Poem: Holodomor

 [I wrote this poem many years ago after reading through a large number of oral-tradition accounts from survivors of the Holodomor, as well as a more abstract book on the same topic. 

The word Holodomor in Ukrainian means "death by starvation." This event, for those who have forgotten or never heard, took place in 1930-1933, when about eight million people starved to death, in Ukraine and throughout the Soviet Union, due to entirely man-made famines. These events took place as the result of Stalin's five-year plan to rapidly industrialize the Soviet Union. They were entirely caused by Soviet authorities and to an extent weaponized by those same authorities to break the traditional peasantry and nascent resistance and independence movements. The primary cause of starvation was not an absolute lack of food, but the mass collectivization of agriculture (designed to transfer labor to industry) and the forcible mass requisition of grain by Soviet authorities. This grain and other agricultural products was then exported overseas to earn the money and parts and expertise desperately desired to fund new, ambitious industrial projects.

In these events, the Western world played an absolutely necessary role, including the United States, which incredibly chose the year 1933 to recognize the Soviet Union and open trade with it. This rapprochement between the Stalinist Soviet Union and the West was made possible largely by the efforts of (ironically) Western capitalists eager for trade opportunities, as well as numerous writers and journalists producing pro-Soviet propaganda from Moscow and elsewhere and who denied either the existence or extent of the famine or explicitly justified it in the broader interests of Russia's progressive advancement and modernization. The most famous of these journalists was Walter Duranty, whose dismissive quote about breaking eggs opens the poem below. The poem also features numerous other paraphrased quotes from Duranty, contemporary sources, and above all survivors of the famine. 

In the first instance, I offer this poem today as a statement on the present state of the world, and in particular in the face of the unconscionable violence against innocents being carried out throughout the world today: among others in Ukraine by the Russian military, and in Gaza by the Israeli military. In particular, it is offered in response to Western apologists for Israeli war crimes, who in their mix of indifference to suffering innocents, moral cowardice, perverted ideology, and brute self-interest eerily echo their predecessors of the 1930s. In all candor this poem was forcefully brought back to my mind by the remarkable experience of watching Benjamin Netanyahu's address to Congress.

Regardless of the particular details, and regardless of all copy-book debates over politics, propaganda, fact-checking, geopolitical alliances, nationalism, racism, colonialism, self-determination, self-defense, military policy, international law, existential threats, and/or "moral equivalency," the overall point made by the poem is a deliberately universal and theological one: that every murdered, brutalized, or starved innocent is Christ; and that to be ultimately indifferent to his death is as much as to kill him yourself.]

Holodomor

Murder by starvation

a simple phrase,

a simple tune,

to be glossed over and forgotten.

Making an omelet

takes breaking a few eggs—

so a man said

once upon a time.

The well-coiffed, comfortable people

with their dreams of tolerance and salvation

their love of expediency

their adulations and their triumphs

they have seen You dying on the streets,

your body swollen, your fists clenched,

your eyes glazed over like an animal's,

they saw you, my Lord, and they did not do you the honor

of turning away, denying, or condemning.

They did not say

that you were guilty.

They did not say

that you were not there.

They just said

you were a broken egg

to be spoken of

glossed over

and forgotten

forever.

Column 08/26: Homo Vanus Patiens: On The Interpretation of Seven American Nights and A Modest Primer on How to Read Gene Wolfe

Homo Vanus Patiens 

On the Interpretation of Seven American Nights and A Modest Primer on How to Read Gene Wolfe

The passing of Gene Wolfe in 2019 went, like much of his literary career, mostly unnoticed by the world at large. As before, plaudits were published by his admirers--a piratic crew of literary critics, academics, fellow science fiction authors, Catholics, and nobodies--declaring him, for the umpteenth time, the greatest [blank] of his generation--with the blank to be filled in, depending on one's personal preferences, with "literary sci-fi writer," "sci-fi writer," or even just "writer." These praises make for odd reading, and I imagine would be odder for anyone who had not read him before: as they consist usually of writers struggling to find the right adjectives and express just what about this guy was so good. And usually failing.

Gene Wolfe, it must be said, is hard to describe. He is also, at least for some, hard to read. As I write this, the top prompts for "Gene Wolfe" on google include the plaintive cry, "How do I read Gene Wolfe?" 

How do I read Gene Wolfe? This is very emphatically the right question to ask. Most classic works of literature are, at heart, exceedingly simple in content--love story, adventure, horror, relationship drama, novel--even if frequently daunting in execution. For most such books and authors, the right advice is exactly the opposite of what we were taught in high-school English class: relax, forget all about symbolism and subtext and social and cultural context, and try to enjoy the book exactly as you would Animorphs. The paradox of Gene Wolfe, however, over which many literary critics and random forumgoers have struggled in the decades since he began his career, is that despite writing for a "pulp" genre shared with Animorphs, he is the rare author who does, in fact, demand to be read carefully, thoughtfully, analytically, considerately. 

Column 08/13/22: Death of the Son (EP 1)

Death of the Son (EP 1)

[A mathematician friend recently challenged me to do something which he wanted to do but couldn't but which he claimed I could: namely to write, with some minimal degree of historical and especially character verisimilitude, a murder mystery set in the 4th century AD. Since I can't resist such a challenge or such flattery, since my writing time is limited, since I've never tried writing fiction in installments before and since the whimsical Dickensian/Flash-Gordon-y quality of such a format appeals to me, especially for a self-consciously pulpy genre pot-boiler like a 4th century murder mystery, I decided to do it in installments in this column. The next installment will come at some later point (definitely not next week); and who knows how many there will be?]

He stood in the dusty sand of the arena, shaded (but barely) by the brick wall beneath the stands, as they led the day's victims forward: ten men, women, and children, clothed (but barely), stony-eyed and defiant. When they reached the center of the arena, where the black-clad carnificines shuffled nervously, they and their guards alike stood fast, turned, and waited, their eyes fixed to a point above his head.

After only a few moments, the chief guard (not a centurion or even the leader of a cohort, but a mere auxiliary commander, and a German) nodded, then drew his long spatha from its sheathe as theatrically as he could manage, rounded on the prisoners, and grasped the first victim firmly by the arm.

The crowd in the arena seemed to have been holding its breath, and now released it. It was a young woman, thirty at most, but pale and thin, with long, dark hair and dark eyes that stood out of her face,

In that one moment, the mood in the arena had shifted, subtly but definitely.

Many different things drew men (and women, and children) to the arena on days like today, just as many different spirits animated the magistrates that presided over such displays. One could always tell, however, absolutely and infallibly, what kind of familiar spirit would preside on that particular day by the first victim chosen. 

If the magistrate was congenitally reluctant about his task (and this was becoming increasingly common, as the angry Imperial missives read aloud almost daily in the piazza testified), the first victim would be a strong, hale man, otherwise undesirable, perhaps (many in the crowd, he knew, would say), not a real Christian, a real believer at all, but just a criminal. He, of course, knew like the magistrates that the matter was hardly that simple: Christian and criminal were by no means mutually exclusive categories, and it was always possible to find some margin of Christians diverging from the Way or doomed criminals succumbing to the allure of a sudden conversion and dramatic death. Such events rarely drew large crowds; by this point in the Campaign, even the magistrates knew that the audience would be mostly pious Christians who felt duty-bound (and safe) enough to support their weaker brethren.

If the magistrate was weak, insecure, afraid of both his task and his superiors, the first victim would be a young man, a child, really, or an old man near death--anyone who looked both weak and fearful enough to resist badly and die quickly. He had seen magistrates break down and cry at a denunciation from a strong victim, or even flee in terror from the arena; and then ever after preside over the torture of no one but small boys and elders so decrepit that their voices could not be heard from the stands and they died at the first bodily shock. These events drew the largest consistent crowds, for reasons he could not be sure of; at first, he had though it was merely perversion, such as drew a small, determined crowd of devotees to the regular executions, but had gradually realized that such crowds were in essence as fearful as their masters.

The truly fanatical among the Imperial service, as well as the truly bureaucratically committed, the truly insane, and the true careerist climbers (groups not easily distinguished) naturally targeted the leadership, intellectual and official, of the Church, always beginning with the bishop, or if not he, then his right-hand priest, or if not he, certainly some important layman in Imperial service, some brilliant intellectual from a school of philosophers, to test their mettle in open conflict, descending into the arena themselves to argue with their victims and offer salvation up to the very moment of death. There were few of such magistrates, and fewer every day; either because by now, after a long, failed Campaign, they had been rewarded by Diocletian and Dia with promotion, or because they had been driven from office by the hatred of the people.

When a magistrate selected a young woman as the first victim of the day, though, it could mean only one thing; and the crowd knew it as well as he. There were no more cheers, no more hum of regular activity and happy anticipation, and as he looked up towards the stands he could see the largest section of the already small crowd (the crowds had been smaller every day...) filing slowly towards the exits. Those that remained were either ashamed, shifting their feet and not looking at their neighbors, or wild-eyed and beyond shame; one old woman sitting far off by herself, certainly a Christian, perhaps a relative of one of the condemned, was quietly weeping. 

Young, female victims produced shame and, eventually, sympathy; if they showed any endurance at all, lasted at all longer than the minimum expected (and crowds always underestimated with women), it would be seen by the crowd as a defeat and a humiliation for them, the magistrate, the Emperors, and the Jovian Kingdom itself. Mixed into a larger crowd of victims, women could draw little attention; but put first, they showed nothing other than the personal desires of the magistrate. He could almost see him, the Logistes himself, looking as he always did, his eyes bulging, his thin hair plastered to his face, sweating with the heat, rubbing his hands together again and again as though to protect them from the cold.

It was then that he what he had felt it so many times before, what he had felt on every such day since the Campaign had begun: a wave of overpowering, deafening shame, washing over his whole body, making his hands shake, his knees buckle, his teeth chew bitterly at his tongue, his eyes close, burying him in darkness. How much longer, my Lord...?

He was no longer by the wall, now, but dressed in the garb of a carnifex, and looking into the eyes of the young woman. She opened her mouth to speak--

"Theodotus."

For a moment after he had woken up, he did not know where, or even who, he was. His first emotion was confusion, and his first thought, absurdly, that is not my name. As he always did when he woke, though, his first action, before even thought, was to bring his hand up to his face, to his right eye and the empty socket from which it had been plucked many years before. 

Yes, he thought, as he caressed it with his fingers, yes, I am he.

With that, as it always did, memory and will returned to him. His eyes snapped open, and he rolled out of his cot.

Poem: Super Hanc Petram

"Καὶ ἐκπορευομένου αὐτοῦ ἐκ τοῦ ἱεροῦ, 

λέγει αὐτῷ εἷς τῶν μαθητῶν αὐτοῦ: 

διδάσκαλε, ἴδε ποταποὶ λίθοι καὶ ποταπαὶ οἰκοδομαί."

They took the City, they took her. They took Thessalonika, they took even Hagia Sophia. Do you see these stones? When the Romaios passed through those lands, Clad in bright mail, gleaming with gold and precious stones, The little people, οἷ πολλοί, asked him, βάρβαροι, their speech broken: “Where are you going?” But he only said: “Eις τήν πόλιν.“ Not one stone will be left on another They did not understand. Our citadel is broken; It has become The citadel of our enemies. Nam Divus Titus vicit. “God has spoken!” The man said, his voice pompous, but his cheeks hollow. They raised him up from the pit Where he had lain So many days. “You are the Christ.” He said. “To you God has given Power without end.” And though he was afraid, deep in his heart, the Divine Titus rejoiced. “It is the Temple of the Lord!” They shouted in the street, all together, as one. “The temple! The temple of the Lord!” It is the God-protected city, bastion of the Virgin. It shall not fall εἰς αἰῶνα.
There is the Pious Emperor, Father of the Faithful, King and Priest He is seated on a throne set high above the world. Forever he will rule, For he is nothing but an image of stone. Amen, amen, I say unto you: The City shall fall. Sed dico tibi: I am in Jerusalem in the desert, high on the walls of Constantine: In the distance, the dust of the Saracens rises, And I know it is the end. Tu es Petrus All the stones have fallen, fallen Every stone that once stood Proud against the sky And said that it would stand forever. “God has given you into our hands.” the chamberlain said. Then he cut off his pallium, and the laces on his sandals. Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up. Et super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam The statue speaks, his lips stiff and swollen: “I am both Emperor and Priest. I the Restrainer, I the Image. I will not fail εἰς αἰῶνα.” Down at his feet, there is a little stone. He grinds it beneath his feet Perpetually: “You have betrayed the Emperor.” The statue is anointed with oil, sacred Chrism from the hands of God. He is greater than the small stone, Greater than the heavens and the earth, For he is made of many stones, and great foundations Set one upon another. The City will stand forever, For God protects it. Forever it will stand, For God protects it. “You have abandoned God, and he has abandoned you.” And I saw a beast coming up from the sea It had many heads And many crowns. Look, teacher! See the stones. The kingdoms of this earth Have become the kingdoms of God And his anointed one. For the beast has been anointed With the sacred oil. Divus Titus vicit, nam Christus est. “What hope have you?” Et portae inferni non praevalebunt adversus eam. “The City has fallen, and I am still alive.” And so I must die. And I looked, and behold, the great image, That all the earth served, Crumbled into dust before my eyes And the walls were encircled, And the abomination of desolation was set up in the holy place Until the consummation, and the end. And the city of the Virgin became The city of her enemies And the small stone endured Compacted, without seam and division And it became a great mountain And filled the whole world. Nam is est Petrus. I give thanks for all things To the only immortal King.

Silence: An Exercise in Film Criticism and Cultural Jeremiad

Note: Every possible kind of spoiler exists herein. Proceed at your own risk.

The elusive, controversial American Catholic filmmaker Martin Scorcese spent roughly thirty years trying to adapt Silence, a novel by the equally elusive and controversial Japanese Catholic writer Shusaku Endo. After momentous efforts and many false starts, the film was finally released last year, to general bemusement and a box office take of roughly 16 million (on a 40 million budget). The film’s distributors, perhaps hoping to avoid controversy, promoted the film very little, and released it only in a heavily limited number of theaters for a very short run. The film was ignored by all major cinematic awards, garnering no Golden Globe nominations and only one Academy Award nomination (for best cinematography), which it did not win. Although it had its vociferous defenders, including most top film critics, it also garnered its share of controversy and vicious criticism, from a number of very different sources. For all intents and purposes, the film sank like a stone, leaving few ripples in its wake.

Still, I saw it, and I also followed the buzz surrounding the film fairly closely; and I found both the film and the responses it provoked almost equally fascinating. I read the novel the film is based on a number of years ago, and, as with Scorsese it has stayed with me ever since; and this in turn inspired me to read a moderate amount about the historical situations that inspired the novel, as well as other works of its author, Shusaku Endo. I also come at both film and novel from the perspective of a practicing Catholic who studies intellectual history academically and also (while by no means being an expert) reads a great deal of Catholic theology, present and (mostly) past. All this has given me, I think, a perspective on film and book different from the average American. It is my basic contention, then, that the film, being what it is, has a great deal to tell us about the perspectives and basic orientations of the people who watched it. And this in turn has a great deal to tell us about the current state of our society.

Tales From the Papal Crypt: Pope Martin, Enemy of the State

Pope Martin I

"The police would not allow the holy man to land, though he was suffering severe pain.  Instead they went ashore themselves and rested in comfort.  However, the priests of the locality and all the faithful sent gifts in no small quantity of things that might be useful to him.  But the police brutally tore these gifts from the people's hands in the presence of the Pope himself, cursing and swearing the while.  Anyone who brought the Pope small gifts was chased away after being insulted and beaten, with the warning:

'Whoever wishes well to this man is an enemy of the state.'"

-eyewitness account by a companion of Pope Martin I

To begin our tale, let us first proceed to its ending.  In AD 655, somewhere in a little, isolated town on the edge of the Crimean Sea, Pope Martin died.  The exact cause of his death is not known; based on the available evidence, he was suffering at the least from chronic malnutrition, physical and psychological abuse, conditions of extreme cold and privation, and many untreated medical ailments.  Most likely, his death did not cause much of a stir for either the Imperial officials set to watch him or the local townspeople; after all, his death had been the general idea of sending him into exile there in the first place.  The town of Cherson was well used to hosting political prisoners, and the Imperial police well used to hastening their deaths.

Yet there is a good reason to begin at the end with Pope Martin; for his death is, at least statistically, the most notable thing about him.  Pope Martin is the last Pope to this day to be venerated as a martyr by the Catholic Church.  Popes since then have died in office, and some have even been murdered; but Martin is the last who is considered to have been killed in odium fidei--that is, in hatred of the Catholic Faith, the Church, and Christ himself.  This is no small accolade.

The first Pope to be martyred, was, of course, St. Peter himself--and the last is St. Martin.  No small accomplishment, that.