O deus hindu da sabedoria e do sucesso, o aniversário de Lord Ganesha é celebrado no dia auspicioso de Ganesh Chaturthi, também conhecido como Vinayaka Chaturthi. Acredita-se que Bappa chega neste dia especial e fica com seus devotos por 10 dias. Ganesh Chaturthi é celebrado de meados de agosto a meados de setembro.
sábado, 27 de março de 2021
América celebra Ganesh Chaturthi no seu próprio e único estilo
As grandes celebrações de Ganesh Chaturthi nos EUA acontecem em Sai Samstan, uma sociedade hindu sediada em Illinois. Além dos locais, milhares de pessoas viajam para Illinois de outras cidades para fazer parte deste grande festival. As comemorações também acontecem em outros estados dos EUA como Flórida, Califórnia e Nova York em uma escala muito menor.
foto mundo das celebridades
sexta-feira, 26 de março de 2021
O QI médio da população mundial, que sempre aumentou desde o pós-guerra até o final dos anos 90, diminuiu nos últimos vinte anos …
Autor: Christophe Clavé
O QI médio da população mundial, que sempre aumentou desde o pós-guerra até o final dos anos 90, diminuiu nos últimos vinte anos ...É a inversão do efeito Flynn.
Parece que o nível de inteligência medido pelos testes diminui nos países mais desenvolvidos.
Pode haver muitas causas para esse fenômeno.
Um deles pode ser o empobrecimento da linguagem.
Na verdade, vários estudos mostram a diminuição do conhecimento lexical e o empobrecimento da linguagem: não é apenas a redução do vocabulário utilizado, mas também as sutilezas linguísticas que permitem elaborar e formular pensamentos complexos.
O desaparecimento gradual dos tempos (subjuntivo, imperfeito, formas compostas do futuro, particípio passado) dá origem a um pensamento quase sempre no presente, limitado ao momento: incapaz de projeções no tempo.
A simplificação dos tutoriais, o desaparecimento das letras maiúsculas e da pontuação são exemplos de "golpes mortais" na precisão e variedade de expressão.
Apenas um exemplo: eliminar a palavra "signorina" (agora obsoleta) não significa apenas abrir mão da estética de uma palavra, mas também promover involuntariamente a ideia de que entre uma menina e uma mulher não existem fases intermediárias.
Menos palavras e menos verbos conjugados significam menos capacidade de expressar emoções e menos capacidade de processar um pensamento.
Estudos têm mostrado que parte da violência nas esferas pública e privada decorre diretamente da incapacidade de descrever as emoções em palavras.
Sem palavras para construir um argumento, o pensamento complexo torna-se impossível.
Quanto mais pobre a linguagem, mais o pensamento desaparece.
A história está cheia de exemplos e muitos livros (Georges Orwell - "1984"; Ray Bradbury - "Fahrenheit 451") contam como todos os regimes totalitários sempre atrapalharam o pensamento, reduzindo o número e o significado das palavras.
Se não houver pensamentos, não há pensamentos críticos. E não há pensamento sem palavras.
Como construir um pensamento hipotético-dedutivo sem o condicional?
Como pensar o futuro sem uma conjugação com o futuro?
Como é possível captar uma temporalidade, uma sucessão de elementos no tempo, passado ou futuro, e sua duração relativa, sem uma linguagem que distinga entre o que poderia ter sido, o que foi, o que é, o que poderia ser, e o que será depois do que pode ter acontecido, realmente aconteceu?
Caros pais e professores: Fazemos com que nossos filhos, nossos alunos falem, leiam e escrevam. Ensinar e praticar o idioma em suas mais diversas formas. Mesmo que pareça complicado. Principalmente se for complicado.
Porque nesse esforço existe liberdade.
Aqueles que afirmam a necessidade de simplificar a grafia, descartar a linguagem de seus "defeitos", abolir géneros, tempos, nuances, tudo que cria complexidade, são os verdadeiros arquitetos do empobrecimento da mente humana.
Será verdade? O Clã Van Dunem.
Francisca Van Dunem, actual Ministra da Justiça, nasceu no dia 5 de Novembro de 1955. Faz parte do clã angolano Van Dunem, que teve como principal mentor, José Eduardo Van Dunem dos Santos, Presidente de Angola durante quase 40 anos.
Este clã é descendente do mercador holandês Balthazar Van Dúnne, que tinha como principal actividade o comércio de escravos.
Integraram o movimento comunista MPLA que combateu os portugueses durante 13 anos. Após a independência de Angola passaram todos ao ataque a tudo o que era português.
Foram e são a família mais abastada, estrelada e corrupta de Angola, que se reservaram ao direito de saltar sobre o ferido de morte e agonizante Portugal, o velho colonizador, e onde foram recebidos com distinções, mordomias e honrarias.
No virar de página da história do 25 de Abril, surgiu uma jovem militante do movimento comunista MPLA de nome Francisca Van Dunem, que foi uma perseguidora implacável dos angolanos brancos descendentes de Portugueses, expulsando-os pelo terror e violência.
Os Van Dunem dividiram-se entre diversos movimentos. Nas lutas de capoeira que se seguiram entre as diversas famílias dominantes, alguns Van Dunem foram massacrados em 27 de Maio de 1977 de trágica lembrança, numa tentativa de golpe de Estado conduzido por Nito Alves.
Foram mortas pelas milícias do MPLA, auxiliadas pelos militares comunistas cubanos, cerca de 30.000 pessoas, na chamada “purga cubana”. Neste genocídio foi assassinado o irmão de Francisca, José Van Dunem e sua mulher Silta Vallas, cujos corpos nunca foram encontrados.
Francisca Van Dunem teve de fugir. Refugiou-se em Portugal junto daqueles que anos antes perseguia, matava e vitimava.
Os ares políticos de Lisboa, dominados pelas esquerdas comunistas e socialistas, eram favoráveis à protecção, apoio e honras a todos que contribuíssem para a desgraça deste país, elegendo-se bandidos em heróis, assaltantes e ladrões em gente séria, numa promiscuidade abandalhada que se prolonga há cerca de 46 anos, situação em que continuamos a ser vitimas.
A Francisca, a famosa guerrilheira negra dos anos 70 que apelava à morte dos portugueses, foi feita Ministra da Justiça neste Portugal sem memória, sem honra e sem vergonha conduzido por quadrilheiros da pior escumalha política que será possível imaginar.
SATI ou Suttee
O Sati era o ritual hindu pelo qual se imolava a esposa viúva por ocasião da morte do marido. Praticada na Índia desde antes do nascimento de Cristo, o espectáculo horrendo de viúvas devoradas pelas chamas constituiu, compreensivelmente, objecto de choque para numerosos viajantes que visitaram o subcontinente. Só recentemente, contudo, terá desaparecido por completo, datando a actual legislação indiana que o proíbe apenas de 1987. Motivo relevante para a sobrevivência da pavorosa superstição foi a tolerância, e até apoio, que lhe prestaram as autoridades britânicas nas áreas da Índia que lhe couberam. Com efeito, nem os funcionários da Companhia Inglesa das Índias Orientais parecem ter-se sentido particularmente incomodados com o espectáculo de mulheres inocentes oferecidas ás chamas, nem parecem elas ter encontrado motivo algum para limitar a prática até, imagine-se, a 1829. Pelo contrário, os funcionários da Company incentivaram-na abertamente, pois tornou-se seu hábito prestigiar os rituais com a sua presença. O historiador A.F. Salahuddin Ahmed, que estudou cuidadosamente o assunto, refere que a participação de dignitários da Companhia "not only seemed to accord anofficial sanction, but also increased its prestige value". O resultado foi grande crescimento na prática do Sati nos primeiros anos do século XIX, tendo o seu número crescido de 378 to 839 na província de Bengala entre 1815 e 1818. O bárbaro ritual só seria banido em 1829 e após persistente campanha contra ele por missionários anglicanos.Na Índia portuguesa, muito diferentemente, o Sati fora banido logo em 1515, ou mais de trezentos anos antes. Procurando concretizar o seu projecto de conquista de Goa, Afonso de Albuquerque firmara uma aliança com a comunidade hindu da cidade e com o corsário Timoja, entretanto tornado vassalo do Rei de Portugal. Albuquerque prometera plena liberdade religiosa a muçulmanos e, particularmente, a hindus -estes últimos ter-se-ão decidido a apoiar os portugueses com reacção às repressões de que eram vítimas pelos conquistadores muçulmanos. Consumada a conquista da cidade, todavia, foi obrigado Albuquerque a reconsiderar a promessa ao assistir ao Sati. O ritual hindu horrorizou-o a ele e aos restantes portugueses, cuja sensibilidade cristã quedou chocada; Albuquerque decidiu-se a agir energicamente e, reiterando não pretender infringir desmedidamente os direitos dos hindus subjugados, proibiu por completo aquela prática obscena. Quantas mulheres foram salvas ao longo dos séculos por aquele assomo de consciência não pode ninguém saber, mas o que parece incontestável é que inumeráveis viúvas inocentes ficaram a dever a vida ao Governador da Índia e, sim, à obra civilizatória que Portugal produziu na Índia. Resta saber quando é, afinal, que a Albuquerque se reconhece o seu papel como eminente lutador pelos direitos das mulheres.
As contas da TAP: não se deixe iludir
Cristina Neto de Carvalho
Professora da Católica Lisbon School of Business & Economics
O esforço que nos está a ser pedido, como contribuintes, para a TAP, representa 80% do IRC pago por todas as empresas portuguesas durante 2020 e implicará um acréscimo de 1,5% à nossa dívida pública.
26 fev 2021, ‘Observador’
Raro será o português que não lamentará o fecho da TAP. Mas temos de ser realistas: a TAP encontra-se numa situação económica e financeira deplorável, a qual se arrasta há anos e anos!
A consulta dos Relatórios e Contas do grupo TAP, disponíveis no site do grupo, mostra claramente que, pelo menos desde 2011 (a informação disponível não permite uma análise mais longa), o grupo reporta uma situação de falência técnica, com capitais próprios negativos e com dívidas elevadíssimas. Também a nível de resultados o grupo tem apresentado anualmente valores muito significativos de prejuízos. No período em análise, houve um único ano em que o grupo TAP reportou lucro, e de reduzido valor face à dimensão da empresa. Efetivamente, se somarmos os prejuízos obtidos ao longo destes nove anos (2011-2019), o valor total dos prejuízos é de 571 milhões de euros, face a um único ano de lucro, em 2017, de 23 milhões. Nem quero imaginar quais serão os dados de 2020!
Esta situação crítica não resulta, portanto, da atual pandemia, vem de longe. Os prejuízos brutais que se têm verificado ao longo de anos nas empresas detidas no Brasil (TAP – Manutenção e Engenharia e Aeropar Participações) nunca foram devidamente explicados. Entre 2011 e 2019, o grupo perdeu, nestas empresas, 477 milhões de euros apesar de todas as promessas de que o investimento iria ser rentável. Importa esclarecer, também, as razões para estas perdas tão significativas.
Também a apresentação frequente de medidas como EBIT, EBITDA e EBITAR, isto é, resultados antes de juros, impostos, depreciações e rendas, para justificar a viabilidade económica do grupo é enganadora pois ignora um conjunto vasto de despesas como as rendas das aeronaves em regime de leasing, o desgaste da frota própria, os juros dos empréstimos e os impostos. É como ouvir um particular dizer que se não tiver de suportar as despesas da renda da casa, dos juros dos empréstimos e dos impostos, tem o seu orçamento familiar equilibrado!
A situação da TAP seria insustentável se estivéssemos a falar de acionistas privados, com recursos limitados. Mas, neste caso, há um Estado, nós todos, que suportamos os prejuízos e a ineficiência da empresa. Perante os recursos escassos da nossa economia, há que alocá-los a empresas que sejam viáveis e capazes de gerar resultados. Qual o custo de oportunidade de manter a TAP? Ao apoiarmos a TAP e deixarmos cair empresas realmente viáveis, que não serão subsidiadas porque os recursos não chegam para todas, quantas empresas obrigaremos a fechar? E qual o impacto desta decisão no emprego e nas exportações?
Será que temos noção do esforço que teremos de fazer para manter o grupo a funcionar? Quatro mil milhões de euros, representam quatro meses da coleta de IRS de um ano. Se juntarmos a este valor os 8 mil milhões necessários para o BES, teremos um valor próximo da coleta de IRS de 2020! Um ano de IRS de todos os portugueses para sustentar estas duas companhias. Comparando com o IRC, o esforço que nos está a ser pedido, como contribuintes, para a TAP, representa 80% do IRC pago por todas as empresas portuguesas, durante 2020, e implicará um acréscimo de 1,5% à nossa dívida pública.
Precisamos, urgentemente, de conhecer qual o Plano de Reestruturação, qual o plano a longo prazo que o Governo tem para a TAP, no qual deverão estar equacionados cenários alternativos dentro de um contexto de incerteza.
Será que a TAP tem viabilidade em algum destes cenários?
Será que não faz sentido separar a TAP em duas partes: uma de serviço público, garantindo os voos nacionais, pelos quais poderia ser devidamente remunerada (incluindo através de uma subsidiação pelo Estado) e outra para as rotas sujeitas à concorrência no mercado internacional?
Mas será que a TAP consegue posicionar-se de forma competitiva num mercado altamente concorrencial em que nem nos “bons tempos” conseguiu ser viável? Será que os quatro mil milhões vão chegar?
Até que valor estará o Estado português disposto a pagar para salvar a TAP: cinco mil milhões, 10 mil milhões?
Os contribuintes portugueses têm o direito de saber a resposta a estas questões bem como de conhecer os planos e não podem ser tratados com silêncio e arrogância, sendo certo que o esforço financeiro será deles! Merecem um Estado transparente, sério e sem medo de debates e sugestões! Um Estado que defenda a economia com respeito pelo contribuinte português!
quarta-feira, 24 de março de 2021
A água devia ser mais cara e os ministros de borla
O preço da água deve subir devido à sua escassez e à pressão do lado da procura.
Já o valor do ordenado a pagar a ministros de embaraçosa qualidade, que brotam de baixo de qualquer calhau, deve descer.
Nota: Este ministro é o mesmo que elaborou uma manigância legislativa, no OE, atropelou a APA e deu de bandeja, mais de 100 milhões em impostos à EDP!!!
24 mar 2021, Tiago Dores, ‘Observador’
Ora, numa altura de profunda crise, provocada pela resposta do governo à pandemia, em que as pessoas com menores rendimentos passam enormes dificuldades financeiras, que estupenda ideia ocorreu ao ministro do Ambiente, João Pedro Matos Fernandes? Escusam de tentar adivinhar. Não chegam lá. A não ser que sejam o próprio ministro João Pedro Matos Fernandes, ou outro sádico com similares requintes de malvadez. Pois o senhor ministro acha que o preço da água deve aumentar. Como é óbvio. Quem é que precisa de água nos dias que correm? Toda a gente sabe que a hidratação do organismo está muito sobrevalorizada. E que a toma de banhos é, em virtude da escassez do precioso líquido, novel pecado mortal, com entrada directa para o Top 3 do ranking dos mais assassinos pecados mortais.
Este é o exacto ministro que, há pouco mais de dois anos, sugeriu que os portugueses reduzissem a potência dos quadros eléctricos de suas casas para pouparem na conta da luz. E, tendo isto em conta, percebe-se que, afinal, o responsável pela pasta do Ambiente tem uma estratégia até muito bem engendrada em termos de protecção ambiental. Plano esse composto pelos seguintes pontos:
1. Os portugueses reduzem a potência dos quadros eléctricos de seus lares.
2. Vem o Inverno e o frio é responsável por 1 em cada 4 mortos, como aconteceu em Janeiro último.
3. Os portugueses que sobram pensam: “Eh pá, se volta a fazer tanto fresquinho faleço. É melhor aumentar a potência do quadro.”
4. Os mesmo portugueses, de imediato, concluem: “Ah, espera. Não posso aumentar a potência do quadro, porque estou sem trabalho há largos meses à conta do confinamento. Tenho é de reduzir ainda mais a potência do quadro eléctrico, assim é que é. Reduzir. Eu sabia que era qualquer coisa que tinha a ver com a potência do quadro.”
5. Os portugueses consomem menos electricidade.
6. Voltam os dias gelados e os portugueses não conseguem pensar em nada, pois o som dos dentes a bater de frio não lhes deixa escutar o próprio raciocínio.
7. O que os portugueses mais desejavam era tomar um banho quentinho, para desenregelar. Só que para pagarem as contas do gás e da água têm de vender a casa.
8. Os portugueses consomem menos gás.
9. Os portugueses consomem menos água.
10. Enfim, a Mãe Terra prospera e o ministro do Ambiente congemina já a próxima medida que tornará a vida dos portuguesas ainda mais miserável.
No fundo, isto é uma espécie de Decálogo. Só que em vez de ser um conjunto de princípios relacionados com a ética e a adoração a Deus, trata-se de um conjunto de princípios relacionados com a falta de ética e com a adoração do falso deus das Alterações Climáticas. De resto, podia perfeitamente tratar-se de mais uma religião abraâmica.
E é então para potencializar o impacto desta estratégia que o ministro Matos Fernandes quer aumentar o preço da água. Diz ele que a água é “escassa” e que o seu “preço deve reflectir essa escassez”. Alto. Então agora estamos a invocar a lei da oferta e da procura? Um ministro do governo cujo líder afiança que “esta crise foi o maior atestado de falhanço das visões neoliberais” vem-me agora com teorias de fixação de preços num mercado capitalista? Não, não, senhor ministro, tenha paciência. No executivo do qual o senhor faz parte, tal não é admissível. Eu, sim, posso dizer que se porventura o preço da água deve subir devido à sua escassez e à pressão do lado da procura, já o valor do ordenado a pagar a ministros de embaraçosa qualidade, que brotam de baixo de qualquer calhau, deve descer. Aliás, estou convencido que o preço de equilíbrio no mercado deste tipo de ministro será zero.
Mas não nego que tenha estado algo distraído nas aulas de Introdução à Microeconomia
.
segunda-feira, 22 de março de 2021
Erotica Romana
De: Johann Wolfgang Goethe
I
Here's where I've planted my garden and here I shall care for love's blossoms--
As I am taught by my muse, carefully sort them in plots:
Fertile branches, whose product is golden fruit of my lifetime,
Set here in happier years, tended with pleasure today.
You, stand here at my side, good Priapus--albeit from thieves I've
Nothing to fear. Freely pluck, whosoever would eat.
--Hypocrites, those are the ones! If weakened with shame and bad conscience
One of those criminals comes, squinting out over my garden,
Bridling at nature's pure fruit, punish the knave in his hindparts,
Using the stake which so red rises there at your loins.
II
Tell me ye stones and give me O glorious palaces answer.
Speak O ye streets but one word. Genius, art thou alive?
Yes, here within thy sanctified walls there's a soul in each object,
ROMA eternal. For me, only, are all things yet mute.
Who will then tell me in whispers and where must I find just the window
Where one day she'll be glimpsed: creature who'll scorch me with love?
Can't I divine yet the paths through which over and over
To her and from her I'll go, squandering valuable time?
Visiting churches and palaces, all of the ruins and the pillars,
I, a responsible man, profit from making this trip.
With my business accomplished, ah, then shall only one temple,
AMOR's temple alone, take the initiate in.
Rome, thou art a whole world, it is true, and yet without love this
World would not be the world, Rome would cease to be Rome.
III
More than ever I dreamed, I have found it: my happy good fortune!
Cupid sagaciously led past those palazzos so fine.
He of course knows very well (and I have also discovered)
What, beneath tapestries rich, gilded boudoirs conceal.
One may if one wishes call him a blind, wanton boy--but I know you,
Clever Cupid, too well! O, incorruptible god!
We were by no means inveigled to enter façades so majestic;
Somber cortilé we passed, balcony high and gallant,
Hastening onward until an humble but exquisite portal
Offered a refuge to both, ardent seeker and guide.
Here he provides me with ev'rything, sees that I get what I call for;
Each day that passes he spreads freshly plucked roses for me.
--Isn't that heaven on earth? Say, beautiful Lady Borghese,
What would you give to me more? --You, Nipotina, what yours?
Banquets and game tables, operas, balls, promenades down the Corso?
These but deprive my sweet boy of his most opportune times.
Finery, haughtiness do not entice me. Does one not lift a
Gown of the finest brocade just as one lifts common wool?
If she's to press in comfort a lover against that soft bosom,
Doesn't he want her to be free from all brooches and chains?
Must not the jewelry, and then the lace and the bustles and whalebone
All of it come off entire, if he's to learn how she feels?
I encounter no troubles like those. Simple dress of rough homespun,
At but a lover's mere touch, tumbles in folds to the floor.
Quickly he carries the girl as she's clad in chemise of coarse linen--
Just as a nursemaid might, playfully up to her bed.
Drapings of satin are absent; the mattress is quite unembroidered.
Large is this room where the bed offers its comfort for two.
Jupiter's welcome to more from his Juno if he can get it;
Let any mortal find rest, softer, wherever he can.
We are content with Cupid's delights, authentic and naked--
And with the exquisite creak /crack of the bed as it rocks.
IV
Ask whomever you will but you'll never find out where I'm lodging,
High society's lords, ladies so groomed and refined.
"Tell me, was Werther authentic? Did all of that happen in real life?"
"Lotte, oh where did she live, Werther's only true love?"
How many times have I cursed those frivolous pages that broadcast
Out among all mankind passions I felt in my youth!
Were he my brother, why then I 'd have murdered poor Werther.
Yet his despondent ghost couldn't have sought worse revenge.
That's the way "Marlborough," the ditty, follows the Englishman's travels
Down to Livorno from France, thence from Livorno to Rome,
All of the way into Naples and then, should he flee on to Madras,
"Marlborough" will surely be there, "Marlborough" sung in the port.
Happily now I've escaped, and my mistress knows Werther and Lotte
Not a whit better than who might be this man in her bed:
That he's a foreigner, footloose and lusty, is all she could tell you,
Who beyond mountains and snow, dwelt in a house made of wood.
V
Do not, beloved, regret that you yielded to me so quickly:
I entertain no base, insolent thoughts about you.
Arrows of Cupid work divers effects. Some do but scratch us:
Slow and insidious these poison our hearts over years.
Yet with a head freshly honed and cunningly fledged, certain others
Pierce to the marrow, inflame rapidly there our blood.
When gods and goddesses in days of heroes made love, then
Lust followed look and desire, with no delay, was indulged.
Surely you don't think the goddess of love lost a moment reflecting
When, in Idean grove, Anchises caught her eye.
Nor did Luna delay about kissing that beautiful dreamer--
Jealous Aurora had else hastily wakened the lad.
At the loud banquet Hero regarded Leander--then promptly
Into dark waters he plunged, ardently swam toward his love.
When Rhea Silvia, princess and virgin, came down to the Tiber
Just to fetch water, a god seized her and that is the way
Mars begat himself sons, a pair of twins whom a she wolf
Suckled. Today a proud Rome claims to be queen of the world.
VI
We are so pious, we lovers. Discreetly we worship all powers,
Hoping for favor from each god and each goddess as well.
We are like you, ye victorious Romans, in this: for we offer
Gods of all peoples and tribes, over the whole world, a home--
May the Egyptian, black and austere out of primeval basalt,
Or from the marble a Greek, form them charming and white--
Yet the eternal ones do not object to particularism
(Incense of most precious sort, strewn for just one of their host).
Therefore we gladly confess to singling a special immortal
And our devotions each day pledging but solely to her.
Mischievous celebrants we at these mysteries gay, and so solemn:
Silence exactly befits rites at which we're adepts.
Rather onto our heels by horrible deeds the Erinyes
We would allure, even Zeus' punishment sooner we'd dare--
Under that rock, or bound to a tumbling wheel we'd endure it--
Than we'd withdraw our hearts from the delights of her cult.
Sweet Opportunity, that is her name. You should meet her.
Often will she turn up, ever in a new form.
Daughter of Proteus might well she be whom he sired upon Thetis.
In metamorphoses they've many a hero deceived.
So now the daughter beguiles the naive and bedazzles the foolish,
Teases you while you're asleep; when you awaken, she's flown.
Eagerly yields herself up to the quick, to the active man only.
He discovers she's tame, playful and tender and sweet.
Once she appeared to me, too: a dark-skinned girl, tumbling
Over her forehead the hair down in waves heavy and dark.
Round about a delicate neck curled short little ringlets;
Up from the crown of her head crinkled the unbraided hair.
When she dashed by me I seized her, mistaking her not. Lovingly
Kiss and embrace she returned, knowing and teaching me how.
O how enraptured I was! Ah, say now no more. It's a bygone.
But, O pigtails of Rome, still I'm entrammled in you.
VII
Happily now on classical soil I feel inspiration.
Voices from present and past speak here evocatively.
Heeding ancient advice, I leaf through the works of the Ancients
With an assiduous hand. Daily the pleasure's renewed.
Throughout the night, in a different way, I'm kept busy by Cupid--
If erudition is halved, rapture is doubled that way.
Do then I not become wise when I trace with my eye her sweet bosom's
Form, and the line of her hips stroke with my hand? I acquire,
As I reflect and compare, my first understanding of marble,
See with an eye that feels, feel with a hand that sees.
While my beloved, I grant it, deprives me of moments of daylight,
She in the nighttime hours gives compensation in full.
And we do more than just kiss; we prosecute reasoned discussions
(Should she succumb to sleep, that gives me time for my thoughts).
In her embrace--it's by no means unusual--I've composed poems
And the hexameter's beat gently tapped out on her back,
Fingertips counting in time with the sweet rhythmic breath of her slumber.
Air from deep in her breast penetrates mine and there burns.
Cupid, while stirring the flame in our lamp, no doubt thinks of those days when
For the triumvirs he similar service performed.
VIII
"Can you be cruel enough to sadden me thus with reproaches?
Germans speak, I suppose, bitterly when they're in love.
Bear it I must when the gossips bring forth accusations: I'm guilty--
Or am I not? But, alas, all of my guilt was with you.
Clothes that you've given bear witness for envious neighbors
That the poor widow no more grieves for her husband alone.
Did you not thoughtlessly visit me in the disguise of a cleric,
Muffled all up in a cloak, hair all rounded behind?
Who was it chose that gray monk if not you? Well then a prelate
Now is my lover--Ah, who is my prelate but you?
Never, incredible as it may sound in this clerical city,
Has any cleric brought me--swear it I will--to his bed.
I was sufficiently poor, sad to say. I was young. The seducers
Noted it well. Falconier ogled me often enough.
One of the pimps for Albani with billets doux very impressive
Called me to Ostia once. Quattro Fontani next time.
Who was it did not appear there? Why, who but the very same girl who
Hated with all of her heart stockings both violet and red.
For: 'In the end you poor girls are the ones who are sure to be cheated.'
So said my father although--Mother was not much impressed.
Father was right. Here I stand in the end being cheated and scolded.
You don't believe your own words. They're your excuse to escape.
Go, then. Unworthy of women are men. We, who carry your children
Next to our hearts, in these hearts loyalty we bear you, too.
As for you men, when you've poured out your potency in our embraces
And your desires dissipate, love with them passes away."
These things expressed, and taking her child from its chair, my beloved
Presses it close to her heart, kisses it, tears in her eyes.
I'm now so very ashamed of myself for having permitted
Gossip of neighbors to spoil picture so eloquent.
For a short moment a fire may burn darkly while smoke swirls about it.
Water dashed on the coals suddenly smothers their glow.
Rapidly then renewed heat overcomes those lowering vapors,
Sends up a flame that anew bright and more powerful gleams.
IX
How very happy I am here in Rome when I think of the bad days
Far back there in the north, wrapped in a grayish light.
Over my head there the heavens weighed down so dismal and gloomy;
Colorless, formless, that world round this exhausted man lay.
Seeking myself in myself, an unsatisfied spirit, I brooded,
Spying out pathways dark, lost in dreary reflection.
Here in an æther more clear now a luster encircles my forehead.
Phoebus the god evokes forms, clear are his colors by day.
Bright with the stars comes the evening, ringing with songs that are tender,
And the glow of the moon, brighter than northern sun.
What blessedness mortals may know! Am I now dreaming? Or welcomes
Jupiter, Father, as guest--me, to ambrosial halls?
See, I lie here extending my arms toward your knees. I am praying:
Hospitality's god, Jupiter Xenius! Hear:
How I am come to this place I no longer can say--I was
Seized up by Hebe. 'Twas she led to this sacred hill.
Did you command her a hero to seek and deliver before you?
May be she erred. Then forgive. Let her mistake profit me!
Does not Fortuna, your daughter, when strewing her glorious presents,
After the manner of girls, yield to each passing whim?
You, O hospitable god, will by no means now banish a stranger
From your Olympian heights back to the base earth again.
"Poet, come to your senses!"--Forgive me, Jupiter, is not
Rome's Capitoline Hill second Olympus to you?
Suffer me, Jupiter, here and let Hermes guide me at last then
Past Cestius' Tomb gently to Orkus below.
X
When you were small, you say, neither did others consider you f air, nor
Even your mother find praise--and I believe it--
Till you grew bigger, developing quietly over the years. I
Picture you to myself as an unusual child.
Also the blossoms on grapevines are wanting in shape and in color,
Although the fruit when it's ripe pleases both mankind and gods.
XI
Kindling autumnal fire in a rustic, convivial fireplace
(How the sticks crackle and spew flames and glittering sparks!)
Strikes me especially pleasant this evening. Before all my tinder
Dies away into coals, coals then to ashes decline,
She will be back and new faggots as well as big logs will be blazing,
Making a festival where lovers will warm up the night.
Then in the morning, officious, she'll leave the bed of her lover,
Rouse adroitly the flames out from their ashes anew.
Cupid has lent to her above others the gift of cajoling
Up from the ashes desire, just when slumber's begun.
XII
All of those greats: Alexander, Caesar and Henry and Fredrick,
Gladly would share with me half of their hard fought renown,
Could I but grant them my bed for one single night, and its comfort,
But the poor wretches are held stark in cold Orkian grip.
Therefore, ye living, rejoice that love keeps you warm for a while yet,
Until cold Lethe anoints, captures your foot in its flight.
XIII
They are for you, O ye graces, just a few leaves by a poet
Onto your pure altar laid, buds of the rose beside,
Offered in confidence. Artists enjoy ateliers which are furnished
So as to make for a space Pantheon-like in decor:
Jupiter lowers that godly brow while his Juno looks upward;
Phoebus takes forward strides, shaking his curly head;
While phlegmatic Minerva peers down on us, frivolous Hermes
Seems to be looking askance, roguish, though tender as well.
But it's to Bacchus, the sensuous dreamer, Cythera sends glances
Bathed in sweetest desire--even in marble they're damp.
Thinking about his embrace and its pleasures, she seems to be asking
Shouldn't our glorious son here at our side stand erect?
XIV
Can't you hear voices, beloved, out on the Via Flamina?
Reapers are now going home, back from harvesting grain.
They had journeyed to Rome from afar, and here plaited for Ceres
Wreaths which the Romans today scorn to make for themselves.
Festivals no longer celebrate Ceres, the nourishing goddess
Who replaced acorns of old, giving man golden wheat.
Let us commemorate her then ourselves in festival private
(Two constitute a whole tribe, when they are two in love).
Have you by any chance heard how that mystical, strange celebration
Followed victorious troops back from Eleusis to Rome?
Greeks were the ones who began it, and only to Greeks they proclaimed it
Even within Roman walls: "Come to the sanctified night."
Those who were not of the cult kept their distance; neophytes trembled,
Waiting in garments of white, symbol of all that is pure.
Then the initiates must aimlessly wander about through the eerie
Circles of figures as if pilgriming through their own dreams.
Snakes on the ground were writhing about. Now virgins came bearing
Caskets securely locked, richly wreathéd with grain.
Surely the gestures of murmuring priests must contain some deep meaning--
Impatient acolytes wait, anxiously hoping for light.
Not until after many a testing and trial did they discover
What, within sacred ring, secretive image concealed.
What was this mystery other than this: that Demeter, goddess,
Once upon a time had to a hero been kind.
It was to Jason, powerful king of the Cretans, she granted
Of her immortal self hidden sweet parts to explore.
That made the fortune of Crete! The marital bed of the goddess
Soon grew pregnant with grain, heavy her bounteous fields.
As for the rest of the world, it languished away, while Ceres,
Derelict of her true task, dalliance offered in love.
--Now the initiate youths, having followed this tale, all astonished,
Turned and beckoned their loves--love, do you comprehend?
See there the sacred shade beneath that bushy-boughed myrtle?
Our satisfaction will there scarcely endanger a world.
XV
Cupid is always a scoundrel, and if you believe him he'll cheat you.
Here's what the hypocrite said: "Trust me just once more, this time.
I have the best of intentions toward you who have now dedicated--
I recognize it with thanks--life and writings to me.
Lo, I have followed you hither to Rome, and I'd like to do something
Here in this far away land pleasing to such an old friend.
Every traveller I've ever known has complained of poor treatment:
He whom I recommend treatment delicious receives.
You've now regarded with awe all the structures which lie here in ruins,
Cultivated your eye, sensing each hallowéd space.
How you've revered the formative will of those ancient artists!
In their own ateliers often I 've visited them.
As for their works, why, I formed those myself--now this time I'm boasting
Not. Oh come now, admit what I am saying is true.
Where are your own creations, your service to me having slackened?
Where is invention's glow now? Where is the color all gone?
Friend, do you hope you can create again? --The school of the Ancients
Yet remains open. Its gates, years have not closed them to you.
I am eternally young, and as teacher I still love the young ones.
Wisdom that comes with old age pleases me not. Listen here:
Wasn't antiquity young when those fortunate Ancients were living?
Happy then be your life, too: in it antiquity lives.
Where will you find a fit theme for your song? --It is I must provide it.
As for a style truly grand, love can alone give you that."
All of these claims that sophist asserted. Could I contradict him?
I am wont to obey, when my commander decrees.
Treacherous now he is keeping his word: giving me themes for my poems
While he is stealing my time, potency, presence of mind.
Gazing into her eyes, holding hands, giving kisses, exchanging
Syllables sweet and those words lovers alone understand,
Murmuring our conversations we stutter in sweet oratory.
Hymns of such sort pass away, wanting prosodical tact.
Goddess of morning, Aurora, as friend of my muse I once knew you.
Has the unprincipled god, Cupid, seduced you now too?
So that these mornings you come as his sweetheart, awakening me at
His festive altar again, where I must celebrate him?
Here on my breast flows her hair, an abundance of curls, while her head rests,
Pressing my arm as it's bent, so as to pillow her neck.
What a delicious condition, if only these few tranquil moments
Could in my memory fix firmly that image of joy
When the night rocked us to sleep--but in slumber she's moving away now,
From my side turns, as she goes leaving her hand in my hand.
Love in our hearts makes us one, as the genuine need there stays constant;
Only returning desire knows oscillation or change.
Gently her hand presses mine, now she opens her eyes and is looking
Into my own eyes. No--don't. Let my thoughts rest on your form!
Please close your eyes. They're inebriation, confusion, they rob me
All too soon of the joy quiet reflection affords.
Grand are the forms of this body and nobly positioned each member.
Had Ariadne lain thus, Theseus never had fled.
Only a single kiss for these lips and then, O Theseus, leave her;
Look at her eyes--she's awake! Now you're eternally bound.
XVI
Boy, won't you light me a lamp. "But dear master, there's light in the sky yet.
Don't waste your oil and the wick. Don't close the shutters so soon.
Only the houses are blocking the sun there, it's not yet the mountains.
Until the curfew shall ring, full half an hour must pass."
Wretched young fellow, be gone and obey me! My loved one is coming.
Lamplight, console me till then, harbinger warm of the night.
XVII
Poets of old in chorus cried out against those two serpents,
Making them horrible names, hated in all of the world:
Python the one, the other the Hydra of Lerna. These monsters
Both have now been destroyed, thanks to the deeds of the gods.
Fire-breathing, venomous once, they no longer now depredate our
Flocks and meadows and woods, fields of golden grain.
How is it then that some spiteful god in his wrath has
Raised from the poisonous slime offspring so monstrous again?
There's an insidious viper creeps into the loveliest gardens,
Lying in wait to attack all who seek pleasure therein.
Noble Hesperian dragon, I call you courageous and forthright.
Boldly defending your own beautiful apples of gold.
As for this worm, why he is not guarding at all, for his presence
Sullies both garden and fruit, till they deserve no defense.
Secretly coiled beneath bushes, where he befouls the sweet wellsprings,
Turning to poisonous drool Cupid's lifegiving dew.
Happy Lucretius knew how in his day to forego love completely,
Fearing not to enjoy pleasure in anyone's arms.
Fortunate Ancient, Propertius, for you a slave fetched the girls down
From the Aventine Hill, from Tarpeia's grove.
Cynthia then, when driving you out of such unchaste embraces,
Found you unfaithful, it's true, but she did find you whole.
Who would today dare attempt to escape from fidelity's ennui?
Love does not hold one back--only concern for one's health.
Even the woman we love may afford us uncertain enjoyment;
Nowhere can feminine lap safely encouch a man's head.
Matrimonial bed's insecure and so's fornication;
Husband, lover and wife pass to each other the hurt.
Think of those ages of gold when Jupiter followed his urges,
Chose Callisto one day, turned to Semel the next.
It was important to him to find thresholds of temples so sacred
Pure when, enamoured, he sought powerful entry to them.
Can you imagine the ragings of Juno if in love's skirmish
Poisonous weapons on her by her own spouse had been turned?
But we neo-pagans may not after all be abandoned entirely:
Yet there is speeding a god mercifully over the earth,
Quick and assiduous. Everyone knows him and ought to adore him,
Herald of Zeus: Hermes, the healing god.
Although his father's temple be fallen, and though of its pillars
Scarcely a pair yet records ancient glory adored,
Nevertheless the son's place of worship still stands, and forever
Will there the ardent requests alternate with the thanks.
Only one favor I beg of you, Graces (I ask it in secret--
Fervent my prayer and deep, out of a passionate breast):
My little garden, my sweet one, protect it and do not let any
Evil come near it nor me. Cupid will hold out his hand:
O, and entrusting myself to the rascal, I beg you please may I
Do so in pleasure with no danger or worry or fear.
XVIII
I cannot think I'd have gone with Julius Caesar to Britain;
To the Popina right here, Florus would tug me with ease.
Fogs of the dreary north remain a more baleful remembrance
Than in the kitchens of Rome tribes of assiduous fleas.
After today, I'll remember you even more kindly, tavernas,
You osterias, as you are called, aptly by those here in Rome.
That was the place I encountered my mistress today with the uncle
Whom she so often deceives, so that she can have me.
Here's where I sat at a table surrounded by good-natured Germans;
Over on that side the girl, finding a seat for herself
Next to her mother where, frequently shifting her bench, she arranged
Nicely for me to perceive profile and curve of her neck;
Speaks just a little more loudly than women in Rome are accustomed;
Significant glance as she pours--misses the glass with the wine
So that it spills on the table, and she with a delicate finger
Over its surface can draw circles in damp arabesque:
Her name entwining in mine, while my eyes most eagerly follow
All that her fingertip writes. She is of course well aware
That I am watching, so finally makes the V of the Roman
Five, with a virgule before. Quickly, as soon as I've seen,
She interlaces the circles, reducing them all to ornatest
Patterns--but still the sweet IV stood as engraved in my eye.
I sat there mutely and biting my passionate lips almost bloody
Half from delight at the ruse, partly from stifled desire:
Such a long time until dark, then another four hours of waiting.
--Sun, who tarries on high, contemplating Rome:
Greater never you've nor shall you in future see greater
Than Rome, O sun, as your priest, Horace, enraptured foretold.
Tarry no longer today. Go seek other realms beneath heaven.
Sooner depart and leave Rome's seven famed hills to me.
Please do the poet a favor and shorten the glorious hours
Which the painter devours, eagerly filling his eyes.
Cast now but one ardent glance, while descending, on noble façades and
Cupolas, pillars, and--last--up at the obelisks. Then
Hastily plunge to the ocean. Come view all the sooner tomorrow
That which, for centuries now, gods have let you enjoy:
Italy's shoreline so long overgrown with moist reeds, elevations
Somberly rising to shades cast by the bushes and trees.
First were but few simple dwellings here, suddenly sunlight discovered
Nations enlivening hills teeming with fortunate thieves.
Onto this spot they assembled such plunder, in your eye so splendid
All earth's remaining orb scarcely was worthy of note.
You watched a world being born here, watched the same world sink to ruin,
And from those ruins yet arise world again greater, perhaps.
O may I long by your light now behold this Rome. May the Parcæ
Spin the fine thread of my life slowly, taking great care.
O but come rushing the moment my love designated so sweetly.
Wonderful! Sound already the chimes? --No, but I heard at least three.
Thus, my dear muses, again you've beguiled the monotony for me.
Of this long interval while I was apart from my love.
All of you now, farewell! I'll be going now--don't be offended.
For, though you're proud, you'll concede: Cupid in my heart comes first.
XIX
Why did you fail to appear at the cot in the vineyard today, Love?
As I had promised I would, long I awaited you there.
"Dear, I had almost arrived when I saw, by good fortune, your uncle
Standing right there by the vines, looking now this way, now that.
Stealthily I slipped away." --Alas, what a misapprehension!
You saw the scarecrow, that's all. Nothing else drove you away.
Reeds and some discarded garments all hastily cobbled together--
I helped to make it myself: diligent in my own grief.
"Well, now his wish is fulfilled. The old gardner's most dissolute crow has
Left on this day unscathed nice little garden and niece."
XX
While there is many an unpleasant sound, I hate to hear barking
Worse than anything else. Bellowing dogs split my ears.
Nevertheless I do like to hear, and take pleasure in listening
To the loud howl of the dog raised from a pup next door.
That is the dog that so bayed one time at my girl that he almost
Gave our secret away (when she was visiting me).
Now, when I hear the dog barking I think my beloved is coming--
Or I remember the time, when long awaited she came.
XXI
I can tell not only about a discomfort far greater than others,
But of a horror besides, thinking of which will arouse
Every fiber in me to revulsion. My friends, I confess it:
Great displeasure I take lying alone in my bed.
But it's a horror to fear on the pathways of love you'll discover
Snakes and their venom beneath roses of eager desire--
That at the moment supreme, when I'm yielding to pleasure so fully,
Right at my head as it droops, hissing disease may approach.
That's why Faustina as my companion in bed makes me happy:
Loving she always remains faithful, as I am to her.
Young men are aroused in their passions by obstacles and by excitement;
I prefer to go slow, savoring pleasures secure.
Is it not bliss to exchange tender kisses containing no dangers,
Sucking into our lungs, carefree, our partner's own life?
That is the way our long nights of enjoyment are passed. We listen,
Breast against breast, to the storm, pouring down rain in the wind
Morning begins to dawn, we expect from these hours approaching
Blossoms that will adorn festive the coming new day.
Quirites, permit me the joy, and may this, of all pleasures on earth the
First and the last, be vouchsafed all of mankind by the god.
XXII
Ah, to uphold one's respectable name is not easy. The Lady
Fame has an ancient foe: Cupid, my master and lord.
Oh, by the way, have you heard of the cause of their mutual hatred?
It's an old story, I think--Let me just tell it again.
Powerful ever the goddess, but nevertheless to her fellows
Overbearing and rude, quite unendurable. She
Had by the gods since time out of mind at their banquets been dreaded,
Yelling with brassiest voice orders to great and to small.
Once, in her arrogance even maintained that she had subjected
To her own will, as her slave, Jove's most illustrious son.
"One of these days, O father of deities," cried she in triumph,
"I shall be bringing you my--Hercules, as if new born.
Don't think that Hercules be still that boy whom Alcmene once bore you;
His adulation of me makes him now god upon earth.
When toward Olympus he gazes, I've no doubt you hope that he's looking
Piously toward your knees. Hardly. He's looking for me.
Worthiest man! O the vision of winning my favor makes easy
Hitherto unexplored paths, under that powerful foot.
I do my part, for I meet him halfway and proclaim his adventures
Praising his name in advance, even before he's begun.
One day you'll wed me to Hercules. Hero who Amazons conquered
That day will overwhelm me. Happily I'll call him: spouse."
All of the gods kept their counsel, and none would reply to the braggart,
Lest in a pique she devise vengeance against one of them.
Cupid, escaping attention, slipped off to enslave, however, her hero:
Artlessly conquering by--force of a beautiful girl,
Afterward decked out his couple in mute masquerade: lionskin
Over her shoulders, the club leaned (by much toil) at her side;
Wiry stiff hair of the hero larded with blossoms, a distaff
Laid in his fist, to conform strength to the dalliance of love.
Scene now completed and ready to tease, he goes scampering, shouting
For all Olympus to hear: "Come, see these glorious deeds!
Heaven and Earth and the Sun on his indefatigable journey
Over that infinite path never did witness the like!"
Everyone hastened, gulled by the dissolute boy, who feigning
Earnest, had summoned them all (Fame by no means lagged behind).
Which of the gods will now smile in sweet condescension on Cupid?
--Juno! delighted, of course, seeing a man humbled so.
Fame, on the other hand, stood there ashamed, embarrassed, despairing.
First she just laughed, saying: "Gods, be not deceived. It's a masque.
I know my hero too well to be fooled by disguises of actors."
Soon, though, in pain she perceived: Hercules, none but he.
(Vulcan had not been one thousandth so vexed to discover his playmate
Under his meshes ensnared, caught with his own lusty friend,
Lying just as the wiles of the net at the most crucial moment
Deftly embraced their embrace, trapping their instant of joy.
How those boys, Bacchus and Mercury, guffawed, and freely admitted:
Sweet must be the repose, lying on bosom so fine
Of this magnificent woman. They turned to Vulcan entreating:
"Do not release them just yet. Let us inspect them once more."
And the old cuckold was cuckold enough to comply with their wishes.)
As for poor Fame, in all haste, burning with wrath she must flee.
Since then no armistice has been proclaimed to the feuding between them.
Let her but favor a man, hot in pursuit is the boy.
He whom Fame honors most can least defend against Cupid,
And her most dang'rous attacks strike the most morally proud.
Whoever tries to escape him is dragged down from bad deeds to worse ones.
Yes, he will offer you girls--if like a fool you despise
These, only then do you feel from his bow the arrows most vicious:
Heat of man's love for man, ardent desires toward beasts.
For those ashamed of him Cupid reserves the bitterest passions,
Mingling for hypocrites their pleasure in vice and remorse.
But, at the same time, the goddess seeks him, she's watching and list'ning.
Should find him with you, ill disposed will she be:
Frighten you, frowning austerely, contemptuously, violently casting
Into the worst of repute houses he's known to frequent.
Ah, it's the same with me, too. I haven't escaped her, the goddess.
Jealously she seeks me out, sweet secret love to expose.
I will submit to the ancient law and in silence revere her,
For, when great lords fall out, I like the Greeks must atone.
XXIII
However comely be strength, or free and undaunted comportment,
Secrecy is for a man most important of all.
Mighty subduer of cities, Discretion, O princess of nations,
Goddess whom I adore, safely you've led me thus far.
Now, though, what fate shall befall me? My frivolous muse has now opened
--Cupid, the scamp--opens lips hitherto sealed so well.
Difficult is it, alas, to conceal the shame of a monarch;
Hide it can neither his crown, nor a tight Phrygian cap:
Midas has asses ears! the first servant discovers--O horror!
Shame of this secret so weighs, Midas unburdens his heart.
Into the earth for safekeeping the servant must bury the story,
Easing in this way the king: earth must conceal the tale.
Reeds in a trice are sprouting and rustling in murmuring breezes:
"Midas, o Midas the King--bears the ears of an ass!"
Mine is a secret more pleasant, but even more difficult keeping:
Out of abundance of heart eagerly speaketh my mouth.
None of my ladyfriends dare I confide in, for they would but chide me;
Nor any gentleman friend, lest he be rival to me.
Rapture proclaim to the grove, to the echoing cliffs perorate it?
One can do that if one's young, or if one's lonely enough.
I to hexameters tell, in pentameters I will confide it:
During the day she was joy, happiness all the night long.
Courted by so many suitors, avoided the snares that were set her
Now by one bolder than I, now by another in guile,
Cleverly, daintily, always slipped past them, and sure of the byways,
Comes to her lover's embrace, where he so eagerly waits.
Luna! Don't rise yet. She's coming, and must not be seen by the neighbor!
Breezes, rustle the leaves: muffle the sound of her feet.
And as for you, little poems, o grow and flower, your blossoms
Cradling themselves in the air, tepid and soft with love's breath.
Wafting, betray to Quirites, as Midas' reeds did with cheap gossip,
One happy couple in love, and their sweet secret, at last.
XXIV
I in the back of the garden, the last of the gods, in a corner,
Ineptly formed, must I stand. Evil the inroads of time.
Cucumber vines grow entwining about this primeval lingam,
Cracking it almost in two under the weight of the fruit.
Faggots are heaped all about me against the cold of the winter,
Which I so hate for the crows settling then down on my head,
Which they befoul very shamefully. Summer's no better: the servants
Empty their bowels and show insolent, naked behinds.
Filth, above and below! I was clearly in danger of turning
Into filth myself, toadstool, rotten wood!
Now, by your efforts, O noblest of artists, I shall recover
With fellow gods my just place. And it's no more than my due.
Jupiter's throne, so dishonestly won, it was I who secured it:
Color and ivory, marble and bronze, not to mention the poems.
Now, all intelligent men look upon me in kindness. They like to
Form their own image of me, just as the poet has done.
Nor do the girls take offense when they see me--by no means the matrons.
None finds me ugly today, though I am monstrously strong.
Half a foot long, as reward, your glorious rod (dear poet)
Proudly shall strut from your loins, when but your dearest commands,
Nor shall your member grow weary until you've enjoyed the full dozen
Artful positions the great poet Philainis describes.
ABOUT THE ELEGIES
Goethe cultivated a special, italianate hand for this portfolio of
twenty-four "elegies," so called because he was emulating the elegiasts
of Imperial Rome, Tibullus, Propertius, Catullus. The Elegies have
never before been published as here, together in the cyclical form of
their original conception. Experts even denied that the two priapeia (I
& XXIV) were by Goethe at all, although they are in the same hand as the
rest. To be sure, these two are not numbered, so that I was long
undecided as to just what their proper position might be. At one time I
imagined they must belong at the middle of the cycle where at the end of
Elegy XIII Priapus' mother summons her son. Obviously Goethe, just
returned north from his two years in Italy (1786-88), and alienated from
prim, courtly friends (especially since he had taken a girlfriend into
his cottage), had no thought of publication when he indited these
remembrances of Ancient Rome. But he did show them to close friends,
one of whom was the wonderful dramatist Friedrich Schiller. In 1795,
Schiller undertook a new periodical, Die Horen. This thoughtful and
responsible man initiated the journal with an essay of his own,
explaining how forms of entertainment are actually at the same time our
primary modes of education. It makes for pretty difficult reading in
our present, less interested epoch. But he did break the essay up with
diversions solicited from the best minds of his era. For a discussion
of all this, see
_Professor Worthy's Page_
For now, it is enough to say that among Schiller's examples for
"aesthetic education," as he called it, were these Elegies by his much
admired friend, Wolfgang Goethe. Editor and author made substantial
changes for propriety's sake--despite Goethe's having lashed out to the
contrary in the first Elegy (which he now suppressed, along with the
final one). My attempt has been--for the very first time by the way, in
any language--to restore Goethe's cycle to his early conception. Since
I have been unwilling to intrude with learned notes, I must apologize
for Goethe's many classical allusions, which were as familiar to his own
readership as are, in our publications today, the dense references to
media celebrities. Modern editors of what they call the "Roman Elegies"
bring abundant annotation, and often detail Goethe's own emendations.
What I bring here is merely translated from his manuscript in the
Goethe-Schiller Archive in Weimar.
Benefícios para a saúde do cozinhar numa panela de barro.
Você sabia que comida cozida em panelas de barro é melhor para si?
De acordo com o especialista em Ayurveda do Dr. Vaidya, Dr. Surya Bhagwati, “cozinhar numa panela de barro não só tem uma variedade de benefícios para a saúde, mas também torna o processo de cozinhar mais fácil e, no final, um prato mais saboroso e nutritivo. Devido aos seus inúmeros benefícios à saúde, o Ayurveda sugere cozinhar numa panela de barro. Cozinhar numa panela de barro é muito melhor do que em um utensílio normal, não apenas por seus vários benefícios à saúde, mas também torna muito mais simples de cozinhar e melhora a qualidade da comida no final. A porosidade e as propriedades naturais de isolamento da argila fazem com que o calor e a umidade circulem pelos potes de argila. Isso torna o cozinhar numa panela de barro um processo muito mais lento, mas tem o benefício adicional de evitar que cozinheiros amadores queimem seus pratos. Mais importante,
A razão mais convincente para começar a cozinhar em potes de barro sem esmalte vem de uma coisa que ele não faz: lixiviar metais prejudiciais para a comida.
Além de serem bons apenas para si e sua comida, os potes de barro sem esmalte são muito promissores para o meio ambiente. Porque eles vêm essencialmente do solo, eles se decompõem muito rapidamente quando você os descarta, para serem completamente biodegradáveis, ao contrário das panelas de teflon e de aço que ocupam espaço nos corredores da Goodwill ou enchem aterros.
Outro Dr. diz: “Os benefícios para a saúde de cozinhar numa panela de barro são vastos. Em primeiro lugar, os potes de barro adicionam muitos nutrientes importantes como cálcio, fósforo, ferro, magnésio e enxofre aos alimentos, que são extremamente benéficos para o nosso corpo. A argila também é alcalina e por isso actua neutralizando a acidez dos alimentos, o que facilita a digestão. É importante ressaltar que o óleo não é necessário para cozinhar numa panela de barro e, portanto, observa-se que os alimentos cozidos em panelas de barro têm muito menos gordura do que os alimentos preparados em qualquer outro método. ”
De acordo com o especialista em Ayurveda, “Nos tempos modernos, eu não sugeriria que ninguém usasse os potes de barro principalmente porque eles são envidraçados com substâncias que contêm chumbo, mercúrio e muitos outros que podem ser perigosos para a saúde. Se você conseguir uma panela de barro puro e sem esmalte, pode começar a cozinhá-la depois de deixá-la de molho por algum tempo.
Você pode comprar qualquer produto moderno de cerâmica de barro a preços incríveis com óptimos descontos e frete grátis nas compras qualificadas.
quarta-feira, 17 de março de 2021
O CONTRIBUINTE E O ESTADO
Comprar um carro em Portugal
"Contribuinte – Gostava de comprar um carro.
Estado – Muito bem. Faça o favor de escolher.
Contribuinte – Já escolhi. Tenho que pagar alguma coisa?
Estado – Sim. Imposto sobre Automóveis (ISV) e Imposto sobre o Valor Acrescentado (IVA)
Contribuinte – Ah… Só isso.
Estado – … e uma “coisinha” para o pôr a circular. O IUC!
Contribuinte – Ah!..
Estado – … e mais uma coisinha na gasolina necessária para que o carro efectivamente circule. O ISP.
Contribuinte – Mas… sem gasolina eu não circulo.
Estado – Eu sei.
Contribuinte – … Mas eu já pago para circular…
Estado – Claro!..
Contribuinte – Então… vai cobrar-me pelo valor da gasolina?
Estado – Também. Mas isso é o IVA. O ISP é outra coisa diferente.
Contribuinte – Diferente?!
Estado – Muito. O ISP é porque a gasolina existe.
Contribuinte – … Porque existe?!
Estado – Há muitos milhões de anos os dinossauros e o carvão fizeram petróleo. E você paga.
Contribuinte – … Só isso?
Estado – Só. Mas não julgue que pode deixar o carro assim como quer.
Contribuinte – Como assim?!
Estado – Tem que pagar para o estacionar.
Contribuinte – … Para o estacionar?
Estado – Exacto.
Contribuinte – Portanto, pago para andar e pago para estar parado?
Estado – Não. Se quiser mesmo andar com o carro precisa de pagar seguro.
Contribuinte – Então pago para circular, pago para conseguir circular e pago por estar parado.
Estado – Sim. Nós não estamos aqui para enganar ninguém. O carro é novo?
Contribuinte – Novo?
Estado – É que se não for novo tem que pagar para vermos se ele está em condições de andar por aí.
Contribuinte – Pago para você ver se pode cobrar?
Estado – Claro. Acha que isso é de borla? Só há mais uma coisinha…
Contribuinte – …Mais uma coisinha?
Estado – Para circular em auto-estradas
Contribuinte – Mas… mas eu já pago imposto de circulação.
Estado – Pois. Mas esta é uma circulação diferente.
Contribuinte – … Diferente?
Estado – Sim. Muito diferente. É só para quem quiser.
Contribuinte – Só mais isso?
Estado – Sim. Só mais isso.
Contribuinte – E acabou?
Estado – Sim. Depois de pagar os 25 euros, acabou.
Contribuinte – Quais 25 euros?!
Estado – Os 25 euros que custa pagar para andar nas auto-estradas.
Contribuinte – Mas não disse que as auto-estradas eram só para quem quisesse?
Estado – Sim. Mas todos pagam os 25 euros.
Contribuinte – Quais 25 euros?
Estado – Os 25 euros é quanto custa o chip.
Contribuinte – … Custa o quê?
Estado – Pagar o chip. Para poder pagar.
Contribuinte – Não perc...
Estado – Sim. Pagar custa 25 euros.
Contribuinte – Pagar custa 25 euros?
Estado – Sim. Paga 25 euros para pagar.
Contribuinte – Mas eu não vou circular nas auto-estradas.
Estado – Imagine que um dia quer…tem que pagar.
Contribuinte – Tenho que pagar para pagar porque um dia posso querer?
Estado – Exactamente. Você paga para pagar o que um dia pode querer.
Contribuinte – E se eu não quiser?
Estado – Paga multa."
Podíamos enumerar mais uns poucos, mas dá para ter a ideia do custo dos impostos só por ter um veículo no nosso Portugal.
WHAT THE LEFT HAND … WAS DOING
By DARRELL T. LANGART
The building itself was unprepossessive enough. It was an old-fashioned, six-floor, brick structure that had, over the years, served first as a private home, then as an apartment building, and finally as the headquarters for the organization it presently housed.
It stood among others of its kind in a lower-middle-class district of Arlington, Virginia, within howitzer range of the capitol of the United States, and even closer to the Pentagon. The main door was five steps up from the sidewalk, and the steps were flanked by curving balustrades of ornamental ironwork. The entrance itself was closed by a double door with glass panes, beyond which could be seen a small foyer. On both doors, an identical message was blocked out in neat gold letters: _The Society For Mystical and Metaphysical Research, Inc._
It is possible that no more nearly perfect cover, no more misleading front for a secret organization ever existed in the history of man. It possessed two qualities which most other cover-up titles do not have.
One, it was so obviously crackpot that no one paid any attention to it except crackpots, and, two, it was perfectly, literally true.
Spencer Candron had seen the building so often that the functional beauty of the whole setup no longer impressed him as it had several years before. Just as a professional actor is not impressed by being allowed backstage, or as a multimillionaire considers expensive luxuries as commonplace, so Spencer Candron thought of nothing more than his own personal work as he climbed the five steps and pushed open the glass-paned doors.
Perhaps, too, his matter-of-fact attitude was caused partially by the analogical resemblance between himself and the organization. Physically, Candron, too, was unprepossessing. He was a shade less than five eight, and his weight fluctuated between a hundred and forty and a hundred and forty-five, depending on the season and his state of mind. His face consisted of a well-formed snub nose, a pair of introspective gray eyes,
a rather wide, thin-lipped mouth that tended to smile even when relaxed, a high, smooth forehead, and a firm cleft chin, plus the rest of the
normal equipment that normally goes to make up a face. The skin was slightly tanned, but it was the tan of a man who goes to the beach on
summer weekends, not that of an outdoorsman. His hands were strong and wide and rather large; the palms were uncalloused and the fingernails were clean and neatly trimmed. His hair was straight and light brown, with a pronounced widow's peak, and he wore it combed back and rather long to conceal the fact that a thin spot had appeared on the top rear of his scalp. His clothing was conservative and a little out of style, having been bought in 1981, and thus three years past being up-to-date.
Physically, then, Spencer Candron, was a fine analog of the Society. He looked unimportant. On the outside, he was just another average man whom no one would bother to look twice at. The analogy between himself and the S.M.M.R. was completed by the fact
that his interior resources were vastly greater than anything that showed on the outside.
The doors swung shut behind him, and he walked into the foyer, then turned left into the receptionist's office. The woman behind the desk smiled her eager smile and said, "Good morning, Mr. Candron!" Candron smiled back. He liked the woman, in spite of her semifanatic overeagerness, which made her every declarative sentence seem to end with an exclamation point. "Morning, Mrs. Jesser," he said, pausing at the desk for a moment. "How have things been?" Mrs. Jesser was a stout matron in her early forties who would have been perfectly happy to work for the Society for nothing, as a hobby. That she was paid a reasonable salary made her job almost heaven for her. "Oh, just _fine_, Mr. Candron!" she said. "Just _fine_!" Then her voice lowered, and her face took on a serious, half conspiratorial expression. "Do you know what?"
"No," said Candron, imitating her manner. "What?"
"We have a gentleman ... he came in yesterday ... a _very_ nice man ... and very intelligent, too. And, you know what?"
Candron shook his head. "No," he repeated. "What?"
Mrs. Jesser's face took on the self-pleased look of one who has important inside knowledge to impart. "He has actual photographs ...
three-D, full-color _pho_tographs ... of the con_trol_ room of a flying saucer! And one of the Saucerites, too!"
"Really?" Candron's expression was that of a man who was both impressed and interested. "What did Mr. Balfour say?"
"Well--" Mrs. Jesser looked rather miffed. "I don't really _know_! But the gentleman is supposed to be back to_mor_row! With some _more_ pictures!"
"Well," said Candron. "Well. That's really fine. I hope he has something. Is Mr. Taggert in?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Candron! He said you should go on up!" She waved a plump hand toward the stairway. It made Mrs. Jesser happy to think that she was the sole controller of the only way, except for the fire escape, that anyone could get to the upper floors of the building. And as long as she thought that, among other things, she was useful to the Society. Someone had to handle the crackpots and lunatic-fringe fanatics that came to the Society, and one of their own kind could do the job better than anyone else. As long as Mrs. Jesser and Mr. Balfour were on duty, the Society's camouflage would remain intact.
Spencer Candron gave Mrs. Jesser a friendly gesture with one hand and then headed up the stairs. He would rather not have bothered to take the stairway all the way up to the fifth floor, but Mrs. Jesser had sharp ears, and she might wonder why his foot-steps were not heard all the way up. Nothing--but _nothing_--must ever be done to make Mrs. Jesser wonder about anything that went on here.
* * * * *
The door to Brian Taggert's office was open when Candron finally reached the fifth floor. Taggert, of course, was not only expecting him, but had long been aware of his approach.
Candron went in, closed the door, and said, "Hi, Brian," to the dark-haired, dark-eyed, hawk-nosed man who was sprawled on the couch
that stood against one corner of the room. There was a desk at the other rear corner, but Brian Taggert wasn't a desk man. He looked like a
heavy-weight boxer, but he preferred relaxation to exercise. But he did take his feet from the couch and lift himself to a sitting
position as Candron entered. And, at the same time, the one resemblance between Taggert and Candron manifested itself--a warm, truly human
smile. "Spence," he said warmly, "you look as though you were bored. Want a job?" "No," said Candron, "but I'll take it. Who do I kill?" "Nobody, unless you absolutely have to," said Taggert. Spencer Candron understood. The one thing that characterized the real members of The Society for Mystical and Metaphysical Research--not the "front" members, like Balfour and Mrs. Jesser, not the hundreds o "honorable" members who constituted the crackpot portion of the membership, but the real core of the group--the thing that characterized them could be summed up in one word: _understanding_. Without that one essential property, no human mind can be completely free. Unless a human mind is capable of understanding the only forces that can be pitted against it--the forces of other human minds--that mind cannot avail itself of the power that lies within it. Of course, it is elementary that such understanding must also apply to
oneself. Understanding of self must come before understanding of others.
_Total_ understanding is not necessary--indeed, utter totality is very
likely impossible to any human mind. But the greater the understanding,
the freer the mind, and, at a point which might be called the "critical
point," certain abilities inherent in the individual human mind become
controllable. A change, not only in quantity, but in quality, occurs.
A cube of ice in a glass of water at zero degrees Celsius exhibits
certain properties and performs certain actions at its surface. Some of
the molecules drift away, to become one with the liquid. Other molecules
from the liquid become attached to the crystalline ice. But, the ice
cube remains essentially an entity. Over a period of time, it may change
slowly, since dissolution takes place faster than crystallization at the
corners of the cube. Eventually, the cube will become a sphere, or
something very closely approximating it. But the change is slow, and,
once it reaches that state, the situation becomes static.
But, if you add heat, more and more and more, the ice cube will change,
not only its shape, but its state. What it was previously capable of
doing only slightly and impermanently, it can now do completely. The
critical point has been passed.
Roughly--for the analog itself is rough--the same things occurs in the
human mind. The psionic abilities of the human mind are, to a greater or
lesser degree, there to begin with, just as an ice cube has the
_ability_ to melt if the proper conditions are met with.
The analogy hardly extends beyond that. Unlike an ice cube, the human
mind is capable of changing the forces outside it--as if the ice could
seek out its own heat in order to melt. And, too, human minds vary in
their inherent ability to absorb understanding. Some do so easily,
others do so only in spotty areas, still others cannot reach the
critical point before they break. And still others can never really understand at all.
No one who had not reached his own critical point could become a "core"
member of the S.M.M.R. It was not snobbery on their part; they
understood other human beings too well to be snobbish. It was more as
though a Society for Expert Mountain Climbers met each year on the peak
of Mount Everest--anyone who can get up there to attend the meeting is automatically a member.
Spencer Candron sat down in a nearby chair. "All right, so I refrain
from doing any more damage than I have to. What's the objective?"
Taggert put his palms on his muscular thighs and leaned forward. "James Ch'ien is still alive."
Candron had not been expecting the statement, but he felt no surprise His mind merely adjusted to the new data. "He's still in China, then," he said. It was not a question, but a statement of a deduction. "The whole thing was a phony. The death, the body, the funeral. What about the executions?"
"They were real," Taggert said. "Here's what happened as closely as we can tell:
"Dr. Ch'ien was kidnaped on July 10th, the second day of the conference
in Peiping, at some time between two and three in the morning. He was
replaced by a double, whose name we don't know. It's unimportant,
anyway. The double was as perfect as the Chinese surgeons could make
him. He was probably not aware that he was slated to die; it is more
likely that he was hypnotized and misled. At any rate, he took Ch'ien's
place on the rostrum to speak that afternoon.
"The man who shot him, and the man who threw the flame bomb, were
probably as equally deluded as to what they were doing as the double
was. They did a perfect job, though. The impersonator was dead, and his
skin was charred and blistered clear up to the chest--no fingerprints. "The men were tried, convicted, and executed. The Chinese government sent us abject apologies. The double's body was shipped back to the United States with full honors, but by the time it reached here, the eye-cone patterns had deteriorated to the point where they couldn't be identified any more than the fingerprints could. And there were half a hundred reputable scientists of a dozen friendly nations who were eye-witnesses to the killing and who are all absolutely certain that it was James Ch'ien who died."
Candron nodded. "So, while the whole world was mourning the fact that one of Earth's greatest physicists has died, he was being held captive in the most secret and secure prison that the Red Chinese government could put him in."
Taggert nodded. "And your job will be to get him out," he said softly. Candron said nothing for a moment, as he thought the problem out. Taggert said nothing to interrupt him. Neither of them worried about being overheard or spied upon. Besides
being equipped with hush devices and blanketing equipment, the building
was guarded by Reeves and Donahue, whose combined senses of perception
could pick up any activity for miles around which might be inimical to
the Society.
"How much backing do we get from the Federal Government?" Candron asked at last.
"We can swing the cover-up afterwards all the way," Taggert told him
firmly. "We can arrange transportation back. That is, the Federal
Government can. But getting over there and getting Ch'ien out of durance
vile is strictly up to the Society. Senator Kerotski and Secretary
Gonzales are giving us every opportunity they can, but there's no use
approaching the President until after we've proven our case."
Candron gestured his understanding. The President of the United States
was a shrewd, able, just, and ethical human being--but he was not yet a
member of the Society, and perhaps would never be. As a consequence it
was still impossible to convince him that the S.M.M.R. knew what it was
talking about--and that applied to nearly ninety per cent of the Federal
and State officials of the nation.
Only a very few knew that the Society was an _ex officio_ branch of the
government itself. Not until the rescue of James Ch'ien was an
accomplished fact, not until there was physical, logical proof that the
man was still alive would the government take official action.
"What's the outline?" Candron wanted to know.
Taggert outlined the proposed course of action rapidly. When he was
finished, Spencer Candron simply said, "All right. I can take care of my
end of it." He stood up. "I'll see you, Brian."
Brian Taggert lay back down on the couch, propped up his feet, and
winked at Candron. "Watch and check, Spence."
[Illustration]
Candron went back down the stairs. Mrs. Jesser smiled up at him as he
entered the reception room. "Well! That didn't take long! Are you
leaving, Mr. Candron?"
"Yes," he said, glancing at the wall clock. "Grab and run, you know.
I'll see you soon, Mrs. Jesser. Be an angel."
He went out the door again and headed down the street. Mrs. Jesser had
been right; it hadn't taken him long. He'd been in Taggert's office a
little over one minute, and less than half a dozen actual words had been
spoken. The rest of the conversation had been on a subtler level, one
which was almost completely nonverbal. Not that Spencer Candron was a
telepath; if he had been, it wouldn't have been necessary for him to
come to the headquarters building. Candron's talents simply didn't lie
along that line. His ability to probe the minds of normal human beings
was spotty and unreliable at best. But when two human beings understand
each other at the level that existed between members of the Society,
there is no need for longwinded discourses.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
The big stratoliner slowed rapidly as it approached the Peiping People's
Airfield. The pilot, a big-boned Britisher who had two jobs to do at
once, watched the airspeed indicator. As the needle dropped, he came in
on a conventional landing lane, aiming for the huge field below. Then,
as the needle reached a certain point, just above the landing minimum,
he closed his eyes for a fraction of a second and thought, with all the
mental power at his command: _NOW!_
For a large part of a second, nothing happened, but the pilot knew his
message had been received.
Then a red gleam came into being on the control board.
"What the hell?" said the co-pilot.
The pilot swore. "I _told_ 'em that door was weak! We've ripped the
luggage door off her hinges. Feel her shake?"
The co-pilot looked grim. "Good thing it happened now instead of in
mid-flight. At that speed, we'd been torn apart."
"_Blown_ to bits, you mean," said the pilot. "Let's bring her in."
By that time, Spencer Candron was a long way below the ship, falling
like a stone, a big suitcase clutched tightly in his arms. He knew that
the Chinese radar was watching the jetliner, and that it had undoubtedly
picked up two objects dropping from the craft--the door and one other.
Candron had caught the pilot's mental signal--anything that powerful
could hardly be missed--and had opened the door and leaped.
But those things didn't matter now. Without a parachute, he had flung
himself from the plane toward the earth below, and his only thought was
his loathing, his repugnance, for that too, too solid ground beneath.
He didn't hate it. That would be deadly, for hate implies as much
attraction as love--the attraction of destruction. Fear, too, was out of
the question; there must be no such relationship as that between the
threatened and the threatener. Only loathing could save him. The earth
beneath was utterly repulsive to him.
And he slowed.
His mind would not accept contact with the ground, and his body was
forced to follow suit. He slowed.
Minutes later, he was drifting fifty feet above the surface, his
altitude held steady by the emotional force of his mind. Not until then
did he release the big suitcase he had been holding. He heard it thump
as it hit, breaking open and scattering clothing around it.
In the distance, he could hear the faint moan of a siren. The Chinese
radar had picked up two falling objects. And they would find two: one
door and one suitcase, both of which could be accounted for by the
"accident." They would know that no parachute had opened; hence, if they
found no body, they would be certain that no human being could have
dropped from the plane.
The only thing remaining now was to get into the city itself. In the
darkness, it was a little difficult to tell exactly where he was, but
the lights of Peiping weren't far away, and a breeze was carrying him
toward it. He wanted to be in just the right place before he set foot on
the ground.
By morning, he would be just another one of the city's millions.
* * * * *
Morning came three hours later. The sun came up quietly, as if its sole
purpose in life were to make a liar out of Kipling. The venerable old
Chinese gentleman who strolled quietly down Dragon Street looked as
though he were merely out for a placid walk for his morning
constitutional. His clothing was that of a middle-class office worker,
but his dignified manner, his wrinkled brown face, his calm brown eyes,
and his white hair brought respectful looks from the other passers-by on
the Street of the Dragon. Not even the thirty-five years of Communism,
which had transformed agrarian China into an industrial and
technological nation that ranked with the best, had destroyed the
ancient Chinese respect for age.
That respect was what Spencer Candron relied on to help him get his job
done. Obvious wealth would have given him respect, too, as would the
trappings of power; he could have posed as an Honorable Director or a
People's Advocate. But that would have brought unwelcome attention as
well as respect. His disguise would never stand up under careful
examination, and trying to pass himself off as an important citizen
might bring on just such an examination. But an old man had both respect
and anonymity.
Candron had no difficulty in playing the part. He had known many elderly
Chinese, and he understood them well. Even the emotional control of the
Oriental was simple to simulate; Candron knew what "emotional control"
_really_ meant.
You don't control an automobile by throwing the transmission out of gear
and letting the engine run wild. Suppressing an emotion is not
controlling it, in the fullest sense. "Control" implies guidance and
use.
Peiping contained nearly three million people in the city itself, and
another three million in the suburbs; there was little chance that the
People's Police would single out one venerable oldster to question, but
Candron wanted an escape route just in case they did. He kept walking
until he found the neighborhood he wanted, then he kept his eyes open
for a small hotel. He didn't want one that was too expensive, but, on
the other hand, he didn't want one so cheap that the help would be
untrustworthy.
He found one that suited his purpose, but he didn't want to go in
immediately. There was one more thing to do. He waited until the shops
were open, and then went in search of second-hand luggage. He had enough
money in his pockets to buy more brand-new expensive luggage than a man
could carry, but he didn't want luggage that looked either expensive or
new. When he finally found what he wanted, he went in search of
clothing, buying a piece at a time, here and there, in widely scattered
shops. Some of it was new, some of it was secondhand, all of it fit both
the body and the personality of the old man he was supposed to be.
Finally, he went to the hotel.
The clerk was a chubby, blandly happy, youngish man who bowed his head
as Candron approached. There was still the flavor of the old politeness
in his speech, although the flowery beauty of half a century before had
disappeared.
"Good morning, venerable sir; may I be of some assistance?"
Candron kept the old usages. "This old one would be greatly honored if
your excellent hostelry could find a small corner for the rest of his
unworthy body," he said in excellent Cantonese.
"It is possible, aged one, that this miserable hovel may provide some
space, unsuited though it may be to your honored presence," said the
clerk, reverting as best he could to the language of a generation
before. "For how many people would you require accommodations?"
"For my humble self only," Candron said.
"It can, I think, be done," said the clerk, giving him a pleasant smile.
Then his face took on an expression of contrition. "I hope, venerable
one, that you will not think this miserable creature too bold if he asks
for your papers?"
"Not at all," said Candron, taking a billfold from his inside coat
pocket. "Such is the law, and the law of the People of China is to be
always respected."
He opened the billfold and spread the papers for the clerk's inspection.
They were all there--identification, travel papers, everything. The
clerk looked them over and jotted down the numbers in the register book
on the desk, then turned the book around. "Your chop, venerable one."
The "chop" was a small stamp bearing the ideograph which indicated the
name Candron was using. Illiteracy still ran high in China because of
the difficulty in memorizing the tens of thousands of ideographs which
made up the written language, so each man carried a chop to imprint his
name. Officially, China used the alphabet, spelling out the Chinese
words phonetically--and, significantly, they had chosen the Latin
alphabet of the Western nations rather than the Cyrillic of the Soviets.
But old usages die hard.
Candron imprinted the ideograph on the page, then, beside it, he wrote
"Ying Lee" in Latin characters.
The clerk's respect for this old man went up a degree. He had expected
to have to put down the Latin characters himself. "Our humble
establishment is honored by your esteemed presence, Mr. Ying," he said.
"For how long will it be your pleasure to bestow this honor upon us?"
"My poor business, unimportant though it is, will require it least one
week; at the most, ten days." Candron said, knowing full well that
twenty-four hours would be his maximum, if everything went well.
"It pains me to ask for money in advance from so honorable a gentleman
as yourself," said the clerk, "but such are the rules. It will be seven
and a half yuan per day, or fifty yuan per week."
Candron put five ten-yuan notes on the counter. Since the readjustment
of the Chinese monetary system, the yuan had regained a great deal of
its value.
* * * * *
A young man who doubled as bellhop and elevator operator took Candron up
to the third floor. Candron tipped him generously, but not
extravagantly, and then proceeded to unpack his suitcase. He hung the
suits in the closet and put the shirts in the clothes chest. By the time
he was through, it looked as though Ying Lee was prepared to stay for a
considerable length of time.
Then he checked his escape routes, and found two that were satisfactory.
Neither led downward to the ground floor, but upward, to the roof. The
hotel was eight stories high, higher than any of the nearby buildings.
No one would expect him to go up.
Then he gave his attention to the room itself. He went over it
carefully, running his fingers gently over the walls and the furniture,
noticing every detail with his eyes. He examined the chairs, the low
bed, the floor--everything.
He was not searching for spy devices. He didn't care whether there were
any there or not. He wanted to know that room. To know it, become
familiar with it, make it a part of him.
Had there been any spy devices, they would have noticed nothing unusual.
There was only an old man there, walking slowly around the room,
muttering to himself as though he were thinking over something important
or, perhaps, merely reminiscing on the past, mentally chewing over his
memories.
He did not peer, or poke, or prod. He did not appear to be looking for
anything. He picked up a small, cheap vase and looked at it as though it
were an old friend; he rubbed his hand over the small writing desk, as
though he had written many things in that familiar place; he sat down in
a chair and leaned back in it and caressed the armrests with his palms
as though it were an honored seat in his own home. And, finally, he
undressed, put on his nightclothes, and lay down on the bed, staring at
the ceiling with a soft smile on his face. After ten minutes or so, his
eyes closed and remained that way for three-quarters of an hour.
Unusual? No. An old man must have his rest. There is nothing unusual
about an old man taking a short nap.
When he got up again, Spencer Candron was thoroughly familiar with the
room. It was home, and he loved it.
Nightfall found the honorable Mr. Ying a long way from his hotel. He
had, as his papers had said, gone to do business with a certain Mr. Yee,
had haggled over the price of certain goods, and had been unsuccessful
in establishing a mutual price. Mr. Yee was later to be able to prove
to the People's Police that he had done no business whatever with Mr.
Ying, and had had no notion whatever that Mr. Ying's business
connections in Nanking were totally nonexistent.
But, on that afternoon, Mr. Ying had left Mr. Yee with the impression
that he would return the next day with, perhaps, a more amenable
attitude toward Mr. Yee's prices. Then Mr. Ying Lee had gone to a
restaurant for his evening meal.
He had eaten quietly by himself, reading the evening edition of the
Peiping _Truth_ as he ate his leisurely meal. Although many of the
younger people had taken up the use of the knife and fork, the venerable
Mr. Ying clung to the chopsticks of an earlier day, plied expertly
between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He was not the only
elderly man in the place who did so.
Having finished his meal and his newspaper in peace, Mr. Ying Lee
strolled out into the gathering dusk. By the time utter darkness had
come, and the widely-spaced street lamps of the city had come alive, the
elderly Mr. Ying Lee was within half a mile of the most important group
of buildings in China.
The Peiping Explosion, back in the sixties, had almost started World War
Three. An atomic blast had leveled a hundred square miles of the city
and started fires that had taken weeks to extinguish. Soviet Russia had
roared in its great bear voice that the Western Powers had attacked, and
was apparently on the verge of coming to the defense of its Asian
comrade when the Chinese government had said irritatedly that there had
been no attack, that traitorous and counterrevolutionary Chinese agents
of Formosa had sabotaged an atomic plant, nothing more, and that the
honorable comrades of Russia would be wise not to set off anything that
would destroy civilization. The Russian Bear grumbled and sheathed its
claws.
The vast intelligence system of the United States had reported that (A)
the explosion had been caused by carelessness, not sabotage, but the
Chinese had had to save face, and (B) the Soviet Union had no intention
of actually starting an atomic war at that time. If she had, she would
have shot first and made excuses afterwards. But she _had_ hoped to make
good propaganda usage of the blast.
The Peiping Explosion had caused widespread death and destruction, yes;
but it had also ended up being the fastest slum-clearance project on
record. The rebuilding had taken somewhat more time than the clearing
had taken, but the results had been a new Peiping--a modern city in
every respect. And nowhere else on Earth was there one hundred square
miles of _completely_ modern city. Alteration takes longer than starting
from scratch if the techniques are available; there isn't so much dead
wood to clear away.
In the middle of the city, the Chinese government had built its
equivalent of the Kremlin--nearly a third of a square mile of
ultra-modern buildings designed to house every function of the Communist
Government of China. It had taken slave labor to do the job, but the job
had been done.
A little more than half a mile on a side, the area was surrounded by a
wall that had been designed after the Great Wall of China. It stood
twenty-five feet high and looked very quaint and picturesque.
And somewhere inside it James Ch'ien, American-born physicist, was being
held prisoner. Spencer Candron, alias Mr. Ying Lee, had to get him out.
Dr. Ch'ien was important. The government of the United States knew he
was important, but they did not yet know _how_ important he was.
* * * * *
Man had already reached the Moon and returned. The Martian expedition
had landed safely, but had not yet returned. No one had heard from the
Venusian expedition, and it was presumed lost. But the Moon was being
jointly claimed by Russian and American suits at the United Nations,
while the United Nations itself was trying to establish a claim. The
Martian expedition was American, but a Russian ship was due to land in
two months. The lost Venusian expedition had been Russian, and the
United States was ready to send a ship there.
After nearly forty years, the Cold War was still going on, but now the
scale had expanded from the global to the interplanetary.
And now, up-and-coming China, defying the Western Powers and arrogantly
ignoring her Soviet allies, had decided to get into the race late and
win it if she could.
And she very likely could, if she could exploit the abilities of James
Ch'ien to the fullest. If Dr. Ch'ien could finish his work, travel to
the stars would no longer be a wild-eyed idea; if he could finish,
spatial velocities would no longer be limited to the confines of the
rocket, nor even to the confines of the velocity of light. Man could go
to the stars.
The United States Federal Government knew--or, at least, the most
responsible officers of that government knew--that Ch'ien's equations
led to interstellar travel, just as Einstein's equations had led to
atomic energy. Normally, the United States would never have allowed Dr.
Ch'ien to attend the International Physicists Conference in Peiping. But
diplomacy has its rules, too.
Ch'ien had published his preliminary work--a series of highly abstruse
and very controversial equations--back in '80. The paper had appeared in
a journal that was circulated only in the United States and was not read
by the majority of mathematical physicists. Like the work of Dr. Fred
Hoyle, thirty years before, it had been laughed at by the majority of
the men in the field. Unlike Hoyle's work, it had never received any
publicity. Ch'ien's paper had remained buried.
In '81, Ch'ien had realized the importance of his work, having carried
it further. He had reported his findings to the proper authorities of
the United States Government, and had convinced that particular branch
of the government that his work had useful validity. But it was too late
to cover up the hints that he had already published.
Dr. James Ch'ien was a friendly, gregarious man. He liked to go to
conventions and discuss his work with his colleagues. He was, in
addition, a man who would never let anything go once he had got hold of
it, unless he was convinced that he was up a blind alley. And, as far as
Dr. Ch'ien was concerned, that took a devil of a lot of convincing.
The United States government was, therefore, faced with a dilemma. If
they let Ch'ien go to the International Conferences, there was the
chance that he would be forced, in some way, to divulge secrets that
were vital to the national defense of the United States. On the other
hand, if they forbade him to go, the Communist governments would suspect
that Ch'ien knew something important, and they would check back on his
previous work and find his publications of 1980. If they did, and
realized the importance of that paper, they might be able to solve the
secret of the interstellar drive.
The United States government had figuratively flipped a coin, and the
result was that Ch'ien was allowed to come and go as he pleased, as
though he were nothing more than just another government physicist.
And now he was in the hands of China.
How much did the Chinese know? Not much, evidently; otherwise they would
never have bothered to go to the trouble of kidnaping Dr. James Ch'ien
and covering the kidnaping so elaborately. They _suspected_, yes: but
they couldn't _know_. They knew that the earlier papers meant something,
but they didn't know what--so they had abducted Ch'ien in the hope that
he would tell them.
James Ch'ien had been in their hands now for two months. How much
information had they extracted by now? Personally, Spencer Candron felt
that they had got nothing. You can force a man to work; you can force
him to tell the truth. But you can _not_ force a man to create against
his will.
Still, even a man's will can be broken, given enough time. If Dr. Ch'ien
weren't rescued soon....
_Tonight_, Candron thought with determination. _I'll get Ch'ien
tonight._ That was what the S.M.M.R. had sent him to do. And that's what
he would--_must_--do.
Ahead of him loomed the walls of the Palace of the Great Chinese
People's Government. Getting past them and into the inner court was an
act that was discouraged as much as possible by the Special Police guard
which had charge of those walls. They were brilliantly lighted and
heavily guarded. If Candron tried to levitate himself over, he'd most
likely be shot down in midair. They might be baffled afterwards, when
they tried to figure out how he had come to be flying around up there,
but that wouldn't help Candron any.
Candron had a better method.
* * * * *
When the automobile carrying the People's Minister of Finance, the
Honorable Chou Lung, went through the Gate of the Dog to enter the inner
court of the Palace, none of the four men inside it had any notion that
they were carrying an unwanted guest. How could they? The car was a
small one; its low, streamlined body carried only four people, and there
was no luggage compartment, since the powerful little vehicle was
designed only for maneuvering in a crowded city or for fast, short trips
to nearby towns. There was simply no room for another passenger, and
both the man in the car and the guards who passed it through were so
well aware of that fact that they didn't even bother to think about it.
It never occurred to them that a slight, elderly-looking gentleman might
be hanging beneath the car, floating a few inches off the ground,
holding on with his fingertips, and allowing the car to pull him along
as it moved on into the Palace of the Great Chinese People's Government.
Getting into the subterranean cell where Dr. James Ch'ien was being held
was a different kind of problem. Candron knew the interior of the Palace
by map only, and the map he had studied had been admittedly inadequate.
It took him nearly an hour to get to the right place. Twice, he avoided
a patrolling guard by taking to the air and concealing himself in the
darkness of an overhead balcony. Several other times, he met men in
civilian clothing walking along the narrow walks, and he merely nodded
at them. He looked too old and too well-dressed to be dangerous.
The principle that made it easy was the fact that no one expects a lone
man to break into a heavily guarded prison.
After he had located the building where James Ch'ien was held, he went
high-flying. The building itself was one which contained the living
quarters of several high-ranking officers of the People's Government.
Candron knew he would be conspicuous if he tried to climb up the side of
the building from the outside, but he managed to get into the second
floor without being observed. Then he headed for the elevator shafts.
It took him several minutes to jimmy open the elevator door. His mind
was sensitive enough to sense the nearness of others, so there was no
chance of his being caught red-handed. When he got the door open, he
stepped into the shaft, brought his loathing for the bottom into the
fore, and floated up to the top floor. From there it was a simple matter
to get to the roof, drop down the side, and enter the open window of an
officer's apartment.
He entered a lighted window rather than a darkened one. He wanted to
know what he was getting into. He had his gun ready, just in case, but
there was no sign of anyone in the room he entered. A quick search
showed that the other two rooms were also empty. His mind had told him
that there was no one awake in the apartment, but a sleeping man's mind,
filled with dimmed, chaotic thoughts, blended into the background and
might easily be missed.
Then Spencer Candron used the telephone, punching the first of the two
code numbers he had been given. A connection was made to the room where
a twenty-four-hour guard kept watch over James Ch'ien via television
pickups hidden in the walls of his prison apartment in the basement.
Candron had listened to recordings of one man's voice for hours, getting
the exact inflection, accent, and usage. Now, he made use of that
practice.
"This is General Soong," he said sharply. "We are sending a Dr. Wan down
to persuade the guest. We will want recordings of all that takes place."
"Yes, sir," said the voice at the other end.
"Dr. Wan will be there within ten minutes, so be alert."
"Yes, sir. All will be done to your satisfaction."
"Excellent," said Candron. He smiled as he hung up. Then he punched
another secret number. This one connected him with the guards outside
Ch'ien's apartment. As General Soong, he warned them of the coming of
Dr. Wan. Then he went to the window, stepped out, and headed for the
roof again.
* * * * *
There was no danger that the calls would be suspected. Those two phones
could not be contacted except from inside the Palace, and not even then
unless the number was known.
Again he dropped down Elevator Shaft Three. Only Number One was
operating this late in the evening, so there was no fear of meeting it
coming up. He dropped lightly to the roof of the car, where it stood
empty in the basement, opened the escape hatch in the roof, dropped
inside, opened the door, and emerged into the first basement. Then he
started down the stairs to the subbasement.
The guards were not the least suspicious, apparently. Candron wished he
were an honest-to-God telepath, so he could be absolutely sure. The
officer at the end of the corridor that led to Ch'ien's apartment was a
full captain, a tough-looking, swarthy Mongol with dark, hard eyes. "You
are Dr. Wan?" he asked in a guttural baritone.
"I am," Candron said. This was no place for traditional politeness. "Did
not General Soong call you?"
"He did, indeed, doctor. But I assumed you would be carrying--" He
gestured, as though not quite sure what to say.
Candron smiled blandly. "Ah. You were expecting the little black bag, is
it not so? No, my good captain; I am a psychologist, not a medical
doctor."
The captain's face cleared. "So. The persuasion is to be of the more
subtle type."
"Indeed. Only thus can we be assured of his co-operation. One cannot
force the creative mind to create; it must be cajoled. Could one have
forced the great K'ung Fu-tse to become a philosopher at the point of a
sword?"
"It is so," said the captain. "Will you permit me to search you?"
The affable Dr. Wan emptied his pockets, then permitted the search. The
captain casually looked at the identification in the wallet. It was,
naturally, in perfect order for Dr. Wan. The identification of Ying Lee
had been destroyed hours ago, since it was of no further value.
"These things must be left here until you come out, doctor," the captain
said. "You may pick them up when you leave." He gestured at the pack of
cigarettes. "You will be given cigarettes by the interior guard. Such
are my orders."
"Very well," Candron said calmly. "And now, may I see the patient?" He
had wanted to keep those cigarettes. Now he would have to find a
substitute.
The captain unlocked the heavy door. At the far end, two more guards
sat, complacently playing cards, while a third stood at a door a few
yards away. A television screen imbedded in the door was connected to an
interior camera which showed the room within.
The corridor door was closed and locked behind Candron as he walked
toward the three interior guards. They were three more big, tough
Mongols, all wearing the insignia of lieutenants. This was not a
prisoner who could be entrusted to the care of common soldiers; the
secret was too important to allow the _hoi polloi_ in on it. They
carried no weapons; the three of them could easily take care of Ch'ien
if he tried anything foolish, and besides, it kept weapons out of
Ch'ien's reach. There were other methods of taking care of the prisoner
if the guards were inadequate.
The two officers who were playing cards looked up, acknowledged Dr.
Wan's presence, and went back to their game. The third, after glancing
at the screen, opened the door to James Ch'ien's apartment. Spencer
Candron stepped inside.
It was because of those few seconds--the time during which that door was
open--that Candron had called the monitors who watched Ch'ien's
apartment. Otherwise, he wouldn't have bothered. He needed fifteen
seconds in which to act, and he couldn't do it with that door open. If
the monitors had given an alarm in these critical seconds....
But they hadn't, and they wouldn't. Not yet.
The man who was sitting in the easy-chair on the opposite side of the
room looked up as Candron entered.
James Ch'ien (B.S., M.S., M.I.T., Ph. D., U.C.L.A.) was a young man,
barely past thirty. His tanned face no longer wore the affable smile
that Candron had seen in photographs, and the jet-black eyes beneath the
well-formed brows were cold instead of friendly, but the intelligence
behind the face still came through.
As the door was relocked behind him, Candron said, in Cantonese: "This
unworthy one hopes that the excellent doctor is well. Permit me to
introduce my unworthy self: I am Dr. Wan Feng."
Dr. Ch'ien put the book he was reading in his lap. He looked at the
ceiling in exasperation, then back at Candron. "All right," he said in
English, "so you don't believe me. But I'll repeat it again in the hope
that I can get it through your skulls." It was obvious that he was
addressing, not only his visitor, but anyone else who might be
listening.
"I do not speak Chinese," he said, emphasizing each word separately. "I
can say 'Good morning' and 'Good-by', and that's about it. I _do_ wish I
could say 'drop dead,' but that's a luxury I can't indulge. If you can
speak English, then go ahead; if not, quit wasting my time and yours.
Not," he added, "that it won't be a waste of time anyway, but at least
it will relieve the monotony."
Candron knew that Ch'ien was only partially telling the truth. The
physicist spoke the language badly, but he understood it fairly well.
"Sorry, doctor," Candron said in English, "I guess I forgot myself. I am
Dr. Wan Feng."
Ch'ien's expression didn't change, but he waved to a nearby chair. "Sit
down, Dr. Feng, and tell me what propaganda line you've come to deliver
now."
Candron smiled and shook his head slowly. "That was unworthy of you, Dr.
Ch'ien. Even though you have succumbed to the Western habit of putting
the family name last, you are perfectly aware that 'Wan,' not 'Feng,' is
my family name."
The physicist didn't turn a hair. "Force of habit, Dr. Wan. Or, rather,
a little retaliation. I was called 'Dakta Chamis' for two days, and even
those who could pronounce the name properly insisted on 'Dr. James.' But
I forget myself. I am supposed to be the host here. Do sit down and tell
me why I should give myself over to Communist China just because my
grandfather was born here back in the days when China was a republic."
* * * * *
Spencer Candron knew that time was running out, but he had to force
Ch'ien into the right position before he could act. He wished again that
he had been able to keep the cigarettes. Ch'ien was a moderately heavy
smoker, and one of those drugged cigarettes would have come in handy
now. As it was, he had to handle it differently. And that meant a
different approach.
"No, Dr. Ch'ien," he said, in a voice that was deliberately too smooth,
"I will not sit down, thank you. I would prefer that you stand up."
The physicist's face became a frozen mask. "I see that the doctorate you
claim is not for studies in the field of physics. You're not here to
worm things out of me by discussing my work talking shop. What is it,
_Doctor_ Wan?"
"I am a psychologist." Candron said. He knew that the monitors watching
the screens and listening to the conversation were recording everything.
He knew that they shouldn't be suspicious yet. But if the real General
Soong should decide to check on what his important guest was doing....
"A psychologist," Ch'ien repeated in a monotone. "I see."
"Yes. Now, will you stand, or do I have to ask the guards to lift you to
your feet?"
James Ch'ien recognized the inevitable, so he stood. But there was a
wary expression in his black eyes. He was not a tall man; he stood
nearly an inch shorter than Candron himself.
"You have nothing to fear, Dr. Ch'ien," Candron said smoothly. "I merely
wish to test a few of your reactions. We do not wish to hurt you." He
put his hands on the other man's shoulders, and positioned him. "There,"
he said. "Now. Look to the left."
"Hypnosis, eh?" Ch'ien said with a grim smile. "All right. Go ahead." He
looked to his left.
"Not with your head," Candron said calmly. "Face me and look to the left
with your eyes."
Ch'ien did so, saying: "I'm afraid you'll have to use drugs after all,
Dr. Wan. I will not be hypnotized."
"I have no intention of hypnotizing you. Now look to the right."
Ch'ien obeyed.
Candron's right hand was at his side, and his left hand was toying with
a button on his coat. "Now up," he said.
Dr. James Ch'ien rolled his eyeballs upward.
Candron had already taken a deep breath. Now he acted. His right hand
balled into a fist and arced upwards in a crashing uppercut to Ch'ien's
jaw. At almost the same time, he jerked the button off his coat, cracked
it with his fingers along the special fissure line, and threw it to the
floor.
As the little bomb spewed forth unbelievable amounts of ultra-finely
divided carbon in a dense black cloud of smoke, Candron threw both arms
around the collapsing physicist, ignoring the pain in the knuckles of
his right hand. The smoke cloud billowed around them, darkening the room
and obscuring the view from the monitor screens that were watching them.
Candron knew that the guards were acting now; he knew that the big
Mongols outside were already inserting the key in the door and inserting
their nose plugs; he knew that the men in the monitor room had hit an
alarm button and had already begun to flood the room with sleep gas. But
he paid no attention to these things.
Instead, he became homesick.
Home. It was a little place he knew and loved. He could no longer stand
the alien environment around him; it was repugnant, repelling. All he
could think of was a little room, a familiar room, a beloved room. He
knew the cracks in its ceiling, the feel of the varnish on the homely
little desk, the touch of the worn carpet against his feet, the very
smell of the air itself. And he loved them and longed for them with all
the emotional power that was in him.
And suddenly the darkness of the smoke-filled prison apartment was gone.
Spencer Candron stood in the middle of the little hotel room he had
rented early that morning. In his arms, he held the unconscious figure
of Dr. James Ch'ien.
He gasped for breath, then, with an effort, he stooped, allowed the limp
body of the physicist to collapse over his shoulder, and stood straight
again, carrying the man like a sack of potatoes. He went to the door of
the room and opened it carefully. The hall was empty. Quickly, he moved
outside, closing the door behind him, and headed toward the stair. This
time, he dared not trust the elevator shaft. The hotel only boasted one
elevator, and it might be used at any time. Instead, he allowed his
dislike for the stair treads to adjust his weight to a few pounds, and
then ran up them two at a time.
On the roof of the hotel, he adjusted his emotional state once more, and
he and his sleeping burden drifted off into the night, toward the sea.
* * * * *
No mind is infinitely flexible, infinitely malleable, infinitely capable
of taking punishment, just as no material substance, however
constructed, is capable of absorbing the energies brought to bear
against it indefinitely.
A man can hate with a virulent hatred, but unless time is allowed to
dull and soothe that hatred, the mind holding it will become corroded
and cease to function properly, just as a machine of the finest steel
will become corroded and begin to fail if it is drenched with acid or
exposed to the violence of an oxidizing atmosphere.
The human mind can insulate itself, for a time, against the destructive
effects of any emotion, be it hatred, greed, despondency, contentment,
happiness, pleasure, anger, fear, lust, boredom, euphoria,
determination, or any other of the myriads of "ills" that man's
mind--and thus his flesh--is heir to. As long as a mind is capable of
changing from one to another, to rotate its crops, so to speak, the
insulation will remain effective, and the mind will remain undamaged.
But any single emotional element, held for too long, will break down the
resistance of the natural insulation and begin to damage the mind.
Even that least virulent of emotions, love, can destroy. The hot,
passionate love between new lovers must be modified or it will kill.
Only when its many facets can be shifted around, now one and now the
other coming into play, can love be endured for any great length of
time.
Possibly the greatest difference between the sane and the unsane is that
the sane know when to release a destructive force before it does more
than minimal damage; to modify or eliminate an emotional condition
before it becomes a deadly compulsion; to replace one set of concepts
with another when it becomes necessary to do so; to recognize that point
when the mind must change its outlook or die. To stop the erosion, in
other words, before it becomes so great that it cannot be repaired.
For the human mind cannot contain any emotion, no matter how weak or how
fleeting, without change. And the point at which that change ceases to
be _con_structive and becomes, instead, _de_structive--_that_ is the
ultimate point beyond which no human mind can go without forcing a
change--_any_ change--in itself.
Spencer Candron knew that. To overuse the psionic powers of the human
mind is as dangerous as overusing morphine or alcohol. There are limits
to mental powers, even as there are limits to physical powers.
_Psychokinesis_ is defined as the ability of a human mind to move, no
matter how slightly, a physical object by means of psionic application
alone. In theory, then, one could move planets, stars, even whole
galaxies by thought alone. But, in physical terms, the limit is easily
seen. Physically, it would be theoretically possible to destroy the sun
if one had enough atomic energy available, but that would require the
energy of another sun--or more. And, at that point, the Law of
Diminishing Returns comes into operation. If you don't want a bomb to
explode, but the only way to destroy that bomb is by blowing it up with
another bomb of equal power, where is the gain?
And if the total mental power required to move a planet is greater than
any single human mind can endure--or even greater than the total mental
endurance of a thousand planetsfull of minds, is there any gain?
There is not, and can never be, a system without limits, and the human
mind is a system which obeys that law.
None the less, Spencer Candron kept his mind on flight, on repulsion, on
movement, as long as he could. He was perfectly willing to destroy his
own mind for a purpose, but he had no intention of destroying it
uselessly. He didn't know how long he kept moving eastward; he had no
way of knowing how much distance he had covered nor how long it had
taken him. But, somewhere out over the smoothly undulating surface of
the Pacific, he realized that he was approaching his limit. And, a few
seconds later, he detected the presence of men beneath the sea.
He knew they were due to rise an hour before dawn, but he had no idea
how long that would be. He had lost all track of time. He had been
keeping his mind on controlling his altitude and motion, and, at the
same time, been careful to see whether Dr. Ch'ien came out of his
unconscious state. Twice more he had had to strike the physicist to keep
him out cold, and he didn't want to do it again.
So, when he sensed the presence of the American submarine beneath the
waves, he sank gratefully into the water, changing the erosive power of
the emotion that had carried him so far, and relaxing into the simple
physical routine of keeping both himself and Ch'ien afloat.
By the time the submarine surfaced a dozen yards away, Spencer Candron
was both physically and mentally exhausted. He yelled at the top of his
lungs, and then held on to consciousness just long enough to be rescued.
* * * * *
"The official story," said Senator Kerotski, "is that an impostor had
taken Dr. Ch'ien's place before he ever left the United States--" He
grinned. "At least, the substitution took place before the delegates
reached China. So the 'assassination' was really no assassination at
all. Ch'ien was kidnaped here, and a double put in his place in Peiping.
That absolves both us and the Chinese Government of any complicity. We
save face for them, and they save face for us. Since he turned up here,
in the States, it's obvious that he couldn't have been in China." He
chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. "So the cold war still
continues. We know what they did, and--in a way--they know what we did.
But not how we did it."
The senator looked at the other two men who were with him on the fifth
floor office of the _Society for Mystical and Metaphysical Research_.
Taggert was relaxing on his couch, and Spencer Candron, just out of the
hospital, looked rather pale as he sat in the big, soft chair that
Taggert had provided.
The senator looked at Candron. "The thing I don't understand is, why was
it necessary to knock out Ch'ien? He'll have a sore jaw for weeks. Why
didn't you just tell him who you were and what you were up to?"
Candron glanced at Taggert, but Taggert just grinned and nodded.
"We couldn't allow that," said Candron, looking at Senator Kerotski.
"Dr. James Ch'ien has too much of a logical, scientific mind for that.
We'd have ruined him if he'd seen me in action."
The senator looked a little surprised. "Why? We've convinced other
scientists that they were mistaken in their observations. Why not
Ch'ien?"
"Ch'ien is too good a scientist," Candron said. "He's not the type who
would refuse to believe something he saw simply because it didn't agree
with his theories. Ch'ien is one of those dangerous in-betweens. He's
too brilliant to be allowed to go to waste, and, at the same time, too
rigid to change his manner of thinking. If he had seen me teleport or
levitate, he wouldn't reject it--he'd try to explain it. And that would
have effectively ruined him."
"Ruined him?" The senator looked a little puzzled.
Taggert raised his heavy head from the couch. "Sure, Leo," he said to
the senator. "Don't you see? We _need_ Ch'ien on this interstellar
project. He absolutely _must_ dope out the answer somehow, and no one
else can do it as quickly."
"With the previous information," the senator said, "we would have been
able to continue."
"Yeah?" Taggert said, sitting up. "Has anyone been able to dope out
Fermat's Last Theorem without Fermat? No. So why ruin Ch'ien?"
"It would ruin him," Candron broke in, before the senator could speak.
"If he saw, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that levitation and
teleportation were possible, he would have accepted his own senses as
usable data on definite phenomena. But, limited as he is by his
scientific outlook, he would have tried to evolve a scientific theory to
explain what he saw. What else could a scientist _do_?"
Senator Kerotski nodded, and his nod said: "I see. He would have
diverted his attention from the field of the interstellar drive to the
field of psionics. And he would have wasted years trying to explain an
inherently nonlogical area of knowledge by logical means."
"That's right," Candron said. "We would have set him off on a wild goose
chase, trying to solve the problems of psionics by the scientific, the
logical, method. We would have presented him with an unsolvable
problem."
Taggert patted his knees. "We would have given him a problem that he
could not solve with the methodology at hand. It would be as though we
had proved to an ancient Greek philosopher that the cube _could_ be
doubled, and then allowed him to waste his life trying to do it with a
straight-edge and compass."
"We know Ch'ien's psychological pattern," Candron continued. "He's not
capable of admitting that there is any other thought pattern than the
logical. He would try to solve the problems of psionics by logical
methods, and would waste the rest of his life trying to do the
impossible."
The senator stroked his chin. "That's clear," he said at last. "Well, it
was worth a cracked jaw to save him. We've given him a perfectly logical
explanation of his rescue and, simultaneously, we've put the Chinese
government into absolute confusion. They have no idea of how you got out
of there, Candron."
"That's not as important as saving Ch'ien," Candron said.
"No," the senator said quickly, "of course not. After all, the Secretary
of Research needs Dr. Ch'ien--the man's important."
Spencer Candron smiled. "I agree. He's practically indispensable--as
much as a man can be."
"He's the Secretary's right hand man," said Taggert firmly.
THE END
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note and Errata |
| |
| This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction, |
| February 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any |
| evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was |
| renewed. |
| |
| One instance each of 'secondhand' and 'second-hand' occur in |
| the text. |
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
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