Blog description.

Accentuating the Liberal in Classical Liberal: Advocating Ascendency of the Individual & a Politick & Literature to Fight the Rise & Rise of the Tax Surveillance State. 'Illigitum non carborundum'.

Liberty and freedom are two proud words that have been executed from the political lexicon: they were frog marched and stood before a wall of blank minds, then forcibly blindfolded, and shot, with the whimpering staccato of ‘equality’ and ‘fairness’ resounding over and over. And not only did this atrocity go unreported by journalists in the mainstream media, they were in the firing squad.

The premise of this blog is simple: the Soviets thought they had equality, and welfare from cradle to grave, until the illusory free lunch of redistribution took its inevitable course, and cost them everything they had. First to go was their privacy, after that their freedom, then on being ground down to an equality of poverty only, for many of them their lives as they tried to escape a life behind the Iron Curtain. In the state-enforced common good, was found only slavery to the prison of each other's mind; instead of the caring state, they had imposed the surveillance state to keep them in line. So why are we accumulating a national debt to build the slave state again in the West? Where is the contrarian, uncomfortable literature to put the state experiment finally to rest?

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Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Long Sentences and Large Words; My Novel [Extracts]; Overland 219 – Short Break from Blog.




[The Forward Bit (on responses to this post):

The below is causing a bit of a flurry in Twitter land – I put the first wee bunch of tweets on it in update 1, but I’m not putting the rest I read as they were just the typical put-downs from that part of Twitter known as the shit pond. Although note I understand those tweets; loyalty to Mr Matthews is anti-intellectual and knee jerk (and very Left politick), but noble in a certain way – and as with Mr Tiso, I like the man, but I do not agree with his agenda being enacted out in the culture pages of my Press. And let me clarify some points. To the Tweeter (per bio, converted to Twitter by Mr Tiso), who read some small portion of this then bewailed the state of conservative intellectualism – ahem, I’m not a conservative; indeed, I’m neither Left nor Right, both those positions worship the state and I am a libertarian, capitalist minarchist. Furthermore, this edifice you are before, right now, is called a blog. It’s not called a tertiary paper or an essay. It is a blog and is glorious for the freedom it has away from academic rigour which I spent a smidgeon too much of my life pursuing.

Finally, this particular post has no intellectual rigour to it at all. The broad-sweep claims made have their depth in the links to pieces far more thought out – you need to follow those before you criticise. I wrote the post below merely (initially) to explain why I will be taking a short sabbatical from this blog – one aspect of my blog is a diary for what’s going through my mind, so think of this post as sheer stream of consciousness.

Right … now read on to see what all the fuss is about.]




This is my first post since May: it’s not that there’s nothing annoying me enough to blog, quite the opposite, starting with Prime Minister John Key’s cynical retraction from taking the lead in a necessary euthanasia debate New Zealand demands be had on the death of Lecretia Seales: his cowardly mis-remembering of a promise (twice made), and continuing to think any of us give a toss about the flag debate, puts him beyond (my) contempt. [Though in passing, as I’ve been giving ACT’s David Seymour a hard time – possibly unfairly - well done for drafting his own euthanasia bill; please don’t stop, David, but unfortunately without the National medievalists on board, including Catholic mystic Bill English, civilised euthanasia law, as with individual rights in New Zealand, will come to nothing – so I suspect you’ll only get your reward in heaven.]

Truth is I’m growing too angry to post about politics – I said as much in my blog on National’s Labour budget of this year devised by that same anachronism, Finance Minister, Bill English, who like his Pope in Rome seems on a conversion to Marxism currently. I’m pretty much had it to the point I won’t be voting in a general election anytime soon, and as there’s nothing I can do to stop this statist slide to collectivist hell, I’m thinking bugger it, I’ll do my own thing while drinking an above average amount of supermarket wine – (noting, please, I drink circa Iain Wowser-Galloway's halved blood alcohol limit  because I am a principled drinker, or better put, given how drinking has become a subversive act, drinking on principle). Our votes based system is so broken in the emoting booth, the only fix to it is a constitutional minarchist republic based on individual rights – but I'm afraid that revolution can't happen anymore. Why? Because the working statement of this nation, founding each generation, namely, the school curriculum, is a Progressive program brainwashing each young mind in the bloodied fallacy of the common good, creating illiterate, innumerate little social justice thugs. Add to that 95% of our teachers are paid up members of the PPTA and you have the algebra of the repressive tax surveillance states in which we now live.

Checking proof:

Excerpt: New Zealand Curriculum.

            Students will be encouraged to value:

            Equity, through fairness and social justice.
            Community and participation for the common good.’

All the buzzwords of the twenty first century police state.

Regarding doing my own thing, I’ve finished the first draft of a novel. But on that I have a problem. Multiple problems to be precise. Note those last three clipped little sentences? One of them a fragment, in fact. And that. And this. Pointing to the first of said problems in that I hate attention-deficit-sentence-bites, however, since leaving the comfortable bookshelves, doc martens, bongs and smoky environs of my arts degree, and forcing myself to lie prostrate for agonising lengths of time, stone cold sober, straight, on the hard steel of two accountancy degrees, I have been constantly castigated for the long(er), heavier sentences (and in one case words) of my upbringing, by first a succession of business professors, against all of whom I fought for the sentence as it should be, essay by essay, winning every battle until I won the war (A+ average for under and post graduate degrees; a clutch of scholarships [refer following on having to blow one's own trumpet, though I've three times been of the verge of taking this out]), but now, unbelievably, from within the literary community as well. No apologies here: I like a large, meaty sentence that drips with meaning while packing it in, as sentences were meant to be: proof - Francis Bacon (not the twentieth century painter, the Renaissance philosopher and author). More significantly, every sentence I write is exactly the right size for the meaning it conveys, and how it scans.

… Sorry, I’ve fallen over myself and am ahead of where I’m supposed to be; I’ve not dealt to politics yet, and that provides the link to literature, my novel, the short hiatus coming with this blog, and finally these sentences.

Politics. I’m bored because deeply disillusioned with politics and this mob rule system which votes dependency on Nanny State as the answer for everything, despite the opposing evidence – namely, the twentieth century. When I cloister myself off, listen to only music, read books and watch movies, I’m happy; but as soon as the news leaks in, I’m pissed off almost immediately. I have enough political posts in here to figure me out, and which explain my literary posts; from here every political post I make is merely repeating myself, so as literature is my first love, I think I’ll re-re-orientate this blog to devote it mainly – not all - to that: a niche readership within a niche philosophy, thus barely a readership at all, possibly, given Progressives and the Left have no ambition or curiosity enough to read anything outside their own paradigm – (explaining why they’re so dangerous). And this is timely, as heaven knows New Zealand literature is sorely in need of me. Noting that’s not merely a matter of being unable to get over myself: rather that my Literary Ramble IV and subsequent events have by now adequately demonstrated the proof of my importance beyond all doubt.

With the obligatory apology for repeating myself post on post, the premise of Literary Ramble IV, part one of my literary manifesto (now in two parts), was simply put:


State funding of the arts is leading to the stultification of western literature under the reactionary establishment of Left-Liberalism, also called Progressivism, which has largely captured the means of production via the agents and publishers, and quietly indoctrinates the authors toward a homogenised literature via creative writing courses in progressive saturated tertiary institutions. Ours is no literature that will seed Le Guin's resistance and change, or that can be ‘disturbed by power’, as Solzhenitsyn feared, because it’s a literature which embraces the ethic of that power, the supremacy of the state over the individual, and incredibly for the arts, a collectivism over individualism, with at its base, the tax take which funds a complacent publishing channel, while eviscerating our private lives, our digital innards disemboweled and served up in the offices of government officials.


Further proof from that submitted in the original essay was gained at the end of May in the form of a literary festival – an actual literary festival - lecturing me on Twitter about the evils of alcohol, dousing in sobriety the whole notion of literature as the outside or a counter culture – (and please, the person(s) running that account need to take Branding 101; stick to the brand when tweeting, brow beat people about their drinking from your private accounts).

And then opening my Christchurch Press Your Weekend supplement this Saturday morning, June 13, I see the Press’s strident Progressive advocate Philip Matthews continue to use his editorship of the culture and arts pages to push an equally strident Progressive agenda in a manner – despite he has every right to do it - that is a disaster for all of us: truly the death throes of our literature and civilisation when the arts space of a free press is used as propaganda against an individualistic ethos - prepared to sacrifice individual volition and liberty to a baying mob - and against the economic system from which, and only from which, creativity and an essential resistance against the abusive state can flow; and given how the identity politick seeks to censor, shape and control language, propaganda against the free press itself. Matthews has long used his inches and Twitter feed to promote an airhead emoting Progressivism and Left identity politics – as I commented on in Literary Ramble IV, referencing the free hit given to Left bloggers after the 2014 election. So before moving on, I challenge Mr Matthews, given the words afforded to Thomas Piketty’s econo-political bromide last year, (and editing this very post today, June 20, two weeks after first writing it, I see Piketty being wheeled out in the cause of inequality over the book section yet again; unbelievable – why even bother calling the red tab pages of Your Weekend a book section(?)), ... I ask Mr Matthews does the Press plan to review, in view of balance, say, Professor Donald Boudreaux’s recently published Essential Hayek demonstrating the harm being done by our increasingly large and interventionist governments in justification of the welfare state? Or any work supportive of laissez faire? (Lovers of the free society founded on the voluntary transactions of capitalism are well advised not to hold their breath.)

… Moving back to the present morning of June 13, where over a sumptuous butter dripping plate of bacon I see  a half page review of the first New Zealand edition of Australian literary Overland magazine, which, if you look at the tiny print below the title, to allay any confusion about its raison d'état, is the magazine of, quote, Progressive Culture Since 1954, this New Zealand edition co-edited by no other than that wily Marxist who features here from time to time, Giovanni Tiso. (And I don’t want to be constantly harping on about Tiso, but of course he co-edited this, so he’s in my cross hairs again.)



Earlier in the month I’d seen the New Zealand Book Council pushing this political publication on Twitter and bitten my tongue, stomped on my foot, then crushed the fingers of my right hand with a hammer in an attempt not to bite back with words. But this morning was a column too far. The premise of my Literary Ramble IV, and the dire implications of this progressive capture of our literary endeavour on a vibrant, relevant literature, is conclusive – literature has fallen to a wholesale buy-in of a philosophy anathema to Art and the pursuit of happiness. In fact, to adulthood. And albeit I normally read all views, including Tiso’s often excellent blog - mind, in his latest post** he's stubbed his jackboot on that tired old Progressive contradiction again (he doesn't want to live in a surveillance state while his every policy demand requires the most ruthless one: the tax state) – in this instance, given Matthews review of Overland 219 indicates it contains the gem that Peter Oborne's story – I'm assuming the circumstances surrounding his resignation from the Telegraph - represented a greater threat to free speech than the jihadists who murdered the Charlie Hebdo cartoonists, I don’t think I need read this one (though I might try and crib a read of Morgan Godfrey’s article from somewhere: the same Mr Godfrey who snuck Mr Piketty into today’s – June 20 - Your Weekend again). Remembering per my thesis, re Charlie Hebdo, that the identity bound writers that rule western literature ended up saying in far too great numbers it was the cartoonists ruthlessly slaughtered own fault for being satirical offensive that they were ruthlessly slaughtered, not so much the fault of the jihadists themselves. Over one hundred of these authors put their names to a protest of PEN’s free speech prize awarded to the satirical magazine. I had that particular evil in mind when I wrote in the second part of my literary manifesto:


 … [A literature that should be] on principle, refusing to use trigger warnings, knowing that offence-giving is vital medicine to vaccinate the population from the censorious tyranny of umbrage taking. A literature to which the notion of a ‘safe place’ would be repugnant if it weren't so hilarious. There should be no safety to, or from, writing. That's why though not of my politick, I was always going to love our own James K. Baxters and our irreverent, drunk, Sam Hunts ...


Never forget how murderous the umbrage taking against Charlie Hebdo was. (Because the Progressives never ‘got it’ in the first place.)

And that’s what makes this blog essential as the necessary antidote to return literature to the vital place it should be: the expression of living free, adult lives, and as a centre of resistance to state abuse against such liberty. My literary posts are shown in the top content menu on the right, but if you read nothing else while I’m away for a bit (explained below), read my literary manifesto:






Which segues to the problem my novel is giving me.

As a novel, it might not be any good - it might be awful. It certainly is a ‘little strange’, and not only because I decided it was easier to do away with chronology. My problem is despite the arts degree in English literature and language of thirty odd years and that I can read a novel – of someone else – with good judgement as to if it works, because I can never read my novel for the first time I find I have no judgement over it. Either to the whole – does it even jell – or to the quality of its parts. Frustrating, given I work in a vacuum.

Worse. I was going to write that despite the novel utilises pastiche of several traditions (consciously) you won’t have read anything like it, but then I read Shaj Mathew’s Welcome to Literature’s Duchamp Moment, and I probably can’t claim even that. [A how-to writing piece I stupidly read said you should never use the word even, but call me a rebel.] Apparently I’ve broadly been writing readymade fiction - who knew? Certainly not I until after I’d finished the first draft; I’d never heard of it. Though I prefer to think of my work as unique within whatever readymade is, as those authors listed - Ben Lerner, Sophie Calle, Teju Cole, Tom McCarthy, Alejandro Zambra, Siri Hustvedt, Michel Houellebecq, Sheila Heti, W.G. Sebald, Orhan Pamuk, and Enrique Vila-Matas, - are not likely to have either my brief, or my particular beefs. And of that list, ashamed to say, I’ve only read Sebald’s stunning Austerlitz, but even that over October seven years ago so I can remember nothing of it in the details, just a joy attached to the text and to a place (Perth), when reading it.

Then there are a series of practical problems from the novel which wind up concerning this blog. I keep a reading list on the right hand menu: I’ve been on my current read, Richard Ford’s Independence Day, since the start of May – normally I’m a bibliohagist – I read a lot of books - but I find, for whatever reason, while reading through and editing the first draft of my own novel, I can’t read other books, so I have stopped.

And for the same reason this blog. The pre-existing dibbs on my time has to be my day job, but outside that I can’t edit my novel and write blog posts; I’m spread too thin. That and I only blog for my own entertainment. So I am taking a break from blogging until I have finished. I have no idea how long this will be, I suspect a couple of months at least, but drop in from time to time, there may be the very odd post - and please, don't take me off your blogrolls, 'I'll be back'.

Which brings me to the length of my sentences and words. Barry Humphries, a hero of mine up there with Clive James, opines at how many expressive words in our dictionaries ‘are going rusty’ and falling into disuse for not being used. He is right. And it’s the same Generation Airhead [Copyright Lindsay Perigo] ethos that is trying to prematurely execute our sentences … I think (conjoined with the short attention spans sponsored by the Internet).

The main admonition I am getting trying to write a query for my novel – and I admit my query writing is useless; I can’t write the short form of anything – is my sentences are too long.

Well snot.

There, finally got an expressive short one in.

Although I reckon my best retort is this sentence in Ford’s Independence Day:

“… We therefore settled ourselves into a little ongoing pocket drama in which I created the role of avuncular but charmingly randy white professor who’d sacrificed a successful but hopelessly stodgy prior life to ‘work’ for his remaining productive years in a (one-student) private college, where Clair was the beautiful, intelligent voluble, slightly naïve but feisty, yet basically kindhearted valedictorian, who realised we two shared lofty but hopeless ideals, and who in the service of simple human clarity was willing to woogle around me with in private, hypertensive but futureless (due to our years) lovemaking, and to moon at my aging mug over fish stick dinners and doughy pancakes in soulless franchise eateries while pretending to everybody she knew that such a thing was absolutely out of the question.”


That’s 129 words. A single sentence. So, I think I’m done with that. Long sentences stay, I’m writing for the grown-ups.

Only leaving me with where to drop you out of this post. What better place than Mr Tiso.

Given Giovanni thinks I have a fixation on him – per one of his tweets, although, no, I just find him usefully representative of ‘the problem’ that has turned our literature into a mouthpiece of rampant stultifying statism – I thought I may as well write him into my novel – no context provided, sorry, I can’t be bothered:


… But despite Henry could see that, he cannot see the contradiction he has ended up living. At its heart, the Erdal novel is based on a protagonist whose life ground down to a meaningless anarchy, floundering on the deadly Humean conceit: a life where "randomness was largely what determined the future. Along with chance and absurdity - 'its close cousins'". And yet Henry, in stalking a moral life following his reason, has delivered both of us to the same meaningless anarchy. His lack of self-awareness and self-knowledge is staggering: twice in his blog he sets to against a Marxist blogger, not a man of big readership I would have thought, bit obnoxious, called Weasel, no, Tiso, I think, of Italian extraction, Henry calls him Mr Ban and Boycott – presumably of anything un-Tiso - though what Henry failed to see staring back at him from his own words, was in his stubborn pig-headedness and inflexibility, he was Tiso’s mirror image; they are the same man, throwing angry tantrums at everything. There’s something childish about them.


Not long after this section I throw Karl Marx under a Fulton Hogan truck and kill him in the Christchurch earthquake rebuild, a section which includes my own homage to the sadly departed Campbell Live show, all of which probably sounds – if you were a publisher – suicidal/ly ‘local’, to which my response is twofold:

Firstly, I never wrote my novel with any expectation of being published – that’s the only way I could approach it. Hell, even if any good, I suspect there are some trenchant legal problems with it.

Secondly, in the first two pages of the novel I dare the world to read local or be damned:




… A month ago Eddie and I drove to Port Levy. Daphne became very dear to us and there had always been this pull to know the truth. It’s a lovely drive from Christchurch; the Peninsula’s lack of development or human habitation is unfathomable – (after several trips I have found the sea’s rugged loneliness there comforting, and am thinking of making the permanent move myself). Traveling over Dyers Pass Road, the first town, Governors Bay, is too shady snuggled up under the steep hills during winter, but as the narrow road winds around, coast on the left, hills and rock or clay bluffs high up on the right, all those settlements face north into the sun: Charteris Bay; Hays Bay; Church Bay with its yacht club, the children were out on their little optimists the day we went, like butterflies bobbing on the water; Diamond Harbour; Purau, and then up over Mt Evans before falling again through tussock and flowering gorse to isolated Port Levy. I am assuming the ‘port’ aspect is historical for it’s not a working port any longer.

There is an otherness, a separation not just of geography, about this tiny village bounded by hills east, south and west, with the sea to the north coming down a narrow neck of rocky burnt coast. (I like that English domiciled word, village, though it’s rarely used about the New Zealand rural landscape). Our latest Mann Booker Prize winner, Eleanor Catton, says she included place in her novel The Luminaries as a character. For her it was the West Coast of the South Island, but Port Levy feels like that; a presence apart and yet entwined in human living, the rock pools on the foreshore murmuring catechisms of birth, destruction and regenerations carried on the salty sea breeze to dance among the hopes and travails of its small population. Daphne said Catton’s remark was speaking to publishing wisdom whereby writers outside of the US cannot write local because Americans do not want to read novels set outside of their own navels. Though Daphne also said ‘fuck em, myopic bastards, and outside Twain, Fitzgerald, Lee, Ford, Updike, Plath and Tartt, what authors have they produced of any good anyway?’ I am unqualified to speak to that, but I miss my bookish talks with Daphne. I miss Daphne, period.

This from Googling: Port Levy, Maori name Koukourarata, is the reserve of the Ngai Tutehuarewa, hapu of the Ngai Tahu tribe. I had to search that because despite I grew up a mere low lying hill divide distant, I know nothing about Maori culture (or acculturation) on Banks Peninsula which Port Levy wears in a pedestrian manner that will leave me forever a visitor – I hasten to say this feeling is not unpleasant. …



The novel I set out to write was not the novel I wrote. Its saving grace might be if you were to ever read it you would know exactly why you hated it.

Perhaps [noting that same how-to article said never use perhaps] the one thing I have learned is if my novel ever is imprinted into your mind, then it will be up to me to push it: silly for me to look to NZ Lit Inc. And that suits me fine: I’d rather be on the outside looking in, because that’s where I always have been in everything I’ve ever done. And though blowing my own trumpet doesn’t come naturally, I’m rather good at it.

Though, as my final random thought until I come back, those who shouldn’t be blowing any trumpet are big name authors, (sigh) progressives, who write anti-capitalist dystopias. Per this drek piece of analysis, The Post-Apocalyptic Present, I have learned that such authors need to understand what capitalism is first (the first part of my manifesto would put them right), and that the 2008 GFC was caused by interventionist governments, nothing to do with capitalism. Mind, the writer of the piece, Andrew Hoberek, has no obvious bias, right?

These novels are at their best and most challenging when they withhold such visions of renewal and simply give us images of a broken United States: people in California, Michigan, Kansas, Tennessee, Massachusetts, and elsewhere struggling to hold it together amidst the ruins of a lost society. There are two reasons we currently find these scenes so compelling. First, they offer representations of the post-apocalyptic present we already inhabit. But second, and more hopefully, they counter this slant form of realism with glimpses of a world freed from the capitalism responsible for the damage.

I agree with Hobe(d)rek in the first part: we do live in a post-apocalyptic present, where the big brother tax surveillance state and hugely interventionist governments have destroyed free markets and individual liberty. Which gives my answer to what I think of his concluding second part: economic luddite. Fucks sake … seriously, read my literary manifesto. Or better, my upcoming novel.

Anyway vis a vis nothing above, other than a photo mashup I made for inclusion in my novel, I’ll end with dear old Dad who died this March. Here’s my eulogy to him, read nervously at his funeral, and in the photo below that’s the both of us on our respective wedding days. Dad was a good kind Christian man who thought by this stage he would be in Heaven or some darned absurdist thing. Me? I suspect he’s just worm fodder – but he’ll live in me until my turn comes, at which time assuming no euthanasia law still, if a euthanased death would have been my want otherwise (pending circumstances), then that’ll be the time I’m thinking of blowing my brains out on the steps of Parliament, which will perhaps make a point as well as anything. Though – fingers and toes crossed – there’ll be many bottles of wine drunk between now and then. To my dear old dad – photo excerpt from my novel …



** A Giovanni postscript:

Regarding Giovanni Tiso's post referred to above, an excellent post about the mundanity of modern surveillance in the Internet age, I couldn't resist a comment. Giovanni's response is significant, and able demonstration of why Left based societies always flow with blood, ultimately, on the double standard. [Apologies for the formatting which will be lost.]


Blogger Mark Hubbard said...
 
[Observation.] IRD read a good many of my posts against our (ruthless) tax surveillance state, and the Internet has become a major source of information for them (including social media).

What do you think of that?

And the fact that I have no right of silence against IRD, no right of judicial review against their actions, the Department has almost unlimited powers to raid without warrant, and the burden of proof is even turned against me. That I have no right at all to be left alone by the state via them, though I harm no one.

Your post sets out the contradiction of the Left who don't want their lives surveiled, but are quite happy mine is on the altar of redistribution. I can't help but think, especially with your citing one of my top ten movies, Lives of Others, your concern is overdone.

Nicely written though.

Delete
Blogger Giovanni Tiso said...
 
Interesting parallel. I'm not terribly concerned with IRD using your public social media postings as supporting evidence that you're wealthier than you are willing to disclose to them.

Hiding money from the tax authorities isn't a form of dissent or expression. It's just fraud. The powers of disclosure of the IRD I suppose *could* be used to intimidate or persecute (say, if a vocal critic of the government were suddenly audited, for instance), and I wouldn't be surprised to hear that a powerful agency occasionally abuses its prerogatives, but as for the exercise of those powers in general, I'm not against it.

Blogger Mark Hubbard said...
 
All the good work of your post, which I agree with 100%, totally undone in one comment, Giovanni.

(And please read my disclaimer at the bottom of my every post: I'm scared of IRD, you bet I am, and do my taxes conservatively. Though, of course, lost in your brutal cult of redistribution you entirely missed the point, which is an individual's right to be left alone by the state, if they constitute no harm. So I take it back; your concern is not overdone, it's hypocritical.)

Have a good one.

You might find the remainder of the debate in Giovanni's comments section interesting :)



Update the First – The Response.



You’ll remember that I wrote, quote:



“I have been constantly castigated for the long(er), heavier sentences (and in one case words) of my upbringing …”



… and then went on to say why I had no agreement with that, I will use the sentence size that fits me. So, the comments on my post so far :)









It wasn’t about being ‘concise’ – I come here to have fun. This’s playing.



Onward:


True that. I do.

Quoting Mrs H. ‘Oh you go onnn!’ And she would agree with every comment here.

Next from the co-editor of Overland 219:


I’d probably enjoy the fiction section. If I only read books written by people with my points of view I’d have about three books to read. Which is why my novel will be … unique. And it’s a shame that the shoe on the progressive foot is not so well traveled in lands they find anathema to them, albeit, I’ve got some new readers tuning in - and I realise my first three paragraphs would make it hard for them to stay. But welcome to you all.

I have no animosity to anyone above; the furthest thing from that. Plus I’m a mirror; I respond to people in the manner they bring to me. I’ve been plain in every post on Giovanni, including above, he is a damned fine writer, that’s why he’s on my blogroll. It is his politick and approach I find repugnant, which is why my responses tend to be likewise – but I’d enjoy sitting in a pub talking over a brew with him. I simply think different … and comments like this prove my thesis of Literary Ramble IV regarding the ownership of our literature by a clique of the Left, a very partisan Left where solidarity ousts principle and – historically – too often humanity. No one wins from that, certainly not our literature.

Tra la, onward and upward, as some bore once said …