DSK, le retour

On ne pensait pas nécessaire d'en ajouter pour cette fin de mois, et encore moins à référer encore à ce sujet particulier (dont surtout les italiens en ont assez, aussi à cause du retour incroyable de l'indomptable Berlusconi, lui qui paraît être doté de certains dons exceptionnels qui manquent cruellement à Dominique Stauss-Kahn).

Mais il y a quelque chose de terriblement fascinant au sujet de DSK, l'homme qui aurait pu être Roi, qui, manifestement trop dominé par d'autres inclinations plus pressantes, a été totalement emporté par un infernal vortex lubrique qui l'a entraîné, ainsi l'engloutissant inéluctablement aux bas fonds ténébreux où tout semble être perdu à jamais.

On fait allusion bien entendu à sa volonté aussi pressante d'interdire la publication du livre écrit par Marcela Iacub sur sa liaison personnelle (de janvier à août 2012) avec l'ancien directeur du FMI. Il n'y a aucun besoin de mentionner le titre du livre. D'ailleurs on dit qu'il est sans grand intérêt. Mais c'est à noter quand même que DSK n'est jamais nommé dans ce livre.*

Ce qui semble ironique c'est que la soi-disant victime voulait attaquer en justice l'auteur de l'ouvrage, la maison d'édition responsable pour la publication, ainsi que le Nouvel Observateur, pour atteinte à la vie privée. Une vie privée qui a déjà été tellement exposée, grâce à ses propres faux pas, qu'elle est quasi transparente.

Mais si dans ce livre DSK n'est jamais désigné personnellement, et si selon lui l'atteinte à la vie privée concerne le fait qu'il avait eu encore une autre affaire, avec encore une autre femme, malgré son mariage avec Anne Sinclair et le soutien sans faille de cette dernière pendant les pires moments de la vie de son mari, il va sans dire qu'il aurait été impossible de justifier sa plainte sur le plan moral. Voilà sans doute une bonne raison pour laquelle il a, en réalité, perdu le cas. Car 50,000 euros d'amende payable de la part de Marcela Iacub et les éditions Stock, plus 25,000 euros d'amende payable de la part du Nouvel Observateur (qui apparemment avait nommé DSK comme figurant principal du livre dans l'article sur l'ouvrage en question) est une somme dérisoire en considération du fait que le livre ne sera pas interdit par la loi, malgré l'objectif essentiel du plaignant.

DSK semble être tombé dans un énième piège qu'il a contribué à fabriquer encore lui-même. Celui d'avoir participé à promouvoir le livre même qu'il voulait tant bannir. Un livre qui malgré sa valeur douteuse en tant qu'œuvre littéraire, va rapporter peut-être plus qu'assez pour couvrir les frais des soi-disant 'gains de cause,' grâce justement à la publicité opportune fournie par la malheureuse 'victime'!

Ceci sans considérer le fait qu'il a déjà été obligé de payer plus de cinq millions de dollars pour l'affaire Nafissatou Diallo. Une somme qui aurait inclus les frais de l'accord avec la plaignante, les frais des avocats, de la caution, de la sécurité, de la surveillance, du loyer, etc. 

Mais retournons, pour ce que ça vaut, à l'auteur du livre. On pourrait avancer qu'elle s'est prostituée, non pas pour de l'argent direct, mais pour pouvoir éventuellement écrire un livre sur ce 'sujet passionnant'. Si DSK n'a jamais été nommé dans ce livre, on pourrait affirmer que Marcela Iacub a exercé tout simplement ses droits d'auteur. De toute manière elle a utilisé DSK. En tant que femme, elle a tourné les tables, car personne ne peut affirmer que DSK n'a jamais utilisé les femmes.

Mais pour que le livre se vende, il a fallu quand même que DSK soit nommé. Elle a donc compté sur le Nouvel Observateur pour divulguer le nom du célèbre participant. Ce dernier a promptement réagi, probablement selon toutes les attentes et les espérances de tous concerné, à part DSK, pour faire en sorte que Marcela Iacub gagne son pari, pour ce que ça vaut.

C'est seulement un autre chapitre morne dans la vie d'un homme déchu. Celui qui aurait pu néanmoins être Président de la France. Et on doute fort que ce tome autant pesant que lamentable soit encore terminé.

Le parti socialiste n'est pas blanchi par la chute de DSK non plus. On a déjà donné une opinion à ce sujet. DSK n'a aucune obligation envers ceux qui avaient le devoir de l'aider, et auraient du au moins essayer de l'empêcher de ne pas dérailler au point de chuter dans cet infernal vortex insondable.

Si, au sein du parti, un Secrétaire Général a une vraie fonction, elle doit forcément inclure la responsabilité de veiller sur le comportement de celui alors censé être le premier choix du parti parmi les candidats des présidentielles. Celui sur lequel le parti entier, et par extension la France, comptaient pour représenter alors l'opposition, le parti socialiste.

Après le cas Banon, F. Hollande en tant que Secrétaire Général, au courant de cette affaire, aurait pu et aurait du rappeler à l'ordre Dominique Strauss-Kahn de manière discrète. Le Secrétaire Général n'a rien fait. Sans doute il avait ses propres raisons, et sans doute il s'agit d'un sujet de poids qu'il évitera et esquivera toujours. N'empêche que ce manque de responsabilité- volontaire ou involontaire- fait partie essentielle d'une des chutes les plus vertigineuses des hommes politiques éminents et qualifiés, jamais enregistrées dans l'histoire.

__

* Marcela Iacub, franco-argentine (née en 1964 à Buenos Aires) est juriste, chercheuse et essayiste. Elle est aussi connue pour ses idées- parmis lesquelles - sur la défense du droit à la prostitution, sur le mariage des homosexuels et leur droit d'adopter les enfants, et sur la procréation artificielle.
Il est intéressant à noter que pendant sa liaison avec DSK, en juin 2012, en tant que journaliste elle a fait publier trois articles dans Libération pour soutenir Strauss-Kahn, sans jamais révéler à cette époque sa relation avec lui..

_

Text and caricature (revised as no longer subject to diet) © Mirino. February, 2013

The Tawnycat's tragic tale

          

  Strigidae felis silvestris catus singularis ergo extinctus 

          

            The owl and the pussycat             
Shared a nuptial bed

 Some months before they were
Officially wed

The pussy gave birth
To a feathered kitten
          Whose catastrophic fate          
Is here sadly written

The beaked tawycat,
Born totally wingless,
Was prone to suffer
From strigifelis stress

 But blest with owl wisdom
And a cat's nine lives,
It had the time to ponder
And, 'improvise'

It was quite independent
In its, pine-tree,
 From where it would caterwaul
Like a banshee

But no other creature
Ever responded,
For no other dialect
Corresponded

The tawnycat therefore
Lived quite on its own
Without any friends,
As far as it's known

It would have loved
To raise a family,
                              And thereby initiate                                
                        An ancestral tree                           

             But being the only              
Life form of its kind,
It had to dismiss
 Such thoughts from its mind.

It took to astronomy
And gazed at the stars,
Surmising that tawnycats
Might live on Mars.

Thus inevitably
The tragic day came
When it finally perished,
Without leaving a name.

 So when one acclaims  
Equal marriage for all,
The fate of the tawnycat
One might recall.

__

Doggerel and illustration © Mirino (PW) February, 2013

De Profundis

' I wrote when I did not know life, now that I do know the meaning of life, 

I have no more to write. Life cannot be written, life can only be lived.'

Only recently have I read Oscar Wilde's long epistle written between January and March 1897 during his incarceration in Reading Gaol not long before his final release. It was written to Lord Alfred Douglas who apparently tore it up after only reading the first few pages, perhaps naively believing it was the only existing copy.
It was written on 20 sheets of paper, which printed in book form come to about 84 pages.

Previously I had been reluctant to read it, suspecting that it would be a long, drawn-out, vindictive soliloquy of irony and bitter pathos, on his being the victim of cruel injustice.

In fact it is in many ways a moving prose poem, written more likely for the writer than for the addressee. It is also a voyage of reconciliation, though in some ways paradoxical, as it would have to be, in view of the nature of its author. It could also be likened to 'a return', the underlying theme of certain works of Hermann Hesse.

Every detail regarding the fatal three years of acquaintance with Alfred Douglas is deeply engraved in Wilde's memory, and from the depths of suffering and loneliness, it is fully, meticulously expressed, or purged onto prison paper in just as profound a way.

It begins by Wilde's referring to how he has been callously used, exploited, made bankrupt, totally ruined in reputation and vocation, even losing the paternal rights to his sons as a fatal consequence of his own weakness in complying to the incessant demands of a spoilt parasite. Even Alfred Douglas's mother was an accomplice to Wilde's downfall because of her own weakness and irresponsibility regarding her Machiavellian son.
It was indeed a tragic period consisting of a fatal chain of events during which Wilde tried several times to free himself from the leech-like grip Alfred Douglas incessantly held on him.

Wilde's own faith, affection and vanity may have prevented him from considering the likelihood that Alfred Douglas was totally jealous of Wilde's incontestable talent, success, fame and fortune. And Alfred Douglas's father, John Douglas, the Marquis of Queensberry, was probably just as jealous of his son's close relationship with Wilde. Together, each one in his own despicable way, even though they equally hated each other, plus the complicity of Alfred's weak mother, was more than enough to irrevocably bring about Oscar Wilde's infernal, abysmal and ruinous descent. 
Naturally his timeless work lives on for the pleasure of so many. Only the infamy, hate and pettiness of his persecutors will continue to have a contemptable pittance of historical relevance.

Here are some significant selected excerpts from De Profundis ('from the depths') :

'(...)
When I tell you that between the autumn of 1892 and the date of my imprisonment I spent with you and on you more than £5000 in actual money, irrespective of the bills I incurred, you will have some idea of the sort of life on which you insisted.'
(...)
One of the most delightful dinners I remember ever having had is one Robbie and I had together in a little Soho café, which cost about as many shillings as my dinners to you used to cost pounds.
(...)
Three months later still, in September, new scenes occurred, the occasion of them being my pointing out to you the schoolboy faults of your attempted translation of Salome. You must by this time be a fair enough French scholar to know that the translation was as unworthy of you, as an ordinary Oxonian, as it was of the work it sought to render. You did not of course know it then, and in one of the violent letters you wrote to me on the point you said that you were under 'no intellectual obligation of any kind' to me. I remember that when I read that statement, I felt that it was the one really true thing you had written to me in the whole course of our friendship.
(...)
The night we arrive (Grand Hotel, Brighton. nda) you fall ill with that dreadful low fever that is foolishly called influenza, your second, if not third attack. I need not remind you how I waited on you, and tended you, not merely with every luxury of fruit, flowers, presents, books and the like that money can procure, but with that affection, tenderness and love that, whatever you may think, is not to be procured for money. (...) I got special grapes from London for you, as you did not care for those the hotel supplied, invented things to please you, remained either with you or in the room next to yours, sat with you every evening to quiet or amuse you. After four or five days you recover, and I take lodgings in order to try to finish my play. You, of course accompany me. The morning after the day on which we were installed, I feel extremely ill. You have to go to London on business, but promise to return in the afternoon. In London you meet a friend, and do not come back to Brighton till late the next day, by which time I am in a terrible fever, and the doctor finds I have caught the influenza from you. Nothing could have been more uncomfortable for anyone ill than the lodgings turn out to be. My sitting-room is on the first floor, my bedroom on the third. There is no manservant to wait on one, not even anyone to send out on a message, or to get what the doctor orders. But you are there. I feel no alarm. The next two days you leave me entirely alone without care, without attendance, without anything. It was not a question of grapes, flowers, and charming gifts: it was a question of mere necessities: I could not even get the milk the doctor had ordered for me: lemonade was pronounced an impossibility: and when I begged you to procure me a book at the bookseller's, or if they had not got whatever I had fixed on to choose something else, you never even take the trouble to go there. And when I was left all day without anything to read in consequence, you calmly tell me that you bought me the book that they promised to send it down, a statement which I found out by chance afterwards to have been entirely untrue from beginning to end. All the while you are of course living at my expense, driving about, dining at the Grand Hotel, and indeed only appearing in my room for money.
(...)
You concluded your letter by saying; 'When you are not on your pedestal you are not interesting. The next time you are ill I will go away at once.' Ah! what coarseness of fibre does that reveal! What an entire lack of imagination! How callous, how common had the temperament by that time become!
(...)
The gods are strange. It is not of our vices only they make instruments to scourge us. They bring us to ruin through what in us is good, gentle, humane, loving. But for my pity and affection for you and yours, I would not now be weeping in this terrible place.
(...)
But you, like myself, have a terrible tragedy in your life, though one of an entirely opposite character to mine. (...) In you Hate was always stronger than Love.

(During Wilde's two year prison term, he never received any word from Douglas, but he learns from a friend that Alfred wants to publish some of Wilde's private letters to him with an article for Le Mercure de France.  Wilde, naturally shocked, refuses him such permission. Later Alfred Douglas has a volume of his poems published and dedicates them to Oscar Wilde, naturally without Wild's permission, no doubt to make up for Wilde's refusal to permit the publication of his private letters. Notwithstanding having ruined Oscar Wilde, causing his incarceration, and also obliging him to cede all copyright of his works to his creditors, Alfred Douglas, totally unperturbed and without the slightest scruple, still continues to try to commercially exploit Oscar Wilde in order to try to compensate for his own sad and insignificant mediocrity).

'(...)
When I was brought down from my prison to the Court of Bankruptcy between two policemen, Robbie waited in the long dreary corridor, that before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as handcuffed and with bowed head I pass him by. Men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that. It was in this spirit, and with this mode of love that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, or stooped to kiss the leper on the cheek. I have never said one single word to him about what he did. I do not know to the present moment whether he is aware that I was even conscious of his action. It is not a thing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words. I store it in the treasure-house of my heart.
(...)
I saw Robbie for an hour on Saturday week, and I tried to give the fullest possible impression to the delight I really felt at our meeting. And that, in the views and ideas I am here shaping for myself, I am quite right is shown by me by the fact that now for the first time since my imprisonment I have a real desire to live.
(...)
Sorrow, then, and all that it teaches one, is my new world. I used to live entirely for pleasure. I shunned sorrow and suffering of every kind. I hated both. I resolved to ignore them as far as possible, to treat them, that is to say, as modes of imperfection. They were not part of my scheme of life. They had no place in my philosophy. My mother, who knew life as a whole, used often to quote to me Goethe's lines- written by Carlyle in a book he had given her years ago- and translated, I fancy, by him also :

'Who never ate his bread in sorrow,
Who never spent the midnight hours
Weeping and waiting for the morrow,
 He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.'

(...)
There are times when Sorrow seems to me to be the only truth. Other things may be illusions of the eye or the appetite, made to blind the one and cloy the other, but out of Sorrow have worlds been built, and at the birth of a child or a star there is pain.
(...)
Christ's place indeed is with the poets. His whole conception of Humanity sprang right out of the imagination and can only be realised by it. What God was to the Pantheist, man was to him. He was the first to conceive the divided race as a unity. Before his time there had been gods and men. He alone saw that on the hills of life there were but God and Man, and, feeling through the mysticism of sympathy that in himself each had been made incarnate, he calls himself the Son of the One or the son of the other, according to his mood. More than anyone else in history he wakes in us that temper of wonder to which Romance always appeals. There is still something to me almost incredible in the idea of a young Galilean peasant imagining that he could bear on his own shoulders the burden of the entire world : all that had been already done and suffered, and all that was yet to be done and suffered: the sins of Nero, of Cæsar Borgia, of Alexander VI., and of him who was Emperor of Rome and Priest of the Sun.
(...)
I have said of Him that he ranks with the poets. That is true. Shelley and Sophocles are of his company. But his entire life also is the most wonderful of poems. For "pity and terror" there is nothing in the entire cycle of Greek Tragedy to touch it.
(...)
And, above all, Christ is the most supreme of Individualists. Humility, like the artistic acceptance of all experiences, is merely a mode of manifestation. It is man's soul that Christ is always looking for. He calls it "God's Kingdom" (βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ) and finds it in everyone.
(...)
And as for Altruism, who knew better than He that it is vocation not volition that determines us, and that one cannot gather grapes off thorns or figs from thistles?
(...)
To live for others as a definite self-conscious aim was not his creed. It was not the basis of his creed. When he says "Forgive your enemies," it is not for the sake of the enemy but for one's own sake that he says so, because Love is more beautiful than Hate. In his entreaty to the young man whom he looked on he loved, "Sell all that thou hast and give it to the poor," it is not of the state of the poor that he is thinking but of the soul of the young man, the lovely soul that wealth was marring.

(Oscar Wilde continues to reveal his religious views in such a way that one would have loved to have such an open, wise and imaginative teacher of theology, or even a 'Wilde' man of God reasoning thus to us from a church pulpit. For his particular religious views alone, Di Profundis is precious).

'(...)
Some six weeks ago I was allowed by the Doctor to have white bread to eat instead of the course black or brown bread of ordinary prison fare.. It is a great delicacy. To you it will sound strange that dry bread could possibly be a delicacy to anyone. I assure you that to me it is so much so that at the close of each meal I carefully eat whatever crumbs may be left on my tin plate, or have fallen on the rough towel that one uses as a cloth so as not to soil one's table : and do so not from hunger - I get now quite sufficient food - but simply in order that nothing should be wasted of what is given to me. So one should look on love.
(...)
Dante describes the soul of a man as coming from the hand of God "weeping and laughing like a little child," and Christ also saw that the soul of each one should be 'a guisa di fanciulla, che piangendo e ridendo pargonleggia.'
(...)
Like all poetical natures, He loved ignorant people. He knew that in the soul of one who is ignorant there is always room for a great idea. But he could not stand stupid people, especially those who are made stupid by education - people who are full of opinions not one of which they can understand, a particular modern type, and one who has the key of knowledge, can't use it himself, and won't allow other people to use it, though it may be made to open the gate of God's Kingdom. His chief war was against the Philistines.
(...)
Of course the sinner must repent. But why? Simply because otherwise he would be unable to realise what he had done. The moment of repentance is the moment of initiation. More than that. It is the means by which one alters one's past. The Greeks thought that impossible. They often say in their gnomic aphorisms "Even the Gods cannot alter the past." Christ showed that the commonest sinner could do it. That it was the one thing he could do. Christ, had he been asked, would have said - I feel quite certain about it - that the moment the prodigal son fell on his knees and wept he really made his having wasted his substance with harlots, and then kept swine and hungered for the husks they ate, beautiful and holy incidents in his life. It is difficult for most people to grasp the idea. I dare say one has to go to prison to understand it. If so, it may be worth while going to prison.

(After several more enlightening pages on Christ, Wilde then gradually, subtly returns to the addressee of this famous letter, alluding once more to Douglas's attempt at trying to publish Wilde's private letters in Le Mercure de France).

'(...)
You must remember that a patronising and Philistine letter about "fair play" for a "man who is down" is all right for an English newspaper. It carries on the old traditions of English journalism in regard to their attitude towards artists. But in France such a tone would have exposed me to ridicule and you to contempt. I could not have allowed any article till I had known its aim, temper, mode of approach and the like. In art good intentions are not of the smallest value. All bad art is the result of good intentions.
(...)
And yet - if you had any imagination in you - you would know that there is not a single person who has not been kind to me in my prison-life, down to the warder who may give me a good-morning or a good-night that is not one of his prescribed duties - down to the common policemen who in their homely rough way strove to comfort me on my journeys to and fro from the Bankruptcy Court under conditions of terrible mental distress - down to the poor thief who, recognising me as we tramped round the yard at Wandsworth, whispered to me in the hoarse prison-voice men get from long and compulsory silence : 'I am sorry for you: it is harder for the likes of you than it is for the likes of us.'

(Oscar Wilde then concentrates once more on the family of Alfred Douglas, especially the irresponsibility of his timorous mother, and how she would always add to her written entreaties to Wilde the pitiful postscript : 'On no account let Alfred know that I have written to you.'
Curiously he ends his long, instructive and very moving letter with a strange confidence that he will be meeting Alfred Douglas in the future in order that they have the opportunity 'to know each other').

'(...)
You came to me to learn the Pleasure of Life and the Pleasure of Art. Perhaps I am chosen to teach you something much more wonderful, the meaning of Sorrow, and its beauty.'

__

To have thus ended what is considered a remarkable poetic epistle, incredibly Oscar Wilde must, even then, have still been irremediably infatuated by Douglas. Or did he simply wish to have a final opportunity to pardon him? Perhaps both.

In fact they did meet again, at Rouen, France, despite the strong disapproval expressed by their respective families and friends. Under the circumstances perhaps their reunion was nevertheless to their reciprocal, 'spiritual credit'.
Towards the end of 1897 they lived for some months in Naples. The reunion however was short-lived due to the threat of their no longer being granted financial means from Constance Wilde in Oscar's case, and from Queensberry in Alfred's case, had they persisted. Perhaps it was just as well that they took heed of this threat and finally parted company.  

Three years later, one month before the end of the century, Wilde died on the 30th November, of meningitis. He was first buried in Le Cimetière de Bagneux. Nine years later his remains were disinhumed to be reburied in Le Père Lachaise Cimetière in Paris. His tomb, somewhat pathetically damaged and now covered in graffiti, was designed by Sir Jacob Epstein, but Wilde never needed it in any case.

As a final note, none of the sculptures pretending to portray Oscar Wilde neither do him, nor the respective sculptors responsible, any credit whatsoever. On the contrary.

Phony, shameful books professing to be partly his work have also been published. One also wonders if there are any noteworthy films on Oscar Wilde, made without too much accent on the fatal period of his 'more personal, negative pursuits'. Certainly films have been made, but they can hardly have been memorable productions, otherwise one would never have wondered.

After reading Di Profundis, however, the details are so vivid that the reader is transported into the epoch, into the plush hotel suites, the restaurants, rented lodgings, and into the very prison cell where Wilde wrote his long missive. It occurred to me that Di Profundis itself, so rich in visual, historic information and spiritual insight, could in itself contribute to make a very noteworthy film indeed, provided it is made by the right producer. There are such sincere film producers, who are also poets, endowed with souls. (Amongst others, Steven Spielberg is certainly a good example).

__

Introduction and inserts © Mirino (PW). Top portrait of Oscar Wilde by Toulouse Lautrec. Photograph of Oscar Wilde by unknown photographer. Excerps of Di Profundis from Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (Collins) with many thanks. February, 2013

Unliberated lady's lament

Mother, I cannot change my tyre;
The jack is jammèd in the boot;
O, if you knew my state of ire!
     But O, who e're could care a hoot?   

 No longer shall I have such doubts-
About dear Ronald's wherewithal.
                        I'll tolerate his angry shouts°               °clouts
 And always heed his beck and call.

__

With apologies to Walter Savage Landor. (1775 -1864) 
'Mother, I cannot mind my wheel'

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Parody © Mirino. Image (modified) by unknown photgrapher, with thanks. February, 2013

Hermann Hesse

The childhood of Hermann Hesse, (born the 2nd July, 1877 in the Black Forest town of Calw in Württemberg, Germany) couldn't have been particularly smooth and serene.  Neither was his mother's, Marie Gundert, born in an Indian missionary (1842). In fact her parents left her in Europe to return to India when she was only four years old. She later tried to assert herself against her tyrannical father, Hermann Gundert, but to no avail.

Johannes Hesse, Hermann's father, was also authoritative, but in the course of time he was prone to suffer from depression. This could also have been aggravated by the family's having to share his father-in-law's restricted accomodation. in fact Hermann's father suffered from headaches, bouts of melancholy and tearfulness for the rest of his life.

As Johannes Hesse was from a German community in the Baltic region of Estonia, the town of Plaide (Weissenstein), his son was both Russian and German.
Hermann was greatly effected by his father's spiritual 'Estonian tales' which seemed to evoke a blissful and colourful paradise for him.

The communal, bourgeois, Swabian house-hold standards that he had to contend with as a child gradually induced him to seek the easier company of his grandmother, Julie Gundert, (maiden name Dubois) of French-Swiss origins who was most likely more natural, tolerant and worldly.

Furthermore his grandfather Hermann Gundert, a doctor in philosophy and fluent in several languages, allowed Hermann the use of his impressive library, and encouraged him to read as much as possible.

Before returning to Calw, the family stayed for six years in Basel, Switzerland, from 1881. Hermann was then only four years old.

Although he benefited well enough from his education, (writing essays and translating classical Greek poetry into German) young Hermann had a rebellious nature. This apparently provoked serious conflicts with his parents. At one time he even attempted to commit suicide. This led to him being confided to a mental institution, (Stetten im Remstal) then to a boy's institution in Basel.

This condensed, simplified account of his early life has been gleaned from sources such as Wikipedia.
It would no doubt be instructive and interesting to gather more detailed information and continue to write about his adult life, his travels, (Sri Lanka, Indonesia, Sumatra, Borneo, Burma) and his experiences, trials and tribulations as a poet, novelist and semi-naive aquarelliste, and of his eventual, well deserved success, world wide recognition and acclaim. Naturally one can relatively easily obtain such information to establish a more complete biography.

Perhaps it's important to simply add here that although he volunteered to fight with the Imperial army, (First World War) but was judged physically unfit for the task, he was naturally detached from any patriotic zeal. He in fact wrote: 'That love is greater than hate, understanding greater than ire, peace nobler than war, this exactly is what this unholy World War should burn into our memories, more so than ever before.'
How right he was, but such a pacific attitude wouldn't have made him popular at that fatally stupid, tragic epoch. Yet considering his origins, childhood travels and upheavals, how could he have otherwise reacted in view of such folly?

This, in fact is the point of this little allusion and homage to Hermann Hesse. Just the account of his childhood seems already enough to suggest that here was a boy who belonged everywhere and nowhere. A young man who had unrestricted access to a library of ancient civilisations, of international history and of the genius of the great masters of world literature. Here was a budding writer who had a profound understanding of humanity, human nature and spirituality. A mature man who quite often, through his written thoughts, dreams and aspirations, lovingly indicated the way 'home'. The truth of the spiritual return to the source, which perhaps, despite his knowledge and worldliness, Hermann Hesse as a child had been somewhat deprived of. Could his life have also been a painful search for an imagined lost paradise, felt as a missing part of his identity, or even of his soul? To find the way home, to rediscover the peace, solace and the secure nucleus of one's inner identity.
It seems likely in fact that Hermann Hesse was his own model for 'Harry Haller'. The lonely, nostalgic, slightly cynical, paradoxical, confused and perhaps bipolar Steppenwolf.

For many of his readers, those who are children at heart, or who still have enough childhood memories to shed a tear when Hermann Hesse tenderly, generously shows them the way home, perhaps there are far fewer obstacles that prevent them from finding their way.

Could it be that part of the mastery of Hesse stems from his own unsettled childhood experiences and the identification difficulties he may have consequently suffered from? The lack of that unique family 'home' which in principle should be an essential part of one's infancy. For where was his own Iris garden?

Naturally it would be nice to believe that however modest one's own written efforts may be, they are nevertheless appreciated. But this of course, should never be the criterion. The artist, poet, writer, composer, is the only real authority capable of judging his or her own work. Should anyone else ever really assume that right?
When artists gauge their work according to their followers' opinions, of those who see and either approve or disapprove of the results, then they can never claim to be artists.

Quite a few of my own written efforts were jotted down just before the birth of my daughter, over three decades ago.
For me the approaching event in itself was the cause of a fabulous surge of inspiration. Like a child I was transported, gliding naively and blissfully in glorious cumulous-cloud heights. But then what I joyfully, feverishly wrote during that brief period in England, was absolutely spontaneous and sincere. Whatever faults they may have, the little stories came from the heart, and were totally devoid of any conscious influence.

I refer to this now because naturally I'm aware of how 'the return' was often the underlying theme of some of my own modest efforts. 'The Rainbow series'  reflects this in content as well as in its own completed circle'. 'The Silver Mirror'  equally reflects this theme. As does the simple, romantic 'Vision', and even 'The little boat', (written when I was still at college, as a theme for a screen print).
'The Autumn of Ambrosios'  which came later, is a parody of the vanity of obsessional, illusive ambitions, the realisation of which can sometimes bring far greater riches of wisdom, humility and awareness. But perhaps most precious of all, it can finally bring peace of mind.

The most important wave of little stories that balmily bathed my mind was washed in by the surfy idealistic euphoria caused by the prospect of finally becoming a father.

Perhaps this is because the 'return theme' reflects an appreciation of the fabulous, eternal circle of life and all the circumstantial (never accidental) nuances that contribute to all evolutive cycles.

That may be one explanation. Another might simply be because I too am a déraciné .
The simplest way of appreciating the meaning of this is by understanding that when one has lived in different countries or States for long enough periods, one often leaves a small part of oneself behind before continuing the wonderful voyage of life. And in doing so perhaps one also leaves a small part of one's soul.

For such people the return (sometimes comparable to that of The Prodigal Son) to the old homestead, to self-reconciliation, the essential discovery of oneself, of one's limits, and of one's soul within the infinite depths of the sublime, perfumed Iris of Hesse, for example, to the maternal womb, to finally be gently covered by the sweet, welcoming earthen warmth of Gaea; can only be a dream. But then perhaps it's one of the most beautiful and inherently natural of all dreams.

And often dreams and reality have a strange and mysterious intercomplimentary relationship. Relative to the clin d'œil of universal chronology, perhaps a life-time is merely a fleeting dream. Far  better in any case, than an eternal nightmare.

Text © Mirino, from various sources including Wikipedia, with many thanks. Top photo (with additional tint) of Hermann Hesse painting (photographer unknown). Water-colours (mise en valeur davantage) of Hermann Hesse. February, 2013

Restrictions de vol

Nous revoilà encore, mais presque chaque jour il y a de nouvelles étincelles créées par les illuminés, ou des vides déclarations exprimées par les gonflés, pour nous surprendre encore.

A part l'incursion malienne, un devoir incontestable que tout naturellement le gouvernement français veut être de plus courte durée possible, (et on parle déjà de réduire les forces dès le mois prochain) le fameux changement préconisé par F. Hollande lors de sa campagne présidentielle est réduit aux considérations relativement banales (et assez déplacées) par rapport aux vrais problèmes urgents auxquels la France doit faire face si elle veut garder la tête haute et tenir le cap.

Le nombre de défaillances d'entreprises importantes françaises enregistrées pour des redressements judiciaires, liquidations, etc., au premier trimestre de 2012 est de 16, 206. Selon les rapports l'année 2013 devrait être particulièrement noire avec bien plus de 64, 000 défaillances d'entreprises.

Mais comme si le gouvernement voulait détourner l'attention publique de cette scène catastrophique, il s'élance dans un nuage bas de préoccupations mineures sociales, ou plutôt antisociales, provoquant bien entendu la polémique et toujours davantage de division.

De plus ils viennent d'inventer une nouvelle idée: les 'ateliers de changement'... Sans doute avec l'espoir que dans un tel nouveau 'lieu progressif'  il y aura quelqu'un même doté d'une idée pour aider à 'réussir le changement,' pour citer une autre phrase profonde d'Ayraut.
C'est dans l'ordre des choses suivant le programme de légalisation des mariages officiels des homosexuels et leur droit d'adopter des enfants, qui va bien entendu de pair avec le projet de légaliser la PMA (procréation médicalement assistée) et la GPA (gestation pour autrui).

Il y a trois jours on parlait des 'salles de shoot', où les drogués peuvent, en toute impunité, continuer à se tuer à petite flamme grâce à la bienveillance du socialisme. Sans doute cette belle initiative socialiste est une autre expression du cœur. L'altruisme qui non seulement perpétue le mal, mais devient partie intégrale du mal, comme l'assistanat à la longue, n'engendre que des mendiants.
L'avocat Maître Collard a sèchement demandé quand va-t-on instaurer 'une salle de vol et de viol'..
On pourrait continuer à prolonger une telle liste en suggérant une salle de 'combats politiques' où les freedom-fighters (terroristes) pourraient échanger des idées pour perfectionner leurs connaissances sur la fabrication des explosifs pour se débarrasser des églises européennes. Ainsi ils accompliraient les projets tacites des sans-culottes moins disposés à le faire outre mesure pendant la Révolution Française. Ceci pour que la laïcité- genre socialiste français- puisse finalement régner glorieusement en devenant la seule 'religion' idéologique française exemplaire et politiquement correcte, tout en tolérant généreusement bien entendu (chiffres obligent) la religion musulmane (sans trop faire allusion à celle hébraïque).

On ironise de façon noire bien évidemment, mais ces programmes à côté de la plaque et dont les conséquences ne peuvent jamais s'avérer être bonnes, sont quand même assez déconcertants.
Ce qui devient plus évident actuellement à propos du fameux 'changement' de F. Hollande, est une volonté tacite de changer (ou contrôler) la société. D'ailleurs on dirait que les ministres du gouvernement socialiste aient été soigneusement choisis précisément pour faire en sorte que ceci pourrait peut-être même se réaliser.

Le motif fondamental de ce changement forcé de société serait de donner davantage de pouvoir à l'Etat aussi pour faire durer le socialisme autant que possible. C'est donc l'Etat qui détermine le code 'moral'. C'est l'Etat qui décide que nous sommes tous égaux malgré toute évidence contradictoire y compris la valeur incontestable de l'individualité. C'est l'Etat qui compte niveler et former l'éducation selon ses besoins. C'est l'Etat qui accueille sans grands problèmes administratifs les immigrants qui vont logiquement par la suite, élargir les rangs socialistes. C'est l'Etat qui congédie l'idéal de la famille pour pouvoir prendre mieux en charge l'éducation des enfants, en encourageant certainement les mariages entre homosexuels, en facilitant la PMA et la GPA pour aller de pair ainsi ayant aussi accès à former les jeunes adoptés selon les besoins de l'Etat.
Pourrait-on même suggérer que l'on essaie follement de faire naître en France, l'utopique (ou dystopique) 'Brave New World' ?

Il se peut que cette insinuation paraisse être une autre plaisanterie exagérée, mais comment peut on autrement justifier l'acharnement de certains ministres comme Mme Taubira, et même le Premier ministre Ayrault lorsqu'ils insistent sans la moindre ombre de doute ni de scrupule, ou sans aucune volonté de faire des compromis ou de considérer des autres points de vue de mode démocratique, que telles seront les lois même avant la fin de l'année 2013? Comment justifier un programme politique de plus en plus invraisemblable, voire absurde, suspect et irresponsable d'un côté, quand de l'autre côté la France se rapproche inexorablement d'un gouffre financier sans précédent?

On a raison de croire que cette expérience grotesque, la volonté de perpétuer à tout prix le socialisme made in France (car il faut dire que l'on ne le trouve nulle part ailleurs) est encore moins économiquement faisable que jamais. Les faillites françaises, de plus en plus nombreuses, risquent éventuellement d'inclure le socialisme lui-même. Cette possibilité fatale pourrait l'engouffrer pour de bon. On peut toujours l'espérer, et ce ne serait pas trop tôt.

Prisonniers de leur propre idéologie figée, ils ne peuvent pas changer. F. Hollande, fermement attaché à la cause qui le retient et le limite, déclare lui même être d'abord socialiste. Il ne peut pas donc renoncer à son conditionnement gonflé, ses convictions bornées et périmées, pour s'envoler librement. Et son orgueil est tel qu'il aurait préféré se dégonfler en s'éclipsant tout doucement, ou couler avec toute son équipe, sinon le pays entier, que d'avouer s'être perdu dans ses nuages, ou de s'être trompé carrément de direction.

Même Monsieur Rocard avec toutes ses années d'expérience aurait pu commencer enfin à voir la lumière, au lieu de continuer à croire, toujours aussi illuminé lui-même que, selon son livre, les remèdes se trouvent même encore plus à gauche! Ce n'est pas non plus comme si les expériences du socialisme n'ont jamais révélées être inefficaces, extravagantes et mensongères. Mais bêtement on y croit toujours, quand la logique et le bon sens dictent le contraire.
Comme si rien n'était appris déjà des conséquences terribles et tragiques de l'histoire des idéologies myopes et revanchardes:  les massacres cruels, acharnés et méthodiques de la Révolution Française pour cyniquement défendre la cause mythique de la liberté, l'égalité et la fraternité, ou le Marxisme engendrant le Leninisme puis le Stalinisme, le mal engendrant le pire. Et comme si l'expression et les aspirations de l'individu sont toujours considérées, même aujourd'hui, antisociales et antiétatistes.

C'est déjà une évidence d'une faillite intellectuelle et économique de nos jours quand il faut se référer aux philosophies d'Adam Smith pour retrouver enfin le bon sens intellectuel et économique. Ou les pensées des grands comme Abraham Lincoln, pour traduire une de ses citations: 'Vous ne pouvez pas aider les pauvres en détruisant les riches, vous ne pouvez pas renforcer les faibles en affaiblissant les forts, vous ne pouvez pas soulever le salarié en abaissant le patron, vous ne pouvez pas promouvoir la confrérie de l'homme en incitant la lutte de classes. Vous ne pouvez pas développer le caractère et le courage en ôtant l'initiative et l'indépendance des hommes.'

Mais malgré cette vérité évidente, aujourd'hui on continue comme si de rien n'était. On mine l'idéal de la famille, on culpabilise les riches, on incite la division et la haine de classe, on abaisse le patronat, on ôte l'initiative, l'indépendance et l'individualité des hommes.

C'est tristement ironique qu'il faut retourner au 18° siècle dans le cas d'Adam Smith, et au 19° siècle pour celui d'Abraham Lincoln, entres autres, pour enfin retrouver les esprits sains pour nous faire rappeler qu'il y avaient quand même des époques où naturellement on louait et défendait la logique et le bon sens.

Est ce que périodiquement l'homme est censé régresser avant de pouvoir reprendre le chemin pour se rapprocher à la vérité de nouveau? En observant le monde d'aujourd'hui, y compris une nation réputée être parmi les plus civilisées, on dirait, avec triste résignation, que si.

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 Text and image © Mirino. February, 2013

Scottish myths 24

 

 Legends of Smoo Cave

East of Durness one can visit Smoo Cave, the largest of three ajoining caves. Similar to Fingal's Cave it echoes the sounds of the water falling into its deep pool. Smoo, is thought to have derived from the Norse word smjugg or smuga which means hole/ hiding place. It's believed that the use of the cave dates as far back as the Mesolithic age.
Allegedly it was often used as a smugglers cove. It was even thought to lead to the Nether world, another Scottish Never Land.

One legend recounts how the devil, seeking revenge against Lord Donald Reay, also known as the Wizard of Reay, waited in this cave convinced that the Wizard would come.
Donald was supposed to have lost his shadow to the devil. This too is said to have been the fate of Wizard Laird of Skene, Aberdeen, but that's another story.

During a sojourn in Venice, Italy, Donald made the acquaintance of the devil. He even became one of his best students in philosophy, metaphysics, alchemy, Venetian disguises and carnal pursuits.
What Donald was unaware of, despite his wisdom, wantonness and Latin worldliness, was that it was a custom for the devil to claim the soul of the last student to leave the class at the end of each term.

Donald was sharp enough however to avoid this terrible fate. He may well have anticipated the devil's unseemly advances in trying to take advantage of their being alone. For when the devil suddenly made an eager rush towards him, Donald immediately pointed to his own shadow and cried out the magical 16th century proverb, 'De'il tak' the hindmost!' Whereupon the devil only took Donald's shadow leaving him otherwise free to return to Scotland.

That Donald no longer had a shadow, added to his charm and mystery, so perhaps he didn't miss it as much as he should have. The devil was furious however, for he wasn't used to being outdone, even by wizards.

He was quite certain that Donald would eventually arrive at the cave, and time was of no consequence to him in any case. To keep him company he had summoned three evil old witches, one of whom liked to believe she was a flying mermaid. She would swim in the pool smiling toothlessly up under the water, and let her scraggy hair swirl about like slimy, dead marsh weed whilst the other two light-heartedly threw heavy pebbles at her.

Sure enough, the day came when Donald and his dog Duncan were strolling across the moors near Smoo Cave. It was late in the day. The weather was changing for the worst. Indeed wet winds blew and fearful storm clouds gathered. Donald and his dog decided to shelter in the cave. Duncan wandered off ahead to explore, but moments later he returned trembling, yelping and totally hairless.

Donald immediately surmised that the devil was somewhere lurking in the darkness of the cave waiting for him. As he prepared to meet his fate, for he knew that without his shadow it would be hopeless, the sky fortunately cleared allowing the setting sun to shine gloriously, and then a cock crowed loudly and clearly.

In view of these Heaven-sent occurrences, the devil and his assistants had no other choice but to leave immediately. Perhaps this was because dark deeds are best done in the dark, provided noisy cocks remain silent.
They were in fact so eager to get away that the devil blew great holes in the roof of the cave through which the four of them flew up and away shrieking in a hideous manner.

So if you ever visit Smoo Cave in Sutherland, Scotland, and are told that the holes in the caves' ceiling were made by natural erosion caused by the infiltration of sea water combined with the Smoo burn (Allt Smoo), you now know that such an explanation would be a lot of nonsense.

 *

In the 16th century the much feared highwayman McMurdo murdered his victims by throwing them down the main blowhole into the cave. Although the name McMurdo sounds suspiciously like an invention, his tomb can actually be seen at Bainakeil Church overlooking the Bainakeil Bay.

*

 Around the year 1720 when Durness was attacked by the Clan Gunn, the surprised inhabitants took refuge in Smoo Cave. The aggressive Clan foolishly followed them into the darkness where they were totally overcome by the villagers who knew the caves very well. Naturally they were able to use this knowledge to their advantage.

*

It is also said that a ghost of one of two Inland Revenue Inspectors still haunts the cave. The excisemen had previously persuaded a certain Donald MacKay to row them to where it was thought illegal whisky was then being distilled somewhere within Smoo Cave.
At that particular time the cave was flooded and the gaugers were apprehensive about the idea of continuing, but Donald managed to allay their fears. The legend recounts that the highlander, who no doubt appreciated his regular wee dram, rowed under the heavy falls (20m high) in order to capsize the boat before swimming to safety.
The unfortunate Inland Revenue inspectors drowned in the deep, turbulent waters, and only one of the bodies was later found. The ghost of the other inspector is said to appear in the bubbling foam just below the waterfall of the second chamber of Smoo Cave during high flood conditions of the burn. Perhaps his spirit, obsessed with finding the still that produced other, more warming spirits, is doomed to haunt the cave for ever.
But if so it would be hopelessly in vain, because shortly after this tragic and naturally totally unanticipated accident, the alambic was discreetly removed to a new location.

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 Scottish myths 25 

Scottish myths 23

Retellings © Mirino (various sources). Photo of Smoo Cave by Philipp Klinger.
With many thanks. February, 2013

The stoat

To wear ermine in the winter

For some might seem remote

Yet not for Erminea

The north country stoat.

A one-track-minded creature

Relentless in pursuit,

Sharp-witted though short-sighted

And ruthless by repute.

Those who by distinction

Wear ermine gowns or coats

Might sometimes be reminded

That they once belonged to stoats.

*

 Porter l'hermine en hiver

Pour certains est improbable,
Mais c'est pourtant l'habit
De cet animal notable.

Implacable à la poursuite,
Un traqueur acharné,
Myope mais vif et malin,
Impitoyablement réputé.

Ceux qui par distinction
Portent les manteaux en hermine
Pourraient parfois être rappelés
A la nature de l'origine.

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Illustration and doggerel © Mirino. February, 2013

Pigdragon

Si le Paradis
Est l'œuvre d'une vie
C'est donc ce que l'on fait
Pour le rendre ainsi.
C'est comment on est,
Ce que l'on peut faire
Pour que le Paradis même
Règne sur terre.
 

*
 

L'illustration a été faite pour Cosmopolitan (UK) il y a bien des années. Sans doute à cette époque on croyait encore qu'il y avait toujours un remède assez simple pour sauver le monde. Il ne fallait que balayer devant sa propre porte. Mais aujourd'hui on devient moins confiant, moins optimiste, et peut-être même on balaye avec moins de conviction.

Si les oiseaux avait la faculté de raisonner à un niveau qui égale l'altitude où ils peuvent voler, ils questionneraient sérieusement la capacité intellectuelle et donc le destin de l'homme. Ceux qu'ils voient si petits en bas, acharnés à s'entre-tuer, par exemple. Si en plus ils savaient que de telles guerres étaient provoquées par la vanité d'un seul homme qui s'accroche au pouvoir, ou par les illuminés qui se persuadent que Dieu leur donne le droit de faire mal, alors ils seraient convaincus que l'homme est incurablement fou, qu'il n'y a plus d'espoir pour humanité.

Albert Einstein disait 'I fear the day that technologie will surpass our human interaction. The world will have a generation of idiots.' ('Je crains que le jour où la technologie surpassera notre interaction humaine. Le monde aura une génération d'idiots').

Lorsqu'on voit comment ces nouvelles technologies sont mises en pratique, comment on les innove et les adapte pour satisfaire les caprices humains actuels, ou les besoins littéralement superficiels et assez pathétiques, pour les vendre au plus vite, c'est tristement évident que la préoccupation visionnaire d'Einstein eut été bien fondée.  

La nouveauté technologique qui donne priorité à la facilité, paraît avoir subrogé ou subordonné l'intelligence et les aspirations créatives humaines, et semble même encourager une régression intellectuelle, qui inclut la violence, l'immoralité et la perversité cynique. Qu'est ce qu'il y a de pire, par exemple, que d'utiliser les mobiles non seulement pour filmer les débilités, mais pour filmer les crimes atroces comme les viols collectifs, ou pour déclencher les bombes à distance pour tuer aveuglément? Smart phones, dans les mains de crétins et de monstres.

Comment peut-on sauver le monde, si on n'arrive même pas à se sauver nous mêmes? Comment avancer de manière positive et digne quand on donne priorité aux idéologies périmées, figées ou extrêmes, menteuses et malsaines, qu'elles soient politiques ou religieuses? Ne sont-elles pas aussi des prisons? Nietzche l'avait bien souligné ainsi que Renan.

La quête pour l'égalité, par exemple, est une quête organisée par des charlatans, et encore plus lorsqu'ils savent pertinemment bien eux-mêmes, et peut-être encore mieux que ceux qui les opposent, à quel point l'égalité est contre-nature, donc impossible. Puis comme disait Honoré de Balzac- 'L'esprit d'égalité extrême conduit au despotisme d'un seul.'  On l'a d'ailleurs bien vu à travers l'histoire.

Ces prétendus 'réformateurs' qui cachent leur vrai objectif derrière un masque tartuffien de fausse générosité et de faux partage parcimonieux.
C'est aussi vrai que 'Plus nous volons hauts, et plus nous paraissons petits à ceux qui ne savent pas voler.'  Nietzsche encore.

Mais essayons quand même de nous envoler au moins assez haut pour retrouver la lumière, l'air sain, la paix, l'ordre et la beauté. Ce petit vestige de paradis imaginaire. Dans ce dernier asile, ce petit jardin fleuri, essayons de raisonner de manière plus positive et donc optimiste.
Même si la nature humaine reste obstinément fidèle à elle-même à travers la nuit du temps, sur ce chemin qui conduit l'homme, tant bien que mal, vers son avenir; il est difficile à croire et accepter que le destin final, celui déjà écrit, est sa propre destruction.

Mais pour la Terre, par contre, peut-on être aussi optimiste? Pour sauver notre monde, il faudra d'abord carrément changer la nature humaine, ce qui est impossible. Bien évidemment on a toujours la capacité admirable pour s'adapter aux nouvelles circonstances, changements climatiques, catastrophes naturelles ou artificielles, progrès technologiques, etc., mais notre nature humaine ne change point.

Peut-être s'il y avait de la vérité dans la théorie que le singe fut l'ancêtre de l'homme, il y aurait eu une évolution constante en ce qui concerne aussi la nature humaine, mais cette théorie darwinesque devient de plus en plus invraisemblable. D'ailleurs si c'était vrai, il y aurait toujours une évolution constante chez les singes, ce qui n'est aucunement évident.

On revient donc à l'hypothèse du Cycle de Noé. L'idée que l'on est venu d'ailleurs et que peut-être ce ne serait pas la première fois non plus. Devrait-on conclure donc que même les mondes sont consommables? Qu'avec le temps l'homme, ou un être d'intelligence semblable, en épuisant les ressources naturelles, détruisant sans recours donc sa planète, se contraigne à créer le moyen (l'Arche de Noé) de partir trouver ailleurs une autre planète vivable pour y recommencer de nouveau à perpétuer la vie?

Sinon, l'espoir serait limité uniquement à celui de la contre-réaction. L'espoir fondé sur la conviction que l'univers y compris son mécanisme et évolution incroyable, n'a pas été créé par hasard. Que la vie sur terre eut un début, et donc forcément elle aura ainsi une fin. Même si cela est très difficile à admettre, l'idée que l'histoire de l'Homme est déterminée et limitée par l'histoire de la Terre; par la loi universelle, la mort de notre planète devrait déterminer la naissance d'une autre, et ainsi de suite.

Il est quand même préférable de croire que l'homme fait néanmoins parti intégral mais infinitésimal de cet univers, et que son destin est beaucoup moins limité, sinon illimité, et ceci totalement hors delà de ses préconceptions, de tout ce qu'il est capable d'imaginer. Mais quoi qu'il en soit, et en fin de compte, c'est fortement probable que ce n'est pas seulement lui qui décide..

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Illustration, text and doggerel © Mirino (PW) February, 2013