Jesus and Yahweh: The Names Divine by Harold Bloom

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 As a result, there may be some references that seem out of date. 

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This is the book I referred to in my comments to Day 28 of Rick Warren's A Purpose-Driven Life:

Listening to NPR a few weeks ago there was an interview with a guy whose name I wish I could remember who wrote a book whose title I wish I could remember about the four or five distinct personalities Christians attribute to God and try to paste together into this thing called the Trinity. One of those personalities is the Old Testament God the Father, who seems based mostly on the early Jewish deity Yahweh, who was more of a trickster figure in that pantheon than the benevolent type we think of today. Yahweh’s code was pretty much I’ll be there when I want to be there and not necessarily when you need me or want me.

Well, this difficult and thought-provoking book is certainly about that, but it's about a lot of other things, too. Bloom is a literary critic, and he takes a literary critic's approach to the characters of Jesus and Yahweh in the Bible, both of whom appear to be more than just one character in the various books that make up the foundational documents of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam.

Bloom quotes Mark Twain at one point in his text, who observed that "the Christian's Bible is a drug store. Its contents remain the same, but the medical practice changes." And this is precisely the story Bloom tries to tell with regard to Yahweh, who seems to get reincarnated and transformed into several different deities by several different cultures over the course of time.

It's a convoluted tale—the tale of how the gods of the three modern "montheistic" religions came to be—and to be fair to Bloom, he is actually less trying to tell the tale than he is simply providing literary commentary on the characters the tale contains. But the tale itself seems fascinating. Here's one of the more descriptive sections on this subject:

"Jesus" in my title primarily means Jesus-the-Christ, a theological God. Yahweh, in his earlier and definitive career, is not at all a theological God, but is human, all-too-human, and behaves rather unpleasantly. Christianity transforms Jesus of Nazareth, a historical person about whom we possess only a few verifiable facts, into a polytheistic multiplicity that replaces the uncannily menacing Yahweh with a very different God the Father, whose Son is the Christ or risen Messiah. Both of these divinities are shadowed by a ghostly Paraclete (Comforter) named the Holy Spirit, while Miriam, the mother of the historical Yeshua or Jesus, lingers nearby under the designation of "The Virgin Mary."

The American Jesus stands somewhat apart from this pragmatic polytheism because he is the primary God of the United States, and has subsumed God the Father in what I continue to suggest we call "the American Religion." This Jesus has a burgeoning rival in the Holy Spirit of the Pentecostalists, and perhaps our future will see divided rule between these somewhat disparate entities. All this matters because Christianity wanes in Europe (Ireland excepted) and is exemplified primarily in the Americas, Asia, and Africa, competing in those latter continents with Islam, which now becomes more militant than at any time since its aggressive inception.

Yahweh is the protagonist of the Tanakh, which is distinctly not identical with the Old Testament. Jesus Christ is the protagonist of the New, or Belated, Testament, which revokes the Covenant between Yahweh and Israel. Politicians and religious figures (are they still separate characters?) speak of the Judeo-Christian tradition, but that is a social myth. It would make about as much sense if they spoke of a Christian-Islamic tradition. There are three rival so-called monotheisms, but the Jews are now so tiny in population, compared with the Christians and Muslims, that they could vanish all but completely in another two generations, three at most. This book therefore is not a polemic favoring Yahweh over his usurper. Perhaps it is, in part, and elegy for Yahweh. If he has vanished, he still ought to be distinguished clearly from Jesus-the-Christ and even from Allah, who in some respects does remain closer to the God of Abraham and Isaac, Jacob and Ishmael, and Jesus of Nazareth than do the Christian deities. I am aware that these truths are scarcely welcome, but what truth is?

So first there was Yahweh, the God of the Tanakh—the old Hebrew Bible. He's the god of the Jews and he made a covenant with them. Then along comes the historical person, Jesus of Nazareth, who, decades after his death, some people decide to make a god for a new religion called Christianity. They write a new Bible for him, and call him Jesus Christ, and say that he fulfills the prophesized Messiah from the old Bible. Except they have to change the old Bible to make sure it fits well with the new one they're writing:

Aside from the inclusion of the apocryphal works, the crucial Christian revisions [to the Tanakh] are its elevation of Daniel and the difference in endings, from II Chronicles to Malachi, the last of the Twelve Minor Prophets:

"And in the first year of King Cyrus of Persia, when the word of the Lord spoken by Jeremiah was fulfilled, the Lord roused the spirit of King Cyrus of Persia to issue a proclamation throughout his realm by word of mouth and in writing, as follows: 'Thus said King Cyrus of Persia: the Lord God of Heaven has given me all the kingdoms of the earth, and has charged me with building Him a House in Jerusalem, which is in Judah. Any one of you of all His people, the Lord his God be with him and let him go up.'"

II Chronicles 36:22-23

The Tanakh's conclusion is the heartening exhortation to "go up" to Jerusalem to rebuild Yahweh's Temple. (Of course, today a restored Temple would be a universal catastrophe, since Al Aksa Mosque occupies the sacred site, and must not be removed.) In order to lead into the three opening chapters of the Gospel of Matthew, the Christian Old Testament concludes with Malachi, "the Messenger," proclaiming Elijah's return (as John the Baptist):

"Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord: And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse."

Malachi 4:5-6

Belated Testament as truly it is, the New Covenant is most intense in the belated Gospel of John, which I find both aesthetically strong and spiritually appalling, even setting aside its vehement Jewish self-hatred, or Christian anti-Semitism. If the New Testament triumphed in the Roman mode, and it did under Constantine, then the captive led in procession was the Tanakh, reduced to slavery as the Old Testament. All subsequent Jewish history, until the founding more than half a century ago of the State of Israel, testifies to the human consequences of that textual slavery.

In other words, the early Christians twisted the old Hebrew Bible for their own purposes and called it the Old Testament. The god of their New Testament didn't fulfill any prophecy from the old Jewish Bible. Instead, the old Jewish Bible was turned into something called the Old Testament so the New Testament could fulfill it. Bloom writes as if this re-invention is all but indisputable.

It is now altogether too late in Western history for pious or human self-deceptions on the matter of the Christian appropriation of the Hebrew Bible. It is certainly much too late in Jewish history to be other than totally clear about the nature and effect of that Christian act of total usurpation. The best preliminary description I have found is by Jaroslav Pelikan:

"What the Christian tradition had done was to take over the Jewish Scriptures as its own, so that Justin could say to Trypho that the passages about Christ 'are contained in your Scriptures, or rather not yours, but ours.' As a matter of fact, some of the passages were contained only in 'ours,' that is, in the Christian Old Testament. So assured were Christian theologians in their possession of the Scriptures that they could accuse the Jews not merely of misunderstanding and misinterpreting them, but even of falsifying scriptural texts. When they were aware of differences between the Hebrew test of the Old Testament and the Septuagint, they capitalized on these to prove their accusation..."

What makes this usurpation all the more remarkable in Bloom's eyes is that fact that he sees the Christian Messiah—"a Messiah who is God Incarnate, and dies on the Cross as an Atonement for all human sin and error"—as irreconcilable with the Hebrew Bible.

Only by a strongly creative misreading of the Tanakh could so immense a disparity have been redressed. The New Testament is held together by its revisionist stance toward the Hebrew Bible. A considerable splendor ensues from this revisionism, whether one is comfortable with it or not. The persuasive force of the Gospels, and of the entire New Testament structure, testifies to the power of an imaginative achievement, riddled with inconsistencies, but more than large enough to have weathered its self-contradictions, including a Jesus whose mission intends only Jews as beneficiaries, and disciples who address themselves only to Gentiles. What could Yeshua of Nazareth have made of Martin Luther's outburst "Death to the Law!" which in many German Lutherans who served Hitler became "Death to the Jews!" The Germans would not have crucified Jesus: they would have exterminated him at Auschwitz, their version of the Temple. No less than Hillel, Jesus affirmed the Torah, Yahweh's teaching and Covenant.

I think this really drives home one of the central theses of the book—that the Jesus Christians worship today, is neither the Jesus of the New Testament nor the Jesus supposedly prophesized by the "Old Testament"—both of whom were Jews who came to redeem the Jewish people.

A quick sidebar is in order here on the "Hillel" referenced at the end of that last passage. He is, of course, the ancient Jewish scholar, Hillel the Elder, who, from what I've read of him, seems wiser than Jesus in many worthy respects.

The attributes of humility, patience, love of one's fellows, and the pursuit of peace, which Hillel displayed, did not diminish the stringency of his ethical and religious demands, or prevent him from placing full responsibility on man, whom he required to act for his own perfection and for the public weal. Man is obliged to make endeavors, for "If I am not for myself, who will be for me?" But he cannot achieve much through seclusion and separation, and he must remember, "And being for my own self, what am I?" Nor may he forget that his time is limited and he dare not procrastinate—"And if not now, when?" (Sayings of the Fathers, I.14). Man's relations with his fellow man were defined by Hillel not only in the rule attributed to him as a reply to the proselyte who asked to be taught the whole Torah while standing on one foot—"What is hateful to you do not do to your fellow"—the like of which the would-be proselyte might also have heard from others, but in the demand that one must not pass hasty judgment on the actions of another person, just as one is forbidden to be confident of one's own righteousness. The principle is "Be not sure of yourself until the day of your death, and judge not your fellow until you come into his place" (Sayings of the Fathers, II.5). However, a man's humility and self-criticism are no excuse for keeping aloof from the community. Hillel even instructs the Sage who has acquired the qualities of saintliness and humility, "Sever not yourself from the community...and where there are no men strive to be a man" (Sayings of the Fathers, II.5-6).

But let's get back to Jesus. The Jesus worshipped today is what Bloom calls the "American Jesus," a new god who has come to eclipse the other characters he supposedly abides with in the Trinity. The Trinity is something the old Catholic Church invented but which began to crumble when the Protestants began to flex their muscles as part of the Reformation. Bloom says the early Protestants went back to Yahweh for the inspiration of their movement, recognizing that in the Trinity Yahweh had become something different, something called "God the Father," who only seemed to exist so that he could have a Son that could die for all of our sins. But somewhere in the 400 years since the Reformation, Christians seem to have lost sight of Yahweh again—at least here in the States—and seem too focused on the other two Trinitarian characters. And Bloom thinks this has less to do with the religiosity of ancient Jewish and Christian texts and more to do with the secularism of Greek culture and the Renaissance.

Whoever you are, you identify necessarily the origins of your self more with Augustine, Descartes, and John Locke, or indeed with Montaigne and Shakespeare, than you do with Yahweh and Jesus. That is only another way of saying that Socrates and Plato, rather than Jesus, have formed you, however ignorant you may be of Plato. The Hebrew Bible dominated seventeenth-century Protestantism, but four centuries later our technological and mercantile society is far more the child of Aristotle than of Moses. Jesus, even had he been Yahweh Incarnate, could not have apprehended or comprehended a globe that might seem to him a world under water, already downed, as if even Yahweh's first covenant, with Noah, had never been cut.

To Bloom, the only place that Yahweh still exists is in Islam.

I repeat that the future of Christianity is not in Europe or the Middle East, but in the United States, Africa, and Asia. This coming Christianity is dominated by Jesus and the Holy Spirit, rather than by the figure of the Father. A pragmatic separation between Yahweh and Jesus widens, and Yahweh has not survived in Christianity, but only in the Allah of Islam. The dying God has also turned out to be Yahweh, and not Jesus.

And Bloom spends a good deal of time speculating on Yahweh's death and the forces that may eventually bring it about—tying them interestingly to the social and economic forces now conflicting with each other across our planet.

All gods age, Yahweh included, thought his dying may not prove to be final, since Islam could yet prevail. Gods ebb with continental economies, and Europe's augmenting godlessness could be a symptom of its final decline in relation to globalization. The Jesus Christ of evangelical Protestantism and of Mormonism is the not-so-hidden God of the corporate world in the United States.

Why was Christianity triumphant from its adoption by the murderous Emperor Constantine until its gradual intellectual displacement since the Enlightenment? If you are a believing Christian, there is no problem: the truth has made you free. That is also Islam's answer. Cultures rise and ebb; Gibbon ironically viewed the fall of the Roman Empire as Christianity's fault. Since the American Empire is only ostensibly Christian, our eventual decline and fall will have to be ascribed to some different culprit. Chinese and Indians work harder than we do, while Europeans increasingly evade labor. Norwegians, French, and many other nationalities notoriously embrace absenteeism. Was Christianity's concealed persistence a kind of work ethic, inherited from the hard existence of Judea? We still identify capitalism with Protestantism, and Puritan ideas pervade our market economy. Business leadership in the United States is an oddly pragmatic blend of American Jesus and Machiavelli.

For me, the reason Yahweh keeps getting passed over is that he is a singularly difficult god to deal with—and an all too human one as Bloom argues extensively. Even his name—given as YHWH in ancient Hebrew—is a kind of cruel joke, indicating that he will be where he wants to be and not where he doesn't, a far cry from the omnipresence attributed to his Trinitarian descendant God the Father.

I like Donald Akenson's cheerful remark "I cannot believe that any sane person has ever liked Yahweh." But as Akenson adds, that is irrelevant, since Yahweh is reality. I would go a touch further and identify Yahweh with Freud's "reality-testing," which is akin to the Lucretian sense of the way things are. As the reality principle, Yahweh is irrefutable. We are all going to have to die, each in her or his turn, and I cannot agree with Jesus' Pharisaic belief in the resurrection of the body. Yahweh, like reality, has quite a nasty sense of humor, but bodily resurrection is not one of his Jewish or Freudian jokes.

This idea that Yahweh is reality is the most thought-provoking of the book, well worth the price of admission, and even better than Bloom's literary comparisons of Yahweh to King Lear and Jesus to Prince Hamlet. Thinking of God as simply the expression of "the way things are" puts the whole "why do bad things happen to good people" question into a new perspective, and to think of Yahweh as a literary character who embodies that spirit makes me almost willing to run off and read the Old Testament just to see how well that interpretation stands up.

In fact, using this interpretation as my model, a few pages later when Bloom writes, "If you have lost your grandparents in the German death camps, are you to trust a Yahweh who must be either powerless or uncaring?" I respond with, no, Yahweh is not powerless or uncaring. He is POWERFUL AND UNCARING. He acts according to his own devices, not ours. He is Melville's white whale.

And if that is Yahweh, then maybe Jesus is ultimately an attempt to repair that harsh reality and to offer God's humble creations some sort of solace. Bloom questions:

How can what is so far beyond us also love us? The Christian answer has to be the Atonement, in which the embodiment of God's love for the world and its people accepts sacrifice as the only mode of reconciling God with them, and so forgiving them for every sin, Adam's onward.

But using this conceit I say that Yahweh didn't sacrifice himself as Jesus to save us from our sins, he did it to punish himself for his own sin of creation. Only by becoming one with the suffering he had caused can the Creator be reconciled with his creation. And such a reconciliation can only truly be realized if Jesus actually died on the Golgotha cross, never to rise again.

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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.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK TWO:

THE FORGOTTEN TEMPLE

When Sir Gildegarde Brisbane II had been a Knight of Farchrist for three years, he was asked to speak to some of the boys at the King’s School, to show them an example of what their school could produce and to tell the boys the joys and privileges of the knighthood. Brisbane instantly accepted the invitation and the next day went down into Raveltown to carry out this most important mission. When his talk was finished and he had answered all the boys’ questions, he made his way through the streets of the city, back to the castle. But before he left Raveltown he saw a girl, a young peasant woman of such astounding beauty that he pretended to have lost his way just so he could ask her for directions. He introduced himself as Sir Gildegarde Brisbane II. She said her name was Amanda.

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On the fourth day it was obvious that they had left the Windcrest Hills behind them and were entering the southern arm of the Crimson Mountains. The land was getting much more rugged and, although the slope stayed fairly even and gradual along the bank of the Mystic, they soon found themselves surrounded by ever increasing hills with sharper and sharper peaks. They were truly mountains.

Brisbane was pleasantly surprised when he woke up to find Stargazer in his arms. He had not remembered her entrance in the middle of the night. His movements woke her up and she gently kissed him on the lips and mumbled a good morning in his ear. They were alone in the tent, the others distributed among the other tents and, for the moment, Brisbane forgot they were traveling with other people.

Stargazer stood up and stretched. She was wearing only a thin nightshirt and Brisbane lay still as he marveled at the shape of her body and the curves of her figure. There was a tightness in the crotch of his trousers he couldn’t pass off entirely on the need for morning urination. Stargazer was a gentle, beautiful woman who Brisbane loved and respected, but as he lay there watching her breasts rise and fall as she stretched, he realized part of him didn’t care about love or respect or compatibility. Part of him wanted her sexually, and that part wanted to act on those feelings now.

Stargazer saw him ogling her and she called a playful shame on him. Brisbane smiled but did not look away. Stargazer pulled on a pair of trousers before going out and, just for a split-second, when Stargazer pulled the pants up to her waist and the hem of her nightshirt danced up to her belly, Brisbane caught a glimpse of the curly patch of her pubic hair.

It’s honey-blonde, Brisbane thought, just like the hair on her head, it’s honey-blonde. Saner men have been driven mad by less than that. He lay for a long time alone in the tent, feeling his heart pound in his chest and watching images of himself and Stargazer, their bodies entwined in a sexual embrace, on the insides of his eyelids.

Brisbane thought about those moments now as the little group continued its weary march up the Mystic, and as he thought about it, he noticed he had two voices echoing in his head. One voice, the louder and more confident one, was telling him he had it made. It was only a matter of time. Stargazer loved him and if he was patient and careful, it wouldn’t be long before she told him so and not long after that before they had more personal reasons to be alone in a separate tent at night. This first voice was sure of it. But Brisbane could not deny the presence of a second voice, softer, yes, but somehow more insidious and swaying. This voice said Stargazer was teasing him, that she was too mature for an inexperienced boy like him and there was no way she could love him as a woman loved a man. Besides, the second voice said, even if she does consent to make love with you, what are you going to say when she takes off your shirt and she sees the five-pointed star you wear around your neck?

Suddenly Brisbane realized this was the crux of the whole problem, this was what he feared about him and Stargazer getting closer. How is Stargazer going to deal with his connection to magic? She said she would tolerate Roystnof because she knew Brisbane cared about him, and because there was no visible evidence he had corrupted Brisbane in any way. But there was evidence. Stargazer just hadn’t seen it. There was his silver medallion, yes, but more importantly there was shocking grasp and the few cantrips Roystnof had taught him.

Brisbane wondered how Stargazer would treat him if she knew he was able to do magic, because that was exactly what he was able to do. It had been nearly a year since he had cast shocking grasp onto that hotel chair, and even longer since he had done his last cantrip, but Brisbane knew he could, at any time, do one of them again as if there had never been a break in his training. The knowledge was burned into him and he was as sure of it as he was about his own name. If Stargazer ever found out about this ability, Brisbane could expect no better treatment from her than that she gave Dantrius. Worse, Brisbane realized, because she would not only hate him for his magic, but she would hate him because he had betrayed her trust.

All of these thoughts left Brisbane in a very poor mood and he spent most of the day’s march away from the others, walking through the smudgy remains of depression. Shortwhiskers and Stargazer had both come over to try and cheer him up, and although he was not rude about it, Brisbane made it clear he would rather be left alone for a while. He walked with his head down for the most part, not wanting to look up in case anyone was looking at him. Brisbane would have had trouble meeting even Dantrius’ eyes that day.

It was late in the afternoon and they were deep into the Crimson Mountains themselves when Brisbane, still looking down, caught out of the corner of his eye the sight of one of his companions coming over to him. He began to run potential excuses through his head, but when he saw the red and black garments of Roystnof approaching, he stopped such activity and looked up to meet him.

“Hello,” Roystnof said with hesitation in his voice.

“Hello,” Brisbane said warmly, hoping to put everything aside and talk to Roystnof like the old friends they were.

“I take it something’s troubling you,” Roystnof said. “Would you like to talk about it?”

With that simple statement, direct as it was, Brisbane saw in Roystnof the friend that had always been there. The friend who knew him better than anyone and around whom Brisbane could be completely himself. He knew, whether he talked about his problems or not, Roystnof would always be there when Brisbane needed him.

Brisbane quickly thought about his problems with Stargazer and realized he would need, even with Roystnof, some time to collect his thoughts and prepare what he was going to say. His was just too uncertain about the whole thing.

“It’s kind of involved,” Brisbane said. “I still need some time to think. Can we talk about it later?”

“Of course,” Roystnof said. “I understand.”

Something in the way Roystnof said that made Brisbane think his friend already had guessed most of what his problem was.

Roystnof did not walk away.

Brisbane acted on a hunch. “Did you want to talk about something, Roy?”

Roystnof looked as if he was surprised but then turned serious. “Actually, yes there is, Gil. I was hoping I could bend your ear.”

Brisbane smiled, more than happy to serve in this capacity. “I’ve got two. Go right ahead.”

Roystnof smiled back and the sight of it made Brisbane immensely pleased. “It’s Dantrius,” the wizard said. “Frankly, he’s beginning to scare me. I am beginning to see why you tried to warn me about him. I know I said I could handle him, but now…now I am no longer sure.”

“What happened?” Brisbane asked. He was surprised at Roystnof’s confession. In his eyes, the two wizards had been getting along as well as they ever had.

“This whole trip happened,” Roystnof said sardonically. “I’m sure you’ve noticed Dantrius hasn’t been the easiest person to get along with so far.”

“He’s a pest,” Brisbane said.

“Yes,” Roystnof said. “Yes, he is. But I don’t understand why he is. He wasn’t like this back in Queensburg when we were studying together. He wasn’t exactly a loving companion, but at least he was cooperative. Now, he acts like everyone is in his way.”

“Nobody wants him along, Roy. We all agreed because you wanted him.”

“I know, I know,” Roystnof said. “We wanted to try out what we had taught each other under real circumstances. It seemed like the perfect opportunity.”

“What exactly did you teach each other?” Brisbane asked.

Roystnof looked around. Dantrius was well out of earshot. “This is what’s really bothering me,” Roystnof said. “In Queensburg, I thought we were exchanging knowledge equally. But now, I get the feeling Dantrius has been holding back on me.”

That was the third time Roystnof had called the mage Dantrius. Brisbane was glad he was no longer using Illzeezad. “How do you mean?” Brisbane asked.

“I mean,” Roystnof said, “I don’t think Dantrius has taught me all he knows about magic.”

“Have you?” Brisbane asked.

Roystnof looked at the ground. “Foolishly, I think I have. Back in Queensburg he had free run of my red book and I answered any questions he had to the best of my ability. I felt obligated to do so, after all, I expected the same service in return.”

Roystnof looked back at Brisbane. “But Dantrius has no spell book. At first I found that a bit odd. Even you know the importance—” He cut himself off suddenly.

“Roy, what’s the matter?”

Roystnof answered slowly. “I’m sorry, Gil. I’m not taking your feelings into account. You’re the one who I should have let examine my book. I know things have seemed different lately, but I still consider you to be my apprentice.” His eyes suddenly went wide. “I can’t believe I’ve really neglected you for so long. I can’t imagine what you must have thought all winter long with me and Dantrius holed up in the cabin. I’m sorry, Gil, I’m…”

Roystnof trailed off and seemed to stare off into the space in front of him. Brisbane quickly checked to see that Stargazer hadn’t heard what he had said and then turned back to his friend.

“Roy,” Brisbane said. “Get a hold of yourself. I’m not mad at you. I’ve neglected my training as much, if not more, than you have. It’s no one’s fault, really. I just kind of fell away from it. First Angelika comes to me and then Ignatius leaves the group, it was better for the party that I put magic on hold for a while. It’s okay, really.”

Roystnof was still staring off into space. “Oh yes. Angelika.”

Brisbane clapped Roystnof on the back. “Who knows? When this trip is over, maybe I can take up my training again.”

Not if Allie has anything to do with it. You know that, Gil.

Roystnof seemed to come back to himself. “Yes, maybe you will. But Dantrius is our problem now. As I said, Dantrius has no spell book, it’s all up in his head, and I’m beginning to see that what’s up there could fill a dozen of my red books.”

“Then he did teach you some of his magic?” Brisbane asked.

Roystnof nodded. “Or so it seemed. But now, I fear he has told me only the uppermost fringes of his knowledge. It is like an iceberg I have only seen the tip of. Like the spell he used yesterday, the one against the orks, where he duplicated himself.”

“I remember,” Brisbane said.

“Well, as I said, Dantrius’ magic seems to be based on illusion and creating duplicate images of oneself is basic stuff in his order of magic. With the little I have actually gotten out of him, I am sure I could do it myself. But my images would be just images, and I would still be real among them. An attack against me, even with my images still standing, would certainly kill me. What Dantrius did, mixing his life force among the images so he would always be retained in the last one, is leagues beyond anything he has taught me. It is illusion, yes, but it is illusion bordering on its own reality.”

“Maybe he lied,” Brisbane offered. “Maybe it was just chance that he was the last one standing.”

“Maybe it was,” Roystnof agreed. “But would you rely on a chance like that when your life was on the line? Remember how smug he was when you were chopping down his images? Would you be that confident on a one in three chance?”

Brisbane shook his head. No, he would not. Dantrius was either able to manipulate his life force as he had claimed, or he was the world’s ultimate gambling man.

Or, Brisbane thought, he was crazier than a shithouse rat.

“I wouldn’t either,” Roystnof said. “I believe he did just what he said he did, and I believe he has kept a large amount of knowledge from me.”

“Okay,” Brisbane said. “So he deceived you. What happens now?”

“I’m not sure,” Roystnof said. “But this is why I wanted to talk to you. Everything Dantrius has done so far is in the past, and there is nothing we can do about it. But what worries me is what he’s going to do in the future.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve seen how he’s been acting,” Roystnof said. “He’s been separating himself from the group. Not just from you and Nog and Miss Stargazer, he’s always been apart from you, but from me as well. Back in Queensburg, I was a sort of confidant for him, but now, it seems like he wants nothing to do with me.”

Brisbane did not like the sound of that. “Do you think he’s up to something?”

Roystnof became very serious. “I’ll tell you what I do think, Gil. I think Dantrius is done with me. I think he knows he’s gotten all he’s going to get out of me, and now that I’m no longer of any use to him, he’s tossed me aside and he’s just biding his time until he can leave us all completely.”

Brisbane considered it. It did make sense in the light of Dantrius’ current actions. Especially if what Roystnof said about his own estrangement from the mage was true. But Brisbane was not sure what the problem was. Dantrius had certainly used Roystnof, and Brisbane was angry about that, but as Roystnof had said, that was in the past. Presently, if Dantrius wanted to leave their party, Brisbane had no problem with that. Nobody wanted him here anyway, and as far as Brisbane was concerned, Dantrius could take his share of the ork gold and leave.

“So?” Brisbane said. “Let him go. What are you so worried about?”

“I’m worried about what he might try to do before he leaves,” Roystnof said. “You don’t know him like I do, Gil.”

“Now, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Roystnof looked around at the others again. Brisbane did not like to see him do that. It was as if he was some kind of insane paranoid.

“It means,” Roystnof said, “that you don’t know him like I do. He’s an evil man, Gil, he really is. He worships Damaleous.”

“What?” Brisbane was taken aback.

“It’s true,” Roystnof said. “He believes that’s where his power comes from. At first he assumed I worshipped the Evil One, too. I tried to tell him I get my power from within, and I tried to show him he could do the same, but he would have nothing to do with it. It quickly became a subject neither of us would discuss. I have my beliefs and he has his.”

“He actually worships Damaleous?” Brisbane asked. “How? What does he do?”

“He meditates a lot,” Roystnof said. “Sits in one spot and closes his eyes for long periods of time. I asked him what he was doing once and he said he was communing with his master.”

“His master? You mean Damaleous?”

“I would assume so,” Roystnof said. “He says he needs those little sessions to recharge his powers. His master evidently bestows his power on him during this meditation. Because of this, he doesn’t need a spell book. He says his master rewards him with greater and greater powers for the work he does here on earth.”

“That sounds like my stepfather,” Brisbane said. “I was taught that was how all wizards operated. Until I met you, that’s what I believed.”

“I know,” Roystnof said. “And that’s what troubles me. I have denied the existence of gods my entire life and worked my magic powers up through years of research, sweat, and dedication to my craft. All I have learned I set down in my red book because it is too much for one man to remember. I could still work magic without my book, but I would not be the wizard I am now.

“This is the nature of magic, this is how I have come to perceive magic to be. It comes with my personal experience with the magical force and I am positive this and this alone is the true representation of magic in our reality. But now along comes Illzeezad Dantrius, who breaks all the rules I thought magic adhered to. He has never studied it. He has never researched anything. To him, magic is a prize, a reward given by his god, Damaleous, for doing evil works upon the earth. And he is twice the wizard I will ever be. It is a situation I cannot logically accept.”

Brisbane was not sure what to say. “You don’t think Dantrius really gets his power from Damaleous, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Roystnof said. “At this point I am willing to say he might.”

“But it could be something else.”

“It could be many things,” Roystnof said. “The force of magic could just be stronger in him than it is in you or me. His magic is mostly illusionary, so it could operate under different restrictions. It could even be something he eats on a regular basis, but none of that really matters. What matters is that Dantrius believes his power comes from Damaleous and I have no proof to tell him otherwise.”

“And now you’re worried about what evil acts he might do to increase his power.”

“Yes,” Roystnof said. “There’s no telling what he may do. We’re going to have to watch him very closely. For all of our own good.”

Brisbane had already seen the need to watch Dantrius closely. Shortwhiskers had taught him that much. “Why don’t we just get rid of him? Force him out of the group?”

Roystnof shook his head. “Too dangerous. He’s a ticking bomb now. There’s no need to shorten the fuse. Besides, I very much doubt we could prevent him from following us short of killing him. And that would probably be much harder than we might think. No, I believe the only way to proceed is to keep him in a place where we can exert some control over him. Once this adventure is finished, and we are out of the wilds, there will be no more reason for his company among us and we can more easily turn him loose on the rest of the world.”

Brisbane wasn’t so sure about that logic, but he realistically did not see any other way to go about it. He was glad Roystnof had come to him with this dilemma, but he knew Dantrius wasn’t just his problem, he was everyone’s problem. He looked up ahead and saw the thin frame of the mage. Shortwhiskers and Stargazer were walking apart from him. Brisbane thought about everything Roystnof had told him about the mage, the way he had used Roystnof, the extent of his power, and the habits of his religious life, and Brisbane realized that none of it surprised him. He had known it all along, known it deep down in his heart. Illzeezad Dantrius was no good and he liked hurting people.

“Well,” Roystnof said, interrupting Brisbane’s thoughts. “I guess that’s all I have to say except that I’m sorry I’ve forgotten about you lately. I hope we can be close again.”

“Roy,” Brisbane said. “Cut it out. We’ll always be close. Don’t worry about me.”

Roystnof smiled. “Super. Now, are you sure you don’t want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

Brisbane thought about his problem with Stargazer. He still wasn’t sure how he could phrase it properly, but he had begun to have the sneaking suspicion that one day he was going to have to choose between love and magic. He did not yet fully realize that this choice would manifest itself as a choice between Stargazer and Roystnof.

“It’s Allison,” Brisbane said. “I don’t know. I’m just really confused about where we stand.”

Roystnof nodded knowingly. “Ah, yes,” he said. “That is a delicate situation.”

“What do you think I should do?” Brisbane asked.

“Well,” Roystnof said. “Do you know how you feel about her? Could you describe it to her in, say, three words?”

Brisbane wasn’t sure what Roystnof was talking about but then he caught the gleam in the wizard’s eye. “You think I should just tell her?”

Roystnof put a hand on Brisbane’s shoulder. “I think you should just tell her.”

“But…” Brisbane could say no more aloud. To himself, he said, but what am I going to do when she finds out what I’ve been hiding from her? How can I deal with the hate she will surely feel for me? How can I let myself be something for her I’m not?

“But what, Gil?”

Brisbane shook his head miserably. “Nothing. It just seems kind of sudden.”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Brisbane thought about it. Yes, it was the truth. He did love Stargazer and telling her that would not be a lie.

“I’ll do it,” Brisbane said.

“Grand,” Roystnof said. “Shall I go tell her you wish to speak with her?”

“No!” Brisbane shouted. “I mean, I’ll find my own time to tell her.”

Roystnof gave another of his knowing smiles. “Okay. Just be sure you do find the time.”

“Oh, I will.”

Brisbane meant it and, surprisingly enough, he thought the perfect time came at the end of that day, after the march, after the evening meal, and after the camp had been set up on the bank of the dwindling Mystic River among the growing Crimson Mountains. He thought the perfect time came when they settled down for a night’s rest, having both eluded watch duty and again sharing the same tent. The perfect time came and the perfect time went.

That night turned out to be a whole lot different than the one before it because instead of Stargazer joining him after he had already fallen asleep, they were both awake and had to fall asleep at the same time.

Stargazer quickly went about undressing and putting on her sleeping clothes and Brisbane dumbly followed in a slow mimicry of her actions. He would leave most of his clothes on, he decided, as he was too embarrassed to go much farther, removing only his armor and boots before slipping under the blankets. Stargazer, however, would sleep only in her long nightshirt, but she donned it in such a way that Brisbane saw little of her naked flesh.

“Allie?” he asked as she slipped under the covers beside him, still planning on telling her how he felt.

“Yes?” Stargazer murmured, cuddling close.

Brisbane did not know how to begin. “What’s happening here?” After he had said it, he decided that it was a bad way to start.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said. “Please don’t take offense, but why are you sleeping with me?”

Ouch, Brisbane thought. If I keep saying moronic things like that I’m never going to get through this.

Stargazer hugged him tighter. “Because there’s so much of you to keep me warm. And Nog snores.”

This was not going in the direction he wanted it to go. “No, seriously, Allie.” He took a deep breath. “What’s going on between us?”

Stargazer was silent.

“Allie?”

“Gil, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

Oh, oh, Brisbane thought, here it comes.

“I like you a lot and I feel safe around you. I guess those are the two main reasons why I want to share a tent with you out here. But if you’re thinking about starting something physical between us, I’m not ready for it. I’m flattered and I’m not saying it will never happen, but I’m not ready for it. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, I can.”

Stargazer rested her head on his chest. “Do you remember the night we spent together in the Shadowhorn?”

“I do.”

“Did you feel something special happen that night?”

Brisbane had. He had never felt so comfortable in his life before that night. There was something different about the way he felt that night from any of the other nights he had spent with Stargazer since. In a moment he realized that it was because he neither wanted nor expected any sexual contact with her that night.

“I did.”

“So did I,” Stargazer said. “And I still feel it. I just want to savor it a little longer before we move onto something else. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now go to sleep,” she demanded.

They lay quietly together for some time.

“Allie?”

“Yes?”

“I like you a lot, too.”

It was all he was able to say that night, but in a way, he thought it was enough.

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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.

Wise Blood by Flannery O’Connor

This one definitely needs a re-read.

I was looking for something to do, and came across an online course on YouTube: The American Novel Since 1945, taught in 2008 by Professor Amy Hungerford of Yale University. I looked at the books included in the syllabus, recognizing some that I had already read and others that I wanted to read, and I thought: “Hey, wouldn’t it be fun if I took this course (i.e., watched these videos and read the books discussed at the same time)?”

Wise Blood by Flannery O’Connor was one of those books.

The only thing I knew about Flannery O’Connor was that he (turns about he’s a she) is mentioned in that Grayson Capps song I like: A Long Song for Bobby Long.

And I didn’t get much out of the book. It struck me as one of those allegorical tales in which the allegory is so abstract, or at least so specific to the author’s time and place, that it comes off the page as a story that actually doesn’t make any sense. I mean, I know the broken down car represents something. But what does it represent? And why?

Well, the online lecture helped me break the code, and now I want to read it again to see all the things I missed. 

Let’s just leave the summary on the back cover here as a placeholder. 

Wise Blood, Flannery O’Connor’s astonishing and haunting first novel, is a classic of twentieth-century literature. It is the story of Hazel Motes, a twenty-two-year-old caught in an unending struggle against his inborn, desperate fate. He falls under the spell of a “blind” street preacher named Asa Hawks and his degenerate fifteen-year-old daughter, Sabbath Lily. In an ironic, malicious gesture of his own non-faith, and to prove himself a greater cynic than Hawks, Hazel Motes founds the Church Without Christ, but is still thwarted in his efforts to lose God. He meets Enoch Emery, a young man with “wise blood,” who leads him to a mummified holy child and whose crazy maneuvers are a manifestation of Hazel’s existential struggles. This tale of redemption, retribution, false prophets, blindness, blindings, and wisdom gives us one of the most riveting characters in American fiction.

When I do get around to reading it again, I’ll be sure to watch these videos first:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PjplQUPhES4

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COzAb8FyIis

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

Terms of Endearment by Larry McMurtry

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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I think I like Larry McMurtry. I've read enough of him now that I feel safe in making that assessment. I like the way he incorporates poignant commentary about life into the fabric of his stories, like:

Rosie tried to smile but wanted to cry. Seeing Emma sitting there, so trusting and goodhearted, such a happy-looking young woman, filled her with memory suddenly, until she felt too full. She had come to the Greenway house two months before Emma was born, and it was all so strange, the way life went on and seemed the same even though it was always changing. It never quite slowed down so you could catch it, except by thinking back, and it left some people more important than others as it changed.

And:

Aurora put her hand on Vernon's arm. Life was such a mystery, and such a drama. She had just seen two grown women moved to tears by the sight of the pale bandaged hulk of Royce Dunlup. Few bodies could have contained less of human grace than Royce's, it seemed to her, and she could find nothing at all to say about his spirit, since in her presence he had never shown any. Royce was as near to being a human zero as she had encountered, and yet her own Rosie, a woman of morality and good sense, was ruining several Kleenex over him as she and Vernon watched.

"I better tell her he can have his job back," Vernon said.

"Oh, be still," Aurora said. "You can't cure all the ills of humankind with your jobs, you know. You'd do better to cure a few of your own and let the rest of us flounder."

This is a book that is really two books, and they are two very different ones. The first book is called "Emma's Mother" and is 363 pages long. It takes place in 1962 and Aurora is the protagonist. The second book is called "Mrs. Greenway's Daughter" and is only 53 pages long. It takes place between 1971 and 1976 and Emma is the protagonist. Book I is about Aurora and her less-than-serious search for a good man from among a variety of doting suitors. Book II is about the mistakes she has made in her life and the way her existence narrows through a battle with cancer. Book I has a lot of dialogue and day by day descriptions of activity important and frivolous. Book II is more retrospective, meaningful scenes played out in between stretches of narrative summary. Book I makes you laugh. Book II makes you cry.

You've probably guessed that I liked Book II better than Book I. The highlight of Book I (for me) was Chapter XIII, which takes a departure from Aurora to tell the story of Royce Dunlup and his dim-witted actions when he discovers that his wife (whom he has left to shack up with another woman) is out on a date with two other men. The chapter reminds me of a lot of other McMurtry that I've read and I've liked—with well-drawn characters acting in ways you wouldn't but in ways that make total sense for them. The characters are by-and-large dumb, and McMurtry is at times clearly writing for comedic effect, but the characters are real and true to themselves in a way that's refreshing.

The title of the book is taken from a paragraph late in Book II, when Emma and her husband Flap, knowing that Emma is going to die, argue about who is going to raise their three children. They've been estranged for some time, both having affairs with other people.

They looked at one another, trying to know what to do. Flap's cheeks had thinned, but he still had something of his old look, part arrogant, part self-deprecating—though the arrogance had worn thin after sixteen years. Somehow that look had won her, though she couldn't remember, looking at him, what the terms of endearment had been, or how they had been lost for so long. He was a thoughtful but no longer an energetic man, and he had never been really hopeful.

This is a good description of many of the relationships in the book. These characters have ties that bind them together, even if they have forgotten long ago what those ties are.

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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.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK TWO:

THE FORGOTTEN TEMPLE

Gildegarde Brisbane II took to his Knighthood like a fish takes to water. In the first year of his service he spent more time in the field than he did at the Castle, scouring the land for monsters and enemies of the King. In a short time, his reputation grew to fantastic proportions and even those who thought he had lucked out in life due to his birthright began to find respect for him. Many wondered when his quest for victory would end and, as accomplishment piled on top of accomplishment, they began to think of him as invincible. But all this was not done without reason. Brisbane had a plan, and these adventures in the field were part of it. He was training himself in battle, not against men, but against monsters. For when he felt he had gained enough skill, he fully intended to ride to Dragon’s Peak and take on Dalanmire, the monster who had killed his father and raped his land.

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The journey continued south at dawn. As the third day wore on, the Crimson Mountains loomed closer and the party eventually left the Windcrest Hills and entered the beginning foothills of the mountain range.

Brisbane, more so than usual, avoided all contact with Dantrius, seriously worried about what the mage might do. Physically, he was no match for Brisbane and even a sneak attack from him would most likely fall in Brisbane’s favor. But it was Dantrius’ magic which Brisbane feared. Roystnof had said Dantrius was just as powerful a wizard, if not more, as he was, although Dantrius’ magic was of a different nature. Brisbane thought about the level of power Roystnof had at his command, the lightning bolts especially, and then shivered to imagine a power like that brought against him.

At one point during the third day of their journey, Brisbane told Shortwhiskers what had happened between him and Dantrius, interested in seeing what the dwarf’s reaction would be to Dantrius’ threat. Shortwhiskers laughed a great deal, obviously amused by what Brisbane had done with the burning log, but eventually he calmed down and was able to see the seriousness of the situation.

The threat did not sit well with Shortwhiskers, for he knew how devious Dantrius could be, but even so, he had trouble imagining this grudge being held for any great length of time. If someone had done that to him, Shortwhiskers said, he would probably be mad for a time, too, but eventually he would see the error of his ways and, after the pain had gone away, forgive the person. Of course, Shortwhiskers conjectured, if it had really been his turn to stand watch, he would have gotten up and done it in the first place. Shortwhiskers told Brisbane to try not to worry about it and together they would keep an eye on Dantrius.

Brisbane also told Stargazer about the situation and she seemed to agree for the most part with Shortwhiskers. It had perhaps been a foolish thing for Brisbane to do, she said, but she couldn’t imagine an ordinary person holding a serious grudge about it. But Stargazer also conceded that Dantrius was no ordinary person and, to him, revenge over things like this probably had a somewhat sweeter taste. She also advised Brisbane to sleep with one eye open.

Brisbane was walking off by himself considering what his friends had said when an unusual idea overcame him.

Angelika? he thought, reaching out to the consciousness living in his sword.

—Yes, young Brisbane?— came the immediate reply.

Brisbane was a bit surprised he had reached her. He had never initiated any contact with her before; she had always been the one to speak to him first. If he could reach her at any time and carry on conversations with her in his head, there was no telling what effect it would have on their already awkward relationship.

What do you think of all this? Brisbane thought.

—Fear not, young Brisbane. He cannot harm you while I am at your side. My eyes are always open. I can warn you of any action he might take against you.—

This did little to assuage Brisbane’s fears. Angelika, he thought, is Dantrius evil? The sword always seemed to know when evil was about.

—It is hard to tell with humans,— Angelika replied. —They are not creatures of pure good or pure evil like others in the universe. Dantrius is capable of doing evil.—

Angelika’s words bothered Brisbane and he began to feel ill as he always did when she spoke to him. There was something unnatural about the connection Brisbane didn’t like, something cold and alien.

Do you want to kill him? Brisbane thought.

Angelika’s reply was delayed. —In due time.—

Brisbane tried to break the connection, having some initial trouble coming away from her commanding presence, and had to concentrate much harder on coming back to himself. Eventually, he severed the link and Angelika fell from his mind. He immediately felt better, but he knew he would worry over what she had said for a long time to come.

But that was not the most disturbing thing that happened that day. As they followed the curves of the Mystic, they wove in and around a lot of hills, and the way ahead could often not be clearly seen. At regular intervals they sent someone up to the top of the closest hill to scout the area for possible unfriendlies. This quickly became a tiresome duty as no one spotted a potential threat to their safety since leaving Queensburg.

It was near the end of the day, and they were pushing ahead to cover some more distance before nightfall, when they rounded the contour of a hill and nearly stumbled into the midst of a large party of orks.

There was no hope to elude them; the orks spotted Brisbane and his friends immediately, and they all took up weapons and rushed at them. The orks were fearsome creatures, humanoid in appearance, the shortest being a full six feet, burly, and having ugly pig faces, complete with small tusks, atop their broad shoulders. Their skin color was a sickening brownish-green with their snouts and ears a tender shade of pink. They all wore sloppy suits of mismatched armor, were all armed with rusty swords, and each bore a round black shield with a single red eye painted upon it for decoration. There were eight of them in all.

Brisbane and his friends had no choice but to fight them. Shortwhiskers called out to Brisbane to follow him and he charged into battle, leaving the wizards and Stargazer behind. Brisbane unsheathed Angelika and joined the dwarf.

They crashed into combat with the two orks who led their own charge and were able to stop their forward progress. The other six, however, simply flowed around them and closed on the rest of the party. Brisbane was sure he couldn’t get them all, but Angelika encouraged him to concentrate on one at a time, and promised she would make sure each strike he made was a mortal one.

Brisbane thrust aside the attack of his opponent with his shield and thrust Angelika deep into the ork’s exposed abdomen. As he pulled his sword free and the ork collapsed to his knees. Brisbane swung Angelika again, for good measure, and nearly separated the ork’s head from his body. The ork fell over dead and Brisbane quickly turned back to the party.

What he saw amazed him. One ork already lay dead, his head charred and blackened as if it had been left in a fire. Two others were attacking Stargazer, but the woman was adequately fending them off with her long staff for the time being. The other three were standing in a moment of indecision as they faced what had amazed Brisbane more than anything else.

There was not one but five figures of Dantrius, five exact copies of Illzeezad Dantrius standing in a line, each with his fists on his hips and each laughing at the orks’ surprise. As the opponents stood there, Roystnof pointed his finger at one, sending a fiery missile out of his hand to crash into the head of the ork. The missile exploded and dropped him with nothing but a blackened stump above his neck.

Shortwhiskers finished off his ork and, with Brisbane, rushed back to the party to help. Stargazer cracked one of her combatants against the side of the head. The ork fell to the ground, dead or unconscious, and she slipped back into her defensive posture with the other ork. It was obvious to Brisbane she had used her staff in combat before. The metal hand that topped it made it a rather effective mace.

Each ork facing the five Dantriuses chose one and swung their rusty swords at the figures. The Dantriuses offered up no defense, still laughing with their fists planted on their hips. The ork blades passed effortlessly through the figures and they blinked out of existence. There now remained only three copies of Dantrius.

Brisbane and Shortwhiskers arrived and they cut down the two orks facing the Dantriuses. Roystnof turned and fired another of his magic missiles at the remaining ork on Stargazer. As with the others, the glowing arrow struck the unsuspecting ork and burst into a flash of fire, killing him instantly.

Brisbane could not believe it, but all eight orks lay dead at their feet and none of them had received so much as a scratch.

—The deed is done,— Angelika tolled in Brisbane’s head. —Praise Grecolus for his wisdom and Brisbane for his courage.—

The first thing Brisbane did after sheathing Angelika was to go over and see if Stargazer was all right. She assured Brisbane she was fine and Brisbane told her how surprised he was at the way she had used her staff.

“You’re not the only one who has gone off on adventures before,” she reminded him and gave him a hug.

Shortwhiskers came over to search the bodies of the orks. As he was checking the one Stargazer had smashed with her staff, he announced that he was not yet dead.

The rest of the party came over, Roystnof and the three copies of Dantrius, to decide what should be done. The ork was bleeding profusely from a nasty head wound, which was very messy and probably accompanied by a shattered skull.

“Put him out of his misery,” the three Dantriuses intoned as one, more disgust than compassion in their voices. “He’ll die soon anyway.”

Brisbane looked closely at the ork’s pig-like face and let his mind wander. This was the first time he had ever met any orks and he had said hello by killing them. This fact alone did not bother him so much. After all, it had been the orks who had initiated the aggression, but it left Brisbane a little upset at the way things worked in the world. All he knew about orks came from what he had heard people say about them, some of them reliable and some of them not. He had heard many conflicting stories about their nature, their origins, and their motivations. What it all boiled down to was that he knew almost nothing about orks, and what he did know was most likely hopelessly tainted by prejudice and unfounded opinion.

But now, here he was, participating in a vote to decide whether an ork should be killed or left to die what was probably many miles from home. The vote went around the circle, the dwarf making doubly sure Dantrius got only one vote for his three copies, and not one of them, not Shortwhiskers, not even Stargazer, suggested they try to help the wounded ork.

They all agreed to put the ork out of his misery and when the vote came to Brisbane, he only nodded his head and walked slowly away. They all moved on to explore the orkish campsite and left Shortwhiskers behind to finish the deed and to take any valuables the ork might have had.

“What’s the matter, Brisbane?” the three copies of Dantrius mocked. “Get squeamish at the sight of blood?”

Brisbane looked at the three men. “How long is that spell going to last, Dantrius? One of you is quite enough.”

“My magic powers can last forever,” they said with some pride. “This particular spell will last until someone strikes down my duplicates.”

Brisbane drew Angelika. “Do you mind if I have the honor?” he asked the Dantriuses. “I think I would derive some sort of symbolic pleasure from it.”

The three smirked. “I’m sure you would. Go right ahead.”

Brisbane swung Angelika in a great overhead arc and sliced her through one of the Dantriuses. The sword met no resistance and the figure vanished in the blink of an eye. Two Dantriuses remained.

“Very good,” the remaining two said. “You’re quite good at instilling fear in me.” Their tone was far from complimentary.

“One down,” Brisbane said as he stepped up to the next Dantrius.

The others in the party stood silently by as this little game went on. Brisbane thrust Angelika through the chest of one of the remaining figures, again meeting no resistance and dispelling the phantasm.

“Thank you very much,” Dantrius said. “You can put your sword away now.”

“Two down,” Brisbane chanted mechanically, ignoring Dantrius’ words. “And one to go.”

Brisbane brought Angelika up to strike the last Dantrius. Frightened, the mage let out a little squeal and skipped back a few paces. Brisbane, laughing at the joke he had played, brought his sword harmlessly down and sheathed her. Dantrius burned Brisbane with a look of utter hatred and was about to say something nasty when Roystnof stepped in.

“But how did you know he would save the real one for last?” he asked Dantrius. “What would have happened if Gil had struck the images in a different order?”

Dantrius turned away from Brisbane. For a moment he looked at Roystnof with a look of utter contempt on his face. If his glare could have spoken in that moment, Brisbane thought, it would have called Roystnof an ignorant fool and dismissed him like a backward child. But the look lasted for only a moment, and it was quickly replaced by a face exuding with friendship and equality.

“It’s worked into the spell,” Dantrius explained. “My life force is actually split between all the images. When one of the images is destroyed, my life force is redistributed amongst those remaining. When the second to last image is destroyed, my entire life force enters the final one. Simple.”

“Simple,” Roystnof repeated, obviously thinking the process was something more.

Dantrius began walking towards the ork campsite and Roystnof trotted after him. Brisbane looked around and saw Shortwhiskers watching the wizards leave.

“You know, Gil,” the dwarf said quietly. “I used to think Roystnof was about the smartest person on earth. But why he follows such a jackass around is beyond me. Doesn’t he see that Dantrius thinks he’s a fool?”

Brisbane shrugged. “I don’t know. Roy told me he knows what kind of snake Dantrius is, but they learn so much from each other that the relationship is worth it.”

Shortwhiskers spat. “If Roystnof still has things to learn, then we are all but school children.” He, too, then marched off in the direction of the ork campsite.

Stargazer came up to Brisbane and slipped her hand into his.

“I’m scared, Allie,” he said. “I really am. I’m afraid for our safety. That Dantrius is gray skies and some day he’s going to rain all over us.”

“He is an evil man, Gil,” she said, moving close to him. “Have you talked to Roystnof about him?”

“Yes,” Brisbane said. “He says he knows what he’s doing and that he can handle Dantrius.”

“I hope he’s right,” Stargazer said.

Brisbane looked down into Stargazer’s face. “Allie,” he said. “Have you changed your mind about Roy? I mean, about his magic?”

Stargazer looked down at the ground. “I’m not sure, Gil. Since I’ve met you I’ve re-examined a lot of things I used to take for granted. I believe this is a healthy thing for me to do and, in most cases, it has only reinforced my faith in Grecolus. Your friend Roystnof, however, is still something that puzzles me. You say he does not worship Damaleous and, objectively, his use of magic is the only proof I’ve seen that he does. I suppose, I’ve come to question the validity of that proof. I am not decided. But even if Roystnof is a servant of evil, I sincerely hope no harm comes to him because I know you love him.”

Brisbane looked off in the distance at Roystnof. “I do love him,” he said, the words coming out of him with little control. “With the exception of Dantrius, I think I love everyone here.”

Stargazer eyed him sheepishly for a moment and then smiled wide. “Come on,” she said, starting to pull him along. “Let’s go catch up with the others.”

Looking back on it, Brisbane was pleased with Stargazer’s reaction to his roundabout admission of his love for her. He hadn’t meant to say it, but he was not unhappy he had. Although she hadn’t come right out and say she loved him, too, the indications were positive. She could have done any number of things to dispel from his mind any delusion he might have had about her loving him, but she hadn’t done any of them. Brisbane thought that was a good sign.

The search of the ork campsite was quickly conducted and it profited little of any worth. Shortwhiskers had turned up a few gold pieces on the bodies of the orks, and the campsite yielded a few more to his trained eyes, but nothing of any shocking value. But even this small amount of treasure was enough to set off an argument from Dantrius, who thought all gain should be divided among the party members immediately. Shortwhiskers, who was so used to packing what was found on the mules to be split up at a more convenient time, was actually accused of thievery by the quick-tempered mage. A long tirade between the two followed, comprised mostly of name-calling, and lasted until Roystnof put his foot down and demanded that the two pipe down before they brought the whole of the ork nation down upon them. Roystnof quickly called for a vote on the matter and all but Dantrius agreed to let Shortwhiskers collect the coins to be divided up later. Again, Dantrius was forced to drop his argument.

Also found in the ork camp was a small keg of ale which Shortwhiskers tasted and declared unfit for consumption, even by sewer rats. Brisbane noticed the dwarf lashed it to one of the mules anyway.

Brisbane asked Shortwhiskers what he thought orks were doing so close to the Mystic and the dwarf postulated that perhaps they were some sort of scouting party.

“Scouting for what?” Brisbane asked.

Shortwhiskers shrugged. “Slaves, maybe.”

“Slaves?”

Shortwhiskers nodded. “Oh yes. Orks are real big on slaves. They use them for all kinds of things. One of their favorite things to do with captured slaves is to torture them to death and then eat them.”

Brisbane’s stomach lurched. “They eat people?”

Shortwhiskers looked up at Brisbane. “Well, what did you think they did with the people they captured? And why do you think they keep capturing new ones? Orks have big appetites. I hear they like elf meat the best but it’s too hard to find.”

A strange mix of images flared up in Brisbane’s mind, all leaning on a cannibalistic theme. He thanked Shortwhiskers for the information and quickly walked away from the dwarf with one hand on his stomach.

Sunset was upon them but no one wanted to bed down in the same place the orks had been, especially with their dead bodies nearby, so they pushed on for an extra mile or two before setting up camp for the night. Brisbane drew no watch that night so he went to bed right after the evening meal and a cup of the ale declared unfit for rodents.

He was tired and fell asleep almost immediately, but before he did he spent some time in a half-awake half-asleep state where dreams are most disguised as reality. He thought about orks while in this state, their large humanoid bodies and their pig faces crowded around him in numbers unheard of. They eat human flesh, Shortwhiskers had said and Brisbane saw hundreds of them swarm out of the hills to descend upon Queensburg and drag screaming victims off to their skewer knives and fire pits. He saw the eight they had killed rise up and scream out at the injustice of their deaths, scrambling around frantically, begging for another chance to redeem themselves.

And lastly, before he fell completely asleep, Brisbane saw a single huge ork come walking over the hills, his head in the clouds and one great eye burning like a red beacon in the center of his brow, and crush each of the reborn orks beneath his massive feet.

Brisbane awoke briefly in the middle of the night, when Stargazer crawled into the tent after her watch, but he had already forgotten these images. Stargazer snuggled close to Brisbane, resting her head on his chest and draping a slender arm over his body.

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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.

Allow Me To Retort by Elie Mystal

This was a refreshing read.

Our Constitution is not good. It is a document designed to create a society of enduring white male dominance, hastily edited in the margins to allow for what basic political rights white men could be convinced to share. The Constitution is an imperfect work that urgently and consistently needs to be modified and reimagined to make good on its unrealized promises of justice and equality for all.

That’s the opening paragraph of Mystal’s Introduction, and if you’re not on board with that premise, you’re not going to enjoy the rest of his book, deliberately subtitled “A Black Guy’s Guide to the Constitution.”

White supremacy runs consistently through Mystal’s analysis, especially as he goes through the amendments in the Bill of Rights, and exposes everything that is wrong with them (and a little bit about what can be done to fix them).

Let’s take a look at some of the highlights.

Everything You Know About the Second Amendment Is Wrong

There was an original purpose to the Second Amendment, but it wasn’t to keep people safe. It was to preserve white supremacy and slavery.

Here’s a history that I have never seen so explicitly told.

The Second Amendment is in the Constitution because Patrick Henry (Virginia’s governor at the time that the Constitution was being debated) and George Mason (the intellectual leader of the movement against the Constitution, the “anti-federalists”) won a debate against James Madison (the guy who wrote most of the Constitution and its original ten amendments). Henry and Mason wanted the Second Amendment in there to guard against slave revolts.

Although, overall, white Southerners outnumbered their enslaved populations, that numerical advantage did not hold in every region. In parts of Virginia, for instance, enslaved Black people outnumbered whites. Predictably, whites were worried about slave revolts because, you know, holding people in bondage against their will is not all that easy to do without numerical and military superiority. The principal way of quelling slave revolts was (wait for it): armed militias of white people. Gangs of white people roving around, imposing white supremacy, is nothing new.

That will give you a sense of the tone Mystal uses throughout the book -- a strange combination of militant anger with his tongue held in his cheek. It’s not lost on me, at least, that the book’s title, Allow Me To Retort, almost certainly comes from that iconic scene in Pulp Fiction in which Jules brings his “vengeance down upon thee.”

But, back to the history:

But the slavers worried that the new Constitution put the power of raising militias with the federal government and not with the individual states. That would mean that the federal government, dominated by Northerners, could choose to not help the South should their population of oppressed humans demand freedom.

In a May 2018 New York Times article, Professor Carl Bogus of Roger Williams University School of Law explained the argument like this:

“During the debate in Richmond, Mason and Henry suggested that the new Constitution gave Congress the power to subvert the slave system by disarming the militias. ‘Slavery is detested,’ Henry reminded the audience. ‘The majority of Congress is to the North, and the slaves are to the South.’”

Henry and Mason argued that because the Constitution gave the federal government the power to arm militias, only the federal government could do so: “If they neglect or refuse to discipline or arm our militia, they will be useless: the states can do neither -- this power being exclusively given to Congress.” Why would the federal government “neglect” a Southern militia? Henry and Mason feared the Northerners who “detested” slavery would refuse to help the South in the event of a slave uprising.

Madison eventually gave in to the forces of slavery and included the Second Amendment, along with his larger Bill of Rights.

So that’s how the Second Amendment found its way into the Constitution. As usual, in my googling around, I could find lots of references to the “fact” that James Madison included it to “placate various fears regarding the military, the balance of power between the federal and state governments, and the use of standing armies,” but almost no mention that those “fears” were based on the need to maintain white supremacy in the South.

Mystal may go on to explain why.

In 2008, Antonin Scalia wrote the majority opinion in District of Columbia v. Heller, the case where the Supreme Court created an individual right to own a gun for self-defense, for the first time in American history. Pay close attention to how Scalia whitewashes the nature of Henry and Mason’s reasons for wanting the Second Amendment to exist in the first place, as part of Scalia’s effort to sanitize the Amendment from its slavers’ rationale:

“The Antifederalists feared that the Federal Government would disarm the people in order to disable this citizens’ militia, enabling a politicized standing army or a select militia to rule. The response was to deny Congress the power to abridge the ancient right of individuals to keep and bear arms, so that the ideal of a citizens’ militia would be preserved.”

The original public purpose for a citizens’ militia was not some theoretical worry about standing armies or an idealized right of citizens’ militias to resist federal power. Instead the original purpose was a practical concern that the antislavery North would leave the South vulnerable to slave revolts. Scalia omits that rationale. And of course he has to. Because grounding the case for “self-defense” that satisfies the NRA’s permissiveness of shooting Black children walking home with Skittles, in an amendment designed to help slavers keep people in bondage, would be a little too on the nose. If Scalia told the truth about the original purpose of the Second Amendment, people might realize that the Second Amendment is illegitimate, or that looking to the original intentions of the people who wanted it is monstrous, or both.

As Mystal deftly points out, this obscuring of the original intent is necessary if the Second Amendment is going to survive under an originalist’s interpretation of the Constitution.

Now, one can argue that the Second Amendment has evolved, past its purely evil original intent, to encompass a right to self-defense. I’d be willing to hear such an argument, because I don’t think the Constitution means only what slavers and colonizers wanted it to mean. But conservatives won’t make that argument. Here we see another example where making the intellectually stronger argument doesn’t take conservatives where they want to go. If they accept that the Second Amendment has evolved to protect a different right than was originally intended, then they’d have to admit that gun restrictions can also evolve to better protect our modern society.

The Founders didn’t know that guns would be used in over half of the nation’s suicides. We know. The Founders didn’t know that guns would be used in over half of domestic partner homicides. We know. If the Second Amendment has evolved to incorporate the right to self-defense, surely it’s evolved to allow us to make it harder for people to kill themselves or their spouses.

But conservatives don’t want the Second Amendment to evolve, because they don’t actually have a problem with the original slavers’ purpose of the thing. If you gave these people a truth serum, they’d tell you that the Second Amendment is working “as intended.”

If you’re an originalist, you can't claim people have the right to self-defense if you don’t believe the right to self-defense is in the Second Amendment. But here’s where Mystal really brings his perspective on this issue home.

Which brings us back to the ammosexual in your life, caterwauling about how they need their gun for “self-defense.” Gun rights are not about self-defense. They literally never have been. Gun rights are about menacing, intimidating, and killing racial minorities, if necessary. That’s why Reagan and company had no problem restricting gun rights when the Black Panthers started to use them; that’s why the NRA never speaks up when a “law-abiding gun-owner” who happens to be Black is executed in the streets by a cop. The Second Amendment could be rewritten to say: “White Supremacy, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of white people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed,” without any appreciable difference to the laws and rights of gun ownership as currently experienced.

People think that the continued mass murder of innocent civilians will, one day, shake Republicans loose from the thrall of the NRA. That will not happen. Republicans will not make the killing stop, because they still think that near-unfettered access to guns is the only thing keeping them safe from Black people.

Attack Dogs Are Not Reasonable

I also learned a lot from Mystal’s chapter on the Fourth Amendment -- which evidently shouldn’t be about the Fourth Amendment at all.

But when it comes to police violence against Black people, justice, civility, and basic common sense are thrown out the window. The police have a license to kill Black people, as long as police argue that they were so afraid they wet themselves. Police are the only people whose own cowardice and hysteria can be used to justify an objective misreading of the facts. When and how much force a police officer is entitled to use is left almost entirely to the discretion of the police officer, which means my constitutional rights and physical safety hinge on whether a guy like Darren Wilson [police officer who killed Michael Brown in Ferguson, MO] is afraid I’ll use my big lips to suck in his soul from ten yards away.

That rule comes directly from the Supreme Court, in a 1989 case called Graham v. Connor. There, the Court ruled that a police officer’s use of force must be judged from the perspective of an officer at the scene of the crime or altercation. Graham v. Connor is why police officers always claim they “feared for their life” after they shoot somebody to death. Graham v. Connor is why those claims, no matter how ridiculous, make it difficult for good prosecutors to bring indictments against police officers, and easy for corrupt prosecutors to let their law enforcement buddies walk free.

Graham v. Connor is an interesting case for lots of reasons, but the biggest might be the switcheroo the Court performed on it -- swapping the initial Fourteenth Amendment claim being alleged for a Fourth Amendment one.

Graham in Dethorne Graham, a black man brutalized by North Carolina police officer M. S. Connor in 1984.

Graham filed a lawsuit against the police for excessive use of force, under the 1871 Civil Rights Act. That’s not a typo. The 1871 Civil Rights Act is, more or less, the statutory provision that makes the Fourteenth Amendment prohibition against racial discrimination a law, in the same way that the Volstead Act is what made the Eighteenth Amendment’s prohibition on alcohol a thing.

But instead of applying the Fourteenth Amendment to the case, the way Graham asked, then chief justice and hard-core conservative William Rehnquist decided that the Fourth Amendment was the proper principle under which to assess police misconduct. The Fourth Amendment prohibits “unreasonable search and seizure,” and Rehnquist only asked if Connor’s treatment of Graham was “reasonable” under that amendment, as opposed to a violation of Graham’s civil rights under the Fourteenth.

Mystal makes the point that this is the entirely wrong question to ask -- did the police officer act as any reasonable police officer would in the same circumstances -- especially given the special powers that police officers have in the system.

Judging the reasonableness of violence from the perspective of the officer who committed the violence, or the officer who witnessed the violence but did nothing to help, or even the alleged “good” cop who knows damn well that one of his colleagues is a violent hothead but does nothing to stop him, is the entirely wrong way to go. Police officers are agents of the state. They are authorized to have a monopoly of force: they can hit you but you can’t hit them back. They can execute on the street -- I mean they can literally impose the death penalty upon you without a fair trial or a right to appeal -- if they feel you’re a danger to others. Holding them to a standard somewhat beyond what they themselves think is reasonable is not too much to ask.

The Fourth Amendment does not say: “The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated … unless the state employs hysterical racists and cowards who are afraid of Black people, in which case failure to immediately comply with their unconstitutional orders is a capital offense.” The Fourth Amendment does not say that “only other police officers” can determine what a reasonable or unreasonable search and seizure really means. One does not judge what is “food” based on whether or not a dog will eat it.

And what’s especially refreshing in this chapter is Mystal’s proposed solution -- something he himself understands would be called “extreme” by most.

I favor a straight-up objective standard for cops. Their actions should be reasonable with 20/20 hindsight. They should look reasonable on a camera phone. They should appear reasonable to a crowd gathering around asking what the cops are doing. If the cop believes a person has a weapon, that person better damn sure objectively have a weapon. “Oops” is not a good enough answer from agents of the state who shoot Black people armed with cell phones.

And if the cop is objectively wrong or unreasonable, they should be prosecuted. We have a sliding scale of homicides and all other types of crimes, and there’s no reason we can’t apply such a thing to various levels of police violence. Maybe a cop who shoots “Hulk Hogan” after a fight catches a manslaughter charge, while a cop who shoots an unarmed man seven times in the back, as a Wisconsin police officer did to Jacob Blake, gets charged with attempted murder? Or maybe a cop who uses his gun to kill somebody gets murder, whereas one who merely chokes the life out of an unarmed Black man in broad daylight gets a reckless homicide charge? I can be reasonable about how long these violent police officers need to spend in jail. I am anti-carceral, after all. But the idea that a cop who kills or attacks somebody should walk away without punishment because other cops are just as violent and depraved is not a constitutional principle I accept.

This point of view may be extreme, but perhaps it is only more so when viewed from the place of fear that Graham v. Connor evidently enshrined in our society.

It’s Not Unusual to Be Cruel

Another eye-opener was the chapter on the Eighth Amendment -- the one against cruel and unusual punishments. In it, Mystal asks one of the most crucial questions about how it -- and the entire Constitution -- should be interpreted.

A standard as vague and subjective as “cruel and unusual” is one begging future generations to figure things out from themselves. In 1787 it was normal and appropriate to beat children with tree branches and condemn people for witchcraft. Now, we’re not supposed to do those things. Times change. Standards and practices change. The Eighth Amendment is a little bit of a “living constitution” written into the old parchment. It’s a facially subjective standard that can be applied to our own situation as we see fit.

Unfortunately, we share the country with people who will not let us have nice things. These people are called originalists, and they will not allow our polity to function rationally. They think the Constitution can be only as good as the worldview of the small-minded slavers and colonists who wrote it, and because of that they insist the death penalty must be constitutional.

This seems absolutely crucial to interpreting the Constitution. Does it mean what the people who wrote it think it means? Or does it mean what we, today, think it means? And what about the parts, like the Eighth Amendment, that seem to invite a contemporary interpretation?

To my mind, the Eighth Amendment is the cleanest battle to be had with originalists. It’s the easiest place to drop out all of the legalistic claptrap and doctrinal fencing to get down to the guts of the thing. The framers wrote something down. That something is vague. Originalists say that we can understand what they really meant by looking at what they did. I say I don’t give a fuck about what those depraved assholes actually did. I will stipulate that the people who wrote the Constitution had a sense of humanity that was so underdeveloped they could eat sandwiches while watching a man being hung from the neck until death. But so what? The Constitution does not require me, or my country, to be forever hobbled by their sociopathy.

And Mystal’s argument is supported by the many things we do in the world of crime and punishment that do not align with the thinking of these “depraved assholes” from the late eighteenth century.

Indeed, we are not hobbled by eighteenth-century thought bubbles when it comes to what we define as capital crimes. There’s no great accounting of how many crimes were punishable by death in America at the time the Constitution was ratified, because for the most part putting people to death was squarely in the purview of state law. But, at the time of the founding there were well over two hundred crimes punishable by death in England, including crimes as common as stealing and as nonserious as cutting down someone else’s tree. Over time, here in America, the states have been able to cull the number of offenses that could get a person executed, without the need of an entire constitutional amendment.

It makes no sense that we’ve been able to remove ourselves from an eighteenth-century view of who gets punished but remain locked in an eighteenth-century view of how to punish people. That goes beyond the death penalty. For instance, some form of solitary confinement has been viewed as a fairly standard and appropriate punishment since forever. But now, with our modern understanding of, you know, human psychology, studies suggest that solitary confinement is especially cruel. It’s torture for your brain. James Madison did not understand this and likely wouldn’t have cared if he did. Why in the hell should that matter now? We know. We are the ones who know. And we are the ones who have the option of making cruel punishments, like solitary confinement, unconstitutional. To not do so because some old dead white people didn’t have the knowledge or decency to do the same is not an alternative theory of legal interpretation. It's the promulgation of evil hiding behind the banality of cowardice.

It really opens the head on the meaning of the words in the Constitution. We do know cruelty in a different way than the framers of the Constitution did. Does that make what we know as cruelty not cruelty?

The Framers Weren’t Always Wrong

Let me end with this thought.

Beyond the obvious and purely evil reasons for denying the right to vote to women, Blacks, and indigenous Americans, the founders had theoretical concerns about extending suffrage even to all white men. Some of those concerns were legitimate and even prescient. The founders were worried about the uneducated masses voting for idiots and con men more interested in the accrual of power than the functioning of government. They were worried about these demagogues inflaming the passions of the majority and using it to trample minority rights.

Anybody want to tell them they were wrong? The founders didn’t want poor, uneducated white men to vote, because they pretty much anticipated that poor, uneducated white men would elect a person like Donald Trump. If only they had fully empowered women and minorities, and especially minority women, to counteract their “economically aggrieved” brethren, the country they founded might be less of a mess today.

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