Twitter is the gift that keeps on giving

@Herald Sun Half-Wits

lol funny how theres nothin about climate change in the paper now.Knew it was bull

Royalist sympathies at the SMH?

Tuesday's Crossword: Rachel's theft, sir, upset old king (7,3,5) - CHARLES THE FIRST

Friday's Crossword: King has relic restored (7,1) - CHARLES I

May you dream of the Devil, and wake in fright

This has ruined two-up for me.

A new low

I read the statement of claim filed in the Federal Court making allegations against the Speaker of the House regarding inappropriate conduct. I don't know everything about the Discrimination Act, but I have read it a couple of times and appeared in a few cases before the tribunal, and this case is completely farcical. What it represents is a new low in Australian politics which is just disgusting.

Aux armes, citoyens,

Oh man, I have to read this.

亲爱的爸爸妈妈，
欢迎你们的到来。
珊珊给我讲过她在北京成长的故事。对于在澳洲生长和生活的我们来说，那是一个很难想像的完全不同的世界和另一种生活。她所有的故事中，有一件事是不变的 － 她有一对深爱她的父母，不断尽自己的努力，为女儿的幸福做出的种种付出，种种牺牲。没有你们，就没有现在的我们。现在我们能一起欢聚悉尼，共享天伦之乐，吃着妈妈包的饺子，是怎样的一种幸福。
你们接纳我，让我清楚的知道我在北京也有了自己的家。我很期待明天的旅程。
谢谢你们为我们所做的一切。

The Bard's Tale

The Bard's Tale was my first ever 'real' video game. By Jesus it was unforgiving though. You rolled a party of level one characters, and had to go bashing into houses to find monsters. You had to hope that you only met easy level one monsters that you could kill and gain experience because there were a lot of higher monsters in those houses that would kill you outright, forcing to reload a save and try again. And again, and again.

Then to level up, they didn't tell you where the level up place was! You had to methodically click into every freaking house in the city until you found it!

Halfway through the game my Bard character (El Cid) lost all of his stats, and I had to build him up again. I didn't know about 'bugs' back then so I thought it was just a really stupid feature.

You could only save in the adventurer guild in the city. Some of the dungeons were several levels deep, but you had to trek all the way back to save. I think I have some of the routes between stairs in the sewers still ingrained in my muscle memory.

Repeating dungeons. They were on a 30x30 grid, but would open exits on the edges that just teleported you to the opposite edge. I would walk for minutes in one direction only to come back to a marking I had seen before. NO hints that this was happening.

Difficulty spikes out the wazoo.

When you got in a fight, each party member would try and hit each monster, and vice versa. Some groups had 396 monsters in them (4x99). Times 6 of your group = 2,376 text entries that have to scroll past to finish one round of fighting. I would get up and walk away while it was doing it.

But I persevered and I finally beat the whole game, rolling with my two archmages (Merlin and Gandalf), my monk (Friar Tuck) and Ranger (Robin Hood).

Good times.

The Luzhin Defence

Keith Jarrett - Sun Bear Concerts

Azathoth

When age fell upon the world, and wonder went out of the minds of men; when grey cities reared to smoky skies tall towers grim and ugly, in whose shadow none might dream of the sun or of spring’s flowering meads; when learning stripped earth of her mantle of beauty, and poets sang no more save of twisted phantoms seen with bleared and inward-looking eyes; when these things had come to pass, and childish hopes had gone away forever, there was a man who travelled out of life on a quest into the spaces whither the world’s dreams had fled.


Of the name and abode of this man but little is written, for they were of the waking world only; yet it is said that both were obscure. It is enough to know that he dwelt in a city of high walls where sterile twilight reigned, and that he toiled all day among shadow and turmoil, coming home at evening to a room whose one window opened not on the fields and groves but on a dim court where other windows stared in dull despair. From that casement one might see only walls and windows, except sometimes when one leaned far out and peered aloft at the small stars that passed. And because mere walls and windows must soon drive to madness a man who dreams and reads much, the dweller in that room used night after night to lean out and peer aloft to glimpse some fragment of things beyond the waking world and the greyness of tall cities. After years he began to call the slow-sailing stars by name, and to follow them in fancy when they glided regretfully out of sight; till at length his vision opened to many secret vistas whose existence no common eye suspects. And one night a mighty gulf was bridged, and the dream-haunted skies swelled down to the lonely watcher’s window to merge with the close air of his room and make him a part of their fabulous wonder.


There came to that room wild streams of violet midnight glittering with dust of gold; vortices of dust and fire, swirling out of the ultimate spaces and heavy with perfumes from beyond the worlds. Opiate oceans poured there, litten by suns that the eye may never behold and having in their whirlpools strange dolphins and sea-nymphs of unrememberable deeps. Noiseless infinity eddied around the dreamer and wafted him away without even touching the body that leaned stiffly from the lonely window; and for days not counted in men’s calendars the tides of far spheres bare him gently to join the dreams for which he longed; the dreams that men have lost. And in the course of many cycles they tenderly left him sleeping on a green sunrise shore; a green shore fragrant with lotus-blossoms and starred by red camalotes.

In 50 years I will be able to look back at this part of my life and think, yes that was it, that was when it all changed. Forever.

Ball point pens are out.

Felt tip pens are in.

Melbourne and Sydney

Kevin McCloud would love Melbourne. It is replete with what he calls the 'patina of generations', the history of the city is right there for you to see. Rather than tear down old buildings and put up something new, the old city is kept, but changed and revitalised. This crucially leaves something of the old in place. So while in Sydney you end up with rows and rows of tawdry brick apartments which are always around 30 years old, Melbourne has terraces and bungalows and streetscapes that are very old, but still new. Made up with layers of people's lives. The result is a strong sense of place, which is immediately familiar even if you are knowing it for the first time.

Slow boat to China

I've said it before and I'll say it again, Chinese people are weird. A visa application gives you:

• 3 options to declare you're a journalist;
• 0 options to declare your actual profession;
• 6 spaces to name family members;
• 2 spaces to name people you know in China;
• No reference to customs laws.

iPad

BY EIGHT O'CLOCK the light was failing. The loud speaker in the tower of the Stoke Poges Club House began, in a more than human tenor, to announce the closing of the courses. Lenina and Henry abandoned their game and walked back towards the Club. From the grounds of the Internal and External Secretion Trust came the lowing of those thousands of cattle which provided, with their hormones and their milk, the raw materials for the great factory at Farnham Royal.

An incessant buzzing of helicopters filled the twilight. Every two and a half minutes a bell and the screech of whistles announced the departure of one of the light monorail trains which carried the lower caste golfers back from their separate course to the metropolis.

Great Movie or Greatest Movie?

A BUST TO THE KING'S GAMBIT

by U.S. Champion Bobby Fischer


The King's Gambit has lost popularity, but not sympathy. Analysts treat it with kid gloves and seem reluctant to demonstrate an outright refuatation. "The Chessplayers Manual" by Gossip and Lipschutz, published in 1874, devotes 237 pages to this gambit without arriving at a conclusion. To this day the opening has been analyzed romantically - not scientifically. Moderns seem to share the same unconscious attitude that caused the old-timers to curse stubborn Steinitz: "He took the beauty out of chess."

To the public, the player of the King's Gambit exhibits courage and derring-do. The gambit has been making a comeback with the younger Soviet masters, notably Spassky (who defeated Bronstein, Averbach and myself with it). His victories rarely reflected the merits of the opening since his opponents went wrong in the mid-game. It is often the case, also, as with Santasiere and Bronstein, that the King's Gambit is played witha view to a favorable endgame. Spassky told me himself the gambit doesn't give White much, but he plays it because neither does the Ruy Lopez nor the Giuoco Piano.

The refuatation of any gambit begins with accepting it. In my opinion the King's Gambit is busted. It loses by force.

1 P-K4 P-K4 2 P-KB4 PxP 3 N-KB3 P-Q3!

This is the key to a troublesome position, a high-class "waiting move." At Mar Del Plata, 1959, I played 3...P-KN4 against Spassky, but this is inexact because it gives White drawing chances in the ensuing ending: e.g., 4 P-KR4 P-N5 5 N-K5 N-KB3 6 P-Q4 P-Q3 7 N-Q3 NxP 8 BxP B-N2 and now 9 P-B3! (replacing Spassky's 9 N-B3) 9...Q-K2 10 Q-K2 B-B4 11 N-Q2

leads to an ending where Black's extra Pawn is neutralized by White's stranglehold on the dark squares, especially KB4.

Another good try, but also inexact, is the Berlin Defense:

3...P-KR3 4 P-Q4 P-KN4 5 P-KR4 B-N2 6 P-KN3 P-N5 (also playable is 6...P-Q3 7 PxBP P-N5) 7 N-R2 PxP 8 NxP (8 QxP loses to 8...PxN 9 QxB QxP+ 10 K-Q1 Q-B3) 8...P-Q4 9 P-K5 B-B4 10 B-KB4,

where Black cannot demonstrate any advantage. Of course 3...P-Q4 equalizes easily, but that's all.

4 B-B4 4 P-Q4 transposes, the only difference if White tries to force matters after 4...P-KN4 5 P-KR4 P-N5 6 N-N5 (White also gets no compensation after 6 BxP PxN 7 QxP N-QB3 or 6 N-N1 B-R3) 6...P-KB3! 7 N-KR3 PxN 8 Q-R5+ K-Q2 9 BxP Q-K1! 10 Q-B3 K-Q1

and with his King and Queen reversed, Black wins easily.

4...P-KR3!

This in conjunction with Black's previous move I would like to call the Berlin Defense Deferred. By this subtle transposition Black knocks out the possibility open to White in the last note (to move 3).

5 P-Q4 P-KN4 6 0-0 B-N2 7 P-B3

Necessary to protect the QP. 7 P-KN3 is always met by P-N5.

7...N-QB3

Here there is disagreement as to Black's best move. Puc and Rabar, Euwe, Keres, and most analysts give the text as the main line and mention 7...N-K2(!) in passing. I think 7...N-K2 is best because there is no reason why Black should not strive to castle K-side: e.g., 8 P-KN3 P-Q4! 9 PxQP PxNP 10 PxP

(if 10 N-K5 PxP+! 11 K-R1 0-0 12 P-Q6 QxP wins)

10...0-0 11 Q-N3 Q-Q3 12 K-N2 N-B4 wins.

There is little practical experience with this sub-variation.

8 Q-N3

If 8 P-KN3 P-N5 9 N-R4 P-B6 10 N-Q2, Euwe and other analysts betray their soft-mindedness toward this opening by giving the inferior 10...B-B3(?) 11 N(2)xP PxN 12 QxP - "unclear"!!

This is yet another example of sentimental evaluation - after 12...Q-K2 followed by B-R6 and 0-0-0 Black wins easily.

The Pawn on KB6 is a bone in White's throat so why force him to sacrifice when he must anyway?

10...Q-K2 is the strongest move.

In this last variation (instead of 10 N-Q2) White can vary with 10 Q-N3 but then comes Nimzovitch's beautiful winning line:

10...Q-K2 11 N-B5 BxN 12 PxB (if 12 QxP R-N1 13 QxN+ Q-Q2 14 QxQ+ BxQ and Black has a winning endgame) 12...0-0-0

13 BxP Q-K7 14 Q-K6+ (if 14 R-B2 NxQP! 15 RxQ PxR wins) 14...R-Q2!

15 R-B2 Q-Q8+ 16 R-B1 Q-B7 17 N-Q2 N-B3 (threatening N-Q1)

18 B-N6 (if 18 Q-N3 QxQ 19 BxQ P-Q4 with a winning endgame)

18...P-Q4 followed by N-K2 with a winning game for Black.

8...Q-K2 9 P-KR4 N-B3

Again theoretical disagreement. Perfectly good is 9...P-N5!

10 BxP (forced, not 10 KN-Q2 NxQP! 11 PxN BxP+ etc.) 10...PxN

11 RxP - given by analysts again as "unclear," but after N-B3 followed by 0-0, White has nothing for the piece.

10 PxP PxP 11 NxP NxKP

A wild position, but Black is still master.

12 BxP+

The game is rife with possibilities. If 12 NxN QxN 13 RxP Q-K8+

14 R-B1 Q-R5 15 BxP+ K-Q1 16 Q-Q5 N-K4! 17 PxN BxP

(threatening B-R7 and mate) 18 R-Q1 Q-N6 wins, owing to the threat of R-R8+.

12...K-Q1 13 NxN

Not 13 N-K6+ BxN 14 QxB QxQ 15 BxQ NxQP!

13...QxN 14 BxP

14 RxP also loses to 14...Q-K8+ 15 R-B1 R-R8+ 16 KxR QxR+

17 K-R2 QxQB etc.

14...NxP

And Black wins...

Of course White can always play differently, in which case he merely loses differently.

Poe's The Raven, via Baudelaire via Google Translate

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly asleep, suddenly there came a tapping, As of hitting someone gently, rapping at my chamber door. 'Tis some visitor, - I muttered, - tapping at my chamber door; it is only that and nothing more. "

Ah! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each brand embroidered in turn reflects the floor of his agony. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly had I sought to borrow From my books surcease to my sorrow, my sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore - here we Nameless forever more.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain penetrated me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating " This is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, Some late visitor seeking entry lingered at the door of my room - this is the same, and nothing more. "

Right now my soul grew stronger. Hesitating then no longer, "Sir,- I say, - or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; but the fact is I was napping, and you so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came to knock at the door of my room, barely I was sure I heard you. "And here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more!

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token , and the only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore! "- This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word," Lenore! "- Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burned, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than the first. "Surely, - I say, - surely that is something at my window lattice; see then what it is, and this mystery explore.Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore - it's the wind, and nothing more. "


I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. He did not make the least obeisance, he did not stop, he did not hesitate one minute, but, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door ; Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird, about the seriousness of its maintenance and severity of his countenance, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, "Though thy head, - I said - is shorn and crest, you don ' art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the shores of the night. Tell me what thy lordly name of the Night's Plutonian shore! "Quoth the Raven," Nevermore! "

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so easily speak, although his answer would not have any great meaning to me and was not of much help, for we must agree that he was never given to a man living of seeing bird above his chamber door, a Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, calling themselves a name as Nevermore

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if in that one word he did outpour his soul. He uttered nothing more he did not move a feather, - until I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown away from me toward the morning, too, he will leave me as my hopes have flown before. "Then the bird said" Nevermore! "

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so thrown opportunely: "No doubt - I say, - what he utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master the merciless Woe ardently pursued, relentlessly, until his songs had only one refrain, until the De Profundis of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of Never, never again!

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled away a seat cushions in front of bird and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking Nevermore

I sat, engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my heart; I tried to guess that, and more, my head resting in the comfortable on the cushion's velvet lining that caressed the light of the lamp, purple velvet caressed by the lamplight that his head, She shall press - ah! nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch! - I cried, - thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee Respite respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh! quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore! "Quoth the Raven," Nevermore! "


"Prophet! - I say, - of evil! bird or devil, but always Prophet! you to be Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I'll Please, is there, is there balm in Gilead? Quoth the raven, I beg you! "Quoth the Raven," Nevermore! "

"Prophet! - I say, - of evil! bird or devil! prophet still! by Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore, Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, in the distant Paradise, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore, Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore. "Quoth the Raven," Nevermore! "

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or devil! - I yelled at myself up. - Go into the storm, returned to the shore of the Night's Plutonian Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken leave my loneliness unbroken leaves thisbust above my door Take thy beak from out my heart and rush your spectrum from off my door! "Quoth the Raven," Nevermore! "

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door, and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, And the light of the lamp, o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Watching this just makes me want to read the books again

1960: The Making of a President

All elections are turning points, but the presidential election of 1960 holds a special place in American history. The 1950s had been a period of unparalled economic growth and US global power under the stewardship of President Dwight Eisenhower and his Vice President, Richard Nixon. Nixon's humble origins gave him a common touch that appealed to small-town America and encompassed the idyllic spirit of the 1950s. Senator John F. Kennedy was in many ways Nixon's antithesis; charming, Harvard-educated, and the scion of an American political dynasty. Kennedy challenged Americans to confront the emerging uncertainties of the era, not with a vision based in the past, but embracing the future’s new frontiers. In 1960: The Making of the President, you take on the role of one of these formidable opponents as they vie to lead America. As candidates, players must contend with all of the great issues of the day, from the Cold War and the voters' pocketbooks to civil rights and religious intolerance. The contest is fought out on an electoral map of the United States as it stood in 1960. Using a card-driven game system, all of the major events which shaped the actual campaign are represented: Nixon's "Lazy Shave", Eisenhower's belated endorsement, and Mayor Daley's "Late Returns from Cook County" are just a few of the many specific event cards players will encounter. The famous televised debates are also a pivotal element of gameplay. As with a real election campaign, the challenge is to adapt your game plan as the ground shifts beneath your feet. There are never enough resources or time to do everything that needs doing. You will need to make tough calls about where to expend your effort and momentum. Your sole object is to propel yourself into the White House. This fast-playing strategy game for two players challenges you to relive the most significant political contest of the Twentieth Century. Will you recreate history, or rewrite it? 1960: The Making of the President provides you the opportunity to do both.

Olivetti Lettera 32

The machine, which he bought in a Tennessee pawnshop for $50 in 1963, is beginning to betray understandable symptoms of old age and hard usage. If the Lettera 32 had hooves, it would have been dragged out to meet the bolt gun years ago.

"It has never been serviced or cleaned other than blowing out the dust with a service station hose," said the writer. "I have typed on this typewriter every book I have written including three not published. Including all drafts and correspondence, I would put this at about 5m words over a period of 50 years."

When a friend offered to buy the 76-year-old Pulitzer-prizewinner a replacement, McCarthy volunteered to auction his machine and has promised the proceeds to the Santa Fe Institute, a "transdisciplinary research community" dedicated to expanding the boundaries of scientific understanding.

Christie's, which is due to auction the machine – complete with a letter of authentication from McCarthy – in New York on Friday, reckons the typewriter will fetch between $15,000 (£9,000) and $20,000.

3 October 1976 - Gebel Barkel - Sudan

Taylor sat in the map tent, plotting out the scope of that day's excavations on aerial photographs of the dig. An orderly grid pattern, like a map of Manhatten, was creeping over the landscape. Imposing order on sands that had hid secrets for millenia.

Desert moths swirled around the single flourescent light, their shadows flitting over the canvas. Taylor finsihed the last of the days marking, and looked down at the completed work. The tomb system of Gebel Barkel had turned out to be much larger than anyone had initially thought. From the small collection of Nubian pyramids that lay in the shadow of the massif that gave the site its name, a complex network of outbuildings and tenements stretched towards the Nile river, indicating a large population centre, rivalling some of those centres in lower Egypt.

The door of the tent swung open and tall, swarthy arabic man in a turban entered. Taylor looked up from the photographs.

'No diggers in here, get out' he said, waving the newcomer away.

'Well dear fellow,' said the Arab, 'it's a lucky thing I'm no digger. Nor a leveller, nor a radical communist for that matter. I appreciate you chaps are worried about the red menace, but this is going a little far don't you think?'

Taylor leaned back in his chair, staring at the intruder. 'Who are you?'

'Name's Alexei, dear boy. Alexei Abdul-Mu'id. Although you can just call me Alexei. I am talking with Dr Taylor I take it? Mrs Maxwell told me you would be in this tent.'

'Yes, yes' Taylor stood up hurridly. 'I am Dr Taylor. I didn't. I mean, I'm sorry for my rudeness. I didn't expect to meet a, ahhh,  British national, dressed in your garb. You know, out here.'

'Oh, hardly British. and I am the one who should apologise, Doctor. My apperance does take people off guard, and, I have to admit, do enjoy the reversal on peoples faces when I tell them who I am.' A smile lit up Alexei's face. 'A foible I know, but a harmless one I hope.  I am a professor of egyptology at Cairo university, by way of Cambridge.'

Taylor stood up and extended his hand 'Niall Taylor, archeologist by way of Colombia and Ann Arbor".
Alexei grabbed Taylor's hand, a broad grin across his face. 'Yes Dr Taylor, I have heard much of you. It is a pleasure, a great pleasure'.

Taylor getured to a camp chair at the map table, 'Please Mr Abdulmood'

'Alexei, please'

'Alexei, yes then, please, sit down'.

'Oh no, I shan't keep you, I"m sure you've had a long day'

'No, not at all, I have just finished todays log. Please, I'm curious what brings you to our little project. I had not heard anything about you coming...'

Alexei took the chair Taylor had offered, glancing at the photos scattered across the table. 'It may be easier for you to explain why I am here'

'I'm not sure I follow' said Taylor.

'Here,' Alexei said, pulling forward the photo Taylor had been working on showing the whole site. 'Here is a record of all digs thus far, am I right?'

"Yes' said Taylor.

'Here were your digs from autumn '74,' continued Alexei 'around the original pyramids, and then over here,' pointring to a another crosshatched part of the map 'following the deductive work of Professor Hallen in your team, you continued in '75 along this wadi and uncovered the late kingdom works.'

'That is correct Mr, uh, Alexei' said Taylor. 'You seem to be very well informed of our progress'

'Birds and spiders Mr Taylor, birds and spiders. Archeology is a small world, especially when you are digging up my own backyard. Now, here" he said, pointing to a separate part of the photo 'you dug some sample trenches late last season and early this season, closer to the massif. What did you find?'

'Nothing' answered Taylor.

'Nothing!' exclaimed Alexei, jabbing his finger onto the table. 'Precisely sir. Precisely.' He sat back, grinning.
'Yes, nothing.' continued Taylor. 'In an almost perfect circle, 700 metres from the base of the massif, no buildings, no pits, no rubbish mounds.'

'And does that, as an archeologist, strike you as somewhat odd, Mr Taylor?"

"Why yes it does.' Taylor moved to the opposite chair and drew it up to the table. He took the photo Alexei had been holding.  'There are caves in the massif. Especially large ones here, here and here' he said, pointing at the edges of the mountain. 'If this place originated as a place of permanent settlement, surely those caves would have been the first homes. Any settlement should have extended out from there. It is very odd to have nothing there, but a very large settlement some distance away from the most habitable parts.'

'Very good Mr Taylor' said Alexei, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. He continued in a lower voice 'and why, do you think, that is?'

'Well, there could be a number of explanations. It has actually started to become something of a sore point between some of us here. Some say it is simply the place we are excavting is closer to the Nile, and therefore a more convenient place for buildings.'

'Come on Mr Taylor, you don't beleive that do you? The Gerbal Massif is an 800 foot high mountain in a flat desert. It is no coincidence there is a settlement here. Why no buildings on the massif itself?'
'I think it is for the same reason there are no settlements found near stone henge in England, Alexei. It is holy ground'

'Or taboo?'

'Yes, or taboo. Although given the settlement is built closer to the tombs than the massif, I don't see what taboo would be so strong as to require such distance from the mountain, it's almost like...' Taylor trailed off.
'Like what?' asked Alexei, frowning.

'Like... I don't know, like quarantine.'

Alexei smiled again. 'Aha, Mr Taylor, I see my faith in you has not been misplaced. Yes, it is like a quarantine exclusion zone is it not? You can almost see the yellow tape surrounding the massif with hieroglyphs warning 'Onto this ground, do not tread'. Heeding that ancient caveat, none did. Although the pull and attraction of the massif must have still be very great for such a large population to live here. Attraction and fear together in ancient Egypt. Fascinating. And with that, you have perfectly answered your own question.'

'I have?'

'That is why I am here Mr Taylor' cried Alexei'. 'To investigate, to riddle, to pry into the dusty secrets of this place. I meant to come last year, but I could not make it.'

Taylor sat still, looking at the man across the table. He leant forward and began picking up the photos. 'Well, sir,' Taylor said in a cooler tone. 'I am sure we would love to have your expertise on board. I am not sure what digs you have been on before, but they are not so much about solving riddles as the slow accumulation of data. There are no fancy temples or tutankahmuns here I'm afraid. Just an old settlement, which is filling in some of the knowledge of the late kingdom period of the nubian empire.'

'Of course Mr Taylor, of course, I understand this is very important scientific work going on here which I fully support. I apologise if my language is sometimes verbose, I promise I will not get in your way. But if possible, could you spare time tomorrow to show me around the site?"

"It would be my pleasure."

"Capital. We should start ealy to beat the fury of the sun.'

"Of course. Sunrise is at 6:12am tomorrow. I can meet you at six?"

"Splendid Mr Taylor. Absolutlely splendid" said Alexei. "I will leave you in peace, until tomorrow."

With that, Alexei rose and shook Taylor's hand again before disappearing back out into the darkness.

Ever Victorious

‘The champagne bottle burst against the door, leaving a dark stain on the scarlet lacquer.

Burgevine stood staring at the mark , taking a swig from an identical bottle to the one that lay shattered on the ground before the gatehouse.

‘Yang.’ He shouted, stumbling forward and pounding on the door.

‘Yaaaang!’

‘You yellow bastard. Come out here!’.

The door remained closed. Burgevine turned around and pointed at the dozen men in blue tunics who were alternatively watching their commander, and waving their rifles at any passersby on the busy Shanghai street to keep away.

‘Break it down’ ordered Burgevine.

The door behind Burgevine swung open. In the doorway stood a stooped chinese man in a sky blue silk robe.

‘Mister Henry’ he said in clipped English.  ‘How can I help you’

‘Yang’ drawled Burgevine, throwing his bottle down as he turned back to face the door. ‘Why, you are here after all. I thought you might have been down at Ms Tracy’s.’

‘Ahh, Mr Henry is entertainment’

‘Yeah, I’m a regular P.T Barnum Yang. Now you’re surely not going to keep me awaitin’ out in the street are you Yang. It’s perishing hot out here.

‘I cannot...’ began Yang

‘you cannot refuse me your kind hospitality Yang?’ said Burgevine, ‘well I am just flattered by your good manners, let me take you up on your invitation’  as he pushed the old man aside, striding into the courtyard. ‘I always said you were quality Yang, despite your inherent disadvantages.’

The troops filed in behind , filling the small anteroom to the grand house that sat behind

Standing frozen under the awning of the house stood a young chinese girl, her swollen red eyes stared at Burgevine.

‘Why, Mrs Ward, what a delight it is for this poor ol’ Virginian to see you here. I was just thinking the other day I must stop by to see how the lovely wife of my old friend was doing.’

The girl’s eyes darted to Yang who hovered at Burgevine’s elbow. Yang spoke quickly in chinese and she stole through the doorway into the dark interior.

‘Why Yang’ said Burgevine ‘That was uncomely of you to dismiss your daughter, her and I have much to catch up on’.

‘This is not correct Mr Henry. We should not meet here’

‘And why not Yang. We are old buddies ain’t we? You know why I’m here, now just run along and fetch me my pay. I know you have it. ‘

‘No money here Mr Henry. You come back next month hey?’

‘Yang, you know the deal. Fifty thousand taels for last months pay. It hasn’t arrived. Give it to me’

‘This is not the agreement with Mr Ward.’

‘Well, I’m fixin’ to change that little agreement Yang’

‘... but Mr Ward said..’

‘Ward said, Ward said ‘repeated Burgevine. ‘Hell, I don’t care what Ward said. Ward is dead old man and I spat on the corpse, I lead the army. Give me the money’.

‘But Mr Ward...’

‘Damn Ward! ‘roared Burgevine grabbing Yang’s tunic with his left hand smashing his fist into the banker’s face. ‘And Damn you’ as he punched him again dropping Yang to the floor.

‘No matter, I know where the money is’ Burgevine said. ‘Vincente’.

The small manilaman stepped forward from the ring of guards. ‘Si’.

‘Take five men to the back room, you know where it is. Bring out what you find there.’

‘Si’ he gestured at the nearest men to follow and they ran out of the room.

Yang squimed at Burgevine’s feet. Blood streaming from his face over the lacquered floor and staining the silk robe. Burgevine walked around the prostrate figure, picking up the needlepoint that lay on the bench.

“You know Yang, my papa was a general under Napoleon. He always tol’ me, ‘Henry, ‘ Burgevine slammed his boot into Yang, wham. ‘Henry, you got to care for your men. And if you look after your men, they will look after you. Now, Yang, I am here to lead your army. And if your army isn’t paid, they won’t fight. And if they don’t fight Yang, well... there ain’t nothin’ stoppin’ those fucking bloodthirsty Taipings’ wham ‘ coming into this shithole of a town and killing you ‘wham ‘ and raping and killing your daughter.‘ wham ’I’m protecting you Yang. And you are just too plain dumb to see it’. 

Spy vs Spy

I recently watched the new Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy movie. For some reason it  resonated with me quite a lot so I sat down and watched the old 70s TV series with Alec Guinness reprising Gary Oldman's role of George Smiley. So how do the two compare?

The most obvious difference is not in the actors and plot, but the set and Alfredson's direction. The new movie could never have been made in the 70s, it is too stylised and sleek. An idealised view of what the period was about. Everyone walks around in sharp, vintage suits, having meetings in big minimalist rooms that look like a Warhol studio designed by Damien Hirst. Guinness on the other hand is shunted around small pokey offices, crammed with overflowing files and drab civil servants. The turgid 'Yes Minister' feel of the Circus is much more believable.

Impressively, even though the TV series is four hours long compared the movie's two hours, the movie doesn't feel like it has left anything out. All the marks are hit - Tarr's story, Operation Testify, Peter's infiltration of the circus, the final confrontation - and all the relevant characters are fleshed out very well. Indeed, the character development in the movie does more with less than the series. Even though Patrick Stewart gives a stalwart performance as Karla, the russian spymaster in the series, his excision in the movie is a good choice, apart from a very small, quick throwback that is a highlight of the film.

Less is more with Smiley's wife, Anne. Alfredson chose not to include her in the movie, whereas the TV series can't resist sticking her in the final scene. A bad decision, especially when Guinness gives a great performance in the final confrontation with Bill Hayden when he tells Smiley he only slept with his wife on orders from Moscow. Guinness' small grunt and vacant stare is wonderful. Oldman couldn't quite pull that otherworldly air off.

In the end, they are both good, but different. The bonus of the series is another series, Smiley's People, waiting in the wings with another great Guinness performance. But Alfredson puts together a distilled yet complete package that crams so much into every scene it would be churlish to criticise it for brevity. 4 stars.

Collingwood - Historical Thought

The Idea of History

Epilegomena: 4: History as Re-enactment of Past Experience

R. G. Collingwood

How, or on what conditions, can the historian know the past ? In considering this question, the first point to notice is that the past is never a given fact which he can apprehend empirically by perception. Ex hypothesi, the historian is not an eyewitness of the facts he desires to know. Nor does the historian fancy that he is ; he knows quite well that his only possible knowledge of the past is mediate or inferential or indirect, never empirical. The second point is that this mediation cannot be effected by testimony. The historian does not know the past by simply believing a witness who saw the events in question and has left his evidence on record. That kind of mediation would give at most not knowledge but belief, and very ill-founded and improbable belief. And the historian, once more, knows very well that this is not the way in which he proceeds ; he is aware that what he does to his so-called authorities is not to believe them but to criticize them. If then the historian has no direct or empirical knowledge of his facts, and no transmitted or testimoniary knowledge of them, what kind of knowledge has he: in other words, what must the historian do in order that he may know them?

My historical review of the idea of history has resulted in the emergence of an answer to this question : namely, that the historian must re-enact the past in his own mind. What we must now do is to look more closely at this idea, an see what it means in itself and what further consequences it implies.

In a general way, the meaning of the conception is easily understood. When a man thinks historically, he has before him certain documents or relics of the past. His business is to discover what the past was which has left these relics behind it, For example, the relics are certain written words ; and in that case he has to discover what the person who wrote those words meant by them. This means discovering the thought (in the widest sense of that word : we shall look into its preciser meaning

( 283) in � 5) which he expressed by them. To discover what this thought was, the historian must think it again for himself.

Suppose, for example, he is reading the Theodosian Code, and has before him a certain edict of an emperor. Merely reading the words and being able to translate them does not amount to knowing their historical significance. In order to do that he must envisage the situation with which the emperor was trying to deal, and he must envisage it as that emperor envisaged it. Then he must see for himself, just as if the emperor's situation were his own, how such a situation might be dealt with ; he must see the possible alternatives, and the reasons for choosing one rather than another ; and thus he must go through the process which the emperor went through in deciding on this particular course. Thus he is re-enacting in his own mind the experience of the emperor ; and only in so far as he does this has he any historical knowledge, as distinct from a merely philological knowledge, of the meaning of the edict.

Or again, suppose he is reading a passage of an ancient philosopher. Once more, he must know the language in a philological sense and be able to construe ; but by doing that he has not yet understood the passage as an historian of philosophy must understand it. In order to do that, he must see what the philosophical problem was, of which his author is here stating his solution. He must think that problem out for himself, see what possible solutions of it might be offered, and see why this particular philosopher chose that solution instead of another. This means re-thinking for himself the thought of his author, and nothing short of that will make him the historian of that author's philosophy.

It cannot, I think, be denied by anybody that these descriptions, whatever their ambiguities and shortcomings, do actually call attention to the central feature of all historical thinking. As descriptions of that experience, their general accuracy is beyond question. But they still require a great deal of amplification and explanation ; and perhaps the best way of beginning this is to expose them to the criticism of an imaginary objector.

Such an objector might begin by saying that the whole conception is ambiguous. It implies either too little or too much. To re-enact an experience or re-think a thought, he might argue, may mean either of two things. Either it means enacting an

( 283) experience or performing an act of thought resembling the first, or it means enacting an experience or performing an act of thought literally identical with the first. But no one experience can be literally identical with another, therefore presumably the relation intended is one of resemblance only. But in that case the doctrine that we know the past by re-enacting it is only a version of the familiar and discredited copy-theory of knowledge, which vainly professes to explain how a thing (in this case an experience or act of thought) is known by saying that the knower has a copy of it in his mind. And in the second place, suppose it granted that an experience could be identically repeated, the result would only be an immediate identity between the historian and the person he was trying to understand, so far as that experience was concerned. The object (in this case the past) would be simply incorporated in the subject (in this case the present, the historian's own thought) ; and instead of answering the question how the past is known we should be maintaining that the past is not known, but only the present. And, it may be asked, has not Croce himself admitted this with his doctrine of the contemporaneity of history ?

Queensland Shrugged

Did you want to know who is John Galt? I am the first man of ability who refused to regard it as guilt. I am the first man who would not do penance for my virtues or let them be used as the tools of my destruction. I am the first man who would not suffer martyrdom at the hands of those who wished me to perish for the privilege of keeping them alive. I am the first man who told them that I did not need them, and until they learned to deal with me as traders, giving value for value, they would have to exist without me, as I would exist without them; then I would let them learn whose is the need and whose the ability-and if human survival is the standard, whose terms would set the way to survive.