In this Issue: The Approach to Al Mu'tasim: Jorge Luis BorgesThey came Two by TwoThe Sojourn (by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)Samson and DelilahThe Lion of JudaThe Beginning of Rome (by Theodor Mommsen)The Last of the Hebrews: Jeremiah newI shall not be forgotten: Sappho newThe Cosmopolitan (by Theodor Mommsen)The Characters (by Theophrastus)If there is Paradise it must be here: VirgilThe Road to EmmausOnly the Naughty Bits: Petronius ArbiterThe Master's Touch: Cornelius TacitusProclaim the Great Pan is dead: PlutarchA Plea for the MandaeansWhat does it say?Rome and the JewsDesperate for Shortcuts: PlotinusThe Wizard's NieceKeeping the Faith: Quintus Aurelius Symmachus newBishop St. SpyridonAn Age of Magic newThe Worm in Eve's Apple newMohammed and the Koran (by Edward Gibbon)Not a Smoking Gun, but I wonder!The Innovation of ChildhoodThe Magnificent PeopleBondage of the Will: Martin LutherA Frenchman's Itinerary: Michel de MontaigneWas he for real? DescartesSancho’s Dream: Miguel de Cervantes and his Age newMy Great-Great Grandmother’s LetterA hot Chestnut in the Fly: Laurence SterneAll in the Mind: Immanuel Kant newThe Ape that talkesWhat Goethe couldn't knowInto the Crystal you shall fall: E.T.A. Hoffmann newOn the Manufacture of Ideas while we speak (by Heinrich von Kleist)From the Memoirs of Mr. Schnabelewopski, Esq. (by Heinrich Heine)Lazarus (by Heinrich Heine) • My Kind of Saint: Antonin ChekhovA Catholic Childhood: James JoyceThe Shame: Franz Kafka newA Case of blurred Vision: Gottfried BennThe Elements of Style (by William Strunk)At the PicturesThe TerminalDylan in ElysiumAbout MeBooks I enjoy readingA Simple Matter of MathThe Magic NumberIf E.T. is out there, why doesn’t he visit us?The infinite UniverseWhere does the Lake go, when the Geese fly to Canada?A Directory to the AfterlifeEvoe!

The New Issue

 

You cannot depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus.

Mark Twain





Welcome to my reading room. A reader of mine was kind enough to suggest that she would put money on the table if I decided to publish my autobiography. So, blame it on her. As the Chinese use to say: “A man past his forties is the proverbial rogue,” a man full of stories, profanities and bawdy anecdotes.

The finger-pointing gentleman in the picture above is Christopher Columbus, arguably the man who opened the door to the modern age. People visiting Barcelona are told that the finger is actually pointing at Madagascar in Africa. If you think of it, this is making perfect sense. Madagascar lies in the Indian Ocean and if you extend the line of pointing you hit India, the country Columbus hoped to reach by circling the globe on a western bearing. As we all know, he never arrived in India. The Mughal’s had a narrow escape, although their military capacity was far superior to that of the Aztecs and Incas and probably of the Spanish as well. Columbus pretended never to doubt that he actually had landed in India. He had a reason to be stubborn: believe it or not, before he set sail he knew already of the American landmass across the Atlantic. He went to Bergen to study the maps of the Vikings, and accordingly he plotted a course closer to South in order to bypass the Viking’s “Vinland.” Columbus had no intention to be second best, although he should not have harbored any concerns. We still remember him, and not Leif Erikson (970 – 1020). Although building a loose confederacy of principalities and kingdoms reaching from Canada to the Ural and from Greenland and Scandinavia to England, Normandy and even Sicily, their subjects and the people they raided rather preferred to forget about the Vikings. Columbus, on the other hand, was a seasoned PR man, who knew how to blow his own horn, and his project excited the pundits. Before he went, hat in hand, to ask Isabella and Ferdinand to bankroll his venture, he even paid King Richard III a visit in London (on the way back from Bergen). The king was interested but presently had more pressing matters on his mind. He politely declined, wishing Columbus the best of luck.

The design of the page may not strike you as particularly fancy, but it does take into account different media like iPhones and Blackberries. Every single essay has received an editorial overhaul and quite a few have been completely rewritten, even if I maintained the old title. There are many more new entries than I cared to mark with “new.” It would have looked preposterous. The only unfinished entry – Sancho's Dream – is going to be the site's title essay and not only will set the tone but is going to be something better and completely different from what it was before.

So, what is it all about? Sancho Panza was Don Quixote's squire, who faithfully followed his master, believing in the Don’s promise that at the end of his toils there would be the governorship of an island waiting for him. Sancho eventually saw his dream fulfilled, and as always in life, it turned out not quite as expected. It was a painful experience that left him bruised and battered. Yet Sancho never regretted trying. After all, this world is the stuff we impress our dreams upon; one way or the other, everybody goes after an island in the clouds. What would life be without.

Your comments are welcome. Drop us an email at editor@michaelsympson.com

Enjoy!

michael sympson, July 2009


Current Entries:


"Every author is creating his own pedigree," says Jorge Luis Borges. Like the hero in the illusory Approach to Al-Mu'tasim I could see myself on a mission trying to find my true identity behind the veils of our existence.








Noah is the second founder of life on Earth, like honest Abe is the second founder of the Union. We certainly owe the old sailor a debt of gratitude, not only for our existence, but that he was no prohibitionist and teetotaler.








The bright sky at night, burning with an infinite number of stars, does no longer spread its golden tent above the emigrant’s heads; instead they take cheer from the light in the skies at day, when an uncountable mass of their people is beating a path through the badlands” (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe).








In the Book of Judges, a promiscuous drifter with no family to return to pays the occasional visit to his wife from a foreign nation. In between he has many affairs. In other words Samson was one of the disgruntled have-nots who looked for opportunities to opt out from the matriarchal economy of his period.








King David is supposed to be the “man after God’s heart,” but my loyalties rather lie with the man he betrayed. Surrounded by traitors, King Saul’s task was to forge a new nation and free them from the Philistine’s yoke. He was truly an aristocrat, but the Good Book doesn't like aristocrats.









"No other nation inside of their own circle was as omnipotent as the Roman’s; yet in no other nation did the blameless citizen live in such absolute and legally guaranteed security from intrusions by his fellow citizens and even the state itself" (Theodor Mommsen).








I see Jeremiah as a kindred spirit; he's also the best documented personality in the entire book. A rare fluke has the otherwise fragmented sources and the archaeology from Mesopotamia, Judah and Egypt fall in sync for the same decades of his activity.








Prophets and “saviors” come a dime a dozen; we can reinvent Einstein and the infinitesimal calculus, if we have to, but the combination of circumstance and character in Sappho’s work gives testimony to a unique sensitivity, almost obliterated by censorship and persecution of her work.








"Everywhere, at home and abroad, the younger generation, with a moving enthusiasm, gave in to the poet of sentimentality and love, to the smart sound-bite and the tendentious aphorism, to philosophy and humanitarianism." (Theodor Mommsen).








TheophrastusCharacters was written 2,300 years ago, ages before the Freudian and Jungian claptrap, as an aid for the aspiring playwright, and it is still as true as it was then.









Maecenas was a man of effeminate appearance. He liked to dress in transparent fabrics and flaunted in public his decadent tastes and gay love affairs. But it was he, of all people, who asked Virgil to write something “uplifting and conservative.”
 








A namesake of mine, in New Mexico, is now convicted for statutory rape. He is the latest example of a cult leader following an all too familiar and often repeated paradigm. Such are the people asking us to suffer our children comming to them.









Most of the book has reached us in the form of private excerpts. Since it is a frank and unashamedly lewd book, our copyists must have been a bunch of schoolboys who copied out only the juicy bits for later uses in the dormitory.









Tacitus might have been many things but he certainly was not naive. He knew that the person demanding security will accept the power to be, and the one who is providing or promising to provide security will be the one exerting this power.









Plutarch was a compassionate man with a rare capacity for touching our hearts in unforgettable little vignettes. Plutarch's Lives has had a tremendous influence on our civilization, but unlike the Bible a wholesome and humanizing influence.








I find the silence following my plea rather telling. The Mandaeans are victims of Bush’s invasion of Iraq, neither Christians nor Muslim take kindly to their beliefs and the Mandaeans, as far as I know, don't own oil-wells.









What a modern visitor to the Roman Empire would immediately notice is the absence of billboards at the roadside and the lack of name tags on the doors to residential buildings. One had to ask one's way through the murk and smell of unlit corridors to find the right flat in a Roman five- and eight-storey apartment block.









Emperor Augustus conceded to the spiritual chiefs of the Jews to raise their own taxes and hold civil jurisdiction over the Jews in the Diaspora. A bad move, as he was to find out.









So this is the question: is there such a thing as an underpinning unity in the larger scheme of things? Are we citizens of a Cosmos, or does the momentary equilibrium between the forces of chaos create the mere illusion of sustained structure and order?









Ready to slip into a new dress the matron looked into the mirror at her naked body: “I rather pull crumbs from the hairy chest of a passing sailor, screaming and banging the headboard,” she said. She tilted her head, inspecting the hair. She decided to color it. “Red,” she said. “It should be red."








The new system of Christian ayatollahs began rolling out the shroud over culture and education. It took almost a millennium before the dissent of courageous functionaries would bring about changes from within. Without the legacy of Symmachus and his compatriots, a kind of cultural time capsule, the darkness could have lasted even longer.









Like most clerics of the period, Spyridon was married and a family man. His daughter’s name was Irene and for all we know, she died as a virgin. In her father’s absence she had accepted to take custody over a deposit by a neighbor – a piece of jewelry – or so this neighbor said to Spyridon.








Everybody seemed to walk through a dreamy world of genies and magic, a kind of Arabian Nights with the new Jerusalem at the center, the treacherous city on the Bosporus, filling the sky with gold. It was the era of the Germanic epic, of the formidable Hagen.








What has done more harm to the human race, the Bible, the Koran or the Kamasutra? After sixteen hundred years of a Christian sex “education,” women in the west barely suspected that they, too, could have an orgasm.









"The word of God, and of the apostle, was diligently recorded by his disciples on palm-leaves and the shoulder-bones of mutton; and the pages, without order or connection, were cast into a domestic chest, in the custody of one of his wives" (Edward Gibbon).









In a tyranny the imperial councilors dispense advice in veiled terms, in the form of backhanded flattery, or better even, holding up to the throne the mirror of a supposedly virtuous ruler of the past as a model to follow. Emperor Marcus Aurelius’ Handbook was fitting this bill to a “T.”








The concept of an artificially prolonged period of supervised adolescence, which is designed to exceed even the biological boundary, is really a rather recent development.








In the final days of this planet, making a last stand against an increasingly hostile environment, we may find ourselves digging in behind the walls of a civilization very similar to that of the Incas. They truly were the magnificent people of the Americas.








"Since I cannot comprehend by any means how that same God can be merciful and just, who carries the appearance of so much wrath and iniquity, there is room for exercising faith, while God kills and the faith of life is exercised in death” (Martin Luther).








On a rickety table, in front of a second hand bookshop, I found a pocket sized booklet, A Frenchman’s Itinerary, the Travel Diary of Monsieur Montaigne. The great man had traveled all the places I know so well from my own childhood.








Descartes wrote in an age of thumbscrews and auto-da-fés for everybody who had the temerity of thinking for himself. This could sometimes make him giving the appearance of affirming what he didn't really believe.








It is a little known fact that Cervantes published his novel under the shadow and even patronage of the Inquisition. Even less is known that the Low Countries exist because of Prince William of Orange championing against this very Inquisition the liberties we now take for granted.








My great-great Grandmother’s letter is a genuine document. She was in her teens when she lost everything and became a refugee because of the religious turmoil of her time. I think it was an even greater loss for the country she left behind.








A hot chestnut dropping onto the unbuttoned fly can become the object of a novel. Laurence Sterne's book of course is not an exercise in stream of consciousness and other modern and postmodern claptrap.








A philosopher who never left town in his entire life has revolutionized our ideas about the human mind. Time and space, he maintained, is all in the mind, the world of duration and extension out there is something beyond our mental categories.








Languages evolve from the complicated and cumbersome towards the easier to use, as everybody can tell who has conjugated the Latin verb 'ire:' ('eo,' 'is,' 'it,' 'imus,' 'itis,' 'eunt') in search for the imperative plural ‘ite,’ and then moves on to figure out the locative for ‘domus’ (‘domum’).









With some justification Goethe can be seen as a forerunner of Charles Darwin (1809 – 1882). Unfortunately Goethe thought he had to challenge Newton's (1643 – 1727) authority and despite some valuable insight into the physiology of color-vision, it didn't do much for Goethe's reputation in the scientific community ever since. This is a shame.








ETA Hoffmann is the grandfather of all fantasy writers; Stephen King is still trudging in the same track, I bet without even knowing the predecessor.








Was it a twitch of the upper lip or some indecisive fiddling with the sleeve cuff, that became the cause for the French Revolution? Considering the way we manufacture Ideas as we speak, this is very possible.









When the pot-roast was particularly bad, we turned to debating the existence of God. The good Lord always was with the majority. Only three at the table held atheistic views; yet they too listened to reason if we had at least a good cheese for dessert” (Heinrich Heine).








Heinrich Heine was a freethinker for all his life and only the hypocrite will censor him for asking the Old Potter to let him climb back on his knee. Heine was in pain and beyond human help.









"There is more love for mankind in electricity and steam, than in chastity and abnegation from meat. War is an evil, and the court system is an evil, but it doesn’t follow that I should wear straw sandals for it" (Antonin Chekhov).









James Joyce was saddled with debts, his wife was pregnant, his eyesight failed him, nobody showed any interest in his first novel. In a desperate moment he threw 2,000 pages of manuscript into the fireside. His sister Eileen rescued parts of it from the flames. With the help of Ezra Pound it was published under the title of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.









Joseph K.’ is starting an affair with his attorney's maid on the very first consultation, right under her employer's nose. Judges have women carried into their chambers, in the painter’s studio the king-sized bed barely leaves space for anything else. Everywhere we find this brew of sordid sex and the protagonist’s shabby mores.









Gottried Benn wore many masks. During the early 1930s he corresponded with three sweethearts at the same time. All three, in fact all the women in Benn's life, were tall, attractive, well educated and well connected. Benn was a man of a stocky and portly build, but, like Henry Kissinger, he liked to be seen with a tall blonde.








My wife believes she can recognize an American composer by certain characteristics in his baseline and harmonics. The same could be said about the American way with words. And it is a good way. William Strunk’s Elements of Style is more than a manual of good expression, it is an education in democracy.








My grandmother was a very down to earth person. I owe my existence to her conceited ways. Yet all this common sense and survival skill didn’t prepare her for this confrontation with the weird and wonderful.








Her husband was shipped in a sealed boxcar to Auschwitz. The guards rushed him to undress and he was told to deposit his belongings in a neat pile, so that “later he could find it again.”








Things are not always what we think they seem, as the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas was about to find out when he arrived in Elysium and had to look for a job.








People have expressed their interest to actually lay money on the table if I would publish my biography. Very flattering, but I am not sure I will expand very much beyond this little sketch.









Limited shelf space can be a blessing. Most of my books are stored away in the loft. So, from time to time I make a review of my references on shelf and look what I really, really want. Then I climb upstairs.
 








What does actually constitute the fabric of our mores? Why do we observe taboos? How is it that even the pathological liar is speaking the truth more often than not?








I use to obsess over the births and deaths of the people I am interested in. Over the years a pattern has emerged. While traveling from the cradle to the bier, it seems we cross the invisible line of a magic number.








Personally I think the Universe is teeming with life, perhaps even in the voids between the galaxies. But if E.T. is out there, why doesn’t he visit us? Is there an insurmountable barrier?








From early childhood I have taken an interest in astronomy. I think our cosmologists neglect the possibilities of an infinite Universe. It may not look any different from the one out there, but the physics are simpler.









If somebody wishes to enthuse about the “fine tuning” of a Universe that made our existence possible, he better explains why he thinks it is not us who are fine tuned to given conditions.








I had a conversation with a very down to earth Yorkshire woman, a retired nurse. For her every thought of an afterlife held the horrors of prolonged infirmity, “and why should anybody want this,” she said. Why indeed. But then she came up with a surprise.








The record says, it had rained all day. Suddenly the clouds opened and Valkyries and hordes of badly mauled warriors raced across the sky, the blood still dripping from their wounds. There was the whinnying of horses in the air and the witnesses flinched from the eerie swipe of fluttering hair.


 

So what is going to happen next?

The novels have left the planning state and at the present rate I am typing my fingers to little stumps. Good fiction is like the hypnotist's touch on your shoulder; it is a pleasing lie and it doesn't fail because it is telling a falsehood; it fails when it ceases to captivate. The muse is still doing her rounds. The doorbell rings and there she is, painted toe-nails, the sandaled foot rubbing up the suntanned calf of her other leg, her left hand with lipstick and makeup mirror still poking backward for the tiniest of purses dangling from the thinnest of shoulder straps. She looks at you, the face seems serious, but a little flutter of her mascara smudged eyelashes gives away the mirth in her narrowing eyes. The Postman is going to be a novel about two friends who made choices that will turn their friendship to bitter animosity. In An Untidy Schedule the protagonist is stepping into a new phase of his life, leading to unexpected, hitherto Unseen discoveries, which however are only a foretaste of the revelation in Nursery. Farewell to Venus will take us back to an enigmatic figure of the 4th century who rose from virtually nowhere to one of the four most powerful men in Constantine's administration.

    Of the finished novels I shall put up a taster. If you like what you read you make the payment and download the password protected PDF from the page that appears after confirmation. I send you the password, and you can read to your heart's content.

Live well and be happy.

michael sympson

Proprietary Notice: © – 04/102003 – by michael sympson. Text may be downloaded for personal use, provided all copies retain the copyright and proprietary notices. No material may be modified, edited or taken out of context. Any commercial use in advertising or publicity requires permission in writing by the author's estate.
Check this
out:


16GB USB 
Flash Drive