Minimum Requirements

     I’ve been in love with the English language all my life. It’s the most versatile and powerful tool for communication ever to arise among men. Now that it’s the de facto international language, it provides that power to anyone who has the time, energy, and brain matter to learn it. (No, that’s not everyone, but it’s enough of Mankind to keep things moving.)

     Now, just as there are specific properties that make a commodity suitable for use as a money, there are specific properties that make a language suitable for communication among large numbers of persons. I could go into gruesome detail about this. Perhaps I will, some day when I’m feeling cruel. But this morning a specific characteristic of languages is much in my thoughts: the capacity for precision.

     If tongue A makes it possible to convey an idea more clearly than does tongue B, then over time A will prevail in common discourse. For clarity is possible only if precision in expression is available. That tends to privilege languages that have large vocabularies and whose constructions, both formal and idiomatic, are broadly understood. There are many fine aspects to this, including how relations and time are expressed in particular languages. The capable speaker / writer is one who appreciates those things and is careful about them.

     I’ve occasionally wielded a barbed flail about certain sins common among fiction writers. This isn’t the time for that, nor am I in the mood for it anyway. Rather, I’d like to emphasize something that a lot of writers, excessively concerned with being “creative,” have managed to miss:

Clarity is more important than creativity.
Above all else, the reader must know what’s going on.

     The very worst writers completely discard clarity in an attempt to impress with involutions and vermiculations. I’ve called that literary masturbation before this, and in retrospect, that’s exactly the right term for it. The storyteller must serve the story, not the other way around. If he serves the story, he serves the reader… and the reader will love him for it.

     Mind you, I’m not talking about deliberate ambiguity after the manner of Gene Wolfe in his early work The Fifth Head of Cerberus. That’s a choice to tell a particular kind of tale: one I wouldn’t tell, but such stories do have their aficionados. My shafts are aimed at the writer who puts his ego above the stories he tells.

     Some writers I’ve admired have slipped and fallen that way. The late Robert B. Parker, my favorite writer of detective thrillers, had a tendency to do so when Spenser, his series detective character, got into hand-to-hand combat with an antagonist. There’s a particularly painful case of that in his novel Chance. In an attempt to convey the speed and violence of desperate hand-to-hand combat, Parker discards all punctuation and several rules of grammar. We do get speed and violence, but we don’t get clarity.

     Heed me on this as on no other subject, storytellers and storytellers-to-be: Clarity comes first. No imaginative construction or special effect matters more than keeping the reader aware of what’s happening, as precisely as the English language will allow. Hew to that rule and your readers, however many they may be, will follow you to the ends of the thesaurus. Trust me on that.

Crossing Them Up

     In most eras, women’s choice of accessories and jewelry hasn’t been considered a political topic. Well, these aren’t most eras, are they? Still, when this rolled around:

     … it struck me as on the silly side. What, political appointees aren’t allowed to wear religious icons? Why not? Don’t they have the same First Amendment rights as anyone else? Are the leftists in the media making noise about this for lack of anything else to hector the Administration about?

     It does have a hint of the flavor of a thrust against Christianity and its symbols. But the attention on these two women has made me think it might be a more focused attack than the usual broadsides against the Christian faith. Karoline Leavitt and Pam Bondi have been important agents for the Administration’s initiatives, and therefore important targets for the Left. Being women, they’re presumedly more vulnerable than men would be. Bringing them down would hurt the Trump Administration. Attacking their religious jewelry is just the latest stroke.

     The Left and its boughten allies have been hostile to Christianity for some time. They persistently strive to accuse professed Christians of hypocrisy. The arguments hardly matter. Some of them have been so absurd as to be impossible to parody. Yet they persist, perhaps out of desperation.

     Remember John Ashcroft? Hell, remember George W. Bush! It wasn’t that long ago. They were openly Christian; never mind what you thought of their performance in office. It displeased the Left no end. Even leaving the Left’s hostility toward an alternative source of moral guidance aside, they could not bear to have respected men in high office share a belief system popular with the majority of Americans. It was a political asset the Left, whose distaste for Christianity had become open, could not overcome.

     Bondi and Leavitt look more vulnerable than Bush and Ashcroft; therefore, they’re drawing fire. It has nothing to do with a religious bias within the Administration, nor with the many underhanded accusations of “hypocrisy,” nor with the notion that Administration appointees being openly Christian somehow disenfranchises part of the American populace.

     The presence of Valerie Jarrett in Barack Obama’s inner circle made a lot of conservatives uneasy, as did Obama’s own Islamic background. But no one suggested that Jarrett was unfit to be an Administration advisor on the grounds of her faith.

     The tempest may be loud, but the import is small and easily confined to its teapot. Who was it who said when you get to some city or other, “there’s no there there” -- ? This is much the same sort of fracas.

Dealing With Them

     I’ve been encountering a fair number of graphics like the one below:

     We all know what the point is. Look at those plaintive faces! Look at the kids, so in terror of being deported, even if they don’t know what “deported” means. Such innocence! How could anyone want to kick such nice people out of the United States? What about Emma Lazarus’s poem!

     Yes, yes. It plucks the heartstrings. It makes us question ourselves. It forces a hard look at what it means to enforce the borders after-the-fact. All that and more for the price of a cheap graphic.

     We should ask ourselves all those questions. It’s ethically mandatory. When we set out to enforce a law that previous administrations allowed millions to break, we must know what we’re about: the challenges, the costs, the risks, and where to place the blame.

     An illegal alien is a lawbreaker ab initio. He gets no credit for not breaking any other laws. He gets no credit for being self-supporting and responsible, or for being a pillar of the Undocumented-American community. He should get a shred of sympathy for believing that the new administration would perpetuate the previous one’s folly. He should not be tortured or brutalized, just deported with all his kith and kin.

     That’s the law.

* * *

     One of my favorite writers, Greg Bear, gave us this powerful insight in his novel Anvil of Stars:

     “No villain comes in black, screaming obscenities. All evil has children, homes, regard for self, fear of enemies.”

     The enemy – for now, at least – is human. Vulnerable, fallible, and mortal. But he’s still the enemy. He must be dealt with. Bear’s novel is a masterpiece for depicting what that would mean on the largest imaginable scale. I can’t think of another fiction that brings it home so vividly.

     The lawbreaker is a special category of enemy. Perhaps he meant no harm to anyone. When the subject is illegal immigrants, that’s probably the case more often than not. But he’s a lawbreaker. If we believe in the law, and in enforcing the law evenhandedly, he must go: hopefully, without violence.

     Granted that the perfect enforcement of the law is beyond our abilities. Some illegal aliens will never be discovered, and so will remain within our borders. That is not an argument for declining to enforce the law as best we can. Those illegals we can identify must be expelled. Not only has the public demanded it; maintaining general respect for the law requires it.

     The late Gonzalo Lira spoke of “moral hazard:” the consequence of allowing oneself (or others) exceptions from the law. The concept applies not only to statute law but to the ethical laws that make a peaceful, civilized society possible. Moral hazard is what makes such exceptions dangerous, for they speak broadly: “If we can get away with it, why not?”

     If you’ve encountered the term weaponized empathy, this is where it’s most potent. That graphic and others much like it attempt to weaponize your empathy. “They look so innocent and defenseless! Let them stay.” It’s insidiously seductive. It invokes your compassionate nature in opposition to your interests and those of the whole nation.

     We are not somehow evil for insisting that the law be enforced as written. The evil resides with those who sought to nullify the law de facto by not enforcing it. They were trying to serve their interests: their desire for permanent power. We are not required to oblige them.

     Have a nice day.

Snow Day 2026-02-23

     I rise very early, by most people’s standards. Today, it was at 4:30. When you have two huge dogs that need to “do their business,” you don’t allow yourself to turn over and hope that they can “hold it.” Maybe they can… but think of the downside. Get your ass in gear, Fran.

     A blizzard has come to town. Long Island is stopped dead by this much snow. I haven’t checked the weather sites, but just now it looks like we got 14 to 16 inches. The Island will be paralyzed for today, and possibly for tomorrow. And the snow is still falling.

     So it’s a day for indoor activities... well, unless the power goes out. Then it will be a day for trudging back and forth to the woodshed and struggling to keep a fire going. Whatever comes, I imagine we’ll cope. I did our “blizzard shopping” yesterday, after Mass, so at least there’s milk for the coffee.

     On days such as this, the C.S.O. bakes. I read, write, and towel off the dogs after their numerous backyard sojourns. I imagine the Island’s three million other residents will be doing much the same. What else is there, really?

     Big storms always cause trouble. They usually take lives. Those of us who are safe in our homes should be grateful. When the skies clear, the reports of major calamities and lives lost will begin. Pray to God they aren’t too bad. We did have a lot of warning, so maybe we were better prepared than usual.

* * *

     I’m a sentimental old man. I spend a fair chunk of my time in the past, thinking about what’s come and gone. My assessment: too much. It gets worse on snow days; I have too much time to think.

     I just went to my archives and searched for “snow day.” I found more entries than I’d expected. So to my long-time Gentle Readers, you already know what sort of crap I write on days such as this. I’ll spare you any more of it. To newer readers: just use the search box to search for “snow day.” You’ll get your fill.

     Wherever you are in the Land of the Formerly Free, may you weather this day in comfort and safety. If you’re buried in snow as we are, I hope you’re surrounded by those you love. If you’re in a part of the country that’s unaffected by this blizzard, give thanks that you’ve been spared. And say a prayer for those whose condition is less fortunate.

     Time to shovel.

Remembrances

     Yes, yes: I’ve been lackadaisical about keeping this place hopping. So you’re not hopping. And this is my fault? You can’t hop on your own? C’mon! I expect more from a Gentle Reader of Liberty’s Torch! But let’s leave that to the side.

     I’m cursed with an unusually retentive memory. Immediate events often prompt reminiscences about times and events of many years ago. I’ve been reliving one this morning. You might find it interesting. If you don’t, well, them’s the breaks.

     When I was a young boy, I went to a Catholic grammar school: Saint Catherine of Alexandria in Blauvelt, New York. The teachers were habited Dominican nuns. The classes were very large: typically about fifty students in each. But they were orderly, at least compared to what goes on in primary school classrooms today. Disruptors were punished immediately and often harshly.

     The town I lived in was overwhelmingly Catholic. Whether or not they attended Saint Catherine’s, the kids were raised in the Catholic faith. We saw one another at Mass, and now and then at Saturday Confessions. We talked about what we’d been taught about God, Jesus, and the faith. And we assumed that that was the way it was everywhere.

     But we grew up. As there was no nearby Catholic high school, we went from Saint Catherine’s to a “public” high school that drew its students from a larger area. Suddenly we found ourselves among Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Lutherans, and the occasional Mormon or Jew. It was disorienting, even a little upsetting. Could people that differ so greatly in their most fundamental beliefs get along?

     Sometimes we didn’t. Sometimes there were arguments. Some of those arguments were not resolved gracefully… or peacefully. And that was before the arrival in our district of any blacks or Hispanics.

     Fundamental differences beget conflicts that are hard to resolve. Yes, the great majority of us had been raised Christian, but there were cracks, fault lines that could give rise to trouble. It took a while for me to puzzle out why.

     Each of us had been taught that anyone who disagrees with us on religious matters is simply wrong. Even dangerously so. He had to be corrected, brought to the light, before matters got really serious.

     You see, we had not been taught a “faith.” We had been presented with “fact.” Anyone who dared to question any of it was severely dealt with.

     I’ve been musing over that recently. In various other settings, I’ve advanced my opinion that religious indoctrination of the young is a bad idea. The conflicts I remember from those early exposures to youngsters raised in other denominations are among my reasons.

     Indoctrination is all you can do to a young mind. He has hasn’t yet learned the rules of reason and evidence. He hasn’t yet grasped the critical distinction between the propositions of faith – any faith – and the propositions of spatiotemporal experience. So if you want him to accept religious teaching, you have to pound him with it relentlessly, make it so that it becomes omnipresent, inescapable. Sort of like God.

     Religious instruction of the young is characterized by repetition and memorization, just like the multiplication tables. The term catechism captures the essence of it. The teacher asks questions from a standard list; the students are expected to memorize the correct answers and repeat them when demanded. The treatment that the dismissive or indifferent ones get is supposed to inform the others that religion is a serious business.

     And it is, Gentle Reader. Just think about the religious wars of earlier days. A lot of people died in those wars. There’s an exchange from Richard Lester’s movie The Four Musketeers that’s apposite:

     Porthos: You know, it strikes me that we would be better employed wringing Milady's pretty neck than shooting these poor devils of Protestants. I mean, what are we killing them for? Because they sing psalms in French and we sing them in Latin?
     Aramis: Porthos, have you no education? What do you think religious wars are all about?

     The young indoctrinee quickly comes to understand that he’d better toe the line. Remember the questions and their answers. Give the answers when demanded. Go to church on Sunday and make sure you’re seen. Don’t forget the donation envelope with your name and address printed on it.

     It’s ultimately counterproductive. The inherent, coercive mindlessness of it is why so many kids reared in a religious faith abandon it completely once they’ve reached their majorities. It gives rise to conflicts that might otherwise be avoided.

     I’ve been talking about religious indoctrination and the resulting conflicts, but really, the same argument applies to indoctrination of any kind. The subject matter can be racial, ethnic, social, anthropological, political, even aesthetic. Hard positions on arguable matters create hard feelings.

     We often think we “know” things. Far more often we only believe them. They remain arguable, susceptible to exception, even refutation. Oftentimes we learn that to our sorrow, by alienating others whose good will had previously been ours.

     Once we’ve shuffled off this mortal coil, we’ll have all the answers and all the certainty we’ll ever need. I can wait. What about you?

     Just a few early-morning thoughts.

Your Morning Firebranding

     My admiration for the great Charles Murray grew by an order of magnitude after this recent episode. First, the windup:

I’ve stayed in hotel rooms over the past week and was wondering if anyone else wishes manufacturers would write “shampoo” and “conditioner” in a bigger font so we could read them in the shower without our glasses. FFS 😖

— Mike Bales 🫡🇺🇸 (@MikeBales) February 18, 2026

     And now the pitch:

Occasionally someone makes a point on X that I've been fretting about for years but was too timid to raise. But now that Mike has broken the ice, I also demand that the color of the font have more contrast with the color of the bottle. We've been victimized long enough. https://t.co/l00ol9tPSW

— Charles Murray (@charlesmurray) February 18, 2026

     To which I was compelled to respond:

     Yes! Ditto! And why isn't the music on hold Beethoven, Bach, or Chopin?
     We declare the Revolution!!

     Now, who will man the barricades alongside me?

Awakenings

     A lot has been written about “the living Earth,” “the spirit of Gaia,” and similar notions. Common to them is a conception of the inanimate as animate: a world alive and aware, not only of itself but of all that dwells upon it and in it. It’s a thesis I’ve touched very, very lightly in In Vino:

     The others hung back as Ottavio directed Fountain to the vat of unclarified Malbec. The Monti vats were made of aged wood bound in black iron bands. They were smaller than those at Broadhead. Their bases rested flat on the villa floor. The room was filled with the aromas of wine, yeast, and fermentation.
     Fountain imperceptibly took command of her host. She urged him close to the vat, took his hands and set them against its surface, moved to stand behind him, slid her arms around his chest, and rested her chin upon his shoulder. They stood thus in silence for perhaps half a minute. Within her embrace, Ottavio Monti trembled as if his strength were being tried to its limits.
     “What is it you feel?” she murmured against his cheek. “Tell me everything.”
     “Wood,” he said. “Rough, warm wood. And...the wine. And...” His voice dropped most of an octave. “And life.” He trembled in her embrace. “It is alive! But the vat is two hundred years old and the wine is grapes crushed to a sauce! How can this be?”
     “All things are alive,” Fountain whispered. “All things are aware. What else do you feel?”
     “I...” His tremor intensified.
     “Tell me, Ottavio Monti.” She squeezed him gently. “It is safe. It is right.”
     “Love,” he whispered incredulously. “Your love. And mine.”
     “All things know love,” she said in the voice of an oracle dispensing a mystical revelation. “And all things respond to love and return it in equal measure. Do you love the wine?”
     “Si, molto.”
     “Then tell it so,” Fountain said. She laid a hand over his heart. “From here, Ottavio. Use any words, any language you like, but tell it that you love it and listen for its answer.”
     The vintner of Villa Monti closed his eyes and bowed his head. Fountain held him snugly.
     Larry, Trish, and Domenico Monti stood transfixed. Ray murmured the Lord’s Prayer under his breath.
     “Gran Dio!” Ottavio whispered.
     He pulled his hands from the vat and dropped to his knees. Fountain released him, ascended the steps to the vat’s rim, took up the dipper that hung there, extracted a cup of wine, and descended. She knelt before Ottavio and offered him the dipper.
     “Taste it.”
     He did. His eyes brimmed over. He handed the dipper back to Fountain.
     “Now do you see?” she said.
     He smiled through his tears and nodded.
     She rose, brought the dipper to the others, and bade them taste it. They did, in turn.
     “Wow,” Larry said.
     “Oh my God,” Ray said.
     “As good as Broadhead’s, maybe even better,” Trish said.
     “Gloria a Dio,” Domenico said.
     Fountain nodded serenely.

     Now and then, I’m blind-sided by the idea. I certainly was when I wrote the above.

     If it’s true, which I doubt, we have no evidence of it. But that doesn’t mean it won’t be true someday. David Brin’s novel Earth toys with that possibility. It’s thematically related to his other “Uplift” tales, in which nonsentient creatures are “uplifted” to sentience through genetic engineering and selective breeding.

     No, I’m not saying I expect it. But the notion itself is appealing. A world alive and aware! What would it do? We worry about extraterrestrials finding us and proving unfriendly. How much worse an enemy would a living, sentient planet be, were it to weigh us in the balances and find us wanting?

     Hey, I’m a writer. Ideas like that one are both the tools of my trade and toys for my imagination. And I have to admit, the idea of uplifting the whole planet is more than moderately ambitious. One must ask who would see it as worth attempting, at what risks and at what cost.

     Anyway, the idea of awakening the Earth itself, calling forth the Weltgeist (or giving it one), found a remarkable expression in melody that I’ve only recently discovered. Hearken to the incredible, angelic voice of Ekaterina Shelehova:

     Did the souls of your ancestors cluster about you as you listened?

     Mine, too.