Francis Berger

Evil in the System or An Evil System? The Example of Hungary

20/10/2019

In my previous post I divided those who recognize evil in our current system into two distinct camps: those who believe the system can be saved by removing the evil that has corrupted it: and those who believe the system itself is evil.

In the following, I hope to illustrate the attitudes inherent in each of these "camps" as well as how these attitudes influence their approach to evil.

Contemporary Hungary, led by Viktor Orbán, is squarely in the first camp, especially when it comes to the European Union. The Orbán government is shrewd enough to comprehend the evil within the EU, but it has approached this evil as something that merely plagues an otherwise inherently good system. Current Hungarian diplomacy is based on the belief that the evil within the EU is a just stain on the system rather than the core foundation of the system itself. In a nutshell, the Orbán government likens the evil within the EU to a cancerous tumor, one that can be surgically removed through political action.

Hungarians who rose up against the Stalinist regime and Soviet occupation in 1956 were clearly in the second camp. Those who revolted in 1956 did not regard communism as an inherently good thing that had been corrupted - as something that could be saved by removing the corrosive elements within it. They saw the system for what it was - an embodiment of evil. Those who rose up against communism in 1956 were not interested in negotiating with the system, or finding common ground with the system, or winning concessions from the system. They wanted one thing and one thing only - the complete obliteration of the system. And many gave their lives in an attempt to achieve this goal. In the minds of many at the time, dying in a struggle against an evil system was infinitely better than continuing to live passively within an evil system.

The 1956 Hungarian Uprising ultimately failed, but it did leave its mark. Thirty-three years after the event, communism collapsed in Eastern Europe. On the surface, it looked like the red star had been destroyed forever. But the red star was not destroyed. It merely changed its form. The forces Orbán and his government are currently confronting are essentially the same forces Hungarians battled against in 1956.

The Orbán government needs to acknowledge this fact as it prepares to commemorate the 1956 Hungarian Uprising. And if it sincerely wants to honor the memories of those who gave their lives in the struggle against evil, the Orbán government will have to begin seeing the evil within the EU for what it truly is - and act accordingly.

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Evil in the System or An Evil System?

19/10/2019

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People who perceive the evil gripping the West can generally be divided in two distinct groups.

The first group believes the system has been corrupted, and they advocate for the removal of the evil forces and elements that have caused the corruption. Put another way, people in this camp believe the system is inherently good, or at least was inherently good before dark interests debased it. Purge the evil from the system, the first group argues, and the system can be saved.

The second group, on the other hand, sees the system as purposefully corrupt and evil. People in this group believe the system has been designed by evil for the purpose of creating chaos and promoting damnation. Evil cannot be purged from the system because the system itself is evil embodied. Purging evil from the system would result in the elimination of the system (which is exactly what most in the second group believe should / needs to happen).

So where do you land? Do you see evil in a corrupted but otherwise good system? Or do you see only an evil system?

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Eldorado

19/10/2019

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The Tragically Hip was one of the biggest rock bands in Canada when I was a teenager/young adult. Part of the band's massive appeal in Canada was the Canadiana the Hip included in its songs. While other bands in the country sang generic songs of love and loss, the Hip wrote songs about ice hockey; Bobcaygeon; Thompson, Manitoba; David Milgaard; Hugh MacLennan; and Tom Thompson among other bits of Canadian lore.

Unsurprisingly, what made the band immensely popular domestically also kept it relatively obscure in the United States and overseas. In any case, I hadn't thought about the Tragically Hip for a long time, but for reasons I can't explain, one Hip song became lodged in my head today. The song is called Eldorado. It contains no Canadiana - but it does contain one of the best rock song lyrics I have ever come across in my life - I've got no genius for evil / That makes me common.

Lyrics and song below:

"Eldorado"

He's a man-sized Eldorado
Hooved a doo
And who could blame him
Who could blame him
Where we going?
What's the ticket?
Just the mention of Berlin makes me sexy
it makes me sexy

And tired of thinking about drinking
For thinking of drinking
While thinking about drinking
And thinking about drinking
It's a man-sized inside

Look in here
It's all hardwood
What's that smell?
Smells like coffee
It smells like coffee
If you regret it please say something
I've got no genius for evil
That makes me common
It makes me common

And tired of loving, recovering
Loving, recovering
Loving, recovering
Loving, recovering
It's a man-sized inside

He's a man-sized Eldorado
Whoopty-do
If you can't take it
If you can't take it
Where's he going?
What's that ticking?
Just the mention of Berlin
Makes me sexy
It makes me sexy

And tired of thinking about drinking
For thinking of drinking
While thinking about drinking
And thinking about drinking

Tired of loving, recovering
Loving, recovering
Loving, recovering
Loving, recovering
It's a man-sized inside
It's a man-sized inside

Inside

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István Görgényi's Paintings of the 1956 Hungarian Uprising Against Communism

18/10/2019

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Self - Portrait - István Görgényi (1917 - 1973)

Often referred to as the "Hungarian Goya, painter István Görgényi is celebrated in Hungary for a haunting series of paintings he created during and shortly after the failed 1956 Hungarian uprising against Soviet occupation and Stalinist oppression, paintings that were subsequently hidden away in a basement for fear of reprisal. As far as I have been able to discover, the paintings remained hidden until the collapse of communism in Hungary in 1989.

Görgényi's paintings have been a staple attraction during Hungary's national remembrance of the failed rebellion against communism. Many cities and towns exhibit reproductions of the artist's 1956-themed works as part of their commemoration programs. The originals are often displayed in the capital during October. I like Görgényi's depictions of this noble yet tragic chapter in Hungarian history. The paintings do more than mirror or reflect - they strike at the spiritual essence of the uprising - at its nobility and virtue as well as at its eventual calamity and defeat.

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The People Said . . .

16/10/2019

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A week from today Hungary will mark the sixty-third anniversary of the failed 1956 uprising against Soviet occupation and its Stalinist regime. October 23rd is a national holiday here; the date commemorates the first day of the protests that triggered the eventual armed rebellion against communist oppression.

The wall painting below was created three years ago on the sixtieth anniversary of the event. I find the simple caption above the shattering red star quite moving. Attributed to Hungarian novelist Sándor Márai, the line reads - "The people said: That's enough!"

I imagine many great and noble struggles have their origins in that simple phrase.

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Wellbeing

15/10/2019

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It is there, even on the worst days. A soft, flickering glow, deep inside. When you become aware of it, you turn your back against the wind and cup a hand around the light.

But none of this is needed. The unsteady flame appears exposed and vulnerable, forever on the verge of going out, yet it dances through the gusts and tempests with defiant joy. A mere breath’s whisper away from nothingness, the flame curls back to life and writhes graciously against the murk. Perpetual darkness presses against it, but the glow never succumbs, and it never accedes.

On the best days it throws off searing sparks. Flash and flare ignite a firestorm; a cleansing conflagration. The blackness blazes – becomes ashes. You emerge from the smoke, smoldering and cauterized, torch in hand, raised high above.

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My Onion Hip

14/10/2019

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The SI joint inflammation and dysfunction I suffered through this past summer appear to be healing rather nicely. I rarely feel stiffness or soreness on my left side; no crackles of white hot lightning vein down the curvature of my spine into my thigh or groin. The exercises and stretches I have doing over the past three months seem to be building everything back up to almost normal. Of course, getting to this point has been no easy task. I have spent a great deal of time researching the nature of my injury, but the extensive reading I have done into the subject has revealed one thing above all else – human hips are complex constructions and diagnosing the probable source (or sources) of pain in this part of the body can be an elusive and enigmatic task.

For starters, SI joint pain problems can be traced to tightened and shortened psoas muscles, which are a major component of what are commonly referred to as the hip flexors. Tight psoas muscles, in turn, can cause all sorts of trouble for the hamstrings and the pelvis, most notably pelvic tilt. Pelvic tilt, in turn, adds additional strain to the already overstretched hamstrings, which in turn weaken the gluteal muscles, which then further exacerbate the pelvic tilt – in my case, likely anterior.

The chief cause of tight psoas muscles is excessive sitting, especially excessive sitting in the wrong posture which, it turns out, I was an absolute master at. So concerned was I about slouching forward in my office chair that I made a point of arching my spine inward until it became a concave semi-circle, much like the loop of a question mark. Needless to say, this only worsened my already tight psoas situation and grumpy pelvic tilt.

As likely as all of these possible causes appear, they might only be symptoms of a deeper underlying problem located in my feet. Turns out I supinate when I walk, especially on my right side. Foot supination, also known as foot underpronation, can cause trouble much farther up, chiefly in the knees and hips. Then again, the supination could just be a symptom of one, or of a combination of many, of the problems I detailed above.

When it comes to finding the true source of my hip trouble, it appears everything is connected to everything else, just like in that annoying kid’s song. The foot bone really is connected to the ankle bone and everything else, all the way to the base of my spine, to that small vertical wall of bone I didn’t even know had. My hip trouble is like an onion – I peel back layer only to find another layer waiting to be peeled. Every exclamation mark I have managed to locate also yields two question marks. The quest reeks of perpetuity – a veritable never-ending story. But rest assured, none of this dispirits me. I will find the answer one day – which will probably be the same day the doctor tells me my hip needs replacing.

Note added: Back in the late summer/early fall, a reader of this blog suggested I become familar with Danny Dreyer’s Chi Walking technique as a possible recovery tool. Though I have found it practically impossible to adopt Dreyer’s walking technique as my own, his series of videos helped make me aware of my supination and my many other underlying posture problems while walking, which has been an immense help.

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Unpublished - For Now

13/10/2019

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I spent the bulk of the weekend wading into my planned revisions for The City of Earthly Desire, and I have decided it is probably best to unpublish the book on Amazon while I complete the editing and revisions. I estimate the work will take two or three months to complete. My current goal is to republish the novel some time before the New Year.

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István Görgényi's Nightmare

10/10/2019

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István Görgényi (1917 - 1973) was a Hungarian painter whose limited technical skills did not hinder his uncanny ability to capture the demonic essence of communism in his works. The painting below depicts what must have been a constant danger in Görgényi's life after the failed 1956 Hungarian uprising - being raided and arrested by the communists for his "subversive" art.

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A Helpful Review

9/10/2019

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My novel, The City of Earthly Desire, recently received an incredibly helpful three-star review on Amazon:

A Solid, Readable Effort, But Not Without Challenges

I have never read a self-published novel before (I don't read much fiction at all these days), but I purchased this on a recommendation from a blog I frequent. This is a solid, somewhat engaging novel, with obvious ambition (some might say slight pretension) to greatness, written in concise and effective prose; however, the story is marred by a sagging middle third that could easily have been whittled down considerably and flat characterizations, especially of the antagonists. Suzy is so diabolically narcissistic that she comes off as cartoonish and silly, and Bela (the main character) is so unrelentingly stupid and naive that it becomes difficult to sympathize with him. The parts with Reinhardt and the history of Hungary are fascinating, and Verge was a compelling character, but they are relegated to the background for the majority of the novel. I did appreciate the championing of tradition and the themes of beauty and purpose, which are uncommon in today's literature. I would be interested in reading further work by the author, and was impressed by the scope and ambition of this book, but it does suffer from a noticeable lack of a skilled editor. Overall, a worthwhile read.

First of all, I completely agree with the reviewer's observation that the book suffers from a noticeable lack of a skilled editor. This is a significant drawback of self-publishing. In all honesty, the shortcomings the reviewer mentions above have been gnawing away at me for years. The protagonist is too gullible and naive throughout the narrative - to the point that he becomes irritating and practically unlikeable. In many ways, he is little more than a Pinocchio character. The antagonist, on the other hand, is too one-dimensional, to the point that she does indeed come off as cartoonish.

Secondly, the narrative is also bloated and overwritten in many places; many needless scenes could be omitted; some descriptions and sentences could be whittled down. Lastly, I have come to realize the novel is too raw in many parts - so much so that it can be off-putting to readers who land on the sqeaumish side. Needless to say, it is extremely helpful for me as a writer to have a reader confirm these flaws in the narrative.

As I mentioned above, I had considered editing and revising the book over the years, but was reluctant to do so for fear my revisions might do more harm than good. Nevertheless, this particular review and some other feedback I have received over the past year has inspired me to take a chance and complete a comprehensive revision of The City of Earthly Desire in the hope that such a revision might indeed make the story better. I estimate the revisions will take two or three months to complete, but I feel it will be a worthwhile investment that will lead to a better version of the novel in the end. I welcome the challenge, especially since my current fiction project has run into a bit of rut in the past two or three months.

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"The Elite" is a Misnomer

8/10/2019

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Calling those who occupy the highest positions of power and influence in our dying societies “the elite” is a misnomer of the most insidious kind. Yes, the elite are a select group of the richest, most powerful, best educated, and best trained individuals in society, but are they truly superior in both quality and ability when compared to the rest of society? Their wealth and power are undeniable. And they certainly are superior in some qualities and abilities, but what kind of qualities and what kind of abilities do the cream of the crop, the best of the best truly possess?

Peel back the surface of the term “elite” and it becomes strikingly obvious that our notion of the elite is misshapen and erroneous. In reality, there is not much that is elite about our elite. They are the no class high class. The rancid cream of the crop. The unbeautiful people. The worst of the worst. Why then do we insist on referring to them as the elite? Is it purely because they have risen to the top and manage to remain there for a period of time? Pond scum is capable of the same, yet no one sings its praises. No, calling the power class in our societies the elite simply won’t do. It's time to retire the term and find another one.

Though fitting, the pond scum analogy would be inappropriate. So would any animal term, or any word stripping “the elite” of their human-all-to-human humanity. Dehumanizing them would be far more harmful to me than it would be for them. As would black-and-white divisions of “us” and “them”; like it or not, they are still “us” and, to varying degrees, we are very much “them.” I have often referred to the elite as the Establishment. Though fitting, I find the term too clinical and too corporate, this despite their cold, calculated, clinical, corporatism.

Once again, it lacks humanity – and they are, after all, still human. Of course, their humanity has been deformed through the choices they have made and the dark forces they ultimately serve. In light of this, perhaps they should be called the Damned; but this term implies finality and obliterates any chance at redemption. No, the Damned would be a transgression of boundaries. That is not my call to make. Well, what then? What should I call our un-elite elite? Those possessed souls . . . the Possessed? Suitable, but perhaps limiting.

I have no clear answer as of yet, but my original objection remains, clear as day – calling the powerful and the influential "the elite" is a gross misnomer. The time to speak a new language has come.

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Sex is a Rope

7/10/2019

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That keeps us captive; bound and tied up in hedonistic impulses, thoughts, desires, and, in rare cases, acts. And yes, I do believe the acts themselves are less infrequent than is commonly believed or acknowledged – but the acts, if and when they occur – are merely the salting of charred earth. You see, the greatest destruction occurs before the act – in the place that inspired the act; in thought.

All that is required for sex to act as a rope is impulse, thought, and desire. Of course, these can be good things in themselves provided the right motivations fuel them, but we are discussing wrong motivations, not right ones, and when our minds fixate on wrong motivations, and we believe these wrong motivations to be right ones . . . well, that is where the real harm is done; where the greatest damage is inflicted.

All the act does pry open the realm of tangible consequences – the only consequences most of us are willing to acknowledge. This explains why we trick ourselves into believing the rope offers security rather than enslavement; why we keep our ropes short and our spikes driven deep into the granite when we begin to scale the sheer cliffs of our infinite desires. But we are both dishonest and delusional if we cajole ourselves into thinking the intangible consequences are insignificant or, worse still, non-existent. Whether we acknowledge them or not, those consequences exist – and as unbelievable as it seems, they are just as significant.

Accept it – the rope offers no security. The rope curtails; diminishes. The rope downsizes us; abridges us. The rope anchors us; hems us in; limits our worlds to small circles. Like junkyard dogs tied to trees protecting their great treasures, round and round we go, but we never actually get anywhere. The rope keeps freedom within sight but out of reach. Yet, we somehow manage to find solace in this state, which is why we refuse to cut the rope. Yes, that is all we would need to do – simply cut the rope – but instead of cutting it, we yearn for more rope, and when enough is provided, we will eagerly tie our own nooses and happily hang ourselves without a care for consequences, tangible or otherwise.

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Hungarians Drive Well, But . . .

4/10/2019

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Most Hungarians are skilled drivers. Unfortunately, skilled does not necessarily mean good. Though Hungarians generally handle their vehicles far better than Americans and Canadians do, they are also far more committed to taking reckless and unnecessary risks. In fact, the average North American would have to watch a Hollywood action film to experience the same level of over-adventurous driving Hungarians enthusiastically engage in on a daily basis. Unlike Canadians and Americans, who are stymied by manual transmissions and often struggle with simple maneuvers such as parallel parking or navigating a traffic circle, Hungarians have a natural panache behind the wheel. Everyday sights such as clumsy three-point-turns, timorous driving in reverse, and logic-defying fender benders in shopping mall parking lots – all common in the US and Canada – are practically nonexistent here. Simply put, unlike some North American drivers, Hungarian motorists know how to drive. The problem with Hungarians is they know how to drive a little too well, which inspires them to heights of daring North American drivers would feel uncomfortable even contemplating.

For example, Hungarians see nothing wrong with overtaking another vehicle at speeds of 140 kilometers per hour in blind, hairpin turns. This ties in to their overall lack of concern for speed limits, which most motorists here regard as strictly optional. Doing 200 kilometers per hour or more on highways with 130-kilometer speed limits is taken as a national duty. Tailgating other vehicles at distances of less than two centimeters is a national pastime. And cutting in front of other vehicles at the very last minute during lane changes and turns is merely par for the course. Thanks to their superior driving skills, Hungarians successfully manage these precarious maneuvers and thousands more, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time.

I have been driving in Hungary for nearly four years and during this time I have tried to find explanations for the foolhardy and unsafe manner in which most Hungarians choose to drive. I have made the following observation: Hungarians generally find the presence of other vehicles on the roads insulting and offensive, and they tend to regard their fellow motorists as nothing little than annoying obstacles whose only purpose in life is to be in the way. It is with sense of injury and insult that most Hungarians take to the road, which helps explain the palpable antagonism and irritation that hangs over most Hungarian roads like a cold, dawn fog. Everyone is familiar with the “Keep calm and carry on” posters the Brits created during the Second World War. I once saw a satirical version that read “I can’t keep calm; I’m Hungarian, damn it.” That pretty much sums up why the average Hungarian driver thinks it is perfectly acceptable to enter a traffic circle doing 90 kilometers per hour despite the clearly posted 30 km speed sign.

I have mentioned that Hungarians nearly always manage to pull off their incautious driving maneuvers, but nearly always is not always. Accidents are rare in Hungary, but when they do happen, they tend to be incredibly spectacular and destructive affairs inevitably involving fatalities. Drive past an average Hungarian accident scene and you would swear you were driving by an abstract sculpture exhibit or a scene from some Mad Max-style apocalypse film. As a result, small gravestones, wooden crosses, and other little tributes dot the shoulders of most Hungarian roads. I see a half-dozen or more of them every time I drive, regardless of the route I take.

Families of traffic accident victims erect these melancholy memorials at the accident sites, and then visit them with the same dedication and diligence they visit the actual graves. Recent memorials are often adorned with flowers. At night, candles illuminate the small smiling portraits encased in the granite and wood. You can see these memorials everywhere, and you would think they would serve as a warning, or have some effect on the way people over here choose to drive. But they don't. I sometimes stop at these little markers and spend a few minutes contemplating the hows and whys of these roadside deaths before continuing on my way. When I pull back onto the road, I am usually overtaken by some hotshot clocking 150 or more even though the posted speed limit is only 70. I respond by sighing and praying that my destiny in this world does not involve being memorialized on a small strip of gravel sandwiched between a corn field and a stretch of deadly roadway.

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Autumn Landscape

2/10/2019

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Some days still cling to summer's fading whispers, yet the ever-descending arch the sun carves speaks another language. The change is already behind us. The signs are everywhere. Yes, the frosts will soon be upon us, but for now simply sip your tea and watch the softly tapping rain at your window blur the cascading leaves into a living, kaleidoscopic painting.

Autumn Landscape - László Mednyánszky

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Unscripted

1/10/2019

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I am not supposed to be here. Here - in a small, nondescript Hungarian village mere kilometers from the Austrian border. It was not in the script. Mind you, the script was never engraved in stone or stamped with a seal, but it had certain boundaries and constraints, certain contractual responsibilities and understandings that, in lieu of a careful and pedantic inspection, left little room for improvisation.

My parents escaped this country as young adults, a little less than a year before I was born. Yes, escaped. You see, Hungary was still communist back then and the western part of the country wore a crown of barbwire bedecked with watchtowers and bejeweled by landmines. My parents applied for travel pass to Yugoslavia shortly after they were married. They told the authorities they were going to the Adriatic for a honeymoon, and then went off script and slipped across the Italian border, leaving everything they had ever known behind. Eventually, they found their way to America, and I was born in New York – another faceless immigrant kid in an ocean of faceless immigrant kids.

My sister was born a short time later, and my parents spent the next four years trying to find a place to call home. That place became a small town just outside the northern fringes of Toronto, Canada. Though I came into the world an American, I grew up Canadian, complete with an ingrained love of ice hockey and a certain foolhardy nonchalance for subzero temperatures. We lived beside a modest lake, which ensured my childhood was a good one, marked with glorious amounts of time in the woods and fields and water and fresh air, but as I grew older, our small town grew bigger, and was encircled by rings of soulless subdivisions.

The familiar faded and the unknown seeped in. Most of the kids I knew moved away as they matured. Those who remained drifted until connections became nothing more than accidental meetings at gas stations and awkward how the hell are yous in the thresholds of convenience stores. The molten change of progress fossilized the place I had known and made it lifeless, but I remained and stuck to the script I believed it my duty to follow.

I got an education and tried to find decent work. I fell in love and mused about buying a house somewhere and settling down, but I could not commit to love or my faint domestic aspirations because I no longer felt at home. I tried to keep to the script, to find that better life my parents had slipped under the barbed wire for, but the better life ended up escaping them as well. Their adopted script had been the hardworking immigrant script, and the diligence and doggedness with which they followed that script did bear fruit. They achieved respectable levels of material success, yet this success ultimately led to failure. They divorced shortly after I turned eighteen. Definitely not in the script. My own wispy daydreams of domestic bliss evaporated for a time. I took the script I had carried in my back pocket my whole life, threw it to the wind, and turned my attention to becoming a writer.

Ten years passed. I wrote volumes during that time, but I did not succeed at becoming a writer. As I was on the verge of abandoning this ambition, I met a young woman from Hungary who happened to be in Canada. Six months later, she was my wife. After that, we set sail on an odyssey, one that took us many places. Like Odysseus before us, a decade was needed before I found my way home, but the nostalgia I experienced was tainted far more with sickness than it was with joy.

The script I had tossed away years before fluttered back to my feet – dirty, worn, covered in grime. I picked it up, dusted it off, and did my best to reprise the role I had abandoned, but to no avail. The lines in the script seemed unnatural and forced. I had outgrown the part, or perhaps the part had outgrown me. After my son was born, my wife and I set sail again, headlong against the prevailing winds. In a fit of defiance, I threw away the rudder and allowed our craft to float away whichever way the waves desired. Before the year was out, we washed up here, in a nondescript village in Hungary mere kilometers from the Austrian border.

It was a place neither of us had known. A place we had never considered knowing. A place that had been as distant from our conscious thought as the silvery outlines of blurred moonlight dreams. And in this place, in this most unlikely of places, which had never appeared in any script, not even vaguely, has become home the way none of the other homes we left scattered in the world ever could.

In my more pensive and reflective moments, I consider picking up a quill and composing a new script, one for this place and this time, but after a few moments, I allow the thought to seep away. For the first time since childhood, I feel an affinity. I know where I am. I know where I am going. My physical vagabondism has come to an end. What I am engaged in now is a different sort of travel.

Though this is home to me now, there is one last destination I hope to reach. This destination is clearer than any I have ever considered before. Clear enough to allow the journey to remain unscripted, as the best journeys home often are.

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