Francis Berger's Blog, page 183

Is Europe's Existence Under Threat?

This past Saturday Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orbán said that Europe’s existence is under threat from the huge influx of migrants to the region. Are Orbán's claims valid?

Well, it seems that . . . 

For those who subscribe to a multicultural/internationalist/politically correct ideology  - No. 

For those who are more traditional/nationalistic - Yes. 
 
From my own perspective, I would argue that there have been many threats to Europe's existence over the past two centuries and that the current mass immigration crisis is merely the latest noticeable symptom of a rather tragic and horrendously protracted ailment.

I would add that when it comes to matters of its existence, Europe has become its own worst enemy. 

A toxic blend of wars, guilt, self-loathing, sub-replacement fertility, secularism, debt, horrendous economic policies, hedonism, and subverise/suicidal ideologies such as political correctness have damaged Europe far more than this current mass migration has. One could argue that the migration crisis could not have even developed were it not for the combination of some or all of the problems mentioned above. 

The only thing the migrant crisis threatens to do at this point is to turn Europe's gradual and drawn-out decline into a quick and sudden one. 






 

The Trees - An Analogy of the Struggle for Equality and The Likely Outcome Once it is Achieved

Rush - Neil Peart, Geddy Lee, Alex Lifeson Compulsory listening if you grew up in Canada in the 1970's/80's. If you grew up in Canada during the 1970's/80's, it is quite probable that the rock band Rush occupied a rather prominent place in the soundtrack of your childhood and adolescent years. As an aspiring young writer, I was especially drawn to the craftsmanship of Neil Peart's intelligent and insightful lyrics. I haven't actively pursued the band for well over two decades, but I was reminded of one of their lesser known songs the other day as I browsed through a series of utterly ridiculous articles crying out for greater equality and other idiocies coloring the PC spectrum. Released about a quarter of a century ago, The Trees is a rather scathing and spot-on critique and analogy of all of those who scream oppression and fight for their precious equality. Through the simple analogy of a forest, it clearly outlines the kind of equality that the culture war and PC campaigns would achieve.

"The Trees"

There is unrest in the forest
There is trouble with the trees
For the maples want more sunlight
And the oaks ignore their pleas

The trouble with the maples
(And they're quite convinced they're right)
They say the oaks are just too lofty
And they grab up all the light

But the oaks can't help their feelings
If they like the way they're made
And they wonder why the maples
Can't be happy in their shade

There is trouble in the forest
And the creatures all have fled
As the maples scream 'Oppression!'
And the oaks just shake their heads

So the maples formed a union
And demanded equal rights
'The oaks are just too greedy
We will make them give us light'

Now there's no more oak oppression
For they passed a noble law
And the trees are all kept equal
By hatchet, axe and saw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnC88xBPkkc

Unfortunately, I feel that this is the equality that will reign once the Leftists are done. Kurt Vonnegut offers a similar nightmare scenario in his short story Harrison Bergeron. It doesn't require a great deal of perspicacity to see that in many instances the equality presented in The Trees already exists. There is no ascending up, only a cutting down. This is the world the noble Leftists are blindly fighting for. God bless them for their noble efforts.

On This Day in 1456 Hungary Saved Europe (At Least for a While) - or - Why Do Church Bells Toll Every Day at Noon?

Sándor Wágner - The Self-Sacrifice of Titusz Dugovics Today marks the anniversary of the Seige of Nándorfehérvár (also known as the Seige of Belgrade.) In 1453, the Ottoman Turks conquered Constantinople and ushered in the end of the Byzantine Empire. After sacking Constantinople, the Turks turned their eyes toward conquering Europe. They initiated a campaign up the Balkans and sought to crush the Kingdom of Hungary before continuing their jihad against the rest of Christian Europe. Luckily for Europe, the Magyars decided to put up a fight. 

Read the rest of the story here. 

The Elite Are Careless People

Over the past few weeks I have spent a considerable amount of time contemplating current and recent world events. Needless to say, this has left me struggling with a rather distinct and pronounced sense of disquietude. As I mulled over the regime changes, financial crises, terror attacks, endless wars, resource conquests, social corruptions, and societal perversions that have happened and are taking place across the globe, I could not help but recall the incredibly incisive observation Nick Carraway makes about Tom and Daisy Buchanan near the end of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby:

I couldn’t forgive him or like him but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made….

Fitzgerald’s penetrating insight about the nature of the elite, that small group of people who control a disproportionate amount of wealth and political power, is still valid today, especially when applied to world events behind which the elite are almost always the architects and culprits. In fact, the notion that the elite are careless people who smugly feel that their actions are entirely justified despite the things and creatures these actions smash up has, in my opinion, never been more valid than it is today. And as is the case with Tom and Daisy, the elite today feel no shame or responsibility for the wastelands of destruction and agony their careless actions create and leave behind. Just like Tom and Daisy, I believe the global elite of our time act in a careless and confused manner and that their well-made schemes very rarely come off the way they had envisioned them. Of course this does not bother them too much because after they drown the world in unholy chaos they are perfectly content to retreat back behind their money and let others clean up the mess they have wrought.

I share Nick’s confusion about what motivates and unifies the elite. Like him, I cannot determine if it is money or power or just vast carelessness that keeps these rulers together and inspires them to plan and perpetrate ever new and ever horrendous sins against truth, beauty, goodness, and humanity, but I am certain of one thing – like Nick, I can’t forgive them and I can’t like them. 

Kindle Edition Free on Amazon - April 24 and 25.

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A Step In The Write Direction

A Step In the Write Direction

Back in January I wrote a blog post in which I proclaimed the need to reinvent myself so to speak. The reasons for this proclamation were many, but chief among them was the realization that I had all but abandoned writing on a regular basis. As is the case with most topics that cause discomfort, I chose to ignore the reasons for my lack of writing rather than come to terms with them. Regardless, as I was returning home from my teaching job in a former coal mining town in northern England one overcast and rather windy day, I came to conclusion that the main reason for my lack of writing was my vocation.  To use a clichéd phrase, teaching high school for eleven years had sucked the life out of me. 

Now, it is not my intention to waste several paragraphs moaning about the pitfalls of the teaching profession. I'll do that some other time, if the mood strikes me. For years I was able to cope with these pitfalls and establish some sort of fragile balance where I was able to shield at least some of my mental and emotional capacities from the occupational drudgeries and hazards of teaching life. But my experience working in a high school in England effectively exterminated that balance; I knew that if I continued my life as a high school teacher I would never succeed in writing anything again. 

A dilemma surfaced as this dawned on me. Despite the nonsense that is part of working in public education, I knew I still enjoyed teaching itself. In addition to this, I was dumbfounded about what else I could do to make money and provide for my family. (Unfortunately, the writing has not made me financially independent as of yet.) For weeks I pondered over this problem. Then one day I noticed that the University of West Hungary’s Faculty of Forestry in Sopron was advertising a position for a native English speaking instructor. 

At first I hesitated. As anyone who has read this blog or any of my work knows, I do not have a high opinion of most post-secondary institutions. Working in a citadel of darkness has never appealed to me, but I did some research and discovered that I would be working mostly with students in the science fields which tend to be a little less politically-driven and less ideologically obsessed than the liberal arts (the faculty at which my disdain is mostly aimed.) Feeling somewhat assuaged, I encountered another potential problem. Money. The position in Hungary offered a salary that was a quarter of what I was making in England. Even with the adjusted cost of living, it still was still quite small. I talked the matter over with my wife. I applied for the position the very next day. 

And here I am in Sopron, a lovely and incredibly livable city in Hungary on the edge of the border with Austria working in a job that pays condirably less than I had been making before, but is infinitely more rewarding, interesting, and enlightening than high school teaching ever was. On top of that, I suddenly have time again. Time to think. Time to read. Time to imagine. I can feel the balance returning. It will all come back again. All it needed was a step in the right (write) direction.  

A New Home in Sopron

Invent Yourself Then Reinvent Yourself

The concept of the New Year's resolution has never really appealed to me.  The few times I did make any they were trivial in nature and ultimately failed precisely because of their triviality.  Resolving to quit smoking or lose ten pounds or be nicer to people starting the first of January are fine goals in themselves, but they never carried enough gravitas for me to treat them seriously and incorporate them into the fabric of my existence in any real or meaningful way.  Simply put, when it comes to change, that's not the way I roll.  

For me, change is not, and has never been about a small adjustment or a minor improvement.  I don't care much for baby steps or tweaking or tuning or fiddling.  I have never experienced change as a minute effort to improve tiny things within myself to push myself closer to some notion of personal perfection, but rather as a monumental effort to reinvent major aspects of my life to push myself closer to some notion of rebirth.  If I put my mind to change, I'm not interested in making a better me, I'm interested in creating an entirely different me altogether.  This is the inflection point in which I find myself now.  After considerable thought and rumination, I have come to the realization that the time has come (or perhaps that time is long overdue) for me to reinvent myself once again.  Fully.  Completely.  

Interestingly, as this realization began to dawn on me over the past few months I happened to stumble across a poem "No Leaders, Please" by one of my  favorite poets, Charles Bukowski.  The poem has since become a source of inspiration for me in my need to reinvent myself.  Having said that, I think the poem can be an inspiration to anyone regardless of whether they are contemplating any changes or not.  If nothing else, it serves as a simple yet forceful reminder of the innate power within us all to create more sincere and meaningful lives for ourselves while we still can.


"No Leaders Please" - by Charles Bukowski 

invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
don’t swim in the same slough.
invent yourself and then reinvent yourself
and
stay out of the clutches of mediocrity.

invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
change your tone and shape so often that they can
never
categorize you.

reinvigorate yourself and
accept what is
but only on the terms that you have invented 
and reinvented.

be self-taught.

and reinvent your life because you must;
it is your life and
its history
and the present
belong only to 

you.   

A Wonderful Short Story From My Favorite New Writer

Whether or not talent in certain art forms runs in families is a matter of debate.  I have no opinion on the subject myself, but I was immensely pleased to learn that my twelve-year-old niece Avery demonstrates admirable aptitude and skill in writing.  I was so impressed by a recent story she completed for an assignment in school, I asked her if I could post it on this blog.  Thankfully, she agreed.  I invite you to give it a read.  You won't be disappointed!



A Story by Avery McKinnon


Everyone has voices in their head; some are good and others not so much. But no matter what your voices tell you they have all come from the same place. It is now a place of great evil, corrupted and disgraced. With a name written in a forbidden language that no one on this Earth was able to speak or would dare to. However, it was not always like this. It was once a place of hope and wonder.  A land heard of in only folk tales that mothers would tell their children before putting them to sleep. Where humanoid creatures lived happily.   

That is where our story begins. In the land where voices walk. 

Up on a high hill there lay a small house. The hill was taller than the clouds and a narrow stone path led up to the top. It overlooked a meadow and a swamp that sat on the rims of the tall grass. Flowers swayed calmly in the warm spring breeze that came from the east, and the water of the swamp was glistening from the little amount of sunlight that shone through the thick oak trees that roofed the forest. Far off to the south, the village of trade was visible faintly in the distance. Other than the occasional soliciting visit from one of the villagers, the hill was quiet, which made it the perfect place for the lonely voice of Wisdom to live.

Wisdom was what she was commonly referred to as although she was never given a name by her parents who had wandered off long ago in search of new life. Birthnames are not common is this place for an old legend read “One cannot have the honor of a name without earning it.” The author died in battle centuries ago; however, his words passed on throughout the years and around the age of ten a child would receive a name based off of what they did and how they acted. However, wisdom received her title at the age of five showing superior knowledge more so than the villages elders. Her house was old and a few shingles were missing from the roof. The door was made of dark oak from the forest of the west and was held together by little torn up rope.  Although the house was small, as soon as you stepped inside you could get lost in the maze of bookshelves and never come out.

It was not quite like this all over for down below in the meadow there was a fairly sized wooden shelter with ripped and worn red banners placed around the dedicated lot. The open shack was previously used as a lumber mill but not anymore. The banners had ram skulls printed on them in the lowest quality of inks. They meant strength in honor of  our second voice. The voice of Power.

Power was strict and ruthless and she never gave into anyone or anything. Down in this shack was where Power lived and would preach to an audience about how they were in danger of other kingdoms attacking. She would go on and on about how the villagers needed to sacrifice their simple lives of farming and trading for a life on the battle field. She would also often give private lessons to the children on weapons and armors and how they were used.  She had been doing this for years and she quite liked what she did although she had never had any real combat training herself.  (Unless beating an old elm tree with a wooden plank counted.) Everyone knew, however, that her speeches were rubbish and that Power wanted nothing more than to pick a fight. Ever since she was young she had been dreaming of the day she would win a war for her people and gain wealth and honor throughout the land. The rage of war burned fierce in her and it was easily recognizable. So at the common age of ten she was gifted the name Power.

Nonetheless her speeches were entertaining and one particular spring day Power had the biggest audience she had ever had. Somewhere within the large crowd was our third and final voice. The voice of creativity. Creativity was not like the other voices.  She was among the voices that were given a name before they were born. This made the lives of voices like Creativity extremely  stressful for they had to live up to the expectations of others before even knowing how to walk. Despite this, Creativity lived up to her name and owned it well. She didn’t want something directly in life, but only sought to be free. Creativity was the only one throughout the land to only ever see the good in everything and everyone. Her two goals in life were only to make people happy and to let her imagination flow free. Creativity had no permanent home as she stayed with different friends and family members throughout her life, but she was happy. However, nothing this perfect lasts. No place can ever be perfect.

Civilization did not know that an evil force was brewing off to the west near the forest of dark oak. (The wood of which Wisdoms door was crafted.) This voice could not be named for it is also the name that this land now possess. The force swept the land later that night and not a sound was made. The meadow where Creativity would run free, blackened. The abandoned lumber mill, plagued. The house on the highest hill, empty. 

No voice expected this and none managed to escape. None except three. Wisdom, Power, and Creativity were the only voices to escape. Little is known about how these three unlikely companions banded together against the darkness, however it is safe to say the we are glad they did. 

For years they wandered around several different dimensions searching for a home greater than their last. But it was not found untill they came to Earth and spent their lives trapped inside the head of a twelve year old girl. To guide her until her days come to an end, then and only then they would be truly free.




   

Finding the Time to Write

Perhaps the most daunting challenge any writer faces is finding the time to write. More exactly it is consistently finding the time write. Most aspiring writers lead busy lives and have a plethora of non-writing obligations: they have to jobs to complete, families to look after, careers to plan, people to see, and places to go. Finding time to write is of such paramount importance that I believe it serves as a tightly controlled border that separates writers who do write from writers who only aspire to write. But even writers who do manage to squeeze a few hours of writing into their schedules effectively do little more than tread water. The ocean around them is vast. There is no land in sight. And even when one spots an island in the distance and swims toward the shore, there always looms the possibility of a tidal wave which might crash over them and wash them out into the open water once again. At the moment, my particular circumstances in the writing/life balance is much more dire. I'm no longer treading water. Rather, I am bound in shackles and locks and encased in tightly sealed, bulky steel Houdini-esque safe that is rapidly sinking to the bottom of the sea. I have no idea how to escape my bonds nor how much air I have left. Plainly put, I am in the unenviable situation of finding it impossible to find time to write.

Of course, this is not a new dilemma for me. Establishing an effective and productive writing/life balance is a challenge I have faced my entire life. There have been many periods when I found the necessary time to write, but it usually came with some sort of compromise or sacrifice, most often a barren social life or a lack of sleep. I found some reprieve after I became a teacher. If nothing else, at least I knew I had six-to-eight weeks in the summer to dedicate to the craft. This is how I eventually wrote The City of Earthly Desire. I began working on it in the summer of 2010 and managed to complete the necessary research and an extremely rough draft. I then picked away at it whenever I could during the school year. This usually entailed getting up at four in the morning on weekdays when the world was quiet – well, as quiet as it gets in New York City – and chipping away at the draft for a couple of hours before it was time to leave for my teaching job. I also spent a few hours on the manuscript on the weekend. During this whole time I was preparing myself for the upcoming summer when I knew I would have to finish the novel as best as I could. Well, it ended up taking an extra year, but I did manage to find the time in the end. Then we moved to Canada, my son was born, and for all intents and purposes, I found it impossible to find the time to write since.

Two years have passed since I finished The City of Earthly Desire and in those two years I have essentially written nothing save for these blog posts (and as you can see, even these have been sparse and rather sporadic.) Surprisingly, this has not bothered me too much. In the past four years I have lived in three different countries and this constant moving about coupled with the energy required to raise a child have required significant amounts of time-investment. I do not begrudge this investment. In fact, I have rather enjoyed it and have seen it as a necessity considering my circumstances. Having said that, I find myself thinking about finding time to write again. I am picking away at the locks that bind me. I know I will crack the safe before the air runs out and I will escape, gaze above me, and through the murky stillness I will see a faint ceiling of light toward which I will swim until surface once again. Once there, I will breathe in deep lungfuls of air, and I will begin to tread water once again. 


It's only a matter of time . . .