complete bastards who ought to be hanged. But there is now a great deal of question as to whether it is within Putin’s power to be the one who disposes of them; and there is now every reason for the two of them to unite against Putin. Belarus is probably the last place on earth to which Vladimir Vladimirovich ought to have exiled Yevgeny Viktorovich.

And in the numbering of Putin’s days, it is worth noting that the Russian border is clearly permeable; that the regular troops are disinclined to fight for him; that people turned out to take selfies with Wagner fighters in Rostov and Voronezh; and that no one in Putin’s position who can trust in or place any reliance upon his personal praetorian guard gives the orders to barricade his capital, blow bridges, and dig up highways: an expression of lack of confidence which those praetorians, Rosgvardiya, must have noticed and are unlikely to forget or forgive.

That is what we think we know so far. But, to quote one of the whining whinge-pop standards of the ’80s which added a new horror to an already despicable genre, hey now, hey now, don’t dream it’s over.

Yesterday was an amusing and instructive twenty-four hours. It is only the beginning.

A Commination: Against VV Putin

Little Volodya, your doom is upon you.

Hear me, Vladimir Vladimirovich!

And hear me also, you sedulous, credulous bastard bootlicker and bumboy to Putin, Alyaksandr Ryhoravich Lukashenka!

May all free peoples hear me: not only in Ukraine and in the world, but those in Russia who groan beneath your more than Mongol yoke, and who love liberty!

My 9th cousin 7 times removed, Thomas Jefferson, wrote these words of an eternal and pre-existing truth:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.

This truth is so for all peoples and nations.

I am an American. For four centuries my people have dwelt in this land, coming here before the United States—which we helped create—existed. We came here from England and Scotland and the Isles, from Cornwall and Ireland and Wales, our ancient home before Rome crossed the Channel.

And for that very reason, I denounce you, Vladimir Vladimirovich and Alyaksandr Ryhoravich, as one whose forefathers were of the Rus’ and were Rurikids through many lines. For the Rus’ lands were never what in your fevered dreams they are, a fortress—and, you would and wish, a universal jail of which you and creatures such as you are the wardens and governors—; never were they cut off from the West. The lineage of the House of Rurik passed into Capet and Plantagent, into Lumley and Lancaster, Sutton of Dudley and Talbot, Stanley and Dudley and Sutton and Tyrwhitt, Lindsay and Wemyss and Shaw: my ancestors.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, your rule is illegitimate: and you shall fail and fall.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are no soldier and no commander, and never were: merely a Chekist thug, a silovik of low, animal cunning.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, your sins have sent you mad and lost you your cunning: as mad as Ivan IV Grozny my 8th cousin 17 times removed by common descent of the House of Árpád.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are no prince of the world, nor of peace; you are a corrupted minor follower of the Prince of Lies, who claims to be Prince of This World and of the air: a usurper and a pretender like yourself.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are an incessant, a pointless, an implausible, a transparent, and a pathological liar: and you are exposed now by your own folly and stand revealed as what you are.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you inadvertently told a partial truth recently—no doubt in mere absence of mind. But Ukraine is not the inferior of Russia, though related: Kyiv is the father, Ukraine, the mother, of the Rus’.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are therefore a parricide, and a matricide, as you have long been a fratricide.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are a murderer, and a cowardly one, much given to assassination from afar and the coward’s weapon of poison. In your base, vile, contemptible, and unlawful aggressions, you hang back from danger and the front, and hide yourself behind guards, fearing as tyrants ever fear physical danger. Your blood-boltered hands are imbrued with fraternal and innocent blood to the elbows—yet too weak and too palsied by cowardice to take up a weapon of your own.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are no son of the Church, go through the motions as you may. You are an unbeliever, as pagan a despot as was Batu Khan.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are as utterly nekulturny, as you are as tyrannical, as was ever Berke Khan.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are no leader, no statesman, no president; you are merely a thief-in-law, presiding over the Bratva you pretend is a government, bereft as it is both of dignity and of legitimacy.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are no imperial figure: merely a petty despot on the make. Russia was never the Third Rome, however Zosimus the Bearded and Philotheus of Pskov truckled—as Russian Orthodoxy too often truckles to temporal tyrants: as Kirill does this very day even as the Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew I of Constantinople, Patriarch Daniel of Romania, and Metropolitan Onufriy of Kyiv condemn you, Vladimir Vladimirovich—to the flattered pretensions of Ivan III the Great Vasilievich of Moscow, my 8th cousin 18 times removed. Ivan III at least was a kingly figure and a prince; but he nor you, little Volodya, deserve to claim heirship of such figures as my 27th great-grandfather Alexios III, Byzantine Emperor; my 29th great-grandfather John II the Good, Emperor; my 30th great-grandfather Alexios I, Emperor; my 31st great-grandfather Romanos IV Diogenes, Emperor; my 24th great-uncle Andronikos II Palaiologos, Emperor; my 31st great-uncle Isaac I Komnenos, Emperor; my 32nd great-grandfather the Co-Emperor Andronikos Doukas; my 32nd great-uncle Constantine X, Emperor; my 33rd great-grandfather Romanos II, Emperor; my 33rd great-grandfather Leo VI “The Wise,” Emperor; my 35th great-grandfather Romanos I Lekapenos, Emperor; my 42nd great-grandfather Nikephoros I Logothetes, Emperor; or my second cousin 26 times removed, the Emperor Michael VIII, and my first cousin 32 times removed the Emperor Michael VII Doukas. May they denounce you beside me. May they pray, with me, for your swift destruction!

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are an open and notorious adulterer, ephebophile, and rapist; now you are engaged in the Rape of Ukraine, your warped version of Russia set by you to raping the mother of Kievan Rus’.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are no “de-Nazifier;” you are the spiritual son of Adolf Hitler, engaged in his sort of lies, his sort of aggression, and against a neighboring nation led by a man of Jewish descent whom you dare to label as a Nazi.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are more a barbarian and no less treacherous than was your fellow womanly poisoner Töregene Khatun.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, for all your pretended piety you are further from God than ever were Igor “the Old,” the Rurikid ruler of Kievan Rus’, my 32nd great-grandfather, and Sviatoslav I Igorevich “the Brave,” my 30th great-grandfather.

And, Vladimir Vladimirovich, little petty Volodya, you are mortal. You are mortal. Soon enough—God speed the day!—you like all men shall die; worms shall eat your flesh as your sins have eaten away at your soul and their maggots have riddled your brain and your judgement; and the shriveled husk of your soul shall go to the abyss prepared for all servants of Satan: tyrants, despots, terrorists, sons by adoption of the Father of Lies.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, the forces you are too great a coward, and too incompetent a commander, to lead in the field, may—may—triumph, for an hour, a day, a petty period of mortal time. But neither they nor you shall or can long prevail. All you have done is to solidify against you the Ukrainian people. All you have done is to unmask yourself. All you have done is to dispel the fog that every weak leader in the West and in the lands of the free peoples has been blinded by for decades.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you shall leave no great name behind. Nothing of your work shall long survive you. Your memory shall be damned in all lands, and in Russia not least. You shall be as accursed as ever was Sviatopolk the Accursed, my 29th great-uncle.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, when you die—and soon—it shall be a day of rejoicing to all free peoples, to patriotic Ukrainians and to liberty-loving Russians alike; and if you fall, as well you may, at the hand of an assassin, or by a bullet in the back of the head in the cellars of the Lubyanka, or in a noose, or in a popular revolt, it shall be a justified and glorious tyrannicide.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, I abjure you.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, I denounce you.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, I condemn you to the Pit with those demons you serve, who have made their home in you.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are hostis humani generis.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are outlaw.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you have destroyed the only legal title upon which your existence depended, and deprived yourself of the protection of the law.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you have placed yourself outwith the pale of civil and social relations, and, as an enemy and disturber of the peace of the world, have rendered yourself liable to public vengeance.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are a disgrace to Russia, whom the great leaders of its past should despise and whom its people disdain.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you cannot, ultimately, win. Your doom is at hand, and your Belarusian jackal’s with you. Your own lackeys, if they have any sense of self-preservation, shall turn upon you. Your long-suffering nation whom you have oppressed thirsts for your blood. Your sins have found you out, and the vengeance of God is nigh to you.

May it be soon.

May Saint Olga of Kyiv, Equal of the Apostles, my 32nd great-grandmother, condemn you and pray for your swift death and judgement.

May Yuri I Dolgorukiy Vladimirovich my 30th great-grandfather condemn you and pray for your sudden death and judgement.

May the Grand Prince of Kyiv Sviatopolk II Iziaslavich my 30th great-grandfather condemn you and pray for your imminent death and judgement.

May Saint Vladimir I the Great Svyatoslavich, Equal of the Apostles, my 29th great-grandfather, condemn you and pray for your immediate death and judgement.

May Gytha of Wessex, Harold’s daughter, my 29th great-grandmother, and Vladimir II Monomakh my 29th great-grandfather, condemn you and pray for your prompt death and judgement.

May Mstislav I the Great Vladimirovich Monomakh, Grand Prince of Kyiv my 28th great-grandfather condemn you and pray for your sudden death and judgement.

May Saint Yaroslav the Wise my 28th great-grandfather condemn you and pray for your imminent death and judgement.

May Anna Yaroslavna of Kyiv, Queen Consort of the Franks, my 27th great-grandmother, condemn you and pray for your immediate death and judgement.

May Mstislav Rostislavich the Brave, Prince of Novgorod, my 27th great-grandfather, condemn you and pray for your prompt death and judgement.

May Mstislav the Daring, Prince of Suzdal, my 26th great-grandfather, condemn you and pray for your sudden death and judgement.

May Yaroslav II Vsevolodovich of Vladimir my 26th great-uncle condemn you and pray for your immediate death and judgement.

May Mstislav the Brave Vladimirovich, Prince of Chernigov, my 29th great-uncle, condemn you and pray for your immediate death and judgement.

May Yaropolk I of Kyiv my 30th great-uncle, condemn you and pray for your prompt death and judgement.

May my second cousin 24 times removed Saint Alexander Yaroslavich Nevsky condemn you and pray for your imminent death and judgement.

May my third cousin 23 times removed Saint Mikhail Yaroslavich, Prince of Tver, condemn you and pray for your prompt death and judgement.

May my third cousin 26 times removed Vasili Konstantinovich, Prince of Rostov, condemn you and pray for your imminent death and judgement.

May my fifth cousin 23 times removed Saint Michael Vsevolodovich, Martyr, Prince of Chernigov, condemn you and pray for your sudden death and judgement.

May my 7th cousin 19 times removed Boris Aleksandrovich, Prince of Tver. condemn you and pray for your immediate death and judgement.

May my 8th cousin 18 times removed Ivan III the Great Vasilievich of Moscow, Tsar, condemn you and pray for your prompt death and judgement.

May my 9th cousin 16 times removed Saint Fyodor I Ivanovich the Blessed, Tsar, condemn you and pray for your sudden death and judgement.

May my 19th cousin 11 times removed Saint Fyodor Fyodorovich Ushakov, Admiral, condemn you and pray for your prompt death and judgement.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are condemned; reproved; doomed; and damned. May your people know it, and look well to themselves and their interest.

My connexion John Stuart Mill wrote truly that,

War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things: the decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks nothing worth a war, is worse. When a people are used as mere human instruments for firing cannon or thrusting bayonets, in the service and for the selfish purposes of a master, such war degrades a people. A war to protect other human beings against tyrannical injustice; a war to give victory to their own ideas of right and good, and which is their own war, carried on for an honest purpose by their free choice,—is often the means of their regeneration. A man who has nothing which he is willing to fight for, nothing which he cares more about than he does about his personal safety, is a miserable creature who has no chance of being free, unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself. As long as justice and injustice have not terminated their ever-renewing fight for ascendancy in the affairs of mankind, human beings must be willing, when need is, to do battle for the one against the other.

Ukraine: stand fast! Russia, rise up against the despot! And God defend Liberty.

Talkin’ Baseball

Congratulations to the Braves as a ballclub, from field to front office.

Naturally, I’d have preferred that our lads had won it all, for this town and for Dusty. But this is baseball, the national pastime, the American game: a sport of individual effort in the service of a common cause, nine duels at a time making a tourney’s melee together, skill and chance wound tight; a rough homespun cricket, poised always upon the sudden ability to overcome the unexpected and the incalculable: in which nothing is—as nothing in Creation ever, truly, is—foreordained or predestined. A game, this year and this Series as in every year and Series, full of and sparking unlooked-for heroes, unimagined dismays, uncovenanted misfortunes, inexplicable luck, and the constants of hope, grit, resilience, determination, sudden reverses, and grace under these. A game in which win or lose there is Always Next Year; the sport of statistics and SABRmetrics, yes, but also and fundamentally of sprung rhythm and poetry and ancient knack beyond knowledge. The American game, inherently resistant to meddling and to mad passing theories from the world beyond, imperfect but not much apt to lasting corruption, filled always with the certainty of redemption, never utterly depraved or capable of becoming so. Jackie’s game, and Larry Doby’s, and Camp’s, and Minnie’s; Hank’s game, twice over, in which the first Hammerin’ Hank was Hank Greenberg. The game of Americans, America’s sport, the means of assimilation and the forging of the American character at its best; the game of Nice Jewish Boys who went to Princeton and of high school graduates—or dropouts—from everywhere, of half Mexican-American Marine aviators, Catholic orphans from Baltimore, Native Americans, Dominicans, Cubans, Koreans, Aussies, Japanese, Glaswegians, African American Army officers from UCLA and good ol’ boy Great War captains and veterans of the Negro Leagues and the US Navy in the Pacific Theater alike. The game of farmers’ sons, Polish kids from Donora, boys from Brooklyn or the Garment District, coalminers’ children, and suburban sons, the sons of ranchers and the son of refugee Russian Jews. A sport which has survived and subsumed its Wobblies as its few wokesters, its racists and its radicals, just as it has survived scandal—and redemption, which is always available to all—, and has outlasted mad owners and despicable Commissioners. A broadly High Anglican game which anyone, Catholic Yalies of partly Chinese-American descent, Ashkenazim, Buddhists, Muslims, Southern Baptists and outright atheists, and even those doubly-damned Calvinist heretics the Presbyterians, God’s Frozen People, can and may play.

Just like America and its Constitution from its very founding.

The season is over—for this season. The Braves and the NL won: and deserve congratulation. But nothing is over, ever, truly. The Winter Meetings follow, the Lenten season of the Hot Stove League and vague far-off reports from winter ball; and in four short months, the blessed Annunciation: “Pitchers and catchers report…”.

Let’s play two.