Essays in Idleness

Now that we are in the “age of science” (i.e. scientism), we are harassed by its many “health experts.” Or rather, this is the “advertising age,” and it only appears to be medically obsessed. The advertisements can sometimes be muted, by turning off the Internet, and choosing one’s walks carefully; except there is an “Internet of things.” The “advertising industry” — a voracious evil — has bought up most of the viewing angles, indoors and outdoors; and those which are exceptionally attractive are used as a lure.

“I think that I shall never see,” — my papa used to quote Bennett Alfred Cerf — “a billboard pretty as a tree. Perhaps if billboards do not fall, I shall not see a tree at all.”

Given the worthlessness of most commercially available products, the advertisers of them must still leave a fragment of our attention to what is uncommercial, in order to catch our attention with constant interruptions. Mindfulness to what is good, true, or beautiful, is invaded by their audio and video noise, using the various techniques of attention-grabbing.

With each passing year, the governments’ share of this advertising increases. Each government warns us against more and more things, ranging from the obvious to the imaginary. This reduplicates the noise.

Truly, every bureaucracy, both public and private, is staffed with snake-oil salesmen, and their administrative staff.

There is a lady who reminds me, each year on the 24th of January, that it is the Feast of Saint Francis de Sales, as celebrated in the present-day Church. But it is rather today, the 29th, in the Church of the Ages; the date was shifted in one of those Bugnini “reforms,” which I am in the practice of ignoring.

“In the midst of the Church he opened his mouth: the Lord filled him with the spirit of wisdom and understanding: He clothed him with the robe of glory,” it sings in the Book of Ecclesiasticus. … “Lying men shall not be mindful.”

Bishop of Geneva, Confessor, Doctor of the Church, Saint Francis de Sales is patron of Catholic writers and journalists everywhere. His Introduction to the Devout Life (4th edition, 1619) is perhaps the most adequate book that could be written under that title. The reader who throws himself into it, will find it is more current than any newspaper or website. Gentle yet lively, it is a last word for the conversion of Calvinists and Leftists; a true “crucible” (melting container) of sweetness and light.

The last time I revisited Hong Kong (“Be brave, be water, be ready,” 2019), it had still an infinitesimal chance of liberty, and its people were apparently rebelling against the obscenity of Chinese Communism. Now I visit the old Crown Colony again, as pure idea.

As I wrote then:

“The British approach was finally, live and let live; but it had an administrative basis. From the 1950s, Hong Kong was an experiment. What would happen if they deregulated almost everything, and cut taxes to match? If they consciously de-politicized the colonial administration? If they shrank police functions to what was needed only to direct traffic, and defeat crime? The result was, as ever, unprecedented prosperity, but more: a people who forgot the habit of kow-towing to men ‘dress’d in a little brief authority’.”

One must also question the advantages of too widespread wealth. It goes to people’s heads:

“For unfortunately, in a broader view, prosperity also kills, as people use their freedom only for material gain, and a new jackboot state grows around the need to protect against” losing stuff. But now Hong Kong gets kicked by both boots — the obscenity of communism, plus the oppression of ease and affluence.

I shouldn’t say anything to encourage politicians, even the undemocratic monarchist types, yet I will do it again, to confute the prospective tariff regimes of The Donald, Polly-ever, and unfriends. This may come about because tariffs are a large-scale option, and large-scale states and federations invariably settle on the stupidest plan.

But if they wanted only to get rich, and quickly, radical free trade would be their best option. Note my use of “radical.” Such arrangements are only suitable for small, independent, city states, in the time before Obscene Communists move in. Freedom works in nation states, too, but not nearly so well, because these are politically awkward: “the peeple” insist on corruption and legislative interventions, to imbalance the playing field and promote special interests. (They always have.) There is a large economy for the politicians to “protect,” and politicians aren’t shy.

In a radical free market, there are no taxes or tariffs, or almost none (perhaps some modest royalties on natural resources, and of course, voluntary patronage). There are no retaliatory tariffs, either. Your free marketeers sell to anyone who will buy, and not to others. You simply don’t buy what foreign powers have marked up. Because you are a city state, you are small, and easily specialize. Only intelligent people will buy from you, because only intelligent people buy beautiful and well-made things, and don’t like over-paying for them.

And you avoid an unbending law of the universe: that those who retaliate (and start wars) soon get destroyed. (But so does every state, eventually, and all the “peeples.”)

Thus in no time, a city once dirt poor, becomes a raging success, like Hong Kong. For as a beleaguered Hongkongois shouted, during street demonstrations in 2019, about the promises of grand nation states:

“Don’t trust China. China is asshole!”

C. G. Jung is an acquired taste, but only for those who have not yet acquired it. For everyone else, it is a natural condition. You don’t have to hate Sigmund Freud to begin to entertain Jungian insights, but it helps. The chief obstacle is something like belief in flying saucers (or whatever the latest term the authorities have assigned). This exists at the intersection of scepticism and faith, where much of interest may be found. Jungian psychology is another example. The intersection includes scientism, and many other things that should be discouraged, but Jung is okay.

In his tract on Flying Saucers: A Modern Myth of Things Seen in the Sky, Jung is indeed too clever to give a judgement on if they are “extra-terrestrial.” Written in the late 1950s, during one of the recurring flying saucer crazes, he does not provide technological speculations about how fast they fly and how they turn corners. Were he alive today (he wasn’t, by 1961) he would be unsurprised and unperturbed by the reports of air force pilots. He would accept their reports as we will soon be accepting new information on the Kennedy assassination.

Both sky phenomena and shootings can be located in the “collective unconscious,” although assassinations merely pass through. Jung saw that the reality of flying saucers belongs in that realm which is both real (offering hard evidence), and unreal. When flying saucers crash, they leave dimples in the earth but no sign of what caused them. Similarly, they buzz in and out of radar, but do not collide with other aircraft. Perhaps they might cause accidents, as hallucinations do. They thus, in themselves, are examples of things that both are and are not.

That they are “demonic,” would follow. People who become obsessed with them, and insist that they are real, or claim kidnappings, or take rides in the saucers, quickly become mentally diseased, even if they were not already. But it is a condition that can be cured. One must transfer one’s faith instead to something substantial, such as Jesus Christ. The flying saucers will then leave you alone.

For whether or not they are “real,” flying saucers are not substantial.

It is getting more and more difficult for me to dislike Donald Trump, for he seems intent upon destroying everything I want destroyed, including, most particularly, the Government of Canada. I hesitate over the man’s Republicanism, however, because I remain a dyed-in-the-wool Monarchist. But it doesn’t have to be the British monarchy; and I understand that our American cousins still “have a problem with” George IIIrd, and his being “mad,” and everything. I, rather, enjoyed his eccentricities, although King Alfred was more to my tastes, and his location in history — eleven-plus centuries into the past — is more comforting.

I am an economics hobbyist, and one of the greatest appeals of Trump is his businesslike approach to taxes. He wants to put an end to them, as soon as possible, and would extinguish the Income and Corporate Taxes sooner. Perhaps it is true, that America could get by with a few juicy tariffs, and now that aircraft carriers are proving unnecessary (the world can be controlled with drones), considerable savings come into view. Indeed, the only bills Trump really needs to pay are the instalments on the 36 trillion of U.S. national debt, and he has invented a crypto coin to take care of that.

But I promised to discuss politics in my title for today’s post, and as the reader will know, modern politics means, exclusively, elections.

In the last moments before our sovereignty is surrendered to the United States, I am looking for a “net zero” race up here. (Jordan Peterson has patented this phrase.) That means, net zero seats in the Canadian House of Commons for the N.D.P., and net zero for the Liberals. I think about five for the Bloc Québécois, and maybe one for the Greenies in British Columbia. That will leave 332 seats for Pierre Poilievre’s Conservatives, or only 331 should the Liberals retain the one seat in Ottawa they have never, ever lost, no matter what the species of their candidate.

Note, I was the only “journalist” who correctly predicted that Kim Campbell’s party would be reduced (from a large majority) to precisely TWO seats in the 1993 general election. And yet I don’t charge for my prognostications.

When Hsu Yü was offered the throne of Yao (severest and most upright of the “Five Emperors” of classical China, in the XXIVth century “BCE”), he was scandalized. He ran to a waterfall, to clean his ear from the sting of this ungodly temptation. His friend Ch’ao, noticing his ox drinking from the water below the fall, came to lead it away.

A reproduction of a Japanese ink-&-colour screen, depicting this scene, was painted most likely by Kano Sanraku (1559–1635). It has a gorgeous gold ground, and it decorated my bedroom for a time, during my childhood. (A theft from my father, who loved all things Oriental.) Later, when it was lost, I found another copy in an old Faber monograph by Basil Gray, so I have it yet.

What should you do if a man of incomparable power, high authority, and magic destiny, should offer to abdicate in your favour? This happens so rarely that most moderns would perhaps be confused, and not know what to do. It is why this commemoration of Hsu Yü, prevailing over the taint of worldly wisdom — a favourite theme among early Zen artists in China — is so very useful.

You must not hesitate. Go wash out your ears, right away!

The highlight in Trump’s inauguration yesterday was Carrie Underwood’s a cappella performance of “America the Beautiful.” It was of course not meant to be a cappella, but the canned orchestral backing cut out, leaving an awkward silence. This ended when Carrie advised the musical captain, “I’ll just sing it,” then carried it off in her full-lyric (almost mezzo-) soprano.

I formed a crush on this Oklahoma country singer when I first learnt about her. This was when she married an Ottawa hockey player, fifteen years ago. She had come out of the choir of a Free Will Baptist Church. (Like my Cape Breton mama, who became a Free Will Baptist at the age of five, when the congregation she belonged to collectively defected from quasi-Presbyterianism, to save their Homeville family church from the United Church lawyers, at the merger of 1925. My grandma, Annie, said she preferred these Baptists because, “They allow dancing, and the use of the human brain.”)

Carrie Underwood has generated gospel hits, including the incomparable “Jesus, Take the Wheel” (well, crossover), and the whole album, My Saviour.

She is not political, or wasn’t, even slightly, like many of Trump’s supporters now come out of the wainscotting. And they still hate politics, as I do. But when they are called, they will vote for their freedom; and will play their part, on cue. And when the technology fails, they will sing, a cappella. God bless all the Trumplings.

On the eve of what should be a memorable inauguration, I am of course expecting paradox and disaster. Surely something will happen that no one could possibly predict, and if it is news, it will almost certainly be bad, for good news is seldom published.

I don’t, however, see how anything that is nasty and disagreeable will happen. For even if Communist China invades Taiwan, or Russia launches some of its boasted hypersonic missiles randomly into a defenceless Europe, I should expect things to end fairly well. Some of the world will certainly survive, and we will simply go on, sans Russia and China. But I don’t expect either Xi Jinping or Vladimir Putin to be quite so stupid.

Alternatively, no one will survive, in which case, we don’t have a problem.

Moreover, there are no asteroids currently in sight, and only Los Angeles seems to be burning. Even the next Ice Age does not seem to be approaching in the immediate future, and surely, we’ve all given up waiting for global warming.

If something should happen to Trump, tomorrow, there is Vance, Musk, Hegseth, and several other reliable Trumpians. Washington could freeze over, and Hell, too (they are adjoining), but never mind. Our countdown doesn’t begin until February 16th, which is Septuagesima.

It is not optimism I am trying to show, but complacency. Those of us who would exhibit Christianity, as well, must realize there is God, and Christ, and the Holy Spirit, and that this God created the world and everything in it. He has indicated that things will not end badly. Or if they do, in our case, it will be purely personal.

A glance through the lens of the James Webb telescope should convince us that our narcissism led us astray. We should get over ourselves. Our fate is very definitely not in the stars, nor, really, in the care of any politician. The most tyrannical of them come and go, and the worst they can do is murder us. (Many, though corrupt and annoying, are in fact perfectly harmless.)

Fear not. Our fate is in the power of God, or, if He doesn’t exist, it is already decided.

One of my more controversial opinions is that Hollywood, and the film industry generally, have not told us the strict truth about the proliferation of werewolves. Their notion that people may be transformed into “lycanthropes” — a consequence I suppose of Darwin’s evolution theory — is seriously at odds with the folk tradition, and the presentation of werewolves in the classical view. These werewolves did not practice shape-shifting, nor the pre-classical therianthropy. For in those sciences, other mammals were always other mammals, and not “half-human.” Again, Darwinism is probably to blame, for it teaches that before the appearance of man, nature “evolved” an endless series of partial, “not quite” men.

Thus, in reality, werewolves are a distinct species, which, when we consult the principle of speciation, give birth only to more werewolves, and are (as it were) “programmed” to avoid hybridization. Moreover, when forced into it, the hybrid products of animals almost always prove sterile. It is thus a very inconvenient thing to be a werewolf, though positive from the family-planning point-of-view.

Indeed, there were no “werewomen,” even in Old English, which usefully accounts for very low lycanthropic reproduction rates. The term itself is among the fanciful neologisms of feminism.

But what of the werewolves who have been taking the place of people (the “Great Replacement Theory”)? I would assume a large part of our illegal immigrant population consists of convinced werewolves, but that like their other convictions, they are false. However, just because they believe in nonsense, does not mean that these immigrants (or their liberal champions) are insincere.

There has been scandal for the last decade or more in the United Kingdom, where soi-disant “werewolves” have been obsessively raping young white women, presumably in an effort to hybridize. Perhaps, if our standard for lycanthropy, or should I say lycanthropology, could be improved and corrected, these foolish imposters might be persuaded to go home.

Else, we will need a “Children’s Crusade,” to spare white girls from unwanted attention. Or a “Reconquista,” to convert these supposed werewolves back into Christians, as they were before the “Werewolf Conquest.”

Amy Chua, Yale perfesser of law, who tutored both J. D. Vance and Vivek Ramaswamy, as well as numerous Supreme Court clerks, was more-or-less unpersoned at the height of the Obama monstrosities. She had written a “beuk” (we reserve Scottish pronunciation for this word) entitled, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, which had got her almost run out of Yale. Also, death threats — an absolutely commonplace tactic of leftists, progressives, and other filth.

(I remember the Ottawa police asking me — their very first question — “What did you write that made your critics so angry?” Later, by coincidence, I was run out of the Ottawa Citizen and the National Post.)

Mrs Chua stood accused of telling her daughters to get straight A’s in school, and to play the piano and violin. She is worse than a beneficiary of White Privilege, for she is also beautiful and has squint eyes. Her husband, another Yale perfesser (Jed Rubenfeld, constitutional law), was investigated for two years then prosecuted on (obviously) false charges. On top of his other sins, he is Jewish.

Curiously, both Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy and Ramaswamy’s Woke, Inc. were triggered by this remarkable teacher, who exhibits Nietzsche’s response to trauma. (“Whatever doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.”)

Mr and Mrs Rubenfeld also co-authored a delightful, useful book on certain ethnic groups in the United States. It is entitled The Triple Package, and is on three common traits that make, for instance, Indian and Cuban immigrants, and Mormons, as well as Chinese and Jews, so disproportionately successful once they settle there. Also, in my experience, the Maltese. (Hint: they make their kids get straight A’s, and play the piano and violin.)

Amy and Jed will be among the vice president’s honoured guests at the inauguration next week of Mr Donald J. Trump. He will become president, again!

“Happy days are here again.”

My attention is directed this morning (by Niall Ferguson) to a letter from John Adams, sent to Mercy Otis Warren in January, 1776. Mr Adams calls Monarchy the “genteelest and most fashionable” government, should the American colonies go mad, and decide upon sovereign independence. Then he recommends a Republic, himself.

Not all the colonies went with him; indeed what became Canada retained Monarchy but got rid of slavery, instead. However, we might still be willing to annex the USA as our eleventh province — or at least those parts with natural resources — after finding a new name for it. (Alas, “Green-land,” which might please the ecologists, has already been taken.)

Mr Adams concedes that a Monarchy would more likely make him rich. …

“It would produce so much Taste and Politeness, so much Elegance in Dress, Furniture, Equipage, so much Musick and Dancing, so much Fencing and Skaiting; so much Cards and Backgammon; so much Horse Racing and Cock fighting; so many Balls and Assemblies; so many Plays and Concerts that the very Imagination of them makes me feel vain, light, frivolous, and insignificant.”

Whereas, a Republic would produce the stoical and spartan virtues, together with a terrible excess of Politics. We may see that, from even this great American Patriot’s analysis, it would be grim.

How wise we were, to remain Playful and Loyalist!

I notice that the American “surgeon general” wants to put cancer warnings on all bottles of alcohol (to be sold in the “free market”). This would of course be accompanied by punitive new “health taxes.” As usual, the “science” behind this is false, and moderate drinking, especially of wine and ale, has been shown to improve health and increase longevity in many studies. Morbid alcoholism causes health problems, however.

We have now sixty years of false information in support of many product bans, and we have come to assume that Nanny State — which always has its own interests at heart, and never those of the public — must desecrate the packaging for all the most popular comestibles.

One of my little boys once showed enterprise by supplying sets of fake, stick-on labels to be sold in corner stores, which he designed and computer-printed himself. His talent for typography made me quite proud. These appliqués exactly matched the cigarette labels the Canadian guvmint had “mandated,” but read, i.e., “Cigarettes cause eating disorders in fish,” and, “Sex while smoking can lead to pregnancy,” and more simply, “Have another!” … It was much more profitable than lemonade stands; I am trying to remember why he stopped.

A clever lad, of independent mind, he was also a campaigner for child labour.

But we will need a new generation of health messages, for the public authorities like to waste our money by ordering the capitalists to alter the design of their warnings, constantly, to make them more alarming and repulsive. I’m sure they have large departments for this, employing many otherwise unemployable people, to extend their social welfare budgets and discourage trade.

I was thinking they could design one for surgeons general. It would read, “Being hanged from a lamp-post can endanger your health.”

Like other useless old men, I find myself celebrating anniversaries that do not command the attention of the world, for I am surrounded, increasingly, by the dead. For instance, today is the one-hundredth anniversary of the birth of my father — who took his leave from this world about sixteen years ago. I am, like every surviving son of every father, more and more alone with him; and he, in his way, more and more alone with me. This is because I knew him as he was, before the world began to become unrecognizable.

Like his father before him, my father was “radically liberal.” Papa’s adult life began in a uniform, flying sorties in Spitfires against Hitler; grandpa’s began in the mud-fields of France (though happily elevated on a horse), against the Kaiser. Mine I speak about too much, but it was not heroic like theirs. Perhaps only men can understand this: that you cannot be a man until you have risked your life. Nor can you be a good man until you have risked everything in a noble cause.

Papa’s, and also grandpa’s life, as artist, was also fraught with difficulties, which are put in the way of every honest man.

In contrast to the “neo,” or modern, who lives more spontaneously, for comfort.

I wrote, “radically liberal,” but here, too, I am using terms that cannot be understood today. Canada, and the other English-speaking countries, grew up in defiance of the socialist and totalitarian principles that guided many of our neighbours. Our instinct was always to freedom — even, if necessary, from each other. Only very recently in history was this instinct — expressed across a range from moderately liberal to reasonably conservative — compromised, and progressively suppressed. (We exist for the government, now.)

One speaks with the dead, in reverence, through silence. My sense is that papa is still listening.