Things That Last And Things That Don’t

     I tire more easily these days than when I was younger. That’s to be expected of an aging body, of course. I certainly expected it. What I didn’t expect was the onset of a steadily deepening intellectual weariness, born of having to say the same things over and over again, as if no one were listening previously. Instead of the willingness to explain, I’m beset by fatigue and a kind of resignation: “They don’t get it. Maybe they never will.”

     The nonsense about America having violated Venezuela’s sovereignty has triggered that reaction. Domestic Leftists and international opponents of the Trump Administration are shrieking it as if it were God’s own law. Permit me a little foreshadowing: it isn’t.

     I’ve been here before innumerable times. “It’s such a simple thing!” I mutter to myself. I want to shake it off and think about anything else, but when the subject is this important, I can’t allow myself to do that.

     Okay, Gentle Reader. One more time.

* * *

     In my Baseline Essay on this subject, I wrote:

     One of the key concepts in international political discourse is sovereignty: the attribute a State possesses when it is effectively unchallenged within its boundaries, and is conceded by other States to be legitimate in that position. At one time, we spoke of "sovereigns" -- kings -- who were literally the personal possessors of the power of their States. Today the concept is more diffuse, extending to the government as a distributed entity rather than to an absolute monarch.
     Sovereignty is less a thing possessed by right than a thing conceded. The concession is important, for a State is unlikely to be able to hold its own against any and all opposition. A sufficiently large, sufficiently well motivated coalition of other States could bring it down. So State A's sovereignty depends more on the indulgence of other States, for whatever reasons, than on its claims to legitimacy.
     Now and then that becomes rather obvious. The Taliban claimed sovereignty over Afghanistan, but America decided otherwise. Saddam Hussein's Baathist dictatorship claimed sovereignty over Iraq, but once again, America decided otherwise.

     I thought that was a clear, easily comprehended statement. And to be fair, some did read and understand it. But many did not. More to the point, many refuse to understand it. It cross-cuts their agenda.

     The treaties we call the Peace of Westphalia, signed in the German cities of Munster and Osnabruck in 1648, constitute the first attempt of the Christian Era to define sovereignty. The great quarrels of the era had been about religion, but as always when States are involved, the real issue was force: who possesses it, who authorizes its use, and what others may “legitimately” do about it.

     The conception of sovereignty reached then was a compromise. It sought to achieve a limitation upon warmaking, which up to then had been practiced not just by kings but by lesser powers avid to impose their wills upon others of their kind. The Westphalian treaties explicitly reserved the privilege of warmaking to monarchs – sovereigns – and forbade it to others. But note this: those treaties did not call into existence a supranational entity with the power to enforce that agreement. The job was left to the aforementioned monarchs.

     Here we are, 378 years later, and there is still no supranational entity capable of enforcing anyone’s sovereignty against anyone else’s contrary opinion. The reason is quite simple: the States of Earth will not permit it.

     If such a supranational organization were to exist, it alone would be indisputably sovereign; i.e., it alone would possess sufficient power to sustain itself against the contentions of “lesser” States. Those lesser ones would exist and wield power only for as long as the supra-State should allow it.

     The national governments of Britain, France, China, the Soviet Union, and the United States of America would never have given the United Nations that kind of power. It would have reduced them to vassals of the UN, utterly dependent upon its dictates – and those who govern the UN would have made sure that the condition would be permanent.

     Thus, when I wrote:

     The States of Earth exist in an anarchic relation to one another. Each has its own regional code of law, which might differ markedly from all the others. Despite several thrusts at the matter over the centuries, there is no "super-State" to enforce a uniform code of law over them all. More, they view one another as competitors in many different areas; their populations and institutions are often in sharp economic competition with one another. Thus, they are often at odds. They resolve important disputes among them through negotiation or warfare.

     …I didn’t think I needed to explain why; in my naivety I thought it would be “obvious.” The States of Earth want it that way.

* * *

     The sovereignty of Venezuela’s government was wholly dependent upon the tacit agreement, by other States, that they would refrain from toppling it. Time was, in this connection a State only had to worry about its geographical neighbors. That’s not the case any longer. The United States of America, the Russian Federation, and Red China have “long arms.” Each possesses sufficient power to negate the sovereignty of other states… provided the other two permit it.

     That is all “sovereignty” means today. It’s also what passes for “stability” today. No one has to like it. I’m sure Nicolas Maduro doesn’t.

Unkillable

     It’s been said innumerable times that “you can’t kill an idea.” It’s true, even if the notion of “killing” is only metaphorically applicable to something nonliving. Ideas cannot be quenched once and for all. It doesn’t even matter whether an idea has any advocates. If it has ever existed in the mind of even one man now deceased, it could rise again.

     The world is in a flutter over the American operation to capture Nicolas Maduro and his wife and extract them from Venezuela to face trial here. Good thing? Bad thing? American overreach? Violation of “international law?” Venezuelans worldwide don’t care. They approve of President Trump’s decision to send Delta Force to collect the miscreant. I find myself in agreement with them.

     Maduro, you may recall, “inherited” the office of Maximum Leader from the late Hugo Chavez. Chavez, Venezuela’s first openly socialist president, swiftly dismantled the country upon accession to the presidency. He seized, nationalized, and suppressed. He ignored Venezuela’s constitution, took total control of the machinery of election, and essentially prohibited organized political opposition. He took the richest and most successful nation in South America and transformed it into a violent, poverty-stricken hellhole.

     Maduro took Chavez’s position and intensified his policies. Whether he did so because he sincerely held socialist convictions or because he just liked wielding power is unknown. Venezuelans starved, stole, cannibalized, and fled. Maduro never relented, no matter how severe the poverty and squalor became. But now he’s gone, and ordinary Venezuelans are openly rejoicing.

     But some people can’t – or won’t – learn from others’ bad experiences. New York City has just elected a Muslim Communist as its mayor.

     The consequences are already coming:

     New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani has appointed Cea Weaver as the Director of the City Office to Protect Tenants. Presumably, a position intended to stand behind the rights of housing tenants against the property owner. However, Ms. Weaver has some remarkable views on private property and home ownership.
     In this video clip below you will notice Ms. Weaver outline how homeowners will need to modify their view on their property ownership to reflect a new municipal perspective that considers all individually owned property to be part of a new collective property viewpoint as controlled by city government.

NYC Mayor Mamdani's Tenant Director, Cea Weaver:

"We'll transition from treating property as an individual good to a collective good. Whites especially will be impacted." pic.twitter.com/RZSdCs8oEa

— End Wokeness (@EndWokeness) January 5, 2026

     Thought that apartment building was yours, Big Apple resident? Thought that condominium was yours? Thought that brownstone was yours? Nope. There’s no longer any private property in the Five Boroughs of New York. It’s all part of a “collective good” that will be administered by the city government.

     Watch your ass, especially if you’re white. Heap Big Tenant Protector Cea Weaver has given you notice.

     The remarkable thing about this is how unabashed Mamdani and his cohort are about it all. They’re right out front about their convictions and their policies. Are they sincere, are they playing for power, or are they just cat’s-paws for a larger, shadowy network of power-mongers? Does it matter? The consequences won’t vary with how earnest they are. New York City is about to become Pyongyang on the Hudson.

     If Nicolas Maduro is allowed to read a newspaper, he must be laughing his slats off at this development.

     I used to believe that the seductions of socialism required that its target population be ignorant of its record in power. I can’t believe that any longer. New Yorkers may be foolishly attached to the Democrat Party, but as a rule they’re neither ignorant nor stupid.

     The Russians deposed their Soviet masters. The Warsaw Pact nations did the same. At least one of them – Romania – executed its former ruler. The sole remaining bastions of Communism are Cuba and North Korea.

     And New York City.

     The events of the late Twentieth Century killed several socialist / Communist regimes. It did not kill the Communist ideology. But the Communist ideology may be about to kill New York, at one time regarded as the greatest city in the world.

Conversations

     Today’s showers are usually equipped with mixing valves attached to a single-lever control. The user moves the lever to set the flow of water to his preferred temperature and leaves it there. But the earliest mixing valves were designed with little or no frictional resistance to movement. That made them prone to changing the setting without the user’s approval, which resulted in a number of scalding victims. Mixing valves were redesigned to incorporate significant friction.

     The C.S.O., though no weakling, has a hard time getting the temperature of her shower just the way she likes it. Apparently the valve’s friction is a little too stiff for her fine motor skills. That forces her to jog the lever back and forth until by sheer chance the Malevolence of the Inanimate relents and the lever settles at just the right temperature for a nice shower. She was complaining about that just this morning, which resulted in the following exchange:

FWP: (Explains the changes to mixing valves)
CSO: We didn’t have that in Queens. We had separate hot and cold taps.

FWP: (becomes expansive) Those were the days! Men were men, back then. You took what you could get, by God! Then you went out to play with your stick.
CSO: And your rock.

FWP: (stunned) You had a rock, too?
CSO: Yeah, we were one of the better-off families.

FWP: I never knew I married into money!
CSO: Ahh, it was nothing. I used to date a guy from Bensonhurst who had two rocks.
FWP: (too astounded to continue)

     (Yes, Gentle Reader. These conversations actually happen.)

For Epiphany

     Yes, yes, I know: traditionally the Feast of Epiphany is celebrated on January 6. Nevertheless, the Church allows American Catholics to celebrate it on the Sunday immediately after January 1. And so: Happy Epiphany to my Gentle Readers.

     If you’re near to my age, it’s possible that when you were in school, one of your teachers would read the tale of Artaban, “the Other Wise Man,” in class on a school day near to January 6. Artaban, you see, was the Magian who “fell behind,” and thus was not with with Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar – the three Wise Men of the Gospels – in honoring the newborn Christ Child. That story, written by Henry van Dyke in 1895, is a thing of simple beauty and remarkable grace. Its conclusion, which is set upon the day of the Crucifixion, is what matters most:

     Artaban's heart beat unsteadily with that troubled, doubtful apprehension which is the excitement of old age. But he said within himself: "The ways of God are stranger than the thoughts of men, and it may be that I shall find the King, at last, in the hands of his enemies, and shall come in time to offer my pearl for his ransom before he dies."
     So the old man followed the multitude with slow and painful steps toward the Damascus gate of the city. Just beyond the entrance of the guardhouse a troop of Macedonian soldiers came down the street, dragging a young girl with torn dress and dishevelled hair. As the Magian paused to look at her with compassion, she broke suddenly from the hands of her tormentors, and threw herself at his feet, clasping him around the knees. She had seen his white cap and the winged circle on his breast.
     "Have pity on me," she cried, "and save me, for the sake of the God of Purity! I also am a daughter of the true religion which is taught by the Magi. My father was a merchant of Parthia, but he is dead, and I am seized for his debts to be sold as a slave. Save me from worse than death!"
     Artaban trembled.
     It was the old conflict in his soul, which had come to him in the palm-grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem--the conflict between the expectation of faith and the impulse of love. Twice the gift which he had consecrated to the worship of religion had been drawn to the service of humanity. This was the third trial, the ultimate probation, the final and irrevocable choice.
     Was it his great opportunity, or his last temptation? He could not tell. One thing only was clear in the darkness of his mind--it was inevitable. And does not the inevitable come from God?
     One thing only was sure to his divided heart--to rescue this helpless girl would be a true deed of love. And is not love the light of the soul?
     He took the pearl from his bosom. Never had it seemed so luminous, so radiant, so full of tender, living lustre. He laid it in the hand of the slave.
     "This is thy ransom, daughter! It is the last of my treasures which I kept for the King."
     While he spoke, the darkness of the sky deepened, and shuddering tremors ran through the earth heaving convulsively like the breast of one who struggles with mighty grief.
     The walls of the houses rocked to and fro. Stones were loosened and crashed into the street. Dust clouds filled the air. The soldiers fled in terror, reeling like drunken men. But Artaban and the girl whom he had ransomed crouched helpless beneath the wall of the Praetorium.
     What had he to fear? What had he to hope? He had given away the last remnant of his tribute for the King. He had parted with the last hope of finding him. The quest was over, and it had failed. But, even in that thought, accepted and embraced, there was peace. It was not resignation. It was not submission. It was something more profound and searching. He knew that all was well, because he had done the best that he could from day to day. He had been true to the light that had been given to him. He had looked for more. And if he had not found it, if a failure was all that came out of his life, doubtless that was the best that was possible. He had not seen the revelation of "life everlasting, incorruptible and immortal." But he knew that even if he could live his earthly life over again, it could not be otherwise than it had been.
     One more lingering pulsation of the earthquake quivered through the ground. A heavy tile, shaken from the roof, fell and struck the old man on the temple. He lay breathless and pale, with his gray head resting on the young girl's shoulder, and the blood trickling from the wound. As she bent over him, fearing that he was dead, there came a voice through the twilight, very small and still, like music sounding from a distance, in which the notes are clear but the words are lost. The girl turned to see if some one had spoken from the window above them, but she saw no one.
     Then the old man's lips began to move, as if in answer, and she heard him say in the Parthian tongue:
     "Not so, my Lord! For when saw I thee an hungered and fed thee? Or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger, and took thee in? Or naked, and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison, and came unto thee? Three-and--thirty years have I looked for thee; but I have never seen thy face, nor ministered to thee, my King."
     He ceased, and the sweet voice came again. And again the maid heard it, very faint and far away. But now it seemed as though she understood the words:
     "Verily I say unto thee, Inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me."
     A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the pale face of Artaban like the first ray of dawn, on a snowy mountain-peak. A long breath of relief exhaled gently from his lips.
     His journey was ended. His treasures were accepted. The Other Wise Man had found the King.

     Far too many younger readers failed to “get the message.” For them the excitement of Christmas wasn’t about the birth of the Savior; it was about decorations, music, sweets, and the pile of presents under the tree. Some took Artaban to be a tragic figure, when in truth he was the Magian who best exemplified the charity and humility Christ preached in His years of active ministry to the Judeans.

     Christmas has been “secularized” these past few decades. Today, even non-Christians and the wholly irreligious can have a part in it. But the Savior’s message has not changed; it cannot. From the Gospel according to Matthew:

     When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory: And before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats: And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left.
     Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.
     Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee? Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
     And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

     [Matthew 25:31-40]

     Happy they who can answer thus when He returns.

     May God bless and keep you all.

A Poignant Thought

     Happy New Year!

     For some the prospects the New Year offers are offset by the frustrations of the year before. That’s particularly so for the indie writer:

I sold 22 books in 2025 😭🙌🏻✨

— Tai Harrow - Indie Author (@taiharrow) January 2, 2026

     I don’t know that lady, but her bittersweet announcement strikes a chord with me. 22 books! God alone knows how long and hard she labored over her offerings. And while 22 is better than zero, I’m sure her aspirations ran to higher numbers.

     There are a lot of us. We probably outnumber writers published by conventional publishing houses by a couple of orders of magnitude. And it’s a given that not all of us are really good writers or storytellers. But the doggedness of the indie writer carries a meaning independent of whether he’s got all the assets of a Steinbeck, a Hemingway, or a Faulkner.

     There are stories in him. Regardless of his abilities, he wants to tell them. And they might just need to be told. If you’re my age or older, you might remember this tag line from an old television show:

     There are eight million stories in the naked city. This has been one of them.

     That show focused on a single police precinct in New York City. It was widely acclaimed. Yet it told stories embedded in relatively ordinary lives.

     A human life is composed of stories. Some are complete; others are “works in progress.” Some shriek with immediacy. And very few are ever told.

* * *

     Long ago, I wrote:

     The distribution of writers attempting the e-publication channel goes something like this:

• 90% or more: Persons who cannot write and should not try.
• ~7%: Persons with a fair command of English, but who have no stories to tell that anyone else would want to read.
• ~2%: Persons with a fair command of English who have stories to tell, but whose styles and preconceptions are unsuited to telling them in a winning fashion.
• ~1%: Capable storytellers, including a significant number who could crack the “traditional” publishing channels (or who already have).

     I rather regret that partition. I’ve come to believe that everyone has one or more stories in him. He may not have the ability to tell them in a winning way, but they’re there nonetheless. If they press him fiercely enough, they’ll come out: perhaps just in conversation over a beer, but they will be told. And those to whom they are told will feel their impact.

     I’ve encountered quite a number of other indie writers these past fifteen years. (We tend to cluster. After all, no one else will have us.) They share the need to tell stories. Even the least capable of us is responding to pressures he cannot withstand.

     Yet answering “What do you do?” with “I’m a writer” is the most reliable way I know of making the asker excuse himself and head for refuge. Sometimes it works even if the asker is an aspiring writer himself. Try it at your next social gathering.

     Even once set down in print or pixels, some stories remain “untold” de facto. No one listens. Perhaps that’s what keeps America’s legion of therapists in business.

* * *

     Don’t mind me. After all, I’m just a talkative old man. As I’ve said before, I write these pieces mainly for myself. That includes the stories I tell. No one is obliged to listen, and few do. But I do have a point.

     You have stories in you. So do the people around you. They want to tell theirs at least as urgently as you want to tell yours. They might not be articulate. They might not have patience enough to do all that typing and formatting. But their need is no less than yours.

     Among the simplest and greatest of charities is the gift one gives by listening.

     Just an early-morning thought.

Smith, Jones, And Coming To America 2026

     There’s quite a bit of contention over why immigrants to our shores seek to come here. Yet the answer generalizes neatly:

• Immigrant Smith comes for an improved chance to get something: e.g., freedom from persecution or a materially better life;
• Immigrant Jones comes to serve a superior mandate.

     Those motivations sometimes blend.

     We saw Smiths from Europe almost exclusively during the “open immigration” period from the end of the Civil War up to the 1965 Hart/Celler Act. Since then, there’s been a mixture of Smiths and Joneses. The Smiths of recent years have included a significant number of predators and gang affiliates from Mexico and Central America. The Joneses have largely been Muslims.

     President Trump has put great emphasis on stanching the flow of illegal migrants and migrants from hostile cultures. In doing so, he’s nudged the balance back toward the European Smiths: persons from largely Christian cultures who could be expected to assimilate. This is a good thing. The “unmeltables” have greatly exacerbated our racial and ethnic tensions. Several ethnic exclaves, particularly in the Southwest, are populated largely by “unmeltables” and illegals.

     But of course, there are persons on the Left who condemn Trump’s changes as “inhumane.” By their standards, it’s a violation of our ethics to insist that newcomers actually become law-abiding Americans… first and foremost, by complying with our immigration laws. The Dishonorable Charles Schumer (D, NY) has openly defended the illegals and vowed to seek a “pathway to citizenship” for them:

Chuck Schumer: “Our ultimate goal is to get a path to citizenship for all 11 million or however many undocumented there are here."

I'ts right out in the open. https://t.co/KmvyjIN5xb pic.twitter.com/XFlStXb1BF

— Western Lensman (@WesternLensman) January 1, 2026

     Leftists who favor making no distinction between legal and illegal immigrants usually claim that the illegals are all Smiths. “They came here for a better life!” Even if we omit consideration of the immigration laws, this is a deliberate effacement of an important distinction. Some of those Smiths seek “a better life” by preying on others. Indeed, some were sent here by even bigger predators, to serve those bigger ones’ aims.

     As for the Joneses, we must deem them invaders ab initio, regardless of whether they wear uniforms or tote weapons. This is particularly the case for Muslims. Islam forbids the Muslim to acknowledge any allegiance other than Islam. Thus, the Muslim is required to remain conscious at all times that his creed commands him to subjugate all persons everywhere to the dictates of Islam.

     The nations of Europe have been battered nearly to destruction for failing to accept this fact. Islam has penetrated Europe so deeply that its clerics now openly proclaim their intention that Islam and sharia law shall rule throughout the Old World. Europe’s governments, with a handful of exceptions, have postured as either indifferent to those threats or powerless to oppose them.

     That’s a summary of large-scale human mobility at the beginning of the Year of Our Lord 2026. Individuals’ motives for migration are all subsumed by the Smith / Jones dichotomy. Are there a few Smiths scattered among the Joneses, or vice versa? No doubt. Might some Joneses prove tractable in the long run, capable of renouncing their original aims and becoming loyal Americans? The odds are against it, but I hesitate to say it can’t happen.

     I will say only this: Beware. That is, be aware. If there are migrants in your community, do your best to know which ones are Smiths and which are Joneses. Treat carefully with the Smiths, but be even more wary of the Joneses. And under no circumstances let the Joneses build fortresses among you, no matter how they represent themselves or their institutions! Not opposing them from the outset could ultimately cost your life, or the lives of your descendants.

Some End-Of-Year Thoughts

     Janus has been prodding at my backbrain, prompting me to think those classical end-of-year thoughts. Specifically, I’ve been thinking about how I’d like 2026 to differ from 2025, both for me personally and in larger ways.

     Janus, for those not familiar with the mythology of ancient Rome, was the god of doorways. He was usually depicted as two-faced, one face looking backward and the other looking forward. The passage from one year to the next was especially deemed his kind of transition. I made use of him in Doors:

     “Every decision changes us. Even the little ones. And we can’t know beforehand how much.”
     “I wouldn’t have expected you to cite chaos theory on Christmas Eve,” she said.
     “It’s not that so much as the nature of time. Do you know the myth of Janus?”
     She shook her head.
     “The Roman god of doorways. He had two faces, one facing forward and one facing back. He symbolized choices and transitions. We seldom face a choice knowing everything that will come of making it either way. We can’t avert the consequences of our choices, and we can’t undo them afterward. Once we step through that door, it locks itself against us.”

     For someone like your humble Curmudgeon, sunk deep in years and choices made along the way, it can seem unlikely that any decision I could make now would have a great effect on the years to come, whether mine or others’. (To the advanced grammarians among my Gentle Readers, if any: Is there a rule against ending a sentence with a possessive? If so, please let me know. Thanks.) But there’s chaos theory to keep in mind, isn’t there? So perhaps I should respect the unboundedness of the possibilities.

* * *

     Among my enduring resolutions is one I adopted long ago: always to speak the truth as I see it. That’s not an unmixed virtue. Truth often hurts. Many an unpleasant truth has come my way these past seven decades. On those occasions when I’ve expressed them publicly, the reaction has nearly always been fury, sometimes bordered on violence.

     In Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Cat’s Cradle, he includes a quasi-religion that advocates “living by the foma:” i.e., falsehoods that give comfort rather than the abrasion of unlimited truth. It’s uncertain whether Vonnegut meant that prescriptively. Yet a lot of people do live by such falsehoods. It may be that that’s their cushion against reality’s abrasions, and that they couldn’t bear to live without it.

     I can’t go that way. I have to see what is. Having seen it, I have to live with the knowledge. I’ve often felt an obligation to pass such knowledge along, even if it will hurt the recipients.

     The awareness of the hurt I’ve caused by doing that has made me think some very dark thoughts. Paramount among them is one I’ve dwelt on to my chagrin.

     Very few of us are poised at the levers of history. Very few of us can effectuate even small changes to what is. If in expressing a painful perception or insight to someone else who has no such power, I cause him unhappiness, I’ve darkened his personal reality to no good consequence. Why do such a thing? Why not keep my dark awarenesses to myself and let him rest in his greater comfort?

     Try that one on for yourself. Warning: it will pinch.

* * *

     I have a compulsion to think about what I see, and to express my inferences here and elsewhere. I don’t know why. It probably indicates that I’m not getting enough sex. But whatever the reason, when I start thinking along the lines above, it makes me wonder whether the pain I cause is justified by the improvements I stimulate… if any. It may be that my only possibility of bringing a net benefit to others is by shutting up. It’s not possible to be certain. I can only wonder about it, and I do.

     I’d prefer – oh, greatly! – to see positive things, benign developments and possibilities, new and promising vistas. But I haven’t seen many such these past few decades. What I have seen suggests that what Robert A. Heinlein once called “the Renaissance Civilization” – i.e., the United States of America – is in terminal decline, the sociopolitical equivalent of Cheyne-Stokes respiration.

     That has colored my writing in two ways. The first affects these opinion pieces, which have grown gloomier with time. The second affects my fiction, which focuses on the decisions and actions of heroes, some of them unsung, sincerely determined to make things better for themselves and others. Which of those is the more “realistic” vision? Must one of them give way to the other?

     That’s a particularly gloomy thought.

* * *

     The Year of Our Lord 2026 is almost upon us. I don’t have any special wisdom about the year about to end, nor any insight into what will come. One of the realizations that comes with advanced age is that there’s little point in trying to foretell the future. For my part, I just hope to live through the coming year and get a few things done that I didn’t manage to finish in 2025.

     Wherever you are and whatever your station in life, I wish you, Gentle Readers, a Happy New Year. May 2026 bring you all the best that life has to offer… and may God bless and keep you all.

Dangerfield’s Syndrome

     Forgive me, Gentle Reader. It’s very early, I’ve been reading some disturbing stuff, and it has me in a foul mood. Two tweets in particular ignited the urge to blather about something that will offend at least half the human race.

     For those who may not have noticed – the Web does conceal a lot about those who rant here – I’m a man. Male, that is. A Y-chromosome bearer. Therefore, I share in the common burdens of the male half of my species. I try not to dwell on them; it’s not good for any of us. But the consciousness of some of those burdens can be difficult to suppress.

     Have a second look at the title of this piece. (For the moment, just the menfolk. The ladies will get their turn.) Know what I’m talking about now?

     The old saying that familiarity breeds contempt has a special application to male-female relations. Familiarity is rooted in the word family. Families of the traditional sort – one man, one woman, and some number of minor children, dogs, cats, and their appurtenances – don’t stay together for as long as they once did. If you’ve noticed that and wondered how to redress it, you’re not alone.

     Part of the reason is burgeoning contempt, especially hers toward him.

     Even at its most obvious, that can be puzzling. Why should she feel contempt for him? She married him, didn’t she? She claimed to love him, back then; has her love lapsed? If so, why?

     Remember the old slogan that love is the answer? We heard it a lot more often a few decades back. It was wrong then. It’s still wrong today. It’s especially wrong when applied to male-female relations, especially those of the (previously) intimate sort. The error inheres in a single word.

     Bide a moment while I fetch more coffee.

* * *

     Have a look at a particularly striking tweet:

"Only women, children and dogs are loved unconditionally. A man is only loved under the condition that he provides something." - Chris Rock

Changing this dynamic should be at the top of the priority list.

— Lisa Britton (@LisaBritton) December 30, 2025

     That was a stunner. It points to a truth that virtually no one is willing to face squarely. In part, that’s because there’s a misdirector in it. Once again, the misdirector consists of a single word.

     Have you found that word yet? No? Well, as it’s my job to illuminate things that elude other people, I shall tell you forthwith.

     The word is love.

     Miss Britton’s statement is both admirable and factually impeccable. However, the underlying disease isn’t a failure of love. For all the air time it gets, love isn’t a primary emotion. It’s a resultant that's made possible by other factors.

     Primary among those factors is respect.

     Many a relationship between a man and a woman is actually devoid of love. Her love of him, that is. She needn’t feel love to bind herself to him. She does need to acknowledge and respect his ability to protect her and provide for her. Say what you will about “modern women” and the contemporary independence thereof; she would never tie herself to him if he didn’t seem equal to the protect/provide role.

     There’s a lot of talk about how today’s women are all determined to hold out for a modern prince: tall, handsome, self-assured, chivalrous, and with at least a six-figure income. There’s a lot of truth in that. The expectation may be unreasonable, but a lot of women hold it even so. They’ve been told that he’s what they deserve.

     Young women, that is. After about age 30, their standards start to slip. In part that’s because of the “biological clock;” in other part, it’s because they own mirrors. Reality has banged on their doors for long enough to get their attention. Men they’d have dismissed a decade earlier start to look good; good enough for a trial run, at least.

     The complementarity of the sexes is hardwired into us. Women yearn for protectors and providers. Men are designed for the role, and seek to fulfill it. Eventually those urges overcome the propaganda. The desire to see oneself as deserving of a prince or a princess gives way before their power.

     If you’ve been wondering why we bear so many fewer children per couple than previous generations, that’s a part of the reason that’s much harder to face plainly than the various nostrums about “consumerism” and changes in the “economic value of progeny.”

* * *

     As time passes, the respect she feels for him can wane, and often does. This is especially prevalent if occupational and economic advancement eludes him. Those things are not automatic; indeed, many men never consciously seek them. Over time, it can seem to her that he’s just there. Marking time. Doing what he’s always done, with the rewards he’s always received. Her labors loom large in her consciousness, especially if she’s the mother of minor children. His do not.

     The diminution of respect that often proceeds from those perceptions is poison to a marriage. Yet it happens, especially between couples surrounded by other families that seem to be doing better. Her protestations of love start to ring hollow. He senses it through her behavior, which will always outweigh her words. The marriage begins to lose its cohesion.

     Five years, ten years, fifteen years… the interval will vary according to the characters of the participants. But the behavioral changes are consistent. She complains more and more, to him and to others. He develops a “wandering eye,” with adultery a frequent result.

     This isn’t about love. If there was love in any degree at the outset, it will begin to crumble as the respect that made love possible crumbles beneath it. But the respect is primary; the failure of love is a consequence.

* * *

     The above is a general, surface-level diagnosis of a common phenomenon. It’s unclear to me that there’s an antidote to it. Yet I’m confident that a lot of the midlife failure of sexual intimacy is explained by it. It’s less about loss of love than about his failure in her eyes to bring her what she married him for.

     But has he failed, truly? I don’t think so.

I care about men because im a human being being with empathy for Christ sake it’s not that hard is it? I feel protective toward those carrying silent weight and I always have. That’s called being in tune with this thing that we were given as human beings called the ability to…

— Chloe Roma (@The_RomaArmy) December 29, 2025