#tyrannical Alexander the Great

[jeannereames]

Hero Alexander vs. The Real Alexander

Moving to the second half of a recent question:

And if I'm not wrong, you mention at one place that you don't "heroize" Alexander. That's interesting, since he's often worshiped as a mythical hero. Why did you move away from that?

As a writer (and a reader), I’ve always been intrigued by the challenge of humanizing the “inhuman” (which can also include the ridiculously talented).

When I fell in love with Tolkien as a girl, I wanted to know what it would be like to be an elf, to have magic, to live that long, etcetera. Maybe that’s also why I always preferred Marvel superheroes over DC. Their hallmark was to make the fantastic (mutants, etc.) more human.

Now, I love me some traditional mythopoetic fantasy, but I’m no good at producing it myself. What is mythopoetic style? Peter Beagle, Patricia McKillip, Nancy Springer, C.J. Cherryh’s sidhe novels, my friend Meredith Ann Pierce … and of course Tolkien himself, where magic is real and magical creatures are…well, magical. Inhuman. Elves … not hobbits. Like a fairy tale…a myth (hence “mythopoetic”).

Anyway, I love reading that, but can’t write it to save my soul. When I write epic/historical fantasy (and I do see SFF as my home genre), it’s closer to anthro SF than to any mythopoetic style. My current MIP (monster-in-progress) is a 6-book series set on a secondary world where two branches of humanity survived, one of which, the Aphê, have super-convenient prehensile tails. 😊 The character journey for one of the protags across the first three novels is to recognize the Aphê as human and fallible rather than as a “noble savage” wise people. (Yes, questions of “What does it mean to be ‘civilized’?” are among the series themes.)

When it comes to historical fiction, I take the same tack. Alexander is interesting to me because he was a real person who accomplished extraordinary things.* What might he have been like in real life?

Making him too perfect—good at everything, no/few mistakes (just misunderstood), always honorable, etc., bores me. That’s the Alexander of his own marketing campaign. (laugh) It was adopted and refined by some later historians such as Arrian, and Plutarch in his rhetorical pieces (less in the Life but still there). That’s why I’m not a huge fan of Renault’s Alexander, and generally prefer her other Greek novels. Manfredi and (sorta) Pressfield do the same. Tarr and Graham also keep him deliberately at a distance to allow him to remain heroized, but it bothers me less because he’s at a distance. (Btw, I do not dislike Renault's ATG novels; they're just not among my favorites, either on Alexander, or of hers.)

Yet I’m not a fan of the other approach, either: to “humanize” him by taking him down a notch—making him NOT all that, just lucky (Lucian, and Nick Nicastro). Or by upending the heroic narrative altogether and turning him into a megalomaniacal “wicked tyrant” ala Pompeius Trogus/Justin or Seneca (and Chris Cameron).

I want something (and someone) more relatable, even while letting him remain truly astonishing. To humanize the “inhuman.” I realize that’s a challenge as, the moment we do humanize him, it removes him from the realm of the hero, which in turn makes it harder to allow him to be “all that.” For some, any fault is “too much”—the proverbial clay feet—because they’re desperate to have an idol, a hero…not a person. So the haters come out when, for instance, Simone Biles pulled out of the Olympics for mental health and the Twisties. How dare she!

I’m interested in the person. Even if Alexander wanted to be Herakles Take II, he wasn’t inhuman (divine). He was just a guy, and for me, the fact he was “just a guy,” yet still accomplished all those extraordinary things, is the most remarkable part.

I’ll conclude with what I wrote at the end of the author’s note in the back of Dancing with the Lion: Rise (also available on the website):

In the end, whatever approach one takes to Alexander, whatever theories one subscribes to, more or less hostile to the conqueror, we are left with the man himself in all his complexity and contradiction. The phenomenon called “Alexander the Great” has evoked vastly different interpretations from his era to ours. It’s tempting to seek internal consistency for his behavior, or to force it when it can’t be found. Yet no one is consistent. Even more, history itself is distorted by those recording it in order to serve their unique political narratives, whether then or now. Conflicting politics create competing narratives, and histories of Alexander were (and are) especially prone to such distortions. That, in turn, brings us back to where we began: history (like historical fiction) is about who we are now, and what it’s possible for us to become. So Alexander was neither demon nor god, whatever he wanted to believe about himself. He was a man, capable of cruelty and sympathy, brilliance and blindness, paranoia and an open-handed generosity. As remarkable as he was, he was human. And that's what makes him interesting.

--------------------

* That some of these extraordinary things would be—and should be—reviled by modern standards is part of the uncomfortable contradiction, and legacy, of the ancient world. This is something I also try to depict in the novel. So there is never a “simple win” in a battle. There’s something ugly shown in or as a result of every single one. On purpose. Battle is, and should be, deeply disturbing.

[madnessr]

Vagabond

Vagabond — wandering from place to place without any settled home

Poly Lost Boys x GN Reader Synopsis: Forgiveness is a fickle thing. When four souls find each other, the world finds its equilibrium once more; until the absence of another tips the scale forever. What happens when a familiar face shows itself back at the boardwalk after twenty years of absence?

Warnings: slight angst, lots of historical information in the beginning

Word Count: 3k

By issuing the Declaration of Independence, adopted by the Continental Congress on July 4th, 1776, the 13 American colonies severed their political connections to Great Britain. 

You had been ten during the conflicts between America and Great Britain, young and impressionable. Your family came with Puritans, who set sail to America back in 1630. Unlike the Pilgrims, who had left ten years earlier, the Puritans did not break with the Church of England but sought to reform it. All that happened before you were born; your ancestors had settled down and spread their roots into American soil. 

You recalled little of the American Revolution; after all, you were very young back then, but you remember December 15th, 1791, vividly. Your mother couldn't stop crying that day, and your father had pulled out the oldest whiskey they had that day. America was finally severed from the tyrannical rule of George III. 

You came to understand the significance of those dates more as you aged, growing into a strong individual as you helped your family on their farm. You never intended to marry; it wasn't something you had ever desired or looked forward to. The same year you had gotten married was the day you lost your immortality; both events are related but not necessarily connected. You were introduced to the vampiric community in New Orleans, a city that used the day to sleep off the mistakes you made throughout the rambunctious night. 

You had lived through the formation of the Constitution of the United States of America in 1787 when the founding fathers sought to implement more structure into the now independent country. 

The infamous whiskey rebellion. American drunks apparently were not too keen about Alexander Hamilton implementing a liquor tax to try and raise money for the national debt; asserting the federal government's power back in 1794. 

Only nine years later, the Louisiana Purchase happened in 1803. The small land purchase for only $27 million created room for the states of Louisiana, Missouri, Arkansas, Iowa, North Dakota, South Dakota, Nebraska, and Oklahoma, along with most of Kansas, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, and Minnesota.

Throughout the 1810s and 1830s, you had moved on from New Orleans and left for New York, seeking human connections and reconnecting with the younger generations. During that time, the Battle of New Orleans in 1815 and the Monroe Doctrine in 1823 seemed to fly past you. 

Then, signed on February 2nd, 1848, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo finally brought closure to the Mexican-American war. At this time, you were no stranger to political conflicts anymore, and the stench of blood and sweat staining battlefields was, unfortunately, no stranger. 

Life moved on regardless, no matter the horrid realities life provided. For a short while, life had finally come to a stand-still, guns tucked away as the world in America resumed its development. Until April 12th, 1861, Confederate troops fired on Fort Sumter in South Carolina's Charleston Harbor at 4:30 A.M., A day that changed America forever, the beginning of the American Civil War. 

The Emancipation Proclamation, The First Conscription Act, The Battle of Chancellorsville, The Vicksburg Campaign, The Gettysburg Campaign, The Battle of Chickamauga, The Battle of Chattanooga, The Siege of Knoxville. The list continued, and the coppery smell of wasted humanity tainted the air, the wind carrying the cries of victims throughout the nation. 

The war ended in the Spring of 1865. Robert E. Lee surrendered the last major Confederate army to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Courthouse on April 9th, 1865.

The number of soldiers who died throughout those four years eventually got estimated to be around 620,000.

Only 47 years later, on July 28th, 1914, the Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated, beginning the cruel trench warfare of World War I. In early April 1917, America aided the effort to join a war to end all wars. You had entered the war effort, like everyone capable at the time; from soldiers to nurses, everyone gave aid. 

On November 11th, 1918, the war ended. Although the Allies won, you found no reason to celebrate. Not when mothers sold their homes since there wasn't a reason to have a multiple-bedroom house anymore, when graveyards overflowed with the dead, when people mourned their losses, when mothers' only answer to their missing sons was a notice declaring their child missing in action. 

The stock market crashed in 1929, kicking off the Great Depression that would last for more than a decade. 

On September 1st, 1939, Germany invaded Poland. Kicking off World War II and beginning one of the most brutal warfare's, Blitzkrieg. On May 8th, 1945, Germany surrendered. After the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan surrendered on September 2nd, 1945, and the Second World War came to an end.

The war ended, and the surviving soldiers returned with missing limbs and broken spirits. You were a firm believer that humans were not meant to witness so much death; it tainted them; it dulled them. Although you were a vampire, a creature supposedly made for horror, you could not forget what you had witnessed in only the span of 21 years. 

You were 201 years old now, relatively young in the grand scheme of time, but you had lived through a few of the greatest horrors the world had ever seen. 

189 years of traversing the lands, you watched grow in a desperate search to find one of your own. Since you were turned and left New Orleans, you had not met a single vampire. You watched with sorrowful wisdom in your eyes as the world passed through you, virginity in people's expressions you wish you had. A gaze untainted by warfare, civil unrest, and brutality. 

Although you have met the occasional human to brighten your own world, it did not cure you. Your search was desolate—fruitless. 

Your feet had carried you to Santa Carla, the year now being 1963, and just as the five stages of grief had settled on acceptance. You bumped into a group of four rambunctious bikers that would change your life forever. That had been the first time you had met, and you had continued to live together, going on to live through the Civil Rights movement and grieving the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr.

But on August 12th, 1967, you left Santa Carla. Your absence is only justified by a delicately written letter standing in your place. You had grown to love the boys, but you had lived differently compared to them. 

Marko and Paul were younger vampires than you, having been turned while The Great Depression was bulldozing America. Dwanye had been older, abandoning his immortality in the 18th century along with David. All of them possessed the innate ability to move on from the past, a talent you, unfortunately, did not possess. 

No matter how hard you tried, you could not find peace or excitement in the future. The uncertainty corrupted you, tormented you and your experiences, so you left. Not with the intent to abandon but to sort out whatever you had to sort out. Away from the prying eyes of those you loved, those who you did not want—couldn't disappoint.  

Santa Carla, the town you had never been able to forget. It was 1987 now; twenty years had passed since you had seen the four vampires. You had missed them—a melancholic weight having nestled its way into your heart ever since you left. You regretted the way you had left through a simple letter. A cowardly move; you were wise enough to understand that. But at the time, you couldn't bring yourself to say it to them. How could you? Look someone in the eyes, someone like you—your own pack that never did anything but love you—and tell them you were leaving? 

You didn't have the heart, and if you were a little more honest, you didn't have it now, either. But you missed them more than your hurt pride by walking what felt like a walk of shame as you wandered around the busy boardwalk. One thing you never could get used to was the constant shift in fashion, it felt like the ins became the outs overnight, and you never were able to keep up with it. 

Bright colors were the most fashionable now, with teased hair and loud makeup. You enjoyed it, your knowing eyes watching over the crowd. The smell of hairspray permeated the air, wafting towards you as you passed people. Bulky and oversized clothes were spotted throughout the crowds, some men and women wearing specific member-only jackets. Ah, it seems the surfer nazis still haven't given up on Santa Carla yet. 

The amusement park was new; back in 1867, the boardwalk had small shops littered around—like a market. Originally it mostly sold food and groceries, fish caught fresh from the sea, and farmers selling their produce. 

How has the pier changed so significantly? If it wasn't for the bold, attention-seeking sign that said Santa Carla Boardwalk; you would've thought you were at the wrong address. But stepping on those old wooden floorboards of the pier that occasionally creaked or sunk under your feet was an all too familiar feeling. The smell of salt, rotting seaweed that had washed onto the shore, and the fresh street food made you feel all too at home. 

It felt like you had never really left. 

Your appearance had changed quite a bit since you left Santa Carla, so you didn't expect either the boys or Max to really recognize you. But although you were willing to stay under the radar for the boys, Max was another story. He was a head vampire, a coven leader, and therefore needed to be notified of your presence. 

Entering Max's video store made you feel nostalgic, the same old grimy bell still hanging atop the doorframe signaling your arrival; you had been the one to put that there to originally annoy Max. You were surprised he kept it. The wooden floorboards and furniture gave off a distinct, homey smell. You had been there when the store was built, and the shiny coating across the floors now had grown mat, occasional wood panels brighter in color than before. 

"I never thought I'd meet the day I saw you walk through those doors again." 

Turning around, you met the stern gaze of Max. His outfit made you smile, a desperate attempt at blending in with the crowd. Max was always a stickler for blending in; if he had no intention of turning you; you had no business knowing who; or rather what, he was. 

"It's good to see you." 

"I'm flattered, but I doubt that I am the sole reason you returned." Max always carried that knowing tone, as if he's watched out every move you'd make before you made them. It reminded you that Max had a coven before the boys and you, one he rarely conversed about. Perhaps Max really had seen this turn out before, but analyzing that surprised expression, you could only assume who had left never did come back. 

"How right you are," You sighed, shoulders dropping as you hopped onto the cashier counter. It was before opening, meaning you and Max had some time to chat privately. 

"Twenty years is a long time," Max hummed, a low and almost chiding tone. "What made you come back?" 

"To us, it isn't," You weakly argued back. The cumbersome feeling, or rather an awareness that you were in the wrong, was nearly unbearable. You were smart enough to understand that denial was a fruitless endeavor, and yet you couldn't help but let those desperate attempts escape you. 

"For people waiting for you, it's an eternity." Max sighed in a calm but chiding tone. Although Max never did have to scold you the way he did with the boys, from not committing arson to preventing fights. Max instead focused his guidance towards you on a more emotional level, the morality; a bit ironic being taught by a vampire—but he did his best. 

You glanced outside, through the glass walls of Max's shop, watching the bustling crowd pass you. Twenty years to a vampire was nothing, but somehow the short span of time felt arduous. Why did you come back?

"I never intended on staying away forever. I knew that when the time was right, I'd return." You explained, stealing a quick glance at Max. The older man had a frown etched onto his face, eyebrows furrowed as his own gaze lingered on the rambunctious humans outside. So unaware of the constant and unrelenting passage of time. It was cruel to be immortal; the passage of time no longer hindered you. But emotions are bendable and are the only aspect of ourselves that remains from who we were. Emotions were mortal. 

"Santa Carla has changed, Y/N. It is not what you left behind; they are not the same as they were alongside you." Max recalled, his voice disapproving. 

You knew Max was correct; you knew deep in your wrenching and twisting gut. You jumped off the counter, your feet hitting the floor like gravity had shifted around you, sinking your body into the floor. "I know," you knew; perhaps the boys didn't even want to see you; they could curse you out and send your name to hell for all eternity. They deserved to do it too. 

But they loved you once, and perhaps you can't help shake the feeling that they might love you again this time too. 

Max sighed, walking over to his front door and twisting the closed sign around, and pronouncing the store now open. Each tap of his foot, synced with his steps, was like a thundering echo inside you. It prompted you to get up and to provide closure for the others. You reach the door, opening midway before Max leaves you with some parting advice. 

"I hope you find what you came here for, Y/N. But the time might be right for you now, but it might not be for them."

You nodded, not looking back as you walked out of the store. The air was warmer, humid from the ocean breeze mixing into the air, the notorious assassin for any styled and teased hair due.

Laughter was one of your favorite sounds. As cliche as that might sound, it felt rejuvenating to hear. Whether it was a loud cackle mimicking the call of a hyena or a high-pitched wheeze or whistle. There was a beauty in people's expressions, how their noses tended to scrunch up, or how others held their stomachs and nearly doubled over. Laughter was infectious, and you loved observing the dopamine spread to others. Strangers connecting over a similar sense of joy; there was a beauty in it. 

The boardwalk was filled with it, people brushing shoulders against shoulders as they walked. Groups cackling and shoving each other as they enjoyed the youngness of the evening. Music booming from different directions, punks blasting the newest rap or metal music, hippies tuning out to a gentle jam, but the loudest seemed to be a distant concert down the boardwalk and closer to the pier. Like a bee sensing some honey, you followed. Dodging the occasional passerby, ducking out of the way from shop owners lugging their merchandise around. 

The music got louder, and a small thread of excitement seemed to push you further, faster. Your small stroll transformed into a quickened step, your ears guiding you and your eyes following the crowd. The music was loud; a tight smosh-like pit had formed before the stage where people grind and brushed against each other to the beat of the music. 

Looking around, you scanned the faces of teenagers and young adults. There was an eager but dreaded nervousness to your gaze at the thought of seeing a face that looked familiar. But it wasn't your eyes that caught their presence, but rather your sense of smell. 

 Copper. 

Although it was harder to pick up when the wind stills its prancing, the occasional breeze led you further towards the pier. Away from the smosh pit, and where people stood to enjoy the music but not risk getting mulled over by a hormonal teenager. 

There they stood, strikingly familiar. Although some of the fashion had changed, most of their originality stayed intact. That tiny red flag tied around Dwayne's waist was something the two of you had stolen from a stingy bar owner back in 1964; Markos jacket still had all too familiar patches sewn into its denim fabric; Paul still wore those bracelets you gave him, and David wore the most prominent reminder of you, his oversized coat. 

The wind picked up around you, a cold and mocking breeze flowing through your hair and betraying your presence to the four men you had left behind all those years ago. One by one, heads lifted, smiling ceased, and laughter died. Although you had spent years preparing yourself for this moment, nothing felt so gut-wrenchingly real than standing before them. 

How do you look someone in the eyes after you've abandoned them?

How do you move past that moment when the world around you stills and halts. When you lose yourself in the blear of the world when mortality reaches its hand around your heart and squeezes. A vice-like grip, a feeling blooming within your chest so heavy–so unspeakable. When you see those eyes, recognize the sorrow behind them and realize you were the perpetrator. You were the one who put that agony, that sadness there.

The burden of your actions ties itself around your throat like a noose, tight and unyielding, as you realize the cruelty was done by none other than yourself. And there is no way, in any shape or form, you could reverse the damage you've done. Pain is immortal, it might yield to its throbbing, but it never forgets. 

A world with your boys back in 1967 exists now only in your memory. The four men, cold as the autumn waters, were your reality now. 

"Hello, boys."

[broken-clover]

(Over)Analyzing the Cards in Johnny’s Joker Trick (Part 1)

New character, new minute details to overly scrutinize and pretend have meaning!

As of Strive, Johnny’s Joker Trick Instant Kill has been retooled into an Overdrive, and with it, everyone now has a unique card taken from existing card suites. Are they randomly assigned? Or do they fit into some symbolic meaning? Let’s pretend its the latter!

Due to the sheer amount of characters and limited number of face cards, a handful of them overlap. It’s a little surprising that there’s no numeral cards or aces included, as those do have some symbolism based on the numbers, but maybe that in itself is already symbolic, that he views his opponents with relative seriousness, or just that he doesn’t both doing anything less than off the highest caliber.

Also to be noted that a lot of card symbolism is looser than something like tarot and doesn’t necessarily have as much concrete meaning, so I’m not gonna pretend this isn’t anything other than speculation and fiddling around. We’re bringing in some Cartomancy and a lot of the info I found could be a little muddled, if not contradictory

For the sake of cleanliness and coherency, let’s go by hierarchy. I’m also gonna be breaking this into two halves for the sake of length and not having a million character tags

-

The Joker- solely belongs to Happy Chaos. Batman jokes aside, this makes for an obvious one. Happy is the wild card, the unpredictable element. Though it was originally designed to be a trump card for Euchre, not it performs a variety of functions based on the game being played. It can be the highest-ranking, lowest-ranking, or serve some other technical function in a game. The value and usage of a joker card varies wildly based on the context, which fits Happy well (interestingly, Johnny doesn’t use the Joker card despite the design being based on himself)

-

Kings

King of Clubs- Shared between Ky Kiske and Zato-1. Contemporary King of Clubs cards are designed after Alexander the Great, which fits well for both the reigning monarch of Illyria and the former puppetmaster of the Assassin’s Guild. A lot of the symbolism I found involved leadership qualities such as intuition and determination. The suit itself is generally associated with nature, thanks to it being interpreted as a clover or as acorns, which may draw in some motifs about growth and change, which may also have some relevance with Ky’s ascent to the throne and subsequent abdication, and the dissolution of the Guild.

King of Diamonds- Held solely by Leo. In contemporary design this one is based of of Caesar, and while the man hopefully has little to do with the tyrannical behavior or assassination, there may be a form of connection in terms of battle prowess. It tends to be shown a little more negatively, either in terms of his domineering power or his sense of haughtiness. There’s also an association with wealth, which while not necessarily specific to Leo, it may fit in him being a powerful king and his association with the color yellow/gold

King of Hearts- Curiously, shared between Potemkin and Johnny. Johnny’s is an obvious choice, he sees himself as a king of romance and chivalry. Potemkin, however, has never been shown in a romantic light, unless it pertains to his patriotic love for his nation. Generally, the card has motifs of kindness, benevolence, and consideration, and both are shown as relatively mature gentleman-types, who care much for others. In an interesting bit of trivia, the King of Hearts is also sometimes called the ‘suicide king’ as it appears to be driving the sword into his own head. Fittingly, both Johnny and Potemkin both die trying to protect others in non-canonical endings, Johnny being murdered by Testament after trying to protect Dizzy in XX and in the drama CD, and Potemkin getting in the way of an attempted assassination in AC

King of Spades- Shared between Chipp and Bedman/Delilah. Design-wise, the most well-known iteration is based off of the biblical King David, known for his act of singlehandedly slaying the goliath with a stone. Though the two of them aren’t on the same end of the moral spectrum, both Chipp and Bedman are characterized by fighting difficult odds for their own sake and the sake of helping others. The spade suit more generally has an association with violence, as it can be interpreted as a blade (in addition to a leaf or a trowel), and both are known for their usage of blades and get into a lot of physical altercations. Interestingly, Bedman is the only King card who hasn’t held any canonical position of authority. Likewise, Chipp’s is self-bestowed

[50books50movies]

Suffs

Suffs (2024, The Music Box Theatre): I don’t know if the comparisons to Hamilton that have thrown around in reviews have done the show any favors. It’s an easy comparison to make:

-award-winning musicals that transitioned from off-Broadway to Broadway runs

-helmed by a singular vision

-inspired by a book that the creator read about a moment in American history

-where characters are played by actors who look and speak differently than their historical counterparts.

Obviously, these two works must be paired in conversation. And since the 1776 revival flopped on Broadway after trying some of the same casting tactics as Hamilton (casting all female, transgender, and non-binary actors as the American Founding Fathers), it fell on Suffs, at least to the public, critics, and producers, to prove that Hamilton wasn’t a singular event and that you could make a commercially and critically successful musical based on American history with ahistorical casting. (As I said, the comparison is superficial.) (Furthering the narrative, Phillipa Soo was original cast in Hamilton and in the off-Broadway cast in Suffs.)

Digging below the surface, one can see similar bones upholding Hamilton and Suffs inherited from ancestors like Les Miserables. The story is mostly focused on the brash Alice Paul/Alexander Hamilton, who is contrasted against her more conservative colleague, Carrie Chapman Catt/Aaron Burr. Paul is buoyed by her three friends: Doris Stevens, Inez Milholland, and Ruza Wenclawska/John Laurens, Hercules Mulligan, and the Marquis de Lafayette. Their uphill struggle to gain women the vote is opposed by the tyrannical President Woodrow Wilson/King George III, who has a signature solo in each act. Paul and her colleagues encourage each other to finish the fight/not throw away their shot, and the musical is as much an exhortation to the present and future as much as it is a walk through the past.

And yes, we thus have the setup for easy, smirking barbs about how the one credited to a man about a man’s story is one of the most successful, critically acclaimed musicals in history while the one credited to a woman about women just won two Tony Awards and won’t see any productions in other cities, much less other countries, any time soon.

Beyond that jab, however, is the follow-up uppercut that Hamilton is just a better musical than Suffs. Many actors are making their Broadway debut in Suffs, and you can feel the rawness in the simple choreography (likely affected by the period-appropriate costuming). The play launches jarringly with the ensemble number “Let Mother Vote;” there wasn’t even a reminder to the audience to silence their cell phones to prime the audience, and so of course a phone rang in the second act. The pace fails to give the audience a moment to cheer for the first Woodrow Wilson solo, “Ladies;” instead, the scene transitions right into “A Meeting With President Wilson.”

If we fall into the compare and contrast game, then one might hold Suffs wanting in its lack of songs that stick and work outside of its context; there are no displays of verbal gymnastics like “Satisfied” or “What’d I Miss.” I struggle to hum a melody from Suffs the morning after; I would say that it’s surprising that Suffs won the Tony Award for Best Original Score, but that is also dictated by the level of competition this year.

That’s not to say Suffs is a bad musical; the house was packed for the performance I attended, and I was moved by the story and songs. The American suffrage movement presents fewer moments of bombast compared to the American Revolution and the country’s founding; there’s no Battle of Yorktown to provide a first act closing number. Instead, we have a great and fiery number in the second act focused on the Silent Sentinels, who protest Wilson’s unwillingness to publicly support suffrage and decision to incarcerate Paul, Smith, Burns, and Wenclawska at Occoquan Workhouse.

The cast is strong across the board; standouts were Hannah Cruz, who embodies Inez Milholland’s magnetic personality; Jenn Colella, who gives needed nuance to Carrie Chapman Catt, Grace McLean, who delights in chauvinism and convenient ignorance; Emily Skinner, who lights up the stage as socialite Alva Belmont; and Lucy Bonino who lends a quiet strength and anchor to the show as Paul’s closest friend, Lucy Burns.

And then there is Nikki M. James, who is incredible as Ida B. Wells. Wells is the focal point of Suffs’ departure from comparisons with Hamilton, as how the show directly challenges how the suffrage movement justified compromises to placate southern members at the cost of Black activists seems to be in conversation with how Hamilton tried to make the slave-owning George Washington an abolitionist in “Yorktown (The World Turned Upside Down)” by having him answer Laurens’s question:

Laurens: Black and white soldiers wonder alike if this really means freedom

Washington: Not. Yet.

Though Paul is Suffs’s protagonist, Suffs also shows how Paul’s story intersects with Wells’s. The play sides with Wells when she directly criticizes Paul and friends for asking Black activists to wait their turn on racial justice without resolving their hypocrisy. The suffragists who demand that the men who control their political and economic lives stop deferring to hear their call for suffrage because tariffs, war, and campaigning for re-election take priority then tell the Black activists that actually enforcing Black men’s suffrage and stopping lynchings must wait until women’s suffrage has been won. However, Suffs has a refrain on this as well: it’s important to remember who the actual enemy is and not to succumb to these divisions that only benefit conservative forces that want to preserve the status quo.

The play mostly handles these transitions in focus with deftness, and James is able to balance steely resolution, doubt, righteous indignation, sorrow at the future, and hope for the best in her limited time on stage. The play would be greatly diminished if James’ Wells, Anastacia McCleskey’s Mary Church Terrell, and Laila Erica Drew’s Phyllis Terrell had been excised so the focus could be solely on Paul’s story.

Similarly, the play reminds us of how little we know and see about the larger story of the suffrage movement and intersectional need for change by dropping a last moment revelation that Catt was queer and romantically involved with Molly Hay. It might seem like a random point to include in “If We Were Married (reprise),” but it reinforces the point that suffrage is just one direction of necessary change and that our focus on Paul limits what we know about the other activists’ motivations and struggles.

Given the high cost of Broadway tickets (our seats were in the theater’s penultimate upper tier row, and they were still more than $100), we have to be very selective in what we see. Recommendations from Helen Shaw of New York magazine haven’t steered us wrong yet, and we’re glad that we saw Suffs on her advice. If nothing else, it’s led me to teaching myself about the suffrage movement, since my formal schooling was woefully inadequate on this subject.

[beyond-crusading]

Highlights from the divorce trial of Louis XII

In 1498, King of France Louis XII launched a trial against his wife so he could divorce her, and secure a much more valuable marriage with Anne, duchess of Brittany. Divorce trials for Kings were settled by the Papacy, and, thankfully for Louis, he had just allied himself with the current Pope, Alexander VI Borgia...

Some highlights:

- 27 witnesses testified for the King, and only 3 - selected by the King himself - for his wife Jeanne.

- The King's prosecutor tried to prove Louis and Jeanne's union was incestuous, because Jeanne's father was Louis' godfather, making Louis and Jeanne spiritual siblings.

- The King's men tried to convince the judges that Jeanne's father, Louis XI, forces Louis to marry his daughter, rendering the marriage illegal. To prove this point, a witness testified that the tyrannical Louis XI terrified "not only the men of his kingdom, but also the trees" (??)

- To further emphasize that this marriage was forced upon Louis, the prosecutor insisted on Jeanne's ugliness. He explained that when Louis' mother met Jeanne for the first time, she was so taken aback that she fainted on the spot.

- Unfortunately for Louis, canonical law didn't recognize ugliness as a valid cause for divorce (only as a valid reason to break off a betrothal)

- Witnesses claimed Louis XI had hated Louis since he was a baby, because when baby Louis was being baptized, he pissed on the King's hand, which the superstitious Louis XI interpreted as a sign of a inherent rebellious nature

Louis XII DID manage to divorce his wife. Something French Kings had often tried to do, rarely with success. Not a great win for fair and ethical trials though...

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Monday, December 26, 2022

december 26_december 13

ST. HERMAN, WONDERWORKER OF ALASKA (1836) 

St. Herman, while he lived on earth, was a simple monk who came from his beloved Valaam Monastery in Russia to the shores of Alaska in the year 1794.

In the previous year, Metropolitan Gabriel of St. Petersburg asked Abbot Nazarius of Valaam to gather a small group of monks to form a missionary team that would travel across Russia and Siberia to Alaska (at that time a Russian possession) to bring the Gospel of Christ to the native people. Those monks were Archimandrite Joasaph, Hieromonks Juvenaly, Macarius, Athanasius, Stephen and Nectarius, Hierodeacons Nectarius and Stephen, and Monks Joasaph and Herman. This trek over land and water took more than a year (the longest recorded single missionary journey in the history of the church)!

Upon reaching the end of their journey they arrived at Kodiak Island aboard the ship Three Hierarchs on September 24, 1794. Immediately, the monks began to fan out across Alaska, while St. Herman remained at the home base in Kodiak at the newly built Holy Resurrection Church to administer the overall mission and newly established school. The mission was a thriving one, received with great enthusiasm by most of the native people and resulting in thousands of Baptisms. Schools were started, churches built, many sacramental marriages were performed; all through the grace-filled efforts of 10 monks who labored in the midst of harsh and primitive conditions.

Often they did not enjoy the support of the Russian American Company, which was the local Russian authority in the area. Alexander Baranov was in charge of the company and proved to be a tyrannical and self-serving leader who considered the natives to be little more than slave laborers. Father Herman and the other monks labored mightily to protect them and intercede on their behalf with the higher authorities in Russia.

After about 15 years St. Herman moved to Spruce Island, which is a small densely wooded island about 1 mile off the coast of Kodiak, to pursue a more hermit-like life. He brought his whole monastic spiritual formation, rich experience and Orthodox inheritance to bear upon this new life. He built a church and a cell, planted a garden and in a short time started an orphanage and school for the people on the island.

With burning love and compassion he began to deposit within the hearts of all who came, something of the wondrous Christian treasure that had been entrusted to him. He labored for the most part alone at this stage of his life, pressing forward with great patience and humility. He chanted the church services, contemplated the Scripture, the writings of the Philokalia and other writings of the Saints which he had brought to the New World and pursued an intense life of interior prayer.

O Blessed Father Herman of Alaska, North Star of Christ’s Holy Church.

The light of your holy life and great deeds guides those who follow the Orthodox way.

Together we lift high the Holy Cross you planted firmly in America.

Let all behold and glorify Jesus Christ, singing His Holy Resurrection.

— Troparion to St. Herman, 

He was once asked, “How do you live alone in the forest, Fr. Herman, don’t you become bored and lonely?” He replied, “No! I am not alone here. God is here, as God is everywhere. Holy angels are here. Can one become bored with them? With whom is converse better and more pleasant, with men or with angels? Of course, with angels!”

Much more could be said about the life and miracles of St. Herman, both while he lived on earth and after his repose on November 15, 1836, but they will not fit into this short Hagiographical sketch. He foresaw the time of his earthly departure, and when the time came, he was surrounded by his beloved orphans and spiritual children who were reading the Acts of the Apostles by his bedside. At that moment they recorded that his face suddenly began to shine and the cell was filled with a divine fragrance and they knew that their elder was dead.

That same evening, others in the village of Katani on Afognak Island recorded that they saw an unusually bright column of light rising in the air above Spruce Island. The Creole Gerasim Vologdin said, “It looks as though Fr. Herman has left us” and they all began to pray to God.

On March 11, 1969, the Holy Synod of Bishops of the Orthodox Church in America proclaimed that Fr. Herman would be glorified as a Saint for having faithfully toiled in the “spiritual work of apostolic service among the natives whom he illumined by the light of the truth of Gospel.” On August 9, 1970, Bishops, Priests and faithful from the entire Orthodox world assembled at the Church of the Resurrection in Kodiak to witness the Glorification upon earth of St. Herman, the first Orthodox Saint of North America. His holy relics remain in that church to this day.

Ask almost anyone in the regions around Kodiak and many people in all parts of Alaska, even to this day, if they know of the blessed Saint of Alaska, Fr. Herman, and you will probably receive a reverent and knowing “nod of the head.” Perhaps you will hear a personal story about how he has helped someone in need or inspired another upon the ancient, yet ever new heavenly path upon which he walked.

We, who now strive to walk upon this same path two hundred years later, give thanks to God “who is wondrous in His Saints,” and who allowed such a one to walk in our midst.

Holy St. Herman, pray to God for us!

MATTHEW 10:16-22 

16 Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves. Therefore be wise as serpents and harmless as doves. 17 But beware of men, for they will deliver you up to councils and scourge you in their synagogues. 18 You will be brought before governors and kings for My sake, as a testimony to them and to the Gentiles. 19 But when they deliver you up, do not worry about how or what you should speak. For it will be given to you in that hour what you should speak; 20 for it is not you who speak, but the Spirit of your Father who speaks in you. 21 Now brother will deliver up brother to death, and a father his child; and children will rise up against parents and cause them to be put to death. 22 And you will be hated by all for My name's sake. But he who endures to the end will be saved.

EPHESIANS 6:10-17 

10 Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord and in the power of His might. 11 Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. 12 For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places. 13 Therefore take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand. 14 Stand therefore, having girded your waist with truth, having put on the breastplate of righteousness, 15 and having shod your feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace; 16 above all, taking the shield of faith with which you will be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked one. 17 And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God;

Commentary of the Church Fathers 

John Cassian AD 435: This is the sword that for our health spills the noxious blood that animates the matter of our sins, cutting out and excising whatever it finds in our soul that is carnal or earthly and, once it has made us dead to vices, causing us to live to God and flourish in spiritual virtues. .

John Chrysostom AD 407: And take the helmet, he continues, of salvation, that is, of your salvation. For he is casing them in armor. And the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. He either means the Spirit, or else, the spiritual sword: for by this all things are severed, by this all things are cleft asunder, by this we cut off even the serpent's head.

[themfp1]

Alexander Hamilton and The Right to Fight the Government

By: Mark Lewis “When a government betrays the people by amassing too much power and becoming tyrannical, people have no choice but to exercise their original right of self-defense—to fight the government.”—Alexander Hamilton This is a great quote from Hamilton and something all Americans used to know. It is one of the founding principles of the United States and is exactly why the current…

[wubwubnparmaham]

how do you think the world would react to immortality and what would be the reaction of historians and people overall of alexander still being around and not only him but of other historical figures

In like a literal sense? If you mean our world, how would we react, the first thing I would see happening (depending on how this knowledge came to be in the open) is a lot of divisive conclusions about the validity of it. I can see people hopping onto forums and calling it fake news to the ends of the earth, so there would need to be some substantial proof for the non-believers to not just assume it was some scare tactic on the government's part, or like a distraction, similar to those UFO documents from the CIA coming out during other global crises that needed the public's attention there instead (Ukraine, Palestine, etc). Since the government has a habit of doing that kind of shit, I think even I would be skeptical at first.

Considering the eventual reality that it is confirmed and believed by all, then a lot of other shit might happen.

I think scientists and the government would be quick to lull the public into saying they were "looking into" and "dealing with it" and "not to worry", but secretly the government would probably be panicking, preparing the military for defensive action and rallying the national guard, and I think if they could manage it, scientists would absolutely capture one and try to figure out what the fuck was going on physically.

Over time, if immortals weren't keen on fighting a war against humans and no real violence ever came, people's mindsets would shift to desire instead, wanting to become immortal themselves to escape the ever-encroaching death day in their futures.

I think that would divide society even further. People would be separated into "human purists" and "sympathizers", and the former would have some moral high ground standpoint against the latter, calling immortals and all who wanted to be them abominations against our species.

Tensions would probably rise in the public as those warring mindsets duked it out, and a lot of people would get more and more nervous about the fact that billionaires were already or were becoming immortal, corporations and their execs, government bodies, and global leaders were now unstoppable. Even I hate the thought of that.

If the world is ever proven to be run entirely by people (potentially tyrannical people) who WILL NEVER DIE, the indomitable human spirit would win out and we would fight back heavily, good odds or not. Likely, by becoming immortal ourselves, to be able to stand a chance against them. The more hesitant people in the earlier stages might jump at the chance to become immortal too, similar to how I would think many anti-gun people wouldnt think twice about running off and securing as many guns as humanly possible if the government / military ever actually started attacking us (but thats a whole different can of worms).

Warfare would be absolutely inevitable, and it would likely rip nations apart. I'm not sure HOW it would end, really, but there would be a lot of death before any kind of resolution.

When it comes right down to it, I don't think the historical figures aspect would mean much in the end. I think at first, that concept would be gripping, and if anyone ever got a chance to hear from them, they wouldn't even blink as they listened closely to their stories on television or social media. But given that the historical figures may not be the ones in power, the attention would naturally shift to who was immortal and in power at the same time, because that would be the biggest threat, and a very valid threat at that.

As far as my reaction to that historical figure aspect goes, if I ever heard that Alexander the Great was an immortal, I would simply shrug and say "I know." 😂

And would I become immortal? Yes. And maybe in this hypothetical world of ours, I already was one the whole time, and Love Endless was just a subtle tell-all before the world knew the truth. But if I hadn't been, I would become so happily, and the 1%ers would absolutely be my first target.

[misterghostreads]

Dawn: God's United Reich

By: D. Alexander★★★★ Oppressed by a tyrannical theocracy and the Divine Leader’s military force (the NiBorrs), Leon Grady must overcome his trepidation and fear to live his true life and take the leap towards true love.Leon is a star baseball player on his high school team, he has a great girlfriend and a goofy (but excellent) best friend. He should be happy. However its all a lie and he…

[hcc-wismunvii-2023]

A Press Release by Alexander Hamilton

"People of America, it is my honor to announce to all of you that all troops have secured full control over Pennsylvania. This victory is the one that many that we will continue to achieve. We are ambitious that we will gain full independence from the cynical and tyrannical British empire that has continuously harassed the Americans. To return the rights to the Americans and to make America great. With this being our homeland and the land of free that we need to protect, we don’t want a bad relationship with the British, but to gain independence from them. With the help of Spain and France during this war, it is evident that people from across the globe are joining hands with America, freeing us from this torture. This is your time to support America!"

[indiejones]

FEW EXAMPLES ON INDIA'S GREAT (WIDELY PROPAGANDIZED YET) HISTORICAL LIES.

Just 3 accounts that will turn history on its head, or atleast make you realize that there's much more research & historical truth available, over & above the truth of history you've been taught all your life!

Here's an alternate version, from another truly eminent scholar & historian.

1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RYu1Mp7YG4 - Alexander the so-called Great conqueror of the world, was perhaps not so at all. And Porus perhaps just a small border chieftain, who infact beat Alexander due to his superior elephant power, in their only battle, a battle in which Alexander suffered grave injuries that caused him to turn back home where he died.

2. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EJH-1X0HTqQ - Ashoka had already converted to Buddhism, way before his massacring wars with all & sundry, incl his half-brother for the throne. And the so-called pacifist face was merely a (age-old) political ploy to keep kingdoms on the west of his Mauryan empire quiet & ignorantly happy.

3. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yN9XgwVHvK4 - The Great Tyrant, Genghis Khan, perhaps wasn't so tyrannous at all, & perhaps a most measured fair-for-his-job ruler of the times, who can well be regarded as one of India's greatest friends, as turned down the chance to conquer, plunder & rule India, when chased down the Islamic aggressor Jalaluddin from Mongolia right upto India's border, a chance (given his comparative military power) almost given to him on a platter, yet that chose to walk away from, perhaps also because of a inner affinity to the Hindu faith, being quiet similar to his Buddhist ideology.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Graeme Wood

Published: Mar 31, 2022

On February 7, 2016, Musa Cerantonio told a friend that his fame as Australia’s best-known ISIS supporter had become a burden. Fellow ISIS supporters felt mysteriously compelled to email or call him before committing crimes. “Why,” Cerantonio lamented, “does everyone, before they do stupid shit, get in contact with me?” In this case, the doer of stupid shit was Alo-Bridget Namoa, the “Bonnie” half of the terror couple she herself had dubbed “the jihadi Bonnie and Clyde.” She and Clyde, a.k.a. Sameh Bayda, were both later convicted of terror offenses. Namoa had contacted Cerantonio, the Australian authorities tapping his phone later revealed, because she needed to know where to get an ISIS flag in Sydney. ISIS supporters were treating him like a jihadist help desk. If you see her, Cerantonio told his friend, “slap her for me.” Later that year, Cerantonio was arrested for trying to travel by boat from Australia to ISIS territory in the southern Philippines. He has been in prison ever since, and he has 13 months left on his sentence.

But if you try dialing the help desk in 13 months, you might not get the encouragement you’d expect. Last year, Cerantonio wrote to me from Port Phillip Prison, in Melbourne, and told me that he had renounced ISIS.

In block letters—the Arabic transcriptions neatly bedecked with diacritical marks, all in the right places—he explained his journey back from jihad. “I have been wrong these last 17 years,” he wrote. “Seeing individuals dedicate themselves to tyrannical death cults led by suicidal maniacs is bad enough. Knowing that I may have contributed to their choices is terrible.” Perhaps he should be returned to the help desk before his sentence is up. “I hope that my experiences may be of help in drawing others away from the same mistakes.”

His rehabilitation, which he narrated in detail, is as bizarre as his career as an ISIS propagandist was. Born in 1985 to a middle-class Italian Australian family outside Melbourne, Cerantonio converted to Islam as a teenager. He showed an unusual inclination for linguistics and Islamic history, and within a few years a Saudi-funded satellite-TV channel, Iqraa, had hired him to preach on air, on subjects including Arabic philology and Islamic readings of The Wizard of Oz. Eventually his message grew too political and the channel fired him and, he said, attempted to administer a beating as part of his severance. When ISIS arose, this neofundamentalist autodidact had both the knowledge and the on-camera charisma necessary to influence thousands of fellow Muslims and help persuade many to immigrate to Syria and Iraq in order to fight and die for the new caliphate. If you seek out English translations of early ISIS documents, you may find his handiwork.

In prison, he began to study the Quran in greater detail, and focused on the aspects that most puzzled him. Among these was the figure called Dhu-l Qarnayn, “the two-horned one,” who appears in the Quran’s 18th chapter and is believed by many to refer to Alexander the Great. Cerantonio did not see a resemblance between Dhu-l Qarnayn and the Alexander of history—but he noted similarities between Dhu-l Qarnayn and a heavily fabulized version of Alexander’s story written in Aramaic. He considered that the Aramaic version may have plagiarized the Quran, but after acquiring a copy of the Aramaic and translating it for himself, he determined that the reverse was more likely. (“I always knew that being proficient in Aramaic would one day prove useful.”)

“Realizing that Dhu-l Qarnayn was not at all a real person but was rather based on a fictional account of Alexander the Great instantly left me with only one possible conclusion: The Quran was not divinely inspired,” he wrote. It had taken Alexander the Great fan fiction as fact. “Of course I would have preferred to have discovered all that 17 years ago and avoided much trouble.” He has therefore abandoned not only ISIS but Islam and religion as a whole. He is an atheist and admires the God Delusion author Richard Dawkins.

After the first letter, we traded correspondence and spoke by Skype. He now goes by his birth name, Robert, but when pressed on subjects related to ISIS doctrine will sometimes “answer your question as ‘Musa,’” channeling his former self to explain the ISIS view before recovering his “Rob” identity and speaking as his current self. He said he had been reluctant to go public about his apostasy—less because he feared being murdered by jihadists (apostasy is a capital offense in Islam) than because his detractors will say he’s just trying to get out of prison early.

He said his conversion was “not making my time any easier in here.” And if he wanted to feign rehabilitation, he would have done so years ago, at sentencing, and not in this roundabout and arcane way involving Syriac texts and Hellenistic historiography. I asked him why the Alexander stuff had convinced him that ISIS was wrong, whereas the group’s practices of mass murder and sex slavery had never tipped him off. He said the latter were consistent with the religion, while the Alexander plagiarism failed intellectual tests on their own terms.

Whenever a prominent member of a terror group leaves it, he inspires a great deal of curiosity about how he was cured of his evil beliefs—which seem so durable when they are held that they may lead to violent death. So much of Cerantonio’s story is idiosyncratic that I am not sure what, if anything, can be used to deprogram others. Most ISIS supporters care little about the historical and linguistic minutiae that motivated Cerantonio. Teaching jihadists Aramaic is not a cure easily scaled up. Moreover, a rehab program that encourages patients to give up Islam (a religion practiced benignly by nearly all Muslims) instead of merely giving up terrorism is bound to be controversial.

Cerantonio himself said that the programs in prisons, in Australia and abroad, are almost all rubbish. They raise objections to jihadism that the jihadists can easily refute. He called the suggestion that jihadists be exposed to “true Islam,” such as the more moderate texts of medieval theologians, “idiotic.” “It doesn’t work,” he told me. “It has failed miserably time after time.” But he is equally withering about Dawkins’s polemics against Islam, even though he now shares Dawkins’s zero-calorie theology. “I’m no longer a Muslim,” he said, “but I still object to the things he’s saying. When he writes about Islam, he gets things wrong.” Dawkins quotes a scripture that claims martyrs will be given 72 virgins in paradise. “That hadith is not authentic!” Cerantonio said with frustration. “Dawkins! You’re smart. You do so much research. Why couldn’t you do just a little research on this?” Opponents of ISIS, even smart ones, suddenly make themselves stupid when combatting jihadism and assume—wrongly—that the jihadists themselves are stupid.

When Cerantonio now meets jihadists—he told me they are numerous, and unrepentant, in Australian prisons—he experiments with different approaches. “I can actually speak to hard-core jihadists on a level that they understand,” he said. At times, the approach that has worked is not even a coherent one. He described convincing two jihadists by explaining to them the mechanisms of evolution. In effect, he told me, he just “went at them hard” and outlined, without condescension, how a world without a divine Creator might look, how it made sense, and how it might be an alternative to their current beliefs.

“Both of them have drastically changed their lives,” he claimed. “They now denounce everything they were standing for before. I mean, they were planning to carry out a terrorist attack here in Melbourne—blow themselves up in a public square!” Now, he said, they’re not religious at all. “I thought, wow, I mean, surely, it can’t always be that easy. But who knows? Maybe it is.”

Last year in Saudi Arabia, I visited a prison that purported to deprogram jihadists by turning them into productive employees of a small business—complete with a CEO (himself a prisoner), an HR department, and a comptroller. I couldn’t tell how successful the prison’s strategy would be. All of the prisoners were still in jail, and subject to who knows what punishment if they lapsed. Beyond any doubt, however, is the failure of virtually every previous attempt to deprogram jihadists. So far, nothing seems to have worked better than defeating ISIS on the battlefield, reducing its caliphate to rubble, and inviting its followers to consider whether God might be sending them a message in the form of U.S. aerial bombardment. But drone strikes are expensive. Maybe Aramaic is worth a try.

==

I bet he was never a true Muslim, though, amirite?

"I asked him why the Alexander stuff had convinced him that ISIS was wrong, whereas the group’s practices of mass murder and sex slavery had never tipped him off. He said the latter were consistent with the religion, while the Alexander plagiarism failed intellectual tests on their own terms."

This is completely consistent with what I keep hearing from ex-Muslims. You can't temper Islam. You can't smooth over the (purported) literal word of god. You can't tell believers you're just going to massage out the pointy bits into a smoother shape... but it's still "perfect."

When a political-religious ideology sits atop the notion of the perfect word of a god, and the perfection of its human emissary, not to mention 1400 years of exegesis, the idea that maybe this god means something different and nicer and more akin to 21st century secular values isn't going to fly. Especially when he clearly doesn't.

You can't make it nicer. But maybe you can show that it's false.

[jeannereames]

Hi Dr. Reames, I’ve become unsure about what to believe when reading about Alexander with all the various interpretations of him and how he’s been presented in literature. The first thing I ever read featuring him was Renault’s trilogy. So, maybe a little naively, for a while I believed he was very compassionate and obsessed with friendship now I’m not quite so sure. For example, was he actually upset when Darius’s wife died or did one of the historians make that up? Thanks!

Alexander the Invincible & Clemency (not Compassion)

Many years ago now, in the forward to a new translation of Ulrich Wilcken’s biography, Alexander the Great, my academic father, Eugene N. Borza, wrote, "It is enough to say that there are many Alexanders, perhaps as many as there are those who profess a serious interest in him."

That quote perfectly summarizes the problem with determining what Alexander was like.

The disagreement goes back even into our original sources (those still surviving and those lost), that reflect differences in opinion. Was Alexander a good person, a bad person, a tyrannical megalomaniac, a vicious invader, a valorous fighter, a noble world civilizer….?

All those opinions were held by people in his own day.

(Much like, if you walked out into your local town square and started polling people on what they thought of Joe Biden, or Donald Trump, you’d get a wide variety of replies.)

To complicate matters, Alexander was masterful at marketing himself by the heroic ideals of his day, literally staging his own actions. Today, we’d call that propaganda, but we live in a more cynical age, one that assumes the use of propaganda implies self-serving purposes with no belief in the message conveyed…which is absolutely wrong in Alexander’s case. The guy BELIEVED his own hype and apparently tried to live up to it.

I find it interesting that even his ancient detractors never really accuse him of cowardice in battle or not leading the charge. He earned all his wounds. That said, I think it’s perfectly reasonable to ask if we ought to be glorifying that sort of all-out battle. Nonetheless, from the ancient point of view, they saw nothing wrong with it, and viewed actively seeking out war as a noble aspiration.

Alexander could be absolutely brutal. Ask Thebes. Ask Tyre. Ask most of the Indian nations along the Indus River or the Baktrians and Sogdians, or any of a thousand other villages and people who he sometimes attacked just because he could—he wanted another “win.” Even in Arrian’s rather positive history, he sometimes just does shit to do it.

In one case, Arrian (3.24.1-3) mentions that he was successful against a group of mountainous people (Mardians) who didn’t expect him to attack them because 1) nobody had in ages due to where they lived (difficult terrain), and 2) he’d already gone past them. But no, dude doubles back to attack them anyway. WHY? I mean, really? They don’t seem to have attacked his army until he started killing them. Some resisted, most fled, and he chased them and didn’t stop until they surrendered.

“Invincible” is very much part of Alexander’s own image creation. Alexandros Aniketos! (Unconquered*) You can’t say “no” to him, or it means you “beat” him.

Yet part of the expectation for heroic kings and commanders included clemency.

While rage might drive a warrior, the best battles didn’t involve rage, but a “pure” contest of men to prove their aretē, or personal excellence. That helps to explain Alexander’s response to Poros. Poros was protecting his kingdom, Alexander invaded it. Alexander won, Poros surrendered and faced Alexander after, asking to be treated as a king…. It wasn’t personal. Alexander wasn’t angry with Poros. (And we know he could get mad at the drop of a hat.)

But that “encounter” ticked all the heroic boxes, so after the battle, Alexander extended clemency.

Clemency isn’t quite the same as compassion. Compassion is more wide-ranging. It can be offered by anyone, to anyone, e.g., a slave can show compassion to his or her owner just the same as the reverse.

But clemency has a distinct “top-down” aspect. One can only offer clemency to those in one’s power—as Alexander offered to Porus after the Battle of the Hydaspes. Or as he showed to Darius’s family. Or to Timokleia after the razing of Thebes.

Chivalrous Alexander is a thread throughout the sources, a tradition Renault picked up on. I’m of mixed mind as to how much of it’s true. Some of my colleagues think it entirely fictional, a product of later literary traditions intent on using Alexander as a moral model, the “Philosopher in Armor.” The problem with seeing it entirely as literary is that Alexander himself cast himself in heroic models. So where do we draw the line between later literary invention vs. Alexander’s own conscious self-presentation? That’s the problem. (This is addressed in a recent, very good collection of papers in The Legitimization of Conquest: Monarchial Representation and the Art of Government in the Empire of Alexander the Great, eds., Kai Trampedach and Alexander Meeus. Good stuff in there if you can get the book via ILL.)

Anyway, Alexander certainly wanted to be seen as clement. We witness it over and over. If you surrender to him, he’s generous in return…because you acknowledged that he’s above you/better than you. Arrian states it bluntly, “[Mousikanos] acknowledged that he had done wong, which was actually the surest way, where Alexander was concerned, for anyone to obtain what he wanted” (6.15.6). But if you’re a hill tribe who just wants to be left alone? Oh, hell no! He’ll come after you and keep coming until you surrender. Then…he’s fine. (As long as you didn’t do anything too terrible leading up to the surrender and, especially, if he’s in a hurry to be somewhere else.)

This is sometimes presented as if he’s a three-year-old who can’t stand to be told, “No,” because he’s a spoiled brat.

I think this misunderstands, or at least filters ancient attitudes through modern perceptions. We can understand what Alexander was doing without necessarily approving of it. As I noted above, the ancient mindset glorified invasion, conquest, and war “just because” for fame. I most certainly do not approve, but I recognize that if one is raised with that as a valid, admirable goal, moderns critiquing that individual for holding a common cultural view is a bit petty, or at least silly. “Grow up, Alexander, and think like a 21st century man!”

Similarly here. Alexander emulates Herakles, and must be even more invincible (aniketos). If you challenge that, you have challenged something very deep and fundamental to his understanding of himself. Yet he also can’t stand it if somebody loses TO him: that makes his victory hollow. This is why he fights Poros…and then honors him by returning his kingdom and a bunch more besides. Poros tried to win, but failed. That made Alexander’s victory (nike) honest. Poros then did the honorable thing and asked for clemency without surrendering his honor (“Treat me like a king”). That made him Alexander’s new BFF.

Why should Alexander get to be The Best? He’s royal, descendent of gods (and heroes). That’s why he constantly pits himself against Herakles (NOT Achilles, drop-kick that popular mirage please). Herakles is the epitome of Greek heroes. So Alexander is truly the “bestest” if he’s even better than Herakles.

So anyway, to answer the last question about whether Alexander truly mourned for Darius’s wife, I expect he did. It would fit with the public image he wanted to present.

But that sure didn’t stop him from getting her pregnant in the first place with the child that killed her in its delivery. He may have been lamenting the death of the child as much as the death of his mistress. (For more on this, see my prior response to an ask about Statiera’s pregnancy.)

—————-

*a-nike-tos…think about shoes. Ha. Nikē = victory: a-nike-tos…one who is un-victoried-over, e.g., undefeated.

[infinitebutterlogjam]

George Alexander, 1858-1918

Actor, manager and producer, George Alexander was born in Reading, Berkshire, England, to a Scottish traveling peddler, William, and his first wife, Mary Ann. Despite his father’s strong opposition, Alexander was drawn to the theater early on, and at age 21 abandoned his clerking position in a drapery business, changed his surname (from “Sansom”), then joined a theatrical touring company. Alexander made his debut on the London stage in 1881, and began playing mostly juvenile leads. Established actor/manager Henry Irving, noting Alexander’s promise, took him under his wing, casting him in more notable roles. Although Alexander later recalled the older legend as somewhat tyrannical, Irving gave the younger actor a range of parts and experiences that became useful, particularly as he ventured further in his career as manager/producer. Particularly noted for his own willingness to nurture new performers and playwrights, Alexander helped start the careers of several emerging talents. Among the new plays which Alexander presented as producer at The St. James theater, were Oscar Wilde’s “Lady Windermere’s Fan,” and “The Importance of Being Earnest,” both of which Alexander also appeared in as actor. Unfortunately the run of the latter play was interrupted just weeks after it’s successful opening by Wilde’s arrest on a charge of committing homosexual acts. Although Alexander removed Wilde’s name from the publicity notices and playbills, the notoriety was too great, forcing the play to close after 83 performances. Despite their closeness, Alexander did not post bail for Wilde, although he did voluntarily send the banished playwright a sum of money each month for the rest of his life, as well as bequeath the rights to “Windermere’s Fan,” and “Importance” to Wilde’s sons. During the course of his career, Alexander performed on stage for three British monarchs (Victoria, Edward VII, and George V), and was knighted in 1911. George Alexander died of tuberculosis and diabetes at his Hertfordshire country home in 1918.

[jamesshawgames]

Character Profile: Dietrich Paulus

Time at last for a long-overdue new Character Profile! We’re staying with villains (and indeed violent psychopaths!) this time, by drilling into the back-story of Dietrich Paulus, the sinister Gestapo investigator who is one of the three main villains of the first book. 

Content Warning: references to (non-sexual) child abuse (i.e. violence against children).

Name: Dietrich Otto Paulus

Place of Birth: Darmstadt, Germany

Date of Birth: 16 May 1899

Appearance: Very tall, extremely thin, wears delicate spectacles. His clothing is always formal and immaculate, but his wild, straw-colored hair refuses to be tamed. His overall appearance often suggests the image of a scarecrow.

Bio: Paulus grew up in a lower middle class household in the southern German city of Darmstadt. His childhood was dominated by his father Alexander, a constantly-enraged sadist who justified his sadism with appeals to religious bigotry. Like his mother Beate, young Dietrich soon got accustomed to the feel of his father’s fists. He learned nothing from the tyrannical Alexander except how to inspire fear and unease - and how to enjoy inspiring those emotions in others. At school, he was both withdrawn and unsettling, and he struggled to make friends. Instead, he threw himself into his studies and became a very intelligent student. In particular, he came to see himself as “civilized”, and spent his free time reading works of classic literature in several languages, and cultivating an appreciation of fine art and classical music. But Dietrich’s “civilization” was only ever skin-deep, a thin veneer covering up impulses and inclinations which only got darker as he got older.

At age eleven, driven by morbid curiosity, he captured a frog and dissected it alive. Within a few months, he’d graduated to the neighborhood stray cats…

At the age of fourteen, his mother died in an incident which was written up as an accident, but which was actually the result of a particularly frenzied beating from Alexander. Two years later, at age sixteen, Dietrich found himself an orphan. The viciously-mutilated body of his father was found in an area of woodland close to the family home, a crime which shocked all Darmstadt. The perpetrator was never found.

Dietrich’s stellar grades saw him get a scholarship to university, where he majored in the burgeoning science of psychology. His excellent final result meant that he was accepted into the local police academy, where he applied himself diligently to the study of investigative techniques. He soon showed himself to be a very gifted detective, one of the finest in the Hessen State Police, but his colleagues had some concerns about his ethics. Twice he was reprimanded for his brutal treatment of detainees. The word at the station was that he’d be ejected from the force before long. He just didn’t seem able to restrain his darker impulses, and his tendency to cross the line would cost him one of these days.

But then 1933 happened. When the new government took over in Germany, one of its first acts was the creation of nationwide police agencies, and the new approach to police ethics was much closer to Dietrich’s than the old system. Though never particularly interested in politics, he eagerly signed up as a Nazi Party member, since this would enable him to transfer directly into the newly-created Gestapo. He did this happily, entering at the rank of Kriminalinspektor and, finally free to indulge his dubious methods of policing as much as he wanted, he showed himself to be an extremely talented asset. In early 1934, Paulus led an operation which unmasked a Communist cell in the city of Frankfurt, and his work led to the arrest and execution of eighteen people. This great success brought him to the personal attention of Heinrich Himmler who was, at the time, putting together an SS operation involving tracking down a series of ancient relics around the globe. Himmler knew that military expertise alone would not be enough: he needed specialists in investigation and interrogation, too, and Paulus was an obvious choice.

Soon, he was an integral member of Operation Lyngvi, free to ply his trade around the world, far beyond his native Germany, though he was unpopular with his colleagues. His enjoyment of causing fear and discomfort extended not only to suspects and enemies, but also to his allies, and he often enjoyed trying to unsettle his commanding officer Schneider and (particularly) the operation’s archaeological consultant, Dr. María García Pérez. The Operation saw him deployed in Palestine, Tibet and Hong Kong, before he met an uncertain fate on a small, obscure island in the South China Sea…

[the-shelfish-reader]

EDIE: An American Biography

By Jean Stein and George Plimpton

©️1982; 452 pg; Knopf

Edith Minturn Sedgwick, known as Edie, lived a brief, tempestuous life. She made her mark in popular culture in the sixties in New York City as an “It Girl,” spending her time associating with the burgeoning counterculture and its most famous and influential members. Andy Warhol, Bob Dylan, Joel Schumacher, Nureyev, Jasper Johns, poets Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso, Truman Capote, and the Velvet Underground (and Nico) were some of the people she spent time with in those days of Warhol’s “Factory,” setting fashion trends, breaking rules, making art, and doing drugs. Every kind of drug, in every form.

Edie, circa 1965

I’ve owned the same copy of this book for forty years, and it shows. But I’ve never given it up, and back in the day, I read and re-read it several times. While some of the themes of familial mental illness, addiction, and family trauma have stayed with me (I can relate), the horror of what happened to her and her family of origin is just as upsetting to me now as it ever was, and maybe it’s even more impactful now that I know and understand how such events shape a person’s entire life.

I’ll try to explain just how aristocratic Edie Sedgwick’s family was. Her great, great, great grandfather was an ally to Alexander Hamilton and George Washington, and was the Speaker of the House of Representatives. One of her great uncles founded Groton, the elite prep school in Massachusetts, and another was the editor of Atlantic Monthly. Every male member of her paternal side graduated from Harvard. It’s mind-boggling, how wealthy and influential the Sedgwicks (and the de Forests, her mother’s side) were. And I think that’s why Edie’s life and death made such an impact on American culture—you couldn’t believe this ball of beauty and energy and daring who was a member of one of the wealthiest and most prominent families in America could end up dead at 28.

Edie was the seventh of eight children born to Francis “Fuzzy” Sedgwick and Alice Delano deForest. She was raised on a 6000-acre ranch near San Francisco, where she and all her siblings learned to ride horses at a very young age. The ranch had its own private primary school staffed by tutors, so the children didn’t leave the ranch except for medical or dental appointments. The effect of being a kind of prisoner in their father’s bell jar was that the kids had no socialization with other kids their ages—just each other. Fuzzy was an odd duck, to put it mildly, who had already suffered two nervous breakdowns and subsequent psychiatric hospital stays before he even married Alice. His diagnosis was “manic depressive psychosis,” and the facts given by the people who talked for this book support the theory that mental illness can be passed from parent to child.

Fuzzy was, in the years after his children’s births, a tyrannical narcissist and alcoholic, and the things Edie and her siblings experienced at his hand were pretty horrific. They are all detailed by various family members in this book. All of them are included in the story at this link:

Edie’s older brother Francis Minturn Sedgwick “Minty” suffered a mental breakdown in 1963 and was committed to Bellevue, in New York. He was transferred to a private psych facility in Connecticut, Silver Hill (the Sedgwicks should have received a frequent flyer discount here.) Reportedly, Minty communicated to his father that he thought he was gay, Fuzzy disowned him, and Minty hung himself with a tie in his hospital room.

Her eldest brother Bobby attended Harvard in between his stays at various mental hospitals and actually managed to graduate. He died while riding his beloved Harley, crashing it into the side of a bus on New Year’s Eve, 1964. Edie and her surviving siblings considered the accident to be suicide.

Tragedy after tragedy upon tragedy would be an appropriate motto for the Sedgwicks. At this point in the book, one feels the gathering clouds of dread that await our subject. Edie was bulimic, starting before her teens. She was committed to Silver Hill in 1962 at age 19, but its policies were found to be too relaxed—she wasn’t recovering at all—so she was transferred to New York Hospital’s Bloomingdale facility. She was erratic, suffered from extreme mood swings, and the bulimia had made her so thin, people mistook her for a boy. She was released, and soon after, she moved to Cambridge, Massachusetts, ostensibly to study sculpture with Lilian Saarinen, but probably mostly just to hang with the Harvard/Radcliffe students. She was noticed, she was popular, and developed a social circle consisting mainly of very rich, very attractive young gay men. She quickly became a star in the Cambridge art society circle.

During the Christmas holidays of 1964, Fuzzy demanded she return to California. She was on the other side of the country when Bobby had his fatal accident, but she soon had her own: she was shopping in Santa Barbara when she totaled her car and broke her knee. She was put in a hip-to-toe cast, but that didn’t stop her from returning to New York to live in her grandmother’s enormous upper east side apartment. Edie made an immediate impact among the artistic circles of the city. She soon moved into her own apartment, where the only art was a big pencil drawing on the wall behind the sofa that she had done of a white horse. She furnished it with odd pieces: heavy crystal lighters that never worked because she never filled them with lighter fluid, cushions covered with handmade textiles in bright colors, a big leather rhinoceros, and maribou feathers. VOGUE magazine dispatched a photographer to her apartment, and Edie posed in her ever-present black tights, Rudi Gernreich miniskirts, and huge, dangly earrings. The famous photo of Edie in an arabesque on top of her leather rhino, is below. They called her a “Youthquaker.” A young Patti Smith saw that photo spread, became obsessed, took the train into Manhattan and waited outside Edie’s apartment building just to get a glimpse of her exiting or entering, always from or into a limousine.

Edie in Vogue Magazine, summer 1965

It was inevitable that Edie would meet Andy Warhol, and it was probably equally inevitable that Andy would be fascinated with her. She dyed her hair silver so that she and Andy could be twins. Both were small, slight people—Andy with his trademark white hair and Edie with her short silver hairstyle—and they attracted much attention from the New York underground art scene. She became a regular at Andy’s “Factory” art studio/pleasure palace, mingling with the rest of his eccentric collection of artists, junkies, musicians, and devotees, many of whom would star in Warhol’s films, Edie included.

The number of truly astounding people who dropped in on the Factory—and the mix of personalities—and the drug use—is staggering. I can’t begin to list them all. Nobody who visited ever intended to actually live there, and although Edie had her own place, she came close. Andy certainly lived there, plus a smattering of boys he liked and who worked with him to produce his art and his films. Nonstop, 24/7 party people, all believing they were creating ART, and some of them were. But there were a lot of shady hangers-on whose reasons for crashing at the Factory weren’t about art. These people were shooting up speed, and the Factory was all about the drugs. Andy managed The Velvet Underground, who had their band gear set up in the Factory, and Andy designed that iconic banana on the cover of their album. Bob Dylan wandered in and out for a time, and it is said that his songs “Leopard Print Pill Box Hat,” “Just Like A Woman,” and “Like A Rolling Stone” were about his brief affair with her.

I can imagine the bright lights/big city atmosphere her wealth and status afforded Andy. He was already a rising star, but Edie and he arguably publicized themselves as The Power Couple of the underground art world AND A-listers invited to grand society events. Edie was a superb acquisition for Andy. She had a family background to die for, she was beautiful and rich, and she was seemingly up for anything. He cast her in his films. He attended glittery Manhattan parties with Edie on his arm. They frequented a club called The Scene where everyone danced, and Andy, as was typical, would watch. Sometimes Edie and Andy would dress identically. They went to museum openings, film openings, the works, but theirs was no romance. Andy was gay, and Edie loved being among the gay men of New York. They worshiped her.

Andy said that in the future, everybody will be famous for 15 minutes. In 2021, that statement seems very prescient indeed. It’s nearly true now, and it probably will be true in the not-so-distant future. Andy was a star maker, and he let his “superstars” have their 15 minutes, then tossed them aside. Edie split with Andy and the Factory crowd when she signed Albert Grossman as her manager. He was Bob Dylan’s manager, and Edie “ran off” with Bob Neuwirth, a friend of Dylan’s and former Factory habituè. Grossman had told her she would star in a movie with Dylan, which never materialized. Her exit from the Factory was the end of the Edie/Andy relationship.

Edie decided to try modeling, and VOGUE did a photoshoot with her again in 1966. Shortly after, Edie nodded off with a lit cigarette, and her apartment caught fire. Back to a hospital, this time Lenox Hill. After her release, she moved to the Chelsea Hotel, where another fire happened AGAIN in the exact same way. She went home to California for Christmas in 1966, tried to fill a prescription from a NYC doctor for speed, and her parents were notified. They committed her to the local county hospital.

This fragile person, on massive amounts of drugs, both prescription and illegal, was in and out of psychiatric hospitals for the rest of her life. None of her admissions were voluntary. Some of them lasted four to five months. Bellevue, Gracie Square, Manhattan State, and Lenox Hill in New York; Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara. It’s absolutely staggering to read how someone with so much promise was so hell-bent on destroying her body with all the shooting up, snorting, and smoking of acid, barbiturates, speed and heroin. One reads the last part of this book with a heavy heart, as if reading about someone you love.

Her father died in 1967 of pancreatic cancer. His brother Minturn told the biographers:

“I went to stay with Francis and Alice at the end of Francis’ life. I heard him say, ‘You know, my children all believe that their difficulties stem from me. And I agree. I think they do.’ He stated it; he felt it; he knew it.”

In 1970, the producers of Ciao, Manhattan! wanted to finish the movie they had begun in 1967. Edie had been the star, and they needed her to complete her scenes, so they brought the production to Los Angeles. They had an empty swimming pool that they used as Edie’s apartment, all painted with furniture installed, and Edie did, in fact, finish that movie. She had changed so much physically that actors had to say new lines that were written as exposition to explain why. She had gotten breast implants where before she had no breasts at all. Her hair wasn’t silver. She wore a fall—a long sweep of hair—but it was just brown. She had a year to live.

In July of 1971, Edie married Michael Post, another drug casualty, whom she had met while they were both inpatients at Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara. They had been engaged for a very short time. It seems that she intended to try to make the marriage work, although she told a few people that she knew it wouldn’t work out long-term. On November 15, after attending a fashion show that was being filmed for the new, buzzworthy PBS reality drama, An American Family, and after drinking a lot at the afterparty, Edie died in her sleep. Her husband woke up to find her already past saving. The official cause of death was acute barbiturate intoxication, with acute ethanol intoxication as the secondary cause.

She was buried in Oak Hill Cemetery in Ballard, California. It’s a very out-of-the-way place, which I think she would have hated, being so eager for publicity and fame her whole life. Her gravestone reads “Edie Sedgwick Post, wife of Michael Brett Post, 1943-1971.”

I could link to any of the number of songs written about her. Edie Brickell’s 1988 “Little Miss S,” The Cult’s 1989 “Edie (Ciao Baby),” or the Dylan ones. I could list the movies that have been made about her life, like “Factory Girl” with Sienna Miller. I could transcribe the beautiful poem Patti Smith sat down and wrote immediately after hearing of her death. I could quote what people who loved her, or who were dazzled by her, said upon learning the awful news. I could write hundreds more words about her life and struggles, her overdoses, her self-destructive impulses and urges, all the fires she accidentally set. But I don’t need to. Her enduring impact and influence on pop culture makes her immortal.