Blog Posts

Might Be Down For a Short Time

26/7/2019

I suffered some sort of strange and incredibly painful lower back/sciatica nerve injury the other day when I was out for a jog. At first I did not think much of it, but the pain increased steadily until it literally knocked me off my feet. I spent the about ten hours lying on a ceramic floor writhing in pain yesterday before I finally asked my wife to call an ambulance to take me to the hospital.

At the hospital I was given some painkillers, but the doctors could not provide an exact diagnosis of the injury. In the end, they chalked it up as a pinched nerve and sent me home the next morning. I am now at home again, but I cannot walk too much and I cannot sit at all. In light of all of this, I may not be up to blogging in the coming days. Then again, I might get so bored being at bed staring at the ceiling that I may blog significantly more! The next two or three days will determine what happens. In the meantime, I am having a little unexpected rest as well as some unexpected reprieve from the blistering summer heat. I hope to be back on my feet soon.

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You Are Under No Obligation To Meet Evil Halfway

24/7/2019

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Evil will never meet you halfway, but insists you are morally obligated to meet it halfway. Evil will never accept any of your points, arguments, and beliefs, but demands you accept some of its points, arguments, and beliefs. Evil will ask for concessions without ever offering any in return. With Evil, it's all take and no give.

Those who believe negotiating with Evil will restore some sort of harmony or resolve a timeless chasm are ignorant, arrogant, and foolish.

Evil does not need you to go all the way to achieve its aims. Halfway is more than enough for Evil because halfway represents a willingness to mediate and mitigate, and this willingness reveals you no longer see Evil for what it truly is, but rather for what it is not.

Here's the trick - Evil urges you to compromise so that you may be compromised.

Evil knocked at the door. You answered, invited it in, and made the necessary accommodations. Don't be surprised when Evil decides to stay long after you have firmly asked it to leave. On the other hand, you might grow fond of your little houseguest and ask it to remain with you forever.

Strange things tend to happen when you are fooled into believing you have some sort of moral obligation to seek reconciliation with the irreconcilable.

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The Gray Area Offers No Sanctuary or Reprieve

23/7/2019

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When I was a university student, applying a gray area mode of thinking to practically everything that was or had been previously accepted as distinctly black and white was regarded as a clear sign of perspicacity and erudition.

All you needed to do to prove your sanity and sophistication was regard something obviously bad as not all that bad, or not totally bad, or not as bad as believed or actually bad but in a good way, etc. The same applied to Good. Pick it apart. Deconstruct it. Relativize it. Re-contextualize it. Declare it to be a social construct. These methods and countless others craftily tugged the Good into the gray area and dissolved it, corrupted it, and skewed it.

The gray area philosophy was actively encouraged and adhering to it was viewed as a sign of open-mindedness, good judgment, and swayable unbiasedness, but anyone who is serious about Reality cannot in good conscience continue to reside in this contrived interzone – nor will Evil permit them to do so.

Many who have settled down in the gray area worldview fail to understand it will not and cannot be a permanent place of residence. Evil actively lures people into the gray area, but it does not let anyone put down roots in this interzone. Contrary to popular belief, the gray area is not a safe haven nestled between Good and Evil, but a temporary transitional zone where people will eventually be forced to choose a side.

Seen this way, the gray area offers no sanctuary or reprieve. It is not a diplomatic safe zone. Evil knows this very well. At first, it will praise and laud gray area dictums and declarations, but over time it will maneuver those sporting “neither here nor there” worldviews into choosing a side. It will call their bluffs and force their hands.

The gray area is shrinking and shrinking fast. Things are becoming distinctly black and white again. Bruce Charlton has frequently referred to this on his Notions blog as “things coming to a point”, and I wholeheartedly agree with his overall assessment of our current situation. Waters once considered muddied are now clear again. The era of fence-sitting is swiftly drawing to a close and fence-sitters will not be tolerated, nor will they be regarded as worldly and wise. One way or another, we will all have to choose sides. We will have to be openly be for or against.

Those who refuse this demand will be left exposed in a veritable No Man’s Land, and they will have no protection whatsoever when the fire starts to rain down. So if you count yourself among the undecided, the neutral, the open-minded, the impartial, the compromising-just-to-get-along, do yourself a favor and actively choose which side you want to be on now - decide whether you want to be here or there.

Then live your life accordingly.

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Your Own Private Siege of Nándorfehérvár

22/7/2019

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On July 22, 1456, John Hunyadi, the Voivode of Transylvania, successfully defended Nándorfehérvár (today Belgrade) and repelled the advancing Ottoman forces of Sultan Mehmed II. The media here in Hungary has been commemorating the victory all day. The Hungarian president visited Belgrade at the invitation of the Serbian president and participated in the unveiling of a statue dedicated to Hunyadi.

I spent a great deal of time thinking about John Hunyadi and the Siege of Nándorfehérvár today, and it was my intention to write a long and detailed essay exploring the meaning and significance of the event and its influence on our own contemporary world, but the home renovations I am currently embroiled in have left me too drained to write the kind of essay that would do Hunyadi or his victory justice. Nevertheless, I still feel impelled to jot down some scattered thoughts about this mostly forgotten historical event.

To put this 537-year-old victory into perspective, it is important to remember Mehmed II conquered Constantinople in 1453, a mere three years before he launched his assault against the Kingdom of Hungary. It goes without saying that Christendom suffered a major defeat at Constantinople. According to some historians and theologians, the loss was so great psychologically that Christendom never fully recovered. After the fall of Constantinople, the Ottomans turned their attention to the West, and the conquest of all of Europe was regarded as a very real possibility. Hunyadi’s victory stalled the Ottoman advance into Europe for about 70 years, but the Kingdom of Hungary eventually succumbed to the Turks and remained under occupation for nearly two centuries.

The Siege of Nándorfehérvár was an extremely big deal in 1456. When Mehmet II began laying siege to Nándorfehérvár, the Pope ordered all church bells across Catholic Europe to ring at noon as a call for Christians to pray for the defenders. Everyone at the time understood that if Hungary fell, Austria and Italy would be next. In this sense, Hunyadi and his troops were not merely defending Hungary, but all of Europe. The noon bell rang when the victory was eventually announced as well, and it has been ringing every day since for 537 years. Yet how many who hear the noon bell today remember or know anything about John Hunyadi, Giovanni da Capestrano, or the Ottoman defeat in 1456?

Of course, Christendom is a thing of the past. To claim Europe, in its contemporary form, reflects or represents any sort of Christendom would be absurd. Perhaps the historians and theologians are right. Perhaps Constantinople marked the beginning of the end of Christendom. What the Ottomans could not conquer from without was slowly but surely corroded from within. No, there is no Christendom anymore. Mere mention of Hunyadi’s victory over the Ottomans probably makes most contemporary Europeans uncomfortable. Few would regard the event as heroic. Even fewer would understand why men like Hunyadi were willing to lay down their lives during the siege.
But this is completely understandable. After all, few contemporary Westerners would be willing to die for anything. I imagine men like Hunyadi and Giovanni Da Capestrano would find this perplexing. They would struggle to understand how people unwilling to die for anything could possibly find anything to for which to live. And is that not the obvious truth of contemporary Europe? The church bells continue to ring every day at noon, yet barely anyone remembers or understands why. And even if they did, very few would actually care.

The Siege of Nándorfehérvár was both a physical and a religious battle in an ongoing spiritual war. This spiritual war continues today. The surface characters and circumstances have changed over time, but the essence of the war and its stakes remain the same, especially for individual Christians living in Europe. No Christendom envelopes European Christians today. No Pope orders the ringing of church bells as a call for defensive prayers. No Giovanni Da Capestrano rallies the simple folk to join the struggle. No John Hunyadi fights to repel enemy forces.

Modern European Christians are on their own and under perpetual siege. Each has his or her own private Nándorfehérvár to defend. When they hear the noon bell ring every day, they should remember John Hunyadi but more importantly, they should use the occasion to pray for themselves and their fellow besieged defenders.

In contemporary Europe, these individual victories are the only ones to be had for the time being, and the only ones that truly count for now. Perhaps the day will come when the noon bell commemorates these as well . . .

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Pleasure Is All We Have Left Because Pleasure is All We Deserve

21/7/2019

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A brief excerpt from my novel focusing on hedonism as a substitute for true meaning in a world stripped of all religious and moral principles . . .

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“It’s not worth it. I’m bored with the little indulgences. They’re fun for a while, but when they end, I feel empty inside. It’s nothing but meaningless pleasure.”
A distraught look came over Verge’s face. He looked down at the photographs and pushed them about on the table with his hands. “Pleasure is the only meaning we have left. It is both foolish and dangerous to believe you need more.”
“I need to have some meaning in my life,” Béla said in exasperation.
“You want meaning? Delude yourself into believing you are working to make the world a better place. Work toward social justice or battle against oppression or join the struggle to save the environment or some other such nonsense,” Verge said stifling a yawn.
“That’s not what I meant,” Béla said. He paused and stared out of the window for a moment, then added, “You want to hear something strange? I was happier when I was with Suzy! I felt like I had a purpose then. Life seemed fuller. I don’t know why. Maybe because I loved her.”
“Ah, that blasted love again. I told you to refrain from using such profanity in my presence.”
“Say what you will. When I was with her, I felt whole. Complete. Sometimes I wish we were still together,” Béla said, sadly. “You know, she came up to my room one night a while back and told me she wanted to get back together. She told me she still loved me. I turned her away. Maybe I shouldn’t have? Maybe I still love her?”
Verge’s hands started to tremble. “Love! And what did that love bring you? That woman made an ass of you! Off to the doctor with you – the clap is seeping into your brain!”
But Béla was riled up and refused to be quiet. “And there are times I feel the same way about the work we do. When I wrote, I created meaningful work. But these videos and magazines we make? They’re all meaningless. None of it will last. They provide vulgar pleasure – that’s it. When I started in this business I wanted to create art, capture beauty, but there is nothing artistic or beautiful in what we’re doing now. On the contrary, our stuff becomes uglier all the time.”
“You must give the people what they demand. What they demand is what they deserve. Ugly, vulgar pleasures is what they demand – that is what we must provide!”
“What about the girls?”
“What about them?”
“We exploit them! Defile them!”
“No one put a gun to their heads.”
Béla scowled. “If pleasure is all we have left then what’s the point of it all?”
“That’s precisely it! There is no point to it all!” Verge stepped out from behind the table and pointed his finger at Béla in an accusatory fashion. “Pleasure is all we have because pleasure is all we deserve. Pleasure is meaning. Death is lack of meaning. There is nothing else in-between.”
“If pleasure is the only meaning, then we are not fully human.”
“Exactly! For centuries we wholeheartedly believed we were part of divine creation. We based our entire existence around the core of this belief. Well, I have news for you, dear chap – that belief is no longer valid. It has been stolen from us by the same people who fight for social justice and struggle against the tyranny of oppression. It is they who have reduced us to the level of animals. We are objects – commodities to be bought and sold. The quicker you accept that imposed truth, the happier you’ll be!”
Béla was aghast. He stared at his friend in disbelief. “These women we film and photograph are more than just objects.”
“Are they? Do you remember the names of the girls we were with last night?”
The only answer Béla could provide was a blank stare.
“Precisely!” Verge snickered. “And you have the audacity to lecture me about objectification!”
“You can’t believe the women who work for us are just objects.”
“I do,” Verge said firmly. “I must.”
“That’s hateful.”
“I don’t hate, my good man, but I don’t delude myself with love either. When it comes to people, I merely tolerate or enjoy.” He lowered his finger and took a moment to catch his breath and compose himself. In a quieter tone of voice, he said, “Get thee to a doctor. Thou art ill. Thou hast need of medicine . . .

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Károly Ferenczy's Reading Paintings

20/7/2019

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I recently became familiar with Károly Ferenczy (1862 -1917) during one of my spontaneous online meanderings through the landscape of Magyar art. As I explored Ferenczy's work, I noticed a motif running through some of his paintings - specifically, men in straw hats reading.

Man Sitting On a Log - 1895

October - 1903

Morning Sunshine - 1905

Red Wall - 1910

I read somewhere that these four paintings are all essentially self-portraits - that the straw wearing man is Ferenczy himself. Whatever the case, I find the last painting, Red Wall, the most appealing because the scene is so quintessentially Magyar, a quintessence Ferenczy captures perfectly in the composition.

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A Little Downtime Yesterday

20/7/2019

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My family and I are spending a lovely weekend at Lake Balaton here in Hungary. I have my laptop with me, and I had every intention of writing a post yesterday, but the drive down and the subsequent swim afterward left me completely drained, albeit in a wonderfully pleasant way. It was also nice to spend the evening chatting with the family, which I did not want to disrupt by scurrying off to write a post.

I will certainly take some time to post something later on today, but first it's off to the lake with my little boy. Everyone needs a little downtime now and then, including me.

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Strength and Sensitivity - S.K. Orr

18/7/2019

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"Some of my acquaintances enjoy poking fun at me because of the tender spot I have in my heart for animals. Their (mostly) good-natured ribbing descends to the level of derision when I include in my circle of affection the plants and trees in this world around me."

These are the opening lines to Waste S.K Orr's thought-provoking reflection on sensitivity and tenderness, emotions to which most modern people react with a strange blend of amusement and scorn. After I read the lines above, I asked myself why modern people equate sensitivity to sappiness, gentleness with mawkishness, and sympathy with delusion?

I surmise much of it derives from a lack of real contact with Goodness, Beauty, and Truth. We live in a world where everything has been inverted - evil is seen as Good, ugliness is regarded as Beautiful, and lies are celebrated as Truth. When these inversions are accepted and internalized, actual Goodness, Beauty, and Truth are viewed as excessively and objectionably sentimental or outright ridiculous, perhaps even insulting.

Modern people prefer a different kind of sensitivity - hypersensitivity inspired mostly by platitudes based on notions like equality, diversity, inclusivity as well as social/political issues such as human rights, racism, sexism, transgenderism, etc. This hypersensitivity breeds resentment, outrage, anger, and grievance, all of which relentlessly rail against the injustice of an imperfect world. Modern hypersensitivity claims to be motivated by the Good, the Beautiful, and the True, but nothing could be more removed reality. In actuality, modern hypersensitivity is purposefully opposed to Reality. Its sole aim is the subversion of Reality, which is why modern people find true sensitivity that is attuned to and aware of Reality so repulsive and sickening when they encounter it.

Sensitivity attuned to Goodness, Beauty, and Truth encompasses gentleness, warmth, fondness, friendship, benevolence, courtesy, and, above all else, love. Seen is this light, true sensitivity is one of the pillars of religious thinking - more specifically, Christian thinking. To be sensitive is to be aware, to recognize, and to know. It's about being receptive, perceptive, attentive, appreciative, and wise. Sensitivity also forms a large part of the romantic temperament, which our muddled and comatosed world so desperately needs to recapture. Sensitivity is often a sign of consciousness that is alive and active in a world of loving creation full of purpose and meaning.

Yet most modern people will have none of it, and treat sensitive people with disdain and distrust, regarding them as little more than weak, delusional, overemotional fools. Though this may be true in some cases, in most cases sensitive souls are anything but weak and delusional, as S.K. Orr goes on to explain his post:

"I have worn the uniform of military service and I have heard shots fired in anger…I have fired at living human beings myself. I have assisted physicians with patients who are screaming and bleeding and thrashing about. I have provided care for mentally ill adults, some of them quite dangerous. I know what it sounds and feels like when a hand grenade explodes within 50 meters and peppers my flak jacket and helmet with shrapnel. I say all this not to provide some dubious bona fides for smirking strangers online, but to provide perspective, because I realize that I regularly express thoughts that make me appear to be a doe-eyed, emaciated, hypersensitive little artiste who feels triggered and needs safe zones and perhaps wears pajamas with feet in them. I am in many ways a hard-eyed realist, but I am also a man who wants to kiss ducks on top of their heads and who worries about thirsty cows and who says prayers for the deer he sees on the side of the road and who rescues spiders and crickets from offices and carries them outside to the grassy medians."

Contrary to contemporary belief, true sensitivity is not a sign of weakness, but of strength. It is the mark of a tough and realistic individual fully invested and involved in Reality.

Do not be afraid to display sensitivity and all it encompasses. And if it happens to inspire derision, wear the derision as a badge of honor marking your understanding and recognition of Goodness, Beauty, and Truth.

Read all of S.K. Orr's excellent post at Steeple Tea, here.

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Funerals. Relevance. Perspective.

17/7/2019

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My uncle's funeral was today. The priest presiding over the burial focused almost exclusively on Jesus and the promise of resurrection. There were no long, sentimental digressions about the life my uncle lived, or the lives he touched, or his achievements during his time in this world, or how much he would by missed, or how the world would feel emptier without his presence in it.

The service was not a celebration of life, but a celebration of resurrection and life eternal; a solemn and pertinent reminder of the gift Jesus offers to every single one of us - but only if we choose to accept it. In this respect, I found the funeral service the priest gave to be profoundly relevant. It provided the proper perspective of death and mortality, a perspective that would benefit most contemporary people if they ever bothered to show any serious interest in their own mortality and the gift Christ offers.

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Time To Get Off the Meds

16/7/2019

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When Neo took the red pill instead of the blue pill, he chose reality over illusion, harsh truth over comfortable lies, cruel knowledge over blissful ignorance, and dangerous freedom over tranquil security. It was a tough choice, but most who have seen The Matrix would agree Neo ultimately made the right choice when he decided to wake up to reality - that choosing the red pill over the blue pill was the only moral choice.

I surmise this understanding is part of the reason why the scene has become such a popular and lasting meme in our culture and why the concept of taking the red pill has spawned an entire line of other existential and philosophical pharmaceuticals including the black pill and the God pill among others. Irrespective of the pill's color or content, people seem to enjoy getting 'pilled'; however, once they have swallowed a pill, they become addicted to taking pills and immediately begin looking around for the next one. And then the next one.

It is worth remembering that Neo took only one red pill. Many contemporary people appear to be hooked on swallowing all the pills they can. This succeeds in doing little more than promoting a prolonged lifestyle of perpetual pill popping. Some people are not merely pill takers, but are bonafide pill pushers who exude tremendous effort flooding the world with a seemingly endless supply of truth-inducing drugs. One could argue this is unavoidable. Neo's red pill was terrifyingly blunt and comprehensive. Once Neo had taken it, there was no turning back, and there certainly was no need to take any more. Our world lacks such potent pills; hence, one could argue pillers must swallow bitter truths piecemeal - one pill at a time. In this sense, each pill serves as puzzle piece, and every truth pill must be consumed for the overall picture of truth to become comprehensible.

As rational and appropriate as this sounds, I can't help but feel this represents a wrong turn. Rather than focusing on the harsh truth a given pill has exposed and working out a comprehensive understanding of how this harsh truth may be connected to other harsh truths through the process of thinking, pill poppers turn their attention instead on securing the next hit. The next high. And that's what chronic pill popping seems to produce. A rush of pill-truth is quickly followed by a desert of despondency, which can only be tolerated by another rush of pill-truth. Accessing truth quickly sinks to the level of recreational drugs.

In my estimation, chronic pill-popping breeds passivity. Impotent revolt. Bitterness and resentment. None of these help a person deal with revealed harsh truths. And that is the big question hanging over our 'pilled' culture. What does one do once one has seen the truth behind the lies?

The answer is accessible for those who have seen the Truth. Despite beliefs to the contrary, this answer does not come in pill form. The answer is simple, but requires work. A radical realignment of thinking and Being. Those blind to the Truth but addicted to truths will continue to pop pills in the hopes that one of the pills will eventually reveal all, but no pill ever will.

Which is why it is best to get off the meds and begin approaching Reality with something approximating exalted sobriety instead.

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Fathers and Sons - The Importance of Family

14/7/2019

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Before he retired eight years ago, my father worked as a chef. He was employed mostly by large hotels and usually worked the afternoon/evening shift, which ran from three in the afternoon to eleven at night. In addition to his full-time job, my father built and sold houses in his spare time. He had a well-defined daily routine, one he adhered to for the bulk of my childhood. He would wake up at seven, cook my sister and I breakfast, send us off to school, and then put on his tool belt and work on a construction project until about one o'clock, at which time he put his tools down and got ready to go to work at the hotel. On his days off, he worked on his houses in the day, and spent the evenings with the family. Simply put, my father was a hardworking man. He was driven by a deep desire to see his family prosper. And nothing was more important to him than his family.

I began helping my father on his houses after I turned thirteen and continued to help him well into my twenties when he finally got out of the business altogether. At first he gave me simple tasks to complete, like painting, but as I grew older he entrusted me with more complex tasks. I learned a great deal from my father during those years, not just about construction and the virtue of hard work, but about the importance of family and life in general.

I have many wonderful memories of the two of us working side-by-side on everything from pouring concrete foundations to putting up drywall on interior walls. During these times we would discuss everything from my school work to the old Western films we sometimes watched together on the weekends. He enjoyed and appreciated my company while we worked together, and I felt fortunate to have the chance to work with him for the sake of the family.

I have always had a deep respect for my father's work ethic and his dedication to his family. You see, he did not have to work so hard. The salaries he and my mother earned were enough to keep us all clothed and fed, but my dad chose to put in the extra work because he wanted to give his family every chance to succeed in life. And for that I am immensely grateful.

My father is now seventy-three, but his love of work and commitment to family has not diminished a bit. He is currently visiting us from Canada. As he has done for each of the past three summers, he is helping me with my own ongoing home renovations. I often insist he take it easy and relax while he is visiting us (he is seventy-three, after all), but he will have none of it. He insists on helping me the way I had helped him in my youth. And I am happy he wants to help. The truth is, there is nothing else either of us would rather do than spend time working together for the benefit of the family. It is the tie that binds us.

I am blessed to have had and continue to have such a wonderful relationship with my father, and I cannot even begin to fathom the immense positive influence his love of family has had on my life. I hope I can instill this love of family into my own son, and I hope my little guy will grow up feeling the same sort of father and son bond that I have experienced with my own father.

If he does, I know I will have accomplished something truly special and meaningful.

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What's the Deal With Writers Rating Their Own Books?

13/7/2019

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Before I launch into this rather hushed rant, I would like to preface this post by stating that writers, as individuals, are free to make whatever choices and decisions they deem fit when it comes to the writing, promoting, or marketing of their own work. This is merely my opinion of a topic. What individual writers do with their work on their own time is their own business.

Having said that, I am amused by the sheer number of writers, of both the self-published and conventionally published variety, who five-star rate their own works on sites such as Goodreads and Library Thing. In all honesty, this practice makes no sense to me. What is a writer attempting to communicate to potential readers when they garland their own creation with a five-star rating?

In most cases, I feel it is probably nothing more than joyful affirmation of accomplishment or an innocent declaration of pride at having written and published - Hey, I have written this book, and I think it is just super!

Nothing inherently wrong with that, I suppose. Writing and publishing a book of any length is an accomplishment of which one should be proud, and one could argue writers have the right to declare their own high opinions of the books they have written.

There is also nothing inherently wrong with promoting one's book as something possessing merit, something that readers might find worthwhile and good. I imagine all writers, myself included, have engaged in this sort of thing in some form or other.

Nevertheless, in my more cynical moments I surmise that five-star self-ratings are little more than attempts to skew the overall rating of a book to the positive side. After all, a five-star rating can do wonders to the overall average of a book if it only has ten or fifteen ratings in total. Then again, perhaps self-rating writers are simply self-aggrandizing egoists. Who knows?

Though I do my best to be understanding and forgiving of five star self-ratings, I must admit they make me cringe, and I often wonder if others feel the same way. When I see a writer has given their own book the highest possible rating online, I can't help but see hubris. Five-star self ratings strike me as smug, arrogant, gauche, and pathetic all at once - akin to listing yourself as a reference on a resume.

I do not rate my own books, and I don't think any writer should. Yes, I think the novel I have written has some merit and is of acceptable quality, but I am unwilling to declare this in the form of five little yellow stars.

Firstly, no matter how good I think my novel may be, I know it is merely a transcription of an idea rather than the pure idea itself. The original vision for the book was five stars; hence, my transcription could never be that high. Readers may see it as five stars because, unlike me, they did not experience the vision and idea in its pure form. For them the book is the idea and the vision, so the chance exists that they might perceive it as something worthy of the highest praise. I, on the other hand, cannot.

Secondly, though I am proud of my achievement, a part of me always feels it could have been better, that I did not reach the objective I had set for myself.

Finally, I do not believe it is my place to rate the thing I have created. That is an activity best left to readers and critics. To put it another way, a chef's high opinion of his or her own dish is of little use if the food set before me is not to my taste. In fact, the chef’s high opinion puts me in awkward spot if I happen to find the food disagreeable. I will question either the chef’s taste or my own. In the end, my taste will win regardless.

Concerning my novel, I have received some positive ratings, but I have received a fair share of one and two-star ratings as well. And that's fine.

If I were forced to rate my own work, I would do it in the following manner: my book is all the stars in the known universe and no stars at all simultaneously.

In other words, my novel is good, and it is nothing. There is simply no other way I can look my own work, and that's why I have avoided self-rating on sites like Goodreads. It is also why I have such a difficult time wrapping my head around writers who five-star their own books.

Note added: This is a slightly edited version of a previous post published on January 28, 2018.

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First Home Renovation Project For This Summer Nearly Done

12/7/2019

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I have spent the bulk of my summers completing home renovation projects since I purchased this old house in a small village in Hungary three years ago, and I am happy to report that my first planned project for this summer - repouring and re-tiling the terrace - is nearly done.

Though I have some experience laying ceramic tiles, I am by no means an expert in the field, and I was a little apprehensive before I began this project because I had never worked with exterior tiles before. The tiles I put down were rather thick and dense, which made for difficult cutting, especially along the edges, but I somehow managed to put all the puzzle pieces together in the end. My wife took this photo of me (without my knowledge) while I was still engaged in the easier task of putting down whole tiles.

I still need to complete the stairs and grout the whole thing, but for all intents and purposes, the project is nearly done. As I mentioned above, I am no expert when it comes to tiling floors, but I am satisfied with the end result I managed to achieve. Next week I plan to install the faux brick tiles on the terrace walls. Now that's where the real fun will be had!

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Porn Consumers as Epstein-Lites

11/7/2019

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Though I have not bothered to examine the details, I am aware of the general story behind the Jeffrey Epstein sex scandal. Of course, it's hard not to be aware of sex scandals involving celebrities, politicians, and the elite. After all, barely a week goes by without some high profile player being exposed for some sort of debauchery or other.

I have noticed that the general public tends to love these sorts of stories. It gives them a chance to wag their fingers and scoff in disgust without having to reflect upon their own immodesties and indecencies. Better still, even if they do take a moment to examine their own sexual immoralities, they can easily view them as harmless and trivial when compared to the grand depravities committed by individuals like this Epstein character.

Take pornography for example. Avid porn consumers are likely to condemn Epstein's perversions as immoral, but are likely unwilling to accept that there is anything inherently wrong with their own chosen form of sexual hedonism. They could easily make a case built upon the basis of apples and oranges - that Epstein's crimes and viewing pornography are not even in the same league as far as sin or immorality go. And I suppose they would have a valid point. After all, what Epstein did is illegal and criminal, while viewing most forms of pornography is certainly not.

For many years I had a fairly laissez-faire attitude about pornography. I considered porn to be a private matter - something an adult had the right to indulge in if they chose to do so. In fact, I regarded pornography in the same way I regard alcohol. Something to be consumed in moderation. Something that might even be beneficial if consumed in moderation. In the grand scheme of things, I did not consider pornography to be a big deal. It was, at best, a peccadillo. A minor, trifling fault.

And in the grand scheme of things pornography probably is a peccadillo, but here's the catch - the lust that drives men like Epstein to commit their corruptions and the lust that drives people to sit down before a computer screen and view online porn essentially stem from the same source.

Thus, in the ultra-grand scheme of things, the difference between perverts like Epstein and online porn perverts is only a matter of degree.

And the problem with lust is its fiery nature. The spark in fantasy has a way of escaping and igniting reality. Seen this way, characters like Epstein are nothing more than pornography consumers acting out their fantasies in reality. And isn't that the secret wish of every person who watches porn? The wish that what watch online would somehow play out in reality? That they could find themselves in such circumstances in the real world? Those who claim porn is merely entertainment are deluding themselves. Porn is essentially wish fulfillment. All that separates Epstein from the average mild-mannered porn watcher is the amount of effort exerted to see the lust-fueled wish fulfilled in the real world.

Seen this way, porn consumers are actually little more than Epstein-Lites. Same perverted motivations. One-tenth of the manifestation in physical reality.

And of course there are spiritual aspects to consider, but I won't wade into all of that now.

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Blind Milton Dictating Paradise Lost

10/7/2019

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Fellow blogger William Wildblood from Meeting the Masters has been reading Paradise Lost for the first time and has written a couple of engaging reflections upon the experience here and here.

I read Paradise Lost about twenty-five years ago. Though I remember the overall narrative of the poem, the major themes, and, of course, most of the characters (or rather how Milton depicted them), the passage of time has washed away the subtler aspects of the work from my memory. I suppose this accounts for my interest in William's posts on John Milton's magnum opus; they have served to remind me that Paradise Lost truly is epic work, in every sense of the word.

Though it is common knowledge, not everyone who reads Paradise Lost for the first time is aware that John Milton was blind when he "wrote" it, and that writing for Milton essentially boiled down to dictating the poem to various amanuenses, a group that apparently included his own daughters. Whether or not Milton actually dictated the poem to his daughters is debatable, but the notion captured the attention of the public and many painters made the scene a subject for painting all the same.

The first artist to depict the scene (as far as I can tell) was the Swiss born English painter Henry Fuseli.

Henry Fuseli - Milton Dictating to His Daughter - 1794

I respect Fuseli's overall romantic vision and there is much to be said for the masterful way he uses light and shadow to convey mood, but I find his depiction of Milton to be a little bizarre. The blank eyes were surely Fuseli's way of conveying Milton's blindness to the viewer, but it was a poor choice in my estimation. Milton's eyes glow in the painting, giving him the ghostly air of a possessed man. Sure, one could argue the haunting depiction is a masterstroke because it captures the otherworldly quality of Milton's genius, but for me Fuseli pushes this aspect too hard, to the point that he succeeds in making Milton look like Jacob Marley from Dickens' A Christmas Carol (yes, I know Jacob Marley came much later, but you get the idea). Milton's ghostly presence appears even more ghostly when contrasted to the other two figures in the painting. Nevertheless, I still like the painting very much

Eugene Delacroix - Milton Dictating Paradise Lost to His Daughters - 1826

Best known for his painting Liberty Leading the People, Delacroix was a master of creating scenes saturated with romantic energy, but his depiction of Milton speaking out Paradise Lost while one of his daughters records his works seems to contain everything but romantic energy. Don't get me wrong, I admire the painting and recognize the beauty Delacroix presents here, but the scene is rather flat (even with the image of Adam and Eve being expelled from Paradise in the background). The daughter doing the writing wears an intense expression as she listens to her father, but Milton himself appears somewhat listless. For all I know, he could be dictating his shopping list rather than his magnum opus. Having said that, the portrayal is probably realistic - this is probably what Milton actually looked like when he dictated the poem, but romantic painting is not about depicting everything realistically, so in this sense I humbly feel Delacroix comes up short.

Mihály Munkácsy - Blind Milton Dictating Paradise Lost to his Daughters - 1878

In my opinion, Mihály Munkácsy's Blind Milton Dictating Paradise Lost to His Daughters is the best depiction of the scene, and no, I don't think so simply because Munkácsy was Hungarian! To begin with, Munkácsy chooses to depict Milton's blindness in a subtle way - the eyes are not glowing, nor are they simply closed, but rather obscured by shadow as he broodingly "focuses" on the space before him as he dictates. Milton's posture is one of intense concentration, the tension apparent in the clenched right hand he holds before his chest.

When I look at Munkácsy's Milton I get the sense the figure in the painting really is dictating something epic. This is mirrored by the postures and expressions of the three daughters all three of whom appear to be completely engrossed by what their father is speaking to them. Look at the way the one recording the words leans forward in her chair, indicating complete dedication and interest. She is quite literally hanging on every word Milton utters. Now in all fairness, Munkacsy had the benefit of seeing the other two works before he composed his own rendition of the scene, and I imagine he studied both to some extent before he began his own composition.

What do you think? Is Munkácsy's scene the best, or are you more partial to either Fuseli's version or Delacroix's depiction?

Well, examining these three paintings inspired by William Wildblood's posts only serves to remind me I must reread Paradise Lost soon. Unfortunately, my to-read stack of books already touches the ceiling, so I am not sure when I will get to Milton's massive epic again.

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