dimarts, 30 de setembre de 2014

VENUS IN FURS - LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH Translated from the German by FERNANDA SAVAGE But the Almighty Lord hath struck him, and hath delivered him into the hands of a woman."_ --The Vulgate, Judith, xvi. 7. My company was charming. Opposite me by the massive Renaissance fireplace sat Venus; she was not a casual woman of the half-world, who under this pseudonym wages war against the enemy sex, like Mademoiselle Cleopatra, but the real, true goddess of love. She sat in an armchair and had kindled a crackling fire, whose reflection ran in red flames over her pale face with its white eyes, and from time to time over her feet when she sought to warm them. Her head was wonderful in spite of the dead stony eyes; it was all I could see of her. She had wrapped her marble-like body in a huge fur, and rolled herself up trembling like a cat. "I don't understand it," I exclaimed, "It isn't really cold any longer. For two weeks past we have had perfect spring weather. You must be nervous." "Much obliged for your spring," she replied with a low stony voice, and immediately afterwards sneezed divinely, twice in succession. "I really can't stand it here much longer, and I am beginning to understand--" "What, dear lady?" "I am beginning to believe the unbelievable and to understand the un-understandable. All of a sudden I understand the Germanic virtue of woman, and German philosophy, and I am no longer surprised that you of the North do not know how to love, haven't even an idea of what love is." "But, madame," I replied flaring up, "I surely haven't given you any reason." "Oh, you--" The divinity sneezed for the third time, and shrugged her shoulders with inimitable grace. "That's why I have always been nice to you, and even come to see you now and then, although I catch a cold every time, in spite of all my furs. Do you remember the first time we met?" "How could I forget it," I said. "You wore your abundant hair in brown curls, and you had brown eyes and a red mouth, but I recognized you immediately by the outline of your face and its marble-like pallor--you always wore a violet-blue velvet jacket edged with squirrel-skin." "You were really in love with the costume, and awfully docile." "You have taught me what love is. Your serene form of worship let me forget two thousand years." "And my faithfulness to you was without equal!" "Well, as far as faithfulness goes--" "Ungrateful!" "I will not reproach you with anything. You are a divine woman, but nevertheless a woman, and like every woman cruel in love." "What you call cruel," the goddess of love replied eagerly, "is simply the element of passion and of natural love, which is woman's nature and makes her give herself where she loves, and makes her love everything, that pleases her." "Can there be any greater cruelty for a lover than the unfaithfulness of the woman he loves?" "Indeed!" she replied. "We are faithful as long as we love, but you demand faithfulness of a woman without love, and the giving of herself without enjoyment. Who is cruel there--woman or man? You of the North in general take love too soberly and seriously. You talk of duties where there should be only a question of pleasure." "That is why our emotions are honorable and virtuous, and our relations permanent." "And yet a restless, always unsatisfied craving for the nudity of paganism," she interrupted, "but that love, which is the highest joy, which is divine simplicity itself, is not for you moderns, you children of reflection. It works only evil in you. _As soon as you wish to be natural, you become common._ To you nature seems something hostile; you have made devils out of the smiling gods of Greece, and out of me a demon. You can only exorcise and curse me, or slay yourselves in bacchantic madness before my altar. And if ever one of you has had the courage to kiss my red mouth, he makes a barefoot pilgrimage to Rome in penitential robes and expects flowers to grow from his withered staff, while under my feet roses, violets, and myrtles spring up every hour, but their fragrance does not agree with you. Stay among your northern fogs and Christian incense; let us pagans remain under the debris, beneath the lava; do not disinter us. Pompeii was not built for you, nor our villas, our baths, our temples. You do not require gods. We are chilled in your world." The beautiful marble woman coughed, and drew the dark sables still closer about her shoulders. "Much obliged for the classical lesson," I replied, "but you cannot deny, that man and woman are mortal enemies, in your serene sunlit world as well as in our foggy one. In love there is union into a single being for a short time only, capable of only one thought, one sensation, one will, in order to be then further disunited. And you know this better than I; whichever of the two fails to subjugate will soon feel the feet of the other on his neck--" "And as a rule the man that of the woman," cried Madame Venus with proud mockery, "which you know better than I." "Of course, and that is why I don't have any illusions." "You mean you are now my slave without illusions, and for that reason you shall feel the weight of my foot without mercy." "Madame!" "Don't you know me yet? Yes, I am _cruel_--since you take so much delight in that word-and am I not entitled to be so? Man is the one who desires, woman the one who is desired. This is woman's entire but decisive advantage. Through his passion nature has given man into woman's hands, and the woman who does not know how to make him her subject, her slave, her toy, and how to betray him with a smile in the end is not wise." "Exactly your principles," I interrupted angrily. "They are based on the experience of thousands of years," she replied ironically, while her white fingers played over the dark fur. "The more devoted a woman shows herself, the sooner the man sobers down and becomes domineering. The more cruelly she treats him and the more faithless she is, the worse she uses him, the more wantonly she plays with him, the less pity she shows him, by so much the more will she increase his desire, be loved, worshipped by him. So it has always been, since the time of Helen and Delilah, down to Catherine the Second and Lola Montez." "I cannot deny," I said, "that nothing will attract a man more than the picture of a beautiful, passionate, cruel, and despotic woman who wantonly changes her favorites without scruple in accordance with her whim--" "And in addition wears furs," exclaimed the divinity. "What do you mean by that?" "I know your predilection." "Do you know," I interrupted, "that, since we last saw each other, you have grown very coquettish." "In what way, may I ask?" "In that there is no way of accentuating your white body to greater advantage than by these dark furs, and that--" The divinity laughed. "You are dreaming," she cried, "wake up!" and she clasped my arm with her marble-white hand. "Do wake up," she repeated raucously with the low register of her voice. I opened my eyes with difficulty. I saw the hand which shook me, and suddenly it was brown as bronze; the voice was the thick alcoholic voice of my cossack servant who stood before me at his full height of nearly six feet. "Do get up," continued the good fellow, "it is really disgraceful." "What is disgraceful?" "To fall asleep in your clothes and with a book besides." He snuffed the candles which had burned down, and picked up the volume which had fallen from my hand, "with a book by"--he looked at the title page-- "by Hegel. Besides it is high time you were starting for Mr. Severin's who is expecting us for tea." "A curious dream," said Severin when I had finished. He supported his arms on his knees, resting his face in his delicate, finely veined hands, and fell to pondering. I knew that he wouldn't move for a long time, hardly even breathe. This actually happened, but I didn't consider his behavior as in any way remarkable. I had been on terms of close friendship with him for nearly three years, and gotten used to his peculiarities. For it cannot be denied that he was peculiar, although he wasn't quite the dangerous madman that the neighborhood, or indeed the entire district of Kolomea, considered him to be. I found his personality not only interesting--and that is why many also regarded me a bit mad--but to a degree sympathetic. For a Galician nobleman and land-owner, and considering his age--he was hardly over thirty--he displayed surprising sobriety, a certain seriousness, even pedantry. He lived according to a minutely elaborated, half-philosophical, half-practical system, like clock-work; not this alone, but also by the thermometer, barometer, aerometer, hydrometer, Hippocrates, Hufeland, Plato, Kant, Knigge, and Lord Chesterfield. But at times he had violent attacks of sudden passion, and gave the impression of being about to run with his head right through a wall. At such times every one preferred to get out of his way. While he remained silent, the fire sang in the chimney and the large venerable samovar sang; and the ancient chair in which I sat rocking to and fro smoking my cigar, and the cricket in the old walls sang too. I let my eyes glide over the curious apparatus, skeletons of animals, stuffed birds, globes, plaster-casts, with which his room was heaped full, until by chance my glance remained fixed on a picture which I had seen often enough before. But to-day, under the reflected red glow of the fire, it made an indescribable impression on me. It was a large oil painting, done in the robust full-bodied manner of the Belgian school. Its subject was strange enough. A beautiful woman with a radiant smile upon her face, with abundant hair tied into a classical knot, on which white powder lay like a soft hoarfrost, was resting on an ottoman, supported on her left arm. She was nude in her dark furs. Her right hand played with a lash, while her bare foot rested carelessly on a man, lying before her like a slave, like a dog. In the sharply outlined, but well-formed linaments of this man lay brooding melancholy and passionate devotion; he looked up to her with the ecstatic burning eye of a martyr. This man, the footstool for her feet, was Severin, but beardless, and, it seemed, some ten years younger. "_Venus in Furs_," I cried, pointing to the picture. "That is the way I saw her in my dream." "I, too," said Severin, "only I dreamed my dream with open eyes." "Indeed?" "It is a tiresome story." "Your picture apparently suggested my dream," I continued. "But do tell me what it means. I can imagine that it played a role in your life, and perhaps a very decisive one. But the details I can only get from you." "Look at its counterpart," replied my strange friend, without heeding my question. The counterpart was an excellent copy of Titian's well-known "Venus with the Mirror" in the Dresden Gallery. "And what is the significance?" Severin rose and pointed with his finger at the fur with which Titian garbed his goddess of love. "It, too, is a 'Venus in Furs,'" he said with a slight smile. "I don't believe that the old Venetian had any secondary intention. He simply painted the portrait of some aristocratic Mesalina, and was tactful enough to let Cupid hold the mirror in which she tests her majestic allure with cold satisfaction. He looks as though his task were becoming burdensome enough. The picture is painted flattery. Later an 'expert' in the Rococo period baptized the lady with the name of Venus. The furs of the despot in which Titian's fair model wrapped herself, probably more for fear of a cold than out of modesty, have become a symbol of the tyranny and cruelty that constitute woman's essence and her beauty. "But enough of that. The picture, as it now exists, is a bitter satire on our love. Venus in this abstract North, in this icy Christian world, has to creep into huge black furs so as not to catch cold--" Severin laughed, and lighted a fresh cigarette. Just then the door opened and an attractive, stoutish, blonde girl entered. She had wise, kindly eyes, was dressed in black silk, and brought us cold meat and eggs with our tea. Severin took one of the latter, and decapitated it with his knife. "Didn't I tell you that I want them soft-boiled?" he cried with a violence that made the young woman tremble. "But my dear Sevtchu--" she said timidly. "Sevtchu, nothing," he yelled, "you are to obey, obey, do you understand?" and he tore the _kantchuk_ [Footnote: A long whip with a short handle.] which was hanging beside the weapons from its hook. The woman fled from the chamber quickly and timidly like a doe. "Just wait, I'll get you yet," he called after her. "But Severin," I said placing my hand on his arm, "how can you treat a pretty young woman thus?" "Look at the woman," he replied, blinking humorously with his eyes. "Had I flattered her, she would have cast the noose around my neck, but now, when I bring her up with the _kantchuk_, she adores me." "Nonsense!" "Nonsense, nothing, that is the way you have to break in women." "Well, if you like it, live like a pasha in your harem, but don't lay down theories for me--" "Why not," he said animatedly. "Goethe's 'you must be hammer or anvil' is absolutely appropriate to the relation between man and woman. Didn't Lady Venus in your dream prove that to you? Woman's power lies in man's passion, and she knows how to use it, if man doesn't understand himself. He has only one choice: to be the _tyrant_ over or the _slave_ of woman. As soon as he gives in, his neck is under the yoke, and the lash will soon fall upon him." "Strange maxims!" "Not maxims, but experiences," he replied, nodding his head, "_I have actually felt the lash_. I am cured. Do you care to know how?" He rose, and got a small manuscript from his massive desk, and put it in front of me. "You have already asked about the picture. I have long owed you an explanation. Here--read!" Severin sat down by the chimney with his back toward me, and seemed to dream with open eyes. Silence had fallen again, and again the fire sang in the chimney, and the samovar and the cricket in the old walls. I opened the manuscript and read: CONFESSIONS OF A SUPERSENSUAL MAN. The margin of the manuscript bore as motto a variation of the well-known lines from _Faust_: "Thou supersensual sensual wooer A woman leads you by the nose." --MEPHISTOPHELES. I turned the title-page and read: "What follows has been compiled from my diary of that period, because it is impossible ever frankly to write of one's past, but in this way everything retains its fresh colors, the colors of the present." Gogol, the Russian Moliere, says--where? well, somewhere--"the real comic muse is the one under whose laughing mask tears roll down." A wonderful saying. So I have a very curious feeling as I am writing all this down. The atmosphere seems filled with a stimulating fragrance of flowers, which overcomes me and gives me a headache. The smoke of the fireplace curls and condenses into figures, small gray-bearded kokolds that mockingly point their finger at me. Chubby-cheeked cupids ride on the arms of my chair and on my knees. I have to smile involuntarily, even laugh aloud, as I am writing down my adventures. Yet I am not writing with ordinary ink, but with red blood that drips from my heart. All its wounds long scarred over have opened and it throbs and hurts, and now and then a tear falls on the paper. The days creep along sluggishly in the little Carpathian health-resort. You see no one, and no one sees you. It is boring enough to write idyls. I would have leisure here to supply a whole gallery of paintings, furnish a theater with new pieces for an entire season, a dozen virtuosos with concertos, trios, and duos, but--what am I saying--the upshot of it all is that I don't do much more than to stretch the canvas, smooth the bow, line the scores. For I am--no false modesty, Friend Severin; you can lie to others, but you don't quite succeed any longer in lying to yourself--I am nothing but a dilettante, a dilettante in painting, in poetry, in music, and several other of the so-called unprofitable arts, which, however, at present secure for their masters the income of a cabinet minister, or even that of a minor potentate. Above all else I am a dilettante in life. Up to the present I have lived as I have painted and written poetry. I never got far beyond the preparation, the plan, the first act, the first stanza. There are people like that who begin everything, and never finish anything. I am such a one. But what am I saying? To the business in hand. I lie in my window, and the miserable little town, which fills me with despondency, really seems infinitely full of poetry. How wonderful the outlook upon the blue wall of high mountains interwoven with golden sunlight; mountain-torrents weave through them like ribbons of silver! How clear and blue the heavens into which snowcapped crags project; how green and fresh the forested slopes; the meadows on which small herds graze, down to the yellow billows of grain where reapers stand and bend over and rise up again. The house in which I live stands in a sort of park, or forest, or wilderness, whatever one wants to call it, and is very solitary. Its sole inhabitants are myself, a widow from Lemberg, and Madame Tartakovska, who runs the house, a little old woman, who grows older and smaller each day. There are also an old dog that limps on one leg, and a young cat that continually plays with a ball of yarn. This ball of yarn, I believe, belongs to the widow. She is said to be really beautiful, this widow, still very young, twenty-four at the most, and very rich. She dwells in the first story, and I on the ground floor. She always keeps the green blinds drawn, and has a balcony entirely overgrown with green climbing-plants. I for my part down below have a comfortable, intimate arbor of honeysuckle, in which I read and write and paint and sing like a bird among the twigs. I can look up on the balcony. Sometimes I actually do so, and then from time to time a white gown gleams between the dense green network. Really the beautiful woman up there doesn't interest me very much, for I am in love with someone else, and terribly unhappy at that; far more unhappy than the Knight of Toggenburg or the Chevalier in Manon l'Escault, because the object of my adoration is of stone. In the garden, in the tiny wilderness, there is a graceful little meadow on which a couple of deer graze peacefully. On this meadow is a stone statue of Venus, the original of which, I believe, is in Florence. This Venus is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in all my life. That, however, does not signify much, for I have seen few beautiful women, or rather few women at all. In love too, I am a dilettante who never got beyond the preparation, the first act. But why talk in superlatives, as if something that is beautiful could be surpassed? It is sufficient to say that this Venus is beautiful. I love her passionately with a morbid intensity; madly as one can only love a woman who never responds to our love with anything but an eternally uniform, eternally calm, stony smile. I literally adore her. I often lie reading under the leafy covering of a young birch when the sun broods over the forest. Often I visit that cold, cruel mistress of mine by night and lie on my knees before her, with the face pressed against the cold pedestal on which her feet rest, and my prayers go up to her. The rising moon, which just now is waning, produces an indescribable effect. It seems to hover among the trees and submerges the meadow in its gleam of silver. The goddess stands as if transfigured, and seems to bathe in the soft moonlight. Once when I was returning from my devotions by one of the walks leading to the house, I suddenly saw a woman's figure, white as stone, under the illumination of the moon and separated from me merely by a screen of trees. It seemed as if the beautiful woman of marble had taken pity on me, become alive, and followed me. I was seized by a nameless fear, my heart threatened to burst, and instead-- Well, I am a dilettante. As always, I broke down at the second stanza; rather, on the contrary, I did not break down, but ran away as fast as my legs would carry me. * * * * * What an accident! Through a Jew, dealing in photographs I secured a picture of my ideal. It is a small reproduction of Titian's "Venus with the Mirror." What a woman! I want to write a poem, but instead, I take the reproduction, and write on it: _Venus in Furs_. You are cold, while you yourself fan flames. By all means wrap yourself in your despotic furs, there is no one to whom they are more appropriate, cruel goddess of love and of beauty!--After a while I add a few verses from Goethe, which I recently found in his paralipomena to _Faust_. TO AMOR "The pair of wings a fiction are, The arrows, they are naught but claws, The wreath conceals the little horns, For without any doubt he is Like all the gods of ancient Greece Only a devil in disguise." Then I put the picture before me on my table, supporting it with a book, and looked at it. I was enraptured and at the same time filled with a strange fear by the cold coquetry with which this magnificent woman draped her charms in her furs of dark sable; by the severity and hardness which lay in this cold marble-like face. Again I took my pen in hand, and wrote the following words: "To love, to be loved, what happiness! And yet how the glamour of this pales in comparison with the tormenting bliss of worshipping a woman who makes a plaything out of us, of being the slave of a beautiful tyrant who treads us pitilessly underfoot. Even Samson, the hero, the giant, again put himself into the hands of Delilah, even after she had betrayed him, and again she betrayed him, and the Philistines bound him and put out his eyes which until the very end he kept fixed, drunken with rage and love, upon the beautiful betrayer." I was breakfasting in my honey-suckle arbor, and reading in the Book of Judith. I envied the hero Holofernes because of the regal woman who cut off his head with a sword, and because of his beautiful sanguinary end. "The almighty Lord hath struck him, and hath delivered him into the hands of a woman." This sentence strangely impressed me. How ungallant these Jews are, I thought. And their God might choose more becoming expressions when he speaks of the fair sex. "The almighty Lord hath struck him, and hath delivered him into the hands of a woman," I repeated to myself. What shall I do, so that He may punish me? Heaven preserve us! Here comes the housekeeper, who has again diminished somewhat in size overnight. And up there among the green twinings and garlandings the white gown gleams again. Is it Venus, or the widow? This time it happens to be the widow, for Madame Tartakovska makes a courtesy, and asks me in her name for something to read. I run to my room, and gather together a couple of volumes. Later I remember that my picture of Venus is in one of them, and now it and my effusions are in the hands of the white woman up there together. What will she say? I hear her laugh. Is she laughing at me? It is full moon. It is already peering over the tops of the low hemlocks that fringe the park. A silvery exhalation fills the terrace, the groups of trees, all the landscape, as far as the eye can reach; in the distance it gradually fades away, like trembling waters. I cannot resist. I feel a strange urge and call within me. I put on my clothes again and go out into the garden. Some power draws me toward the meadow, toward her, who is my divinity and my beloved. The night is cool. I feel a slight chill. The atmosphere is heavy with the odor of flowers and of the forest. It intoxicates. What solemnity! What music round about! A nightingale sobs. The stars quiver very faintly in the pale-blue glamour. The meadow seems smooth, like a mirror, like a covering of ice on a pond. The statue of Venus stands out august and luminous. But--what has happened? From the marble shoulders of the goddess a large dark fur flows down to her heels. I stand dumbfounded and stare at her in amazement; again an indescribable fear seizes hold of me and I take flight. I hasten my steps, and notice that I have missed the main path. As I am about to turn aside into one of the green walks I see Venus sitting before me on a stone bench, not the beautiful woman of marble, but the goddess of love herself with warm blood and throbbing pulses. She has actually come to life for me, like the statue that began to breathe for her creator. Indeed, the miracle is only half completed. Her white hair seems still to be of stone, and her white gown shimmers like moonlight, or is it satin? From her shoulders the dark fur flows. But her lips are already reddening and her cheeks begin to take color. Two diabolical green rays out of her eyes fall upon me, and now she laughs. Her laughter is very mysterious, very--I don't know. It cannot be described, it takes my breath away. I flee further, and after every few steps I have to pause to take breath. The mocking laughter pursues me through the dark leafy paths, across light open spaces, through the thicket where only single moonbeams can pierce. I can no longer find my way, I wander about utterly confused, with cold drops of perspiration on the forehead. Finally I stand still, and engage in a short monologue. It runs--well--one is either very polite to one's self or very rude. I say to myself: "Donkey!" This word exercises a remarkable effect, like a magic formula, which sets me free and makes me master of myself. I am perfectly quiet in a moment. With considerable pleasure I repeat: "Donkey!" Now everything is perfectly clear and distinct before my eyes again. There is the fountain, there the alley of box-wood, there the house which I am slowly approaching. Yet--suddenly the appearance is here again. Behind the green screen through which the moonlight gleams so that it seems embroidered with silver, I again see the white figure, the woman of stone whom I adore, whom I fear and flee. With a couple of leaps I am within the house and catch my breath and reflect. What am I really, a little dilettante or a great big donkey? A sultry morning, the atmosphere is dead, heavily laden with odors, yet stimulating. Again I am sitting in my honey-suckle arbor, reading in the Odyssey about the beautiful witch who transformed her admirers into beasts. A wonderful picture of antique love. There is a soft rustling in the twigs and blades and the pages of my book rustle and on the terrace likewise there is a rustling. A woman's dress-- She is there--Venus--but without furs--No, this time it is merely the widow--and yet--Venus-oh, what a woman! As she stands there in her light white morning gown, looking at me, her slight figure seems full of poetry and grace. She is neither large, nor small; her head is alluring, piquant--in the sense of the period of the French marquises--rather than formally beautiful. What enchantment and softness, what roguish charm play about her none too small mouth! Her skin is so infinitely delicate, that the blue veins show through everywhere; even through the muslin covering her arms and bosom. How abundant her red hair-it is red, not blonde or golden-yellow--how diabolically and yet tenderly it plays around her neck! Now her eyes meet mine like green lightnings--they are green, these eyes of hers, whose power is so indescribable--green, but as are precious stones, or deep unfathomable mountain lakes. She observes my confusion, which has even made me discourteous, for I have remained seated and still have my cap on my head. She smiles roguishly. Finally I rise and bow to her. She comes closer, and bursts out into a loud, almost childlike laughter. I stammer, as only a little dilettante or great big donkey can do on such an occasion. Thus our acquaintance began. The divinity asks for my name, and mentions her own. Her name is Wanda von Dunajew. And she is actually my Venus. "But madame, what put the idea into your head?" "The little picture in one of your books--" "I had forgotten about it." "The curious notes on its back--" "Why curious?" She looked at me. "I have always wanted to know a real dreamer some time--for the sake of the change--and you seem one of the maddest of the tribe." "Dear lady--in fact--" Again I fell victim to an odious, asinine stammering, and in addition blushed in a way that might have been appropriate for a youngster of sixteen, but not for me, who was almost a full ten years older-- "You were afraid of me last night." "Really--of course--but won't you sit down?" She sat down, and enjoyed my embarrassment--for actually I was even more afraid of her now in the full light of day. A delightful expression of contempt hovered about her upper lip. "You look at love, and especially woman," she began, "as something hostile, something against which you put up a defense, even if unsuccessfully. You feel that their power over you gives you a sensation of pleasurable torture, of pungent cruelty. This is a genuinely modern point of view." "You don't share it?" "I do not share it," she said quickly and decisively, shaking her head, so that her curls flew up like red flames. "The ideal which I strive to realize in my life is the serene sensuousness of the Greeks--pleasure without pain. I do not believe in the kind of love which is preached by Christianity, by the moderns, by the knights of the spirit. Yes, look at me, I am worse than a heretic, I am a pagan. 'Doest thou imagine long the goddess of love took counsel When in Ida's grove she was pleased with the hero Achilles?' "These lines from Goethe's _Roman Elegy_ have always delighted me. "In nature there is only the love of the heroic age, 'when gods and goddesses loved.' At that time 'desire followed the glance, enjoyment desire.' All else is factitious, affected, a lie. Christianity, whose cruel emblem, the cross, has always had for me an element of the monstrous, brought something alien and hostile into nature and its innocent instincts. "The battle of the spirit with the senses is the gospel of modern man. I do not care to have a share in it." "Yes, Mount Olympus would be the place for you, madame," I replied, "but we moderns can no longer support the antique serenity, least of all in love. The idea of sharing a woman, even if it were an Aspasia, with another revolts us. We are jealous as is our God. For example, we have made a term abuse out of the name of the glorious Phryne. "We prefer one of Holbein's meagre, pallid virgins, which is wholly ours to an antique Venus, no matter how divinely beautiful she is, but who loves Anchises to-day, Paris to-morrow, Adonis the day after. And if nature triumphs in us so that we give our whole glowing, passionate devotion to such a woman, her serene joy of life appears to us as something demonic and cruel, and we read into our happiness a sin which we must expiate." "So you too are one of those who rave about modern women, those miserable hysterical feminine creatures who don't appreciate a real man in their somnambulistic search for some dream-man and masculine ideal. Amid tears and convulsions they daily outrage their Christian duties; they cheat and are cheated; they always seek again and choose and reject; they are never happy, and never give happiness. They accuse fate instead of calmly confessing that they want to love and live as Helen and Aspasia lived. Nature admits of no permanence in the relation between man and woman." "But, my dear lady--" "Let me finish. It is only man's egoism which wants to keep woman like some buried treasure. All endeavors to introduce permanence in love, the most changeable thing in this changeable human existence, have gone shipwreck in spite of religious ceremonies, vows, and legalities. Can you deny that our Christian world has given itself over to corruption?" "But--" "But you are about to say, the individual who rebels against the arrangements of society is ostracized, branded, stoned. So be it. I am willing to take the risk; my principles are very pagan. I will live my own life as it pleases me. I am willing to do without your hypocritical respect; I prefer to be happy. The inventors of the Christian marriage have done well, simultaneously to invent immortality. I, however, have no wish to live eternally. When with my last breath everything as far as Wanda von Dunajew is concerned comes to an end here below, what does it profit me whether my pure spirit joins the choirs of angels, or whether my dust goes into the formation of new beings? Shall I belong to one man whom I don't love, merely because I have once loved him? No, I do not renounce; I love everyone who pleases me, and give happiness to everyone who loves me. Is that ugly? No, it is more beautiful by far, than if cruelly I enjoy the tortures, which my beauty excites, and virtuously reject the poor fellow who is pining away for me. I am young, rich, and beautiful, and I live serenely for the sake of pleasure and enjoyment." While she was speaking her eyes sparkled roguishly, and I had taken hold of her hands without exactly knowing what to do with them, but being a genuine dilettante I hastily let go of them again. "Your frankness," I said, "delights me, and not it alone--" My confounded dilettantism again throttled me as though there were a rope around my neck. "You were about to say--" "I was about to say--I was--I am sorry--I interrupted you." "How, so?" A long pause. She is doubtless engaging in a monologue, which translated into my language would be comprised in the single word, "donkey." "If I may ask," I finally began, "how did you arrive at these--these conclusions?" "Quite simply, my father was an intelligent man. From my cradle onward I was surrounded by replicas of ancient art; at ten years of age I read _Gil Blas_, at twelve _La Pucelle_. Where others had Hop-o'-my-thumb, Bluebeard, Cinderella, as childhood friends, mine were Venus and Apollo, Hercules and Lackoon. My husband's personality was filled with serenity and sunlight. Not even the incurable illness which fell upon him soon after our marriage could long cloud his brow. On the very night of his death he took me in his arms, and during the many months when he lay dying in his wheel chair, he often said jokingly to me: 'Well, have you already picked out a lover?' I blushed with shame. 'Don't deceive me,' he added on one occasion, 'that would seem ugly to me, but pick out an attractive lover, or preferably several. You are a splendid woman, but still half a child, and you need toys.' "I suppose, I hardly need tell you that during his life time I had no lover; but it was through him that I have become what I am, a woman of Greece." "A goddess," I interrupted. "Which one," she smiled. "Venus."

She threatened me with her finger and knitted her brows. "Perhaps,
even a 'Venus in Furs.' Watch out, I have a large, very large fur,
with which I could cover you up entirely, and I have a mind to catch
you in it as in a net."

"Do you believe," I said quickly, for an idea which seemed good, in
spite of its conventionality and triteness, flashed into my head, "do
you believe that your theories could be carried into execution at the
present time, that Venus would be permitted to stray with impunity
among our railroads and telegraphs in all her undraped beauty and

"_Undraped_, of course not, but in furs," she replied smiling, "would
you care to see mine?"

"And then--"

"What then?"

"Beautiful, free, serene, and happy human beings, such as the Greeks
were, are only possible when it is permitted to have _slaves_ who will
perform the prosaic tasks of every day for them and above all else
labor for them."

"Of course," she replied playfully, "an Olympian divinity, such as
I am, requires a whole army of slaves. Beware of me!"


I myself was frightened at the hardiness with which I uttered this
"why"; it did not startle her in the least.

She drew back her lips a little so that her small white teeth became
visible, and then said lightly, as if she were discussing some
trifling matter, "Do you want to be my slave?"

"There is no equality in love," I replied solemnly. "Whenever it is
a matter of choice for me of ruling or being ruled, it seems much
more satisfactory to me to be the slave of a beautiful woman. But
where shall I find the woman who knows how to rule, calmly, full of
self-confidence, even harshly, and not seek to gain her power by
means of petty nagging?"

"Oh, that might not be so difficult."

"You think--"

"I--for instance--" she laughed and leaned far back--"I have a real
talent for despotism--I also have the necessary furs--but last night
you were really seriously afraid of me!"

"Quite seriously."

"And now?"

"Now, I am more afraid of you than ever!"

We are together every day, I and--Venus; we are together a great
deal. We breakfast in my honey-suckle arbor, and have tea in her
little sitting-room. I have an opportunity to unfold all my small,
very small talents. Of what use would have been my study of all the
various sciences, my playing at all the arts, if I were unable in the
case of a pretty, little woman--

But this woman is by no means little; in fact she impresses me
tremendously. I made a drawing of her to-day, and felt particularly
clearly, how inappropriate the modern way of dressing is for a
cameo-head like hers. The configuration of her face has little of the
Roman, but much of the Greek.

Sometimes I should like to paint her as Psyche, and then again as
Astarte. It depends upon the expression in her eyes, whether it is
vaguely dreamy, or half-consuming, filled with tired desire.
She, however, insists that it be a portrait-likeness.

I shall make her a present of furs.

How could I have any doubts? If not for her, for whom would princely
furs be suitable?

       *       *       *       *       *

I was with her yesterday evening, reading the _Roman Elegies_ to her.
Then I laid the book aside, and improvised something for her. She
seemed pleased; rather more than that, she actually hung upon my
words, and her bosom heaved.

Or was I mistaken?

The rain beat in melancholy fashion on the window-panes, the fire
crackled in the fireplace in wintery comfort. I felt quite at home
with her, and for a moment lost all my fear of this beautiful woman;
I kissed her hand, and she permitted it.

Then I sat down at her feet and read a short poem I had written for


  "Place thy foot upon thy slave,
  Oh thou, half of hell, half of dreams;
  Among the shadows, dark and grave,
  Thy extended body softly gleams."

And--so on. This time I really got beyond the first stanza. At her
request I gave her the poem in the evening, keeping no copy. And now
as I am writing this down in my diary I can only remember the first

I am filled with a very curious sensation. I don't believe that I am
in love with Wanda; I am sure that at our first meeting, I felt
nothing of the lightning-like flashes of passion. But I feel how her
extraordinary, really divine beauty is gradually winding magic snares
about me. It isn't any spiritual sympathy which is growing in me; it
is a physical subjection, coming on slowly, but for that reason more

I suffer under it more and more each day, and she--she merely smiles.

       *       *       *       *       *

Without any provocation she suddenly said to me to-day: "You
interest me. Most men are very commonplace, without verve or poetry.
In you there is a certain depth and capacity for enthusiasm and a
deep seriousness, which delight me. I might learn to love you."

After a short but severe shower we went out together to the meadow
and the statue of Venus. All about us the earth steamed; mists rose
up toward heaven like clouds of incense; a shattered rainbow still
hovered in the air. The trees were still shedding drops, but sparrows
and finches were already hopping from twig to twig. They are
twittering gaily, as if very much pleased at something. Everything
is filled with a fresh fragrance. We cannot cross the meadow for it
is still wet. In the sunlight it looks like a small pool, and the
goddess of love seems to rise from the undulations of its mirror-like
surface. About her head a swarm of gnats is dancing, which,
illuminated by the sun, seem to hover above her like an aureole.

Wanda is enjoying the lovely scene. As all the benches along the
walk are still wet, she supports herself on my arm to rest a while.
A soft weariness permeates her whole being, her eyes are half closed;
I feel the touch of her breath on my cheek.

How I managed to get up courage enough I really don't know, but I
took hold of her hand, asking,

"Could you love me?"

"Why not," she replied, letting her calm, clear look rest upon me,
but not for long.

A moment later I am kneeling before her, pressing my burning face
against the fragrant muslin of her gown.

"But Severin--this isn't right," she cried.

But I take hold of her little foot, and press my lips upon it.

"You are getting worse and worse!" she cried. She tore herself free,
and fled rapidly toward the house, the while her adorable slipper
remained in my hand.

Is it an omen?

       *       *       *       *       *

All day long I didn't dare to go near her. Toward evening as I was
sitting in my arbor her gay red head peered suddenly through the
greenery of her balcony. "Why don't you come up?" he called down

I ran upstairs, and at the top lost courage again. I knocked very
lightly. She didn't say come-in, but opened the door herself, and
stood on the threshold.

"Where is my slipper?"

"It is--I have--I want," I stammered.

"Get it, and then we will have tea together, and chat."

When I returned, she was engaged in making tea. I ceremoniously
placed the slipper on the table, and stood in the corner like a child
awaiting punishment.

I noticed that her brows were slightly contracted, and there was an
expression of hardness and dominance about her lips which delighted

All of a sudden she broke out laughing.

"So--you are really in love--with me?"

"Yes, and I suffer more from it than you can imagine?"

"You suffer?" she laughed again.

I was revolted, mortified, annihilated, but all this was quite

"Why?" she continued, "I like you, with all my heart."

She gave me her hand, and looked at me in the friendliest fashion.

"And will you be my wife?"

Wanda looked at me--how did she look at me? I think first of all
with surprise, and then with a tinge of irony.

"What has given you so much courage, all at once?"


"Yes courage, to ask anyone to be your wife, and me in particular?"
She lifted up the slipper. "Was it through a sudden friendship with
this? But joking aside. Do you really wish to marry me?"


"Well, Severin, that is a serious matter. I believe, you love me,
and I care for you too, and what is more important each of us finds
the other interesting. There is no danger that we would soon get
bored, but, you know, I am a fickle person, and just for that reason
I take marriage seriously. If I assume obligations, I want to be able
to meet them. But I am afraid--no--it would hurt you."

"Please be perfectly frank with me," I replied.

"Well then honestly, I don't believe I could love a man longer than--"
She inclined her head gracefully to one side and mused.

"A year."

"What do you imagine--a month perhaps."

"Not even me?"

"Oh you--perhaps two."

"Two months!" I exclaimed.

"Two months is very long."

"You go beyond antiquity, madame."

"You see, you cannot stand the truth."

Wanda walked across the room and leaned back against the fireplace,
watching me and resting one of her arms on the mantelpiece.

"What shall I do with you?" she began anew.

"Whatever you wish," I replied with resignation, "whatever will give
you pleasure."

"How illogical!" she cried, "first you want to make me your wife,
and then you offer yourself to me as something to toy with




Radar Meteorology by

Covers a wide range of topics. Should be both interesting and challenging to the novice. ...
a handy guide for those in the field." -- Bulletin of the American Meteorological Society

dilluns, 29 de setembre de 2014

Idle states in the book that women aren't funny because they can't bear to be laughed at.There's a robot writing a dissertation on comedy, and a bunch of sub-Catskills comedians, and Idle's own theories about comedy (which seem borrowed and not terribly insightful), and Idle's theories about women (which are kind of appalling*), but then also murders, conspiracies, and dog defenestration. And that's just in the first 100 pages, which is as far as I got before giving up. Life is too short for dull books. Touted as a comedy, the book slowly but surely develops into a snowball of murder, death and mayhem. Fun right? No, not in the least. Everything that could go wrong does go wrong, in a bad way. You don't laugh, you sit there with your jaw on the floor wondering how the hell it could be promoted as a comedy..the entire book is a JOKE, the revolutionary Nobel-winning-theory-of-everything really killed my parrot, so to speak. I'm even going to have to insert a spoiler to rant properly. Ahem. [ The concept of comedy being the mysterious expansive force in the universe is just stupid. I think Idle just thought it was brilliant that levity sounds similar to gravity. I know it's not to be taken literally, but it bugs the heck out of me to claim that humor is a fundamental force simultaneously as claiming humor is a uniquely human concept (which may or may not be true, as many animals play, laugh and even prank). Excuse me, but don't nuclear forces, electromagnetism, and gravity affect... um, everything? How can you have a fundamental force that is only relevant to humans? I can't ignore the blatant double standard The are two types of comedian," states Carlton in the preface to his dissertation, "both deriving from the circus., which I shall call the White Face and the Red Nose. Almost all comedians fall into one or the other of these two simple archetypes. In the circus, the White Face is the controlling clown with the deathly pale masklike face who never takes a pie; the Red Nose is the subversive clown with the yellow and red makeup who takes all the pies and the pratfalls and the buckets of water and the banana skins. The White Face represents the mind, reminding humanity of the constant mocking presence of death; the Red Nose represents the body, reminding mankind of its constant embarrassing vulgarities.

Is there enough dark matter so that the gnawing effect of gravity will eventually pull the Universe backwards, or is there enough laughing matter for levity to escape the restraining pull of gravity and permit the Universe to go on expanding forever. Take your pick. The optimistic, ever-expanding Universe, or the depressingly collapsing Universe? Manic or depressive? White Face or Red Nose? Tragic or comic? Conspiracy or fuck-up

Carlton being my favorite character...an inspriringly original robot that chose to defy DNAcism (just one of the clever terms the book offers). Fast paced funny light read and quite possibly a valuable how to for comedy business.

  Kristi rated it 2 of 5 stars
The Road to Mars was truly funny -- well written with an extremely clever premise. There were even occasional moments of absolute brilliance, and I laughed out loud many times. However, what sunk this book were the two extremely graphic sex scenes. We're talking blush-and-cringe-and-look-away-in-embarrassment graphic. Not sexy. Not funny. They didn't in any way enhance the book, and I found it disappointing that Idle engaged in such trashy, self-indulgent writing. It's too bad, because the book was hilarious.

  Pedro rated it 4 of 5 starsCarlton é um andróide, modelo Bowie 4.5, que vive no futur ou se desloca nele .....
O cara branca é o palhaço austero, alto e magro, que faz sempre a papel de sério e que tenta fazer o seu número, invariavelmente destruído pelo nariz encarnado, baixo, gordo, anárquico, que humilha sempre o outro enquanto lhe baixa as calças. Enfim, o gajo das tartes. Se calhar fazia-se aqui um paralelo interessante com a vida real. Ou melhor, um exercício de imaginação: quem são os gajos das tartes das nossas vidas? Aqueles que subvertem constantemente tudo o que os outros fazem, mascarando com humor um mega ressabiamento contra todos aqueles que, modestamente ou não, vão fazendo pela vida? Alex e Lewis são autores de vaudeville cómico, comediantes de serviço de um paquete de super luxo chamado Pincess Di que faz a ronda pela galáxia, ronda essa chamada o caminho para Marte. Depois disto, bem, é a confusão total, ou não tivesse este livro saído da cabeça de alguém que passou os anos 70, sim, 70, não foi engano, a derreter o cérebro com ácido. E por grande que seja a tentação de descrever a história do livro, sei perfeitamente que o indescritível não se descreve. Lê-se, apenas. Penso que agora, perto do fim, poderia dizer que o autor foi um dos Monthy Python. (...pausa para prestar o culto devoto dos culturalmente correctos...), mas isso para mim não tem significado, uma vez que não me encontro entre os seguidoras dessa religião. Apenas gosto deles, mas não escrevo tratados de devoção infinita ao seu talento. Por uma razão simples. Era tudo das drogas. Ninguém reparou que a partir do momento em que deixaram de se drogar acabou a criatividade. Ninguém acha estranho que em todas as profissões o apogeu venha com a experiência e que no mundo do espectáculo o apogeu venha no princípio?

THE RED PLANET BY WILLIAM J. LOCKE AUTHOR OP "THE WONDERFUL YEAR," "JAFFERY," "THE BELOVED VAGABOND," ETC. Not only over death strewn plains, Fierce mid the cold white stars, But over sheltered vales of home, Rides the Red Planet Mars. NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD TORONTO: S. B. GUNDY .-. MCMXVII LADY FENIMORE'S compliments, sir, and will you be so kind as to step round to Sir Anthony at once?" Heaven knows that never another step shall I take in this world again; but Sergeant Marigold has always ignored the fact. That is one of the many things I admire about Marigold. He does not throw my poor paralysed legs, so to speak, in my face. He accepts them as the normal equip- ment of an employer. I don't know what I should do without Marigold. . . . You see we were old comrades in the South African War, where we both got badly knocked to pieces. He was Sergeant in my battery, and the same Boer shell did for both of us. At times we join in cursing that shell heartily, but I am not sure that we do not hold it in sneaking affection. It initiated us into the brotherhood of death. Shortly afterwards when we had crossed the border-line back into life, we exchanged, as tokens, bits of the shrapnel which they had extracted from our respective carcases. I have not enquired what he did with his bit; but I keep mine in a certain locked drawer. . . . There were only the two of us left on the gun when we were knocked out. ... I should like to tell you the whole story, but you wouldn't listen to me. And no wonder. In comparison with the present world convulsion in which the slaughtered are reckoned by millions, the Boer War seems a trumpery affair of bows and 7 8 THE RED PLANET arrows. I am a back-number. Still, back-numbers have their feelings and their memories. I sometimes wonder, as I sit in this wheel-chair, with my abominable legs dangling down helplessly, what Sergeant Marigold thinks of me. I know what I think of Marigold. I think him the ugliest devil that God ever created and further marred after creating him. He is a long, bony creature like a knobbly ram-rod, and his face is about the colour and shape of a damp, mildewed walnut. To hide a bald head into which a silver plate has been fixed, he wears a luxuriant curly brown wig, like those that used to adorn waxen gentlemen in hair-dressing windows. His is one of those unhappy moustaches that stick out straight and scanty like a cat's. He has the slit of a letter-box mouth of the Irishman in caricature, and only half a dozen teeth spaced like a skeleton company. Nothing will induce him to procure false ones. .It is a matter of principle. Between the wearing of false hair and the wearing of false teeth he makes a distinction of unfathomable subtlety. He is an obstinate beast. If he wasn't he would not, with three fingers of his right hand shot away, have remained with me on that gun. In the same way, neither tears nor entreaties nor abuse have induced him to wear a glass eye. On high days and holidays, whenever he desires to look smart and dashing, he covers the unpleasing orifice with a black shade. In ordinary workaday Ufe he cares not how much he offends the aesthetic sense. But the other eye, the sound left eye, is a wonder the precious jewel set in the head of the ugly toad. It is large, of ultra-marine blue, steady, fearless, humorous, tender everything heroic and beautiful and romantic you can imagine about eyes. Let him clap a hand over that eye and you will hold him the most dreadful ogre that ever escaped out of a fairy tale. Let him clap a hand THE RED PLANET 9 over the other eye and look full at you out of the good one and you will think him the Knightliest man that ever was and hi my poor opinion, you will not be far wrong. So, out of this nightmare of a face, the one beauti- ful eye of Sergeant Marigold was bent on me, as he delivered his message. I thrust back my chair from the writing-table. "Is Sir Anthony ill?" "He rode by the gate an hour ago looking as well as either you or me, sir." "That's not very reassuring," said I. Marigold did not take up the argument. "They've sent the car for you, sir." "In that case," said I, "I'll start immediately." Marigold wheeled my chair out of the room and down the passage to the hall, where he fitted me with greatcoat and hat. Then, having trundled me to the front gate, he picked me up - luckily I have always been a small spare man and deposited me in the car. I am always nervous of anyone but Marigold trying to carry me. They seem to stagger and fumble and bungle. Marigold's arms close round me like an iron clamp and they lift me with the mechanical certainty of a crane. He jumped up beside the chauffeur and we drove off. Perhaps when I get on a little further I may acquire the trick of telling a story. At present I am baffled by the many things that clamour for prior record. Before bringing Sir Anthony on the scene, I feel I ought to say something more about myself, to explain why Lady Fenimore should have sent for me in so peremptory a fashion. Following the model of my favourite author Balzac you need the awful leisure that has been mine to appre- ciate him I ought to describe the house in which 10 THE RED PLANET I live, my establishment well, I have begun with Sergeant Marigold and the little country town which is practically the scene of the drama in which were involved so many bound to me by close ties of friendship and affection. I ought to explain how I come to be writing this at all. Well, to fill in my time, I first started by a diary a sort of War Diary of Wellingsford, the little country town in question. Then things happened with which my diary was inadequate to cope. Everyone came and told me his or her side of the story. All through, I found thrust upon me the parts of father-confessor, intermediary, judge, advo- cate, and conspirator. . . . For look you, what kind of a life can a man lead situated as I am? The crowning glory of my days, my wife, is dead. I have neither chick nor child. No brothers or sisters, dead or alive. The Bon Dieu and Sergeant Marigold (the latter assisted by his wife and a maid or two) look after my creature comforts. What have I in the world to do that is worth doing save concern myself with my country and my friends? With regard to my country, in these days of war, I do what I can. Until finally flattened out by the War Office, I pestered them for such employment as a cripple might undertake. As an instance of what a paralytic was capable I quoted Couthon, member of the National Convention and the Com- mittee of Public Safety. You can see his chair, not very unlike mine, in the Musee Carnavalet in Paris. Perhaps that is where I blundered. The idea of a shrieking revolutionary in Whitehall must have sent a cold shiver down their spines. In the meanwhile, I serve on as many War Committees in Wellingsford as is physically possible for Sergeant Marigold to get me into. I address recruiting THE RED PLANET 11 meetings. I have taken earnest young Territorial artillery officers in courses of gunnery. You know they work with my own beloved old fifteen pounders, brought up to date with new breeches, recoils, shields, and limbers. For months there was a brigade in Wellings Park, and I used to watch their drill. I was like an old actor coming once again before the footlights. ... Of course it was only in the mathe- matics of the business that I could be of any help, and doubtless if the War Office had heard of the goings on in my study, they would have dropped severely on all of us. Still, I taught them lots of things about parabolas that they did not know and did not know were to be known things that, considering the shells they fired went in parabolas, ought certainly to be known by artillery officers; so I think, in this way, I have done a little bit for my country. With regard to my friends, God has given me many in this quiet market town once a Sleepy Hollow awakened only on Thursdays by bleating sheep and lowing cattle and red-faced men in gaiters and hard felt hats; its life flowing on drowsily as the gaudily painted barges that are towed on the canal towards which, in scattered buildings, it drifts aimlessly; a Sleepy Hollow with one broad High Street, melting gradually at each end through shops, villas, cottages, into the King's Highway, yet boasting in its central heart a hundred yards or so of splendour, where the truculent new red brick Post Office sneers across the flagged market square at the new Portland-stone Town Hall, while the old thatched corn-market sleeps in the middle and the Early English spire of the Norman church dreams calmly above them. Once, I say, a Sleepy Hollow, but now alive with the tramp of soldiers and the rumble of artillery and transport; for Wellingsford is the centre of a district occupied by 12 THE RED PLANET a division, which means twenty thousand men of all arms, and the streets and roads swarm with men in khaki, and troops are billeted in all the houses. The War has changed many aspects, but not my old friendships. I had made a home here during my soldiering days, long before the South African War, my wife being a kinswoman of Sir Anthony, and so I have grown into the intimacy of many folks around. And, as they have been more than good to me, surely I must give them of my best in the way of sympathy and counsel. So it is in no spirit of curiosity that I have pried into my friends' affairs. They have become my own, very vitally my own; and this book is a record of things as I know them to have happened. My name is Meredyth, with a " Y," as my poor mother used proudly to say, though what advantage a "Y" has over an "I," save that of a swaggering tail, I have always been at a loss to determine; Major Duncan Meredyth, late R.F.A., aged forty- seven; and I live in a comfortable little house at the extreme north end of the High Street, standing some way back from the road; so that in fine weather I can sit in my front garden and watch everybody going into the town. And whenever any of my friends pass by, it is their kindly habit to cast an eye towards my gate, and, if I am visible, to pass the time of day with me for such time as they can spare. Years ago, when first I realised what would be my fate for the rest of my life, I nearly broke my heart. But afterwards, whether owing to the power of human adaptability or to the theory of compensation, I grew to disregard my infirmity. By building a series of two or three rooms on to the ground floor of the house, so that I could live in it without the need of being carried up and down stairs, and by acquiring skill in the manipulation of my tricycle chair, I can get about the place pretty THE RED PLANET 13 much as I choose. And Marigold is my second self. So, in spite of the sorrow and grief incident to humanity of which God has given me my share, I feel that my lot is cast in pleasant places and I am thankful. The High Street, towards its southern extremity, takes a sudden bend, forming what the French stage directions call a pan coupe. On the inner angle are the gates of Wellings Park, the residence of Sir Anthony Fenimore, third baronet, and the most considerable man in our little community. Through these gates the car took me, and down the long avenue of chestnut trees, the pride of a district braggart of its chestnuts and its beeches, but now leafless and dreary, spreading out an infinite tracery of branch and twig against a grey February sky. Thence we emerged into the open of rolling pasture and meadow on the highest ground of which the white Georgian house was situated. As we neared the house I shivered, not only with the cold, but with a premonition of disaster. For why should Lady Fenimore have sent for me to see Sir Anthony, when he, strong and hearty, could have sent for me himself, or, for the matter of that, could have visited me at my own home? The house looked stark and desolate. And when we drew up at the front door and Pardoe; the elderly butler, appeared, his face too looked stark and desolate. Marigold lifted me out and carried me up the steps and put me into a chair like my own which the Fenimores have the goodness to keep in a hall cupboard for my use. "What's the matter, Pardoe?" I asked. "Sir Anthony and her ladyship will tell you, sir. They're in the morning room." So I was shewn into the morning room a noble square room with French windows, looking on to the wintry garden, and with a log fire roaring up 14 THE RED PLANET a great chimney. On one side of the fire sat Sir Anthony, and on the other, Lady Fenimore. And both were crying. He rose as he saw me a short, crop-haired, clean-shaven, ruddy, jockey-faced man of fifty-five, the corners of his thin lips, usually curled up in a cheery smile, now piteously drawn down, and his bright little eyes now dim like those of a dead bird. She, buxom, dark, without a grey hair in her head, a fine woman defying her years, buried her face in her hands and sobbed afresh. "It's good of you to come, old man," said Sir Anthony, "but you're in it with us." He handed me a telegram. I knew, before reading it, what message it contained. I had known, all along, but dared not confess it to myself. "I deeply regret to inform you that your son, Lieutenant Oswald Fenimore, was killed in action yesterday while leading his men with the utmost gallantry."

DULCE et decorum est pro patria mori. The 
tag has been all but outworn during these 
unending days of death; it has become 
almost a cant phrase which the judicious shrink 
from using. Yet to hundreds of thousands of 
mourning men and women there has been nothing 
but its truth to bring consolation. They are con- 
scious of the supreme sacrifice and thereby are 
ennobled. The cause in which they made it becomes 
more sacred. The community of grief raises human 
dignity. In England, at any rate, there are no 
widows of Ashur. All are silent in their lamenta- 
tions. You see little black worn in the public ways. 
The Fenimores mourned for their only son, the idol 
of their hearts; but the manifestation of their grief 
was stoical compared with their unconcealed desola- 
tion on the occasion of a tragedy that occurred the 
year before. 

Towards the end of the preceding June their 
only daughter, Althea, had been drowned in the 
canal. Here was a tragedy unrelieved, stupid, 
useless. Here was no consoling knowledge of 
glorious sacrifice; no dying for one's country. 
There was no dismissing it with a heroic word that 
caught in the throat. 

I have not started out to write this little chronicle 
of Wellingsford in order to weep over the pain of 
the world. God knows there is in it an infinity of 
beauty, fresh revelations of which are being every 
day unfolded before my eyes. 
 Various seniors came up and passed the time of 
day with me one or two were bald-headed 
retired colonels of sixty, dressed in khaki, with belts 
like equators on a terrestrial globe and with a cap- 
tain's three stars on their sleeves. Gallant old 
boys, full of gout and softness, they had sunk their 
rank and taken whatever dull jobs, such as guard- 
ing internment camps or railway bridges, the War 
Office condescendingly thought fit to give them. 
They listened sympathetically to my grievances, for 
they had grievances of their own. When soldiers 
have no grievances the Army will perish of smug 

"Why can't they give me a billet in the Army 
Pay and let me release a man sounder of wind and 
limb?" I asked. "What's the good of legs to a 
man who sits on his hunkers all day in an office and 
fills up Army forms? I hate seeing you lucky 
fellows in uniform." 

"We 're not a pretty sight," said the most rotund, 
who was a wag in his way. 

Then we discussed what we knew and what we 
didn't know of the Battle of Ypres, and the with- 
drawal of our Second Army, and shook our heads 
dolorously over the casualty lists, every one of 
which in those days contained the names of old 
comrades and of old comrades' boys. And when 
they had finished their coffee and mild. cigars they 
went off well contented to their dull jobs and the 
room began to thin. Other acquaintances on their 
way out paused for a handshake and a word, and 
I gathered scraps of information that had come 
"straight from Kitchener," and felt wonderfully 
wise and cheerful. 
 I SHRINK morbidly from visiting strange houses. 
I shrink from the unknown discomforts and 
trivial humiliations they may hold for me. I 
hate, for instance, not to know what kind of a chair 
may be provided for me to sit on. I hate to be 
carried up many stairs even by my steel-crane of a 
Marigold. Just try doing without your legs for 
a couple of days, and you will see what I mean. Of 
course I despise myself for such nervous apprehen- 
sions, and do not allow them to influence my ac- 
tions just as one, under heavy fire, does not 
satisfy one's simple yearning to run away. I would 
have given a year's income to be able to refuse 
Boyce's request with a clear conscience; but I 
could not. I shrank all the more because my visit 
in the autumn to Reggie Dacre had shaken me 
more than I cared to confess. It had been the only 
occasion for years when I had entered a London 
building other than my club. To the club, where 
I was as much at home as in my own house, all 
those in town with whom I now and then had to 
transact business were good enough to come. This 
penetration of strange hospitals was an agitating 
adventure. Apart, however, from the mere physical 
nervousness against which, as I say, I fought, there 
was another element in my feelings with regard to 
Boyce's summons. If I talk about the Iron Hand 
of Fate you may think I am using a cliche of melo- 
drama. Perhaps I am. But it expresses what I 
mean. Something unregenerate in me, some linger- 
ing atavistic savage instinct towards freedom

diumenge, 28 de setembre de 2014

If I had to define a major depression in a single sentence, I would describe it as a "genetic/neurochemical disorder requiring a strong environmental trigger whose characteristic manifestation is an inability to appreciate sunsets On an incredibly simplistic level, you can think of depression as occurring when your cortex thinks an abstract thought and manages to convince the rest of the brain that this is as real as a physical stressor.” ― Robert M. Sapolsky, Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers tags: depression 8 likes like “Most people who do a lot of exercise, particularly in the form of competitive athletics, have unneurotic, extraverted, optimistic personalities to begin with. (Marathon runners are exceptions to this.)”Genes are rarely about inevitability, especially when it comes to humans, the brain, or behavior. They're about vulnerability, propensities, tendencieswhen doing science (or perhaps when doing anything at all in a society as judgmental as our own), be very careful and very certain before pronouncing something to be a norm - because at that instant, you have made it supremely difficult to ever again look objectively at an exception to that supposed norm.” ― Robert M. Sapolsky, Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers 2 likes like “Another study that winds up in half the textbooks makes the same point, if more subtly. The subjects of the “experiment” were children reared in two different orphanages in Germany after World War II. Both orphanages were run by the government; thus there were important controls in place—the kids in both had the same general diet, the same frequency of doctors’ visits, and so on. The main identifiable difference in their care was the two women who ran the orphanages. The scientists even checked them, and their description sounds like a parable. In one orphanage was Fräulein Grun, the warm, nurturing mother figure who played with the children, comforted them, and spent all day singing and laughing. In the other was Fräulein Schwarz, a woman who was clearly in the wrong profession. She discharged her professional obligations, but minimized her contact with the children; she frequently criticized and berated them, typically among their assembled peers. The growth rates at the two orphanages were entirely different. Fräulein Schwarz’s kids grew in height and weight at a slower pace than the kids in the other orphanage. Then, in an elaboration that couldn’t have been more useful if it had been planned by a scientist, Fräulein Grun moved on to greener pastures and, for some bureaucratic reason, Fräulein Schwarz was transferred to the other orphanage. Growth rates in her former orphanage promptly increased; those in her new one decreased.” This is great. But what I’m grasping at is an idea about a subtler goal. This thinking owes a lot to conversations with Manjula Waldron of Ohio State University, an engineering professor who also happens to be a hospital chaplain. This feels embarrassingly Zen-ish for me to spout, being a short, hypomanic guy with a Brooklyn accent, but here goes: Maybe the goal isn’t to maximize the contrast between a low baseline and a high level of activation. Maybe the idea is to have both simultaneously. Huh? Maybe the goal would be for your baseline to be something more than the mere absence of activation, a mere default, but to instead be an energized calm, a proactive choice. And for the ceiling to consist of some sort of equilibrium and equanimity threading through the crazed arousal. I have felt this a few times playing soccer, inept as I am at it, where there’s a moment when, successful outcome or not, every physiological system is going like mad, and my body does something that my mind didn’t even dream of, and the two seconds when that happened seemed to take a lot longer than it should have. But this business about the calm amid the arousal isn’t just another way of talking about “good stress” (a stimulating challenge, as opposed to a threat). Even when the stressor is bad and your heart is racing in crisis, the goal should be to somehow make the fraction of a second between each heartbeat into an instant that expands in time and allows you to regroup. There, I have no idea what I’m talking about, but I think there might be something important lurking there. Enough said.” ― Robert M. Sapolsky, Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers: The Acclaimed Guide to Stress, Stress-Related Diseases, and Coping 1 likes like “Freud was fascinated with depression and focused on the issue that we began with—why is it that most of us can have occasional terrible experiences, feel depressed, and then recover, while a few of us collapse into major depression (melancholia)? In his classic essay “Mourning and Melancholia” (1917), Freud began with what the two have in common. In both cases, he felt, there is the loss of a love object. (In Freudian terms, such an “object” is usually a person, but can also be a goal or an ideal.) In Freud’s formulation, in every loving relationship there is ambivalence, mixed feelings—elements of hatred as well as love. In the case of a small, reactive depression—mourning—you are able to deal with those mixed feelings in a healthy manner: you lose, you grieve, and then you recover. In the case of a major melancholic depression, you have become obsessed with the ambivalence—the simultaneity, the irreconcilable nature of the intense love alongside the intense hatred. Melancholia—a major depression—Freud theorized, is the internal conflict generated by this ambivalence. This can begin to explain the intensity of grief experienced in a major depression. If you are obsessed with the intensely mixed feelings, you grieve doubly after a loss—for your loss of the loved individual and for the loss of any chance now to ever resolve the difficulties. “If only I had said the things I needed to, if only we could have worked things out”—for all of time, you have lost the chance to purge yourself of the ambivalence. For the rest of your life, you will be reaching for the door to let you into a place of pure, unsullied love, and you can never reach that door. It also explains the intensity of the guilt often experienced in major depression. If you truly harbored intense anger toward the person along with love, in the aftermath of your loss there must be some facet of you that is celebrating, alongside the grieving. “He’s gone; that’s terrible but…thank god, I can finally live, I can finally grow up, no more of this or that.” Inevitably, a metaphorical instant later, there must come a paralyzing belief that you have become a horrible monster to feel any sense of relief or pleasure at a time like this. Incapacitating guilt. This theory also explains the tendency of major depressives in such circumstances to, oddly, begin to take on some of the traits of the lost loved/hated one—and not just any traits, but invariably the ones that the survivor found most irritating. Psychodynamically, this is wonderfully logical. By taking on a trait, you are being loyal to your lost, beloved opponent. By picking an irritating trait, you are still trying to convince the world you were right to be irritated—you see how you hate it when I do it; can you imagine what it was like to have to put up with that for years? And by picking a trait that, most of all, you find irritating, you are not only still trying to score points in your argument with the departed, but you are punishing yourself for arguing as well. Out of the Freudian school of thought has come one of the more apt descriptions of depression—“aggression turned inward.” Suddenly the loss of pleasure, the psychomotor retardation, the impulse to suicide all make sense. As do the elevated glucocorticoid levels. This does not describe someone too lethargic to function; it is more like the actual state of a patient in depression, exhausted from the most draining emotional conflict of his or her life—one going on entirely within. If that doesn’t count as psychologically stressful, I don’t know what does.” ― Robert M. Sapolsky, Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers: The Acclaimed Guide to Stress, Stress-Related Diseases, and Coping 1 likes like “Everything in physiology follows the rule that too much can be as bad as too little. There are optimal points of allostatic balance. For example, while a moderate amount of exercise generally increases bone mass, thirty-year-old athletes who run 40 to 50 miles a week can wind up with decalcified bones, decreased bone mass, increased risk of stress fractures and scoliosis (sideways curvature of the spine)—their skeletons look like those of seventy-year-olds. To put exercise in perspective, imagine this: sit with a group of hunter-gatherers from the African grasslands and explain to them that in our world we have so much food and so much free time that some of us run 26 miles in a day, simply for the sheer pleasure of it. They are likely to say, “Are you crazy? That’s stressful.” Throughout hominid history, if you’re running 26 miles in a day, you’re either very intent on eating someone or someone’s very intent on eating you erontologists studying the aging process find increasing evidence that most of us will age with a fair degree of success. There’s far less institutionalization and disability than one might have guessed. While the size of social networks shrink with age, the quality of the relationships improves. There are types of cognitive skills that improve in old age (these are related to social intelligence and to making good strategic use of facts, rather than merely remembering them easily). The average elderly individual thinks his or her health is above average, and takes pleasure from that. And most important, the average level of happiness increases in old age; fewer negative emotions occur and, when they do, they don’t persist as long. Connected to this, brain-imaging studies show that negative images have less of an impact, and positive images have more of an impact on brain metabolism in older people, as compared to young.” By using two elephants to do the job, damage will occur just because of how large, lumbering, and unsubtle elephants are. They squash the flowers in the process of entering the playground, they strew leftovers and garbage all over the place from the frequent snacks they must eat while balancing the seesaw, they wear out the seesaw faster, and so on. This is equivalent to a pattern of stress-related disease that will run through many of the subsequent chapters: it is hard to fix one major problem in the body without knocking something else out of balance (the very essence of allostasis spreading across systems throughout the body). Thus, you may be able to solve one bit of imbalance brought on during stress by using your elephants (your massive levels of various stress hormones), but such great quantities of those hormones can make a mess of something else in the process. And a long history of doing this produces wear and tear throughout the body, termed allostatic load.like the economics of stress and the way poverty and pay inequality have life-long health ramifications. It's not just about stress on a personal level, but a social, cultural, and political one. It also looks at the role stress plays in mental illness, pain, infertility, and addiction.Every child cannot grow up to be president; it turned out that merely by holding hands and singing folk songs we couldn't end all war, and hunger does not disappear just by visualizing a world without it....Would that it were so. And shame on those who would sell this view

First, can fetal or childhood exposure to synthetic glucocorticoids have lifelong, adverse effects? Glucocorticoids (such as hydrocortisone) are prescribed in vast amounts, because of their immunosuppressive or anti-inflammatory effects. During pregnancy, they are administered to women with certain endocrine disorders or who are at risk for delivering preterm. Heavy administration of them during pregnancy has been reported to result in children with smaller head circumferences, emotional and behavioral problems in childhood, and slowing of some developmental landmarks. Are these effects lifelong? No one knows.” 

A large percentage of what we think of when we talk about stress-related diseases are disorders of excessive stress-responses.” 

“Depression is not generalized pessimism, but pessimism specific to the effects of one's own skilled action.” 

 The subject of one experiment is a rat that receives mild electric shocks (roughly equivalent to the static shock you might get from scuffing your foot on a carpet). Over a series of these, the rat develops a prolonged stress-response: its heart rate and glucocorticoid secretion rate go up, for example. For convenience, we can express the long-term consequences by how likely the rat is to get an ulcer, and in this situation, the probability soars. In the next room, a different rat gets the same series of shocks—identical pattern and intensity; its allostatic balance is challenged to exactly the same extent. But this time, whenever the rat gets a shock, it can run over to a bar of wood and gnaw on it. The rat in this situation is far less likely to get an ulcer. You have given it an outlet for frustration. Other types of outlets work as well—let the stressed rat eat something, drink water, or sprint on a running wheel, and it is less likely to develop an ulcer

 Males who do extreme amounts of exercise, such as professional soccer players and runners who cover more than 40 or 50 miles a week, have less LHRH, LH, and testosterone in their circulation, smaller testes, less functional sperm. They also have higher levels of glucocorticoids in their bloodstreams, even in the absence of stress. (A similar decline in reproductive function is found in men who are addicted to opiate drugs.

 Renowned primatologist Robert Sapolsky offers a completely revised and updated edition of his most popular work, with nearly 90,000 copies in print Now in a third edition, Robert M. Sapolsky's acclaimed and successful Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers features new chapters on how stress affects sleep and addiction, as well as new insights into anxiety and personality disorder and the impact of spirituality on managing stress. As Sapolsky explains, most of us do not lie awake at night worrying about whether we have leprosy or malaria. Instead, the diseases we fear-and the ones that plague us now-are illnesses brought on by the slow accumulation of damage, such as heart disease and cancer. When we worry or experience stress, our body turns on the same physiological responses that an animal's does, but we do not resolve conflict in the same way-through fighting or fleeing. Over time, this activation of a stress response makes us literally sick. Combining cutting-edge research with a healthy dose of good humor and practical advice, Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers explains how prolonged stress causes or intensifies a range of physical and mental afflictions, including depression, ulcers, colitis, heart disease, and more....TROIKAS EARTHQUAKES AND QUACK'S AND QUACKER'S OF ALL TYPES

FOME STRESS E DROGA ....A DOENÇA COMO RUPTURA DE UM EQUILÍBRIO BIOLÓGICO UM LIVRO DO ESTADO MAIS QUE NOVO SOB A CHANCELA DE VEIGA DITO O SI MÃO.....O HOMEM ENFRENTA VÁRIOS PERIGOS (É UM LIVRO SEXISTA EM QUE AS RATAS NÃO TÊM POISO OU COISO,,,) MUITOS DELES RESULTAM DA EVOLUÇÃO MUITO RÁPIDA DA CIVILIZAÇÃO E CONSEQUENTE INCREMENTO DA TECNOLOGIA Drugs, Stress and Human Function" is written for non-major, general education courses in human biology. Based on the premise that students will most readily and effectively learn about what interests and relates to them, the book explores biology from the perspective of health-related issues and experiences that are relevant to all. Building on a nature versus nurture approach, the book presents an integrated view of all major organ systems and explains human biology using real and relevant topics, such as reproduction, stress, nutrition, aging, disease, and drugs. In contrast to many other textbooks in the field, "Drugs, Stress and Human Function" is written in a clear, concise manner, free of the scientific jargon that is often inaccessible to students. The material emphasizes how it works conveying important concepts in an understandable and meaningful way and using simple, straightforward illustrations to clarify information and enhance student learning. The book begins with an overview of the human body. Students then learn about biology at the molecular and cellular levels. Subsequent chapters move the study of biology from the minute to the experiential. The topics addressed include: - Barriers of the Body - The Brain - The Immune System - Infections and Cancer - Pain umans are living: First and foremost humans are living organisms. Although this may sound like an absurdly simple statement, “living” governs the rules by which every human must play by, or they die and become simple matter (molecules and atoms). The fact is, being alive takes a great deal of energy. The cardinal rule of life is that organizational energy (enthalpy) must be put into the system to maintain a bal - ance with the drive towards disorder (entropy) (Fig. 1.1). You, as a human, get this organizational energy that main - tains life by breaking down and processing food that you eat. However, the process of breaking down that food to form usable energy requires oxygen. Simply put, if you do not eat for a relatively short period of time, and you do not breathe for an even shorter period of time, you die. You die because humans produce almost all of their organizational energy by a process that uses oxygen to break down the molecules in food. Without usable energy, you are dead. All living organisms are made up of molecules, which themselves are formed from the fundamental building blocks of matter. These fundamental building blocks are called elements. The word atom means “one” of a particular element. You may remember having seen a periodic table of elements somewhere, especially if you’ve had a chemistry class. There are 92 different elements that exist naturally on earth, and a few dozen more that can be produced by man. Figure 1.1 - Living things must contantly expend energy to stay alive. 2 drugs, stress, and human function Some examples of different elements that you are probably familiar with include oxygen (O), carbon (C), and iron (Fe). These are the fundamental units of matter because you can’t chemically break them down into other things: in other words, they are the smallest individual units of which everything in our world (including humans) is made. Atoms of different elements interact to form larger structures called molecules Humans are a complex society of cells that must attempt to control virtually all aspects of the water environment around their cells. One of many aspects that must be controlled is temperature. Amphibians and reptiles (“cold-blooded animals”) simply find a place to wait out the cold periods and become hypothermic and dormant during the cold times. This greatly reduces their demand for high energy molecules and they let nature warm them back up. Of course this leads to a lot of down time, depending on the climate where they live. In many respects, the level of control sought by humans and other warm-blooded animals is the ultimate in environmental control. Warm-blooded animals like mammals and birds are metabolically free: they can control their internal temperature. However, it is expensive to be warm-blooded. Even among warm-blooded animals some in northern climes hedge their bets by being able to become hypothermic and hibernate. However, animals that are capable of becoming routinely hypother - mic and then warming themselves back upBesides temperature, virtually all aspects of the common water environment of the body, (the blood) must be controlled. The human body is a water based ecosystem in which virtually every aspect must be exquisitely con - trolled or the consequence is disease and death. At its most basic, blood is salt water, as is the environment in - side cells. As discussed above, when the compositions of two water environments sitting side by side are different, the natural drive for disorder is a strong force to make them identical in all regards. Maintaining any difference between the salt content of the water inside cells and the salt content of the general water environment is very expensive in terms of organizational energy. To minimize this problem, the cells of the body attempt to exquisitely control the salt concentration of the general water environmentan overview of the human body 11 Finally, “someone” must be in charge and coordinate the actions of the diverse collection of individuals that make up the society. This function is carried out by the central nervous system (Fig 1.10). There are priorities in the human body: In the society of cells that make up the human body, all groups of specialized cells are not treated equally. There is a prioritization in both the distribution of resources and protection from changes in the environment. The highest priority group of cells is the brain and the spinal cord. Collectively, the brain and spinal cord are referred to as the central nervous system. The central nervous system both controls virtually every aspect of the body’s internal function, and also its interaction with the external world around it. It is mainly the evolution of the central nervous system into the highly organized and complex structure that also makes humans different from other living organisms. The central nervous system is a highly organized collection of very specialized cells. Because of its organization and specialization, it has two very unique weaknesses. First, unlike liver, skin, and many other types of cells there is never a replacement of nerve cells. If a nerve cell dies for any reason, it and its function are gone forever. That is why if a person breaks his or her neck and kills a relatively few cells in the communication path to the rest of the body, much of the entire body may be paralyzed. In contrast, you can remove almost the entire liver and the cells will be replaced. The second unusual quality of the central nervous system is its dependence on the rest of the body to provide for its needs on a moment-to-moment basis. Unlike most types of cells, nerve cells store very little. If the delivery of molecules to the brain by the blood is disrupted for even a brief period of time, nerve cells begin to die









Construída em 1972 a partir de quatro rochas e sem eletricidade, esta casa tem atraído muitas atenções

Casa do Penedo em Fafe é o edifício mais estranho do mundo

Casa do Penedo, em Fafe
15/04/2014 | 09:35 |  Dinheiro Vivo O atual edifício mais estranho do mundo situa-se em Fafe, no distrito de Braga. A Casa do Penedo subiu ao primeiro lugar dos edifícios mais bizarros do mundo no site Strange Buildings, através da votação dos utilizadores que está constantemente a ser atualizada.
Situada na Serra de Fafe, freguesia de Várzea Cova, a Casa do Penedo é atualmente a casa de férias da família Rodrigues de acordo com o Diário de Notícias. Construída em 1972 a partir de quatro rochas e sem eletricidade, esta casa tem atraído muitas atenções, nomeadamente dos amantes de arquitetura.



of the general water environment goes up, the drive is to move water out of cells.

dissabte, 27 de setembre de 2014

The wub, sir," Peterson said. "It spoke!" The slovenly wub might well have said: Many men talk like philosophers and live like fools. TODAS AS SEMELHANÇAS ENTRE O WUB AND THE PIG-LIKE MOURINHO DA ENCOSTA SUNT PURAS BITCOIN CEDÊNCIAS PER SEGURO O LABREGO NO MAIS PURO....E NEM DÁ JURO...BEYOND LIES THE MACHINE DU POUVOIR LIES A CHORIZOS COM ASPIRAÇÕES LEGAIS OU DIZ-SE INTRUSÕES EDUCATIVAS UM CHOURIÇÃO SURUBÍNICO DE SALSICHAS POLIGÂMICAS UMA REFERÊNCIA CULTURAL A FLESH GORDON E A OUTROS FILMES PORNO ...BEYOND LIES THE PORNO WUB the third story "The Defenders"; Americans are fighting against Russians in a hot war, which is going on on the surface of the world via robots and the people are beneath the Earth. The end of the story is, of course not to mention, a characteristic property of a Philip K. Dick novel, very striking! In the first story "Behind lies the Wub" (this story also names the book), Philip discusses the "discrimination" and "violence" and he strictly relates them to eachother; and raises the questions who are "they" and who are "we". And story ends again with a very interesting situation. Futher going deep into this subject, just after finishing this story, one may read the book "The Anatomy of Human Destructiveness", written by Erich Fromm. The second story in the book, "The Crystal Crypt", is also very fascinating; in the opening scene, there is a ship that is about to leave planet Mars. This is the last ship carrying humanbeings to their home Earth due to some politic conflict between Mars natives (a species slightly different from humans); but its departure is postponed for a while by the Mars authorities due to a terorist attack in one of the main and very populated cities of Mars people. Story-teller creates so vivid scenes that you really feel yourself in that ship. The fourth story, "The Gun", is also very good, it begins with an atomic blast and the author again raises questions against the motives for the violence and destructiveness of human nature. The fifth story, "The Skull" is not very stunning like the first four but it is also worth reading.

The wub, sir," Peterson said. "It spoke!"



The slovenly wub might well have said: Many men
talk like philosophers and live like fools.
They had almost finished with the loading. Outside stood the Optus, his arms folded, his face sunk in gloom. Captain Franco walked leisurely down the gangplank, grinning.
"What's the matter?" he said. "You're getting paid for all this."
The Optus said nothing. He turned away, collecting his robes. The Captain put his boot on the hem of the robe.
"Just a minute. Don't go off. I'm not finished."
"Oh?" The Optus turned with dignity. "I am going back to the village." He looked toward the animals and birds being driven up the gangplank into the spaceship. "I must organize new hunts."
Franco lit a cigarette. "Why not? You people can go out into the veldt and track it all down again. But when we run out halfway between Mars and Earth—"
The Optus went off, wordless. Franco joined the first mate at the bottom of the gangplank.
"How's it coming?" he said. He looked at his watch. "We got a good bargain here."
The mate glanced at him sourly. "How do you explain that?"
"What's the matter with you? We need it more than they do."
"I'll see you later, Captain." The mate threaded his way up the plank, between the long-legged Martian go-birds, into the ship. Franco watched him disappear. He was just starting up after him, up the plank toward the port, when he saw it.
"My God!" He stood staring, his hands on his hips. Peterson was walking along the path, his face red, leading it by a string.
"I'm sorry, Captain," he said, tugging at the string. Franco walked toward him.
"What is it?"
The wub stood sagging, its great body settling slowly. It was sitting down, its eyes half shut. A few flies buzzed about its flank, and it switched its tail.
It sat. There was silence.
"It's a wub," Peterson said. "I got it from a native for fifty cents. He said it was a very unusual animal. Very respected."
"This?" Franco poked the great sloping side of the wub. "It's a pig! A huge dirty pig!"
"Yes sir, it's a pig. The natives call it a wub."
"A huge pig. It must weigh four hundred pounds." Franco grabbed a tuft of the rough hair. The wub gasped. Its eyes opened, small and moist. Then its great mouth twitched.
A tear rolled down the wub's cheek and splashed on the floor.
"Maybe it's good to eat," Peterson said nervously.
"We'll soon find out," Franco said.

The wub survived the take-off, sound asleep in the hold of the ship. When they were out in space and everything was running smoothly, Captain Franco bade his men fetch the wub upstairs so that he might perceive what manner of beast it was.
The wub grunted and wheezed, squeezing up the passageway.
"Come on," Jones grated, pulling at the rope. The wub twisted, rubbing its skin off on the smooth chrome walls. It burst into the ante-room, tumbling down in a heap. The men leaped up.
"Good Lord," French said. "What is it?"
"Peterson says it's a wub," Jones said. "It belongs to him." He kicked at the wub. The wub stood up unsteadily, panting.
"What's the matter with it?" French came over. "Is it going to be sick?"
They watched. The wub rolled its eyes mournfully. It gazed around at the men.
"I think it's thirsty," Peterson said. He went to get some water. French shook his head.
"No wonder we had so much trouble taking off. I had to reset all my ballast calculations."
Peterson came back with the water. The wub began to lap gratefully, splashing the men.
Captain Franco appeared at the door.
"Let's have a look at it." He advanced, squinting critically. "You got this for fifty cents?"
"Yes, sir," Peterson said. "It eats almost anything. I fed it on grain and it liked that. And then potatoes, and mash, and scraps from the table, and milk. It seems to enjoy eating. After it eats it lies down and goes to sleep."
"I see," Captain Franco said. "Now, as to its taste. That's the real question. I doubt if there's much point in fattening it up any more. It seems fat enough to me already. Where's the cook? I want him here. I want to find out—"
The wub stopped lapping and looked up at the Captain.
"Really, Captain," the wub said. "I suggest we talk of other matters."
The room was silent.
"What was that?" Franco said. "Just now."
"The wub, sir," Peterson said. "It spoke."
They all looked at the wub.
"What did it say? What did it say?"
"It suggested we talk about other things."
Franco walked toward the wub. He went all around it, examining it from every side. Then he came back over and stood with the men.
"I wonder if there's a native inside it," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe we should open it up and have a look."
"Oh, goodness!" the wub cried. "Is that all you people can think of, killing and cutting?"
Franco clenched his fists. "Come out of there! Whoever you are, come out!"
Nothing stirred. The men stood together, their faces blank, staring at the wub. The wub swished its tail. It belched suddenly.
"I beg your pardon," the wub said.
"I don't think there's anyone in there," Jones said in a low voice. They all looked at each other.
The cook came in.
"You wanted me, Captain?" he said. "What's this thing?"
"This is a wub," Franco said. "It's to be eaten. Will you measure it and figure out—"
"I think we should have a talk," the wub said. "I'd like to discuss this with you, Captain, if I might. I can see that you and I do not agree on some basic issues."
The Captain took a long time to answer. The wub waited good-naturedly, licking the water from its jowls.
"Come into my office," the Captain said at last. He turned and walked out of the room. The wub rose and padded after him. The men watched it go out. They heard it climbing the stairs.
"I wonder what the outcome will be," the cook said. "Well, I'll be in the kitchen. Let me know as soon as you hear."
"Sure," Jones said. "Sure."

The wub eased itself down in the corner with a sigh. "You must forgive me," it said. "I'm afraid I'm addicted to various forms of relaxation. When one is as large as I—"
The Captain nodded impatiently. He sat down at his desk and folded his hands.
"All right," he said. "Let's get started. You're a wub? Is that correct?"
The wub shrugged. "I suppose so. That's what they call us, the natives, I mean. We have our own term."
"And you speak English? You've been in contact with Earthmen before?"
"Then how do you do it?"
"Speak English? Am I speaking English? I'm not conscious of speaking anything in particular. I examined your mind—"
"My mind?"
"I studied the contents, especially the semantic warehouse, as I refer to it—"
"I see," the Captain said. "Telepathy. Of course."
"We are a very old race," the wub said. "Very old and very ponderous. It is difficult for us to move around. You can appreciate that anything so slow and heavy would be at the mercy of more agile forms of life. There was no use in our relying on physical defenses. How could we win? Too heavy to run, too soft to fight, too good-natured to hunt for game—"
"How do you live?"
"Plants. Vegetables. We can eat almost anything. We're very catholic. Tolerant, eclectic, catholic. We live and let live. That's how we've gotten along."
The wub eyed the Captain.
"And that's why I so violently objected to this business about having me boiled. I could see the image in your mind—most of me in the frozen food locker, some of me in the kettle, a bit for your pet cat—"
"So you read minds?" the Captain said. "How interesting. Anything else? I mean, what else can you do along those lines?"
"A few odds and ends," the wub said absently, staring around the room. "A nice apartment you have here, Captain. You keep it quite neat. I respect life-forms that are tidy. Some Martian birds are quite tidy. They throw things out of their nests and sweep them—"
"Indeed." The Captain nodded. "But to get back to the problem—"
"Quite so. You spoke of dining on me. The taste, I am told, is good. A little fatty, but tender. But how can any lasting contact be established between your people and mine if you resort to such barbaric attitudes? Eat me? Rather you should discuss questions with me, philosophy, the arts—"
The Captain stood up. "Philosophy. It might interest you to know that we will be hard put to find something to eat for the next month. An unfortunate spoilage—"
"I know." The wub nodded. "But wouldn't it be more in accord with your principles of democracy if we all drew straws, or something along that line? After all, democracy is to protect the minority from just such infringements. Now, if each of us casts one vote—"
The Captain walked to the door.
"Nuts to you," he said. He opened the door. He opened his mouth.
He stood frozen, his mouth wide, his eyes staring, his fingers still on the knob.
The wub watched him. Presently it padded out of the room, edging past the Captain. It went down the hall, deep in meditation.

The room was quiet.
"So you see," the wub said, "we have a common myth. Your mind contains many familiar myth symbols. Ishtar, Odysseus—"
Peterson sat silently, staring at the floor. He shifted in his chair.
"Go on," he said. "Please go on."
"I find in your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of most self-conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wanders as an individual, aware of himself as such. This is the idea of separation, of separation from family and country. The process of individuation."
"But Odysseus returns to his home." Peterson looked out the port window, at the stars, endless stars, burning intently in the empty universe. "Finally he goes home."
"As must all creatures. The moment of separation is a temporary period, a brief journey of the soul. It begins, it ends. The wanderer returns to land and race...."
The door opened. The wub stopped, turning its great head.
Captain Franco came into the room, the men behind him. They hesitated at the door.
"Are you all right?" French said.
"Do you mean me?" Peterson said, surprised. "Why me?"
Franco lowered his gun. "Come over here," he said to Peterson. "Get up and come here."
There was silence.
"Go ahead," the wub said. "It doesn't matter."
Peterson stood up. "What for?"
"It's an order."
Peterson walked to the door. French caught his arm.
"What's going on?" Peterson wrenched loose. "What's the matter with you?"
Captain Franco moved toward the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay in the corner, pressed against the wall.
"It is interesting," the wub said, "that you are obsessed with the idea of eating me. I wonder why."
"Get up," Franco said.
"If you wish." The wub rose, grunting. "Be patient. It is difficult for me." It stood, gasping, its tongue lolling foolishly.
"Shoot it now," French said.
"For God's sake!" Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his eyes gray with fear.
"You didn't see him—like a statue, standing there, his mouth open. If we hadn't come down, he'd still be there."
"Who? The Captain?" Peterson stared around. "But he's all right now."
They looked at the wub, standing in the middle of the room, its great chest rising and falling.
"Come on," Franco said. "Out of the way."
The men pulled aside toward the door.
"You are quite afraid, aren't you?" the wub said. "Have I done anything to you? I am against the idea of hurting. All I have done is try to protect myself. Can you expect me to rush eagerly to my death? I am a sensible being like yourselves. I was curious to see your ship, learn about you. I suggested to the native—"
The gun jerked.
"See," Franco said. "I thought so."
The wub settled down, panting. It put its paw out, pulling its tail around it.
"It is very warm," the wub said. "I understand that we are close to the jets. Atomic power. You have done many wonderful things with it—technically. Apparently, your scientific hierarchy is not equipped to solve moral, ethical—"
Franco turned to the men, crowding behind him, wide-eyed, silent.
"I'll do it. You can watch."
French nodded. "Try to hit the brain. It's no good for eating. Don't hit the chest. If the rib cage shatters, we'll have to pick bones out."
"Listen," Peterson said, licking his lips. "Has it done anything? What harm has it done? I'm asking you. And anyhow, it's still mine. You have no right to shoot it. It doesn't belong to you."
Franco raised his gun.
"I'm going out," Jones said, his face white and sick. "I don't want to see it."
"Me, too," French said. The men straggled out, murmuring. Peterson lingered at the door.
"It was talking to me about myths," he said. "It wouldn't hurt anyone."
He went outside.
Franco walked toward the wub. The wub looked up slowly. It swallowed.
"A very foolish thing," it said. "I am sorry that you want to do it. There was a parable that your Saviour related—"
It stopped, staring at the gun.
"Can you look me in the eye and do it?" the wub said. "Can you do that?"
The Captain gazed down. "I can look you in the eye," he said. "Back on the farm we had hogs, dirty razor-back hogs. I can do it."
Staring down at the wub, into the gleaming, moist eyes, he pressed the trigger.

The taste was excellent.
They sat glumly around the table, some of them hardly eating at all. The only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Captain Franco.
"More?" he said, looking around. "More? And some wine, perhaps."
"Not me," French said. "I think I'll go back to the chart room."
"Me, too." Jones stood up, pushing his chair back. "I'll see you later."
The Captain watched them go. Some of the others excused themselves.
"What do you suppose the matter is?" the Captain said. He turned to Peterson. Peterson sat staring down at his plate, at the potatoes, the green peas, and at the thick slab of tender, warm meat.
He opened his mouth. No sound came.
The Captain put his hand on Peterson's shoulder.
"It is only organic matter, now," he said. "The life essence is gone." He ate, spooning up the gravy with some bread. "I, myself, love to eat. It is one of the greatest things that a living creature can enjoy. Eating, resting, meditation, discussing things."
Peterson nodded. Two more men got up and went out. The Captain drank some water and sighed.
"Well," he said. "I must say that this was a very enjoyable meal. All the reports I had heard were quite true—the taste of wub. Very fine. But I was prevented from enjoying this pleasure in times past."
He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and leaned back in his chair. Peterson stared dejectedly at the table.
The Captain watched him intently. He leaned over.
"Come, come," he said. "Cheer up! Let's discuss things."
He smiled.
"As I was saying before I was interrupted, the role of Odysseus in the myths—"
Peterson jerked up, staring.
"To go on," the Captain said. "Odysseus, as I understand him—"
Planet Stories  July, 1952.A rather stout, big pig-like being) that is picked up from Mars for an amount of 50 cents, fated to land on the tasty plates of the hungry space travelers

Peterson, a crew member of a spaceship loading up with food animals on Mars, buys an enormous pig-like creature known as a "wub" from a native just before departure. Franco, his captain, is worried about the extra weight but seems more concerned about its taste, as his ship is short of food. However, after takeoff, the crew realizes that the wub is a very intelligent creature, capable of telepathy and maybe even mind control. 

 Peterson and the wub spend time discussing mythological figures and the travels of Odysseus. Captain Franco, paranoid after an earlier confrontation with the Wub which left him paralyzed, bursts in and insists on killing and eating the wub. The crew becomes very much opposed to killing the sensitive creature after it makes a plea for understanding, but Franco still makes a meal out of him. At the dinner table, Captain Franco apologises for the "interruption" and resumes the earlier conversation Peterson had been having with the Wub - which has possessed the Captain's body.

Beyond Lies the Wub
Written byPhilip K. Dick

HUMAN'S AND MASON'S TWO SPECIES IN A RELATIVELY NARROW ECOLOGICAL NICHE ... Mario Braga HUMAN EVOLUTION NOT BONE CONCENTRATED A NEW LIGHT NO FUNDO DO TÚNEL NOS ANAIS DA MAÇONARIA FOI SÓ ARES O PAI ADÃO DA LOJA MOZ'ART? HABITAT SHIFTING? ABRUPT CLIMATE CHANGE? OR MATE CHANGE AND RAPE BY RAP? SOME SAY YES SOME SAY NO...NO ...NO VIEGAS NO DOCTOR NO ...E. O. Wilson, Milford H. Wolpoff, J. Philippe Rushton, Desmond Morris, Jared Diamond, Richard Leakey, Matt Ridley, Donald Johanson, Charles Darwin, Nicholas Humphrey, Jeffrey Laitman, Robert Ardrey, Arthur Keith, Paul M. Bingham, Frans de Waal, Francisco J. Ayala, Sarah Blaffer Hrdy, Gerard Verschuuren, Elaine Morgan, Robert Trivers, C. Loring Brace, Geoffrey Miller, Allan Wilson, Steven Mithen, Niles Eldredge, Ellen Dissanayake, Robin Dunbar, Raymond Dart, Phillip V. Tobias, Richard Wrangham, Chris Stringer, William H. Calvin, Richard D. Alexander, Erik Trinkaus, Sherwood Washburn, Franz Weidenreich, Paul Mellars, John D. Hawks, Terrence Deacon, Wilfrid Le Gros Clark, Richard J. Smith, Craig Stanford, Alison Jolly, Glynn Isaac, Alan Walker, Robert Foley, Adriaan Kortlandt, Margo Wilson, Ian Tattersall, Martin Daly, Jean Piveteau, Christopher Will A SIGNIFICANT DRYING OUT OF THE POLITICAL ENVIRONMENT SOME 2 TO 2 E ASSIS MILLIONS OF ASSAD'S AGO...


Chagnon, N. (1983). Ya no mamo: The fierce people  New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston's









SEGUEM DENTRO DE UNS MINUTES ...This Very Short CHORIZO EDUCATIVE IN FAST Introduction NOS ANNAIS DE JÁ SINTO VASCUS VON GAMMA traces the history of paleoanthropology from its beginnings in the eighteenth century to the latest fossil finds. Although concentrating on the fossil evidence for human evolution, it also covers the latest genetic evidence about regional variations in the modern human genome that relate to our evolutionary history. Bernard Wood draws on over thirty years of experience to provide an insiders view of the field and some of the personalities in it, and demonstrates that our understanding of human evolution is critically dependent on advances in related sciences such as paleoclimatology, geochronology, systematics, genetics, and developmental biology

Why Is Sex Fun? : The Evolution of Human Sexuality no futrebol ....porque os árbitros preferem raparigas e o resto dos já sinto francês en arriére preferem o cristiano ronaldo e o RAPe by justinho bieber de de envido chouriça de grande calibre...o livro responde a esta e muitas outras questões ...The Evolution of Human Mating David M. Buss University of Texas, Austin Mating is close to the engine of the evolutionary process—differential reproductive success. As descendants of reproductively successful ancestors, modern humans have inherited the mating strategies that led to our ancestor’s success. These strategies include long-term committed mating (e.g., marriage), short-term mating (e.g., a brief sexual encounter), extra-pair mating (e.g., infidelity), mate poaching (luring another person’s mate), and mate guarding (effort devoted to keeping a mate). Since men and women historically confronted different adaptive problems in the mating domain, the sexes differ profoundly in evolved psychology of mating solutions. These psychological sex differences include possessing distinct mate preferences, dissimilar desires for short-term mating, and distinct triggers that evoke sexual jealou sy. This article reviews em pirical evidence supporting evolution-based hypotheses about these mating strategies. The study of human mating is one of the true “success stories” of evolutionary psychology. Keywords: mating, adaptive problems, sexual jealousy, evolutionary psychology. 人类“性交往”的进化....há que dar espaço à literatur mais amarelada...关键词: 性交往,适应性问题,性嫉妒,进化心理学。 分类号: B84-069 Mating is close to the heart of the evolutionary process responsible for creating adaptations—the differential reproductive success of individuals as a consequence of heritable differences in corresponding traits. Simply put, those who fail to mate fail to become ancestors. If any one of our ancestors failed to select an appropriate mate, failed to successfully attract a mate, or failed to retain a mate for enough time needed for reproduction, we would not be here to contemplate the successful strategies that led to our existence. Modern humans are all descendants of a long and unbroken line of ancestors who succeeded in the complex tasks required to mate successfully. As their descendants, modern humans have inherited the mating strategies that led to their success. Successful mating requires solutions of a number of difficult adaptive problems. These include selecting a fertile mate, out-competing same-sex rivals in attracting a mate, fending off mate poachers Já sinto França ....Nowhere do people have an equal desire to mate with all people. Everywhere, some people are preferred as mates, others shunned. Desires are central to all facets of mating. Desires determine who we are attracted to, and who is attracted to us. They influence which attraction tactics will be successful (those that fulfill desires) and which attraction tactics will fail (those that violate desires). Successful mate retention tactics involve continuing to provide the reproductively-relevant resources of cu adopção...Why are humans one of the few species to have sex in private? Why are human females the only mammals to go through menopause? Why is the human penis so unnecessarily large? There is no more knowledgeable authority than the award-winning author of The Third Chimpanzee speculates the answers to the more rare and suspicious aspects of human sexuality: our tendency towards monogamy; recreational sex in general; concealed ovulation; menopause; men's attraction to big boobs, big butts...and big penises; and the use-ful/less-ness of men in general

The Evolution of Human Sexuality is a 1979 book 
Symons surveys human sexual behavior and discusses human sexual evolution, including the development of human ovulation. He argues that in all societies, sex is typically conceived of as a female service or favor. In his analysis of homosexual behavior, Symons concludes that the reason gay men have on average more sexual partners than straight men, and many more than straight women, is that gay men do not have to compromise with the different sexual tastes and inclinations of women. Gay men's sexual behavior is an exaggerated version of universal male tendencies, while lesbian women's sexual behavior is an exaggerated version of universal female tendencies. Symons suggests that straight men would have as many sexual partners as gay men if they had the opportunity.
Discussing rape by RAP, Symons criticizes Susan Brownmiller's Against Our Will (1975) and her argument that rape is not sexually motivated.  
Why do we have sex even when there is no chance of pregnancy? This needs answering because most of the other mammals in the world would look at us as incredibly strange for engaging in such odd behaviour.

Why don’t men breastfeed? We have most of the equipment and men have been known to produce milk – even without scientific intervention. So, why not?

I’m only going to answer one of his questions – he asks, what are men good for? And his answer? Not a lot. Men come out of this book looking rather pathetic. We don’t do nearly as much helping out as women do, we don’t do hardly anything at all except some occasional hunting and ‘alpha’ posing. It is quite unattractive – and that does seem to conform to my understanding of what most men seem to be like.

There are lots of other questions in the book, why menopause? Why are women pretty? Why do women have large breasts? And the most surprising ‘answer’ in the book is to the question, why do men have such large penises?

The best thing about this book is that it shows that many of these questions have not been completely settled. The questions are clearly important, they are all very easy to ask, but the answers many not be nearly so easy to come by. Diamond presents some of the alternatives here and this makes for a fantastic insight into the scientific method, particularly as it applies to the evolution of various traits and behaviours

The Evolution of Human Sexuality was called "the best single book on the sociobiology of sex" by law professor  "the first comprehensive anthropological survey of human sexual behavior from the new Darwinian perspective" and a "classic but controversial treatise on human sexual evolution" by biologist Ehrlich also identifies Symons' study of the development of human ovulation as a landmark.

Why Is Sex Fun?: The Evolution of Human Sexuality (Science Masters) - Jared Diamond

This book speculates on the evolutionary forces that shaped the unique aspects of human sexuality: female menopause, males' role in society, having sex in private, and--most unusual of all--having sex for fun instead of for procreation. Through comparative evolution, biologist and science author Diamond (Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fate of Human Societies), poses credible and thought-provoking yet entertaining factors: the lengthy period of dependency of human infants, sex for pleasure as the tie that helps bind a mother and a father together, and menopause as an evolutionary advantage that, by ending the childbearing years, allows females to pass wisdom and knowledge on to society and succeeding generations.
 Human lactation is energetically very expensive," and nursing mothers eat like men?

This is hardly the same as eating like an active man: "Studies have shown that most healthy breastfeeding women maintain an abundant milk supply while taking in 1800-2200 (or more) calories per day." "Breastfeeding your baby, on average, burns 200-500 calories per day" - kellymom.com

He claims lactational amenorrhea lasts for up to several years, so mothers in hunter/gatherer societies would only have children once every few years. What? Moms practicing ecological breastfeeding - breastfeeding on demand, cosleeping and nursing throughout the night, using no artificial nipples (bottles/pacis), i.e. similar to what the hunter/gatherer society model would be - average about 14.4 months of amenorrhea. In my >10 years experience of working with nursing dyads, 18-24 is about the longest I have heard claimed with any regularity, and even those moms are outliers.

He says that hunter/gatherer mothers were able to enjoy such long periods of amenorrhea because they nursed "many times each hour," whereas modern mothers nurse "only every few hours" for convenience. I am honestly not sure if Diamond's own children were only nursed for the first few months of life, or if they followed the Ezzo plan, or what. Even today, newborns nurse all the time, and breastfeeding is not about what's convenient for the mother, but about when the baby needs to eat. Mothers who refuse to nurse more often than every 3-4 hours are likely to find that their nursing relationships don't last much beyond the switch to autocrine control, between 3-5 months. Yes, there are women who, by biological happenstance, do have higher storage capacities and can get away with less frequent emptying of the breast, but babies are babies; they have growth spurts, they teethe, they don't know how to read clocks.

divendres, 26 de setembre de 2014

THE MAXIM ANGST The 155mm assault gun M53 was developed with components taken from M47 Patton medium tanks during the Cold War. The M53, with its 155 mm primary gun, delivered long range support to allied positions, and its self-propelled design enabled it to travel great distances. The M53 eventually saw action with both the United States Army and Marine Corps. Pacific Car & Foundry Company was responsible for assembly. Beginning in 1956, the United States Army upgraded its M53 line to the M55. The M55 was a fully armored self-propelled artillery based on the M53 155mm assault gun. It had a 203.2 mm howitzer which could traverse 30 left or right, carrying only 10 rounds of ammunition. The gun had a maximum range of 16,916 meters with a rate of fire of one round every two minutes. The engine was mounted in the front and drove through a front-drive sprocket. The driver's cupola is visible on the front left of the turret, and spare track blocks were stored on the turret front. The M55 saw action during the Vietnam War, and was then withdrawn from US military service. Created in 1957, this field manual reveals a great deal about the M53's design and capabilities. Intended as a commander's manual for training crew members, it details many methods of attaining effecient teamwork while operating the gun. Drills are described in detail, with the ultimate goal being the successful operation of the M53 and M55 on the battlefield. Originally labeled restricted, this manual was declassified long ago and is here reprinted in book form. Care has been taken to preserve the integrity of the text NOW THE BESTSELLER IN THE ISLAMIC STATE 155-MM Assault Gun M53 and 8-Inch Howitzer M55, Self Propelled Field Manual

vrijdag 26 september 2014

MACHINE GUN'S PREACHING OVER THE DECAPITED KAFFIR SOMEWHERE SOMEHOW IN SOME SYRIA IN SOME I-RAK AWESOME BY ASSAD READ THE BIBLE ...FIAT LUX IN TRACER AMMUNITION Machine Gun: The Development of the Machine Gun from the Nineteenth Century to the Present Day by Maxim Popenker, Anthony G. Williams 4.5 of 5 stars 4.50 · rating details · 2 ratings · 0 reviews The machine gun had a dramatic effect on the conduct of warfare; one or two men operating a single machine could produce the same weight of fire as a squadron of rifles, and when used against an inferior enemy, the effect could be devestating. During the First World War, the use of the machine gun in conjunction with massed barbed wire and other obstacles put an end to battlefield mobility until new weapons and tactics could be devised. This book describes the development of the machine gun from the earliest models to the present day. The focus is very much on portable infantry weapons used in the support role, so automatic cannon of 20mm and larger calibres are excluded. The categories of weapon included are, therefore, Light Machine Guns [LMGs], a term which includes the Squad Automatic Weapon [SAW] and Light Support Weapon [LSW]; Medium Machine Guns [MMGs]; Heavy Machine Guns [HMGs] and General Purpose Machine Guns [GPMGs]. One specialist variety of machine guns is included in a separate chapter: the grenade machine gun [GMG], also known as the automatic grenade launcher [AGL]. With a country-by-country breakdown of machine guns, including comprehensive appendices of gun and ammunition data, along with hundreds of photographs, this is a comprehensive study of a most effective battlefield weapon

the “Machine Gun Preacher”.a book a film a ......messiah with machine gun's
Sam Childers says federal agents interrupted his work Wednesday when they conducted a raid on his home, business and warehouse. (Image source: Facebook)
Sam Childers says federal agents interrupted his work Wednesday when they conducted a raid on his home, business and warehouse. (Image source: Facebook)
But, the “Machine Gun Preacher,” who was previously the recipient of the Mother Theresa Award, said that he thinks the joint FBI/IRS Wednesday raid stems from false allegations that he is smuggling firearms made by a former son-in-law. According to Childers, that son-in-law has stolen thousands of dollars from his Angels of East Africa nonprofit.
“This guy is in a lot of problems so what he’s been doing is he’s been telling the FBI that I’m smuggling guns and that I’m misusing funds,” Childers said. “To start with, it’s all lies and I’m telling everyone we’ve got nothing to hide.”
Sam Childers was subject of the 2011 film "Machine Gun Preacher" documenting his life. (Image source: Facebook)
Sam Childers was subject of the 2011 film “Machine Gun Preacher” documenting his life. (Image source: Facebook)
“I don’t have anything to hide, I mean, me smuggling guns? Come on, be for real.”