Concept "bling-bling"

In November 1963 [date of Kennedy's assassination], when I started work as an assistant English teacher at the Lycée Henri IV in the ancient heart of the Latin Quarter in Paris, my closest friend happened to be an Italian colleague, the same age as me, named Benito Italiani. [Having nearly been christened Winston, I sympathized with the naming case of my friend.] As a typically naive Australian with zero worldly culture, I was surprised to learn from Benito that the concepts of right and left could be applied, not only to political people and situations, but to all kinds of everyday entities, contexts and events. For example, since we foreign students in Paris used to spend a lot of our time watching movies, I was particularly interested to learn from Benito that there were both right-wing and left-wing literature and films. Indeed, just as God had invented males and females, He had apparently gone on to organize the Cosmos into right-wing and left-wing things. And it was up to each of us (for reasons I could hardly be expected to understand at that time and place) to decide where we best fitted in.

Unfortunately, my Italian comrade was left with no time to attenuate a little my inbred Aussie ignorance, if not educate me in a broader sense. In the summer of 1964, I visited Benito and his American wife at their home in Pescara, on the Adriatic coast. In the following winter, I was shocked to learn by a letter from his wife that my friend had died in a skiing accident in the Apennine mountains of his native Abruzzo. Apparently Benito was an expert skier, who had the habit of venturing off the beaten track. At the base of a gentle slope, he slid into a concealed stream, and his skis got stuck. Another skier found him there, almost frozen, but was unable to set him free. He gave Benito a cigarette and dashed off to seek assistance. When they returned, Benito was slumped over on the snow, lifeless, and his unconsumed final cigarette had fallen from his lips.

Today, if he were still with us, I can imagine Benito informing me [with his charming Italian accent, which still rings in my ears] that the bling-bling concept is a universal phenomenon, which can be found in all kinds of individuals, from pop stars to presidents and princesses, and in everyday objects such as wristwatches, necklaces and computer mice. A legend concerning the origin of this expression is particularly amusing. It appears that "bling bling" is an onomatopoeia representing the jingling sound of abundant metallic jewelry. Well, a certain mohawk-haircut black American actor [a guy who once got shit belt out of him by Rocky] claims that he invented this behavior back in the days when he was a bouncer in a rough club. Every evening, there were brawls, and males tend to lose their jewelry in such circumstances. The Mohawk bouncer decided to pick up metal jewelry left lying around at the end of an evening's brawling, and exhibit it the next day by actually wearing it, so that rightful owners could reclaim it immediately at the door of the club. Nice, no?

Who on Earth [in France, let's say, to limit the research] could have had the sordid idea of referring to Nicolas Sarkozy, for the first time, as President Bling-bling? And why? I have the impression that this association has more to do with the glitzy-glinky atmosphere of a certain DisneyLand apparition than with wearing ostentatious Rolex watches... although the two contexts might combine their effects. Somebody said that Carla Bruni told a friend that she wanted a man "with nuclear power". Be this apocryphal [as it surely is] or not, the problem for fairytale people like the Sarkozy-Bruni couple is that onlookers are no longer concerned by the frontier between facts and fiction. Bling-bling, sing-song, thing-thong, ying-yong, ding-dong... Are French citizens in general still prepared to look upon Nicolas Sarkozy and the new first lady as serious individuals? I hope so, but I have my doubts.

Back in my Paris days, an awesome daily vision was the formidable construction known as the Conciergerie, with is massive torture tower, where a notorious Skeffington personage had once been imprisoned. The dungeons of this Seine-side fortress include the dismal dank cell where Marie-Antoinette, the wife of Louis XVI, was held. She was the mindless woman who suggested, when throngs of starving Parisians demanded bread, that they might eat cake.

When the hated Austrian princess was led from this cell, to be beheaded, the atmosphere was not exactly DisneyLand!

An impressive pageant on Marie-Antoinette has just opened in Paris, with assistance from the museum of Versailles, at the splendid Grand Palais. In this morning's press, a journalist has referred to Marie-Antoinette, cruelly and pointedly, as Queen Bling-bling.

All the Earth is Mine — chapter 7

Chapter 7 of my novel has now been released. Click the following button to access the novel's website:

This chapter is entitled Water. Besides its major operations in the earthmoving domain, the Terra company from Western Australian has been active in the development of desalination plants. In Israel, their initial project of this kind is installed to the west of Eilat, at Taba, near the frontier with Egypt on the edge of the Gulf of Aqaba.

Meanwhile, Jake's preparations are advancing at Caesarea, while Terra has received an official request from Morocco concerning their giant canal project.

Man of trees

In my contacts with exceptional human beings, I've often been struck by their respective affinities with grand domains of the Cosmos: either living, inanimate or the fuzzy in-between. I've often found that individuals who announce clearly at the outset that they're primarily concerned with their fellow-humans can in fact turn out to be the least interesting of all, particularly if their alleged interest in others is merely a disguised form of self-centeredness. Enough of Fascist monsters patting little boys on the head, kissing little girls on the cheek, and attending church on Sunday to display their concern for the souls of their brethren. At the other extremity, individuals who are preoccupied by the purely mineral worlds of geology and astronomy, not to mention cosmology at large, are often genuinely warm and compassionate friends, with an extraordinary sensitivity towards all that is human, too-human. These days, I've grown to admire individuals such as Brigitte Bardot who are alarmed by the distress of animals. When Brigitte expresses her love or concern for a dog or a horse, or even an Antarctic whale, she's talking directly to me... just as surely as when she used to wiggle her attractive backside in movies. When a musician is impassioned by the presence of wolves, for example, she is on the same wavelength as the Cosmos at large, including my humble being. A woman who loves wolves loves me too, in a way... not because I'm a wolf, but because I feel capable of sharing her passion. Let's jump to the opposite pole: that of a person who abandons their dog on the roadside, because they are no longer concerned by their animal. People like that make me vomit with disgust. I could kill them. Let's change the subject.

Jacques Brosse, who died in January at the age of 86, loved trees, and he was considered as a world expert in this domain. There are people like that. Exceptional individuals with vegetal sensitivity. I recall the image of Christine Mafart weeping when she witnessed the destruction wrought by the tempest at the family domain of Le Rufflet in her native Brittany. I believe that my neighbor Tineke Bot, the Dutch sculptress, is endowed with a strong degree of vegetal sensitivity, but I'm personally rather dull in this domain, and I have trouble trying to comprehend the nature of this capacity.

The reason I've been thinking of Jacques Brosse is that he happens to be the author of one of the finest books that exists on the fascinating subject of great exploratory voyages in the Pacific during the 18th and 19th centuries. The English translation, entitled Great Voyages of Exploration, with rich illustrations, was brought out in Australia in 1983. To my mind, this book is a must for all Australians interested in the history of their Pacific universe at around the epoch of the arrival of James Cook. [My old friend Harvey Cohen has just informed me that the Australian scholar and writer Danielle Clode has tackled this subject in her Voyages to the South Seas: In Search of Terres Australes. I am looking forward to reading her book, in the hope that she has built upon the great work of Jacques Brosse.]

Jacques Brosse describes a man who might almost be his namesake: the great 18th-century French writer Charles de Brosses, whose History of Navigation to the Southern Lands, published in 1756, can be considered as the primordial expression of European interest in the future continent of Australia, eagerly absorbed by his friend the Scotsman Alexander Dalrymple [1737-1808], whose enthusiasm gave rise directly to the adventures of Cook. Truly, if ever my native land were seeking to identify an authentic founding father, I would discern the title to this Frenchman known as Président de Brosses.

Getting back to Jacques Brosse, the Man of Trees who has just left us (former associate of the intellectual giants Albert Camus and Claude Lévi-Strauss), I should point out that this laureate of the highest literary award of the French Academy was acclaimed primarily in France through his 30-year-old status as an authentic Zen Buddhist monk. Jacques Brosse wrote about navigators who searched for a legendary southern land, and his imagination was stirred by the vision and aromas of vegetation in this mythical continent. He finally found that land in his inner being, in the quiet contemplation of Zen.

A mouth for the job

I know it's not nice to talk disparagingly about the physical features of people. But, seriously, wouldn't you agree with me that this guy has a mouth designed for cunnilingus? Call me dirty-minded, if you like, but I can't help envisaging those narrow sucked-in lips of Eliot Spitzer relishing delicately, with expertise and ecstasy, the tasty vagina of a Manhattan prostitute.

What a crooked bastard! And what a lukewarm apology: “I have acted in a way that violates my obligations to my family and violates my, or any, sense of right and wrong,” the governor said. “I apologize first and most importantly to my family. I apologize to the public to whom I promised better. I have disappointed and failed to live up to the standard I expected of myself. I must now dedicate some time to regain the trust of my family.” It's a pity for Hillary Clinton that this Spitzer guy has been looked upon as one of her supporters.

If you want to see some honest talk, plug in to this excellent declaration from Barack Obama, who—as he affirms—is definitely not campaigning for the vice-presidency of the USA:



The more I see this man, the more I like him.

Europe tomorrow

I'm always happy to see dear old Europe asserting its time-honored role as an inventor of the future. This afternoon, the European Parliament ratified the creation of the future European Institute of Innovation and Technology, designed to tackle research and development, initially, in domains such as new forms of energy, climate change and information technology. Where will it be located geographically? Rumors suggest either Poland's Wroclaw, Hungary's Budapest or Germany's Munich. Let's hope that European adolescents will soon be wearing T-shirts marked EIIT (a little harder to pronounce than MIT), and that projects for the future will blossom from the institute like edelweiss on the Alpine slopes or lavender in Provence. Europe is becoming a great continent turned towards the future. For the moment, EIIT is a humble signpost. May it soon become a sign!

All the Earth is Mine — chapter 6

Chapter 6 of my novel has now been released. Click the following button to access the novel's website:

This chapter is entitled Associates. In order to acquire supplies of petroleum gas for his forthcoming project at Caesarea, Jake sails to Gibraltar and then on to an offshore platform in Moroccan waters.

Jake is somewhat surprised to discover that Moroccan authorities are perfectly aware of the technology he is implementing in Israel, and that it interests them in the context of a vast project aimed at developing the northern region of Morocco from a maritime viewpoint.

More precisely, Morocco calls upon Terra—Jake's earthmoving company, based in Western Australia—to draw up plans for cutting a canal through the northern tip of their country, linking directly the Atlantic to the Mediterranean... eliminating the need to travel through the Strait of Gibraltar. The general idea is that such a waterway will surely boost the economy of the great mountainous arc of Northern Morocco called the Rif.

Woodman

In the context of my recent hospitalization and convalescence, it had been planned that my daughter Emmanuelle would come down here to Gamone for a few days, followed by my ex-wife Christine. But things got screwed up at the last moment in that my two would-be guardian angels fell ill with some kind of bronchitis. Fortunately, from the moment I got back here to Gamone, I realized that I was in excellent form, so I didn't need anybody to take care of me. Be that as it may, my friends Tineke and Serge have been dropping in with all kinds of prepared dishes. I've been leading a most comfortable life, particularly since my son François took the train down to Gamone for a few days, between his recent filming in Madagascar and the forthcoming cutting and editing operations in Paris.

Besides demonstrating his cooking talents, François has been working non-stop at Gamone as a woodman.

Over the last couple of years, many of my old walnut and cherry trees have died. Some of them have been blown over in tempests, and the wood has to be piled up and burned.

François decided to start felling certain dead trees, with a chain saw, instead of waiting for them to be blown over.

Often, when he's working, the rest of us are standing there looking on: that's to say, me, Sophia and the two donkeys. The weather is fine, and the burning wood emits a delightful fragrance. For me, watching my son working is a nice kind of convalescence.

Innocence

The word "innocence", incorporating the Latin verb nocere (to harm), means "doing no harm". It's a far stronger notion than mere harmlessness. The state of innocence evokes a total incapacity for hurting one's fellow men. Although my knowledge of Judaism is superficial, and regardless of the fact that I consider all Bible-based religions as a bunch of myths and legends, I would imagine that young Jewish students of the the Tanach and Rabbinic literature are particularly innocent individuals, in the sense I've just defined, because Judaism is an immensely humanistic philosophy, and its adepts have an unbounded respect for all the planet's men, women and children. Normally, a fellow who decides to enroll in a yeshiva to study these ethereal subjects in depth, maybe with a view to becoming a rabbi, can have no place in his heart for hatred.

The Hebrew word Mercaz means "center", and HaRav is literally "the rabbi". Many Israelis think of the Mercaz HaRav yeshiva in Jerusalem, founded in 1924 by the great Zionist rabbi Avraham Kook, as the national yeshiva of the modern state of Israel. The Palestinian terrorist who selected this place to vent his hatred was probably aware of its prominent status... or maybe he simply decided to strike this school because he happened to be employed there as a chauffeur.

Eight students died and nine were wounded before the terrorist was killed.

In Gaza, certain people danced with joy when they heard of this attack, and Hamas authorities said: "We bless the operation." In that trite declaration, I'm curious to know the meaning, if any, of the verb "bless". One thing is certain: it has nothing to do with innocence.

All the Earth is Mine — chapter 5

Chapter 5 of my novel has now been released (a little later than promised). Click the following button to access the novel's website:

This chapter, entitled Installation, describes preparations for Jake's project concerning the ruins of Herod's Promontory Palace at Caesarea, on the Mediterranean coastline of Israel. In this aerial photo, the partly-submerged site is located in the upper lefthand corner:

Home again

The surgical operation I underwent a dozen days ago (with total success) is referred to, in French, as a prostatectomie avec préservation. A few months ago, a small proportion of cancerous cells had been detected in an inner region of my prostate, and a decision was made to solve the problem surgically by removing the organ while preserving intact the central nerve. [Medically-inclined readers will understand immediately what I’m talking about.] Everything went over fine, in the excellent environment of a private clinic called La Parisière in the Drôme town of Bourg-de-Péage, on the banks of the Isère opposite Romans.


The peaceful park of the clinic is the home of a couple of peacocks.

During my hospitalization, Sophia resided in a delightful dogs’ home called Bayannes, in the nearby village of Alixan. This afternoon, we're both immensely happy to be back home again at Gamone.

Interruption

There'll be a nine-day interruption in the Antipodes blog from tomorrow Thursday, 21 February up until Saturday, 1 March 2008.

All the Earth is Mine — chapter 4

Chapter 4 of my novel has now been released. Click the following button to access the novel's website:

This chapter, entitled Moving, introduces the logistics involved in transporting technological equipment from Western Australia to Israel. Jake has decided that the ideal solution consists of sailing there on a refitted trawler named Black Swan.

Besides Israel, the reader learns that another Mediterranean nation has a role to play in Jake's future operations: Morocco.

Walnut wine

Yesterday, I finally got around to bottling and labeling the remainder of my walnut wine. I had almost forgotten the existence of this stock of green walnuts macerated in strong red wine, which had been sitting for several years in an airtight plastic cask. It has aged remarkably well, and the resulting liquor is mellow with a delightful aroma of walnuts.

Fireball syndrome

I get a kick out of inventing theories in fields in which, a priori, I'm a complete ignoramus. In fact, some of my best discoveries and revelations occur in this way... and there's even a slight chance that some of them might not be totally wrong. For example, ever since I've been living here at Gamone at the down-river extremity of the vast oval-shaped canyon known as the cirque de Choranche (the Latin word circus used to designate simply a circle), I've been wondering about the way in which it was formed, and the time period in which this formation took place. Now, I've never studied geology or practiced speleology, so I'm out of my depth in this domain [a dangerous situation in the case of a mountain torrent such as the Bourne]. My "theory" is based largely upon common sense, and we all know that intuition is hardly a trusty yardstick in science. It's quite possible, however, that about half of what I have to say concerning the creation of the Bourne canyon [French-language explanations in my Choranche website] is more or less correct. It's a matter of deciding whether my half is more significant than the other.

I wish to turn my naive theory-making attention now to a totally different domain: the tragic shooting events that have been taking place over the last week or so in the USA.

Non-American observers often feel that the basic problem behind such horrible events is the ease of purchasing weapons. Many Americans would appear to be surprised by this criticism. Indeed, since last Thursday's massacre at Northern Illinois University, some students who were interviewed claimed that they should be allowed to carry concealed weapons into their classrooms, so that they would have the means of retaliating to an attack, instead of sitting there passively like ducks waiting to be shot. You have to admit that this kind of reasoning sounds logical for folk who're not dismayed by the thought of turning each US classroom into a potential OK Corral.

My theory concerns the curious behavior that consists of calmly murdering a bunch of fellow students before turning the weapon on oneself and committing suicide. This raises an obvious rhetorical question. Why are these individuals intent upon mowing down others as a messy prelude to their ultimate self-destruction? I used to imagine that a fellow who decides to shoot randomly at a crowd of innocent bystanders must be motivated by immense hatred, and that he kills in order to vent that hatred. Then, when he has done a fair amount of damage, he simply turns his gun on himself in order to end his terrible book of life, as it were. Well, today, I've revised this interpretation of happenings. I have the impression that the shooter, at the outset, is essentially suicidal, but not basically murderous. His hatred is directed almost totally at himself, whereas the others are a mere backdrop. So, why does he nevertheless murder others instead of calmly killing himself, say, in his home bedroom?

I believe that the answer to that question hinges around the notion of courage... or, rather, a lack of courage. The slaughter of others serves as a kind of bloody prelude enabling the shooter to build up enough destructive adrenaline, so to speak, to have the courage to commit suicide. The preliminary killings exert a snowball effect upon the shooter. Each bullet aimed at an innocent victim is like a fiery lump of snow added to the emerging snowball... which is rather a fireball.

When the killer has attained a climax of destructive paroxysm, the fireball is big enough to hit the man with the gun: the ultimate victim of himself. And this suicide occurs in a spontaneous fashion, as if it were mere fallout from the preliminary killings.

If the existence and role of this fireball syndrome were to be fully recognized and analyzed by psychiatric specialists, they might be in a position to imagine some kind of substitute solution to the senseless slaughter of innocent bystanders who happen to find themselves on the path of the killer. Maybe the would-be shooter could be persuaded to consume a pharmaceutical product—a mysterious fireball cocktail—that would give him the courage to commit suicide quietly, in solitude, without the murderous preliminaries.

Breakage in the Antipodes

Pursuing their attempt to break the round-the-world sailing record known as the Jules Verne Trophy, the 35-year-old Provençal yachtsman Franck Cammas and his nine crew members aboard the trimaran Groupama 3 were doing well when they reached New Zealand waters. Last night on French TV, in their daily live video clip, I saw them joking about the quality of their meals.

A few hours ago, after 24 days at sea, their adventure came to an end when an outrigger hull suddenly broke in two, causing the yacht to keel over. Thankfully, nobody was hurt, and the ten crew members were hoisted aboard a helicopter and taken to nearby New Zealand. So, the Frenchman Bruno Peyron retains his record time: about 51 days.

Was the hang glider invented in my native town?

For a blogger such as me, who's struck with vertigo as soon as he climbs up onto a chair [an act that literally brought about the accidental death of my 93-year-old grandfather Ernest Skyvington on Australia Day 1985, when he climbed onto a swivel chair to change a lightbulb in his Gold Coast apartment], it's pretentious to get involved in discussions about hang gliding. But that's my own fault. I brought up the question of Grafton's possible role in the history of hang gliders back in 2002, when nobody in my native town in northern New South Wales was aware of the relevance of such a subject. You'll find my account of things in my article of October 16, 2007 entitled Grafton in aeronautical history books [display].

I'm returning to this subject today in order to point out that a US reader named Joe Faust contests my facts. He certainly gives the impression that he masters the subject. Consequently, instead of adding unnecessarily my two cents worth of naive sentiments on this interesting debate, I recommend that you consult directly the lengthy and detailed comments of Joe Faust, at the end of the above-mentioned blog article. You can then acquire further information, if you so desire, by following up this subject with the help of Google. It goes without saying that Joe Faust and others are free to make use of my blog as a convenient forum for the pursuit of this debate... at least insofar as it concerns, say, the Grafton context.

Surprisingly, apart from my email acquaintance Graeme Henderson (the New Zealand fellow who delved deeply into the role of Grafton's John Dickenson in this context), I have the sad impression that few local folk have been interested in this historical question.

Archaic case of alleged blindness

For a long time, Catholics have looked upon Jews as potential Christians who have the misfortune of not seeing the Light, for they have been blinded. To hammer home the point, the medieval Church often represented Judaism in sacred art as a blindfolded female, suggesting that she might be enlightened by removing the blindfold... which has always been a theme of Christian proselytism.

Today, few people get worked up about such an interpretation of religious beliefs. Pope Benedict XVI is one of the rare religious leaders who persists in considering that such a matter still lies in the domain of valid contemporary preoccupations. Accordingly, he has just released a revised version of the Latin wording of a prayer in the traditional Tridentine Mass. Before Vatican II, the prayer evoked explicitly the "blindness" of Jews, and exhorted God to "lift a veil from their hearts", enabling them to be converted to Christianity. The new wording from Benedict XVI is slightly more soft: "Let us pray for the Jews. May the Lord Our God enlighten their hearts so that they may acknowledge Jesus Christ, the savior of all men."

Jews are unlikely to be reassured. I often have the impression that the Lord has bestowed a rare gift upon Benedict XVI: a subtle talent for stirring up constantly an optimal quantity of shit.

All the Earth is Mine — chapter 3

Chapter 3 of my novel has now been released. Click the following button to access the novel's website:

This chapter is entitled Ascension. The action starts in a magnificent cove on Rottnest Island, enclosing a rusty wreck. Jake has been experimenting with an amazing technique that uses a laser knife to cut out a block of seabed rock, which can then be made buoyant by the injection of a gas mixture.

Once perfected, this method is applied to float the wreck of the Gypsy.

In Israel, learning of Jake's technology, archaeological authorities envisage an application of this method to save for posterity the ruins of an ancient seafront structure: Herod's Promontory Palace at Caesarea.

Meanwhile, the Kahn sisters have invested in a cottage in the charming Jerusalem neighborhood of Yemin Moshe. Plans are also under way to export to Israel a method for desalinating sea water developed in Western Australia (as a sideline activity) by Terra, the family enterprise of the Rose/Kahn elders.

Israel active and on the alert

Israel has her own particular way of commenting upon assassinations such as that of Imad Moughnieh, a Hezbollah chief in Lebanon.

The Jewish nation denies officially any direct responsibility for the act in question, but makes no attempt to conceal a certain satisfaction that the assassination was perpetrated. Smart diplomacy. Even smarter operational skills in this murky domain.

Following a cry for vengeance from Hassan Nasrallah, the top Hezbollah man in Lebanon, Israeli authorities have placed Tsahal in a state of alert.

Exceptionally, Israelis traveling abroard have been warned of the increased likelihood of isolated attacks, even at remote places throughout the world.

In a distinct but related domain, that of the Hamas stronghold of Gaza, the Hebrew state would appear to be engaged in preliminary operations announcing some kind of major intervention.

It was reported last night that a blast near Gaza City killed a senior chief of the Islamic Jihad movement, Ayman al-Fayed, along with six other Palestinians. Meanwhile, there are increasing signs that something will soon happen to unblock the terrible situation in the Gaza Strip, whose civilian inhabitants lack food, power and essential supplies. If the Jewish neighbor is indeed envisaging a large-scale ground invasion of Gaza (reflecting the hopes, as revealed in a recent poll, of 67 percent of Israeli citizens), the motivation is essentially military: to find and destroy the rockets that are being regularly launched into Israel from Gaza.

As an Israeli spokesman recently put it, in a nutshell: If the Palestinians refrain from doing it themselves, Israel is prepared to step in and overthrow Hamas. It's high time for such a clarification... whose organization has nevertheless necessitated a certain delay. Since it's likely that Israel will carry out this operation in a surprise manner, when observers (not to mention the enemy) are least expecting it, I've been wondering whether it might take place when everybody has their eyes set, as at present, upon Israel's problems with the Lebanese Hezbollah. The Hebrew nation has always operated in a mode that computing people would designate as multiprocessing, which simply means doing several different things at the same time.

Children deported from France

I've found that an attempt to approach a mind-boggling manifestation of evil such as the Shoah involves a series of steps. For many years, it was an abstract event in my mind, akin to the pilot's vision of the city he has just bombarded. It wasn't until I was in my early forties, settled near the Jewish heart of Paris, that I started to acquire a more complete concrete awareness of the exact nature of Nazi monstrosities. Since then, I've been trying constantly, not to "understand" such unfathomable cases of Man's inhumanity towards his fellow men, but to resolve my conception of these events into a vast but vague philosophical context.

In asking French schoolchildren to adopt, as it were, the memory of young victims of the Shoah, Nicolas Sarkozy is no doubt inspired by fine and profound intentions. But I find that he's asking far too much of young minds, not yet capable of grasping the existence of total evil. It's a risky operation, in that nobody can know beforehand the extent to which a particular child will succeed in assimilating the horror of what happened, and how that child is likely to attempt to resolve his/her revelations. There's a danger, I believe, of traumatizing children. Visions of the Shoah are too heavy a burden for tender eyes. There's time enough, later on in life, for such images of Hell.

New brand of ready-made pastry

I've noticed that the quality of uncooked pastry, sold in supermarkets, changes considerably from one brand to another. Some are good, while others are poor. Obviously, none of them are as good as home-made pastry, but I find it convenient to use the commercial stuff whenever I want to make a tart quickly. The other day, I noticed a new brand of pastry at the supermarket. A test, last night, revealed that it's excellent for my traditional 20-minute apple tart recipe.

The topping is simply a whipped mixture of an egg yolk and thick cream. [It's amusing to see that the color of my cooking blends in well with that of the old pine family table from our former Parisian residence at 16 rue Rambuteau.]

The only hitch is the brand-name of this new pastry:

In French, it's OK, because "crousti" evokes the English adjective "crusty", whereas "pate" is French for "pastry". But I'm incapable of glimpsing this term (on packets in my refrigerator) without imagining that I've seen the word "constipate"... which is not exactly appetizing for the name of a foodstuff.

Principality in turmoil

The geographical boundaries of France are shaped in such a way that French people often refer to their country as the Hexagon. Inside this six-sided territory, besides Monaco and Andorra, a new principality came into existence recently. It's a fuzzy fairy-tale region of a virtual kind, named Sarkozia, whose monarch is Prince Nicolas. Well, during the weekend, the principality was in a state of turmoil because of electoral maneuvering in the well-heeled Parisian suburb of Neuilly, of which Nicolas Sarkozy was the mayor for a couple of decades. The president recently nominated one of his men as a candidate for the forthcoming municipal elections in Neuilly. The individual in question, David Martinon, was a close friend of Sarkozy's former wife Cecilia, and he now occupies the role of presidential spokesman. The president's son, Jean Sarkozy, has been a prominent member of Martinon's operational cell.

A few days ago, a confidential poll revealed that the people of Neuilly did not appear to appreciate this candidate who was "parachuted" upon them by their former mayor. For the president, whose popularity is currently at an all-time low, it would be an additional catastrophe if his Neuilly nomination were to turn out to be a loser. So, it was safer to remove Martinon immediately through the method referred to in French as an assassination politique. The president's son Jean [whose voice and personality, but not his physical appearance, resemble eerily those of his dad] was called upon to be the golden bullet, to do the dirty work. On Sunday, he simply announced publicly that he and his tiny band of close associates would no longer be supporting David Martinon.

Few observers believe that, as a consequence of this act, the principality will revert overnight to being a quiet and nicely-organized family affair. On the contrary, there are other signs that something is rotten in the state of Sarkozia. A prominent weekly, Le Nouvel Observateur, dared to reveal recently that the president once left a phone message with his ex-wife Cecilia stating that, if she were to return home, he would instantly drop his plans for marrying Carla Bruni. Now, this alleged information may or may not have been valid, and it's not easy to verify such a claim. Normally, the president should have shrugged his shoulders and allowed this would-be revelation to be either confirmed or rejected by facts, or simply forgotten. Instead of that, Sarkozy lost his self-control and dragged the weekly and their journalist into a criminal court of law.

Regardless of predictions for March's electoral results in Neuilly, or the outcome of the court case against Le Nouvel Observateur, one has the impression that little Prince Nicolas is piling more and more straw onto the unfortunate camel named Sarkozia, whose back is starting to sag like the results of the president's popularity polls.

All the Earth is Mine — chapter 2

The initial chapter of my novel ended with a picnic excursion to sunny Rottnest Island, whose coastline is studded with wrecks. In a casual conversation with his brother Aaron and their cousins Leah and Rachel Kahn, Jake Rose (as he is called) evoked the challenge of inventing technology that would make it possible to raise the hull of a small 19th-century wreck named the Gypsy, and cause it to float like a raft.

I've just released chapter 2 of All the Earth is Mine. Click the following button to access the novel's website:

This chapter is entitled Discovery, evoking encounters with faraway places. Leah, Rachel and Aaron set foot briefly in the European context of their grandparents. Then they travel to Israel and start to explore the Jewish homeland as tourists.

Meanwhile, in Western Australia, Jake has become involved in academic research in the geological domain. At a practical level, he has been able to count upon assistance and technological resources from the family business: a mining company called Terra. The theme of his work is related to the question that came up during the Rottnest picnic: Would it be possible to find technical means of increasing the buoyancy of a subaquatic mass, transforming it into an artificial raft?

Little by little, Aaron and the Kahn sisters are enchanted by their encounter with the Jewish nation, and contemplate the idea of investing in a small house in Jerusalem, enabling members of the family to become acquainted with the Holy Land. An unexpected event adds momentum to the idea that the Australians could well establish a permanent relationship with Israel: Aaron becomes attached to a young Israeli woman named Anne Levi.

After these two initial chapters of All the Earth is Mine, readers should be able to sense that the novel has something to do with Jake's technological research in Western Australia, and that future happenings are likely to unfold in Israel.

May we all get the justice we deserve

I'm impatient to see how my Anglican compatriots in Australia, not to mention their Catholic mates, are going to react to the suggestion of Rowan Williams, archbishop of Canterbury, that certain elements of the Islamic sharia system should be introduced into everyday British law, enabling Muslims to choose between having certain cases resolved either in normal courts or before Islamic authorities. Similarly, I would consider that Catholics should be free to bring their legal conflicts before a traditional papal tribunal of the kind that once dealt with Galileo.

As for atheists, I believe it would be fitting if judicial affairs concerning humble beings of my kind were to be submitted to a charming court on the other side of the looking-glass in which I would be seated between Alice and the White Rabbit, and defended by the Mad Hatter.

Talking about weird English notions of personal freedom [which we weren't, really], I watched an amazing TV documentary last night on the Mitford sisters. Wow, what a crazy family! Unity Mitford [1914-1948] was a devout groupie of Adolf Hitler up until she botched up an attempt to blow her brains out with a revolver that the Führer had given her. Diana Mitford [1910-2003] was the enchanted wife of the British Fascist leader Oswald Mosley [1896-1980]. Jessica Mitford [1917-1996], who had married a leftist nephew of Winston Churchill who fought in the International Brigades during the Spanish Civil War, ended up as a member of the Communist Party in the USA. Individuals of that kind make me feel so terribly dull and undistinguished.

I realize that, from time to time, I get so carried away with my Francophile sentiments that I no longer think of myself as an ordinary Australian. On such occasions, to return abruptly to reality, and convince myself that I can't escape my cultural roots as a genuine 6th-generation small-town Australian, far removed from England and certain kinds of British behavior, there's no better personal antidote than to sit in on a few words from exotic folk such as the Mitford family, the archbishop of Canterbury, etc.