Saturday, December 23, 2017

Sherlock in Cheyenne: The Adventure of Moonlight and the Arrow of Time


Mr. Holmes does not laugh. Nor does he chuckle. But he does have a sense of humor. He has been seen smiling. Such a sense and smile does not include Zeeglers wearing colored armbands for quick identification. Imagining a grim Zeegler with a bright yellow armband brings a smile to my face.

Mr. Holmes was not smiling as he called me over to his armchair to look over his shoulder at “our page” in the latest edition of the Cheyenne newspaper. There on that page was a picture of a Zeegler, or at least I took it to be a Zeegler. The photo had been shot with surrounding dim light, a bit fuzzy, and the Zeegler had his arm across this face. His features were not totally obscured.

Mr. Holmes read the text accompanying the photo. It seems that the Zeegler had been found at my astronomy club’s observatory. When discovered, he was pinned to the section where the dome and the wall of the observatory meet. There is a thin ledge that he was slumped against. The telescope had pushed and held him against the dome-wall. Apparently he had started the scope in motion before he got on the ledge.

I could well understand how this came about, since you detach from the wall a very long thin rod with a right angle at your end to crank the dome up above along to create the slit to the outside sky. Where the rod meets the dome can stick. Probably he was in a hurry and switched on the scope, then he was opening the slit when the action faltered. He must have thought he could quickly go up to loosen the stiffness and misjudged the speed of the scope as it swung toward him. He was found with this back to the scope so he didn’t see it coming. The scope didn’t crush him. It isn’t that big, being a 12 inch Cassegrainian, and it moves smoothly once the drive is engaged. The scope, in truth, kept him there.

He was found by a group on an impromptu tour of the observatory given by the club president, Austin De Beer. The observatory is the De Beer Observatory. The telescope is the De Beer Telescope. Luckily, the club is called the Greater Southeastern Wyoming Astronomy Club. De Beer paid for the observatory and scope and sometimes chairs the monthly meetings. (We then have guest speakers presenting slides and talks about common astronomy topics. Usually the presenters are from the University of Wyoming in Laramie. Members give updates on club activities such as their observations of the Moon, Messiers, double stars, NGC objects, and the usual Solar System big targets. Some pet projects get tolerated time to tell us what they are building or what is the latest addition to their total of every object down to X magnitude in Ursa Major or whatever. We are unusual in that we have no variable star observers.)

Once the tour members reversed the direction of the scope drive, the Zeegler fell to the floor. He was conscious and wanted to be left alone, but being on the club’s premises and having perhaps internal injuries (he looked to be OK), they drove him to Memorial. There in the ER, he “disappeared” as the newspaper had it. Before he vanished, another visitor to the ER snapped the photo of the Zeegler-with-arm-across-face. No one actually saw his departure.

I asked Mr. Holmes – Whatever could a Zeegler be up to at the Observatory?

Mr. Holmes replied – Most irregular. A Zeegler cannot persist once touched. Once that telescope arrived at his position, then the Zeegler should have departed.

Right, and there was no frozen moment for us. Can there be other moments away from us?

Who is to say? But that seems very doubtful.

Me – The Zeegler remained visible for a very long time. He finally had his opportunity to vacate in the ER. Before that, I presume he didn’t want to alarm the tour members and hospital staff by suddenly blinking away.

Hm, it could be that, but this photo is odd. He looks strange, as if he was...

Well, no doubt he was roughed up by the pin and the fall.

No doubt.

Therefore, he could not be seen at his best.

Perhaps. The newspaper article goes on to say snow had fallen before the Moon had come up and before the tour arrived. No tracks leading up to the Observatory door were seen.

Me -  Well we know they can pop into location suddenly.

Mr. Holmes – With a frozen moment.

Of course, that goes without saying. Then he did disappear, as the newspaper says.

Hm, nevertheless his activities merit suspicion.

Me – OK, and what was he doing at the Observatory?  (Here and later I had suspected, as Mr. Holmes was famous for not being an astronomy buff, I needed to supply astronomical generalities.) It was a full Moon. The full Moon with its washout of the sky prevents viewing of anything else. There is the Moon itself. Nothing much of interest at full Moon except for the ray systems coming from some craters.

Mr. Holmes – Extensive?

Yes, and so They wanted to examine how projectiles could be sent skimming along a surface? Could They be imitating such trajectories in a plot to make it difficult for us after They hatch a blowup among objects of future operations?

Mr. Holmes – They have never been interested in destroying what would remain after They would be the self-chosen Few. They have wanted to inherit, so to speak, a pristine resultant.

Yes, well then I can’t imagine why a Zeegler without benefit of a frozen moment would be using our club scope for selenography.  At low magnification the lunar landscape would hurt your eyes, not harm them, but make you wince, at least it does for me.

Mr. Holmes – Very good, he was wanting the light.

Huh? Why not the Sun or arc lights or whatever?

Is there nothing distinctive about moonlight?

It is sunlight, reflected, and reflected by something, that on the whole and on average, has the albedo of coal.

Mr. Holmes – Nevertheless, he was there to be put to some purpose. Therefore, he had something with him for which the moonlight could serve that purpose. Simply to gaze upon the Moon is too trivial. Superfluous indeed. He could hardly remove it with him given the circumstances of being discovered there. A device it is, no doubt.

OK, something They are going to use?

I rather think someone brought a device there to the observatory. That it is still there and he will return to try again. I must intervene before he returns. May I have your key to the Observatory?

Well then here is the key. It is a long drive there and as you well know, I can’t forego schoolwork on a weekday. The forecast is for clear skies, and it is still near enough to a full Moon.

Thank you my dear boy. A full report I shall give you upon my return. I’m off.


When Mr. Holmes returned, he did have a “device” and a satchel. In explanation he stated he found no one there. Usually it is first come first served though at a monthly meeting someone can reserve scope time, if well in advance. No one was down for its use when Mr. Holmes showed up.

The operating instructions for the scope are on the wall near the scope’s pier that mostly supports its weight and contains the drive. Mr. Holmes had no difficulty opening the dome, that is, in getting a slit going. He placed the scope at the Moon and turned on the tracking so the Moon would remain in the view of the scope. Then he looked about to see where a device could be hidden, but he didn’t spend much time on a thorough search, who knows who might come along? He quickly decided the pier should be investigated. Its lower tall portion he found to be hollow. Only a line was scored on the surface of the pier near the base. He ran a finger along this line, pressing strongly inward. As he did so, he heard a click. A door came ajar. Inside the pier and standing on end was a long rectangular case. With much effort in tilting and wedging, Mr. Holmes brought the case out.

The case was of wood and hinged. Opening the case, Mr. Holmes found two plates, or so they looked. As if they were the old photographic plates used in astronomy, rather large. There was a small gap between them maintained by a strip of pine. They were dark brown and appeared smoky. The smoke, so it seemed, was moving, churning.
Mr. Holmes was nearly onto a momentous discovery, stunning in its implications. Still, Mr. Holmes wondered what was to be made of the very bright moonlight coming from the eyepiece already inserted in the scope? He held the plates up to the red light that provided routine nighttime illumination under the dome of the Observatory. Nothing. He couldn’t see the light. He switched on the Observatory lights for ordinary illumination. He held the plates up to one of them. Nothing.

Then Mr. Holmes, in a masterstroke of intuition, set the plates on a high metal counter on high metal legs. That counter had a clock on it set to sidereal time and some star charts and lists of common sky spectaculars plus bios of astro greats, etc. With the observatory now having had enough time to equalize its temperature with the outside temp (more of a problem on hot nights) he walked over to the eyepiece and had a look. Gazing steadily for as long as he could, with eyes beginning to ache, he then went back to the plates.

A fantastic event was waiting for him. Actually three events, since he, with smarting eyes, looked through the plate at the clock and paraphernalia that was on the counter.  Mr. Holmes was quick to note a left panel of the plate nearest him showed the scene on the counter. Then he looked at the counter top without the plates. Looking again at the left panel, he realized the clock was a few minutes ahead. In the second panel, in the middle, the clock was many minutes ahead, and the right panel showed the clock hours ahead.

A great deal of wonder and appreciation came over Mr. Holmes. Also, his eyes began to lose that wincing factor, and he saw the panels losing the scene on the counter and become swirls of smoke. He went back to the scope and got another “dose” of the light. And yes! Looking through the plates again, he saw the scene again, with the three clocks having advanced for as long as he had taken at the scope.

What a device! A time machine! Utterly fantastic! With the “house lights” on and his attention away from the plates, he spotted a small satchel on the floor almost under the legs of a neighboring counter. He found inside it a racing (horse) form for the Los Alamitos track and odds for various games of football and basketball with numbers to call.

Now what would a Zeegler have need of winning at gambling? Have They entered a cash-poor era and need an infusion of greenbacks to sustain Them? Not to mention other uses of much more importance should be on tap. But OK, why the moonlight? Why the heck did he need that particular indirect sunlight? Using moonlight to beat the point spread? Like the Ten Commandments could have had more umph in Old Gothic script?

I asked Mr. Holmes if the photo of the Zeegler in the ER was placed to put us on notice that They were going to be after Their device.

Mr. Holmes – I think not. They would have been upon us by now. I do not believe they know the device exists.

Me -  This is a rogue Zeegler? Out on his own making a few bucks? Somehow that doesn’t get past first base.

Regardless of what base he operates from, I think monetary gain would be a transitory goal.

Yeah, right. What should we do with the device? As a student I could see straight A’s on all tests taken through college. And of course I’m not serious.

Of course not, I know well enough your jesting – like Zeegler armbands. (He half smiled then.) And so too readily does use of the device run to questionable outcomes. Thus, I am to endeavor to negate its usefulness.

Will doing so bring on a pack of Zeeglers?

No, the device has not been operated to any advantage. If such an advantage were to be denied Them, I would presume visitors would at once appear.

Me -  But to “negate” it?

I must study approaches. A process via quantum physics may be in order.

That leaves me out. 


Actually, upon further reflection involving many hours in the quantum mechanics book piles near the armchair, he was coming up empty. We couldn’t use it without a telescope. We tried a moonlit night and, though the smoke in the dark plate stirred, it did not have three panels on display. As Mr. Holmes pondered the possible demise of the plates, I, of all people, found out why the Moon’s light was needed. Presumably light of the full Moon enhanced the effect, but the observer required a crater, Alphonsus, in view and at low magnification so the eye ache was present. Nikolai Alexandrovich Kozyrev was the name. That name was in a brief report in our mimeographed astronomy club newsletter scheduled quarterly and actually issued irregularly. One of those irregulars had been mailed to me and I kept it because I had appeared in a group photo that includes members caught in supposedly rapt attention listening to astro news of the day or month or whatever.

Kozyrev, a Russian, had recently, it was reported, recorded a spectral signal of a gas emission from Alphonsus. He had used the 50 inch (very big) reflector at the Crimean Astrophysical Observatory. He had hand guided the thirty minute exposure. He was noting a brightness not normally seen. Then the brightness dimmed. He went after a 10 minute exposure of the normal state. He concluded a cloud of gas had been expelled and emission bands were seen by him. As usual some saw tints or diffuse clouds in Alphonsus in following-up Kozyrev’s work. Those follow-ups were very much in dispute. Our speaker who conveyed the news of what could be none other than volcanic activity on the Moon, offered as an aside that, in truth, not all the emission lines could be identified by Kozyrev. Some unknown lines, weak, persisted. Others “knew” this strange evidence of heretofore unknown-in the-cosmos substance or substances was or were still being outgassed in a region of the central peak of Alphonsus.

Mr. Holmes thought this “wondrous, very much so.” He wished we had time to see the Moon without Alphonsus or to block out the central peak and check to see how the device would operate. He said too little time remained for experimentation. The device had to be altered before someone could claim it. Before “someone,” not a Zeegler? Somehow that set me to mulling over all these goings on. Meantime, Mr. Holmes succeeded in his negation.

What he did was to intuit that only two things had come with him that could never be depleted – money and tobacco. He thought, in the scheme of things, one of them could be the negating agent. From his previous studies, he knew a good deal about tobacco. Many chemicals given off in its burning had yet to be identified. He had a hunch that in the abundant hot fumes from his tobacco could be a negator or two. He constructed a metallic box and closed it with a floor of tobacco inside. Close above the tobacco were the plates. He heated the bottom of the box and dense hot fumes filled the box. In other words, he had an oven. He baked them. He poured on the heat overnight.

That next night, as the nearly full Moon was going into a gibbous phase, he again was at the eyepiece of the club scope and then observed the tableau that included the clock, as before. This time the plates had been baked. In the left panel there was seen the clock running a few seconds slow. The middle panel showed the clock a minute or so slow and the right panel showed the clock a few minutes slow. Now the plates showed the past! The arrow of time had been reversed! Mr. Holmes returned from the Observatory in a speechless state. Only after an hour could he recount what he had experienced.

Such a remarkable change could not be made known. No one could know how it had previously worked and now how it was. Mr. Holmes didn’t know what compound or combo in the fumes had done the trick. Such a fantastic technique that foretold the future could not be allowed to survive.


Mr. Holmes put an ad in the paper. It was in general terms but got across that a three panel plate was now ready for pickup if the full Moon was out. Next day there was a knock on the door. My “come in” revealed a bedraggled Zeegler who swiftly gathered up the box containing the plates. Mr. Holmes had put the box on a low bookshelf opposite my study area. Mr. H’s eyes X-rayed the Zeegler, and I was astonished at how odd the Zeegler looked. But saying nothing, he exited.

Say, wait a second, said I to Mr. Holmes, what goes on here? Odd looking is one thing, but he is too odd looking.  Mr. Holmes, with a half-smile, was watching me expectantly. What? I asked. He only sighed and turned around in his chair, pipe without tobacco in his mouth and books in his lap. He began to read but said – we will have a chat soon.

Hours went by, I was getting very sleepy as I lay on my bed, hands behind my head and looking up at the pipes and wiring that were under the flooring above. My mulling about this affair had gone on without any conscious prodding from me. The mull was about to give up or out with it.

Bam! It hit me. Wait a minute! I shouted (I later explained to those upstairs that I had cracked a particularly nutty math problem.) Mr. Holmes quickly swiveled in his chair to look at me. He then got up and sat on the bed next to me and placed a hand on my shoulder. Wait just a darn minute – I almost hissed. That was not a Zeegler who got the device. In fact, I’ll bet he was also at the Observatory. He didn’t blink in, he was waiting in the Observatory before the snow fell so he was assured of scope time.  He had hours to explore the interior of the observatory and found the pier compartment. But he wasn’t familiar enough with the ops of the slit and scope and got in between. He probably had a key to the Observatory door made on the sly. And he didn’t “disappear” from the ER, that use by the journalist was biased as far as I am concerned, it fell in with my knowing how Zeeglers get gone. But, Mr. Holmes, that means you knew all along and you wouldn’t clue me in?

Now, now, dear boy, I had said I was suspicious, but that I had no alternative to then offer. I rather hoped you, my esteemed colleague, would work it out on your own. Is not such an achievement to be more savory than being spoon-fed? Is it not?

OK, OK, I admit I was troubled from the get-go, but not able to get it sorted out, until now.

Now Mr. Holmes gave me a big smile, not one of amusement, but I took it as congratulatory.

Said I – so what did They make of the ER photo in the newspaper? They know it wasn’t one of Theirs. Since only you and I know of Zeeglers, as it has now been reestablished, then, since it was a man and not a boy, it had to be you. They must not think highly of your costume creating style. Yet I know you are excellent in disguise.

I do thank you.

Of course, should you be pressed to do so, I would not know which was a Zeegler and which was Mr. Holmes. Isn’t it possible They can only assume you have an intention of infiltrate Their Zeeglers?

I dare say they might, but I have no intention of becoming one of them – even as a ploy.

They may counter by showing up next time with armbands or headbands that you could not anticipate, yet to judge from the photo, they shouldn’t work too hard on differentiation of Their Zeeglers. Right?

If They expend a second on preparing for my “threat” to Them, then They cannot be seen as adequate adversaries.

Me – Though I have gotten this far in knowing the truth, I am without a clue as to who the Zeegler impersonator might be. I bet you can find out.

Indeed, my boy, I already know. I suspected quantum physics to be at play in this matter, and I visited with Dr. Kipowitz, liaison to the Air Base (Special Projects) over a spot of tea. He informed me that regionally only one person is listed in the Air Force dossiers that was known to him to possess a quite good knowledge of quantum physics. That would be Professor Hockensmith, retired, recently and formerly of the University of Wyoming in Laramie and a genius without parallel. He is a man who gives slight patience to separation of physics and metaphysics as, also lacking such patience, were Berkeley and Leibnitz, and with a dash of Hamilton’s quaternions in service to Kant’s intuition of pure time.

Mr. Holmes continued – I was told by Dr. Kipowitz that Professor Hockensmith had taught general physics for many years at the University. In his last years there, he was also teaching a seminar on very advanced quantum theory. On his lecture stage he had then chalkboards on wheels crammed with equations and notes. Each board could be flipped over to reveal yet more of the same dense knowledge. Therefore, that made for twenty boards. He never got beyond Board 3, such was the fascinating complexity at his command.

He lives in a block of flats in Laramie. He is regarded by one and all where he lives as being a good chap. He has a laboratory in a warehouse not far off since his residence is in a light industrial district of town. He has been struggling to secure funds to continue his research. Ergo, once the device was in his hands, and it got there with a good amount of happenstance, he was to use it to obtain those needed funds. He knew use of it might call down on him a mysterious force represented by what we call Zeeglers. I had on occasion made indirect lightly sketched reference to them in chatting up Dr. Kipowitz in exchange for assistance we needed. My description of a Zeegler was, then, perfunctory. Given that, Professor Hockensmith’s costume effort turned out rather well.

Nevertheless, had he succeeded in using his device to foretell the future of gambling enterprises, he would have provided a frozen moment, and he would have never been seen or heard of again. He was, in the event, impatient with the faulty opening of the slit, and after his fall he could not return immediately. He did have unseen injuries, but did not want a public hospital’s staff to know of them. He went painfully to a physician in Chugwater that would remain quiet about it.

I said – His not knowing the scope well enough saved him. But isn’t it sad he had to lose his windows on the future?

I rather hope he thinks his life can be now devoted to pure science. I have tried to dissuade him from resuming experiments in time at our level. If he concerns himself with quantum time, he may be rewarded with entirely fantastic data.

He didn’t resent what you had done to the plates?

No, I assured him of what his fate would have been had he persisted in using the plates for monetary gain. He has come into money quite recently, and there is a fund set up to further his foreseeable efforts.

Your bottomless money supply, I’ll bet.

Correct.

Me - Somehow it’s a comfort that frozen moments pertain only to us.

You seem a bit jealous of what never existed.

Well maybe it came out like that, but if we still have our purpose, then however it is carried out suits me.

Oh yes, we are still a going concern. Our exclusivity vis a vis Their efforts will, I trust, again tax us.

Ah well, Mr. Holmes, I carry away from this adventure a persistent image of a fierce and gritty Zeegler wearing a bright yellow headband to avoid Their acceptance of a person well disguised to fool Them, and there is a loose long end of the band hanging down like a pigtail but near an ear. Isn’t that a laugh?

What a revolting prospect.

And I had to laugh.

The End











Wednesday, October 25, 2017

Sherlock in Cheyenne : The Adventure of the History of Page 39


How many equations can there be? I must, by now, have worked through two-thirds of all known equations as encountered in my math homework. Again, here I sit with page after page being put in the “done” pile.  Meanwhile, Mr. Holmes, in his armchair with feet flat on the floor, has in his lap a quantum physics book, slide rule, and a small notebook in which he puts results of whatever he is working through. His pipe is in his mouth, no tobacco in the bowl.

Nothing much else is going on. It is a Saturday. I groan occasionally without disturbing Mr. Holmes. He does make frequent use of the slide rule. He jots furiously into the notebook. Slide rules, of course, were abundant in this era. After all, we would put men on the Moon with slide rule accuracy. I am coveting a break from the equations so that, after a decent interval, I can retrieve the newspaper from wherever they left it upstairs. It is closing in on 10 AM and probably the paper got here around 6 or 7. It being Saturday, I don’t think it could have much staying power. Now Sunday’s edition, weighing in at about a ton, would be a different matter what with the comics, too many ads, and a few colorful sections on cooking or home upkeep. The sports section was purposely yellowed as if any outcome was already to be seen as lore of yore.

In addition to the paper, I could get something for a snack. Mom always had such eats in glass humidors. Depletion could be easily seen, and it must not go down too rapidly or we risked being cut off from that brand for a time. Some of the concoctions went too fast. So less appealing brands would fill the containers, and we ate the lesser ones for little reason other than they were available when the need arose and not for a need to continue to enjoy the taste. I came back with three pieces of an unknown kind of cookie-cracker and put the paper on the stand next to Mr. Holmes. He looked up, smiled, and continued with his study.

I couldn’t go on just then, and I hoped Mr. Holmes would find something to comment on in the paper. With snack gone, I was seated at the card table, elbows on the table top and hands like in prayer with my chin against the thumbs and eyes closed.

Maybe I was asleep when Mr. Holmes said, “How odd.”

“Oh?” I wasn’t really with it.

“See this,” said he and he had folded the paper to “our” page and held it out in front of him with both hands.

Ok, I am awake. It’s a photo of a Zeegler. So what’s it doing in the paper?

It is an illustration in a book by a popular author, very popular, so it says here. To quote – Please join us today at 1 – 2 this afternoon as we at Dubrovnik’s Bookstore welcome to our city, JAD, the 12 year old writer of detective fiction. She will be on hand to sign copies of her new book, “Baker Town Hotel.” This second book will assuredly be a bestseller as was her first one, a delightful mystery of hanky-panky at a weather radio station entitled “The Hot and the Cold.” JAD has been writing books since she was two.

What? Must be a misprint.

One assumes so. A photograph depicts two pages of her book. On the left is text, on the right is a full page photograph of a Zeegler’s face.

So JAD is in cahoots with Them?

Cahoots?

Ok, in league with Them?

To resolve this matter, I must visit Miss JAD. Are you coming?

I looked down at an equation-filled page and sighed deeply.
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Well hello, Mr. Holmes. What have you there?

Copies of JAD’s latest, two copies signed. One for each of your sisters.

Most nice of you. They have read JAD’s first one, so they will be appreciated, I can tell you. Expect an invite for supper soon.

Ah, I suppose I cannot refuse.

Of course not, though the supper does you little good, Mom will prepare something especially tasty and I, at least, can benefit. But then what of the Zeegler photo?

I had a most amiable discourse with JAD. I found her to be very bright, attractive, very articulate and at a loss to explain the appearance of a Zeegler in her book. I did a spot check of other copies in the store before I had approached her. Some have the photograph, some not. Page 39.

What could they be up to?

Excellent question. We cannot discover what it could be just yet. By itself, a photograph has little significance.

Yeah, it’s life as usual though we have been put on notice since the photo was on “our” page.

Most assuredly and I do believe I will be out and about hoping for further developments.

Of course, keep a supper date open.
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Actually Mr. Holmes was gone a few days. Upon his return, he told me he had not left town and that he had discovered children were being taken and released after a few hours.

“By whom?” I asked.

Unfortunately, I fear it is Them.

Taken and released? Sounds like the wrong fish got caught. What for?

Who is to say? The children say they were taken on a school bus to they know not where. Then questions were asked of them. Two men asked the questions. According to the children, they looked like teachers. After questioning, they were taken to near their homes and released.

No ill effects?

None so far. One curious connection. Each child owned a copy of JAD’s latest book.

Page 39?

A Zeegler.

What could be going on?

Nothing presents itself at the moment.  Since They are involved, we must assume the children could be in jeopardy yet they were not harmed and remain so. They were asked questions about history – of the state, of the country. No ranking seemed to be taking place.

Well usually They are more upfront about what they are doing.

Yes, and more concerned with the manipulation of the mechanics of objects. They have until now dealt with such. Now the objective involves temporary abduction. The children were never touched. They were only questioned. Some of them realized later that they had given a wrong answer but, wrong or right, the “teachers” gave no sign of approval or disapproval.

To do what they want to do, they commandeer a bus. All of this sounds school oriented. Learning, testing, and what else? Of course more goes on at school than classroom activity but They couldn’t know much about that. So, again, we sit and await developments?

You may sit. I am going back out. If more abductions continue, I hope to establish that all those taken had a history of possession of JAD’s book with the added Zeegler photograph.

Ok, as a matter of fact, I am into History myself. World History and not exactly a preference of mine but vs. other subjects, I’ll gladly concern myself about the outcome of the Portuguese Empire in Brazil any day.

Be a good chap. No doubt the relevance of this study will enlighten you bye and bye. I’m off.
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The abductions and releases continued. Mr. Holmes knew all the children had had a JAD book with the page 39 portrait. I had been reading quite enough about imperialistic colonization and hoping for a disturbance to cease the boring repetitions of territory after territory’s inevitable clash of culture when I heard Mom shouting for my sisters. Mom doesn’t shout. One look at Mr. Holmes as he was then flipping idly through a mag and then we were sprinting for the door, up the stairs, and around back and saw my sisters walking at a measured slow pace to the north on the gravel road that ran by our place on the west. They were about to veer off the road onto dried and dusty dirt and weeds and heading for a narrow green field. The field has a low wire fence around it.

A creek, very rarely with water, happened through the middle of the field. The creek was on a W-E line. Horses supposedly were seen from time to time in the field. Also supposedly, they must have been tethered since the fence was too low to be an obstacle.  We ran faster than they walked. Beyond the pasture on the road going east from the intersection of Buffalo Ridge Road and whatever asphalt road it was, there was a school bus, a very long one. The motor was in idle. The distance from my sisters to the bus was not great. I absent-mindedly thought it funny that the “students” were cardboard head and shoulders placed above each of the seats. Also quickly noted was that a few seats were empty near the driver. The driver was watching our chase scene. The driver certainly looked like a Zeegler.

Mr. Holmes caught up with Janet and placed a hand over her eyes. Then he firmly placed the other hand on her shoulder and both twisted her around and sat her down. I followed the example of Mr. Holmes with Jane. I heard the engine of the bus rev. I glanced over my shoulder to see the bus racing east. Mom was out in the driveway calling to the girls; she was mostly worried that they had sat down in dirt. I said it had been a game of hide and seek, but that I’d not made it clear they should stay on the premises. Later, I asked to see the autographs in their copies of JAD’s book. Sure enough, page extraction was called for. As I distracted them, I removed the offending photos.

The very next day Mr. Holmes and I were in the basement when a loud noise could be heard out in the road in front of our house. Once as before, as they had said in Victorian times, Mr. Holmes “sprang” to his feet, went upstairs and banged outside. I saw him shoot by the east basement window headed for the front road. I got to the front yard to see the long school bus moving off. We had heard it braking loudly as it had suddenly stopped. A Zeegler was at the wheel with those cardboard cutouts as stand-ins for kids except for a boy and a girl seated near the Zeegler. Mr. Holmes looked to be plastered to the rear door of the bus. He was spread out with arms and legs at right angles. He was hanging on by this nails and his heels were dug into the bottom door recesses. The bus took a hard right on down the road and I thought he would be flung off, but I saw nothing go into the ditch.

It was soon enough apparent that the Stickeley boy and girl from across the road had gone missing. I was waiting for Mr. Holmes to return to inform the parents that the kids would be safe. He did return (by cab) but without the boy and girl. He said the two had been asked questions about history, and they had a written test. The boy apparently failed the test since he soon exited. The girl was there answering questions for longer. She seemed drowsy in pronouncing her answers. The examiners were in black robes and hoods with only eyes uncovered but with thick glasses being worn. One had gray eyes. Mr. Holmes heard the two examiners discussing how much ransom to charge. At this point Mr. Holmes was discovered, and he exited back stage pursued by two bearish Zeeglers.

But not to worry, the boy and girl came walking home about fifteen minutes after Mr. Holmes had arrived. Neither of the two could remember what had happened. They were unharmed. I motioned to Mr. Holmes that we needed to talk. Once in the basement, I told Mr. Holmes that ransom seemed to me to be farfetched. The Stickeleys were hardly conspicuous consumers. Mom had the family over at least once a month and she then prepared way too much food. She insisted post the meal that she didn’t have enough storage space for the surplus and gave the Stickeleys enough for a short week. Mr. Stickeley as a “good neighbor” performed the odd repair jobs round our place or yard work as needed.

I said, “Sounds like a dupe job.”

Please clarify.

They knew you were there. They probably knew of your rear-end-of-the-bus-ride and put on a show for you – at least the ransom part.

Yes indeed, quite so. They have been reported to be teachers and do they wear hoods and robes?
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Mrs. Stickeley came over to chat with Mom a few days later. It seems her daughter at school was having trouble with one subject in particular – history. She had been doing Ok. I asked my sisters to invite the Stickeley girl over and to be sure she brought her JAD book. Mr. Holmes and I were sure she had one. Of course she did. While she was with my sisters at play in the front yard, I removed page 39.

Thus, said Mr. Holmes, the photograph acts on the understanding of history that the viewer had or was learning about.

They aim to affect children for what?

Mr. Holmes showed almost a shrug and said, “Perhaps this has been a trial.”

Oh, so it is a test run and then do it to adults?

Precisely.

Are adults going to engage with a photo of a Zeegler?

The photographs could become images of well-known persons whose photograph would appear repeatedly in newspapers or elsewhere.

Like the President?

Yes, and the photograph would be seen by those placed high in the government or perhaps by those highly placed in other governments.

Disturbances, disruption, disorder and discord?

Any one of those would do.

And we are to….

The proper authorities have been notified. Should their behavior alter, then they would be allowed only words and no pictures.

Sounds good.
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A week went by. Mr. Holmes and I were in the basement. He was in the armchair. I was on the bed curled up with a good book. “Modern” fiction was truncated in range of time for me. I mostly moved back to the classics, that is, classics even for them. As I got to a good part, I thought I heard a thump outside our door. Faint. But then another thump. I looked at Mr. Holmes. Yes he had heard it. I slowly, carefully, got off the bed and moved toward the door. Mr. Holmes was beside me along the wall as I opened the door.  I beheld a tall stack of books before us. All were JAD’s latest book, at least for title and cover. As I flipped pages, I saw only photos of Zeeglers. Each succeeding step up the stairs had a lesser stack and fewer pages of Zeeglers until the top where there was one book standing up. Plain cover. It contained numerous photos of Basil Rathbone, Clive Brook, Peter Cushing, and “my” Sherlock Holmes. I thought this could be complementary, but then I got to a photo of Mr. Holmes in the armchair. This I showed to him.

“We will burn them all.”

And so we did.



The End


Monday, June 12, 2017

Dina Merrill Has Died



Obituaries for Dina Merrill have appeared. None are satisfactory. An obituary is a notice of a death with a short biography. Can you write a biography of at least 200 pages, now? If not, yours is a death notice, or else condense your biography.

Suggestions for obituary writers:

1. Emulate the small-town sports writers whose accounts of the weekly high school football games related all that the home team had done well. The score was an afterthought.

2. Penetrate and unravel any obscurities, was there an arc of design? Write within a moral imperative. Support no cliques or claques. Neither be friend nor foe.

3. Don’t increase the consensus. Don’t compete with other obituaries.

4. Do you understand the events of the life? If so, what was their significance? If they were insignificant, according to you, then what is there to the life, if there was no significance? Better to forestall judgment, Hell exists, yet no one is certain who may be there. If you are certain of your afterlife and you could have done better given the deceased’s circumstances in their entirety, obviously I don’t want to hear it.

5. Do not attack those who can no longer defend themselves. Hardly fair. Then if you insist, even if you don’t know, I know you will die. Get this – all, who have ever lived, have died, no exceptions. The cold sober truth is that we don’t all die at the same time. I may outlive you. Then I can write what is not a proper obit of you.


[Currently incomplete first draft].           She was an heiress of the super-rich and a rebellious socialite who became a popular star as an actress. She had honest beauty and poise and elegance. She was a mother who gave time and money to charitable and artistic causes. Her sophistication did not exclude opposing acts of criminality. Her humor and apparent lightness of being were representative of part of an era that fostered better lives then than those to come.   Of course, that’s not all.

Friday, January 20, 2017

The Great American Novel: The Last Hurrah



Definitions

The Great American Novel (GAN) need not be a literary novel. It must be of what is (was) America. The GAN, which is Edwin O’Connor’s The Last Hurrah, must be about politics, if it is about “America”, and about elections, and preferably about reelections. It need not be instances of the human or inhuman condition à la Malraux or Bõlano or Grossman, or as an author “engagé” concerned with, for example, about the rich get richer while the poor get poorer and how the distance between the rich and the poor never will be closed. In addition, the GAN need not be a catalog, Dos Passos, or a humankind depicted as technological tissue, Pynchon, or summed by a passion mutated from Nature until it is too intense.

Once we had more than hope, it was an opportunity though very rarely achieved for traversing the distance between poor to rich. To contain such insanity is only, if devastation is to be avoided, via politics – democratic participatory democracy. As always, the person in the street, the one on the barstool, the hick in hay or those with faces aglow from computer use, are the hope for change. But most recently on the massive historical scale, the Marxists, if honest with themselves, found that the commoners do wish to remain common-like, as the few Iowans who prize mediocrity. It is safe and assured.

Buell in his book about the GAN shows how sectionalism was not a characteristic of a great American novel. But as America became more like vanilla, he entertains notions of transnationalism to such an extent that the GAN could be written in the Congo, at Mbandaka. Wherever it is written, Buell asks if it should be about the “American way of life”. Academic projects in creative writing courses gave to the supposed GAN the taint of the “serious” like from Barth, DeLillo, Pynchon, and Wallace. Some ambitiously attempted construction of monumental human socialism to be negated by using technology without science. The smashing together of many cultural domains during the 60s-70s according to the rules of cinema led to bewildered unaccepted and unanticipated ignorance founded on relating them by means of attempts at reducing the tension between helplessness and prodigious knowledge through welcomed apocalypses that, unfortunately, needed coded competencies to restrain the constantly receding End of It All…and so on.

This is a long way from De Forest’s 1868 essay that called for how to pick a GAN. He was already beaten to the punch by the publisher of Rebecca Harding Davis’s 1867 book who proclaimed it the great American novel. De Forest presumably gave it a more formal consideration, and it could spark a quest for the GAN. But P. T. Barnum preempted both by ridiculing publishers concerned with having on hand the “Great American novel”. De Forest was not a huckster. He wanted a book that could display ordinary American values in manners and emotions. He wanted an entire geographical range for the book’s contents.

Those contents were not to be a geographical entity – the United States – but about an America, a political entity first and foremost about the socialism of political freedom, or so others have realized. They came later after America ended in the years 1963-1975. Before them, when the GAN was more of a concern – 1860s to 1920s -  they wanted it to be of many pages and be a summation, implied or direct, of America. Of course such a summation would have to be a work of literature. Never mind that literature is making the commonplace enlightening, they wanted its theme not to be based on the everyday and ordinary. Accelerating away from such a reality where we are known all too well by people not of our choosing, they got smothered by pompous almost lyrical reflection, dictates of a pseudoism flowing hot and fierce along the causeway of objectivity in service to their subjective reality as agreed upon by a like-minded group that was being protective of their self-realized symbolic status… and so on.

All of this could be packed into a supernovel or perhaps a series of meganovels and there end it. Truly? If someone could write it or them and their intention be made known, wouldn’t others attempt to stop it? If brought to completion what else would there be to write? Read? What could a publisher do for an encore? Might as well launch the nukes.

Before involuntary radiation-soaked baths are the last of life’s events, should we then endorse lesser efforts made to secure the identity of the United States? Henry James in 1880 called it, lesser or greater, the “GAN”. In his time “USA” and “America” were the same or at least connected. There is no America now. There is not enough order and decency. The GAN must have a Christian element, at least a nod to it – to faith, belief, and denying power as the last resort as Dostoevsky concluded. This Christianity contributed to order and not to a Hobbesian draconian cage but for disciplined, hard-working, and simple, moral humankind, though fallible. They sometimes knew truth and beauty with tolerance and humor. Certainly they mourned brutality and vulgarity. Life was precious, most of the time, and when it wasn’t, births were encouraged to possibly curtail irrationality and give strength to those facing the ordeal of harsh reality. There was morality, and it wasn’t a convoluted personal morality. United they were, even loosely, in punishment for misconduct and in avoiding the most obvious and anti-social evils.

Evils there were but the Americans were sustained by an experiment in representative democracy. American religion and American morals upheld their liberty even as mental superiority was resented and equality and being the same became confused. A whiteout from a blizzard of legal empowerment threatened loss of sight of what opinion embedded in the masses was subverting – the flip side of the consciousness of Puritanism (partly Calvinistic and partly Augustinian) – self-reliance, diversity, less “equality”, more freedom in an energetic progressivism that included less individuals and more of a family life.

Which is to say, this is obscene to those who wrote literary tombstones for the Lincoln republic. As consumers, tech-directed, we want what Polybius advocated in a different way – no erosion of polity while Aristotle thought that clearly moneymaking, not money, like acid eats into the social order and disfigures the face of society. It makes monsters of the common people in that they are devoid of common sense. They can’t then be trusted. Aristotle also put down that reasoning leads to happiness. Politics itself was not philosophy, sociology, or history. It was best, according to Aristotle, to not have too much leisure and this would help to avoid tyranny, oligarchy, or democracy. In each case they, whomever, govern or rule in their own interest. This is furthered by a lack of common morals, giving up our distinction from beasts, and ignoring we are only able to choose among evils.

In any event, we came to think we were more animal than human. Effective amoral violence became the only way, then, to political success. Make the animals into consumers and workers and name them always in personal terms and never can they be citizens. Use the Therapeutic Approach to keep them disengaged from polities. They are as they are because of society. Be careful out there; it may not be quite yet a jungle, but it isn’t a sensible civilization. In the jungle Rousseau found the missing link, the orangutan. So how did the orangutan’s relatives come to live in Paris? Probably they got divided into rich orangutans and poor orangutans along the way. They became two societies, the rich one vs. the poor one.

In America, there had been trust in the commoner. The commoner wasn’t rich or poor. There was equality of opportunity. It was a belief. We no longer believe. American writers asserted a fundamental moralism within the bounds of the United States. They knew we had fought for a distinct political way of life synonymous with the American way of life. There was present a chance the commoners could prevent the subversion by the rich but the commoners fell into the poor, and they offered no hope. No poor became rich. After all, there became only two ways of being -  rich or poor, a few vs. the masses. The dreadful boredom of the poor’s works and days could become intolerable so they were allowed diversions. One of these diversions, regarded as an essential American political novel and a GAN, is All the Kings’ Men.

All the King’s Men

All the King’s Men is about a demagogue on his way to dictatorship. Though the novel has been called “the essential political novel”, it is not primarily about politics. The politics described in the book use the characters like Willie Stark (better named as Talos thought the author, Robert Penn Warren, the pitiless and brutal character in the Faire Queen). Jack is to realize the meaninglessness of the quasi-religious Big Twitch to significantly account for undated activity. Neither can pragmatism nor idealism consistently clarify the mix of good and evil and so morality is a lost cause. It is all only what happens, one thing after another in a hard-boiled noir that Warren controls in a Machiavellian manner with a manipulating subjective blow-by-blow agenda. This is the really “real” without a continuum. Fractions only add up to more fractions. Endeavors are not completed. Perhaps some sophisticated mathematics with what little expository force that could be mustered might produce acceptance of the arbitrary in all human affairs. Pascal’s Wager, for example, has no place in such affairs. The Wager is nothing more than an exercise in probability.

Many times there is sweat in the hot South of All the King’s Men. But there is never any stink. After rereading and reading, the novel wasn’t as interesting as on the first read. Burden was a burden. Sensationalism in a tight circle of people got to be annoying. Warren gives the impression of having the plain truth bolstered by melodrama. It is asked if Stark winked at Jack. Who cares? More important, was Warren winking at us? He can’t leave it alone. In the book “it” gets put out in a wise, if not profound and arty manner. One is reminded of Freud’s banana or cigar – that a banana or cigar is sometimes an inclusive banana or cigar.

Warren has trouble with the identities of his characters. He makes an uncertainty about them. But, he must “place” the characters; he does not want to do it if it unduly clarifies their identities. It’s what Warren, not a reader, wants. Not what a reader would want unless dominated by Warren. As if one can only appreciate the book if subservient to Warren, not “under a spell”. This is naked force, brutal. Warren thinks people and ideas can’t be realized enough, but they can for a time, then gone, the memory fades. A bright vivid, recent memory restores what was, for a time. Warren can’t accept the present because it is just not now, barely just, quite close in time, gone, always a memory and so identity cannot be ID’d, not truly. So? What is it? Nothing else but reality. Warren didn’t have to write like he did, but since he chose to do so, he should have found meaning without jargon, accents, sensationalism, and melodrama and twisting facts of the plot for the sake of obscurity, which is the truth, such as he found it. A wavering uncertain dim state without stages of process is the result.

It gets boring how Jack knows so much but remains ignorant. He would have stayed in Long Beach. He was enough of a Californian already. Warren gives him an uncertainty then denies placing the character if enough uncertainty about him could arise, so he wouldn’t be unduly clarified. Warren affirms contradictions in clarity, but denies them too and reaffirms them marginally altered. There can be an exasperation with this wordplay. He opens slots about who are the characters and what they do and fills them with this and that and, like enough monkeys with typewriters, you get significance. But why stop? If the monkeys were to continue, they would get back to obscurity. Warren’s obscurity came from the novel’s start as a play, his preoccupation with verse, and then a need to use the jargon, accents, and melodrama twisted by facts into obscurity, which is the “truth”, forget the facts.

The Last Hurrah

In contrast, in The Last Hurrah appearances are not deceiving. The truth is made of facts, except as Frank Skeffington related about political writers who have an occupational distrust of facts when writing about him. Skeffington, a crook, was the mayor of a city never named. His political base was mostly Irish Catholics. For them politics was a part of life. Politics was dramatic and, at times, comedic. It was accepted without doubt that it was entertaining. His supporters played roles, some assigned, and gave the best performance they could as parents, offspring, voters, and office holders. For them, family came first. They knew only what could be attained and that was an attempt at preservation of dignity with responsibilities set for the common good. Common sense was not yet the individualist’s banalities. Willful misinterpretation of facts was not in their ken. For them there was not a focus on clear-cut grand themes of human existence. The mysteries were Biblical, aided and abetted by the Church. Many of them were witty, decorous, caving sociability, and found a place even if they were forced into displaying a capacity for lacking the definitive.

They were sociable at a wake, for example at the wake of Knocko Minihan (those names never to be emulated again). A wake was a social event. Most in attendance were poor, worked hard (at a time when the expression didn’t apply to one and all), not often given a chance to be sociable, not much diversion. Otherwise, it was a dreary life. A grand custom was a wake. They were to be entertained. They deserved to be since they were unique and entertainly so – the most entertaining group in Europe transplanted to America. They had suddenly made the city three times its former size. Those already present belatedly realized that the savages, the Irish, had arrived. They came in uninvited. How they got in was not pretty.

Now it was the Italians on their way in. Going away were these Irish. Gone as a cohesive political force. A fading Eden, such as it was, Post-America was not far away. There were Italian songs at the 9th Ward Democratic Club’s Spring Dance. Portraits in the hall were of Jefferson, Jackson, Roosevelt, and Skeffington. Open bar, formidable buffet, costly orchestra, and a chance for business.  A part of the business was Camaratta from the waterfront, soon to be deposed. There was no open hostility toward him, it would be ultimately pointless to have done so. Pointless then and at other times. Pointless in regard to Camaratta or anyone else. Here there were none of the gang of anthropoids in the State House and none from the western part of the state who were absolutely depraved, worse than the famous South.

Milder appearing depravity was not so far away. A prominent Republican attorney general had refused $10,000 to defend a notorious criminal. This was taken as a noble gesture, and he earned the nickname of “Honorable”. Much later it was discovered that he had refused the $10,000 because he had wanted $20,000. He was cremated. One person said it was like he was burned with the Sunday papers. He could have been put in an ashtray. Other Republicans painted the political landscape in complementary colors. Such as the Governor who was a well-born turd, a complete reactionary, he had a mind from the 19th century and it wasn’t an apt one. Progressivism for him was doing away with the use of the cat-of-nine-tails on a regular basis in the penal system. Going any further would have been too dangerous. The governor’s allies would help the poor, if down on their luck when they couldn’t be used by as allies. Then and only then did the poor have rights. In effect the Republicans didn’t want public baths for the poor, let them stink, and at a good distance from their betters. The poor can take a bath at the start and at the end and use talcum powder in between. The Republicans had a vested interest in the talcum powder industry.

Mostly likely Skeffington had no holdings in the talcum powder industry. But however his politics could be analyzed, there was no ignoring his recognition of the poor or those not so poor. He realized the ease with which people could be bought. Enormous wealth engenders yet more wealth to those who already have it. They have no answer to the fundamental question – how much is enough? For those at zero, they can be bought, have they any choice? But those at greater than zero, even if only a little can say, with Nancy, just say NO. In that NO, or from it, resides morality, the only way, unsure as it is, to stop the rich from taking us all for a ride and winning our lives. But one impertinence – what is meant by “zero”?

All Skeffington needed to hold them off, keep the rich at bay, was a plurality. The size of the plurality hardly mattered; a plurality is, as Skeffington said, like the color of your raincoat in a typhoon, what difference does it make? To obtain a plurality now and before, Skeffington in his campaigns entered differing cells of the city. These places were not just about race, money, religion, and sex. Broad categories of voters had within them these cells. All cells were in common in that what they said they wanted was apart from what they would settle for. Skeffington promised them the first, and he knew he had to deliver on the second.

All these cells were known to Skeffington building by building though to others they could be parts of villages on the steppes of Asia. He was, of course, among the Irish, but also he was immersed in Italians, Greeks, Syrians, and Chinese. Among these groups, Skeffington visited a slum building owned by one of the Opposition, who wanted to keep it as it had been. This was preserving his inheritance, so no paint or plumbing or electricity improvements were allowed. The only thing that changed was a steady increase in rent. This was obviously a combination of sentiment and good economy.

Among some of his voters, Skeffington knew he must reiterate that all Ireland must be free and that Trieste belonged to Italy. He could not possibly affect any changes in regard to these issues, but they wanted to hear it. Also, some wanted another statute of Columbus. Skeffington noted there were enough pigeons already pooping on enough statues. But the Sons of Italy wanted a statue of someone else, some lunatics wanted one of FDR, and Monsignor Tancredi wanted one of Monsignor Tancredi. Skeffington wanted to avoid making enemies he would have forever so he did the cynical, outrageous, reprehensible, and sensible thing and picked Mother Cabrini.

Appearing less outrageous and entailing much more than a statue was a televised evening with candidate McCluskey, Skeffington’s opponent in the race for mayor. A statue as one representation of one dead person to be seen by a handful of people didn’t begin to compare with the thousands that saw a key feature in our transformation from a political democracy into a social one – McCluskey’s TV spot. It was done at his home with wife, kids, IRISH setter (rented), milk and cookies, bookcases, divan, spinet, and large painting of Pope Pius XII in evidence. This was turning ostensibly private matters into public ones and did not involve a genial sin but one as cause for the end of acceptance of independence and association by those viewing, as voters, as a mass to be manipulated on ever greater stages as TV assumed ever greater importance. Their fare was intended for uncorrupted ordinary (where are they today?) people whose morals were to be ruined by TV’s programs and ads and “news” about sensations, fad, fallacies, fashion, gossip, personalities, and a feeble education being only what TV showed them.

McCluskey’s TV show was in the vanguard charged with destroying America. Never had certain outcomes guaranteed the best, the right or correct occupants of political office. TV made any such concerns irrelevant. Of more concern was did it sell, would they buy, what entertained and what did not? On such a scale, McCluskey was rather low on the totem pole. The religious tinge to his presentation would soon enough be dispensed with. One might as well rent the wife, kids, and order a platter of food and, okay, buy the candidate too or “rent” the candidate. Such goings on weren’t far off.

Obedience of the masses was gained by promising more pie though it always tasted like crap, always. More rights were to be upheld. Keep them focused on the individual uber all and deny avoidance of the most obvious evils. Tell them politics is dirty and about power and overt obedience will not be enough, since there was the possibility of heresy. Public opinion rules and it is made by those in power. Checks and balances cannot rein in public opinion pushed by the guardians of social communications. There are the means they determine to get the ends they determine. The future is nowhere, the past is dead, and of the present they are in control. They control of what freedom consists. It is in their realm that they have made. Any pains or ills in that realm are treated as boredom. Once there, in that state, the mass are never out of it. Meaning is lost and pseudo-meaning is put in its place, placebos are issued, social placebos for political needs.

So we become headed to a future (nowhere) less safe, more brutal, less rational, more hurried and harassed, less of sense and sensibility, with less honor or duty or decency; therefore, boredom prevails and, they counter with entertainment composed of torture, horror, sexual oddities, cruelty of any kind, suffering, murder, less disciple, no tradition and cohesion, and obviously lesser families. More families were prosperous in 1952-1956 as The Last Hurrah was being written and published. “Reet!”, as Fats Citronella says more than once during his reception of the keys to the city from Skeffington (who notes the keys and recipients had become of lesser quality), was based on that prosperity within one spending group. The youth as themselves were a consumer class and not of a family. There was a pent up suppression of incomes in the Depression and then WWII. The rush for economic betterment had only old social referents, not suitable or well-presented and integrated with the new youth. Constant self-assertion was to bully society into not placing any guides at large, no distant antecedents, and only incestuous standards to ensure the increase in the vulgarity of popular culture.

Vulgarity and dignity could not coexist. The family could have had some dignity in its repertoire when it had preserved limits and responsibilities in relation to the common good. Outside it, individuals drooled on an unawareness of the seriousness of history and how a just society could be maintained. Abundant slobber or a well-measured way of life – drool and drivel or deny the realm’s contrivances in order to render oneself composed. Being then, in their realm, in their control, an English-English dictionary is needed to figure out ones’ place, how to fit in. The realm lacks short condolences, soft compliments, quiet recognition, mild regret, and muted grief. The obverse is perfunctory, if accomplished, and done according to a script. As done in a TV program or if they have been done many times, then they are realized or otherwise to know how to do any of them is lost.

Within The Last Hurrah, Skeffington’s adversaries found some of this public utterances, which could include the Bible or Shakespeare as sources and apt as sources go, to be in an alliance with an awesome and hardly attainable ideal like chastity or telling the truth. O’Connor wrote The Last Hurrah with Skeffington central to it. Of course, it was not only Skeffington’s life that passed away. Skeffington gave no plea to Caufield; it was not an explanation in referring to an end even though something anew would transpire, but it would be a lesser truth, more lies. O’Connor wasn’t “political”, he needed to wrap the political matters he presented, such as they were, tightly around the Irish-Americans of Boston and their inseparable Catholicism. Without that wrapping, his story would have been diffuse. In addition, the story would have been too close to the future. Otherwise it could not have been as clearly written, calmly done, not overly profound (or any other attempt at a synonym for literary output) yet he depicted much that was lost. O’Connor was at the end of a very large group of writers who knew America was fundamentally moralistic. Whatever O’Connor thought of this disaster, he did not write much about it. If greatness must be what is said, how vastly inferior is what isn’t said? If greatness always lies in what is written in full, what can be found of worth in knowing that few words in number can add up to an incalculable effect?

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