Women in History - The Hard Work behind Footnotes

I'm editing the book of a distant cousin and I have to add an awful lot of footnotes to explain who the people he mentions are.

There's one paragraph where he drops so many names that it generated a page and a half of footnotes.

I have a few mysteries that I needed to solve with detective skills; for example, at one point he writes about a noble lady who was the model of a sculptor (scandalous!!!) and so he only gives her initial and vaguely describes the completed statue. I had to check all the works of the sculptor and check which noble lady visited him when the statue was being created.

I think I've found statue and lady, but I'll have to check the sculptor's correspondence to make sure.

You just have to have an interest in genealogy to know that the lives of women were seldom recorded properly... which takes me to last night's footnote. I found a mention of a young woman (by chance, she was linked to the same sculptor who had the noble lady model) and a specialist of that sculptor had a mini biography about her in his book. Splendid! But when was she born and when did she die? Not a word - and that bugged me beyond words because it's unfair. So I put on my Sherlock cap and got to work, but it was bumpy...

Letters mentioned the age people thought she had, then I found her marriage briefly mentioned in archives (the registers burnt and we only have reconstituted data) and I knew she had at least one son because there are descendants.

I located the birth certificate of her son, which made me go looking for his marriage certificate. Once I found it, after checking all 20 districts of Paris over two decades, I knew that she was dead by the time he got married. Then, I checked three decades and I didn't find her, or her husband who was also dead by the time their son got married. I checked the town where the son was living - no luck.

I was ready to type that she was lost in History when I thought (because I've had the case in my family), 'What if she was registered with her birth name instead of her married name - as she should have?'. I checked the decade her son was born in the same district he was born and... bingo! There she was.

The age she was given in her death certificate wasn't consistent with the possible years of birth mentioned in the letters and I ended up with four possible years. The death certificate stated where she was born, so I went to check their registers and I finally found when she was born.

That took me about nine hours. Because I'm stubborn as hell and I didn't want her to be one of those "lost in History" women.

I have a lot more respect for footnotes now (some require a few minutes of work, but others send the historian on a quest that can take an awful lot of time).

Chers scénaristes, si vous avez besoin d'une historienne...

... ou tout simplement de quelqu'un pour vous relire, vous pouvez m'engager.

En revanche, si vous vous acharnez à commettre des erreurs historiques, je vous fais bouffer votre script. Sans sel. Sans moutarde.

Pourquoi suis-je en train de ronchonner ? Tout simplement à cause d'un téléfilm.

Je regardais tranquillement un épisode de Meurtres à..., qui est une série que j'aime beaucoup, quand l'épisode ...Aix-en-Provence (écrit et réalisé par Claude-Michel Rome) m'a fait faire un triple salto arrière avec rattrapage au plafond par les griffes.

Présentations des pièces à conviction, Madame la présidente/Monsieur le président : 

Échange n°1 :

A : Je l'ai convaincu que tu serais plus à ton aise si le manuscrit était ici.

{Gros plan sur un livre imprimé protégé par une vitrine} <- au moins, l'accessoiriste n'est pas une tanche, car ->

B : Incroyable. Un incunable du XVI^e siècle. Écrit de la main de Nostradamus ?

Là, mon plafond était déjà lacéré.

Échange n°2 : 

C : Est-ce qu'il pourrait venir du manuscrit trouvé dans la crypte ?

D : Non, personne n'a approché l'incunable après sa découverte.

C : Heu ?

D: L'incunable !

E : Livre du XVI^e siècle postérieur au début de l'imprimerie.

Là, j'ai commencé à hurler à la mort. Je n'avais pas autant râlé à cause d'un scénario depuis Gladiator, qui était pourtant pas mal déjanté dans le genre « Je fais pas mes devoirs, mais c'est pas grave ».

Un manuscrit, c'est écrit à la main par un copiste.

Un incunable, c'est un livre imprimé entre la date de l'invention de l'imprimerie (vers 1450) et avant le 1^er janvier 1501.

Un « incunable manuscrit », ça n'existe pas dans notre dimension.

Donc, le scénariste n'a pas vérifié la définition d'un incunable ou l'a lue en diagonale ou ne l'a pas comprise ou... se fichait complètement d'avoir une telle erreur dans son œuvre (je me souviens de la conférence d'un historien à qui il arrivait d'être conseiller historique sur des tournages et qui nous avait parlé d'un réalisateur qui voulait avoir des bananes dans une coupe de fruits... au Moyen-âge !).

Je ne sais pas à quoi nous avons affaire ici, mais si j'ai, un jour, le plaisir de rencontrer le coupable, je me ferai un plaisir de lui poser la question.

En attendant, si quelqu'un veut m'engager, je suis très efficace... mais je vous démonterai le squelette en place publique si vous ne corrigez pas ce genre d'erreur une fois que je vous l'aurai signalée (je fais de l'allergie aux tanches de concours et autres buses).

PS : Ce n'est peut-être pas qu'avec côtelette incunable que le scénariste a des problèmes, mais, même s'il voulait dire volume ou livre à la place de manuscrit, ça n'explique quand même pas le réplique B de l'échange 1.

Varieties of Denialism

Bipeds that cannot accept facts because they don't fit their agenda, beliefs, or whatever have a way to make my blood boil.

With the film Denial coming to our screens, the number of Holocaust denialists has become more visible with these decerebrated bipeds flooding forums and comments threads.

Just this morning, I've seen a bunch of village idiots doubt that the Holocaust happened; one even found it fishy to not be allowed to doubt the evidence - and the testimonies of the survivors! There were also idiots adding the Holodomor to their list of denials.

As a historian, I understand that we can doubt that the battle of Agincourt happened exactly the way it is reported in archives - but we can dig up testimonies and get a fair idea of what happened. All one needs is hard work - and a working brain.

What I cannot understand is the collection of village idiots, from all over the rock, who can read all the documents we have in archives, and who can meet survivors or read their testimonies (be it about the Holodomor, the Holocaust, or even the sex slaves for the Imperial Japanese army), and who say, 'Nope! I don't believe it! It just can't be true!'.

They make me want to yell and make them sit down and educate themselves until their two and a half brain cells have a spark of illumination.

My introduction for the publication of Shakespeare's Sonnets for Éditions Aikyō is dealing with all the varieties of denialists about Shakespeare.

I ended up dividing contemporary denialists into two categories: prime and secondary.

Secondary denialists are the collections of village idiots who might well doubt that our planet orbits around the sun if it became fashionable in their circles to think so, or who do not have enough brain cells to understand facts and the truth. They're infuriating, but I fear most of them are just too stupid.

Much worse and twisted are the prime denialists. These are bipeds who, I think, do understand the archives and the testimonies, but who have decided to not believe them. These bipeds have decided to spread lies (not "post-truth", not "alternative facts" - let's call a spade a spade: they're LIES); maybe they're doing that to enjoy the chaos and pain their words will generate, and/or maybe they have some hidden agenda to promote - be it hatred for one subdivision of humanity, or be it to promote their own work.

If we take into account the scary number of secondary denialists, the prime denialists have a lot of quarterwits (I do fear we're talking about creatures way below the average halfwit) who are ready and willing to pay to buy their books or watch their films or documentaries.

We have ignoramuses and simpletons falling into the cunning traps of manipulators and profiters who would say and do anything to make money and become famous.

Both categories annoy me, but I have some compassion for secondary denialists... Prime denialists, not so much, as I see them as liars and dubious, devious, and unethical creatures who would deny that their own mothers gave birth to them if they could gain anything from spitting that lie.

I do believe that "Knowledge is power", and I will always fight against prime denialists who try to pervert what decent people know to be truths.

Give Me Liberty or Give Me... The Right to Growl at You

If I were President of Earth (the measure is already implemented in my empire, because that was the right thing to do), I'd have Strategy classes in all schools from the age of 6.

That'd teach Earthlings to spot manipulators and bullies - and bad politicos (or are they covered with "manipulators"??). Anyway... elementary strategy seems like a good idea to fight against the sheeple problem.

It's a real need, because John and Jane Doe seem to not notice how their Liberty is eroded one millimetre at a time.

In the wake of the recent events in France, local politicos have been taking emergency measures - strategy reading of this: they must be seen doing something (even if that's just following the script that the bad guys are expecting - if I were President of Earth, I'd do something so unexpected that the bad guys would freeze long enough to be tackled by the good guys I'd have sent; and yes, I know what I would do).

As well, we're assaulted by pseudo-specialists on telly who yell that you're a bad Republican if you don't obey blindly (that started two days after the attacks) - and the politicos are already in election-mode (ballots casting in 2016 and 2017!).

As well, we're fed pseudo-polls that say that over 80% of the population is in favour of the increased security measures - strategy reading: if you seem to be against the additional security measures, you'll appear to be a minority, and that's not safe (in clear: we're going to make you stay silent by scaring you with invented or twisted polls).

Over the past days on Twitter, I spotted this: 

 

It's rather accurate, if scary.

There are good articles on the topic here (about political sheeple passing laws in emergency), here (about the testimony of an ex-hostage of the plonkers), or here (about the manipulation and lies amongst the bad guys themselves).

And from the 18th century, there's the infamous: "Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety."

I'm currently growling because of a detail. A little something. A bloody millimetre.

You see, when I go to work, we've got two guards at the door now, and I've got to show my badge - and open my handbag.

Legally, the guards have no special power over me. I open my bag because I'm a nice gal (and I need to go to work, and I can't wait for the coppers to show at the door to check my bag), but... the guards are forbidden to touch my bag. "Visual inspection", and that's it.

Of course, the bloke who checked my bag the past days puts his hand on the side of my bag - and he's doing that with everybody (I witnessed it myself and I asked my students).

I may end up being in trouble, but if I deal with the same bloke next time, I'll ask his boss to send him back to training.

If I allow this millimetre to escape me, what next? Registering as a slave for the bad guys? Allowing a male in a blue shirt to check if I'm hiding anything inside my body?

Sweet something. The bad guys must be laughing... but not for long. I'm going to defend all my legal millimetres, and I'll let no one limit my Liberty - it's already tough enough being a gal on this planet. I don't need more plonkers to bully me.

I feel like taking my favourite towel and raising my wand to get a lift home (yes, mixing fandoms. Problem?).

Dreaming of a Complicated Quilt

This is NOT a post about sewing at all.

It's about humanity, but using a pattern image.

The thing is, the recent events in Paris have made people start talking about community, and some people would like our world to be a piece of material with printed polka dots, in which the dots are separate communities that would have no contact with the next dot whatsoever.

Of course, that's one way to stay safe... but of course, with that, you never get out of your cave, and you die in the dark.

What I'm dreaming of is a lovely quilt. Different colours, different materials, but with defined limits so that "blue coton" doesn't "bleed" on "red satin" or "green wool".

I don't want a world of ghettos (my cave, my family, my tribe, my village, my street, my pub, my region, my country?). Whatever the size of these limits, I don't like them. I do understand that I'm not like a Zen monk or a farmer from... let's say Guatemala, but if we are civilized we can respect all our boundaries, agree to disagree on some topics, and live together in harmony (then again, I grew up a trekkyer, so I probably dream about the Federation too much).

If people insist on having polka dots on the fabric of humanity, we could have them close enough to talk to one another couldn't we? Or are most people so afraid of the mauve cashmere polka dot that just moved too close to them?

Are so many people really that afraid? Can't we talk and communicate and be better than frightened animals?

I'm probably too optimistic.

I know.

PS: I'd kick any polka dot/quilt square so hard that "it" would land on a polar bear if "it" told me to obey "it" and let "it" treat me like a slave. I'm optimistic, not stupid.

Victorian Era - The Reboot

I'm currently doing some research for something I want to write and that's going to be set in the late Victorian Era... and I realized that, even though our calendars say 2015, there are things that have almost gone back to how bad it was back in the 19th century.

We have food scandals (no more lead and chalk, but GMOs and horse meat in your lasagna anyone?).

The protection of the unions is getting weaker.

More and more people simply can't afford to heat their flats or houses (I think I remember reading about old people who died in unheated places because they couldn't afford to pay for that). If I merely have a look at the amount of money I've got to give to the Gas Company, that's theft (they use a higher rate in the heart of winter - for one week mid-December, I gave them as much money as I paid for a whole month in early spring). Perhaps there are too many bipeds on earth, but in the 21st century, no one should die because of the cold in a civilized country.

And then... the nastiest scam orchestrated by our politicos: retirement.

One of my cousins just got a file in the post about retirement rights, and everything about 'How long will you have to work?', which prompted my mother to ask me what my situation, retirement-wise, is. 

Charming.

I thought, 'I've got time!', but curiosity launched my inner cat on the Internet, and then... I realized the extent of the catastrophe.

I'll have to work (at least - if the politicos don't change the retirement laws again!) for 47 years, and I thought, 'Okay, I'm going to die before I can retire.'

You see, I didn't start working at 15.

I started working when I finally managed to find a job, and that was only after I got my M.St. (my M.A. wasn't even enough for me to find something! - Anything).

The year I sat for my PhD, I had three jobs (so I don't mind working hard and long hours), but... I didn't make enough money for that year to be counted (that's why I love so much the character of Martin Crieff in Cabin Pressure: I can relate).

After my PhD? Oh, that's soooo pretty on the curriculum! But I have to fend alone, and finding regular jobs is a task from hell (add to the mix the occasional boss who gives a job to a bloke coz he thought I was married and working just for fun, whilst the hired bloke is the breadwinner - I usually joke that I'm Christmas pudding, and dessert comes after bread).

You know, I think I wouldn't be so angry if I could expect more than two months of retirement before I kick the bucket (provided that I find a position where they won't renew my contract once I reach a certain age), and if the politicos who voted the laws weren't such hypocrites (some of them earn in a month what I earn in a year! And they can retire after five years! FIVE years!!!!!).

I'm also a bit angry because I've been advised to either become a politician (that'd be tough, as I'm honest, and I find all political parties to be the same brand of liars and I couldn't join any) or to find myself a wealthy husband. First, I'll have to remind my relatives that a wife could do as well... However, I'm not going to sell myself for financial security.

I'd rather swallow hot coal. Mind you, that might be a way to avoid freezing to death when I'm old and grey, when no one wants to employ me because I look like a mummified raisin, and when I can't afford to turn the heater on.

Dear Fairy in the Sky that doesn't exist, may I be a politico or a footballer in my next incarnation (the one that's never going to happen)? 

Passive Acceptance/Active Fight

Apart from the fact that the situations that are currently making me growl reek of victim-blaming, some people seem quite eager to roll over and welcome barbarians in their beds - or tell others to shut up and 'take it, coz that's life and you can't change it'.

If I were in a war zone, things would get nasty (let's face it, I'd kill - and may end up being killed for being unsubmissive [Pretty normal with my DNA]). When I read bipeds saying that people should flee instead of fighting when some genitalia-deprived plonkers invade somewhere, that makes my blood boil, and I always want to ask them how they'd like it if the aforementioned plonkers landed in their boring suburbs.

As well, we're getting more and more articles describing what women (of all ages, shape, colour and styles) have to go through when they go outside. Then, you get bipeds suggesting to:

- ignore the genitalia-deprived heckling plonkers

- get a life, coz that's not important

- stop whingeing

- stop complaining coz men have it tough, too (writer's note: we're not denying this, you bloody owner of just three brain cells, so will you stop changing the topic and bringing the focus back on you, you, and you)

- avoid any kind of confrontation with the genitalia-deprived heckling plonkers, coz that could be dangerous

That last point makes me sooooooooooooooo angry. What am I supposed to do if a huge bloke decides that he's got the right to grope me? Thank him? Walk away?

Sorry (still just being well-educated), but if anyone thinks that he (or she - I'm all for full equality) can touch me without permission, I'll fight back. You groped my boobs? Fine, kiss your hazelnuts goodbye. That's fair trade in my book.

I can imagine bipeds thinking 'but it's dangerous!' or 'but you'd be breaking the law!'. Sorry (points to three lines above), but I'm just defending myself, and I shan't roll over for anyone (yes, that's would potentially get me in trouble, but with each passing year, my fangs grow longer and my allergy to stupidity lasts for twelve months a year; I can't help it).

I know it's easier to avoid conflicts (each situation needs to be analysed, and choices need to be made accordingly), but sometimes one needs to stand up to bullies and re-educate them (with a poker if need be).

Gosh! In a few decades (if I'm not run over by a text-sending driver), I'm going to be quite a growling old lass.

PS: I wrote this last week, but I didn't have time to edit it until tonight (and I'm so tired that there might still be a few silly things here and there), and I'm quite happy that five men on a train have just demonstrated that doing nothing isn't going to help in any way.

Life & Art & Abuse & Boycott

I love documentaries, and I love Auntie Beeb.

I quite like Victoria Coren Mitchell. I like her in Only Connect, and when I spotted How to Be Bohemian, I watched the three parts of this documentary.

First, it was very interesting, and I always like to learn new things.

Then, in the second part, when Mrs Coren Mitchell talked about Eric Gill (a man I'd never heard of until that moment - because I'm still not omniscient or plugged into some Akashic Records), I wanted to give her a hug and thank her for no longer wanting to see some of his art after learning that he'd abused his young daughter and that he'd used her to inspire him.

Apparently, Eric Gill couldn't keep his equipment in his trousers (so to speak, since it seems that he took to wearing dresses and robes - to be always ready??). He screwed many, and on his list, his own sister can be found.

All right. I'm not going to be your average prude, but I can't help imagining a man manipulating his sibling into having sex with him rather than having her agreeing to fuck her brother. But, let's try to be hugely tolerant, and let's say two consenting adults had some fun together. Not our business. Fine.

But... according to the man himself, if his diary's to be believed, he raped at least two of his daughters. There is no possible way we, as humans, can hear that and not wish to send a creature like Gill into complete oblivion (if I could go Egyptian on the guy and erase him from History, I'd be tempted).

But then, Mrs Coren Mitchell interviewed Fiona MacCarthy, a biographer of Gill, and then I realized that when it comes to standing by the victims, we're not out of the wood.

Mrs Coren Mitchell asked if we should know the background of a work of art. If the life of the "artist" goes into illegality, shouldn't we stop the person? Being an artist doesn't give anyone a licence to abuse or hurt anyone else (artists can drink, smoke, and snort powder as much as they want; I don't care - as long as they don't try to force me to join or attempt to break my favourite vase).

So, here, we're talking about a man who raped his own children. Even if he had a brain tumour that could explain his vagrant prick, he was an abusive manipulator and a sex predator in my book.

And here comes the immunity card for him: he's an artist. <insert fake gasp here>

When asked if the real life and the art should be viewed as separate, Mrs MacCarthy made me cringe.

     Fiona MacCarthy: I can separate them. And I think that it's the kind of dichotomy in human behaviour that somebody who can behave so reprehensibly can produce these works of supreme art.      

     Victoria Coren Mitchell: Something like the Girl in Bath though, the images he made of his daughter, those erotic images of a naked child. I'm afraid it makes me want to get in a time machine and kneecap him [that's the part that made me want to hug her! I'd lend her a hand!]. Do you find those images beautiful?

       FMC: I still find them beautiful, yes. And if he was a less good artist, I don't think I would bother with him. I don't think that I would be at all concerned with his sexual life or at all interested in it. I think that’s the testing thing. It's this curious tension that produces the rather particular beauty of those images, and I think, perhaps, even that one understands them more deeply by knowing the history.

    VCM: But you might say, well, knowing that he abused his children in this way; yes, one understands better what he was doing in that drawing, and in understanding it, one wants to reject it, no?

     FMC: Well, I wouldn't say that, you see. I think that people who try to police works of art according to what they believe to be the political views or the sexual behaviour of the artist, then they rule out an awful lot of great art. What about Wagner? Do you switch off Wagner because you disapprove of his anti-Semitic views?

       VCM: Yes!

       FMC: You do!? You switch him off!

       VCM: Yeah, I realize that strikes you as terribly philistine…

       FMC: Yes!

      VCM: And I do know it's complicated, I love the poetry of Yeats; he was in his own weird way a sort of Nazi sympathizer. I know these things are complex, and it’s very hard to make an absolute rule, but when I look at those images of Gill’s young daughter, and I know that he abused her; I think it's not something I want to see again.

      FMC: Well, I think that this is a very, very narrow view of art, of society, and that one can’t be so dogmatic. One has to try and take it on board.

This is not victim-blaming, but when someone says, 'Oh, but that Artist is soooooooo good that I can ignore the fact that he (or she) [or it, for all I care] is skinning kittens alive for fun.', then that is deciding to not condemn the fellow biped for doing something bad because that biped is doing something else that you like.

It's simple enough, you put yourself in the shoes (or the paws) of the victim, and you think long and hard how you'd like the rest of the world to come to your rescue. Do you want the coppers to come and stop the abuse, or do you want an art critic or a fan to tell you to be proud of your abuser because he's suuuuuuuuuuuuuuch a grrrrrrreat Aaaaartist? Go on, answer that one.

No amount of genius justifies throwing a victim under the "art" bus.

That's true for Gill. That's true for any abuser who happens to be an artist, like that so-called writer-actor-director who was accused by his step-daughter (the girl is toast in that art world, and the man's still working and getting trophies).

Mind you, that's not limited to art. Have some money (a few billions should work), and you can get away with abusing, say, your step-daughter - the judge will only order you to serve four months - two if you're a nice bloke, coz you lead a "productive life", and your family's important for the community.

When I go shopping, it can take me time because I check that I'm not going to give money to companies that have despicable business habits and/or nasty bosses.

I do the same with artists. I've got a blacklist.

There are enough decent geniuses to entertain us (I didn't know Gill before I watched that documentary, but when I saw his art... I didn't feel a thing. To me, he's in the "nothing to write about" category, and now that I know what he did to his children, I'll ignore anything by him. Not because I'm a philistine - I'm not, but because he's not that good, and as a man, which is inseparable from the artist, he was a monster).

I'll still enjoy the works of any drunkard, drug addict, libertine, but pardon me, I'll draw the line at rapist... and no amount of justification will make me agree with you if you want to keep enjoying the works of any biped guilty of that crime.

That's not a "very, very narrow view of art, of society", that's the position of a survivor who knows what it's like to be in the claws of a monster with the rest of the world ignoring your plight. So gimme another tune, Cupcake, and behave like a decent human being and shun the monsters - quite often, they're overpriced brats who are selling you some invisible cloth. The sooner you see that the king is naked, that their art is empty, and that you're standing by a plonker who's dragging you into the abuse, the better.

*curtseys, & hops off the soapbox*

Get a Life, Pay Attention & Use More Brain Cells

About last week's events in France, this post's going to be in three growls parts:

- against the brainwashed plonkers who murdered innocent people

- against the idiots who are somehow blaming the victims (and silly bipeds in general)

- against the sheeple who are ready to surrender to terror 'coz'

The bonus shall be about all the awesome people who are reacting beautifully.

So, here we go:

Point 1:
If you're the "mastermind", chief, plonker-in-command behind any "terror" (read: cowardly) act, there are two possibilities:
A) You're a warranted nutcase smoking the bad lawn, and then you're a hopeless creature that will be useful only in fertilizer form (the sooner, the better).
B) You're a twisted plonker who brainwashes people in order to control them and/or make money from their work and/or death. You deserve to rot slowly. Full stop.
[I can't remember if I've stated it anywhere in this blog before, but I don't believe in the death penalty. Since I don't believe in Heaven or whatever, I view death as the easy way out. Despicable bipeds deserve to live a very long life - working from oubliettes in order to compensate their victims.]

It's quite easy, Cupcake...
You're allowed to be shocked, angry, sad, annoyed, but no one died and made you king (or queen), and you've got no right to kill anyone because your "deep" belief that the Supreme Being has been insulted makes you think that you can grab a weapon and start shooting people.
If you want to defend your Supreme Being (you know, the one who, because you think He/She/It is a Supreme Being doesn't need you, the human gnat on Earth, to defend Him/Her/It because He/She/It is a SUPREME BEING, and if you believe that He/She/It created everything, then you're not needed to avenge Him/Her/It - incidentally, if you do hear His/Her/Its voice or voices, phone Bedlam, you need medical help), write a poem, start a petition against the person or persons who offended you (telling him/her/them that they're idiots - or be inventive, but always polite), paint a painting, draw a drawing, sue someone, BUT DO NOT RESORT TO VIOLENCE.

The foot soldiers of terrorism need to be educated. with more brain cells being active, you quickly realize that killing people makes you leave humanity.
The plonkers from point 1B who are using children to blow up people are genitalia-lacking clots.

Basically, it's simple: don't kill people because they say (draw, sculpt, etc...) something that you don't like. You tell them that you disagree, you mock them, you write theses against them, or... *fake gasp* you ignore them because they're not worth your time.

If your so-called faith is shaken by people with a different belief, first you're thin-skinned and you're not fit for survival (and you need to get out of your cave more often), and then your "faith" isn't that deep. Actual, deep faith is never shaken by anything from "outside" (that's where I was until I stopped being afraid, and I apostatised; I know what I'm talking about, and I can still give you lessons about faith).
If you're bothered by anything, work to prove that you're better than that.
As well... Get. A. Life. You're not helping by killing your brothers; you're not helping your so-called cause, and you're not even the real McCoy, or you wouldn't be killing people (this is not 2015 BC, when cults started wars and genocide; get on with the script).
Plant a field, build something,... Do not kill.

I watched again To Have and Have Not recently, and the assorted plonkers need to realize that there will always be people to stand up to them. Always.

Paul de Bursac: You don't think much of me, Captain Morgan. You're wondering why they have chosen me for this mission. I wonder too. As you know, I am not a brave man. On the contrary, I'm always frightened. I wish I could borrow your nature for a while, Captain. When you meet danger, you never think of anything except how you will circumvent it. The word "failure" does not even exist for you. While I, I think always, suppose I fail and that I am frightened.
Harry Morgan: Yeah, I can easily see how it wouldn't take much courage to get a notorious patriot off Devils' Island. But uh, but just for professional reasons, I'd like to know how you're going to do it.
Paul de Bursac: We will find a way. It might fail, and if it does and I'm, I'm still alive, I will try to pass on my information, my mission, to someone else, perhaps to a better man who does not fail. Because there is always someone else. That is the mistake the Germans always make with people they try to destroy. There will be always someone else.

On to Point 2:
There are chums of the plonkers who will always be ready to say that the killing cowards did what needed to be done - back to "Get. A. Life." (and a brain).

There are idiots who will say or write that 'Yes, it's a tragedy, but [mind my Rule #11] the victims brought it upon themselves (to be killed/raped/maimed/WHATEVER) because they'd offended their attackers, or where at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Soldiers have one word for that: chickenshit (that's "poppycock" in civilian parlance).
Nothing ever justifies killing people because they said something, drew something that you didn't like or were doing something that you don't approve of.
If you start saying 'It was wrong, but (...)', you stand by the side of the culprits, and that's because you're:
A) stupid
B) playing ostrich and refusing to say loud and clear that the culprits had no right to do whatever they did.
C) brainwashed and can't make the difference between freedom (of speech, movement or anything) and safeguards put in place by society*.

*: allow me to add something here. Some people are saying that there are limits to free speech. Yes! One doesn't yell 'Fire!' in a theatre (if you do and you get trampled to death, that's instant karma), but if you do not show respect to Zeus or Thor (and you make fun of their followers), it may be unfunny or bad taste, but that's never a reason to be killed.
Some will say that there are different laws all around the globe. Indeed, but it doesn't mean that all these laws are fair: in some countries, I'd legally need a male guardian to be allowed to breathe - that's slavery, and I'll fight against it because I may not be a citizen of those countries, but this is my planet, and I want all my sisters and brothers to be free, educated, and healthy (and happy if possible). Our species has been messing things up for too many centuries; time to grow up, and get working.
The Gods can surely take care of themselves, and arrogant bipeds shouldn't massacre in their names (and that's when I wish that Zeus or Thor were real and they'd blast to oblivion the arrogant bipeds).

Then there are other people who are saying 'What happened in ABC is a tragedy, but let's not forget what's happening in DEF, or GHI, or XYZ!'.
It's not a competition, Cupcake.
Horror and intolerance must be fought everywhere (and that's why learning and teaching History is so important).
I remember the soldiers who were frozen in the trenches in 1914-1918, I remember the victims of Holodomor, I weep for the citizens of North Korea, I want our Nigerian little sisters to go back to their homes and their families, I still miss the Bamiyan Buddhas, and I'll laugh at any plonker telling me that I cannot make fun of him because he believes in the Tooth Fairy (he's welcome to write me a sonnet ridiculing me - or a haiku if a sonnet's too complicated for his three brain cells).
I probably read too many newspapers, and I remember too much History, but that's because I want to be a better citizen of the world.
Of course, we can't fight everywhere at once but, one step at a time, all evil, intolerance, and obscurantism must be fought - or human should no longer be a synonym for kind.


And Point 3:

Some will say that when Benjamin Franklin wrote “Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety” he meant something else (and boy! Can they write convoluted texts that are mostly cryptic and quite beside the point but that serves their agenda).
Whatever Mr Franklin meant at the time, the modern sentiment found in these words is accurate today.
We can see how the smokescreen of Safety can be sold to brainwashed sheeple (American TSA anyone? You know, the ones who illegally irradiate you and pat you down without being police officers - that's illegal, too).
I got it just this afternoon when I objected to my handbag being "checked" (just looking, no touching); I said it was useless because the charming boy who checked it saw only a part of it, and today I was working in a place where all sorts of chemicals are stored (bad guys don't have to bring anything in, they can shop inside - do read Daniel Pennac's Au bonheur des ogres). A colleague then told me that 'it had to be done for safety'.
Honestly, if people paid attention, we wouldn't need that theatre to make sheeple feel safer (the real bad guys have already planned something else, it's the average nutcases that we need to spot - and one cannot do that whilst glued to a mobile screen... just saying).
I'll keep growling, but I'll show my bag at work. Any store asking me that can dream on (especially one like in Au bonheur des ogres).
If we allow politicos to tell us what we must allow to be done to us, allegedly for our own protection, that's just like my needing a male guardian in some countries. Sorry, I'll follow the laws that already exist, but I'll use my lovely brain, my knowledge and a healthy dose of common sense, and if a politico asks me to give him my home keys, my bank account details, and all my Internet passwords, I'll tell "it" to go fry somewhere else.
I bet some so-called terrorists are dying with laughter when they see gutless responses, empty threats, and general inaction - and when they see countries make to quake in their collective boots for nothing (back to TSA: they've never caught any bad guy, but some of their people have committed crimes, but hey! That's for your own good).

Safety, yes, but not in a stupid and scared way - or the bad guys have won (and they must not).

Promised bonus:
There can be a lot of positive energy in the face of most horrific tragedies. If we actually work (not just say things), we could do so much good.
We could improve education, equality, opportunities.
If we treat one another like cousins (even if we disagree sometimes, like in all families), humanity could have a bright future.
If kindness cannot overcome pettiness, stupidity and sheer evil, there's no point in being here (I bet the Easter Bunny and Ma'at would agree with me).

Hopping from Link to Link (Latest Japanese Edition)

こんにちは！

Since the counter is turning, I'll assume that you're not all clicking on my posts, reading them diagonally, and clicking back at the speed of light.

This post is about the things I've discovered (or watched again) in the last fortnight.

You may think I'm quite late to the party, or you may discover a thing or two that you'll like, as well (and with this post, I won't have to re-open the same pages on the net again, and again, and again).

So, I give you:

By Shungiku Nakamura (中村 春菊), Junjô romantica (純情ロマンチカ) and Sekai-Ichi Hatsukoi (世界一初恋 〜小野寺律の場合〜).

We've got manga and anime for both.

I discovered Junjô romantica by chance, but it's quite moving, and the three couples we meet in these stories all have something special (but you know how I overanalyse everything by now). I'm just half-way through Sekai-Ichi Hatsukoi, and I quite like it, but I feel an addiction to Junjô romantica spreading through my brain (it's probably me - note to self: start working on that post explaining how Japanese anime influenced me when I was a child - but there's something in these stories).

Whilst looking for anything about Junjô romantica, I discovered a 2010 film: Junjô (純情). It's delightful, and quite a nice find: you've got romance, twists, love, jealousy, tears, and a final scene that makes me want to give the writer a hug. *zips lips*

The entire cast is awesome, and the two lead actors [Yûta Takahashi (高橋 優太) as Shôsei Kurata and Rakuto Tochihara (栩原 楽人) as Keisuke Tokazi] are absolutely fantastic - *cough* and terribly cute!

I watched this one quite by chance, and because I was curious about the title, but I'm really happy with this discovery, and I highly recommend it.

When I discover a new film or series, I tend to check the other works of the directors, actors, and actresses. I haven't checked Takahashi-san's other works yet... because a famous online encyclopedia provided me with the link to Tochihara-san's blog. Now... I read Japanese suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuper slowly (understatement of the millennium, but I'll keep working on it), but his recent posts allowed me to learn that he's currently in Tsuma wa, Kunoichi (妻は、くノ一 a.k.a. My Wife, A Ninja) [Series 2 is "最終章", which means "Final Chapter"].

That's another lovely discovery. I've just found a way to watch that one, but the main character looks absolutely fascinating (and that part of Japanese History is very interesting, as well), so I look forward to diving into that one properly.

According to the same "rules" of link hopping, it seems that Rh Plus is worth investigating. It's got vampires - and some barmy lines and scenes, as well as more serious twists in the plot.

Amongst the things that I revisited these past few days, there's the Japanese version of My Boss, My Hero (マイ★ボス マイ★ヒーロー). It's still mad, cute, completely barmy, and sometimes very moving.

So... that's what I've been watching.

Feel free to add new potential addictions in the comments.............................. 有難う

History, Denial, & DNA

And here comes another general reflection on... things.

What prompted this is an article that, I must admit, made me scratch my head a bit.

Perhaps we're back to a place where my brain cells are making me weird... That's always a possibility.

So, here's what I think...

I believe that we must promote History - even though it can be really tough to get a clear picture of the past (believe me, I spend most of my PhD research time attempting to piece together what happened during a military siege: thousands of soldiers, several nations involved, bunches of spies reporting to their sovereigns, and... I have one full day that disappeared into oblivion!).

Yet, we must try to remember (or simply learn!) about our past, because it's true that things tend to be repeated by the powers that be if we, citizens, don't pay attention.

We can't know everything. Of course... but we can try to not be (too much) blinded by our current politicos.

As I already stated before in another post, I can't stand denialists. It's not because I was properly educated in History, it's because we're dealing with people who can read proof, see proof, potentially meet actual victims of historical events, and yet who will deny that these pieces of History happened, and that makes me angry beyond words. That's arrogant and counter-productive.

History happened. Face it. Learn from it. Don't do it again.

If you deny History, I'll point at you and make fun of you until you grow a brain or you crawl back into your cave and leave good society alone.

What I'm planning to say next may well seem a paradox to some, but it's not.

Whilst I believe in knowing History and in avoiding denialism, I do not think that individuals have to apologize for their parents' or their ancestors' actions.

Saying that one regrets sharing DNA with someone who did terrible things in History, that's one thing, but that never means that one has to apologize for what others committed.

I cannot, for one second, imagine myself hunting down the name of the German officer who gave the order to shell the city where my great-grandmother was killed, and then locating his descendants to demand an apology or to target them with a reparations claim.

On the topic of slave owners, there are several points to consider.

 - The fact that it was "normal" back then doesn't excuse the horror (let's update the concept: would I become Japanese, go to Taiji and slaughter dolphins because that's what they do? No... but we're back to my being a weird creature; always have, always will).

 - The fact that profit was made in the past by individuals has to be separated from atrocities committed by states (I'll never have any sympathy for governments being inhuman, be it about the Holocaust, the internment of American citizens of Japanese descent, the women who were taken by the Japanese army in WWII in order to become sex slaves, and the list goes on and on and on).

- It's possible that, upon learning that one is related to some dark historical figure, someone might feel sad and somehow guilty (that's a private reaction to which everybody's entitled), but it's perfectly annoying and arrogant to expect everybody to feel guilty about one's ancestors' past.
To somehow paraphrase one of the commenters in the article I mentioned, I probably have ancestors who committed crimes in caves back when we were still hunting with silex, and I'm not going to apologize for that because that's got nothing to do with me. Ook probably killed Argh in some dark cave over some meat or because of Mrs Argh, but Argh's scions can't go after Ook's descendants today.

- The bottom line is: the great-grandchild of a person who owned slaves is not guilty of the ancestor's sins; we're all born into families that have extraordinary histories, but the children (provided that they don't share the views of the parents and ancestors) have nothing to do with the past, and they can't change it.

It's like treating a child poorly because you don't like the parents. Blame the parents all you want, but the child never asked to have some DNA mixed in order to be created. If someone's to be blamed, put the blame where it really belongs.

Things can be strange. History is full of tragedies.

In my family, I've got a massive bunch of teachers, linguists and historians (Merlin! I wonder where I come from!!). The nasty things that my blood relatives did were all things done to other relatives (in-house nastiness, if you want): they cheated siblings out of their share of inheritance... Stuff like that. That is the extent of nastiness in my family.

Now, if the daughter of my eldest cousin tried to sue me for being the one who got our great-grandmother's watch and ring, I'd be pissed (not only because those are the only tangible things that our grandmother managed to salvage from the vultures who were her older siblings, but also because she gave me both whilst she was still alive and she knew there would be a battle for both after her death if she didn't make her will clear before it was too late).

I can understand the pain and trauma of people whose ancestors were stolen and taken to the other side of the globe as if they were pieces of furniture, but the mere idea that, over a century after the abolition of slavery, private individuals could still face reparations claims is something that puzzles me - deeply.

If someone were to say, 'Oh, I regret that my family no longer owns slaves; that'd have looked cool on my curriculum, and my bank account would be so much bigger with all that free workmanship!', then sue him or her to hell and back before having him or her prosecuted for being a twat... or something.

If someone is born in a family that used to own slaves in the 19th century, well.......... that person was born in that family by accident, and he or she isn't responsible for what was done before 1843.

Back to myself... I loathe most of my blood relatives. Most of them are petty, bigoted, limited, stuck in the Dark Ages, and... I could go on. I don't get along with them, and they don't like me.

I can't relate to most of my cousins, and I can't relate to their parents. Hell! It's because of them that I've changed my name!

If I can't relate to the blood relatives who are so close to me, how could I feel any connection with my ancestors - or feel guilty about anything they've done?

For the moment, I know the history of my family up to 1845. I was told the History of the family in such a vivid way that I have the feeling that I somehow knew them. When I finally manage to go farther in time, Merlin knows what I'll discover... but whatever I find, I'll treat it as History, I'll admit that it's my past, but no one shall make me feel guilty.

Facing History, knowing History, yes, but being stuck in the past can only lead to more suffering.

Actually, you know what? I think I'd like to find the descendants of the officer who gave the order that killed my great-grandmother, just to see if they'd like to start a movement where we'd take steps to protect our families and all families, as if we could make all bipeds realize that we're all from the same family, which we are, because the Earth is our village and we all come from the same stardust fallen into a mud pond somewhere on this rock.

Yea... There's no need to tell me that it's not going to happen. Biped brains still have to evolve quite a lot to start considering my idea as a potentially valid option.
We'd need to learn from History, not deny it or be frozen by it. This is yet another case of 'Not out of the wood'...

Not a Sheeple

I had a very interesting, if completely frustrating, chat with my mother tonight.

I post comments on another site where there are pages about anything and everything (from cool recipes to the latest political news all over the rock).

Earlier, I caught a page about a law that would allow the French government to put on trial anyone who'd visit extremists websites. It's only a project, but it's very dangerous.

Some people commented on the fact that if you're editing books, or writing, you can have a pretty funky web history, and that's true.

I pointed out that true terrorists are probably using things to hide (the really bad guys aren't stupid - if you think that, I hope you're not working in anything related to security - at any level!).

My mother gasped and asked if I'd posted that anonymously, which isn't possible on that site, in fact, and I told her so. She instantly reminded me of "ze war", back when walls had ears and the wrong word could get you sent to a camp, or shot to death.

Well, it's probably dangerous to tell (and type) the truth, but I'm still convinced that the real evil masterminds know how to hide.

That being said, monitoring the people who are fans of any form of extremism would be a good idea - if it didn't mean monitoring the whole wide web, which remains very totalitarian.

I told my mother I wasn't buying the smokescreen, and she gasped again, afraid for me.

What am I supposed to do? Roll over and obey blindly? *points at title* Sorry.

Second post of the day on the topic. Won't tell Mother this time, though.

I Remember When... Or Do I?

Memory's a strange thing.

I just have to start a chat with my own mother to realize that, about shared events, what I remember is far from what she remembers.

We select our own version of any event, and we transform it, making it nicer with our rose-tinted glasses, or making it more horrible. Then, the memory's preserved, kept, worshipped... and it becomes the truth.

I just have to mention childhood memories to my mum, and we get two different versions.

As someone who works on History, I find it properly fascinating. If my mum and I can't agree on the version of something where we both were present and participating, how can I expect the testimonies I use in my research to be accurate? In fact, I can't, and as long as we rely on a human brain (pretty stuck on the options here, I'm afraid), we'll never be able to get any fully accurate account. We can get the broad picture, but the interpretation is bound to differ, and it's both fascinating and irritating.

It's fascinating because we're only human, but it's irritating because we can never be sure of the truth (if we can't agree on simple, private events, how could we agree on bigger ones?).

My work, articles and research (particularly the longest one, my PhD thesis) - everything's based on data and testimonies, and how could we rely on that? Either we're dealing with an individual, or individuals, who's seen something and who's telling it the way he or she remembers it, or we're dealing with prior historians who've made choices when they wrote their accounts.

My PhD thesis was on a very obscure event in European history; it's something that has cultural consequences even now. You have people today believing that certain things happened, centuries ago, but what's absolutely extraordinary is that, even in the accounts of the time, there's one full day that was never reported in any form, to any historian. A few years later, the gap was filled with legend, and that legend became the truth. I loved working on that subject because it was never boring, and it showed how History is selective.

We'd like to believe that we're trying to be neutral, but we can never be. We can't be fully accurate, but we can hope that, in History at least, we'll select the bigger image (otherwise we're dealing with mere propaganda).

In our own lives, we'll have to hope that we're keeping the most accurate memory about one event, but if I'm to judge this according to my own experience, it's a failure. Bad things look gloomy and remain so, while good things are seen with rose-tinted glasses and we cherish the pastel and fluffy memory that becomes roser and fluffier with time.

The human brain is quite fascinating... if disturbing (and irritating sometimes).