Monday, December 8, 2025

For Your Own Good by Alice Miller

I stumbled upon Alice Miller when I somewhat randomly picked up a copy of Thou Shalt Not Be Aware in some used bookstore somewhere. In this volume, For Your Own Good, with the subtitle, “Hidden Cruelty in Child-Rearing and the Roots of Violence,” Miller pursues much the same theme as she did in Thou Shalt Not Be Aware, a concept she called “poisonous pedagogy.” Its roots go all the way back the the very foundation of childhood “education” in our society:

Those concerned with raising children have always had great trouble dealing with “obstinacy,” willfulness, defiance, and the exuberant character of children’s emotions. They are repeatedly reminded that they cannot begin to teach obedience too soon. The following passage by J. Sulzer, written in 1748, will serve as an illustration of this:

“As far as willfulness is concerned, this expresses itself as a natural recourse in tenderest childhood as soon as children are able to make their desire for something known by means of gestures. They see something they want but cannot have; they become angry, cry, and flail about. Or they are given something that does not please them; they fling it aside and begin to cry. These are dangerous faults that hinder their entire education and encourage undesirable qualities in children. If willfulness and wickedness are not driven out, it is impossible to give a child a good education. The moment these flaws appear in a child, it is high time to resist this evil so that it does not become ingrained through habit and the children do not become thoroughly depraved.”

It is interesting to me the way willfulness is reflexively asserted to be equal to wickedness and evil. But let’s continue with the passage.

“Therefore, I advise all those whose concern is the education of children to make it their main occupation to drive out willfulness and wickedness and to persist until they have reached their goal. As I have remarked above, it is impossible to reason with young children; thus, willfulness must be driven out in a methodical manner, and there is no other recourse for this purpose than to show children one is serious. If one gives in to their willfulness once, the second time it will be more pronounced and more difficult to drive out. Once children have learned that anger and tears will win them their own way, they will not fail to use the same methods again. They will finally become the masters of their parents and of their nursemaids and will have a bad, willful, and unbearable disposition with which they will trouble and torment their parents ever after as the well-earned reward for the “good” upbringing they were given. But if parents are fortunate enough to drive out willfulness from the very beginning by means of scolding and the rod, they will have obedient, docile, and good children whom they can later provide with a good education. If a good basis for education is to be established, then one must not cease toiling until one sees that all willfulness is gone, for there is absolutely no place for it. Let no one make the mistake of thinking he will be able to obtain any good results before he has eliminated these two major faults. He will toil in vain. This is where the foundation first must be laid.”

I’m going to go on quoting this passage at length because I find it so absolutely fascinating and so absolutely foundational to Miller’s thesis. Read the paragraph above one way and you will say, yeah, that’s how you raise obedient children, but read it another way and you will say, gosh, that’s also how you create abused and mindless robots.

“There, then, are the two most important matters one must attend to in the child’s first year. When he is over a year old, and is beginning to understand and speak somewhat, one must concentrate on other things as well, yet always with the understanding that willfulness must be the main target of all our toils until it is completely abolished. It is always our main purpose to make children into righteous, virtuous persons, and parents should be ever mindful of this when they regard their children so that they will miss no opportunity to labor over them. They must also keep very fresh in their minds the outline or image of a mind disposed to virtue, as described above, so that they know what is to be undertaken. The first and foremost matter to be attended to is implanting in children a love of order; this is the first step we require in the way of virtue. In the first three years, however, this -- like all things one undertakes with children -- can come about only in a quite mechanical way. Everything must follow the rules of orderliness. Food and drink, clothing, sleep, and indeed the child’s entire little household must be orderly and must never be altered in the least to accommodate their willfulness or whims so that they may learn in earliest childhood to submit strictly to the rules of orderliness. The order one insists upon has an indisputable influence on their minds, and if children become accustomed to orderliness at a very early age, they will suppose thereafter that this is completely natural because they no longer realize that it has been artfully instilled in them. If, out of indulgence, one alters the order of the child’s little household as often as his whim shall dictate, then he will come to think that orderliness is not of great importance but must always yield to our whim. Such a false assumption would cause widespread damage to the moral life, as may easily be deduced from what I have said above about order. When children are of an age to be reasoned with, one must take every opportunity to present order to them as something sacred and inviolable. If they want to have something that offends against order, then one should say to them: my dear child, this is impossible; this offends against order, which must never be breached, and so on.”

What’s fascinating here is the way in which order is, admittedly, an artificial construct, indoctrinated into a child so that its willfulness can be suppressed. They must be made to believe that order “is completely natural because they no longer realize that it has been artfully instilled in them.” The same thought is carried to a more diabolical conclusion in the next paragraph.

“The second major matter to which one must dedicate oneself beginning with the second and third year is a strict obedience to parents and superiors and a trusting acceptance of all they do. These qualities are not only absolutely necessary for the success of the child’s education, but they have a very strong influence on education in general. They are so essential because they impart to the mind orderliness per se and a spirit of submission to the laws. A child who is used to obeying his parents will also willingly submit to the laws and rules of reason once he is on his own and his own master, since he is already accustomed not to act in accordance with his own will. Obedience is so important that all education is actually nothing other than learning how to obey. It is a generally recognized principle that persons of high estate who are destined to rule whole nations must learn the art of governance by way of first learning obedience. Qui nescit obedire, nescit imperare: the reason for this is that obedience teaches a person to be zealous in observing the law, which is the first quality of a ruler. Thus, after one has driven out willfulness as a result of one’s first labors with children, the chief goal of one’s further labors must be obedience. It is not very easy, however, to implant obedience in children. It is quite natural for the child’s soul to want to have a will of its own, and things that are not done correctly in the first two years will be difficult to rectify thereafter. One of the advantages of these early years is that then force and compulsion can be used. Over the years, children forget everything that happened to them in early childhood. If their wills can be broken at this time, they will never remember afterwards that they had a will, and for this very reason the severity that is required will not have any serious consequences.”

Order and obedience to that order. Again, that is not only how you are evidently supposed to raise children, it is also absolutely (and not coincidentally?) how you create willing thralls to fascism. The closing message here seems to be go ahead and beat your children. Beat them, in fact, until they forget they were beaten.

Here’s Miller’s own commentary on this horrific set of ideas.

It is astonishing that this pedagogue had so much psychological insight over two hundred years ago. It is in fact true that over the years children forget everything that happened to them in early childhood; “they will never remember afterwards that they had a will” -- to be sure. But, unfortunately, the rest of the sentence, “the severity that is required will not have any serious consequences,” is not true.

The opposite is the case: throughout their professional lives, lawyers, politicians, psychiatrists, physicians, and prison guards must deal with these serious consequences, usually without knowing their cause.

And:

If primary emphasis is placed upon raising children so that they are not aware of what is being done to them or what is being taken from them, of what they are losing in the process, of who they otherwise would have been and who they actually are, and if this is begun early enough, then as adults, regardless of their intelligence, they will later look upon the will of another person as if it were their own.. How can they know that their own will was broken since they were never allowed to express it?

It really is the seeds of authoritarianism -- looking upon the will of another person as if it were their own. As children, the other is a parent. As adults, the other is the leader of their nation.

For Your Own Good

That’s all tragic enough, but in For Your Own Good, Miller takes these ideas one step further, and addresses the inherent cruelty in not just the abuse, but in the indoctrination that the abuse is “for your own good.”

When people who have been beaten or spanked as children attempt to play down the consequences by setting themselves up as examples, even claiming it was good for them, they are inevitably contributing to the continuation of cruelty in the world by this refusal to take their childhood tragedies seriously. Taking over this attitude, their children, pupils, and students will in turn beat their own children, citing their parents, teachers, and professors as authorities. Don’t the consequences of having been a battered child find their most tragic expression in this type of thinking?

Because of course this cycle continues, the adult who was beaten as a child beating their own children for the same reasons they were indoctrinated to believe. But like the falsity of the order that their will was sacrificed for, the true reasons for continuing the abuse are also hidden from them.

For parents’ motives are the same today as they were then: in beating their children, they are struggling to regain the power they once lost to their own parents. For the first time, they see the vulnerability of their own earliest years, which they are unable to recall, reflected in their children. Only now, when someone weaker than they is involved, do they finally fight back, often quite fiercely. There are countless rationalizations, still used today, to justify their behavior. Although parents always mistreat their children for psychological reasons, i.e., because of their own needs, there is a basic assumption in our society that this treatment is good for children.

It is not, in fact, for the child’s own good. In a strange and deeply buried way, parents beat their children for their own good.

Sexual Abuse

Miller summarizes this poisonous pedagogy, whatever its source, with the following maxims.

1. Adults are the masters (not the servants!) of the dependent child.
2. They determine in godlike fashion what is right and what is wrong.
3. The child is held responsible for their anger.
4. The parents must always be shielded.
5. The child’s life-affirming feelings pose a threat to the autocratic adult.
6. The child’s will must be “broken” as soon as possible.
7. All this must happen at a very early age, so the child “won’t notice” and will therefore not be able to expose the adults.

And in these maxims we see the roots not just of authoritarianism, but also sexual abuse.

When we consider the major role intimidation plays in this ideology, which was still at the peak of its popularity at the turn of the century, it is not surprising that Sigmund Freud had to conceal his surprising discovery of adults’ sexual abuse of their children, a discovery he was led to by the testimony of his patients. 

Miller is extremely critical of Freud and his “theory of drives,” a theory, she feels, wholly dependent on and continually perpetuated by the very poisonous pedagogy that helped give it rise.

We can understand why this theory omitted the fact that it is the parents who not only project their sexual and aggressive fantasies onto the child but also are able to act out these fantasies because they wield the power. It is probably thanks to this omission that many professionals in the psychiatric field, themselves the products of “poisonous pedagogy,” have been able to accept the Freudian theory of drives, because it did not force them to question their idealized image of their parents. With the aid of Freud’s drive and structural theories, they have been able to continue obeying the commandment they internalized in early childhood: “Thou shalt not be aware of what your parents are doing to you.”

Authoritarianism

It’s sick and perverse. And it is from these simple maxims and their theories to which that they give rise that we see not just the rules for rearing children into obedient adults, but when written on a larger canvas, for preparing adults for cultural and political authoritarianism. 

When terrorists take innocent women and children hostage in the service of a grand and idealistic cause, are they really doing anything different from what was once done to them? When they were little children full of vitality, their parents had offered them up as sacrifices to a grand pedagogic purpose, to lofty religious values, with the feeling of performing a great and good deed. Since these young people never were allowed to trust their own feelings, they continue to suppress them for ideological reasons. These intelligent and often very sensitive people, who had once been sacrificed to a “higher” morality, sacrifice themselves as adults to another -- often opposite -- ideology, in whose service they allow their inmost selves to be completely dominated, as had been the case in their childhood.

The reference to terrorists may throw some people, but the larger point is just so obvious. Through this poisonous pedagogy, children are not taught to be good, they are taught to sublimate themselves to another’s order. At first, that order is that of their parents. But then, it can easily be the order of the authoritarian.

Miller sees this dynamic perhaps most painfully present in the Holocaust.

The more insight I gained into the dynamics of perversion through my analytic work, the more I questioned the view advanced repeatedly since the end of the war that a handful of perverted people were responsible for the Holocaust. The mass murderers showed not a trace of the specific symptoms of perversion, such as isolation, loneliness, shame, and despair; they were not isolated but belonged to a supportive group; they were not ashamed but proud; and they were not despairing but either euphoric or apathetic.

The other explanation -- that these were people who worshiped authority and were accustomed to obey -- is not wrong, but neither is it adequate to explain a phenomenon like the Holocaust, if by obeying we mean the carrying out of commands that we consciously regard as being forced upon us.

People with any sensitivity cannot be turned into mass murderers overnight. But the men and women who carried out “the final solution” did not let their feelings stand in their way for the simple reason that they had been raised from infancy not to have any feelings of their own but to experience their parents’ wishes as their own. These were people who, as children, had been proud of being tough and not crying, of carrying out all of their duties “gladly,” of not being afraid -- that is, at bottom, of not having an inner life at all.

Purging the Hate of the Self

And in all of this -- we see not just the child being imprinted upon, but crucially the parent, imprinting upon the child all the things they hate, and then working, for the first time, to purge them from the child and from themselves.

The pedagogical conviction that one must bring a child into line from the outset has its origin in the need to split off the disquieting parts of the inner self and project them onto an available object. The child’s great plasticity, flexibility, defenselessness, and availability make it the ideal object for this projection. The enemy within can at last be hunted down on the outside.

Peace advocates are becoming increasingly aware of the role played by these mechanisms, but until it is clearly recognized that they can be traced back to methods of child raising, little can be done to oppose them. For children who have grown up being assailed for qualities the parents hate in themselves can hardly wait to assign these qualities to someone else so they can once again regard themselves as good, “moral,” noble, and altruistic. Such projections can easily become part of any Weltanschauung.

Weltanschauung, indeed. It becomes not just a pedagogy, but an entire worldview. It explains everything. I hate this thing about me. It’s not me, it’s them. I hate them. Each sentence a kind of non sequitur, and yet somehow ever-binding, generation after generation.

Both child abuse and its consequences are so well integrated into our lives that we are scarcely struck by their absurdity. Adolescents’ “heroic willingness” to fight one another in wars and (just as life is beginning!) to die for someone else’s cause may be a result of the fact that during puberty the warded-off hatred from early childhood becomes intensified. Adolescents can divert this hatred from their parents if they are given a clear-cut enemy whom they are permitted to hate freely and with impunity. This may be why so many young painters and writers volunteered for the front in World War I. The hope of freeing themselves from the constraints imposed by their family enabled them to take pleasure in marching to the music of a military band. One of heroin’s roles is to replace this function, with the difference that in the case of drugs the destructive rage is directed against one’s own body and self.

War, addiction -- it explains everything.

Case Studies

In the second half of the book, Miller applies her theory by examining several figures in history, looking deeply at their specific poisonous pedagogic circumstances in childhood, and then tracing them to specific (and destructive) neuroses in adulthood. The first of these historical figures is Adolf Hitler -- and there are a lot of surprising revelations (to me, at least) in this analysis.

Hitler flattered the “German, Germanic” woman because he needed her homage, her vote, and her other services. He had also needed his mother, but he never had a chance to achieve a truly warm, intimate relationship with her. Stierlin writes:

“N. Bromberg (1971) has written about Hitler’s sexual habits: ‘...the only way in which he could get full sexual satisfaction was to watch a young woman as she squatted over his head and urinated or defecated in his face.’ He also reports ‘...an episode of erotogenic masochism involving a young German actress at whose feet Hitler threw himself, asking her to kick him. When she demurred, he pleaded with her to comply with his wish, heaping accusations on himself and groveling at her feet in such an agonizing manner that she finally acceded. When she kicked him, he became excited, and as she continued to kick him at his urging, he became increasingly excited. The difference in age between Hitler and the young women with whom he had any sexual involvement was usually close to the twenty-three-year difference between his parents.’”

It is totally inconceivable that a man who as a child received love and affection from his mother, which most Hitler biographers claim was the case, would have suffered from these sadomasochistic compulsions, which point to a very early childhood disturbance. But our concept of mother love obviously has not yet wholly freed itself from the ideology of “poisonous pedagogy.”

Using Hitler as one of her case studies is problematic (I think), because there are so many conflicting reports and perceptions about him. Biographies were written to glorify him, after all, so where is the truth and where is the hero-worship?

Such problems don’t arise with her next case -- that of German serial killer Jurgen Bartsch.

Jurgen’s gifts helped him primarily to adapt to his situation in order to survive: to suffer everything in silence, not to rebel against being locked up in the cellar, and even to do well in school. But the eruption of feelings in puberty proved too much for his defense mechanisms. (We can observe something similar in the drug scene.) It would be tempting to say “fortunately,” if the consequences of this eruption had not led to a continuation of the tragedy.

“Naturally, I often said to my mother, ‘Just wait till I’m twenty-one!’ That much I dared to say. Then of course my mother would say: ‘Yes, yes, I can just imagine. In the first place you’re too stupid to get by anywhere except with us. And then, if you really did go out into the world, you’d see, after two days you’d be back here again.’ The minute she said it, I knew it was true. I wouldn’t have trusted myself to get by alone out there for more than two days. Why I don’t know. And I knew for sure that when I turned twenty-one I would not go away. That was crystal clear to me, but I had to let off a little steam once in a while. But to think that I might have had any really serious intentions about it is completely absurd. I never would have done it.

“When I started my job I didn’t say, ‘I like it’; I didn’t say ‘It’s horrible’ either. I didn’t actually think that much about it.”

Thus, any hope for a life of his own was nipped in the bud. How else can this be described but as soul murder? So far, criminology has never concerned itself with this kind of murder, has never even been able to acknowledge it, because as a part of child-rearing it is perfectly legal. Only the last link in a long chain of actions is punishable by the court. Often this link reveals in minute detail the crime’s entire sorrowful prehistory without the perpetrator being aware of it.

Soul murder. It’s an apt description of what is happening, in this case and in so many others. But, as Miller here points out, soul murder is not a crime. It is just the way children are raised.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.



Monday, December 1, 2025

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? by Edward Albee

This post was originally published on a now-retired blog that I maintained from roughly 2005 to 2013. As a result, there may be some references that seem out of date. 

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An interesting yet ultimately unsatisfying play.

The copy I read is actually my wife’s, which she obtained as part of an English class in college. She remembers nothing about it other than that she enjoyed it.

That strikes me as odd since she always hates it when movies leave questions unanswered at the end and this play leaves a lot unanswered.

It is an interesting portrait of a married couple who knows each other better than anyone else, knows each other so well and are so sick of one another that all they can use that knowledge for is to play mind games and push each others' buttons, each trying to outdo the other in an ever-expanding contest of wills. 

That part is interesting and well crafted, but the truth of the things they fight over are obscured and remain obscured at the end. Did George kill his parents? Did Martha molest her son? Do they even have a son? I don’t know and don’t think I’m supposed to know.

Is that the point? That their relationship has lost its foundation of truth and now only rests on the charade that they built to help torment one another? If so, I guess that’s even more interesting.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

Monday, November 24, 2025

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

FARCHRIST TALES
BOOK TWO:
THE FORGOTTEN TEMPLE

The guilt over what he had done plagued Sir Gildegarde Brisbane II constantly and eventually reached a point where he could no longer bear it. He loved Amanda, and was amazed at the amount of release and pleasure their hasty lovemaking had brought, but he was a Knight of Farchrist, and all he had ever been taught, all he had ever believed in, all he had become, called their passionate act only one ugly world. Fornication. He was compelled by tradition and respect for his position to confess his sin and he requested a private audience with the new King, Gregorovich IV, to do just that. But Gregorovich IV had no absolution for Brisbane. The King was sickened at the thought of what one of his knights had done. He stripped Brisbane of his knighthood, banished him from the kingdom, and hoped to contain these events before scandal resulted. To the King the affair was an embarrassment. To my father, it was the beginning of the end.

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They followed the corridor for a long time, longer than Brisbane would have believed possible. He had never seen a passageway so long in his life. It went on and on and Brisbane became pessimistically sure it would continue to go on and on until they all dropped dead of exhaustion. And then it would still go on and on.

The corridor curved and twisted around so much that Brisbane was no longer sure in what direction they were traveling. Shortwhiskers, who was good at underground navigation, kept the party informed of their direction, but Brisbane had no compass to check the dwarf so he didn’t know how true Shortwhiskers’ reports could be. Fortunately, the passage never split into more corridors, so they had no fear of getting lost. Ahead and back were the only two directions they had to worry about and those were more than enough for Brisbane.

But worse than the potential of getting lost was the fact that the corridor had a steady and unrelenting slope upward. They had been climbing the endless grade for hours and the muscles in Brisbane’s legs were beginning to whine in submission. Shortwhiskers, who evidently was also good at judging depth under the surface of the earth, said they had climbed over a thousand feet, and the end of the corridor was still nowhere in sight.

No one in the group seemed very talkative as they pressed on against the slope. Brisbane’s lips grew welded together and his tongue became stuck to the roof of his mouth. Like the others, he supposed, he was lost in thought to take away from the drudgery of the march. Even Angelika, whom Brisbane had taken back from Roystnof when he came out of the meditation chamber with Stargazer, was silent and far from his thoughts.

Predictably, Brisbane’s head was filled with thoughts of Stargazer and Roystnof and the difficulties he had and might have between the two of them. Foremost in his mind was what Stargazer had most recently done, asking Roystnof to call her Allison. He was not sure he understood all the ramifications, but he was sure it was a good sign. It was too much to hope for that Stargazer might have relaxed her view on magic and allowed for the possibility that Roystnof might be able to work magic without being a slave to Damaleous. More likely, she was just extending a courtesy to the wizard on Brisbane’s behalf, but Brisbane could still hope relations were getting better between the two people he cared about most. He tried not to think of Stargazer and Roystnof clashing, and was only glad things had been going as well as they had. It might be considered foolish for him to sit back and watch what happened, but Brisbane found himself too confused to do anything else.

He loved Stargazer and she loved him. That was now official after their exchange at the bottom of the ladder. Brisbane felt good about his admission, and was dizzy over what Stargazer had said. He was sure their relationship was going to grow by leaps and bounds now. It was somehow as if they had gotten a stodgy formality out of the way and would now be able to grow and live together without a nameless pressure.

But once again, his joy over his love for Stargazer was coupled with a fear over the possibility of disaster caused by his magical past and, as he had been reminded by his mystical torch lighting, present. It was cowardly, he knew, to go on with Stargazer pretending his magic skill did not exist, and he knew the problem would not go away if ignored, but he could not fathom a delicate way to present his problem to Stargazer. He was afraid, he supposed, afraid of her response to him, and afraid of what may come to him afterward.

Brisbane’s mind continually presented arguments for and against coming clean with Stargazer and the whole process left him befuddled beyond his own belief. He couldn’t make this decision himself, he was beginning to understand. He needed advice on how to go about breaking the news to Stargazer, or even if he should break it to her at all.

But to whom could he go? Brisbane would have liked to go to Roystnof for advice, but he wasn’t sure if he should bring the topic up with him. After all, in a real sense, Roystnof was intricately involved in this problem with Stargazer. It was he who had taught Brisbane his magical knowledge and, because of Roystnof’s atheistic beliefs, Brisbane was sure he would not understand the magnitude of the problem.

Roystnof, not having the instruction in Grecolus’ doctrine, would not realize the extent of Stargazer’s revulsion of the magical craft. He may have experienced the hatred of the faithful against him in his life, but Brisbane did not think Roystnof could appreciate the depth from which that hatred came.

Talking to Roystnof would bring up another problem that Brisbane was not sure he was ready to deal with. The wizard had already said he was looking forward to restarting Brisbane’s apprenticeship after this journey was finished. Brisbane knew this was going to be a problem if Stargazer heard about it and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to continue his magical studies in the first place. He liked Roystnof, and his magic intrigued Brisbane, but now with his relationship with Stargazer, Brisbane was willing to give all that up. He did not want to end his friendship with Roystnof, but he did want to end his potential career as a wizard. He wondered if he could do that without alienating Roystnof from himself.

That was the only solution that made any sense to him. To stop his magical contacts now and forever, but it was a solution filled with potential dangers and possible disasters. The worst case scenario was one in which Roystnof disowned him because of his denouncement of his magical training, and then Stargazer left him anyway, unable to deal with what he had done in the past. It was this possibility, this worst case scenario, that kept Brisbane on his course of inaction in this matter. His fear of losing these people, whom he cared about so much, forced him to bide his time, to watch the events of this melodrama of a life pass by, and to hope, somehow, that everything was going to come out right in the end.

Brisbane supposed he would have to talk with Shortwhiskers about his problems. The dwarf, Brisbane felt, was close enough to be sympathetic, but far enough away from the triangle to give Brisbane objective opinions. But now, buried deep in this lost temple, was not the time to bring these things up. Afterwards, when their adventure was over, perhaps on the journey back to Queensburg, Brisbane would make it a point to take Shortwhiskers aside and ask his opinion in these matters.

But for now, the endless corridor wore on, climbing higher and higher inside the guts of one of the Crimson Mountains. The party began to take short breaks to rest their tired muscles, but these rests were quiet and hurried, and it wasn’t long before they were on their silent way again. Wherever this corridor was leading, Brisbane realized that it had to be sealed at the other end. The corridor was completely empty. Brisbane had seen no other life along the way, no rats, no insects, nothing. It occurred to him that they were most likely the first living creatures to be here in centuries, and he was once again filled with a soft sense of awe. How could such a place, a place once so important to the culture of an ancient people, be forgotten and abandoned for so long?

But finally, the corridor came to an end. The party was making its way around a curve in the passage, a curve like hundreds of others they had passed, and suddenly they came up against a solid wall. The last twenty feet of the corridor was level, no longer inclined upward, and then it just ended in a plain gray stone wall.

No one said anything, but the looks on all their faces clearly expressed the anger that was going to erupt if this turned into a colossal dead end. Shortwhiskers stepped ahead and began to explore the surface of the wall. A short time later he quickly turned around and addressed the party.

“It’s another secret door,” the dwarf said. “Like the one at the entrance. But I think it’s meant to be secret from the other side. It’s too obvious from here.”

“Can you open it?” Roystnof asked.

“Sure.” Shortwhiskers just stood there.

“Then do it already,” Dantrius called from the back of the group. “Let’s see what we’ve walked all this way for.”

Shortwhiskers turned silently away and went back to work on the wall. He found a certain spot, and this time not needing Brisbane, applied his muscle to the wall and a small section of it began to push outward.

Brisbane and the others watched carefully as Shortwhiskers opened the secret door. The first idea Brisbane had was that the door opened onto the outside, meaning that they would be leaving the mountain, and then he saw this idea came from the drops of rain that began to drip into the corridor. During the time they had spent inside the temple and the mountain, it had begun to rain, a light spring shower that fell from a cloudy sky and quickly soaked the earth. When Shortwhiskers had the door opened far enough, he stepped out into the weather and the rest of the party followed him.

They found themselves nearly on the peak of a mountain, on a flattened-off area overlooking an almost perfectly circular mountain lake. Brisbane stared down the sheer face of a cliff, at least a hundred feet down, to the surface of the lake, and he realized the lake was the source of the waterfall they had seen before. He could just make out the drop-off through the mist of rain at the far edge of the lake. The temple must be right over that edge, he thought, hidden from view here just as this mountain top was hidden from view down below.

But the view down to the lake was not the most spectacular sight to be seen. Standing upright on the platform they stood upon, carved out of solid stone, was a gigantic hand, cupped slightly, with the fingers thrusting up towards the heavens. And here, in the palm of this tremendous hand, was the only evidence they had seen of living creatures using the deserted remains of the temple. Here was a huge nest, made from branches and rocks and river mud. The nest rested above their heads, and the party could not see into it, but it seemed that nothing was residing in it at the moment.

The party stood quietly in the rain, looking out at the panoramic view they had of the wet mountain range, and then turned their attention to the immense hand towering over their heads. Brisbane remarked that the stone hand was nearly a duplicate of the small iron one that topped Stargazer’s staff. Everyone agreed.

“I’ve never seen a nest so big,” Brisbane said, guessing it must be ten feet across. “I’d hate to see the bird that built it.”

“You think there are any eggs in it?” Shortwhiskers asked.

“Why?” Brisbane said.

“Exotic eggs can bring a high price on some markets I know,” the dwarf said.

Roystnof was looking up into the rainy sky. “Well,” he said. “Someone scramble up there and see before the mother bird comes back.”

“I don’t think we should take any eggs away from the mother,” Stargazer said, putting up her hood. “No matter how big she might be.”

“We’re just going to look,” Roystnof said. “There could be something else in there as well. Let’s find out what’s in there before we start arguing about what to do with it.”

“So go check already,” Dantrius said, exasperation in his voice.

The rest of the party tried to ignore the mage.

“I’ll do it,” Brisbane volunteered.

“Be careful, Gil,” Roystnof said.

“Okay, Dad,” Brisbane said sarcastically as he moved out on the rainy peak.

The crook between the hand’s thumb and index finger was just above his reach and Brisbane had to jump up to grab it. He caught it and slowly began to pull himself up, surprised at how heavy his chainmail made him. He first chinned himself and then he was able to get a leg up on the palm of the hand. A bit more effort and he was entirely over the lip, laying next to the nest itself. He stood up slowly, holding onto one of the fingers to keep his balance. The footing was uneven there and the hand was placed dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. Brisbane experienced a fleeting feeling of vertigo as he looked down on the mountain lake. He had to hold tightly onto the finger until the sensation passed. The rain made the stone slippery and the wind seemed stronger up here than it had been on the platform.

“What’s in the nest, Gil?” Shortwhiskers asked him.

Brisbane turned his back on the view of the lake and looked into the nest. There were indeed eggs in there, two of them about the size of melons with blue-sparkled shells. But they were not the only things to be found in the nest. Laying beside the eggs was the body of an ork, long since killed and partially decayed. The way the ork had been killed was obvious. His heart had been ripped out.

Brisbane leaned over the edge of the nest to tell Shortwhiskers what he had found when a terrible shape came screaming up the side of the mountain, swooping up and hanging protectively above the nest on flapping wings. The body of the bird was the size of a man with dark green wings extended for yards in both directions. But, freakishly, atop the body of the massive bird was the blue-black head of an angry elk, with rakish antlers studded with countless sharp points.

Brisbane only got a glimpse of the beast before it pounced on him with a shriek. He fumbled at his side, trying to pull Angelika from her scabbard, when the thing collided its antlers against his chest. His chainmail protected him from the sharp points, but the force of the blow knocked him off balance and caused him to teeter for a moment, and then fall from the gigantic hand of Grecolus.

The world seemed to slow down to Brisbane and he suddenly felt slightly apart from himself. With a sickening horror, he saw that as he fell, he was going to miss the platform entirely, and he wasn’t going to hit anything else but air until the surface of the mountain lake, hundreds of feet below.

Brisbane’s hand was still around the pommel of Angelika as she extended halfway out of her scabbard. With amazing speed, one thought raced through his mind. If he did not secure Angelika in her scabbard, he might very well lose her when he crashed into the water below. He did not consider that he may not even survive the fall, or that it would be hard to stay afloat in his chainmail if he did survive. In his moment of crisis he was only concerned with Angelika. He had to make sure he did not lose her.

As he passed by the level of the platform, he could see the looks of shock on the faces of his friends. They had been as surprised as he at the appearance of the bird-monster. He could hear Stargazer calling out his name in a long, drawn-out moan, and he thought, just as they disappeared and a wall of rock dominated his vision, that he saw a sly smile spread across the face of the illusionist Dantrius.

And then his companions were gone and he was alone in a world of rain and gravity. Almost unconsciously, his hand pushed Angelika back into her scabbard and quickly buttoned the small securing strap into place. With Angelika safely belted at his side, his thoughts turned momentarily to those of his own safety, and then he smashed into the water of the mountain lake.

The impact caused him to lose consciousness for a moment and he plunged down deep into the depths of the lake. His velocity downward slowed and eventually stopped. As he slowly began to rise back to the surface—the amount of air in his lungs winning out, for the moment, over the weight of his armor—the strong currents toward the waterfall grabbed him and began to drag him away from the mountain from whose top he had fallen.

Brisbane regained consciousness as he resurfaced, coughing water out of his lungs and flailing his arms in a desperate struggle to keep his head above water. Thoughts of his impending doom filled his head as he watched himself be pulled nearer and nearer to the edge of the waterfall. In those moments, he realized how silly his thought about death had been when he felt trapped in the meditation chamber. Death, thought to be so close then, was a million leagues away compared to the way it brushed up against him now. He was actually shocked when he realized just how much he wanted to live and how little he had really understood that when he had been in the meditation chamber. With this desire burning in his mind, Brisbane was dragged over the falls.

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FARCHRIST TALES
END OF BOOK TWO

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.


Monday, November 17, 2025

The Wife by Sigrid Undset

This is the second novel in Undset’s three-novel series Kristin Lavransdatter. The first novel, The Wreath, took a high prize from me, as I named it the best book I had read -- or at least the book I most wanted to re-read -- in 2023. The Wife was a different experience.

If you’ll forgive the analogy, as the middle volume of a three-volume series, The Wife is a little like The Empire Strikes Back, in the sense that it seems to serve mainly as a vehicle to move the characters forward while setting things up for the final conflict. Will that final conflict come in the third volume, The Cross? We’ll have to wait and see.

Other than that, my main disappointment with The Wife is that it wasn’t as much about the wife, Kristin Lavransdatter, as I would have liked, and seemed to focus more on her husband, Erlend Nikulausson. Thematically, it reaffirmed again and again the need for women to remain pure…

“Dear sister -- all other love is merely a reflection of the heavens in the puddles of a muddy road. You will become sullied too if you allow yourself to sink into it. But if you always remember that it’s a reflection of the light from that other home, then you will rejoice at its beauty and take good care that you do not destroy it by churning up the mire at the bottom.”

And…

“I was thinking about … women. I wonder whether any woman respects the laws and beliefs of men as we do among ourselves -- when she or her own kind can win something by stepping over them.”

And…

Erlend threw back his head, his eyes blazing and fierce. “There is a law, Tore, that cannot be subverted by sovereigns or tings, which says that a man must protect the honor of his women with the sword.”

…but in that regard, it isn’t Kristin but her husband Erlend who is tested throughout the novel. Indeed, in the climax, Erlend nearly loses his life as a result of his sins of adultery and ambition. In fact, I think it would have been a far better novel if Erlend had lost his life. It would have at least given its title, The Wife, a little more relevance and meaning.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.


Monday, November 10, 2025

Hearts in Atlantis by Stephen King

This post was originally published on a now-retired blog that I maintained from roughly 2005 to 2013. As a result, there may be some references that seem out of date. 

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Another King novel and another good one, although the first two stories were far more engaging than the final three.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

Monday, November 3, 2025

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

FARCHRIST TALES
BOOK TWO:
THE FORGOTTEN TEMPLE

On the night King Gregorovich Farchrist II died, Sir Gildegarde Brisbane II, stricken with grief, fled from the castle, into the city below, and into the waiting arms of his only love, Amanda. She took him inside her humble home and in the back bedroom, apart from her mother, she did the best she could to console the man she loved. Brisbane felt his world coming to an end, as the sorrow he felt for the passing of his King was only compounded by the sorrow he felt for the separation from Amanda his position demanded. In a fit of anger at the world, of misery for himself, and of passion for his beloved, he took Amanda as a man takes a woman, and Amanda gave herself to him. His climax thundered through his body and into his mind and, in that moment, he knew the end he was rushing towards. When he left Amanda that night with a sweet kiss on her lips, she was already pregnant with his child.

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They decided to use the staircase on the side of the chapel they had entered on, the same side of the river they had been on since the beginning of the adventure. The pack mules, who had followed them readily enough through the secret passage and into the temple, refused to go down the stairs. Shortwhiskers had expected that, and he said they would have to leave them there. They leashed the animals to spikes they drove into the stone floor and the dwarf felt they would be safe enough that way until they could come back to pick them up. Dantrius, however, seemed more concerned about the gold the mules carried than the mules themselves.

They weren’t sure if the two stairways went to the same places, but it was doubtful, as after going down a flight, they turned in opposite directions away from the river. If the two staircases did not meet, they planned on exploring the first one as far as they could before going back to the second one.

They gathered again in a small group, like the pips on the five of a die. The staircase was wide enough to permit this and they slowly descended, Roystnof and Shortwhiskers up front, Stargazer in the middle, and Brisbane and Dantrius bringing up the rear. Brisbane’s thoughts were on the demon they had encountered when they went downstairs at the shrine down the river. He did not want to meet such a beast again, but as he padded down the stairs, Angelika coolly reassured him that no evil could stand against them.

They reached a small landing at the bottom of the first flight and a second one continued on after a turn to the left. They continued down these stairs and then entered into a large underground chamber. The room was a fifty foot square with a ten foot ceiling, and all surfaces seemed to have been carved smooth out of the solid rock of the mountain. The corners weren’t sharp but were rounded slightly and gave the chamber an odd look to it. Every ten feet, all along the walls, a small archway was spaced, each barely large enough for a man to pass through.

Stargazer stepped out in front of everyone else and stood by herself with a look of partial amazement on her face.

A strange and unpleasant feeling sunk deep into Brisbane’s stomach. The chamber made him very uncomfortable and he was not sure why. For the second time that day, he had an unfamiliar pang of claustrophobia. He tried to push it aside, but it continued to nag him at the back of his mind.

“Allie?” he asked. “What is it?”

Stargazer waved her arm at a wall of archways. “They’re the meditation chambers,” she said. “Where the priests would come to meditate and to pray. In the ancient times, it was said Grecolus sometimes visited the most faithful priests in their meditation chambers.”

Stargazer ran to one of the archways and the rest of the party came out to the center of the room. She looked into one of them and then turned around to look at her companions.

“Come and see,” she said.

There were five chambers against one wall and each person went to a separate arch, with Stargazer at the middle one. Brisbane looked into his and saw that after going in for a few feet, it ended and a very narrow shaft went down into the floor. Carved into the face of one of the walls of the dark shaft were the footholds of a ladder.

“They go down to a small chamber,” Stargazer said. “The priests would go down there to meditate. Sometimes for days.”

Brisbane marveled at the size of the shaft. Even Shortwhiskers would have a hard time squeezing down there. As he was leaning over, looking down into that dark hole, his head suddenly started to spin and he had to hold onto the stone walls to avoid falling in. He backed away from the hole and his head started to clear.

“How big are the chambers down there?” Brisbane asked.

“Very small,” Stargazer said matter-of-factly. “They are really just large enough for one person.”

She suddenly went into her archway. Brisbane ran to her. He saw her poised on the first step of the stone ladder.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Stargazer looked at him oddly. “I’m going down. I want to see what it’s like.”

Brisbane looked to his sides. Roystnof and Shortwhiskers had joined him.

“We should probably search them all,” Roystnof said. “We don’t want to miss anything.”

Stargazer started down the ladder.

“Wait!” Brisbane said.

Stargazer stopped. “Gil, what’s the matter with you?”

Brisbane felt sweat bead up on the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure why he was so jumpy, but he felt very uneasy about him or anyone else going down into the meditation chambers. Especially him. He just could not imagine anyone willingly going down into those chambers and sealing themselves away into the earth. He didn’t see how anyone could be relaxed enough to meditate under such circumstances.

“Nothing,” Brisbane said eventually to Stargazer. “Just be careful.”

Stargazer smiled and then disappeared into the shaft. Brisbane turned his back on the arch. Roystnof and Shortwhiskers were standing right there and Dantrius was off in another corner of the chamber.

“She’ll be fine,” Shortwhiskers said. “We’ll probably have to drag her out of there. I think this is one of the reasons why she wanted to come along.”

Brisbane nodded his head weakly. His throat was dry.

Roystnof unshouldered his pack again. As he rummaged through it he spoke aloud, loud enough for Dantrius to hear him if the mage cared to. “We will each go down into one of Miss Stargazer’s meditation chambers, and each of us will need his own light source.”

He brought out of his pack a handful of unlit torches. He handed one to Shortwhiskers and one to Brisbane. Surprisingly, Dantrius came over and took one as well. They all stood for a moment in a small circle, each with a short, fat stick in his hand.

Roystnof turned to Brisbane. “Do you still remember your fire cantrip, Gil?”

Brisbane said nothing. He met Roystnof’s eyes and then looked around the circle. He placed his hand around the end of his torch, closed his eyes, and said the magic word Roystnof had taught him. It had been years since he had done it, but Brisbane remembered and pronounced all the inflections perfectly. He pulled his hand away and the end of the torch began to burn with a bright flame.

Roystnof smiled as he put his torch into Brisbane’s fire and fed off the flame. Shortwhiskers and Dantrius did the same. When they all had lit torches in hand, Roystnof called for them to move out and reminded them to check all the chambers. They set off in different directions and, as Brisbane stood there, he saw each of them choose and arch and disappear down a shaft.

Brisbane tried to swallow and coughed because his throat was so rough. He went over to the arch next to the one Stargazer had gone down. He held the torch out and peered down the shaft. The firelight flickered down and he saw the floor of the meditation chamber perhaps twenty feet down. He looked back into the large chamber, saw it empty, and turned back to the stone ladder.

Brisbane tried to build his confidence. It wasn’t working.

Go, Brisbane, Angelika whispered in his mind. Yours is an honor all would desire. Go down and face your fear.

Brisbane stepped onto the first rung of the ladder. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

I am with you, Brisbane. You need not go alone.

Brisbane started down. The walls of the shaft seemed to swallow him immediately. He had to hold the torch almost straight up above his head to keep from burning himself in the enclosed space. The end of Angelika’s scabbard scraped against one of the walls as he went down, making a shrieking noise and running chills up and down his spine. Each step became more and more difficult and Brisbane became sure the walls were closing in on him. He shut his eyes tightly and let Angelika weave her spell of confidence around him. Her seductive voice did not slow his beating heart, but it kept the organ in his chest.

Brisbane touched the bottom. He stepped off the ladder and slowly opened his eyes. He found himself staring at the footholds of the ladder. He spun around in place—there was no room to make a turn—and met another wall with his gaze.

Down, Brisbane. Farther down.

Brisbane brought the torch down next to his head and looked down. The bottom three feet of the wall was an open space.

Through there, Brisbane. The meditation chamber.

Brisbane felt beside himself. Without Angelika, he did not think he could have made it this far. He had never known he was this claustrophobic, but the truth was now being drilled into him. He began to bend down to peer into the open space, but the angle of Angelika’s scabbard at his belt prevented it. It caught against the walls of the shaft and would not let him crouch. He tried time and time again, but it just wouldn’t work.

You’ll have to take me off, Brisbane.

No! Brisbane’s mind screamed. I couldn’t move without you here.

Young Brisbane. Angelika’s voice was sweetness in his head. I will still be able to speak with you. Just set me here against the ladder.

Brisbane found himself doing so before he realized it. He undid the buckle that secured the scabbard to his waist and gently set Angelika, point down, against the wall in which the ladder was carved. He was now able to bend down and peer into the meditation chamber. What he saw when he did so frightened him more than anything he had seen so far. Carved into the rock, dropped slightly below the floor of the shaft, was a space of about three or four feet on a side, a tiny little chamber of air buried thousands of feet under the mountain. There was nothing in it.

Go on in, Brisbane. Go on in and commune like the priests who lived here centuries ago. They saw their god. What will you see?

It’s empty, Brisbane thought. There’s no need to go in. There’s nothing in there. I should go up and check another one.

Grecolus, young Brisbane. The priests found Grecolus in there. What will you find?

Brisbane began to crawl into the chamber. He put the burning torch down on the floor of the shaft and scraped his chainmail poncho against the stone on the way in. He positioned himself in the chamber, his head touching the ceiling and his knees brought up with his toes bent against the wall. His right hand still dangled out into the air of the shaft and now he drew even that into the chamber.

There. Now. Close your eyes and let yourself go.

Brisbane closed his eyes and tried to clear his head. He tried to imagine himself as one of the ancient priests, coming down here to meditate. These chambers must have been the most important part of the temple when it was alive with people. In these tiny cells buried in the earth, men who had devoted their entire lives to the worship and study of Grecolus came to meditate on what they had learned and what they believed. Some of them reached such a state of tranquility that they evidently saw and conversed with this god. Brisbane knew plenty of places in the realm that were considered holy. The Peoples Temple in Raveltown. The Pool of Cleansing in the land across the Sea of Darkmarine. But he now realized he was in, perhaps, the most holy place of all.

And so he tried to tune in on the spiritual channel that was reported to exist here, to feel the power of revelation that others had felt here. From the beginning of his attempt, however, there was something in the way. At first, he couldn’t tell what that something was, but as he sat there, and the something grew in his mind, he began to realize it was his own intense and ever-present feeling of claustrophobia that was getting in his way.

The rock, the rock, the rock pushing in on him from all sides, pushing, pushing, pressing in on him from all sides but mostly from above. The ceiling bending under the impossible weight on top of it, threatening to cave in and crush his fragile body flat. His breathing grew very quick and then stopped altogether. He opened his eyes in shock and saw in the dim torchlight the impossible space he had wedged himself into. He could feel the stone surface against the top of his head, against the back of his neck, against the crook of his back, against the tips of his toes, against the heels of his feet. The tears began to stream down his face as he sat in absolute terror, trying to draw life-giving breath.

He was going to die, Brisbane was sure of it. He was going to die down there in that tiny chamber and the only mystery left was whether he would run out of air first or his heart would burst. But what was worse than the fact that he was going to die was the fact that he was going to die alone and before he really learned anything about what life was really all about. Even Angelika had left him. Brisbane had forgotten about her in his fright and her voice could not reach him. He tried to call out for help, but his jaws were frozen and he still could not breathe. Brisbane’s vision began to pop and fade in the corners.

“Gil?”

The voice was distant and far away.

“Gil? Are you down there?”

It was Roystnof. Brisbane could hear Roystnof. He tried to speak but couldn’t. Roystnof was right there and Brisbane was going to die anyway.

“Gil, I can see your sword. Are you down there?”

My sword!

Answer him, Brisbane.

“I’m here, Roy,” Brisbane was suddenly able to say, his voice echoing strangely in the small space. He was also able to breathe and move. He quickly crawled out of the meditation chamber. He picked up the torch and looked up at Roystnof’s face.

“Gil,” Roystnof said. “Miss Stargazer won’t come out of her chamber. She wants to talk to you.”

Brisbane restrapped Angelika to his side and began to climb the ladder. Stargazer wouldn’t come out of her chamber? She wanted to talk to him? The terrors of his experience were gone and his only concern was for Stargazer. In an instant, he was back in the main chamber and looking down the shaft Stargazer had descended. She had not taken a light source with her and only darkness stared back at him.

Roystnof, Shortwhiskers, and Dantrius stood behind him.

“We’ve searched them all,” Roystnof said to Brisbane. “We found nothing except for Nog, who found a passageway at the bottom of one. We want to go on but she says she won’t come out until she talks to you.”

“Forget her,” Dantrius mumbled in the back. “Let’s go.”

Brisbane ignored the mage. He leaned over the open shaft again.

“Allie?”

Her voice came back very softly. “Is that you, Gil?”

“Yes.”

“Come on down. I want to talk to you.”

Brisbane straightened up. He looked at Roystnof for a moment and then slowly started down the ladder, his torch held high above his head.

“Don’t bring the light,” Stargazer called out. “The light will spoil it. It really is quite wonderful.”

Brisbane froze on the ladder, halfway into the floor. Roystnof came over and crouched down in front of him and took Brisbane’s torch from him.

Roystnof nodded. “Go get her out of there,” he whispered.

Brisbane pursed his lips. “Just a minute,” he said and then began to unfasten Angelika from his waist. He handed the scabbarded weapon to Roystnof. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He swallowed a lump in his throat and started down the ladder again.

It was a little better in the dark. The walls didn’t seem to swallow him as much and his heart didn’t thump as loudly. But he still felt uncomfortable as he descended the ladder. He was again seized with a tremor of claustrophobia.

“Allie?” he said as the sweat began to bead on his forehead.

“I’m here, Gil,” Stargazer said, her voice closer. “Come on down.”

Brisbane steeled himself and eventually touched the bottom. He looked up at the little square of light so far above his head. He then crouched down, this time unhindered by his sword, and peered carefully into the meditation chamber. His eyes could not see Stargazer.

“Allie?”

“Gil.” Her voice was very close but he still could not see her. “Roystnof said you searched the other chambers. Did you go into one?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?”

“What do you mean?” Brisbane thought he could see her vague form in the darkness.

“Well, I mean the others can’t appreciate it. They don’t have the faith. But we do. Can’t you feel the holiness of this place?”

The terror wasn’t as strong with Stargazer down there with him. In his position just outside the meditation chamber, Brisbane could also always see the world of light above him.

“Yes,” Brisbane said. “I can.”

“I’ve never felt closer to Grecolus in my life. I feel completely at ease with myself and the world. It’s all so beautiful, don’t you think?”

Brisbane did not answer. He wished he could feel the things Stargazer felt. He wished he could feel the glory and grandeur of Grecolus. He wished he could see the pattern of the Grecolus-created universe and the possible endings that universe would lead to. He wished he could take joy in all these things. But he couldn’t. When he was down in the meditation chambers, he realized all he could feel was the smallness of his being and the helplessness of his situation.

“Gil?”

“Come on, Allie. We’ve got to go.” He could see her form now and he reached out and took her hand.

“Gil, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing, Allie,” Brisbane said, tugging gently on her arm. “Nog has found another passage. We have to move on.”

“Okay, Gil.” She shuffled around inside the chamber and stuck her head out in front of Brisbane’s. There were tears on her cheeks.

“What is it, Allie?”

Stargazer shook her head.

“What?”

“It’s just so…” Stargazer said, trailing off. “It just all seems so wonderful.”

Brisbane smiled. “I know it does. I know.”

He pulled her out of the chamber and they stood at the bottom of the ladder for a long time in a silent embrace.

“I love you, Gil,” Stargazer said into his chest.

“I love you, too, Allie.”

They kissed and then started back up the ladder, Brisbane first because he was closer to it. They were quickly back up in the main chamber with the others in the party.

“I hope everything is all right, Miss Stargazer,” Roystnof said to her after she emerged from the shaft. “You gave me quite a scare the way you refused to come up.”

Stargazer smiled oddly at the wizard. “Everything’s fine,” she said to him. “It was just something I wanted to share with Gil. I am fully prepared to continue on our exploration of the temple.”

Roystnof returned her smile. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“And Roystnof?”

“Yes, Miss Stargazer?”

Stargazer stepped closer to him and lowered her voice. “I don’t think anyone here will mind if you call me Allison.”

Roystnof’s eyebrows flew up. “Very well, Allison,” he said, trying out the name. “Our friend Nog has found a rough stone passage at the bottom of one of these meditation chambers. We have searched them all and Nog’s discovery is the only one worthy of mention. Shall we move on?”

“We shall,” Stargazer said. She took Brisbane’s hand and followed Roystnof over to the arch that Shortwhiskers stood beside. It looked like any one of the others.

They extinguished all the torches they had lit and relied only on Roystnof’s magic lantern before going deeper into the earth. Curious about it, Brisbane asked Roystnof how long his crystal ball would give off luminance for them, and Roystnof said it would shine until he dispelled the magic.

“Or until you die,” Dantrius added tonelessly.

“Well, yes,” Roystnof said. “The power comes from me, so that when I end, so will the light. But I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that any time soon.”

Brisbane gave Dantrius an angry stare and held back a desire to punch the mage in the nose.

“The passage is much larger than the shaft,” Shortwhiskers cut in. “And it looks like it goes on for quite a while. It appears to have been carved in a hurry but it seems secure enough.”

There wasn’t much more to say. Shortwhiskers went down the appropriate ladder first and the rest of the party went down one by one after him. Roystnof, Stargazer, Brisbane, and finally Dantrius. The bottom of the ladder did not give into a tiny meditation chamber, but instead into a corridor with a vaulted ceiling, fully ten feet off the floor and ten feet wide as well. The party gathered momentarily at the bottom of the ladder, arranged themselves into a marching order like the pips of a five on a six-sided die, and them started off down the corridor.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.


Monday, October 27, 2025

Cousin Pons by Honore de Balzac

I don’t remember how I stumbled on this one. Surely I read about it in some other work, and I remember why I put it on my to-read list. It was held up as one of the finest studies of humanity ever portrayed in fiction.

Well, yes and no, as it turns out.

…in 1829 he launched upon the most ambitious project which a novelist (who claimed also to be a philosopher) had ever yet undertaken. The ‘Human Comedy’ was the result of this. He only found a title for his collected works about 1840, and he only began to edit or re-edit them under this title from 1842. But he had the whole scheme roughed out at least as early as 1834. It was an ever-expanding project. Disease and death caught up with him before it arrived at completion. Yet, as it stands, it comprises about ninety-seven novels, short stories and other ‘studies.’

This from the book’s introduction by Herbert J. Hunt. Cousin Pons is, evidently, only one-ninety-seventh of the finest study of humanity ever portrayed in fiction.

I flirted with the idea of placing all ninety-seven volumes on my to-read list -- not quite understanding that had I done so and had I managed to read them all, I would most likely be only one of a handful of people on the planet ever to accomplish such a feat -- but after wading through Cousin Pons I decided not to bother.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

Monday, October 20, 2025

The Ancestor’s Tale by Richard Dawkins

This post was originally published on a now-retired blog that I maintained from roughly 2005 to 2013. As a result, there may be some references that seem out of date. 

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It is the story of human evolution, from the present day back to the very origin of life, told in the format of The Canterbury Tales, as though humans and all our evolutionary ancestors were travelers on a pilgrimage back through time.

Six million years back in time, we meet the common ancestor we share with chimpanzees, another million beyond that we meet the common ancestor we and chimpanzees share with gorillas, and another seven million beyond that we meet the common ancestor (the “concestor”) we, chimpanzees and gorillas share with orangutans.

It goes back like that all the way through 39 such “rendezvous” to the common ancestor all other forms of life share with eubacteria some uncounted number of millions of years ago. Along the way different tales are told by different life forms, each illuminating a different and interesting aspect of the evolutionary story.

The story is fascinating, but so is the raw chronology of it all, so much so that’s it’s worth repeating here.
  • Rendezvous 1 - 6 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Chimpanzees
  • Rendezvous 2 - 7 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Gorillas
  • Rendezvous 3 - 14 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Orangutans
  • Rendezvous 4 - 18 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Gibbons
  • Rendezvous 5 - 25 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Old World Monkeys
  • Rendezvous 6 - 40 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with New World Monkeys
  • Rendezvous 7 - 58 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Tarsiers
  • Rendezvous 8 - 63 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Lemurs
  • Rendezvous 9 - 70 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Shrews
  • Rendezvous 10 - 75 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Rodents
  • Rendezvous 11 - 85 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Laurasiatheres (mammals from “Laurasia”)
  • Rendezvous 12 - 95 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Sloths, Anteaters and Armadillos
  • Rendezvous 13 - 105 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Afrotheres (mammals from Africa)
  • Rendezvous 14 - 140 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Marsupials
  • Rendezvous 15 - 180 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Monotremes
  • Mammal-Like Reptiles
  • Rendezvous 16 - 310 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Reptiles and Birds
  • Rendezvous 17 - 340 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Amphibians
  • Rendezvous 18 - 417 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Lungfish
  • Rendezvous 19 - 425 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Coelacanths
  • Rendezvous 20 - 440 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Ray-Finned Fish
  • Rendezvous 21 - 460 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Sharks
  • Rendezvous 22 - 530 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Lampreys and Hagfish
  • Rendezvous 23 - 560 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Lancelets
  • Rendezvous 24 - 565 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Sea Squirts
  • Rendezvous 25 - 570 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Starfish
  • Rendezvous 26 - 590 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Protostomes (including insects)
  • Rendezvous 27 - 630 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Flatworms
  • Rendezvous 28 - ??? Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Jellyfish, Anemones and Coral
  • Rendezvous 29 - ??? Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Ctenophores
  • Rendezvous 30 - 780 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Placozoans
  • Rendezvous 31 - 800 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Sponges
  • Rendezvous 32 - 900 Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Choanoflagellates
  • Rendezvous 33 - ??? Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with “DRIPs”
  • Rendezvous 34 - ??? Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Fungi
  • Rendezvous 35 - ??? Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Amoebozoans
  • Rendezvous 36 - ??? Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Plants
  • Rendezvous 37 - ??? Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Remaining Eukaryotes
  • Rendezvous 38 - ??? Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Archaea
  • Rendezvous 39 - ??? Million of Years Ago - Common Ancestor with Eubacteria
What’s so fascinating about this evolutionary table? Well, several things.

First, how detailed it is. Something that became apparent to me as I read this book which I would say is not part of the common man’s everyday understanding of evolution is just how much credible, scientific evidence there is for it. In this Christian Nation, one would have Joe believe that evolution is a theory full of holes. And sure, there are some holes on the chart, but look at how much of the chart is complete. Ninety-nine percent of the scientific community agree with the connections and chronology back to about 500 million years ago, and beyond that there is some disagreement about dates and the order of the connections, but virtually none about the general trend. That’s the fossil record, sure, but more and more that’s molecular data from the genomes of different species, and seeing which are similar and how similar and which are different and how different.

Next, note that it takes 70 million years to find a common ancestor with something that is not a primate and 310 million years to find one with something that is not a mammal. That’s an incredible amount of time and a testament to the true diversity of life.

Next, what’s up with the mammal-like reptiles stuck in between rendezvous 15 and 16? Well, they’re a branch of the evolutionary tree that died out completely and didn’t make it to the present day the way human did. There’s nothing alive today that shares a common ancestor with us from this branch, but the branch was once there and for hundreds of millions of years those life forms were just as real as we are. How many other evolutionary branches are like that? Don’t they say that over 90% of the species that have ever been have gone extinct and aren’t around today? You think 850 different species of cartilaginous fish is amazing? What about the 7,650 species that have gone extinct?

Just how big is this tree of life anyway? And exactly when did “we” branch off from plants, and what were “we” when we did this. Look at the rendezvous on either side. Amoebas and Eukaryotes. Simple, single-celled creatures today and however many millions of years ago the rendezvous took place. That’s what “we” and “plants” were both then, but today we are both infinitely more complicated, infinitely more diverse, and infinitely different from one another. Like compounding interest, it really shows you what evolution can do if you give it a few billion years.

And that’s what a friend of mine has grown fond of saying after reading this book. When you think of the six million years that have passed since our common ancestor with chimpanzees, or the 60 million years that have passed since our common ancestor with lemurs, or the 600 million years that have passed since our common ancestor with flatworms, you begin to realize that the differences that we think of as separating us today are infinitesimal specks of flotsam on the currents of time.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.