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inspofromancientworld · 5 months ago

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Byzantium and its ancient Origins

By Lady Ottoline Morrell (died 1938) - Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6961158

William Butler Yeats (W. B. Yeats) lived from 1865-1939 and was an Irish poet, playwright, and author who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1923 and was an important force in the Irish Literary Revival and founded the Abbey Theatre (the National Theatre of Ireland0 in Dublin), and served as Senator of the Irish Free State. His father was a lawyer and portrait painter. His mother was described as 'a shadowy figure' who ended up going 'quitely pitifully, mad'. His two sisters were also involved in artistic endeavors.

He was raised in the Protestant Ascendancy during a time that Irish Catholics and nationalism were becoming the dominant powers in Ireland, pushing for home rule, which informed a lot of his poetry. When he was two, the family moved to Slough, England. His mother raised him and his siblings on Irish folk stories and home schooled him until he was 10, he started school where he was 'only fair' as a student, possibly tone deaf and dyslexic. In 1880, the family returned to Ireland and he began writing poetry. In 1885, his first poem was published by the Dublin University Review. In 1888, the family moved back to England, were they lived until 1902. He was enthralled by spiritualism, astrology, and occultism as well as other paranormal subjects, crediting his passion for the subject for his writing, stating that '[t]he mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.' He became a member of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn in 1890, and was especially fascinated with the Rosicrucian part of the Golden Dawn as well as with séances.

In 1889, he met Maud Gonne, an Irish nationalist, with whom he was fascinated and she admired his writing but didn't return his infatuation because he didn't support Irish nationalism. In 1891, he visited her in Ireland and proposed for the first of four times, but she rejected him and married another man in 1903. Yeats complained of the loss of his muse and was delighted when the marriage turned out to be 'a disaster'. She asked for a divorce in 1905 but was only granted a separation. In 1908, the two had sex, after which Yeats commented that 'the tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.' Shortly afterwards, Gonne said she didn't want to be more than friends with Yeats, asking that 'all earthly desire taken from my love for you…[and] the bodily desire for me may be taken from you, too.' When Gonne's husband was assassinated in 1916 for his part in the Easter Rising (also known as the Easter Rebellion, a week long uprising in Ireland against British rule), he hoped she'd consider marrying him and proposed again, though a biographer noted that this offer was 'motivated more by a sense of duty than by a genuine desire to marry her.'

In 1917, he married 25 year old Georgie Hyde-Lees, with whom he had two children, though he continued to have affairs with other women, especially younger women. In 1922, he was elected Senator of the Irish Free State and was a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, a secret society that supported the idea of an independent Irish nation. He was a member of the paramilitary group the Blueshirts and opposed individualism and political liberalism and felt that fascism as 'a triumph of public order and the national collective over petty individualism' as well as holding elitist views. When the Blueshirts began to decline, he relaxed his views a little, though he still leaned to authoritarian views. He used his status as a Nobel Laureate to promote that he won so soon after Irish independence, often writing 'I consider that this honour has come to me less as an individual than as a representative of Irish literature, it is part of Europe's welcome to the Free State.' After he died, he was was buried, per his request, at Roquebrune, France. He expressed his wishes to his wife as '[i]f I die, bury me up there [at Roquebrune] and then in a year's time when the newspapers have forgotten me, dig me up and plant me in Sligo [Ireland].' His bones weren't moved until 1948, nearly 10 years after his death.

By Johny SYSEL - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18318282

Byzantium is the Latinization of the ancient Greek city Byzantion that became the capital of Eastern Roman Empire, which was later known as Constantinople by the Ottoman Empire and now known as Istanbul. It was colonized in the 7th century BCE by the Greeks. Because it was on the entrance to the Black Sea, it was very important to the sailing-based trading in the area, making it pivotal to trade between Asia and Europe.

The poem begins with a picture of night falling over the city, with '[t]he Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;/Night resonance recedes'. In the second stanza, there is 'an image, man or shade,/Shade more than man, more image than a shade' that appears on the path. The next creature to appear is a '[m]iracle, bird or golden handiwork,/More miracle than bird or handiwork,/Planted on the starlit golden bough'. The streets at midnight become a place '[w]here blood-begotten spirits come/And all complexities of furies leave'. In the final stanza, the poem focuses on the 'dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea'.

You can read the poem here.

#byzantium #w.b. yeats #poetry

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harryforvogue · 1 year ago

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Part One | Chapter Five: From Eden

Hyde Park, London, England

March 1916

"Hey."

The distant voice reaches my ears along with the crunch of the leaves under heavy approaching footsteps. The end of the chapter is near and I won't allow myself to be distracted until I finish it. Not bothering to pick up my pace, I continue calmly reading, waiting for the person calling me to come closer. In the back of my head, I am aware of who it is, because only one person addresses me as just "hey", and that person is not a matter of importance to me up against my book, so I deliberately do not look up.

The voice rings out again, a thick accent. My shoulders drop in resignation as it dawns on me that he's not going to leave me alone as he's never been one to drop a subject in the past. The young man comes closer until he's blocking the sunlight I rely on. I look up at the shadow looming over my sitting figure, shielding the sun with his body. I hold a hand over my forehead, eyes squinted as I look at his darkened face in the shade.

Harry stands over me in his usual business attire that he wears when helping his stepfather at his shop in the city, his hands in his pockets. "If I may have a word with you."

Returning my attention to the book, I flip the page nonchalantly. "Speak."

"Your return to the house is requested. It's almost lunch time."

"And they've sent you to get me?"

"Well, the park is on my way back. Why can't you just sit on the bench instead of getting your dress dirty?"

I check the benches, the wood ruined by the sun. "I'm not too fond of getting sunburnt."

"I see." Harry adjusts his pants and crouches in front of me. He watches me for a second before lunging and taking the book from my hands and holding it in the air out of my reach. I scowl and try to grab it, but he moves to sit beside me, his back against the willow tree I'm under. "It's not even in English."

"English is not my first language," I protest sarcastically, reaching for the book, but he twists his body away. "Give it back!"

"How can you sit here?" he asks mildly, still flipping through the pages. "My ass would hurt after a while. You're sitting on tree roots anyways."

"Give my book back!"

He closes it and tucks it into his jacket pocket. Curse the stupid book for being so small. "It's lunchtime."

"I told your sister I would be out for a while. She's not expecting me back for lunch."

Harry frowns, green eyes transparent under the harsh glare of sunlight. "My mother will have my head if you're not fed."

"That's not my problem."

The corner of his mouth lifts up. "Oh, is it not? I've been thinking about this for a while, how you probably enjoy it when I'm scolded because of you."

"Is this your final hypothesis?"

He nods proudly. "It is. Tell me, do you enjoy hearing me get yelled at because it's happened more times than I can count since you've started living with us again. I can always tell my mother that you prefer to sleep under this tree and then maybe you'll finally leave us alone." Harry rests his head back on the tree truck, waiting for an answer. Now that the sun is out of his eyes, it streams over his pale, smoothly shaved skin, highlighting the summer freckles that weren't there in the winter.

After the final semester, I moved back in with Thea as the girls' dormitories became unavailable for the summer. As I wait for a job to become available in the fall, I have taken Harry's room once more. Returning to France does not seem like an option as I've become familiar with England and prefer it over my homeland. The busy city of London and exciting people has persuaded me to stay. France, to me, reminds me of the dull memories in my life in which I'd be subjected to living in a cold house with the lack of interaction from my family. Thousands of miles from them now, I am more in communication with them now than I was before arriving in England for school. Thea has kindly allowed me to stay in her house for the summer as we both wait for jobs to open and earn enough money to find a place of our own.

Harry is finished with his education, having graduated a semester before me, and repeatedly likes to remind me how I have taken control of his room.

I'm unsure how to approach Harry's friendship, if I can even call it that. Vastly different from his sister, conversations with him always seem anything but real and I often find myself staring at him, wondering if he's even comprehending my words. I haven't seen him in the months I was at school, but returning has reminded me of his fickle personality. One moment, he's complaining about something unimportant and the next moment, he's making fun of me for things such as reading under a tree in the park on a summer's day.

Most of the time, his words aren't scathing as they are playful, and that's why I respond to him. If it were anyone else, I wouldn't give them the time of day.

Harry's eyes crinkle as he smiles at me, nudging his shoulder with mine. "I'm kidding."

"I know," I reply. "You don't really want me to leave because I'm your only friend."

My response causes his eyebrows to rise even more. He laughs. "My only friend? That's rich coming from you considering my sister is your only friend."

"It's the language barrier. I don't know how to speak to anyone else," I say dismissively.

"Sure it is."

"I'm also from a different country, in case you've forgotten. You have no excuse. Make some friends and leave me alone, will you?"

Harry's grinning now. "You get riled up so easily. With that little scowl on your face. Really fills me with pleasure."

"You," I say with annoyance, "are incredibly irritating."

"Aren't I?" he beams, standing up. "Come on. I know you're hungry. Let's go."

Harry holds his hand out, waiting for me to take it, but I bat it away, standing up by myself, wiping my hands on my dress. We walk side by side in silence, though I know from a mere glance at his face that he's trying to come up with something witty to say. I wait for it patiently, taking the time to come up with a good comeback as well.

Harry's company is better than no company, though I'd prefer it even if it weren't my last option. On most days, I don't see him as he spends almost all day at his stepfather's printing shop, but he's always there at dinner, kicking me under the table or stepping on my foot, passing it off as an accident, making remarks that would make an average person want to commit a crime. Harry, though he's annoying, makes me smile and makes me want to converse passionately with him. I find that arguing with him is a fun pastime and I look forward to our banter whenever I catch a fleeting glimpse of him in the kitchen right before he leaves, or when I arrive home from the cafe at the same time as him and he lets me enter with an open, gentleman-like gesture though he's anything but a gentleman.

Our shoulders briefly brush against each other again. We're almost back at his home when he speaks again. "I wanted to ask you something."

I gave him a look. "No, you can't have your room back. Look, I've bargained with your mother so many times. She just thinks I'm more deserving of the larger bed. It's not my fault you're so big."

A dimple indents his cheek and his curls fly as he shakes his head. "No, that's not it. Though I must say thank you for trying to help me out."

I shrug. "What is it then?"

Suddenly aware of how close we are to his house, he slows down and waits for my steps to lessen as well. I curiously peer at him, his eyes darker and pink mouth pursed. He smooths his hair back with a quick hand. I'm always jealous of how his curls hold and how mine refuse to despite the hours I put into maintaining them.

I violently remember the kiss he laid on my mouth on New Years.

Harry begins to fidget, suddenly terribly uncomfortable. The matter seems to be quite serious so I match my pace with his and wait for him to begin speaking. I stop walking when he reaches out and grabs my elbow. "It's bad," he tells me gravely.

My stomach drops. "What? Is it serious?"

"It's an issue of the heart," he says.

Perplexed, I urge, "Are you sick?

"Yes."

"Why do you sound like you're dying?"

"I might be."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It's my health. It's declining. I need to know something or I may drop dead."

My heart thunders in my chest, suddenly alarmed by his quiet, somber tone.

"Oh God," I whisper. "Tell me."

He's never been this serious, not a trace of a smile on his face or a flicker of humor in his transparent otherwise mischievous green eyes. Whatever is bothering him must be extremely anxiety-inducing. Perhaps he's actually dying and needs me to speak at his funeral, or be the one to break the news to Thea who is unable to handle any kind of disastrous news. What could it be? A recent flu has been taking people out every single day, but Harry boasts about his good lungs and sinus on the daily when he sees me sneezing due to my pollen allergies. Could he be wounded? If it's a matter of a vital organ, like his heart as he said, there's no cure outside of surgery. I imagine Harry laying on the operating table, doctors looming over him with determination on their face. I shudder and shake my head to remove the image from my thoughts.

"Ready?"

I nod firmly. "I'm ready. Tell me."

He blinks and lets his shoulders drop. "I want to take you out. When I have time of course, but I wanted to know your answer so I can make plans."

I glance down at his hand holding my elbow tightly and then back at his stern face. Anger runs through my veins as I tear my arm away and smack his shoulder, hard. "Putain de merde. You said you were dying!"

"Well, I may as well be if you reject me," he argues, crossing his arms. To my horror, I realize he's still being serious.

"I hope you have never asked a woman out because this counts as guilt tripping!"

"It's only guilt tripping if it works."

"God!" I growl. I step forward and open the flap of his jacket, snatching my book away. Then, I turn around and begin walking away from him. "I can't believe you."

Harry's heavy footsteps follow me. "You didn't even give me an answer!" he demands. "Annaliese!"

I whirl around and thrust the edge of my book into his chest. "If you asked like a normal person, you would have had an answer by now!"

This seems to break Harry out of his trance, eyes lighting up. "You haven't said no. Is that a yes then?"

"Did you hear me say yes?"

"Damn, you're annoying." He runs a hand through his thick hair.

My face is red. A couple on the street turns to curiously watch the scene unfold. "I'm annoying? You just convinced me you're dying to get a date out of me!"

Harry purses his lips and considers this. "Well," he finally says, grinning, "did it work?"

"No!"

Before I can walk away, he grabs my elbow and tugs me back. "Alright, you feisty woman. I'm sorry. How can I ask you out without embarrassing myself? I thought it was clever, but I'll ask in plain terms. Go out with me."

"You're not asking, you're demanding! God, why can't you just be a gentleman for once in your life?"

"You ask for so much, don't you? Will you go out with me or not?"

I watch his expression carefully, searching for a hint of sarcasm. "Fine," I growl, breaking my arm from his grasp. "But no more pulling on me like a child or else."

Harry smiles. "Or else what?"

I look at him up and down. "Or I'll tell your mother."

He begins walking again and I follow him. "Wow that really frightens me," he says plainly.

"It should."

***

Harry ends up taking me to dinner the following weekend, dressed very nicely in his suit, his white shirt matching my flowing white dress. I'd be lying if I didn't find it immensely odd to be holding the hand of something I'd grown close to after such a rocky start, his fingers slotted between mine, his hand frequently against my back, protectively weaving me in and out of the crowds on this particular warm spring night.

Though my hair is tied back with a ribbon, the wind keeps whipping it into my face, causing me to have to release his hand and redo the braid, and after the third time, Harry tightens his hand around mine so I can't fix my hair, giving me a pointed look that says "leave it."

We're at a restaurant called "La Plage." One look at it makes me crouch over and laugh while Harry tucks a hand into his pocket and watches me confusedly.

"A French restaurant?" I laugh, wiping the corners of my eyes. "You're taking me here?"

"Well, I thought you'd be most familiar with it," Harry says, ears pink. "Do you wish to go somewhere else?" He looks around at the empty street.

"No no!" I insist, reaching for his hand, dragging him to the front. "Let's stay."

Not only am I out to ridicule Harry for his decision, but the universe is too, as the restaurant is locked with a sign that says "CLOSED" in big letters on the front. I see the familiar tic in Harry's jaw and fire in his eyes when he reads the sign. He turns away and sighs.

"Nothing is going right tonight."

I lace my fingers with his and laugh, pulling him away from the restaurant. "Let's go somewhere else. We'll walk for a bit though."

"I'm sorry," he says, beginning to walk down the dimly lit street. Small lanterns hang around the street lamps, doing little to properly illuminate the place. The cobblestone of this street, however, is nicely made, perhaps even fresh. I imagine riding my bike here at a time like this where there's nobody but us. "I should have suspected when there was no crowd. It's a pretty popular place."

"It's okay," I tell him sincerely. "I really don't mind where we go. Maybe this is God's punishment for trying to guilt trip me into going on a date with you."

Harry bites away his smile. "Are you religious, Annaliese?"

"Oh, not at all."

"Why not?"

"Well, I've never felt much importance on the matter. My parents are religious, but I don't see why. I mean, there are a lot of things that happen that I believe God would have prevented from happening. Are you religious? Am I offending you?"

Harry shakes his head, his neatly combed curls coming loose with every step. "I'm the farthest thing from religious, don't worry. I just like hearing thoughts about it. Religion itself is very interesting. Practicing, to me, is not." He slants me a look through his curls. "Most people I know are very religious. And they're different religions too. I can't see myself ever being like that."

"Me neither," I nod in agreement. "But, I don't blame people for finding that safe space. If they want to put their trust in something they believe in, then as long as they don't bother me for not doing the same, I don't think there should be much emphasis put on our differences."

I look down at our shadows, Harry's taller than mine by a few inches. His steps are larger than mine, but I'm doing well to keep up. We're strolling, hands clasped together, swinging them occasionally.

Harry is the next one to speak, a few moments later. "How long will you be staying in London?"

"Until August. I haven't seen my parents in a while and they'd like to see me for my birthday."

Harry nods. "Your birthday is in August? How old will you be turning?"

"22."

"Wow you're young."

I pull back and glance at him. "Aren't you 22 also?"

"Yes," he laughs. "We're both very young, aren't we?"

"We're adults," I point out.

"Yes, we are. But mentally, I don't think we're anything but kids still. Sometimes," he says, leaning in to whisper in my ear, "I'm still afraid of the dark."

"You must be in hell walking down this street then," I reply teasingly, squeezing his hand. I feel the ring he wears on his middle finger cuts into my skin, but don't say anything.

"I would be," he answers, pursing his lips, "if you weren't here with me."

I have been on dates before, but they've never quite felt like this one. The sound of his deep voice makes my heart race, and when he says things like that, even in passing, my heart threatens to stop altogether. I'm thankful it's dark so he can't see the scarlet flush on my face, and I put a curtain of hair between us, demanding the blush to go away.

"Sorry," Harry chuckles quietly, standing back straight. "I don't mean to make things awkward."

I pick my head up and shake it. "No! No, you don't make it awkward." His eyes twinkle in the barely there light. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Well, it's not really a question. More like a statement, if you will."

"Tell me, Annaliese."

When I'm with Harry, I don't feel weak. I feel like I have the advantage in these conversations even if I'm battling with him and losing the fight. When he says hurtful things to me as a joke, I don't want to cower and wait for him to stop talking so I can stop hurting. No, I want to say things back to him, plant my foot down and raise my voice. The best thing is that Harry reciprocates and argues back. And I do love it very much when he argues with me.

"I haven't stopped thinking about the way you kissed me on New Years. When you took me to my room. I've never been kissed like that," I admit, looking down the endless road in front of us. "It was really nice, Harry."

Instead of replying, Harry stops walking in front of a street lamp and when I glance back at him, ready to make amends if I've made anything awkward, he pulls me to him quickly and presses me to the pole.

There's nobody on the street, but I wouldn't even care if there were. Harry's mouth is warm on mine, his hands on my waist, pulling me tight against his firm chest, hips angled perfectly with my hips. And then, suddenly, his hands are in my hair, and his mouth is off mine, now pressed to my cheek, holding my head in place as he plants audible kisses to my face.

"I haven't," he whispers in the midst of kissing my cheek, "stop thinking of it either. I didn't know how you felt about it since we never really talked about it. I didn't... I didn't want you to think I was kissing you because I was drunk."

I realize my arms are on his shoulders and I push myself off the pole to take his mouth again, kissing him repeatedly to give him my answer.

"To be fair," I whisper, "I did consider for some time that you were just drunk."

"I wasn't," he answers honestly, softly kissing my throat. "God, I haven't stopped thinking about that night."

I breathe out a laugh, burying my own fingers in his hair when he kisses me again.

"Do you think this will make Thea upset?" I ask him, gazing up at his startling green eyes. His hair is ruined now thanks to my wandering hands.

Harry smiles. "I don't care," he tells me, leaning down to kiss me again with his now swollen lips. "And you shouldn't either."

At that moment, I don't care at all. I'm in Harry's arms after months of dreaming about it. I don't know anyone named Thea when he kisses me. I barely have any memories except for these kisses we share. I kiss him and kiss him and hold him tight.

That's when I decide I'm going to stay with him.

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queenlua · 11 months ago

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this article is mostly about WB Yeats's and Isaac Newton's mysticism, which is highly relevant to my specific interests

but also, lmao, i had no idea how messy Yeats's love life was:

Yeats and his bride, née Georgie Hyde-Lees, made a strange match; he was fifty-two, she was twenty-five, and both presumably were virgins. Yeats had been obsessed throughout much of his adult life by a romantic infatuation with Maud Gonne, a charismatic beauty who zealously advocated the cause of Irish nationalism. She joined the Order of the Golden Dawn briefly, but resigned because she feared it would distract her from the Irish cause. Yeats proposed to her four times without success, though she did consent to a “spiritual marriage”; after she definitively rejected his suit in 1916, he redirected his passion toward her daughter, Iseult. It was only after Iseult refused him that Yeats proposed to Georgie.

we stan, etc

#wee woo

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intheshadowofwar · 2 years ago

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The Boundless Sea

Sydney

11 June 2023

We headed into Sydney at about 9am this morning with a fairly full raft of activities.

The first of these, which we arrived to at 10, was the Hyde Park Convict Barracks. This barracks was built by order of Governor Lachlan Macquarie in 1817, and today a statue of him stands across the road from the building, gesturing towards it. I can’t help but wonder if Macquarie would appreciate the somewhat dodgy statue of himself showing off the prison he built, but maybe that’s just me. Hyde Park Barracks is a thoroughly modern museum, in that it uses audio guides instead of placards. I generally can’t stand audio guides, but I soon worked out that I could just read the subtitles on the ipod thing they gave us, so it wasn’t a dealbreaker. The museum now includes a major focus on the effects of colonisation and the convict system on the indigenous peoples of New South Wales, which I quite appreciated. The one thing I might have liked more about was a little more information on the guards; but I appreciate that this is specifically a museum about the convicts, not the soldiers.

After the barracks, we walked through Hyde Park to the Anzac Memorial. This is Sydney and New South Wales’ primary war memorial, opened in the 1930s to commemorate the First World War. It’s not quite as grand as Melbourne’s Shrine of Remembrance - few things are - but it is still a magnificent structure and well worth a visit. The statue of the prostrate man in the Hall of Silence - positioned under the Hall of Memory, and visible through a hole in the floor which they call the Well of Contemplation - is particularly striking. Most war-related sculptures, at least in the post-WWI period, tend to be horizontal. Here, the prostrated man is vertical - the language of mourning.

Behind the Hall of Memory and down the stairs is the Hall of Service. The walls here are lined with soil samples from every town in New South Wales that has sent soldiers to war. There’s a circle on the floor, under a skylight, with more soil - these from the battlefields on which soldiers from New South Wales have fought. This goes as far back as the New Zealand Wars of the 1860s, but frontier conflict isn’t represented.

After visiting the Anzac Memorial, we proceeded by train to Circular Quay, and after stopping for a quick drink, caught the Manly Ferry out to Manly. This took us past the Martello tower at Fort Denison, upon which a young Charles Lightoller raised the Boer flag as a prank in the early 1900s, and the naval base at Garden Island. Both Canberra-class helicopter carriers were in port - these are the largest warships Australia has operated since the decommissioning of the carrier HMAS Melbourne. On the port side of the ferry, as one approaches the heads, the foremast of the cruiser HMAS Sydney (the first one) can be seen on the shore. To starboard, one can gaze out through the heads to the Pacific - from here, the sea is almost unbroken until you reach South America.

It is somewhere northeast of here that HMAS Australia lies on the seabed, decommissioned and scuttled under the terms of the Washington Naval Treaty. Australia was a battlecruiser - the same class as the unfortunate Indefatigable. She missed Jutland due to damage from a collision with the third member of the class, HMS New Zealand, and thus never saw a major combat action. Her existence, however, deterred German raiders from sailing too close to Australia during the war (although I’d argue that it was actually the entry of the Japanese into the war that really coerced the Germans into fleeing the Pacific altogether.)

We lunched in Manly, and I took a look at the war memorial there - possibly Australia’s oldest, erected before the war had even ended in 1916. I had a look at the beach, too, but it was absolutely packed. We caught the ferry back at around 3pm, and then returned to Hurstville by train.

The real journey begins tomorrow - we leave early for Sydney airport, and then we have the long, long flight via Bangkok to Heathrow. This will be a long undertaking, but I’m not certain there will be much to write about - but I shall make a valiant effort regardless.

#second world war #first world war #war #anzac memorial #sydney #hmas canberra #royal australian navy #convicts #cw colonialism

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pandoramsbox · 1 year ago

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Sci-Fi Saturday: Aelita: Queen of Mars

Week 3:

Film(s): Aelita: Queen of Mars (Аэли́та, Dir. Yakov Protazanov, 1924, USSR)

Viewing Format: DVD

Date Watched: May 29, 2021

Rationale for Inclusion:

In retrospect, I did not research silent science fiction films as thoroughly as I should have going into this survey. A handful of additional titles should have been included, most notably A Trip to Mars (Himmelskibet, Dir. Holger-Madsen, 1918, Denmark). When we were coming up with the watch list, A Trip to the Moon (Le voyage dans la lune, Dir. Georges Méliès, 1902, France) and Metropolis (Dir. Fritz Lang, 1927, Germany) were the only silent films that immediately came to mind. The inclusion of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (Dir. Stuart Patton, 1916, USA) came out of the chance discovery of the film's existence and availability, while Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Dir. John S. Robertson, 1920, USA) came from wanting to make sure that foundational text was represented.

Aelita: Queen of Mars (Аэли́та, Dir. Yakov Protazanov, 1924, USSR) was a film I waffled on including. I had last seen the film as an undergrad whilst taking a science fiction genre class back in 2006; I had even written a paper on it. I remembered that it was interesting, but overall not a great film. However, as I pondered it and dug into its history, I ran across a note that its costumes and production designs likely influenced later sci-fi films, like Metropolis and the Flash Gordon serials.

With watching Metropolis being a given, I tracked down a copy of the Flicker Alley DVD release. (Although, like many existent silent films, since the film is in the public domain, you can view the whole film on archive.org) Besides, given the way the Cold War and Space Race would later influence the evolution of science fiction, Soviet and Russian cinema is essential viewing.

Reactions:

Watching Aelita again reinforced a lot of past opinions about it. Most of the narrative is more concerned with the stratification of society and manipulation of the workers, which for a film produced in the Soviet Union is not at all surprising. However, these aspects are politically and culturally interesting given that when Aelita was made the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) had only existed for two years, and Communist Russia was still figuring itself out.

The conflict between the desires of the individual and betterment of society plays into the discovery late in the film that the Mars scenes and rocketship development were all the daydreams of Los (Nikolai Tseretelli), an engineer. This revelation proceeds in a way akin to how Cecil B. DeMille made religious epics: the audience is given a sensational, decadent, sinful spectacle that is capped off with enforcement and promotion of proper social norms. The mysterious radio broadcasts that inspired Los turning out to be a commercial, and Los rejecting his daydreams of space travel that grew from it, shows how seductive and detrimental to society Capitalism can be, and how good comrades should reject it.

The Constructivist sets and costumes on Mars are definitely the highlight of the film. The abstract, angular and contrasting aesthetics are indeed alien looking relative to the shabby hodgepodge of attire and locales in the Communist Russia scenes, which is slightly ironic given how Constructivism would go on to define state propaganda as well as avant-garde art. I was so taken with the costuming in particular that one of these days I hope to make an amigurumi Aelita doll.

Speaking of the title character herself, Aelita (Yuliya Solntseva) is a stock seductive aristocrat willing to do whatever it takes to get herself more power and influence. Part of why Los kills his daydreams of Mars, and the beautiful Aelita, is how quickly she becomes a tyrant when she gains the throne of Mars, revealing that she had only exploited the revolting workers of Mars to serve as a coup. While this warning should have alerted Communist Russia to be skeptical of the intentions of all potential leaders, it only succeeded as an example of why the aristocracy is not to be trusted, based on how the history of the USSR played out.

It may only be a so-so film overall, but Aelita is an essential sci-fi film. If you're a fan of the genre, or silent cinema, it is worth seeing at least once.

#sci-fi saturdays #silent film #silent cinema #aelita

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brookstonalmanac · 6 days ago

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Birthdays 4.3

Beer Birthdays

Frederick Hinckel (1859)

Henry Pierre Heineken (1886)

Dave Bonighton (1970)

Five Favorite Birthdays

Alec Baldwin; actor (1958)

Sandra Boynton; illustrator, cartoonist (1953)

Herb Caen; journalist (1916)

Doris Day; actor, singer (1924)

Mitch Woods; boogie-woogie pianist (1951)

Famous Birthdays

Marlon Brando; actor (1924)

John Burroughs; naturalist, writer (1837)

Amanda Byrnes; actor (1986)

Danielle; adult actress (1962)

Bud Fisher; cartoonist (1885)

Jennie Garth; actor (1972)

Don Gibson; guitarist, songwriter (1928)

Jane Goodall; anthropologist, zoologist (1934)

Virgil "Gus" Grissom; astronaut (1926)

George Herbert; English writer (1593)

Leslie Howard; actor (1893)

Washington Irving; writer (1783)

George Jessel; actor (1898)

Henry Luce; publisher (1898)

Marsha Mason; actor (1942)

Eddie Murphy; actor, comedian (1961)

Wayne Newton; singer (1942)

Tony Orlando; pop singer (1944)

Bernie Parent; Philadelphia Flyers G (1945)

David Hyde Pierce; actor (1959)

Sally Rand; dancer (1904)

Cobie Smulders; actor (1982)

Jan Sterling; actor (1921)

Picabo Street; skier (1971)

Richard Thompson; singer, songwriter (1949)

William "Boss" Tweed; politician (1823)

#Birthdays

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ruivieira1950 · 4 months ago

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Hasui Kawase (1883–1957), Yanagawa in Kai Province (Kōshū Yanagawa).

Heinrich Gogarten (German, 1850-1911) -- Winter Landscape With A Mill.

Heinrich Hermanns (1862-1952) - Blumenmarkt am Kai, nd.

Helen Hyde - The Family Umbrella, 1915.

Helen Hyde -The Blue Umbrella, 1914..

Henning von Gierke (b.1947).

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (1864–1901).

Henri Lebasque - Femmes au bord de la mer, 1910.

Henri Lebasque - Femmes et enfants dans un Jardin en été, 1912.

Henri Lebasque (1865-1937) - Baigneuses, nd.

Henri Lebasque (1865-1937) - Lady on the Balcony, nd.

Henri Lebasque (French, 1865-1937), Woman reading.

Henri Matisse - Nu Rose Assis , 1935-36.

Henri Matisse The Painting Lesson, 1919

Henri Matisse - The Three O’Clock Sitting , 1927.

Henri Matisse, Flowers in Front of a Window, 1922.

Henri Matisse, Interior with Phonograph, 1924.

Henri Matisse, Le café Maure (Arab Coffeehouse), 1911-13.

Henri Matisse, Plum tree branch, green background, 1948.

Henri Matisse. The Blue Window. Issy-les-Moulineaux, summer 1913.

Henri-Edmond Cross.

Henry Mosler, The Christmas Tree, ca.1916.

Henry Robert Morland (1716-1719 – 30 de novembro de 1797) foi um retratista inglês, mais lembrado por um retrato do Rei George III.

Herbert Badham - On the Roof, 1928.

Hercules Brabazon Brabazon (1821-1906) - Benares, nd.

Herman van der Mijn (1684-1741), Blumenstück.

Hermann Linde, alemão (1863 - 1923) Esposa de fazendeiro de Dachau indo à igreja.

Hieronymus Bosch

Hieronymus Bosch.

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bobmccullochny · 1 year ago

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History

November 13

November 13, 1927 - The Holland Tunnel was opened to traffic. The tunnel runs under the Hudson River between New York City and Jersey City and was the first underwater tunnel built in the U.S. It is comprised of two tubes, each large enough for two lanes of traffic.

November 13, 1942 - The five Sullivan Brothers from Waterloo, Iowa, were lost in the sinking of the cruiser USS Juneau by a Japanese torpedo off Guadalcanal during World War II in the Pacific. Following their deaths, the U.S. Navy changed regulations to prohibit close relatives from serving on the same ship.

November 13, 1945 - General Charles De Gaulle was appointed president of the French provisional government.

November 13, 1956 - The U.S. Supreme Court ruled that racial segregation on public buses was unconstitutional.

November 13, 1973 - A state of emergency was declared in Britain after power workers and coal miners began work slowdowns.

November 13, 1995 - Israel began pulling its troops out of the West Bank city of Jenin, ending 28 years of occupation.

Birthday - American jurist Louis Brandeis (1856-1941) was born in Louisville, Kentucky. He served as an associate justice of U.S. Supreme Court from 1916 to 1939.

Birthday - Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) was born in Edinburgh, Scotland. Best known for Treasure Island, Kidnapped and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

#today's smile

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stairnaheireann · 1 year ago

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#OTD in 1917 – Fifty-two year old William Butler Yeats finally gets married, but not to Maud Gonne, the love of his life.

Instead he marries 25-year-old Georgie Hyde-Lees (1892–1968). Although only weeks previously, Yeats had proposed to Maud Gonne’s daughter Iseult MacBride from her marriage to John MacBride, the marriage of Yeats and Hyde-Lees was a happy one producing two children. By 1916, Yeats was 51 years old and determined to marry and produce an heir. His rival, John MacBride, had been executed for his…

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#Dublin #Georgie Hyde-Lees #History #History of Ireland #Ireland #Irish History #Maud Gonne #Today in Irish History #William Butler Yeats

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oldmke · 2 years ago

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Originally known as Kneeland's Grove, the area which came to be called Red Arrow park once featured a natural lagoon, the exclusive domain of swans and ducks. Then, after the land was taken over by the county in 1916, the lagoon became a public wading pool for children in the area. The park itself located between what is now N. 10th, N. 11, W. Michigan sts. and W. Wisconsin av., became Milwaukee's Hyde park or Union Square, where anyone could speak his piece without being molested. Progress was inevitable, however. County regulations passed in the 1930's required that speeches be made outside the park between the curb and the sidewalk; the natural wading pool gave way to one of concrete surrounded by wire fencing; and ultimately, the park itself gave way to the concrete spans of an expanding freeway system.(Picture and information from the local history collection of the Milwaukee public library.)

#Milwaukee #Wisconsin

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handeaux · 2 years ago

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A Passel Of Curious Cincinnati Street Names, Part One (A to E)

Annwood Street (East Walnut Hills) Most Cincinnati streets that memorialize people recognize men, but there are several honoring women. Anne (Bryan) Wood (1780-1867), for whom this street and a connecting lane is named, is also responsible for the nearby Wold Street, named for her estate. A native of England, Mrs. Wood and her husband James arrived early in Cincinnati and made a fortune in merchandizing. Their daughter Ellen married Judge Timothy Walker, one of the founders of the Cincinnati Law School. Although she died 30 years previously, warm memories inspired the neighboring community to preserve her name through the street signs.

Arcadia Place (Hyde Park) Soon after this 47-lot subdivision was platted in 1916, the new residents formed a neighborhood association that survived for decades. Every family on the street was automatically enrolled in The Arcadians, an organization devoted to fostering neighborhood pride. The Arcadians sponsored annual Halloween and Christmas parties as well as regular gatherings. They elected officers annually. When the subdivision was first constructed, none of the houses had addresses, so the Post Office refused to deliver mail. The residents adopted addresses based on the lot number of the parcel on which they had built their houses, so today’s addresses don’t match the standard city system.

Back Street (Over-the-Rhine) When Back Street was first scratched out of the northern reaches of the city, it was literally a “back street,” and that is apparently how it got its name. That’s according to Ray Steffens, a Cincinnati Post reporter who penned an invaluable series of articles, “How Was It Named?” that are treasured by local history buffs. So invaluable are these articles that they were collected by a dedicated librarian at the Cincinnati Public Library, where they occasioned a bit of a literary spat. Steffens pooh-poohed the idea that Hamilton-born novelist Fannie Hurst drew any connection between Cincinnati’s Back Street and the titular “Back Street” of her 1931 best-selling pot boiler. Apparently, on one of her trips through Cincinnati, Miss Hurst paged through the library’s scrapbook of Steffens’ columns, because this handwritten note is scrawled through the clipping for Back Street: “Not correct. Miss Hurst researched here, because I am Miss Hurst.”

Belsaw Place (Clifton) For reasons perhaps known only to the family, the estate of Thomas Sherlock in Clifton was named Belsaw and was uniformly praised for its beauty by the newspapers of the day. Mr. Sherlock immigrated from Ireland and made a fortune in Ohio River shipping and insurance. He died in 1895. Two years later, a short street on the southern side of Ludlow was renamed Sherlock Avenue in his honor. (Sorry, Baker Street Irregulars!) When Thomas’ widow, Nancy, died in 1899, the rural estate in north Clifton was bequeathed to the couple’s five daughters along with all the jewels, horses, carriages and artwork. When the estate was subdivided in 1921, it was announced as the “most exclusive” development in the city, with no houses allowed to be constructed for less than $20,000.

Boudway Lane (Westwood) Perhaps the most maladroit street name in all of Cincinnati sprang from the unrelenting necessity of police paperwork. Right on the border of Westwood and West Price Hill lies a minuscule stretch of pavement with no addresses, but lots of traffic accidents. In the early 1990s, the police appealed to the city’s public works department to slap a name on this anonymous wreck magnet. Since the tiny strip of asphalt, no more than 250 feet long, connected Boudinot Avenue and Glenway, the poets at City Hall coughed up a portmanteau word and christened it Boudway Lane. A few years later, the dolorous Boudway was subsumed as an extension of the equally mellifluous Glenhills Way.

Calhoun Street (Corryville) In 1843, John C. Calhoun, United States Senator from South Carolina, was very popular among the Democrats of Cincinnati. A proponent of states’ rights and limited government, Calhoun fiercely defended slavery and the interests of white supremacy. A group of Cincinnati Democratic businessmen wrote a public letter to Calhoun that year, inviting him to visit Cincinnati. One of the signers of the invitation was William Corry (1811-1880), among the children of William Corry (1778-1833) who owned all the land that was later known as Corryville. The southern boundary of Corry's property was a road named Calhoun Street in the 1840s, apparently in homage to the Southern firebrand.

Camargo Road (Madeira) A lot of folks, mostly men, are memorialized in Cincinnati street names. We have lots of streets named for presidents, governors, generals, businessmen, property owners and so on. Camargo Road – although its origins remain somewhat obscure – is likely the only street in this area named for a ballerina. Marie Anne de Cupis de Camargo (1710-1770) was known as “La Camargo” and lived the extravagant life of an Eighteenth-Century sex symbol. She was the first ballerina to wear slippers instead of heeled shoes and she is often credited with adopting the shortened skirt for the stage. As her name indicates, she had Spanish roots – Camargo is a very small village in northern Spain – but indications are that it is the dancer, not the municipality, that gave its name to our road.

Carrel Street (Columbia-Tusculum) When Columbia was annexed by Cincinnati, that venerable old town (older than Cincinnati) had its own Main Street and, of course, that duplicate name had to go. Reaching into history, the city fathers renamed the street in honor of Hercules Carrel, a legendary boat builder, whose operations were based nearby. Mr. Carrel also had a riverboat named in his honor, but don’t you wish the city would have named that street for his first name? Hercules Street! Now, there’s a name to be reckoned with!

Catawba Valley Drive (Columbia-Tusculum) Readers of Dann Woellert’s exhaustive history of Cincinnati winemaking know that most hillsides on the north bank of the Ohio were given over to vineyards in the decades before the Civil War. That was certainly true in the area around Alms Park. One remnant of those long-gone vines is a little street named Catawba Valley Drive, honoring the Catawba grapes that once grew here. At one time, Wine Press Road ran nearby, but was later incorporated into Alms Park.

Cross Lane (Walnut Hills) Walnut Hills was platted by the Reverend James Kemper, pioneering Presbyterian minister, who built his own residence there in 1794. That log house is now preserved at the Heritage Village Museum inside Sharon Woods Park. As an energetically religious man, naming a street after the cross would not be unusual, but Kemper’s intentions had nothing to do with his proselytizing zeal. He named all his east-west streets “Cross Lane” and numbered them. The only lane retaining that designation was originally named “Cross Lane No. 1.”

Dublin Court (Dillonvale) It’s a mystery why Cincinnati’s annual Saint Patrick’s Day shenanigans aren’t scheduled out in Dillonvale. Joseph Dillon, a proud son of the Auld Sod, platted the Sycamore Township community that he would christen with his own name in 1951. He remembered his birthplace by naming streets for Dublin, Belfast, Antrim, Killarney, Wicklow, Donegal, Wexford, and Limerick, and that’s no Blarney!

Elberon (Price Hill) With the popularity of J.R.R. Tolkein’s fantasy novels in the 1960s, folks could be excused for believing that this street was named for some elvish prince. In fact, capitalizing on that association a (very good) Cincinnati folk-rock group took Elberon as their band name. The actual origin of this street traces to the assassination of President James A. Garfield in 1881. After being shot in Washington, DC, Garfield was moved to Elberon, New Jersey, along the Atlantic shore, where it was hoped sea breezes would help him heal. That treatment failed and Garfield died in Elberon. Cincinnati was devoted to Garfield and commissioned a statue, still standing on Vine Street. Boyle Avenue was renamed Elberon in 1889, shortly after the statue was installed. Which only begs the question: How was the New Jersey town named? Turns out it has nothing to do with elves, nor (as believed for a long time) Native Americans. “Elberon” is a contraction of L.B. Brown, among the early settlers of that little seaside resort.

Eppert Walk (Mount Washington) Josephine R. “Josie” Eppert was 60 years old when she died in 1939. She had been a schoolteacher her entire adult life and was beloved by generations of children who attended Mount Washington Elementary School. She lived at the corner of Plymouth and Oxford avenues and walked home along a footpath that was later paved. Clifton Merriman, local real estate broker, suggested memorializing Miss Eppert by placing her name on the route she had traveled for decades.

#cincinnati streets #cincinnati street names

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he-ycomeonou-t · 2 years ago

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By 1916, Yeats was 51 years old and determined to marry and produce an heir. His rival, John MacBride, had been executed for his role in the 1916 Easter Rising, so Yeats hoped that his widow, Maud Gonne, might remarry.[68] His final proposal to Gonne took place in mid-1916.[69] Gonne's history of revolutionary political activism, as well as a series of personal catastrophes in the previous few years of her life—including chloroform addiction and her troubled marriage to MacBride—made her a potentially unsuitable wife;[43] biographer R. F. Foster has observed that Yeats's last offer was motivated more by a sense of duty than by a genuine desire to marry her.

Yeats proposed in an indifferent manner, with conditions attached, and he both expected and hoped she would turn him down. According to Foster, "when he duly asked Maud to marry him and was duly refused, his thoughts shifted with surprising speed to her daughter." Iseult Gonne was Maud's second child with Lucien Millevoye, and at the time was twenty-one years old. She had lived a sad life to this point; conceived as an attempt to reincarnate her short-lived brother, for the first few years of her life she was presented as her mother's adopted niece. When Maud told her that she was going to marry, Iseult cried and told her mother that she hated MacBride.[70] When Gonne took action to divorce MacBride in 1905, the court heard allegations that he had sexually assaulted Iseult, then eleven. At fifteen, she proposed to Yeats. In 1917, he proposed to Iseult but was rejected.

That September, Yeats proposed to 25-year-old Georgie Hyde-Lees (1892–1968), known as George, whom he had met through Olivia Shakespear. Despite warnings from her friends—"George ... you can't. He must be dead"—Hyde-Lees accepted, and the two were married on 20 October 1917.[43] Their marriage was a success, in spite of the age difference, and in spite of Yeats's feelings of remorse and regret during their honeymoon. The couple went on to have two children, Anne and Michael. Although in later years he had romantic relationships with other women, Georgie herself wrote to her husband "When you are dead, people will talk about your love affairs, but I shall say nothing, for I will remember how proud you were."[71]

During the first years of marriage, they experimented with automatic writing; she contacted a variety of spirits and guides they called "Instructors" while in a trance. The spirits communicated a complex and esoteric system of philosophy and history, which the couple developed into an exposition using geometrical shapes: phases, cones, and gyres.[72] Yeats devoted much time to preparing this material for publication as A Vision (1925). In 1924, he wrote to his publisher T. Werner Laurie, admitting: "I dare say I delude myself in thinking this book my book of books".[73]

hinged

#k.txt

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alliluyevas · 3 years ago

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I was joking about doing an AI Mormon apostle name generator but for your perusal I just spent forty minutes doing a list of all Mormon apostles ever. They’re in order that they were appointed to that office, plus birth and deaths, information about any of them that left the church/got kicked out, and info about any of the other ones that they’re related to. People who became prophet are bolded!

Thomas Baldwin Marsh (1800-1866) (left the church due to conflict with Joseph Smith)

David W. Patten (1799-1838)

Brigham Young (1801-1877)

Heber C. Kimball (1801-1868) (father of a plural wife of Joseph Smith)

Orson Hyde (1805-1878)

William E. McLellin (1806-1883) (excommunicated due to conflict with Joseph Smith)

Parley Parker Pratt (1807-1857)

Luke S. Johnson (1807-1861) (brother-in-law of Orson Hyde, brother of a plural wife of Joseph Smith) (excommunicated over conflict with Joseph Smith)

William Smith (1811-1893) (Joseph Smith’s brother) (left the church over conflict with Brigham Young)

Orson Pratt (1811-1881) (brother of Parley Pratt)

John F. Boynton (1811-1890) (excommunicated over conflict with Joseph Smith)

Lyman E. Johnson (1811-1856) (brother of Luke Johnson, brother-in-law of Orson Hyde, brother of a plural wife of Joseph Smith) (excommunicated over conflict with Joseph Smith)

John E. Page (1799-1867) (excommunicated over conflict with Brigham Young)

John Taylor (1808-1887)

Wilford Woodruff (1807-1898)

George A. Smith (1817-1875) (Joseph Smith’s cousin)

Willard Richards (1804-1854)

Lyman Wight (1796-1858) (left the church over conflict with Brigham Young)

Amasa M. Lyman (1813-1877) (excommunicated over theological differences)

Ezra T. Benson (1811-1869)

Charles C. Rich (1809-1883)

Lorenzo Snow (1814-1901) (son-in-law of Wilford Woodruff, brother of a plural wife of Joseph Smith)

Erastus Snow (1818-1888)

Franklin D. Richards (1821-1899) (nephew of Willard Richards)

George Q. Cannon (1827-1901) (son-in-law of Brigham Young)

Joseph F. Smith (1838-1918) (nephew of Joseph Smith)

Brigham Young, Jr. (1836-1903) (son of Brigham Young)

Albert Carrington (1813-1889) (excommunicated for adultery)

Moses Thatcher (1842-1909) (kicked out of the Quorum due to his opposition to church involvement in politics, but remained a church member) (son-in-law of Erastus Snow)

Francis M. Lyman (1840-1916) (Amasa Lyman’s son)

John Henry Smith (1848-1911) (George A. Smith’s son)

George Teasdale (1831-1907)

Heber J. Grant (1856-1945)

John W. Taylor (1858-1916) (John Taylor’s son) (excommunicated over continued support of polygamy)

Marriner W. Merrill (1832-1906)

Anthon H. Lund (1844-1921)

Abraham H. Cannon (1859-1896) (son of George Q. Cannon)

Matthias F. Cowley (1858-1940) (resigned due to his continued support of polygamy)

Abraham O. Woodruff (1872-1904) (son of Wilford Woodruff)

Rudger Clawson (1857-1943)

Reed Smoot (1862-1941)

Hyrum M. Smith (1872-1918) (son of Joseph F. Smith)

George Albert Smith (1870-1951) (son of John Henry Smith + grandson of George A. Smith)

Charles W. Penrose (1832-1925)

George F. Richards (1861-1950) (son of Franklin D. Richards)

Orson F. Whitney (1855-1931) (grandson of Heber C. Kimball)

David O. McKay (1873-1970)

Anthony W. Ivins (1852-1934) (cousin of Heber J. Grant and son-in-law of Erastus Snow)

Joseph Fielding Smith (1876-1972) (son of Joseph F. Smith)

James E. Talmage (1862-1933)

Stephen L. Richards (1879-1959) (grandson of Willard Richards)

Richard R. Lyman (1870-1963) (son of Francis M. Lyman and grandson of Amasa Lyman) (excommunicated due to continued practice of polygamy)

Melvin J. Ballard (1873-1939)

John A. Widtsoe (1872-1952)

Joseph F. Merrill (1868-1952) (son of Marriner W. Merrill)

Charles A. Callis (1865-1947)

J. Reuben Clark (1871-1961)

Alonzo A. Hinckley (1870-1936)

Albert E. Bowen (1875-1953)

Sylvester Q. Cannon (1877-1943) (son of George Q. Cannon)

Harold B. Lee (1899-1973)

Spencer W. Kimball (1895-1985) (grandson of Heber C. Kimball)

Ezra Taft Benson (1899-1994) (great-grandson of Ezra T. Benson)

Mark E. Petersen (1900-1984)

Matthew Cowley (1897-1953) (son of Matthias F. Cowley)

Henry D. Moyle (1889-1963)

Delbert L. Stapley (1896-1978)

Marion G. Romney (1897-1988)

LeGrand Richards (1886-1983) (son of George F. Richards, grandson of Franklin D. Richards)

Adam S. Bennion (1886-1958)

Richard L. Evans (1906-1971)

George Q. Morris (1874-1962)

Hugh B. Brown (1883-1975)

Howard W. Hunter (1907-1995)

Gordon B. Hinckley (1910-2008) (nephew of Alonzo A. Hinckley)

N. Eldon Tanner (1898-1982)

Thomas S. Monson (1927-2018)

Boyd K. Packer (1924-2015)

Marvin J. Ashton (1915-1994)

Bruce R. McConkie (1915-1985) (son-in-law of Joseph Fielding Smith)

L. Tom Perry (1922-2015)

David B. Haight (1906-2004)

James E. Faust (1920-2007)

Neal A. Maxwell (1926-2004)

Russell M. Nelson (b. 1924)

Dallin H. Oaks (b. 1932)

M. Russell Ballard (b. 1928) (grandson of Melvin J. Ballard and Hyrum M. Smith, great-grandson of Joseph F. Smith)

Joseph B. Wirthlin (1917-2008) (cousin of Gordon B. Hinckley)

Richard G. Scott (1928-2015)

Robert D. Hales (1932-2017)

Jeffrey R. Holland (b. 1940)

Henry B. Eyring (b. 1933) (nephew of Spencer W. Kimball)

Dieter F. Uchtdorf (b. 1940)

David A. Bednar (b. 1952)

Quentin L. Cook (b. 1940)

D. Todd Christofferson (b. 1951)

Ronald A. Rasband (b. 1951)

Gary E. Stevenson (b. 1955) Dale G. Renlund (b. 1952) Gerrit W. Gong (b. 1953) (one of the first non-white apostles) Ulisses Soares (b. 1958) (the other first non-white apostle)

#i didnt realize how quite how many of these people are related to each other....crazy #i might have missed some other connections by marriage #Mormonposting tag

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trelldraws · 4 years ago

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The other night I was searching JSTOR for papers on 16th- and 17th-century German witch trials, as one does, when I came across this absolute showstopper of an abstract:

For 250 years insects and rodents accused of committing property crimes were tried as legal persons in French, Italian, and Swiss ecclesiastic courts under the same laws and according to the same procedures used to try actual persons. I argue that the Catholic Church used vermin trials to increase tithe revenues where tithe evasion threatened to erode them. Vermin trials achieved this by bolstering citizens' belief in the validity of Church punishments for tithe evasion: estrangement from God through sin, excommunication, and anathema. Vermin trials permitted ecclesiastics to evidence their supernatural sanctions' legitimacy by producing outcomes that supported those sanctions' validity. These outcomes strengthened citizens' belief that the Church's imprecation were real, which allowed ecclesiastics to reclaim jeopardized tithe revenue.

ME: THEY WHAT?

Needless to say, I had to click this paper, whereupon I passed in the course of several pages from wondering whether this was a really elaborate joke published in Chicago University's Journal of Law and Economics to literally crying with laughter:

Everyone has heard of a kangaroo court. But how about a court for kangaroos? What about a court for caterpillars? Impossible though it seems, for 250 years French, Italian, and Swiss legal systems had just that. Their ecclesiastic courts tried insects and rodents for property crimes according to the same procedures used to try legal persons. These courts summoned snails to answer charges of trespass, appointed legal counselors to locusts, and considered defenses for grasshoppers on the grounds that they were God's creatures. They convinced cockchafers of cozening crops, fulminated against field mice for filching from farmers, and exiled weevils under pain of excommunication and anathema.

Vermin trials were not the province of Dark Age ignorance or impoverished primitivism. They were of a much later, more enlightened vintage—a Renaissance one. Further, they occurred in the wealthiest countries in the world.

One interpretation of vermin trials is that the judicial officials who conducted them were mad. In examining these trials' records, it is tempting to conclude as much. In the records, we find distinguished judges ordering crickets to follow legal instructions, dignified jurists negotiating a settlement between farmers and beetles, and a decorous court granting a horde of rat defendants a continuance on the grounds that some cats prevented them from attending their trial.

[3] This paper considers ecclesiastic trials of vermin only. It does not consider the prosecution of domestic animals, such as dogs in pigs, in secular courts. For information on trials of domestic animals, which is often mixed with discussions of vermin trials, see Evans (1906) and Finkelstein (1981). For information on trials of inanimate objects, which is also occasionally mixed with discussions of animal trials, see Hyde (1916, 1917a, 1917b) and Pietz (1997). For information on animal trials under Roman law, see Jackson (1978).

This is so much absurdist litigation.

Early modern citizens' knowledge of pests and how to control them was poor. A perusal of pest control manuals used by professional farmers reveals just how poor. State-of-the-art Renaissance pesticides included sprinkling weasel ashes or water in which a cat had been bathed over fields to drive away mice; capturing a rodent, castrating it, and releasing it among other rodents to deter them; putting castor oil plants in afflicted fields to drive away moles; and hanging garlic around flock leaders' necks to protect sheep from wolves.[4]

[...]

Thus, it is unsurprising that, together with the other impressive remedies noted above, early modern farmers considered the ecclesiastical trial of vermin as a possible pesticide. Indeed, early modern pest control manuals explicitly advised farmers to use divine pesticide when confronted with difficult-to-resolve infestations. As one manual put it, "When all of these remedies are unsuccessful, one must turn to the ban of the Church" (Dannenfeldt 1982, p. 555).

Early modern citizens' divine-pesticide superstition is still less surprising when one considers the superstitions held by Europe's intellectual elite during the same period. These individuals held, for example, that the continent was infested by witches who had intercourse with demons and sole men's genitals while the men slept. When compared with this belief, simple farmers' belief that god might be able to exterminate pests is unremarkable.

[4] Early modern manuals contain a few pest control methods that are more sensible, for example, poison. But even these display incredible ignorance. One suggests using butter to poison rats.

Multiple communities beset by the same pests sometimes sued vermin collectively. For instance, in 1659 the Italian communes of Chiavenna, Mese, Gordona, Prada, and Samolico banded together to prosecute caterpillars they charge with trespassing on and damaging their fields.

A class action against caterpillars!!!

Ecclesiastic courts appointed defense attorneys to represent accused insects and rodents. Thus, when in 1519 the inhabitants of Glurns, Italy, sued some field mice for property damage, the court appointed legal counsel for the mice "to the end that they may have nothing to complain of in these proceedings" (Evans 1906, p. 112). Similarly, later that century, when the inhabitant of Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne, France, sued some weevils, the court appointed the creatures two legal representatives, a procurator and an advocate, "lest the animals against whom the action lies should remain defenseless" (Cohen 1993, p. 120).

Ecclesiastic judges showed impressive fairness towards vermin in such trials. Consider a fourteenth-century lawsuit brought against some flies by the inhabitants of Mainz, Germany. To the court's consternation, the flies refused to appear before the bench after being summonsed. The court concluded that "in consideration of their small size and the fact that they had not yet reached their majority," it would overlook the flies' failure to appear and would appoint them adequate defense counsel to prevent it from happening again (Evans 1906, pp. 110-11).

AAAAA

The lawyers representing vermin argued strenuously for their clients at trial. A common defense was that the defendants were God's creations. Thus, they had as much right to enjoy the fruit of His earth as the plaintiffs. Another common defense was that the case was invalid. Thus, the plaintiffs should be nonsuited.

One argument that vermin defense attorneys made towards this end was that their clients were vermin (Evans 1906, pp.98-99). This would have been a sensible argument against treating pests as legal persons��presumably the most sensible one—were it not offered by way of elaborate judicial proceedings that presumed the legitimacy of treating grasshoppers and moles as legal persons ipso facto.[6]

Procurators on both sides "took their job very seriously, devoting a great deal of time, knowledge, and legal expertise to the defense of their clients" (Cohen 1993, p.120). Vermin trials involved much legal wrangling. And judges at least pretended to be at great pains to decide cases justly.

[6] According to Chassenée (1531), another legal manuever [sic] attorneys for vermin resorted to was to argue that their clients were clerics, which entitled the vermin to the benefit of clergy. This would have permitted insects and rodents to have an ecclesiastic judge decide their case when the bishop granted jurisdiction to a secular magistrate (Evans 1906, pp.32-33). No vermin counselor ever used this argument. Still, the possibility that caterpillars or field mice might be men of the cloth was an argument the courts were willing to entertain.

By this point I was actually wheezing. Quoth a friend, accurately, upon being sent this excerpt: "???????????????? / The biggest, longest question mark of my life" ME FUCKING TOO

[7] Vermin often lost their case by default. Judges summoned vermin to appear in court to answer the charges against them three times. "The summoners were . . . served in the usual way by an officer of the court, reading them at the places most frequented by the animals" (Jamieson 1988, p. 51). If the vermin failed to respond to the third and final summons, the court could convict them.

To ensure that all members of the convicted species were aware of their sentence, the court announced the its verdict publictly and nailed broadsheets declaring its judgement to trees in the affected area. Alternatively, the court might bright some specimens before the bench to inform them of its decision, remitting the creatures to the afflicted area to share the decision with their colleagues (Dinzelbacher 2002, p. 410).

PLEASE!!!

TL;DR this whole paper was just such an experience, thank you god and the University of Chicago, I've never laughed so much in the course of reading an academic publication in my life, well-researched this is not but imagine submitting this paper with a straight face, this man has won academia

#not art #tbd

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