Tuesday, February 3, 2026

From Little Acorns

     Time passes swiftly for those of us in our seventies. Sometimes we don’t notice the passing of a whole decade… and this was more than a single decade ago:

     The murders of Nicole Brown and Ronald Goldman took place in June, 1994. Yes, Simpson was acquitted of them, but a subsequent civil suit held him responsible for the deaths even so. In 2008 he was convicted of armed robbery and kidnapping, and served a prison sentence for them.

     Now we have the nonsense above.

* * *

     I just snagged this:

     Immerse yourself in that image for a moment. The question posed by “miritsua” is relevant and staggeringly important. It’s not just Third Worlders who think they deserve servants.

     Have a snippet from a novel that should be more widely read:

     “It was a world in which there were only two models, slave and master. A master is not the same thing as a free, independent man. A master is himself contaminated by slaveholding. When the slaves were freed, they were only technically free. They're right about that. They continued as spiritual slaves — most of them, not all — right until the Civil Rights Act, until they could vote. Then they started acting like masters.”

     If you have only two models for human relations – master or slave – then you will see yourself as one or the other. You’ll have no alternative structure into which to fit yourself.

If you’re not a slave, you must be a master – and masters have slaves.

     That is the African experience. It was brought here by imported Negro slaves. It’s been perpetuated by Negroes as well. What else could their ceaseless demands for “reparations” mean?

     Thinking yourself a master, but having no slaves, makes you resentful and angry.

* * *

     In one of my novels, there’s a character who was raised from birth to see herself as a slave. She was conditioned to accept it as her proper place. When she managed to escape her captors, she stumbled by chance into the protection of a very good man. Her conditioning compelled her to take that good man as her master. The limitations it compelled upon her left her no third model. When she was presented with freedom as a third way, she rejected it. It would mean rejecting everything else she’d ever been:

     “Miss Celia, I don’t understand!”
     The shorter of the visitors cringed. “There’s nothing to understand, Fountain.” She rubbed the backs of Fountain’s hands with her thumbs. “It’s just the way it is. I’m free, Juliette is free, and Trish is free. You’re free too. No masters. No lords. No slaves. Just people, doing whatever they want to do.” Her expression darkened. “Don’t you like the idea that you’re free?”
     Fountain glanced furtively at Juliette. The tall girl leaned against the wall with her arms crossed over her breasts. She nodded.
     “It’s true, Fountain. Nobody owns anybody here.”
     The notion found nowhere to lodge among her lessons.
     I was trained to be his. To serve his pleasure. I have no other purpose.
     I
want to be his.
     “I cannot leave my lord,” she murmured. “I will not.”
     Celia grimaced. “You might not have to. I mean,” she said, “he might not tell you that you have to go away. But he’s free too, Fountain. Free people don’t own slaves. We settled that a long time ago. Whoever taught you different was...bad. Taught you bad stuff. Probably a lot of it.”
     How can this be? Their bodies are like mine. Their beauty is no less than mine. Yet they claim to have no master. They could not possibly be masters themselves, so what else could they do? What else could they be?
     The clash between her lessons and this new instruction became insupportable. A high, shrill siren issued from her backbrain, a response instilled in her by years of merciless conditioning designed to deny her any outlet for rebellion. It surged at once to disabling pitch and volume. She ripped her hands free of Celia’s, put them to her ears, and howled in torment.
     The others crowded close around her and wrapped her in their arms, probably in an attempt to calm her. It only increased her anguish, but her wriggling failed to free her from them. She endured it as she must.
     When the siren in her head and her responding howl ceased and the others’ grip upon her slackened, she shook herself free, rose, said “I must use the bathroom,” and strode out of the room. Once she had closed and locked the bathroom door, she sat upon the toilet lid and waited for her tears to dry.
     They do not understand. They cannot understand. I cannot be free. I am his.
     I must be his.

     The thought that she might be forced to be as they were—to be apart from her lord, without his protection and guidance, even for a brief interval—threatened to break her self-control once again. She forced it away before it could drive a wedge into her slowly returning composure.
     She had been a good student, attentive to all she’d been taught and diligent about the practice of her lessons. Her teacher had seldom spoken the mildest word of reproof. It had not been necessary. The pains of the chastisements her teacher could inflict, once they’d been demonstrated upon her flesh, were forever after vivid in her memory.
     Yet Fountain possessed interior resources that went well beyond what one might have expected from her history. Her resolve had been the key both to enduring her training and to effecting her escape. She knew the forces at her disposal, even if only dimly. She marshaled them to the unprecedented challenge.
     I will not listen to them.
     I will not be free.
     I will not let them take me from him.
     I will not let them take
him from me.
     With that thought, a curious sort of circuit completed in her brain. It snapped into being with a firmness that spoke of an immutable solidity.
     I am his.
     I will
remain his.
     Now and forever.

     She rose from the toilet, unlocked the bathroom door, and returned to the bedroom her lord had assigned her, where two earnest young women, well meaning but incapable of understanding her, waited to resume their tortures.

     Yes, the story of O.J. Simpson and his crimes is part of that. So is the seething resentment expressed and encouraged by blacks with a public platform. It’s all they know. Therefore, if you are not their master, you must be their slave. They will compel it upon you.

     Never forget it.

Sunday, February 1, 2026

Poverty In Spirit: A Sunday Rumination

     [I'm tired and in several kinds of distress this morning, so I'm recycling a piece that first appeared here on November 1, 2015 -- FWP]
* * *

     Perhaps the most famous of all Jesus’s words:

     And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto him:
     And he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying,
     Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
     Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
     Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
     Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
     Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
     Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
     Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
     Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
     Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.
     Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.

     [Matthew 5:1-12]

     The very first of the Beatitudes is for many the most troubling. What can it mean to be “poor in spirit?” If we can’t figure it out, how can we achieve it? and if we can’t achieve it, is there a path to heaven open to us?

     It had me baffled for a while. I had to reflect on the nature of poverty and the nature of the soul before I could make any sense of it – and I don’t guarantee that I’ve got it right. As I’ve said before, I write these Ruminations principally for my own benefit, but in the hope that others might glean something of value from them, too.


     To be poor in the material sense is to lack; in extreme cases, to lack one or more necessities. But there are instances – today, many instances – of persons deemed “poor” who enjoy material comforts beyond what a middle-class European enjoys, or a middle-class American of a few generations ago would have enjoyed. Genuine poverty is vanishingly rare in America. To find the real McCoy, one must go into the Third World, many of whose denizens can’t even secure food enough, clothing enough, or a shelter from predators and the elements. Those are people who genuinely lack.

     What does the human soul lack? It’s immaterial; it has no survival needs, at least as long as it’s bound to a working body. So the material conception of poverty is irrelevant to it. But to lack and be aware of it has other implications.

     In the material realm, he who lacks something that he truly needs feels a hunger for it. In the spiritual realm, there is only one need: grace, the acceptance of God and His gifts.

     Thus, to be “poor in spirit” would suggest an awareness of the importance of grace and a desire for it. That has its own implication, for grace is available only from one Source. That Source has made His requirements explicit:

     Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened. Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone? Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent? If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him? [Matthew 7:7-11]

     Prayer – the humble admission of spiritual need to Him Who can fill it – is the engine. The hunger for grace – spiritual poverty – is the fuel. Combine those ingredients, and all else follows.

     But there's a trap to be avoided as well.


     I’ve harped so often on the critical importance of humility that no doubt many Gentle Readers have tired of hearing about it. Indeed, I’m sure a few among you, reading this essay, have just said to yourself, “Oh boy, here he goes again,” and have tuned out. But there is no venue in which humility is so great a need as in this matter of grace.

     Christ made a powerful statement about it:

     Two men went up into the temple to pray; the one a Pharisee, and the other a publican. The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, God, I thank thee, that I am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this publican. I fast twice in the week, I give tithes of all that I possess. And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me a sinner.
     I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the other: for every one that exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.

     [Luke 18:10-14]

     He who is confident of his place in God’s eyes is in a greater degree of spiritual danger than any other living man. He who doubts his spiritual standing and is willing to abase himself before God, pleading for His love and mercy, is the one who will receive the gift of grace. The Redeemer said it as plainly as it can be said.


     A few words on prayer and its objects, and I’ll close for today.

     Among the faults our Protestant brethren attribute to us is that we “pray to saints,” when prayer is properly directed only to God. The accusation would have a great deal of force if it were true – and I cannot doubt that in some cases, it is. The object of prayer is to secure God’s grace for oneself, and no mere saint can grant that. However, several of the saints, designated as patrons of some special occupation, context, or need, may be asked to pray for us as intercessors.

     Prayer must always have God as its ultimate destination. However, it does no harm to ask a saint associated with our particular need to “put in a good word.” The Blessed Virgin is paramount in this regard, as the Queen of Heaven among all the saints has the greatest influence on her Son. Note that though the Hail Mary seems to address her rather than God, it asks her to pray for us: indirectly identifying God as the true Source from Whom we hope for a benison.


     If the above is well reasoned, then perhaps poverty in spirit is attainable by any sincere Christian. After all, we claim to love God and desire His acceptance. We claim to believe in the bifurcated afterlife, and to prefer – I should hope! – one fork over the other. How much greater could the contrast between two paths be? What could possibly elicit a greater sense of need?

     May God bless and keep you all. (And happy All Saints Day! Perhaps you might pause to thank your name saint for sharing his appellation with you.)

Saturday, January 31, 2026

For Younger Men

     We’ve all heard about the “male loneliness epidemic.” There’s a lot of substance to it. American men of all ages are having more difficulty forming social connections, especially ones that offer romantic possibilities, than in any previous era. The institutions that supported such connections have weakened greatly. Some have disappeared altogether.

     But a part of that has nothing to do with institutions. Consider the following:

     Now, that list is somewhat restrictive. You won’t find many 25-year-old male virgins in these United States in the Year of Our Lord 2026, “average looks” or not. You also won’t find many who don’t have cars, outside the larger cities. But it does describe a number of young men. Relax the aforementioned two restrictions, and the number swells greatly.

     Now, this aspect of “venom’s” claim:

     On dating apps, you won't find even one girl, unless she's ugly/fat.

     …might not be perfectly correct. But where our proposed young man would find a potential wife, and what sort of woman she might prove to be, deserves consideration.

     It’s been said, and truly, that while men are attracted by looks, women are attracted by status. Yes, women have appearance standards, particularly as regards men’s height. But whether a young single woman regards a young man as a “catch” depends more on his “prospects” than his looks. If she sees “make it big” prospects in him, he could look to her like a winner even if he’s short and visually unimpressive. So the major impediments our proposed young man faces are occupational and financial.

     Time was, the received wisdom was that a man should “be more than you appear.” In today’s “get it now and damn the future” social clime, the reverse just might be true.

* * *

     I don’t advocate striving to “appear more than you are.” The truth will emerge over time. Occupational possibilities and bank balances are hard to fake for long. Yet a number of young men will try it anyway: some out of cynicism, others out of desperation.

     Young women’s expectations and demands are the largest part of the problem. Their starry-eyed dreams of handsome, wealthy princes come-a-courting take years to dispel. The mass one-way media have conditioned them to believe that he’s out there, girl; just wait. The scales fall from their eyes eventually: usually, some time after they reach thirty years of age.

     Are you beginning to get a sense for where this is going, young man?

     The typical single woman in her mid-thirties feels a subliminal panic. She can feel herself “aging out” in ways that men don’t suffer. Her looks are going. She has increasing difficulty maintaining her figure. She knows that her fertility is fading as well – and even if she already has children, that tells against her in the romance market. Maybe especially if she already has children.

     She might actually be ready for true commitment.

     You, the twenty-five-year-old male singleton, might not look upon her as a plausible romantic candidate. That’s shortsighted. She’s primed and ready for you, despite your youth. She might actually be willing to care for you in a half-romantic, half-maternal way. Indeed, she just might be the support you need to “make it!”

     This will strike you as bizarre. It’s an inversion of the longstanding pattern of men marrying younger women. That pattern definitely made more sense. He, the older, was already somewhat “established.” She, the younger, needed protection and support, and – in the usual case – was ready for children. Their desires and positions in life were in alignment.

     But things have changed, quite definitely. Young men can’t get a fair shake from young women. Older women, with rare exceptions, can’t win the affections of older, well-established men. (Cf. “trophy wife.”) But both younger men and older women are hungry for love, for sex, for affection, for an enduring commitment.

     The Army recruiting slogan was “Be All You Can Be.” I have an addendum: “Yeah – And Make Sure It Shows.”

     Things being as they are, you, young male reader, might not manage to catch the interest of the young woman you want. But her single older sister has eyes. Should they come to rest approvingly on you, will you spurn her just because she’s older? Or will you see and value her mature potential, just as she sees and values your youthful vigor?

     Give it some thought.

     A matchmaker’s predatory gleam shone from Adrienne’s eyes throughout the dessert course. It was still there as they said their good-nights at the front door. It kept Sumner on edge, but remarkably, Redmond didn’t appear to notice it.
     Sumner closed the door behind him and released an explosive sigh.
     Adrienne frowned. “Was it that hard?”
     “Uh, no.” How do I tell my wife that she was eyeing our guest like a lioness assessing an unsuspecting wildebeest? “It’s just that...well, from everything I’ve heard at the office, Louis is pretty special. I didn’t expect him to be such an, ah, easy guest.”
     “Charming,” she said. The feral gleam had not left her eyes. “Utterly charming. I can’t wait to—”
     “Sweetie,” he said, desperate to derail his wife’s obvious train of thought, “has it occurred to you to wonder why he isn’t married?”
     She shrugged. “These days men his age mostly aren’t.”
     He grimaced. “True. All the same, would you give me a little time to get to know him better before you script his future unto the seventh generation?”
     “Steve!”
     “Sweetie,” he said, “you’ve had that look ever since he arrived. You had me thinking you were going to call Rosalie and invite her over for a piece of cheesecake. ‘Fess up, now.”
     She giggled. “The thought did cross my mind.”
     “Sweetie, he’s twenty-four. Twenty-four. Keep that firmly in mind.” Sumner wrapped his arms around her waist. She reciprocated and laid her head on his shoulder. “Rosalie is thirty-six and Allison is forty.”
     Another giggle. “So what, Mr. General Counsel? Are you trying to tell me that New York has outlawed cradle robbing?”
     “Adrienne...” Sumner pushed his wife to arms’ length, glared at her from under lowered brows, and deployed his best cross examiner’s courtroom tone.
     Her grin was the naughtiest thing he’d ever seen. “All right, so there’d be a little age gap—”
     “Little? That’s like calling the Grand Canyon a large hole!”
     “Hey! Men marry women that much younger all the time! Isn’t it about time we ladies got a little payback?”

     [From Statesman]

Thursday, January 29, 2026

Savings

     The rapid increases in the dollar prices of precious metals are alarming for more than one reason.

     Yes, I’m alarmed. Even though I hold large quantities of the money metals, what’s happening has me frightened. The dollar prices of the money metals don’t say that gold and silver are getting more valuable. Rather, they say that a large number of people are worried about the future of the U.S. dollar and the American economy generally.

     You can’t pay for your groceries with gold or silver, just yet; you still need dollars for that. The metals are hedges against further declines in the purchasing power of the dollar. They’re something else, as well.

     Among the reasons gold and silver served as Mankind’s currencies for so long is that they’re easy to recognize. Yes, it’s possible to make fake gold coins by plating tungsten slugs with a thin covering of gold, but such fakes are detectable by simple tests. It’s harder to fake silver coins at a profit, though should silver continue to rise in dollar price, that might not remain true. So gold and silver make trustworthy currencies as well as reliable stores of purchasing power.

     Gold and silver in private hands represent purchasing power no government can control. They make possible both completely private transactions and completely private savings.

     States don’t like for private persons to have private savings. That’s one of the motivations behind the worldwide drive for Central Bank Digital Currencies (CBDCs). The State wants to know everything: who has what, in what forms, and what he’s doing with it. Over time, a CBDC decreed to be legal tender would allow the State to eliminate its physical cash – those Federal Reserve Notes in your wallet – and make all “above-ground” transactions vulnerable to State monitoring and control.

     Gold and silver are the State’s enemies. As long as there are reserves of those metals in private hands, there will remain an underground economy that’s proof against State intrusion. Worse – from the State’s point of view – those reserves could power a revolution. Their very existence would force a degree of moderation upon the State. Even the idea of that makes the masters of the State uneasy and sullen.

     You and I, Gentle Reader, aren’t the only ones watching the prices of the metals. The masters of the State are watching them too. And they’re as alarmed as I am. Their best hope for total and irreversible control over all human enterprise is being threatened by the rising consciousness of private persons that the State’s “money” is merely wastepaper.

     When the masters of the State feel threatened, they tend to do alarming things. They pass insane laws. They stifle private communications. Sometimes they go to war, to create a pretext for “emergency measures.”

     The Year of Our Lord 2025 was an interesting year. One thing many hoped for was an immediate, sharp decrease in the cost of living. That hasn’t arrived, though some commodities have dropped in dollar price. The new tariffs intended to rebalance America’s international trade, bring expatriated industries home, and garner new federal revenue have pushed the prices of imported goods upward. A lot of people who supported President Trump have begun to wonder if he can deliver… or intends to.

     Americans need reasons to believe in America’s future. Failing that, they’ll use whatever private measures promise protection for their resources. That’s clearly expressed by the prices of silver and gold and the expanding interest in the cryptocurrencies… and the State could shut down all traffic in the cryptos by throwing a switch.

     Verbum sat sapienti. For those interested in a fuller exploration of methods for financial self-protection, please read John Pugsley’s classic The Alpha Strategy.

Wednesday, January 28, 2026

Description And The Telling Detail

     Happy Feast Day of Saint Thomas Aquinas, Gentle Reader! It’s a day for deep but pleasant thoughts. I suggest the love and mercy of God, the lightness of the New Covenant, the generosity of the Paraclete, and the glory of the Beatific Vision. Saint Thomas dwelt on these things until they filled him to the top of his tonsure. Then he wrote more than 3,000 pages about them. The volume of his writings alone would make him the Supreme Doctor of the Church. But alongside that, he really liked to eat: just one more reason to venerate him.

     But I digress. Regard the following tweet, especially if you’re a writer… or a reader:

     I laughed long and hard at that. I’ve been there, you see: specifically, with my romance Doors. That novel has one of my favorite Laura Shinn covers. Yet when I saw it, I felt compelled to rewrite a half page of description. Same old sixes and sevens.

     But as I’m thoroughly sick of current events, Anamika’s tweet serves as my justification for posting a snatch of my nonfiction guide for developing writers, The Storyteller’s Art. (No, it’s not for sale just now. I’m working on a second edition.) Here it is:

* * *
Description And The Telling Detail

     Many a novice fictioneer labors over description -- when to do it; how much of it to do; what to leave in and what to leave out -- as he does over no other aspect of the narrative craft. Strangely, the preponderance of the anxieties felt in this regard are unnecessary. Description is actually a much easier, and more easily comprehended, matter than most writers think.

     Granted that first-class description can produce a unique effect:

     Day was opening in the sky, and they saw that the mountains were now much further off, receding eastward in a long curve that was lost in the distance. Before them, as they turned west, gentle slopes ran down into dim hazes far below. All about them were small woods of resinous trees, fir and cedar and cypress, and other kinds unknown in the Shire, with wide glades among them; and everywhere there was a wealth of sweet-smelling herbs and shrubs. The long journey from Rivendell had brought them far south of their own land, but not until now in this more sheltered region had the hobbits felt the change of clime. Here Spring was already busy about them: fronds pierced moss and mould, larches were green-fingered, small flowers were opening in the turf, birds were singing. Ithilien, the garden of Gondor now desolate kept still a dishevelled dryad loveliness. [J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord Of The Rings, "The Two Towers"]

     ...one cannot over-indulge in such effects without losing the reader.

     Why? Because of Brunner's First Law of Fiction: The raw material of fiction is people. More specifically, what your characters are saying, doing, and doing to one another.

     Elmore Leonard, famed for his humor-laced thrillers, was once asked by a fan why he wrote so few descriptive passages, and kept them so short. Leonard smiled and replied, "I try not to write the parts that people skip."

     Ponder that. The typical reader skips descriptive passages. Why? Not because they're badly written, though some surely are; they're skipped because most description contributes nothing to the forward movement of the story!

     Remember how a typical reader chooses the books he'll read:

  • He heads for the section(s) of the bookstore where he can find his favorite genre(s).
  • He looks first for authors whose works have pleased him in the past. he doesn't find any unread works by familiar, approved writers, he scans spines and covers for clever titles and provocative art.
  • When a title or cover painting catches his fancy, he picks it up and reads the back-cover or dust-jacket blurb. If it fails to intrigue him, he puts the book back on the rack and resumes his search.
  • If the blurb has, at the least, not dimmed his tentative interest, he opens the book to the first chapter and reads one or two pages. If these don't impress him, he passes on.
  • If the first page or two engage his interest, he might riffle the pages of the book, scanning it for "density." That is, he looks to see how tightly the words are packed on a typical page. If it's too high -- that is, if descriptive and pure-narrative passages overwhelm dialogue and character interaction -- he passes on.
  • Finally, if all the above tests have been satisfied and his funds will allow, he buys the book.

     To be agreeable to the overwhelming majority of readers, fiction must concentrate on dialogue and active events in the lives of his characters. A writer who forgets or disdains this pattern and concentrates on description might get invited to a lot of faculty teas, but he won't sell many books.

     For all of that, some description is necessary if you want the reader to see your fictional world vividly. But there are guidelines to make it plain when it's necessary, how much of it there should be, and what specifically one should describe. These guidelines are nicely synopsized in the imperative: Cultivate an eye for the telling detail.

     Let's unpack that command a bit.

     1. What is an "eye for the telling detail"? Where does one find it?

     Probably the best approach to acquiring this "eye" -- that is, the sense for what ought to be described and when -- is to concentrate on the consciousness of one's viewpoint character. That is: the sensorium, sensitivities, and priorities of the viewpoint character, through whose "eyes" the story is currently being told, should dictate what one describes.

     For example, let's imagine that your viewpoint character is a doctor who labors, as so many do, in a hospital. The hospital is his typical frame of reference. While the precise details of the hospital do matter to him, on a typical work day he doesn't take active notice of ninety-five percent of them. He would not fix his attention on a respirator that he passes twenty times per shift. He would not muse upon the height, shape, or color of a reception desk. He would not remark to himself that Joe Smith is wearing a stethoscope, unless that were in itself an unusual thing that should trigger heightened attention (e.g., if Joe were a janitor, or a serial killer whom your character had thought confined to a jail ward).

     Since the goal of good fiction is to involve your reader in the emotional lives of your characters, your descriptive prose should be guided by a cognizance of the sort of things your characters would care about, and the sort they would glide past, whether from their regularity or from their irrelevance.

     2. What is a "telling detail?"

     In keeping with the guideline above, a telling detail is a detail that tells the viewpoint character something that ought to arouse his active interest. Note the phrase "ought to." It might, or it might not; after all, he might be having a sub-par day. But either way, it should, because the detail itself is important to the course of the story:

  • It indicates a difference in his environment -- either in the physical setting or the people that inhabit it -- that will factor into the plot.
  • It characterizes a figure with whom he'll be involved in the subsequent action.
  • It impels him toward his deeds in the subsequent action;
  • It enables him to do something he'll need to do, or constrains him from doing something he'll want to do, in the subsequent action.

     The way to describe a telling detail is through the viewpoint character's perception of it, including those aspects of its setting that make it significant. Note how, in the Tolkien passage above, the author makes note of the "change of clime" and that "spring was busy" around the hobbits from whose perspective the details of Ithilien were described. These features of the physical environment are why Frodo and Sam noticed their surroundings; they constituted a noticeable change -- and a most unusual one, given that their course was taking them toward a land of limitless foulness.

     Here's another illustrative passage:

     Lori took in the situation with a glance, glared at Aaron, and immediately slapped the code call button. Andrew went to Berglund's bedside and sank to his knees. Incredibly, he groped for the patient's flailing hand and folded it between his own. The volunteer's eyes closed and his lips moved rapidly.
     The etheric sense Aaron had cultivated over his years of exploration of the dark forces quivered like an alerted hunting dog. A miasma of power was forming in the room, hovering over Andrew's head. It was not a familiar one. Aaron's inner eye watched it wax in potency. It grew blindingly bright, then descended and wrapped itself around the thrashing, dying man.
     Berglund's eyes closed. His spasms slowed, became progressively gentler. By the time the team with the crash cart had arrived, the old man was still and his breathing had ceased.
     The glowing cloud of power was gone.
     Andrew rose from his knees and deposited the limp hand onto its owner's motionless chest. He turned to the crash cart team, who had frozen in place upon first confronting the strange tableau.
     "He's gone." The technicians started forward, but the volunteer held up a hand. There was an ineffable authority in him that halted them where they stood. "Let him be."
     Lori was trying to jam her fist into her mouth.
     Andrew slipped past the emergency team, wrapped an arm around Lori's shoulders and coaxed her from the room.

     [From "Virgin's Prayer," in The Sledgehammer Concerto]

     The viewpoint character, Aaron, doesn't dwell upon the mundane features of the scene before him. Indeed, he hardly notices them. He's fixed upon the things that matter most to him: the immanence of a great cloud of supernatural power, apparently invoked by Andrew; Andrew's own assumption of authority, before which everyone else at the scene automatically gives way; and Lori's reaction to it all. These aspects of the scene are critical to the action that remains; nothing else about the scene matters at all.

     3. How much description is enough? Is there a way to know?

     In a word, yes.

     Enough description is description that follows the guidelines above. It tells the reader what the viewpoint character is thinking and feeling about his surroundings. It also tells the reader what the viewpoint character ought to notice, whether he does so or not; this is particularly important in stories with an element of mystery. Finally, it's married to what's happening to and around the viewpoint character at the moment, rather than being a superfluous lump that sits in the way of the action.

     This gives us a third guideline that proves most useful in practice: The best description is married to what the characters are doing.

     Consider the following passage:

     The tall, ungainly woman walked haltingly up the winding, tree-lined path that led to the large, green-shuttered sprawling old white mansion. Her old, arthritic vein-corded hands gripped her silver-topped cane, and its worn brass ferrule stabbed feebly at the unyielding earth with every faltering step she took.

     To the best of your Curmudgeon's knowledge, that passage is not from a published story. Lawrence Block uses it as an example of overwriting in his book Telling Lies For Fun And Profit. But it's also an example of pointless description. It's unmated to any significant action of the viewpoint character -- not clearly revealed here, though one might assume from this snippet that it's the old woman being described -- and advances nothing in which the reader might take more than a yawning interest.

     Here's another passage, from a masterwork by one of the funniest and most creative writers ever to scatter words upon a page:

     "Well, then," Sir Gules said, leading his guest down the carpeted floor past the silent manservants to a high wainscotted room in which a cheery fire snapped and crackled in the great onyx fireplace.
     Marvin did not answer. His eye was taking in the details of the room. The carven armoire was surely tenth century, and the portrait on the west wall, half-hidden by its gilt frame, was a genuine Moussault.
     "Come, sit, I pray thee," said Sir Gules, sinking gracefully to a David Ogilvy half-couch decorated in the Afghan brocade so popular that year.
     "Thank you," Marvin said, sitting upon an eight-legged John IV with rosewood handles and a backing of heart-o'-palm.
     "A little wine?" Sir Gules said, handling with casual reverence the bronze decanter with gold chasings engraved by Dagobert of Hoyys.
     "Not just at the moment, give thee thanks," Marvin replied, brushing a fleck of dust from his stuff-colored outercoat of green baptiste with lisle froggings, made to his measure by Geoffrey of Palping Lane.
     "Then mayhap a touch of snuff?" Sir Gules inquired, proffering his small platinum snuffbox made by Durr of Snedum, upon which was portrayed in steel-point a hunting scene from the Orange Forest of Lesh.
     "Perhaps later," Marvin said, squinting down at the double-furled silver thread laces on his dancing pumps.

     [From Robert Sheckley's Mindswap.]

     If you're not rolling on the floor, just barely keeping your sides from splitting, it's not your Curmudgeon's fault. Sheckley has brilliantly pinned the very worst failings of innumerable writers of historical and Gothic fiction, so funnily and perfectly that comment is unnecessary -- as was every one of the interminable details of that passage. A novice writer can learn better what not to do by studying that passage than from any dozen books on the writer's art.

     Bad description is almost always over-description. It's "the parts that people skip." Your reader's principal reward for consuming your work is the emotional journey he takes alongside your characters. That's the prize. Everything else is, well, just details.

Tuesday, January 27, 2026

War News

     I could write about any of many things today, but the envelope into which the most recent events fit is the Second American Civil War.

     Minnesota and California have practically declared themselves to be in insurrection. Excuse me, what did you say? President Trump cut a deal with Tim Walz? That’s nice. What’s been happening since then?

     The insurrectionists are largely organized, though some are responding spontaneously. Some are native to the districts they trouble; others are bused in. They’re young and old, armed and unarmed.

     They’re unified in one thing only: their opposition to the Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agency’s attempt to locate, detain, and expel illegal aliens. President Trump has given ICE carte blanche to fulfill its duties. Some of what’s happened has struck even conservative observers as excessive. The insurrectionists have capitalized on the two deaths to date by shouting “Nazis!” at peak volume… mostly at ordinary private citizens.

     There’s little point in trying to change the label. The American Left has gone to war against the Administration, the immigration laws, and the electoral system. What more is required to deem the Left in a state of insurrection?

     The Left has gone “all in.” It has fully mobilized its financial and personal resources for the conflict. The Democrat Party, while giving lip service to “the rule of law,” is aligned with the insurrectionists. Indeed, its hope of political survival rests on their success.

     There are only two ways to quell a rebellion: by surrendering to it, or by defeating it. Don’t expect President Trump to surrender to it. But defeating it will require more dramatic action than merely having ICE agents detain suspected illegal aliens and deport the ones who can’t establish that they’re here legally.

     Blood has already been spilled. There will be more.

     I hope the National Guard need not be dispatched to the loci of insurrection with free-to-fire rules of engagement. But it’s a real possibility. Were President Trump to federalize them and send them forth, would they be willing to obey his orders as Commander-in-Chief? It might require them to act against people they know, their neighbors.

     This isn’t Armageddon yet. But things are not looking good. Stay tuned.

     (For my views on the illegal-alien crisis, see this Baseline Essay.)

Hippee Skippee!

My laptop died last week. It was a quick death, no lingering.

Since then, I've been using my Fire tablet. Its not all that powerful, but for the money, was a good bargain last Amazon Day.

I tried using an old Chromebook my brother had passed on to me. It's really slow, running Windows 10, and without the hardware to be updated. And, it's a small complaint, but no touchscreen. Until you have to go backwards, you don't understand what an annoyance that is.

I just checked the status of my new laptop order and it will be arriving today. Likely not until late in the day.

It's not a new machine, but a refurbished HP. But, for $200, it doesn't have to be great.

Monday, January 26, 2026

Snow Day

Forgive me, Gentle Reader. I'm pooped.

See you tomorrow, I hope.

Sunday, January 25, 2026

The Betrayal Of The Meliorists

     It’s exciting and gratifying to see so many people on X talking about C. S. Lewis’s masterpiece That Hideous Strength. There’s a general sense that the Satanic dystopian England Lewis depicts in his novel is “where we are now” – a sense that is largely correct. But the understanding of why and how we got here / there remains to jell.

     Which of course calls your Curmudgeon into the fray.

* * *

     Time was, there was a movement called “Progressivism.” (Don’t laugh.) It was largely propelled by Christian religious sentiments that had been twisted into political activism – and for that perversion, twisted is exactly the right word. Another word for that movement, one that isn’t heard much today, is meliorism.

     Meliorism is a largely emotional position: the meliorist “wants to make things better.” For whom? Why, for everyone! He loves a particular vision of progress: a vision in which all desires have been satisfied, and all fears have been dispelled.

     Yes, Gentle Reader: meliorism implies a total detachment from reality. But the meliorist doesn’t allow that to trouble him. The vision is all!

     If meliorists weren’t gullible, they might be tolerable. But they are gullible. They’re easily swayed by the promises of politicians. And politicians are willing to promise them anything. (No, they don’t give them Arpege. )

     The politician, by definition, is one who seeks power over others. That and nothing else is what politics is about. What he promises you is not truly his objective. His objective is power. What brings him power, he will promote; what diminishes his power, he will oppose.

     The politician, therefore, must not be assumed a sincere meliorist. But he relies on the support of meliorists to put and keep him in power.

* * *

     Lewis’s nightmare vision of England in That Hideous Strength is premised on popular acceptance based on the unwillingness of ordinary Englishmen to object to melioristic initiatives. The N.I.C.E., a government program, is facially melioristic. In reality, it’s a grab for total power over everyone and everything on Earth.

     Contemporary Britain has some features in common with Lewis’s tale, and some that depart from it. Lewis didn’t imagine a huge influx of culturally immiscible immigrants, for example. But the central commonality, which makes all the other horrors – fictional and real – possible, is meliorism as a premise and political exploitation of that premise to extend and deepen the power of the State.

     Every State that lasts for a significant period must be founded on superior force. But to acquire that force, the masters of the State must persuade their subjects to allow it to them. The chief tools of persuasion are deceit and fear.

     It doesn’t matter whether the initial set of politicians sincerely want to “help” some subset of the people, or to ameliorate some nagging condition that affects all. Once the State has accumulated unopposable power, men willing to do anything for power will displace the original, supposedly sincere ones. For the sincere ones would balk at methods their challengers willingly adopt – including lethal violence. So nominally decent and trustworthy politicians are steadily replaced by men who observe no moral limits.

     Britain’s national government fell into the meliorist premise many decades ago. Each generation of power-wielders was succeeded by a harder-nosed, less scrupled set. But even as the quality of its politicians declined, the verbal emphasis on meliorism never waned; indeed, it seems to have increased. The power-wielders promise, hands on their hearts, that We’re here to help – to serve! If any of them really mean it, I’m unable to name them.

     Americans should not look at Britain with scorn. The same progression is in effect here. Leaving aside the Great Maverick, President Donald Trump, I’m hard pressed to name a high-ranking politician whom I would trust.

* * *

     In 1962, Joseph Clark, one of Pennsylvania’s U.S. Senators, was asked to define liberalism as he understood it. Senator Clark replied:

     “A liberal,” he writes, “[is] one who believes in utilizing the full force of government for the advancement of social, political and economic justice at the municipal, state, national and international levels.”

     That’s political meliorism straight up, with no chaser. Whether or not Clark was sincere about his aims, he was consistent. One of his enthusiasms was for the establishment of a world government to which national governments would be subordinate. He pursued that aim as a member and president of World Federalists U.S.A.

     Clark was very popular. His successors in the United States Senate have varied in that regard, but they’ve all given copious lip service to meliorism. And they’ve worked diligently to expand and deepen the power of the federal government. Republicans, unable to oppose political meliorism effectively, have largely endorsed it. Which is why I joke that the GOP’s true platform is “We Can Do It Cheaper!”

* * *

     Power over others always ends up in the hands of those who want it most. As Friedrich Hayek told us in The Road To Serfdom, over time the progression brings men to power who recognize no moral limits, regardless of the platitudes they mouth. Their sole aim is power: getting it, keeping it, and increasing it.

     George Orwell told us what follows:

     ‘How does one man assert his power over another, Winston?’
     Winston thought. ‘By making him suffer,’ he said.
     ‘Exactly. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. Unless he is suffering, how can you be sure that he is obeying your will and not his own? Power is in inflicting pain and humiliation. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing. Do you begin to see then what kind of world we are creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of fear and treachery and torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world that will grow not less but more merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will be progress toward more pain. The old civilizations claimed that they were founded on love and justice. Ours is founded upon hatred. In our world there will be no emotion except fear, rage, and self-abasement. Everything else will be destroyed--everything!...If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face--forever.’

     O’Brien was free to say that to Winston Smith because he had Winston totally in his power. But outside the Ministry of Love, the Party pretended that its governance was in the best interests of the people of Oceania. It had to lie and demand doublethink to do so, but the meliorist pretense was always there.

* * *

     I could go on, but I think the point stands. He who wants power over you will always tell you he intends to use it in your interests. Sometimes he’ll be sincere… but his successors will be less so, and on it will go until the nation is under a Stalin. Clive Staples Lewis has shown us the face behind the meliorist mask in a work of compelling power. Yes, his heroes invoked supernatural aid to cleanse Britain of the N.I.C.E. and its works. Perhaps that makes That Hideous Strength too fanciful for some. But Lewis’s depiction of the N.I.C.E. and its Satanic evil remains one of speculative fiction’s highest achievements.

     To the political meliorists who look upon the N.I.C.E. as a template for their own advancement in power, I offer no apologies.

Saturday, January 24, 2026

The Last Of The Really Fluffy Towels

     [This story first appeared at Liberty’s Torch V2.0, on September 29, 2021. – FWP]
* * *
The Last Of The Really Fluffy Towels

     Alex Smith dried himself as best he could, scowled at the sandpaper texture of the burlap towel, wrapped it around his waist and cinched it, and headed to the bedroom to garb himself for the day. Maura looked up from her book. Her expression was curious, as if he’d done something not to be expected, possibly even unprecedented.
     Well, she doesn’t really know me yet.
     He smiled. “What’s the matter?”
     She shook her head minutely. “Oh, nothing.”
     “You’ve already seen me in all my Neanderthal glory, haven’t you?”
     She grimaced. “Of course. I was just wondering...no, forget it.”
     “Oh no!” he said. “Now you’ve piqued my curiosity. What was the look about?”
     “When I looked at you?”
     “Yeah, that look.”
     She hesitated. Her expression suggested that she’d taken a mouthful of something nasty.
     “Come on,” he said. “I know we’ve only been together for a night and a morning, but still...!”
     Her eyebrows rose. “Still what?”
     “Well, still you can trust that I won’t explode if you have something critical to say, can’t you?”
     “Yeah.” She looked a little away. “It was the towel.”
     “Hm?”
     “It was just...”
     “Yesssss...?”
     “You don’t have to, you know, conceal yourself from me,” she said. “As you’ve already observed, I have seen you naked.”
     “Oh.” He looked down at himself. “Habit, I suppose.”
     “You said you’d been alone here for years,” she said.
     “I have. So?”
     “So who’ve you been concealing yourself from?”
     He winced.
     Good point.
     “Well, yes,” he said after a moment. “But I wasn’t born here. I had parents and sisters. I got it drilled into me pretty early that it was unacceptable to parade around the house naked.”
     “Yeah,” she said. “I get it. But it’s not necessary now. And those towels...how can you stand to have one wrapped tight around you like that?”
     “Oh. Yeah, it is kinda scratchy.”
     Doesn’t dry very well, either.
     “So feel free to, ah, relieve yourself of it,” she said. She set her book aside, pulled back the bedcovers, rose and ambled toward him. “I like looking at you.”
     He admired her petite, trim form afresh as she put her fingers to where he’d cinched the towel at his waist, gently pulled it away, and let it fall to the floor. “And I don’t like the idea of Oscar and his side boys—” She glanced pointedly at his genitals “—of whom I’ve already grown fond, getting all scratched up for no good reason.”
     He grinned and took her hands. “You win.” He kissed her gently. “Would it have been an issue if the towel were nice and soft?”
     She made a who-knows gesture. “Less of one, I guess. I mean, I’d still like to look at you.”
     “Thank you.” He kissed her again. “May I offer you breakfast? I have a couple of soy cakes that aren’t too old, and an ounce or so of corn syrup for them.”
     “Okay. But,” she said with a mock-severe look, “I forbid you to eat your breakfast naked.”
     “Oh? Why is that?”
     “Because the splendor of you would impede my ability to savor so luxurious a repast.”
     He laughed and went to the closet for his robe.

#

     They sat at his tiny dinette table lingering over the meager meal, doing their best to prolong it into something worthy of the name. The thought irritated Alex briefly. He had nothing else to eat in the apartment. The emptiness of his cupboard griped him more than it would have had Maura not chosen to stay the night. If it weren’t that his new ration card was scheduled to arrive that morning, the little soy cake would be the last thing he would eat that day.
     “Alex?”
     He looked up from his plate. “Yes, dear?”
     “I know someone.”
     Her deliberate, gently emphasized full stop immediately piqued his interest.
     “Always good to know...people,” he said. “What brings whoever it is to mind?”
     She locked eyes with him. “Towels.”
     “Oh.” He carefully returned his gaze to his plate. “Who runs it?”
     She shook her head. “Not like that,” she said. “It’s just someone I know. His name is Phil Marsden.” She looked away. “He’s pretty old.”
     The unspoken word trader seemed to hang around her like a cloak of mist.
     Old people are getting to be few and a long way between.
     “Do you think he might need something?” he said.
     She shrugged. “Who doesn’t, these days?” But her eyes and voice said of course.
     And the regime has just cut rations for anyone over sixty to half of the standard allotment.
     “Well,” he said as casually as he could manage, “if there’s some way we can help him, I certainly wouldn’t be averse to it.”
     The entrance monitor chimed the tone that indicates that a delivery had just come through the slot. Alex stabbed the last fragment of his soy cake, mopped up the drops of syrup that remained, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed laboriously, and rose. “Two seconds.”
     A small brown envelope that lay on the floor behind the door. He stooped to pick it up. The return address announced the arrival of his coming week’s ration card.
     Thank God.
     He returned to the kitchenette and made to reseat himself.
     Maura said “Alex...”
     He froze, half seated. “Yes?”
     “I often don’t go all the way through my ration allotment in the course of the week.”
     “Really?” he said.
     But they hardly keep. The soy cakes were less than four days old and they were already almost too tough to eat.
     She didn’t need to say what she was doing with the uneaten portion, and he didn’t need to guess.
     She’s been giving whatever she doesn’t eat to Marsden.
     He glanced at the envelope that contained his new ration card, still clutched in his hand.
     “I think...” he said, and faltered.
     “Yes?”
     “I think we can help Mr. Marsden,” he said. “Do you think he might be able to help, ah, someone else?”
     She smiled. “Why don’t we pay him a visit and find out?”

#

     Phil Marsden was very tall, and very old. Alex estimated him to be about six feet four and in his early eighties, if not older still. He was emaciated, no longer able to fill out his clothes. His tunic hung from his shoulders like a tent. His trousers were held up by an elastic belt drawn frighteningly tight. But even if the spareness of his figure could be ignored or explained, his skeletal hands and arms and his skull-like face could not.
     He’s starving to death. Whatever Maura has denied herself to give him, it hasn’t been nearly enough.
     He was acutely aware of the fresh ration card in his pocket. A radical thought came unbidden and unwelcome.
     If he were careful, he could stretch my card and what Maura can spare into two weeks’ nutrition.
     Wait a minute: what would I eat?

     Yet the thought would not leave him alone.
     “I haven’t got much left,” the old man was saying. “Just my clothes, that love seat in the corner, and what my wife left behind when she passed. But it’s all on the table.”
     “Mr. Marsden,” Maura murmured, “did Mrs. Marsden maintain two sets of bath towels, by any chance?”
     Marsden’s eyes lit with a knowing light. “As a matter of fact, she did. I always wondered why. We didn’t need two sets. Just to wash one regularly every Saturday, which she did.” He rose from his battered leather armchair. “Get it for you if you’re interested.”
     “We are,” Maura said.”
     Ninety seconds later Marsden had trotted out a pair of large, fluffy bath sheets in a delicate pink. Alex fought back the urge to grab them and flee.
     Maura flashed an inquiring look at Alex.
     He hesitated, then nodded.
     “I can see that even with what I’ve been saving for you, you’re not getting enough to eat,” Maura said. “Would you consider a ration card—a standard allotment ration card—to be worth one of those towel sets?”
     Marsden tried to hem and haw and dicker, but he couldn’t keep the naked lust for calories out of his eyes.
     “Mr. Marsden,” Maura said, “it’s our one and only offer.”
     Marsden’s resistance crumbled. He held out the bath sheets like an offering of alms. Alex took them and handed the old man his new ration card.
     “Thank you,” Marsden whispered.
     Alex nodded. He and Maura made their exit.

#

     “I can’t go without eating for a whole week,” Alex said.
     “You won’t have to,” Maura said. She fondled the bath sheet in her lap and hummed with pleasure. “I can get by on half rations. You’ll get the rest.”
     Alex started to reply, checked himself.
     I guess we’re an item.
     The towel in his hands was the softest, fluffiest piece of fabric he’d ever encountered. The loops of terry stood out at least a half inch from the base weave. He could imagine having it wrapped around him after a shower, thirstily soaking up the moisture that lingered on his skin, and shivered with anticipation.
     Probably the last of its kind anywhere in the city.
     I’ll be pretty damned hungry after seven days on half rations, but I’ll live. Then it’ll be back to the previous regimen.
     It’ll be worth it.

     “All right,” he said. “I suppose you’ll want to keep one of these at your place.”
     “I would,” Maura said, “but it was your ration card we traded for them. So only if it’s all right with you. Or,” she said with a sudden lilt, “I could do my showering here.”
     He summoned his gallantry.
     “You could,” he said. “You’d be very welcome, always assuming the city doesn’t clamp restrictions on water usage. But even so, go ahead and take one home. I only need one, and we’ll get by well enough on one if you ever decide to stay the night again.”
     She smiled brightly. “Thank you, Alex.”
     He was in the process of framing a courtly demurrer when the apartment door burst open.
     The shattered doorframe revealed Alex’s worst nightmare: two large Community Monitors in full armor, including the blast-hardened full-face shields that guarded their identities while allowing them a hundred eighty degrees of outward vision. The two strode in, stun batons at the ready, to confront Alex and Maura.
     “Citizen,” the one poised before Alex droned, “a local informant has reported observing you entering this dwelling in possession of luxury textile goods unavailable from the government’s dispensaries.” He indicated the towel in Alex’s lap. “That was not acquired recently. Was it an inheritance?”
     Alex fought to control his shaking. “It was.”
     The Enforcer snatched the towel from him and tossed it well behind him. “Then if, without looking at it, you can describe it accurately in all particulars, you will be permitted to keep it.”
     Alex darted a glance at Maura. The Enforcer that stood before her had done the same.
     The end of a stun baton rose to prod the underside of his jaw. “Well, citizen?”
     Alex could only manage a quavering croak.
     “We’ll be confiscating them, then.” The Enforcer turned and picked up the bath sheets. He and his partner marched out of the apartment, leaving it open and utterly violable.
     Alex turned eyes of woe to Maura. She appeared perfectly composed, far better in command of herself than was he.
     “I couldn’t—”
     She held up a hand.
     “I know. It’s all right.”
     He nodded, face crimson with humiliation and shame.
     They won’t turn them in for destruction. They’ll keep one each.
     “Alex?” she said. “Come stay with me tonight.”
     “You would have me, after this?”
     “Of course.” Her eyes were sad but understanding. “Everyone knows how unwise it is to resist them.”
     He rose. “Give me a minute.”
     He went to his bedroom, pulled a fresh shirt and a change of underwear out of his tiny bureau, stuffed them into a brown paper bag, and returned to the little living room. She rose as he approached.
     “Let’s go,” she said.
     He nodded, and they left.

==<O>==

     Copyright © 2021 Francis W. Porretto. All Rights Reserved Worldwide.

I Didn’t Expect This

     The nation is agog over the rocketing price of silver. Despite my interest in the money metals and my frequent advice to my Gentle Readers to put some of their savings into gold and silver, I must admit that the recent sharp increases trouble me. I’m caught between possible explanations.

     Silver was the money metal of the United States for the nation’s first century. It satisfies the chief requirements of a money:

  • It’s durable;
  • It’s easily recognized;
  • It’s divisible without loss;
  • It possesses intrinsic value.

     So possessing a store of silver, in a time of inflation, is a good thing. Should the current inflationary practices of the federal government “run wild,” as happened in Weimar Germany and contemporary Zimbabwe, silver will be negotiable. Indeed, given current valuations, silver is a more practical store of value than gold.

     But let’s look at that phrase current valuations a bit more closely. There’s no central authority decreeing “This shall be the dollar price of an ounce of silver.” What Kitco and other sources tell us about the price of silver – or anything else, really – is the price paid for it at the most recent trades. How much silver was purchased at that price? That’s not reported. Are there still buyers offering that many dollars for an ounce of silver? That too can be hard to discern.

     It’s the same with stocks, in case you were wondering.

     The question uppermost in my mind, and probably in many others, is whether silver’s explosive price increase is telling us about something that’s coming, or about something that’s already happened.

     It’s possible that up to now, the dollar price of silver has been well below its “real” exchange value. After all, recent Administrations have created a lot of new currency and credit to support their spending, while the dollar price of silver stayed relatively stable. So silver’s price could be “catching up” to that spell of high inflation.

     The alternative is that those driving silver’s price are aware that something on the horizon would greatly depress the dollar’s purchasing power. Perhaps it’s fear of the U.S. purchase of Greenland. Or it could be that the Administration is pondering the repudiation of the national debt. The dollar would be badly shaken by either of those events, and they’re not the only possibilities.

     I intend to investigate “institutional” purchases. If the large creditors and debtors in our economy are buying silver, we must infer that their analysts see either an opportunity or a looming fiscal disaster. The former is for currency speculators alone, and therefore not for us small fry. The latter would justify a “flight to safety” of the sort that silver represents.

     But let’s imagine that the dollar price of silver is being set by the purchases not of institutions but of individual Americans. That would tell quite a different story, one summarized by economist Gary North and quoted in Robert Ringer’s How You Can Find Happiness During the Collapse of Western Civilization:

     When a majority of depositors become convinced that a majority of depositors have become convinced that a majority of depositors are going to try to get their money out simultaneously, a majority of depositors start trying to get their money out simultaneously.

     “Getting your money out” really means doing whatever you can to preserve your purchasing power. If the dollar is losing purchasing power as we watch, then the sensible thing to do is to “get out of dollars:” to extract whatever purchasing power your dollar-denominated assets still possess and put it into a more stable store of value. In short, it would signal that ordinary Americans have lost confidence in the dollar and have started “a run on the bank.”

     I’ll be looking further into this. Stay tuned.

Friday, January 23, 2026

The Plausibility Chestnut

     We who write speculative fiction are regularly besieged by critics over plausibility. “Is that really possible?” they ask. “Could it happen in the ‘real world?’” Sometimes, the answer is “No.” At others, the answer is “No, but that’s irrelevant.” And at others, the answer is “What’s this ‘real world’ you’re talking about?”

     Speculative fiction is fiction that speculates! I should have thought that was obvious on its face. But then, obvious really means overlooked, doesn’t it?

     Critics and their hangers-on do a lot of overlooking.

     I got lambasted for Christine D’Alessandro. I got it again for Althea Morelon. The exceptional nature of those characters seemed irrelevant to my critics’ determination to pick nits. I can’t help wondering what kind of crap Malorie Cooper has had to put up with.

     Now, there is a downside to depicting super-competent female warriors. Most women simply aren’t equipped for combat, whether melee-style or ranged. They have disadvantages in strength, speed, endurance, and the ability to tolerate serious injury and keep fighting. But there are exceptions, whose exceptional nature ought to be obvious… oh, there I go again. A full-scale, lifelong dedication to physical conditioning and the acquisition of combat skills might conceivably result in a warrior as capable as Charlize Theron’s Lorraine Broughton, though we wouldn’t expect it of Taylor Swift or Sydney Sweeney.

     We certainly shouldn’t expect it of the Girl Next Door. Nor should we expect the Girl Next Door to be ready and able to protect herself against real-world male predators.

     The Girl Next Door should carry some defensive equipment, to be sure – a pepper spray, a Ken Onion assisted folding knife and a KelTec P11 with two extra mags strike me as about right for ladies in the beleaguered Northeast – but she should also expect the assistance of masculine help and call out for it at once. She should not carry a broadsword. (Do you know how hard it is to accessorize those things?)

     But we were discussing fiction.

* * *

     Genuinely entertaining, uplifting fiction cannot be about dead flies in the bottom of cracked teacups. It also cannot be about someone’s angst or his unfulfilled yearnings. Things must happen. Characters worth paying attention to must be challenged, must rise to the occasion, and must prevail, albeit at a price. Anything else is too dreary for me, and – I suspect – for most other readers of fiction.

     My sort of fiction requires heroes: characters of great stature, or at least great potential. Such people, male or female, are exceptions. You won’t find them on streetcorners. And if they cluster in a wholly fictional county, what of it? Birds of a feather and all that, remember?

     So plausibility, in the strict, real-world sense, must sidle over to make room for fictional heroes. There are some in the real world, to be sure, but they’re few. They don’t get a lot of air time or column-inches. Which, semi-ironically, is why there’s a stronger demand for fictional heroes than in many years.

     Of course, for those who disagree, there’s always “literary” fiction.

Thursday, January 22, 2026

Uncorrectable

WARNING!
The following piece will contain a common profanity.
For today, I found that profanity unavoidable.
Read on at your own risk.
* * *

     There are two kinds of people: those who believe that there are two kinds of people, and those who don’t.

     Yes, yes: it’s an old gag. But I’m an old man; what do you expect from the likes of me? Anyway, I got up humming an old song, one that everyone has heard but is light-years distant from “the charts” in our time: this one. Being analytically inclined and surrounded by people desperate for an explanation for our current state of FUBARity, I gave it some thought.

     What’s that? You don’t understand FUBARity? Aw, c’mon! FUBAR is older than I am! FUBAR is a companion concept to SNAFU: “Situation Normal: All Fucked Up.” That droll assessment is commonplace these days:

  • We know things are fucked up;
  • We also know that fucked-upedness is “normal;”
  • So we relax.

     But we’re not supposed to relax when things are fucked up. We’re supposed to fix things. Common though it may be, fucked-upedness is an undesirable state. So let’s get to work!

     Wait: there’s a missing step in the above: We can’t just blindly “get to work;” we must first understand why things are fucked up. Where is the error, the mistake, the wrong turning that led us away from acceptable conditions into the land of the fucked-up? We must isolate that first and foremost.

     So we try, and are repeatedly thwarted. Our search leads us to people much like ourselves, except that… well, they aren’t. They don’t respond to citations of that essential ingredient in all investigations of fucked-upedness: reality. We shower them with actual data drawn from the experiences of men and nations, and they dismiss it! They talk around it; they shrug it off; they change the subject, hurl imprecations, or both. There’s no getting them to live in the same universe as we do.

     Some of them counter-shower us, sometimes with inane platitudes, but at other times with “studies.” The conclusions of those studies strike us as perverse. But given our inclination to respect systematic investigations of any sort, we trace those studies back to the people and institutions that emitted them, and we find… more fucked-upedness!

     There’s an enraging circularity about it all. It can drive a sane man mad, a peaceable man violent. We resist those inclinations and try again. After all, we’re talking to people much like ourselves. They must be reachable! But nothing changes.

     Presently we give up. We accept that though we may have found the problem – indeed, we most certainly have found it – we cannot fix it without violating the “rights” of those people who, after all, are much like ourselves. We shy back from the required means. We look for other measures, but in vain.

     For what we have found is FUBARity: that condition of being which is “Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.”

     There’s a small dissonance in there. We recognize the fucked-upedness; it’s those who suffer it that don’t recognize it. But fixing the condition is what matters. Fixing it eludes us because of our respect for their “rights.”

     Our frustration knows no bounds.

* * *

     It’s time for a quote. This is one for which my source is hearsay. I’m told that the person who emitted it said it at a public appearance that I did not attend. I trust the person who repeated it to me, so I’ll give it to you as he did:

     “Savages have no rights.” – Ayn Rand

     Enormous dismay ensues. No rights at all? Not even the right to life? That can’t be right! Surely there’s some escape clause here.

     But there isn’t. The problem lies in the meaning of that term savages.

     A savage, in Rand’s lexicon, is someone who doesn’t recognize or honor rights as such. His ethical metaphysic is “What can I get away with?” Dangerous as individuals, savages are genocidally lethal when they band together. And there are bands of them ravaging our land even now.

     Savages yield only before overwhelming force. But we shy back from using force against them, because… well, they have rights! The right to life, at least. So running one over is out.

     But that yields the street to the savages. Unacceptable! What, then? Drive around them? Well, if possible… which it often isn’t. To get to where we must go, force will be required.

     You cannot concede rights to others who don’t concede yours.

* * *

     As you can surely tell by now, I’m not talking about the stereotype of a savage. That “black Sambo” figure in a loincloth with a bone through his nose blocks a lot of people’s thinking. I’m talking about people much like us in appearance and overall conduct, but who are willing to do anything and everything to get what they want politically. It doesn’t matter to them whose rights they must trample, or whether the end they seek is fatally unstable. They get their satisfactions from their political stances and those who share them. That’s the sustenance they seek: acknowledgement from their sort that they’re “good people.” Compared to that, what relevance has reality?

     There’s the core of FUBARity: it cannot be corrected by reference to reality. Those people who look like us and (mostly) dress like us yearn for acknowledgement that they’re good people much too strongly to be deflected by reason or evidence. Reality is, for them, an obstacle rather than a reference point. It must be defeated, and it will! Surely older and wiser heads who share their views are already working on it.

     I could go on, but I don’t think there’s a need. In closing, please have a look at two tweets: This one, which fancifully compares those people just like us to “large language models;” and this one, which invokes a term from systems theory for the self-referential defensive behavior of an institution that resolves to ignore reality to the extent it threatens the internal logic of the institution itself. Yes, they’re a bit fucked-up themselves, and they complicate something that’s really quite simple, but they illustrate how far reasonable people will go to explain the impenetrability of FUBARity.

     Have a nice day.

Tuesday, January 20, 2026

The Self-Correcting System

     When you break the big laws, you do not get liberty; you do not even get anarchy. You get the small laws. – G. K. Chesterton

     The Holy Grail of all designers, no matter what they design, is the self-correcting system. Decades spent in systems design and implementation taught me how ardently such systems are pursued… and how impossible they are.

     Actually, that’s an overstatement. A self-correcting system might be possible… if it had no inputs and no outputs, and if all it ever does is correct itself. It can’t do anything else, because that would require a “monitor and correct” subsystem to monitor and correct the “worker” subsystem. That in turn would require yet another “monitor and correct” subsystem to do the same for the other subsystems, which would require yet another “monitor and correct” subsystem, which would require yet another “monitor and correct” subsystem… oh, forget it.

     Any system that couples to the world outside itself will eventually break down. A system that doesn’t couple to the outside world is useless. Toss it into Plato’s Cave and forget about it.

     Man’s societies can’t be made perfectly self-correcting. Our attempts to do so have always had vulnerabilities. The most important of those vulnerabilities – the one that’s always targeted by the agents of destruction – is the set of rules that defines what it means for the system to work.

     Some such rules are made into laws. No murder! No stealing! No contract-breaking! No false witness! Simple rules like those are widely understood. Yes, some will break them, but as long as the overwhelming majority continue to believe in and support them, that majority will serve to correct the lawbreakers.

     The society will break down if the number of rulebreakers grows so large that the work of correcting them won’t allow the normal functions of society to continue. The more correcting is required, the less time, material, and energy remain for getting other things done. Imagine a society where 50% of people are criminals and the other 50% are law enforcement.

     But that’s not the only way a society can break down. It can also fail if too many rules become laws.

* * *

     Jamie Wilson has produced a fine, compendious piece on the importance of etiquette to liberty and civilization. The heart of the matter:

     When politeness weakens, institutions compensate. They add rules and procedures and signage, training, scripts, escalation protocols, and enforcement mechanisms. This expansion is not driven by malice, but by necessity. When informal, community- and self-enforced norms fail, formal control rushes in to fill the gap.
     In high-trust environments, rules are sparse because people regulate themselves. Courtesy absorbs friction before it escalates, apologies work, discretion works, and flexibility is possible because bad faith is the exception, not the expectation.
     As trust erodes, however, discretion becomes dangerous. Zero-tolerance policies replace judgment, and escalation replaces conversation. Enforcement by bureaucracies and government structures replaces negotiation. The result is a paradox familiar to anyone living in a bureaucratized society: the more formal rules are added, the worse public behavior becomes. Not because rules are evil, but because rules cannot substitute for internal restraint.

     But “formal control” – i.e., enforcement of norms by law – can’t do the job of self-control. In the nature of things, it cannot be enough. And self-control has been under sustained attack since the end of World War I.

* * *

     Chesterton’s glum reference to the “small laws” doesn’t address the problem of enforcement. He probably felt he didn’t need to go there; it “should” be “obvious.” It’s plain enough from the history of overregulated societies.

     The dismissal of prior norms for public conduct has produced a situation in which many Americans find going out of their homes distasteful or worse. The dismissal of norms for private conduct, which many hardcore libertarians are wont to shrug aside, may be even worse. It’s especially worrisome in a society that upholds the concept of privacy as a right.

     We’ve had some ghastly examples of what can occur behind closed doors. Jeffrey Dahmer. Ed Gein. Ted Bundy. There are many others that are less famous.

     Nothing could have stopped any of those men other than a forceful invasion of their private lives. Others are among us that have similarly decided that there are no rules, and we don’t know who or where they are. We won’t know until some mistake reveals their horrors. Matters have become serious enough that we must suspect that there are many of them.

     No, I’m not suggesting that mass murderers are consequences of the failure of etiquette. But the enervation of self-control, coupled to the premise that if it’s behind closed doors, it’s alright, is what makes their infamies possible.

     The social system cannot self-correct. It requires a reinstitution of norms, and law enforcement is not equal to that task. Their origin was in faith.

* * *

     When John Adams wrote:

     Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious People. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.

     … he was expressing the premise required for a society to have both a high degree of liberty and a tolerable amount of order. For liberty to be not only possible but sustainable, the rules of order must be internal to us. They must be as self-enforcing as the law of gravity. Today, owing to the increasing disaffiliation from our previously common Christian faith and the norms it propounded, that self-enforcement has largely failed.

     See also Lynne Truss’s valuable little book Talk To The Hand.

Sunday, January 18, 2026

Breakfast All Day

     [I’ve been tempted to use that phrase in a great many contexts. This morning I woke up actually thinking it. So here it is. If what follows fails to make it “make sense,” sorry! No refunds! – FWP]

     There are some very smart people saying some very penetrating things… and not being listened to. I’d imagine we feel many of the same things, including frequent sieges of weariness from “shouting into the wind.” Yet we keep doing it. Some of us die with such sentiments in our minds and mouths, unable to reach the keyboard for a final sally.

     Would you like to know the secret to universal peace and amity? Not the secret to universal happiness; I’m still working on that one. But we’ve got the peace and amity bit down pat. Here’s how you can get it:

Mind Your Own Business,
And Keep Your Business To Yourself.

     That’s it. That’s all it takes. It’s been clear for millennia. So why haven’t we achieved universal peace and amity? I can answer that one, too.

     Because we’re shitheads. Meddling shitheads. Each and every one of us carries around a demon whose mission on Earth is to interfere in other people’s lives. Some of us manage to master that demon. Others? Their demon masters them. And there’s no tolerating them.

     No, I’m not the first to make these illusion-shattering observations. Thousands, maybe millions of other people have offered them to the world. But they weren’t listened to. Many of those to whom they spoke simply waved them off: “Naah, he’s just another shithead.” And they went on trying to run others’ lives, or offering power to people whom they thought would do it for them.

     A great man of times past, Frederic Bastiat, expressed the essence of it compactly and brilliantly:

     There are too many "great" men in the world — legislators, organizers, do-gooders, leaders of the people, fathers of nations, and so on, and so on. Too many persons place themselves above mankind; they make a career of organizing it, patronizing it, and ruling it.
     Now someone will say: "You yourself are doing this very thing." True. But it must be admitted that I act in an entirely different sense; if I have joined the ranks of the reformers, it is solely for the purpose of persuading them to leave people alone. I do not look upon people as Vancauson looked upon his automaton. Rather, just as the physiologist accepts the human body as it is, so do I accept people as they are. I desire only to study and admire.

     No one listened to him, either.

* * *

     A hot flash for my Gentle Readers: it is possible to have what you want, but there are requirements:

  • You could make it yourself, beholden to no one;
  • Someone else could make it for you, for a price.

     Real deep intellectual insight, eh? Maybe I should have it printed on a T-shirt. But it really is that simple. The trouble starts when you decide that you can force other people to give you what you want.

     That doesn’t apply solely to material things. Most other wants, like peace and privacy, are available on the same terms. You can make them, or buy them. At least you could, if it weren’t for all the meddlers.

     Meddling isn’t just irritating; it’s also expensive. Professional meddlers pile costs atop what it “should” cost to get what you want. Sometimes they tell you “No, you can’t have that” quite flatly. Punching them in the nose carries a cost, too. (Shooting them is frowned upon. Especially by them.)

     The great challenge of the man who would be free today is to escape the meddlers.

* * *

     If it weren’t for SpaceX, Mankind would have no hope at all.

     For a very long time, spaceflight was entirely the province of governments. Elon Musk and SpaceX have shattered that cartel. Spaceflight is now available to anyone with the money.

     Yes, it costs a lot, but that’s in the nature of things. It’s hard. It’s dangerous. There are no McDonalds up there. And the training required is no joke. So for the moment, access to space is an extreme “luxury good.” But most luxury goods grow more accessible over time: easier, cheaper, and available from more sources. So if present trends should continue, our descendants will have easier, cheaper, and more available access to space.

     But “present trends continuing” is a bad bet. There are too many meddlers to count on it. And they don’t want you to escape their grip.

     Governments are poised to clamp down on space travel. They don’t have to do so yet. They’ll wait until billionaires start looking at the Moon as a vacation destination and start planning Lunar playgrounds for themselves and others. When spaceflight stands at the doorstep of true popularity, governments will pounce. They’ll start nattering about “safety” and “the rule of law” and “the need for regulation.” That low-gravity condo you’ve been dreaming about will be made impossible for you to afford… or acquire.

     You see, they’d be unable to meddle with you if you’re a light-second and a half away. Meddlers can’t stand the thought of that, and governments are the quintessential meddlers. So they’ll make it impossible for you to get out there.

     Either we do away with these monstrosities that we call “necessary evils” right BLEEP!ing now, or they’ll strangle the last hope for human freedom while it’s still in its crib.

* * *

     Many years ago, I worked a weird shift: from roughly 4:00 PM to Midnight. It was tough to get used to. It separated me from most of the rest of the world. Others who’ve had to do similar things will tell you about it. Ask a friendly bartender.

     But it gave me an appreciation for the nearby diner that would serve breakfast all day. Waffles, pancakes, French toast! Oatmeal with cream and brown sugar! Sausages, eggs over easy! Bacon, bacon, bacon!!

     I came to love that place and the Greek immigrant family that owned it. On the rare occasions when it had to close, I would pout. I’d go home and do my best: toast an English muffin, slather it with butter and jam, and chow down. But I’d miss the home fries and the pretty waitress.

     Time passed, and I went back to working a regular daytime shift. But I retained my affection for that diner… and for breakfast foods. It came as a shock when the diner closed permanently. I had to know the reasons, as I wasn’t the only regular patron who loved it.

     The reason? Someone on the town planning / zoning board had a friend who wanted to build an apartment complex where that diner stood. So he persuaded the board, the board got together with the health authorities, and together they made it ever more difficult for the diner to stay in business. The builder came along with an offer for the locale. The family bowed to the inevitable, took the money, and moved on.

     I think I want a waffle with butter and syrup. Or maybe a three-egg omelet with lots of cheese and diced ham. And home fries! Lots of home fries.

     Have you ever had a craving like that, Gentle Reader? Better satisfy it now, before the meddlers get to it. There are a lot of them, you know. And shooting them is still frowned upon.