Francis Berger's Blog, page 167
February 1, 2019
Ghosts that Do Not Haunt, and the Ghosts that Do
“My Uncle András died down at the end of the street,” the seller, a young man his thirties with thinning straw-colored hair informed me. “He was coming home from the store on his bicycle when the stroke hit him. He collapsed there and died on the spot.”
I had asked the seller who the house’s owner had been. I was not expecting a detailed account of how the previous owner had died. Not knowing how to respond, I pursed my lips and nodded solemnly in memory of a man I had never met.
“No one has ever died in this house, you see,” the seller continued in muted earnest.
The declaration surprised me, and it took me a few seconds to realize it had been offered up as a selling point, a feature to make the house seem more attractive – big yard, sturdy walls, spacious rooms, insulated windows, and no deaths within its walls. This was rural Hungary after all; folklore and peasant superstitions were still very much alive here. As the seller guided me into the kitchen, I stangely began to accept what he had revealed to me as a selling point. I had never seen ghosts of any kind and am rather ambivalent about their existence, yet I suddenly found it oddly reassuring to know that the seller's deceased Uncle András would likely not haunt me and family if I chose to buy the house. And I did buy the house. Before I finalized the down payment, I jokingly told my wife about the no-ghost selling point to which she responded with wide, somewhat amused eyes.
We moved in the large Kádár square house – named after the Hungarian communist leader whose social housing scheme had populated the country with these boxy looking buildings that represented the very essence of drab communist utilitarianism – and over the next year we began major renovations in an effort to modernize the place and make it our own. The no-ghost selling point turned out to be valid, for we saw no wispy apparitions or heard no inexplicable noises inside the house after we moved in. Nevertheless, traces of Uncle András were everywhere – in the old furniture the sellers had left behind, and in the walls themselves, which Uncle András, who had been a bricklayer by trade, had raised with his own hands. Though I had never met him, I slowly became familiar with Uncle András and pieced together his character and life through the objects he had left behind.
The framed painting of Jesus above the bed revealed he had been a religious man while the woodshed in the backyard, expertly tacked together with whatever odds and ends of wood he could find, showed he had been both frugal and resourceful. Behind the house Uncle András had built four large pig pens as well as a chicken coop and several rabbit hutches, and whenever I looked at these, I pictured the old man lovingly tending to his animals, fattening them up until the inevitable day came. He struck me as having been a remarkably self-sufficient man who probably rarely went to store for anything. Through my new neighbors I learned András had been a lifelong bachelor, which made me both respect and pity him. I envisioned him retiring into his empty spacious house after a day of work on his little smallholding and wondered what he could have done or thought of on those long winter nights when it seemed the sun would never rise again.
My neighbors spoke of Uncle András endearingly and often; they recalled he had been a generous and joyous man. He was very skilled in making pálinka, which was the primary reason for his apple and pear trees in the yard. A fan of football, he had been a staple at the village soccer matches and had also been, apparently, a boisterous spectator who had often launched memorable, curse-laden diatribes at the referees when they made bad calls. A yellowed certificate and cheap red star medallion I discovered in the attic told me he had been a distinguished worker in his trade, one lauded by the impersonal machinations of the totalitarian state. That he had stored these distinctions carelessly in the dusty attic, tucked into a box full of superfluous knickknacks, subtly revealed what he had really thought of the totalitarian state, and this made me smile.
My family and I have been living in the house for nearly four years now and during this time our presence has slowly eclipsed Uncle András. Whatever ghosts he left behind have been almost completely exorcised. The house no longer looks like the house we bought. Walls have been painted, the exterior totally renovated, floors redone, spaces remodeled, and soil overturned. The pig sties remain as do the pear and apple trees, but I will likely pull the sties down this summer and cut out the trees, which are all diseased and bear little fruit. A new outbuilding will replace the sties, and new fruit trees shall take place of the old ones. My neighbors rarely mention Uncle András anymore. They have grown accustomed to us – the reality of our present has dissolved the reality of András’s past. When I work around the house I ruminate on the passage of time and the realization that one day I will be like Uncle András; that everything I have worked on and worked for here will be left to others, perhaps strangers, who will remake the property in their own image until every last trace of me disappears.
When I get to thinking about these things, I remember the ghost-free selling point András’s young nephew had declared and find myself suddenly wishing the old man had died within the walls of his house rather than down at the end of the street. If he had died in the house, I surmise he very well might have returned to have a look around, to haunt the place a little in his spare time, and perhaps I could have offered him a chair, poured him a drink, and gotten to know him in a way I never had the chance to in life. But it is obvious Uncle András has found his peace elsewhere, and has let go of the connections he once had to the place he called home.
In any event, I’ll keep a chair free for you, András – should you ever feel the need to stop by and haunt me. I only have store-bought pálinka to offer, but I think you might like it all the same.
I had asked the seller who the house’s owner had been. I was not expecting a detailed account of how the previous owner had died. Not knowing how to respond, I pursed my lips and nodded solemnly in memory of a man I had never met.
“No one has ever died in this house, you see,” the seller continued in muted earnest.
The declaration surprised me, and it took me a few seconds to realize it had been offered up as a selling point, a feature to make the house seem more attractive – big yard, sturdy walls, spacious rooms, insulated windows, and no deaths within its walls. This was rural Hungary after all; folklore and peasant superstitions were still very much alive here. As the seller guided me into the kitchen, I stangely began to accept what he had revealed to me as a selling point. I had never seen ghosts of any kind and am rather ambivalent about their existence, yet I suddenly found it oddly reassuring to know that the seller's deceased Uncle András would likely not haunt me and family if I chose to buy the house. And I did buy the house. Before I finalized the down payment, I jokingly told my wife about the no-ghost selling point to which she responded with wide, somewhat amused eyes.
We moved in the large Kádár square house – named after the Hungarian communist leader whose social housing scheme had populated the country with these boxy looking buildings that represented the very essence of drab communist utilitarianism – and over the next year we began major renovations in an effort to modernize the place and make it our own. The no-ghost selling point turned out to be valid, for we saw no wispy apparitions or heard no inexplicable noises inside the house after we moved in. Nevertheless, traces of Uncle András were everywhere – in the old furniture the sellers had left behind, and in the walls themselves, which Uncle András, who had been a bricklayer by trade, had raised with his own hands. Though I had never met him, I slowly became familiar with Uncle András and pieced together his character and life through the objects he had left behind.
The framed painting of Jesus above the bed revealed he had been a religious man while the woodshed in the backyard, expertly tacked together with whatever odds and ends of wood he could find, showed he had been both frugal and resourceful. Behind the house Uncle András had built four large pig pens as well as a chicken coop and several rabbit hutches, and whenever I looked at these, I pictured the old man lovingly tending to his animals, fattening them up until the inevitable day came. He struck me as having been a remarkably self-sufficient man who probably rarely went to store for anything. Through my new neighbors I learned András had been a lifelong bachelor, which made me both respect and pity him. I envisioned him retiring into his empty spacious house after a day of work on his little smallholding and wondered what he could have done or thought of on those long winter nights when it seemed the sun would never rise again.
My neighbors spoke of Uncle András endearingly and often; they recalled he had been a generous and joyous man. He was very skilled in making pálinka, which was the primary reason for his apple and pear trees in the yard. A fan of football, he had been a staple at the village soccer matches and had also been, apparently, a boisterous spectator who had often launched memorable, curse-laden diatribes at the referees when they made bad calls. A yellowed certificate and cheap red star medallion I discovered in the attic told me he had been a distinguished worker in his trade, one lauded by the impersonal machinations of the totalitarian state. That he had stored these distinctions carelessly in the dusty attic, tucked into a box full of superfluous knickknacks, subtly revealed what he had really thought of the totalitarian state, and this made me smile.
My family and I have been living in the house for nearly four years now and during this time our presence has slowly eclipsed Uncle András. Whatever ghosts he left behind have been almost completely exorcised. The house no longer looks like the house we bought. Walls have been painted, the exterior totally renovated, floors redone, spaces remodeled, and soil overturned. The pig sties remain as do the pear and apple trees, but I will likely pull the sties down this summer and cut out the trees, which are all diseased and bear little fruit. A new outbuilding will replace the sties, and new fruit trees shall take place of the old ones. My neighbors rarely mention Uncle András anymore. They have grown accustomed to us – the reality of our present has dissolved the reality of András’s past. When I work around the house I ruminate on the passage of time and the realization that one day I will be like Uncle András; that everything I have worked on and worked for here will be left to others, perhaps strangers, who will remake the property in their own image until every last trace of me disappears.
When I get to thinking about these things, I remember the ghost-free selling point András’s young nephew had declared and find myself suddenly wishing the old man had died within the walls of his house rather than down at the end of the street. If he had died in the house, I surmise he very well might have returned to have a look around, to haunt the place a little in his spare time, and perhaps I could have offered him a chair, poured him a drink, and gotten to know him in a way I never had the chance to in life. But it is obvious Uncle András has found his peace elsewhere, and has let go of the connections he once had to the place he called home.
In any event, I’ll keep a chair free for you, András – should you ever feel the need to stop by and haunt me. I only have store-bought pálinka to offer, but I think you might like it all the same.
Degenerates! Degenerates! You Will Turn Into Monkeys: APA Maculinity Guidelines and Meat-Eating Males; Oh Boy!
I made a point of not reacting to the American Psychology Association’s Guidelines for Psychological Practice for Men and Boys when it came last week or the week before because I have come to realize these types of things are:
a) Expected, given our contemporary milieu
b) Intentionally provocative, given our contemporary milieu
c) Part and parcel of the materialist lifelong learning program
d) ideologically-driven pseudoscience that is meant to provoke a reaction
Thus, I will leave the reacting to the ranters and ravers of the Manosphere, and valiant defenders of masculinity like Jordan Peterson who is shocked, absolutely shocked that his field has been “field has been compromised, perhaps fatally.” In all honesty, I cannot conceive what Peterson is so shocked about. I believe he had better start coming to terms with his own notions of “The Sensible Left” and fully comprehending that, essentially, the APA and its most recent set of guidelines pretty much epitomizes “the sensible left.”
Predictably, other sensible left organization like PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) wasted no time hooking up their booster cables to the revving engine of the APA masculinity guidelines. A recent post on its website not only endorses the APA’s harangue against traditional and toxic masculinity, but also goes a step further by declaring meat to be the fuel of the toxic masculinity machine. PETA writes:
Along with misogyny and going out of one’s way not to appear weak, the APA links traditional masculine ideology with traits like bullying and violence—two major red flags for animal abuse. On its website, PETA writes:
Imagine having such a fragile sense of self that you’d torment, kill, and eat defenseless individuals just to look “manly.”
It certainly takes a bully to destroy the lives of sensitive, conscious “others” in an effort to validate one’s identity in terms of an archaic ideology dictating what it means to be a man. Bullfighters drunk on machismo stab and slaughter bulls for “sport.” Trophy hunters display dead animal parts on walls in desperate attempts to embody “big bwana” masculinity. A psychologist might say a man needs counseling if he tries to prove his manhood by gunning down a 2-pound bird or killing a struggling fish.
Got that? Going fishing is nothing more than a man’s pathetic attempt to prove his manhood. Counseling is definitely required. But don’t misunderstand, the good people of PETA honestly care about men. They really do – especially men’s health.
Men who eat steak, hotdogs, and hamburgers, thinking that it makes them “real men,” are eating themselves to an early grave. As the APA points out, men in general eat fewer fruits and vegetables than women do. American men also consume 57 percent more meat than women do. Yet it’s no secret that meat consumption has been linked to an increased risk of suffering from numerous health problems, including heart disease, obesity, cancer, strokes, and diabetes. Men have a higher risk for every one of these. Did we mention the link between eating meat and erectile dysfunction? So much for proving your “manhood.”
So forget the meat and hook yourself up to some intravenous soy or something, because if you are a carnivore, you can pretty much kiss your boner good-bye. Maybe PETA should contact Jordan Peterson, who has been on an all meat diet for a while now, and ask about his penis health. On second thought . . .
All kidding aside, I cannot help but laugh at this nonsense, and I hope you are doing the same. Yet, I wonder where it will ultimately lead because, as I mentioned above, this is all part of the lifelong learning mantra, which now seems focused on destroying definitions of masculinity in the West and replacing it with something else entirely. So prepared for more guilt-trip lectures from razor companies, more retooled guidelines from medical and psychological associations, and more revamped definitions from academia because they is all gonna learn you good about what it truly means to be a man today, and if you as much as utter a breath of objection as they are cutting off your penis, they will accuse of masculine fragility, or something of that nature, so suck it up, tough guy.
I will sum up and close this rather unintentional post (I originally wanted to write a little lyrical essay about my smashed rear windshield) by presenting Slavoj Zizek’s views concerning veganism and vegetarianism, which ties in nicely to the notion that eating meat fuels toxic masculinity. Oddly enough, it is one of the few topics in which I wholeheartedly agree with Zizek, bless his sensibly left, communist soul.
a) Expected, given our contemporary milieu
b) Intentionally provocative, given our contemporary milieu
c) Part and parcel of the materialist lifelong learning program
d) ideologically-driven pseudoscience that is meant to provoke a reaction
Thus, I will leave the reacting to the ranters and ravers of the Manosphere, and valiant defenders of masculinity like Jordan Peterson who is shocked, absolutely shocked that his field has been “field has been compromised, perhaps fatally.” In all honesty, I cannot conceive what Peterson is so shocked about. I believe he had better start coming to terms with his own notions of “The Sensible Left” and fully comprehending that, essentially, the APA and its most recent set of guidelines pretty much epitomizes “the sensible left.”
Predictably, other sensible left organization like PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) wasted no time hooking up their booster cables to the revving engine of the APA masculinity guidelines. A recent post on its website not only endorses the APA’s harangue against traditional and toxic masculinity, but also goes a step further by declaring meat to be the fuel of the toxic masculinity machine. PETA writes:
Along with misogyny and going out of one’s way not to appear weak, the APA links traditional masculine ideology with traits like bullying and violence—two major red flags for animal abuse. On its website, PETA writes:
Imagine having such a fragile sense of self that you’d torment, kill, and eat defenseless individuals just to look “manly.”
It certainly takes a bully to destroy the lives of sensitive, conscious “others” in an effort to validate one’s identity in terms of an archaic ideology dictating what it means to be a man. Bullfighters drunk on machismo stab and slaughter bulls for “sport.” Trophy hunters display dead animal parts on walls in desperate attempts to embody “big bwana” masculinity. A psychologist might say a man needs counseling if he tries to prove his manhood by gunning down a 2-pound bird or killing a struggling fish.
Got that? Going fishing is nothing more than a man’s pathetic attempt to prove his manhood. Counseling is definitely required. But don’t misunderstand, the good people of PETA honestly care about men. They really do – especially men’s health.
Men who eat steak, hotdogs, and hamburgers, thinking that it makes them “real men,” are eating themselves to an early grave. As the APA points out, men in general eat fewer fruits and vegetables than women do. American men also consume 57 percent more meat than women do. Yet it’s no secret that meat consumption has been linked to an increased risk of suffering from numerous health problems, including heart disease, obesity, cancer, strokes, and diabetes. Men have a higher risk for every one of these. Did we mention the link between eating meat and erectile dysfunction? So much for proving your “manhood.”
So forget the meat and hook yourself up to some intravenous soy or something, because if you are a carnivore, you can pretty much kiss your boner good-bye. Maybe PETA should contact Jordan Peterson, who has been on an all meat diet for a while now, and ask about his penis health. On second thought . . .
All kidding aside, I cannot help but laugh at this nonsense, and I hope you are doing the same. Yet, I wonder where it will ultimately lead because, as I mentioned above, this is all part of the lifelong learning mantra, which now seems focused on destroying definitions of masculinity in the West and replacing it with something else entirely. So prepared for more guilt-trip lectures from razor companies, more retooled guidelines from medical and psychological associations, and more revamped definitions from academia because they is all gonna learn you good about what it truly means to be a man today, and if you as much as utter a breath of objection as they are cutting off your penis, they will accuse of masculine fragility, or something of that nature, so suck it up, tough guy.
I will sum up and close this rather unintentional post (I originally wanted to write a little lyrical essay about my smashed rear windshield) by presenting Slavoj Zizek’s views concerning veganism and vegetarianism, which ties in nicely to the notion that eating meat fuels toxic masculinity. Oddly enough, it is one of the few topics in which I wholeheartedly agree with Zizek, bless his sensibly left, communist soul.
January 31, 2019
I Will Likely Be Deplatformed One Day
Currently I am very small fry; as obscure, unknown, and seemingly irrelevant as they come. I have published one novel which has sold a measly three or four hundred copies, and I run this little blog that apparently averages a mere hundred visits a day. Simply put, in the social, political, artistic and economic grand scheme of things, I am a virtual non-entity. I say this not out of complaint, but out of fact. My obscurity stems from the nature of the field I am in and my own reluctance to engage in self-promotion, especially through social media venues. Again, I am not complaining. To be honest, I accept my current status or lack thereof because I simply enjoy what am I doing.
Being an unknown writer is not the most optimal state of affairs - I mean what writer does not want readers to find their book(s)? - but obscurity does have some benefits. Warranting little attention gives a writer a certain sense of freedom. For example, I am too small of a wave to rock any boats; hence, no one has ever bothered to tell me shut up or made any effort to shut me down. I am certain these circumstances will extend into the future, but I sometimes wonder, in these of days of rabid deplatforming and censorship, whether my day will come despite my seeming irrelevance.
This may sound paranoid, but I believe it will, and unlike the big names, I doubt anyone will even notice, let alone care.
I am preparing for that day as I write this. Being obscure is one thing. Being silenced is another matter entirely.
Being an unknown writer is not the most optimal state of affairs - I mean what writer does not want readers to find their book(s)? - but obscurity does have some benefits. Warranting little attention gives a writer a certain sense of freedom. For example, I am too small of a wave to rock any boats; hence, no one has ever bothered to tell me shut up or made any effort to shut me down. I am certain these circumstances will extend into the future, but I sometimes wonder, in these of days of rabid deplatforming and censorship, whether my day will come despite my seeming irrelevance.
This may sound paranoid, but I believe it will, and unlike the big names, I doubt anyone will even notice, let alone care.
I am preparing for that day as I write this. Being obscure is one thing. Being silenced is another matter entirely.
January 30, 2019
I Can't Enough of Hildegard von Bingen
I find this collection particularly moving; perhaps you will, too.
First Hint of a Cold in Nearly Four Years
My immune system has been incredibly good to me since 2015, but for the first time in nearly four years I can feel the beginnings of a cold coming on. An influenza epidemic is gripping Hungary at the moment, and it appears it wants to snare me in its net as well.
Here's hoping what I have now remains a sniffle and the grippe does not grip me. I have neither the time nor the patience for a full-blown flu right now.
Here's hoping what I have now remains a sniffle and the grippe does not grip me. I have neither the time nor the patience for a full-blown flu right now.
January 29, 2019
Does the Use of Pseudonyms, Aliases, and False Names Indicate Cowardice?
The subject of name changing appears early on in my novel The City of Earthly Desire when a young Reinhardt confronts his mother about the possibility of changing their Germanic surname Drixler to something more Hungarian-sounding to alleviate the stigmatization and discrimination the family name was bringing upon them in communist Hungary following the Second World War.
“If we changed our name, things would be easier,” Reinhardt insisted, wincing as his mother reapplied the washcloth to his neck.
“When it comes to choosing between right and easy, you must always choose what is right, regardless of how difficult it makes things.”
“Most Swabians have changed their names.”
Gertrude pressed the wet cloth against her son’s neck with so much force it made him flinch. She said, “If we changed our name, I would turn my back on tradition. I would hate myself. And what would I have left if I hated myself?”
As I was writing the City of Earthly Desire in 2010 and 2011, I briefly entertained the possibility of using a pseudonym when it came time to publish the book. The main reason I considered doing so was to avoid possible negative consequences of having my real name attached to a work of fiction that attacked liberalism and incorporated the pornography industry in its story.
To put things in perspective, I was still working as a high school teacher back then, and I remember the newspapers were full of articles about teachers being sacked for relatively trivial matters such facebook posts, online vacation photographs, misinterpreted Twitter remarks, and so forth. And there I was working on a novel outlining the pernicious rise of the pornography industry in Budapest! I knew beyond a doubt that any negative blowback from my novel could potentially end my career and put my wife and me at risk.
As I worked on the novel, I continued to think about publishing under a pseudonym to avoid this possible danger. Strangely enough, I ended up writing the subject of name changing into the novel itself as I thought about the topic, culminating in the lines I have shared. I based the scene on real life events within my own family history.
After the war, the communists urged my grandfather to drop the family name Berger and adopt a Hungarian one instead, to which my grandfather stoically responded, “You’ve taken everything from me and my family, but I will never let you have my name.” Once I had reflected upon this and had written the scene above, I rejected the notion of publishing under a pseudonym because I recognized it would be cowardly and hypocritical of me to do so.
I am not suggesting there was anything inherently heroic in my decision to publish my book under my own name, but it at least demonstrated my willingness to confront uncertainty and danger at a time when my family’s circumstances were rather vulnerable (my son had just been born, my wife was not working, and money was tight). I knew assigning myself a pseudonym would amount to little more than an act of cowardice, that employing a false name would represent a failure of my character in the face of challenge, that I had allowed fear and self-concern override right action. In essence, I understood that I would loathe myself if I used a pseudonym for my book.
I have not regretted the decision to publish the book under my real name, and I make a point of using my real name on this blog and during my other online activities (commenting, reviewing, writing, etc.). Using my name is a declaration, my way of reminding myself that I am choosing what is right over what is easy. If nothing else, it exhibits my willingness to put myself on the line, to back up my words with my physical reality and identity, to put my skin in the game, to expose myself to the possibility of mockery, ridicule, and vitriol. If I am wrong in what I write, I must admit it. If I am right, I must stand by it. Using my real name removes any chance at secrecy or sanctuary.
This brings me to the more general topic of pseudonyms, fake names, aliases, anonymity and the like. Although I respect medieval artists who purposefully chose anonymity as a way of glorifying God, the contemporary use of anonymity and aliases by artists, writers, and bloggers troubles me. I am not referring to individuals who use aliases but whose real names are publicly known, but to those secretive writers, thinkers, and bloggers who hide their authentic identities under noms de plume.
Of course, I understand the reasons why writers and bloggers use false names; many of them may hail from the academic world or some other vulnerable sector in which they cannot openly express their views for fear of censor, or even peril to their jobs. Yet, I cannot help pause for a moment and wonder, with the exception of whistleblowers, why do writers and bloggers bother making their views public if they lack the courage or the means to stand by their words? This applies especially to writers and bloggers who express anti-liberal, anti-leftist, and Christian views in their work. Perhaps I am being too harsh with this criticism and perhaps it is not my place to judge, but I believe this refusal to identify with these expressed ideas essentially reveals an immense failure of character and moral courage.
Put simply, those who rail against the evils of our modern world and make attempts to offer hope and guidance but refuse to put their names to their ideas are cowards. In my mind, their reluctance to stand by their words points to excessive self-concern, one that overrides the good they are saying or doing.
Their adversaries show no such self-concern. The secular/leftist/progressive types not only happily affix their names to every ridiculous and evil idea they generate, but are willing to go out in public and advocate vociferously for it. At the same time, many on the side of Truth, Beauty, Goodness, and Virtue are reluctant to make something as basic as their name publicly known. Instead, they fight the culture wars under noms de guerre, encouraging the rest of us to get on with it while they spinelessly cower in the shadows afraid to reveal themselves for fear of a missed mortgage payment or job promotion. And if they are in compromising positions – in circumstances in which they are curtailed, confined, and controlled – circumstances in which they have allowed the world to dominate them so utterly, are they not, essentially, nothing more than slaves, these noble brothers and sisters of ours?
Perhaps they believe they are like superheroes - incognito Bruce Waynes and Peter Parkers fighting evil through their secret identities and alter egos. It is a reassuring thought, but I offer a simple rebuttal - when Bruce Wayne and Peter Parker fight crime as Batman and Spiderman, their identities are hidden, but the individuals inside the costumes are still risking their bodies and their health. What exactly are the pseudonymous writers and bloggers putting at risk? The reputation of their fictitious names?
These pseudonymous writers, thinkers, and bloggers speak a great deal about spirit, but the cowering behind false names reveals spiritlessness to me.
Note: My criticism here may indeed be too harsh. I would welcome thoughts on the matter.
“If we changed our name, things would be easier,” Reinhardt insisted, wincing as his mother reapplied the washcloth to his neck.
“When it comes to choosing between right and easy, you must always choose what is right, regardless of how difficult it makes things.”
“Most Swabians have changed their names.”
Gertrude pressed the wet cloth against her son’s neck with so much force it made him flinch. She said, “If we changed our name, I would turn my back on tradition. I would hate myself. And what would I have left if I hated myself?”
As I was writing the City of Earthly Desire in 2010 and 2011, I briefly entertained the possibility of using a pseudonym when it came time to publish the book. The main reason I considered doing so was to avoid possible negative consequences of having my real name attached to a work of fiction that attacked liberalism and incorporated the pornography industry in its story.
To put things in perspective, I was still working as a high school teacher back then, and I remember the newspapers were full of articles about teachers being sacked for relatively trivial matters such facebook posts, online vacation photographs, misinterpreted Twitter remarks, and so forth. And there I was working on a novel outlining the pernicious rise of the pornography industry in Budapest! I knew beyond a doubt that any negative blowback from my novel could potentially end my career and put my wife and me at risk.
As I worked on the novel, I continued to think about publishing under a pseudonym to avoid this possible danger. Strangely enough, I ended up writing the subject of name changing into the novel itself as I thought about the topic, culminating in the lines I have shared. I based the scene on real life events within my own family history.
After the war, the communists urged my grandfather to drop the family name Berger and adopt a Hungarian one instead, to which my grandfather stoically responded, “You’ve taken everything from me and my family, but I will never let you have my name.” Once I had reflected upon this and had written the scene above, I rejected the notion of publishing under a pseudonym because I recognized it would be cowardly and hypocritical of me to do so.
I am not suggesting there was anything inherently heroic in my decision to publish my book under my own name, but it at least demonstrated my willingness to confront uncertainty and danger at a time when my family’s circumstances were rather vulnerable (my son had just been born, my wife was not working, and money was tight). I knew assigning myself a pseudonym would amount to little more than an act of cowardice, that employing a false name would represent a failure of my character in the face of challenge, that I had allowed fear and self-concern override right action. In essence, I understood that I would loathe myself if I used a pseudonym for my book.
I have not regretted the decision to publish the book under my real name, and I make a point of using my real name on this blog and during my other online activities (commenting, reviewing, writing, etc.). Using my name is a declaration, my way of reminding myself that I am choosing what is right over what is easy. If nothing else, it exhibits my willingness to put myself on the line, to back up my words with my physical reality and identity, to put my skin in the game, to expose myself to the possibility of mockery, ridicule, and vitriol. If I am wrong in what I write, I must admit it. If I am right, I must stand by it. Using my real name removes any chance at secrecy or sanctuary.
This brings me to the more general topic of pseudonyms, fake names, aliases, anonymity and the like. Although I respect medieval artists who purposefully chose anonymity as a way of glorifying God, the contemporary use of anonymity and aliases by artists, writers, and bloggers troubles me. I am not referring to individuals who use aliases but whose real names are publicly known, but to those secretive writers, thinkers, and bloggers who hide their authentic identities under noms de plume.
Of course, I understand the reasons why writers and bloggers use false names; many of them may hail from the academic world or some other vulnerable sector in which they cannot openly express their views for fear of censor, or even peril to their jobs. Yet, I cannot help pause for a moment and wonder, with the exception of whistleblowers, why do writers and bloggers bother making their views public if they lack the courage or the means to stand by their words? This applies especially to writers and bloggers who express anti-liberal, anti-leftist, and Christian views in their work. Perhaps I am being too harsh with this criticism and perhaps it is not my place to judge, but I believe this refusal to identify with these expressed ideas essentially reveals an immense failure of character and moral courage.
Put simply, those who rail against the evils of our modern world and make attempts to offer hope and guidance but refuse to put their names to their ideas are cowards. In my mind, their reluctance to stand by their words points to excessive self-concern, one that overrides the good they are saying or doing.
Their adversaries show no such self-concern. The secular/leftist/progressive types not only happily affix their names to every ridiculous and evil idea they generate, but are willing to go out in public and advocate vociferously for it. At the same time, many on the side of Truth, Beauty, Goodness, and Virtue are reluctant to make something as basic as their name publicly known. Instead, they fight the culture wars under noms de guerre, encouraging the rest of us to get on with it while they spinelessly cower in the shadows afraid to reveal themselves for fear of a missed mortgage payment or job promotion. And if they are in compromising positions – in circumstances in which they are curtailed, confined, and controlled – circumstances in which they have allowed the world to dominate them so utterly, are they not, essentially, nothing more than slaves, these noble brothers and sisters of ours?
Perhaps they believe they are like superheroes - incognito Bruce Waynes and Peter Parkers fighting evil through their secret identities and alter egos. It is a reassuring thought, but I offer a simple rebuttal - when Bruce Wayne and Peter Parker fight crime as Batman and Spiderman, their identities are hidden, but the individuals inside the costumes are still risking their bodies and their health. What exactly are the pseudonymous writers and bloggers putting at risk? The reputation of their fictitious names?
These pseudonymous writers, thinkers, and bloggers speak a great deal about spirit, but the cowering behind false names reveals spiritlessness to me.
Note: My criticism here may indeed be too harsh. I would welcome thoughts on the matter.
January 28, 2019
Where is Our Passionate Intensity?
I do not care for W.B. Yeats or his poetry, but a few lines from his poem "Second Coming" (which I also do not care for all that much) somehow came to my mind today as I was thinking about possible topics for today's blog post. Before you start getting all uneasy, let me assure you - I will not be analyzing or interpreting "Second Coming" here. Everyone knows that has been done far too many times.
Instead, I merely want to drop a few comments regarding the lines that inexplicably popped into my head this evening, which were the final three from the first stanza of Yeats' two stanza poem:
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
As I mentioned above, I am no fan of Yeats, but I must give credit where credit is due - these are some powerful and poignant lines. When they appeared in my mind, I immediately thought about the two-century process building up to the crisis we face today. The worst during those centuries truly were full of passionate intensity, while the best utterly lacked conviction. If this had not been so, there would be no crisis today.
Don't misunderstand, I am not lamenting the crisis. The crisis is necessary. Things are coming to a head. We all must face, endure, and hopefully overcome whatever will come. The only relevant question is - how will we face it?
Will we continue to lack conviction? Or will we finally, after two centuries of being eroded and corroded, awaken and become passionately intense again?
The best among us must be filled with passionate intensity again.
They simply must be.
I simply must be.
You simply must be.
It is the only the way the worst may begin to lose their convictions.
Instead, I merely want to drop a few comments regarding the lines that inexplicably popped into my head this evening, which were the final three from the first stanza of Yeats' two stanza poem:
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
As I mentioned above, I am no fan of Yeats, but I must give credit where credit is due - these are some powerful and poignant lines. When they appeared in my mind, I immediately thought about the two-century process building up to the crisis we face today. The worst during those centuries truly were full of passionate intensity, while the best utterly lacked conviction. If this had not been so, there would be no crisis today.
Don't misunderstand, I am not lamenting the crisis. The crisis is necessary. Things are coming to a head. We all must face, endure, and hopefully overcome whatever will come. The only relevant question is - how will we face it?
Will we continue to lack conviction? Or will we finally, after two centuries of being eroded and corroded, awaken and become passionately intense again?
The best among us must be filled with passionate intensity again.
They simply must be.
I simply must be.
You simply must be.
It is the only the way the worst may begin to lose their convictions.
January 27, 2019
In No Mood For a Haircut
When I was a teenager, I let me hair grow long for a few years. There was nothing special about this as many young men grew their hair long in the late 80s/early 90s. After I turned eighteen, I cut my hair short and have kept it short ever since because for me hair and hairstyling has always been a sort of nuisance; something I relegated to category of afterthought.
Nevertheless, over the past three months I have been utterly unmotivated to stop in at the barber for my six-week haircut. I do not know what the source of this sudden apathy about getting my hair cut is. Perhaps it's a sign of some sort of midlife crisis. Perhaps I subconsciously want to taunt all the bald middle-aged men I encounter and drive them mad with envy (I'm 47 now and I still have a full head of hair). Perhaps I have some unconscious desire to look like Alexander the Great or Robert Plant.
Who the hell knows? One thing is certain, I'm not cutting my hair, and I may not have it cut for a long time. Perhaps I am simply curious to see how people around me react to a seeing a middle-aged man with long hair. In any case, I shall provide updates. I'll call it "Berger's Hair Files" or something like that and make it a weekly feature.
On second thought, that may be a bit much . . . but I'm still not cutting my hair!
Nevertheless, over the past three months I have been utterly unmotivated to stop in at the barber for my six-week haircut. I do not know what the source of this sudden apathy about getting my hair cut is. Perhaps it's a sign of some sort of midlife crisis. Perhaps I subconsciously want to taunt all the bald middle-aged men I encounter and drive them mad with envy (I'm 47 now and I still have a full head of hair). Perhaps I have some unconscious desire to look like Alexander the Great or Robert Plant.
Who the hell knows? One thing is certain, I'm not cutting my hair, and I may not have it cut for a long time. Perhaps I am simply curious to see how people around me react to a seeing a middle-aged man with long hair. In any case, I shall provide updates. I'll call it "Berger's Hair Files" or something like that and make it a weekly feature.
On second thought, that may be a bit much . . . but I'm still not cutting my hair!
January 26, 2019
The Purposeful Harmfulness of Mass Media
Over the past decade or so, I have been gradually turning away from all mainstream news and media sources. I still occassionally read headlines or dip into the odd article, and there have been times during which I waded back into the mainstream media when I had a personal interest in some event or other, but overall I have essentially restricted my exposure to the media as much as possible. The impetus behind this decision and the gradual lifestyle change accompanying it is a rather simple one stemming from the realization that the mass media, is all its forms, is purposefully harmful.
Many people are quick to acknowledge the media as detrimental or, at a bare minimum, accept that certain aspects of the media have the potential to be harmful, but cannot embrace the idea that the media in its entirety is purposefully poisonous. In this light, most people regard the media as the regard most things in life – as something neutral consisting of equal amounts of good and bad. Ask people what the media is and they will invariably state that the various forms of media are basically means through which ideas and information are shared, or forums through which opposing viewpoints are presented and debated. Consequently, whatever harms the media causes – such as the current hysteria over fake news – are viewed as side effects rather than purposefully designed objectives.
Unfortunately, nothing could be further from the truth. Outside sources are not required to reach this conclusion. All it takes is a little time and some rumination on the following questions:What is the media?What does it do?What does it not do?What is its true role in society?Who and what makes up the media?Who and what controls the media?What is the end goal of nearly all forms of media?What influences have the media had on me? How many of these influences have been postive/negative?
The questions above do not form an exhaustive list, but instead represent a start. If you are so inclined, take an hour or two, go through these questions one by one, and try to answer them as sincerely as possible from the foundations of your own experiences and intuition. Your answers are likely to surprise you.
If you are interested in reading on outside source on the subject, I highly recommend Bruce G. Charlton’s Addicted to Distraction: The Psychological Consequences of the Mass Media, which is the most probing, yet concise elucidation on the subject I have encountered to date. The work is free online if you follow the link above. I urge you to give a read. It might just get you thinking about the purposeful harmfulness of the mass media.
Many people are quick to acknowledge the media as detrimental or, at a bare minimum, accept that certain aspects of the media have the potential to be harmful, but cannot embrace the idea that the media in its entirety is purposefully poisonous. In this light, most people regard the media as the regard most things in life – as something neutral consisting of equal amounts of good and bad. Ask people what the media is and they will invariably state that the various forms of media are basically means through which ideas and information are shared, or forums through which opposing viewpoints are presented and debated. Consequently, whatever harms the media causes – such as the current hysteria over fake news – are viewed as side effects rather than purposefully designed objectives.
Unfortunately, nothing could be further from the truth. Outside sources are not required to reach this conclusion. All it takes is a little time and some rumination on the following questions:What is the media?What does it do?What does it not do?What is its true role in society?Who and what makes up the media?Who and what controls the media?What is the end goal of nearly all forms of media?What influences have the media had on me? How many of these influences have been postive/negative?
The questions above do not form an exhaustive list, but instead represent a start. If you are so inclined, take an hour or two, go through these questions one by one, and try to answer them as sincerely as possible from the foundations of your own experiences and intuition. Your answers are likely to surprise you.
If you are interested in reading on outside source on the subject, I highly recommend Bruce G. Charlton’s Addicted to Distraction: The Psychological Consequences of the Mass Media, which is the most probing, yet concise elucidation on the subject I have encountered to date. The work is free online if you follow the link above. I urge you to give a read. It might just get you thinking about the purposeful harmfulness of the mass media.
Would Anyone in the West Publish The Brothers Karamazov if Dostoevsky Wrote it Today?
I am currently rereading The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky and I am amazed that in the West it is still, for the most part, heralded as one of the greatest novels ever written. Do not misunderstand, I wholeheartedly agree with the notion – The Brothers Karamazov is indeed one of the greatest novels ever written. As far as I know, it has been continuously in print in the West since the publication of the very first translation, and several new translations have emerged in recent decades. The book is also in the public domain, which means digital versions of earlier translations are readily available for free on the internet. To my knowledge, no efforts to ban or censor TBK have ever formed. Nonetheless, I imagine the number of people who actually read TBK these days is relatively small group of readers comprised mostly of university students, the odd general reader, and lovers of classic literature.
As far as I can tell Dostoevsky scholarship in the West remains strong; ironically, with a few notable exceptions, the postmodern/gender studies + studies/ Marxist literary bunch have essentially left Dostoevsky alone. This is somewhat inconceivable because few writers provide as much potential grist for mills of political correctness as Dostoevsky does. In other words, if I were a contemporary literary scholar obsessed with the unholy trinity of DIE (diversity, inclusivity, equality), I would have an absolute field day with Dostoevsky’s works. Nonetheless, the so-called scholars who do reside in such ideological mindsets have shown little interest in taking on Dostoevsky in any extensive degree. If they address him at all, it is merely to deride. These enlightened scholars probably consider Dostoevsky and his work hopelessly regressive, to the point of deserving nothing more than a mere scoff and a rejection symbolized by a callous wave of the hand. Though this is fine posturing, I personally believe leftist scholars have ignored and avoided Dostoevsky for one simple reason – he is too damn tough.
I imagine when leftist/liberal critics and scholars read Dostoevsky they immediately realize he has them figured out, that they are confronting a thinker who has thoroughly evaluated their positions and reasoning and, having comprehended them, understands the inherent weakness and evil nestled in their ideologies. Simply put, Dostoevsky sees through these contemporary leftist/liberal thinkers and scholars of ours because they are, essentially, no different from the ones he knew in nineteenth century. He is not only immune to their mind tricks and verbal balderdash, his work demonstrates how leftist ploys can be countered and, ultimately, defeated. In essence, his novels offer an antidote, which is why contemporary leftists would rather merely dismiss him and his work and focus their attention elsewhere.
As I reread The Brothers Karamazov now, one question keeps recurring – if Dostoevsky wrote the novel today, would it stand a chance at being published in the West?
In my mind, the answer is no. No matter how I try to imagine it, there is simply no way I could imagine a major mainstream New York or London publisher accepting The Brothers Karamazov for publication if Dostoevsky were to submit it to them now. In fact, I believe publishers in the West would reject TBK at once, without even giving it the slightest shred of consideration. Here’s why:
Themes:
As mentioned above, Dostoevsky’s surgical and thorough destruction of liberalism in TBK flies in the face of everything most publishers in the West support and propagate. His championing of Christianity and Christian themes would also be frowned upon. Thus, I cannot imagine any publisher in the West voluntarily taking the political risk of publishing such a work today.
Business:
Sure, the book is currently in print in the West; thus, in essence, publishers are publishing TBK at the moment and have been for the better part of century, but to me this amounts little more than sound business practice rather than eagerness. Since TBK is part of the classics portfolio, publishers are assured the novel will sell a certain amount every year, so they do not mind keeping the book in print. Its status as a classic boxes it in and makes it easy to write off politically today. Publishers can simply point to it and say, “Well of course it’s regressive, it was written in the 1800s before people realized how wonderful progressivism is!” Nevertheless, I very much doubt any major publisher would risk publishing TBK if Dostoevsky submitted it to them today. Their immediate reactions would be – Who would read this? How could we market it? Their answers to those questions would be no one and no how.
Style:
A novel full of long-winded dialogue where a single character’s speech can span ten pages? Forget about it.
Russia:
If it had something to do with the Trump collusion story, it might stand a chance, but sadly, TBK does not address this issue.
Characters:
“Unlikable characters” is a common complaint from contemporary readers of TBK. In all fairness, TBK is full of them. Dostoevsky would stand a better chance today if he wrote about transgender, bisexual dimension-travelling, shape-shifting vampires that come to Earth to fight an evil, racist patriarchy of handsome but sinister white men who are actually all bigoted werewolves whose only mission in life is to roam the night and terrorize diverse minorities and people of color.
To sum up, thankfully Dostoevsky is still in print, and his books will remain accessible for the foreseeable future, but if Dostoevsky were a young, unpublished writer living in New York or London today, it would be difficult to imagine any publisher touching his material. Perhaps he would have a chance in his native Russia, but if the book were published there, would a translation ever see the light of day in the West? My gut says no.
Well, enough of these conjectures. I am eyeing the paragraph I wrote above, the one about the transgender, bisexual, dimension-travelling, shape-shifting vampires, and I think I might be on to something. I feel inspired. A vague plotline is starting to form in my mind. By God, that will be my next book! I’m going to start writing it today. I think it even has a shot of making the big time. I can envision a film adaptation and everything! The critics will love it!
Sorry, Dusty, old boy. If you want to be an important writer today, you simply have to get with the times.
As far as I can tell Dostoevsky scholarship in the West remains strong; ironically, with a few notable exceptions, the postmodern/gender studies + studies/ Marxist literary bunch have essentially left Dostoevsky alone. This is somewhat inconceivable because few writers provide as much potential grist for mills of political correctness as Dostoevsky does. In other words, if I were a contemporary literary scholar obsessed with the unholy trinity of DIE (diversity, inclusivity, equality), I would have an absolute field day with Dostoevsky’s works. Nonetheless, the so-called scholars who do reside in such ideological mindsets have shown little interest in taking on Dostoevsky in any extensive degree. If they address him at all, it is merely to deride. These enlightened scholars probably consider Dostoevsky and his work hopelessly regressive, to the point of deserving nothing more than a mere scoff and a rejection symbolized by a callous wave of the hand. Though this is fine posturing, I personally believe leftist scholars have ignored and avoided Dostoevsky for one simple reason – he is too damn tough.
I imagine when leftist/liberal critics and scholars read Dostoevsky they immediately realize he has them figured out, that they are confronting a thinker who has thoroughly evaluated their positions and reasoning and, having comprehended them, understands the inherent weakness and evil nestled in their ideologies. Simply put, Dostoevsky sees through these contemporary leftist/liberal thinkers and scholars of ours because they are, essentially, no different from the ones he knew in nineteenth century. He is not only immune to their mind tricks and verbal balderdash, his work demonstrates how leftist ploys can be countered and, ultimately, defeated. In essence, his novels offer an antidote, which is why contemporary leftists would rather merely dismiss him and his work and focus their attention elsewhere.
As I reread The Brothers Karamazov now, one question keeps recurring – if Dostoevsky wrote the novel today, would it stand a chance at being published in the West?
In my mind, the answer is no. No matter how I try to imagine it, there is simply no way I could imagine a major mainstream New York or London publisher accepting The Brothers Karamazov for publication if Dostoevsky were to submit it to them now. In fact, I believe publishers in the West would reject TBK at once, without even giving it the slightest shred of consideration. Here’s why:
Themes:
As mentioned above, Dostoevsky’s surgical and thorough destruction of liberalism in TBK flies in the face of everything most publishers in the West support and propagate. His championing of Christianity and Christian themes would also be frowned upon. Thus, I cannot imagine any publisher in the West voluntarily taking the political risk of publishing such a work today.
Business:
Sure, the book is currently in print in the West; thus, in essence, publishers are publishing TBK at the moment and have been for the better part of century, but to me this amounts little more than sound business practice rather than eagerness. Since TBK is part of the classics portfolio, publishers are assured the novel will sell a certain amount every year, so they do not mind keeping the book in print. Its status as a classic boxes it in and makes it easy to write off politically today. Publishers can simply point to it and say, “Well of course it’s regressive, it was written in the 1800s before people realized how wonderful progressivism is!” Nevertheless, I very much doubt any major publisher would risk publishing TBK if Dostoevsky submitted it to them today. Their immediate reactions would be – Who would read this? How could we market it? Their answers to those questions would be no one and no how.
Style:
A novel full of long-winded dialogue where a single character’s speech can span ten pages? Forget about it.
Russia:
If it had something to do with the Trump collusion story, it might stand a chance, but sadly, TBK does not address this issue.
Characters:
“Unlikable characters” is a common complaint from contemporary readers of TBK. In all fairness, TBK is full of them. Dostoevsky would stand a better chance today if he wrote about transgender, bisexual dimension-travelling, shape-shifting vampires that come to Earth to fight an evil, racist patriarchy of handsome but sinister white men who are actually all bigoted werewolves whose only mission in life is to roam the night and terrorize diverse minorities and people of color.
To sum up, thankfully Dostoevsky is still in print, and his books will remain accessible for the foreseeable future, but if Dostoevsky were a young, unpublished writer living in New York or London today, it would be difficult to imagine any publisher touching his material. Perhaps he would have a chance in his native Russia, but if the book were published there, would a translation ever see the light of day in the West? My gut says no.
Well, enough of these conjectures. I am eyeing the paragraph I wrote above, the one about the transgender, bisexual, dimension-travelling, shape-shifting vampires, and I think I might be on to something. I feel inspired. A vague plotline is starting to form in my mind. By God, that will be my next book! I’m going to start writing it today. I think it even has a shot of making the big time. I can envision a film adaptation and everything! The critics will love it!
Sorry, Dusty, old boy. If you want to be an important writer today, you simply have to get with the times.
