Blog - Francis Berger

I Will Likely Be Deplatformed One Day

1/31/2019

Currently I am very small fry; as obscure, unknown, and seemingly irrelevant as they come. I have published one novel which has sold a measly three or four hundred copies, and I run this little blog that apparently averages a mere hundred visits a day. Simply put, in the social, political, artistic and economic grand scheme of things, I am a virtual non-entity. I say this not out of complaint, but out of fact. My obscurity stems from the nature of the field I am in and my own reluctance to engage in self-promotion, especially through social media venues. Again, I am not complaining. To be honest, I accept my current status or lack thereof because I simply enjoy what am I doing.

Being an unknown writer is not the most optimal state of affairs - I mean what writer does not want readers to find their book(s)? - but obscurity does have some benefits. Warranting little attention gives a writer a certain sense of freedom. For example, I am too small of a wave to rock any boats; hence, no one has ever bothered to tell me shut up or made any effort to shut me down. I am certain these circumstances will extend into the future, but I sometimes wonder, in these of days of rabid deplatforming and censorship, whether my day will come despite my seeming irrelevance.

This may sound paranoid, but I believe it will, and unlike the big names, I doubt anyone will even notice, let alone care.

I am preparing for that day as I write this. Being obscure is one thing. Being silenced is another matter entirely.

I Can't Enough of Hildegard von Bingen

1/30/2019

I find this collection particularly moving; perhaps you will, too.

First Hint of a Cold in Nearly Four Years

1/30/2019

My immune system has been incredibly good to me since 2015, but for the first time in nearly four years I can feel the beginnings of a cold coming on. An influenza epidemic is gripping Hungary at the moment, and it appears it wants to snare me in its net as well.

Here's hoping what I have now remains a sniffle and the grippe does not grip me. I have neither the time nor the patience for a full-blown flu right now.

Does the Use of Pseudonyms, Aliases, and False Names Indicate Cowardice?

1/29/2019

The subject of name changing appears early on in my novel The City of Earthly Desire when a young Reinhardt confronts his mother about the possibility of changing their Germanic surname Drixler to something more Hungarian-sounding to alleviate the stigmatization and discrimination the family name was bringing upon them in communist Hungary following the Second World War.

“If we changed our name, things would be easier,” Reinhardt insisted, wincing as his mother reapplied the washcloth to his neck.

“When it comes to choosing between right and easy, you must always choose what is right, regardless of how difficult it makes things.”

“Most Swabians have changed their names.”

Gertrude pressed the wet cloth against her son’s neck with so much force it made him flinch. She said, “If we changed our name, I would turn my back on tradition. I would hate myself. And what would I have left if I hated myself?”

As I was writing the City of Earthly Desire in 2010 and 2011, I briefly entertained the possibility of using a pseudonym when it came time to publish the book. The main reason I considered doing so was to avoid possible negative consequences of having my real name attached to a work of fiction that attacked liberalism and incorporated the pornography industry in its story.

To put things in perspective, I was still working as a high school teacher back then, and I remember the newspapers were full of articles about teachers being sacked for relatively trivial matters such facebook posts, online vacation photographs, misinterpreted Twitter remarks, and so forth. And there I was working on a novel outlining the pernicious rise of the pornography industry in Budapest! I knew beyond a doubt that any negative blowback from my novel could potentially end my career and put my wife and me at risk.

As I worked on the novel, I continued to think about publishing under a pseudonym to avoid this possible danger. Strangely enough, I ended up writing the subject of name changing into the novel itself as I thought about the topic, culminating in the lines I have shared. I based the scene on real life events within my own family history.

After the war, the communists urged my grandfather to drop the family name Berger and adopt a Hungarian one instead, to which my grandfather stoically responded, “You’ve taken everything from me and my family, but I will never let you have my name.” Once I had reflected upon this and had written the scene above, I rejected the notion of publishing under a pseudonym because I recognized it would be cowardly and hypocritical of me to do so.

I am not suggesting there was anything inherently heroic in my decision to publish my book under my own name, but it at least demonstrated my willingness to confront uncertainty and danger at a time when my family’s circumstances were rather vulnerable (my son had just been born, my wife was not working, and money was tight). I knew assigning myself a pseudonym would amount to little more than an act of cowardice, that employing a false name would represent a failure of my character in the face of challenge, that I had allowed fear and self-concern override right action. In essence, I understood that I would loathe myself if I used a pseudonym for my book.

I have not regretted the decision to publish the book under my real name, and I make a point of using my real name on this blog and during my other online activities (commenting, reviewing, writing, etc.). Using my name is a declaration, my way of reminding myself that I am choosing what is right over what is easy. If nothing else, it exhibits my willingness to put myself on the line, to back up my words with my physical reality and identity, to put my skin in the game, to expose myself to the possibility of mockery, ridicule, and vitriol. If I am wrong in what I write, I must admit it. If I am right, I must stand by it. Using my real name removes any chance at secrecy or sanctuary.

This brings me to the more general topic of pseudonyms, fake names, aliases, anonymity and the like. Although I respect medieval artists who purposefully chose anonymity as a way of glorifying God, the contemporary use of anonymity and aliases by artists, writers, and bloggers troubles me. I am not referring to individuals who use aliases but whose real names are publicly known, but to those secretive writers, thinkers, and bloggers who hide their authentic identities under noms de plume.

Of course, I understand the reasons why writers and bloggers use false names; many of them may hail from the academic world or some other vulnerable sector in which they cannot openly express their views for fear of censor, or even peril to their jobs. Yet, I cannot help pause for a moment and wonder, with the exception of whistleblowers, why do writers and bloggers bother making their views public if they lack the courage or the means to stand by their words? This applies especially to writers and bloggers who express anti-liberal, anti-leftist, and Christian views in their work. Perhaps I am being too harsh with this criticism and perhaps it is not my place to judge, but I believe this refusal to identify with these expressed ideas essentially reveals an immense failure of character and moral courage.

Put simply, those who rail against the evils of our modern world and make attempts to offer hope and guidance but refuse to put their names to their ideas are cowards. In my mind, their reluctance to stand by their words points to excessive self-concern, one that overrides the good they are saying or doing.

Their adversaries show no such self-concern. The secular/leftist/progressive types not only happily affix their names to every ridiculous and evil idea they generate, but are willing to go out in public and advocate vociferously for it. At the same time, many on the side of Truth, Beauty, Goodness, and Virtue are reluctant to make something as basic as their name publicly known. Instead, they fight the culture wars under noms de guerre, encouraging the rest of us to get on with it while they spinelessly cower in the shadows afraid to reveal themselves for fear of a missed mortgage payment or job promotion. And if they are in compromising positions – in circumstances in which they are curtailed, confined, and controlled – circumstances in which they have allowed the world to dominate them so utterly, are they not, essentially, nothing more than slaves, these noble brothers and sisters of ours?

Perhaps they believe they are like superheroes - incognito Bruce Waynes and Peter Parkers fighting evil through their secret identities and alter egos. It is a reassuring thought, but I offer a simple rebuttal - when Bruce Wayne and Peter Parker fight crime as Batman and Spiderman, their identities are hidden, but the individuals inside the costumes are still risking their bodies and their health. What exactly are the pseudonymous writers and bloggers putting at risk? The reputation of their fictitious names?

These pseudonymous writers, thinkers, and bloggers speak a great deal about spirit, but the cowering behind false names reveals spiritlessness to me.

Note: My criticism here may indeed be too harsh. I would welcome thoughts on the matter.

Where is Our Passionate Intensity?

1/28/2019

I do not care for W.B. Yeats or his poetry, but a few lines from his poem "Second Coming" (which I also do not care for all that much) somehow came to my mind today as I was thinking about possible topics for today's blog post. Before you start getting all uneasy, let me assure you - I will not be analyzing or interpreting "Second Coming" here. Everyone knows that has been done far too many times.

Instead, I merely want to drop a few comments regarding the lines that inexplicably popped into my head this evening, which were the final three from the first stanza of Yeats' two stanza poem:

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

As I mentioned above, I am no fan of Yeats, but I must give credit where credit is due - these are some powerful and poignant lines. When they appeared in my mind, I immediately thought about the two-century process building up to the crisis we face today. The worst during those centuries truly were full of passionate intensity, while the best utterly lacked conviction. If this had not been so, there would be no crisis today.

Don't misunderstand, I am not lamenting the crisis. The crisis is necessary. Things are coming to a head. We all must face, endure, and hopefully overcome whatever will come. The only relevant question is - how will we face it?

Will we continue to lack conviction? Or will we finally, after two centuries of being eroded and corroded, awaken and become passionately intense again?

The best among us must be filled with passionate intensity again.

They simply must be.

I simply must be.

You simply must be.

It is the only the way the worst may begin to lose their convictions.

In No Mood For a Haircut

1/27/2019

When I was a teenager, I let my hair grow long for a few years. There was nothing special about this as many young men grew their hair long in the late 80s/early 90s. After I turned eighteen, I cut my hair short and have kept it short ever since because for me hair and hairstyling has always been a sort of nuisance; something I relegated to category of afterthought.

Nevertheless, over the past three months I have been utterly unmotivated to stop in at the barber for my usual six-week haircut. I do not know what the source of this sudden apathy about getting my hair cut is. Perhaps it's a sign of some sort of midlife crisis. Perhaps I subconsciously want to taunt all the bald middle-aged men I encounter and drive them mad with envy (I'm 47 now and I still have a full head of hair). Perhaps I have some unconscious desire to look like Alexander the Great or Robert Plant.

Who the hell knows? One thing is certain, I'm not cutting my hair, and I may not have it cut for a long time. Perhaps I am simply curious to see how people around me react to a seeing a middle-aged man with long hair. In any case, I shall provide updates. I'll call it "Berger's Hair Files" or something like that and make it a weekly feature.

On second thought, that may be a bit much . . . but I'm still not cutting my hair!

The Purposeful Harmfulness of Mass Media

1/27/2019

Over the past decade or so, I have been gradually turning away from all mainstream news and media sources. I still occassionally read headlines or dip into the odd article, and there have been times during which I waded back into the mainstream media when I had a personal interest in some event or other, but overall I have essentially restricted my exposure to the media as much as possible. The impetus behind this decision and the gradual lifestyle change accompanying it is a rather simple one stemming from the realization that the mass media, in all its forms, is purposefully harmful.

Many people are quick to acknowledge the media as detrimental or, at a bare minimum, accept that certain aspects of the media have the potential to be harmful, but cannot embrace the idea that the media, in its entirety, is purposefully poisonous. In this light, most people regard the media as they regard most things in life – as something neutral consisting of equal amounts of good and bad. Ask people what the media is and they will invariably state that the various forms of media are basically means through which ideas and information are shared, or forums through which opposing viewpoints are presented and debated. Consequently, whatever harm the media causes – such as the current hysteria over fake news – are viewed as side effects rather than purposefully driven objectives.

Unfortunately, nothing could be further from the truth. Outside sources are not required to reach this conclusion. All it takes is a little time and some rumination on the following questions:

What is the media?
What does it do?
What does it not do?
What is its true role in society?
Who and what makes up the media?
Who and what controls the media?
What is the end goal of nearly all forms of media?
What influences have the media had on me? How many of these influences have been postive/negative?

The questions above do not form an exhaustive list, but instead represent a start. If you are so inclined, take an hour or two, go through these questions one by one, and try to answer them as sincerely as possible from the foundations of your own experience and intuition. Your answers are likely to surprise you.

If you are interested in reading on outside source on the subject, I highly recommend Bruce Charlton’s Addicted to Distraction: The Psychological Consequences of the Mass Media, which is the most probing, yet concise elucidation on the subject I have encountered to date. The work is free online if you follow the link above. I urge you to give a read. It might just get you thinking about the purposeful harmfulness of the mass media.

Would Anyone in the West Publish The Brothers Karamazov if Dostoevsky Wrote it Today?

1/26/2019

I am currently rereading The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky and I am amazed that in the West it is still, for the most part, heralded as one of the greatest novels ever written. Do not misunderstand, I wholeheartedly agree with the notion – The Brothers Karamazov is indeed one of the greatest novels ever written. As far as I know, it has been continuously in print in the West since the publication of the very first translation, and several new translations have emerged in recent decades. The book is also in the public domain, which means digital versions of earlier translations are readily available for free on the internet. To my knowledge, no efforts to ban or censor TBK have ever formed. Nonetheless, I imagine the number of people who actually read TBK these days is relatively small group of readers comprised mostly of university students, the odd general reader, and lovers of classic literature.

As far as I can tell Dostoevsky scholarship in the West remains strong; ironically, with a few notable exceptions, the postmodern/gender studies + studies/ Marxist literary bunch have essentially left Dostoevsky alone. This is somewhat inconceivable because few writers provide as much potential grist for mills of political correctness as Dostoevsky does. In other words, if I were a contemporary literary scholar obsessed with the unholy trinity of DIE (diversity, inclusivity, equality), I would have an absolute field day with Dostoevsky’s works. Nonetheless, the so-called scholars who do reside in such ideological mindsets have shown little interest in taking on Dostoevsky in any extensive degree. If they address him at all, it is merely to deride. These enlightened scholars probably consider Dostoevsky and his work hopelessly regressive, to the point of deserving nothing more than a mere scoff and a rejection symbolized by a callous wave of the hand. Though this is fine posturing, I personally believe leftist scholars have ignored and avoided Dostoevsky for one simple reason – he is too damn tough.

I imagine when leftist/liberal critics and scholars read Dostoevsky they immediately realize he has them figured out, that they are confronting a thinker who has thoroughly evaluated their positions and reasoning and, having comprehended them, understands the inherent weakness and evil nestled in their ideologies. Simply put, Dostoevsky sees through these contemporary leftist/liberal thinkers and scholars of ours because they are, essentially, no different from the ones he knew in nineteenth century. He is not only immune to their mind tricks and verbal balderdash, his work demonstrates how leftist ploys can be countered and, ultimately, defeated. In essence, his novels offer an antidote, which is why contemporary leftists would rather merely dismiss him and his work and focus their attention elsewhere.

As I reread The Brothers Karamazov now, one question keeps recurring in my mind – if Dostoevsky wrote the novel today, would it stand a chance at being published in the West?

For me the answer is no. No matter how I try to envision it, there is simply no way I could imagine a major mainstream New York or London publisher accepting The Brothers Karamazov for publication if Dostoevsky were to submit it to them now. In fact, I believe publishers in the West would reject TBK at once, without even giving it the slightest shred of consideration. Here’s why:

Themes:

As mentioned above, Dostoevsky’s surgical and thorough destruction of liberalism in TBK flies in the face of everything most publishers in the West support and propagate. His championing of Christianity and Christian themes would also be frowned upon. Thus, I cannot imagine any publisher in the West voluntarily taking the political risk of publishing such a work today.

Business:

Sure, the book is currently in print in the West; thus, in essence, publishers are publishing TBK at the moment and have been for the better part of century, but to me this amounts little more than sound business practice rather than eagerness. Since TBK is part of the classics portfolio, publishers are assured the novel will sell a certain amount every year, so they do not mind keeping the book in print. Its status as a classic boxes it in and makes it easy to write off politically today. Publishers can simply point to it and say, “Well of course it’s regressive, it was written in the 1800s before people realized how wonderful progressivism is!” Nevertheless, I very much doubt any major publisher would risk publishing TBK if Dostoevsky submitted it to them today. Their immediate reactions would be – Who would read this? How could we market it? Their answers to those questions would be no one and no how.

Style:

A novel full of long-winded dialogue where a single character’s speech can span ten pages? Forget about it.

Russia:

If it had something to do with the Trump collusion story, it might stand a chance, but sadly, TBK does not address this issue.

Characters:

“Unlikable characters” is a common complaint from contemporary readers of TBK. In all fairness, TBK is full of them. Dostoevsky would stand a better chance today if he wrote about transgender, bisexual dimension-travelling, shape-shifting vampires that come to Earth to fight an evil, racist patriarchy of handsome but sinister white men who are actually all bigoted werewolves whose only mission in life is to roam the night and terrorize diverse minorities and people of color.

To sum up, thankfully Dostoevsky is still in print, and his books will remain accessible for the foreseeable future, but if Dostoevsky were a young, unpublished writer living in New York or London today, it would be difficult to imagine any publisher touching his material. Perhaps he would have a chance in his native Russia, but if the book were published there, would a translation ever see the light of day in the West? My gut says no.

Well, enough of these conjectures. I am eyeing the paragraph I wrote above, the one about the transgender, bisexual, dimension-travelling, shape-shifting vampires, and I think I might be on to something. I feel inspired. A vague plotline is starting to form in my mind. By God, that will be my next book! I’m going to start writing it today. I think it even has a shot of making the big time. I can envision a film adaptation and everything! The critics will love it!

Sorry, Dusty, old boy. If you want to be an important writer today, you simply have to get with the times.

Not Much Luck With Writer Friends, But Still Hopeful

1/25/2019

Writing is a solitary activity, but I have always left the door open to the possibility of establishing friendships with other writers. My desire to form relationships with my peers is likely motivated by the many successful and fruitful friendships between authors I have read about. One need look no further than the friendship of Fitzgerald and Hemingway or the Inklings - the connection between Lewis and Tolkien in particular - to recognize that writer friendships can indeed be beneficial and stimulating.

Unfortunately, the vast majority of the friendships I have had with a variety of writers thus far has rarely led to anything worthwhile or valuable. I am not referring to the lack any sort tangible support - contacts, recommendations, promotion, and the like, though these have also been scant - but rather to the more intangible aspects I had hoped friendships with other writers could yield such as comradery, mentorship, trust, guidance, fellowship, motivation, and solidarity.

It has been my experience that most obscure writers - of which I am certainly one - only wish to secure writer friendships for the sole purpose of promoting themselves. This is understandable, but certainly not admirable as it amounts to little more than self-aggrandizing narcissism.

Forever on the lookout for their big break, unknown writers also tend to be ruthlessly ambitious and opportunistic and treat their so-called friendships with other writers as rungs on some imaginary ladder. Most writers are also pathologically self-absorbed. They are keen to have you read and review their work, but show little interest in returning the favor.

Insecurity also is a common issue in writer friendships. Very few writers possess the nobility to admit that another's work might be better than their own. When faced with a situation like that, most writers sink into a strange state of passive-aggression or become bitter with resentment and either make efforts to sabotage their so-called friend, or do everything they can to sever the friendship entirely. Many writers also struggle to deal with alternative viewpoints, especially political ones. I cannot tell you how many writer friends I lost merely by admitting to something as simple as being a Christian, or revealing my disagreement with whatever manufactured controversy happened to be dominating the headlines.

Forming connections with established writers carries its own set of pitfalls. The points mentioned above apply to friendships with established writers as well, but tendencies such as condecension, scorn, flippancy, and snobbery also come into play. Most established writers are not particularly interested in forming connections with unestablished writers. After all, what advantage does that give them? On the other hand, unestablished writers are extremely interested in forming connections with established writers both as a sign of validation and as an opportunity to gain prestige and recognition.

As I mentioned earlier, my experiences with other writers, both established and unestablished, could be at best described at mixed with a fairly negative slant. My attempts to establish lasting friendships with writers usually degenerated into tangled webs of mild disappointment, mistrust, envy, and resentment. Much of this is due to the simple fact that writing was the only thing I had in common with the writers I befriended in the past, and I have since learned that sharing an interest in writing is not an adequately solid foundation upon which to build a friendship. On the contrary, having nothing but writing in common is positively poisonous because it hinders each party's ability to see the other as a subject rather than an object.

Though I appreciate all the writer friendships I have had in the past and learned something from each one of them, I no longer actively seek out writers as friends simply because they are writers. I am also quite cautious when other writers approach me with their hands extended. It is not so much that I have closed the door on the possibility of having other writers as friends, but the realization that writer friendships must be based on the same stuff regular friendships are.

Love.

Night Walks In a Winter Landscape

1/24/2019

I spend most of any given day sitting behind a desk, which is why I welcome physical activity whenever I can partake in it. I am not a fitness freak or a health nut, but I like staying active and fit. For many years I went to gyms and health clubs, but these day I keep my fitness regimen limited to calesthenics, jogging, and walking. These activities are easy to do in the spring, summer, and autumn when the weather and light conditions are more conducive to these activities, all of which I do almost exclusively in the fields, pastures, and woods surrounding my house. However, as the winter set in, the dark afternoons and the cold ultimately marked the end of my time in nature during weekdays.

Walking on a dark winter evening never posed much of a problem when I lived in cities or suburbs where adequate lighting and shoveled sidewalks ensured I could see where I was going, but walking through the unlit fields and pastures surrounding a small village in rural western Hungary is a different matter entirely. The streets and sidewalks of my village are mostly lit, but I don't enjoy walking there in the winter after I come home from work. For starters, the settlement is so small that it requires three laps around the circumference of the village to clock an hour. Though a little monotonous, this in itself would not be so bad if it were not for two things - the smoke and the dogs.

Most of my fellow villagers heat their homes with wood or any other combustible material they can cram into their furnaces. During the winter, a thick blanket of smoke settles down over the streets and houses in the afternoon and remains until well into the night. The few times I did go for a walk around the village in the evening, I came home smelling like a smoked salami, not to mention the unpleasantness in the lungs after breathing in chimney smoke for an extended period of time. Even more aggravating are the dogs, which are a staple of nearly every rural Hungarian home. Sixty minutes of being incessantly growled and barked at makes for neither a relaxing nor soothing walk, I can assure you.

Three or four smoke-filled walks accompanied by the comforting sounds of ninety-pound German shepherds howling and hurling themselves against steel gates and fences were enough to convince me that evening walks in Fertöendréd were not conducive to either my health or my peace of mind. For a while, I contemplated buying some kind of exercise machine, but I knew I would likely grow bored with it, and it would end up nothing more than a bulky and unsightly towel rack after a month or two. All this time the fields and woods around my house beckoned.

In the end, I found a simple solution to my dilemma and invested in an affordable head lamp, one with illumination strong enough to light up the patch of space before me as I walked. The head lamp was all it took to make the fields and pastures accessible again, and I have been going out for long walks in the fields after work ever since.

In many ways, I prefer walking in nature at night in the winter than in the spring or summer sunshine. There is a stillness in the winter night landscape that cannot be replicated at any other time of the year. No insects buzz past your ears; no birds twitter in the distance. The only sounds are the crunching of my footfalls on the snowy ground and the rustling of dried grass and the frozen branches of trees I pass. Every once in a while I will stir up a duck as walk beside the river bank, or startle an unsuspecting red deer resting in a thicket next to the corn fields. On clear nights, the stars blaze in the blackness revealing the enigmatic beauty and vastness of space, while on foggy nights the vast open landscape is reduced the circle of light before my feet, leaving me no option but sink into deep, contemplative thought.

Regardless of the weather, I am always the only person in the fields at night during winter time, and in my more playful moments I imagine I am the only person left in the world. For the better part of an hour I relish the solitude, but as I make my way back toward my house and the illuminated steeple of the village church comes back into view in the distance, I think of my wife and young son waiting at home. I whisper a quick thanks that I am not truly alone in the world.

As I do so, I consider all the people in the world who are. Those countless faces, some known, others forever unknown, for whom life has become - perhaps temporarily, perhaps permanently - nothing but an endless, dark winter landscape, with no illuminated church steeple in the distance and no family waiting at home. Those countless millions for whom solitude offers no solace; for whom the awe of a starry night sky strikes nothing but unease and despair.

As I get back onto the street leading to my house, I kick the snow from boots and utter a quick prayer for them all, wondering, if and when, my turn will ever come. If it does, I hope some solitary walker in the winter night takes a moment and whispers a prayer for me.