1. Ekphrastic Motabilem – Detailing the process of creating a work of art, or describing the process of skilled work. More specifically, utilizing Ekphrasis through describing the art form or skilled work in its process. Otherwise called “Ekphrasis”, but more technically called Ekphrastic Motabilem.
- Example: “Go, Ploughman, Plough” By Joseph Campbell
- Example: Jeremiah 18:4 “And the vessel that he made of clay was marred in the hand of the potter: so he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it.”
2. Hyperloxy or pl. Hyperloxa – An oxymoron expressed through hyperbole, to especially emphasize the last statement and make it stronger than the previous statement, which otherwise should be stronger.
- Example: “He is not very wise, but has an infinite wit.”
- Example: “Jude, he is not so strong, yet unrivaled in might.” Neifert, B. K.. Fairyland, “The Children’s Crusade”. Kindle Direct, 2020.
3. A Vulgar – When taking something that usually isn’t vulgar, or even taking a Euphemism, and making it vulgar through tone.
- 1. Example: From Wordsworth’s “Transubstantiation”: “And, while the Host is raised, its elevation/ An awe and supernatural horror breeds,”
4. Cantor – When a work breaks into a text with a voice dissimilar to the one established throughout the work, intentionally or unintentionally. Especially where it can be readily noticed. Derived from the word “Cantor” a responsive hymn, where the solo is the break in voice, and the choir is the established voice.
- Example: The Gospel of John as opposed to the Synoptic Gospels.
- Example: The Egyptian Maid or White Doe of Rylstone by Wordsworth, as opposed to the rest of his body of Work, reflects stories in the forms of Southey or Coleridge.
- Example: The Last few segments of The Riddle in the Sea, by B. K. Neifert, where the form breaks to create an added effect of suspense.
- Example: The use of “Mirkwood” in Tolkien’s The Fall of Arthrur.
5. The Objective Other – An objective characterization where an artist portrays what appears to be a specific individual, yet the individual portrayed in the piece is meant to apply generally. Not to be confused with a Character; however, some characters are examples of The Objective Other.
- Example: Anna Karenina in Tolstoy’s titular piece.
- Example: George Wickham in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.
- Example: Christian in John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress.
6. Nominal Symbolism – A kind of symbolism where the name of a prominent historical figure, town or god is used to represent an archetypal story. Sometimes where the symbol relates to a specific individual.
- Example: “Bel boweth down, Nebo stoopeth, their idols were upon the beasts, and upon the cattle: your carriages were heavy loaden; they are a burden to the weary beast.” King James Bible Isaiah 46:1
- Example: “Tell me, Lydia, by all the gods I beg you, why you are in such a hurry to destroy Sybaris with your love.” Horace. The Complete Odes and Epodes. Translated by David West. Oxford University Press, 2008. (pp. 32.)
- Example: Xenophanes, you poetically and surgically/Weave your origins of doubt.
More will be added to this list, as I discover them.
Prologue: The following is in praise of free speech. It combines my “Odes of Strangers” into a likeness of human nature, set against the current political landscape. My Odes of Strangers were inspired by Horace’s “Odes and Epodes,” where I felt that the works were comparisons of everyday people with heroes. So I did the same, taking unlikely people I’ve met and telling their lives like they were historical or mythological figures. All culminating into the Poem’s final meditation, on whether humans can actually communicate and understand one another. Which is what the work is considering. Can people understand one another? Or are we trapped in our own opinions? The work is dedicated to all who practice Free Speech, and the expression of that speech. Most of the individuals I tell the stories of have controversial expressions of speech, and have used their free speech in my life. And I wish to simply look at them as individuals, and think about the ramifications of censorship, which would be war. Will a Cyrus like individual need to raise up right now, and fight for Freedom of Speech? And will we have to fight to have our unique expressions protected? Or, can we come together and recognize that each of us have contributed to the larger conversation, and what needs to happen is more listening, rather than censorship? Thank you and Enjoy. Proem Circles Mr. Emerson, may I just attain What you said about circles. It makes me first get offended. As is true with all wisdom and All truth, we resist it at first. We do not like things to be So simple, nor do we appreciate Patterns we ourselves have not attained. Yet, looking at the mountains The trees, my palm, my fingers My gloves, the rocks, My calves, the cow's horns The lizard's ovular body The worms, the fly's which are Shaped like eggs, The grasshoppers which are shaped Like fingers, the bird's Which are shaped almost ovular The frogs, which when scrunched Are like a little oval The bushes which are ovular too... And cats and dogs and horses when they lie down. I do say I see the pattern as well. And I do believe I have a theory on why. Pi---being infinite, as is the infinite measurement of the curve--- Must inherently be the natural order of geometry. So everything, running off, and smoothing over by rain And evolving over time, Naturally must produce a circle. As, Pi is the natural shape, the natural Number of nature, by which all other things are dictated. Surely, it has its subtle imperfections Making each specimen different, But given the natural shape of all things Are likened to a circle--- And what is straight Often we can assume was man made, How men create things in squares And nature its circles--- I do say it's an offensive little thought. That I hadn't attained it first--- Maybe I equal you in genius For giving an explanation as to why--- Is it the infinite reality of Pi Which causes this? That number naturally representing The geometry of a curve Therefore, randomness must Inherently, be shaped into curves. For, the patterns in nature show That all things, built by God, Are as a curve. Men build in squares And God builds with circles. Because men must shape our environment To order, and God must shape His environment To the natural world toward that infinite Shape, that infinite number Pi. And Mr. Emerson I do not plagiarize you Rather, as you said about great poets Writing in an age where there are few, We take all things and make them our own. But, my solemn task is finding in the past Things which ought to be remembered by all For a better future. Another peculiar thought. It seems that man is the only creation Of God's which is like a rectangle. For, the Golden ratio By which men create and shape their world, Is dictated by the rectangular shape of our body. No other creature is dictated by its rectangular Form. None which I know. For, they are either cones, spheroids Or outright shaped like circles. The Human body, when standing upright Exhibits the Golden Ratio;--- That being Five to two. So do trees, so do bushes, But only human bodies seem to be nature's rectangle Which may be why we prefer them in our creations. But this strange ratio has been told to me By a much beloved professor When describing the Acropolis Which is fitted to our human shape;--- Which does appears in nature;--- Perhaps it is nature's rectangle Which we men are formed closer to---- Yes, it is most defined in our human form. For, perhaps these two measurements The measurement of Pi And the measurement of Phi, Perhaps these numbers are scientific Facts, oblong and shaping the world Through their infinite order. Perhaps Pi is nature's curve And Phi is nature's rectangle Both working together In their infinite measurements As if planed and scaled by God Like the Bible said, "Wisdom was with God when he Planed the Scale of the Earth". For, by observing this order, I am confident that God exists. For, these measurements create Upon the earth, and define all Aesthetic Beauty. That, and of course, Fibonacci's sequence; Which repeats itself through all natural shapes. For some reason, these numbers lay down the law Of how our natural world gets shaped by the Eons of textures and winds, and rains. And, certainly, to have such geometric certainty As this---for randomness cannot truly occur in nature According to these principles--- It must be that an architect, by design Created our world. And as certain as these mathematical principles are Which are observed in everything from trees To mountains, to rock formations And even the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls, So are the moral principles laid down by Christ As certain. Which, Mr. Emerson, Is my scientific foundation for believing in Him. God's Word Word and Tao seem to be called opposites Yet, each speaks to the same discovered truth. Beyond the legalistic letters we Try to use, lies the sense of expressed truth. Not through matter of interpretation But through matter of the senses given We understand one another through truth. Even more, that lay hid beneath all things Is an unseen force which does define them. That we, attempting to stray from that path Do create for ourselves unhappiness; For underneath everything is the truth Which cannot be expressed by the letter But can be fully expressed through the sense. For it is this sense which defines all things And straying from this sense is what creates Bitterness, malaise and unhappiness. And this same thing is the proof of God's Will. Imagine We Were Characters in a Book Imagine our Earth were a book. And imagine God were the author of that book. God wrote the book. And, isn't a book something different Than our three dimensional world? It exists purely in thought. It cannot be accessed Except by comprehending what the words on the paper mean. It's the difference between our four dimensional space/time And pure imagination. Now, imagine everything we could experience Were like that book to God. And God were like we reading it. How silly would it be for the characters In that paper to use the events of that book To comprehend the man who wrote it. Such is with Genesis, That if one authored a book And edited it It would look different Describing the edits one did Than it would if one read the events In their chronological order within the book. For we and our history are like the book And the Bible contains a literal history of How it was written; It catalogs all of its edits And presents them to us chronologically In the point of view of God's Eternal Present. I Alexander, your love for life exudes And your love for meaning in the little things. Like a child, you look upon the world And see greatness, you see unexplored Alleys in every nook and cranny. The strangeness of the world is still fresh In your youthful mind, So your sense of meaning is founded Upon a love for life and its victuals. Grow older, though, Alexander, For one day you will, And looking upon the turtles Chirping their love songs In the spring You will at once find all things artificial. The aspirations of love The charters of worlds gone and far Of new lands, and sailing over the world's edge It will be a far off thing, When standing before the turtles chirping Their mating hymns. To which, life will be somber and melancholy, Yet, it will be sweeter, for the Turtles singing their hymns Will bring you the knowledge, Sweet it is, that within their happy little tales Lies the force of life, and the gay little charm Of something deep within every living thing. And when you find that, You will have found all wisdom And all charity. You will have stumbled upon the outer breath of God. II Jacque, you cry for a storm Against the church. You ire, and are indignant. Aught had such indignation at a time. You wish sin to be removed from this world And believe with your heart that all sin finds its root In the institutions of man. You see it, for they have always rejected you. You rage against a machine That neither you nor aught fully understand. Yet, the machine, dirty it is--- It brings upon its apparatus The sustenance of the poor. It is a place to tell dark secrets. Those secrets told, they will Vanish with the wind. Yes, you and aught rage against It, for it never accepted us. But, as black and dark the machine is It makes men civil And protects them from themselves. For in all things is sin, And to take away sin from a man It takes mercy, and a covering of skins. For our shame is bare before all mankind, And these institutions are the places Where the spinstresses weave our cloth And wrap us so we are no longer naked. You wish to strip the cloth From men When you wish to dissolve those institutions. For aught do understand it, But certainly, those institutions are good Because men need to cover their naked shame. III Cleopatra, your domain is yours Who gives words of strong guidance. Your ire is just, your indignation furious But your favor like a copper piece, Choice among the coinage. Silent and swift, your judgment comes While strong are you to battle. You lead this one, and he goes there. You lead that one, and she goes here. They all hearken to you. Egypt is guided by your strong bow But strange are the Satraps who preside Over the prosperity of our world. For much strong gain, The flows of the Nile overflow your head Yet you strive, even though the rewards are dim. For the fruits of your kingdom are small, Small among the kingdoms, Yet you man your post with dignity of office As a Prince among princes. The war comes, and allies flock to your aid For your reign is good, and just Though there are kings above you And kings above them. The peoples are wary Yet you keep your subjects under the yoke Of hard effort, and strength For you join yourself with them And thresh the corn, Beating out the fitches From the fold. IV Atalanta, you stand among your thorns. Everything you touch withers and dies. Your anger and shame behooves you As the food you feed the nations Wilts and does not satisfy. It is ashes in the mouth. You make haste to do good Yet only grief and shame come from your deeds. Your good is only ashes seeping from clenched fists. How the nations love you Atalanta. They cheer your fame But they curse the name of man Who challenges you. You, like Death, bring the shadow And the gray of the thunderstorm. Your benefactor is rude in his abuses And your lover is unkind. Slowly, your creeping vine tangles itself around The world, as you stand among your Thorns, and pluck the Corolla of the Rose To shape it into your deign. Fortunes you cannot make. And it flees from you; All things die and wilt in your hands. For the rose does not prosper For you do not proceed with Diligence. Your garden is fertile But your slack hand makes the bulbs stoop. V Sela, I see your strength And bitter rage. You course through the seas O' Bitter One, Ruler of a Thousand. When Cyrus came to Babylon and Ecbatana The peoples fled from your tyranny, For your wrath was kindled And your ire, your wrath Your broken pride, it caused the peoples To flee from their cities And they allowed Cyrus' forces within the walls unhindered. The Medes hate you, O Sela, As your hideousness is made the Form. The peoples lament While you set sail on the ocean, Mighty Princess of the North. You grow to hate So you draw forth your oars And pillage the coasts Causing all things beautiful to age. O! Sela, the world has become yours through Scythian war. VI Bitter David, I see you unravel The mysteries of a song. Your heart in melancholy turn, studied What would become vanity. Your daunting effort goes noticed By those who love music too, Of ages gone by. Stand at the age where deep Calls out to deep;--- But the Cypress in its Mourning replies, "Death has taken over the valleys. "Meaning doth sing her lute "In the Elburz "And armies travel through the Gate. "For the sun makes his revolution "Over the mountains "And on one side is day "And the other it is night." Yet none do draw the wisdom For men are marked out for their sins In youth. For a man's sin is discovered And it is now altered new, So that David, your effort was in vain. And with it the Cypress Mourns, for even the work of man Is besmirched by what's misunderstood. VII Hera, you were strong in Courtly abodes, where the messengers Could keep your stead And give you the sustenance you required. For it was the infidelity of Zeus Who led you to your humble position. This the peoples knew And gracious was their kindness toward you In your low estate. Completely innocent you were While Zeus made off and courted Danae. They were but men. You required rest; So with Artemis and Apollo. Yet, you instead wished to smite And like Prometheus steal the heavenly fire. You thundered, and your rage flung For the thunderbolts, but Artemis and Apollo Were sick of loves, and cried day and night For peace. Yet in your wrath There was no peace, But made war as Egypt's vine. Then, you established your house And cast your thunder at Cyrus Not Zeus; no, you threw down lightning at Cyrus Just as Cyrus had feared. Who would free God's people? Yet you, seeing yourself as a god Smote the one who shew the most kindness on you. For Artemis and Apollo's sake Cyrus rose early to counsel thou, Queen. Yet your fury hath spilled onto him Who was your greatest ally. Furious art you that one had told the truth? That war among the Titans would ruin The happiness of your children? This will be your ruin; And alas, God has told me it already is. VIII He came down, that Aeneas With his cloud, Shrouded in the mystery Of faith. "What liberty do I have?" He wondered, wishing to appease God Through the Meogic of the Law. The mystery is, that a wise man Can tell his riddles Without repudiation. That a man who has it in his mind To create worlds May create them. That a man, struggling to overcome Sin, does not have to abstain from anything Except what is sinful. If there be a train of bitterness in the heart That is sin. If Aeneas, you strive with Achilles And Odysseus and Virgil Then strive not with them For they make you doubt. However, stories contain in them wisdom. Hercules the right of passage for every man, And Bulfinch, a Christian Spun many a myth with joy For it was his work. For a man like me has very little use in this world Except to look at it And turn over its riddles. It does not have to be divine... Yet prophetic nonetheless God speaks, and it is my joy to write. Yet, you ask me a question... I suppose the answer Is that beauty is an utterance But since there is so little beauty Any trace becomes an idol. Yet I see no thing for me to do Beside utter beautiful utterances; Such it is that I do not sin. No more than Spenser or Wordsworth Or Coleridge. But, since there is only ignorance right now Any truth uttered will not be trusted. In fact, an utterance of truth Could set the world ablaze For men are spun their dreams by Morpheus And not by the poets anymore. IX The shadow within you Oh River of the Jordan Flows like the Styx into the recesses Of cold, imagination. Passing through desert lands The ashes of millions And the starving bodies of billions Flow through your wise deltas. Embrace the shadow? The cold, monstrous thing Within us? Who like Death and She'ol Twists and turns through hideous Forms, dark and seductive? Within the heart lies this The very thing Christ will exorcise. For twisting in passions and desire Murder and blasphemies Is this darkening of the soul. The Shadow, The Doppelganger. Latent, all feel its pressure Those who are wise; Those who are fools do not know it Yet it exhumes with all of their tongue. It is man's perfect enemy The shade which the white sepulcher contains. Find it, grab hold of it, Release it with kindness. Push it not back down into the body, But let the wicked beast Be like mist which steams Out from the soul By the sweat of faith And the renewing of the strength in Christ. X The heart-felt joy of play One finds in youth, ever striving For the pure emotion. And Nero, your heart is light, In you is joy, the turning of your marble Toys and the marching of them in their rows. Old, though, we find you As you put on your wolf's attire And with drawn leash are led through The meadowgrounds. Innocent, though strange, Your boyhood's emotions flood into you Pure, like the syringe. You bark, you trot, you kick your feet In the mud. You wag your tail and I find no sin in it. Then, the disapproval settles in. The peoples look on you And do not understand the spectacle, The unstructured exorcism of imagination. What is beautiful, what is serenity What is joy, is now poisoned forever. You push it down into your soul For play was all you knew. Play was everything you had. The joy, the frivolity, The utter freedom. Constrained to your dog costume--- For you are now old, And have chosen just this one form of play As is consistent with sagacity--- But no-one shares your joy. It is I who sees you are not sinning But are filled with hearty laughter And you feel pure child's joy. I understand you... But the stranger shares not your joy. So, what was first innocent Becomes howling sin. XI God of Our Youth What the devil wants are happy monkeys Silent, with no knowledge of future's past. Dancing with the strobes lit, and faces pale. Exerted with all fun and copulate With the familiar sting of sexual touch. Children to be raised by their bonobos To grow up without knowing what love is. Silent, with no knowledge, no speech, no thought Language simplified to terse chords of A ten thousand word vocabulary. No one works, no one has their property Starved; feeding on the remaining surplus Of past generation's stores of green corn. Breaking down the windows of good people To steal from them their hard earned silver coins. At the end, hell's the deserted cities Its deserts the overgrown farmer's fields Its dried up river beds the State's drained stores. This is Socialism, God of our Youth. XII To the Hymn of Auld Lang Syne Not an Original Piece, but One I Can Remember Singing But cannot find anywhere. Keep Your Eye on the Grand Ol' Flag Should all acquaintance be forgot And e'ry a heart do sag Should all acquaintance be forgot Keep your eye on the grand ol' flag. Should old acquaintance be forgot And all guns hammer their tacks Should old acquaintance be forgot Keep your eye on the grand ol' flag. Should auld acquaintance be forgot And the nation come under attack Should auld acquaintance be forgot Keep your eye on the grand ol' flag. Should our acquaintance be forgot And men forget this song Should our acquaintance be forgot The days seem ever so long But if all acquaintance be forgot And e'ry a heart do sag If all acquaintance be forgot Keep your eye on the grand ol' flag. XIII Sir Lucan and the Sphynx Canto I Upon the pass there came Sir Lucan And His squire Beowulf the Less. Beowulf the Less had a page Gregory. Gregory, the page, armored Beowulf From head to toe. He latched on helmet, Shield, shoe, girded Beowulf with His sword Gwyndylyn. Beowulf had aegis Strapped to his chest. However, Beowulf's helmet was weakened By a blow taken in mortal combat. Beowulf had slewn a man down in dishonorable show Of arms, where he and a knight Valiant Took to blows in the ring of combat. This knight threw down his gauntlet So Beowulf picked it up. Sir Lucan was Beowulf's Knight, and this knight beckoned Beowulf to stay home, And not to pick up the gauntlet. Yet, Beowulf picked up the gauntlet; And thus, battle was struck. The two warriors showed, down in the arena While Lucan watched, with scowl on his mug. Arthur sanctioned the tournament As Page Gregory was with damsel Thus, he did not throw in his lot to stop the tournament. It took to blows, the black knight, Called Sir Rancor, first took his sword And smote it down upon Beowulf's head. Beowulf took the blow; Sowith, his helmet cracked; Thus, Beowulf became wroth Who took his shield and smote Sir Rancor upon the breast, and Smote down his sword upon Sir Rancor's head. Blood poured out of Sir Rancor's joints As Sir Rancor took to a blow At Beowulf's shield Bowing the shield with his chain mace. Beowulf, without helmet nor shield Acquiesced for the battle, And took his sword and ran it through Sir Rancor's Joint, by the armpit. Sir Rancor fell wounded, But took a dagger from his leg And shafted the weapon Into Beowulf's ankle Breaking his shoe's belt. Beowulf was uninjured; however, Taking his sword, he smote it down upon Sir Rancor's head. The knight fell, to wit, Beowulf drove his sword Into the heart of Sir Rancor Who lie on the ground, wounded. Arthur saw that the knight was dead So called the tournament closed Where Beowulf lost all his armor And Sir Rancor was lain smitten on the field of battle. Beowulf expected to be knighted for the feat However, Arthur saw no honor in this feud. Thus, Beowulf was yet still a squire. Beowulf saw the disdain on Lucan's face And saw he had disgraced his knight valiant. Lucan who would be later slain in battle To the Caerbanog, was disgruntled with Beowulf. For some say, this led Lucan to the Caerbanog's forest For he would no longer listen to sweet Beowulf. Page Gregory was not there to help Beowulf And Lucan was furious with Beowulf For accepting the challenge of so unworthy a knight. It came to be that Beowulf and Lucan had a quest Together. To shut up the Nile Dragon Who would attempt to Swallow the Daughter of Zion On that day. Beowulf and Lucan left In their armor, and Gregory Left Beowulf with these words: "Lucan cannot be trusted, "Do not believe a word he says "And be wary and wily of the things he does. "For Lucan is a savvy knight "Who only thinks of himself." Beowulf considered it, But knew it was not true. However, Lucan was furious with Beowulf For smiting the knight Rancor. Thus, Beowulf and Lucan set off on their journey. They would crusade down to Egypt. The Nile Dragon knew that they came, Thus he employed Nebo and Abaddon To come With the Elf Meogic And thus, cause Lucan more anger At his squire. Nebo came with his daughters Seventeen Thousand And Abaddon came with only himself. The two were chosen to be Pharaohs Kings of Egypt, And if they would slay Beowulf They would retain Egypt For themselves. Canto II It came to be, that in the salt valleys of Meggedon, Abaddon sought To conspire and therefore slay Beowulf the Less. Lucan and Beowulf---Gregory not behooved to come, For he could not--- Were on steed, Beowulf with Chantz And Lucan with his steed Crevan. Where Beowulf camped, Abaddon snatched him from his bed And took Beowulf to a village Where Beowulf would dream half his life away For sleep was better than the waking hour; Beowulf was captured by Abaddon Hencewith, he was brought to the low valleys. Now it was Abaddon who traveled with Lucan. Abaddon filled his mouth with many flatteries Toward Lucan. The two set out on the quest, but Abaddon was foolish, and no wisdom was in him. He did not slay Beowulf For he enjoyed the man's riddles. Thencewith, Abaddon walked with Sir Lucan Through the valleys of Meggedon Until they came to Africa's Gate. The two passed through But Abaddon was exceedingly happy, And more foolish than Lucan remembered Beowulf to be. However, Lucan fell to love Abaddon--- Because of his joy--- Like he were a son, and so pardoned Abaddon. For Lucan was enchanted. They walked for days Through the desert With its barren crags And salt rocks. It came upon the warfield, Nebo And his hordes of Daughters. Nebo, on his steed with leather skin, Was untransmogrified by the elf jewel; Thus, showed himself for what he truly be. He was leathery, and his ears a point; He was fat, and round, and gluttonous, His teeth were yellow And his lips were thin. His skin the color of ash, He had a face which was horrible To behold. Lucan mounted up on Crevan, And hoisted her javelin. "Beowulf, I have enjoyed your company "On this journey, yet now I go out to ride "Against this beast." Abaddon creased his lips into a grin Because he had loosened Lucan's armor When placing it upon him As was a squire's duty. Lucan hoisted up, and flung for Nebo. The seventeen thousand daughters of Nebo Flung down the mountain Into the bowled valley. The battle was gruesome As blood poured into rivers Through the ravines. Lucan had slaughtered so many Of Nebo's daughters. Nebo, thus, flung into a fit of rage And transformed himself Into a Giant. Lucan fell to a flight yet Lanced the Giant's foot; However, Lucan's armor joints came undone in battle And he was bare before the Giant's wrath. Abaddon danced a wicked dance And joined the fight against Lucan. He rushed at Lucan on Chantz However, Chantz knew 'twas Abaddon. So, Chantz stopped in mid gallop; Sofore, throwing Abaddon off his back. Lucan retreated toward Abaddon Trampling him with horse's hooves Seeing that he was not Beowulf But was Abaddon. Lucan fell into a sore fright That he was without his squire. Thus, Lucan galloped as fast as he could out of the battlefield. He had found himself in the Nile, And so discovered the black, fertile soil. There began to grow a vine from it And it shot out large, and heaved itself Upward. It grew tall into the sky Like the Tower of Babble, And it sprouted smaller vines from without it, Lit; it were starflesh. The Sphynx was spreading his vine All throughout the world A verdant weed, it Raised into the sky, and spread itself across the entirety of the earth. Lucan felt frightened, As he drew back on Crevan and galloped Toward his dominion. Lucan was no coward but saw that this vine had spread Throughout the whole of the world, And who was he to fight it? Howsofore, there came one who was beautiful. He took Lucan by the hand, And told him, "Do not give up on your son "He needs you and your love at this very hour. "For, Egypt is spreading its vine throughout the whole of the earth "And you must help him "By fighting back the fear "Of this vine, "To show him that he is still loved." Lucan had received a vision of Beowulf Encased in a place where he was rendered useless. Thus, Lucan had to go rescue him. For Gregory could not As only Lucan's love could free Beowulf from his curse. Only Lucan's forgiveness, and alliance Could free Beowulf from this unholy trap. Canto III It came to be that Sir Lucan traveled into The heart of Egypt, To the Tombs of the ancient Pharaohs. The Sphynx prowled With shifting shoulder blades. There rose mummies From their crypts Five of the pharaohs of the past. The Sphynx spake, "Lucan, if you can beat me "I shall spare thee from the Caerbanog. "And thy squire Beowulf shall live." Lucan, upon Crevan, hoisted up his javelin. "I will be angry with my squire "For fighting his feud with the Knight Rancor. "However, I see that he is a man. "And he has made his own choices." The Sphynx spake, "Choices, yes. "He has made many choices, "And smote down the knight Rancor. "And for this, we see you cannot forgive him." The mummies flung toward Lucan And it was all Lucan could do to stay Upon his steed. He would slash the mummies He would kill them Only to have them resurrect themselves With their moving limbs. "You do not know the moegic of Egypt. "These are stronger than Orcs "And cannot be killed "By one who harbors anger." "Beowulf was my friend, "My companion from long ago. "Now, he is broody "And sad, and I do not know if I can love him the same "For his sadness is of his own making." The Sphynx said, "Then, Lucan, he shall die." Lucan fell upon his knees As Crevan Whinnied. "He will die?" "Of course, a man cannot bear the despair "Of having one so close to him "Perpetually angry. "For, Beowulf is entrapped by his own despair. "And that despair we are using to fuel "The spreading of this vine "Which shall feed on the world's joy "And it shall replace all joy with despair "Just like your son's. "For his grief is a weapon "We use to throw down the nations "And to give them no joy henceforth. "How can a man who is innocent "Have no joy? It can only be "That Pharaoh's vine "Recompense the world "Double for what it has done to Beowulf." Lucan then spake, "What has the world done to Beowulf?" The Sphynx spake, "The world? "What had it done "But cast him into shame "Through its unforgiveness? "Beginning with yours "Which was harbored long before "He smote down Sir Rancor. "For, you had resented him "Ever since he had chosen "Gregory as his Page." Nebo and Abaddon receded into the corridor And drew their swords. "Now, see, Lucan, I can save you "From the Caerbanog, "The Fairy lORD "If you defeat me." The Sphynx grew haughty. "What are you Sphynx?" Cried Lucan. The Sphynx said, "I? I am the flow of the times." The five mummies flung forth To maul Lucan And Abaddon and Nebo Attacked her At once. It began to grow into a horrendous feud As the seven fought mortal combat. No matter how much they fought The seven prevailed over Lucan. Lucan saw the Sphynx Prowling like a lion From without the battle. "Yes, Lucan, I am the Zeitgeist. "I am the thing you cleave to. "Surrender Beowulf, "For he is not your son." Lucan cried out a mighty roar, "Beowulf is my son!" And so she threw her lance In a mighty strike against the Sphynx's Chest. It sunk deep into the Sphynx. The Sphynx was smitten. He fell dead upon the bier of the golden Tombs. The Sphynx was dead. There came from time the Caerbanog As it spread forth from the vines. For the vines were the Caerbanog. It lit its fiery glow, Yet, Beowulf flung from his sleep Where the Caerbanog hid him. Beowulf took Lucan And galloped with him From without the Pyramid. The whole of Egypt quaked, As Nebo and Abaddon Rushed from the tombs. Pharaoh was dead And the mummies were crushed From beneath the pyramid's falling Aedicules. The Caerbanog was spread throughout the whole land. Abaddon and Nebo disappeared from without the pyramid. After which, a quake, And the Caerbanog fell 'pon A hard fall; Its verdant vines Turned to ashen yellow. "Wot not you that thou would have perished "To this cruel vine "Had you not saved me from this "My spell?" Spake Beowulf. Lucan saw that the deuterocannon Of the analogs of Fairyland Were now altered. The Caerbanog was defeated. Thus, Beowulf could live his happy life. Thus, Beowulf lived happily ever after. XIV I Saw Truth with Her Lover I saw Truth with her lover In the dark; I took my raiment, and galloped far away To where I slew a knight in combat And took his woman from him. I had then found a tree Of which I wished to make her a garland from Yet the tree bled and spoke. He told me of a wicked sorceress Who made he and his lover into those trees. I had found, also, that the knight I slew Had two brothers. I found too many enemies Yet was I angry with the Truth For her adultery; For why would she be in another's bed And not mine, when I was her betrothed? I had not seen t'wasn't her In that bed, but rather the apparition of Morpheus. For Truth, she seemed, slept nude with Hecate Yet it was only a magical spell Which made Truth seem a whore. XV Trivia, riddle odes And weave webs of lies. Every word you speak is Invented from the world, You make yourself more ancient than Hecate Who stands with her torch. You occupy yourself with every fact that contradicts Strange, ancient wisdom. The Love of the Two Peaches Is constructed, born a twelvemonth ago. Yet, it is born as ancient wisdom. Trivia, your weave a web Of factoids. Wisdom can still be purchased So the ancient accents are known. Paul Revere did ride a midnight ride Yet, Trivia, you make Boston's Massacre Riot control--- It was a massacre. Auld Lang Syne replaces "You're A Grand Ol' Flag" And Trivia, Mnemosyne is silently demented So all acquaintance is forgot. Good men are turned into Joseph, Yet all his mourners are comforted For great lies are being spun by Trivia. It soon becomes apparent The Love of the Two Peaches Isn't ancient. Neither was the City of Sodom one which stood ancient. For there is truth: And it is hidden By you Trivia. XVI Sing, oh wary ship traveler. Cyrus sees your weary eyes As the watch prowls the street Asking for bribes, and stirring the Little townsfolk into their homes. Prosperous was the land you fled to. Prosperous, and kind Until Sin's dark shadow grew over the basin Of the gorges. O! If you only knew our freedoms If you only knew. Cyrus, stir the Medes Stir the Medes Stir the Medes. Cyrus spoke, "I would cut them to pieces "And rip out their throats. "I would ravish the town squares "And purge the evil of this land. "I shall not spare their children. "I shall not spare the rod. "For I destroy even the Babes "When I go to war." O! Babylon! Prepare for war For the peoples desire the law of Yah And scorn the laws of Sin. From the East, from the North From the South, comes the armies Of Persia and Media. Sing o strong ones For freedom is meted And the war shall be fierce. Weapons shall unsheathe their naked steel And in one night the battle shall be lost For thee, o Babylon. For the Barren ones in the East And the Barren ones in the South And the Barren ones in the North Are ashamed of you. XVII Dark and ancient truths Which still burgeon in the world today. American soldiers slaughter children. Iraqi soldiers violate women. War still gets fought by civilized countries. Were you offended by Cyrus? Yet our modern wars are fought just the same. Children die in bombings, Women are violated Men slaughter one another. What justifies war? What justifies the crimes attributed to war? War is the supreme evil. What justifies it? When is it justified to commit all atrocious evils? Surely there is a time, But now is not it. XVIII Let me fight our wars in verse. Purge the violence from our souls. Let me... Let me speak of rebellion Of slaughtering Of killing Of being unkind. Let me tell you of war You who wishes to kill the children You who wishes to violate the women You who wishes to plunder the spoil From the homes. Men die--- The very strangers I sing about The very souls who occupy my verse. These men, they die Picking up the rifle. Let me tell you the raw, uncensored Emotion of war. What kings feel when they send their troops into battle. Children are to be dashed against the stone. Women are to be ripped apart Their breasts ripped open And their bodies made into a heated flash of fury. No... what I write ought to be offensive Because you burgeon close to war. These things you all will be guilty of. So, let my poesy purge you of the evil. Show you the guilt. I'll draw you close to suicide I'll draw you close to homicide And then you can inch back And say, like it were a dream, "I had never done it." To know the feeling of a man's warm blood Upon hands--- I do not know it, but I know the feeling Of battle. I will show you, And let you meditate on it. For is my verse offensive? It ought to be. For both Woke and Nazi youths Will die with one another's Fluids upon them. Blood, guts and the ravished. My poem should be offensive. For war is offensive. Do you wish to walk to the brink? Do you wish to learn the regret Of having taken another's life? Of having violated someone? Will your conscience ever be made whole After knowing and tasting violence? So I say, eat with trembling. Drink with haste. Prepare your hearts for war. And if it doesn't come Give a sigh of relief. XIX Xenophanes, you poetically, and surgically Weave your origins of doubt. You find God to be cruel More like man than actual deity. I see the traces of wisdom in you How you want an origin of God's being And callously say, "Christ is only two thousand years old." Yet, ancient was the deity Who gave Moses Law, and more ancient was the deity Who gave some of which to Abraham Hammurabi's law; El is Hebrew for God And El is traced to Mesopotamia To be worshiped at the time of Melchizedek and Abraham. El, it turns out has a Son. The Scholars at Oxford and Yale Say, "It is the cult of righteousness." Yet, I say it is not so. What cult of righteousness springs up in China? What cult springs up in Greece? As if this God's truths were universal Found throughout West and East And firstly discovered in the Middle of the world? Greeks found Word, Charity, Agape Chinese found Tao, Filial Respect, and Universal Love. Jesus is the Word, is the perfect picture of Filial Respect and Charity and Love. How cultures found morality independent of one another. Yet, there are those who contest it. And Xenophanes, you find them Secreted in your doubt that man had anthropomorphized God. And that is what causes you to doubt. Yet, I see the same notions springing up in separate cultures Meaning there must Be. What is there? What can be found? If it's there to discover Who put it there? And these my God answers When He took on Human Flesh. No other satisfies it; Yet predicted at the beginning of human civilization--- When one man and another agreed upon their social contracts And thus forth bore rule--- Is the fingerprint of my God. That El, the nameless deity Had a Son And from this sprung what academics call "The Cult of Righteousness." And then I find philosophers discover those same truths. I say to myself, "The evidence is overwhelming. "And then add to it the Heavens and Isaiah's scroll;---the stories written in the constellations." I find one hundred percent proof that God is the Hebrew's God And that God's Word put on the Flesh of Man. XX Cyrus, I understand you The way you think. I know you from the inside How you have petulant doubts Yet rage at the heathen. I know you rage against God And seek to destroy Him. Yet I also know you secretly wish To use his laws to exact vengeance on this world. You do not believe in God You do not... But His laws are enticing as an engine To siege the Capitol And to tear down walls and bulwarks; To stir Media and Persia Against Assyria and Babylon. I know you from the inside And your rage which burns toward the infidel. Religion to you is a tool The Messiah an engine which you will use To usher in your reign. Alas, I stand here Arguing with you for the second time As you tell me, "On your death bed "You will say as Jesus said, "My God, My God, Why Have You Forsaken Me?" Yet you take slaves, While you dash the infants upon the rocks. Christian you do not hate--- No, you love God's people. For it is in you to love God's people. Yet you rage against God as Satan himself And you move upon your holy quest to purge Sin's temple from the world. I see you in my thoughts and visions And I am like you So it disturbs me greatly. I am gentle, and meek; You are a warrior Believing in the law of my God Right down to the tittle--- Yet you do not believe in God. Such a strange doubt in you That I feel in my chest But I do not understand why you believe in my God's law But not the God Himself? Is it, like so many Jewish men You like the burdens of lamb stew and drink oblations? I say to you, You will be used to purge the land of its idols. That is what you wish. Yet it is I who shall prosper in the LORD's name For I will declare my portion That your rage may be just But it is not a wholesome intention to Desire to fix the world. XXI Alas, I call you Cyrus in this book. But you are not Cyrus. You are Nero. XXII Gahanna was shrouded in mystery As the Styx flows through the Acheron; Descended into the deep Son of a king, you trifle there. King of the scouts The minstrels sing of you In the woven dreams of Morpheus. The gum of Acacia is upon your thigh Yet I rejected it, for such is the disease Of mind, which your magic spun Through dirt and vulgarity. You sought me, and you found Cyrus. You found me, yet you were but a boy And our lives crossed on the banks of the Susquehanna. I do not know what powers are over me... Only that an Acquaintance, a man my equal, So says David, Whom I had counsel with in the LORD's house Will betray me. Forsooth, such a strange thing to be That it was a happy accident Which brought you to my humble life; Yet you should be one plotting against me. XXIII The Savanna is rubicund With delightful golden grains. Most gorgeous are her valleys With the hills among the rolling veldt. I, the animal, enraged By Serengeti hunger Am driven into mindfever Where I cannot perceive Nor understand; No, I am crazed by possibilities. If I had you, your plains would be mine And I would be the lion Within his Pride. There would be only nature and I. It would be of no use For only the air of the veldt Could satisfy me Should I be satisfied by you. I would desire nothing more And would never wander from my bounds In the safelands, Where poachers could not find me. For I will stay upon your plains And meander among your hills. XXIV There is an Amazon in the forest. Lusty she is, bare, exposed Easy to take and be pleased. Yet, she will tear you limb from limb And take your leg upon her gnashing teeth. She will bite it, with blood down her chin And her hair is knotted with the blood of men. Pleasing she seems far away Until you come close to her And she is too big for loves. You cannot marry her But become her slave Where she will malign you And break your spirit. I say, I have seen the Amazon kingdom And it is frightening. All men stay indoors And are frightened to peep Out the lattice, For the giantess walks among them. Elephant for steed And lust in her eyes. XXV Though you speak untruth Sor Juana, And always turn the right for the worse My love for waxes Like the moon, But it shall never wane. Violent, you protected your blessed young Though worthless men tried to steal Your fruit from you. And he is blessed The fruit of your womb. For you had taken your wounds And stripes, and your joy was made fruitful A man, more intelligent than I. More blessed than I on this earth. A man who possesses the sea And all of beauty.. Though you do not speak Words which are wise to the ears Your zeal and love for your child Is a light to my eyes And a longstanding gem And treasure in my heart. When men malign your name I speak in its defense. For there is speech--- And what of us have not been silly in our years?--- And then there is action. And though you speak I know you act upon your better nature. And for that I love you, Sor Juana. And I always shall. XXVI Cain, you present your grain offering. Your two hands labored day and night For the produce of the field. You present your offering And say, "Look upon my fruit "It is good." Lot, however, gave his beloved daughter To appease the lust of the Sodomites. Broken by this, and also the loss of his wife, Cain, you look upon him and say, "What had this man done that was good? "He gave of his women to be maligned by Sodomites." Lot, who loved his daughter, Felt maligned an entire lifetime For this sin. He had cried day and night Yet, it was either her, or the Holy Being. For, they would be slaughtered By lust, had Sodom's lust not been appeased. Oh, Cain, you look upon him, disgusted. Then you say, "My brother is poor "Why had not my mother killed him in the womb? "For he grew to be a lazy shepherd "And does nothing all day, except peer "Into the stars of heaven "And spin Idle tales by which he wishes to teach the peoples. "He is lazy, and is a degenerate. "For I know his sins, that he has done far "More wickedly than I. "Therefore, why had not my mother buried him "And his poverty in the womb? "For I am rich, and right, "And have grown my crop by my own sweat. "And all my brother did was stand in the green field "To tender his flock." XXVII Censures of the Ass He wants evidence for God's existence; Beauty comes under attack, censorship Threatens to destroy all things of conscience. Evidence, he claims, yet it is his whip Which tortures him like the mad Catholic. Holy is his crusade, holy and thick; Offended and driven mad by beauty That the mountains are hoary and frostbit That the trees are wooded, and the ponds green--- He, with his unholy, black candles lit Sings his prayers to the form of ash decay. Angelic voices he forbids to pray; Evidence is what he seeks to destroy:--- Art he calls pretentious; beauty a ploy. XXVIII Some lies are sown by the minds of worthless Men, who, knowing that they have lost their war, Will seed a tare of doubt to germinate Many decades later. It is cunning At its finest, to fallow the soil Of another generation to take Up the Burdens of the Past and spill blood. By it, crafty Fascists tilled Christian men's Hearts, and sown their seeds into the future Through ignorance of the past, and factoids. Some fascists place condemnation on tongues So to wag at long forgotten heroes. Others sow their seeds, using Christ's good name To then crucify devout believers. All the while a chorus sings their hymn To summon bestial intelligence,--- To blaspheme what is holy in heaven And to call what is beautiful, grotesque. XXIX I The idiot said on national TV Disparaging religion once again, "It is religion that separates us "And maligns the human spirit! "If we just got rid of it, people would have peace." His raging lunatics cry for a third of the earth to be lobotomized. Oh, yes, I read how Prods and Papes Hate each other in Ireland. Eerily, I see a different truth. How Blue and Red hate each other In America, And Democrat and Republican Hate each other. No... there is bitterness enough To be expelled from a man's house Should you consent to the wrong flash of insignia. Or, shall I talk to these idiots About race? How mobs burn down Manhattan Because of skin color And stores are looted because of class struggles? Really, maybe we ought to be adealistic. Then, perhaps we'd have peace But the idiots I referred to Have managed to give Hitlerian mindset To atheists, who assume themselves good atheists Only, throw the unruly Jews---I mean Christians--- Into the Gas Chambers. Should I ever talk to that idiot I don't think I could speak. He's an excellent rhetorician Who turns a news article about how Hitler was not a Catholic And sources it in a debate To prove that Hitler was. Frankly, I'm about tired of it But in that little microcosm I cannot understand--- Why do Catholics and Protestants hate each other? I liken it to something that isn't religion--- It's just hate, and hate comes in many colors. II No, I'm not talking about you. Perhaps it is that you don't understand That educated men have taken the Idiot's Thoughts, construing it to launch a crusade Against religion. But this Idiot, Misjudging Christianity as the force of evil in the world Mistakes what is something primal For something artificial. Wars between Prods and Papes Are as equal as a civil war Defining what slavery is. And it is hardly a thing common to religion Slavery. Obviously, Your impression of Christianity Is that we like to kill people who disagree with it And that we go around starting Nazi revolutions And banning books about evolution. Silently, I understand your contemplation Though simple. Reality is often nuanced And often bad men have no real ideology beside power. It is that, since the worst of humanity has been touched in this soul To understand what it is that drove Hitler. And certainly it was not the teachings of Christ. Christ, who would be despised by Hitler As Jesus is a Jewish Name. I look at you, And see you influenced by the same Idiot I'm talking about Giving your factoids about how Nazis censored Things which they deemed destructive to the "Volk". You are likely not wise enough to understand it. I do, however. Religion unites a people So does skin color So does nationality. And you reject the fact That the religion was going to be a bait and switch Where men replaced Yah with Thor and Odin. No, it was not Christianity. It was human nature. As simple as a Blood and Crypt killing each other on Harlem's street That is as simple as the in-group out-group phenomena Which you blame on my humble religion. Often my religion has been in the out-group And persecuted by all men... At least the true devotees to my religion. You rage, you rant But I do not blame you for your mistake. I understand what you're saying. But I understand it is easy to look at the artifice And see Hitler built a tower with the remains of Christian mortar. In that, I suppose you're right. It is the worst of religion But it is also the worst of Atheism: It is the worst of ideology; As you do not see it, But I see in your atheism the same kind of destructive heresy That led Catholics into the Dark Ages And led Hitler to slaughter millions of my people. Perhaps you will not see it because you are blinded by it. And with that, It is why I silently bow away from you And let you be led by your Idiot leader. When you want true wisdom, Come here and read and drink From Brandon's Water. XXX I Is poetry an expression of the self? Or is it an expression of the truth? II Are all our minds just solipsist teacups And no man, however penetrating Can truly know what is in another man's heart? Is all our poetry simply an expression of self? Or does a stranger share in our sufferings? Can there be an utterance of the truth Something true for all men Or even just two? Can there be an expression, A word uttered that is truly understood? Can the best poets be penetrated Or are we trapped in eternal silence Of the solipsist called our soul? We reach outward, but do we truly see The world for what it is? Do we share our sight Or are all men that of blindness And can only see what is seen for them? Are we truly alone In our bodies Our souls an isolated remnant Which travels, And it is only us and our sufferings? No one to reach out to No one to truly know us Nor no one we can truly know? Are we just solipsists? The answer, I do believe Is no. XXXI Siegfried Asher, among the Choir I heard your song, like a Castrato Androgynous. Hermaphroditous, Among God's elect, singing The hymns, beautif'lly The hymns,---melodious, sonorous. At a point within the music You touch a note, and realizing its sheer Magnificence, it pleases you,---like Aphrodite You make the gathering fall in love. XXXII Drink wine. Make love. Merry the heart a bit With the pleasantry of vaginal skin. Oh, Dionysius, to whom Kingdoms Are but a game, and legions march out to war On orders, by programming upon the screen. They march, as you work upon them To get the droves to do your bidding. You wade in your underground hot springs And you dine upon flesh and flagons. Then, you hide from me your sin In our conversation, like a Roan Cleveland Bay. No, for all are guilty, but this you cannot admit to your own guilt. You hide it, oh Northern Prince, Your claims for evidence behooves you As piously you sit upon your throne in your den. You sit upon it, telling me there is no evidence for your sin. When, it is written all over your shameful acts To try and humiliate me. For humiliate me you did, for I cannot call to mind The potions you have drunken, The women you have made love to Nor the roughness by which you treat your own kin. To me, oh Dionysius, You are like royalty;--- Far beyond this jester fool Whose given the license can critique you. For you are like royalty, And I am like screed. My words have none affect upon you. They do not move you. They bore you. They are sonorous sermons To wit, namely, should I shame you like you have shamed me I cannot. For my shame is in the open And yours is locked away tight in your underground labyrinth. I speak of this to your benefit, that Yes, most men are guilty of the same shame as I. In one form or another. Laid the orgies of Dionysius, It is like murder upon your soul. And I, wishing to ease you from your sins Have been humiliated by you When you point to mine. For mine is a matter of public record. And yours is not. XXXIII I hate the tastes of the populous So I follow my muse where she leads me. I see a wicked man cannot believe in God But a righteous man cannot but help proclaim the name of Jesus. Wherever I go, I see in people's heart a light And the older they get, the more it dims. It's like when a young maid loses her virginity A dark frown furrows her brow. Her glow becomes dim And her inner light ceases to shine. Or a young man who has heart and courage And is like a lion, without knowledge of a woman When he enters into her, he too loses that innocence. Virginity ought to be prized, As once it's gone, it never ceases to be a vapor. Yet, a woman who was molested does not cease to be a virgin. She is not consenting, yet I do see she loses some of her inner light. Not for what she had done, but for what she had done to her. And it is a shameful thing among the sons of men. Yet, I also see men caught in a summary offense Whom having offended the virgin they had deflowered Be accused of committing a more heinous crime. For a fifty dollar fine, they find themselves shackled. I do not say it is injustice, for the woman ought to have been married And her lost virginity cries out to her Though many women pretend like it is not so. I look also to the wind, and see change comes To correct bad behaviors of the past. What looks wretched and tyrannical Is actually a chain which binds evil nations. It wraps around them, and it chokes out the sin; And while we all suffer for a while because of it Soon, it is better left that sex be for a married couple And for procreation. For, the nude show of woman's skin Is something she does feel guilty for, And though she shows her breezier at work The men who stare at it are condemned. And that whip chastises them, Yet the lack of love in her life chastises her. For all had been exposed for the purpose of vanity And still, that vanity cannot hide its shame. So, I look to the current age and say, "Is it that I must suffer too?" And the answer is yes. For a short time, and then it will pass like a raincloud. Yet, the dark storm is wrought by God To correct our foul notions. XXXIV The sheep with the Golden fleece Was tasked by a divorced bride To bring her children across the sea And to save them from the jealousy Of their stepmother. It dropped the girl into the water. And she, unapologetically, disappeared Without a second thought in the narrative.
(C)2021 B. K. Neifert
All Rights Reserved
B. K. Neifert
All Rights Reserved
For about ten years now, there has been a pervasive conspiracy theory that the Sumerians had created the Bible, and that everything we know about the Jews is a lie. The Epic of Gilgamesh is the text cited as being evidence of this erroneous supposition. There are a few glaring examples of why this belief is erroneous. For one, the Bible is conscious of its tradition, being written first by Moses, around 1300BC. So the assumption that the Bible was first oral traditions would be correct, and even corroborated by the Bible itself. Does it therefore discredit the Bible’s claim, when it corroborates itself that Moses was the first to write down the tradition? Then, it was carried forth by several dozen other prophets, to further record the prophetic heritage of Israel and her people.
No, rather, the conspiracy theory is so grand as to erase Israel from existence. No longer did the Twelve Tribes of Canaan exist. No longer do the Jews exist in Exile in Babylon, despite historical records of their conquest by Babylon. No longer does Persia exist, to send the Jews back to their land. No longer, in fact, because the Bible was written by the Sumerians. Which, literary criticism of the Bible would show that this is impossible. On several dozen fronts, but if we were to erase the Jews from history, we would essentially erase all of Western History with them. If the Sumerians wrote the Bible, and there were no Jews, then there have been absurd claims that Babylon never existed, and Cyrus never conquered it. Therefore, no Persia, therefore no Greece, therefore no Thermopylae, therefore, what exactly? If we acquiesce to the bad literary theory being used to discredit the Bible—and literary theory is the subject you embark on when interpreting it—then we can assume that if the Sumerians wrote the whole of the Bible, then there would be no Western Civilization to speak of. Which is actually one of the more radical and absurd claims being postulated in the hallowed halls of academia.
Of course, the argument breaks down, does it not? We have historical evidence of the Babylonians, evidence of the Jew’s exile in Babylon and the sack of Jerusalem. We have evidence of Persia, and yes, even the Sumerians. Which means, that if the Bible is being challenged on its literary truth, it corroborates what we already presume to know about the entirety of Western Civilization. Without the Bible’s claim, which is also corroborated by Herodotus and archeological evidence, we’d be in severe lack of an explanation for all of History. There’d be no Grecian defeat of Persia, no Persian defeat of Babylon, no Babylonian defeat of Assyria, no Median Empire, possibly even, if you got radical enough, no Roman empire. If we viewed history in the imaginary lens that the Sumerians wrote the Bible, then we’d have no history to speak of.
But, the Bible fills in the gaps of all history. It tells us of all these empires, corroborated by archeology, like the Babylonian game of Ur found in cuneiform text. Which proves there was indeed a Babylon, along with actual pictures of Babylon; Herodotus also noted that Cyrus had conquered it.
If we try to denounce the written records of historians, mythologists, prophets like Socrates, Confucius, Moses or Christ, we tend to do something destructive to the overall understanding of the continuum we call history. We skew it for our political aims, rather than view it objectively from witnesses at the time periods. For, the Bible could not simply be a text written by the Sumerians, passed down and propagated by them. More than likely, the Hammurabi’s code would predate or run contemporary of it, and show us that the Laws in Exodus and Leviticus were in their infancy, being hemmed out by those early civilizations. Hence where the myths get their traction. But, some Prophet had the foresight to place Abraham at the time period, through the Genealogical records of the Bible. Given this weird coincidence, that happens again with Moses and the Cult of Aten, and then again at the Fall of Babylon and the weird monotheistic invention of Zoroastrianism, it would seem that the Bible is very good at predicting when and where its prophets will be at times when Monotheism became most prominent. If studying the genealogical records, it lines up exactly with the events described. Either some genius constructed the Bible for that purpose, or the Bible is itself an accurate description of a people’s heritage. We know it’s an accurate description of a people’s heritage, and we can safely assume that the Bible is an authentic piece of literature describing what is, indeed, the first monotheistic religion. Because the evidence corroborates the stories in the Bible, and the Bible even discusses times when its own adherents forgot their own religion. The Bible is a seamless text at describing the very real and frustrating nuances of history. It even predicts its Messiah will suffer on a cross. It predicts its people will go into exile while only at the time of Moses. It predicts itself time and time again, and those predictions come true. It seems to find the most arbitrary points in history for its prophets to line up with, to corroborate the Monotheism of itself in those eras. And the Bible does, indeed, say that it began with God talking to a Mesopotamian Lord, corroborates with El Worship in Mesopotamia, around the initiating of the Hammurabi’s Code, where they worshipped El and El’s Son. The Bible is a seamless piece of literature, being corroborated by history from the time of the Sumerians in Mesopotamia, where only one man, Abraham, had divine promise from God to establish a people, to now the whole world in Christ.
There is possibly a reason for this, as cultures became more adept at describing the moral patterns of civilization, it became necessary for God to reveal Himself to the civilizations when they were at their ready stages. For some other interesting things appear.
The Greeks have numerous times quoted Old Testament passages. It’s highly unlikely that the quotations were taken from Greece and adapted into the Bible. If Persia wrote the Bible, the Greeks were their mortal enemies, and therefore, would not want their protectorate to succumb to Greek Influence. However, there is much evidence of the Bible predating the establishment of Persia or Greece. One blatant example is the literary consistency of the Bronze Serpent in the days of Moses being destroyed by Hezekiah; which suggests the Bible were written over a period of time, rather than all at once, for such a detail would be nearly impossible to artificially invent by more than one author. More than likely, the Bible was a document written by a people whose ancestry came from the land of Canaan, and their document was widely popular and widely read, as is stated in the Bible when God Himself says He has great fame. Through literature we can understand this is likeliest of all cases. Because the scripture is either written with the most unique piquancy to somehow get itself entangled in all of history, East and West; or it is the written Casebook of God.
Certainly, however, we must backtrack to understand that Western History is reliant on the Jews; the fundamental nature of our historical background is cemented by their existence. Because without the Jews’ Bible being authoritative, we have no knowledge of how Europe came to exist. No real knowledge. For, what is archeological evidence seems to even corroborate that all of it existed, there is a unique conspiracy theory that the Jews were in fact invented by Persia, but the Persians included Greek quotations in their little satellite nation’s book of propaganda, whom the Persians were to be sworn enemies with at their collapse. Less than likely.
What is more likely the case, is that the Bible was established prior to the foundation of Persia or Babylon, or Assyria, or Greece, that the Jews forgot their religion like is said numerous times in the Old Testament, and that the Bible was a widely circulated document in the time periods, which some of its wisdom ended up in the Iliad and Odyssey among other places. It could even be where Confucius learned “Do unto your neighbor as you would have them do unto you.” The Bible could have been, and likely was, a widely disseminated book read by myriads of scholars who would catalog such obscure things in their libraries. Such is a less superficial and fantastical theory than the Jews being the prodigious satellite state of Persia, who just so happened to include Greek quotations in their book of statewide propaganda.
This is more in line with a correct theory, as it’s Occam’s Razor. Assume the most likely of all solutions. It’s almost impossible to think that the Bible was written by anyone beside the Jews. It is almost exclusively, through literary analysis, an entire history of a people.
This fact remains, of why it is most imperative that we investigate literature. The Epic of Gilgamesh, upon a cursory perusal, is not the account of Noah and the flood. The Epic is more like Beowulf or Nordic Eddas than it is any account similar to the Biblical text. So, the story of Noah is likely original to the Jews, and given this fact, it is almost imperative that we place history back into its open alignment, with what we know, and not get to be obscurantists with it, by muddying arcane archeological discoveries with what we know through witness testimonies. Because the Bible is, by and by, witness testimony. It’s corroborated through Herodotus. It’s corroborated through Archeology, despite Atheist and skeptics’ protests. The attempt to erase the Bible from our historical knowledge is itself anti-Semitic, and would indeed erase all of known history, leaving us with a Europe that has no actual cause, but rather a mythological cause, which is then replaced and pieced together by archeology to bring about a new, and “improved” version of the truth, that completely contradicts the contemporary, eyewitness accounts of those truths.
With this said, it’s why it’s imperative that we read and understand literature. It is not “Fictitious.” Nor is the Bible purely literature, as I believe it to be the God Breathed Word, and the perfect Casebook on how divine judgments work. Because the patterns described in the Bible display the prescience to describe real psychological phenomena, and sociological phenomena. Which, so do literary works in Science Fiction and Fantasy, and yes, even Realism. But the Bible even more so, that it is almost so hyper realistic in its portrayal of these truths that people will say word for word things the Bible itself says. I often encounter in debates things that Christ’s opponents said to His face, when speaking to them in my evangelistic encounters. Nearly verbatim.
The evidence even goes so strongly in the Bible’s favor, that questioning it at this point is something similar to antisemitism. Which, perhaps, I have found an anti-Semitic vein in the cultures at large to completely erase a people from existence, and therefore their culture, and therefore the invention of that culture, which is what Socrates described in his Symposium: right before he was abused, and a gay orgy exploded on the scene, disrupting a beautiful dialogue about the meaning of love, and what love is.
Simply put, there is a vein in the culture to disenfranchise the Jews, disenfranchise Christians, and it is a sinister road of disenfranchisement, tending only to the destruction of Western Civilization. Which, literature is a preservation of the Western Tradition, as Google can change facts about history, but we can still read about them in old books, and see that Google is, in fact, lying.
The whole road ahead is one paved with fanatical zeal to destroy the past, to erase it from existence, and to build a narrative about the Sumerians. The Sumerians wrote the Bible. A basic propagandistic statement, founded on little shreds of archeological evidence such as The Epic of Gilgamesh. Which, to turn the table around, things that are simple to believe are often not the things that make truth. Simple things are built on propagandistic, little catch phrases and pithy quotes to understand and navigate life. We know this to be utterly simple, because what is true is nuanced. And literature offers a nuanced view of history, which can be seen through the lens of someone who lived through it. Not our far off eyes, trying to peer through the opaqueness of science and archeology.
Much the same, our interpretations of science must then be wrong if this is what we’re beginning to assume through archeological evidence. Either that, or the science does not actually corroborate what is popularly being attributed it. Perhaps it is as Paul warns, “Things falsely called Science.”
It can be an affront to the entirety of the human race to subtract the innocent people of the Jews from history. To steal from them their heritage, and to rob them of their Kings and Princes. This is a crime of anti-Semitism. Heinous in its all sweeping wave through society, that the academies are actually trying to propagate the lie. But, history is too strong, and the existence of Europe too much of an obelisk to forget the past. That same past which shared the Jews and Christians.
The Bible is a strong, historical document. Strongly corroborated by historical evidence. And we need to understand literature at this critical hour, lest we lose our heritage, and not just the West’s. The Jew’s heritage is in all civilizations, all people’s. The Bible is quoted in the Iliad and Odyssey. The Bible created Zoroastrianism. Moses’ defiance of Pharaoh created the Cult of Aten. Abraham created the Hammurabi code. Because the evidence is too much corroborated by the biblical genealogies.
Perhaps God had revealed Himself to us through stages. First to one man, because only that one man, plus Melchizedek, could have a true relationship with Him. Then, God revealed Himself to a people. Because only that people could truly know Him. Then, God revealed Himself by coming in the Flesh as Jesus Christ. The ultimate revelation, so man would have no mistaking what God wanted from us. Perhaps, even so, it was the invention of Love that God wanted us to discover. Written in Socrates’ Symposium, as it built from romantic love to the divine love. That perhaps Socrates had known the Hebrew Bible, which is only conjecture. But he possibly could have, as I would imagine the idea of monotheism would be quite novel to someone at that time. And so with the Monotheistic God’s invention, which is of course love.
Perhaps certain groups and peoples were not ready for the discovery of love, but when they had “Evolved” in the most crudest terms, to a point where they were ready to understand and fully comprehend love, that was the point where God fully allowed Himself to be revealed to the whole world, through His Son Jesus Christ.
As, the Bible strangely follows the patterns of history, and strangely is corroborated by random springs of monotheism correlating at the exact time the lineages place our prophets. It’s not likely that anyone would have the access to the information to know it back then, but rather it’s either a one in an impossibly large number’s chance of happening, or it was divinely inspired.
That God would show Himself to the world is itself necessary for God, if He’s benevolent, to do. To leave no question about what we need, and what He wants. First, he codified it with Moses, and second He lived it with Christ. First with the Law, and then with His Life. First he wrote the instructions, and then He demonstrated them. As anyone with Character does when in a managerial position. First he gives the instructions, and when those instructions are not followed through correctly, he demonstrates it himself. God, however, added a third aspect to this. God did it through us, by His holy Spirit.
But this is getting into religion, not literary theory. However, I lay down the reason why I believe in my religion. And next I will lay down why I believe in literary theory.
Often there are questions as to the cause of this or that. There are great sundry questions of history and psychology that people debate. Which, if someone were to read literature they would no longer have these questions, as eyewitness accounts would peer into the dank depths of human imagination, to draw forth an eye witness. A single man’s testimony, whether good or bad.
Yeats is fond of wanting to view love ephemerally, as if love were best as a buck and doe meeting in the woods, the doe showing herself to the buck from the rear, and then the buck mounting the doe. It exists as a prophetic look at the sort of person, whom we can see is wrong because of our knowledge of what love actually is. The check to that idea is Freudian psychology, which claims that the nuclear family is integral in the character development of human beings. Further, literature like Dostoevsky’s shows in stark detail the psychological portraits of unstable families, and even renders it into the most heinous crime, murder, in his Brothers Karamazov. We must view literature in this lens, first, as actual eye witness testimony of the time periods, and we can get a good grasp on their decline or Golden Ages.
In Russia, it was Atheism that caused it to decline. It was divorce. It was the throwing down of the old order, The Judeo-Christian ideas of family, of love, of virtue. Anna Karenina divorces her husband on a whim, and at the end gets the poetic justice of suicide to fit her crime. She had made everyone unhappy, and her hatred for her husband protruded to a hatred for her paramour and child. Which, then left her without a solid place to seek foundation. For she hadn’t love, and that was why she divorced. Levin loses much in the course of the book, gets as depressed as Anna, maybe more because he actually possessed love, but he survives his episode of despair because he finds Christ.
Dostoevsky, otherwise, shows the leap into despair and desperation when Dimitri wants to kills his father, which the cause is over a dispute about money. Dimitri’s father is not a good man, and humiliates a priest in the opening scenes of the book, but it doesn’t change the conscience of the book, that the murder is wrong, and is caused by the father hunger.
Literature captures these portraits of society. It is a barometer of the social milieus at the times it was written. If anyone were to look upon our social barometers, we’d see the world is getting darker. The stories are beginning to reflect more and more the banal realities we all face. In fact, literature is not present at the moment. It is left aside for videos about practical jokes and video essays concerning a host of strange subjects.
The Bible says something strange in Hosea. It says the “Prophets speak in similitudes.” It often crosses my mind if these litterateurs we read are not often prophets. Science Fiction is often prophetic of dark and destructive futures, and can put on moral plays for their audiences, to help the audience understand global trends in diplomacy, armistices,—as one superman episode had superman disabling the nuclear warheads, and then the subsequent invasion of aliens—and applied ethics. While I highly doubt there are aliens, the stories are discussing real phenomena. And it has, for the interim, helped sustain some semblance of peace. But, the story is simply telling its audience that nuclear weapons are keeping the world from experiencing unending global wars, and that the same principles for ethics apply to alien species as they do also to mankind.
At the time period, it was a very good critique. Now, I’m not so sure it was listened to, as there were other, more fundamental science fiction motifs that didn’t get listened to. Such warnings in Bradbury’s novel, or Orwell’s, showing the destructive and intrusive reach of technology into the everyday man’s life. The fact that people became callow from technology, and started harming one another for fun is not far from the truth we see today.
It’s imperative that we recognize the fact that these stories are able to foresee the psychological trends created by technologies. They are not forging the trends, but rather are calculating its use by observing what we already knew about human behavior to begin with. That men are fascinated with devices. Such devices as the printing press have revolutionized the spread of good information, while the internet has polarized everyone into their superficial, ideological camps, ready to cast stones at one another. Fiction predicted this.
Fiction is also good at predicting people’s lives. It can, even with no moral shade to the text, show itself reflective of human error. D. H. Lawrence had created his version of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina without the moral shame cast upon Anna. And, in describing it from an essay in the very defense of D. H. Lawrence’s work, I could see the very critique Tolstoy outlines in that very defense of D. H. Lawrence. The cruelty and debauched nature, which Tolstoy had poked a hole in, and D. H. Lawrence could not hide it. It is often insulting when we read good books. The fact that the tautology of Tolstoy’s work didn’t need Anna to commit suicide, it was already present that she had done a wrong against her husband. And more often is it the case.
We as a people must realize this is what literature is for, to help be a barometer of the social climates of their days. It can diagnose what is wrong with a civilization. Greek and Roman artists portraying sodomy are a good indicator of where their social climate was, and surely enough, the portraits dated close to social upheavals. More than that, a society is best understood through its art. The Epic of Gilgamesh can teach us a lot about the Sumerians but literally nothing about the Jews. Noah would not be a drunkard, nor would he be a great heroic king. He would, rather, fit the character of a humble shepherd or farmer; the noble peasant—,following the will of God, patiently building his ark. Two distinct versions, which modern Hollywood wanted to conflate in their portrayal of Noah. It was the illegitimate child of the stories of Noah and Gilgamesh. An action movie, that made it seem like the people at the time period wished to fight to get onto the ark. It portrayed our modern family aesthetic, but did not understand that Noah and his family would probably be quivering with fear, and huddled together in love, awaiting the flood waters to dissipate; as such would be the character of a man of God. A very unlikely adaption, as it doesn’t fit the reality of how good people behave, but rather bad people. More than likely, those other people drowned without knowledge of the ark ever being constructed, who Noah would have desired greatly to see on his ark, and the few who knew about the ark would have thought Noah was as insane for building it, as he was getting into it before the flood waters rose. That God was a tyrant for allowing the flood is, in all actuality, the same as a murderer thinking his executor is a tyrant for giving him the lethal injection. The fact remains it is more humane to let the murderer die, than live in the suffering he has caused for himself. That is why the law speaks to such affect. And at the time of Noah, everyone was a murderer, or I can see no other reason for God compelling Noah to build the ark. Nor, as is the case today, would anyone believe it, as our current yellow-scholarship tries to erase the Jews from history; it would be the same kind of blindness the peoples had in the days of Noah. It’s not that they are doing it on purpose, but that they cannot know the truth, nor even perceive the logic that makes it true. But, the facts were bare and certain yet opaque because nobody had searched them out.
This gets into the importance of literary theory as a whole, that we can, if we’re careful, deduce important artifacts from history. Not only that, but understand cultural milieus, and understand things in a nuanced way. Of course, Babylon’s ruins exist, one can merely look at them, and see it. However, the current milieu is to erase the history of our religion, that is the Christian and Jewish religion. The religion of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Not the God of Abraham and Ishmael. Not the God of Haile Selassie. Not the God of Joseph Smith, nor the God of Charles Russel. For, if one were to simply look at the meanings of the Biblical text, it would be difficult to equivocate the beliefs of these people. One would recognize instantly that Ethiopians are not the Jews. One would recognize immediately that Jesus claimed to literally be God, and is prophesied as so in the Old Testament. On would understand that it was Isaac whom the covenant was given to, not Ishmael. Therefore, one could easily discredit the claims of all of the other Abrahamic religions. If literary theory were practiced correctly, it will derive a meaning from a text that is accurate.
I do not mean the run of the mill Hermeneutics, either. As certain texts explicitly defy being interpreted that way. Some poetry is meant to not convey clear meanings, but is rather sensory, and other poems are meant to draw from subconscious cues a personal interpretation rather than an objective interpretation. Rather, that an interpretation and intention can be derived from any piece of literature, that is sufficient in itself for literary theory.
With this said, one can easily begin to understand rather than interpolate, and begin to view communication as a fundamental part of what makes us human. No other species can philosophize, nor create religion. As Jonathan Haidt said in a lecture, “Humans are the only species that can form cohesive bonds, and build things without being blood related.” I paraphrase. However, he cites quite accurately that it is religion that allowed these feats to take place, or nationalism, or communalism. What he fails to understand is that though the greatest cooperation was built by enlightenment philosophers in the capability of man to reason, and reason, not blind obedience, is the vehicle for cooperation in a pluralistic society such as America; however, underlying that Enlightenment society is the father-vein of Christianity. The one our Mason brothers built, who though rejecting the corner stone, it became the chief corner stone on which all of Western Civilization hinged. Without Christ, there can be no Western Society, and if literary theory were implemented in just understanding what men like George Washington and John Adams were saying, it would be moot whether they believed. The fact remains that in every quote attributed to them on religion, they found the moral epicenter of Christ’s teachings on the Sermon on the Mount sufficient as a moral law for their civilization. And they found no better.
I do not say the founders were Christian. They were not. They did, however, lay a foundation of Christianity in the country, to check the otherwise wild tendencies of human nature with what they found as a sufficient religion. If we were to try and argue against this very nuanced but accurate point, we’d undermine the social fabric of American democracy. Which, is what the postmodernists are doing at this present moment, by undermining the meaning of works of literature through deconstruction.
It is why the scholars who butchered the interpretation of Milton’s Paradise Lost, rather than succumb to the obvious meaning of the text, invented an ulterior meaning, making Satan—the murderer by trade—the good guy. Never did he value the insight of how reason, if taken in its purest form, could undermine the moral fabric of a country. This is what Immanuel Kant observed in his treatise. But, more than that, he quite arbitrarily made a murderer the hero of Paradise Lost. The insanity of this is lent to bad literary theory, where rather than try to utilize and communicate, the point is to simply expound whatever beliefs one has. That power is the alternative to reason, and without a foundation for reason—without literary theory, and accomplishing the arduous task of correctly interpreting someone else’s work—we undermine the foundation of our democracy. It can go one step further and say that the predicate of Reason is founded in the Greek concept of “Word” which St. John had coined as the embodiment of Who Christ is. It might very well be why this alternative viewpoint is being espoused by the universities, in order to undermine the premise of the enlightenment, which was, indeed, founded on the principle that a piece of writing could be understood, and rational discourse would win in the end.
This can only work if we have correct literary theory. Novels and Poems are similitudes, that perhaps the prophets speak, and interpreting them gives a moral play in the existential structure, allowing the audience to judge the characters and determine whether their actions are moral. Or, as a matter of fact, judge the social climates, the intrinsic networks of sociological and psychological truths needed for understanding what literature is. It is foundational to literary theory that we not do away with the clear meaning of a text, as the predicate of reason requires that language be able to be comprehended, and literary devices at that. It is predicated on context. And if Paradise Lost were read in context of the work’s premise, it is that Satan is ultimately bad, and will use persuasion in order to suck the human beings into the trap of nihilism, and therefore, undercut and dissuade men from behaving benevolently. As Satan knows this about us, and knows reason is a slippery slope of syllogism, that once fundamental premises are nullified, then the social strata can begin to slide into more desperate moral decay. And lo and behold, we do this by nullifying reason, ergo, nullifying religion, ergo, nullifying the age of reason with it by supplanting literary theory, and turning it into a subjective science.
Deconstruction is the method by which philosophers have negated clear meaning, and have even bled that lie into the population, so that they are unable to think critically about a piece of writing, and therefore interpret it. It is because the premise of communication is predicated on successful transactions of ideas. And if an idea is merely a matter of subjective interpretation, then there can be no premise to succeed in getting to the predicate of reason.
Therefore, it is fundamentally necessary for reason to be imbued with the thought that sentences can be interpreted. That meanings can be derived. That ideological frameworks can change with the right sorts of information. Our entire civilization hinges on the notion that there is truth, both metaphysical and empirical. That strata of ideas can exist just as concretely as strata of scientific phenomena. Therefore, morals are predicated on this logic too, that they can be discovered. It’s why moral philosophers have discovered morals all throughout the millennia. But, only Christ had found them all. A carpenter’s son. If this isn’t the miracle of them all, a boy who had no access to learning, no access to books, could create the most cogent moral philosophy ever in existence, then one can only be obstinate in their views that Christ is not the Messiah. For, it is proof enough for me to believe, and always was.
That Christ died, and raised from the dead, it is a matter of literary theory, too. The theories of His resurrection being a hoax don’t pan out with the observations we make about human character. Men do not die for a lie. They will readily admit the lie before dying, which none of the apostles who were martyred seem to have done. There have been many miraculous events in history described by many historians, for instance the darkness that followed Hannibal’s invasion of Rome. I personally believe this story, and even that the shields sweat blood. But that is just me. For the scholar who does not believe such things, and believes that the resurrection was a hoax, men contemporary of the time period died for that “hoax.” It is not likely that they died for a hoax, but that they truly saw the risen Christ. Because that is human nature, to die for something concrete. Muslims bombing Christian men, the Muslims are dying for the comradery of their group. Their religion is a great stabilizing factor in all of their lives, and it creates happiness for them. They die for it. But, when early Christians died, they were not dying in battle nor for the comforts of their religion. They were dying by execution after excruciating persecution and little public support. And it wasn’t for an established religion that everyone in society believed in. Only a very few people believed it. No, they died because something real led them to believe. And literary theory proves it. Because human psychologies do not let men die for what they don’t truly believe. A man can die for Christianity in battle, but that same man would have a hard time sitting in an execution line, seeing the opportunity to strike back flee him as he allowed himself to be martyred. For Christian martyrs will die even with an escape. They will still die. They will still risk getting arrested and thrown in prison, when everyone in their society is convinced that they are lunatics.
What’s important to know is that literary theory helps explain this, as what was true for the men and women back in the days of Christ still holds true for our Christian brothers and sisters today. Every day, almost, I hear news of martyrs in Northern Africa. I hear of martyrs here in the United States. It’s yet to be that the government is involved in the persecution, and by the grace of God and work of people like me it might never happen. But, it could happen in this day. Because literature is abused, and literature is rejected. It predicts human responses, just as the Gospel predicted its martyrs’ responses up to this very day. Literature is a forecasting device to allow us to peer into the future. And misinterpreting it, or calling it useless is a dangerous assumption because it has often been more accurate at predicting human advancements in technology, and human advancements in moral philosophy for the better part of its existence. Losing this ground, losing this special invention by mooting it, is leading to the kinds of chaotic thinking we see today. That Jane Austen had nothing to say, and that the time period were not really being described but was her own subjective interpretation;—or that Orwell had nothing to say, and that his vision couldn’t happen, but lo, it is. And what of it? Men need to understand these things so they can prevent it from ever occurring, and literature is exactly the inoculation against bad ideas.
It must further be attested that reading literature helps one think clearly, and understand morality in its narrative function. One can see morals demonstrated through stories, and this is why stories are so important. Without this function, they cease to be stories, but are rather propagandistic statements trying to elevate one side of a power struggle.
However, humans balance out over several generations back into their natural mode. When a great revolution occurs, and a great civilization burgeons, it falls, and another civilization stands on its ashes. As Marc says in my work, The Fifth Angel’s Trumpet, “Well, the sun rises and it also sets.” Which, it is literature that teaches us this mortality, even social mortality, of a civilization’s fall. Literature teaches us why it occurs, and if a man were intelligent they’d realize this, and hem the levies before it ever burst. For if the people are themselves unwilling to do what’s good, they ultimately get what they deserve. But, it’s better they see it in a poem, rather than in practice. It is better to understand war from art or literature, than it is to understand it by actually having to fight. It is better to understand divorce from Anna than it is to understand it from…
And, if we deny that communication is valuable, and can transfer these experiences from one man to another, then we forget that literature is powerful, we forget that experiences can be communicated, and we will forget the nature of our struggle, which is a moral struggle against the flow of the world. Which, is probably why literature was attacked, and vehemently too.
Literature, if done right, gives us experience. It gives us emotions, it gives us truths to aspire for. When Tolstoy had written Anna Karenina, he literally made me feel like I was getting married, though I had never experienced it. No other author could, or perhaps many have. And that’s the power of literature, too, is that it can communicate experience from one person to another. It can communicate thought. If thought is not communicable, then the very premise of an Age of Reason fails. And that Age of Reason is hemmed in with the existence of a Jewish Carpenter who died on a cross two thousand years ago, approximately. Because if we undermine reason, we undermine Word, we undermine the very nature of the Enlightenment, which is that truth can be established. It is not a light subject we embark on. Postmodern philosophers have noted power as the only thing which roots reason. Whose power? Certainly they do not know, for if it is man’s power, is it the man Orwell created who governed 1984, or is it the man in the KGB who understood corrupting our psychology makes us weak and susceptible to internal collapse?
Somehow, our enemies understand this, but hold as a bone the idea of anarchy and freedom in front of us. They sashay the bone in front of us, saying, “Freedom and Anarchy, Prosperity for All and Perpetual Leisure!” and it is Locke’s very freedom that this Postmodern revolution is predicated on. For freedom in a postmodern world is, indeed, Locke’s freedom. It is Locke’s system. But, so is the ardent capitalist. However, both sides of the debate are locked in a heated war of whose poison will be there to fill the vacuum, when Locke’s philosophy reigns supreme. Will it be the socialist or the capitalist? Maybe neither. However, it is not whose power, but rather the cogent philosophy of Locke, that men want happiness, and the government should be best administered to the people’s happiness and that just free exercise thereof of our ability to figure things out for ourselves. There are differing opinions on whose brand will be chosen. However, what is duly unnoticed by most, is that both systems would be hell on earth without a foundation in God’s love. And reason freed from the feelings we share is dangerous. For, truth brings into us feelings, and our hearts can be pleasurable, either for good or bad. But, there are good and pure feelings that we can understand are not bad. There are good and sublime feelings that we can, indeed, understand are wicked. There is pleasure in cruelty. There is also pleasure in feeling an emotional bond with a woman you are making love to. Cruelty in war is the root of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder because the killing was enjoyed, having enjoyed the slaughtering of your enemies. And artists describe it. That guilt, it is an artist’s job to describe.
Where else can you feel the guilt of having committed a murder, unless an artist portrays it to you? Perhaps the artist himself had an outburst of violence, and nearly killed someone, and had felt for a second what it was like to have killed. To translate that emotion to a reader, it is invaluable moral teaching. It can show us what it is to have murdered, and we will never have to know firsthand. We can understand that the conscience is indwelt within us, and is built in our very souls from the moment of conception. We can know many things both good and bad from literature. And if we throw away this valuable teaching tool, we in effect nullify the real experiences of the authors, and say man cannot ever know what it is like to truly experience something, until he does. Yet, anyone who has had a true awakening to art, can understand that the experience in art is nearly the same in similitude with the author’s who wrote it. And we can understand it from afar, seeing if we truly wish to embark on such a dangerous—or perhaps beneficial—task.
It is these experiences in art that lend to the most important aspects of art. That art is satisfactory in communicating, and that it can, indeed, communicate. It can communicate new experiences to us, ones we have never even experienced. The isolation of a Russian Gulag, the terror of a psychotic’s thinking, the evil deed of a good man who murdered a degenerate, the vengeance of a broken whaleship captain.
We must understand these things. We must not try to undermine them with our own notions, nor our own prejudices. We must not get lost in the dark alleys of believing communication cannot exist. For, it is a new invention to say that communication doesn’t exist. Communication does exist. It is very real. Very serious. Very strong. And it would be imperative that one understand that because we can tap into this reality, that the Bible itself details a people’s history, for it is too real not to. If not for the historical existence of the Twelve Tribes of Canaan which we know from the Tel Dan stele, or the photos of Babylon, or the Babylonian Game of Ur of the Chaldees, the literal transcripts of the sack of Jerusalem in Babylonian historical recorded in the Nebuchadnezzar Chronicle, the birth records of Jesus Christ, the witness accounts of Herodotus, then the most cogent reason to believe in the Jews historicity is that they have a piece of literature woven from different times, corroborated by things like Hammurabi’s Code, and the Prophets aligning with every instance of Monotheism; there are just too many details, and precious ones at that, for the Bible to be fictitious. It is, indeed, the history of a people, written by that people over the course of thirteen hundred years by different people. Jeremiah, alone, describes the sack at Jerusalem. It is too invested in the subject to be anything but an eyewitness account. He is the same as me, trying to warn my country of danger, but its darkened ear and ravenous silence answers back.
Such is too much a similitude with my very existence. Such is why I’m inclined to believe the Bible, because the experiences it tells are not only true, but the only concrete and predictive truths in literature. People actually respond the way they do in the Bible. Quite miraculously, stupor comes over people, and they ludicrously take literal what was intended as metaphorical. They strive at strange conjectures, over the simple adherence of the subject revealed. That the Sadducees are the Mainline Denominations and the Pharisees the Evangelicals, and that the Gospel itself predicted this. Both the doctrines stay concrete, unchanging, and that literary truth is why it begins to show itself veritable. It shows itself more plausible than any other religion in history. Because the concepts still exist. The New Apostolic Reformation are the Niccolaitans. The Gnostics are the New Age Theologians and Prosperity Gospel Teachers. The Arians are the Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons. The same religions persist, but take embodied forms with details dissimilar, but the Word is all the same. And it is that concept of Word that proves the Bible’s verity. That the concepts persist, that they sustain, that they predict, that they even on occasion were so blatantly plain in a prediction, that the only thing someone could say to the contrary was that it was a later edit into the Bible. But the Dead Sea Scrolls proves that to be inaccurate. There is more evidence sustaining the truth of the Bible, and it can all be attained through literary studies. Not because the literary studies are postmodern, but because they can attain a concrete interpretation of an abstract text, and that communication does indeed exist despite all our protests that it does not.
One of the things that reassure me is how an artist is the best judge of another artist’s work. Humans tend to gravitate toward art that reflects their own soul, and their own conscience. Be it horrific, or sublime, the man who appraises art, appraises it based on his own soul, and sees himself reflected. It is one of the reasons people tend to devalue literature, is that they have never had the idea, nor was it original to them.
I say this is the problem with our interpretation of all literature. It tends to imitate what we already know about our world, and tends to give explanation to the moral phenomena which are often discomforting. What is most true, that literature becomes valued and appraised higher than what is most untrue. The similitude with reality reflects the appraisal of the art. The best Science Fiction, for example, reflects society better than the worst.
This is why literature is logic. It has true and false propositions. The best literature is a cogent strain of logical operators, creating in theory cause and effect, based on the causality observed outside of the container of the novel. They are meant to meet resistance by the reader, but a good novel persists because it overcomes the reader. It shapes them, rather than having them shape it.
Postmodernism, therefore, has become quite the philosophy in modern days, where interpretation of art and artists has been accomplished by the general populous, and the result is less that of art influencing the population, but rather the population influencing the kinds of art being consumed. This is counterproductive. Most of our important ideas come or start in novels, or they get stated in perfect clarity first in novels. Because there is action, and the moral philosopher finds the consequence of those actions. Dramatic, often bigger than the real world, but far more understandable, in that it can isolate one aspect of human existence and meditate on it for a few hundred pages.
Where art is never serving this purpose, but is simply serving a utilitarian purpose of entertainment, or enjoyment, it’s not a good day for the culture from which that information comes. Essays cannot, for instance, capture the truth like a poem can. And a novel is simply a poem written in paragraphs, and in existential structure—that is, action and time in narrative. So we can see in the narrative the events unfold, and bear moral weight on them. The details are there to help shape the reader’s understanding of the world they are observing; and if it’s a well-developed world, it will reflect reality because it was created from reality. It isn’t simply the author’s wishes in fancy. It is met with the harsh reality of truth. And that truth is what the novel must meditate on.
For example, in my Utopian novel, the truth is rooted in the romantic love shared between two partners. The almost ethereal and sublime love shared by them gets overshadowed by the constant barrage of scenes about war. Friends do die, old acquaintances with them; the characters who die are often random. Without purpose. Because it is war. And how many narratives are derived from the reality of war? Counterpoised with the reality of a home life? How many novels are written in the between moments? Most of the best novels, actually. Yet, my novels are sociologically rich with insights. The manner in which the society falls is the actual method employed by the KGB. The method is found by me without knowing this, but it happens to be the real method employed by the KGB. Something concrete is developed, something cogent. Something, in other words, real. Campy dialogue turns into real life, when the harsh realities of the outside world intrude upon Marc’s internal reality. And certainly I do not want someone who isn’t an artist themselves to critique it. Unless that non-artist understood the painstaking amounts of time I devoted to the effort, to create literature out of pulp fiction. Was it done? No… not satisfactorily, but the audiences will like it more than my pretentious writings because they will understand it. They themselves will be the artist, emotionally invested in the work, trying to preserve the societies I created, because somewhere they are allowed to create similar societies for themselves. Seeing it in stark detail, what they need.
Literature does this, too. It helps us understand our world. Somehow I traipse upon arcane Psychological Operations employed by our mortal enemies. And somehow they work, despite the protest of the more elite crust of audiences that the work I had made is “Unrealistic.” Pretentious is the thought that my work is unrealistic, when indeed it takes an artist of sorts to understand my work. That is, to say, a creative mind willing to bend to my reason, rather than superimpose their own. Which is what people need. They need to listen, not to speak. Let the artists speak, who have volumes more to say, rather than the propagandists and journalists who spout popular dogmas and opinion pieces. Rather than Rick and Morty, which is a stupid show, feigning depth, when it is indeed a certain kind of individual who watches it, feigning genius. It is indeed a show for those of exactly average intelligence. It is not literature. But, it is our modern literature, as the bulk of our voices are marginalized for what sells on Cartoon Network. And even Cartoon Network is losing its ratings because they don’t produce quality stories anymore, meaning that stories are a part of us. They are inherent in the way we understand the world.
More so, what is considered “A True Story” often has borrowed elements of fictitious literary devices because it captures what we want to know about the truth better than the truth itself. It captures the ideal. And that ideal is what men and women want to know about. Not the vulgar reality. Because the vulgar reality cannot attain moral betterment. It can only attain to an imitation of the vulgar banalities of life.
In that sense, literature is more real than reality. It transcends reality, getting into the layers upon layers of archetypes, and the reality beyond what we see. It gets to the moral perfection, the ideal, a form, and it gives us a vision to aspire to. It teaches us why certain pursuits are vain. If we lose it, which we are, we lose ourselves. Because humans without stories, humans without virtue, humans without the prophets’ similitudes, are humans without a moral standard. And these are more dangerous. These, as is often portrayed in the Russian Authors, are who stir the downfall of civilization.
Because stories are indeed important. Not for what they contain, but for what they aspire to be. Not for the real event, but if the event had transpired, what relevance does it have to our life? And of course it cannot be disagreed with. Disagreeing with a piece of literature is like disagreeing with a well formulated math equation. Because the moral conscience of man is employed by the consumer, to prick them where there is injustice, and to sway them to where there is good. Within the art displays the attitudes of a civilization, to unpack and understand. In those attitudes, we see—in America’s case—cultural decline. And the literature all points to it— without a belief in God, Americans are without the conscience to understand anything. They, rather, are all in an egocentric predicament, where everyone around them can see the mischief of their own doing, but they themselves cannot because to them, their heart is good and just. The moral play pricks at this conscience, when it has bad consequences. The prophet even pricked David’s conscience with his story when David raped Bathsheba. But, where the consequences are tolerable, they laude it. Such is why serial monogamy in art is heralded. Because the consequence is simply loneliness, and Americans are all already lonely.
For the penultimate part of this essay, I would like to distinguish what I believe about the Bible. It is precisely literary theory that I believe in the Bible. That I can indeed understand.
It’s hard to explain to someone the internal consistency of the scripture, and the doubtful theory that it was written all at once by a man named “Isaiah” who happened to live in Babylon.
First, the Torah sounds distinctly different than the rest of the Bible. It is simpler. It is like the difference between the Pauline letters and the Gospel. There is a certain wording in the Torah that distinguishes it from the rest of the Bible. Meaning, it had a distinct writer.
Secondly, regarding the historical texts, we know through Nehemiah and Ezra that the Bible was being written in succession through the generations. The writer of Judges and Kings sounds different than the writers of Nehemiah and Ezra. Not only do they sound different, but their mode of narrative is different, describing different elements and themes. Meaning, another writer had written them.
Then we come to the Prophets. The prophets each write in different themes, consisting of a consistent narrative throughout the Bible. There is a timeframe at which it is written, and too many differences—yes, actual differences—for it to be anything but a response to what was happening at a moment in history. I’ve read all of the minor prophets, and they have different subjects, different poetic references, different symbolism. It’s often easy to overlook that, but there are methods of interpreting the Bible, that each dispensation in the texts, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Daniel, there is different symbolism. Not to mention that the Bible lines up with these historical prophets, with their corresponding kings. Had one man written the Bible, or a series of scribes, it would have been difficult to get the kind of internal consistency that I see in the book itself. The kings line up, and the prophets will tell when they were written, and the correlation abides with the kings. Several accounts of the kings are given, sometimes the same king is mentioned twice. Meaning, it is a record of a people’s history. Was the Bible put together directly after the reinstatement of Isreal? Highly dubious and unlikely, because there is a continuum of information that seems to have been written as it was happening. It seems to be written in succession, by different authors at various different times.
Not to mention, if the religion were simply made up on the spot, it would be nearly impossible for anyone to believe in it. That’s one of the strongest evidences of the Bible, that nobody would believe a religion that they knew was cooked up by a so called “Prophet Isaiah”, who dreamt of a fictitious people, and then with the help of a couple hundred scribes drafted a scripture. There would have to be some relevant link. And, looking at people like Mortdecai, who is lamenting in Babylon in front of the King’s Chamber, it would be obvious to the people living in that day if it were true or false. Nobody would adopt a religious volume knowing it was a forgery. Nobody would believe an account of modern figures if there wasn’t a correlating history to solidify their investment into the stories. Therefore, there almost certainly was a Jewish people. And we learn this through literary studies, as the studying of the literature would be hard to suggest otherwise. What we know about human psychology, is that it’s hard for one man to establish a religion without some kind of historicity. Joseph Smith, for instance, used it with the Native Americans. Had there been no Native Americans, or interest in his mythology, the religion would have failed immediately. But, because there was a people to attach the religion to, the religion succeeded in germinating. As Mormonism is a blatant example of what likely has to be the case. Islam, again, is much the same thing, borrowing from the Jewish stories of the Old Testament, only inciting Ishmael as the mythical founder. Because the tribes of his day had more in common, and the knowledge of these figures ran deep throughout the cultures. Even into other cultures. There’d have to be some—even if hypothetically specious—reason for the Jews to believe in the religion. Some foundation for the belief. And if the Jewish people did not exist, and these contemporary figures like Daniel and Mortdecai and Esther were not Jewish, then there’d be no reason for the people to adopt the religious text, as the subject of their salvation rested solely on their race and its history.
This alone proves that there must have been a culture of Jewish people prior to the captivity in Babylon. It is proven through literary theory. The cogent leaps from existential structure, the chronological telling of events from the time of Moses to the time of Nehemiah, is itself a sort of miracle, and not something that happens overnight. People tend not to believe things, unless there is a reason to invest in the belief. For Muhammad it was the Arab race. For the Israelites in Babylon, it would almost certainly have to be their own race. Otherwise, why would Persia grant them admittance out of the country, and take the painstaking efforts to produce a Bible? Or, why would the kings of Persia give credence to a madman like “Isaiah”, and establish an entire colony based on his ridiculous remarks? Of course, one might posit something like Christopher Columbus, but it is still ludicrously specious to assume that a great migration of people—documented in the very books, so their genealogies were recorded somewhere too—would take the time to go to some desert when Persia was a flourishing capital.
Too many questions are left, that have to be explained by blind zealotry, great persuasive methods, the ability of one orator to convince a mass of people to migrate out into a desert; the likelihood of this is less than likely, unless we have the presumption given to us that the Jews were a people prior Persian rule. It only makes sense, and it seems to make sense with what we know about psychology.
With that there are other reasons I believe in the text of the Bible. Psalm 2 explicitly says that there will be a Begotten of God, who is the Son of God, and that the government of Israel will rest on His shoulder, and we must “Kiss the Son, lest He be angry with us.” The likelihood of this ending up in the Bible is not likely at all.
Second is Psalm 22, the Psalm Jesus quoted on the Cross. It describes Crucifixion.
Third is Isaiah 43. Where it says “No other saves, except me.” This regarding the divinity of Christ, for those who doubt Christ’s divinity.
Fourth is Isaiah 53, where it plainly says a man’s soul will be offered for our sin.
Fifth is Jeremiah 31, where it describes a New and Unbreakable covenant with God. The New Covenant being established after Israel leaves captivity.
Sixth is the captivity itself, which severed Israel from the Old Covenant.
Seventh is Abraham being told to offer Isaac, which was a type of what was needed for our salvation.
Eighth is Job 9 where Job pleads for a mediator between he and God.
Ninth is Leviticus 27 where it says, “No one who may have been set apart among men shall be ransomed, he shall surely die” speaking of Christ, for only one man ever was set apart.
Tenth, and I can continue like this through every chapter in the Bible, is Isaiah 48 where it describes the new thing which was created now, that we hadn’t known before. That very new thing is Christ Jesus.
I will conclude this essay by saying that literature is a store of some of our most important knowledge. Beowulf, in fact, is an artefact of great importance. It showed us the heritage of Early Saxon culture. It also, in meaning, taught us that struggling against society’s ills was more noble than struggling against our fellow man.
The Bible, no less, tells us the moral law founded by God to His creation, the failure of His creation to fulfill that moral law, therefore, the creation of a new law, established on a previous covenant older than the original, to bring salvation to the whole world.
Arthurian legends tell us much about medieval Europe and Chivalry. They also teach us about comradery.
Don Quixote teaches us about the fall of Chivalry, it also teaches us about friendship.
Hemingway’s novels teach us about injustice, and they also teach us about harsh realities.
Modern scholarship teaches us about our modern age, and it teaches us about our modern bent toward distorting the past by not taking into account the witnesses of history.
Literature is anything we may read, as it is all created by time period it was written in. It is by no means true that we cannot render history accurately. But simply, what we write today is tainted by our own vices of modernity. There is no other way to explain it, as when Happy Days and Brady Bunch were shows, the earth really was that happy. Because it had something to say about the era it was written in. Andy Griffith said a lot about its time period. So with Twilight Zone. So with my History of Civilizations by Fernand Braudel; it taught me much about history, from the lens of the 1970s. So my history textbook tells me a lot about today. Our books teach us about the present, but we can, indeed interpret the past. Montaigne describes a lot of heartache, but in no way does he reveal the kinds of things we accept and tolerate today. Byron was about as bad as he could be, given his knowledge.
Literature is a moral compass. Whether we can be objective about the past, I’m sure we in some sense can, and were better at it at a time. But, unfortunately, the modern age has much to say about the modern age. And not much else. Because we find a sentence is incomprehensible, and this might be why the Jews are being taught in schools right now, as having never existed. When, clearly, the overwhelming amounts of literary evidence suggests they do. Doubly, the stories aren’t understood, and both of these facts are causing major problems in academia right now.
People truly believe that the Jews didn’t exist. It is an anti-Semitic lie perpetrated by academia itself. It makes no difference if a Jew was the one who formulated the theory or not. To minimalize the Bible, is to minimalize history. To minimalize literature, is also to minimalize history. It minimalizes our ability to communicate, and use reason. As, the texts themselves corroborate history. Why? Because they are written at different time periods, predicting futures, being corroborated by archeology, and have internal consistency with what we know about psychology. Reason is the premise that truth can be understood if it’s told to someone. Unfortunately, the problem with our modern age is that truth is subjective, that interpretations of literature don’t matter, and that art itself is outmoded. What will come in its place is systematic simplicity, where context no longer exists, and reason cannot exist. This, in itself, will undermine everything we’ve built, and it is why I am a writer, to help bridge this gap we’ve created. A gap between science and the truth, which needs to be bridged with literature.
A man with a shield and sword Upon his home's wall Reclined, wondering at the battles He had once fought. He was an old knight Who never fought a magical thing. No, he fought men And in valiant battles He would smite down His enemy, one after another. He was one of a handful Who lived old, so he had food in abundance. He had his maiden, He had his children. Yet, upon that wall He stared, reminiscing on his battles. There came to him a Nethanim In armor, who had fought Helldames Vampires, Orcs, Elves Wizards, Witches, And once fought a Giant to a draw. The knight saw his fellow traveler And welcomed him into his abode. The Nethanim surrendered his sword At the door, Of Damascene forge, And sat down to sup. The Nethanim had seen All in the man's house;--- The knight's pretty daughters The knight's Lady of the house, The knight's well stocked horses. He saw the knight's furnished table And the knight's mid sized house. He did not see the shield or sword Upon the wall. The knight asked, "Whose court are you?" The Nethanim replied, "I am of the court of St. Jude "And I come riding this way "To slay a dragon." The knight, never having seen a dragon himself Was skeptical. "Tell me, how many dragons did you slay?" "Never in my life had I slain a dragon. "They are among the hardest creatures to slay. "I had gone toe to toe with a giant, once, "And fought him to a draw." The knight then said, "Certainly, you are deluded. "Who do you really fight for?" The Nethanim stopped feasting And considered. "If thou must know, "I fight for God almighty. "There is a contingent of knights "Of Twelve Orders "Who battle the things of the dark. "A man cannot slay these beasts "But only God's power. "So, there are knights whom "Having the faith to wield feats of strength "Against such foes, and with no magical aid, "Fight these beasts." "Surely, do you have a token?" asked the knight, Whom the Nethanim took out a finger. "See, this was from an Orc I fought several months ago. "Beastly creatures they are." The knight thought it was a peculiar looking man's finger. He said, "I wish to have more proof." So, the Nethanim took the canine tooth of a Vampire. "This I took from a vampire. I broke his teeth with my fist "In combat, and then slashed his head off. "He burst into flames, of course, "But I kept his incisor as a trophy." The man looked at it. "Certainly it was not a vampire "But it was a mighty beast he won this from. "I will respect him, "For he certainly beat some beast "Be it a wolf, or a small lion, "Or even a leopard." The Knight was satisfied that his company was Indeed a valiant knight. But, there snuck into his mind The glory of his previous wars. "What I wouldn't give to be in combat "Again," said the old knight. The Nethanim looked grave. "You would wish to fight "Rather than enjoy these pleasures? "Beautiful daughters "A succulent feast "Maid and Man servants "Sons and a Lady of the household?" The knight daydreamt. "Had you remembered the fear "Of being in combat?" asked the Nethanim. The knight thought back. "No." he said, Suddenly flashing back to his battles. "It all was fear, "Wasn't it?" asked the knight. "Such is the way of the sword; "It calls you, however. "There's an old proverb "That once a sword tastes blood "The knight is cursed to wield it "For his entire life." said the Nethanim. The knight nodded his head. "And you, you have fought many things. "I wish to have just one last battle." The Nethanim ate his chop of mutton And shook his head no. "Valiant knight, "What you fail to understand "Is that during your combat "You had fret and fear. "You are reminiscing on the past "But forget the pains of the past. "Why not enjoy what you have here? "Rather than go on another adventure "Why not enjoy this beautiful life?" The knight became irate. "You would insult me in my own home! "Your indolence!" The knight stood up, and Drew his sword from the wall. The Nethanim stood up, Frightened. "Sire, I do not wish to fight with you." But it was too late. The knight swung his sword In a fit of anger Not before the Nethanim broke the knight's Sword with a might clap of his hands. The old man fell scorned. The Nethanim sat back down at the table. "Old knight, you are a fool. "You wish to relive your struggles "And cast yourself back into the uncertainty of battle? "Why not enjoy your sup here? "You cannot because you are too greedy. "Like most men. "If you would simply satisfy yourself "With the things you have earned "There is no need to throw yourself "Back into battle's heat yet again "For the sake of vainglory." The knight, in hefty fear Saw his favorite blade broken On the table. "You broke my sword with your hand?" Said the knight. "Yes. I did break your sword with my hand. "Because you drew it upon me "And would not heed my warning. "A man who wishes to relieve his past "Is a fool, especially one who has obtained wealth "Honor, and the company of wife and sire. "You be glad I do not slay men "For if I were an orc, you'd already be dead. "However, with your bloodlust, "It might one day soon turn that you become an orc "Cursed with immoratlity, "And an insufferable hatred "And an envy for naught."
If there is Good, then there is a God. There is good. Therefore, there is a God. Every skeptic I had ever talked to Diligently claimed there wasn't any good. At least no universal good. To them, Good was Like cologne or deodorant. You got to choose it, And then spray it on. For anyone who had walked through the forest And smelled a hint of a woman's body--- For the leaves when they decompose, sometimes, Release a fragrance that smells like a woman's body--- Is it not wholly good? Or that beautiful mien a woman gets when she is with children, That accents her beauty. There is also the beauty of a retired man going fishing Content with his green, safari hat, casting into the water with peace. There is also good when a whole family gets together The kind that sees one another only once a year And the Matriarch knows each one of them, Some distant cousins, Others the very kin who grew up with you. There is a child feeding, and it gives its grunts. There is a dog, happy to always see you at the door. There are flowers, and the little bumble bees loafing To pollinate them. There are two girls, best friends, Who giggle and squeal when they see each other. There are two boys, getting into harmless mischief. There is discipline, a parent restraining their child From going into the street---yes, this too is good And is the beginning of even deeper wisdom. Christmas carols, that exalted feeling one gets. The poor. There is something inherently good in the poor. Sex between a man and a woman who have committed their entire lives To one another, and the chance that they will soon become one. It follows that if there is Good, Things universally good, that God exists. For that is how logic works. If the premise is true, Then the conclusion is also true. And that is how I know God exists. Because there is good. For you might ask, "Well, can there not be good, "And also no God?" No... not from my many engagements with skeptics. The skeptics all say that good is preferential Making it likely that good can also be masochistic. That good can be cruel. That good can be selfish. And this cuts the line between good and evil. That those who have lost their understanding of what good is Are also the proof that there is indeed a link between Good and God.
Black is the day that the shadow Fell over our land. All want the cannon gibberish while Freedom drinks hemlock like Socrates; Powerful men control speech. The strongest, through their money, Create their government Of portals and addresses. Strong they are, And great among the nations. They silence the voices of the dissident. They crush opposition with silence. Silence, they say, is the enemy. Yet, when skilled voices are Stopped, the strong are made weak Through silence... How can my voice break through?
Eight-hundred men were killed Eight-hundred were sent to the war. The emperor sent the eight-hundred Ronin To the battlefield So he could seize control of the citadels. Their death would send an outcry Throughout the kingdom. Their death would be heroic, A testimony of loyalty to their emperor. The eight-hundred were slaughtered Without much fight. Swords clashed, iron flashed Mounts hurdled over children. In the towns children were slain Elderly were thrown to the ground. The 800 Ronin defended the village From twenty-thousand mongols Who landed their ships upon The beaches of the Rising Sun. The eight-hundred fought hard, But in two hours were swept by the hordes of the Mongols. They killed, among them, seventeen-hundred. Each Ronin had killed two. Three Hundred and Thirty two Ronin had killed three. One Ronin had killed four. The report got back to the country As the Prince was in the citadel with his father Who expected to be lauded a great hero For the fame awarded by these Samurai's loyalty. Instead, the peoples held outside, Never knowing the misdeed that was done. They mourned the Ronin, but did not give honor to the king. They did not even know that the king's honor was why this act was done. Therefore, the peoples wept for the Ronin. But none knew it was the King who sent them into battle. For his honor... But none understood how it made the king honorable So it did not bring him any honor, Nor dishonor.
I am the Last Blackbird.
I am a Mockingbird.
I am a Bluebird.
Article 1: No test shall be administered in due process or in an investigation that is based on subliminal interpretations. Citizens have a right to a fair investigation that does not interpret subliminal actions which are out of a Citizen’s control, due to the possibility of false representations of such actions by authorities or court officials.
Article 2: The rights of an offender are to have public records expunged—in a compulsory act of the courts, by the courts at no fee for the defendant—the moment their punishment is over; and no public record of such criminal offenses are allowed to be kept by private or public officials or individuals, except as a matter of court records, and only for Aye or Nay that such a proceeding had happened, without injury or bias toward the defendant of a criminal justice proceeding.
Article 3: No crime is to have statutory conditions; all crimes must be arbitrated by the courts, and all penalties and duties must be arbitrated by the courts prior to sentencing.
Article 4: Police, prosecutors and investigators, as a matter of jurisprudence, cannot have access or possess records of criminality, due to the inherent bias against individuals who would hold such records. Criminal records, also, are not admissible as evidence in a court of law.
Me: “A triangle has three sides.”
Atheist: “But I don’t believe in triangles. How do you know they have three sides?”
Me: “Because when you draw a shape with three sides, it is a triangle.”
A: “How can you know that it has three sides?”
Me: “Because it does.”
A: “Well, I want proof that a triangle has three sides.”
Me: “Well, there is this philosopher named Euclid, who discovered the principle of what’s possible in geometry. And the first principles were triangles, which have three sides.”
A: “Philosophy isn’t scientific.”
Me: “Yes. Yes it is.”
A: “Well, how can you prove that a triangle has three sides? What if it had four?”
Me: “Then it’d be a square.”
A: “You’re a square.”
Me: “Can we please keep to the topic? If it has three sides, it is a triangle.”
A: “Well, I’ve heard of a shape like that, but it cannot be determined how many sides a triangle has.”
Me: “Yes. A triangle has three sides.”
A: “You say that, but can you offer proof?”
Me: “No. I cannot offer proof that a triangle has three sides. You just have to know that.”
A: “Well, then a Triangle doesn’t exist.”
Me: “I’ll draw one for you.”
I proceed to draw a triangle.
A: “That doesn’t prove that a triangle exists.”
Me: “If it doesn’t prove that a triangle exists, then I’m afraid it cannot be proven. It just has to be accepted on faith that it is a triangle.”
A: “See, I can only believe in what I see.”
Me: “Well, you can see this shape. It is called a triangle.”
A: “But that’s not proof enough. I need more proof that triangles have three sides.”
Me: “You can count them.”
A: “No… I want you to prove that a triangle has three sides.”
Substitute God with “A Triangle” and “Three Sides” with Morality.
Use your imagination to make the actual debate.
Because if you can’t, I don’t believe you.
This is how atheists sound when they argue about God’s existence.
Tolkien’s The Fall of Arthur
Well… I’ve read Chaucer. I’ve read Arthur. Tolkien’s work is a combination of Caxton’s Translation of Malory, Beowulf and Chaucer. Chaucer’s feminine element is embodied in Guinevere, and Tolkien’s story is a very simple one. The title of the piece is “The Fall of Arthur.” Tolkien was writing with material sufficient for a Long poem, but intended the piece to be an epic. It proves one cannot go beyond the archetypal limitations of a story.
I have finished the poem with seven lines to give words to the metaphor, for my own pleasure. As the poem screamed Chaucer to me. It ended so beautifully at the Cliffs of Albion, and the metaphor wanted to be tied up there as a long poem, not an Epic. The metaphor being the loss of Albion giving up the Kingdom. The piece is a metaphor, of course. Arthur was out fighting his battles with, what I assume is, France (metaphorically), left Guinevere alone, and Mordred came and began to stir up strife. Therefore, Albion was lost because Arthur was overseas.
I saw Chaucer in the text. Therefore, a Canterbury tale. The piece is appropriate for a Canterbury tale; its subject is the same. Arthur left his lover vulnerable, Lancelot saved her, Arthur became jealous over Lancelot—therefore, for the warlust of conquering, he lost his friend because that friend had to save Guinevere, and his kingdom; so therefore, Arthur was also killed at Albion. The nature of the Jealousy is Chaucerian;—his son Chris says that the interpretation is new. It is for an Arthurian Legend, but Tolkien fused Chaucer’s element with Malory’s. The subject of Chaucer is showing up in the Arthurian poem, that being a certain feminine character in Guinevere.
The story is a metaphor about losing the Mythos of England to France. Perhaps because Tolkien had already given up the battle and embarked on writing Middle Earth, the poem could not be finished. It’s why I wrote Hail Britannica was this controversy right here, of Britain not having its own mythology. But, there’s some tension between Tolkien’s Middle Earth and The Fall of Arthur. What is called “Mirkwood”, there’s the beginning of a tension between Tolkien’s Universe of Discourse and the Arthurian Legend’s. Tolkien did, in fact, give a mythology to England. So also with the entire English Speaking civilization.
I have criticism from the New York Times, that doesn’t quite understand what they have here; which is typical of anything named after New York. We treat serious literature as if it were a product. But, it has a quintessential English Myth, about losing the Cliffs of Albion—what is referred to as “The Wall” several times in the poem—being the pivotal point in history where Arthur loses his reign. You’d almost have to be English to understand it—or have the first thing you learn about England be the impenetrable Cliffs of Albion.
Albion is the whole of Great Britain’s poetic name. And I believe the patriotic reference is appropriate. Tolkien, as a whole, was deeply ingrained in believing in the unity of good people’s against evil. So with it, I do believe the poem is right. Tolkien is English. He did fight in WWI, the worst war ever fought to date. It is a metaphor about the United Kingdom needing to stay whole.
I do, also, believe Tolkien had a Chaucer like tale here. I wish he could have tied up the metaphor, instead of go down rabbit holes trying to fuse his Middle Earth with the Arthurian Legends. He didn’t have the material for an Epic Poem, just a Chaucer like Long Poem which could be found in the Canterbury tales. The metaphor is perfect—but he had made a mistake by trying to carry on with the poem after its conclusion. The metaphor was in the title, and certainly, it would make Albion fall to Mordred, the events of the poem.
Why Tolkien could not finish a work of poetry is not really understood by me. But, the fact remains that the poem could be finished only by about line 70 or so of Canto V. Arthur was lost at Albion’s beach. As, that’s the poem’s end; it’s the metaphor being built up to. There can be no winning England after Albion falls. If the English lose Albion, there is no Gawain to win it back. I think that’s why Tolkien could not finish the poem. He had too far a breadth, but the archetypes wouldn’t allow him to go any further.
And frankly, my original draft of this essay had said “Dover.” Because of an obscure reference to Pevensey. But, I believe Tolkien is talking about Albion, not just the region of Dover. Where the battle is—which gives the myth more weight as no one knows where Camlann was fought—could be anywhere there are Salt Cliffs in Albion. The unified whole of the United Kingdom. The battle is most likely in Wales, though, as it seems the geographical center of the conflict, but it also blends with Dover. Probably a discreet warning to England about Wales’ geography. One might think that it is perfectly impenetrable being next to Ireland, but the threat is internal. Mordred is from Wales, and in the King’s absence, Mordred stirs up a rebellion. That is why the cliffs of Wales embody a United Kingdom, or better known as Albion.
Upon reading notes in my copy of the book, and my vivid imagination, I had imagined the possibility of writing more to the piece. Siegeworks being rowed in, the logistic train of ships. Though, this is a poor artistic choice. Tolkien would have known this, as many writers have fantastic notes, but employing them would be bathos, or in this case, ruin the Voltaire like ending. As, there is a striking Voltaire like punch in the last line.
My added lines would only be there to help the reader assess what the meaning of the poem is they had just read. Only for a modern audience, as I can easily account that the poem is talking about Camlann. The three futile battles, as Camlann was one of the three futile battles of English history, being the loss of Lancelot, the loss of Guinevere, and the landing of the galleons at Albion. The poem could not make more battles, as Hastings is one of those three futile battles, therefore, it must be three futilities, and landing at Albion is the third futility. To siege Albion would seem French.—To even assume it’s possible. Albion’s shores are futility, being the third futility. Guinevere’s love the second. Lancelot’s disownment the third.
Nothing more needs written to this poem. Except what I had written, only for a modern audience to help them understand what they had just read, and to help give some closure to the ambiguity of the poem if only for myself. Landing a fleet at Albion must be futile, as the battle Tolkien described was already stated a Punic victory several lines back. I suppose one could make it an Odyssey, but one would need fifteen Cantos, which would be theft. Let the reader simply imagine it with this line, as a series of failed siege attempts at Albion would be a strong story, but it would not then be Tolkien’s. His subject was taken up, it was completed, the three woes beautiful and simply were Guinevere’s futile love, Lancelot’s futile service, Arthur’s futile landing. To siege the cliff would be a fourth woe, therefore unnecessary.
A Defense of the Completion of Tolkien’s Poem:
“… :: My heart Urgeth/ that best it were:: that battle waited.” To read the poem as it would naturally be read, with the context of the previous lines, it is Arthur claiming it would have been best to wait to give battle, rather than fight on the beach. The next lines are ambiguous, possibly to allow Tolkien the option to continue if he ever wanted to take up the subject again. But, since he never could, the last lines are best read as if they were stream of consciousness, to help complete the work. There is no way to communicate the sense, but to consider it in a grammatical tense of Arthur giving immediate thought to the events unfolding before he landed on the beach. That he is in that present mind. As, the author’s intents are known to the reader. But, subtracting the author from the text, using Autonomous Artwork in theory, the line should be reflected within the framework of the story as stream of consciousness. Therefore, a conclusion, and giving connotation of Pevensey, where the French sieged England and won at Hastings. The poem is masterful with this conclusion in view,—to go further would be deuterocanonical, and spoil the metaphor.
Why I Offer a Different Scholarship than Chris Tolkien
For one thing, a man is acquainted with his father. He’s acquainted with Arthurian legend. He’s not so sure what he has. I’ll tell him what he has. He has one of England’s masterpieces, but, only if the poem does not continue.
So, it will come to no surprise that there should be no—rather there ought not be any—instance of the Silmarillion in this poem. Mirkwood sounds too much like one of Tolkien’s inventions, which was clumsy in the poem. Granted, Tolkien’s masterwork The Lord of the Rings is far superior to anything I had ever dreamt up, even to this date. It is without ties to any historical story. Arthur, however, is tied up with a lot of legends, where Tolkien’s foray into the Silmarillion or Middle Earth universe of discourse doesn’t fit the body of work poets have been creating in Britain, France, Dutchland and the United States. England has a vast mythology, starting with Beowulf, but including Paradise Lost, Pilgrim’s Progress, Arthur, Robin Hood, St. George. Middle Earth is like Rowling’s Masterwork. It is purely creative; it is even more creative, in that it is something brand new. It is a mythology for England. It is—as it can only be—purely British. There can be no American, Frenchman nor any German intruding on the purely British story of Middle Earth. It is the first of its kind, written in the bunkers of WWI, and only Dune rivals it in scope. If anyone were to ask me which body of work stands as the greatest masterpiece of fiction ever, The Lord of the Rings stands as the greatest.
However, Tolkien wrote an impressive work—to be viewed outside of his body. The Fall of Arthur is not unfinished. It is, I will argue, complete. Because the metaphor is complete. Tolkien had completed the poem on verse 63 of Canto V. I had written an interpretation starting at verse 64, and ending at 70. The reason why—and we’re in the realm of poetry—is that the metaphor is perfect in The Fall of Arthur.
One must understand Tolkien was writing a myth for England. Modern England. The England with Communism to the North of it. The England with Atomic Bombs. The England where further conquest would be futile.
In that is the third futility. Camlann was considered the third futile battle in English History. As recorded. Futile, Punic—Tolkien had written in Canto V a Punic victory. He had—as I read him closely—been conscious of the effect of the poem, and that it was soon coming to an end.
What’s more, is that there are wars with the “East”. Not south. The “East.” Rome was south of Britain. Russia is to the East. The metaphor must be preserved in the poem, as the poem is really about Wales being a vulnerability in the English isles. Not much is spoken of about Wales in our English literature. But, Mordred is a prince. A Prince of Wales, who foments a coup against his father, as his father is out fighting his glorious wars with the East. Remember, the point of the battle of Camlann is its futility. Anticlimax is the sum of futility, and is an artistic choice worthy of the subject.
Historically speaking—perhaps Tolkien realized this—the victory over Rome never occurred. C. S. Lewis was fanatical about this apparently—such is friendship that the fanaticism would carry over to Tolkien. It was, for some intellectual reason, disgusting, and these obscure and arcane opinions are held by scholars in agreement—for whatever reason, probably as a point of agreement that the sacred bonds will never be broken on that one solitary point. Arthur had left—the third futility when he came back and landed at Albion—and lost everything fighting his war with the “East.” Not Rome.
The first is Guinevere’s unrequited love. The second is Lancelot’s disownment as a friend. As the Chaucerian themes start to intrude onto the story. The story is English, but not wholly Arthurian. It is borrowed from Beowulf, it is borrowed from Chaucer.
The story seems to be a metaphor about Albion. The metaphor is the Salt Cliffs—often ambiguous, as the geography is all of England at once, but the conflict arises at Wales. The salt cliffs which kept England safe were the same ones, “The traitor keeper”, that solidified the reign of Mordred. The reign of whatever foreign threat there is. The metaphor is clear, the story must be about futility. It must have three futilities. A battle after winning a beach, the win must be the futility, not the future battle a futility. “:: doom of mortals/ ere the walls were won…” The walls were not won. Albion prevented Nazi invasion. It would never fall, even to Arthur. The metaphor must be Albion, either being in the possession of Arthur, where he can reign responsibly. Or in the possession of Mordred, the power hungry prince. The battle with the East will not be won, but will end in futility. The poem must mean that, or the metaphor it’s building carries no meaning.
It is arcane if studied in the context of Morte D’ Arthur. But Tolkien is not writing Morte D’ Arthur. He is writing The Fall of Arthur; a myth with no French words. The fall of Arthur, the spirit of England, is the disunity of the United Kingdoms. What follows suit, from the beginning of the poem, Albion is protecting not just England, but Christendom. Therefore, the metaphor is not only about Albion. It is about the Western Civilization.
The threat is war with the East. A futile war, that Tolkien is alluding to, which cannot really be won. It would be in name a glorious victory, fictitious in its accomplishment like Arthur’s victory against Rome. Truly, Arthur is in possession of Rome right now, therefore a possible concrete fulfillment of the prophecy of literature. But losing Albion, it is something futile. As futile as unrequited love. As futile as broken friendship.
Tolkien’s Fall of Arthur An Analysis
The poem is not uncompleted. It is finished. With a comma in place of a period, it is finished. With seven lines of mine, maybe even extraneous, the poem is finished. Therefore, what does the poem mean?
The Battle of Camlann is considered the third futile battle in English history. Therefore, the poem is talking about the futility of the English striving with the East. It is a metaphor—Rome being the Western civilization. Therefore, completed, Arthur has conquered all Rome, with the United Kingdom being the principate in control of the entire Western Empire. Therefore, Arthur does control Rome, and the book is not looking back to Arthurian legends, but is looking to today, with wars haunting the West from the East.
With this being said, it is interpreted that while Arthur is out fighting his war, it leaves the door open to his son Mordred to rape away Guinevere, which is where the plot hinges. On that central focus, Mordred is now taking advantage of the king’s absence, by stirring up Wales against the United Kingdom. Wales, in particular, is the most stable of the three protectorates of England. But, in Arthur’s absence, Wales is stirred up against England, and therefore, Mordred launches a coup to usurp the kingdom from Arthur.
What follows is that Lancelot must save Guinevere, and her love for Lancelot is discovered. This leads to a furious jealousy in Arthur, who disowns Lancelot as a friend, and Arthur must now know that Guinevere is unfaithful. Therefore, two of the three futilities. The third, is the loss of Albion to Mordred. There can be—as the poem’s metaphor creates—no winning back the shores of Britain if Albion is seized by another king.
Arthur here is not a King, but is the spirit of England. And if the spirit of England is lost to the East, in futile battles bordering the edges of Mirkwood, the United Kingdom will be lost. The poem is a rallying cry to keep the kingdom United.
It fairs well as a short piece, almost like a Canterbury tale in length. Upon reading it the first time through, I was amazed, and kept hoping that the poem would end at Albion’s shores. It sure enough did, which is why the poem’s subject was finished. There was no sieging nor winning Albion, what was called The Wall. Because the cliffs are unassailable to foreign invader. Even keeping out the Nazis during World War II.
The poem is proof of a concept, and that is the archetypal structure of the collective knowledge. Albion cannot be lost to war, but must only be lost to subterfuge. If the Spirit of England fails, it is gone. The glorious revolution proves this all the more, that England must acquiesce to its rulers. It is the only way a ruler can get embedded within the shores, because once the Walls of Albion are abandoned, the power that is within the walls will be sustained. Thus, it is only lost to cowardice, or it is lost to campaigning, which is how Arthur lost it in the poem.
Readily, that is the metaphor of the poem, the three futilities are Guinevere’s Unrequited Love, Lancelot’s Disownment and Landing Ashore at Albion, as opposed to Pevensey, where it is possible to take Britain by military exploit, if she doesn’t have her navy.
A Reflective Analysis of Mirkwood
Tolkien’s body of work includes references to “Mirkwood.” His masterpiece Universe of Discourse is starting to blend into the Arthurian legend. For what reason, we must know that the poem is Tolkien’s. Therefore, the poem must be a striving with Arthurian Legend and Middle Earth. Perhaps, Tolkien is only capable of achieving one universe of discourse, and is not able to enter into another.
With this said, there is a blending of Mirkwood—Middle Earth—with Arthur’s legend. Arthur is out fighting at Mirkwood, the East, somewhere, I would suppose with Middle Earth. Perhaps showing an unconscious tension between the two realms of creativity, that they could not be separated. Until, at the end, Middle Earth won out, and Tolkien abandoned the Mythos of England for the myth of Middle Earth.
Tolkien had said he wanted to embark on creating a “Universal myth of England,” a mythology that was “Uniquely English.” Thus, drawing from the English of past, fusing it together to work new languages; creating ex nihilo a body of work as rich as Middle Earth, England’s purely English mythology was made to be Middle Earth. Substantial in its own right, it does not interact with the real world. It is, on its own, something untouchable.
Tolkien, however, touched it with the Arthurian legends. He was probably unintentionally creating a link, temporal, with Middle Earth. Tolkien’s fairy worlds were an invention of Post World War I, and were probably an expression of his Post Traumatic Stress Disorder incurred by fighting in the trenches of World War I. Thus, the dark and dingy world of Tolkien’s is starting to burgeon into the more tangible metaphysic of Arthurian Legends.
This is what separates literature from fantasy, by the way. Literature is more real in its subject. As opposed to Fantasy, a world of pure creative thought, literature embarks on recreating what is real, even when it is using fantasy. It’s why Orwell’s 1984 is literature. Because it is real. Same with Brave New World. As opposed to Middle Earth which is High Fantasy. There is something overall fantastic about it. Yet, here, bordering Mirkwood, Tolkien is embarking on the fusing of the reality of Arthurian Legend—-something tied into the archetype of England—with his invention. It was, for lack of a better term, unwelcome by me when reading the poem. It is my only criticism of the poem, that Middle Earth began to rear up. It was better left at the War of the Rings.
Though, the poem does not suffer from it. As, its effect once understood begins to impress upon the reader the imaginative subject of Tolkien. Mirkwood is dark forest. Something ominous, nonetheless. Just, unfitting for the subject, we see what probably didn’t let the poem get finished. A man is only capable of perhaps one great world. Two great worlds, they must, therefore, be fused in some way. As is what happens in most of our art. I’m sure Disney will do it with Star Wars and Marvel, unadvisedly. Much the same, it had the same effect in this legend as Disney would fusing Marvel and Star Wars. And unwelcome fusing of two well established themes.
However, an author is keen on doing it. They get their little pet ideas, which then burgeon to a schema about how their worlds work. And, ultimately, it is unavoidable, which is why Tolkien should have probably written this work first. Unless, of course, the work was written first, and then Mirkwood created The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. To which case, Tolkien inventing Middle Earth by mere suggestion of a place is itself a wonderful little invention. But, he’s hereto created from Mirkwood what will, from now on, be associated with it, and that’s Middle Earth.
Therefore, Tolkien maybe created the archetype of Mirkwood. He not only created it, but encapsulated it with the War of the Rings and the Ents. To which I would say “Bravo”, but it still looks awkwardly placed in an Arthurian legend. Simply put, because Tolkien had invented, post hoc, the myth of Mirkwood. Which is interesting in its own right that this would take place, that even if Mirkwood were, itself, a real established literary place, Tolkien had been the one who created it for the modern audience. Therefore, it might be difficult to unravel Mirkwood as Tolkien created it with Mirkwood as it is established in a historical context.
In either regard, its placement, and not being deleted, is proof that Tolkien’s body of work was already fully immersed in The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. It could not go any further, nor any creative work could be separated from it.
Conversely, even I with Fairyland must have it bleed into my other Universe of Discourse. Of course, there is the round and flat earths. The round the tangible; the flat earth the afterlife.
But, I digress there because it is inevitable that a worker of Universes of Discourse blend them into one Superordinate reality, which in Tolkien’s case is Middle Earth. In mine it is just Here and There.
The Fall of Arthur a Legacy
Encroaching upon the cannon of history, a well written, paragraph response about this will not show up on Wikipedia’s entry of Camlann. Even if it’s true, or fundamental for England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. We are falling on dark times, when research must be vetted for what is obvious. One paragraph, and a week has gone by, the paragraph disappears.
I find this is why my scholarship is hard to publish. I have intellectuals who want to break into the field, possibly break ground first. Possibly plant their flag. Or, possibly, they don’t care to know that The Fall of Arthur is about Camlann. Much of our interpretation of literature is specious at best; unmoving. Because of academic pride. It should not be about planting a flag, but about the truth.
The Fall of Arthur shows a truth. The futility of conquest. The futility of war. The futility of a king striving with other nations, abandoning their kingdom. It’s only an idea as old as civilization. It is proven time and time again. When the owner of a business is gone, the Manager is in his place. The store gets dirty. The employees slack off. Why The Fall of Arthur is not about this, I’m afraid it will be lost to the annuls of history unless I take it, and make it read. Much like all of literature, which holds these invaluable pieces of wisdom. Not because they literally occurred, but because they do literally occur. There was probably not a Battle of Camlann. If there was, Arthur probably did not fight there. If he did, the most likely cause of it is a Barbarian invasion of Rome, where a battle was won against it. And, the news carried up into the Barbarian tribes in England, and disseminated throughout the isle.
And a process of peer reviews needs to show it is possible. Often breaking away from the sublime truths of literature.
I offer this essay in response to Christopher Tolkien because the work is not his; the meaning, anyway. The rights to the words are his, and the property rights. But, the metaphor—the meaning—is not up to him to determine. It was up to his father, who had studied Camlann, and knew it was the third futile battle in English history. Who knew that Hastings was another of those battles. And a perfect metaphor which needs to be read, especially in these days when Scotland is talking about annexing from the United Kingdom. Literature is important. Not because it actually transpired, but because it can, quite refreshingly, help us understand by legend what is practical advice. Not because the United Kingdom ever did loose itself to Mordred, but because Scotland could as much be Wales as Ireland, and Tolkien, who fought in hell’s barracks, needs to be listened to. Men who fight in war, men who understand war, even if their stories are metaphors, their stories are true. Because Scotland needs to not annex from Britain. The fate of our earth depends on it. And if this truth is found in a simple literary poem, it is worthy enough for me to do six essays worth of analysis. And Christopher Tolkien does not get to dictate—nor would he, as I would hope he’d see his father is more serious than he had first understood.
We need stories because they preserve truths that go beyond the actual battles of history. They are intellectual and metaphorical battles, to be waged on paper so they do not get waged in real life.
That is why this little poem is important. Probably the most important.
To avoid the tyranny of The stepmother's disloyal rage She sent her two children upon A lamb to swim them o'er the bay. The daughter fell off the sheep's loin. She drowned, while the boy was then saved. In this journalism I see Vacuous truth, unconscious in That it had no symbol, nothing The storyteller of the fleece Would wish to cause us pay heed. Rather, no moral does it spin No deep truth for a heart to win. Yet a past land's conscience it leaves.
If I could write my story One day I were walking down the state park Or sitting in the mall Or typing at my laptop in the local bookstore A beautiful girl would pull up a chair next to me Sit down, and say high. I wouldn't know why. I'd be shy at first But she'd be persistent. Then we'd strike up a conversation. She'd find out quick I'm a writer Ask to read some of what I wrote And then she'd like it. We'd spend the next month With that obsessive kind of friendship That comes with just meeting someone. And soon, we'd fall in love. About a year of being friends--- An eventful year, where we waited on each other And were in the pre-relationship phase--- I'd put an engagement band on her finger. A little gold ring with a small diamond. We'd have a night of weakness Where we would make love for the first time. Soon afterward, we would get married. We'd have kids, And I would homeschool them. Not for any religious reason But only to spend as much time With them as possible. She'd work from home on the computer And I'd spend my time teaching my children. My writing would be a mystery to my children Something which they would be forbidden to read Until they reach the appropriate age. And sure enough, they would sneak into the room And take the step ladder To take the book from the highest shelf And read it. I would scold them. However, my books would sell a modest amount. A small amount. Maybe I would make thirty thousand dollars a year from my books. I would then take the money and tithe it And invest it in treasury bonds. It would be a supplemental income Which brought us comfort. But, I wouldn't be famous. Nor a household name. Just a random stranger some people met On the internet, And they bought my books. When I was old, and had grandchildren, Then, when it couldn't corrupt me My work would explode in popularity. Just enough that I was old and gray And my wife too, And my children with children and their children on the way. And my work would be praised as the greatest of the twenty-first century. I would win Pulitzer, Nobel, Hugo, Poet Laureate. In old age... And I would be surprised by the sudden success. But, not changed by it. I would know how to use the money And would be like Milton Hershey Who invested it into the widows and orphans. To which, I would pass away silently in my sleep At an old age, My wife also by my side. And I will have lived the life I dreamt about.
The sheep with the Golden fleece Was tasked by a divorced bride To bring her children across the sea And to save them from the jealousy Of their stepmother. It dropped the girl into the water. And she, unapologetically, disappeared Without a second thought in the narrative.
I hate the tastes of the populous So I follow my muse where she leads me. I see a wicked man cannot believe in God But a righteous man cannot but help proclaim the name of Jesus. Wherever I go, I see in people's heart a light And the older they get, the more it dims. It's like when a young maid loses her virginity A dark frown furrows her brow. Her glow becomes dim And her inner light ceases to shine. Or a young man who has heart and courage And is like a lion, without knowledge of a woman When he enters into her, he too loses that innocence. Virginity ought to be prized, As once it's gone, it never ceases to be a vapor. Yet, a woman who was molested does not cease to be a virgin. She is not consenting, yet I do see she loses some of her inner light. Not for what she had done, but for what she had done to her. And it is a shameful thing among the sons of men. Yet, I also see men caught in a summary offense Whom having offended the virgin they had deflowered Be accused of committing a more heinous crime. For a fifty dollar fine, they find themselves shackled. I do not say it is injustice, for the woman ought to have been married And her lost virginity cries out to her Though many women pretend like it is not so. I look also to the wind, and see change comes To correct bad behaviors of the past. What looks wretched and tyrannical Is actually a chain which binds evil nations. It wraps around them, and it chokes out the sin; And while we all suffer for a while because of it Soon, it is better left that sex be for a married couple And for procreation. For, the nude show of woman's skin Is something she does feel guilty for, And though she shows her breezier at work The men who stare at it are condemned. And that whip chastises them, Yet the lack of love in her life chastises her. For all had been exposed for the purpose of vanity And still, that vanity cannot hide its shame. So, I look to the current age and say, "Is it that I must suffer too?" And the answer is yes. For a short time, and then it will pass like a raincloud. Yet, the dark storm is wrought by God To correct our foul notions.
Only a genius can understand this concept. So, I may look insane speaking it. But, I am not the first. Nor will I be the last. I will try to speak it as simply as possible. Men, in two places on the globe Can discover a principle in science, art, morality Simultaneously with another man. Neither man, having ever studied Or known the other, Can discover the principle. And that is how we know it is true. For in China, and in Greece, The concept of Tao and Word Was discovered. Poets find similar thoughts Similar constructs, Meandering through the languages' rhythms and stories. Myths build upon one another To create archetypes, To create forms To create similitudes With others. Aborigines, I've heard Can navigate their paths through song. Fortune tellers can understand your path Through a hidden tell. Detectives can know a sequence of events By a single fiber out of place. Moral philosophers on three different continents Separated by various degrees of culture Discover truths about compassion About kindness, about love. And societies crumble when they reject these Fundamental truths. Scientists dig into the earth But poets dig into the constructs To develop similar themes to one another Precisely because they exist somewhere Latent deep in the subconscious minds. Psychoses are so similar from one man to another Because we human beings share similar Mindsets, and similar passions and similar dreams. Men share their mental diseases in common The same as their bodily diseases. Men share their moral failings in common The same as their physical addictions. When we understand this, We shall find there was indeed a creator. And we shall name Him until we discover There was indeed a name at the beginning. And when we find that name It shall be Jesus. For, all the hidden truths and unpleasant things Were told to us by Him, and not a single thing was hidden.
Drink wine. Make love. Merry the heart a bit With the pleasantry of vaginal skin. Oh, Dionysius, to whom Kingdoms Are but a game, and legions march out to war On orders, by programming upon the screen. They march, as you work upon them To get the droves to do your bidding. You wade in your underground hot springs And you dine upon flesh and flagons. Then, you hide from me your sin In our conversation, like a Roan Cleveland Bay. No, for all are guilty, but this you cannot admit to your own guilt. You hide it, oh Northern Prince, Your claims for evidence behooves you As piously you sit upon your throne in your den. You sit upon it, telling me there is no evidence for your sin. When, it is written all over your shameful acts To try and humiliate me. For humiliate me you did, for I cannot call to mind The potions you have drunken, The women you have made love to Nor the roughness by which you treat your own kin. To me, oh Dionysius, You are like royalty;--- Far beyond this jester fool Whose given the license can critique you. For you are like royalty, And I am like screed. My words have none affect upon you. They do not move you. They bore you. They are sonorous sermons To wit, namely, should I shame you like you have shamed me I cannot. For my shame is in the open And yours is locked away tight in your underground labyrinth. I speak of this to your benefit, that Yes, most men are guilty of the same shame as I. In one form or another. Laid the orgies of Dionysius, It is like murder upon your soul. And I, wishing to ease you from your sins Have been humiliated by you When you point to mine. For mine is a matter of public record. And yours is not.
There is a moral center to the universe It can be tapped into, and understood with ease. Yet, men fail to comprehend it by choice, turning Their faces away from it, even scoffing it. Yet, within the particle of language there is Truth, and stories embodied within the very Words used in that language. Truths which can be expressed. Yet, falsehoods creep in because men reject the truth And rebel against the principles which cause joy. Rather, a certain kind of man has no conscience And no ability to understand truth's Word. For, to them, they wish for evidence from the ground. Digging in the dirt, when the truth comes from places Which are like still air, present, able to be felt. And like stranded men, off a ship with broken sails, Those lost souls turn their frigid ice upon earth's winds To putrefy kindness with frostbite, and deaden Souls with what they have found digging in frozen mud.
After Uncle Tom's Cabin swayed the North To their war, and after killing Southern Rebels---their blood stunk like dung heaps in heat--- Some pretentious bastards started work on Turning the culture against itself yet Again. It called "Sentimentalism" Poor art, and thus, went to annex reason From the heart and conscience of man's good soul. It then turned "Uncle Tom" into a foul Pejorative, so it could subjugate My friends, and confuse them enough to call Math racist, Word offensive, and therefore Turn themselves back, yet again, to slavery. For if education is pugnacious To my beloved Black Friend, you will be slaves Yet again, and have been the catalyst.
The great existentialist work Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Has a super computer rattle out the number 42. In Kabbalah, it's the number God used to create the universe. In Buddhism, it is a sutra. There are dozens of mathematical and mechanical uses for the number. It's a recurrent number in the Bible. It recurs in Egyptian Mythology It is a number which fascinated Lewis Carroll, The Logician and Mathematician who wrote Alice in Wonderland. If I might add my input, I think the number was chosen for its apparent randomness And it's just meant to represent a meaningless universe. As if a super computer took all calculations into consideration And it chugged out a number like it used an equation. Personally, that I can understand that Speaks volumes on the nature of communication.