Francis Berger's Blog, page 166
February 12, 2019
Pálinka - Yeah, It's an Acquired Taste
The rock band Queen performed a concert in Budapest, Hungary in 1986, three years before the fall of the Iron Curtain. On the day of their open air rehearsal, members of the band were invited to sample pálinka, a fruit brandy native to Central Europe and, in many regards, the quintessence of Hungary itself.
Here is Freddie Mercury’s reaction to drinking pálinka. As you probably noticed by Mr. Mercury’s reaction to this Magyar spirit, pálinka is touch on the strong side, which makes it a bit of an acquired taste. Made from mashed fruit, which is then distilled and matured for a short time, pálinka is famous for, or perhaps more correctly notorious for, the strong punch it packs. The etymology of the word comes from the Slavonic stem paliti, which means to burn. This is highly appropriate, for few spirits burn as thoroughly and impressively as pálinka does. The average alcohol content ranges between forty and fifty percent, but eighty percent distillations are also readily available.
Pálinka can be distilled from almost any fruit, but plum, peach, apricot, cherry, apple, grape, and pear are the most common varieties. A recent trend in Hungary is the distillation of more uncommon or expensive fruits such as raspberries, currants, blueberries, elderberries, and strawberries. Pálinkas blended with honey are becoming increasingly popular among those who simply cannot bear the burn.
I never cared much for pálinka when I was younger, but I have become quite partial to this fruit brandy since I moved to Hungary four years ago. Before proceeding allow me stress that I am an extremely light drinker, one who tends to limit his alcohol consumption to two or three drinks per week. Nonetheless, one of those two or three drinks inevitable ends up being a good shot of pálinka. Nothing, in my opinion or experience, takes the edge off a long day or warms the insides as thoroughly as pálinka does (save perhaps an excellent cognac, but that’s another subject entirely).
Pálinka making has a long tradition in Hungary and many Hungarians continue to distill their own. Producing one’s own pálinka is a matter of considerable pride in this country, and few things provide as much pleasure to the average Hungarian gentleman as being able to offer his friends or guests a sampling of his own handcrafted spirit. Quite a few men in my village distill their own pálinka; the ones I have been fortunate enough to sample thus far have been superb. I hope to distill my own next year.
If you enjoy a good stiff drink, keep your eyes open for Hungarian pálinka the next time you visit the shops or liquor store. The first shot will likely put you off, but don’t let it put you off entirely. Like many great things in life, pálinka is definitely an acquired taste, and it is, in my opinion, a taste well worth acquiring – in extreme moderation, of course!
If you do eventually acquire a taste for it, you will ultimately develop a sense of kinship with the people of this small, landlocked country. Unfortunately, the development of this kinship is extremely rare, as displayed by the reactions below.
Here is Freddie Mercury’s reaction to drinking pálinka. As you probably noticed by Mr. Mercury’s reaction to this Magyar spirit, pálinka is touch on the strong side, which makes it a bit of an acquired taste. Made from mashed fruit, which is then distilled and matured for a short time, pálinka is famous for, or perhaps more correctly notorious for, the strong punch it packs. The etymology of the word comes from the Slavonic stem paliti, which means to burn. This is highly appropriate, for few spirits burn as thoroughly and impressively as pálinka does. The average alcohol content ranges between forty and fifty percent, but eighty percent distillations are also readily available.
Pálinka can be distilled from almost any fruit, but plum, peach, apricot, cherry, apple, grape, and pear are the most common varieties. A recent trend in Hungary is the distillation of more uncommon or expensive fruits such as raspberries, currants, blueberries, elderberries, and strawberries. Pálinkas blended with honey are becoming increasingly popular among those who simply cannot bear the burn.
I never cared much for pálinka when I was younger, but I have become quite partial to this fruit brandy since I moved to Hungary four years ago. Before proceeding allow me stress that I am an extremely light drinker, one who tends to limit his alcohol consumption to two or three drinks per week. Nonetheless, one of those two or three drinks inevitable ends up being a good shot of pálinka. Nothing, in my opinion or experience, takes the edge off a long day or warms the insides as thoroughly as pálinka does (save perhaps an excellent cognac, but that’s another subject entirely).
Pálinka making has a long tradition in Hungary and many Hungarians continue to distill their own. Producing one’s own pálinka is a matter of considerable pride in this country, and few things provide as much pleasure to the average Hungarian gentleman as being able to offer his friends or guests a sampling of his own handcrafted spirit. Quite a few men in my village distill their own pálinka; the ones I have been fortunate enough to sample thus far have been superb. I hope to distill my own next year.
If you enjoy a good stiff drink, keep your eyes open for Hungarian pálinka the next time you visit the shops or liquor store. The first shot will likely put you off, but don’t let it put you off entirely. Like many great things in life, pálinka is definitely an acquired taste, and it is, in my opinion, a taste well worth acquiring – in extreme moderation, of course!
If you do eventually acquire a taste for it, you will ultimately develop a sense of kinship with the people of this small, landlocked country. Unfortunately, the development of this kinship is extremely rare, as displayed by the reactions below.
February 11, 2019
When Courage Comes at the Worst Time (And How That is Usually Good)
I have spent the last few days thinking about courage and what it means to courageous in our contemporary world. Though I enjoy the idealized depictions of courage found in films, novels, comic books and the like, I have always regarded these as unrealistic. Part of the problem with idealized heroic courage is its seeming effortlessness. Comic books and Hollywood films have a tendency to make courage look easy, to depict it as something that just happens, is just done, like breathing or scratching your head. Press a button and, boom, you have courage! Once the courageous act is complete, you are rewarded. This kind of cartoon courage is acceptable in action films, but real courage tends to be far more complex and nuanced.
Nevertheless, every now and then we are lucky enough to catch a glimpse of this kind of action-hero courage in real life; for example, when we witness police, firefighters, or rescue workers putting their lives at risk in an effort to help or save others. Sometimes ordinary people put themselves in harm’s way in an effort to do good, and these displays of courage fascinate us even more. Whatever the case, respect for the physical heroic act seems hardwired into us, and we respond positively to physical heroic acts whenever we encounter them in life.
Even so, courage is not limited to displays of bravery such as saving people from burning buildings or foiling armed bank robberies with nothing but a set of car keys and a half-eaten ham sandwich (I don’t know, use your imagination!). Subtler, less dramatic displays of courage do exist all around us, but these do not get much air time in our world, and when they do, they are usually misunderstood.
Oddly enough, this is the courage that interests me the most. Heroic physical action is but the visible tip of the courage iceberg; the real mass of what constitutes courage lays hidden beneath the water’s surface. This is the realm of mental and spiritual courage, and the actions emanating from here are usually subtle, occasionally ethereal, and almost always misinterpreted by everyone, including the person who performed the act!
Whether in act or thought, these ethereal expressions of courage rarely entail risking one’s physical life, but they often require just as much fortitude – perhaps more because they lack the physical/impulse reaction element present in most physical heroic acts, and instead focus on matters beyond the purely physical. This is the world of spiritual courage. Sometimes spiritual courage occurs spontaneously, a sudden burst that emanates from built up pressure one can no longer bear. Sometimes it is the result of much pondering, ruminating, and second-guessing; the product of a long, drawn-out fermenting process that builds up the self-possession and confidence required to trigger a decision or an action.
Unlike physical heroism, spiritual heroism offers little in the way of spectacle. Acts of physical courage and heroism are like firework displays; acts of spiritual courage, on the other hand, tend to elicit confusion or embarrassment whenever they are played out before an audience. Physical courage relies on being able to do the right thing in the right place at exactly the right time. On the other hand, spiritual courage often manifests in the material world as seemingly doing the wrong thing in the wrong place at exactly the wrong time. People who perform purely physical acts of courage are rewarded with accolades and tributes on the six o’clock news, while spiritual heroes are normally considered dolts who let a great opportunity slip through their fingers.
As mentioned above, superhero displays of bravery are celebrated and admired because they demonstrate the ability to take the right action at the right time. Spiritual acts of bravery are misunderstood and perplexing because they are often perceived as the inability to take the right action at the right time.
From a purely material perspective, spiritual courage always comes at the worst possible time because it involves giving up or rejecting something in the material realm while simultaneously gaining something in the spiritual realm. Onlookers see the former, but are blind to the latter. This is what makes the even the most profound displays of spiritual courage appear like foolishness to the outsider.
Perhaps this is why we don’t always understand spiritual strength when we see it. Perhaps this is why we hesitate to perform acts of spiritual courage ourselves. Because the motivation to do so always seems to come at the worst time, and always involves some display of resolution that either brings no reward or, perhaps, even puts us at risk.
This idea has fascinated me for a long time. I explored it in my novel, in a scene where the young protagonist kills his own chance at being accepted into a university of fine arts in communist Hungary because he simply cannot bring himself to mouth the words the party wanted him to mouth.
The scene was intriguing to write. Viewed from one angle, the protagonist’s courage could not have come at a worse time – his insistence on speaking what he considers truth costs him his chance at fulfilling his lifelong dream of becoming a celebrated artist. Yet, from a different, more meaningful perspective, the protagonist’s strength of spirit could not have come at a more optimal time. By sabotaging his own attempt to get into the communist-ideology possessed university, the protagonist essentially saves his integrity and, perhaps, his soul.
The scene can be found below. Give it a read if you are so inclined. You may find it interesting.
_________________________________________________________________________________________
An usher guided them to the room where the interviews were being held. The selection committee – an odd mixture of a few intimidating party members garbed in military regalia, other stern-looking party members in civilian clothes, and a few weary professors dressed in ill-fitting suits – sat behind a long, imposing table perched upon a dais at the far end of a vast room decorated with ornate Baroque flourishes. Flags of The People’s Republic of Hungary drooped from vertical masts on either side of the table. A thick, oppressive cloud of silver-gray cigarette smoke hung in the air. Reinhardt sat down on one of the collapsible wooden chairs along the side of the room and he waited his turn. Ms. Kálmán sat in an area on the opposite side of the room reserved for escorts and guests.
It did not take long for the head of the committee, a stout, bulldog-headed man whose sweaty, bald scalp glistened even in the dull light, to call upon Reinhardt. The bulldog-man enunciated Reinhardt’s name distastefully, making no effort to veil the disgust he experienced as he forced his lips, tongue, and larynx to emit sounds his mind considered anathema. A lump formed in Ms. Kálmán’s throat; the interview had not even started, yet it already appeared her pupil did not stand a chance. As Reinhardt took his place before the table, she silently cursed herself for her idealism: See how they looked when they heard his name? What were you thinking Edina? You’ll be the laughing stock of the Ministry! You’ll rot in that awful village until you die!
Unlike Edina Kálmán, Reinhardt was calm and composed. He answered the first question the committee put to him succinctly. A few members of the committee nodded in approval. They perused his portfolio, handing it back and forth along the table while he spoke. Ms. Kálmán calmed down considerably after the first question. The response to the next question was eloquent and articulate. After ten minutes the committee was smiling in approval and the schoolteacher sat in her chair beaming as she playfully imagined herself back in Budapest in a senior level position within the Ministry of Education. That Reinhardt would gain entrance into the academy seemed a sure thing – that he would eventually rise and become a great artist became a very real possibility. She closed her eyes and pictured the day her student became famous. That would be the day she would be lauded as the comrade who had inspired a simple, Swabian peasant boy to become a great artist for the socialist cause. As these visions of future glory wafted through the teacher’s head, the committee put their final question to Reinhardt.
“Drixler, my boy,” the bulldog-headed man said. Mysteriously, he no longer experienced any difficulty pronouncing Reinhardt’s name. “In terms of truth, which do you believe is the most capable of expounding the profound truths of life: art or communism?”
Reinhardt pondered the question for a moment before replying slowly and methodically. “Communism. But as an aspiring artist, I would hope the combination of communism and art would ultimately expound the most profound truths about life.”
The committee nodded unanimously. Edina Kálmán smiled and envisioned herself in a spacious flat in the Buda Hills.
Had Reinhardt left his answer there, he would have gained acceptance into the University of Fine Arts and his teacher’s longing to return to Budapest may have become a reality. But the young artist found it impossible to leave his answer there. Even though it was not in his best interest to do so, he felt compelled to add something to his previous statement.
“Of course, as far as truth is concerned, some claim art trumps communism.”
The additional thirteen words Reinhardt chose to tack onto the end of his original answer stunned the committee. The temperature in the vast smoke-filled hall seemed to drop by ten degrees. Reinhardt immediately realized he had struck a nerve. He scrambled for a way to salvage the situation. He quickly realized all he needed to do was negate the notion contained in his previous statement by adding: but I would claim these individuals do not truly understand the enlightened foundations upon which communism is built . . . or words to that effect were all that were required. He opened his mouth. The right words were there, dripping from the tip of his tongue like honey, ready to feed and mollify the agitated, buzzing committee. But for reasons he could not even begin to comprehend, his brain refused to let his tongue rattle them off. He closed his mouth, cleared his throat, looked defiantly at each member of the committee and, to Ms. Kálmán’s utter horror, recited the underlined passage in Szentvölgyi’s old copy of Art of the Ages: “Art,” he said in a firm, steady voice, “is one of humanity’s highest callings. It is a higher thing than politics or economics. It marks the total expression of the creativity and freedom of the human spirit and is also one of the few paths through which mankind can transcend its earthly circumstances and approach the Divine. This is the essence that makes art eternal.”
Higher than politics or economics. Freedom. Creativity. Human spirit. Divine. The words exploded around the committee like bombs and rendered them shell-shocked. Reinhardt instantly joined the ranks of those noble, tragic souls who seal their own doom by expressing their opinions fully and sincerely. Put another way, Reinhardt committed the unforgivable sin of not knowing when to shut up. Edina Kálmán’s jaw dropped in disbelief and she nearly toppled from her chair. Only one person appeared to approve of what Reinhardt had said: the ancient professor at the end of the table who might have started his tenure at the university when Hungary was still part of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. The professor could not suppress a grin of endorsement after he heard Reinhardt’s words and, for a brief second, the old man’s eyes sparkled. But when he glanced down the length of the table and saw the frowning, disapproving looks, he quickly remembered himself. The grin vanished, the sparkle faded, and he hunched forward again, assuming the aura of a dying star slowly collapsing in on itself.
“Thank you, Drixler,” the bulldog-headed man said in an agitated voice. Reinhardt’s name had become difficult to pronounce once again. “That will be all.”
___________________________________________________________________________________________________
“Idiot!” Ms. Kálmán screamed.
The schoolteacher slammed the sliding door of the train cabin shut and glared at her pupil. Following the failed interview, she quickly aborted her promise to show Reinhardt the sights of Budapest and marched him back to the train station. She exchanged their tickets for ones good on the next available train. With new tickets in hand, she called ahead to Pécs and arranged to have the car meet them earlier than expected. Once they were on the train, she dropped down on the seat opposite Reinhardt, lit a cigarette and spat an angry plume of smoke into her student’s face. “We never rehearsed that answer!”
“They asked me a question about truth,” Reinhardt mumbled. “I told them the truth.”
“Truth?” Ms. Kálmán threw back her head and emitted an odd noise that fell somewhere between a screech and a cackle. “Do you have any idea what truth is, moron? Truth is whatever the Party tells us! Nothing more; nothing less.”
“That’s not truth.”
“Aargh, you make me sick!” she cried. She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and lit another one. “I hope you’re satisfied. You humiliated me before ministers, professors, party members. I am the laughing stock of the whole Ministry of Education. I’ll never be able to show my face in Budapest again! I’m lucky they didn’t arrest me on the spot!”
“I’m sorry,” Reinhardt said sincerely. “I meant no harm.”
The schoolteacher’s eyes became as wide as dinner plates and she wagged an accusatory finger. “Sorry? You’re not sorry. You did this on purpose.” Her tone became muted – conspiratorial. “You plotted this for months. It’s all part of some sick scheme. Revenge. The only reason you came to Budapest was to make a fool of me!”
Reinhardt leaned forward and touched Ms. Kálmán’s forearm. He had meant it as a wordless apology. He hoped it might soothe her, but the touch of his hand made the teacher recoil in disgust.
The train lurched forward and pulled out of the station. Ms. Kálmán looked longingly at a few ugly, nondescript buildings as the train rolled out onto the open tracks. “Well, you have succeeded in embarrassing me; however, I can wring some satisfaction out of this awful day, too. It pleases me to know your talent has no future here. You can paint until the flesh falls from your fingers, but you’ll never be a recognized artist in Hungary. You’ll end up a swineherd like the rest of your primitive ancestors.”
Nevertheless, every now and then we are lucky enough to catch a glimpse of this kind of action-hero courage in real life; for example, when we witness police, firefighters, or rescue workers putting their lives at risk in an effort to help or save others. Sometimes ordinary people put themselves in harm’s way in an effort to do good, and these displays of courage fascinate us even more. Whatever the case, respect for the physical heroic act seems hardwired into us, and we respond positively to physical heroic acts whenever we encounter them in life.
Even so, courage is not limited to displays of bravery such as saving people from burning buildings or foiling armed bank robberies with nothing but a set of car keys and a half-eaten ham sandwich (I don’t know, use your imagination!). Subtler, less dramatic displays of courage do exist all around us, but these do not get much air time in our world, and when they do, they are usually misunderstood.
Oddly enough, this is the courage that interests me the most. Heroic physical action is but the visible tip of the courage iceberg; the real mass of what constitutes courage lays hidden beneath the water’s surface. This is the realm of mental and spiritual courage, and the actions emanating from here are usually subtle, occasionally ethereal, and almost always misinterpreted by everyone, including the person who performed the act!
Whether in act or thought, these ethereal expressions of courage rarely entail risking one’s physical life, but they often require just as much fortitude – perhaps more because they lack the physical/impulse reaction element present in most physical heroic acts, and instead focus on matters beyond the purely physical. This is the world of spiritual courage. Sometimes spiritual courage occurs spontaneously, a sudden burst that emanates from built up pressure one can no longer bear. Sometimes it is the result of much pondering, ruminating, and second-guessing; the product of a long, drawn-out fermenting process that builds up the self-possession and confidence required to trigger a decision or an action.
Unlike physical heroism, spiritual heroism offers little in the way of spectacle. Acts of physical courage and heroism are like firework displays; acts of spiritual courage, on the other hand, tend to elicit confusion or embarrassment whenever they are played out before an audience. Physical courage relies on being able to do the right thing in the right place at exactly the right time. On the other hand, spiritual courage often manifests in the material world as seemingly doing the wrong thing in the wrong place at exactly the wrong time. People who perform purely physical acts of courage are rewarded with accolades and tributes on the six o’clock news, while spiritual heroes are normally considered dolts who let a great opportunity slip through their fingers.
As mentioned above, superhero displays of bravery are celebrated and admired because they demonstrate the ability to take the right action at the right time. Spiritual acts of bravery are misunderstood and perplexing because they are often perceived as the inability to take the right action at the right time.
From a purely material perspective, spiritual courage always comes at the worst possible time because it involves giving up or rejecting something in the material realm while simultaneously gaining something in the spiritual realm. Onlookers see the former, but are blind to the latter. This is what makes the even the most profound displays of spiritual courage appear like foolishness to the outsider.
Perhaps this is why we don’t always understand spiritual strength when we see it. Perhaps this is why we hesitate to perform acts of spiritual courage ourselves. Because the motivation to do so always seems to come at the worst time, and always involves some display of resolution that either brings no reward or, perhaps, even puts us at risk.
This idea has fascinated me for a long time. I explored it in my novel, in a scene where the young protagonist kills his own chance at being accepted into a university of fine arts in communist Hungary because he simply cannot bring himself to mouth the words the party wanted him to mouth.
The scene was intriguing to write. Viewed from one angle, the protagonist’s courage could not have come at a worse time – his insistence on speaking what he considers truth costs him his chance at fulfilling his lifelong dream of becoming a celebrated artist. Yet, from a different, more meaningful perspective, the protagonist’s strength of spirit could not have come at a more optimal time. By sabotaging his own attempt to get into the communist-ideology possessed university, the protagonist essentially saves his integrity and, perhaps, his soul.
The scene can be found below. Give it a read if you are so inclined. You may find it interesting.
_________________________________________________________________________________________
An usher guided them to the room where the interviews were being held. The selection committee – an odd mixture of a few intimidating party members garbed in military regalia, other stern-looking party members in civilian clothes, and a few weary professors dressed in ill-fitting suits – sat behind a long, imposing table perched upon a dais at the far end of a vast room decorated with ornate Baroque flourishes. Flags of The People’s Republic of Hungary drooped from vertical masts on either side of the table. A thick, oppressive cloud of silver-gray cigarette smoke hung in the air. Reinhardt sat down on one of the collapsible wooden chairs along the side of the room and he waited his turn. Ms. Kálmán sat in an area on the opposite side of the room reserved for escorts and guests.
It did not take long for the head of the committee, a stout, bulldog-headed man whose sweaty, bald scalp glistened even in the dull light, to call upon Reinhardt. The bulldog-man enunciated Reinhardt’s name distastefully, making no effort to veil the disgust he experienced as he forced his lips, tongue, and larynx to emit sounds his mind considered anathema. A lump formed in Ms. Kálmán’s throat; the interview had not even started, yet it already appeared her pupil did not stand a chance. As Reinhardt took his place before the table, she silently cursed herself for her idealism: See how they looked when they heard his name? What were you thinking Edina? You’ll be the laughing stock of the Ministry! You’ll rot in that awful village until you die!
Unlike Edina Kálmán, Reinhardt was calm and composed. He answered the first question the committee put to him succinctly. A few members of the committee nodded in approval. They perused his portfolio, handing it back and forth along the table while he spoke. Ms. Kálmán calmed down considerably after the first question. The response to the next question was eloquent and articulate. After ten minutes the committee was smiling in approval and the schoolteacher sat in her chair beaming as she playfully imagined herself back in Budapest in a senior level position within the Ministry of Education. That Reinhardt would gain entrance into the academy seemed a sure thing – that he would eventually rise and become a great artist became a very real possibility. She closed her eyes and pictured the day her student became famous. That would be the day she would be lauded as the comrade who had inspired a simple, Swabian peasant boy to become a great artist for the socialist cause. As these visions of future glory wafted through the teacher’s head, the committee put their final question to Reinhardt.
“Drixler, my boy,” the bulldog-headed man said. Mysteriously, he no longer experienced any difficulty pronouncing Reinhardt’s name. “In terms of truth, which do you believe is the most capable of expounding the profound truths of life: art or communism?”
Reinhardt pondered the question for a moment before replying slowly and methodically. “Communism. But as an aspiring artist, I would hope the combination of communism and art would ultimately expound the most profound truths about life.”
The committee nodded unanimously. Edina Kálmán smiled and envisioned herself in a spacious flat in the Buda Hills.
Had Reinhardt left his answer there, he would have gained acceptance into the University of Fine Arts and his teacher’s longing to return to Budapest may have become a reality. But the young artist found it impossible to leave his answer there. Even though it was not in his best interest to do so, he felt compelled to add something to his previous statement.
“Of course, as far as truth is concerned, some claim art trumps communism.”
The additional thirteen words Reinhardt chose to tack onto the end of his original answer stunned the committee. The temperature in the vast smoke-filled hall seemed to drop by ten degrees. Reinhardt immediately realized he had struck a nerve. He scrambled for a way to salvage the situation. He quickly realized all he needed to do was negate the notion contained in his previous statement by adding: but I would claim these individuals do not truly understand the enlightened foundations upon which communism is built . . . or words to that effect were all that were required. He opened his mouth. The right words were there, dripping from the tip of his tongue like honey, ready to feed and mollify the agitated, buzzing committee. But for reasons he could not even begin to comprehend, his brain refused to let his tongue rattle them off. He closed his mouth, cleared his throat, looked defiantly at each member of the committee and, to Ms. Kálmán’s utter horror, recited the underlined passage in Szentvölgyi’s old copy of Art of the Ages: “Art,” he said in a firm, steady voice, “is one of humanity’s highest callings. It is a higher thing than politics or economics. It marks the total expression of the creativity and freedom of the human spirit and is also one of the few paths through which mankind can transcend its earthly circumstances and approach the Divine. This is the essence that makes art eternal.”
Higher than politics or economics. Freedom. Creativity. Human spirit. Divine. The words exploded around the committee like bombs and rendered them shell-shocked. Reinhardt instantly joined the ranks of those noble, tragic souls who seal their own doom by expressing their opinions fully and sincerely. Put another way, Reinhardt committed the unforgivable sin of not knowing when to shut up. Edina Kálmán’s jaw dropped in disbelief and she nearly toppled from her chair. Only one person appeared to approve of what Reinhardt had said: the ancient professor at the end of the table who might have started his tenure at the university when Hungary was still part of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. The professor could not suppress a grin of endorsement after he heard Reinhardt’s words and, for a brief second, the old man’s eyes sparkled. But when he glanced down the length of the table and saw the frowning, disapproving looks, he quickly remembered himself. The grin vanished, the sparkle faded, and he hunched forward again, assuming the aura of a dying star slowly collapsing in on itself.
“Thank you, Drixler,” the bulldog-headed man said in an agitated voice. Reinhardt’s name had become difficult to pronounce once again. “That will be all.”
___________________________________________________________________________________________________
“Idiot!” Ms. Kálmán screamed.
The schoolteacher slammed the sliding door of the train cabin shut and glared at her pupil. Following the failed interview, she quickly aborted her promise to show Reinhardt the sights of Budapest and marched him back to the train station. She exchanged their tickets for ones good on the next available train. With new tickets in hand, she called ahead to Pécs and arranged to have the car meet them earlier than expected. Once they were on the train, she dropped down on the seat opposite Reinhardt, lit a cigarette and spat an angry plume of smoke into her student’s face. “We never rehearsed that answer!”
“They asked me a question about truth,” Reinhardt mumbled. “I told them the truth.”
“Truth?” Ms. Kálmán threw back her head and emitted an odd noise that fell somewhere between a screech and a cackle. “Do you have any idea what truth is, moron? Truth is whatever the Party tells us! Nothing more; nothing less.”
“That’s not truth.”
“Aargh, you make me sick!” she cried. She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and lit another one. “I hope you’re satisfied. You humiliated me before ministers, professors, party members. I am the laughing stock of the whole Ministry of Education. I’ll never be able to show my face in Budapest again! I’m lucky they didn’t arrest me on the spot!”
“I’m sorry,” Reinhardt said sincerely. “I meant no harm.”
The schoolteacher’s eyes became as wide as dinner plates and she wagged an accusatory finger. “Sorry? You’re not sorry. You did this on purpose.” Her tone became muted – conspiratorial. “You plotted this for months. It’s all part of some sick scheme. Revenge. The only reason you came to Budapest was to make a fool of me!”
Reinhardt leaned forward and touched Ms. Kálmán’s forearm. He had meant it as a wordless apology. He hoped it might soothe her, but the touch of his hand made the teacher recoil in disgust.
The train lurched forward and pulled out of the station. Ms. Kálmán looked longingly at a few ugly, nondescript buildings as the train rolled out onto the open tracks. “Well, you have succeeded in embarrassing me; however, I can wring some satisfaction out of this awful day, too. It pleases me to know your talent has no future here. You can paint until the flesh falls from your fingers, but you’ll never be a recognized artist in Hungary. You’ll end up a swineherd like the rest of your primitive ancestors.”
February 10, 2019
Just an Expression
I have a part-time position at a university of applied sciences in Austria, and twice a month I travel across the border to the new, modern campus that resembles an airport terminal. On the first day of classes in September my supervisor held an orientation session for all the master’s level students enrolled in English classes, and she requested that all English instructors be present for the event.
I have worked at the school for four years, and in that time I have had five or six different native English-speaking instructor colleagues. Most tend to be American expats and very few tend to stay on the job more than a year or two. This past September, I had two new American colleagues, a man and a woman, both in their thirties. I happened to meet them for the first time in the hall outside the lecture hall just before the orientation started. We cordially introduced ourselves to each other. They struck me as friendly and enthusiastic, and after a few minutes of small talk, we entered the lecture hall together and took seats near the front of the room.
The American woman sat down next to me and continued her small talk to fill the time before the orientation began. She is an attractive, stylish woman, my female colleague, and her speech is crisp and articulate. I pegged her as a native Californian that day, but I could have that wrong. She informed she had a full-time instructor job in Vienna, and had previously spent a number of years in Prague. When she discovered I lived in Hungary, she asked a few questions about the country and what it is like to live there.
“It’s quite pleasant,” I replied, purposefully keeping my answers as general as possible to avoid having to wade into any long-winded descriptions and elaborations.
“That’s surprising to hear,” she said incredulously. “I read an article last week that said the country was sliding toward a dictatorship.”
I chuckled and nodded. Her eyes narrowed, as if she were gauging my reaction to her declaration.
“Yeah, well, don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” I said lightly, ending the sentence with a small smile.
She opened her mouth to respond, but remained silent. It took me a couple of seconds to notice that she was no longer really looking at me, but was focused instead on something behind me on the far side of the room. A dismayed expression settled over her face. She tapped me on the elbow with her manicured left hand and then pointed briefly at the door.
“Oh my God!" she said, before I had a chance to turn my head. "What is that doing here?”
I finally turned around to see what that was, but the only thing I noticed was a small group of students chatting by the door.
Sensing I was not seeing what she wanted me to see, my new colleague added, “Above the door.”
The source of her discomfort was a richly-carved wooden crucifix, no more than forty centimeters in height, affixed to the ocean of whiteness above the entrance. I must admit, I was rather surprised to see it myself, but for me the surprise was rather pleasant.
“That shouldn’t be here,” she continued after thirty seconds had elapsed. Her tone was hushed, almost conspiratorial.
“It's a Catholic country,” I offered. “And I've heard the people around these parts are quite religious.”
“So?” she snapped, shooting down my explanation as soon as it hit the air. “That makes no difference. That belongs in a church, not here.”
I took a second to examine her face, which had become pallid under the fluorescent lights. There was no doubt about it. The sight of the cross genuinely offended her. But it was more than mere offense. Her eyes revealed faint traces of disgust. Unable to look at her anymore, I averted my gaze to the fold-out desk before me and pretended to be intrigued by the wood grain lines on its lacquered surface.
“I’m going to bring this up with the dean,” my colleague said after a moment had passed. “It's inappropriate.”
I kept looking at the flowing wood-grain lines. “Hey, can I ask you a question?” I said. I did not wait for her to respond as I turned back toward her. “Which god do you believe in?”
The query caught her off guard and her eyes revealed the whites she had encased within elegantly-drawn eyeliner frames.
“When you saw the cross above the door you said ‘Oh my God,’” I said flatly. “So what god do you believe in? You obviously don't believe in Him.”
She looked at me as if I had just uttered some obscene joke. I could sense that I had instantly become the most ridiculous person she had ever met. I might as well have asked her if she believed in the tooth fairy or the Easter bunny.
“I’m an atheist,” she replied matter-of-factly. Then with a tinge of flustered impatience, she added, “It’s just an expression, you know.”
“What is?”
“Oh my God.”
“Yes, of course."
I could think of nothing else to say. Luckily, my supervisor called for everyone’s attention and began the orientation. My new female colleague started taking notes; I spent most of the orientation examining the fine craftwork of the cross above the door.
I have seen my female colleague at the school a few times since then. We smile and courteously say hello, but she shows little interest in stopping to chat whenever we happen to bump into each other in the halls. I have not been in that big lecture hall since the orientation in September. Occasionally, I pause and wonder if the cross is still in there above the door.
Next time I’m at the school, I’ll make a point of checking.
I have worked at the school for four years, and in that time I have had five or six different native English-speaking instructor colleagues. Most tend to be American expats and very few tend to stay on the job more than a year or two. This past September, I had two new American colleagues, a man and a woman, both in their thirties. I happened to meet them for the first time in the hall outside the lecture hall just before the orientation started. We cordially introduced ourselves to each other. They struck me as friendly and enthusiastic, and after a few minutes of small talk, we entered the lecture hall together and took seats near the front of the room.
The American woman sat down next to me and continued her small talk to fill the time before the orientation began. She is an attractive, stylish woman, my female colleague, and her speech is crisp and articulate. I pegged her as a native Californian that day, but I could have that wrong. She informed she had a full-time instructor job in Vienna, and had previously spent a number of years in Prague. When she discovered I lived in Hungary, she asked a few questions about the country and what it is like to live there.
“It’s quite pleasant,” I replied, purposefully keeping my answers as general as possible to avoid having to wade into any long-winded descriptions and elaborations.
“That’s surprising to hear,” she said incredulously. “I read an article last week that said the country was sliding toward a dictatorship.”
I chuckled and nodded. Her eyes narrowed, as if she were gauging my reaction to her declaration.
“Yeah, well, don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” I said lightly, ending the sentence with a small smile.
She opened her mouth to respond, but remained silent. It took me a couple of seconds to notice that she was no longer really looking at me, but was focused instead on something behind me on the far side of the room. A dismayed expression settled over her face. She tapped me on the elbow with her manicured left hand and then pointed briefly at the door.
“Oh my God!" she said, before I had a chance to turn my head. "What is that doing here?”
I finally turned around to see what that was, but the only thing I noticed was a small group of students chatting by the door.
Sensing I was not seeing what she wanted me to see, my new colleague added, “Above the door.”
The source of her discomfort was a richly-carved wooden crucifix, no more than forty centimeters in height, affixed to the ocean of whiteness above the entrance. I must admit, I was rather surprised to see it myself, but for me the surprise was rather pleasant.
“That shouldn’t be here,” she continued after thirty seconds had elapsed. Her tone was hushed, almost conspiratorial.
“It's a Catholic country,” I offered. “And I've heard the people around these parts are quite religious.”
“So?” she snapped, shooting down my explanation as soon as it hit the air. “That makes no difference. That belongs in a church, not here.”
I took a second to examine her face, which had become pallid under the fluorescent lights. There was no doubt about it. The sight of the cross genuinely offended her. But it was more than mere offense. Her eyes revealed faint traces of disgust. Unable to look at her anymore, I averted my gaze to the fold-out desk before me and pretended to be intrigued by the wood grain lines on its lacquered surface.
“I’m going to bring this up with the dean,” my colleague said after a moment had passed. “It's inappropriate.”
I kept looking at the flowing wood-grain lines. “Hey, can I ask you a question?” I said. I did not wait for her to respond as I turned back toward her. “Which god do you believe in?”
The query caught her off guard and her eyes revealed the whites she had encased within elegantly-drawn eyeliner frames.
“When you saw the cross above the door you said ‘Oh my God,’” I said flatly. “So what god do you believe in? You obviously don't believe in Him.”
She looked at me as if I had just uttered some obscene joke. I could sense that I had instantly become the most ridiculous person she had ever met. I might as well have asked her if she believed in the tooth fairy or the Easter bunny.
“I’m an atheist,” she replied matter-of-factly. Then with a tinge of flustered impatience, she added, “It’s just an expression, you know.”
“What is?”
“Oh my God.”
“Yes, of course."
I could think of nothing else to say. Luckily, my supervisor called for everyone’s attention and began the orientation. My new female colleague started taking notes; I spent most of the orientation examining the fine craftwork of the cross above the door.
I have seen my female colleague at the school a few times since then. We smile and courteously say hello, but she shows little interest in stopping to chat whenever we happen to bump into each other in the halls. I have not been in that big lecture hall since the orientation in September. Occasionally, I pause and wonder if the cross is still in there above the door.
Next time I’m at the school, I’ll make a point of checking.
February 9, 2019
My Only Real Regret in Life Thus Far
As is the case with everyone, I can comfortably utter the following line from the song My Way, made famous by none other than Frank Sinatra – Regrets? I’ve had a few.
Fortunately, I have learned how to cope with regret over the years and now rarely dwell in regret for extended periods of time. On one hand, I have learned how to seek repentance for my past and current wrong actions, trespasses, failures, and sins. On the other hand, I have also learned to let go of past failures and disappointments that were consequences of right action by viewing these failures and disappointments as necessary. In other words, there was something in those situations that I had to face and learn from – often the hard way.
I don’t spend much time wallowing in regret because I am genuinely content with my place in the world and welcome the challenges and joys I face day to day. Nevertheless, there is one aspect of my life where I still occasionally feel pangs of regret – not having more children.
Though I have been blessed with a beautiful and happy little boy – who has enriched my life in ways I cannot even begin to describe – I sometimes wish my wife and I had had more children. I won’t go into the history of why we did not have more than one child. To be honest, I cannot even pinpoint the exact reasons myself and, as I mentioned above, I am truly blessed with the one child I do have.
Yet every now and then, usually during some cheerful moment I am sharing with my son, or when I catch a glimpse of a family with several children, or late at night when my consciousness lingers in that no man’s land between wakefulness and sleep, I feel a slight pang of regret – a cold finger that emerges from some netherworld to cruelly caress my spine.
I am usually able to melt the ice the touch leaves behind rather quickly, but sometimes it lingers, like late-spring frost, and then I must wait for the sun to rise above the horizon for the last frigid traces of this regret to dissolve completely.
Thankfully, it always does, and whenever it returns, it is a little fainter and less cold.
Me and my son, Mátyás in Budapest - December 2018. In the background, Saint Stephen I of Hungary.
Fortunately, I have learned how to cope with regret over the years and now rarely dwell in regret for extended periods of time. On one hand, I have learned how to seek repentance for my past and current wrong actions, trespasses, failures, and sins. On the other hand, I have also learned to let go of past failures and disappointments that were consequences of right action by viewing these failures and disappointments as necessary. In other words, there was something in those situations that I had to face and learn from – often the hard way.
I don’t spend much time wallowing in regret because I am genuinely content with my place in the world and welcome the challenges and joys I face day to day. Nevertheless, there is one aspect of my life where I still occasionally feel pangs of regret – not having more children.
Though I have been blessed with a beautiful and happy little boy – who has enriched my life in ways I cannot even begin to describe – I sometimes wish my wife and I had had more children. I won’t go into the history of why we did not have more than one child. To be honest, I cannot even pinpoint the exact reasons myself and, as I mentioned above, I am truly blessed with the one child I do have.
Yet every now and then, usually during some cheerful moment I am sharing with my son, or when I catch a glimpse of a family with several children, or late at night when my consciousness lingers in that no man’s land between wakefulness and sleep, I feel a slight pang of regret – a cold finger that emerges from some netherworld to cruelly caress my spine.
I am usually able to melt the ice the touch leaves behind rather quickly, but sometimes it lingers, like late-spring frost, and then I must wait for the sun to rise above the horizon for the last frigid traces of this regret to dissolve completely.
Thankfully, it always does, and whenever it returns, it is a little fainter and less cold.
Me and my son, Mátyás in Budapest - December 2018. In the background, Saint Stephen I of Hungary.
Two Steps Forward, One Step Back; Or, How Demons Dance
This is by no means an original observation, more a note-to-self - a piece of string tied around my forefinger.
I believe many of us regard the progression of evil in purely linear terms – as a relentless advancing movement forward. Of course, that is the way evil likes to portray and market itself – as an unhindered perpetual march forward, as an unstoppable juggernaut it would be futile to oppose – but even the most cursory examination of evil’s actual progress quickly reveals these assessments and assumptions to be false. True, evil has progressed and is continuing to progress as I write these lines, but its progression has been and remains far from purely linear in nature.
As far as I can tell, evil does not progress forward from one stage to another in a single series of steps for a number of reasons.
Firstly, despite appearances to the contrary, evil is simply not powerful enough to ceaselessly crush everything in its path like a steamroller. It can certainly utilize blitzkrieg tactics once in a while to surprise its opponents and occupy large swathes of territory like an invading army, but the initial gains these kinds of attacks yield are quickly tempered by the logistical reality of having to occupy and subdue the conquered territory. As military history has demonstrated countless times, this is no easy task. Lighting war assaults can stretch supply lines and leave behind determined and tough pockets of resistance that are incredibly difficult to identify and flush out.
Secondly, linear progression goes against the ultimate goal of evil, which is the damnation of souls. If evil’s only goal was to physically extinguish humanity, it very well may have won or lost the war ages ago for one simple reason – people would have clearly understood the threat evil posed as a concrete reality. In other words, people would be more willing to take a definite stand against evil if it were simply a matter of physical survival because physical existence is considered real and defensible (for many, it is the only real thing in the world and the only thing worth defending).
Contrary to popular belief, physical annihilation only interests evil once spiritual annihilation has been achieved, and spiritual annihilation requires more than just conquering territory or ending lives. Physical annihilation can be attained through force; spiritual annihilation cannot. Spiritual annihilation requires freely given consent and superfluous surrender. Thus, the progression of evil is not about superior firepower and straight line tactics – the progression of evil relies of subtle firepower and advance-retreat tactics because this is the only way it can achieve its ultimate goal of having people willingly surrender their souls to damnation. In essence, evil relies on trickery much more than it does on straight-up warfare, and the only way it can truly win is by getting us to consciously trick ourselves.
Problem-reaction-solution and baby step tactics are often-discussed when the progression of evil is assessed. Evil has certainly utilized both of these, and there is considerable overlap in all of the tactics evil employs; however, none seem as effective and prevalent as the “two steps forward, one step back” tactic which, in my opinion, adheres the most closely to evil’s ultimate strategy of damning souls through freely given consent, of freely allowing ourselves to be not only led into temptation and surrendering to it, but convincing ourselves that the evil within the temptation is not as evil as we had initially considered it to be.
How does the “two steps forward, one step back tactic work?”
First step forward
Evil sets an objective that might help it attain its ultimate end goal. It seeks to achieve this goal in step two, but does not reveal this. Instead, it merely floats the idea or subtly introduces the evil through minor actions or events. Reaction to this is gauged.
Second step forward
The evil course of action is implemented, often in a severe or extreme manner. The goal set in the first step forward is achieved here. This is met with opposition only after the damage has already been inflicted.
One step back
Evil is finally resisted and it deliberately takes a step back to feign weakness or seem diplomatic, but it leaves the achieved goal and the consequent damage it has caused intact. Those resisting evil feel as if they have won some sort of victory, as if they have forced evil into some kind of compromise. There exists the illusion of regained territory, but nothing has been gained at all because the territory evil won in step one remains firmly within its control. In other words, it has advanced while its opponents have been pushed back.
Cue the music again
Evil begins planning its next “two step forward, one step back tactic” on the same battlefield to gain further ground if needed; or it opens a new front somewhere else if all of its objectives on a given battlefield have already been achieved.
Be especially wary of the “two steps forward, one step back” tactic whenever you see it unfold in larger contexts – political, social, economic, etc. Any perceived victories in these realms tend to be particularly Pyrrhic. I currently see the tactic unfolding in the arena of mass migration where evil appears to be taking a decisive step back by agreeing to the sanity of border controls, stopping ships, and second-guessing the goals it has achieved through the so-called refugee crisis of 2015. At the same time, mandates for “safe, orderly, and regular migration” at the global level have already been pushed through.
The only thing of I am unsure of is this – can Good utilize the same “two steps forward, one step back” tactic? My intuition says no because it would involve compromise with evil in order to work. Put another way, Good would need you to take both of its steps back, repent, and proceed once more from where it originally started only after repentance.
Does that make sense, or am I missing something?
To sum it up, demons wage war through dancing; it is imperative that we adamantly decline any demon’s offer to join it for a three-step, regardless of how courteously or persuasively the invitation to dance is extended to us.
I believe many of us regard the progression of evil in purely linear terms – as a relentless advancing movement forward. Of course, that is the way evil likes to portray and market itself – as an unhindered perpetual march forward, as an unstoppable juggernaut it would be futile to oppose – but even the most cursory examination of evil’s actual progress quickly reveals these assessments and assumptions to be false. True, evil has progressed and is continuing to progress as I write these lines, but its progression has been and remains far from purely linear in nature.
As far as I can tell, evil does not progress forward from one stage to another in a single series of steps for a number of reasons.
Firstly, despite appearances to the contrary, evil is simply not powerful enough to ceaselessly crush everything in its path like a steamroller. It can certainly utilize blitzkrieg tactics once in a while to surprise its opponents and occupy large swathes of territory like an invading army, but the initial gains these kinds of attacks yield are quickly tempered by the logistical reality of having to occupy and subdue the conquered territory. As military history has demonstrated countless times, this is no easy task. Lighting war assaults can stretch supply lines and leave behind determined and tough pockets of resistance that are incredibly difficult to identify and flush out.
Secondly, linear progression goes against the ultimate goal of evil, which is the damnation of souls. If evil’s only goal was to physically extinguish humanity, it very well may have won or lost the war ages ago for one simple reason – people would have clearly understood the threat evil posed as a concrete reality. In other words, people would be more willing to take a definite stand against evil if it were simply a matter of physical survival because physical existence is considered real and defensible (for many, it is the only real thing in the world and the only thing worth defending).
Contrary to popular belief, physical annihilation only interests evil once spiritual annihilation has been achieved, and spiritual annihilation requires more than just conquering territory or ending lives. Physical annihilation can be attained through force; spiritual annihilation cannot. Spiritual annihilation requires freely given consent and superfluous surrender. Thus, the progression of evil is not about superior firepower and straight line tactics – the progression of evil relies of subtle firepower and advance-retreat tactics because this is the only way it can achieve its ultimate goal of having people willingly surrender their souls to damnation. In essence, evil relies on trickery much more than it does on straight-up warfare, and the only way it can truly win is by getting us to consciously trick ourselves.
Problem-reaction-solution and baby step tactics are often-discussed when the progression of evil is assessed. Evil has certainly utilized both of these, and there is considerable overlap in all of the tactics evil employs; however, none seem as effective and prevalent as the “two steps forward, one step back” tactic which, in my opinion, adheres the most closely to evil’s ultimate strategy of damning souls through freely given consent, of freely allowing ourselves to be not only led into temptation and surrendering to it, but convincing ourselves that the evil within the temptation is not as evil as we had initially considered it to be.
How does the “two steps forward, one step back tactic work?”
First step forward
Evil sets an objective that might help it attain its ultimate end goal. It seeks to achieve this goal in step two, but does not reveal this. Instead, it merely floats the idea or subtly introduces the evil through minor actions or events. Reaction to this is gauged.
Second step forward
The evil course of action is implemented, often in a severe or extreme manner. The goal set in the first step forward is achieved here. This is met with opposition only after the damage has already been inflicted.
One step back
Evil is finally resisted and it deliberately takes a step back to feign weakness or seem diplomatic, but it leaves the achieved goal and the consequent damage it has caused intact. Those resisting evil feel as if they have won some sort of victory, as if they have forced evil into some kind of compromise. There exists the illusion of regained territory, but nothing has been gained at all because the territory evil won in step one remains firmly within its control. In other words, it has advanced while its opponents have been pushed back.
Cue the music again
Evil begins planning its next “two step forward, one step back tactic” on the same battlefield to gain further ground if needed; or it opens a new front somewhere else if all of its objectives on a given battlefield have already been achieved.
Be especially wary of the “two steps forward, one step back” tactic whenever you see it unfold in larger contexts – political, social, economic, etc. Any perceived victories in these realms tend to be particularly Pyrrhic. I currently see the tactic unfolding in the arena of mass migration where evil appears to be taking a decisive step back by agreeing to the sanity of border controls, stopping ships, and second-guessing the goals it has achieved through the so-called refugee crisis of 2015. At the same time, mandates for “safe, orderly, and regular migration” at the global level have already been pushed through.
The only thing of I am unsure of is this – can Good utilize the same “two steps forward, one step back” tactic? My intuition says no because it would involve compromise with evil in order to work. Put another way, Good would need you to take both of its steps back, repent, and proceed once more from where it originally started only after repentance.
Does that make sense, or am I missing something?
To sum it up, demons wage war through dancing; it is imperative that we adamantly decline any demon’s offer to join it for a three-step, regardless of how courteously or persuasively the invitation to dance is extended to us.
February 7, 2019
No Csíksomlyó Pilgrimage This Year
I have iced my plans to participate in the annual Csíksomlyó Pilgrimage to Translyvania this June. The young man who organizes the trip for my village's residents every year recently informed me the group will be traveling to Csíksomlyó the week before Pentecost this year in order to see Pope Francis, who will be visiting the region and holding a mass at that time.
Though I can understand the young organizer's and many of the pilgrims' motivation to travel to Csíksomlyó the week before Pentecost - they have all been to the Pentecost pilgimage many times, but have never attended a mass held by the Pope - I personally have no interest in seeing Pope Francis, nor am I interested in anything the Pope has to say. What for some of my fellow villagers amounts to a "once in a lifetime opportunity" is for me "something I would avoid at all costs."
Of course, I could make plans to travel to Transylvania independently for Pentecost a week later, but I believe part of the joy of the Csíksomlyó Pilgrimage is getting there with a group of like-minded pilgrims and savoring the sense of community that dominates for the rest of the week; thus, I believe it is more prudent to simply wait until next year - which is exactly what I am going to do.
Though I can understand the young organizer's and many of the pilgrims' motivation to travel to Csíksomlyó the week before Pentecost - they have all been to the Pentecost pilgimage many times, but have never attended a mass held by the Pope - I personally have no interest in seeing Pope Francis, nor am I interested in anything the Pope has to say. What for some of my fellow villagers amounts to a "once in a lifetime opportunity" is for me "something I would avoid at all costs."
Of course, I could make plans to travel to Transylvania independently for Pentecost a week later, but I believe part of the joy of the Csíksomlyó Pilgrimage is getting there with a group of like-minded pilgrims and savoring the sense of community that dominates for the rest of the week; thus, I believe it is more prudent to simply wait until next year - which is exactly what I am going to do.
February 6, 2019
Is Eliminating Cursive Writing from Education a Good Thing?
My son is learning how to write cursive. His first grade class had mastered printing by Christmas and they are well on their way to writing words from memory in cursive. By the end of the year, my son will likely be able to write a sentence or two from memory, which is quite an achievement when you consider he could not write at all at the beginning of September.
When I sit with him in the evenings as he completes his writing exercises, I cannot help but marvel at the magic and beauty that is writing, and how this medium of communicating ideas and emotions through written symbols separates us from all other creatures on the planet. If someone asked me to name five distinguishing features of our species, I would certainly include writing as one of them, for I can think of few things that have had such an immense influence on our development.
Teaching cursive is still a part of the national curriculum here in Hungary, but many countries in the West consider longhand obsolete and have excluded it from their curriculums. When I was a first-year high school English teacher in the Bronx, New York, I was shocked to learn that most students could not read or write cursive script. My students used printed block letters in their own work, but when I examined the quality of their penmanship, I quickly realized barely any had really mastered that skill either. Aside from being terribly depressing, this reality started me thinking that perhaps dropping cursive from the curriculum had not simply been a bad idea, but perhaps a malicious one as well.
Educators who argue against cursive writing see it as a superannuated technology with no viable place in our new and exciting Digital Age - this despite the many studies citing the psychological and cognitive benefits of learning longform writing. In the vast majority of schools today, children are taught to master some form of legible print writing in grades one, two, and perhaps three, and are then seated before a keyboard to learn "digital skills."
I have nothing against teaching children to type or use a computer, but my past experience as a teacher proved, to me at least, that learning cursive has immense benefits. Of the students I taught, the ones who knew cursive were, without exception, far more disciplined, focused, and articulate - both in writing and speaking. They were better at concentrating and tended to be less impulsive and disruptive. Interestingly, students who could write longhand were also immensely better at typing, which was likely linked to the fine motor skills they had mastered when they had learned cursive. Yet, despite the many studies showing the benefits of longhand - benefits I saw firsthand as a teacher - most school boards are increasingly opting out of teaching cursive to children, which makes me wonder if there is more to the story than the "it's obsolete" argument.
Putting all other considerations for its exclusion aside for a moment, I hypothesize cursive may be in the process of being banished from most curricula because of its inherent - wait for it - spirituality. By spirituality I am not referring to the occult or any sort of automatic writing, psychography, or spirit channeling made fashionable by writers such as W.B. Yeats, but rather to the metaphysical attributes of writing - the filtering out of the outside world, the calming of the noisy consciousness, and the drawing out of the inner Self that are, given the proper conditions, all part of the writing process.
This is more or less speculation on my part, but I am pulled toward the belief that writing, especially in longhand is, in essence, a metaphysical act. Given the right circumstances and the proper frame of mind, writing offers the potential for spirituality, for deep contemplation, and for genuine creation. I am not claiming that every act of writing is spiritual in nature, but like prayer or long walks in nature, writing can establish a frame of mind that opens up the writer to the possibility of spiritual experience in the form of peak experiences or epiphanies. Regardless of the method employed, writing contains spiritual aspects - there is something quite "mystical" about the transcription of thought onto paper through symbols, the direct live-wire connection, and the current that flows from the mind through the pen (matter).
Teaching cursive at an early age might lay the groundwork for this kind of experience. The flow and pace of cursive writing may best regulate and harness the flow and pace of thought. A student is essentially forced to block out distractions, turn their attention inward, and listen to what his or her mind is "saying." The thinking skills learned by extensive cursive writing can then perhaps be transfered to a keyboard and a computer.
Of course, I am not implying that writing, regardless of the technology employed, is purely and solely a spiritual act, but the potential is certainly there. Whatever the case may be, I am pleased my son is learning to write cursive script. If he was not learning cursive at school, I would certainly teach him to do so at home because acquiring the skill appears to lay the foundation for deeper thought, concentration, and contemplation.
Despite arguments to the contrary, I believe excluding cursive writing from education is not only detrimental, but malicious. I am certain many will consider me a Luddite on this issue, but I am convinced that eliminating cursive writing from education is not only harmful, but intentionally harmful. That education systems around the world actively incorporate harmful pedagogy into their practice should surprise no one. A cursory examination of most curricula in the West instantly reveals that most of what is taught in schools today is indeed intently and purposefully focused on doing far more harm than good - the elimination of cursive writing is just one example of the many ways education systems are succeeding in doing just that.
When I sit with him in the evenings as he completes his writing exercises, I cannot help but marvel at the magic and beauty that is writing, and how this medium of communicating ideas and emotions through written symbols separates us from all other creatures on the planet. If someone asked me to name five distinguishing features of our species, I would certainly include writing as one of them, for I can think of few things that have had such an immense influence on our development.
Teaching cursive is still a part of the national curriculum here in Hungary, but many countries in the West consider longhand obsolete and have excluded it from their curriculums. When I was a first-year high school English teacher in the Bronx, New York, I was shocked to learn that most students could not read or write cursive script. My students used printed block letters in their own work, but when I examined the quality of their penmanship, I quickly realized barely any had really mastered that skill either. Aside from being terribly depressing, this reality started me thinking that perhaps dropping cursive from the curriculum had not simply been a bad idea, but perhaps a malicious one as well.
Educators who argue against cursive writing see it as a superannuated technology with no viable place in our new and exciting Digital Age - this despite the many studies citing the psychological and cognitive benefits of learning longform writing. In the vast majority of schools today, children are taught to master some form of legible print writing in grades one, two, and perhaps three, and are then seated before a keyboard to learn "digital skills."
I have nothing against teaching children to type or use a computer, but my past experience as a teacher proved, to me at least, that learning cursive has immense benefits. Of the students I taught, the ones who knew cursive were, without exception, far more disciplined, focused, and articulate - both in writing and speaking. They were better at concentrating and tended to be less impulsive and disruptive. Interestingly, students who could write longhand were also immensely better at typing, which was likely linked to the fine motor skills they had mastered when they had learned cursive. Yet, despite the many studies showing the benefits of longhand - benefits I saw firsthand as a teacher - most school boards are increasingly opting out of teaching cursive to children, which makes me wonder if there is more to the story than the "it's obsolete" argument.
Putting all other considerations for its exclusion aside for a moment, I hypothesize cursive may be in the process of being banished from most curricula because of its inherent - wait for it - spirituality. By spirituality I am not referring to the occult or any sort of automatic writing, psychography, or spirit channeling made fashionable by writers such as W.B. Yeats, but rather to the metaphysical attributes of writing - the filtering out of the outside world, the calming of the noisy consciousness, and the drawing out of the inner Self that are, given the proper conditions, all part of the writing process.
This is more or less speculation on my part, but I am pulled toward the belief that writing, especially in longhand is, in essence, a metaphysical act. Given the right circumstances and the proper frame of mind, writing offers the potential for spirituality, for deep contemplation, and for genuine creation. I am not claiming that every act of writing is spiritual in nature, but like prayer or long walks in nature, writing can establish a frame of mind that opens up the writer to the possibility of spiritual experience in the form of peak experiences or epiphanies. Regardless of the method employed, writing contains spiritual aspects - there is something quite "mystical" about the transcription of thought onto paper through symbols, the direct live-wire connection, and the current that flows from the mind through the pen (matter).
Teaching cursive at an early age might lay the groundwork for this kind of experience. The flow and pace of cursive writing may best regulate and harness the flow and pace of thought. A student is essentially forced to block out distractions, turn their attention inward, and listen to what his or her mind is "saying." The thinking skills learned by extensive cursive writing can then perhaps be transfered to a keyboard and a computer.
Of course, I am not implying that writing, regardless of the technology employed, is purely and solely a spiritual act, but the potential is certainly there. Whatever the case may be, I am pleased my son is learning to write cursive script. If he was not learning cursive at school, I would certainly teach him to do so at home because acquiring the skill appears to lay the foundation for deeper thought, concentration, and contemplation.
Despite arguments to the contrary, I believe excluding cursive writing from education is not only detrimental, but malicious. I am certain many will consider me a Luddite on this issue, but I am convinced that eliminating cursive writing from education is not only harmful, but intentionally harmful. That education systems around the world actively incorporate harmful pedagogy into their practice should surprise no one. A cursory examination of most curricula in the West instantly reveals that most of what is taught in schools today is indeed intently and purposefully focused on doing far more harm than good - the elimination of cursive writing is just one example of the many ways education systems are succeeding in doing just that.
February 5, 2019
Freedom is Nebulous
No word is as nebulous as freedom. An amorphous shape shifter, it strikes a pose, lures in its prey. Siren song lulling while its surface glimmers, a thousand mirrors reflecting all the unsuspecting wish to see. Desires fulfilled; toils ended; power gained; spoils victored; vengeance had. Drawing in, it tugs towards its depths, to the vast, beckoning sea. It demands commitment; surrender. Once attained, it dissolves into shapelessness again and reveals new, unexpected forms. The rocks appear under the foam. The mirrors splinter. The vessel is destroyed and all watch in horror as the song begins anew, luring other ships to the rocky shoreline.
Unease grips me when I see the freedom banners raised, when the word is marketed as enthusiastically and persuasively as the latest dishwasher soap. I am in awe at the utter indefiniteness of freedom, for it can seemingly mean anything, to anyone, at any time. The greatest declared evil is its lack. Without freedom, we are told, only black holes remain. Ominous, roaming, dumb, gaping monsters devouring light; extinguishing even the hope of light.
Freedom must be fought for. Died for. Freedom is human. Freedom is divine. Humanly divine; divinely human. For we are not cogs, nor ants, nor mute stones in river beds being pushed by currents we can neither see nor control. Not born to be oppressed, we must struggle like convulsing fish in a net.
Yet I have always felt freest when all was declared unfree, and the most unfree when all was marching bands, smiling faces, and endless confetti rain. I have told many that I write to be free, that each scribbled word in a notebook was a spoonful of dirt extracted from the tunnel I am digging underneath the prison. Each sentence, a file grinding away at the cell bars.
But I might have it wrong. The shape shifter may have fooled me. Perhaps I am just a Jacob Marley, quietly and ruthlessly forging my own ponderous chain, word by word, link by link; and perhaps one day I will be forced to lug and drag my word chains with me as I haunt the Earth, driven onward into an eternity without reprieve.
I am weary of your vagueness, Freedom – the shapelessness of your lawyer speak and public relations and ritual murders. Freedom fighter one day; terrorist the next. Lies wielded as truths. The formless chimeric dreams you offer from your shadowy depths.
I yearn for the definite – pure form. The honest transcribing of soul to paper. Not Hamlet and his words, words, words, but rather for an end, followed by the original beginning. For true Freedom. For the Word.
Unease grips me when I see the freedom banners raised, when the word is marketed as enthusiastically and persuasively as the latest dishwasher soap. I am in awe at the utter indefiniteness of freedom, for it can seemingly mean anything, to anyone, at any time. The greatest declared evil is its lack. Without freedom, we are told, only black holes remain. Ominous, roaming, dumb, gaping monsters devouring light; extinguishing even the hope of light.
Freedom must be fought for. Died for. Freedom is human. Freedom is divine. Humanly divine; divinely human. For we are not cogs, nor ants, nor mute stones in river beds being pushed by currents we can neither see nor control. Not born to be oppressed, we must struggle like convulsing fish in a net.
Yet I have always felt freest when all was declared unfree, and the most unfree when all was marching bands, smiling faces, and endless confetti rain. I have told many that I write to be free, that each scribbled word in a notebook was a spoonful of dirt extracted from the tunnel I am digging underneath the prison. Each sentence, a file grinding away at the cell bars.
But I might have it wrong. The shape shifter may have fooled me. Perhaps I am just a Jacob Marley, quietly and ruthlessly forging my own ponderous chain, word by word, link by link; and perhaps one day I will be forced to lug and drag my word chains with me as I haunt the Earth, driven onward into an eternity without reprieve.
I am weary of your vagueness, Freedom – the shapelessness of your lawyer speak and public relations and ritual murders. Freedom fighter one day; terrorist the next. Lies wielded as truths. The formless chimeric dreams you offer from your shadowy depths.
I yearn for the definite – pure form. The honest transcribing of soul to paper. Not Hamlet and his words, words, words, but rather for an end, followed by the original beginning. For true Freedom. For the Word.
February 3, 2019
Hungarian Wit: A Few Gems From György Sándor
I am still a little under the weather, so I thought I would take a light approach for this post and present some witty sayings from Hungarian comedian and actor György Sándor (born. 1938). Translating anything is a challenge; translating humor is an exceptional challenge.
Regardless, I hope my translations below have done justice to Sándor's wit. Enjoy!
I woke up this morning and realized I was no longer asleep. The two quintessential signs of old age are memory loss, and . . . I can't remember what the other thing was.What do babies and instant coffee have in common? Both are easy to make, and both cause sleepless nights.The three stages of life are childhood, adulthood, and, "hey, you look great considering your age!"Second marriages represent the victory of optimism over experience. The national economy is teetering on the edge of a cliff, but rest assured, next year we will take a huge step forward.Slow train service in Hungary is intentional and purposeful; it's the only way we can give the impression of being a big country.
Regardless, I hope my translations below have done justice to Sándor's wit. Enjoy!
I woke up this morning and realized I was no longer asleep. The two quintessential signs of old age are memory loss, and . . . I can't remember what the other thing was.What do babies and instant coffee have in common? Both are easy to make, and both cause sleepless nights.The three stages of life are childhood, adulthood, and, "hey, you look great considering your age!"Second marriages represent the victory of optimism over experience. The national economy is teetering on the edge of a cliff, but rest assured, next year we will take a huge step forward.Slow train service in Hungary is intentional and purposeful; it's the only way we can give the impression of being a big country.
February 2, 2019
Mid-Winter Malaise
Though my spirits are high, I have been struck down with what is likely the flu, which has understably made me feel quite lethargic and well, for lack of a more sophisticated word - yucky.
Unfortunately, I am not the only one suffering through a bout of illness at the moment. Mid-winter has been less than kind to my little boy; he caught a throat ailment in mid-January only to develop the chickenpox a few days later. After having spent two weeks at home, he went back to school last week and promptly contracted the flu as well. It goes without saying that my poor wife is at wit's end over all of this.
Nonetheless, we will get through this. A little time, some rest, and warm thoughts of the coming spring should do the trick. Until then, we will muddle along as best we can.
Unfortunately, I am not the only one suffering through a bout of illness at the moment. Mid-winter has been less than kind to my little boy; he caught a throat ailment in mid-January only to develop the chickenpox a few days later. After having spent two weeks at home, he went back to school last week and promptly contracted the flu as well. It goes without saying that my poor wife is at wit's end over all of this.
Nonetheless, we will get through this. A little time, some rest, and warm thoughts of the coming spring should do the trick. Until then, we will muddle along as best we can.
