Forward, Into The Past! 2026-04-25

     (Thank you, Firesign Theater, for anticipating this need.)

     Quoth Matt Walsh:

Matt Walsh “Almost all of the arrests that happen in a given year are from like 5% of the population”

“Cause you take out the 70% who are never arrested, you take out the 25% who are arrested one time in their entire life, and you're left with 5% of the entire population that's… pic.twitter.com/NnTeztc84n

— Wall Street Apes (@WallStreetApes) April 24, 2026

     Yes, those are valid statistics. They may mix misdemeanors with felonies, but I’m unable to resolve that at this time.

     Time was, there were “three strikes” provisions on the law books in several states. Those laws constrained the sentencing practices of judges: a criminal convicted of a third felony offense was automatically sentenced to life without parole. For a while, those states locked up felony recidivists permanently; the public was permanently protected from their proclivities.

     I’m not sure what happened to those three-strikes laws. This article sheds some light, but not enough to be sure that the three-strikes provision is still enforced. Among the facets of criminal law that would bear on this is the propensity of judges and prosecutors to alter an indictment on their own authority. A judge who dislikes the three-strikes provision might unilaterally dismiss a felony indictment to keep an accused criminal from suffering permanent incarceration.

     There is also the racial aspect to consider. If we go by national demographics, American prison populations already overrepresent blacks and Hispanics. The implications are not hard to grasp. Neither is the message a further concentration of imprisoned blacks and Hispanics would send to the White majority.

     The hawkers of “diversity, equity, and inclusion” are violently hostile to an accurate representation of blacks and Hispanics among felonious criminals. It’s the statistic they dislike most. So they screech about “social justice” and “the legacy of slavery,” as if those were valid justifications for allowing habitual felons to continue to prey on the rest of us.

     However, another statistic is on my mind this morning: the population of these United States. That’s estimated at 330 million persons. If we were to imprison 5% of that number, that’s 16.5 million permanently incarcerated persons. I don’t know if enough prisons could be built and staffed to accommodate that many permanent residents. A far smaller number of persons are imprisoned today – about 1.25 million – and cries of “prison overcrowding” already resound nationally.

     An old friend, a far harsher person than I, advocated not lifelong incarceration for the habitual felon but execution: “Three strikes and you’re dead.” Given the way the death penalty is treated today, that wouldn’t relieve the pressure on our prisons. But Tom is a forthright fellow; he envisioned the application of the penalty to occur immediately after the third conviction.

     That calls to mind a scene from Neal Stephenson’s early novel The Diamond Age:

     “Congratulations, Bud, you're a pa,” Judge Fang said. “I gather from your reaction that this comes as something of a surprise. It seems evident that your relationship with this Tequila is tenuous, and so I do not find that there are any mitigating circumstances I should take into account in sentencing. That being the case, I would like you to go out that door over there”—Judge Fang pointed to a door in the corner of the courtroom—“and all the way down the steps. Leave through the exit door and cross the street, and you will find a pier sticking out into the river. Walk to the end of that pier until you are standing on the red part and await further instructions.”
     […]
     The pier did not turn red until the very end, where it began to slope down steeply toward the river. It had been coated with some kind of grippy stuff so his feet wouldn't fly out from under him. He turned around and looked back up at the domed court building, searching for a window where he might make out the face of Judge Fang or one of his gofers. The family of Chinese was following him down the pier, carrying their long bundle, which was draped with garlands of flowers and, as Bud now realized, was probably the corpse of a family member. He had heard about these piers; they were called funeral piers.
     Several dozen of the microscopic explosives known as cookie-cutters detonated in his bloodstream.

     Efficient, yes, but I’m fairly sure our anti-death-penalty activists would disapprove, to say nothing of the social-justice crowd.

     Still, that 5% statistic has considerable power. If it were to get the right amount of airtime and column-inches, who could say what might follow? The conversion of Manhattan Island into a giant, open-air prison camp, perhaps?

     Just an early-morning thought.

Nostrum Assassination Time

     Good morning, Gentle Reader. Welcome to a bright new Monday. I’m sure it will be filled with all the things that have made Mondays beloved throughout the world. And now that we’re past that blasphemy, what do you think of the title?

     In truth, I never disliked Mondays. But that’s because I enjoyed my work. Many people can’t say that. For them, work is something to be minimized, something to get away from as early and for as long as possible. Yea verily, even today, when you can make a living from commenting at X/Twitter.

     But that’s a depressing subject, and not germane to what’s on my mind just now. So let’s have three centered asterisks and proceed thence to the main event.

* * *

     There are innumerable bits of pseudo-wisdom in circulation these days. Most of them are pitched in short, punchy phrases. That makes them easy to remember. It also makes them context-free, and therefore easy to refute.

     But in truth, a lot of those bits of pseudo-wisdom can be handy. Given the appropriate circumstances, a bland saying that encapsulates a common sentiment can be enough to pull you off the mat and get you back into the fight. Try this one: “As long as you have your health…”

     For a man who’s down on his luck, who’s suffered reverses and disappointments that have drained him of zeal, that can actually be good over-the-counter soul medicine. “Hey! You’re young and healthy. You’ve got will and skills. Stop moping and get back in there!” That can do the trick for some. But I wouldn’t prescribe it for a soldier under siege who’s low on ammo and at imminent risk of being overrun. “Hey, as long as you have your health…” -- ? Naah.

     How about this hoary old saying: “Practice makes perfect.” Does it? Suppose you’re practicing the wrong thing? A piano student has to practice his fingerings, but he has to practice the right ones, and practice them correctly. More, once he switches from the piano to a stringed instrument, those well-practiced fingerings become useless at best. Context is everything there.

     Or try this one: “As long as you’re happy.”

     Is there anything more fleeting than happiness, or more elusive? Can we even pin it down and stop its squirming long enough to say exactly what it is? Even Aristotle couldn’t do it. All he could say on the subject is that Happiness is what we seek as an end in itself and for no other reason.

     I’d bet that most people aren’t even aware of when they’re happy. When it’s upon them, that’s that. They don’t have a consciousness of happiness as a specific state of mind. Rather, they have a consciousness of unhappiness, whether from pain, or failure, or frustration, or what have you. They know that state of being as a specific one, regardless of the reason for it.

* * *

     I forget where I encountered it, but in some work of fiction the viewpoint character observes to himself that No maxim is meaningful without qualification. Nostrums require context to be judged useful or useless. Otherwise they just hang there, suggesting something that can be constructive in the right circumstances, but useless in others and destructive in still others.

     Realizations of this sort have helped me to kill an old, pernicious habit: giving advice. I’ve become too conscious of the limits of my knowledge, especially my knowledge of other people’s lives and circumstances. Others’ lives are quite as complex as my own, and sometimes far more so, and I will never, ever know them to any great depth. So these days I sympathize and shut up.

     Just an early-Monday-morning thought from an old man who’s tired of commenting on politics and has nothing fresh to say about fiction. And there it is again! Monday, the tormentor that never relents! Will we never be rid of it?

     Back later or tomorrow, I hope. After this Monday crap is over, anyway.

Snow Day 2026-02-23

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

     Time to shovel.

Remembrances

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Just a few early-morning thoughts.

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.

The Era Of Universal Distrust

     Regard this, from CBS News:

BREAKING: The ICE agent who fatally shot Renee Good on Jan. 7 in Minneapolis, Jonathan Ross, suffered internal bleeding to the torso following the incident, according to two U.S. officials briefed on his medical condition.

— CBS News (@CBSNews) January 14, 2026

     Various persons on X are proclaiming it “proof” that Jonathan Ross was within his rights and his rules of engagement when he shot Renee Good. Others are saying “why believe it? It’s from the government.” Of course, those two groups align nearly perfectly with their prejudgments of the tragic event.

     But just after the event, a video was available that could be interpreted as Officer Ross shooting Mrs. Good without cause. One community of opinion claimed that to be irrefutable, while another argued that the perspective from which the video was shot made the matter unclear. Once again, there was near-perfect alignment of those judgments with their prejudgments of the justice of the act.

     And both communities have arguments of a sort for their stances.

* * *

     Time was, hard evidence was broadly trusted. “People lie; evidence doesn’t” was the watchword. That time has given way to advances in manipulative technology. No picture or video one hasn’t shot for oneself is guaranteed to be accurate. Arguments for disbelieving other sorts of evidence are plentiful. Belief in allegations and affirmations now derives from political or emotional premises.

     Even once-trusted “chain of evidence” procedures are no long assumed to be reliable. After all, the people maintaining those chains are employees of the State! Why wouldn’t they falsify records or give false testimony to protect their paychecks?

     We’re in a lot of danger, Gentle Reader. Our previous “high-trust society” is very near to a “zero-trust society” today. But without at least a modicum of trust in the benevolence and veracity of others, a society can’t function at all. Willingness to accept another person’s statements on his word alone is demanded of us several times every day.

     Yes, I’ve written about this before. The problem hasn’t gone away. No, I don’t have a solution. I do have quite a lot of fear.

* * *

     This is just a quickie, an “early-morning thought.” I couldn’t shake it, so I decided to write it out. Have you had thoughts along these lines? What conclusions did you reach, if any?

     If a “large” high-trust society has become impossible for us, what’s next? A lot of “small” societies of trust, based on community and personal acquaintance? Or a condition of perpetual suspicion?

     How much longer before the supermarket down the road becomes untrustworthy because the manager “isn’t one of us” -- ? Or before the contractor recommended to you for waterproofing your basement makes you uneasy because of his skin tone… or his name? What happens when whole occupations are regarded with suspicion because of a fraud rampant among them at some earlier time?

     Oh, right. We’re already there, aren’t we? Apologies, Gentle Reader. My memory isn’t what it was. But I’m still working to enlighten and edify you. Trust me on that.

There is no need in human life so great as that men should trust one another and should trust their government, should believe in promises, and should keep promises in order that future promises may be believed in and in order that confident cooperation may be possible. Good faith -- personal, national, and international -- is the first prerequisite of decent living, of the steady going on of industry, of governmental financial strength, and of international peace. -- Benjamin M. Anderson, Economics and the Public Welfare: A Financial and Economic History of the United States, 1914 -- 1946

Nightmare Visions

     Is this true?

The world is run by people who are more cruel and more obscene than you can fathom. They're all pathetic in ways that feel like satire, and monstrous beyond your wildest imagining.

— Alana McLaughlin🏳️‍⚧️ (@AlanaFeral) November 14, 2025

     Sometimes I can believe it. At other times I can’t.

     My first difficulty stems from “The world is run.” What does it mean to say that someone or some group runs the world? “The world” is a rather vague phrase, and “run” is the most overloaded word in the English language. One dictionary lists more than 800 meanings for “run.” Is it possible that “the world is run” has no exact meaning?

     George Carlin would have agreed:

     ...but George Carlin was an entertainer. If you let entertainers form your opinions, you’re fishing in a sewer. Entertainers aren't much good at anything but entertaining – and a lot of them aren’t even much good at that.

---

     Let’s have a close look at that “the world is run” assertion. What do you suppose the speaker meant to express by it?

     She probably had big stuff in mind: the major institutions of our time. Big governments, big businesses, big media, and so forth. Yes, there are people, or small groups thereof, who control each such institution. And yes, they direct the large-scale orientations and policies of such institutions. However, they cannot control private citizen Smith. Though if Smith chooses to interact with their institution, his decisions will be influenced by theirs.

     But does that amount to running the world?

---

     Let’s move on to “people who are more cruel and more obscene than you can fathom.” I can fathom quite a lot, so omit the hyperbole. Are the people who control major institutions cruel and obscene? What evidence do we have for that proposition?

     In the usual case, a man must have control of himself before he can rise to the management or direction of others. But to say that Jones has control of himself does not automatically mean Jones is virtuous. He may simply be skilled at keeping his evil desires reined in until he’s safe to indulge them. And indeed, we have seen enough evil uncovered among the great and powerful to suspect that there’s much more we have yet to see.

     Moreover, we have the dynamic of power to cope with. That dynamic does favor the elevation of evil persons. But when the lust for power is opposed by another dynamic – e.g., in commerce, the constraints imposed by profit and loss – power-lust doesn’t always win.

---

     Some large institutions are run by evil persons. It’s the case with most governments. But other large institutions, in which the desire for power over others is tempered by other considerations, are run by persons no worse than you or I. If their desires sometimes clash with ours, what of that? Is CEO Jones obligated to get private citizen Smith’s approval before he decides on Acme Corp.’s next venture?

     So the notion that “The world is run by people who are more cruel and more obscene than you can fathom” isn’t uniformly true. Neither is George Carlin’s “big club” thesis. People move in and out of the seats of power: the positions from which they can “run” things. Those who fall aren’t always corrupt, and those who rise aren’t necessarily corruptible.

     Just some early-morning thoughts.

Marital Expectations

     Have a gander at this:

thoughts? pic.twitter.com/BPS6W4K5xG

— Barefoot Pregnant (@usuallypregnant) November 13, 2025

     Give it a few seconds to horrify you before continuing on.

---

     Marriage in these Unted States has devolved from an alliance of loving partners to a high-stakes adventure. This isn’t a new subject, here or elsewhere. You’d think we would have learned something by now. Yet I continue to be appalled at the behavior of individuals whose spouses thought they loved one another. The above example is one of many.

     About twenty years ago, we were astonished at Iowa man Travis Frey and his “Contract of Wifely Expectations.” I can’t find the “contract” any longer, though there are still numerous news stories about it on the Web. It was a remarkable document, and not in a good way. It expressed possibly the most extreme demands a man might make on his wife short of felonious conduct. Suffice it to say that when it became public, it met with general disapproval.

     Shortly after Frey and his notions made the news, there came a counterstroke from the distaff side. What’s just below was told to Dr. Helen Smith a.k.a. Mrs. Instapundit:

     I met a woman that I was sure was my soul mate. I was deeply in love and so, I thought, was she. All this changed when I lost my high paying job through downsizing. To my credit, I went to work immediately and had two jobs, but still only made about 80% of my old income. My wife gave me a year and then began sleeping with a man who hadn’t lost his job in my bed while I was at work. She left with him, taking almost all of my savings and anything else she could carry. Her explanation was that she was “an expensive bitch” and she was unhappy because I worked so much. The adultery doesn’t seem to matter to the court and she got essentially everything. Besides the financial losses, I was so devastated by the betrayal that I could barely function for months. She treated me like garbage and I never worked harder at any endeavor in my life.

     The tale at the start of this piece doesn’t look so unusual after all, does it? It makes me wonder: why would anyone marry, given hazards like the above and the general diminution of good will between the sexes?

     It seems that marriage still holds the promise of some highly desirable things, despite the possibilities depicted above.

---

     I could go into a long dissertation about the institution of marriage, how it began, what ends it was intended to serve, and what’s happened to it since. I’m not in the mood. Besides, I doubt my Gentle Readers are hungry for such a piece, and anyway I have other matters to attend to.

     I hope the material above will stimulate some reflections among younger Americans. At the very least, the marriage-minded should try to ask themselves the following questions:

• What do I expect out of marriage?
• How likely am I to be disappointed?
• What will I do if it “doesn’t work out?”

     Note that I said try. Most young people are indisposed to candor about such things, even in the privacy of their own thoughts. There’s a reason for that old German saying “Ve get too soon old und too late schmart.”

     Let’s transform the questions above just a wee bit:

• What does she expect out of marriage?
• How likely is she to be disappointed?
• What will she do if it “doesn’t work out?”

     What are the odds that your prospective spouse would be candid with herself about the answers? If she were to bridle at the suggestion that she consider them, what would that do to your willingness to marry her?

---

     Quite coincidentally, a friend and I were talking about some of her marital experiences just yesterday. She’s had three husbands, and had the following to say about all three:

     [Mr. X] really was a nice man at first, Fran — charming, funny, thoughtful. I never would’ve seen what was coming. But over time, he changed; it was like watching someone harden from the inside out. Now he’s bitter, controlling, and mean just for the sake of it. I honestly hate dealing with him — it’s like he takes pleasure in twisting the knife every time we talk....
     Like all my ex-husbands did — kind, attentive. But over time, they changed.

     My unnamed friend is a genuinely good woman: kind, thoughtful, generous, and accomplished. I cannot believe that she was the reason... but incredulity has no evidentiary value, as the lawyers tell us.

     And now, with the Omnipotent State telling us that marriage doesn’t have to be between one man and one woman, that it comes with no particular obligations, and that it can be dissolved for any reason or none, what are we to predict for it: the oldest human institution, the bedrock of every stable society known to history?

     Just a few early-morning thoughts.

In The Beginning...

     “Live fast. Die young. Leave a good-looking corpse.” – Originally from Knock on Any Door. Also, motto of the Pagans motorcycle gang.

     ...there was a lot of scurrying around and trying to “look busy.” But apart from that, we’re told that God instructed Adam and Eve to “Be fruitful and multiply.” (Genesis 1:28) If He ever countermanded that dictum (“Okay, that’s enough multiplying. You can stop now. Please!”) the Bible doesn’t record it.

     It doesn’t really matter whether you take the Bible literally as the Word of God. (I don’t. It was written by men. They may have been divinely inspired, but they weren’t God Himself.) Reproduction, like survival, is hard-wired into our natures. It takes a lot of disincentive to suppress that impulse.

     Youth culture plus feminism have provided that disincentive, in quantity.

     Youth culture strikes me as the ultimately self-defeating agenda. It literally cannot be fulfilled. Except for those like the persons in the quote at the top of this screed, we will get old. Our bodies will age and weaken. Our faces will wrinkle. And of course, one way or another, we’ll die. All of us. (Yes, you too, Gentle Reader, though I hate to think it.)

     Feminism, once severed from its Susan B. Anthony / Elizabeth Cady Stanton egalitarian roots, coupled to the perversity of youth culture with a tragic synergy. It made women neglect their characters and personalities in favor of obsessive concentration on their bodies and faces. Though it’s seldom labeled as such, that is actually a variety of gluttony.

     It also made women averse to child-bearing.

     This is of particular interest to me just now, owing to my current novel-in-progress.

---

     The possibility of a complete worldwide cessation of child-bearing was broached by the late P. D. James in her quasi-apocalyptic novel The Children of Men. James narrates the consequences for Britain in her usual adroit, subtly gripping manner. It’s a powerful story, well worth reading, though the premise that one day human fertility just ends is rather fanciful.

     Dreams of Days Forsaken revolves around two core ideas: a worldwide decline in birthrates, partly due to a plague of infertility; and the invention of a wholly automated artificial womb. The personal, institutional, and geopolitical consequences would be dramatic, to say the least. I hope my tale delivers on them.) Though I don’t go very deeply into them in the novel, I’m mesmerized by the incentives The Womb would offer to women:

• Those whose marriages are endangered by infertility, whether voluntary or otherwise;
• Those determined to protect their bodies and careers from pregnancy and parturition.

     For there’s no question about it: child-bearing changes a woman. It changes her body, of course, but it also changes her drives. The new person in her life must become a part of her priority structure. Other individuals in that structure will be affected. So will any organizations in which the new mother is a participant.

     Herewith, three vignettes about women whose thinking is being altered, none too subtly, by the prospect of The Womb:

---

     Susan read the employment contract carefully. Her prior experiences with such things had convinced her that they deserve special scrutiny.
     She found herself willing to accept its terms until she came to the clause titled Standards Of Performance. It didn’t take her long to find the scorpion’s sting. She looked up at her interviewer. The gray haired matron’s face was impassive. Her hands were steepled before her.
     “What about pregnancy?” Susan said.
     The interviewer raised an eyebrow. “What about it?”
     “The performance clause makes no provision for it. A gravid woman could never sustain the kind of performance specified here.”
     The interviewer’s nod skirted the edge of perceptibility.
     Adam wants children.
     So do I.
     “I think…” She paused. “Under current labor law, this contract is challengeable at the very least.”
     The interviewer’s smile did not touch her eyes. “Perhaps.”
     But I’d have to sign it and commit to its terms to find out, wouldn’t I?
     “I don’t think I can agree to this, Ma’am.”
     “A shame,” the interviewer said. “Your experience and references made you one of our top picks for this position. But the contract is a condition of employment. Best of luck with your job search.”
     The interviewer rose and held out a hand. Susan passed the stapled pages back to her, rose in her turn, and slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder.
     “Well, thank you for your time.”
     The interviewer did not offer to shake hands or see her out.

#

     Adam was nonplussed.
     “Really?” he said. “I thought contracts like that died with the Nineteenth Century.”
     “Apparently not.” Susan sipped at her rapidly cooling coffee. “They wouldn’t back away from it, either.”
     “‘They?’”
     “Sorry, my interviewer. An older woman. Perfectly polite and pleasant, but there was no give in her at all.”
     “Damn. I know this was the one you wanted.” He refilled his mug and took his habitual seat at their kitchen table. “Well, what’s next?”
     She shrugged. “Keep looking. Engineering shops don’t all require labor contracts. Anyway, this is the first one I’ve hit.”
     Adam didn’t answer. He’d gotten the faraway look she knew meant that he’d gone into problem-solving mode. She clamped her lips tightly together.
     Wait it out, Suzy Creamcheese.
     “Do you really want that job?” he said at last.
     “I… did,” she said, “before I read the contract. I don’t think so now.”
     “But what if we could finesse our way around the contract?”
     She peered at him. “What are you thinking?”
     “The Womb.”
     Her hackles went up at once. “Nope. Never.”
     He frowned. “Why not?”
     “Think about it! No pregnancy means no antibodies for the baby and no lactation from me. He’d be vulnerable to a thousand nearly extinct diseases and bottle-fed from the instant of his, uh, birth. Plus, I wouldn’t get the health bonus women get from going through pregnancy.”
     Or the maternal bond from having him inside me for nine months. Peg said it’s real, and after five kids she’ll know. And I want it!
     Adam’s expression had gone flat. “There might be ways to compensate.”
     “Do you know of any?” Despite her effort to control it, her temper had risen. “This is our child and my life we’re talking about. I’m already thirty-two. He might be the only child we’ll ever have!”
     For sure it’s the only life I’ll ever have.
     “Besides,” she continued, “I want to be home with a new baby. The performance clause didn’t mention any reduction in standards for the post-partum period. The mandated leave is only twelve weeks. I could return from maternity leave and get fired for substandard performance a couple of weeks later.”
     “A lawsuit…” he said, and trailed off.
     “Forget it. A company like that will have lawyers up the wazoo. They might even have fought this battle before.”
     Her husband appeared stricken. She could sense the but on his tongue, barely restrained by his lips.
     She blinked and bore down to fight off a sudden rush of tears.
     “I have to chalk this one up and keep looking,” she said.
     “You don’t have any other possibilities lined up?”
     She shook her head. “Not yet.”
     “What about that place back East that cold-called you?”
     “You mean Arcologics?” He nodded. “We’d have to move and you’d need a new job.”
     “Don’t they have a marketing department?”
     Not if Iverson is as smart as everybody says.
     “I don’t think so.”
     “Damn.”
     Adam’s gaze remained hooded for the rest of the evening. Susan knew The Womb was still uppermost in his thoughts… as it was in hers.
     Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

§

     Laura’s three years as the Hanford Agency’s top model had not prepared her for Bill Hanford’s explosion.
     “Are you out of your mind?”
     She gaped at him, all the words blown out of her.
     “I can’t believe you’re even considering it,” he said. “It wouldn’t be ‘just for a few months,’ stupid. No matter how carefully you restored your figure, it would change everything. Your tits, your skin tension, your posture, the way you move and hold yourself. It would ruin you for anything but fully clothed, and we have practically no demand for that. Are you willing to throw away the rest of your career for a baby?”
     “My career…” She faltered.
     “Indianapolis might not be the big time, but damn it, girl, you own this city. This state!” He turned away and started to pack up his equipment. His movements were staccato, jerky and angry, uncharacteristic for such a poised photographer. It was plain that she had unsettled him. “You want to leave all that on the table for some other girl to pick up just so you can have a baby?”
     She could not answer him. But I want a baby was the only thought her mind could hold. He fulminated silently as he packed the rest of his equipment. She shed her bikini and resumed her street clothes. They left the studio silent and empty behind them.

#

     Carlos was not pleased.
     “He’s right,” she said. “I asked around. Models don’t… come back from pregnancy.”
     “So no son,” he muttered. His arms were crossed like swords over his chest.
     She hung her head.
     “We have to choose, love,” she said. “Besides, without my income—”
     “Is that what matters to you? More than a family?” His Salvadoran accent became more pronounced.
     I don’t want to go back to the escort service.
     “We wouldn’t be able to meet our bills without it.”
     He scowled at her. “Yes we could. You know it.”
     I don’t want you to go back to dealing, either.
     “Carlos,” she said, “I want a baby as much as you do. But we have to be practical.” She rose from her seat at the kitchen table, but she did not dare to approach him. “You came this close to going to prison. The cops had you dead to rights. You were lucky that they were so sloppy. The chain-of-custody issue the D.A. missed was the only thing your lawyer had to work with, even if that was enough to spring you. Don’t you think the cops will have their eyes on you now? I may not want to end my modeling career, but I want to raise a baby alone even less!”
     He glared, but he had no comeback for her.
     A protracted, tension-laden silence ended when he muttered “I must think about this,” grabbed his windbreaker, and stalked out of the apartment. She wandered loosely around their home, uncertain what to do next, until the phone rang and Jill Timman invited her to join her at their favorite after-work watering hole.

#

     “He’s furious.” Laura swished her swizzle stick idly through her pina colada.
     “He’s a tough cookie.” Jill smirked. “But so are you. Stick to your guns, girl. It’s your body and your career.” She looked up and scanned the other patrons in the crowded bistro. “I don’t see anyone who has more right to make those decisions than you do. Not for you, at least.”
     “What if he decides he wants a son more than he wants me?”
     Jill shrugged. “Then you lose him. So?” She paused for a sip from her Cosmopolitan. “You’ve been together what, eight months?” Laura nodded. “Don’t you think you’d find someone else fast enough?”
     Laura swallowed past her fear.
     She doesn’t know. Keep it that way.
     “I know, Jill. ‘Always more fish in the sea.’ I could find someone else. But it’s hard. It’s tiring. I’m tired all the time as things are now. And…”
     Jill nodded in sympathy.
     “And you love him.”
     “I… think I do.”
     “So?” The model-turned-event-planner grinned. “What about The Womb?”

§

     Helen stripped off her apron and tossed it into the back seat before slumping into her car. Ten hours on her feet left her exhausted. It would have done the same to anyone. But her tuition was due at the end of the month, and she’d be damned before she’d let the water and electrical utilities send her any dunning letters.
     She cranked the engine, waited for it to settle into a smooth purr, pulled onto Grand Avenue, and drove through the darkness toward her Amherst Estates apartment.
     At least I know I’ll come home to a clean flat and a hot meal.
     Alicia was a clean freak of the best kind. Rather than see a domestic chore done imperfectly, she’d take it upon herself. She’d assumed their apartment’s cleaning and cooking duties immediately upon moving in. It was a great part of why Helen was happy to support the two of them.
     Well, that and that she thinks my stretch marks are cute. And how good she is with her tongue.
     Theirs was a no-bullshit relationship. They liked each other well enough, but there was no love talk between them, and no mutterings about marriage. Alicia stayed for Helen’s support, and would do so as long as Helen would maintain her in an acceptable style. Helen was willing to pay the bills, and would do so as long as the sexy Latina’s attentions to her needs remained enthusiastic and unflagging.
     It’s just these down periods between surrogacies that spit in the soup. But I have to have them. The agency wouldn’t have it any other way.
     At first, surrogacy had provided Helen a more-than-comfortable living plus substantial savings. With Alicia’s arrival, her lifestyle had swelled to include luxuries and pleasures she’d never before indulged. Helen suspected that an attempt to return to her prior, more modest standard of living would endanger their arrangement. She was too accustomed to Alicia’s services to risk that.
     I can’t take another contract until March. I can hardly wait. Until then it’s short skirts, high heels, “Are you ready to order, sir?” and “Is everything satisfactory, ma’am?” Ten hours a day, six days a week. Dear God.
     Well, my feet haven’t fallen off yet.
     As she turned into the parking lot for the residents of the two Amherst buildings along Arnulfson Way, she noticed that Alicia’s car was not in its assigned spot. She frowned.
     Did she go shopping?
     She unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside. Her gaze arrowed to the answering machine nestled in the entryway bookcase. The messages light was flashing steadily. She pressed the Play button.
     BEEP! “Miss Riordan, this is Marion Michaels at Dreams Fulfilled. Due to recent technological developments, we’re experiencing a retrenchment in our in-vitro and surrogacy operations. In consequence, we don’t expect to engage you as a host mother this coming year. Thank you for your services to this date. You have our best wishes for your continued success.” BEEP!
     The messages light went out and the machine fell silent.
     Helen was still gawking at it when Alicia returned.

#

     “It’s the Womb, babe.” Alicia forked up a bite of roast beef, chewed and swallowed. “If it works as advertised, host mothers will go the way of buggy-whip factories.” She glanced at Helen’s untouched plate. “Aren’t you eating?”
     Helen forced a smile. “Waiting for my stomach to settle.”
     “Oh. It hit you that hard, eh?”
     Helen nodded. “Second semester tuition is due soon. It’ll clean me out. If I can’t bag a surrogacy, I don’t know how I’ll pay for my junior year.”
     Alicia shoveled up some peas. “Can’t you promote your services on your own?”
     “I’ve never tried it. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
     “Ah. Could you use social media?”
     Helen shook her head. “They don’t accept ads about anything related to sex.”
     Alicia grinned. “But there’s no sex involved.”
     “They don’t see it that way. They nix anything that even hints at it, to stay out of trouble with the law.”
     “Well…” Alicia laid down her fork and sat back. “You have other things to sell.”
     “Hm? What are you—”
     “If the Womb really works,” Alicia said, “new industries will spring up around it. New markets. So think sideways. You were selling space in your uterus. What else have you got that the Womb might make marketable, you gorgeous five-foot-nine, hundred and fifteen pound blue-eyed blonde with a killer figure and a one-forty IQ?”
     Helen started to answer, bit it back.
     “Maybe the genes that gave you that stuff might prove marketable,” Alicia said.
     “Maybe…” Helen pondered it, shuddered. “But I’d have to let a man put his thing in me.”
     “Not necessarily, babe.” Alicia’s expression turned sly. “You’ve got plenty of eggs, don’t you?”
     “Yeah… wait a minute! If they’re so valuable, how come Dreams Fulfilled never offered to buy any?”
     Alicia shrugged. “Did you ever hint that you were open to the idea?”
     It stopped Helen’s thought process for a second time.
     Is it legal to sell ova in New York? Was Michaels waiting for me to suggest that mine were available?
     “You… might have something there.” Helen picked up her fork to address her dinner, set it down again. “Maybe the first move has to be mine.” She beamed at her housemate. “Thanks!”
     “De nada. Eat!”
     Helen chuckled and picked up her fork again. “Yeah.”
     She’s smarter than I realized.
     How did she know about my IQ?

---

     We don’t have The Womb today, but it’s in prospect. There are teams working on developing one as you read this. Don’t kid yourself: feminism plus youth culture would play into the reactions to such a development. If it were to be made price-competitive with the costs of pregnancy plus childbirth, it would be a powerful influence.

     And with that, we return to contemporary reality.

     There’s been a resurgence of interest in what might be called prewar femininity: i.e., the model for female decision making held up to them by their mothers, which was followed by most. Marriage, wifedom, homemaking, and motherhood are becoming freshly attractive to some number of young women. What’s propelling that resurgence is, in part, the failure of feminism to satisfy many of its adoptees. They’ve reached middle age; they have careers but no kids; they sense that they’ve “missed out” on a critical feature of the female experience. (Some of them don’t have men, either.) That makes the alternative denigrated by militant feminists decades ago loom large in younger women’s thoughts. But what if the young aspirant to “tradwife” status confronted the prospect of remaining unaltered physically by pregnancy and childbirth: i.e., the prospect held out by The Womb?

     Just some early-morning thoughts from a novelist trying not to think about his novel.

Quickies: Success’s Descendants

     I have written both of the following:

     Success breeds emulation. If there are advantages to be had from the ruthless exploitation of a class privilege, over time more and more members of the class will be drawn into doing so. Thus, the coloration given to the class by its privileges will become stronger and more inclusive over time. [From here.]

     And also:

     She scowled. “My mentor liked to say that success breeds failure. You tend to repeat your old, successful moves because they worked, while your enemy is developing a new one to clobber you with.” [From here.]

     Both are true. The successful are attractive. People will tend (if not prevented) to emulate the behavior that made them successful. Initially, that means an increasing number of people doing the “successful thing.” But the more people do so, the greater the pressure becomes for a countermeasure. Eventually a countermeasure will emerge that thwarts the earlier behavior and establishes a new pattern for success. As has been said entirely too often: lather, rinse, repeat.

     Which explains how both “The trend is your friend” and “Contrarians always make money” are both true as well.

Preconditions For Thought

     My Gentle Readers won’t be surprised to learn that my favorite discretionary activity is reading. Yet it’s a rare thing to encounter a devoted reader today. Getting rarer, too. And that’s not entirely because most of what's published today isn’t fit to line a cat’s litter pan.

     I routinely ask new acquaintances if they like to read. More often than not, the answer I get is “I don’t have the time.” Ponder that for a moment. Reading has been called the key to knowledge. Indeed, for most of human history, it was the only route to knowledge beyond whatever one’s elders could convey. But today it’s in a state of desuetude.

     I submit that that’s not because there are other, preferable avenues to knowledge available to us. Rather, it’s because the preconditions for reading have been all but eliminated from our lives... in many cases, with our cooperation.

---

     The preconditions for reading are time and silence.

     Yes, yes, I know that a lot of people claim that they must have music on “to concentrate.” Don’t believe it for a minute; I don’t. Music worth listening to commands one’s attention. But then, most popular music isn’t worth listening to, is it? Maybe its consumers use it to block out the other sounds around them... or to “fill the silence.”

     As I noted above, time is something a lot of people claim to lack. It isn’t so. The typical American’s life is filled not with obligations but with discretionary activities. Those activities may be rationalized as “important” or “good for you,” but that doesn’t change their discretionary nature. No one forces you to go to the gym, or the yoga class, or the library’s latest lecture on contemporary knitting practices.

     One of the consequences is that when time unallocated to any activity is upon us, we immediately look for distractions with which to consume it. There are plenty such available, of course. A little time on Facebook, or X / Twitter, will provide them in bushelfuls.

     Anything but read, or enjoy the silence and think.

---

     As it’s been a while, let’s have a little C. S. Lewis:

     Music and silence—how I detest them both! How thankful we should be that ever since our Father entered Hell—though longer ago than humans, reckoning in light years, could express—no square inch of infernal space and no moment of infernal time has been surrendered to either of those abominable forces, but all has been occupied by Noise—Noise, the grand dynamism, the audible expression of all that is exultant, ruthless, and virile—Noise which alone defends us from silly qualms, despairing scruples, and impossible desires. We will make the whole universe a noise in the end. We have already made great strides in this direction as regards the Earth. The melodies and silences of Heaven will be shouted down in the end.

     That’s Lewis’s devil-protagonist Screwtape speaking, of course. Lewis characterized the demonic as insatiability, a lust to consume without limit. That hunger embraces all things. Just as Ungoliant demanded that Melkor release the Silmarils so that that ever-hungering spider might consume them, the demonic seeks to consume all that is good. That includes ourselves, whatever we have made that is good, and silence.

     Note especially Screwtape’s observation that noise “defends us from silly qualms, despairing scruples, and impossible desires.” He didn’t say thought, but it’s inescapably implied. A noisy environment prevents concentration. Thought demands concentration. If there are any blessed souls who can think effectively despite all-embracing noise, I haven’t met them. I know I can’t.

     It’s no coincidence that the preconditions for reading are also those for thought. To read profitably – that is, to make sense of the material and integrate it into one’s store of knowledge – demands that the reader think, even if the process seems distant from the more conventional notion of thought as a deliberate process applied to the solution of problems.

---

     A delightful young woman on X / Twitter, whose moniker is “Barefoot Pregnant,” said just today:

🧵(1/5) "The ability to simply THINK is the best gift we can give our children — and ourselves.

We can’t do it when we’re overstimulated, when we have too much to do — it really only happens through “boredom” and stillness.

— Barefoot Pregnant (@usuallypregnant) September 28, 2025

     Note the sarcasm-quotes around boredom A lot of people conflate stillness and silence with boredom. No abstract notion more destructive has ever been expressed. Stillness and silence are the womb of thought! Without those preconditions, human existence reduces to motion alone. Whether patterned or random, motion devoid of thought is barren.

     From thought are all good things born.

---

     One more quote and I’ll close for today:

     Men fear thought as they fear nothing else on earth -- more than ruin, more even than death. Thought is subversive and revolutionary, destructive and terrible, thought is merciless to privilege, established institutions, and comfortable habits; thought is anarchic and lawless, indifferent to authority, careless of the well-tried wisdom of the ages. Thought looks into the pit of hell and is not afraid ... Thought is great and swift and free, the light of the world, and the chief glory of man. – Bertrand Russell

     And it is so. Why else would we so relentlessly seek distractions? Once the obligations and distractions are shoved aside and the noise quenched, we begin to think – and no one, be he a millennial genius or a dunce suited only to shoveling shit, can predict what will emerge.

     Thought is our creative capacity in motion. The universe itself is only a thought in the mind of God. It is when we think that we are most like God.

     Give those you love the preconditions for thought: stillness and silence. Help them to find those things. Especially provide them to your children. You’ll be astounded by what will come of it.

     And who knows? They might even pick up a book.

Foresights and Golden Ages

     “I have praised the past, the present, and the near future with all the insight God has given me. Peering into the farther future, I have seen nothing but obscure and terrible things which it is not in me to praise. So it is certain that I have fulfilled my task, and may now rest.” -- Olaf Stapledon, Odd John

     Have you ever felt that way?

     Yes, it’s going to be one of those mornings.

***

     Though little known and appreciated today, Olaf Stapledon was a giant of early 20th Century speculative fiction. His novels Star Maker and Last and First Men are considered seminal to the science-fiction field, though there’s little of scientific or technological speculation in them. Both of those, and Odd John quoted above, display a height and breadth of imagination few modern writers have equaled. Yet his tales were notably pessimistic, even fatalistic in tone, whatever his personal inclinations may have been.

     It seems that in some sense, Stapledon recoiled from his own imaginings. The monk Langatse into whose mouth he put the words at the top of this piece certainly didn’t like what he foresaw. Of course, one can always suppose that was purely for fictional purposes. Whatever the case, an Englishman who lived and served through World War I can be forgiven for a bleak view of existence.

     Old men often acquire such a view, even if they’ve lived in a golden age. Age can do that to you. It’s born from a dislike of change and a sense of impotence.

     Ours may someday be recalled as a golden age, even if many alive today would not agree.

***

     I’ve often thought it a blessing that we cannot see the future clearly. I think it would conduce to a fatalism that would be difficult to overcome. Think of the records of those cults that believed that they could see what was coming. Did any of them end well?

     A major benefit of Christian faith is its optimism. Though he can control little of what happens in this world, the Christian believes that he can control his own fate in the life to come. It’s entirely up to him; no other force, personal or impersonal, can take that from him.

     One who disbelieves in the life to come doesn’t have that balm for his temporal wounds. This life – indeed, the present moment – is all he has. If he’s a news junkie, the effects can devastate him beyond recall.

     Christian or not, immersion in current events is not good for us. It leads to foresights, whether accurate or inaccurate, that darken the soul. That so many of us are so immersed does not bode well.

***

     What can we make of developments such as the ones in Britain and Australia today? Is it not clear that a time of trouble is coming for those nations? If we turn to America, where much that’s in progress parallels the course of events in those other lands, does the future look any brighter?

     When a decent man confronts a story such as this one:

0 AP stories on this deadly attack
0 PBS stories on this deadly attack
0 NYT stories on this deadly attack
0 NPR stories on this deadly attack
0 WSJ stories on this deadly attack
0 BBC stories on this deadly attack
0 CNN stories on this deadly attack
0 WAPO stories on this… pic.twitter.com/962qmFOBNm

— End Wokeness (@EndWokeness) September 7, 2025

     ...it takes a mighty effort to turn aside from the rage and horror it induces. The same is true of the multitude of stories about racially and ethnically motivated attacks on innocent individuals. Most of those attacks are by groups of blacks on individual whites. The determination required to turn away from the fury produced is enormous. Some don’t manage it.

     Even those who do manage it experience a change in demeanor. No matter how pleasant or peaceful one’s own existence, the specter of all-encompassing violence that can strike anyone, anywhere, at any moment darkens one’s vision. It’s certainly darkened mine.

     It’s among the biggest of the influences that’s draining our benevolence from us.

***

     Yet having said all the above, I can’t go on to say don’t pay attention to the news. The news often tells us what we need to know as individuals. It’s the foresights that result from news immersion that wound us.

     Many alive today know a prosperity and security that no previous generation has experienced. (Yes, even those of us who still have day jobs.) One reaction to the torrent of reports of ugly events is to isolate ourselves, shut out the noise – to wrap ourselves in our personal circumstances, pull them tight around us. Howard Beale described that reaction in Network:

     “We know things are bad — worse than bad. They’re crazy. It's like everything everywhere is going crazy, so we don’t go out anymore. We sit in the house, and slowly the world we are living in is getting smaller, and all we say is: ‘Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials and I won’t say anything. Just leave us alone.’”

     Others become frenzied, and strive to build a fortress against the threats. Still others are filled with hatred and fury. And some simply give up.

     Those are the consequences of too dark a foresight.

***

     A fake fortuneteller can be tolerated. But an authentic soothsayer should be shot on sight. Cassandra did not get half the kicking around she deserved. -- Robert A. Heinlein

     I have no idea what state of mind Heinlein was in when he wrote the above, but I suspect it had some elements in common with mine at this hour. I have a misty vision of Western society’s near future, and it is not pleasant. I have a somewhat more solid vision of my own future, which is more agreeable. For I am one of the fortunate ones; I enjoy a “personal golden age.”

     I could, should I choose, “turn off the news” and simply enjoy my own circumstances. I’m often inclined to do so. After all, I have plenty of food, clothing, wine, living space, diversions, and entertainments. (And guns.) I could take refuge in those things, pull them tight around me, and ignore the general descent into chaos and squalor. I could easily justify doing so.

     But I don’t. I keep track. And on this eighth day of September in the Year of Our Lord 2025, I can’t say exactly why. Yes, it gives me plenty to write about, but what other good does it do?

     So I’ll end this morning’s ramble with a question:

     Is it the course of prudence to strive to remain well informed, or is it folly to concern oneself with what’s beyond one’s power to redress?

     Have a nice day.

Necessary But Not Sufficient

     A graphic that’s been making the rounds of the Net has been much on my mind lately:

     That’s awfully good advice. I’d say those practices are necessary for long-term health and comfort in one’s body. But his body’s needs aren’t the only ones a man must meet if he’s to have a complete sense of well-being.

     A man is not his body alone. His soul has requirements of its own, above and apart from what’s required for physical health. Even a hard-core materialist will have a sense of this. He might use the term fulfillment rather than anything that smacks of the mystical, but the sense of needs that transcend the physical will be there even so.

     (“Fulfillment” had its heyday back in the Seventies. We don’t hear it as much these days. Nevertheless, it’s on a lot of minds, especially with the rise of the tradwife evangelists and the furor they’ve evoked among militant feminists.)

     Each of us needs a sense that he’s doing – or done – something worthwhile with his time on Earth. Without that, physical health and fitness are mere baubles that will be buried alongside you.

     That may be a strange thing to have on one’s mind at 5:00 AM EDT, but you know me, Gentle Reader.

***

     What’s required to feel that you’re doing, or have done, something worthwhile? Are there life paths that greatly improve the chance that you’ll sincerely believe it?

     That is one hell of a long-term study, Gentle Reader. It goes back to Socrates and Aristotle. The arguments over it have never ceased. They probably never will.

     Aristotle, for all his brilliance, had to approach the subject from the back end: happiness. He sensed that the traditional virtues were connected to happiness, and prescribed them emphatically. Even so, his argument was teleological: i.e., that living a virtuous life will make you happy. It left open the question: what if you live a virtuous life from cradle to grave, but find that you’re not happy? And indeed, there have been men whose lives have been absolute paragons, but have been unhappy throughout.

     This is not an argument for eschewing the virtues. It’s merely a demonstration that teleological arguments are always vulnerable to a teleological challenge. You may labor diligently for many decades at cultivating and practicing the virtues, yet not attain happiness.

     Time gives no refunds.

***

     I’m not about to claim that I have the answer. This is an early-morning ramble from an old man, Gentle Reader. Don’t read too much into it. But it does suggest something about what direction would be most profitable to follow.

     Happiness and the sense of a life well lived don’t have to be regarded as prizes awarded solely at the conclusion of life. They can be immediate: concomitants of the awareness that at this moment in time, you’re doing what you ought to be doing, and doing it right.

     I’d hope that every man has such moments. They may not last long, but they can bring a sense of purpose fulfilled: “I was there and I did my job,” whatever “my job” might be. They do something else, too: they speak to the desire for meaning that each of us feels: the yearning to believe, sincerely, that life is not a purposeless accident. That’s not a need that can be satisfied by any physical nutrient.

     I may return to this later on. For the moment, I need more coffee. No, it’s not sufficient, but it is necessary. Thank You, God.