Dear Mr. Twain

Dear,
Mr. Twain

I must say I like you better as a humorist. The last fifty pages of Huckleberry Finn is hysterical. The fact that it is the point where the Angry White Man of the time finds out he loves Mr. Jim.

I'm currently reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. It's more to my liking. And The Prince and the Pauper. More to my liking, as Huckleberry Finn was sort of dark, and trust me I followed your advice to not make the river a metaphor. Maybe I'm just stupid, and you really wanted to. But if I didn't catch your sardonic humor, maybe I should be shot for not seeing a metaphor.

To explain my current time, I see everyone is afraid. And nobody is willing to laugh. The Humor of Huckleberry Finn was the point of the novel... we all need to lighten up. We all need to laugh a little. Because that laughter makes us all on an equal footing.

The racist part of our society, the one implanted in me by the racism of the left---for they make me angry because I was not racist before they started threatening my happy society---I must say I am racist a little. But I wasn't. Not until Cancel Culture became synonymous with Blackness. When they removed "Nigger" from your work, that is when I became racist.

I am racist when I look at our current forms of literature, describing colonialism as a boogieman, and cannibalistic squalor is regarded as superior to law and order. I am no better than the people in Black Lives Matter. I get swept up in stupid movements. I wanted Derick Chauvin to go to jail---but, they sentenced him three times for murder. For one crime, they sentenced the man like he had committed three murders. And I thought to myself, "This is the thing that enslaves. Why Black Lives have to Matter, because of these kinds of excessive sentences."

Truthfully, I will write battle for battle the Civil War to erase this vein of racism in me. This new vein that hadn't existed until "Blackness" became synonymous with wrecking the society I loved. I wish, to my very core, that blacks could have been freed with Jim, but their slaveholders have developed weapons such as this fanaticism to keep them in chains. So much so that they will commit suicide.

I read Fredrick Douglass---it is weird, but he made me a little racist. He made me recognize the bonds of illiteracy. He made me recognize the bonds of savagery. I am not racist toward Fredrick Douglass, but I am racist when I saw a wrestling match between two boys. And I saw in the one boy, who was black, the movements of his slavery. To that I say that there is something which holds the black culture back. Because I watched a state champion who was also black wrestle like he were David. And the bonds of oppression were not on him.

What makes me racist is seeing this weakness of character being flouted as if it were superior to the society I love. Yet, I am impoverished by it too.

Truly, I know something needs to be fought for. But a man like Thomas Sowell I am not racist toward. You would not know him, but he is a man---possibly one of the most intelligent on the planet---who speaks to the true slavery. Developed in the mindset. Now I get close to Nietzsche, but may I draw forth one wisdome from him. We must shed ourselves of the Slave Morality. The one that has us rioting in the streets, and believing our prosperity lies in the hands of some force, economic or racial. That one bit I agree with him.

Yet, the Slave Morality which Nietzsche preaches, the one of the Jews, is freedom. It is trust, and equity---the very thing my Brothers and Sisters of that Beautiful Race fight for. For if I am racist, it is against the sluggishness and timidity which plagues my brothers and sisters. But they will get no gain of it, by trying to steal it from me. For I am impoverished of it, too. And perhaps that is what makes me racist, is that I have very little of what they want, yet these wonderful creations of God wish to steal from me what I already lack and am impoverished of.

Dear, 2Pac

Dear,
2Pac

I don't commune with the dead. Not as a medium. I don't conjure you for a concert. Let me just speak to your legacy.

2pacolypse, it might just happen. People of color fighting in the streets. Urban warfare. Molotov Cocktails.

I am white. But I suffer against the same institutions you do. And I am not published. Your voice is heard. Everyone recognizes you. You were rich. And I am poor, on welfare, unable to earn a living off of my work. 

In the Slavic Nations it was communism which they reared upon their haunches, and fought for. You don't realize it, but your work is of the same vein as the Communist, frustrated with society. My Marxian background, loving Marx from a young man---now I despise him---makes me want to fight for my prosperity. Makes me want to riot.

Yet, you are published. And I am not. You had the surplus of a king, as the King of Rap. I---at this moment---am poor. Is it race that holds me back? I am of the Race called Superior, born with blonde hair, a German. I wish I were Jewish, and perhaps I am. But it is not my race that holds me back. I could easily pass as that Holy Race which is called "Privileged" by blacks.

Lincoln did not free the slaves for politics' sake. He simply could have never written the Emancipation Proclamation, and allowed slavery to continue. That would have certainly fixed the problem. As the south wished to break apart from the North because of slavery. Lincoln was also an avid abolitionist. 

No, you are just a relic of hate, in an industry which pimps blacks and turns them into savages. No longer are you Kings and Princes like the Duke, Nat King Cole and Louis Armstrong. You're the Pigmy in the zoo. You were not a prophet. And sure enough, you'll have your 2pacolypse. I may be killed by some wandering zealot, radicalized by your music.

The ghettos are bad. But how much of your music is the very vein which emboldens them? How many kids are killed while your music blares? Where is the peace, when in the 1920s, men could safely sleep out in Harlem's fire chutes.

No, I am on welfare. I cannot get a job, or else my sustenance is taken from me. I may lose my necessary health insurance. As that's the real leverage over me. The policies that hold you back are the same ones holding me back. 

If you wanted to fix the world, if you wanted to make your streets safer, if you wanted peace... you failed. But, you continually rap of Race War like a two bit Nazi Krout. And remember, you had the whole world at your fingertips. You were a rich man. But you couldn't let it go. It tied to you, and the anger of your riches, the fact that you proved yourself wrong... and it screams in your lyrics, the cognitive dissonance that America is prosperous and wealthy, and you had your bit. And you got killed by a drug feud. Either that, or you faked your death, and escaped.

The Fall of Arthur; An Analysis of Tolkien’s Work

  1. 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.

  1. 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.

  1. 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.

  1. 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.

  1. 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.

  1. 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.

Tolkien, J. R. R.. Edited by Christopher Tolkien. The Fall of Arthur. Mariner Books, 2014. Text

Man Cannot Be Truly Righteous

Man cannot be truly righteous
Without first tasting bitter sorrow.
He cannot be truly just
Without understanding the necessity of punishment.
He cannot be truly virtuous
Without understanding there is a time for war.

It was told to me once,
That the Babes were angry with God
For telling Hosea to take a wife of whoredom.
For, how could God permit evil?
Yet, for Good to be Good
There is something which might be called evil inside of it.

For when God begat Man's Flesh
He took on the Form of Human Good.
However, divine retribution from the Father
And when that Man returns
Is going to be blood.

Such it was that Hosea need know
The whoredoms of Ephraim and Israel
And to know God's sorrowful heart.
For, Hosea loved he as a wife;
Bedded her, fed her, clothed her.
Yet, she practiced whoredom
So that he knew not whether his behest
Were truly his children.
So with Job who partook in Christ's sufferings
So with Israel when God disjointed his knee.

It must be understood what evil is
To be touched by it
To have touched it.
For only then can you truly be good.
Only then, after suffering,
Can you truly be good.

For everyone is bemused by prosperity
And money and talent.
Yet, should the taste be made dull
And the scents made dull,
What is there left?
The man suffers,
Yet rejoices in his king.
For, the blessing of God is His love
Yet His admonishment is for we to understand
The plights of the broken hearted.

It Was Once Said that Inspiration/ For a Wrier Dries Up With Age

It was said once that the inspiration
For a writer dries up with age.
Subtly, I feel it.
I feel the East Wind blowing
The West Tides making their slumbering folds
Upon the sanded beaches.
How the waves shape the beach
And the unending cycling of the powers
Of West and East
Make their revolving cyclones.

And I say, I am satisfied with what I have written.
Unlike the elder author
Whose craft has dried up
The imagination's liquor
Dried up, and the inebriation
Of the mental waves of peace and love.
I have had a good writing career.

Now, I have one more feat.
I must get them read.
How, I do not know.
But, I will, like a hermit in a cloister,
Cling to God, my work,
And read and write the numerous thoughts
I entertain.
Though, that imagination is dried up
The well, there are things by which I occupy myself with
Which satisfy just as much as my creativity.
Piano and Hand Drums are not so interesting to me
As they were in my youth,
So it is that writing is not as interesting to me now.
And I feel at peace, that I have climbed mountains like Everest
I had forded trenches as deep as the Marianas,
I had written Kitsch---so it was called once, though it is the best of what I've written---
I had written literary masterpieces.

I am satisfied with my work.
And I cannot see anything more to be done,
Except to wait on God to get it the notoriety it needs.
Must I create my avatar of fame?
I wish not to, rather but be the man I am
And allow all to see the man I am.
The mute man at the clinic
Told me I was not a good man.
I am not a good man---
But Christ is a good man
Enough for both of us.
And I wish not to have my Avatar of fame
I wish to eat my pound of flesh
Bed my wife...

What will occupy my time?
What will I do?
It is in my thoughts to escape to the Amish
To garden with them.
Though I am weak. Very weak.
Though they will make me strong
For the Daughter of Zion
So I can inherit my bride
My wife... the portion of all Israel;
A beautiful city like a woman.
And we shall be wedded to her
And women shall be wedded to God.

I am satisfied with life.
Very satisfied.
I am satisfied with discovering the truths hidden in everything.
I am satisfied with my creative endeavors
Though I am no longer as creative as I once was.
I am very satisfied.
And I shall wait upon my work
Anxiously. And when it is discovered
I shall be satisfied even more.
I shall be satisfied by my Woman's Beating Heart
And I shall be satisfied with my work I have done in the world.
I have done much work.
Labored plenty in the arts of wisdom---
And even some folly---
I have been made insane by the knowledge of magic
And made whole by the knowledge of faith;
I had been made a partner with the great men of letters
Whom I have sucked from, and taken their wisdom from them
And recycled it for a new generation.
I have even contributed my own thoughts.
And I shall wait for them to be heard.
 
But, my writing is waning.
I understand this.
I shall not be frustrated as Eric Hoffer's True Believer is
When the well dries up.
For I can cook, I can play instruments, I can occupy myself with the ideas of others.
I can find the liquor of all words
And derive their sense.
I can find it in those whom I disagree with...
Seek to understand what truth makes them confess their falsehood.
I can find it in those I agree with, and be offended by the falsehoods I see.
I can sit patiently, and dialogue, and enjoy conversation.
I can discern the meaning in a malapropism.
I can even discover the meaning of life.

There is work for this writer to do
But I have touched upon all wisdom with my craft.
Furtherance of it---
And I will go further, but not much---
Is not necessary.

Big Fish Covid

He has a 99.6 degree temp at the most.
He gets some stomach cramps.
He has a cough.

He tells my brother, 
"I felt like my abdominal muscles
"Were being ripped out."
 
It's like Covid is this tall tale
Being spun by the populace
To hide the fact that they've been lied to
And everything they worked for was destroyed for nothing.

Dear, Coca Cola

Dear, 
Coca Cola

I love Coke. I always will. I can't drink it right now for health issues, not political. But, I'll always be loyal to your brand; unless you change the formula! Don't do that. 

It's your freedom to say what you want. It's my freedom to disagree with you. I in no way condone homosexuality or race hustling. I say Homosexuality is a sin. And it's an abomination. But, if I boycotted everyone for a political difference,---well, that's just not right and I'd be boycotting just about everyone. 

And I do love Coke. So, there's no reason I can't enjoy your product and still retain my values as a Conservative. I haven't stopped watching the MLB either; I'm a Phillie Die Hard to the day I die. Fourth Generation Fan, whose Grandfather was a Philly Pro on the Tamaqua Bulldogs. So, I'm Philly for life.
 
This will pass. People will get tired of being so zealous, and come back to their senses. I'm afraid boycotts aren't going to do anything but make this culture war more militant. Let's all, Conservative and Liberal, just allow people to believe what they want. It doesn't have to be this way. 

Should you say to me, "You cannot publish, nor earn your bread from your writing", unfortunately this is the power of money, and the engine of Capitalism. And it needs to be broken. On that, I am against you.

Because your voice is stronger for your dollars, and mine is silenced, on that note I am against you. But I will not Boycott you. For, you have freedom and so do I. What point is it for me to infringe upon you your voice? Should you infringe upon mine, and boycott mine--- Well, then you are making yourself an enemy when I have been your most loyal fan.

Can I, and you, both sell our products, our brands, our ideologies? Without infringing upon one another, or stepping on one another's toes? Can I earn my bread, and you yours, without one of us trying to silence the other?
 
Not that boycotts are bad. Should you sell the parts of infants, and brew them into your potions, then I suppose I would have reason to boycott you. But, the only thing you do is exercise your free speech. And I exercise mine.
 
It is annoying to me to be told to "Be less white." What does that even mean? But, I've heard people call blacks "Niggers", and I had not cast them from my life. Nor have I boycotted them. 

We all possess our demons. We all have bad ideas. And, to get past this destructive time in our history, it would require it that I don't boycott you. And you don't boycott me.
 
That conservatives still drink Coke. And liberals, if they enjoy my product---and they will---enjoy it. As, there were plenty of times that movies I loved said things which were uncouth. When Star Wars made Darth Vader Jesus, or South Park portrayed God as a Purple Beast.

This is no different. Family Guy I hate. If given the power, I would censor them. The same as liberals would censor me. But, we ought to both understand that it is our freedom, to mutually hate one another's creativity.
 
Yet I do counsel you, that you have it in your power to silence me. And should you silence me---you and Google, and Facebook, and all the other businesses---that is Corporations taking control of the Government. And that is the very Definition of Fascism.

And if the Right can be guilty of it, so can the Left. And with that I leave you to consider.

Dear Thomas Chatterton

Dear,
Thomas Chatterton

I had just recently become acquainted with you, from reading my Southey work. He had patronized you as a saint. Though, your life didn't seem so saintly, Southey obviously felt you were worthy to gain admittance to the Celestial City in his Vision of Judgment.

Often we authors contrive schemes, to get us published. To make ourselves rich. You had died young, as a teenager, by committing suicide. I can understand the sentiment of wanting to end your own life, when hunger and want are daily a part of it. Need you have waited the month or two to be discovered? I'd say most likely not.

Had you just gained possession of your work, instead of write in a damn pseudonym, you may have obtained all that you want. Or, like is the case with me, you could have been trying to move into a sphere of class which couldn't want you. I am aware that by name America is free, but it is riddled with the same class struggles you yourself felt.
 
Was it that your work was just discovered? Or was it that they knew you were dead, and now could bestow honor upon you without giving you the riches you deserved? Had you not assumed a pseudonym, perhaps none of your work would survive today. As it is, I can read your entire work, and it is collected, and easier to obtain than Robert Southey's.

I don't understand you--- not now when I am wise. Why didn't you just put your real name on your writing? And then you could have prospered immediately, rather than sacrifice them to the alter of a pseudonym? Did you have some grand scheme of design, where they would discover your name, and know you had written masterpieces? Well, they did, and you hadn't earned from them.
 
Yet, it is not your fault. I would never blame you. For, I too am suffering under a different, but equally vexing problem. In my age, Mr. Chatterton, nobody reads poetry anymore. So, even if the greatest poet wrote, or the greatest in two generations, none would know of it. But I will not commit suicide. Because I am stubborn, and I will eat, drink, and be vexed so that my old age proves I was a wise man. For there is yet much to discover in this world, and I am not privy to leaving it until I had exhausted all of its vanity, and satisfied myself that Solomon was right.

However, I do not want the world. Only to understand it. To live among it. To know its great belle lettres, to familiarize myself with all of its hidden compartments. To know every culture, and their peoples. Only so I can save some of them, and therefore have the company I so lack at this current moment.

Truthfully, I want to die, but am not one who wishes to take on the Tradition of Crea, as Montaigne puts it. I don't like suicide. Life is too precious to waste, even though I am poor. And likely I am happier poor, so that way I can say, "LORD, I am among the poor." And receive my blessing. Yet, let me never be so poor that I steal. Nor so rich that I forget the LORD.

Truthfully, your story was one of few poets who I read. As your tragic life is more poetic than Mr. Rowley's forgeries. Why did you have to do that?

Yet, to earn a wage from my poetry, I would not despair. To have a small flock of people by which I could shepherd through these illiberal times, I would not despair. To have my bookshelf, and the occasional portion of flesh, I am satisfied. Really I am because I am not poor. And my office is like a monk's, compiling through wisdom to draw out Christ. As the monks would be in the same office I myself am in. And I am in a little monastery, isolated from everyone. Surrounded by a few family members. I am not unhappy.

Would my society come and burn my books? Likely not, so I am satisfied with them, and the compendium of knowledge on this internet. Do I want success? Only for many people to read my work. I do enjoy solitude. But I enjoy a woman's company, too. Which I have yet to obtain. I could be satisfied writing my works and enjoying the company of a woman. Nor am I mad like I once was, as that demon had been exorcised from me.

I am like a sage monk, living in his reclusiveness, compiling odes. Yet, let me be famous only for the sake of having not wasted my time writing things nobody would read or enjoy. To have a steady salary from my writing, I would enjoy it. To eat from this labor. Yet now I am satisfied, for this one moment. Yet, why did you have to use a pseudonym?

Perhaps it is like me, where my class prevents me from being disposed to write high poetry. Perhaps the publishers are waiting for me to commit suicide, so they can pounce on my craft and pick at it like vultures. That way my rotten name isn't among it. They are like that, you know? I don't think you died in vain, as you would have waited many years before you were famous. They knew you had died, and wanted to create a narrative with your life.

Mine won't be that way. I shall live stubbornly, and they shall suffer. I will make them suffer. For they aren't prying this from me. And when I die, they will be forgotten. 

Dear Mr. Hemingway

Dear,
Mr. Hemingway

I would have been more like F. Scott Fitzgerald, so I know the two of us would have butted heads.

However, underneath that bravado was a sensitive soul, who was chief among my friends in letters.

You reamed masculinity. You hunted Rhinoceri, you hunted Lions, Tigers, Bears. I'm sure you shot a few Ostriches in your day. I'm completely different than you, except in my hatred of war and injustice. I know working in the Red Cross brought your insights into the Spanish Civil War. And Pilar is a masterpiece of a character; you are the only storyteller I've read who knew to do flashbacks in the form of oral stories. I hadn't borrowed that from you--- Organically, I figured it out for myself. But yours are just as organic.

Had the two of us ever met, you'd probably say of me "He's a polymath." Meaning I'd be able to write in several different genres. Though, I wrote them well, you were the master of the novel. Though, I hadn't read a good short story from you yet.

The Old Man and the Sea is my treasure. It inspired my own "The Riddle in the Sea". Just in its titular appeal, however it was the story Steinbeck's Pearl was aiming to be. The Pearl is boring. The Old Man in the Sea kept me up reading all night.

We'd not get along, in that jesting manner. In my youthful days we'd have probably tangled once or twice. You'd win, of course. I was a lousy fighter, but don't tell me that when I was a young buck. I was a good wrestler, pound for pound. That was about it. I actually subdued an opponent once who was trying to kill me--- a legit madman.

However, I respect you as a man and as a sincere friend. I am not a drinker, a smoker, a fighter. And when I say we would not get along, I mean it only in the sense that we're cut from different chords. Not maliciously. For I'd be honored to have gotten beat by Mr. Hemingway in a brawl. 

Sure enough, though, when all is said and done, you were a good man. A knowledgeable man. A respectable journalist. A novelist and a scholar.

I could never craft a story as well as you. My best stories aren't able to match yours. I do not conjure your ghost, so rest in peace Mr. Hemingway. Only, that I hope it wouldn't offend you that I say we wouldn't get along. It wouldn't be violent, nor bitter. It'd just be like two birds, a blackbird and a robin.

I the blackbird, the Poet crying of injustices in the land. You the Red Breasted Robin, walking like a man, and the sign of a budding spring.

Dear Miss Austen

Dear,
Jane

I would be yours, Miss Austen, in a heartbeat. I would sweep you off your feet. However, I was born two centuries late.

What happened to you was not fair. It is everything wrong with consenting before marriage. I am not ignorant as to why you were in your situation. The weighing guilt on your conscience must have been much.
 
However, I do not blame you. He came into your life, made you fall in love--- and as the Song of Songs says, that love compels, when awakened, that the grass be your bed, and the oaks your roof. To run off to some place private, and to fill up on loves
 
Why that man got to marry, and you didn't--- I am sorry. If I could be Colonel Brandon, awaiting on you, I would be your suitor in a heartbeat. I understand you danced, and I understand the scandalous things you did.

You were in love. Yet, who you fell in love with, that Wickham, you were Lydia. Though you didn't run off, and start a life with your suitor--- to you it would have been better because then you'd have the dignity of being married to the man you loved.

I'm not ignorant. I too have similar guilt; and I bear my shame in this day and age, like yours. Where such a thing was frowned upon, and it was a constant barrage of shame.

In today's age, you would get along just fine. Nobody would fault you for your sin. I cannot say I prefer it that way, only that if you lived in my day, we'd be charitable, and I would find you.
 
In your day, the scandal produced a woman who was in love, and broken for she was not requited in that love. What you gave of your love, I understand though never having been in love myself.

It's not quite true, I was in love with an idea. I fell in love with Peace. I had called it "Love", when in fact it was peace. And that woman I had created, the one who changed my life for the better, was of course Jorgia. The phantom of my daydreams, but very real. And making love to her was never something for which I felt guilty.

I understood from that moment, the brilliance of love. The closure of having made love to someone who will always be there.

There is something beautiful in knowing it is right. And I'm sure you felt that. But, he left you.

The true love story of Jane Austen is a common one; there comes a man with ill intents who sweeps the woman off her feet. And sweeping her, he takes from her the thing he loves most. And then he goes forward.

However, you never gave up on love. You never got bitter or jaded. You, like I, waited and waited, writing our stories. And those gave us the closure.
 
And Jane, you made your five hundred pounds from your Novels. A sum which you used well. But you died so young, for this world was unworthy of you. It had taken from you everything, for a moment's passion.