Communists need their people to toe the party line without question, just like INGSOC does in Orwell’s 1984.
In Cuba, the island nation that could be a paradise, 66 protestors arrested for their actions last summer were tried in December and are still awaiting their sentences. A few who were also arrested for unauthorized use of speech have been sentenced to 15-30 years in prison.
“It has never been easy for journalists to work in Cuba,” Juliane Matthey, press officer for Latin America at Reporters Without Borders, said. On the organization’s 2021 list ranking countries on journalistic freedom, Cuba is the 9th worst, not taking last summer into account.
The Communist Chinese continue to bully journalists in Hong Kong. Stand News was the largest free news agency in the country until Dec 29, when police raided their offices. “The online media organization, which had operated for seven years, took down its website and social media accounts and dismissed all staff.”
Being somewhat busy tonight, and having no useful ideas of my own, I turn this space over to G. K. Chesterton as my guest blogger. This film is from his appearance at Holy Cross College, Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1931. His remarks will be brief, and a couple splices in the film have been patched with still photos.
Have a good weekend, my friends, and don’t go outside barefoot.
Winter driving in Tromso, Norway. Driving yesterday looked nothing like this, but it’s Norway. Photo credit: Remi Jacquaint @jack_1. Unsplash license.
Back to translating today. I’ve been pretty busy for… well, for the last couple months. My subjective conclusion is that, although Norway remains locked down fairly severely, its film and TV industry is planning on working pretty hard, pretty soon. I think it’s agreed by all the smartest people that entertainment folks are infallible harbingers of future events, like groundhogs in little sunglasses.
Yesterday’s drive to Montevideo (yes, we have a town called Montevideo in Minnesota. I take no responsibility for this. The culprits are long dead) was a cold one. I said the other day that this winter has been an old-fashioned one. By that I meant old-fashioned in terms of frequent snow and thick snow cover. It’s been atypical, however, in terms of yo-yo temperatures. On Tuesday it got up to over 40⁰ Fahrenheit. Stuff melted all over the place. On Wednesday I got into my car at 7:00 am with the temp around 4 below. It rose to about 2 below as I drove, and soared to 8 above by the time I got back to the Cities.
This wasn’t winter like the picture above (chosen mostly because it was taken in Norway). This was one of those clear, cloudless days where the heat is raptured into what I once saw described as “the tremendous heat-sink of a clear winter sky.” This is the cold of space. Alien. Merciless. Frigid as a Minneapolis Star & Tribune critic when sent one of my books to review.
These cold-weather drives put one in mind of Fridtjof Nansen – if you’re a self-dramatizer like me. The cold permeates the car’s frame overnight, and it lingers, even with the heater on full blast. It was an hour before I could take my gloves off, and longer before I could take off my Homburg (it was a funeral. Had to wear my black Homburg).
I wore my black suit with waistcoat, and a Thinsulate scarf and my lined trench coat. Thinsulate gloves too. I was still bloody cold.
I returned to Minnesota from Florida, years back, because I missed spring.
Photo by Mayron Oliveira @m4yron. Unsplash license.
Today I once again drove several hours to attend a funeral in a distant part of the state. It was for my aunt Ada. I wasn’t terribly close to her, but I was fond of her. She may have been the happiest of my mother’s sisters (though I wouldn’t be dogmatic on the point). She worked for years as a school lunch worker, and sang with the Sweet Adelines. She was in her 80s, and her death was quick and easy, as such things go.
She was the last person living to have borne my maternal grandfather’s last name. (I’m not telling you what it is, because as you know it’s a common security question.) Though Grandpa has many descendants, they all come through the female line.
Turnout for the service was very good, and about half the crowd was her descendants and their spouses. It occurs to me that a very good (though not infallible) indicator of a persons’ happiness may be the number of children, grandchildren, etc. who show up at their funerals. I know conventional wisdom today says you’re happiest concentrating on career and self-actualization, but I think there’s a lot to be said for big families. My funeral, unless my plan for world domination succeeds, will probably be a fairly dismal affair.
Think how many people you know who have only one child, and are miserable because that child is unhappy or making bad life choices or on drugs or something. When you have one kid, you’re putting all your legacy eggs in one basket.
Have a “quiver full” (as the Bible puts it) of offspring, and you spread out the risk. One of those kids is likely to be happy and successful, and give you some satisfaction.
And let’s face it, “only” kids face challenges. When I was in school, and only kids were rare, it was commonly understood by the rest of us that only children had socialization problems. They came to school with expectations about how they’d be treated that were doomed to be disappointed. They’d missed out on the friction with siblings that prepares one for playing with others.
Advice on family planning, from a childless man. Take it for what it’s worth.
Harriet wished she knew more about times and tides. If Robert Templeton [her fictional detective] had happened, in the course of his brilliant career, to investigate a sea-mystery, she would, of course, have had to look up information on this point. But she always avoided sea-and-shore problems, just precisely on account of the labour involved.
The eighth Lord Peter Wimsey novel by Dorothy L. Sayers is Have His Carcase (a joke on “Habeus Corpus”). In this book, Lord Peter once again joins forces with Harriet Vane, mystery novelist, the woman he loves. Who continues to steadfastly refuse his marriage proposals.
Harriet is having trouble with her latest novel, and so has repaired to a (fictional) resort town on the southwest coast of England to concentrate. One day she takes a walk on a coastal road to clear her head, and stops for a picnic lunch on a beach below some cliffs. There she spies a human form lying immobile on top of a flat rock. Approaching to investigate, she finds a man dead, his throat cut, the blood still flowing freely. Knowing that the tide is coming in soon, she takes photos to document the body’s condition. By the time she makes it to the nearest town and gets the police to investigate, the body has washed away, not to be found for some days.
Harriet is a savvy businesswoman, and does not hesitate to tell the press about her discovery. She also starts asking questions about the victim. He was a “dancing partner” (gigolo) at one of the local hotels, and had recently become engaged to a very rich older woman. Which makes the woman’s son an obvious suspect in the murder, but he has a pretty good alibi.
Lord Peter soon shows up to help her investigate (the police don’t mind, of course, thanks to his reputation and political connections). Those police are inclined to dismiss the death as suicide, but Peter and Harriet find that theory improbable for several reasons. What they finally discover will be very strange indeed.
I hadn’t read Have His Carcase for nearly fifty years, and I liked it quite a lot, but not as much as I liked it the first time. I’d forgotten about the long section devoted to breaking a cipher (only interesting if you want to work it out on paper with the sleuths, which doesn’t appeal to me). And the final conclusion of the book was more ambivalent than I remembered. Nevertheless, Dorothy Sayers’ narrative skills are very strongly on display here, and there are some great scenes. The final twist is brilliant (in my opinion). And she includes a delicious, Dickensian policeman’s name in this book, too – Inspector Umpelty. You can’t hate a book with an Inspector Umpelty in it.
The book I’m going through right now isn’t that long, but my reading time is limited. Translation work keeps coming in. New innovations – documents pre-translated with AI, which I then proofread. AI is surprisingly good in some instances – awful in others. For instance, it will sometimes translate last names, creating inadvertent humor. Also, the latest stuff I’m doing is supposed to actually show up in subtitles, negating my oft-stated insistence that nothing I do ever appears on screen. I’m not unhappy about the development, but my explanations will have to be more complex now.
The weather has been wintry. Cold. Snowy when not cold, by and large. This is actually pretty much like those childhood winters we old folks like to talk about – the ones we aren’t supposed to get anymore.
My church is located within the city of Minneapolis, which means they have to enforce that city’s revived masking ordinance. Which makes me sad. But I still have faith this will all be over soon.
Somebody asked me to watch and comment on a YouTube lecture by a pagan, on why Christianity makes no sense. Debate gives me the heeby-jeebies, but his argument didn’t challenge me much. He wanted Christianity to be a clean logical proposition – provable and incontrovertible. Surely an omnipotent God knows how to make His message clear to all, right?
The God of Christianity knows how, but He chose not to. He made that choice the moment He decided not to make us automatons, but free beings. That made redemption not a syllogism, but a drama. The Word became flesh. Truth was embodied in blood and guts. Everything got messy. This is foolishness to the Greeks.
See you tomorrow. I likely won’t post Wednesday. I’ve got a funeral out of town that day. Not Covid but a very old relative, who passed in the fulness of time. That’s almost comforting these days.
“Wide Open Are Thine Hands,” sung by the Norsemen Quartet
The words of this hymn are attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153), an influential abbot who wrote many meditations. I found that attribution questioned by Garcia Grindal on her blog dedicated to hymns. She says Arnulf of Leuven, Abbot of Villers-la-Ville, (1200-1250) is the author of the original poem, and it sounds so much like Bernard who could blame us for misattributing it to him.
Dr. Charles Porterfield Krauth of Martinsburg, Virginia, a Lutheran scholar and musician, translated the poem into English.
Wide open are Thy hands, Paying with more than gold The awful debt of guilty men, Forever and of old.
Ah, let me grasp those hands, That we may never part, And let the power of their blood Sustain my fainting heart.
Wide open are Thine arms, A fallen world t’embrace; To take to love and endless rest Our whole forsaken race.
Lord, I am sad and poor, But boundless is Thy grace; Give me the soul transforming joy For which I seek Thy face.
Draw all my mind and heart Up to Thy throne on high, And let Thy sacred Cross exalt My spirit to the sky.
To these, Thy mighty hand, My spirit I resign; Living, I live alone to Thee, And, dying, I am Thine.
A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.
– Love’s Labour’s Lost
I’ve talked about podcasts before, and I hope you don’t mind me recommending a few in the way of writing about what I’m listening to now. And I’d rather do that than play with the cat.
World News Group is releasing the third season of their podcast Effective Compassion, a set of features reporting on ministries to the homeless or other at-risk populations. This season, debuting in a few days, will focus on prison ministries. You can hear a preview today.
Dr. Anthony Bradley is posting a new set of episodes on a variety of topics, but his main focus has been manhood and the making of men. His first episode this season is a talk about the benefits of college fraternities with the president of Chi Psi fraternity at Clemson.
I recently learned of a podcast dedicated to reading books the two hosts will probably hate, called 372 Pages We’ll Never Get Back. The most recent show discusses at great length a marvelously atrocious fantasy that one could easily assume, they suggest, was written by an eight-year-old. There’s no way to overstate how bad this story is, even after hearing of the assault by sword-wielding octopuses and sharks with teeth and noses as sharp as swords. How could it be bad with all of that? I listened to about 90 minutes of it before giving up and trying another episode about a much older novel with very manly men who cried a lot. Yes, I laughed. I’ll probably listen more, but I can’t take too much mockery of really bad writing. It wears me out. (Maybe I’ve seen too much of bad writing; that’s not something I want to say out loud.)
Another new podcast focuses on the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King. The MLK Tapes questions the official narrative of who killed Dr. King and points to the many strange details that also occurred that day. It’s significant that the King family do not believe James Earl Ray murdered Dr. King, and since he was not put on trial at the time, a jury was not presented with evidence either.
Let me end this post by noting an upcoming book from the three men behind the enjoyable, long-running podcast The Happy Rant. Releasing this August will be a book that purportedly reads much like the podcast listens (wait, much like listening to the podcast … reads–nevermind). Ted Kluck, Ronnie Martin, and Barnabas Piper chat about Christian cultural topics and generally poke fun at themselves. It should be a fun read.
Photo: Mother Goose Market, Hazard, Kentucky 1979. John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.
I’ve mentioned before that I have a Theory of Temporal Clumping. That theory says that, if you have only two meetings or appointments in a month, they will both tend to gravitate to the same day — if possible even to the same time, so you’ll have to choose one.
Such is today. I had a meeting this morning and one this afternoon. Tonight I have a Sons of Norway meeting — and the roads are a bit treacherous.
So I didn’t have a lot of time to think about what I’d post tonight. I poked around YouTube and found this unusual recording of Sissel singing a Norwegian version of a big Edith PIaf hit, “Hymn a l’amour.” In English it’s called “If You Love Me,” and there’s a video of Sissel singing it in English too. But that one isn’t a live performance.
Here we have a very young Sissel, appearing on a program called “Syng Med Oss” (Sing With Us), which was where she first became familiar to the Norwegian public. I consider this one of those songs that showcase her voice in a particularly exquisite way.
Busy with translation today, but I was finished in the afternoon. I think there might have been more work available if I’d asked, but I’m busy with meetings tomorrow (volunteer stuff, of course), so I couldn’t commit. This is the first project I’ve done involving a certain new technology. I don’t think I’ll tell you what that technology is, because you have no Need To Know. Enough to say it might someday put me out of work entirely. For that reason I, for one, welcome our new android overlords. Me good human; not make trouble.
Seems odd not to have anything to write about Fridtjof Nansen today. But come to think of it, I do. Leftover thoughts, musings, and pharisaisms out of a long read.
I find it odd how the world judged Nansen vs. Roald Amundsen in terms of their dogs. Nansen and his companion Johansen, as I mentioned in the review, killed their sled dogs on their trek home, feeding them to the other dogs. Amundsen and his men, on his South Pole expedition, ate their dogs themselves (it was an emergency). But Nansen was hailed as a hero, with little mention of the dogs, while Amundsen came in for a lot of criticism for his canophagia (probably not a real word, but a quick web search didn’t produce a scientific term, so I improvised). I can only assume it was the eating, not the killing, that people objected to. In those days, killing dogs in itself wasn’t much of an issue in the public mind.
On a related issue, something I read once had given me the impression that Nansen’s distant treatment of Johansen after their return may have contributed to Johansen’s eventual depression and suicide. However, on further reading, I find that Nansen was a prince to the guy compared to Amundsen, who kicked him off the South Pole expedition and expunged his name from all reports.
It should also be noted that Johansen had a drinking problem, which probably didn’t help.
