Polish-Canadians: Searching for a Voice (part 3)

Polish_Canadian_op_735x669

Polish-Canadians: Searching for a Voice (part 3)

Mark Wegierski resumes his analysis

Although the Polish-Canadian community (called “Canadian Polonia” by Polish-Canadians) is sometimes spoken of as a unity, it is in fact divided into numerous groups and subgroupings, depending mostly on the time of arrival in Canada. Obviously, waves of immigrants have come from much different Polish societies, and have arrived in much different Canadian societies. There have also been minorities among the immigrants whose relations to the Polish-Canadian community have greatly varied, notably Polish Jews. While one of the most stalwart Polish-Canadians was the sociological scholar Benedykt Heydenkorn, author of numerous worthwhile books about the Polish-Canadian community, others had highly negative feelings towards Poland.

The main waves of Polish immigration to Canada could be identified as pre-World War I; interwar; post-World War II; 1956-1979; Solidarity era; and post-1989. Before World War I, Poland had endured Partition (harsh foreign occupation under Tsarist Russia, Prussia/Germany, and the Habsburg Empire) since 1795. Independence was regained only in 1918. The Polish Second Republic fell before the savage onslaught of Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union (then Hitler’s ally) in September 1939 (when World War II began). It is today relatively little known outside of Poland that a combined total of about five million Christian Poles perished under the genocidal occupation policies carried out by Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union (the latter occurring especially during 1939-1941, when Stalin was Hitler’s ally).

Betrayed by America and Britain at the Yalta Conference, Poland was assigned to the Soviet sphere of influence (to be officially called the People’s Republic of Poland) — along with the wrenching displacement of her frontiers in a westward direction. Stalin and his henchmen imposed hard-line Communism on Poland, rejecting the possibility of permitting considerable internal autonomy, which happened (for example) in the case in Finland.

In consequence of the death of Stalin in 1953, the coming to power of Wladyslaw Gomulka in October 1956 essentially “Polonized” the regime and moved it away from the harsh, grinding totalitarianism of the Stalin era. The disturbances of 1968-1970 brought Edward Gierek to power, whose economic policies initiated a short period of considerable prosperity. Nevertheless, the election of the Polish Pope in 1978 galvanized opposition to the Communist regime, culminating in the flowering of the independent trade-union movement, Solidarity. On December 13, 1981, Communist General Jaruzelski declared martial law and attempted to crush the Solidarity movement, which went underground. Finally, the impetus of Solidarity was one of the factors that helped to initiate the massive transformations that resulted in the collapse of the Communist regimes in Eastern Europe in 1989. The Polish Third Republic was proclaimed.

The main socio-cultural and political eras in the far more placid Canadian history occurring in roughly the same time-frame could be identified (for example) as pre-1867; Confederation to 1965; 1965-1982; 1982-1993; 1993-2006; and post-2006. These correspond to the adoption of the new flag, and the beginning of the waning of traditional Canada (1965); the arrival of the new Charter of Rights and Freedoms (1982); the Mulroney era (to 1993); the Chretien (and Martin) era (to 2006); and the Harper era (from 2006 onward). (As of the 2015 Canadian federal election campaign, now underway, the Harper era may be drawing to a close.)

Although everyone among the various groupings and subgroupings of the Polish-Canadian community may be “of Polish descent”, they in fact have distinctly different self-definitions and cultural preoccupations. Coming from much different Polish societies, and arriving in much different Canadian societies, fundamentally changes the self-definitions and cultural preoccupations of persons, even if they are said to belong to the same ethnic group.

Poles in Canada have mostly failed to establish a line of generational continuity. Thus, while young people continue to arrive from Poland, the young people of the generations born in Canada are almost invariably lost to Polishness. There does not seem to be a strongly-active and more intellectual forum or setting or context where a dynamic, intermediary, somewhat enduring, emphatically Polish as well as Canadian identity can get underway and be worked out.

For those young persons who have maintained extensive ties to Polishness, there has frequently occurred a high degree of cognitive dissonance. On the one hand, they had mostly accepted the enculturation by their Polish parents, viewing Polishness as a very large element of their lives, yet at the same time they had very great difficulties with ever finding a recognition of the importance of Polishness in the society at large. Thus, their inner map or picture or understanding of the world was set on a path of fundamental tension with the prevailing societal environment.

Those few young people who clung to extensive elements of Polishness were likely to have found the dissonance rather difficult to bear. And they had virtually no groups of peers within the Polish-Canadian community to interact with, or find a degree of comfort or reassurance with.

What seems to be the invariable destiny for virtually all persons of Polish descent in Canada is to melt and meld into the rather bland category of the so-called mainstream. And it could be argued that the so-called mainstream is not a particularly exciting place to be today.

In Canada, unlike in the U.S., multiculturalism policies – especially in the 1970s – did give considerable attention to so-called “white ethnics”. The prevalent, current-day mood of postmodernism and multiculturalism in Canada should in theory encourage the construction of various, strongly-felt intermediary identities – one among which could be the Polish-Canadian. However, this does not appear to be happening, as far as the creation of a more collectively-felt and lasting identity for those persons.

Mark Wegierski is a Toronto-based writer and historical researcher. He was born in Toronto of Polish immigrant parents

 

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Dear White People

Justin Simien

Justin Simien

Open Season on Whitey

Reverse racism raises its ugly head again

FILM REVIEW – Dear White People

Main cast:      

Tyler James Williams as Lionel Higgins
Tessa Thompson as Sam White
Kyle Gallner as Kurt Fletcher
Teyonah Parris as Colandrea “Coco” Conners
Brandon Bell as Troy
Malcolm Barrett as Helmut West
Dennis Haysbert as the Dean
Justin Dobies as Gabe
Peter Syvertsen as President Hutchinson

Director: Justin Simien

Dear White People cannot make up its mind whether it should be a comedy out of the National Lampoon Animal House stable or a serious drama. At one moment there are halfway decent jokes such as a college radio broadcast announcing that the minimum number of black friends a white person must have if they were not to be called racist had been raised from one to two with white listeners reacting in panic-stricken fashion. This is a shame because the subject – black students in a white dominated Ivy League university – has considerable possibilities for either form of film.

The film is set in Winchester, a fictitious Ivy League university where the majority of students are white. The university’s white President Hutchinson (Peter Syvertsen) has decided to place students in campus accommodation on a colour-blind basis. This is met with resistance in an all-black residential house known as Armstrong/Parker. A film production major and mixed-race girl Sam White (Tessa Thompson) unexpectedly wins the election for who is to be head of Armstrong/Parker beating Troy (Brandon Bell), the son of Winchester’s Dean and uses her position to begin agitating for Armstrong/Parker to remain all black.

Sam also has her own college radio station named Dear White People, which unblushingly pushes black stereotypes of whites such as her broadcast requests “Dear white people … please stop dancing”, “Dear white people please stop touching my hair. Does this look like a petting zoo to you?” When the black dean of Winchester (Dennis Haysbert) tells her that the Dear White People broadcasts are racist she responds, “ Black people cannot be racist. Racism describes a system of disadvantage based on race.” When challenged by her boyfriend Gabe (Justin Dobies ) about how she would feel if someone started Dear Black People broadcasts, her smug black victimhood response is, “No need. Mass media for Fox make it clear what they think of us.”  You get the idea of where she is coming from. Except you do not get the full picture because her boyfriend is white and she has a secret liking for Taylor Swift, a distinct no-no for a right-on black.

This type of blurring of character is used frequently in the film to demonstrate not that everyone is the same under the skin, but to offer an excuse for further wallowing in black victimhood. The black students at Winchester U cannot complain of lack of opportunity or of being treated in a demeaning way, but they can still have a great appetite for playing the victim. This means they have to be inventive. One of the ways is to claim that even privileged blacks like them are under tremendous strain because whites expect blacks to both conform to a stereotype and be experts on black culture, or at least experts on what is perceived by both black and white as black culture. Lionel Higgins (Tyler James Williams) as a black gay student who does not feel very black is the prime example in the film as he admits, “I listen to Munford and sons and watch Robert Altman films” and is told by a white girl on the student newspaper he wants to write for that, “You’re only technically black.”

Simien is both black and gay and judged by the screenplay he has produced, so obsessively concerned about both that the need for basic dramatic structure is tossed aside. It is also a problem that he wrote the screenplay as well as directing. This is always a difficult duality, particularly as the film is his first attempt at feature length direction. It was also crowdfunded so there was not the usual studio oversight. Having a free hand as writer and director may sound fine in theory but it rests a great deal on the individual who has the free hand. In this case it is a serious mistake, not least because Simien is very green as a director. This inexperience shows because he is clearly under the impression that cramming in everything about a subject will result in a good film. The problem with this approach is that it destroys any plausible narrative as scenes streak by without any continuous dramatic coherence holding them together. One can imagine Simiens whilst directing ticking off one by one the “what blacks think of whites” set pieces he has created.

Examples of these set pieces are:

Mixed race light skinned blacks do better in a white world that dark skinned blacks. This is hung on the difference in treatment between mixed race Sam White and authentically black Coco Connors (Teyonah Parris) by a white TV producer of TV reality show “Black Face/White Place” following Sam’s story but, rejecting Coco pitch for a show “Doing Time at an Ivy League”.

Troy has a white girlfriend, which is seen not as integration but simply as a ploy white girls pull when they want to annoy their parents.

There is a good deal that is deliberately non-PC in the film. A white hoax invite to the party, which causes outrage, is sent out with an invocation to “Liberate Your Inner Negro”. Sam White is described as “like the pissed off child of Spike Lee and Oprah” and Sam’s white boyfriend says “ I’m sick of your tragic mulatto bull”. But it has very little effect both because there are too many “outrage” words and storylines (even the most committed liberal or black activist can only be outraged so many times) and because of the unconvincing nature of the outrage shown.

On top of this jerky narrative there is the crude realisations of both the characters and the drama such as it is. The film is littered with clumsily constructed stereotypes. Troy (Brandon Bell) is the non-threatening black who says things such as, “I really don’t see the issue, never ran into any lynch mob”; Sam White is the threatening black; Troy’s father (Dennis Haysbert) is the paranoid black parent desperate for his son not to give whites a chance to belittle him by trying to make a career as a comedy writer instead of being in a respectable professional occupation; Kurt Fletcher (Kyle Gallner) is the arrogant white boy with a hint of racism.

The comic book nature of the film as it moves swiftly from satirical point to satirical point robs the actors of any chance for substantial character development. Within those confines they all make a good fist of things with Kyle Gallner and Brandon Bell being especially convincing as the stereotypes they were asked to portray.

What is fascinating about the film is that it contains considerable anti-white racism, but Simiens seem to be oblivious to it. The white characters are allowed only subordinate parts,  while the black characters remain centre stage. Black characters have many jibes against whites while the white characters are allowed only a few token ripostes but they are token. For example, Kyle Gallner ventures, “Sometimes I think that the hardest thing to be in the American workforce is educated white guy”. Consequently, the portrayal of whites in the film is ultimately derogatory whereas the blacks, who are shown in less than a flattering light, are in a different category. They may have prejudices about whites but these are presented as being a consequence of white racism both historical and present day. The message of the film is that blacks may be ostensibly racist but the should not be censured or even mildly disapproved of because of the historical legacy, but whites are there to be pantomime villains to be booed at every opportunity. Most probably this is not a deliberate propaganda ploy by Simien but simply an unconscious reproducing what is the default position for politically conscious blacks and white liberals.

There is a sharp comedy of manners to be made of the relationship between whites and blacks in a privileged situation but this is not it. Ditto a really biting satire on white liberal mores when faced with racial questions and the comfort blanket of black victimhood. What the viewer is left to view is a cinematic and ideological mess, which is too soft centred to even provoke outrage.

ROBERT HENDERSON is QR‘s film critic

 

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White Lives Matter

Alison Parker

Alison Parker

White Lives Matter

Ilana Mercer delivers some home truths

For a short while, the thing called “gun violence” was uppermost in the minds of the blabbering class. Two lovely young people, Alison Parker (news reporter) and Adam Ward (photojournalist), of Roanoke, Virginia, were gunned-down on live TV, is a scene reminiscent of the film “15 Minutes,” in which an anchor’s drive for ratings and a murderer’s quest for his 15 Minutes of Fame result in … gun, fist, and other gratuitous, on-air violence.

A week on, CNN’s Poppy Harlow was using the language of George Orwell’s Oceania to describe the entity, “gun violence,” that “took” the life of poor Deputy Darren Goforth, of Harris County, TX. Shortly thereafter, the same inchoate culprit claimed Lt. Joe Gliniewicz of Fox Lake, Illinois.

Ambush assaults on police are, indubitably, up. And so is Orwellian newspeak.

In Roanoke and Harris County, black men were implicated in directing the guns at Parker, Ward and Goforth. The killers acted on a tip from their mentors in media. That’s right: do not be so hard on the “Black Lives Matter” movement. The movement is in its infancy. Most people are unfamiliar with it. “Black Lives Matter,” moreover, is not nearly as innervating and enervating as the meme disseminated, year-in and year-out, by media, academia, by the pedagogy and the politicians; over the airwaves, on the telly, in classrooms, in the halls of power; in textbooks, film, music and in every other cultural outlet and product.

This “Racial-Industrial Complex” has been schooling Americans for decades in the fiction of systemic black oppression by white America. The threshold for oppression is remarkably low. To be white is to oppress The Other; to be black is to be oppressed.

Concomitantly, there has been an epidemic of citizen fatalities at the hands of police officers. Combine the latter with the ritualistic, imbecilic, systemic and baseless drumbeat about oppression of blacks by whites—and you have your catalysts (not causes) for why so many blacks imagine they’ve been wronged, and how some individuals are encouraged, inadvertently, to act on their anger.

As to the former catalyst: in 2014 alone, attests activist William B. Scott, police “gun-violence” dispatched 1,100 people, an average of three every day of the year. Scott’s son, Erik, a decorated ex-Army officer, West-Point graduate, and Duke Univ. MBA, was shot to death by a slob of a cop in Las Vegas. Erik’s BlackBerry was mistaken for a firearm. (Excellence runs in this family. Senior is a graduate of the U.S. Air Force Test Pilot School.)

One can’t help but wonder at the incongruous specter of black leaders and advocates (media, pols, pedagogues) complaining when those they consider incorrigibly racist—cops—make themselves scarce in black neighborhoods. The “Racial Industrial Complex” conflates higher arrest and incarceration rates among blacks (rather than lawbreaking and too many laws), with “scientific” proof of systemic racism. Surely, then, police presence in black communities will only increase arrests and bolster these “racist” statistics. Surely a lack of police presence in black communities is to be celebrated.

As kids, we knew our local policeman by name. He patrolled our neighborhoods regularly and joshed around with us. He lived among us. Community policing, however, is a thing of the past. Former Ferguson Police Officer Darren Wilson—notorious for shooting Michael Brown—gave a clue as to why. Wilson told The New Yorker that while he didn’t want to work in a white area, liked the black community and had fun there—he had experienced “culture shock.” Wilson described venturing into a “different culture”: a “pre-gang culture where you’re just running in the streets, not worried about working in the morning, just worried about your immediate gratification.” For his candor about an alien culture, Wilson was called racist by CNN’s Boris Sanchez and Kate Bolduan.

“To make us love our country, our country ought to be lovely,” said Edmund Burke, in his “Reflections on the Revolution in France.” Darren Wilson’s words suggest a variation on Burke’s theme: to make cops love the communities they police, the communities they police ought to be lovely.

Burke further reminded us in 1790 that, “To love the little platoon we belong to is the first principle (the germ as it were) of public affections.” But what happens when those little platoons are not so little and not so lovely?

A country that is without a modicum of cultural cohesion and is, by D.C. design, comprised of ever-accreting, competing factions—this kind of country cannot be lovely in the Burkean sense. In fairness to law-enforcement, communities in America must be damn difficult to police.

Ultimately, thinking logically about crime and the criminals who commit it is likelier to lead to solutions than irrational thinking.

Repeat after me: it was not an inanimate object or an abstraction—“gun violence”—that murdered innocent cops and cub reporters, but malevolent men with murder on their minds and weapons in their hands.

Columnist Jack Kerwick’s reductio ad absurdum illustrates the absurdity of “gun violence” speak:

“Imagine if, while discussing the Holocaust, we spoke about ‘gas chamber violence,’ or while discussing Islamic State mass beheadings, we talked instead of ‘machete violence.’ Or suppose that discussions of the lynching of blacks were peppered with references to ‘rope violence.’ None of this would sit well with decent human beings, for it is clear, or at least it is thought that it should be clear, that such descriptions miss entirely that which is fundamental to the phenomena being described—the perpetrators responsible for these wicked deeds.”

Let us speak, then, of “goon violence.” For to grasp the distinction between goons with moral agency, on the one hand, and inanimate guns with no such thing, on the other, is to come to grips with reality. (Of course, it would help a lot if stupid liberals quit their litany of lies about eternal, never-ending black oppression.)

We’ve covered the catalysts. Let us address the causes:

guns are not the root cause of man’s evil actions. Neither are the multiplying categories of the psychiatric Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Evil is part of the human condition, always has been, always will be. Evil can’t be wished away, treated away, medicated away or legislated away. Evil is here to stay.

Bad people do bad things. Deal, as they say in the hood.

Ilana Mercer is a paleolibertarian writer, based in the U.S.  She pens WND’s longest-standing, exclusive paleolibertarian column, “Return to Reason.” She is a fellow at the Jerusalem Institute for Market Studies. Her latest book is “Into the Cannibal’s Pot: Lessons For America From Post-Apartheid South Africa.” Her website is www.IlanaMercer.com.  She blogs at  www.barelyablog.com   Follow her on Twitter:  https://twitter.com/IlanaMercer “Friend” her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ilanamercer.libertarian

 

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Joseph Goebbels, Chronicler of a Catastrophe

Joseph Goebbels, Bundesarchiv_Bild

Joseph Goebbels, Chronicler of a Catastrophe

Stoddard Martin transcends the tyranny of fact

There are possible revelations to be inferred from Peter Longerich’s exhaustive biography of Joseph Goebbels, but when I started out on his long, rich account I had to ask myself why I was going over this terrible history once again. When, I wondered, is the world going to tire of fascination with the Nazis? In answer came the rhetorical questions: when will little boys give up asking daddy to play scary baboon? When will teenaged girls cease to titter about the antics of rogue males? When will policy wonks on ‘national security’ sofas stop being swayed by the most audacious voice among them?

The most audacious voice among Nazi jostlers for power was often and finally that of club-footed, simian, non-Aryan looking Goebbels. Unlikely you may think next to blue-eyed Rudolf Hess or ‘matinee idol’ World War I hero Hermann Göring. But the Chaplinesque little Rhinelander had drive – call it need to prove himself, if you wish, or ‘narcissistic personality’, if you need to resort to the day-before-yesterday’s psychobabble. Longerich protects himself with this lingo on occasion.[i] Yet while armchair analysts may enjoy speculating about motivation, historians must deal in known acts. For them the question may be not so much why as how did he do it?

Energy is an answer. Hess decamped early; Göring grew drug-ridden, indolent; Hitler withdrew into indecision, even invisibility, as National Socialism’s triumphs morphed into disaster. Goebbels, a radical and fighter by nature, angled and manoeuvred against rivals early and late – the Strassers as left leaders, Rosenberg as ideologue – to dominate an agenda, becoming Reich Plenipotentiary in the last year of ‘total war’. His main backing, Longerich makes clear, came always from Hitler. Quid pro quo was Goebbels’s expression of faith in a Führer prinzip. The Reich’s minister for propaganda never deviated from this in public. In private the profession often may have been tortuous.

We know this courtesy of diaries Goebbels kept throughout his Nazi years. They are an ultimate product of his early ambition to be a writer. Avid reader in youth – favorites included Hamsun and Hesse, as well as Dostoyevsky – young Joseph gained a doctorate in literature and laboured through his twenties to make himself a leading voice of the Weimar decade. A lower middle class provincial who deprecated the era’s establishment, he was not well-placed to achieve it; his Bildungsroman Michael Voormann was disregarded, and two plays of his were performed only perfunctorily in Party-backed theatres. Eventually, like Hitler diverting his ambition as artist to other ends, the writer-manqué found his niche in a new brand of rhetoric. He became warm-up act for the Führer as Party speech-maker and, when Hitler descended to near silence towards the end, virtual voice of the Reich. Simultaneously he came to make Clintonian sums from book-writing and journalism[ii].

Longerich leans heavily on Goebbels’ diaries to tell his tale, buttressing well-known passages with new material unearthed in the past decade as well as deconstruction of subtext. Posterity may ever have to rely on these diaries for its most substantial insider view of a terrible regime, but the propagandist was always a spinner of fact and as time went on increasingly sensitive to how truth had to be massaged or even kept from his audience, sometimes possibly even from himself or at least the secretaries to whom he dictated. Reader, beware. One must also bear in mind that, despite occasional quotation from Nietzsche, the little doctor was no superman. Subject to skin disease, kidney disorders, bouts of melancholy or depression, he was in such weakness not so different from Hitler, Göring and others of the regime’s surprisingly fragile bosses. He does, however, seem to have exceeded them in capacity for rallying against downturn, profiting possibly from his own diatribes to the Volk about need for maintaining morale – if not in ‘mood’, then at least in ‘bearing’[iii].

To a considerable degree Goebbels was able to believe his own bullshit. Yet the strongest streak in his nature appears to have been a kind of sado-masochistic pragmatism. In periods when Nazi dogma failed to cohere, such as the ‘socialist’ vs conservative arguments of ‘the years of struggle’, he glommed onto anti-Semitism as a handy glue – this despite having a half-Jewish girlfriend for years, being himself considered a ‘Jewish’ type by some[iv] and rarely harboring racist views during his school or university days. The sadistic dogma would return with vengeance as war began to shatter national fortunes and again operated as a kind of ideological glue, this time to bind the otherwise apparently opposed enemy identities of Western plutocracy and Bolshevism. Both were part of the ‘international Jewish conspiracy’, don’t you know? – Goebbels had read The Protocols of the Elders of Zion and, though sophisticated enough to accept that they were probably fake, maintained that they must in any case have been put together by authors who knew an essential truth.

The mass cruelty which derived from this attitude is well-known, also Goebbels’ role as cheerleader of it. The obverse – a masochistic aspect of his pragmatism – becomes clearer from Longerich’s book than it perhaps ever has been before. It centers on Goebbels’ marriage to Magda Quandt, grandmother to the present-day BMW clan via a son from her first marriage. An ambitious and apparently exacting seductress whose own Jewish connections (stepfather) remained in the shade, Magda married Goebbels in 1931 and over the next decade produced five further children, to all of whom she gave names beginning with ‘H’. All these children, eldest and youngest daughters notably[v], were doted on by a godfather/protector to the family at large, another ‘H’ – Adolf Hitler. About the presence of this ‘third party’ in the Goebbels’ marriage, Longerich provides copious detail. He does not indulge in what the detail invites: obvious speculations.

Hitler was infatuated with Magda from first meeting. She could hardly have been but flattered by the attention of this yet greater star, whom her principal suitor idolized and was dependent upon. Whatever may have transpired in early days, the three soon enough ‘came to an agreement’, and Hitler stood witness at the Goebbels’ wedding. The newlyweds’ domestic life soon became stormy: rows, goings and comings, makings-up, new pregnancies/babies, bigger houses, faster cars, more extensive holidays and expensive gifts. The ‘Boss’ doubtless in mind, Magda would chide Joseph to make more progress in Party hierarchy and prestige. And all the while, her households were visited by said Boss, announced or not, with or without full entourage. The Goebbelses would be summoned on sudden whim to the Führer’s eyrie on the Obersalzburg; Magda might be invited to stay on if Josef was called back to Berlin on Gau business. She was also known to spend the night at the Führer’s Chancellery in Berlin, companioning him until the wee hours after some reception or concert which she may have attended with him, Joseph being out of town on ministry affairs.

Goebbels Family with Hitler

Goebbels’ goings and comings were determined ultimately by Hitler. Whenever large marital issues arose, Magda would turn to him for advice, whereupon he would summon his reliable underling to broker a solution, Goebbels’ status implied in the balance. On one occasion when she was giving birth, Hitler appeared at Magda’s hospital bedside before the apparent father.[vi] After a subsequent birth, the apparent father expressed jubilation on seeing a ‘true Goebbels face’[vii]. Such details[viii] almost invite us to ask, if we haven’t already, what are we to make of this? Longerich does not go so far as to line up probable dates of conception with Magda’s visits to or from Hitler, but one is tempted to wonder why ever not? Might he fear giving offense to present-day Quandts? Is the world not ready for the possibility that Hitler as sexual being was not quite the eunuch of popular lore? Would it humanize him, glamorize him to discover that for years he was participant in a kind of menage à trois, cadging covert cinq à septs with a mistress and subjecting her husband to a half-willing, half-outraged cuckholdry? Did he perhaps even father one or two of her kids?

Such things are not unknown. Among fascist contemporaries with an artistic bent, consider Mussolini or Ezra Pound. Bourgeois cover may have been expected for the Volk, but bohemian arrangements had long been a norm for ‘genius’. Hitler’s idol Richard Wagner took as mistress the wife of his conductor Hans von Bülow, fathering two daughters by her before Bülow, who idolized Der Meister and needed his patronage, lost his complacency and decamped. Goebbels clearly suffered from Magda’s lack of connubial devotion, of mind, body or both; thus the rows, thus his retreat to solitary guest houses or private lairs on one or another of their estates, thus his eventual affair with the actress Lila Baarova and decision during the darkening days of 1938 to end his marriage. But he couldn’t. The Boss wouldn’t have it. Magda as ever scurried to him for protection, and Hitler, preoccupied with the Sudeten crisis and perhaps his own needs as well as requirement that top Party bonzos[ix] not to be seen as licentious or corrupt, summoned the little doctor and decreed that the status quo remain. Goebbels had to break off his affair with Baarova, she losing patronage of a lover who by then was calling most of the shots in cinema as well as other arts in the Reich.

Goebbels was disconsolate. He turned to others for advice, even Göring whom he had hitherto disparaged and despised[x]. Sympathy was offered, but reprieve was in nobody’s gift but the Führer’s, and he would not budge. Goebbels swallowed hard, then worked quickly to re-cement relations with his boss, including by heightening the anti-Semitic rhetoric leading to Kristallnacht. Magda later confessed to her Josef that she had had an affair with his state secretary, Karl Hanke, another confidant and sometime liaison between the Propaganda Ministry and the Chancellery. Goebbels expressed fury, but by now what he was telling his diaries may have become code or part fiction. Magda, it is known, had a history – adultery had been a reason for break-up with her first husband – and whether Hanke was truly her lover during her second marriage, a sole lover or mere cover for somebody else cannot be more than surmised from what Longerich tells us.

About her great protector/admirer, these are known facts. From the later ‘20s, Hitler had shared his Munich flat with his niece Geli Raubel, with whom it is assumed that he had or was having an affair.[xi] Geli clearly hero-worshipped a relation whose trajectory was becoming stratospheric; at the same time, some of Hitler’s mentors and backers may have taken a dim view of a connection close enough to suggest incest, or in any case that of a mature man with a suggestible girl hardly out of her teens. In due course Geli was found dead – suicide, it appeared: shot with Hitler’s pistol when he was out of town. Yet who knows? What had been whispered by whom into whose ear? that if he cared for his career, such an amorous adventure had to be off the menu? that if she truly cared for her ‘great man’, she had to clear off? Did Geli need telling? Did Hitler? Did either of them listen? What did the aspirant leader, ever an intriguer for power, tell himself? – Whatever, Hitler was left in evident grief: feelings of guilt perhaps (was the man capable of it?), but grief nonetheless. Goebbels witnessed it close-hand, Magda too – she was by then on the scene. Hitler’s place in their life began on this note and was ever after predicated on a notion of the poor soul’s isolation – his deprivation of family, his inability or time to find suitable partner. Nor was it long before he was expressing an idea that one in his position could not afford to be ‘married’ to anyone but the German people.

Is this to be taken at face value? Scabrous tales such as that Hitler had only one testicle are about as credible as that Napoleon was only 5 feet tall. (He was 5’6”, as Andrew Roberts has corrected for a happily-deceived Anglo audience.[xii]) There is no real reason to believe that in the sexual department the Führer was less a man than the next. He did, after all, ultimately marry Eva Braun, a younger woman again and by most accounts attractive. Are we to suppose that for the decade or more that separated Geli from Eva, he never felt an urge, nor, being the most powerful individual in the land, found means to satisfy it? If he were ‘married’ to the Volk and dared not risk their jealousy or ire by appearing with a rival, what better option that to indulge in a covert occasional affair with a married woman whom he fancied and whose husband was bound to indulge it? If this were the truth about him and Magda – and nothing Longerich tells us discourages the hypothesis – it would explain why Goebbels was obliged to accept his intrusions as ‘part of the family’, why Hitler would invite the family as one or in part to the Obersalzburg – a privilege not accorded to others, certainly not with such frequency – and why he was always involved in the Goebbels’ family finances and in all disputes which might threaten to ‘upset the apple cart’[xiii].

What did others know? There were apparently rumours, for which Magda’s alleged affair with Hanke could well have been used as cover. We don’t know exactly what Goebbels told Göring etc. when Hitler forbade him to leave Magda in ‘38, but his confidants were either high Party members or sufficiently dependent on the Führer’s favour to keep shtum. The further and more shocking questions raised – whether Goebbels’ unusually large number of children were all his, whether one or more of them may have been Hitler’s, whether this may explain the unusually fatherly attitude the latter took and the former’s rather Joseph-like backgrounding – seem crucial to understanding the core natures of two of the most earth-shaking individuals of 20th century history; and I am amazed that they have not been mooted before and are not now taken up by Longerich, despite all he has laid out. Would it not have been in character for Hitler to play manipulative God-the-father in this way, equally for the ultimately opportunistic, Führer-bound Goebbels to have abased himself into the requisite masking role? Sharper light on these matters may also illuminate any rationale we can concoct for what on a personal level may be one of the darkest of all dark crimes of the Nazis[xiv]: murder of all five of the children in question, eldest age 14, in the bunker in Berlin just after Hitler took Braun’s life and his own and before their mother and Goebbels dutifully followed suit.

What kind of mother performs such an act? What kind of father? When Goebbels told Hitler that Magda had decided the whole family would stay in Berlin with him until the end, the Führer replied that the sentiment was ‘admirable’ but he could not encourage the act. In a version of the tale of Solomon with two mothers, does this reveal who the true father was? the one who might at all cost want to save his innocents? In analogous cases I’ve mentioned – Wagner, Mussolini, Pound – the biological father kept watch for his illegitimate offspring, creating protection for them through his own life and beyond[xv]. Yet by the stage we have arrived at in this history, Hitler had, according to Goebbels, become ‘frail’[xvi] and in many respects a broken man, indecisive, less than willful. Might this explain why he let himself be overruled by a ‘father’ only too eager to prevent the children from surviving into a world bereft of the ideology and regime in which he still posed fervid faith. Goebbels left a testament to the effect that the children, had they been old enough to choose, would have opted for death. So Magda and he chose for them, flattering themselves that they were joining an auto-da-fé that would inspire future generations, symbolic of the undying commitment of the best of their kind. In truth it testifies to a wanton cruelty that not even cornered a simian might resort to.

Why do we continue to pay attention to the Nazis? Humans can be the most perverted of beasts. And evil, alas, is ever fascinating – especially for the cossetted and the immature who have never been seriously threatened by it.

Goebbels: A Biography, by Peter Longerich, translated by Alan Bance, Jeremy Noakes and Lesley Sharpe (London: The Bodley Head, 2015), pp. 964. §30

ENDNOTES

[i] Longerich takes this up particularly in his ‘Prologue’, p. xv etc., and alludes to recent German studies of the matter in his bibliography and notes; but it is not really central to his text. One wonders if, as often in cases of commercial biographies from big name publishers, his nods to the matter aren’t the result of editorial suggestion after the digging, sifting and writing up of historical research had been completed
[ii] These were arranged for him with Hitler’s backing by Party publisher Max Amann. Whether for skill or by patronage, the writer-manqué thus became one of the highest-paid German-language authors of his day
[iii] Haltung in German, as Longerich points out in his impressive discussion of how skillfully Goebbels adapted language to the shifting requirements of persuading a reluctant people to continue a war which a majority of them – including the Propaganda Minister himself – had never supported with much optimism
[iv] Himmler’s wife, for example. See my essay on her correspondence with her husband in a previous QR
[v] At the birth of the first, when Goebbels expressed disappointment that it was only a girl, Hitler said he was ‘thrilled’ and called Magda ‘the loveliest, dearest, and cleverest of women’. When the child was six, he remarked that ‘if Helga was 20 years older and he was 20 years younger she would be the wife for him’. At the birth of the last child, he ‘shared in the family joy’ and on Magda’s birthday shortly after ‘suprisingly arrived in the afternoon to offer his congratulations’. Longerich, 189, 361, 473. Such details my seem unremarkable in themselves but as they accumulate begin to suggest much more than is said
[vi] This was at the birth of the second daughter. Longerich, 253
[vii] At the birth of the third child, a son. Longerich, 306
[viii] And there are more – such as that news of the birth of the fourth child, another daughter, reached Goebbels only via Hitler, to whom Magda had sent a telegram. Longerich, 380
[ix] German or Bavarian slang for ‘bosses’, thus the Tegernsee, where Himmler and others had houses, became known as ‘Lago di Bonzos’
[x] During the war, and especially as its fortunes deteriorated, Goebbels turned more and more to other top-Nazis to brainstorm policy and ‘help’ an overworked Führer, who was increasingly at the front and sequestered by military chiefs and their concerns. Göring was the nominal overseer of these discussions but Goebbels’ only really effective interlocutors, especially after the 20 July 1944 plot, were Himmler, Bormann and Speer
[xi] See Hitler and Geli by Ronald Hayman (Bloomsbury, 1997) for full discussion of this topic
[xii] In his recent biography Napoleon the Great (Allen Lane, 2014)
[xiii] Among plays Goebbels rated was G. B. Shaw’s The Apple Cart, which he saw in in January 1938. Both Goebbels and Hitler thought Shaw the greatest living playwright – ‘he lifts the veil from English hypocrisy’. They thought Shakespeare was the greatest of the dead, ‘towering above’ Schiller. Longerich, 354, 838
[xiv] Obviously on an historical level even such an egregious act is trivial compared to the Holocaust
[xv] Wagner’s children inherited ownership of their progenitor’s folly at Bayreuth, which remains one of Europe’s great cultural attractions to this day and is still run by his descendants. Pound’s daughter Mary de Rachewiltz, age 90, still presides over courses devoted to his work at Schloss Brunnenburg in the Italian Tyrol. Mussolini’s descendants have been active in Italian politics; Longerich (609) notes how Goebbels was ‘surprised’ when Hitler told him ‘for the first time’ in 1943 that Il Duce’s daughter Ella, married to his foreign minister Count Ciano, was brought up as if by his wife yet was in fact the love-child of his liaison with a Russian Jewess
[xvi] Shortly after the 1944 assassination attempt, Goebbels would say ‘”the Führer has gotten very old” and is making “a really frail impression”.’ (Longerich, 643.) By autumn of that year, Hitler had fallen ill with jaundice and perhaps worse. He more or less gave up speech-making, even on radio, despite the damage this threatened for the national mood. It is in this period that Goebbels became Reich Plenipotentiary. Hitler left a will at his suicide naming Goebbels his successor as Chancellor, but it of course was not to be.

STODDARD MARTIN is an author and publisher

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ENDNOTES, 3rd September 2015

Anton Bruckner

Anton Bruckner

ENDNOTES, 3rd September 2015

Bruckner’s radiant vision at the Proms

September’s arrival is a poignant moment in any Proms season. It means that there is not long to go before the Last Night, and that promenaders must savour the remaining precious 12 or so concerts. The summer atmosphere of July and August has given way to the slanting light and early evening cool of the beginnings of Autumn. Somehow, the music of the Austrian, Anton Bruckner (choirboy, church organist, and eventually, Old Master – possibly, successor to Beethoven) belongs to this pivotal point in the year; the Seventh Symphony, especially, with its long, broad, lyrical introduction on cellos, opening an hour-long span of contrasting cumulative forces.

The first movement seems to alternate between a reflective loneliness – Bruckner, perhaps, wandering through the open countryside of Upper Austria (his home) – and then, via radiant brass chorales and ethereal strings, achieving some of the most forceful affirmations in all 19th-century symphonic music. The ending of the first movement alone is enough to convince you of the unbridled power of Bruckner’s vision: horns, trombones and trumpets taking us further to the top of the mountain, with rasping, Germanic Wagner tubas (four in number) reinforcing the tidal wave – and a massive body of strings upholding the unity and nobility of this unforgettable scene in music.

Bruckner’s symphonies underwent numerous revisions, the composer often tormented by (in the early days) the less than enthusiastic reception that his works attracted. (Audience members walked out of the first performance of the Third – reactions that undoubtedly contributed to self-doubt on Bruckner’s part, and even nervous breakdowns.) Vienna seemed hostile to this rural organist-turned-composer – fashionable society seemingly bemused by Bruckner’s short schoolmasterly figure, his local accent, uncosmopolitan ways and straightforward faith. “Sea serpents” or “boa constrictors” was how some notable critics saw his long, heavy orchestral scores. And yet, in time, he attracted some great conducting champions, including Hans Richter, who enabled the symphonies to take their place – as was Bruckner’s hope – in the canon alongside Beethoven and Wagner.

The Seventh Symphony was written in the early 1880s, at about the time of Wagner’s demise – the slow movement reflecting Bruckner’s anguish on hearing of the death of the composer of Tristan, Die Meistersinger, and The Ring, the man he venerated. This section of the symphony seems like a prolonged elegy and memorial; Bruckner, the former organist of Linz Cathedral, weaving a funeral cloth, or making an oration, through deep, slow-moving, tectonic passages, which build and build (as is his way) until another massive release of energy is encountered, surmounted by a spectacular single cymbal clash. Soon, though, the power subsides again, and the movement ends with doleful shadows from the lower brass register and simple reflection from the strings.

The third movement, the scherzo, brought out the very best from the performers in that 2nd September Prom: the Royal Scottish National Orchestra, resplendent in white tie and tails, and as large a body of players as could be assembled on the Royal Albert Hall platform. It has to be said that listening to Bruckner is like being in a church or cathedral on a solemn occasion, and so the performance of a symphony by him demands ritual and an impressive “physical” presence which only strict formality can honestly give. You simply couldn’t play Bruckner in more casual dress: it is the music of the late-19th century, of the Austrian empire, of the romantic era of Sturm und Drang. But of course, it is the execution of the performance which must truly count, especially with the critic, and the RSNO – concentrating upon and grappling with the great ascents and horizons of this demanding work – generated, at times, a feeling which I felt came close to divine inspiration, or at least the inspiration which Bruckner was seeking. The occasional small slip in the brass during moments of hectic engagement and (what must be) great stress, counted for nothing – when compared to the overall tone which the orchestra mustered: a tone which was characterised by a euphonious lightness of the upper strings; an autumnal glow to the cellos and basses (which were also capable of that Brucknerian heavy tread); and a thrilling coordination – so vital in the powerful, rushing rhythms of the relentless but strangely galumphing scherzo.

The RSNO’s Music Director, Peter Oundjian, presided over this Bruckner 7 with energy, mastery and understanding, in an animated and bold conducting style (plenty of eye contact, involvement, large gestures, definite direction); and on the strength of this performance alone, I would rate this Canadian-born conductor as a true, or very promising emerging Brucknerian – although I have only heard him in this one work of Bruckner’s. Drawing together the great themes and ideas of the symphony for the final movement (which seems compact, full of ease, sunny, in fact, in its opening lines), Peter Oundjian and the RSNO adopted a strong tempo – not lingering very much, but never rushing a single phrase. The final light through the cathedral windows shone beautifully, the Royal Scottish orchestra achieving a great peace in the soft, tender string passages – which are so lovingly attended by the woodwind (which seems to be playing nostalgic ideas – as if Bruckner is saying something to us about remembering and cherishing something). Suddenly, though, in the last movement – amid the reappearance of the doleful, brooding brass shadows – great high-flown statements on trumpets are unleashed, like a final emphatic address. Any disturbance or question mark, however, is corrected, as themes gather triumphantly for the final statement, in which the whole orchestra (as at the end of the first movement) pours out its heart.

The capacity audience at the hall was clearly appreciative of Bruckner’s Seventh – and perhaps some of the older promenaders remember the Seventh and the mighty Eighth performed in seasons past, at about this early-September time. It is worth remembering, too, that Bruckner once played the Royal Albert Hall organ, so it is fitting that his symphonies are played in this great space.

Outside, on the way home, the night air was cool, wet and full of the change of the season – a sad feeling as we enter the last week of the 2015 Proms, but one made more bearable by such a ringing interpretation of a monumental 19th-century symphony.

Stuart Millson is the Classical Music Editor of The Quarterly Review

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Polish-Canadians, Searching for a Voice (part 2)

Polish_Canadian_op_735x669

Polish-Canadians, Searching for a Voice (part 2) 

Mark Wegierski continues his analysis

Despite the fact that there are over a million persons of Polish descent in Canada, the community appears to have had very little impact on the political, social, and cultural life of Canada as a whole.

During May 10 — May 13, 2012, I attended the conference “Creative Writing in the 21st Century: Research and Practice” at Humber College, Lakeshore Campus in Toronto, in Etobicoke, a western suburb of Toronto. Located among many acres of green space near Lake Ontario, that campus is especially lovely in the late spring/early summer. Most of the sessions of the conference took place in a large, brand new building that has just been raised on the grounds of what was previously (many years ago) a major psychiatric facility. Several, very solidly built, red brick “cottages” on the site have also been refurbished into school buildings. The campus also includes an old teacher’s college building towards the west, to which new additions and a large students’ residence complex, have been added.

The conference was organized by the Canadian Creative Writers and Writing Programs (CCWWP – or “quip”). One of the sessions was entitled “Writing Eastern Europe: Invisibility, Myths, and the Canadian Perspective”. The three panelists were Andrew J. Borkowski, author of the short story collection Copernicus Avenue, a slightly fictionalized version of Roncesvalles Avenue in west-end Toronto which won the 2012 Toronto Book Award; Eva Stachniak, the author of (most recently) a work of historical fiction about Catherine the Great of Russia that is charting on the bestseller lists; and Antanas Sileika, the author of, amongst other works, the novel Underground about the anti-Soviet resistance in Lithuania, who is the Director of the Humber School for Writers, and who was one of the main organizers of the conference. All three authors presented highly insightful ideas about Eastern Europeans and their place in Canada. One thing noted was the great sense of tragedy in that part of Europe – where “death was ever present”. And death in fact extended to virtually all groups in those societies. Another point was that most Canadians knew virtually nothing about Eastern Europe. (Although some Poles prefer to say they are from Central Europe, or East-Central Europe, the term Eastern Europe has persisted, especially in some Canadian milieu.) A third major point was that Eastern Europeans had produced very few writers in the general tapestry of “CanLit”. While South Asian and East Asian writing had definitely emerged in Canada, where was the writing by persons of Eastern European descent? My long-standing notions about the lack of saliency of Polish-Canadians in Canada were certainly confirmed by the esteemed panelists.

 Andrew J Borkowski

Andrew J Borkowski

Professor Eva Stachniak is probably the most prominent writer of Polish descent in Canada – having achieved considerable success in “CanLit” – and now more generally also in America and Britain. She arrived in Canada in 1981. She completed her doctoral thesis in English literature at McGill in 1988, on the positive philosophy of exile in Stefan Themerson’s fiction. Themerson wrote mostly in English after settling in Britain after World War II. Stachniak published her first English-language short story, “Marble Heroes”, in the Maritimes-based Canadian literary magazine Antigonish Review, in 1994. Her first published novel Necessary Lies (2000) won the Amazon.com/Books in Canada First Novel Award. It was a somewhat angst-filled look at the heritage of Wroclaw.

Stachniak’s second novel, Garden of Venus (2005) is about the extraordinary eighteenth-century woman who, from humble Greek origins, became Countess Sophie Potocka. This is one of those amazing real-life stories that would seem improbable if it were fiction. The book has appeared in translation in a number of languages, including Polish. Stachniak’s more recent book is The Winter Palace (2012) – a vivid portrait of Catherine the Great – which has received high accolades, and has been charting on the bestseller lists. Professor Stachniak spent many years of research to get the historical details just right. Her second novel on Catherine the Great, The Empress of the Night, was released in 2014.

While stylistically brilliant and superbly researched, one could say that Eva Stachniak’s writing is not too heavily “engaged” in the current-day Polish cultural struggle. The infelicitous context today is of tendencies ever more hostile to traditional Polish understandings – even in Poland itself – let alone in Western Europe and North America. Could it be hoped that this might create a sense of urgency among at least some Polish writers? I also do realize that if Professor Stachniak were to become too heavily “engaged”  she would likely become less welcome in “CanLit”. It should be noted that some of the English-language interviews she has conducted (and subsequently published) – for example, the one with Andrew J. Borkowski – have been tremendously insightful and helpful.

Professor Stachniak had difficulty publishing her historical novel about the exiled Polish Romantic poet Zygmunt Krasinski (a contemporary of Mickiewicz, Slowacki, and Norwid) and two women in his life, Delfina Potocka and Eliza Krasinska, which she originally wrote in English. So she was able to have it translated into Polish, and it appeared with relative success in Poland, under the title “Dysonans” (Dissonance, 2009). I think, however, that the portrait of Krasinski in the novel is none too flattering.

Eva Stachniak has received a Turzanski Foundation literary award, for the years 2011-2012, but, unfortunately for Polish-Canadian writing endeavours, those were (as of Spring 2015) actually the last years in which the awards have been given. After my query, the President of the Turzanski Foundation informed me in an e-mail in the spring of 2015 that there is currently a hiatus in the giving out of the awards. I would guess that this is because of financial difficulties at the Foundation.

While attending the conference in May 2012, I met (amongst others) the noted research scientist Beverly Akerman, the author of The Meaning of Children. I told her about my unpublished science fiction, alternative-history short story titled “Blueprint Retro”, whose premise was “Hitler thwarted earlier”. As a trained historian, I was hopefully able to plausibly construct that alternative-history. We noted in conversation that that historical outcome would have been good for Poland – and not just for Poland.

Now that immigration from Poland has shrunk to a trickle, the Polish-Canadian community is set to become an ever-thinner slice of the Canadian population, while so-called visible minorities are likely to become an even larger percentage. The fact is that, for the vast majority of persons of Polish descent, the “affect” of their putative identity is far less than for those other groups. An increase in the number of Polish-Canadian authors in “CanLit” – or in English-language literature in general – could perhaps alter that.

Mark Wegierski is a Toronto-based writer and historical researcher. He was born in Toronto of Polish immigrant parents

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Two poems by Liam Guilar

Two Poems by Liam Guilar 

Merlin to the Lady of the Lake

And so it happed him to com to the roche theras the Lady of the Lake had put Merlyon undir the stone, and there he herde hym make a great dole. (Malory)

lake bala

Loneliness is its own acoustic,
a sealed cave beneath the riven self
where the mind turned chief inquisitor,
probes the flayed nerve,
as though a scream
authenticates an answer.

Is any Helen worth her Troy,
or Guinevere a Camelot? Ask
the hacked knights cluttering
the fields round Camlann.
They’ll say I was an old man
drooling for a leggy blonde.
What’s age to do with it?
Lust’s a straight line;
love’s confusion.

I accepted my infatuation
refused the self-protective lie,
admitted just how much and how
I wanted you. Yes, yes, I
risked being one more clichéd fool
against the baffling possibility
of happiness with you. But each day
face to face with your indifference?

        ********** 

Monologue For Two Voices

Voice 1 is alive Now. Voice 2 is an officer on Sir John Franklin’s final expedition in 1845. Sometimes alternating, sometimes sharing lines, each thinks he is the only speaker and at no point does one address the other.

arctic ice

The way she turned to go then paused,
rearranged the way I thought of her,
the way the wind reshuffles a reflection on the water.
I wanted to run after her, but was afraid.
The moon was full behind the clouds, the day you left the country.

In the devastating aftermath of that encounter,
shipwrecked by her sudden absence,
I scavenged in the wreckage, searching
for anything to prove a lack of common sense.
I kept warm by burning the ship’s fittings
and in the darkest hours, began to eat myself.

I leapt the months to your return: ignored the pacing moon
then marked time while the slow nights closed the distance.
This morning there were 20 emails waiting to be read.
Not one was yours; the name that trips the pulse.
The smoothest dancer falters in the dance,
if he can’t predict his partner’s moves.

Our orders were to winter in the ice:
waste land, frozen sea, and months of darkness.
In my mind I was already anchored in the roads,
naked, lying by your side, nose touching nose,
smelt the spices in the off-shore breeze
felt the heft of money bags and bullion:
a dead man with frost bitten fingers, clutching air.

Ships trapped, shore parties struggled to make camp.
We are dwarfed by time, lost in white space,
but we own our misery which no perspective mitigates.

The Admiral listens to his scouting parties:
their future’s a frail line scratched on a blank.
If I confessed how much I love you,
would you laugh or run away?
I could turn back. Avoid this terror.
No one would be the wiser, no one
would know how close I came
to altering the universe.

Each day we send a man aloft.
He slithers up the ice-draped shrouds
to look for signs of open water to the west.
Our maps can only tell us where we’ve been.

Do not let me falter. If the moment comes,
give me the courage or stupidity
to roll the dice: find out how far is far enough,
and then continue ‘til I wreck at Furthest Out.
Conventional wisdom whispers in the head wind
that still shakes the ice from frozen rigging:
You should not want this: this is not for you.
Go home, your family waits around the china tea set.
Let them say: look! Here comes that good, sane man:
Alexander the Competent.
Self-appointed judges who’d legislate the wind.
Who gave them ringside seats; solicited their opinion?

The hanging lamp cast shadows that began to move.
The ship, locked for so long, began to shift and roll.
Did I invent the Northwest Passage,
to feed ambition something greater than the day allows?
Do desire and loneliness, flowing into absence, seize on any object?

The day of your return, another full moon
blazing the glass of the high rise, flaming
the treetops. Gaining momentum
it rose, and paled, and the landscape
became familiar blocks of darkness.
Weeks later you wrote a pleasant little note.

There is no Northwest Passage, no easy route
to dreamt of glory and if there were, that final harbor
could never be the homecoming we dreamed.

The ships were breaking up; there was no thaw.
We loaded the whaleboat with trash we could not eat or burn.
I heard my own voice asking, why not ditch it all?
Move quickly, lightly, going fast and far, free of impediments?
Time will sift the rag and bone man’s discards. I cannot keep myself
from turning back and looking at the wreckage of the fleet:
the main mast, still above the ice, where common sense went down.
Ahead, white silent emptiness. Nothing but emptiness and nothing
and nothing that will mark the journey done. Only the journey forward
into white silent emptiness and behind, the misery of time
debating how to play a scene, deleted unperformed.
You will not find the wreckage. I doubt you even know I’m lost.

LIAM GUILAR lives in Australia where he teaches English. He studied Medieval Literature first as an undergraduate at Birmingham University and then as a post graduate at the University of Queensland in Australia. He spent several decades searching for wild rivers in remote parts of the world. He has had four collections of poems published; the most recent Rough Spun to Close Weave, is published by Ginninderra press http://www.ginninderrapress.com.au/poetry.html He runs a blog at http://ladygodivaandme.blogspot.com.au and in 2013 was the proud winner of the Australian Bad Joyce Award: http://www.johnbutleryeatsseminar.com/home/bad_joyce_essay

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Bistro by Shot

21

Bistro by Shot

28 Parsons Green Lane, London SW6 4HS
020 7371 7533

Bistro by Shot is rather discreetly tucked away on Parsons Green Lane, with just a distinctive red logo sign and open door to announce its presence. Inside, all is clean Scandinavian style – white stone tables; wooden floors, benches and bar. The walls are pure white, with some wooden panelling in the little snug area (a covetable table but alas, not where we were seated), and lighting hangs quirkily from wires above the bench seating (with bulbs redolent of Edison’s designs) and in wooden framed boxes over the bar. Bottles are set on clean white shelves behind the bar and a glass display offers a tempting array of truffles and cheesecakes, while an impressive-looking coffee machine sits on the end of the bar. The only other colour in the room, apart from the light pine and the stark white, is a dark grey, which flanks both ends of the bar and the entrance end of the room, and in which window and door frames are painted.

The seating is rather cafe-style, with the bench seating facing the bar, and just the table and opposing chairs intervening, and as a result, feels just slightly temporary. The ambience and feeling is certainly more of a cafe than a restaurant. This is exacerbated by the fact that tables are undressed, yet they feature tumblers for water, proper wine glasses, respectable linen napkins, decent cutlery and a tea light in a glass. Irritating popular music was playing when we visited, but thankfully so low that it was drowned out once there were a few other patrons in.

The staff are friendly and professional; kind and thoughtful. Water is offered at once (Italian mineral water), and bread follows shortly, still slightly warm from the oven. This was worryingly moreish – crusty and extremely fresh, slightly salty white bread, served along with butter and a dab of sea salt on a slate. A good start to the meal.

The evening menu and wine list are both fairly short, and the wine list doesn’t mention countries of origin, although it does, pleasingly, have brief and informal descriptions. The menu starts with some rather sophisticated “snacks” (such as burrata) and then contains around six to eight starters and main courses, with a few sides (including chips cooked in duck fat, which we only just managed to resist).

To drink, I choose the Barbera D’Asti 2012 “Il Casconone” from Italy: a very understated, elegant bottle at once boded well, and we weren’t disappointed with the contents. Dark in colour and blackly fruity on the nose, the palate was full of woodland tastes – dark brambles and blackberries and currants, with some tar and ash on the finish and a sweetly tempering hint of liquorice. Baby Tristan’s apple juice was squeezed there and then on the spot and so had a frothy cap of bits of apple, with the clear, sweet juice beneath. This was surely the freshest and most delicious apple juice I have ever tasted (and, yes, Tristan did get to drink of some of it – and loved it as well!) – just gloriously appley.

I started with the ham hock terrine, which was served with toast and a buttery sauce. This, a nice great thick slab of terrine, was beautifully moist and extremely flavoursome, with the salty ham hock interlaced with sweeter onion for extra flavour. I found it quite delicious and extremely moreish – the perfect starter.

My husband’s pea and bacon soup was more of a velouté featuring a small number of bacon lardons, rather than a soup. It was extraordinarily fresh and bursting with essence of pea; sweet and rich; and a generous portion to boot. The only quibble about this was the spoon that accompanied it – it wasn’t a proper soup-spoon, but rather more of a large dessert spoon in terms of shape and depth. This forced my husband to eat the soup like a savage, which was distressing for him (if not for me and other diners!).

We then shared a huge dish of braised shoulder of lamb, which came on its own board, with a small jug of gravy, a bowl of slightly crunchy Jersey Royals and kale. The lamb itself was beautifully tender – literally falling off the bone and with a full and rich flavour, and it was well matched by its accompaniments (although I found the potatoes a little on the hard side). We also ordered broccoli with almonds – this was absolutely delicious – sweet tender-stem broccoli cooked perfectly in salty butter with crunchy almonds providing a contrast of texture and flavour. The staff also kindly and thoughtfully (and completely spontaneously) brought a bowl of sweet potato mash for Tristan (who was otherwise just sharing parts of our meal), which he greatly enjoyed and appreciated.

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The dessert menu included ice cream made by Bistro by Shot’s sister branch, Valrhona chocolate fondant (again, difficult to resist) and dessert wines. Mr Marshall-Luck and Tristan shared the panacotta, which came nicely presented in a glass jar with a topping of strawberry jelly / jam. The panacotta itself was creamy yet light – not too rich or heavy, and the shortbread biscuits which accompanied it were also gorgeously light and crumbly. By contrast, my chocolate truffles were immensely dark and rich – full of bitter chocolate and dusted with cocoa and some of these were immediately appropriated by Tristan. Just as well that the staff had provided a generous number for my enjoyment!

On the whole, we found this a delightful dining experience, with rather superb food and excellent service. I did, however, feel that we would have preferred to have been in a space that better fitted the excellence of the food with more elegant, lavish and refined surroundings, as there could be no doubt that the cafe-style dining accommodation didn’t match food that I would without doubt call “fine cuisine”. But do not let this put you off; if you find yourself in the Chiswick area, you know where to go.

Em Marshall-Luck is QR’s Restaurant and Wine Critic

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Polish Higher Education Today

Nicolaus Copernicus University, Torun

Nicolaus Copernicus University, Torun

Polish Higher Education Today

Mark Wegierski makes some telling observations 

The Nicolaus Copernicus University (Uniwersytet Mikolaja Kopernika – UMK), was founded in 1945 in the wake of the Second World War in Torun, with many professors and researchers fleeing from the former Stefan Batory University in Wilno (Vilnius) – that area being swallowed into the Soviet Union, with the Stalin-mandated boundary shifts. The official date of the university’s founding is August 24, 1945, exactly 70 years ago this day.

There was a few years respite until the late 1940s, when Stalinism became ever more tightly enforced in Polish academic institutions, and in Polish society as a whole. It was only as a result of “The Thaw” after late 1956 (also sometimes called “the Polish October”) under the leadership of Wladyslaw Gomulka, that Stalinism was finally relaxed, and the Communist regime could be considered as “polonized”. While certain topics and themes were clearly “taboo”, the academic system was not harsh and grinding in the enforcement of Marxist-Leninist orthodoxy, as during the Stalinist period.

The crises of 1968-1970 profoundly affected the universities, but the Communist system was able to stabilize with the coming to power of Edward Gierek. Indeed, he inaugurated an era of “can do” spirit and relative prosperity. By the late 1970s, however, the situation had soured. During the Solidarity period of 1980-1981, there was a flowering of Polish academic and cultural life, with almost no one believing in Soviet Communism anymore. Indeed, it had to be enforced on Poland at the point of a gun (Communist General Jaruzelski’s declaration of martial law on December 13, 1981). 1989 was clearly another watershed, and, in the 1990s, there was an incredible expansion of higher education in Poland.

Indeed, the number of students attending public and private universities and colleges in Poland has been reaching ever-higher levels with every year. There has been an unprecedented boom in private colleges since the 1990s. Also, numerous State Higher Schools of Vocational Learning have been established. However, the ever-higher tuition costs for some studies (as well as the high costs of living in the major university towns), and high levels of poverty in Poland, may mean that above-average but not stellar students, from less affluent families, may not get the chance to attend university. There is also a major trend to “political correctness” and probably too much emphasis on E.U. guidelines in some institutions of higher learning, resulting in less and less Polish patriotic spirit. A parallel trend is the excessive stress on career-related business and technical studies, rather than on what could be seen as a better-rounded education in liberal arts such as philosophy, history, and literature (at least for part of one’s pre-professional studies).

I recall that on Friday, September 27, 2002, I had travelled with my female relative from Ciechocinek, the spa and resort town at which I was staying during the late summer and early autumn of 2002, southwestward to Lodz, the second-largest city in Poland. She drove a compact yet elegant Peugeot 206. Ciechocinek lies about two hundred kilometers northwest of Warsaw. She was going to pick up the formal graduation papers associated with the Master’s degree she had just completed, at the Wojskowa Akademia Medyczna (Military Medical Academy) in Lodz. There was some urgency to the matter, as the WAM was merging with another institution to become the Uniwersytet Medyczny (Medical University) in Lodz. The WAM had been open to civilian students for a number a years, and my relative had completed a Master’s in Public Health on a part-time basis. As we sat in the car in front of the guard-house entrance to the university, I recalled her complaints, in earlier telephone conversations, about the long trips to classes she had to take from the environs of Ciechocinek, where she lives, to Lodz, often in inclement weather.

The WAM campus consisted of several large buildings constructed in what I thought to be a 1920s, Neoclassical style. I still remember the pleasant sunshine and warm weather at the time of our trip there, on that day in September.

Among her other studies, my relative has completed a Licentiate (the Polish equivalent of a B.A.) in Cosmetology, at the “Rydygier” Medical Academy in Bydgoszcz, Poland. There was some controversy when that Medical Academy proposed to merge with UMK in Torun – since the city administration of Bydgoszcz had hoped that the “Rydygier” Medical Academy could have become part of a major new university in Bydgoszcz itself. Indeed, the “Rydygier” Medical Academy became the UMK’s Medical College. Nevertheless, a few years later, there was a major university established in Bydgoszcz – Uniwersytet Kazimierza Wielkiego (UKW) (University of King Casimir the Great).

Having reached Lodz, we then continued southward to Czestochowa, where most of my relative’s immediate family – including her mother, sister, and brother – live, in a fairly big house with a large yard, on the city’s outskirts. Driving around Czestochowa, we noticed the large, elegant building of the Akademia Polonijna (Polonia University), a major new private college, which is very well-regarded – as seen, for example, in its high place in the annual college rankings put out jointly by the large-circulation newspaper, Rzeczpospolita (The Republic) and Perspektywy (Perspectives), a major magazine for students. The Akademia Polonijna has set, as one of its missions, extensive cultural and scholarly interaction with persons of Polish descent living abroad, as well as documentation of the various cultural and patriotic achievements of the various “Polonia” communities. (“Polonia” is the term often used in the Polish language to describe Polish communities outside of Poland.)

Since we had arrived unannounced at her family’s house, we decided to go for supper to Zornica, an elegant restaurant (and inn) on the southern outskirts of Czestochowa, built in the style of the Goral (Polish Mountaineer) architecture. Although, at six P.M., the place was rather empty, my dish was nevertheless tasty, consisting of pork medallions baked with mountaineer cheese and mushrooms, along with spicy roast potatoes, on a bed of sauerkraut.

Zornica Restaurant

Zornica Restaurant

We went back to the house for tea and cake, and then started the long trip back to Ciechocinek at about 8 P.M. In a feat of driving I thought incredible, we got back to Ciechocinek somewhere after midnight.

Many young people (as well as some persons in middle age) in Poland today, face the problem that, although they may in fact have very good training in a technical or business field, jobs for them simply don’t exist. The unemployed graduate of Management and Marketing studies in Poland is a virtual cliché. The nationwide average of unemployment was for many years around twenty percent, and was actually considerably higher for young people, and in certain regions, such as the southeast. And, in fact, two to three million Poles (especially younger people), have actually left since 2004, emigrating mostly to Great Britain, Ireland, and other E.U. countries. Those Polish politicians who can somehow improve the employment situation in Poland, in a way that will be sustainable over the long run, can expect to receive major support from the people of Poland.

Mark Wegierski is a Toronto-based writer and historical researcher

 

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“Motormouth” Megyn Meets her Match

MegynKelly 2

“Motormouth” Megyn Meets her Match

Ilana Mercer reflects on the slugfest in Cleveland

It’s “R & R for Megyn Kelly,” the Fox News channel announced last week on its website, followed by a gooey note from Kelly herself. Why was FNC broadcasting the vacation schedule of the Golden Goose that henpecked Donald Trump? Had Kelly been licked into shape by Trump? Was she off to lick her wounds?

Since the testy exchange between Trump and Kelly, at the first prime-time Republican debate, in Cleveland, Ohio, the anchor’s eponymous TV show, “The Kelly File,” has covered the meteoric rise of Mr. Trump sparingly. Perhaps Kelly has come to view herself as a kingmaker. Perhaps she thinks that should she choose not to report about a newsmaker; he’ll somehow fade into obscurity.

Full disclosure: at first blush, I was impressed by the quality of Fox News’ journalism in Cleveland, writing too exuberantly that “the true stars of the debate were the ruthless, impartial, analytical” reporters. Better that Kelly be the one to ask foolish, fem-oriented questions of The Donald than future Dem moderators. It neutralizes the latter. Or so I reasoned.

Moreover, it’s indisputable that compared to previous presidential debates overrun as they were by Democrat journos—Kelly, Bret Baier and Chris Wallace did a good job.

No presidential debate should, however, be gauged by how it departs from debates in which questions such as these are posed:

“Senator Obama, how do you address those who say you’re not authentically black enough?”

“Senator Dodd, you’ve been in Congress more than 30 years. Can you honestly say you’re any different?”

“Congressman Kucinich, your supporters certainly say you are different. Even your critics would certainly say you are different … What do you have that Senators Clinton and Obama do not have?” [Wait a sec. I know the answer: a trophy wife.]

And how about this intellectually nimble follow-up?

“Senator Clinton, you were involved in that [how-am-I-different] question. I want to give you a chance to respond [to that how-am-I-different question].”

“Senator Obama, you were also involved in that [how-am-I-different] question, as well. Please respond.”

The final crushingly stupid question to the 1-trick donkeys debating, in the 2007 CNN/YouTube Democratic presidential debate, was this:

“Who was your favorite teacher and why, Senator Gravel?”

The “journalist” pounding the presidential candidates was jackass Anderson Cooper of CNN.

Before she beat a retreat, Kelly had assembled a studio audience of Republican establishmentarian, to whom she directed another leading question: she herself knew nobody who’d call a woman a pig or a dog. Could they say the same? Kelly was alluding to the litany she had directed at Trump during her Cleveland performance (where she had cast herself as leading lady).

Kelly: “You’ve called women you don’t like, ‘fat pigs,’ ‘dogs,’ ‘slobs,’ and ‘disgusting animals.”

Trump [in good humor]: “Only Rosie O’Donnell.”

Megyn [bare-fanged]: “No it wasn’t. For the record, it was well beyond Rosie O’Donnell. Your Twitter account has several disparaging comments about women’s looks. You once told a contestant on ‘Celebrity Apprentice’ it would be a pretty picture to see her on her knees. Does that sound to you like the temperament of a man we should elect as president?”

Still under the brain-addling spell of the Cooper-Candy-Crowley brain trust, I thought no less of Kelly for that dumbest of questions. Her anti-individualist, collectivist feminism is news to her fans, but not to me. Kelly’s vocabulary is of a piece with the nauseating vocabulary of third-wave feminism.

More irksome was the allusion to the dignity of The Office. A while ago, fancy pants Kelly joined Don Lemon (CNN), Cooper and Rachel Mad Cow to editorialize angrily at Obama for damaging the dignity of The Office. These celebrity journos were, in fact, green with envy over GloZell Green, a YouTube sensation to whom president Obama granted an interview. Good for him.

Our TV narcissists—they live not for the truth, but for a seat at the Annual White House Sycophant’s Supper, or alongside the smarmy Jon Stewart (or his unfunny South African replacement), or next to the titillaters of “The View,” or on the late-night shows—were jealous. Dented was the vanity of the egos in the anchor’s chair.

Besides which the American presidency was pimped out a longtime ago—well before the current POTUS and FLOTUS held soirees sporting disco balls and the half-nude, pelvis-grinding Beyoncé.

Kelly herself has fast succumbed to the female instinct to show-off, bare skin, flirt and wink. She now also regularly motormouths it over the occasional smart guest she entertains (correction: the one smart guest, Ann Coulter). At the same time, Kelly has dignified the tinnitus named Dana Perino with a daily slot as Delphic oracle.

Trump, on the other hand, has proven he can be trusted to beat up on the right women.

Exhibit A is Elizabeth Beck, a multitasking “attorney,” who once deposed Donald Trump while also waving her breast pump in his face, demanding to break for a breast-pumping session.

“You’re disgusting. You’re disgusting,” the busy billionaire blurted in disbelief. And she was. Still is. Accoutered for battle, Beck recently did the rounds on the networks. In addition to a mad glint in the eye, Beck brought to each broadcast a big bag packed with milking paraphernalia.

Had she cared about boundaries and propriety, Kelly would have asked Trump how he kept his cool during a legal deposition, with an (ostensible) professional, who insisted on bringing attention to her lactating breasts.

Writes Fred Reed, who regularly tracks our malevolent matriarchy’s “poor sense of social boundaries”:

“The United States has embarked, or been embarked, on a headlong rush into matriarchy, something never before attempted in a major country. Men remain numerically dominant in positions of power, yes, but their behavior and freedom are ever more constrained by the wishes of hostile women. The effects have been disastrous. They are likely to be more so. The control, or near control, extends all through society. Politicians are terrified of women. … The pathological egalitarianism of the age makes it career-ending to mention that women in fact are neither equal nor identical to men.”

Not quite in the league of Elizabeth Beck yet, Megyn Kelly was, nevertheless, in need of a dressing-down and a time-out.

Ilana Mercer is a paleolibertarian writer, based in the U.S.  She pens WND’s longest-standing, exclusive paleolibertarian column, “Return to Reason.” She is a fellow at the Jerusalem Institute for Market Studies. Her latest book is “Into the Cannibal’s Pot: Lessons For America From Post-Apartheid South Africa.” Her website is www.IlanaMercer.com.  She blogs at  www.barelyablog.com   Follow her on Twitter:  https://twitter.com/IlanaMercer “Friend” her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ilanamercer.libertarian

 

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