Political &

For Posterity





Should you wish to skip the Intro,

click on a finished work to the left

or on this page scroll down to


Recent Revisions & Additions


It's where all the new stuff first pops up, including an introduction to my latest novel


But By Friday He Was Dead

its gripping factuality, its humour, its emotional depth


plus take note of my first Spanish language work


Una Muerte Orquestada


(for both, see below)



   Taking a breather before one of my public readings at the Shakespeare & Company in Paris,


but not before an insane cab driver tried dropping me off here.


May 2019: Welcome to Anthony Steyning's homepage. ===========================================


Literary Fiction & Critical Non-Fiction Lab



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Life's a bitch, but she ain't all bad!

(Bogus XVIII)


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And don't forget my entertaining blog



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 A Passion


I was busy explaining to a slow friend of mine how the 'inspired' and 'possessed', but probably epilectic Hildegard von Bingen couldn't possibly be Crosby's German love child when I shouted  'I don't believe it, that man writes like his sofa!', later blaming my small outburst on the premature evaporation of my drink. A writer I know was interviewed from his own living room on Twittish Television, the thing a brown, soft, dull monstrosity with flowery pillows, quite static and like its owner... utterly straightlaced.

The internet’s different; no comfortable, outdated stuff should clutter it. In this spirit my site proposes to be a living document: I frequently re-think and re-draft my texts keeping them fluid and relevant. In fact, following their evolution might be of interest to international readers sympathetic to my work, perhaps even ready to do some cross-referencing as my novels find their roots in my essays and my essays in my novels depending on which one was written first. So that constant minor changes are aimed at reinforcing coherence and occasional overlapping a vital feature, given that modern life also plays that trick on us. Yes, it all sounds very complex, doesn't it? But intricacy looms only here and there. Didn't Orwell warn us we can't over-simplify, that it leads to crypto-totalitarian or at least despotic 'truths'?

All this demands a subversive type of writing, digging deep and trawling wide, exposing where not only all that beauty but the hurt began. And on this bumpy, twisting road, cutting through layers of bunk, I frequently discover how matters really stand, affecting people in surprising or even insidious ways. My last move to recreate these findings through half-real or fully fictional characters and core dynamics leading to specific human drama. In other words, fascinating events relived not via more headlines or insipid generalities but through ordinary people, from their urgent walking shoes and the pavement of the day on up.

Now please select play, essay, critique or a novel from the navigation bar on the left for the first part/chapters/paragraphs of each literary work.


I collaborate with








Both hardcovers are in the collection of the Yale and Harvard libraries

The Applicant now on Kindle by Endeavour Press for only 2.99 Euro:

Budapest My Love now on Kindle by Endeavour Press for only 3.99 Euro::




'Clowns' is now available as an E-Novel for only $ 2.99

Please order a copy from


This is my first critique, from The Unbound Underground:


This book is an immensely gratifying experience. Where plot, character, language and historical context are concerned this book succeeds, brilliantly keeping everything focused, factual, and against all odds, fun. This book is engaging and teases the reader with tantalizing foreshadowing, without becoming too enamored with its own literariness. It's intelligent and emotionally honest, while still maintaining the pace of international intrigue.

Pass it on!





Enjoy ...





Amsterdam's Hegeraad Café. A. Steyning in black sombrero & white scarf & rapt APPLICANT suspect asking each other if that's Leni Riefenstahl up there singing her immortal I'm forever blowing Goebbels...!

Mad-House Dictum:

(Naast jonge Jenever, veel schuim op koud bier en op hete Chaamse lippen)

'Ik zeg tegen Ravel krijg nou de Bolero, daar loopt Carmen van Bizet'







Prefab writing?

No, pre-fabulous!



But I have a long, long shitlist, and you're all on it!



An acquaintance of mine in Toronto speaks with a thick German accent pronouncing Breakfast with Boris Becker as Prickfest with Porous Pecker. He also constantly says For Kott's Sake which sounds every bit like...

For Cunt's Sake


And leads to a brand new lexicon as in


- Oh, my Cunt!

- Cunt dammit

- Cunt forsaken

- Honest to Cunt

- Act of Cunt

- Man of Cunt

-Thank Cunt

- For the love of Cunt

- Cunt bless

- Cunt knows

- Cunt forbid

- Swear to Cunt

- Cunt will give you everything you need

ending with the immortal

- Do not take Cunt's name in vain

I cunt believe it either...


Beware of gothic signatures and the hounds



Smells like sauerkraut, tastes like chicken...



Britain: Kill the F.A. Rage!



Is method of madness the symmetry of chaos?



anti-Semitism is not the answer, anti-Cynicism is



Watch out for In-deep-end-ence



The ruinous first half of the 20th century was due to raw, prolonged 19th century thinking.

The start of the 21st century appears to repeat this god-awful trend



Read about the Death of Immortality in my Fairy Tales essay






Recent Revisions & Additions


I finished my first Spanish language work, and now look  for a Hispano-American publisher


Acabo de terminar mi primera novela en español de 175 páginas






¿Cómo acercarnos a la cuestión de nuestra mortalidad? ¿Aceptarla con pasividad? ¿Inclinarnos delante del destino con gratitud y sin pesar? Albert, un hombre de negocios y viajero de cierta edad, no desea exponerse a las enfermedades y las indignidades de la vejez; esto representa la oportunidad de dar vuelta al gran destino, confrontándole a sus propios juegos.

Entra la bellísima y sofisticada Javanesa Devi, la posible ayudante de Albert en su lucha con su creador. Su misión, si la acepta, es de terminar la vida y setenta y más años en este planeta, rápidamente, profesionalmente y cuando el viejo menos lo espera.

Un juego alto en octano se desarrolla entre ambos, una batalla psicológica inteligente y a veces con muchas dudas en medio. Casey, un joven amigo de Albert se da cuenta de lo que está pasando entre su amigo y esa mujer fatal, y decide intervenir. Un nuevo escenario, un triángulo ahora, involucrando amor, compasión, engaño y traición.

Una Muerte Orquestada debe mucho a La Chute de Camus, también situada en la cultura Café de Ámsterdam. La obra resuena con añoranza existencial  y ambigüedad moral, creando así un thriller psicológico con perspicacia filosófica.





I wrote this Fore Play to my Charlie's Not Home Much Anymore:


- Lord!?

- Yes, yes, what is it?

- Lord, I have bad news!

- Well, what is it?

- It seems, m'Lud, that we have intelligence on earth!

- Oh, SHIT! How did that happen?

- I don't know, m'Lud! An accident....

- So now what?

- I don't know, m'Lud! Search for an answer... meantime... at least pretend you care!

- Why?

- Or they'll fear that you set them up!

- No. I didn't. I have better things to do! You just said it, it was accident! So next time, let's be more careful!

- Next time, m'Lud?

- And only if these prove that they're worth it...

- It doesn't look that way! Too many morons and arseholes!

- So, then why do I have to pretend anything?

- I know, it's disconcerting! They even believe that prayer and sucking up to you fixes everything...

- No matter what I do, or do not do? I might as well not exist...

- You might as well, m'Lud! But let them pretend that you do, just in case...

- In case of what? This is getting very confusing! I had more fun making tigers and spiders and elephants!

- And I love those stripes; also on bees, zebras and those beautiful tropical fish of yours...

- I only copy my wallpaper, you dope!






But By Friday He Was Dead



I've just completed my But by Friday he was Dead (Subtitle: McRae's Journey), an explosive 180 page XXI Century literary novel narrating the deadly adventure of 3 rebellious but priceless Americans who run into McRae, a U.K. foreign correspondent visiting New York.

Like cool, cascading water on a hot day this riveting read refreshes and is far more than a story about N. Y. C.. The work is a stylish microcosm of contemporary western life; it offers juicy character analysis followed by high voltage intrigue and the clash of cultures. What starts out as an entertaining Manhattan tale with mostly tongue-in-cheek subversive political overtones slowly slides into a thriller to kill for. Never swamping the reader the story is imbued with historical nuggets often to deadpan, dead-on effect!

The principal cast: meet strong, delectable Edna, deeply committed to the charity for special needs children she operates from her own Bronx brownstone: She's no prude and thanks to her long deceased gangland father in speech often on the unladylike side, but who gives a damn, there's magnificence beneath that lustful earthiness! She has an even taller lover by the name of Rufus, a beast in bed but devoting as much energy to the black Harlem street youths who watch over his parked limousine every night of every week. He was hired by Bernie, a brilliant little person and philanthropist, a moral giant who not only sponsors Edna's therapeutic halfway house but puts the entire world on his tiny shoulders, though none of this prevents him from trying to get into her pants. This most colourful threesome bump into McRae who's in New York to take a good fresh look at America. He's Gibraltar born with an American mother and concerned about the course her native land appears to be taking, but this dude's no Druid for modern times and when criticizing also should worry about how he carries on.


This is tragicomedy at its very best! Here's loaded, pivotal chapter VI to give you a pre-taste:








As always Rufus dropped Bernie off at home that day. If the limo man got lucky he’d join Edna in the Bronx later that night, taking command of his own sweet time. The tiny fart had been busy with a long, late and loaded lunch but still made a pile of money and now sat down in a space his own, a sphere where sanity yes, but as it turned out safety doesn't quite prevail. No boots today he kicked off his hated platform shoes feeling tired but happy, terrific Edna’s dinner the other night as had been meeting up with this McRae guy again. The food and drinks out of this world, her nuclear tits over her super slim waist overwhelming, his feelings for her… errr, the both of hers…. become deeper and deeper. So much so the thought crossed his mind to get the hell out of town one very long weekend sooner than later. Invite her for a spin not way-the-Christ-out somewhere and hundreds of miles away there where the Fukawee lost Indian tribe roams, but close enough to the nearest stretch of Appalachian wilderness anyway. Meander along a babbling brook only to lie down with her beside the Rhododendrons near a Magnolia or beneath an imposing Eucalyptus tree embraced by their all too sweet shadows. Shoot the breeze and chew the fat hoping she would give herself away that day, cave in for once, raise her skirt up high showing a helluva lot more than ankle proving again that it's not against the law for small, flat nations to produce steep, mountainous minds and for short guys to become masters of tall, large even sensuous dreams sometimes. But should she be too much of a city girl maybe he’d just try to take her to the Met next week, to an Opera at the Lincoln Center so she, tall, could doll up and despite his large head and tiny body he would look super smart next to her during intermission strolling across its grand foyer. A couple looking like the Kissingers gone ape and out and about in the spotlight plus that never mind rubbing elbows with the great, life without music remained such a lonely place. Though he’d first have to check and see what lyrical masterpiece was up, which lead singers performed in what roles, maybe something by Verdi, maybe Puccini, if they were lucky and he was still alive catching Pavarotti in Turandot. Edna Bernie’s unwilling Princess, he winning her by answering the three compulsory riddles of the storyline; too damn bad she already knew his name so that in theory she could execute him, as the plot goes… Nessun Dorma my ass, he thought grinning at his own audacious metaphor, they can None Shall Sleep and stay up all they want but one night I’ll Vincerò, vanquish her… All of which becomes a tantalizing possibility particularly in the fall, the start of the cultural, social show-off and forbidden love season for New York’s radical chic tuxedo gang. Either this or just take her to a game at Yankee Stadium featuring the Bronx Bombers at their best, watch her eat a hotdog top of the 9th  2 batters out, root for victory while surreptitiously studying her mouth like the rest of the crowd.


Because with Bernie it always came down to the same thing, and he did crave style and elegance in a republic not always of ideas and letters, but of slowly acquired good taste. Even though he'd agree that socialites not satellites should be shot into space, from where to contemplate their dismal nonsense. But it’s also clear to see where all this came from given his looks and nearly always finding himself at the receiving end of rather hurtful ones. He didn’t have many friends, mostly associates, so it would be good for him to make a new one, especially a Brit, a complete outsider. As for Edna, he knew she cleverly played his physical urges while lining him up with Rufus’s aims, but totally forgave her truly convinced her motives were pure even though hot to trot he’d still keep trying to get into her pants. And he took it that the encounter with this McRae character was mere coincidence, but that it could still turn out to be a rather useful one. He seemed like a sweetheart who understood a lot. Not obtrusive, one he could use one day, always curious how others especially outsiders felt about him, his ideas, his place in a volatile society run by giants, some nasty, some good, but  always outsized. Funny how things unfold though, with her picking up this newspaper scribe in an electronic trance, deep house music no ragtime dive, not far from where the man with the UK mouth apparently holed out, explaining to them that watching and reporting on a cherished game one’s got to remain neutral, live accordingly, but set foot in the locker room if given half a chance. Which he’d done, brilliantly, running into Edna, into himself, into Rufus, his driver and confidant, for let’s face it… where was this guy going to find better placed originals? The little man talking to himself all this time, standing tippy toed in front of his mirror now, shoes kicked a little farther out behind his couch and busy looking at someone with money to spare, able to do anything and everything, needlessly wealthy among the heedless and the heathens sometimes even wealthier than him. That wasn’t the point; the point was what else to do with his ridiculous existence, wrought by fate, placed in a worthless body, condemned from the very start.


No, he wasn’t bitter per sé, things could have been worse like living meaninglessly in the middle of nowhere, say in Jersey where Olive Oyl is Popeye’s goil and birds don’t chirp but boids choip, the woiks according to every Oiving in town, married to a plain wife with two fat kids, together running a hardware store from 9 to 9. Not to forget that shitty back garden, stupid neighbors and a horny cat barfing hair balls or bringing home dead sparrows and mice then beg to get congratulated, the cat that is, not the fictitious wife... And why he wondered what daily life was like where this McRae came from, his Rock right across the strait from that other peak named Jabal Musa or Moses’ mountain just north of Tangiers, together forming the renowned Pillars of Hercules. Beside this demi-god’s cave on the African side creating the magnificent doorway between a cold, silver Atlantic and a Mediterranean as warm and azure as the earth’s waters come. The place where Moroccan Berber tribes dance in trance to eternal drums and the Rif Range starts leading up to the High Atlas Mountains with both rising and watching day after day over these historically rich and turbulent bodies of which only the greater ocean leads to the edge of the globe. A canyon of water, sand and sky where the short-toed snake-eagle flies above trekking dolphin and killer whale, above giant floating man-o-wars, over Brits, their fleet, Trafalgar, Jabal Tariq, Gibraltar, Franco’s thorn in the eye meaning Tariq’s Mountain named after the commander of the warriors of the faith Tariq ibn Ziyad in association of course with God himself. Bernie reading about the spot, here, there, not a hell of a lot, but enough to know it is the place from where the Moors took on Christendom in 711 AD conquering Andalusia then losing it until they tried again in Manhattan on 9/11 and perhaps no small numerological coincidence.


Bernie also reading it was the WWII spy nest from where the much vaunted Goldeneye operation was launched, attacking German U-boats threatening British shipping and supply lines. The place from where at Allied southern headquarters a little later Eisenhower, the in German aptly named iron-casting man, directed the fight against the heedless Axis and Vichy France, invading Casablanca, Oran, and Algiers with a little bit of help from Humphrey Bogart at Rick’s Café, another steely yank. But a war exposing mankind’s greatest weakness, the grand irony that shouldn't be lost on anyone, the one of 30.000 years of evolution and human progress over the Neanderthals in the end not getting us terribly far. And when this location still gets described as the vulva of the Old World’s Mediterranean womb it in no way resembles the New World’s erect and throbbing phallus, better known as the island of Manhattan. But even then and superficially speaking if the Gibraltar Strait by its very role is akin to the New York Narrows the Rock's also nothing like Rikers Island, this heartbreak hotel, grand slammer and barbed carpet underneath which an affluent nation sweeps its human morsels, no bargain basement at all.


He then stepped away from the mirror guessing he wouldn’t want to eat again, still bloated after his loaded lunch with Ponzi’s inmates, Ponzi’s lifers, arguing loudly and drunkenly with them that afternoon. The hour he advanced his theory that besides the most un-Zen-like Imperial Jap arrogant even in defeat, Tokyo's Maguro River's breathlessly beautiful Cherry Blossom trees also produced killer minds, another one of history's tragic ironies; and that Dostoyevsky’s cloak and dagger now polonium descendants converting their bottomless insecurity into that constant aggression not only confirms, but perpetuates their rot. And all because damned borders and nations exist, frontiers not only an aberration but ugly scar tissue, the stretch-marks of history’s long ethnic pregnancies over time having to fade or converge into one magnificent landscape. A few centuries at most in order to finally create some sort of world peace, in the end sharing the aim, not by conquest he claimed! Though this goes against the grain of our modern geo-culture, according to Bernie’s law not only the current version of life, but also the moment he immediately got laughed off the table. By the cantankerous swearing by no taxes, no public spending, open markets, no regulations or enforcement yet first to call the cops and fire fighters after their walled mansions get invaded and pillaged, go up in flames. In other words those in favor of fences, barriers, borders, armies, but only when it suits them...


- C’mon Bernie baby, get real! No more national frontiers? That’s Middle-Ages stuff! The Republic of New York City, no turnpikes, but moats, draw-bridges and walls all over again?

- As if these really disappeared... You just can't see them, but they're still there...

- No way, buddy boy!

- Anyway, all that's an exaggeration of course, but why not? No more missiles, no more nuclear warheads, all that borders are good for! Modernity totally stinks sometimes! After places like Germany united and closed in all the troubles began, the royal shit hitting the fan, millions perishing….

-The United Estates of America, is that what you want? But what about the stampede, without borders the swarm just pouring in… Something’s got to stop those bastards!

- I don’t know! People always love where they come from, but got betrayed by their own. Places badly in need of a cure that one day soon should be put back under some sort of tutelage!

- Hear, hear, now we’re talking Bernie, Baby! Neo-colonialism here we come!

- No, you guys! Not for them to get plundered all over again, but shown better ways and better days by way of some sort of Marshall plan. Undoing all the murder and mayhem, people crawling through the desert, swimming across the Rio Grande…

- Well, be damned and here we thought… Whatever… but ever since kindergarten… SHARING’s not exactly the word we most adore…

- Making you act like underfed, pinstriped, urban coyotes!?

-  Really, Bernie? Are you suggesting we’re thàt useless, even when society loves us, the whole world copying, envying us? Anyway, mini-friend… Are you any different or suddenly some closet commie?

- Life inside the pyramid, the inside trade, the dummy corps, the laundering, the tax evasion machinations…. I know all your slimy little deals!

- Don’t ruin the party little feller, or the Empire strikes right back!


That was Wednesday, he was going to bring up his nations notion with McRae, just the guy to test it with, strategically schooled and all that, no harm done, no harm meant. Something to develop as a theory by an ordinary citizen he thought, the two of them bachelors in search of one big family surely not the only or the first ones. After two additional late Bourbons as an advance on next morning’s hangover plus an unplanned almost automatic bagel with cream cheese but no lox our man Bernie suddenly getting the urge to call his newest, his latest, his British best friend. Speak to him, seek his comfort although this wasn’t a 3 a.m. existential crisis like he sometimes had when burning the midnight oil, overcoming it by putting on Satie, Schubert or else a soulful jazz ballad. Mainly hurting from having been branded a communist and a double-crossing traitor, and all this because he feels freedom must be distributed fairly and justly when all it does is get abused, even in a land called of the Free and by the only sometimes Brave…


- One day, not knowing you can't belittle a little man, that this was already done, getting back from the crapper and for the sick fun of it those bastards even changed my seat for a Baby high chair, a rubber pacifier waiting on top for me to shut my mouth! They planned it well, but I couldn't and wouldn't and when one of them asked me how tall I am I replied... Yes, I admit I have a big problem each time I think I'm lying on a porcelain-white beach, a stone's throw from azure water, taking sun and it starts to pour. Then when I look up at the suddenly grown-dark sky all I see hanging up-high... is some damp, curly hair and two pink slices of roast beef... But they wouldn't even laugh...

- Get half-pint? Get shorty, but not in those words?

- A tall order! In short, yes, of course!


Producing this anger in him, but on an even deeper level the indignant American sensing full well that it’s not enough to be called free, but a matter of exhibiting profound defensive courage by everyone and why he spoke out so frequently against any kind of abuse. Jumping up and down now, in his socks and wildly gesticulating after he put his phone on loudspeaker to free his hands and as a point in question suddenly voicing that he never understood why Russia chose to be America’s mortal enemy. Except that it badly needed one and that for the free in a perverse way this was some sort of compliment. Or could it be any nation, almost anyone, by a government with a moral compass on disgusting display again underwriting Syria’s atrocities exclusively for ego’s gain? The reason why Bernie took the Serf as his example, at this point feeling no pain himself saying he didn’t want to single out anyone, but… Look at them, the boozing, churlish Slav and their slaves-of-slaves women of the ever vacant eyes. Eyes staring, staring never sparkling, with everyone accepting to be treated miserably in the name of the Motherland; the hard to get rid of feudal illusions extended every generation into the next two or three. To hell he said with the Volga Mongol’s constant need for anger. Kill the fury, stop fake rage from cornering judgment when life’s already so damn precarious! Stop the infamy, the paranoia, the Nineteenth Century fear to be yourself, to be your nation, for wouldn’t Slavs be so much so much better off if they named themselves Servants, SERVANTS TO ABSOLUTELY NO ONE, SPECIFICALLY AND PRECISELY AT HOME!? Sooner than later marching on the Kremlin and its primitive Silos of Death and Destruction ultimately aimed  at their own! No longer accepting the scary bullshit they’re fed, no longer acting as if they own no private wisdom with only swollen collective guts in play, when all they have to do is shake it, wake it, baby, for we're the hamster inside your stupid wheel no more!

Of course caught, stuck in a morass is not easy and there's deep love and caring to be found everywhere, except from those for whom all that hate pays so well! Therefore Nostrovia Oleg, Yuri, Nadya My Love Bernie both toasted and roasted, cheered and chastised his dear distant brothers and sister as if at some political Friar's Club banquet, observing that in nations ruled by apathy only the shameless see light of day, receive that horrible free ride.  But then again let’s be honest he mused continuing to be enlightened by the late straight sauce on the rocks, to a degree we all live in small worlds, occupy singular clouds pulled by invisible strings rightly or wrongly defending them, which is fine as long as these evaporate after we’re done and damn well gone. To this adding his mantra that nothing is static in the universe, but what lots of societies through people’s goddamn stodginess and self-fulfilling fears don’t live up to.  In this way keeping McRae on the phone for nearly an hour, almost as if he had a premonition that this was his last hurrah. Telling him what he thought about people half a world away acting like those heartless street thugs he knew at one point worried his foreign friend; a people not praying and swaying, forever banging their head against the wall only because it felt so good after they stopped. Tearing into these distant folks again insisting…. They’ll never be fully free or ready to amount to anything unless they start showing some healthy balls, not those sickly, inflated ones! Walk Red Square without armed parades like the Brits stroll Trafalgar and Yanks their Fifth or Pennsylvania Avenue, triumphant, confident, unafraid some force will come and take it all away. In this fashion Bernie again airing his view that there can only be total freedom unless a person’s private independence has taken place. No Nanny, no Big Brother, everything a matter of maturity and enough self-confidence to fight a State itself become the biggest criminal gang in town led by a ridiculous, a violently parochial Supremo, his missiles his multiple erections but one not above lining his pockets and filling other cavities while fake-messianically wrapping himself in his flag. And this his near perfect personal set-up the best combination of all his miserable little worlds. A person with not a globule of generosity running through his veins whose image was burned into Bernie’s psyche for the not unreasonable obsession it had become. Even though to a degree we’re all fixated with something, somewhere, somehow, but as always the real problem the other side of the coin with those who are never troubled about anything and unwilling to make any sort of wave or move. Like the perfectly healthy man of the apparently perfectly uneventful childhood who when asked if he had any brothers or sisters looked away pensively and said: I don't remember… and how bad it can get!



- McRae, you’re smart, you’re paid to be observant, did you notice that Proto-Slav had his face… how do I describe it… MONGOLIZED!? I swear to you, it’s what he did!

- Pulling a Joan Rivers?

- Yeah, but trying to look like Genghis Khan!

- The problem with squinted eyes behind high cheekbones...

- That no matter how clever, one doesn't get to see the whole room?

- Him and Joan, both actors, both inventions…no longer able to see or smile!        

- First the Botox, then the rain of body parts, left, right, south, west, falling from the sky… At least her shots across the bow were funny… Remember the one about Nancy Reagan’s knees staying together longer than the Mills Brothers?

- It won’t last…

- Nothing does, but meantime…

- Anyone thrown the keys of a kingdom turns that way, perhaps even you and me…

- What I’m saying is that boisterous apathy’s the problem! People not questioning, not seeing, it frightens me! I don’t want it to happen here!

- Like with Adèle Flitler?

- Who?

- Heil Honey, I'm Home!

- To Eva or to Fritz?

- To both probably! The infamy of... Ein Volk, Ein Flamer!

- Ah yes, of course, the effeminate Onkel Wolf himself, that limp salute of his! But still Noel Coward’s divine swine of the Rhine, not only insane, immoral and tragically stupid, but TRUSTED, ADMIRED! And yet… and yet… all of it part of the miracle!

- Of life?

- Yes, but WHAT miracle I often ask myself? Look at me, for Chris sake…         


And the moment at which Bernie became truly unstoppable, not letting go, not letting up and a trait that had always marked his impassioned life. Still getting on his high horse heating up big time, putting his finger on the problems with a nation of appalling pettiness constantly pointing its wicked guns at him, at all of us; its first lunatic sentiment and law he said, always longing for and making sure they feel betrayed. The getting furious and mortally offended by anyone refusing to respect deliberate ignorance or be otherwise intimidated!


-Don’t you see how big and strong we are? Aren’t you afraid? Aha, you’re scared of us… aren’t you?!


Put them up, put them up, pure Wizard of Oz Bernie spoke. In his view the kind of childlike logic making not only Aristotle cry but leading directly to perennial obstruction; manufacturing nothing of note seduction never the case and so never seen singing and dancing down yellow brick road. Instead he bristled masters of insidious, brutal corruption and the insulting BS Big-Talk, the eternal us v. them bit, the feeding of a sterile victim culture, nothing grey, nothing graded, no life in between, no fun, no joy, no Laurel and Hardy, no Buster Keaton, no Donald Duck let alone political satire, forever that coalition of one. Fostering the perfect and unending paranoia that the only reason others are free and prosperous is not because they can and want to, but to put ‘us’ down. Followed of course by the brutal denial of this self-infliction, the eternal shameless denial of everything; истина that ugly word truth that never gets translated, only faked...


-They've never, ever done it! In their books to admit is to lose, but in mine... it's just another, more distant form of cowardice! Then again within our smartness, we're all pretty stupid at times!


Denial, Bernie mimed, what’s that? Oh yeah, a river in Egypt, the way the joke goes. And ah yes, do tell me more about a leader who with tears in his eyes seeks glory in confrontation, one who’s so obsessed with being ‘big’ and busy shooting mosquitos with bazookas… that he forgets to be great. Or that one can’t be vicious and smart at the same time, only excruciatingly small...


- A big kid in need of a severe spanking…

- Too late now!

- As reduced as he is… no knees firm and stern enough!

- Did you notice his Prime Minister’s even shorter than he is?

- Of course, so he won’t have to look up at him!

- You don’t like it either, nobody does!

- It’s what I mean! We’re both small and disturb, the difference is… that I have a heart!



McRae knew all this of course; it was common knowledge yet for the international community something hard to deal with nonstop. So he was quite happy to let Bernie burst loose, unable to let go until he’d run out of breath. Not cutting him off deciding to let him hang it all out to get a better feel about what was eating Americans in a nation judged by some to be in a free-fall. But still, the only way out sometimes is to dissect the rabbit like in Anatomy 1.01 and why McRae decided to let an intelligent man like Bernie spit it all out…. But how could this guy be great McRae, Bernie asked still refusing to let go, the shortest man in New York City taking on the world? Going on by saying… A man incapable of accepting the absolute truth of Nothing’s Everything, and therefore Nobody’s Everything in spite of thousands of perfectly orchestrated goose steps giving him goose bumps!? This man a mask deaf to Rachmaninoff but not to generals helping him rule by crime, even when offering his people sans foreplay the occasional act of harsh love! An ill-tempered, unremarkable and vindictive little cunt unlike me, who loves to be feared but handed remarkable powers Bernie opined, for good measure adding… As if even in a classless society a man can’t show a little class. This man still not knowing mountains and lakes coming and going represents the only side of life that deserves our awe...


Bernie so raging on and on, nailing it down lowering his voice to sandpaper roughness trying to give his argument more weight as already physically unprepossessing and speaking in a pip-squeak voice as well just doesn’t pass muster, not here, not now, not anywhere. For while he was truly indignant he was clearly out to impress a foreign correspondent by saying Russia and Prussia had some of the world’s stupidest heads of state in Czar Nicholas II and Kaiser Wilhelm II, both of them bored with peace and as it turned out distantly related in the way that  idiots always are. Big-time losers recklessly toying with disastrous, mindless wars, one with Japan the other with the rest of the world. And both bellicose adventurers removed in due course, in each case the II surely standing for Second Rate and how the XXth century got off to that awful start, this ominous prelude setting the stage for the even better executed outright evil still to come… His way to play up to McRae wanting to prove that he’s no flunky, no clueless B-class citizen, but no super-leprechaun either, simply someone who knows the difference between Snoopy and Sartre who grasps human nature and understands what’s at play, everywhere not just in the USA! According to him that age old case of not being the smartest or biggest choosing to be the cruelest to be avoided at all cost; the textbook caveman’s approach to success of a lousy, unsustainable sort... And a people set up that way, well, their own bloody fault for tolerating a state where it’s strictly forbidden to hope! For being dishonest by willfully refusing to stand up to the obvious, something this big hearted little fellow would not tolerate in anyone and always fought off. Even if not unlike Rufus he too some time ago concluded that often it’s quite impossible to avoid fighting the ugly... without first inflicting more ugliness!


And speaking of same wavelength it was when Bernie became super obstinate, a dwarf without a sousaphone or marching bugle corps behind him, but still busy beating a large drum in defense of America. Its way of life he saw as becoming endangered through the ignorance of home-grown morons and assholes. Yet a man sensing that in the end the so-called insignificant ones, the ordinary blows of the land would save it controlling a huge national problem with their numbers, their hearts and right minds. But then just as abruptly as the moment that he’d begun his tirade his tone turned most tender for open borders or not he truly loved his nation, only insisting it is great for all! Suddenly and sentimentally reflecting… No, so much better a tough leader who can never be humbled for already being so deeply humble who doesn't operate by first setting up feud upon feud. One blessed with innate respect for others incapable of lying through his teeth to cover up deceit or failure, so becoming a new model for Mt. Rushmore. A national figure thoroughly compassionate, not vulgar, one who on a good day and almost as a tour guide will simply point away and say… Look folks… That’s our Capitol, close to where my little Oval Office is; only all the furbishing yellow, the hallways leading up to it… floors checkered like a living chessboard. The grand place next to the Ellipse Green where I declare as an act of treason punishable by death only the getting served Broccoli, and where below or on my desk I cheat on my loud-mouth significant other, a Happy Birwthday, Mr. Pwesident: Happy Birwthday to Yooooo moment, on occasion turning it into the less than august... Oral Office..!


Ah, the huge difference one single letter can make, but also the absolute frankness, the total honesty, the humility of it all! And yes, the independence of it, the entire planet oval or an ellipse the kind of independence that I’m talking about Bernie said, starting to repeat himself again. On a long roll while getting more and more corked and slurring his words, claiming again that absolutely nothing in the Universe is straight, no square trees only quadrate minds and that in the end all things and everything must bend. Then ending his argument by insisting a Potentate’s not free even when taller… smaller than him, and a hostage locked in a gilded cage with as many sleepless nights as everyone else! A prisoner not only of his own acts, but of those keeping him on his high ledge until they have no more use for him, it so often turning out that when all is said and done he never was the strongest but the useful weakest of a rotten bunch! One who should check his own drinks and doorknobs as poison is the national witches’ brew hidden in Russian tea rooms wherever they are; this centuries’ worth of sinister craft served up inside each and every layer of a society itself a Matryoshka doll! A country in so many words.... that is a plot, within a plot, within a plot!



-Most of the time prisoners are guilty as hell, but not us! Right, McRae? You understand that, don’t you? We the innocents of small bodies, you from Gibraltar, and me, well… you’ve seen me, look at me!

- I escaped…                          

- Because you wanted to and could, and only ONCE! But I have to escape EVERY FUCKING HOUR OF EVERY FUCKING DAY, not from my mind but from this goddamn body of mine…!

- Bernie, don't be so hard on yourself...

- Man, even a lousy horoscope artist on a shrink's couch for having to write 12 x 365 pieces of fucking nonsense ONCE A YEAR, gets to walk away... SCOT FREE!

- Sorry, Bernie, I do apologize. I should have understood…                                      

- As Kermit the Frog sings it… It’s not easy being green!

- Bernie? Bernie, was that you? It sounded like a sob…     

- The worst part of it, that because of my size… people take me as an incomplete man!

- You’re not green…

- I might as well be….

- Idiots, Bernie, idiots! Listen to me…You’re not green, you’re not purple, you’re a man and the absolutely tallest one I know…

- I’m sorry…. I did shed a.… I couldn’t help it… I must be strong…

- Only the smart ones know how to cry…                                          

- Thanks, McRae! Just gimme a sec….

- Take your time! Now you’re making me bawl…..                                          


Some fake their tears Bernie, exhausted, emotionally going-on-empty whispered after a short pause; everything can be faked but no heart no sorrow is what I understood a long, long time ago! Upon which McRae for once in his life truly moved, assured him … Your sorrow’s mine, my friend, I swear… But following that lengthy phone call and by Friday Bernie was dead, or set free depending on one’s point of view, a single bullet in his head, his ear not chewed off by a vicious Dali Dada lobster phone. Perhaps done-in by America’s greatest nemesis this time resorting to a have-saw-will-travel Saudi hit. Though a semi-illusionist one it was for his little body didn’t disappear in thin Manhattan air, just lying there, staring, staring… But naw, it couldn’t have been a cloak-and-dagger attack on a highly placed and influential actor publicly bad-mouthing a foreign regime, so it must have been a domestic enemy. Bernie never sensing how he’d scared some of his contemporaries and the most likely perpetrators his competing Finance boys; this short rabble-rouser at his deepest level unwilling to conform, a loner although never alone, justifiably or not rejected spontaneous gangland style. A man different from those the total opposite, killing only to belong, killing only to conform, strongly believing in what probably doesn’t even exist and a kind of compulsion inside some sort of abstraction. Unless this time it involved the simple thrill of committing a grave, a craven act on a common little shit-disturber, an agitator, hated, the unspoken, the troublesome adversary ratting on and rattling their deluded wet dreams of wealth. Behind his back calling him TLBS, Tiny Little Big Shit, justification enough to one day pull the plug on him. That day arriving on top of an already feverish addiction to work fast, to work well timed, perhaps not calling on some Mack the Knife or Stagger Lee but on a Pasta Chef doing the cooking for them, with no qualms about tearing the latter down, block his savings, take away his business should he take off or otherwise refuse to play their dark and hidden game…



-Mr Zallone, are you open to murder tonight?

- Who did you have in mind, anyone in particular?

- It’s always someone in particular, isn’t it?

-I know, I’m a Genius…!


Come on up Bernie had shouted into a house phone installed to fit his height at the luxury pad on the floor at the highest elevator button his outstretched arm over pointed toes could reach, riding it alone late at night. If not having to walk up the remaining floors by stairs, which wasn’t his style and anyway their steps for him a tad too high. But right this moment rather surprised by the unannounced visit of his Neapolitan pal and best betting buddy who owed him some dough, and what a class act taking the trouble to bring it over to him though he didn’t quite recall having told him where he lived. But it’s the instinct of prey to feel it coming, woe begun! And what really strikes in nature is prey never fighting back! No anger, no indignation, only relative silence, something that can only be described as unbearable equanimity, this matter of acquiesced brutality also common in parts of the human world. Like watching the Orca toss and swallow the Seal, the Lion jump not hump the Zebra going straight for the jugular, or the Crocodile attack the river-crossing Gnu, the Eagle the scurrying Groundhog, the Cobra the Rabbit, all victims expressionless, obedient in the face of fate, small proprietors of an incomprehensible sense of submission and lassitude…. But is it really normal to go gentle into that not so good night?  Bernie also instinctively recognizing his moment had come at the hands of a friend, subconsciously accepting it, never thinking of fighting back, unhesitatingly asking him to sit down, offering him a drink, all the fear and apprehension on the killer’s side, on the killer’s face.  But again, should there not be a limit to such exquisite accommodation? And yet it happens all the time, McRae another such case and it wouldn’t have much to do with where he came from or the manner in which he was raised, but by way of a profound sense of personal stoicism displayed at the end of the road. Laconism the height of civility, that impeccable, staunch touch of class showing one has evolved even while getting slain...!


-Touché! I say! The world would admiringly say!


And whereby finally understanding this one day all sons-of-bitches cease to be what they are! Unless of course to them the mere grasp of things still won’t pay them quite enough! The tragic most likely scenario as recidivists never take a break trying to give themselves a break and why they go by this name tag, shame tag….







Rufus urged Edna to join him, picking her up with the limo, asking her to sit close to him upfront. He’d been driving for hours, the vehicle a getaway car speeding not from a holdup or a robbery but from his unbearable pain; thinking, thinking about Bernie, unable to take it, unable to be without him, forever alone. A long, dark ship without rudder, adrift on wheels lost at boiling sea, zigzagging, crisscrossing the big city from Hell's Kitchen to Yonkers, Queens and all the rest of it, a new N.Y. Marathon! One after another along its main drags inside the concrete urban bowl and brawl fast-food drive-ins, newsstands and fruit markets seemingly dark, desolate, closed. Thousands of garish billboards and cinema marquees no texts, all empty, no colored lettering and despite the percussion of the city, the hurtling overhead trains, klaxons and sirens, the bassoons and oboes of all the exhausts, those loud, spewing woodwinds like large mechanical barking dogs... the deafening megacity now most meaningless, mute to him. Without his tiny passenger no destination alive or good enough, for Rufus in naked silent despair light of day as always beautiful, but existence terrible right now. The point at which in his head he began paraphrasing Iggy Pop’s ominous lyrics, applying them to Bernie in both prayer and eulogy as he drove and drove, rode on and on…


Oh the passenger

How, how he used to ride

He looked through his window

What did he see?

He saw the bright and hollow sky

He saw the city’s ripped backsides

He saw the winding ocean drive



Sunrise fucked; lots of trapezes no nets, on its surface life savaging over and over again, New York City a ballet reminiscent of all the juxtaposed beauty and suffering danced in Merce Cunningham’s Rainforest. Or else a subaquatic Luna Park where they come from below, where they come from all sides, where they come from the top nonstop. Life and death on the reef, where they swim and they float, crawl and meander with dizzying colors and stripes, some with weird eyes as if from outer space camouflaged to kill and eat by stinging, by biting, by swallowing, all that silent horror and where a good man inevitably asked himself… But why me? The whole thing enough to jump to some conclusion but off the Brooklyn Bridge into the East River and Rufus’ contemplation before Desdemona, exquisite white woman, no Pollyanna, slid quietly inside her ever so un-jealous Othello’s immediately rolling again car. The nudity of silence, his sudden silence, a man in conversation with the horizon reflecting on how they’d all met, how his life had changed by her and that fellow a third his size now taken away from him. A white dude who believed in him, not thinking of him as black – SO WHAT! –, but as one from top to toe covered by a freckle or a dark birthmark and nothing more or nothing less than simply colorful and how thank God he’d never let this man down, not once. Though Bernie had his own ups and downs and could be demanding, even rude at times first meeting him after having answered the trader’s ad, this at a place called Ponzi’s, the man’s cheekily named eatery which turned out to be the totally surreal hangout of Wall Street’s upper crust.


And how he´d been prepared for the worst, not confident, having been discriminated against more than once, shocked he was to meet a rich dwarf who luckily took an immediate liking to him. Pinstripes making most people look taller, but not this short man, carnation in his lapel, smelling like a rose, treated with wary respect by the staff around him and served personally by the owner of the place. How this man, for that’s what he was, a man, had asked him where he was from, how old he was, what he’d done, having had to tell him about himself, his divorce, lack of family, mother gone, shunned in a society calling itself liberal, modern, but often stuck in a moral time warp. With Bernie saying that the biggest crimes in the nation get committed not by the blind but by those unwilling to see, the willfully ignorant, creating that instant bond between our two men. And how they’d gone out and bought a limousine the next day, registered to his name, for fiscal reasons he was told, but sensing this was bullshit, the short man feeling that he should be able to drive away any day as a free man, un-beholden to some crummy job or a lousy boss. That man apparently feeling like a prisoner himself, despite his mouth, despite his dollars stuck in a minute jail. And how he’d left that man for that day, going home with his new limo crying, his neighbors not understanding why he wasn’t jumping with joy, somewhat on the jealous side they, yet protective of him. Then, how quickly he had to learn to get around the City, its passage ways, its shortcuts, its districts, its Boroughs, never having been anywhere except by subway. How he had to dress up like his boss, in a grey suit, shirt and tie, not a uniform, picking him up as an associate, not a driver, at functions, venues, always walking straight in to ask for him, places where not so long ago he wouldn’t have been allowed in, stopped, but where Empire State of mind and matching license plates checked out it became known he owned the damn thing. So therefore treated accordingly, with decorum, in places where wealth whispers and cash stinks, especially with the well-founded assurance that here one will never, ever get begged for some. Bernie covering all the angles while not tolerating the slightest expression of gratitude or have some sort of vassal in tow, so how now was Rufus not going to love a Prince of a man, even one with a sport zipper, taking him to many a whorehouse, the last one called Leave it to Beaver. Telling him how to get there, where to find it, the only time he didn’t follow him in driving away to his own conquests, but having to watch the clock at all times. Once showing up late, with Bernie complaining about his sore dick, bragging he’d kept killing time waiting… by way of an extra half a dozen go’s!


-Sorry, Sir, but I fell asleep!

-Rufus, I told you many times, don’t Sir me and next time, don’t disappear!

-But sometimes you don’t come out for hours...

-Only when I’m in love and after I hear them moan!

- Are you sure they're not faking it?

- Shut the fuck up!



Etc Etc


And here's my very first Internet critique:


I should confess this book was really gorgeous. The content is so interesting you cannot even imagine. The whole text, the dialogues, the descriptions are great. Generally, drama is not my favorite genre, but this book allured me. The content, the description everything was really catchy. Drama is one of those genres, that if written badly it can seem too boring. But if written great, the book will be perfect. This is that kind of book. I would highly recommend you to get this book, if you are a drama lover. You will be amazed to see all the changes that happen throughout the book.

signed Christina Wolf







Despite agreeing with much that Fukuyama had to say, as titles go I always thought The End of History a lousy one, even a bit preposterous like announcing The End of Weather. And now I caught another one, Vattimo's The End of Modernity, which heralds the beginning of nihilism as a societal ethic. But again doesn't cut it for me even if it contains an interesting socio-political assessment, for it says something ridiculous akin to The End of Gravity. So come on, guys, think your titles through, you're not playwrights selling balloons tempting people to come in off the street to see your play, are you now?


I really like Ferlinghetti and what he stands for, but when he writes

I am waiting

for the last supper to be served again

he should have left it at that, because in one line he brilliantly says it all, and so not continue with...

with a strange new appetizer

and I am perpetually awaiting

a rebirth of wonder

which to me goes absolutely nowhere


Here's a fragment of my Fairy Tales essay:


All of which reminds me of Peter O'Toole, one of our greatest philosophers, whose favorite greasy, wine and whiskey stained jacket could no longer be cleaned and was sent back to him with a Dry Cleaner's note saying Item Returned To Owner In Unimproved State, a wording he so much loved that he said he would use it on his tombstone... And why not? For if so many behave like pets perhaps they should no longer speak of their Maker, but of The Owner! And with this lively anecdote only to say that yes humility is fine, but self-humiliation not so much.




Easter Time, When The Living Ain't Easy!

It always reminds me of the teutonic densities of a 3 hour Bach oratorio, Wagner's 4 hour power operas, or Heidegger's black hole swallowing all 'Zeit'

Must be something in the water supply! Although this never affected the great German poet Greta von Kleevitch



Diderot reads more like my kind of guy


What the Foucault!


Knowledge = Power ( I didn't know that...)

Humanism leads to Stalinism (Of course, of course, in the way that all generosity and empathy leads to cancer...)



On Limitless Conformity


As a visitor walking down the street in a city where people act and look alike in what appears to be a totally homogenous society with a gene pool neither deep nor wide and so not offering much diversity, it doesn't come as a surprise it also has a political system modelled on the same phenomenon. With a single-column, uniform, straight-lined, top-down hierarchy and accompanying thought-mould that constantly copies its own linearity, everything always written in stone.

With none of it precisely creating binary happiness as individual freedoms are hard to fight for, let alone allowed to exist!


On Theatre and the Cha Cha Cha Man


Ancient Greek tragedy never pits individuals against each other, so no personal conflicts, accompanying psychology or anything quotidian, only applied mythology. Too soon followed by a diet of diety addiction wrapped in Shakespearean language, or England's obsession with inbred Kings, Queens and many, many Ghosts caught up in ridiculous plots as if royalty were all who mattered.


And oh yes, of course, then there's modern American drama as in Long Day's Journey, the Salesman,Who's Afraid Of or that Iguana exposing deprevation through a depressing brand of realism, a pre-occupation with and preponderance of the mentally and/or morally wounded or otherwise disturbed, as always drenched in copious amounts of booze. This twinned with continental European existential theatre bringing down gods, demigods and monarchs, but creating a void by letting many hang mid-air, thinking... Right, so now what, where do we go from here? And at this point even postmodernists finding emptiness everywhere, because they are empty as someone said.


And isn't too much made of agonising, alienated, aimless modern man living without passion or purpose when millions find perfect happiness and justification for life in a new car, dancing the cha cha cha or tomorrow's championship match? I see these folks and listen to them every day and while not admirable in any sense they do appear to be just fine and think of ultra modern playwrights as incomprehensible frauds who don't know how to live and only get admired by pretentious snobs...


So who's right in a situation whereby the outcome is still the same, sharing the same destiny what we got, at peace or not, nauseated by mortal combat with vacuity and oneself, or not? Whereby perhaps the time has come to turn the tide once more, return to relevant very specific, earthy universality and if not to the classics or constant class conflict, at least to classier more uplifting and truly surprising staged rites.




Debauchery as Cure

A Rake's Progress, both the paintings and the subsequent opera, The Beggar's Opera, Lulu and The Three Penny Opera

were all created by sincere moralists posing as immoralists



 Gide, the French writer, suggested that by the time he's in his fifties a real man should have had syphilis and the Légion d'Honneur, though not necessarily in that order. While Brecht, the German playwright, acidly asked Why be a man if you can be a success? And speaking of the horse's mouth: he should know; by all accounts old Bertold was not much of a man, but a great success.


It appears Hemingway was the Donald Trump of XXth century literature, his own wife writing that his making up for being such a loathsome man took great genius


Of course Agatha Christie could never hide from me that Hercule Poirot was no Belgian, but a crafty overdressed Englishman from Bristol named Harry Leek. And neither could Florence Cocketoo, changing her name to Nightingale to give more luster to her noble pursuit. Or a certain Thomas Chapman and his quest to become the much romanticized Lawrence of Arabia!







Kafka’s is the art of comic exasperation, deploying absurd even paranoid pseudo-logic labyrinthine insurance company and regulatory double-thought and dead-end speak at one point probably convincing Derrida and the rest of deconstructionists to become plumbers instead.


Of course calling officials, their projects and indirectly the Government itself the Arrangement says a lot about Kafka's own state of mind. Personally, I think the Deranged is more like it, but he still created world literature out of texts that as an insurance lawyer and later a Workman's Compensation Board verifier engulfed him. He imitated the structures of the treacherously simplistic circular language so prevalent in his daily work. Additionally, the endless incompetence and deliberate deception on the part of both the authorities and the public constantly placed him in the middle of one contention or another. Which triggered his Walter Mitty-like imagination and a form of self-defence, his day-dreaming both escape and a distancing from recurrent nightmares off-setting them and other health problems to preserve his sanity.



The crows maintain that a single crow could destroy heaven. This is beyond a doubt, but doesn’t prove anything against heaven, since heaven means, precisely, the impossibility of crows!’ is a famous example of a statement of breath-taking incongruity. It only makes one laugh; even by correcting it to say the absence of crows wouldn't make it much clearer. Like some dyslexic atheist debating the impossibility of dogs instead of gods, unless the case at hand is the result of a translation problem as I haven't read the original. Anyway, the whole thing a bit like saying a statement by a person doesn't make sense because the man is mute.



Yes, Kafka was a great tragicomic figure, one for whom in the end even a fire hydrant represented some sort of totalitarian threat. His humour all part of that self-defence, as was exaggeration. For I visited the castle in Prague; it's an innocent enough structure, housing contemporary government offices, but as it’s located on a hill overlooking the Moldau, in Kafka's dreamy eyes exercising an authority far beyond its real scope. Yes, the Prague Castle is as innocent as other ones on medieval Spanish hill tops, in particular those high coastal fortifications and watch towers in Andalusia constructed to keep exactly who out as invaders were and had been... the Moors themselves!? Part of a paranoiac 'arrangement', in other words, the Moors ultimately getting defeated in the interior of the Iberian peninsula as was to be expected and by the Christian Kings, not by wily Barbary Coast pirates or some other invador naval force. So that these castles were not what they were cracked up to be but more part of someone's lively fantasy, as in Kafka's case.


Shades of combatting windmills then, and Don Quijote. Taken in mostly by the symbolism of the Prague Castle Kafka did set out to unmask that menacing old fool behind the curtain much like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, at the end of the day both lodging victory. For Kafka is not only Don Quijote, Kafka is Dorothy, even though a much better writer than she!



Just found out that good old Sam Beckett, the Buster Keaton of Anglosphere literature, was a bit of a scrounger which made him even more human of course


God damn you to hell, Sir, no, it’s indecent, there are limits! In six days, do you hear me, six days, God made the world. Yes Sir, no less Sir, the WORLD! And you are not bloody well capable of making me a pair of trousers in six months!” (Tailor’s voice, scandalized.) “But my dear Sir, my dear Sir, look – (disdainful gesture, disgustedly) — at the world — (pause) — and look — (loving gesture, proudly) — at my TROUSERS!” (Samuel Beckett, Endgame)


Well and properly appropriated from this much older Yiddish joke:              


A traveller, arriving in an east-European Galician town orders a pair of trousers from a local Jewish tailor. Three months later he leaves town without the trousers. After seven years he happens to pass through the same place again and, lo and behold, the tailor comes to deliver the trousers.


“ ‘Well,’ the traveller exclaims, astounded, ‘God created the world in seven days — but it took you seven years for a pair of trousers!’ ‘True,’ the Jew agrees, quite unimpressed, ‘but look at the world, the shape it's in, and now look at my trousers, how perfect they are.’ “


Tut.. Tut.. Sam, mon cher ami, and there were 7 weren't there, not 6 days according to deep lore!?



-Plus: Beckett's ugly beauty: When he opens Murphy with the Joycean, somewhat awkwardly phrased yet beautifully poetic The Sun Shone, Having No Alternative, On The Nothing New.... he admits that, by itself, the sun shining also has nothing new, so that what we have here is the Nothing New shining on the Nothing New, and not so much a reverberation, as perhaps a lazy start.


Remembrance of Things Past is a lousy translation of Proust's A la Recherche du Temps Perdu in that all things remembered are in the past, making this a tautology. In Search of Lost Time is only slightly better as search and loss are mutually implied with 'lost time' sounding like a factory problem. The latter also has no rhythmic quality whatsoever, and why I would settle for Of Days Time Forgot! But then whoever came up with the simple movie title Time Regained hits the proverbial nail right on the head


Vladimir Nabokov thought of Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice as an extremely asinine piece of work. It’s the story of a morally confused older chap infatuated with Tadzio, a pretty 12 year old boy. He then went on to write Lolita, which is about a morally confused older chap dangerously infatuated with a pretty 12 year old girl.

Personally speaking I dislike any work based on an unhealthy passion or on an untenable premise, no matter how beautifully it's crafted and even when meant as a grand metaphor. In the end literary merit must rest on what is said, not on how nicely things are put, the brilliance of nothingness.



Large parts of Bach's Brandenburg Concertos sound much like Vivaldi, his contemporary. So who stole from who, guys?



Oh, the day the Valkyries will place me next to Sergei Rachmaninoff... in Walhalla (N.Y.)






I juxtapose to expose


- First learn how to spot them!

- Pardon me!?

- Then learn how to connect them!

- Spot who, spot what?

- The dots, you fool! The dots!

Hope is like the electricity in the rabbit's Duracell battery


Yes, cruel human stupidity also forms part of the miracle




Tribalize = Trivialize


Defamation = Nameslaughter


Pinker is no Spengler, their odeurs clash


She wore success acquired by wearing not much of anything else...!


It takes 1 robot to replace 30 workers. It takes 30 workers to build and service 1 robot. It's not the machines that are getting smarter, it's the workers.


Schwarzenegger doesn't tranlate into Blackadder, but into stupid Baldrick's Austrian love-child...


I worked in the Golf property market once with my German partner Dick Wagner, we sold many Tannhäuser on the Lohengrin but then ran out of turf and epic fertilizer


Dear Ms Rand, please tell me it was all a bad joke, that it Ayn t so...


It seems it is not Marxism but Facebook & Twitter which cause the hollow end-victory of the proletariat


With figurative or classical painting the art lies wholly in the hand, with the abstract totally in the eye



With adjoining front doors on St.Catherine St. in Montreal a street level burger joint called Steerburger sits right below a Strip club on the building's first floor. So that each time and after their burger a bunch of guys walks out, the upstairs doorman invitingly opens his entrance and mumbles: This way, gents! Desert?


Canadians are cold-fashioned, but warm-hearted


On Mordecai Richler: 'Twas the bastard Davidoff, and his pal Old Glen whot got a damn fine writer and an exquisite man!


Overheard with my pitoune at Else's on Montreal's plateau, about the innocent question to a 97 year old man in an old folks home:

Sir, what is your favourite pastime these days?

Replied to with the delightful Jewish, faux-laconic sneer: Breathing!


-Giovanni, who wrote Hamlet?

- I thinka his name wasa Piece Acake, or Chesapeake...

-They named a Bay after him?

-Sì! In America!



Life everywhere in the cosmos is but a flame, popping up and burning bright then disappearing into waiting night


Existence is life inside a pinball machine




 It's not life itself that is surreal, but one in which Magritte and his mockeries are taken seriously.

(this is not a computer)

(this is not here)


And this when the joke's no longer a certain piece of work..., but you!


Jean-Paul Satyr


Bertold Brexit


Britney's Pears


Miracle Bama



All Polanski wanted to do was screw someone his own size

(From Jekyll & Hyde to Ejeculate & Hide)


Don Quijote de la Mancha translates loosely into Don Quixote, the Guy of the Stain. Then again William Shakespeare is no Guillermo Lanzarote, so let's leave both the way we knew them


On almost any anatomical diagram our lungs are shown to have the shape of a giant butterfly, its magnificent folded wings ready for take off




If ultimately morality is based on common-sense intelligence, then amorality is nothing more than dark stupidity


By implication absolute rulers are absolute murderers


Places like Russia have no natural enemy, it likes to invent one as an excuse to keep its power structure in place making that anyone who opposes it is automatically unpatriotic and a national traitor. Humanity at large does the same thing, it invents gods pretending that by adoring them it can overcome its own insignificance. But manipulating  destiny doesn't work long for anyone!



I have a Ginger Male, she confessed, although I'd prefer a well Hungarian!


Light of day is beautiful, existence terrible sometimes



In all my thinking what I need most is time. Let's face it I'm slow, but like the elephant not insignificant perhaps



Just had my stomach checked by a very pretty nurse, and in it she found three butterflies


Looking Back Forward

Days can’t be captured, moments only superficially by way of photographs.  But he would stop time, cage fleeting happiness with the simple trick of looking forward 10 years, then immediately reverse from there, so enshrining the now....


When only one of the two is inevitable, it's not life that is absurd, but death


Some men are so intelligent, they actually know how to cry


It was a beautiful moment! I showed up just in time for her sexual awakening, it was barely 7 p.m.!


Sillas Salvaescaleras is not a Greek philosopher, but a Spanish stair lift


An aerial view makes a mass, circular religious procession look like a slow moving clusters of insects. But the same goes for the faster moving vehicles on a L.A. freeway, those mechanical ants on wheels driven by tiny humans who show how close by instinct they remain to indiscriminate nature




Wittgenstein struggled with his own super intelligence, which at times had no place to go. For the grand irony is that he had to use language to tell us language is a straight jacket and misrepresents. That the word or sound 'snake' for instance has nothing to do with the animal, but I think 'snake' is only an aural tag to differentiate it from 'shoe' or millions of other items, inanimate or alive. Yet when at a certain moment both are absent, become abstract, unable to be pointed at or touched, everybody understands exactly what's being discussed. So what's so misleading about this? I rather think a printed sound, by way of a reference number or barcode in the form characters made of tiny stripes and small (half) circles, promotes clarity and exactness in absencia of the real thing, so facilitating truth not circumventing it.

Unless he meant it is word sequence that wilfully misleads sometimes, attempting to impose or enforce a brutal lie.

But why do I have to guess? You're not clear Ludwig, my boy!

Victim of your own diagnosis...?





Dialectical Materialism evaporated when Marx & Engels evolved into Marks & Spencer



Maoism is ridiculous, Taoism without rites is not


Hostile acts emanating from a deep-seeded inferiority complex, not only confirm but perpetuate the rot


After dry cleaning not only did my suede jacket shrink, but logically also its button holes. Though not its buttons, so that as a result I cannot close the damn thing anymore. Let this be a message to astro-physicists: when the whole shrinks, the holes get smaller!. Or should I have studied gynaecology..?.


A State of Flaw and Border


People not only get the Government they deserve, they get the Religion they deserve, because man created God in his image in his attempt to obtain a survival placebo.


Unless of course a lonely God wanted a friend, someone to show off all that planetary beauty He created to, but that smart/stupid and ingrate friend got totally out of hand



Middle East: And Aristoteles Wept



- ON MODERNITY: I met her on the Internet, and her name was Lydia. When she signed off XL, I didn't know whether she meant Love & Kisses, that she is Full Size or a Roman 40 year old



- I was busy paling in comparison to almost everyone, when the phone rang!

- Who called?

- A savage beast!

- What kind of beast?

- Hope!

- A beast called... Hope?

- Truth can be killed, but not her..!

- What then? Cage her...?

- Can't live with, can't live without her..!

-  Sonuvabitch! We have a problem!




         I have started drafting a novella under the working title



                                                   Ulysses and the Man-o-War


                                                                    Sub-title: Frankie & Billy


Every day early when a still gentle sun rises over an east facing promenade the breeze as always toys with waves rolling west and a young Frenchman named Billy walks his Labrador on its hard yellow clay. It is known as the Paseo Maritimo from where he hopes to catch a glimpse of his father taking his habitual morning swim. And where they meet after Frankie rises earlier, the way parents always seem to do, afterwards sharing breakfast, chatting, beefing, reminisce. The location from where the young man’s eyes never fail to drift towards northern Africa, the other side of the azure from where a generation ago his family had left.

But then, suddenly, that familiar scene changed; the weather as so often occurs within minutes turning radical. And it worried him, for he still hadn't spotted his old man if he didn't hurry up caught in some rapid squall born over the strait of Gibraltar where Mediterranean and Atlantic skies instead of kissing, sometimes brutally collide. Ochre the earth of the Spanish coast, striped with the colours of old and new blood just like its flag, its history, its dances, its afternoons and its summer bullfights. This morning fishing boats already seen quickly pulling in their bobbing nets and all the seagulls crying a warning preparing for the strong shears and gusts they knew would catch and rip their wings. And where all the anchored oil tankers off the Rock laid solid but still bucked nervously on their chains, agitated like the young man’s own mind. Not necessarily by those dark clouds rising on the horizon, it wasn’t the first time he'd seen them his dog running wild and excited chasing balls of flying dust, but because his father Frankie also hadn’t come home last night perhaps having come straight to the beach to take his ritual swim, to wash off his nocturnal sins.

But he saw no swimmers in the early morning water, his eyes scanning the surf for a bald man slowly trawling parallel to the sand as long and as far as he would last before letting himself drift over shallow submerged rocks trying not to get cut by them. Then step out, heave himself out of the sea to let his wobbly legs carry him onto the solid beach. The Romans calling this land Finis Terrae, end of the erstwhile world, but now a place where Frankie swam and dealt with his worries, his doubts and the constant memory of what Billy, the son, thinks continues to be his father’s greatest defeat.

The tide was also on the rise, the new wind whipping south-westerly, the waves already three metres high pulling away at a man and his struggles, a man in the centre of one, two, and now three storms, during this time of year the water chilly so that he would last half an hour, not more. A man dressed not in bathing suit but in an ordinary shirt and torn jeans, having raced into the kelp and the froth of the waves already in distress, for Frankie was there all right and invisible to the few walking alongside the water, including his son.  A man in a battle to leave it all, first the booze, suddenly, too suddenly, then the other pain, the constant pain of paternal betrayal, this morning in a state of delirium tremens, swimming with spastic, fisted hands, kicking, kicking ferociously into those empty yet loaded waves, thinking if not to beat them... what are these tides for? Tsunamis to be fought all along, like in his pastis, his mickeys, his endless pitchers of Ribera del Duero wine. Fight, kick those tides as if they were time. And time the space in which the trust between two men can get destroyed.


Ideologies are made for small people by small people and nearly always wrong, Frankie used to think. Even so, they too are tides, only for the masses but what about the links between a father and a son? No not between him and his Billy, the kid, but between his own Dad and him. Sure there are tides in paternal love as well, but never, ever the end of respect. Thinking, the thinking, the years of humiliation never letting up, intensifying every dangerous day, more, more, especially now while he battled and swam, the jellyfish invading him, a Portuguese man-o-war nearly engulfing him, stinging him into a swollen, bloody mess, cut into by the salt, blasted by the floating, pounding sands, on his eyelids, his neck, the still rising sun beginning to strafe from in between those sudden clouds.


(Only a start, more to come.... But in order for me to finish this classic story I need to spend 3 or 4 days in each Oran, and Marseille. It ain't far from southern Spain where I reside, but I just don't have the moolah right now! So I've been thinking about crowdfunding, or krautfunding as my Berlin friends aptly pronounce it.)


What If


What if we find the brain is like a face... pretty, ugly, elongated or puffed, skin marked or not and loose or tight, of colour indistinct but wrinkles deep, nose pointed, dull, long, short above chin double or lips tight, large, thin, reaching up to ears flat on either side, eyes oblique, dark, myopic, below brows bushy, frown sudden, smile furtive, muscles of laughter relaxed, uncertain or fake, cheeks hollow, back down to teeth not stained, but uneven, gums pink, jowls protruding, jaws suddenly jutted in ways undefined, then all rising again to hair patched, black, brown, blond on grey and hirsute turf, memory inscribed long ago though opinions caked in more recently... with acts to match, and whether it is night or day, dry or wet, hot or cold?

Or is an interesting mind more like a landscape and a voyage through it, travelling in it, its forests, swamps, mountains, oceans, beaches, glaciers, rivers or lakes, the ultimate process of discovery and courage? Even when finding that flatlands, plains, deserts and tundras produce equally barren people, who need some help.


And recognizing all this.... would it so help navigating our fellow, our self, circumventing calamity and heartbreak?



- Tombs filled with the ignominious: Are they also set free?


- There is nothing sadder than an empty theatre, except for a desperately hurting child outside!


       And then this small bed-time thought


- True intelligence creates awareness

- The first notion it produces, recognising the self

- The second notion, to ask the self a question

-This question: Why?

-The third notion, finding the answer

- The one immediately implied, pinpointing purpose

- Man in search of purpose as much as needing a morsel of bread, a gulp of breath

- The difference that he can make the former up, compromising his true intelligence, and a greater tragedy than death.

- Off with saviours and amulets.


 La Concha

I live below a cubistic looking mountain, about the size of Aix-en-Provence's Mont Sainte-Victoire, Cézanne’s domain.

No, it wasn’t painted by Braque or Picasso, but in the ever changing light of day appears that way, delineated against the endless sky, an anchor, seemingly altering its appearance every hour on the hour, its sharp yet subtle angles stacked upon each other, reaching up towards its Matterhorn-shaped top.

Flat planets are dead planets. There would be no life on earth without constant volcanic action added to solar heat: humanity following flora and fauna in their footsteps, the last one to join the biological fray, and why I cannot live without my mountain, my life, itself the child of tectonic might, tenderly watching over me.





- My gay pal William who works for NATO in Brussels brags that each time he travels to Washington, he stays in a Five-Star General. (He doesn't like Rear-Admirals, especially in choppy seas)


- Woe, begun! What strikes me in nature is that prey never fights back! No anger, no indignation, something that I would call unbearable equanimity, and acquiesced brutality also common in parts of the human world. For is it normal to go gentle into that not so good night?

- I'm a friend of hours

-Gravity, that tireless sculptor of flesh and earth



    Magnificent! Nearly every frame a study in camera composition. I wish I could paint like this, in prose!


- Some will kill to belong, even when what they believed in has vanished long ago. Conformity a compulsive abstraction, or is the excitement of doing something significant even in theory, too strong for small minds? (Moravia/Bertolucci, the film)


- Do a story on a sneak love theft during a large public calamity, called: Under Cover of Conflict, like in a warzone plotting to steal a neighbour's pretty wife by anonymously denouncing her husband and having him arrested and eventually executed. Then patiently consoling her, consoling her, consoling her, with her coming to think Who is this wonderful man who by miracle came into my life?


- During her worst moments, the hours of profound loneliness, the elderly widow would grab a mop, turn it upside down, put on a tango, and passionately dance it through her kitchen, over and over again. No, not her last tango, and definitely not in Paris.....


Espermatozoïdes Caseras no es un filósofo Griego


- During an interview David Foster Wallace refers to "The reality I live in...", indirectly admitting there are other, in their totality larger, by definition more important ones.



A Dog Named Dylan

(push full screen button for extra canine effect)




Man should neither live

like mole afraid

of darkness,

nor as someone’s slave

‘ been given


Only taming himself

by feeding not stealing his other,

raging at injustice

and at day’s end,

 any held out




(now if only I could find a bulldog to record my Rage poem)


-Goethe, one 'good' old German, said he'd take injustice over anarchy anytime. But he didn't live under Stalin, Hitler or in someone else's police state. Where order remained the greatest injustice of all,  dictators early on slipping into moral autism, creating their cruel, their idiotic thugocracies.

- My doppelgänger is made of anti-matter, he rides antilopes, eats only anti-pasta and drinks anti-freeze. He is a semi-conductor who leads the orchestra half of the time, I do it the rest of the year.

-Godard equates age with space, as in: How much space have we left?

- Or as in: Time is the space one needs to reach someone else!

- The President of Brasil noticed the solecism of the Carnaval dancer, not wearing anything underneath her miniskirt, inviting her up to his tribune, then up to his palace, en-suite up to his private chambers. She wasn't around when he was forced to resign.

- The super-collider people have a point. This morning my neutrinos made it to the bathroom before I did.


- I've added at least twelve poems to my collection, please scroll down under Selected Poems and check them out!

- You're in trouble when you think you're lying on a porcelain-white beach, a stone's throw from azure water, taking sun, when it starts to pour, and you look up into the suddenly grown-dark sky and all you see hanging up-high... is some damp, curly hair and two pink slices of roastbeef.

- C'est Emmenthal, mon cher! (Elementary, my dear?)

- Waugh, be gone!


Rangoon Night




Between two orders

of rotten Sushi

Aung San Suu Kyi



Auld Lang Syne

                                                                 off key

I drown

sudden sorrow

in shoddy local Sake

And before

New Year's Eve's

slow Burmese death





Read my 1 Act tragi comedy Charlie's Not Home Much Anymore! It's up under Plays, the objective to electrify. A blaze! Jake has tracked down elderly Charlie, suspecting him of horrible war crimes. He uses every trick in the book, including playing on the other’s evident loneliness and trying to speak and joke like him to gain his confidence. All of this to have the fugitive come clean without offering him any redemption or reward. Old Charlie’s been on the run all his life and uses every cunning device, speaking evasive nonsense and telling banal jokes to say absolutely nothing and in the first person singular at least, deny everything. What evolves is a hyper modern war of wit and linguistic acrobatics, both funny and immensely serious.


Last Call



A lush

and sultry


A mist

of shadows,

a veil

of Blues,

a breeze

of fine,

white breasts,

in semi-darkness





loathing rush

and hushing,













the stage






Exactly what happens to me. Struck by a luminous idea, invariably told that I don't know what I'm talking about...


 - Rococo was Baroque's Dadaism, Postmodernism nothing but Neo-Retro, then again everything's Neo-Retro! And this is not art-wank!

- Poor bastard, always grabs someone else's convictions, and when they no longer work, steals another one! (See the Charlie play)

- The Veneration of St John the Fascist (See the Charlie play)

- When asked about the stunning shape I'm in, I tell them mornings I do a full workout including weightlifting, afternoons topped off... with a little shoplifting.

-Read about Tape's Last Krapp, in Waiting for Beckett (Essays)

- The man having the genital transplant was fondly re-membered

-Sorry, Pound and Eliot! I don't like poetry needing translation back into its own language. Deliberate obfuscation, go eschew yourself!


-The Axeman Cometh


                                                                    Café De Pilaren


The natives would reclaim their sacred watering hole after the tourist season had rolled by; Bergen a pretty village on the coast where everyone knew everyone. Intrepid tourism could be an oppression imposed in summer, crowding all roads! For only in winter they can tell exactly who’s entering, at precisely what time and in the way the old door knob gets turned after the frontdoor gets pushed open, then closed. Hesitatingly, firmly, softly, or impatiently, with timidity or aggressive abandon, followed by the immediate certainty what old tale will again be told, out of a collection of only six or seven heard or overheard a hundred fold! Beforehand everyone knowing which drink will get ordered and imbibed, by whom, the bored waiter always bringing a bill in the same amount, paid precisely two hours on. So that in spring the invading masses are welcomed back with a certain predictable relief, gratefulness prevailing despite the foreign tongues, the loudness and the shouting clothes. But why go to Bergen at all, let alone live there by the sea that most no longer saw? Only that door knob, not loved but feared if not by all apparently by most?!




- Oh, go practice onomatopoeias!

- Oh, go fondle yourself!


-The Spanish writer Manuel Alcàntara puts it this way: Somos un pueblo estupendo para la pesca. Si tuviéra rio... ( We, the Spanish, are a nation of terrific fishermen, if only there existed a river!) ( He said it, not me. But the fleet is large!)


- En Español pueden ver y escuchar mi video sobre Beckett y Godot: watch?v=56SqMG0yFQY


                 Confessions of a Feathered Friend



Here I am, sitting on a roof of collected notions, a construction put up over centuries by people needing so badly to be wanted that for lack of better they invented someone doing just this. Then tried to make his invisible presence not only visible but permanent by building this monstrosity, as if it changes anything. And only because sitting out in the open and on the grass playing the same mental game cannot be passed on they think, even though it would be so much humbler and more genuine I think.

Yes, I just landed on the parapet of what feels more like a gaol than a place of inspiration or joy built believe it or not to keep out many of their playmates, but at least giving me the chance to rest and reflect after a flight of my own. They call it House of God, but up here wired it electrically while below and at darkness they shut doors to keep out the tired, the hungry and the sick as if these suffer by schedule. Which makes me wonder if they built these enormous structures with a stiff neck, always looking the other way or endlessly at and by implication after themselves.

And what about the prejudice that comes with saving your hide before saving the one of others by the creatures building these structures? Because even if they have no fur and no hair to speak of... hides they do have and thick ones, too, though no feathers as far as I can detect. Those telling us we’re unclean, diseased and defecating all over when they’re making a mess of things wherever they dwell. Mistrusting and killing each other when they feel like it, in the name of a slow brainwave they call The Lord.

Here, hold on to my horn-rimmed glasses and my cigar and my Manhattan and I’ll show you in the Wall Street Journal why we stand accused of infesting society. Though look, look at me, I don't hurt anyone even when releasing my droppings, but still stand accused of spreading viruses while waking up the world with my cooing and song. In my opinion this dirty matter is theirs or at least with most of them, and even as a thriving business sometimes.

By definition the truth cannot be equal to prejudice they say by way of self-defence unable to take the slightest criticism themselves insisting that if hundreds of thousands of others do something or another differently, they’re all guilty and subversive especially when not of the same prayer book. So that even if I’m peaceful, clean, entertaining, providing and sharing.... they’ll still insist they’re right about me and us. And if I state that as long as there’s only one who’s different, say with pin-striped plumage, they can never claim ‘They’re all like that!’, wouldn't you agree with that? Afterwards insisting that it’s all in the proportions, that yes nothing is absolute except their faith, at the same time claiming to be badly overwhelmed by all of us when actually they’re the ones doing all the overwhelming? Implying we’re the invading kind taking over their society, and certainly we do have our own vision, at least I do and so do mine, and so what? And so it's better for us to keep a low profile, not flap our wings too much because down there they’re in control, not up here thank who or whatever for this.

No, more I look at them less I want to be like them despite some of that fleeting success of theirs. Sure, sometimes I wish I could cross my legs and sit like them and least when reading my newspaper, but as for the rest goes they’ve lost it. Like if I built myself a granite coop with smart, stained windows and a huge, bolted door, coercing dozens of mine to sit inside and sing all dressed up, but no longer able to hear the music produced by water and wind, by my songbird brothers and sisters and so many other sources out there.


It’s good to be out looking in, it’s good to be up looking down, it’s good to be few and free and strong, when they’re many and weak. I know I’m sitting on their structures, but I can leave and they can’t, the price they pay for all that visible permanence. I can float, sail, rise, dive, cross rivers even oceans on my own, eat, drink, rest, feel happy and live nearly as long with those I love who fly along. Plus I’ve never killed or hurt anyone. So of those two worlds, which is the better one? And this Lord of theirs, does He know what company He keeps, what He has also wrought?

But now forgive me. I'm off to see my ornithologist about that pigeon stool I use to express myself, which troubles them.... As if they've nothing else to worry about!





- Courageously crossing Okeanos, Sir, performing months of strenuous field work in Greece, are you able to tell us: Do goats have a clitoris?

- I'm sorry, I don't speak ελληνικ!

- Not even with your new fiancée?

- Especially with her!

- Must be quite a beast, Sir

- Yes, but never use an old goat!

- When I was young I got some guacamole all over my ukulele. It was horrible, horrible...

- And why call it a watch anyway?. Do we call a pair of glasses a see? Our hand a touch. Our ear a listen. I have a pimple on my smell, did you notice?

- And what's with a fly? Do we call our dog a walk? A fish, a swim? Or if we can do no better than calling an orange an orange, isn't the very least we can do calling a banana... a yellow?


- Faculty Prince: Oh, no! Not another iconoclast!

- Maverick: Oh, no! Not another conformist!

- Faculty Prince: Sudden changes kill, structures protect!

- Maverick: Structure is past. Past doesn't protect, past confirms

- Faculty Prince: Anarchy's not the cure

- Maverick: Neither's apathy

- Faculty Prince: I'm neither a coward, nor a parasite

- Maverick: Then let me breathe

- Faculty Prince: How's that? Do I suffocate you?

- Maverick: No. Your absolute certainties do!


- The dim-witted never give death a second thought. It or le mal-d'être, strictly speaking the condition of suffering from your own intelligence. If you have any. The agony it sometimes creates. The anxiety of it. For better or worse, the ability to recognize yourself in the mirror of animate existence. Cognition commotes, doesn't it?

- Outrageous (White) Lies:


My son has discovered he's allergic to towels, the reason he can't shower

Posing naked is proving allergy to textiles doesn't leave me any scars (Starlet)

I refuse to read Proust, because of the recent French ban on imported British beef (British Political Commentator)

If you hadn't let him in, I wouldn't have slept with him (Arletty, the French actress, to her accusers, about having had a love affair with a Nazi Luftwaffe general, in occupied Paris, during the the Second World War)

- Having absolutely nothing to do with this: Many obstetricians are obstinate patricians

- My friend Scarlett O'Hara may have had a heart condition

- The Dutch word for 'accident' is an 'unhappiness'. An unhappiness occurred on the night of St Peter, when a bull broke loose bolting into Mrs Entwistle's porcelain shop, causing great damage and agony. An unhappiness, indeed...

- Read about arsenic and black lace around white thighs in A Kiss By The Clowns

- Political aside: N-K : Terrible societies where the young get a single career choice: become executioner or victim, nothing else. Whereas historically we have fought for and opened up the beautiful space that exists between these cruel extremes.



- Hitler proves Einstein wrong: contrary to common interpretation E = MC2 stands for Energy equals Madness times the Speed of Light, squared. The great physicist belatedly recognizing the limitless energy emerging from massive daylight idiocy and, somewhat embarrassed as you can see, accepting the amendment I formulated.

(Besides his brain Einstein also had one hell of a tongue, the tip of which nearly reached the end of his chin, suggesting he may have had some other expert abilities.....)

-The question is, can satire take satire and parody, parody?

- Today I won't scrub my rabbit, but I may rinse my hare

- I don't think it'll moose, but do you think it might reindeer?

- It's not easy being mediocre he must have sighed, and of course it's hard work. Nearly as much as being brilliant, he reluctantly discovered: Read COBB'S JOLT


                                                      - Cobb's hurting!

                                                      - What happened?  

                                                      - He got struck by her wallet!

                                                      - Was it full?

                                                      - Yes, or he wouldn't have been struck by it!

                                                      - Sure hope he doesn't get Ballsheimer's...

                                                      - Forgetting her? Forgetting us?

                                                      - I hope not!



Fairy Tales: Cervantes wrote we're not immortal, but we should live life as if we were. This essay is not some tiresome Karma running over Dogma rant, but a passionate plea for dignity in human affairs by an ordinary XXI century citizen, hoping to eliminate 'truth' jobs once and for all. The Proctologist helping the Philosopher to get over himself. More like what Katherine Hepburn had to say, insisting We listen to the song of life...

Tradition: The Critical Core: Can't teach an old dogma new tricks (D. Parker)! Read about the treachery of tradition, how obstinate tradition is obsolete tradition, and the way in which Every man's a nation could change all that. How Michel de Montaigne already said it 400 years ago: If I can't govern the world, the least I can do is govern myself. With this author adding that the real, the only Body Politic is me, is you, plus that shooting new roots is always healthier than inheriting them...

Truth & Lies: "It's all a misunderstanding," Leni Riefenstahl admitted. "I had a mad crush on Adèle Fitler."  (You read it here first!)

Waiting For Beckett: read why I concluded that Godot is a deeply religious play, not in a conventional sense perhaps, but in the way that any Godot would do, as long as we are wanted ... (Because with this of course comes a sense of protection, the warming fairy tale that something or someone looks after us, that we're not mere clouds of chemicals going the same place as dead rodents.)

On Fundament: deals with robotic believers, obstinate literalists willing themselves to denigrate the metaphor, killing life for total lack of moral imagination. Could it be that Mars was formerly inhabited by them, viewing what was left behind...?

Humour/Laughter/Silence: paragraphs 5, 6 and 11 were altered, adding notions that the very best comics are always deadly serious, and that while some like to think of the Messiah as a joke, I submit that much to the contrary Humour is the real Messiah, or that the young Bororo men in Niger dress-up outlandishly once a year and humour a woman in order to win her hand, obliged to prove they can make her laugh and smile rather than impress with crude masculinity: not bad for a desert tribe. Or: Just line the street then march up to the gates of cruelty and incompetence and laugh out loud, before turning to your even louder silence. Damnation....

Plus... These days, everybody writing yet again about Freud, I make the link between him and that old Canadian trick of putting a small piece of fur round the keyhole of your front door, when it's freezing cold and dark outside and you're groping to get in... (track the name in my blog)


                                                                * * * * * * *


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