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Cenacle - In hidden crypts and dark vaults, cenacles of secret religion meet to keep their flame alive.

Cenacle - May 2007

Pirates of the Carribbean : At World's End


Pirates of the world, unite!

Right to habeas corpus suspended. Right to trial by jury suspended. After the endless litany of woes is read out, the hordes of pirates are hung together. It's the turn of a small child and predictably he starts a singing a song of defiance and the rest of the chained people join in. A British soldier is worried about a possible insurrection and runs to his superior officer, Captain Beckett who calmly tells him to ignore it. The child is hung.


The British Empire, represented by Beckett, is ascendant and rounding up pirates everywhere and promptly hanging, clearing the seas. Beckett has cunningly trapped Davy Jones and therefore, has the services of the Flying Dutchman to squelch the pirate squads. Jack Sparrow is trapped in Davy Jones Locker, a maritime purgatory. Captain Barbarossa decides to rescue him because he plans to raise the Brethren Court, a grand council of the international pirates and all nine pirate lords are required there and Sparrow is one of them. Elizabeth Swann decides to follow him because she is eaten up with guilt. Will Turner wants to rescue his father from the Flying Dutchman. There is plenty of double-crossings, fights and chases, intrigue and action and many parts of it are quite enjoyable and some, like the Calypso episode, are not.


This is the opening scene of Pirates of the Carribean : At World's End and it's in- your-face attempts at commmentary on modern politics is jarringly cringe-worthy. That perhaps is the biggest drawback of the movie. I don't remember much of the first movie but I loved the second one, mainly because, after a prolonged introduction it settled into an uniterrupted romp of thrills, which one could enjoy without bothering oneself with the very knotty story. The third part has some great moments too; like the wedding in the climactic swordsfight which compares favourably with the ballad that Cyrano composed during a duel.

I did not understand the plot of the third movie either and I came back and read the story on the Net, for writing this review even though the story, indeed the very excess of it, does little to elucidate the movie. P3, like the Matrix 3 and the Superman-3 , is dense with story and structure and the architecture of its mythology. Unlike the second part though, this one is awash with allusion and insinuation. Indeed,its painfully obvious subtext forms the cathexis that drove the serpentine narrative.


The British Empire may have had a whole lot of flaws but this movie is a romantic fantasy, not a historical epic, and it is not the history of the Empire but its use as a symbol, not for overbearing authority but for lawful order, that's at stake here. It is true that often unfortunately in romanticism, a legal representative is the villain and the lawbreaker is a hero. From Inspector Javert in Les Miserables on down to the Officer Frank Dixon in the Terminal. And all such infuriatingly stubborn and dense men have the quality of self-destructing at the end. Hugo at least invests Javert with a certain dignity, who commits suicide because the principles that he lived by turn on him and he can't bear the difference. None of the modern directors, whether Spielberg or Joss Whedon or Gore Verbinski can manage that with their villains ( Officer Dixon in The Terminal, the Operative in Serenity and Beckett in P3) and when the villains melt in the time of the crunch, the whole elaborate set up and the boasts seem eminently ridiculous for the audience. Straw men are easy to set up and kill.

The movie is a fantasy of shared subversion and longing for anarchy. The pirates of the world join and unbind Calypso from her human form which will bring back elemental chaose back to the seas. Bring down the empire; let anarchy rule!! The movie is littered with dramatic moments where the emotional lift-off is given by choosing the other side, of soldiers giving up their uniform and joining the pirates. One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter! And yes, the hero's tireless search for immortality (a metaphor for permanence of political order), which is still not satiated in this movie leads him to the fountain of Life, the Aqua Vida which is supposed to be in where else but Cuba.

If you have wondered why Left which boasts itself as being a secular, rational, atheistic ideology should join forces with obscurantist ,fundamentalist version of radical Islam, look no further. At World's End is the glorification and romanticisation of the secret fantasy that make such an alliance possible.
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Postmortem

May 23rd 2007 07:32
Postmortem by Patricia Cornwell


Postmortem was the first Patricia novel, which immediately turned her into queen of crime fiction by seeling in millions and winning tons of awards. It won Edgar, John Creasey, Anthony, MacAvity and the Prix du Roman awards in one year. Impressive for any novel, mega incredible for a first novel. According to the blurb, it's still the only novel to do so.

The novel introduces Kay Scarpetta who is the Chief Medical Examiner of Virginia. Some people have compared her even to Sherlock Holmes. I do not think the comparision applies. Kay's knowledge is professional, Holmes is an amateur who observes a whole lot of things. Whereas Holmes has a certain glamour, Kay lacks personality. Most of her memes, a woman who is getting older, a woman in a powerful job etc are generic. Cornwell fails to flesh out her heroine and add any personal touches to her. She is humourless but even her grimness is generic not a recognisable character trait. It doesn't help matters either that the novel is written in first person. Kay's obervations tend to be factual, she doesn't venture out opinion often. Not only Kay but the entourage around her too are dull. I am particularly irritated by her niece Lucy and a police officer friend Merino.

But, if Kay is uninteresting, Cornwell is not. Cornwell has intimate knowledge of the subject she is talking about and she makes clinical pathology sexy. She actually built the pathology thriller froma scratch which a lot of CSI like clones tend to imitate. Every Cornwell novel gets into form when Scarpetta is cutting open bodies or teasing out evidence. Cornwell's dry surgical prose builds tension like a charm.

Postmortem falls into the bracket of early novels where Cornwell had no problems with her art. She later began employing present tense and third person for her novels and giving more and more space to Lucy and Merino. She also began being caught up in the drama of of her own charcaters that she started mythologising them. I think this is a problem for any franchise, we all want to know backstories but she fundamentally replaced the realist crime-solving plots with unbelievable conspiracies and over the top action. Postmortem thankfully suffers from no such flaws.

It is a simple crime thriller. A series of women have been killed but there appears to be no MoD, they are apaprently random. Scarpetta suspects that there is a serial killer at loose but his motives remain unclear. This is not a whodunit, so the identity of the killer is nearly not as improtant as the process of finding him. It is to Cornwell's credit that she makes the investigations fraught with chilly suspense. The motive of the serial killer is very clever.

I read Postmortem after I had read a lot of other Cornwell books. It surprised me because in her other books, Cornwell is sparer and drier. Postmortem is filled with emotive language. I enjoyed it more because of that.

Cornwell's latest Scarpetta adventure The Book of the Dead is going to release this year and hope she gets back to form.
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Before Harry Potter and Star Wars there was another franchise which had acquired maniacal fandom. I am talking, of course, about Sherlock Holmes. It is said Conan Doyle himself did not enjoy his creation and killed him in a fit of irritation. It is well-known that fan pressure made him write a comeback for his detective. For some fans, even that was not enough.

Sherlock Holmes collections usually have 4 novels and 56 short stories. According to Peter Haining, the guy who edited this book there are many more Sherlock Holmes stories and his mission is to collect them in one volume. Sherlock stories nobody ever heard of? Sounds promising doesn't it?

But the promise is horribly undone as soon as you read the introduction. It contains two preliminary sketches that the author made before he could conceptualise Homes and Watson pair completely, two essays which the author wrote to explain his hero, two parodies of his own creation, two short stories in which Holmes plays an incidental role and a poem where the author tries to disassociate himself from the Sherlockian view of life. The two full-fledged cases are of disputed authorship and there are two plays which Doyle co-wrote with somebody else.

It's a collection for die-hard fans who want to grab every scrap of paper on which Holmes name is written and there are legions of such fans, I am sure. I am not one of them. I did enjoy some stories of Holmes but for some reason have never been an ardent fan. I appreciate the romanticism and the atmospheric prose of Doyle but not all of his plots are of equal quality. Some of them are just pure bragging and the whole professor Moriarty episode was a joke (at least Agatha Christie would do The Big Four kind of novels, her tongue firmly in cheek). Still, I wouldn't mind reading new set of detective stories but to read parodies of Sherlock Holmes even when written by Conan Doyle himself? Not for me.

The editor gushes in with schoolboy enthusiasm about how all these pieces are necessary to understand the genius of Sherlock Holmes and they form the canon too. Yeah? Any such collections should be given as a bonus, clearly stating that they are not canon and are offered for the elucidation of fans. Ayn Rand fans or J.K. Rowling fans are more careful regarding such things. The whole matter of rushing to canonise every bit of Sherlock Holmes Doyle ever managed to scribble is what is so irritating about this book. Sherlock fans should take a leaf out of Harry Potter fans and start writing fanfiction.
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Kiera Knightley makes for a poor Elizabeth


Today I passed by a Dymocks shop window which had a display of Jane Austen's works. So, I came home and started leafing through Pride and Prejudice.

I have a friend who rolls up his eyes whenever the name Emma is mentioned. After all, Jane Austen is the mother of chick-lit, isn't she? There was a time when I read her novels avidly. I was very young, I was big on romance and also read Barbara Cartland and Georgette Heyer and among that crowd, Austen stood out. Now, after so many years have passed by, I wasn't sure how I would react to her.

Pride and Prejudice held up surprisngly well. The first two or three chapters were slight but thereafter, the famous insights start dropping by and the novel starts to grow on you. The characters are all people whom youhave met in real life and their reactions are plausible. It's as if you are reading your own life. There is no doubt that it is quite a good read.

Still, Austen's enduring appeal is a mystery. It is not just that Pride and Prejudice regularly tops the greatest novel of all time lists but that many newpapers print more words about her than they do about many famous, contemporary authors.

The Brotherhood also joins in the praise and usually blesses the novel by praising its "sly text." A variant of this is fthe frequently quoted take by W.H.Auden,

You could not shock her more than she shocks me;
Beside her Joyce seems innocent as grass.
It makes me most uncomfortable to see
An English spinster of the middle class
Describe the amorous effects of "brass,"
Reveal so frankly and with such sobriety
The economic basis of society.

Is she sly and shocking? I don't think so. It just reveals that liberals are hopeless romantics ( even if they protest to the contrary like Shaw) who have their heads in sand, who imagine this immaculate world, free of not just suffering but even ordinariness. And once they discover real world, they usually go into agonising convulsions. What should be obvious,is not, and will be magnified and exoticised. Look at the distortion iintroduced by dropping the context in the words " the economic basis of society." Austen is not shocked because she knows and understands ordinary economic necessities but that knowledge is tempered by other things. That is why she is sober.

She comes across as a caring but cautious , a loving but not unseeing matron. Her insights are not penetrating, just sensible. One meets many such women in real life but rarely in fiction because they lack scandal and most literature is about woman's scandal and a man's defence of her honour. The non-scandalous women never appear and if they do, they are in the background. It is to Austen's credit that she revealed the half life of domestic virtue and made it interesting and lively. There's nothing more to it. We don't need to agonise over her.

I have to find a way of reading Emma again without my friend knowing though.
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The Village of Stepanchikovo by Fyodor Dostoevysky


The Village of Stepanchikovo is a short novel by Fyodor Dostoevysky, one of the greatest novelists of all time and one of my all time favorites. I had discovered him via Ayn Rand who loved Victor Hugo the most but also admired Dostoevysky very highly. I read them both, only to lose Hugo and keep Fyodor.

Dostoevysky frequently wrote shorter novels or long stories in which he rehearsed ideas that would be later integrated into his major works. They provided a way to formalise recurrent themes in his mind before he stumbled on a suitable vehicle that could carry and transform them into a magum opus. He stumbled on ideas for larger novel fortuitously but he carrried the shorter novels always within him.

That is why, they lack that manic burst of energy that's the hallmark of his major novels and chief appeal as a novelist. That is why I could never finish his other short pieces like The Dream of a Ridiculous Man. This short novel too suffers from the same defect. Still, the author had confessed that he took more pains with this novel than he did with any other. Coming from the source, this assertion astonished me and that is why I persisted with it.

The story is about a young man Sergei who visits his uncle Rostanev's estate. Rostanev is hosting Foma Fomovich who has become a sort of a permanent fixture and clung to the house like a barnacle. His own uncle seems reluctant to part with the man even though he has come to accept that Foma is not a saint as he initially postured. Still, either from attachment or inability, he can't get rid of Foma and the increasingly impatient nephew to oust him. This story ,like many others from Dostoevysky, has been copied by countless others. A Devil in Paradise by the miserable Hnery Miller is the story about one such guest the author has hosted, reads as if Dostoevysky's story were rewritten from Rostanev's perspective.

It is usually said that Foma is a charlatan. Viewed from the angle of the nephew, he may be. But certainly not in the eyes of the uncle. Even when we are supposed to think that the nephew is right, he is usually not more than inarticulately indignant. Whereas the uncle is stoically eloquent in his inability to detach himself from Foma. The author leans heavily on this power structure and it is this stoicism that is under special attack. Miller, like many, miss the point that The Village of Stepanchikov is an attack on people like himself.

It can be seen as a broad metaphor for modern society and the essential failure of liberalism where evil usually commands widespread support and respect but the good has to choke on burning indignation and helplessness. And probably works as a fantasy (despite the master's penchant for realism) where such do-for nothing do-gooders are shooed away without ceremony.

Having experimented with it himself, Dostoevysky is the most profound, still unbeaten, window into the soul of collectivist politics, or what Rand would call altruism. And this simple but profound portrait about liberal commensalism is accordingly a lesson few others have been able to teach us.
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Fake Harry Potter Seven Books

May 12th 2007 07:35
Did you know that a fan wrote an entire novel of Harry Potter and posted it online? Yup. An entire book seven. With the same number of pages Book 7 is supposed to have and the novel ending with "scar." Years ago, Rowling said that's the word the novel was going to end with. One must really applaued the patience of that guy.

Initially, many thought that the book was leaked to the internet. It had fooled that many people. How can we say it's not the original novel> WEll, here's the first paragraph:

Harry slowly raised his head and stared morosely at the familiar visage of number four, Privet Drive. What had already been a horrible day was rapidly getting worse. Not only did he have to appear unannounced on the Dursleys’ doorstep (something he knew they’d have no problem expressing their displeasure over), but he’d also have to tell them that two other freaks would be joining him this afternoon. The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched humorlessly as he envisioned how they’d take the news.


Freaks? Familiar visage? And where are the infamous adverbs? Does it read like it's written by J.K.Rowling? Not even close.

It also devotes more time to Harry-Ginny love saga. Sorry mate, to crush your romantic hopes. Book 7 is going to have very little lovey dovey stuff which Rowling crammed into book 6 because she won't have enough time in the last book from horcrux hunting, Snape and Voldemort killing. By the way, it also subscribes to the Harry is the last horcrux theory. We thought Dumbledore had already laid out what the horcruxes were in book 6. true, they were just suppositions but if Rolwing takes that angle and introduces different horcruxes that will make the book 6 even more redundant than it is now. That's why she cleverly did not let out the identity of one horcrux which I believe belongs to Ravenclaw.

AS if this 659 page tome was not enough, there appears to be another novel doing rounds which has little over 200 pages posted on the internet. Apparently, that's the real deal and they form the first few chapters of Book 7. I haven't hunted down that one yet but I'm sceptical.

Anyway, this novel suggest the depths we Harry potter fans will sink to and with the book 7 closing the saga completely, I am sure this is what many of us fans will be doing over the rest of our lives. Writing and reading fan fiction. Over and over again.
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Everything by Harold Monro

May 7th 2007 14:17
Years ago, I'd read a beautiful poem in an anthology. I've forgotten what the title was or what it was about but remember how it made me feel. Strange huh? I also remember who wrote it. It was Harold Monro, a minor Georgian poet. There's very little of Harold to be found on the net and his books are not easily available either.

It is said that he was a repressed homosexual who spent his life making friends with poets and encouraging them. He was primarily a printer of poetry and he also founded the Poetry Review. While printing poems of others, he would sometimes write his own. When the First World War broke out, he volunteered and came back a disillusioned man.

It is said that is one of those "warpoets" who pioneered a more realist style of modern poetry.Nevertheless, war poetry is not his chief appeal. He writes poems that celebrates the quotidian life. He is able to find stillness and music in the humdrum melee. To find solitude he does not to repair to some sylan haunt or to an unspoiled copse. He does not excoriate the modern world but keeps probing it, chiefly for the echoes of his own souding.

A poem called Everything is not his best but is typical :

Since man has been articulate,
Mechanical, improvidently wise
(Servant of Fate),
He has not understood the little cries
And foreign conversations of the small
Delightful creatures that have followed him
Not far behind;
He failed to hear the sympathetic call
Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind
Reposeful Teraphim
Of his domestic happiness; the Stool
He sat on, the Door he entered through:
He has not thanked them, overbearing fool!
What is he coming to?

But you should listen to the talk of these.
Honest they are, and patient they have kept,
Served him without his Thank-you or his Please...
I often heard
The gentle bed, a sigh between each word,
Murmuring before I slept.
The candle, as I blew it, cried aloud,
Then bowed,
And in a smoky argument
Into the darkness went.
The kettle puffed a tentacle of breath:--
"Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don't know
Why; and he always says I boil too slow.
He never calls me 'Sukie dear,' and oh,
I wonder why I squander my desire
Sitting submissive on his kitchen fire."

Now the old Copper Basin suddenly
Rattled and tumbled from the shelf,
Bumping and crying: "I can fall by myself;
Without a woman's hand to coax and flatter me,
I understand
The lean and poise of gravitable land."
It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout,
Twisted itself convulsively about,
Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare,
It stares and grins at me.
The old impetuous Gas above my head
Begins irascibly to flare and fret,
Wheezing into its epileptic jet,
Reminding me I ought to go to bed.

The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard door
Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor
Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot.
Down from the chimney half a pound of Soot
Tumbles, and lies, and shakes itself again.
The Putty cracks against the window-pane.
A piece of Paper in the basket shoves
Another piece, and toward the bottom moves.
My independent Pencil, while I write
Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock
Stirs all its body and begins to rock,
Warning the waiting presence of the Night,
Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain
Ticking of ordinary work again.

You do well to remind me, and I praise
Your strangely individual foreign ways.
You call me from myself to recognize
Companionship in your unselfish eyes.
I want your dear acquaintances, although
I pass you arrogantly over, throw
Your lovely sounds, and squander them along
My busy days. I'll do you no more wrong.
Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat.
You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat,
Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak,
Your touch grow kindlier from week to week.

It well becomes our mutual happiness
To go toward the same end more or less.
There is not much dissimilarity,
Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine,
Between the purposes of you and me,
And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine.

The chairs and tables, the uncomplaining furniture, the expectant pet, the warm fireside, these are the things he brings an immsense dignity to, hopping to find in their solidity his own sense of nothingness.

I do not share his penchant for subsidence but I , along with him, do enjoy the creaking sounds of the doors and the muggy feeling of old boots. I do remember what I like in his poetry even though I have not been able to find the poem I liked.

The text is quoted from this site which has some more poems.

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Spiderman 3

May 5th 2007 20:57
Spiderman : Pensively in confict about his new dark side


Is it an elaborate but simple metaphor for America experimenting with the dark side and rediscovering the good side again? Check. Is it the biggest instalment of what is already the bigges movie franchise and creating history in every part of the globe? Check. Is it the symbol of a rejuvenated Hollywood after a lackdaisical two years where it seemed it would be overtaken by Chinese martial arts and Bollywod bump and grind? Check.

Spiderman 3 begins with a very happy Peter Parker : his masked avatar is very popular in the New York City, he is about to propose to Mary Jane and life is one happy spectacle. But, things go quickly wrong. Peter's friend Harry decides to seek vengeance for his father's death at Peter's hands and gets himself a cool suit and some funky gizmos. Mary Jane has a career setback and is jealous at Peter's popularity and insecure about his relationship to a new blonde in the class. A fugitive at large called Flint Marko is roasted in a particle accelerator and becomes the Sandman. Peter later gets to know that Marko was the guy who killed his uncle. An alien substance from a meteorite burst follows Peter; unknown to him it can sense and increase the aggresive side of a person. While Harry at one point succeeds in driving a wedge between Mary Jane and himself, Peter in a fit of defiance uses the dark stuff to transform himself. At the Daily Bugle, there is a new smartass photographer who quickly becomes a rival of Peter for taking Spiderman's photographs. When Peter realises the awful nature of the substance he is abusing he tears his new suit off which quickly finds a humiliated and smarting Edwin as the new host who turns into Venom.

Spiderman has four adversaries in this movie: Harry, Marko, Edwin/Venom and himself. It is the time of the myth, when the hero engagesd with the Dark Side and battle elemental monsters. Some are complaining about Sandman's grotesqueness as a monster but it is a required elemental monster which vanquishing binds the hero to this world. The plot works as a ballet where friends become adversaries and friends again and the whole thing unspools more or less satisfactorily.

So what are the downsides? Mainly acting. Tobey Maguire may have made a homely Spiderman but doing a Jazz dance and looking bad ( he manages to look gay) is completely beyond him. Topher Grace can't play a villain. Thomas Hayden Church and James Franco suffer from wooden roles. And Kirsten Dunst is one ugly chick. Also, the special effects are not consistent. Some are awesome whereas some llike the final battle between Venom and Spiderman are quite badly done.

The second is the climax. It is a big, big copout. It's basically trying to work through the anger and talks itself out of revenge. Petet's job, you see, is to police the streets of New York and not to seek revenge for his uncle's murder and so he should not kill his tormentors but try saving their souls. Such saccharine stuff is beyond my ken for sweet things.

I am told French critics are busy equating Sandman with George Bush (who else?). I know the British critics are offended that there is a big falsh of the Old Gloryin the background when Spdiey returns to his good side and see it as a pandering to the patriotic instincts of the Americans. When I read those reviews I thought they were being unnaturally ungracious. But even for a sympathetic audience like me, the big shot of Old Glory is really jarring. But, I don't think it was pandering; Sam Raimey was making a statement.

In Spiderman 2 , Raimi talked himself out of isolationism and in this movie, Raimi talks himself out of neoconservatism. Now that America has punished the wrong guys in a wrong war, tasted hitherto-unknown power and experimented with the dark side, it should come back to its traditional friendly, neighbourhood vigilante role where it should prevent new upstart powers from dark temptations and learn to understand and forgive world's big monsters ( which if only it forgave would happily sneak away into nothingness) and last but not the least, when the girl has to be saved, the girl who is the anima, the golden fruit or the symbol of power, both the hero and his rival, the two divided halves of a divided country have to come together . There is also a possible throwaway for reconciliation with France in the film's most comedic scene involving a French maitre d'.

That's my take on it anyway.
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Browsing through the net I stumbled upon this Poetry for the War section of the Wall Street journal website. I know I am four years too late but some of these poems are very fine, to say the least. During Iraq War and much of the subsequent period, I was shut up in myself.It also did not help that I was not connected to the internet or glued to television and that, coupled with my traditional troglodytic existence meant that I was three or four years behind the world. It is only in the last year or so that I could put away my personal cares adequately enough to read and understand the world. It is a hard task to come out of your cave.

So, you must understand my pleasure at discovering the cache of these fine poems. They are written by amateurs mostly and are on the same scale of my intelligence. (I consider myself an amateur too; never been exposed to the sturm and drang of the art circles or the universities.) Many are good but what affected me most were not the sentiments expressed here ( although I agree with a lot of them) but rather a surprise that they express thoughts in the same metaphors that I've tried hard to acquire myself (Oh, my solipsism !)

Consider this poem by Colin Dodds :

I was never much of a smoker,
but it was all so thick in the air.

The gods were aroused, desirous.
Their pheromones of fire and screaming
overtook our plans.

The stink below Canal Street
makes us mad for retribution.
The race of airplanes
unleashes its warrior caste.

Bloodlust is no weaker,
nor more complicated to arouse
than any other lust.

In the bars, the restaurants,
we talk war until we love each other.

Our conversations begin in diplomatic morass
and end in nuclear consummation,
tasting every permutation of horror in between.

And we hurry to the final explosion
just to be over with it, just to stop
wanting such things for a moment.

History and the old animal gods
squeeze us close.


We do all we can
to escape their embrace
and end up doing all that they ask.

I was thrilled to read this. You will my find my blog littered with commentary on mythologies. My interest in the ancient world developed when I began to read the Bible and the Beowulf, Odyssey and the Mahabharata and somehow I read in their arcane twisted interplay of gods and men a drama that is more germane to our existence. When we have banished myths and gods from our midst, we also have banished the only concepts that allowed man to perceive things bigger than himself and I do not mean abstract nonsense like eternity and but palpable entities like war, revolution, loyalty, insurrection and peace.

In ordinary times, we may scratch our heads at silly stuff like God, rituals and church attendance but only in times of stress, do we realise that gods and myths and epics are the secret language of a restless ming grappling with the world, not the "hereafter."

I called this blog Cenacle, primarily to talk about such forces, not just review books.

Then there is an ode to the Cowboy as well and you will find in the comment section my own take on what it means to be a cowboy!
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Carmen 63 by Catullus

May 2nd 2007 10:11
Yesterday I wrote about the self-castrating galli. Thier plight formed the subject of a very evocative poem by Catullus who also wrote in a meter called the galliambic, a metre seldom used before and never since. The translations all differ from each other quite wildly and having no Latin I have no way of distinguishing between the faithful and the sanitised renderings of the poem. Here's one which I found serviceable :

Carried in a fast ship over profound seas
Attis, eager and hurried, reached the Phrygian grove,
The goddess's dark places, crowned with woodland.
And there, exalted by amorous rage, his mind gone,
He cut off his testicles with a sharp flint.
While the ground was still spotted with fresh blood
Quickly took in his snowy hands a tambourine
Such as serves your initiates, Cybele, instead of a trumpet,
And shaking the hollow calf-hide with delicate fingers,
Quivering, she began to sing to the troop this:

Go together, votaresses, to the high groves of Cybele.
Go together, wandering herd of the lady of Dindymus.
Quick into exile, you looked for foreign places
And, following me and the rule I had adopted,
You bore with the salt tide and the violence of the high sea

And emasculated your bodies from too much hatred of Venus:
Delight the lady's mind with your errant haste.
Overcome your reluctance: together
Go to the Phrygian shrine of Cybele, to her groves

Where the voice of cymbals sounds, the tambourines rattle,
Where the Phrygian piper sings with the deep curved pipe,
Where Maenads wearing ivy throw back their heads,
Where they practice the sacred rites with sharp yells.
Where they flutter around the goddess's cohort:
It is there we must go with our rapid dances."

As Attis, the counterfeit woman, sang this to her companions,
The choir howled suddenly with tumultuous tongues.
The tambourine bellows, the cymbals clash again;
The swift troop moves off to Ida with hurrying feet.
Crazy, panting, drifting, at her last gasp,
Attis with her tambourine leads them through the opaque groves
Like an unbroken heifer refusing the yoke:

The swift votaresses follow their swift-footed leader.
When they reach Cybele's shrine, feeble and worn,
From too much toil they take their rest without bread (Ceres).
Sleep covers their eyes with a heavy blanket;
Their rabid madness subsides to a girlish quiet.
But when the golden sun with his streaming eyes

Purified the white sky, hard land, wild sea,
And drove away the shadows of night with his thundering horses,
Attis was aroused and Sleep went quickly from her
Back to the trembling arms of the goddess Pasithea.
Then from her girlish quiet, with no hurrying madness,
Attis remembered what she had done
And saw in her lucid mind what was missing and where she was.
Tempestuously she turned back to the shore.
There, looking at the open sea with tearful eyes,
With grief in her voice she addressed her native land:

"Land which begot me, land which brought me forth,
I am abject to abandon you like a runaway slave.
My feet have carried me to the groves of Ida
To be among snow in the cold lairs of wild beasts;
I shall visit their violent haunts.
Where, O my land, can I imagine you are?
My eye desires you and narrows as it turns toward you
In this short interval when my mind is unfrenzied.
Shall I be carried to the forests, from my far-off home?
Away from country, goods, friends, family?
From the Forum, palaestra, racecourse, and gymnasium?
There is nothing for me but misery.
What shape is there that I have not had?

A woman now, I have been man, youth, and boy;
I was athlete, the wrestler.
There were crowds round my door, my fans slept on the doorstep;
There were flowers all over the house
When I left my bed at sunrise.

Shall I be a waiting maid to the gods, the slave of Cybele?
I a Maenad, I a part of myself, I impotent?
Shall I live above the snow line on green Ida?
Shall I pass my life under the rocky peaks of Phrygia
Where the doe runs in the woods, where the boar mooches in the glade?
I regret now, now, what I have done, I repent of it, now!"
As these words hurried away from her pink lips,

Bringing a new message to the ears of the gods,
Cybele, letting her lions off the leash
And urging forward the beast on the left hand,
Said,

"Get on, be fierce, see that he's driven mad;
Make him insane enough to return to the forest
He has had the impertinence to want to be out of my power.
Come on, lash around with your tail till you hurt yourself:
Make the whole neighborhood ring with your bellowing roar.
Be fierce, shake the red mane on your muscular neck."

Thus the threatening Cybele, and she wound the leash round her hand.
The beast stirs up his courage and rouses himself to fury.
He is off, he roars, he breaks up the undergrowth.
When he came to the wet sand on the whitening shore
And saw tender Attis by the waters of the sea,
He charged: Attis, mad, flew into the wild woods:
There, for the rest of her life, she lived as a slave.

Great Goddess, Goddess Cybele, Goddess lady of Dindymus,
May all your fury be far from my house.
Incite the others, go. Drive other men mad.

The text is quoted from this site.


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"Thus a long list may be made out of female deities who show the general characteristics of Phrygian Cybele: the Lydian Mother, Cybebe or Cybele; Rhea of Crete; Hecate of Samothrace and Lagina; Bendis of Thrace and Lemnos; Cappadocian Mâ; Britomartis, or Dictynna, of Crete, who is Aphaea at Aegina; the Syrian goddess of Hierapolis; several forms of Artemis,--of the Tauric Chersonese, of Brauron, of Laodicea of Ephesus, Artemis-Aphrodite of Persia." The quote is from Florence Mary Bennett's Religious Cults associated with the Amazons, a book which I reviewed elsewhere.

The list is a a partial list of the mother goddesses whose worship involved a special cult of service, often violent. It usually invloved self-mutilation of some kind and may have invloved even human sacrifice in some cases. The mutilated priests often lived a life as temple devotees adn lived a life of wretchedness. Curiously enough for female goddesses, their priests tended to be generally male. Females were occasionally used.

In the case of males. the priests were often castrated and lived a life of sexual purity as eunuchs. In the case of females. the priests were obliged to undertake sacred prostitution. This double polarity has always fascinated me and I must say, i haven't been impressed so far by the various attempts at explanation that I've read.

The most famous of these mothers was of course Cybele. whose order of priests included the galli, the corybantes and the dactyls. Each of them were distinct.

The attendants of Rhea were called curetes and those of Bendis, fanatici. The Persian goddes mentioned here is Anahita who had her own followers. There were a couple of other goddesses, not mentioned in the above quote, like Kotys of Thrace who worshippers were called baptes. The Syrian Goddess is Atargatis and I have written about Lucian's famous account of her, elsewhere.

There were other kinds of mothers and other kinds of worship but the violent nature of these cults is special. Bennett even imagines Amazons to be nothing more than one such cult.

I am not a neo-goddess freak, just somebody who loves the romance of the ancient world and one of the more exotic aspects of that vanished world are these mother-goddess cults. Curiously, I am not aware of any male gods who inspired this kind of self-mutilation or prostitution.

Is it then part of wanting to be female? In a world which lacked sex transplant operations was self-castration the only remedy to transcend your gender? But ancient world possessed enormity of eunuchs, seraglios full of them. Not all of them were castrated in a fit of religious dementia. The mutilation went further; Bendis inspired people to cut their arms or breasts off. Also, it doesn't explain sacred prostitution and I think the Goddess who inspired men to saw off their genitals is the same one who inspired women to sell their bodies to strangers. I think both are related.

One can only wonder about the relgious sentiment that made people commit such actions in public processions.



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