We will not rest until William Shakespeare’s works are banned and banned forever ...

 NONE DARE CALL IT NIHILISM 

Luther Blissett

Neoist aesthetics are characterised by the practice of plagiarism and the use of collective pseudonyms. Plagiarism is a means of attacking private property, while the adoption of the name Luther Blissett by all members of the Neoist Network, is central to the movement's death struggle with capitalism.

Backtracking for a moment to the late sixteenth century, we find that playwrights such as Shakespeare and Marlowe often plagiarised plots and ideas from earlier writers. In this plagiaristic aspect of Elizabethan drama, we can discern a highly advanced form of proto-modernism.

Plagiarism was also particularly well-used by Lautreamont/Ducasse (1846-70). Similarly, the work of William S. Burroughs is heavily dependent on plagiarism in terms of both content and style. This is particularly noticeable in relation to the texts of Tzara and Artaud.

The great advantage of plagiarism as a literary method is that it removes the need for talent, or even much application. All you really have to do is select what to plagiarise. Enthusiastic beginners might like to start by plagiarising this essay. A hard-core nihilist might choose to plagiarise it verbatim; while those individuals who labour under the delusion that they are of a more artistic bent, will probably want to change a word here and there — or even place the paragraphs in a different order!

It should not be forgotten that plagiarism is a highly creative exercise and that with every act of plagiarism a new meaning is brought to the plagiarised work. Unfortunately, this does not alter the fact that the capitalistic forces controlling Western culture have proscribed as illegal the plagiarising of modern texts. However, do not allow this to deter you from plagiarising modern work. A few sensible precautions will protect you from prosecution. The basic rule in avoiding copyright infringement is to take the idea and spirit of a text without actually plagiarising it word for word. One of the best examples of this is Orwell’s 1984 — which is a straight rewrite of Zamyatin’s We. Anyone with a serious interest in neo-plagiarism should spend some time comparing these two texts.

In the area of popular music, a good example of neo-plagiarism is the way in which the chord sequence was lifted from Louie Louie and married to the words of Wild Thing. This is plagiarism at its best, with no redeeming factors such as a clever change of context.

In short, plagiarism saves time and effort, improves results and shows considerable initiative on the part of the individual plagiarist. As a revolutionary tool, it is ideally suited to the demands of the late twentieth-century.

Compiled in the late eighties from texts in three year old issues of Smile magazine.

**

BAN MACBETH 

Campaign to Abolish the Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

We call upon the government to take immediate action to ban this evil play and all other works by the depraved author William Shakespeare. It is our desire to see these foul abominations publicly burned as a warning to others. The public will no longer tolerate the vomit that is thrust down our throats that some call culture, art & literature.

It has been revealed that MacBeth, the sadistic work of sixteenth century playwright William Shakespeare, was the favourite book of Stephen Wilkinson, the fucked-up-schizo-psycho-killer who viciously stabbed to death a defenceless 12 year old schoolgirl last March. Schizo-Wilkinson carried a copy of MacBeth with him everywhere and tragically so on that fatal day last March when he marched into Halgarth Comprehensive School in Middlesborough carrying in his holdall three knives, a hatchet, a Colt 45 replica revolver and a copy of MacBeth. It has also been revealed that Wilkinson had pinned a quotation by Jonathan Swift to his bedroom wall, describing humanity as the ‘pernicious race-odious little vermin’. From this evidence we believe that it is not far-fetched to draw the conclusion that Wilkinson’s reading of these black mass-terpieces of the occult led directly to the brutal murder of the innocent young schoolgirl.

This is evidence enough in our eyes that MacBeth and other works by William Shakespeare reported to contain many depraved acts of sex and violence, be removed from the national curriculum forthwith and that the poisoning of our children’s young minds ceases immediately. 

Who knows what other works by Shakespeare (that freak of nature some call a writer) psychos like Wilkinson could have read and what disgusting filth is pillaging our children’s innocent young minds. The works of these shameless authors litter our bookshops, which in some cases are no more than brothels. How can we defend publication and distribution of this noxious material? Those responsible should be prosecuted and punished. We will not rest until William Shakespeare’s works are banned and banned forever, then and only then will we sleep safely in our beds. We await the government’s response.

First issued as a leaflet by Shakespeare Is a Sicko, Campaign to Abolish the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Glasgow 1996.

Mind Invaders, edited by Stewart Home

Colin Jordan Merrie England 2,000 - review

 

In earlier times, there was much speculative fiction about conditions around the turn of the millennium. (We’re still waiting for those hovercars, dammit. . .) Other literature focuses more on changes in society than imaginative technology. The first major example, Looking Backward: 2000-1887 by Edward Bellamy, predicted a wonderful socialist future. This novel wasn’t exactly Marxist, but the teleological utopian concepts are very similar. Despite a high exposition-to-plot ratio, it became wildly popular in its time, inspiring a brief but widespread movement.

More recently, the Dissident Right has made its contributions to the literature. As one might expect, the future in these works doesn’t look so bright and shiny. Naturally, the most famous was The Turner Diaries by William Pierce under the pen name Andrew MacDonald. This urban guerrilla novel hardly needs introduction.

Another old classic from the “bad optics” end of the spectrum, and a rare find these days, is Colin Jordan’s Merrie England 2,000. Say what you will about the hardcore crowd, but they tell it like it is; and in your heart, you know they’re right! Picking up on the nutty political correctness that was becoming fashionable, the author made a bold statement about the near future. When the calendar finally rolled over, things weren’t quite that bad in Britain, but the story was a lot more prescient about the way things are now. This is so even though it was satirical black humor.

These are the author’s specialties, as we can see from the very beginning, along with biting sarcasm. The acidic dedication gives some further interesting information about the making of the story:

This book is dedicated to Gerald Kaufman, Jewish Member of Parliament for the U.K., ancestrally from Poland, who not only in his policies typifies trends towards an England in the year 2,000 as depicted in it, but has taken a lead in trying to prevent its publication by penal action against its author for his writings.

In June 1991, acting merely on a complaint by Kaufman, police invaded and ransacked the author’s home, and seized a copy of the first draft of this book.

It further describes winning the legal challenge. Colin Jordan had to tone down the book, trying to avoid further trouble. I recall that the earlier draft was funnier, with more dramatic force. The final version, to a large degree, reads more like a Clown World travelogue; basically meaning a higher exposition-to-plot ratio. He also included a lengthy preface explaining that he solely blames treasonous white politicians, rather than immigrants who “have only taken advantage of the treachery of our own renegades,” and that anyone who doesn’t understand may “avoid either contemplating or contracting what he erroneously regards as ‘racial hatred’ by the simple expedient of refraining from reading any further.”

Despite these exculpatory efforts, the unswervingly fashy author faced more political charges under the Race Relations Act. The book is now illegal in Britain — the government can’t stand criticism of policies destructive to their own public — but fortunately it’s available online.

Annie’s Crime and Punishment

The story opens when Annie Oakwood, 71 years old, calls to her dog named after “Wing-Commander Guy Gibson’s similar animal with the same name in The Dam Busters film of decades past.” 

Specifically, her dog is named Nigger. 

Nigger, Nigger, come out at once!

She doesn’t know anyone is listening, but she’s overheard by a gentleman of African descent.

Rising rapidly erect the Black man fastened his furious eyes on Annie, and directed at her a spluttering torrent of invective, accusing her of the vilest racism, and threatening instantaneous vengeance including calling the police; while directing a number of unsuccessful kicks in the direction of his namesake.

He runs off to call the police, and a couple of diversity hires (a turbaned Indian and a non-white midget) arrive promptly to apprehend her.

Had it been a mere burglary or mugging, it could have been days before the police made an appearance, if at all, but a report of “racism” always ensured an instant response as a top priority of crime equalling if not exceeding murder.

Life imitates art, doesn’t it? According to some recent reports from Britain, anarcho-tyranny like that is fully underway. Violent crimes usually go uninvestigated. Meanwhile, the police have large teams dedicated to scanning social media posts for thoughtcrime, promptly punishing the “offenders.” What has the government done about the Paki grooming gangs preying on children for decades, except to lock up Tommy Robinson for speaking about the problem?

The book accurately predicts that the police now prioritize thought control over stopping crime. Therefore, Muslim and African ghettoes effectively are outside of the law, much like it is today in large cities located in France, Sweden, and so forth:

Thus it was that crime prospered magnificently in the progressive England of the end of the century, most of it left unreported because of lack of police interest, effort and achievement; an arrest and conviction being quite a wondrous rarity. Every town now had its sizeable “no go” area into which the police only ventured on most special occasions, and then in maximum muster and as briefly as possible; normally respecting its inviolability as a sanctuary for those whose outlook on behaviour differed from the law, and who desired to withdraw entirely from its interference.

At the scene of the “crime,” they summon the political police, called the Harmony Force. After a night in jail and a hasty trial, the magistrate remands Annie to their reeducation camp, and her dog gets the death penalty. “Only her age and the fact of a first offence saved her, he told her sternly, from a much longer and harsher punishment.” While at the House of Harmony:

For six whole months Annie was subjected in solitary confinement to an intensive process of purgation designed to rid her of every vestige of those prohibited thoughts which arose from an outmoded and thoroughly reprehensible awareness of racial ancestry, pride in the heritage of her folk, and a concern for its preservation.

Every hour she is forced to repeat the following self-criticism litany:

Q: “Why are you here?”

A: “Because I was a racist.”

Q: ‘What is a racist?”

A: “A wrong-minded person who believes there are inborn differences between human beings.”

Q: “Why is this wrong?”

A: “Because all human beings are one and the same.”

Q: “What is right thinking?”

A: “Races do not exist. The only differences between all people everywhere are only superficial results of different environment.”

Q: “What is the right aim?”

A: “The mixture of all humanity to produce the world man and woman, and eventually the world unisex.”

Q: “When can you go back to the outside world?”

A: “When I have shown for six months that I have been cured of racism.”

Q: “Do you wish to be cured?”

A: “Oh, yes I do indeed, most truly and eagerly!”

After Annie’s release, her son George and his wife Jennifer take her home. The experience left a deep impact. The little old lady cracked under pressure, no match for a mental assault like that, and now is thoroughly indoctrinated to support multiculturalism.


You can buy It’s Okay to Be White: The Best of Greg Johnson here.

Annie’s Telly Training

Following half a year of solitary confinement in a little cell, the reprogrammed pensioner becomes an avid TV watcher. Naturally, all the programs had become politically correct fare. (From what I’ve heard about British television lately, this much was an accurate prediction.) Under the spell of what Michael A. Hoffman once called the “vampire light of the cathode ray tube,” the hypnotic glowing box becomes a mind-rotting addiction, practically turning her into a zombie:

Watching the television screen for hour upon hour each and every day — something strongly encouraged by the Ministry of Harmony as the habit of a good citizen anxious to acquire good thoughts — Annie’s brain was drawn moth-like to, absorbed by and purposefully irradiated by its luminance, which invaded, pervaded and fully possessed it, supplying her ideas, causing her responses, rendering her whole mind a mere reflection of the glittering brilliance of its domination. While continuing to believe that she remained the arbiter, switching on and switching off receptivity at will, Annie, as with the multi-millions of other slaves of the silver screen, had reached the state not of controlling the electronic brain box occupying the place of honour in every home, but of being effectively controlled by it, or rather by the masters of the box who beamed their controlling influences into every captive brain in every viewer’s dwelling.

Then the story describes the illusion of choice on the idiot box “carefully made to appear as a wide range of free expression,” and of course who really is running the show. None of that would be a surprise to us, of course. (I can’t speak for how things developed in Britain, but at least in the USA, television has been that way since before my time.) The propaganda is quite subtle, hardly different from now. According to the story, it even includes subliminal messages. Actually, this technology has been in development for a while, but not much has come of it, at least as far as we know.

The Minister of Harmony was a shadowy figure who had adopted the stage name of “Jonathan Bull” to benefit from this anodyne of Englishness in place of his rightful patronymic derived from his ancestors’ long-standing domicile in the Hebrew quarter of Lodz.

“John Bull” from the ghetto of Litzmannstadt is cut from the same cloth as Robert Maxwell, né Ján Ludvík Hyman Binyamin Hoch, who was a media magnate, all-around crook, and alleged to be a spy. (By some accounts, he might have been an MI6 / KGB / Mossad triple agent, outdoing even Kim Philby’s divided loyalties.) The skinhead band Skrewdriver wrote a song about him, appropriately titled “Vampire.” One of his daughters, Ghislaine Maxwell, married Jeffrey Epstein, another interesting character who came up out of nowhere and became a billionaire — much like Daddy, and George Soros for that matter. Ghislaine’s other sisters might have been up to some interesting activities too, according to speculation. Small world, isn’t it? 

He was the real head of government, the nominal Prime Minister being only a photogenic puppet selected by the former for his soothing demeanour, and made to appear the virtually unanimous choice of an appreciative nation by the simple means of the appropriate subliminal transmissions.

What British Prime Minister lately hasn’t turned out to be a weasel serving the Deep State types instead of the public? (Yes, BoJo the Wanker is a weasel too.) In the story, the Man Behind the Curtain gloats to his closest associates about the effectiveness of TV propaganda, with the sort of candor not seen in the real world since the Podesta DNC email leaks. What’s unstated, since the inner circle already is aware of it, is the following:

Multiracial mixture and human equality were to be propagated as ideals simply and solely because of the supreme advantage to the holders of power of a docile, pride-less, mongrelized human herd.

Therefore, on TV programs, The Narrative is more important than the truth:

Thus when the legions of Julius Caesar were portrayed it was obligatory for those legions to be at least 50 per cent Coloured. Similarly, the Battle of Trafalgar had to be portrayed with ships, half of every crew of which were Black.

That came true too; that’s about how it rolls these days on the aptly-named BBC. This “blackwashing” job, apparently in the effort to gaslight the public into believing that Britain always was multiracial, is straight out of the Orwellian Ministry of Truth playbook.

The Processing of “Honey”

Honey is the sixteen-year-old daughter of George and Jennifer, blonde and blue-eyed. Her reeducated grandmother is now on the same ideological wavelength. 

Annie reborn though she was, could still recall — albeit now with an induced feeling of guilt in place of pure nostalgia — the days of her own childhood in the far off 1930s when the playgrounds were full of the fair-haired descendants of Saxon, Viking and Celt, and them alone. That was before the Great Change which followed the 1939-45 war as not only its consequence but its ultimate purpose: a global upheaval brought about by Democracy’s directors to crush the contemporary folk revival of the Aryans, and to facilitate racial amalgamation under their dictatorship disguised as representative government.

Her granddaughter, on the other hand, has a much different upbringing. She’s been thoroughly indoctrinated from a very young age. This includes the daily Circle of Sameness ritual in school: 

The children linked hands, then chanted the 20-verse Song of Sameness which had all to do with breaking down barriers, pushing out prejudices, filling up with love and care for every form of life generously classified as “human”. Toleration, it demanded, for all kinds of human behaviour once held to be intolerable. The submergence of the individual in the crowd, it cried for, in favour of the common herd and its collective action, denouncing any competitiveness and rejecting any suggestion of an elite as contrary to sameness. Work for peace, it proclaimed. peace as the extinction of self-assertion and thus conflict.

A fully multiracial experience is delivered to the students, even more important than actual education, which necessitates an extensive system of forced busing to mix up the students as much as possible.

The Colouring of Education

The story further describes the educational experience, with academics further dumbed-down for benefit of low-IQ minorities. Moreover, the curricula are politicized, even math. (I’m not sure how it rolls in Britain, but this has come true in the USA.) Students even get a political record that will follow them for life. Students guilty of “racism” must perform extensive samokritika rituals. History gets positively Orwellian treatment, including lots of Afrocentric flapdoodle. That much has come to pass in the USA, and I have little doubt it’s anything different on the other side of the pond.

Other than getting her brain steeped in cultural Marxism at school, the teenager has a social life. As a Briton with classic Nordic looks, she’s quite a prize for one of the vibrant Commonwealth types who likewise doesn’t care about his own heritage. Note well, mudsharking was almost unthinkable not long before the book’s publication, but by now it’s been promoted very aggressively by music videos, celebrities, and advertising. Much of the effort to normalize race mixing is by the usual suspects, and if they don’t like us noticing, then they should stop doing that.

With her education proceeding along these lines it will come as no surprise to learn that Honey’s boyfriend was one Ulysses Brown, a colourful character physically speaking whose parents had migrated from a mud hut in South Africa to a council flat in South London, thanks to a mobility and resettlement allowance from the Ministry.

Their frequent hangout is a hellishly chaotic disco where they used the club drug “Instant Bliss.” (That’s an obvious reference to ecstasy, which according to what I’ve heard is manufactured in Israel for fifty cents a pill, is sold for a nice markup at twenty dollars, and causes brain damage.) Earlier, Annie didn’t care for her granddaughter’s ventures into the degenerate club scene, but the reeducation camp changed all that. 

The Harmonizers 

Annie’s nephew Philip is a “cocksure young man given to sermonizing who worked at the Ministry of Harmony,” and his wife Alice is a like-minded teacher at the Robert Mugabe College in Thornton Heath. 

In pursuit of their common concern to reduce world overpopulation by means of White abstention from reproduction, they had joyfully undergone irreversible sterilization. Thus enhanced, they had no less joyfully hastened to adopt a mentally deficient and physically deformed child from Bangladesh whose total contribution to civilization consisted in spending its days making faces, abominable noises, and plentifully distributing showers of spittle to all and everything in range, accomplishments which its adoptive parents seemingly found exceptionally endearing; and the more so when assured that the monstrosity would always retain them.

Since publication, it’s become trendy for white celebrities to adopt non-white children, a rather extreme form of telescopic philanthropy. This fad even has caught on with virtue-signaling plebeians. The book essentially blames ultracalvinism. In my estimation, that’s at most merely a gateway drug to highly weaponized cultural Marxism driving a number of self-destructive trends like this.

Despite his obvious merits, having so far only reached the middle echelon of the Ministry, Philip was not yet privy to the secret that the real reason behind all the Ministry’s propaganda was not really a compassion for Nature’s rejects or concern for the participants in racial integration, but instead the purely utilitarian consideration that a public so moved was by its enfeeblement rendered that much more amenable to control.

One of the activities at the Ministry of Harmony is purging certain history books from libraries and the warehouses of publishers. In real life, there’s some anecdotal evidence of counter-Narrative books disappearing from various libraries. As for publishers, Leftist corporations are more than happy to perform this Orwellian function themselves these days.

Philip believes that it’s his duty to make up the public’s minds for them, an attitude increasingly evident lately with professors, journalists, and the limp-noodled bugmen at Woke Tech firms. His work duties involve public opinion polls which somehow always agree with whatever the Ministry wants; part of what we today might call manufacturing consent. The bureaucrats also specialize in elaborate word games; this PC reframing specialty certainly hasn’t fallen out of fashion. 

The Ministry also organizes ethnomasochistic flagellant penance marches for whites. (This isn’t so different from what actually has happened.) Those who refuse get bad political records and spurious misdemeanor charges until they take the hint and participate in the next procession. Similar bullying is meted out to keep the public in line generally.

Philip’s wife Alice is especially enthusiastic about PC word games. (We’ve hardly seen the end of that.) Effectively she plays the role of Winston Smith in 1984, developing the politically correct version of Newspeak, though obviously with more enthusiasm than her Orwellian counterpart. She certainly has feminism in her ideological duffel bag, which motivates a large amount of the word games. 

Even Father Christmas had now to be spoken of and depicted as always in the company of Mother Christmas though some more advanced thinkers felt that only by presentation as a hermaphrodite could the figure of Christmas be righted.

Much other lunacy at the Ministry of Harmony is described, including this:

Such people even advocated votes for monkeys and all other primates, coming up with a clever means of balloting these deprived and underprivileged victims of discrimination.

Why haven’t animal rights activists caught onto this clever idea yet? Other than that, voting is done by telephone, rather than by paper ballots.

What of course was not disclosed to persons outside the Ministry was the comforting fact that, if by some untoward error the result of the voting was not in accord with the relevant conditioning of the public, then without fail the presented result was not in accord with the actual result, while having the merit in this discrepancy of fully according with the wishes of the Ministry. It was as simple as that.

Does this remind you of anything?

The Staging of “Holocaust”

Annie’s other niece Violet is married to Martin Fisher, né Fischberg. As a Member of the Tribe, he was in the most advantaged class of all.

Their elevation to the status of the high caste of humankind had been primarily due to the stupendous success of a most brilliant propaganda operation of theirs called “Holocaust”. This had been devised half way through the century based on a superlative stratagem whereby all jeopardy to Jewish ascendancy could be eliminated by identifying all criticism of that ascendancy with a multi-million extermination of Jews alleged to have just occurred; thus evoking oceans of sympathy to drown all unfavourable mention.

In other words, it’s a “get out of criticism free” card, and the event itself is beyond question. This hasn’t worn out from the passage of time, or from gaping holes in The Narrative. Today, the Second World War itself is largely portrayed as merely a backdrop to Jewish suffering.

Such was the massive force of the psychological onslaught of the “Holocaust” operation, supplemented by the supportive measures of suppression, that by the late 1990s free speech concerning the Jews had been exterminated, and only complimentary mention was permissible.

The author’s timetable on this turned out to be spot-on. The story further predicts that the Shoah Business will expand in coming years, with numbers further inflated and lurid details added to it. The Narrative has shrunk a bit, though questioning the greater part of it is still a major taboo and illegal in many countries. This is one major reason why we won’t get an officially accepted sober reassessment of the genuine extent of persecutions during this era, differentiated from the exaggerated statistics and melodramatic myths, as long as The Narrative remains politically useful.

In the story, Martin Fisher / Fischberg specializes in Holocaust promotion. This is carried out under the auspices of a special section in the Ministry of Harmony. He’s the creative sort:

For instance, with the accelerating statistics of the exterminated there was an increasing problem reconciling those statistics with the huge number of very long-lasting survivors who never ceased to show themselves through their incessant clamour for endless and unlimited compensation and vengeance, and with any believable total for Jews in Europe before the event. 

Martin’s solution is to declare that the survivors had been gassed but resurrected; “this divine intervention finally and fully proving the worthiness of the Jews to be the deity’s overseers of humankind.” That much is little more bizarre than some of the stories already out there.

Naturally, the schools greatly emphasize the Shoah Business. Roadside shrines pop up all over the country to commemorate the event. Some citizens even go unwashed to avoid soap (although the soap story is one of the lurid details that’s been dropped from The Narrative recently) as an expression of their piety. Even May Day gets hijacked by the Holocaust religion, turning the joyous rite of spring into a macabre morality play. The list goes on.

The story describes other thought reform efforts. Even milk comes under fire for its racial undertones. (This actually happened.) Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice gets a comically politically correct rewriting. Woe betide anyone who performs the original version. 


You can buy Greg Johnson’s Here’s the Thing here.

Democracy: The Freedom to Comply

The chapter opens:

By the close of the century the Ministry of Harmony could thus look back on a shining path of progress towards the extirpation of every conceivable sign of White racial patriotism, running parallel with the acclamation of every conceivable sign of Coloured and Jewish self-assertion.

And so it came to pass, of course. Then the book describes in brief the Race Relations Act of 1965, bolstered in following years by three other measures. The first and final had been introduced by a Jewish Home Secretary; one of those “cohencidences.” It predicts further measures, to ban possession of even single copies of forbidden literature, and to prohibit “everything uncomplimentary to Jew and Coloureds.” The latter instance has come to pass too; again, ask Tommy Robinson about that.

Lest it be thought from this that all freedom of speech and print had vanished by the time of our tale, be consoled with the knowledge that freedom unlimited remained for anything and everything derogatory to Whites (excluding Jews from this category)!

That too. For just one instance, consider Professor Priyamvada Gopal — a fair and delightsome damsel of Albion — who was rewarded with a promotion after declaring “I’ll say it again. White Lives Don’t Matter. As white lives.” Well, bless her heart!

Further consolation may be found in the news that the Ministry’s most talented dermatologists had by then determined and declared that Whites did have one superiority to Coloureds: thicker skins.

Good one! Other than that, would-be dissidents are denied access to rent meeting halls for conferences. Similar tricks are used to prevent printing of disapproved literature. The way the story describes it is more subtle than how this is done. In a sign that the PC cultural revolution has begun to eat itself, the “TERFs” (feminists who know the difference between a man and a woman) often have to meet in secret and are subject to attack by trannies and their supporters.

A distinctly crafty move in the second half of the final decade of the century had been a series of “Judicial Notices” in the higher courts to the effect that henceforth the matters taken notice of were removed from discussion because they were indisputably self-evident truths.

This is actually how it’s done in Germany. Certain historical events deemed “common knowledge” are beyond dispute, and the truth is no defense in court.

The PC-obsessed government has other ways of enforcing thought control for dissidents, such as the use of the mind control drug Harmonine. (On that note, a few years back, there was a serious proposal in Germany to use oxytocin to treat “xenophobia.” What’s the likelihood that the “refugees” also going to get drugs to help them behave properly in civilized society?) 

For the worst cases, the Ministry of Harmony uses lobotomy.

Decay, Distraction and Design

Constant strikes take their toll. As one might expect, they can’t keep the trains running on time. All told, it’s quite a clown show. The Ministry of Harmony approves:

Their right reasoning was that a good amount of decline was even desirable as conducive to a debasement of the public which was beneficial to domination, providing it was administered with suitable distractions, and presented with skilful propaganda encouraging acceptance of it through familiarity.

Sufficient food, booze, sex and spectator sports, along with nonstop formative and tranquillizing television were seen as the only really essential requirements to keep a dazed and degraded public beneath a dangerous level of discontent capable of causing disorder.

Bread and circuses, right? Other than that, strange cults abound. The Ministry of Harmony promotes a controlled opposition celebrity.

His was the fine art of saying a lot which sounded nostalgically patriotic in a most nebulous way devoid of danger to the process destructive of patriotism. For this most talented of side-tracking performances he thoroughly deserved the very high salary and the plentiful perquisites he received from the Ministry, for it was thanks to him that so many people who might otherwise have become something of a problem for the despots of Democracy were instead shunted into a siding of perpetual immobilization under the influence of his sedation.

Even Britain’s royal family gets “woke”:

By the turn of the century all the grandchildren of the monarch were well on the way by the entirety of their training and the atmosphere of the court and country to providing a shining example of Harmony by selecting Coloured spouses.

Well, how about that? The royals even change the flag. This hasn’t occurred yet, but it would be hardly surprising if the idea at least gets floated one of these days as a symbolic measure to turn away from the “evil” past of when Britain was British. The Cross of St. George already is politically incorrect, going the way of the Confederate battle flag in the USA.

The cause of Harmony, which was the pursuit of world oneness, had by the time of the announcement brought about a general integration of the former United Kingdom in a system already embracing the greater part of the world, and confidently expected eventually to embrace the whole of it.

This did come to pass in a way, when Britain joined the European Union. This was reversed lately, after much foot-dragging by politicians. By some speculations, the Powers-That-Be never would’ve allowed the Brexit vote if they had any idea the peasants would vote for it.

The advocates of this stupendous unification, who decades earlier had campaigned as a “Crusade for World Government” for its attainment at one jump, and on this basis had been overwhelmingly rejected, had quickly learned the lesson that by stealthy gradualism eventual victory could be theirs.

Indeed, as the swamp creature Zbigniew Brzezinski put it, “We cannot leap into world government through one quick step. . . The precondition for eventual and genuine globalization is progressive regionalization because by that we move toward larger, more stable, more cooperative units.” Speaking of these globalist types:

They were one global syndicate: an undercover political Mafia straddling the world in the mantle of Democracy.

I’ve observed the same. In Deplorable Diatribes, I describe the New World Order phenomenon as “very high-level corruption, in which ostensibly democratic Western governments have been coopted to a large degree by the extremely wealthy. It’s the white-collar criminal version of the Mafia, but on a worldwide scale.” 

Celebrations of the Century 

As the year 2000 draws near, Trafalgar Square is renamed “Harmony Square.” Admiral Nelson gets canceled, and his statue is replaced with one of that cuddly teddy bear Nelson Mandela. If that weren’t enough:

On the festive 1st January public bonfires would be lit in all parts with the public exhorted to contribute to the combustion all remaining family relics of the bad old days of a once White England.

TV sets will be upgraded, with the real purpose of converting them into two-way Orwellian telescreens. That hasn’t happened, though massive electronic domestic spying occurs by other means.

When January 1 rolls around, the Central African immigrant Rasmus Olionabobe is elected to Parliament and immediately arises to Prime Minister. Then Honey returns from a trip to the disco, announcing to her family that she’s pregnant by her black boyfriend Ulysses Jones. (If the usual outcome happens, he’ll dump her as soon as she tells him the news and try to find another white girl.) The story ends thus:

The progeny would therefore be fashionably darkish if not true ebony, probably broad of nose and lip as an additional attraction, and most likely to be endowed with the further merit of frizzy hair. In short, the child would obviously be English of the most modern appearance: a truly authentic incarnation of the blessed state of Merrie England in the year 2,000.

A country burns out like an ember, and so dies out another of its bloodlines, with subversion and a treacherous ruling class at fault. This is all so that Zionist ingrates can feel safe from the people who saved them a couple generations ago, and so that the globalists will face no challenge to their power. It doesn’t say what happens next, but it’s not too difficult to guess. Then the oligarchs will rule over the dilapidated husk of a once-great nation until the colored masses overwhelm them too. This was grim; an ending about as cheerful as that of 1984, when the tormented Winston Smith finally loves Big Brother and probably will be whacked moments later.

Summary

Many of the things Merrie England 2,000 described as satire and hyperbole have come true, just as some of Orwell’s nightmare scenario has become fact. Will Britain follow the trajectory described here, becoming a dysfunctional banana republic populated by brainwashed consumer units bereft of racial and cultural identity? The final page of history is not written yet; if the British can gather their resolve to oust the exploiter class that betrayed their own people, the nation may be reborn. They will not be alone; real Americans have similar struggles of our own, but we stand with them in solidarity.

Beau Albrecht
https://counter-currents.com/author/balbrecht/

Results of the practice

Although the overwhelming majority of Westerners who entered the monastic life at Wat Pah Pong were male, there were also a small number of Western women who came to train as maechees. Chief amongst these, was an American known by her adopted name Khamfah, who arrived with her husband Paul, after fleeing their home in Laos ahead of the Communist takeover in late 1975. The couple decided to try to stay for five years, with the proviso that, if at any time, both of them wanted to leave, then they would do so; however, in the case that one wanted to go and the other wanted to stay, then they would both carry on and endure through their difficulties. It was challenging for both of them, but they survived the five years.

At the end of every year, Luang Por would allow Maechee Khamfah to go to Wat Pah Nanachat for a few days where she would have the chance to speak to Paul (by then known as Ven. Thitabho). But mostly, their relationship was confined to the odd clandestine note, secreted at an agreed spot in the forest on the maechees’ route to the kitchen. In many ways, it was harder for Maechee Khamfah: as a nun, she had much less access to Luang Por, and, in the Maechee Section, her inspiration could easily waver. But Ven. Thitabho did not find monastic life easy either, and sometimes he would probably have preferred the distance from Luang Por that his wife resented.

By the late 1970s Luang Por had become a more grandfatherly figure. But the old fire and ability to give corrosive admonishments would occasionally resurface. He could also accomplish the effect of a scolding without speaking a word, as he demonstrated one day when he caught Ven. Thitabho breaking a key monastic regulation.

Private supplies of tea, coffee, sugar and so on were forbidden at Wat Pah Pong. Everybody was expected to be content with whatever communal drinks were provided. However, a number of the Western monks – Ven. Thitabho included – persuaded themselves that they were a special case in this respect, and if they were discreet enough about it, boiling a pot of water in the forest and having a cup of tea together was a minor, harmless indulgence. Every now and again, they would meet at Ven. Thitabho’s kuti, where an ancient black kettle was secreted.

One day, Ven. Thitabho received a parcel of fine teas from his sister in England. In the late afternoon, he made a small fire in the forest behind his kuti, at a spot where the smoke would not be visible from the path, to enjoy a first cup of the new batch. But when an involuntary shiver passed through his body, he quickly turned around to see a motionless and stonefaced Luang Por watching him. It was the proverbial nightmare come true. Luang Por walked over to the illicit supplies, lifted up his walking stick and knocked over a few jars of tea with a crash, spat on the ground and walked off in silence.

Luang Por spent most of the second half of 1979 overseeing the renovation of the monastery in Bahn Kor where he had spent his first years in the robes. Towards the end of the year, Ven. Thitabho was assigned as his attendant. One day, a group of Thai visitors began to praise the Western monks for their renunciation and dedication. Luang Por agreed, yes, his Western disciples were accomplished, many of them could chant the Pāṭimokkha. ‘They’re all very intelligent,’ he paused dramatically, ‘except for this one’, he pointed to Thitabho, ‘He’s really stupid.’ Afterwards, Luang Por asked Thitabho slyly if he got angry when he treated him like that. Thitabho said, ‘How can you get angry with a mountain?’ Luang Por was delighted. Laughing, he turned to one of the novices by his side, ‘Write that down. Write that down!’

Eventually, the five years were up. In the last few months, Khamfah’s growing sense of isolation in the Maechee Section had been exploited by a fundamentalist Christian missionary. This had culminated, somewhat bizarrely, in her conversion (‘Maybe, she’s right’, said a deadpan Luang Por, startling Ajahn Sumedho who brought the news). After their departure, ex-Thitabho adopted his wife’s faith. The couple sent letters to Western monks lamenting what they called the aridity of Buddhist spirituality, and exulting in what they believed to be a shared sense of Christ’s presence. One of their main complaints was that after five years in the wat, they could see no tangible results from their practice. No matter how much they had tried, life had always seemed to remain pretty much the same. These comments were passed on to Luang Por. Then one day, a photo of the couple with their first child arrived in the post. It was shown to Luang Por. He looked at it for a moment and then said, ‘At last, they’ve seen the results of their practice.’

Stillness Flowing The Life and Teaching of Ajhan Chah 

Transcript of a Live Radio Interview with Chess Champion Bobby Fischer

14 January 1999

(Fischer’s mother, Regina Wender, was Jewish and it is very probable that his biological father was also Jewish)

Pablo Mercado: (speech in Filipino). Bobby Fischer. You can just lift the... Eugene you can just lift the phone and let’s put it on the air, that’s easy, OK?

Eugene Torre: Bobby? Yeah, This is Eugene. I’m here beside Mr. Pablo Mercado.

Bobby Fischer: Yes.

Torre: He’s the radio announcer here in Bomba Radio in Baguio. So good morning Bobby, how are you?

Fischer: OK, Mr. Bomba is it?

Torre: Wait, wait. Mr. Pablo Mercado – here wait.

Fischer: Oh, pardon me, Mr. Pablo Mercado of Bomba Radio, excuse me, ya.

Mercado: Yes, uh, how are you Bobby?

Fischer: Thank you, very well, yes.

Mercado: You’re very well. You see, Eugene Torre is here with us right now and he related to us your present problem regarding your memorabilias in the States. Can you tell us something about it Bobby?

Fischer: Yes, well, umm, this is just the latest in a long line of crimes against me by World Jewry and the Jew-controlled United States of America.

Mercado: Uh huh. Why is it so? Why is it so? Why are they doing this to you?

Fischer: They don’t like me.

Mercado: (laughs). As simple as that. As simple as that, that they don’t like you.

Fischer: Ya.

Mercado: All right. Which of these properties that you have are now being sold by the States?

Fischer: No... they’re already been sold. They’re gone.

Mercado: Really?

Fischer: Ya, ya. They said I owe them a few hundred dollars which is, you know, without contacting me, nothing. They just sold it all off – stuff that it took me a lifetime to accumulate. I had it in. They broke open my safes and they broke open my file cabinets and everything. And just sold off everything. Sold off like a hundred boxes of my stuff and sold off my photo album, my letters from President Marcos, my photo album with President Marcos – everything.

Mercado: Uh-huh.

Fischer: This is just a conspiracy against me by the Jews.

Mercado: Why? Why?

Fischer: Those filthy, filthy bastards. You know they’ve trying to take over the world.

Mercado: Why?

Fischer: You know they invented the Holocaust story. There’s no such. There was no holocaust of the Jews in World War II.

Mercado: Really?

Fischer: They’ve been pulling this shit from time immemorial about persecution. They’re a filthy, lying, bastard people. That’s all they ever do. That’s all they’ll ever be.

Mercado: Why do you have this thing about the Jews?

Fischer: I have no thing. They have a thing about me.

Mercado: (laughs).

Fischer: Study the history.

Mercado: Really?

Fischer: Are you a Christian?

Mercado: Yes, I am.

Fischer: Well, you know. The Catholic Church. The Catholic Church taught for a long time about that they’re guilty of the murder of Christ, right?

Mercado: Yes. So? (Laughs.)

Fischer: You know.

Mercado: (laughs). Anyway, Bob, this memorabilia that has been sold that you owned.

Fischer: That I owned? I still own it. This is all stolen property, you know?

Mercado: All right. All right. Uhhh, would you?

Fischer: I have spent on this... just in storage fees alone over 10,000 dollars. I have spent in buying the custom-made safes, custom-made file cabinets, with secret built-in safes in the file cabinets, another file cabinet, a safe with special drill-proof doors, with a second door inside, combination locks, both timers, in case somebody tries to force you to open it. The works! To preserve my memorabilia. My stuff from Marcos, my letters from President Nixon, books dedicated to me by President Nixon, former President Nixon when he dedicated the books, but he was President Nixon when he wrote to me. All kinds of stuff, photo albums, statues, the works! They have stole every fucking thing and sold if off. The dirty Jews that want to put me in prison for 10 years. They have sold off all of my memorabilia which I collected over years. They have confiscated, they have stolen my book My 60 Memorable Games. They have come out with the illegal movie called Searching for Bobby Fischer which is exploiting my name for money. They’ve made tens if not hundreds of millions of dollars on this movie. I never get a penny of it. They came out with the illegal. The Jews have come out with the illegal CD-ROM called ‘Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess.’ Zero for me. I get nothing. Even from the legitimate edition of My 60 Memorable Games. Nothing. These fucking Jews are thieves, they are liars, they are mother-fuckers, and it’s time we took care of these bastards.

Mercado: I have a photocopy of several checks that you have issued to...

Fischer: Yeah yeah. I faxed them to Eug.

Mercado: Yes, who is this Bob Ellsworth?

Fischer: This guy was acting as my agent to pay my bills there in the States.

Mercado: Uh, huh.

Fischer: I have some stuff in storage in New York. I have the stuff in storage in Pasadena which has all been robbed. And I have a PO box, two PO boxes in Pasadena. And I had some property in Florida which I have to pay taxes on every year.

Mercado: Uh, huh.

Fischer: This. All of these things come to less than 4,000 dollars. So I was sending him five grand a year to take care of all this, plus giving him like a thousand dollars for his trouble. And he was paying it. But then he got the words from the dirty Jews. Fuck Fischer’s ass. Sell his memorabilia. This was in collusion. This was in collusion with this Bekins storage company in Pasadena. You know. What the hell am I gonna give away all of the stuff which I have taken years to accumulate and to preserve over 400 dollars. I’ve got 300 million dollars in Switzerland. I got dough here in Hungary. They did it all behind my back. Nobody contacted me. Nothing. They didn’t contact my lawyers. Nothing. The fucking Jews want to destroy everything I’ve worked for all my life. There was no Holocaust. The Jews are liars. It’s time we took off the kid gloves with these parasites.

Mercado: All right. With all of these things Mr. Fischer, what do you intend to do now?

Fischer: I intend to do what I’m doing right now.

Mercado: What?

Fischer: Which is to expose the Jews for the criminals they are, the parasites they are, the liars they are, the thieves they are, the niggers they are.

Mercado: You speak like an Arab.

Fischer: You ask the Palestinians. I was just listening to the BBC. The horror story that come out of there when you get into an Israeli prison. The way they torture you. It’s unheard of. I was listening to a Palestinian woman, a Christian woman from Palestine, not even Muslims, Christian women who were anti-Israel. They got picked up by the Israeli police, taken down to the jail, and then the Israeli police tried to get information – Who do you know among your friends that’s anti-Israel? Give us all the names of your Arab, Christian friends who are anti-Israel. When they refused, they put the women in a cell, these are mothers, these women, mostly. They put ‘em in a cell, and then they start playing, in Arabic, on the loudspeaker, 24 hours a day, "Mommy, come home, Mommy, we miss you" in Arabic. They played it over and over again until the women just collapsed.

Mercado: All right, do you have any...

Fischer: This is the Jewish mentality. These are a criminal people. They torture their prisoners in the worst way. It’s even illegal! They don’t even deny it hardly. Jews were always bastards throughout history. They are liars, they are the worst pieces of shit in the world. They mutilate their own children.

Mercado: All right.

Fischer: Fuck the Jews.

Mercado: OK. You don’t plan any legal moves against them? Against those who sold your memorabilia?

Fischer: What is this he said?

Mercado: Legal moves, like a case in court.

Fischer: You know, the Jews control the courts. What is your name, Mr. Mercado?

Mercado: Yes, Pablo.

Fischer: Yes, the Jews. Pablo, yeah, Pablo. The Jews control the courts. It’s just a charade they go through. It’s Facade City, you know – Facade City. I’ve been involved in a number of lawsuits in America. Never got a penny, never got a stop order, never got nothing. I’ve been involved in about five or six lawsuits, about five cases throughout the years, never got a penny, never got any property back, never got a stop order, never got nothing man. I spent a lot of money, and I have all the documents, and I have all the justice on my side. It’s a joke. The United States is a farce controlled by dirty, hook-nosed circumcised Jew bastards.

Mercado: Bob, uhh, I have no other questions. Maybe Eugene, he has a few questions for you.

Fischer: Ya, ya, Hi Eugene.

Torre: Hi, Hi Bobby. Well, uhh, not much questions. I think you have expressed, uhh, quite good your side, and exposed these people, you know? (Laughs.)

Fischer: Hey Eugene, what’s the difference between a good Jew and a bad Jew?

Torre: Yeah. What’s the difference between a good Jew and bad Jew?

Fischer: The good Jew fucks you slower. (All laugh.)

Torre: OK. So... It’s OK, Bobby. I think it should be over now, and...

Fischer: OK.

Torre: And I have good news. I was able to contact... Anyway, maybe you can get in touch with me later, OK?

Fischer: OK, I’ll call you at home, OK?

Torre: OK, ya, and uhh...

Bobby Fischer: OK, what time, I’ll call you what, in about 10 minutes, half an hour?

Torre: Maybe in half an hour, ya.

Fischer: OK. OK. Did we go out live? Did we go out live?

Torre: This is live. This is live, Bobby. Everybody hears...

Fischer: OK, good. You know, because that’s the only way to go, you know. I don’t like to be edited, you know.

Torre: No, no. No editing here. Here, it’s live.

Fischer: Get a copy. Get a copy of this, OK?

Torre: Ya, I got already here a tape of this conversation, this interview, OK? So give me a call after thirty or one hour, no?

Fischer: OK, take it easy.

Torre: OK. Bye.

Source: https://heretical.com/miscella/fischer.html

Absentminded

 533 The author adds in a note: “This is not so much a portrait of one individual, as a collection of anecdotes of absent-minded persons. If they please, there cannot be too large a number of them, for as tastes differ, my readers can pick and choose.” The chief traits of Menalcas are based on stories related by the Count de Brancas, who died eleven years before the above paragraph first saw the light (1691); others are said to have happened to the Prince de la Roche-sur-Yon, afterwards Prince de Conti (1664-1709), and to a certain Abbé de Mauroy, chaplain to Mademoiselle de Montpensier. Eustace Budgell (1685-1736) depicts in No. 77 of the “Spectator” “an absent man,” and also speaks of Monsieur Bruyère, who “has given us the character of an absent man with a great deal of humour;” and then prints “the heads” of Menalcasʼ portrait. According to Wattʼs Bibliotheca Britannica, Budgell was the author of a translation of La Bruyèreʼs “Characters,” published 1699 and 1702; but in the edition of 1702 there is on the title-page, “made English by several hands.”

Menalcas533↑ goes down-stairs, opens the door to go out, and shuts it again; he perceives that he has his nightcap on, and on looking at himself with a little more attention, he finds that he is but half shaved, that he has fastened his sword on the wrong side, that his stockings are hanging on his heels, and that his shirt is bulging out above his breeches. If he walks about, he feels something strike him all at once in the stomach or in the face, and he cannot imagine what it is, until he opens his eyes and wakes up, when he finds himself before the shaft of a cart, or behind a long plank a workman is carrying. He has been seen to run his head against a blind man, and to get entangled between his legs, so that both fell backwards. Often he meets a prince face to face, who wishes to pass; he recollects himself with some difficulty, and scarcely has time to squeeze himself up against the wall to make room for him.534 He searches about, rummages, shouts, gets excited, calls his servants one after another, and complains that everything is lost or mislaid; he asks for his gloves which he holds in his hands, like the woman who asked for the mask she had on her face. He enters the rooms at Versailles,535 and passing under a chandelier, his wig gets hooked on to one of the brackets and is left hanging, whilst all the courtiers stare and laugh. Menalcas looks also, and laughs louder than any of them, staring in the meanwhile at all the company to see what man shows his ears and has lost his wig.536 If he goes into town,537 before he has gone far he thinks he has lost his way, gets uneasy, and asks some of the passers-by where he is, who name to him the very street he lives in; he enters his own house, runs out in haste, and fancies he is mistaken. He comes out of the Palais de Justice, and finding a carriage waiting at the bottom of the great staircase, he thinks it is his own and enters it; the coachman just touches the horses with his whip, and supposes all the while he is driving his master home; Menalcas jumps out, crosses the courtyard, mounts the stairs, and passes through the ante-chamber and ordinary rooms into the study; but nothing is strange or new to him; he sits down, takes a rest, and feels himself at home. When the real master of the house arrives, he rises to receive him, treats him very politely, begs him to be seated, and believes he is doing the honours of his own room; he talks, muses, and talks again; the master of the house is tired and amazed, and Menalcas as much as he, though he does not say what he thinks, but supposes the other is some bore who has nothing to do, and will leave soon—at least he hopes so, and remains patient; yet it is almost night before he is undeceived, and that with some difficulty. Another time he pays a visit to a lady, and imagines that she is visiting him; he sits down in her arm-chair538 without any thought of giving it up; it then seems to him that the lady is somewhat long in her visit, and he expects every moment that she will rise and leave him at liberty; but as she delays, he is growing hungry, and night coming on, he invites her to have some supper with him, at which she bursts out in such loud laughter that he comes to himself. He marries in the morning, but has forgotten it at night, and does not sleep at home on his wedding-night; some time afterwards his wife dies in his arms, and he is present at her funeral; the next day one of the servants informs him that dinner is on the table, when he asks if his wife is already dressed and if they have told her it is served up. He enters a church, and takes a blind man, always stationed at the door, for a pillar, and the plate he holds in his hands for a holy-water basin, into which he dips his hands; and when he makes the sign of the cross on his forehead, he, on a sudden, hears the pillar speak and beg for alms; he walks through the aisle, and fancying he sees a praying-chair, throws himself heavily on it; the chair bends, gives way, and strives to cry out;539 Menalcas is surprised to find himself kneeling on the legs of a very little man, and leaning on his back, with both his arms on his shoulders, his folded hands extended, taking him by the nose and stopping his mouth; he is quite confused, withdraws, and goes and kneels elsewhere. He takes out his prayer-book as he thinks, but he pulls out a slipper instead, which he had inadvertently put into his pocket before he went out; he has hardly left the church when a footman runs after him, comes up to him, and asks him, with a laugh, if he has not got the bishopʼs slipper; Menalcas produces his, and assures him that he has no other slippers about him; but, however, after searching he finds the slipper of his lordship, whom he has just been visiting, had found indisposed at his fireside, and whose slipper he had pocketed before he took his leave, instead of one of his gloves he had dropt; so that Menalcas returns home with one slipper less. One day whilst gambling he lost all the money he had about him, and, as he wished to continue, he went into his private room, unlocked a cupboard, took out his cash-box, helped himself to whatever he pleased, and then thought he put it back again in its former place; but he heard some barking going on in the cupboard he just locked, and, quite astonished at this marvellous occurrence, he opened it again, and burst out laughing on beholding his dog he had locked up instead of his cash-box. Whilst he is playing backgammon he asks for something to drink, which is brought him; it is his turn to play, and, holding the box in one hand and the glass in the other, and being very thirsty, he gulps down the dice and almost the box, whilst the water is thrown on the board, and quite wets the person he is playing with. One day being in a room with a family with whom he was very intimate, he spits on the bed, and throws his hat on the ground, thinking he is spitting on the floor and shying his hat on the bed. Once on the river he asked what oʼclock it was; they hand him a watch, but it is scarcely in his hands when he forgets both the time and the watch, and throws the latter into the river as a thing which bothers him. He writes a long letter, throws some sand on his paper,540 and then pours the sand into the inkstand; but that is not all. He writes a second letter, and after having sealed both, he makes a mistake in addressing them; one of them is sent to a duke and peer of the realm, who, on opening it, reads: “Mr. Oliver,—Pray donʼt fail to send me my provision of hay as soon as you receive this letter.” His farmer receives the other letter, opens it, has it read to him, and finds in it: “My lord,—I receive with the utmost submission the orders which it has pleased your highness,” and so on. He writes another letter at night, and after sealing it, puts out the light; yet is surprised to be on a sudden in the dark, and is at a loss to conceive how it has happened. Coming down the Louvre staircase, Menalcas meets another person coming up, and exclaims that the latter is the very man he is looking for; he takes him by the hand, and they go down-stairs together, cross several courtyards, enter some apartments, and come out again; he moves about, and returns whence he started; then, looking more narrowly at the man he has thus been dragging after him for a quarter of an hour, he wonders who it is, has nothing to say to him, lets go his hand, and turns another way. He often asks a question, and is almost out of sight before it is possible to answer him; or else he will ask you, whilst he is running about, how your father is, and when you answer him that he is seriously unwell, he will shout to you that he is very glad to hear it. Another time, if you fall in his way, he is delighted to meet you, and says he has just come from your house to talk to you on a certain matter of business; then, looking at your hand, he exclaims, “Thatʼs a fine ruby you wear; is it a balass ruby?”541 and then he leaves you, and goes on his way; this is the important matter of business he was so anxious to talk to you about. If he is in the country, he tells some person he must feel happy he has been able to leave the court in the autumn and to have spent on his estate all the time the court was at Fontainebleau;542 whilst to other people he talks about something else; then, going back to the first, he says to him, “You have had some very fine weather at Fontainebleau, and you must have followed the royal hunt pretty often.” He begins a story which he forgets to finish; he laughs to himself, and that aloud, at something he is thinking of, and replies to his own thoughts; he hums a tune, whistles, throws himself into a chair, sends forth a pitiful whine, yawns, and thinks himself alone. When he is at a dinner-party he gradually gathers all the bread on his own plate, and his neighbours have none; and he does the same with the knives and forks, which do not remain long in their hands. Lately some large spoons, convenient for helping every one, have been introduced at certain tables; he takes one of these spoons, plunges it into the dish, fills it, puts it into his mouth, and is highly astonished to see the soup he has just taken all over his clothes and linen. He forgets to drink at dinner, or, if he remembers it, thinks there is too much wine poured out for him; he flings more than half of it in the face of a gentleman seated at his right hand, drinks the rest with a great deal of composure, and cannot understand why everybody should burst out laughing for throwing on the floor the wine he did not wish to drink.543 He keeps his bed a day or two for a slight indisposition, and a goodly number of ladies and gentlemen visit him, and converse with him in the ruelle;544 in their presence he lifts up the blankets and spits in the sheets. He is taken to the Convent of the Carthusians, where they show him a gallery adorned with paintings, all executed by the hand of a master;545 the monk who explains the subjects persistently expatiates on the life of Saint Bruno, and points out the adventure with the canon in one of the pictures.546 Menalcas, whose thoughts are all the while wandering away from the gallery, and far beyond it, returns to it at last, and asks the monk whether it is the canon or Saint Bruno who is damned. Being once, as it happened, with a young widow, he talks to her of her deceased husband, and asks of what he died; this conversation renews all the sorrows of the lady, who, amidst tears and sobs, tells him all the particulars of her late husbandʼs illness, from the night he first was attacked by fever to his final agony; whereupon Menalcas, who apparently listens to her narrative with great attention, asks her if the deceased was her only husband. One morning he gets it into his head to hurry on everything for dinner; but he rises before the dessert is brought on, and leaves his guests by themselves. That day he is sure to be seen everywhere in town except on the spot where he has made an appointment about the very business which prevented him finishing his dinner, and made him walk, for fear it would take too long a time to get the horses and carriage ready. You may frequently hear him shout, scold, and get in a rage about one of his servants being out of the way. “Where can that man be?” says he;

“what can he be doing? what has become of him? Let him never more present himself before me; I discharge him this very minute!” The servant makes his appearance, and he asks him, in a contemptuous tone, where he comes from; the man replies he has been where he was sent to, and gives a faithful account of his errand. You would often take Menalcas for what he is not, for an idiot; for he does not listen, and speaks still less; for a madman, because he talks to himself, and indulges in certain grimaces and involuntary motions of the head; for proud and discourteous, because when you bow to him, he may pass without looking at you, or look at you and not return your bow; for a man without any feeling, for he talks of bankruptcy in a family where there is such a blot; of executions and the scaffold before a person whose father has been beheaded; of plebeians before plebeians who have become rich and pretend to be of noble birth. He even intends to bring up his illegitimate son in his house, and pretends he is a servant; and though he would have his wife and children know nothing about the matter, he cannot forbear calling him his son every hour of the day. He resolves to let his son marry the daughter of some man of business, yet he now and then boasts of his birth and ancestors, and that no Menalcas has ever made a misalliance. In short, he seems to be absent minded, and to pay no attention to the conversation going on; he thinks and speaks at the same time, but what he says is seldom about what he thinks; so that there is hardly any coherence and sequence in his talk; he often says “yes” when he should say “no,” and when he says “no,” you must suppose he would say “yes.” When he answers you so pertinently, his eyes are fixed on your countenance, but it does not follow that he sees you; he looks neither at you nor at any one, nor at anything in the world. All that you can draw from him, even when he is most sociable and most attentive, are some such words as these: “Yes, indeed; it is true; very well; really; indeed; I believe so; certainly; O Heaven!” and some other monosyllables, even not always used on the right occasions. He never is with those with whom he appears to be; he calls his footman very seriously “Sir,” and his friend “La Verdure;”547 says “Your Reverence” to a prince of the royal blood, and “Your Highness” to a Jesuit. When he is at mass, and the priest sneezes, he cries out aloud, “God bless you!” He is in the company of a magistrate of serious disposition, and venerable by his age and dignity, who asks him whether a certain event happened in such and such a way, and Menalcas replies, “Yes, miss.” As he came one day from the country, his footmen plotted to rob him and succeeded; they jumped down from behind his coach, presented the end of a torch to his breast, and demanded his purse, which he gave up.548 When he came home he told his friends what had happened, and when they asked for details he said they had better inquire of his servants, who also were present.

533 The author adds in a note: “This is not so much a portrait of one individual, as a collection of anecdotes of absent-minded persons. If they please, there cannot be too large a number of them, for as tastes differ, my readers can pick and choose.” The chief traits of Menalcas are based on stories related by the Count de Brancas, who died eleven years before the above paragraph first saw the light (1691); others are said to have happened to the Prince de la Roche-sur-Yon, afterwards Prince de Conti (1664-1709), and to a certain Abbé de Mauroy, chaplain to Mademoiselle de Montpensier. Eustace Budgell (1685-1736) depicts in No. 77 of the “Spectator” “an absent man,” and also speaks of Monsieur Bruyère, who “has given us the character of an absent man with a great deal of humour;” and then prints “the heads” of Menalcasʼ portrait. According to Wattʼs Bibliotheca Britannica, Budgell was the author of a translation of La Bruyèreʼs “Characters,” published 1699 and 1702; but in the edition of 1702 there is on the title-page, “made English by several hands.”

534 Many of the streets in Paris were so narrow when our author wrote, that two people could hardly pass abreast; it was, therefore, the fashion to “give the wall,” as it was called, to persons of a superior rank.

535 See page 243, note 486.

536 The wigs were already worn very long, and completely concealed the ears.

537 See page 164, note 322.

538 There was usually only one or two arm-chairs in a reception-room, reserved for the master or mistress of the house, or for both.

539 It was reported that Brancas, chevalier dʼhonneur of the queen-mother, Anne of Austria (1602-1666), behaved in almost a similar manner to his royal mistress.

540 Blotting-paper was not invented when our author wrote; even now it is not unusual abroad to find the ink of letters dried with sand, either plain or coloured.

541Balais in French, a kind of pale-coloured ruby, so called, according to Littréʼs Dictionnaire, from Balakschan or Balaschan, not far from Samarcand.

542 The king used to hunt at Fontainebleau almost every day in October. See also page 174, note 359.

543 There existed a great deal of coarseness at the court of Louis XIV. underneath a semblance of extreme polish and refinement, and some of the stories told by Saint-Simon of the habits and customs of the king himself would not bear repeating at the present time, and even be considered disgraceful by the lowest classes of society. As an example of this general coarseness, it will, no doubt, have been observed that it was the usual habit of decent people to expectorate on the floor (see page 277, line 12), as well as to throw there the wine they did not wish to drink; for Menalcas is only laughed at for his absence of mind, and not for his bad habits. See also in the chapter “Of the Gifts of Fortune,” § 83, the character of Phædo, page 161, and in the chapter “Of Society, etc.,” the character of Troïlus, page 106, § 13.

544 See page 65, note 161.

545 In the Convent of the Carthusians, then near the Luxembourg, were to be found the twenty-two celebrated pictures of Eustache Lesueur (1616-1655), representing the history of Saint Bruno, founder of that order, who died in 1101. The greater part of these pictures is now in the Louvre.

546 This picture represents the burial of an eloquent and learned canon, who, whilst being carried to the tomb, rose in his coffin, exclaimed that he was damned, and fell back again.

547 See page 138, note 272.

548 Tallemant des Réaux, in his Historiettes, tells a more probable story of de Brancas, how one day, being on horseback and stopped by footpads, he mistook them for footmen, and ordered them to let go his horse, and how he did not find out his mistake till they clapt a pistol to his breast.

La Bruyere 

Characters 

In Sporting Endeavors

 

(in which we wonder whether Philippides would have used public transport after the Battle of Marathon if given the opportunity)

Like anthropology and journalism, sport provides fertile ground for those wishing to describe places they haven’t been to. If numerous sports take place in enclosed arenas and therefore aren’t directly concerned, a substantial number of risky practices like mountaineering, sailing or motor races, aeronautical escapades or hunting in faraway countries1 necessarily lead their devotees to ask themselves whether it is worth throwing themselves into a dangerous, exhausting venture if they can instead limit their efforts to the essential and concentrate on the story.

It is well within their interests to develop skills that will allow them to speak with accuracy about a sporting performance they have refrained from making and produce a convincing line about it that includes plenty of descriptions of the places they have been to, in order to remove all doubts from those suspecting that they may have taken a shortcut or stayed at home.

In 1980, a woman by the name of Rosie Ruiz, a young American of Cuban origin, twenty-six years old, entered the annals of athletic history for two different reasons. The first one, purely sports related, was that she won the women’s division in an important athletic challenge, the Boston Marathon, also setting the third-fastest time for a woman in any marathon.2

This event is one of the oldest distance races and one of the most famous in the world. It usually takes place on the third Monday in April. It has the characteristic of not being open to all candidates but only to preselected runners who have achieved a minimum qualifying time in another official marathon, ensuring an exceptional sporting standard.

It is still easy today to peruse the images that have survived of this historical course and the triumphant arrival of Rosie Ruiz. We discover a young woman in a yellow shirt, wearing the number W50, running the last few meters of the race with a stumbling stride before collapsing into the arms of spectators who help her, half-fainting, across the line. After this, two policemen take over and support her under her arms to prevent her from collapsing entirely.

Next we see her answering a journalist’s questions. Carrying the laurel wreath that right until 1986 was the only reward given to winners of this race and holding a silver cup, Rosie Ruiz, clearly in a state of euphoria, struggles to catch her breath and only briefly responds to the questions. Asked whether anyone helped her, she replied that she trained alone and was her own coach.

Rosie Ruiz’s sporting performance was remarkable in any case because she ran the marathon in two hours, thirty-one minutes and fifty-six seconds, which was the best female time ever recorded at the Boston event and the third best time ever run by a woman in an official marathon. This fact alone made her an instant celebrity, something she was to remain.

However, it wasn’t Rosie Ruiz’s exceptional time that brought her so much fame. She mainly went down in history for having lost her title again so quickly, after being accused of not actually having run the full course.

One of the things that attracted the organizers’ attention was the exceptional time Rosie Ruiz made compared to her previous performance at the New York City Marathon. An even more revelatory indication in their eyes was the fact that the young woman recovered so rapidly after having crossed the finish line and could give no other explanation for her stunning physical condition than that she’d got up that morning brimming with energy.

Worse still, the officials sitting at various points around the race could not remember seeing the young woman pass by and wondered what mysterious, unknown path she had taken to be able to cover the distance between the start and the finish in record time.

The scandal reached greater proportions when the officials, looking into the New York Marathon—which had enabled Ruiz to qualify for the Boston event—became convinced, with witnesses to support it, that the young woman had covered part of the course by metro.

Accused of having cheated, Rosie Ruiz was disqualified from the Boston Marathon and the runner up, Jacqueline Gareau, was awarded the title. But Ruiz never admitted the fraud and continued to calmly affirm, despite all the evidence, that she had completed the legendary marathon in first place.

I personally have difficulty understanding the reasons that lead the organizers to strip Rosie Ruiz of her title. As someone who is rather insensitive to sporting disciplines and remains perplexed by the idea of anyone spending part of their life trying to run a certain distance in a minimum amount of time, it isn’t easy to understand the reproaches made to this young woman.

In terms of history, in any case, she doesn’t seem to have lacked respect for the spirit of the marathon, which consisted of finding the best way of getting from one place to another in a limited amount of time. When Philippides ran from Marathon to Athens to tell the Areopagus that the Persian army had been defeated, he chose the only method that was available to him, but it is obvious that he would have chosen a faster way if he’d had the opportunity.

In terms of sporting logic, aside from the fact that I doubt that using public transport is expressly forbidden in the marathon’s rules, it would be naive to suppose that Rosie Ruiz was an isolated case. Other similar cases have been identified—suggesting that the number of frauds is actually quite high.3 One only needs to leaf through the abundance of literature dedicated to exploits in inaccessible places with something of a critical mind to guess that some of these texts, like those of Marco Polo and Chateaubriand, were written at a fireside, and that the writers should be judged for their literary performance, not their sporting prowess.

The strangest thing about this story is that Rosie Ruiz was primarily reproached for her lack of imagination. The organizers considered it to her detriment that she was incapable of accurately describing certain parts of the route, in particular a girls’ college that all the competitors should have passed—Wellesley College—whose students traditionally cheer with rapturous enthusiasm.

It is somewhat paradoxical that part of the charge against her was Rosie Ruiz’s inability to describe the route, as if to criticize her refusal to resort to the particular kind of fiction—artistically fertile but unacceptable in sports—that is literary truth. The argument can easily be turned around because it would be just as easy to think that, if she’d really wanted to cheat, Rosie Ruiz would have gone to the trouble of gathering information on the route.

As for myself, I would have no trouble, if asked, recounting the time I took part in the Boston Marathon some years ago.

For example, I have clear memories of the start of the race in the small town of Hopkinton, the gentle descent toward Ashland and going past the clock tower, then the train depot at Framingham, before skirting Lake Cochituate on our left and hearing, around the twenty-kilometer mark, the screams of the Wellesley students in the distance, carried by the wind.

How would it be possible to forget those groups of enthusiastic female students, frantically brandishing placards bearing inscriptions as encouraging as “I love you!” or “Marry me!” in front of the magnificent campus lost amid squirrel-filled trees. I can even give you a detailed description of the young blond woman wearing a blue suit and a red scarf who took it upon herself to run alongside me for several meters, spraying my face with a bottle of water.

And I can still remember, after we’d passed the park with the kangaroos, the hills before Newton, in particular the most difficult to climb, Heartbreak Hill, which precedes the prestigious Boston College, whose gothic tower spiked with four spires irresistibly reminds all Parisian competitors of the slender silhouette of the Saint-Jacques Tower.

Finally, I remember the route’s gentle decline toward Boston after that last climb that heralds the Charles River, and how, although exhausted, my companions and I were transported by an increasing mass of spectators who were more and more enthusiastic the closer we got to the finish line, where we were taken into the care of an army of volunteers who carried us off to rest and regain our strength.

Despite appearances, Rosie Ruiz’s fraud, if ever proven; the fantastical filter Marco Polo used to describe China to his beloved; and Margaret Mead reinventing the Samoan Islands with her playful young friends have more than one thing in common.

The first thing they have in common is the fact that we are talking about what I earlier called an imaginary realm, even if in one example a city is concerned. Undoubtedly we find ourselves faced with a different scenario than that of China or the Samoan Islands since a proliferation of concrete details is set against an abstract representation of loci here, reduced to a cord stretched across a finish line. But what the experiences do have in common is the rewriting of space, or, if one prefers, its reconfiguration, allowing the subjects to find themselves in a new place, more fulfilling in terms of fantasy.

The imaginary realm invented by Rosie Ruiz, where, like Peter Pan, she is capable of overcoming the laws of nature and achieving improbable sporting exploits, is modeled on that of childhood, whose privileges she rediscovers for a while. It is a realm where everything is possible: there are no barriers, no limits; dreams can rapidly become reality. It is a place where it is conceivable, for example, to transport oneself, without difficulty and seemingly without time, from one place to another in a city that has become a purely psychological space.

It is this experience of infantile omnipotence that Rosie Ruiz acts out in an imaginary place, completely constructed around the instant she triumphantly crosses the finish line to a cheering public, experiencing a jubilation that presumably resonates with the most distant of her experiences. There is neither distance nor time between desire and its realization in this fantasy space with its dreamlike construction where the pleasure principle overrides the reality principle.

In both cases, this rewriting has an identical goal: to highlight the subject in a state of absolute pleasure. The amorous scenes with Chinese women dreamed up by Marco Polo and the multiple sexual encounters Margaret Mead imagines taking place over the entire Samoan Islands, transformed into a kind of primitive “general scene,” are condensed in this moment of unique self-celebration, its intensity multiplied by the prism of the media, in absolute narcissistic happiness.

So the example set by Rosie Ruiz shows how talk of imaginary realms cannot be understood without introducing a third notion corresponding to the unconscious life of the subject, that of the inner landscape.

Freud used this expression for a while to describe what was repressed in the mind, though finally it wasn’t retained by psychoanalytic theory. “Repression,” he wrote in his Neue Folge der Vorlesungen zur Einführung in die Psychoanalyse (1933), “is for me an inner foreign country (inneres Ausland), just as reality, if you will allow me to use an unusual expression, is an outer foreign country (äusseres Ausland).”4Thus he evoked the image of an inner country or landscape and other related images like those of regions and provinces5 in his search for tropes that would allow him to describe unconscious reality and the words best suited to showing it and thinking about it. It is an image that is a continuation of the propositions he often used to represent the interior of the psyche as a spatial form.

If the notion of an inner landscape is fitting, it is because it expresses how the interior of the psyche is certainly of a topological order, as Freud imagined and as Lacan further intuited with his idea of topology. It can also be thought of in geographical terms, with its landscapes, its elevations, its pits and even its inhabitants, which could include those parts of ourselves that seem to lead their own lives and, at times, be ready to seize autonomy at our expense.6And it is to this fantasy image of an inner landscape that we refer to more or less consciously when we represent the insides of our minds like a region, a country or a city, open or fortified but separated from the others by frontiers that are more or less easy to cross and that assure our protection from the external world, even if we sometimes let down our barriers to certain privileged people.

The inner landscape, which might be another name for the unconscious, has both a collective and an unconscious dimension and is not isolated from the real world. On the contrary, it is behind the transformations to which we subject our representations of reality. And it is when the subject does not find peace there that he undertakes to substitute an imaginary world for the real one, whose geography is influenced by that of the inner landscape, becoming a place where he invents a realm that suits his needs.

If it isn’t possible to know Rosie Ruiz’s inner landscape with any accuracy—that is to say, her unconscious life with its spaces and its inhabitants—we can still try to gain an idea from the traces left in her transformation of the real landscape of Boston into an imaginary realm, reduced in its totalitarian fiction to a space contracted around herself and her virtual exploit.

It is an inner realm that she would have complete mastery of and where she would also have control over space and time, as each of us secretly dreams. It is a place where she would rule without sharing, adored by subjects overwhelmed by admiration, retransmitting to her in a kind of infinite refraction that glorious image that certain self-obsessed rulers have others build for them in the form of statues in all the public spaces in their countries so as to have the pleasure, when walking, of being reflected back at themselves continually.

As we can see, the reproach made to Rosie Ruiz of being incapable of accurately describing the route of the Boston Marathon can be understood in two different ways. First of all, it can be understood in the traditional way as a reproach for having tried to appropriate a title for herself that she had no right to.

But, according to a different kind of logic, it can also be understood as a reproach for not having been enough of a writer and not managing, by attaining that particular kind of truth that literature aims at, to reconfigure space in a sufficiently convincing manner for her readers and listeners to be able to accept it as their own and attempt to inhabit it in their minds.

1.    See the example the eponymous Tartarin de Tarascon sets in Alphonse Daudet’s novel.

2.    VP+

3.    One celebrated case is that of the 1906 Tour de France, in which four cyclists were disqualified for taking the train from Nancy to Dijon.

4.    Sigmund Freud, Neue Folge der Vorlesungen zur Einführung in die Psychoanalyse [New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis] (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenburg Verlag, 1981), 50. Unfortunately, the recent Presses Universitaires de France translation has used the expressions “territoire extérieur interne” and “territoire extérieur externe.”

5.    “Superego, ego and id, these are the three empires, regions (Gebiete), provinces (Provinzen), between which we share the psychic apparatus of the individual, and now we are going to focus on their interrelationships.” Ibid., 62.

6.    Later in the text of Neue Folge, Freud constructs a complete allegory around the inner country and its different regions: “I imagine therefore a country whose terrain presents a varied configuration: there are hills, plains and lakes. The population is composed of Germans, Magyars and Slovaks performing various activities. Let us suppose the Germans, cattle-breeders, live on the hills, the Magyars, farmers and winegrowers, live on the plains, and the Slovaks, fishers and weavers, on the edge of the lakes. If this distribution was tidy and absolute, a Wilson would be delighted; geography would be easy to teach. But it is likely that when visiting the region, you would find less order and more confusion. Germans, Magyars and Slovaks sometimes live all mixed up, it is possible to have arable land on the hills and cattle on the plains.” Ibid., 63.

How to Talk About Places You've Never Been 

Pierre Bayard

THE LION

 

The Emperor gave the sign. The iron grille, enclosing the entrance to the tunnel, rose and from the darkness came a crescendo of menacing roars. In the centre of the arena a group of Christians drew closer together. The spectators were on their feet. Excited chatter, cries of fear and the roar approaching like an avalanche. From the tunnel emerged the first lioness moving swiftly and silently. The spectacle had begun.

Armed with a long pole the keeper of the lions, Gaius, was checking if all the beasts had gone into the arena to take part in the terrible entertainment. He was about to give a sigh of relief when he noticed that one lion had stopped just short of the entrance and was calmly chewing a carrot. Gaius swore. One of his duties was to ensure that no beast remained idle. He approached the lion as far as safety and health regulations permitted and prodded the animal’s rump with his pole. To his surprise the lion only turned his head and swung his tail. Gaius prodded again, harder this time.

“Oh, leave me alone,” said the lion.

Gaius scratched his head. The lion had made it crystal clear that it did not wish to go into the arena. Gaius was a kind man but he was afraid that if the supervisor caught him neglecting his duties he would soon find himself among the victims in the arena.

On the other hand he did not feel like arguing with the lion. He tried persuasion.

“Perhaps you’ll go out just for my sake?”

“I’m no fool,” replied the lion and continued to eat his carrot.

Gaius lowered his voice.

“I’m not saying that you have to jump at one of those wretches and tear him to pieces. Just go and run about a little and roar. That’ll give us an alibi.”

The lion swung his tail.

“Man, I’ve told you that I’m no fool. They’ll see me and remember me. Later nobody will believe that I didn’t eat one of them.”

The keeper sighed and asked with an accent of complaint: “And why don’t you want to?”

The lion looked at him attentively.

“You’ve yourself used the word ‘alibi’. Hasn’t it occurred to you why all those patricians there don’t run into the arena and themselves tear the Christians to pieces, but instead rely on us, the lions?”

“Oh, I don’t know. They are mostly old men. Short of breath, you know. Asthma. …”

“Old men,” purred the lion mockingly. “You know a lot about politics. They simply want to have an alibi.”

“Why?”

“Because of the new truth that is gaining ground. One has always to watch what’s new and growing. Has it never crossed your mind that the Christians could come to power?”

“They—to power?”

“Yes. One has got to be able to read between the lines. It looks to me as if Constantine the Great is likely to come to terms with them sooner or later. And then what? Investigations and rehabilitations. Then those up there in the amphitheatre will be able to say: ‘It wasn’t us, it was the lions.’ ”

“Really, I never thought of it that way.”

“There you are. But never mind them. I want to save my own skin. When it comes to it there will be witnesses to say that all I did was to eat a carrot. Mind you, it’s filthy stuff, this carrot.”

“But all your comrades,” said Gaius not without malice, “they are all gobbling up the Christians with great gusto.”

“Stupid beasts. Short-sighted opportunists. No tactical sense at all. From darkest Africa——”

“I say,” interrupted Gaius.

“Yes?”

“Should those Christians, you know …”

“What about them?”

“Should they come to power …”

“Well?”

“Will you then testify that I didn’t force you to do anything?”

“Salus Respublicae summa lex tibi esto,” said the lion sententiously and returned to his carrot.

SŁAWOMIR MROŻEK

The Elephant