The vision

Unable to sleep, I peered through the latticed window of my small rented room across the fields and hedgerows. They were blanketed in mist beneath a luminous, pre-dawn, spring sky.
I quickly dressed and silently left the inn to walk and breathe the early morning air.

It was enchanting. Wandering aimlessly in the surrounding countryside, listening to the birds' early melodies, and the sound of the dew soaked grass whipping at my shoes as I strolled. There was a whispering stream with moss covered banks. And then there was the lake.

I can remember the lake as perfectly as if it were yesterday. The surrounding alders and willows. The changing reflections, the incredible calm.

Perhaps I was half asleep, but could this really be a dream, or could one's subconscious conjure up such detailed and refined beauty?

Reeds brushed softly against each other, hissing as fish wended their way between them in the depths. The cry of a moor-hen echoed eerily across the calm surface of the water.
Entranced I followed the sound, gazing across the lake. Mesmerised by the soft mists weaving their enchantment, my attention was irresistibly drawn to a certain point between some trees.

There was a strange light and it seemed as if the swirling mists were unveiling the silhouette of a human form.
I held my breath, and dared not move or even blink, sensing that this would erase the vision, if it were so.

Gradually unveiled by the mist, there appeared before me the image of a woman. A gracious and fragile young woman of a strange, ethereal beauty. Her long hair floating, she bathed soundlessly, softly smiling within her translucent world.

Although transfixed where time no longer exists, the gradual return to consciousness, and what I took to be reality, was of my own doing. For I felt unworthy of the privilege of beholding such a vision of innocent beauty. I closed my eyes, wiped away what seemed to be tears of emotion, and looked down. When I finally raised my head to look once more across the lake, I already knew she would no longer be there. The soft shroud of mist had returned.

I felt great wonder, and then sorrow, a strange loneliness, longing and regret.
I remember little else. Perhaps I wandered aimlessly, entranced. Perhaps it really was a curious and beautiful dream, and that as I slept angels smiled as they carried me away to wherever reality still exists.
And yet how is it possible that I eventually found myself, fully clothed, my shoes wet from the morning dew, sitting on my bed in a state of dazed bewilderment?

Later I discovered that there is no such lake in the region where I had stayed. This only increased my confusion, melancholy and nostalgia. Sometimes dreams would haunt and torment me. Images of mockery and delusion. They would taunt me relentlessly as I groped through cold, impenetrable mists, vainly searching for an illusion like a blind, exigent child.
But then I was a child.
For whatever it had been, this unforgettable vision was indeed a fabulous gift. And I was too young then to understand.

I am an old man.
Although I have had the chance to taste the bitterness of defeat, my life has been good. Some projects have failed, but those closer to my heart have been achieved as desired. I have seen man's greatness. More often I have seen his weakness and folly, certainly in myself. And finally I have learnt enough to reach the conclusion that I know nothing.
Yet perhaps I have learnt the meaning of love. If this be so, then time smiles on me now as I await what has to be.
 

*

The sun is rising sending flashes between the golden reeds. The branches of the alders gently sway, caressed by the breeze. Across the lake the cry of the moor-hen is heard.
And the soft mists begin once more to weave their enchantment...

1975
__

C'était une aube lumineuse de printemps.

Ne trouvant plus le sommeil, j'avais quitté l'auberge pour prendre l'air et me promener dans la campagne bleuie par les brumes matinales. 
J'ai trouvé un ruisseau caché courant par là, entre ses rives mousseuses, et en suivant sa course vagabonde, je parvins aux abords d'un lac.

Comme si c'était hier, je me souviens de chaque détail; chaque aulne, chaque saule, les reflets moirés de l'aube sur le lac, la surface de l'eau à peine troublée par des poissons paresseux nageant dans les profondeurs entre les roseaux submergés. Puis il y avait le cri d'une poule d'eau se répercutant à travers la calme surface de l'eau.

Enchanté, j'ai suivi ce son contemplant les vapeurs légères, fasciné par leurs mouvements qui, à un certain moment semblaient s'éclaircir pour révéler une silhouette, une forme humaine. Mon attention devint plus aiguë et je n'osai plus  remuer, cligner des yeux, et même respirer, de peur que cette vision, si ç'en était une, ne s'efface.

Une femme. Le corps frêle et gracieux d'une jeune femme, comme jamais je n'en ai vue, se baignait en silence, lissant ses longs cheveux sur ses épaules, au cœur de cette aube magique. Elle souriait à peine dans son monde éthéré et paisible.

J'étais figé, hors du temps, mais le retour progressif à un état de quasi conscience, et ce que j'ai cru être la réalité, était quand même auto-déterminé. Car je me suis senti indigne de ce privilège de voir une telle vision de beauté innocente et éphémère. Je regarda donc ailleurs, la poitrine battante, et sans trop le savoir l'émotion emplissait mes yeux de larmes.

Quand finalement j'ai soulevé ma tête pour regarder une dernière fois, je savais déjà qu'elle n'y serait plus. Il y avait seulement le doux linceul de brume.

J'ai ressenti un grand émerveillement, puis une tristesse, une solitude étrange, un désir inassouvi et un regret.
Je me rappelle peu d'autre. Peut-être j'ai erré sans but, hébété. C'est vrai peut-être qu'il s'agissait d'un rêve, un songe curieux et beau, et pendant que j'ai dormi des anges ont souri en m'emportant là où la réalité existe toujours.

Mais alors comment est-il possible que je me sois par la suite trouvé entièrement vêtu, mes chaussures humides de la rosée matinale, assis sur mon lit dans un état abasourdi de confusion complète?

Plus tard j'ai découvert qu'il n'y avait pas un tel lac dans la région où j'étais hébergé. Ceci n'a qu'augmenté ma confusion, mélancolie et nostalgie. Parfois des rêves me hanteraient et me tourmenteraient. Images de moquerie et d'illusion. Elles me railleraient implacablement pendant que je cherchais à tâtons par les brumes froides et impénétrables, vainement recherchant une fantaisie comme un enfant exigent et aveugle.

Mais alors j'étais un enfant.
Car quoi qu'elle eût été, cette vision inoubliable répresentait en effet un cadeau fabuleux. Et j'étais trop jeune alors pour le comprendre.

Je suis un vieil homme.
Bien que j'aie eu la chance de goûter l'amertume de la défaite, ma vie a été bonne. Quelques projets ont échoué, mais tout ceux plus près de mon cœur ont été réalisés comme souhaité. J'ai vu la grandeur de l'homme. Plus souvent j'ai vu sa faiblesse et sa folie, certainement en ce qui me regarde. Et finalement j'ai appris assez pour en tirer la conclusion que je n'en sais rien.

Mais peut-être ai-je appris ce que c'est que l'amour. Et si c'est ainsi, alors le temps me sourit maintenant que j'attends ce qui doit être... 
 

*
 

Le soleil se lève envoyant ses éclairs entre les roseaux d'or. Les branches des aulnes balancent doucement, caressés par la brise. A travers le lac le cri de la poule d'eau est entendu.
Et les brumes douces commencent une fois de plus à tisser leur enchantement...

__
 

Text and illustration (The love nymph) © Mirino (PW) October, 2012

Oscar Wilde. On Individualism

'It is always with the best intentions that the worst work is done'

On a déjà traité de The Soul of Man under Socialisme, mais non pas directement au sujet de l'individualisme.
Bien évidemment il y a l'ironie paradoxale si célèbre d'Oscar Wilde qui émane aussi de cet essai, mais la conjecture avancée par l'écrivain que l'individualisme pourrait éventuellement (voire inévitablement) être le produit du socialisme, semble être plutôt de la rêverie utopique que de l'ironie de sa part, même si par l'ordre irrévocable des choses, c'est invariablement (et ironiquement) vrai. 

N'oublions pas que Wilde vivait pendant la tyrannie de la Révolution Industrielle, bien avant que les syndicats n'aient eu un poids véritable. Le climat social, l'énorme division des classes, et le quasi esclavage y compris l'exploitation des enfants de cette époque, sont très bien décrits par les écrivains comme Charles Dickens (1812-1870) et Victor Hugo (1802-1885).
Oscar Wilde aurait donc été tenté de croire alors dans ce nouveau socialisme voire communisme, bien qu'on ait l'impression qu'il n'était pas entièrement convaincu, qu'il était assez visionnaire, que déjà alors il y voyait les nuages des illusions, de la tromperie et des contradictions qui se formaient à l'horizon lointain.

Ceci est évident par ses opinions et ses observations qui vont carrément à l'encontre de l'idéologie que même aujourd'hui on se borne à perpétuer. Mais ce serait tout à fait normal que Wilde soit tenté alors à y croire, comme il était aussi sans doute convaincu que la Révolution Française fut parfaitement justifiée, sans trop vouloir entrer dans les détails. Cette conviction est déjà assez manifeste dans cette phrase de son essai : 'To the thinker, the most tragic fact in the whole of the French Revolution is not that Marie Antoinette was killed for being a queen, but that the starved peasant of the Vendée voluntarily went out to die for the hideous cause of feudalism.' 

L'ironie, bien évidemment c'est qu'une idéologie qui prône l'égalitarisme si cher aux 'prolétariats révolutionnaires' ne peut jamais encourager donc déterminer l'individualisme. L'individualisme est incompatible avec l'idéologie pure et dure socialo-communiste. Lorsqu'il s'avère plus évident que jamais, même pour les intransigeants, que le socialisme ne peut que conduire à une sorte de médiocrité régressive, triste, conforme et contre-nature, c'est inéluctable qu'il y aura une renaissance d'appréciation pour l'individuel. Celui ou celle qui historiquement inspire toujours la confiance. L'exemple digne de ses aspirations, sa capacité voire son génie, son intégrité et sa volonté. L'expression même d'humanité à son plus haut niveau. Et évidemment ceci, cette qualité humaine, n'a rien, et n'aura jamais rien à voir avec aucune forme de politique ou d'idéologie quelle qu'elles soient.

D'ailleurs la plus grande partie de cet essai exalte l'individualisme et condamne le conformisme, (et même l'altruisme, considéré par l'écrivain indigne).

Alors que les socialistes français veulent se donner l'air d'être de grands et nobles rectificateurs des maux de l'histoire, comme celui de l'esclavage, par exemple, les faits historiques semblent aussi leur rirent au nez. Comme Wilde lui-même faisait aussi remarquer dans cet essai :
'(...) Slavery was put down in America, not in consequence of any action on the part of the slaves, or even any express desire on their part that they should be free. It was put down entirely through the grossly illegal conduct of certain agitators in Boston and elsewhere, who were not slaves themselves, nor owners of slaves, nor had anything to do with the question really. It was, undoubtedly, the Abolitionists who set the torch alight, who began the whole thing. And it is curious to note that from the slaves themselves they received, not merely very little assistance, but hardly any sympathy even; and when at the close of the war the slaves found themselves free, found themselves indeed so absolutely free that they were free to starve, many of them bitterly regretted the new state of things.(...)'

L'hypocrisie c'est que de tels esprits tartuffes continuent sans aucun complexe de culpabilité, de conscience ou de scrupules à faire des affaires avec ceux qui perpétuent l'esclavage même aujourd'hui. Un esclavage caché et insidieux qui pourrait être considéré même pire dans certains égards que celui pratiqué ouvertement aux Etats Unis avant la guerre civile de 1861-65.

(Il est aussi à noter que dans leur élan de rectifier de tels maux du passé, comme celui perpétré même par les autorités françaises- l'événement du 19 octobre, 1961, ils semblent oublier de manière grossière les maux bien plus importants perpétrés par ceux devant lesquels ils se mettent à genou si humblement et honteusement aujourd'hui.
Malgré le cessez-le-feu avec l'Algérie le 19 mars, 1962, à 12h, suivant la signature des accords d'Evian la veille, et après huit ans de guerre, quasi 100,000 harkis et membres de leurs familles furent massacrés, et plusieurs centaines de soldats français furent tués ou blessés par la suite. En outre l'historien Jean-Jacques Jordi affirme que 1253 européens ont disparu entre le 19 mars et le 31 décembre, 1962. L'Algérie n'a jamais reconnu de telles exactions commises par le FLN.
Personne cependant de l'illustre gouvernement socialiste français n'en demande aucun compte-rendu ni aucune apologie de la part des autorités ou des concernés algériens).

Mais pour retourner à l'essai de Wilde. Il a aussi fait cette observation en ce qui concerne la richesse :
'(...) There is only one class in the community that thinks more about money than the rich, and that is the poor. The poor can think about nothing else. That is the misery of being poor. What Jesus has to say, is that man reaches his perfection, not through what he has, or even through what he does, but entirely through what he is. (...)'

Peut-être la forme de socialisme imaginaire de Wilde faisait partie de son propre rêve utopique, parce que si l'individualisme en est même le produit, ce serait à condition- et revoilà l'ironie- que toutes formes et systèmes de gouvernement soient totalement abandonnés y compris celle de la démocratie...
'(...) He who would be free", says a fine thinker, "must not conform." And authority, by bribing people to conform, produces a very gross kind of over-fed barbarism amongst us. (...)'

En fait Oscar Wilde l'admet lui-même en ajoutant plus loin : '(...) Is this Utopian? A map of the world that does not not include Utopia is not worth even glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is always landing. And when Humanity lands there, it looks out, and seeing a better country, sets sail. Progress is the realisation of Utopias. (...)'

L'individualisme le plus évident est celui qui determine l'art même. '(...) Indeed, the moment that an artist takes notice of what other people want, and tries to supply the demand, he ceases to be an artist. (...) He has no further claim to be considered as an artist. Art is the most intense mood of Individualism that the world has known. (...)'

Selon Wilde donc, s'il y a de très bonne poésie anglaise, c'est parce que le public ne la lit pas.. Par conséquence elle n'est pas sujet et ne souffre pas de l'influence publique.
La communauté, corrompue par l'autorité, est donc incapable d'apprécier ou de comprendre l'Individualisme. '(...) In a word, it comes from that monstrous and ignorant thing that is called Public Opinion, which, bad and well-meaning as it is when it tries to control action, is infamous and of evil meaning when it tries to control Thought or Art. (...)'

Dans cet essai il fait aussi allusion à la Renaissance : '(...) One might point out how the Renaissance was great, because it sought to solve no social problem, and busied itself not about such things, but suffered the individual to develop freely, beautifully, and naturally, and so had great and individual artists, and great and individual men. (...)'

Puis à propos d'égoïsme, très applicable bien entendu à nos jours : '(...) Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live. And unselfishness is letting other people's lives alone, not interfering with them. Selfishness always aims at creating around it an absolute uniformity of type. Unselfishness recognises infinite variety of type as a delightful thing, accepts it, acquiesces in it, enjoys it. It is not selfish to think for oneself. A man who does not think for himself does not think at all. (...)'

Considérons encore la période industrielle du 19° dans laquelle Oscar Wilde vivait. Considérons aussi la situation géopolitique de son époque. Puis comparons ses opinions et ses convictions avec celles de certains idéologues d'aujourd'hui, comme celles par exemple dont j'ai déjà fait référence. Puis considérons le sens des mots comme égalitarisme, individualisme, régression et évolution.

Oscar Wilde, Prince de l'Individualisme, est un exemple brillant d'une victime des conformistes, des hypocrites, des bigots et des ignorants qui malheureusement font toujours partie inhérente du monde.
Mais on continue toujours à apprécier l'œuvre de Wilde, son art, sa sagesse et son grand esprit, tandis que ses pauvres persécuteurs sont tous tombés lamentablement (abysmally) dans les bas fonds des oubliettes.

__
 

Oscar Wilde. The Artist

Text © Mirino (PW). Portrait of Oscar Wilde by Toulouse Lautrec. Extracts from Collins' Complete Works of Oscar Wilde, with thanks. October, 2012

Senseless sonnet

  

You're not alone when you are still with me;
Oh Christ! that one could have some privacy!
Since you were thou and I was therefore thee;
Since I was you, I couldn't have been me.
Travested thus within this curvèd vault
Though deeply distant, pleasant for us both;
Senseless with flames of joy, no sense of fault
And absent like a candle crazèd moth.

Give me your socks and put my garments on!
Devise some means by how we can this disguise!
So much is mine that would be yours anon,
That taking what is yours as mine I must advise.
You do beguile me! O that he should flee
From himself to you, or from herself to me!
 

*

With apologies to Michael Drayton 1563-1631

Sonnets- Idea XI

__

Parody and image modification, transposition © Mirino. 
(Top portrait of Michael Drayton by unknown artist). October, 2012
 

Nobellicosità europea

Visto che i miei sciocchi commenti sono talvolta perfino accettati dal Corriere della Sera, forse il mio italiano sta migliorando. Lo spero. In ogni caso, per la prima volta, ho deciso di provare a scrivere un articolo solo in italiano su Viewfinder, quindi eccolo per la posterità e il piacere degli italiani masochisti.



Scrivendo più o meno una piccola cosa simile allo stesso tempo per Le Figaro ed Il Corriere, ho notato che quest'ultimo sembra essere maggiormente dotato di sense of humour rispetto al primo, perché questo ha 'moderato' ciò che ho scritto mentre quello lo ha pubblicato senza esitazione. Ma in generale gli italiani non si prendono tanto sul serio quanto i francesi. E nel mondo attuale, si rischierebbero di diventare matti se non fossero capaci di vedere le cose con humour, e soprattutto con filosofia.

Del resto credo che i francesi, rappresentati da un Presidente come Hollande, siano piuttosto obbligati ad esercitare sempre di più humour e filosofia.



Ma lo scopo di quest'articolo è discutere sul Premio Nobel per la Pace, interrogandomi sulla saggezza e la logica di scegliere l'Europa come vincitore di un premio che forse una volta aveva un significato più reale e prestigioso.



In primo luogo, quanti secoli ci sono voluti all'Europa per arrivare a capire che è meglio finirla da far la guerra con i vicini? In secondo luogo, consideriamo le conseguenze terribili del Trattato “vendicativo” di Versailles, come quelle, evidentemente atroci, della seconda guerra mondiale, compresi gli accordi anche fatali di conseguenze di Yalta.

Insomma, diciamo chiaramente, l'Europa non merita alcun premio di pace per avere finalmente capito che è meglio, nel comune interesse, far la pace in luogo della guerra con i vicini. Benché manifestamente il Kossovo non c’entri. E neppure la Libia. Ci devono essere dunque eccezioni geopolitiche alla regola. 



Poi occorre ricordarsi che in ogni caso a volte è necessario far la guerra per ottenere una pace durevole.

Immaginiamo per esempio che dopo la visita di Ahmad Shah Massoud nell’aprile 2001, l'Europa avesse capito molto bene quale fosse la posta in gioco in Afghanistan. Immaginiamo che Chirac stesso si fosse rivelato un uomo dotato di una grande visione e capacità decisionale. (...) Che quest'uomo avesse quindi persuaso con un argomento sensato ed irresistibile tutti i francesi, gli inglesi, gli italiani e perfino i tedeschi ad aiutare Massoud per sconfiggere i talibani.

Proviamo ad immaginare un po' le conseguenze: i talibani totalmente demoliti, svuotati quindi di ogni entusiasmo, senza alcuna fiducia per continuare il loro jihad internazionale. Massoud ancora vivo per realizzare infine il suo sogno: la democrazia (davvero) di Afghanistan.
Non ci sarebbe stato alcun attacco contro le torri gemelle. Non ci sarebbe stata quindi alcuna guerra in Iraq, non ancora almeno. Non ci sarebbe alcuna guerra interminabile in Afghanistan.
Ci sarebbe stata una vera democrazia per il popolo afgano, in luogo di una fabbricazione fraudolenta sostenuta senza vergogna dagli Stati Uniti. 



Il delirio continua immaginando che quella democrazia esemplare afgana ispirerebbe allora la primavera araba, l'estate araba e l'autunno arabo senza troppi conflitti né il bisogno di un inverno arabo. 

Saddam Hussein, seguito da Mu'ammar Gheddafi deciderebbero anche di democratizzare i loro paesi. Tutti e due avrebbero potuto allora essere insigniti del premio Nobel..

Assad ed Ahmadinejad, isolati ed invidiosi di Saddam e Gheddafi a proposto del premio, deciderebbero allora di (quasi) democratizzare l'Iran e la Siria, a patto che possano continuare a rappresentare il loro paesi come capi di Stato.



In breve, siccome la storia è costruita di un tessuto di conseguenze, nessuno merita un premio per l'immobilismo.
Ci si domanda perché mai Obama fu insignito del premio Nobel. Perché allora Chirac e tutti i ni-ni-istes francesi (coloro evitando di impegnarsi, gli inconcludenti e quasi immobili) hanno mai ricevuto il Nobel? Se evitare il confronto è interpretati come rappresentare la pace, c'è qualcosa che davvero non va.
Come diceva Churchill : 'An appeaser is one who feeds a crocodile, hoping it will eat him last.' ('un appeaser o pacificatore è quello che dà a mangiare a un coccodrillo sperando che esso lo mangerà per ultimo').   

In questo riguardo, come già suggerito, Neville Chamberlain avrebbe dovuto essere nominato prima di tutti, poiché tutto è relativo. Un anno di pace deve essere stimato migliore che un week-end tranquillo.



Conclusione : Il premio per la pace non vuol più dire nulla, ma non importa. Ci sono molti che si persuadono complimentandosi che l'Europa ha ben meritato il premio. Questo neppure ha alcuna importanza né significato.

Purtroppo (se non fortunatamente) la natura umana non cambierà mai. Anche per questo si godranno sempre le opere di Chaucer, Boccaccio, Shakespeare e Molière, Hesse, Joe Blogs, Yours truly. ecc., che l'ebbero sottolineato meravigliosamente per la posterità.



Ciò che importa è piuttosto la logica che malgrado la piccolezza e la sciocchezza, o la saggezza e la grandezza dell'uomo, c'è sempre una ragione per tutto. Ciò non vuol dire in alcun modo che si tratta di una 'fatalità già scritta,' quindi 'buona.' Vuol dire che tanto nel bene che nel male avanziamo verso un obiettivo, forse anche predeterminato, senza neppure saperlo. Vuole anche dire che talvolta la vita è difficile da capire, ma è sempre molto preziosa e molto bella.

 __  

Text © Mirino (verified by my good friend Rob WRH, with many thanks). 

Use of photo with thanks (flag modified, dove added © M). October, 2012

The American Nightmare

The allusion to The American dream, Le Rêve Américain, is positive, and in my view it should always be valid.
Two recent tv documentaries made me think of the USA again, but in a more critical vein.

It goes without saying that the USA is a great nation. Perhaps the greatest in the world in most respects. Like all nations it has its very best, then its mediocre average, and then inevitably, its worst. This is relative to the mass and population of a nation. Certainly a great deal is also determined by the fact that America was originally Europe's exigent offspring. Today it's the 'adolescent' of the whole world.

Winston Churchill once said 'You can always count on the Americans to do the right thing- after they've tried everything else.'..
If this laconic irony reflects some truth in any events that took place during the most critical periods of the last century, it certainly seems to reflect the truth regarding events of this century.

When pride, ambition, vanity and power encroach on discernment, intelligence, judgement, justice and logic, thus national- and by extension- world interests, there's a problem. And in today's world, there's no longer any margin for trial and error.

President Obama seemed determined to set up his healthcare service during his first mandate. This would have been an amazing feat, and he will go down in history for this ambitious initiative in any case, even if it could be considered irrational and irresponsible to try to set up such a costly system during one of the worst economic crisis in history.
Obviously it would be more judicious to go about setting up Obamacare stone by stone, correcting faults gradually, to avoid extremely expensive stumbling blocks. It would be better to project the setting up of the whole system far more into the future, in a more visionary way, rather than to try to accomplish the impossible, perhaps also for personal motives.

But without considering any aspect of inopportunity, it seems incoherent to think in terms of establishing an effective U.S. health service, when the U.S. legal and judicial system often appears to be seriously on the blink.
Could it not be regarded as absurd to spend many millions of dollars of American tax payers' money in trying to set up a health service for the care of American citizens, when at the same time the world is being regularly informed of U.S. judicial errors and executions that should never have take place in view of evidence (or lack of it) that should have automatically cancelled out such ignoble sentences?
Whether one is for or against the death penalty, if an American State approves it, then the least it can do is to make absolutely certain that an innocent victim isn't being murdered.

One often has the impression that the American legal system is a bulldozer, driven by an officious bully either half-blind or wearing blinkers, and that if the jury, members of whom are sometimes suspect themselves, has established the 'required verdict,' nothing will stop the bulldozer from advancing, crushing everything in its path, including any new evidence that comes to light, that should automatically cancel the whole nightmarish procedure.

One of the tv documentaries was an interview with Roman Polanski. On request he briefly went through his whole life. First in Poland during the war. The walls built confining the ghettos of Warsaw and Kraków. The Nazis searching for his sister, finally capturing his mother instead, and sending her to Auschwitz, where she was gassed. His father miraculously reappearing, cutting through the wire to allow Roman to escape. He was too young to fully understand, although he did as his father commanded, and ran away.
Other children including his best friend were less fortunate. Many of them were simply lined up in the road and shot. His narration is illustrated with authentic photographs of these scenes. Often he was reduced to silence, holding back tears. He describes how he was accepted by a family in the country, and worked on a farm until the Russians arrived, and the war was over.
He made a crystal set, (I remember when I made one too, and how impressed I was by such 'technology'). This in fact triggered off his vocation. He worked for the radio and also as a theatre actor. His artistic talents as a film producer were soon recognised, and he started producing the films that are all now regarded as classics, such as Cul de Sac, which on release were less appreciated than they should have been.
He met Sharon Tate and they fell in love. This was such a happy period when he made the marvelous spoof film that I have seen so many times, always with the same pleasure and appreciation- Le Bal de vampires (The Fearless Vampire killers).
It's interesting to note that Newsweek called the film an unprofitable 'witless travesty', which seems more to reveal how witless (and prejudiced) Newsweek must have been at that time.

Polanski was uneasy when Sharon left for America. She was eight months pregnant and determined that their child should be born in the USA. He wanted to go with her but was held up by work that couldn't be postponed.
When he was informed of her death, he thought at first that there had been an avalanche, as the house in Los Angeles is tucked below a steep cliff.
Along with five other friends, Sharon, two weeks before her child was due, had been murdered, savagely stabbed sixteen times.

Before (and perhaps even since) the Charles Manson 'family' had been traced and convicted, certain unleashed media pushed the idea that there were satanic connections between the murders and Polanski's films. Stupid hints of rituals and devilry. Incredibly the film producer himself was somehow suspected, and hounded continually by the press. Even the memory of Sharon Tate was also callously trampled upon.

It was in fact her mother, Doris Tate who devoted the rest of her life fighting and campaigning against the prospect of parole for the Manson killers.
In 1992 President George Bush praised her for her volunteer work. She died of a brain tumour, but her youngest daughter, Patti, continued her work on behalf of victims of violent crimes, and contributed to the founding of the 1993 Doris Tate Crime Victims Bureau. When Patti died of cancer, her older sister Debbi carried on the fight. In 1995 the Doris Tate Crime Victims Foundation was established.

Despite all this, US record companies showed great interest in publishing a song Manson wrote in prison, therefore they were perfectly prepared to set him up on a pedestal. Neither he nor any of his barbaric, glazed eyed 'family' have ever shown or admitted to having any remorse for the abominable murders they perpetrated.
This in itself is no credit whatsoever to American justice.

Naturally Polanski refers to his own crime. He doesn't make any excuses for it. He clearly regrets it. He doesn't suggest his still being in a vindictive or disturbed state of mind at that time, after losing his wife and child in such an atrocious way, and being continually hounded by the press.

There was also the tv appearance of his victim (Samantha Geimer). Even she fought for Polanski's rights stating that the press had caused her far more harm than he ever did, and that the fame hungry, press cutting collector, Judge Rittenband, shamefully revoked his own word. 'US justice simply couldn't be trusted. They were out to get Polanski, etc.'  Even the ex prosecutor, David Wells, later admitted that he had lied regarding the Polanski case.

Although the documentary is very moving, and as his friend who interviewed him pointed out, Polanski's is a living example of Rudyard Kipling's poem- 'If', I've gone into considerable length, not to defend Polanski, but to condemn such instances of American injustice, and U.S. journalism when it isn't as exemplary and as responsible as journalism, at least in principle, should be.
In retrospect the callous American media and judicial reaction to the Manson killings could even be interpreted as a gutless dismissal of any responsibility regarding the existence of the Manson gang, and the real danger they then represented.

Obviously it should never be up to families, acquaintances and ordinary people to defend the rights of victims, sometimes at the cost of their own lives. It's the duty and responsibility of the law and judiciary system of a nation. One shouldn't need to sign petitions and write articles to try to save victims of American injustice, such as Troy Davis, a tragic case in which even Obama apparently showed no interest.

Which brings us back to the first argument. To try to establish a working welfare system is truly commendable. But it also seems incoherent and inconsistent in relation to a legal system full of holes. One imagines the absurd horror of condemning people to death for crimes they never committed, but allowing them the divine right to benefit from Obamacare right up until the day the State chooses to murder them.

The other documentary was an equally moving French film by Arte on Massoud. I've already referred to him enough times on Viewfinder, but he is an important Afghan hero to whom the American authorities still seem to prefer not to refer.
He too was a victim of lies, apathy, injustice, ignorance and self-opinionatedness. And Europe share the blame, although the European fault was the apathy, the lack of interest, engagement and responsibility. The infamous ni-ni-isme, as the French still call such immobilism. And this certainly thrived under Chirac, who as President of France at the time of Massoud's visit to Europe in April, 2001, must have been fully aware of the purpose of his coming, as well as what he had to say.

In the film, Massoud was interviewed by a journalist. He was questioned about Osama bin Laden. Massoud replied that bin Laden had caused a great deal of harm. He is responsible for the deaths of thousands of Afghans, and when he is captured, he must be tried and condemned in Afghanistan..

Many mistakes have been made by the West regarding Afghanistan. And little seems to have been learnt. The best way to have gained the trust of the Afghans would have been by supporting Massoud. The US authorities preferred to continue to believe, and put their trust in Pakistan and the ISI, who originally fostered the Taliban. They preferred to support a Pashtun presidential candidate who casually justifies massive election fraud.

At that crucial time was there not a better option? The right-hand man of Massoud himself, Dr. Abdullah. Or would that have caused the US authorities to fear that supporting Abdullah might possibly be interpreted as admitting to a serious error of judgement in not supporting Massoud in the first place?
Wouldn't Dr. Abdullah have been more able to bring the country together, and thus help Nato effectively purge the nation of the Taliban? Karzai has done very little to bring the country together. He has even shown an adverse tendency, by favouring Pashtuns above all other Afghan ethnics.

Would this not be another example of the U.S. 'bulldozer- let's do it our way- phenomenon?' Once more one asks the ultimate question, if the propped up Afghan authority isn't seriously engaged in defending the principles of democracy, what have the young soldiers of Nato in Afghanistan been fighting and dying for?

Naturally if any of the above is considered debatable (naive, prejudiced or inexact), I would welcome all constructive arguments.

__
 

Opinion © Mirino. With thanks for the use of photographs (modified) also to 
Wikimedia commons. October, 2012

The Landowner and the Vagabond

Thanks to a prolonged, romantic affair in Ramsgate, his great grandfather, notorious womaniser and bon vivant, Guibert Benfutuis de Beaupoil, pleasantly passed his sojourn long enough in England to avoid the horrors of the French Revolution. As a result his descendant the Compte Archibald Groslard de Beaupoil had the good fortune to live in the grand yet austere Chateau de Beaupoil with its acres of splendid French forest, fertile farm land and vast vignoble.
As a rich landowner of allegedly noble blood, Seigneur of the Comté with several tenants each with modest parcels of his land, the Comte had weighty responsibility, and he wielded impressive authority. 

He attended Church service each Sunday morning. This was to make sure that his servile curate continued to instil the fear of hell into the hearts of his farm labourers regarding the evil of not giving one's utmost effort, or final breath for the noble cause of the Comte.
Archibald was certain that his social duties gave the community a sense of duty, security, responsibility and identity. And his rigorous demands guarantied their loyalty.

The curate humbly received his meagre donations and guided the local community fittingly, likening the Comte to one's gilded shepherd, etc. Thus the standing of Archibald was religiously maintained.

In order to try to satisfy their Seigneur and scratch together enough to able to pay the biannual rent, the tenants were always obliged to get the best possible results. Each Christmas the Comte Archibald would condescendingly make a show of his appreciation for their efforts by giving them very small tokens of gratitude, as well as little extras for the most hard working labourers, or for the families of those who through utter exhaustion had made the ultimate, noble sacrifice.
When the years were particularly good, he would even make personal visits to each tenant and allow them to kiss his hand. This was considered, mostly by the Comte, a great honour indeed. But on average years he would have his small tokens and little extras sent by one of his valets.

There was one person living in the most beautiful part of Comte Archibald Groslard de Beaupoil's forest who never paid any rent at all. He was perfectly independent. So much so that for quite some time, no one was aware that he even existed.
He was an old vagabond who had travelled far and had seen many wonders of the world. After much wandering he had chosen to return to live the last period of his life peacefully in the forests he remembered and grew up with as a boy, so many years before.

He had no need of money. The forest provided him with everything he needed. The experience of his travels had made him wise and resourceful, and thanks to the gifts of nature and the bare necessities he always carried with him, he lived as freely as he wished.
There was a pristine trout stream, and plenty of game for his clothing and his meals. There were fruits, berries, hazel, beech and chestnuts. He knew which herbs to take whenever he needed them for his health. He knew how to make a fire for cooking, and to keep himself warm in the winter. He lived quite comfortably sheltered in the dry, mossy hollow of a great oak tree, entertained by the delicate music of the birds. He was perfectly content.

Comte Archibald Groslard de Beaupoil was not a gifted man. His requirements were met by his servants and tenants. Whatever he needed would be brought to him. He had no inclination to leave his chateau unless he had a financial reason for doing so. He would spend much of his time nursing his gout in front of a modest fire in one of the smallest of his chambers, drinking red wine whilst going through his accounts.

There was a pre-gout period when he would go out, though never very far, with a dog, a shotgun and the intention to kill something. But he could never possibly have been considered a chasseur, even by the worst French standards. Although once, miraculously, he managed to bring down what must have been a totally disorientated woodcock. The poor bird was so pulverised and peppered with shot that it was neither edible nor stuffable.
He flung what was left of his trophy on the kitchen table and ordered the cook to prepare it for his dinner. To avoid yet another tantrum, she prepared a pigeon instead, perfectly confident that he would never know the difference, which was indeed the case.

During the vagabond's second winter in the forest, Mr. Furet de Trémouilles, an ambitious gamekeeper who pretended to be of noble stock, reported to Comte Archibald that he believed there was a trespasser in the forest.

Naturally the landowner was appalled by this news. So shocked was he that further concentration on important financial matters was out of the question.
He immediately ordered that the trespasser be captured alive and brought before him. All the gamekeepers were summoned to rout out the culprit, to be arrested on charges of trespassing, poaching and wilful destruction of private property, all still punishable by death according to the law of the Comté. Archibald Groslard was determined that an example must be made without delay.

His keepers and wardens, armed with shotguns, old muskets and even ancient blunderbusses, were far too clumsy and noisy however. The wily old wanderer was sadly amused by their vain attempts to capture him. He easily outwitted them, and even their hounds, on every attempt.

Their efforts became more and more desperate as Comte Archibald was losing patience and complete track of his financial affairs. Each time they returned after yet another unsuccessful day they were terrified to face him.
Archibald, so infuriated that his blood pressure was causing havoc, threatened them all with severe punishment if, after one more week they failed to capture the cursed churl.

The wardens and keepers knew what this would mean. They tried everything within their limited capacities to catch the old fox, but all to no avail. On the sixth day they were so terrified of the consequences that they all fled. Only a few hounds sullenly returned to the chateau, their tails low between their legs.

The landowner had become totally obsessed by the affair, shunning all of his financial, seigneurial and ecclesiastical duties. There was a general feeling of unrest in the community.
The Comte issued a proclamation underlining the existence of a destructive, dangerous, thief and trespasser in the heart of his forest, with a promise of some sort of reward for his capture.

The attempts of the tenants and labourers were even worse than the former efforts of the keepers and wardens. Sometimes the bearded old vagabond, felt more pity than amusement. Then he would leave a snared rabbit or a pheasant where he knew they would find it. But although they were sorely tempted, and pretended not to understand, they were too terrified of the Comte to risk taking his game. They also had their farm work to get on with.
The clearing, ploughing, pruning and spring planting were already overdue. They had no time to chase ghosts.

Clearly for the Comte, there was no other option or consideration. He was by this time so wildly possessed by the problem that repose was impossible. The nights brought little relief. He tossed, turned and sputtered like a huge ham on a spit, and his big four poster bed creaked like an old, doomed galleon in a storm.

Finally Archibald decreed in another public proclamation that the whole community must devote their time in extirpating the evil criminal. No matter how urgent their work, they must give absolute priority to hunting down the cursed cause of Archibald's torment. If they refused to do so, they would be punished, and where applicable, tenancies would be revoked also in keeping with the law of the Comté. There would be a handsome reward for whoever brought the foul fiend to him personally, dead or alive, but the amount wasn't specified.

The large scale hunt was disorganised. It caused chaos, more torment and eventually great sadness. The community was mostly made up of simple, rural folk. Their farming talents could have been put to far better use, especially at such a time. To make things worse there was a terrible pitchfork misadventure. A young boy was mortally wounded.

After the tragic accident a bitterness arose amongst the people. The Comte made it known that there would be a special Church service to take place the following Sunday morning at 11 o'clock.
It was supposed to commemorate the sad loss of the young lad, but on the day, Archibald gestured to the curate that he intended to speak first, and he painfully limped up to the pulpit. He wore his dark, velvet suit for serious occasions. He looked unwell, curiously dishevelled, and dreadfully grim as he spoke.
'The Lord God, as well as myself, nevertheless thank you all for your ineffective, futile efforts in trying to bring to justice the despicable evil now responsible for the death of one of our children, an innocent lamb of the Comté and almighty God. 
Due to the work of the devil, the murderous outlaw continues to outwit us, but even the worst devilry is no match for supreme Godliness. And with the prodigious power and right by which the Lord has ordained your noble protector, the flames of despicable evil will be fought with the flames of righteousness and wrath!'

This brief, dramatic oration caused a great deal of murmuring in the congregation. Everyone was very impressed, but no one fully grasped what the Comte finally meant.
Comte Archibald Groslard de Beaupoil had decided to systematically burn down every acre of his forest land during the late spring and summer months of that year, in order to smoke out and put an end once and for all, to this 'devil's fiend that lurks their mocking me still.'  The community were to carry this out.

It was the month of May. Bluebells and primroses shimmered beneath the old, noble beeches, and the warm sun rays lit their new leaves and warmed the soft, brown earth in the clearings. It was a peaceful day, especially chosen, for the old vagabond was tired. Not from the lame, absurd efforts of others. He had simply decided that the time had come to finally rest.
He knew where he was going. He always knew. He was so grateful for the gift of life, and was quite ready and willing to return it. He accepted this as perfectly natural and essential. To him all was beautiful.
He made his own preparations. He had no need of mourners or tomb stones. Nothing was better than the whispering of leaves in the breeze, and the gentle melody of the birds to his ears.
He had come home. 
Life would go on, which made it right, and therefore all the more beautiful.

The fires began at the end of that month and lasted until early September. Systematically, acre by acre, the forests were destroyed. The chateau in its parched surroundings looked incongruous, like a sad scar. Often beyond all control, the fires had also reduced to ashes the few crops that some tenants had managed to cultivate, as well as the vineyard.

For want of food most of the community were forced to leave. The church was plundered. And the Comte Archibald Groslard de Beaupoil was by that time constantly in an addled, drunken state.

Eventually he was found lifeless, sprawled over his counting table. The wine spilt from his broken glass had stained the wooden surface like dried blood.
All his money, heirlooms and objects of value had gone, taken from the chateau without the slightest qualm, mostly by those he had employed.
The curate had come too late. But not even he mourned the death of the landowner.

The old chateau gradually fell to ruin. It was thought to be cursed. Yet the fallen grey stones were covered with lichen and bright green moss. Periwinkle wended its way between them colouring the shadows.
Wildlife began to flourish once more.
During an autumn season Virginia creeper gloriously coloured the few remaining walls of the old ruin, in resplendent harmony with the bright gold of the leaves of the surrounding beeches. For the forest had grown back again, as majestic and as beautiful as ever, fabulously blest with eternal magic, the spirit of the wise, old vagabond.

1981. Revised- 2012

__ 

 Tale and illustration (CF series) © Mirino (PW). October, 2012

Lobelia

 Gathering nuts one autumn day
Little Lobelia lost her way.
The sky grew dark,
The west winds blew
And by the beech woods
Dead leaves flew.

The little squirrel found a tree
Dry, Hollow and snug as could be.
Sheltering there safe from harm
Lobelia slept in warmth and calm.

She dreamt of stormy winds and rain
And trees that bear you home again.
And in the morning, clear and blue,
Lobelia found her dream came true. 
 

*

 

Ramassant en automne
Des noix, une soirée
Petite Lobelia s'est égarée

Le ciel s'est assombri
Le vent d'ouest soufflait
Et par la forêt de hêtres
Les feuilles mortes volaient

La petite Lobelia s'est abritée
Dans un arbre tout creux
Qu'elle avait trouvé
Et là à l'aise et hors de danger
Elle s'est fait un lit doux
Pour se reposer

Elle rêvait d'orages
Et d'une forte grêle,
D'un arbre magique
Qui la ramenait chez-elle

Et au beau lendemain
Lorsqu'elle s'est réveillée,
Elle a vu que son rêve
S'était bien réalisé.

*

The animal series of illustrations and their original 'doggerel poems' for all ages, were carried out several years ago, for the artist's amusement. Translations were added later, including a few also in Italian. They might be considered useful for young students interested in learning languages. Students might even be tempted to create their own interpretations. If this were ever the case naturally I would be very interested in reading the results.

The idea of the Rainbow alphabet doggerel, comfortably hosted at the Wind Rose Hotel, was for students of English regarding pronunciation and comprehension.

__

Text and illustration © Mirino (PW). October, 2012

Scottish myths 20

Witches of Storms

In the middle ages many people were convinced that certain witches were able to control the elements. They called them 'Storm witches'.
In fact in 1590 James VI of Scotland (James I of England and Scotland) was personally engaged in a trial involving storm witchcraft. He suspected that the Earl of Bothwell, Francis Stuart, had employed a coven of such witches to try to do away with him and his chosen bride, at sea.

A ship sailing to Scotland was in difficulty. Its most precious passenger was Princess Anne of Denmark who was to marry James VI. James set out on board another vessel to rescue her, and this he did. On their return voyage however, they met with a storm so severe that it almost caused their ship to founder.
As it was said that there was a witch gathering on Auld Kirk Green in North Berwick at the time of the near disaster, what was then thought to be the most appurtenant (or convenient) conclusion was made.

To make things even more conclusive, an accused schoolmaster (John Fian) confessed, adding that Bothwell was indeed also involved in the plot. Thus James VI was firmly convinced that this was true.
The confession was obtained through torture however. When Fian was to be executed, he retracted everything on the grounds that the confession was made simply to bring an end to the torture.

After questioning other accused men and women, the king was later inspired to write a book on the subject of sorcery entitled 'Dæmonologie'.

__

It's said that such a storm witch lived in Scourie, Sutherland. It was in fact her calling. No sensible mariner would ever set sail without first seeking her sound advice, and paying her for it, of course.

She was an impressive sight with her flapping dark, plaid shawl, standing on the rock above the Bay of Scourie. She would flourish her crooked staff pointing it at the racing clouds, strands of her straggly grey and black hair bowing in the wind. She would often sing a geason, an old Gaelic incantation, and this would either make the winds howl frighteningly, and drive the rain almost horizontally, or it could completely clear the sky of clouds, and allow the benign sun to shine, according to whatever spell she chanted.

The local fishermen respected her because even without casting any spells, she always seemed to be able to forecast the weather with amazing accuracy.

One early spring, an English captain of a three-master ship moored in Scourie Bay had heard about the storm witch in an ale-house. The fishermen there thought he would be wise to seek her counsel before setting sail, and this he did.
He asked her for fair weather with a good, easterly wind, then a north-easterly wind once clear of the bay for the following morning. She shrewdly eyed the captain, pondered for a moment, then promised him that it would be granted. On obtaining this however, the captain refused to pay her fee. He scoffed, saying that he already knew well enough how the wind would blow on the morrow.

She said nothing, and the captain with his crew set sail early the following morning as planned. Once they were well clear of the bay however, the wind suddenly changed direction and immediately grew so violent that the crew hadn't enough time to gather the sails. The vessel finally ended up a sad wreck on the rocks not far north of Scourie Bay.
And for as long as the scar of the wreck remained, it was a sure reminder of the consequences of disrespect, as well as a source of amusement for the wiser, and naturally more respectful local fishermen.

__

 Scottish myths 21 

Scottish myths 19

Text and photo (off Arisaig) © Mirino. Sources include Scotland Myths and Legends.     
With thanks. October, 2012