Archive for August, 2010

As I Lay Dying

August 30, 2010

The Reviews

In William Faulkner’s novel, As I Lay Dying, Anse Bundren’s character lacks thrust in a time that tried men’s souls and sinews.  Anse’s mettle is questionable given his lack of fortitude, leadership, and true grit in a time that called for it.  Faulkner’s larger statement about mental and demographic life in 1920’s America comes into play through Anse’s perspective.

The natural death process of Addie Bundren is the smelting fire that extracts assorted ores from each character in the novel.  As Addie lays dying, her family, kinsmen and neighbors become players on an edgy stage.

To add emphasis to the character of Anse, one needs to compare him to his son Jewel.  Jewel Bundren is the antithesis of his lack-luster father.  He is spirited and fiery, full of vim and sap.  Perhaps he is more like his paramour-preacher father, Brother Whitfield.  In the charismatic Christian churches of the Deep South, particularly in these times, the pulpit was a fiery place.  The men who preached from them spat lightning bolts and passion.  Of such a seed is Jewel.

Anse is further made drab by his wife’s perspective.  Addie, in her black-hearted reptilian account sums her husband up in one statement, “And so I took Anse” (Faulkner 170).  It is clear from the text that Addie settled for Anse from her place as a school teacher who awaited the best offer.  She knew that she did not have forever to wait upon a more desirable mate.  So she took Anse and reluctantly put on the heavy, unforgiving yoke of a farmer’s wife, bearing his children grudgingly, shouldering her lot in life with a seething, secret contempt.  Her married life seems a series of retributions – against Anse, against her family, against God.  Indeed, Addie Bundren seems like an Isobel Gowdie of sorts — a woman who absconds nightly in her astral body to worship Satan and have sex with him.

Anse’s all-purpose, abject misery is exacerbated by his wife’s secret hatred.  It is as if her sold, sinister soul taints the air of their environs.  The novel is pervaded by an unwholesome miasma both literally and figuratively.  Addie’s character is best revealed in her slice of the novel.  Thinking of the school children whom she taught, she recalls “instead of going home I would go down the hill to the spring where I could be quiet and hate them” (169).

So it follows that Addie’s illegitimate favorite son, Jewel, would be full of fury, passion, charisma, and a touch of hell.  This cocktail of attributes makes him a force to be reckoned with in a time when it was called for.  This force is what, juxtaposed against his cuckold father, makes him tower over Anse as a man in a time where men needed to buck-up, if they were to survive what was coming.

The Great Depression was coming.  Times were changing violently all over the world, not just in the carpet-bagger-raped Old South, but also in Russia.  It is Russia specifically that serves a parallel with Anse Bundren as an independent farmer in the kulak.  During that time the farms owned by Russian kulaks were the last hold-outs against the Bolshevik Revolution.  They were resourceful, honourable men of wherewithal and integrity.  But firstly, kulaks were Christians like their beloved Czars.  Josef Stalin wanted to wipe out the independent farms because he knew that the kulak was the one Russian he could not dominate. The farmer fed off of his own labour. He did not need a medium of exchange to survive. Farm families were large and self-supporting. Sons and daughters grew vigorous on fresh air and wholesome fare. These families were a force to be reckoned with. So Stalin set about starving them out with man-made famine. He seized their crops and let a Russian winter do the rest.  Soon they and their animals would starve. Those who did not die of starvation were declared an enemy of the State and slaughtered systematically.

In the kulak, as in Jewel Bundren, there is a necessary mettle required to hold your ground, support your family, feed your horses and prove your worth upon the earth.  In Anse, there is no such animal.  He is an abject, self-assigned loser.  He fans the flames of his dying wife’s hatred with his mealy-mouth acquiescence to the flow.  Anse’s acceptance of his lot in life is pathetic and riling to a personality like Addie’s and the kulak.  It goes counter to what makes a man great and keeps teeth in his head.  Even Anse’s lack of teeth at his age shows that he did not practice necessary hygiene – a telling wall to people of his caliber.

Anse’s caliber is also reflected in his unextraordinary daughter who was stupid enough to have pre-marital sex in a day before birth control.  She focused on the mundane like her father, not expecting much from his human experience.  She echoed her father in driveling acquiescence, letting people cajole, dupe, and manipulate her into regrettable situations.  The cad at the drugstore is a keen example of this.  The only thing she shared with her mother was her acceptance of the harrowing yoke of muliebrity.

Unlike the veiled love that Jewel harbored for his spotted horse, Anse seemed to regard the loss of his wife with a kind of resignation.  There was an animal husbandry stance about this as though Addie had been a good old mule; a beast of burden who had worn herself out “chapping.”  A wife was breed-stock, domestic servant, childcare.  Now that she is dead, he rigidly clings to his promise of dragging her festering carcass across flood rivers as though it is to be his great badge of achievement in an otherwise mediocre life.

There is a vulgarity to Anse’s character as though Faulkner wanted to smear the gentleman farmer of these times.  In the effete, lackluster character of Anse Bundren there is a negation of the persona of his ilk.  These were times when the rural agrarian Southeast was being preyed upon by wily, northern financiers.  Many such farmers had been foreclosed upon by carpet-baggers and were now farming their former lands as share-croppers.  Like the Russian peasants, they had become little more than slaves to men who had swindled their birthrights out from under them.  Given these circumstances, any independent farmer of these times should be possessed of a kulak-style demeanor.  His spine should be a starched one and his walk an Alexandrian stride.  A farmer in Anse’s boots should have a self-certain cadence with head held high like Jewel and his horse.  Anse never gallops, he plods and slogs in crestfallen humiliation.  Any independent farmer who survived the Civil War and held his own land in the South had to be part kulak.  Though the maneuver that enslaved such men was more insidious in the American South, it was no less nefarious than what occurred in Bolshevik Russia.

Hence, it serves well here to compare Anse Bundren to the kulaks.  With the exception of Jewel, Anse’s other sons seemed rattled by reality.  They seemed mentally-addled in a surreal way, cracking under the stress of Anse’s promise to Addie.  Cash was a stoic mute.  Vardaman seems like a loony, nattering child who assigns fish’dom to his mother.  Darl finally snaps and sets the barn on fire.  Let a man’s sons speak for the content of his character.


Trading On Guilt

August 27, 2010

The Reviews

In Philip E. Glidden’s Trading On Guilt:  Holocaust Education in the Public Schools, the reader is taken on a 205-page inculcation that instead bewails the holocaust.  This bewailing is couched in the lame thesis of the book’s title.  Glidden only half-heartedly complains about the Jewish force-feeding of holocaust history in public schools.  What he spends most of his gust on is reenforcing the guilt-trip that everybody has had rammed down their throat since 1945.

The book has little to do with the title.  And even less to do with a court case touched on briefly about how Glidden takes on the State of Florida over this issue.  The case is discussed insipidly on the last 59 pages.  A wearisome slog contains trivial correspondence between the author and state officials quibbling back and forth.  They split hairs about the rules governing the Florida Sunshine Law and how Glidden was slighted by not being informed ahead of time about public meetings.  Nothing about the issue merits a court case.  These 59 pages were filler gibberish.  The copies of “official documents” did not look official.  Rather they looked like fabrications along with many of the names used to populate them.  These “documents” looked inlegible by design.

I wager that the whole book is a fabrication along with Glidden himself.  The aim of such a book is obvious to me:  shill-writing with an ulterior motive, hidden agenda and under-current.  And bad shill-writing at that.  The good writing is focused on how the Jews are the smartest people in the world and have subjugated just about every country.  The author cannot resist bragging, boasting, taunting and grandstanding.  Every other page he slams the reader with Hitler this and Hitler that.  On and on and on about the Nazi’s.  Mitigation hedges and dis-info about the slave trade.  Even bum dope about the origins of words such as “taboo” and “manna.”  This book is not about educating anyone.

Glidden claims to be in his 80’s, yet I spoke with him on the phone recently and he sounded like a man of 35-45.  When I asked him where he went to college, he told me that his alma mater was a secret.  Yet it is published in the back of his book.  So why would he say that it was a secret?  This and many other contradictory statements made by Glidden prompted me to question his identity.

His book, I believe, is the product of a concerted effort.  Researchers gleaned a bunch of sources, gave the stack to a Ph.D. who spun them into a coherent text.  This way the group effort would have one writer’s voice.  I infer many people helped with the book.  There were extensive footnotes, an index and bibliography.  It reads like another ADL job.  They are worried about people questioning the holocaust and veering off the beaten path of their TV/media/text book brain-washing.  Oh the calamity of that.  Imagine people beginning to do their own homework and (gasp) even their own thinking.  Frightening, isn’t it, Mr. Glidden?

The author seemed like a fire-breathing Zionist.  Every few pages he brandished threats about what would happen to people who dared question the sacred cult of the holocaust.  He taunted. He vaunted.  He bragged about the brilliance and dominance of the Jews.  How they had the tiger by the tail, the world under their thumb and the universe was their oyster.  Space is next.  Please, more text.

He listed politicians and academics who were professionally beheaded for making a comment, however slight, that was critical of the Jews.  Pervasive in the text is the pounding drum of atheism and how important it is to keep prayers out of the schools.  As though prayer will surely cause mental retardation or cancer — or something.  He flaunts on page 148 how holocaust education was designed to produce “fawning supplicants.”

Through the lame veneer of his thesis, the author sings the praises of how Jews are the “cognitive elite.”  The book is studded with every Jewish rag and mag across the country.  As if to quote from them will surely put truth on the table.  Every other page it seems there are lurid accounts of Nazi war crimes, atrocities, outrages and post-traumatic stress suffered by the numerous survivors.

On page 158 he taunts how the Israeli Mossad killed an American armament expert at the door of his apartment and there was not so much as “a whimper of outcry” from our government about it.  He brags how the Jews control American government and occupy the most important posts in the Clinton Cabinet.  He rubs the readers nose in how the Jews get America to fight Israel’s enemies.  He brags for pages ad nauseam about this and threatens about what happens to those who “run afoul of the Jewish juggernaut.”  Then on page 173 he blows his wad:  “The irony is that whereas the United States has become the Superpower par excellence whose military might is incontestable anywhere on earth, no amount of guns, tanks and planes can counter the invasion from within…”

This book is a sham thesis used as a platform to beat the dead horse of Nazi Germany and brag brag brag about the brilliance of the Jews, their money, political power, success and wily tricks that infiltrate and usurp governments.

*** If you have any questions for the author, he can be reached at (803) 530-1102.  His sardonic e-mail address is:  Pasquinade means lampoonery.  His book was self-published using the Piscary Press (89-2852 North Powers Drive, Orlando, FL 32818, complete with defunct phone number (407) 297-9246).  Piscary, as said of Law, means the right of fishing in waters owned by another.  How apt.  Appears to be the author’s angle in this book and likewise in our conversation.  All he did was “fish.”  Presently he is in Columbia, SC, in a similar-looking row-house.  The real printing was done at Morris Publishing, 3212 East Highway 30, Kearney, NE 68847 (1-800-650-7888).  If you follow the money I bet it leads you straight to ADL or CIA.  That I would believe.  But I don’t believe Glidden is who he says he is.  Nor that he ever lived at those addresses.  He probably lives at the Villa Diodati on the money ADL pays him for writing their propaganda shills.


August 12, 2010

My pony and I loved to visit certain neighbors when the grapes were ripe.  We galloped over to those whose arch lattices were laden with concord grapes — little old ladies and farmers who loved to see us coming.  We must have been cute.  Because they always let us eat their grapes.

The memory of riding into the shaded, fragrant vines comes back to me in spades.  We were little, he and I.  So my hair did not get tangled in the emerald arch as I zeroed-in on the bunch we wanted.  Ponderous load of grapes.  I pulled them down on Blackie’s withers.  He arched his neck around to get a sniff.

We feasted, hidden in the leaves.  What I remember was the first grape bursting on my palate.  The tang of stout skin ripping open to flood my mouth with robust, floral symphony.  Such a beautiful taste is God’s work.  It can be none other.  Down to the seeds that remind an eater of how new plants are born.

Tonight I had some grapes.  I picked up a bunch of seedless concord grapes at the store. Excited to relive the sensation of a concord grape, I popped one in my mouth to much disappointment.

When man tampers with God’s design, we are left with a perversion.  These grapes had a bland, sweet taste.  Devoid of tang.  Devoid of signature concord flavour.  They didn’t even smell right.

They had no seeds.  But they didn’t have any flavour either.  Genetically-modified plants are bastardizations of Eden.

Eschew genetically-modified produce.  It is an abomination.  And an insult to our taste-buds.  Blackie will back me from Pony Heaven.

The Trees

August 1, 2010

Remember that contagious ditty by RUSH?  The metaphorical rock song from their early days?  It was catchy and had a message.  The oaks were taller than the maples, so naturally they got more sunlight.  The oaks liked how God made them.  They were happy to be oaks.

The maples, however, were disgruntled with their second-fiddle status in the forest.  They wanted to be top tree and coveted the leadership of the oaks.  Like Lucifer coveted the position of his Maker.  So the maples conspired against their betters by writing a new law — that governed by the hatchet, ax and saw.  (

The oaks could have been the Czars of Russia.  Or the Royal Houses of Islam and Christendom that now rule no more.  A Farewell to Kings anyone?  Who hasn’t played those riffs on his electric guitar?

The castrated figure-heads that pass for “crowned heads” today are pathetic.  Let us have an Alfred again.  Someone who can merit the title, “The Great.”  I would love to see an armoured Christian King rule all Britannia from a horse.  By a wave of his gauntlet, all is made or broken.  One man.  One throne.  One Royal House.

In such a government, the idea is to have a King who answers to God.  On his knees.  Devout.  Prayerful and led by moral compass unto death.  There would be no questioning such a man’s integrity.  Not if he defers to God’s Law.  Such a King would strive to give his righteous all.  Immune to corruption.  That’s the idea.

You can see what the maples have done for Great Britain.  Look what they are doing for the USA?  Are we not well on our way in a hand-basket? The Law of God is a win-win recipe for governance.  In the Muslim territories, their glorious past is all the proof you need that the recipe works.

Christendom and Islam are of one spiritual accord.  Their precepts agree across the board.  Let the Muslims rule their own lands.  One of their great Kings after all, built the Taj Mahal.  Let it stand as a testament to the integrity, purity, steadfastness and virtue of the man who built it.

Just like the Bolsheviks were shouting in turn-of-the-century Russia, “liberty, equality, freedom, brotherhood…”  So I seem to hear again today from our politically-correct, politically-sensitive, “promise-you-the-moon” government.  But I take a walk through town and get a different story.

Ever been to Southeast DC?  Southwest?  I’ll show you some equality and brotherhood.  Come on down.  Ever see what happens to DC after 6pm on a week night?  I have.  By the faces on the street and by the trains, you can see how starkly and painfully segregated the city still is.

It appears that Obama’s tour in the White House is in part to assuage black America.  These people have had drugs and pathogens tested on them.  To this day it is why black people prefer to go to black doctors and dentists.  The grocery stores in their parts of town also carry lesser quality produce.  Things from their freezers taste to me like they have been in there since Vietnam.  It’s not like we don’t know who owns and “manages” the grocery store chains.  Shame on them for what they are foisting on black neighborhoods.  Shame on them for passing-off “lesser goods” to black customers.

The ploy seems to be that when people have never known freshness and quality, they cannot discern when it is missing — this, I believe, is the premise of how grocery store chains have been hoodwinking poor black neighborhoods with freezer-burn and wilted produce.  I have studied the issue for years and these are my findings.  But feel free to conduct your own investigations.

As for the maples who own and run the grocery stores:  shame, shame, shame on you.

Equality?  If you want better food and produce, go to the same-name store in the white parts of town.  I have seen the same pattern in other cities.  Black people get the shaft.  I know you see, because I visit their neighborhoods, shop in their stores and sing in their churches.  Let’s get the president on that right away and rub his nose in it.

Our government has motive to keep the brothers peaceful and in the dark.  They are much stronger than white men.  You don’t wanna pissum off.  Ever watch football?  I believe that Obama is there to keep them snowed into thinking that their government really does believe in all that stuff about equality, brotherhood, freedom and justice.  Is he even from America?

If black America knew who owned those slaver fleets that brought their ancestors here in chains they would burn DC down a second time.  Ask Louis Farrakhan.  He will set the record straight.  The same bunch who ran the slave trade now run this country.  How many Americans do not feel like a slave today?  I ask you.  Income tax.  Sales tax.  Property tax.  Capital gains tax.  When are they going to tax the air?

So naturally they want to harness the strength of our black brothers for their lucrative wars.  They did it in Vietnam — and how.  Have a look at the recruiting posters now.  Same pattern.  Same snow-job.  But now they have Obama as a cheerleader and a racial lubricant.  Pushing young men to make war on Muslims who never offended them for the sole benefit of Israel.  Back to the maples.

Like others of this band’s lyrics, I get the feeling that they are advancing the Communist Manifesto.  RUSH sang about globalist philosophies.  In RUSH’s song, “Territories,” Geddy Lee (Gary Weinrib) anthems, “Better the pride that resides in a citizen of the world than the pride that divides every time a colorful rag is unfurled.”

The problem with the maples, and I’m quite convinced I’m right, is that they are not happy with one slice.  They want the whole pie.

One big slave plantation.  Speaking one language.  Worshipping Baal.  Tagged like cattle with computer chips.