Expression of Life in Words

Richard and Adolf

By

Christopher Nicholson

A Review

By

Colin J. Edwards

“Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel”. (Samuel Johnson 1775)

Patriotism seems a rather pedestrian word to use when considering the activities of Richard Wagner and Adolf Hitler in Germany during the first half of the 20^th century. It was extreme patriotism, amplified by mental instability that created these monsters. They were not alone of course; Japan demonstrated similar traits in the same period.

Christopher Nicholson’s book, ‘Richard and Adolf’, records in the minutest detail the manifestations of Wagner’s and Hitler’s obsessions, and the impact they had on European Jewry. He postulates that Wagners anti-Semitism as demonstrated in his major musical works provided the launch pad for Hitler’s excesses.

The book is beautifully produced. It is well bound and the pages are fine quality paper that will accommodate many readings.

The work is catalogued as a Holocaust book, but it is more than that. It is a detailed expose of how two disturbed people are hypnotized by an 800 year old poem, and use that as a justification for the calculated murder of 5 million innocent people.  That is not to mention the millions that died as a result of their dementia.

Nicholson’s book is a scholarly tome. All facts are annotated, and his bibliography runs to 7 pages.

However, Mr. Nicholson is a lawyer – a High Court Judge in fact, and his book reads rather like a brief. That does not in any way detract from the value of this work, but I did have the feeling that ‘Richard and Adolf’ read like 2 briefs presented to condemn these individuals. That is not to suggest that these indefensible lunatics shouldn’t be condemned, but I didn’t think the numerous abusive after-thoughts at the end of paragraphs was appropriate. Facts alone are sufficient to condemn Wagner and Hitler, and personal evaluations serve little purpose.

I heartily recommend this book to anyone who wants a greater understanding of why someone would want to legislate to harass, hound and murder innocent families. But be prepared for the realization that Hitler didn’t do it alone – indeed, he didn’t do it at all. Nicholson doesn’t site one incident of any resistance movement in Germany or anywhere else against Germany’s attempt to exterminate European Jews. 

This is an important work particularly for a generation to whom World War II was something someone mentioned during a history lesson. ‘Richard and Adolf’, describes how a population with exaggerated patriotic zeal, can be manipulated by one individual to destroy their own people, the people in the continent around them and ultimately themselves.

Everyone should read this book to remind themselves of the cataclysmic dangers of Nationalism.

Jane Boleyn:

The True Story of the Infamous Lady Rochford

by Julia Fox

Published by Ballantine Books

A Review

By

Colin Edwards

There may come a time – not in my life certainly, when those clever people at Microsoft or Google, will build a time machine. Then, with a few deft keystrokes, anyone with sufficient funds to stump up the registration, will be able to travel back in time and confirm or otherwise the popular conceptions of history.

Until then, we must rely on Julia Fox and her ilk to wade through the sources and present us with their opinion of what happened where and when. She does so with admirable perspicacity

Julia Fox has been very courageous in choosing a subject that has been written to death (3 million internet hits), in both fact and fiction. However, as everyone has access to the same primary sources, it is not everyone that can tease out the plausibility from the preconceived notions as well as Ms Fox does.

This is Fox’s first book and it is beautifully written. From the first chapter it is apparent that she is an experienced researcher and teacher. She also has an eye for beauty. Her descriptions of the Tudor ladies wardrobes, betray an author with an eye for style.

This is the story of the trials and tribulations and ultimate undoing of Jane Boleyn (née Parker), Lady Rochford, wife of George Boleyn who was Anne Boleyn’s brother. Fox attempts to buck the trend and redeem the oft disparaged viscountess. She elevates her from the ‘Great Whore’ and ‘Wicked Wife’ of other publications, to innocent victim in her own.

Opinions vary whether the lady brought wretchedness upon herself through treachery, or was just a victim of circumstance. Fox suggests the latter, and I am persuaded.

In the life and death lottery that was King Henry VIII’s court, you win some and you lose some. Losing was rather final as in Jane’s, her husband and sister-in-law’s case, not to mention a few hundred more, but Fox punctuates these personal dilemmas with beautifully drawn descriptions of the pomp and ceremony that occupied the space between the misery.

It would be easy to conclude that when questioned about her Queen’s and husband’s alleged offenses, she betrayed them. That would have been dumb; then and now. And Lady Rochford was anything but dumb. She was a lady-in-waiting to five of Henry’s wives before she lost her head. That would have required some nifty footwork.

There can be little doubt that she was implicated in the machinations of Catherin Howard, but is anyone seriously suggesting that she should have popped along to Henry, and whispered in his ear (perhaps shouting would have been more effective), that his Queen was dallying with half his court?

It must be said however that a majority of the evidence for or against comes from loquacious foreign diplomats. They may or may not have been sympathetic to the English court, and perhaps sprayed their odium where it was most likely to stick.

Julia Fox’s  book is a riveting read. Her points are well made and convincing. Her tone is ‘matter-of-fact ‘and never drifts from know intelligence.

I strongly recommend this book for a first and second reading, and wait with enthusiasm for her next work.

The Age of Turbulence by Alan Greenspan

A Review

By

Colin J Edwards

It is difficult to place Alan Greenspan’s 500 plus pages. It is at once text-book and political memoir; rather in the mode of his wife Andrea Mitchell’s Talking Back, published two years before.

In a literal sense, one couldn’t call this an autobiography. We learn little about the man himself save for the fact that evidence of Primary TB kept him out of the army, he plays the clarinet and married two Mitchells – one of which is still his wife. At least he tells us about his first wife. That is more than can be said for Andrea Mitchell who omits to mention her first marriage, or the children.

The introduction to The Age of Turbulence is riveting. It is beautifully written and totally absorbing. That is quite a statement when you consider that the theme of the piece was 9-11, and I doubted that there was anything else anyone could say about that. After leaving the giddy heights of the introduction, the book descends to a lower but non-the-less readable level.

If you are an economist, then you may find the statistical data too elementary to keep your attention. If you are not, you may find a large part of the book heavy going.

Alan Greenspan is a very lucky guy. Born in 1926, it was just the right time to suit his talents. A natural and gifted mathematician he was able to construct statistical models, and profit from them before the advent of computer data processing. Had he been born later, computers would do effortlessly, what he did laboriously. A manifestation of this is apparent when one considers his forecasts. His economic forecasts based on a computer driven models, are excellent.  By his own admission, this is not the case when relying on his own innate judgement. His 30 year forecast is less than encouraging; but then he will not be around to answer for it.

Wiser heads than mine do not share this view, and that is why he has been Chairman of the Federal Reserve since 1987 until this year. A sensitive and well balanced man, he heaps praise and obloquy on his former bosses with equal measure. Except for the current President Bush, who receives credit for nothing, other than the invasion of Iraq in the pursuit of oil. Not too many people at Greenspan’s level would have had the courage to confess to that.

In life one finds two different sorts of people. There are those who can be taken seriously, and those who can’t. Test this for yourself. Think of two people and decide who you can take seriously and those you couldn’t. Try, Mrs Thatcher and Nancy Pelosi? Dennis Kusinage and Joe Biden?  Or Fred Thompson and Rudy Giuliani? This has nothing to do with their competence, just who would you take advice from. Alan Greenspan is a definite yes, and all the Presidents since Nixon agreed with that.

There can be no doubt that Greenspan played a vital role in the recent history of America. Together with palpable ability, he comes across as a likeable and personable man. His modesty is convincing as is his apparent lack of ambition. However, any one of the many senior positions he held in finance and industry would have satisfied most of us as career achievement.

The two or three references to his ‘beautiful wife’, were obviously copy read by her as they are word for word, her words. Notwithstanding that, their separate lives seem to fit somehow. I wonder how they would get along if they both had to spend time together?

If you can tolerate the economics lessons, you will find this volume engaging, and crammed with interesting detail. But if GDP and economic indexes are not your bedtime reading, you might be disappointed. 

Talking Back: …to Presidents, Dictators, and Assorted Scoundrels 

By Andrea Mitchell

A Review

by

Colin J. Edwards  

Whenever possible I avoid reading autobiography. I rarely read fiction, and essentially autobiography is fiction. Who can resist fine tuning ones achievements or smoothing the bumps of a relationship; not to mention flat-out lies? If such a paragon of virtue existed, writing an autobiography would be an anathema to them. “Talking Back: …to Presidents, Dictators, and Assorted Scoundrels”, is an exception in so far as it is more a journalistic memoir than an autobiography. However, there are chunks of personal history that Lady Greenspan (Alan Greenspan was knighted by the Queen of England in 2002), chose to omit. Perhaps the most telling of these is the not inconsequential matter of a first marriage. There were also children, though non-biological, that she treated as her own. It is poignant that while she extols the virtue of her friends; even labelling their offspring as “…children she never had”, she is silent about her own children. Would it be unreasonable to suggest that this might betray a propensity to edit out inconvenient truths? Alan Greenspan doesn’t mention it either in his book “The Age of Turbulence”. “But then statements of fact pertaining to both parties have been scrupulously edited and they don’t differ even by a comma.    That said, Andrea Mitchell describes her three or more decades of journalism in a modest, balanced narrative which moves along at an exhausting pace. She resists the temptation to ‘drop names’, but she does inflate the purity of journalism. I wonder how many people would crave a career in journalism if their contributions lacked a by-line? I have the feeling that the insatiable desire for a scoop would loose its appeal if the story was anonymous. Ms Mitchell’s volume does not betray anything about her. She tells us that she is Jewish. We can deduce that as a couple they are very rich because they don’t spend any of their own money. Every event she describes; including her honeymoon, was funded by someone else. All their travel is tacked-on to official business somewhere in the world. If there is ant ‘self-funded’ travel, she doesn’t mention it. After reading her book, you come away with the impression that she is a very modest person in most things. There is one area where I perceived a little insecurity. She wants to be judged as an intellectual. She reminds us that she went to an Ivy League college. Whilst this is technically true, it is stretching the distinction a little. She tells us that she was accepted for a woman’s college at Cambridge, but she doesn’t tell us which one – and there are only three. Her attention for detail in other areas exaggerates her amnesia about Cambridge, even though she mentions it twice. Her writing style is predictably journalistic and a little tedious, but none-the-less an excellent commentary on current affaires of the last three decades. There are no attempts to take credit for successful events; indeed she describes everything with brutal honesty – warts and all. Ms Mitchell shares few personal details with us, and the work is the poorer for it. One is left with the impression that she is the definitive spinster married to the definitive bachelor. She does her thing and he does his and they meet occasionally at the White House for dinner. If you are already a student of current affaires, then this volume will add nothing to your fund of knowledge. However, if you need a crash course in the happenings of the last thirty years, then this is a book for you.   

Stonewall Jackson by Donald A. Davis

(Palgrave Macmillan (2007), Hardcover, 224 pages) 

A review

by

Colin J. Edwards 

I have to come clean immediately and confess that I have difficulty with the description, ‘tough fighting generals’. What they are describing are heartless individuals who send men to death or mutilation with reckless abandon. Let us remind ourselves that wars are started by politicians, fought by generals and won by soldiers. The American Civil War was the exception: the generals prolonged that one.Before you cast me aside as a peace-nik lefty, let me assure you that I saw action as an infantry officer, and know a little of what I speak. Books about wars: and this is a book about a war more than a biography of an individual, are either from an officer’s perspective, or the enlisted man. Donald Davis is the exception being quite at home writing about either. His best seller ‘Lightening Strike’, records the active service of a gunnery sergeant. However, I could find little sympathy for the fighting man in this volume. Mr Davis wrote with touching tenderness of the separation of General Jackson from his wife and new baby girl. A separation that didn’t last long as the general called them to his side. Tens of thousands of ordinary soldiers from North and South would have thought precious, just a moment with their loved ones. Rank has its privilege it seems.  Davis’ detailed descriptions of the various battles are excellent, if a little tedious.  This is due perhaps to a lack of information about Jackson who was such a secretive individual, that it’s a wonder Davis was able to write the book at all.  Born at Clarksburg West Virginia on January 21 1824 into an attorney’s family, he preceded by four months another general and West Point chum who saw the light of day at Liberty Indiana in May: a future adversary, Ambrose Burnside.  After a very unsettled childhood, he entered West Point more by luck than judgement. He struggled to keep up but had an almost eccentric ability to focus unswervingly on the subject at hand. This paid off and he was able to move up the rankings graduating 17^th out of a class of 59. This was not good enough to get him into the esteemed engineers, but it did get him into the artillery as a second lieutenant.  This single minded eccentricity bordering on autism became more apparent when he was under fire during the Mexican War. Observation of his reckless valour caused him to be bumped up the ranks to acting major. Another manifestation of his disturbed mental state was his inability to work in harmony with others. His unresolved dispute with a brother officer while stationed at Fort Mead in Florida, resulted in him leaving the army and taking up a teaching post at Lexington Virginia. The general consensus was that Thomas Jackson was a poor teacher, but the eight years there gave him the opportunity to meet and marry two wives.  The Civil War found him back in the army and up to his neck in muck and bullets in the battles so precisely delineated by Mr Davis. His eccentricity (or mental disturbance), new no bounds and he and his soldiers went from victory to victory even if it killed them. He even had one of his generals (A.P.Hill), dragged along behind a cart on an interminable march for some undisclosed actus reus.  This so damaged the general’s tender feet that he was out of action for some time. Not the action of a sound mind you might think; particularly when it concerns one of your better generals. Jackson continued to carry the whole war on his shoulders, confiding in no one until he experienced a nervous collapse. From then until the end of his life he was conspicuous for his ability to fall asleep anywhere. On one occasion he was summoned to see his boss Robert E Lee, and promptly fell asleep before he saw him. Thomas Jackson was a religious zealot who spoke more to God than anyone else. However, he did not practice what he preached, nor anything anyone else preached as he didn’t stay awake long enough. He had no compunction in raking artillery fire into Mexican civilians when Mexico City failed to surrender in 1848, or later when he gunned down a retreating Mexican army.  During the Civil War he showed no reluctance to destroy fellow Americans be them from the North or the South, and insisted that his officers do likewise. To experience fear while in the presence of danger is normal. To some extent it is possible to hide that fear. Jackson did not hide it; he did not have any fear. He constantly took needless risks and in front of his troops defied the conflagration to kill him.That was until Chancellorsville on May 2 1863.  Throwing caution to the wind as usual, he took his staff beyond his own front lines to reconnoitre the enemy positions. True to form he omitted to inform anyone of his intentions. Upon his return he was fired upon by his own soldiers and hit three times. Six of his staff were killed outright. He however was not killed but was stretchered to an aid station falling off the stretcher on the way. The chief surgeon of Jackson’s army, Dr Hunter McGuire, amputated his left arm, but did not notice General Jackson complaining about chest pain. The pain developed into pneumonia from which he died on May 10^th 1863. Google Books list over 4000 entries for General Jackson, and most of them suggest that had he lived the result at Gettysburg would have been different. The generals lost the battle for the Confederates by their bickering and lack of direction. Jackson would have only added to the confusion. The soldiers of the South fought their hearts out at Gettysburg only to be betrayed by their officers.  Donald Davis’s book is a myth breaker, and a ‘must read’ for anyone who has an interest in the first modern war.       

As an Englishman and ex infantry officer, I view the machinations of the last few days in the Shatt al-Arab waterway as worrying, to say the least.

The Shatt al-Arab is essentially a river that flows into the
Persian Gulf. At it’s widest, its about half a mile wide where it flows into the Gulf. It is a highly sensitive area for Iran. In fact it was the primary cause of the 1980 Iran/Iraq war when Sadam Hussein abrogated the Algiers Accord which divided the river between the two countries, and claimed the whole thing for Iraq.  In places it is only 300 meters wide so who owns what is open to conjecture.

Into this volatile mix must be added the intelligence gathering activities of Royal Navy personnel whizzing up and down in high-speed rubber boats.  This is all good school-boy adventure until something goes wrong. Then, hard questions have to be answered.

We understand that the marines were ‘lightly’ armed. Why were they armed? A reasonable answer might be that they were vulnerable to attack from a hostile force. Who could that hostile force be? Of course it would be the Iranians. But they were attacked by the Iranians: why didn’t they use their weapons? If the argument runs that
Great Britain is not at war with Iran; then why carry the weapons?

We know that they had helicopter ‘air cover’. Why did the helicopter disappear as soon as the Iranians showed up?Presumably, the Iranians captured the marines and sailors under duress. They surely were not invited for a quick trip around the bay to see the sights. Therefore the military personal were victims of aggression. In that situation, those marines and sailors were at war in every way that they could understand.

In those circumstances, why were they so ccommodating to ‘their’ enemy? Does anyone believe that they were in fear of their life? Human life is sacrosanct, but their actions brought shame and disgrace on their Corps and country. Not all of them. Only four out of the fifteen were seen to give aid and comfort to the enemy. But the most prominent were the two officers; Capt. Air RM, and Lt. Carman RN. These two young men are a disgrace to their uniform and should be hounded out of the service. Indeed, I would be very surprised if they are still serving by the end of this year.  I have my doubts about the others, but when their officers demonstrate such poor leadership, how can they be sanctioned? In no previous era — not during World War I, II, Korea, Suez or the Falklands — would British servicemen have rolled over like this. There was more fight in Far Eastern POWs after six years of Japanese abuse, than was seen in those young men this last week. 

The last question to be answered is why HMS Cornwall did not apprehend the Iranians. If Prime Minister Blair is correct and the hostages were not in Iranian waters, then ipso facto the Iranians must have entered Iraqi waters to capture them.

A modern war ship is bristling with technology to identify threats in the area.  Somewhere in the bowels of HMS Cornwall a young rating would have been plotting every thing afloat on the water that day. Why were the marines and ratings allowed to sail into a trap? Perhaps another RN officer: the Captain of HMS Cornwall could answer that one for us?

British Hostages - Sense or Shame? « Disconnected Jottings

I started the day at my doctor’s office. Not an auspicious start to His Excellency George Washington’s birthday; but there it is. At this point you are probably anticipating palpitations in the night and other sagas, but you would be wrong. The visit was entirely undramatic and entailed nothing more than a routine blood test.  This simple clinical exercise holds no terrors for me, as I am very experienced. However, I think Dracula’s daughter carried out the last one, as I left the office with blood streaming down my arm. She must have missed her breakfast.

During my brief wait, I pondered the other event that shares the 22^nd with Washington. On this day in 1972 the IRA (remember them?), detonated a bomb at a barracks at Aldershot in the South of England. It killed five women and an army priest. There was no suggestion of a suicide bombing. The Irish heroes were well away before the blood was spilt. Yesterday nine more innocent young Americans died in Iraq. We haven’t come very far in 35 years have we? I apologise for injecting a moment’s reality into what is otherwise a light hearted missive, but I served as an infantry officer in Northern Island and like keep the memory alive – lest we forget. 

After I had been punctured and drained I nursed my half empty arm back home. Adobe has introduced some new software which I wanted to buy. The purchasing procedure was simple enough to start with, but when I reach the paying bit things got complicated. You cannot buy anything from Adobe unless you join their club. Apparently getting your email and home address is more important than getting your money. I went through the motions of completing their forms but failed to check a box. When I was in business my company mantra was “make it easy for customer to buy.’ Insisting that customers complete dumb forms, no matter how much it helps market research, is not making it easy. My failure to complete the form as required wiped out all the detailed information I had given them. It also flagged up a sign that an idiot was on the line because I was then confronted with an ‘Instant Messaging’ window with a suggestion of help from a formless being. I didn’t need ‘It’s’ help, I was able to complete the form again without assistance despite their inference to the contrary.  I did however have a question, which I asked. ‘It’ came back with a wild generality for an answer. I responded with “That is not what I asked you”. ‘It’ then produced a link which answered my question perfectly. I offered my thanks and goodbyes and was about to sign off when ‘It’ enquired about my order. I was bemused by this as I didn’t need any input from ‘It’ to complete my order, but still ‘It’ wanted the order number. I complied, concluding that there may be an element of commission somewhere along the line. I thought that would put an end to it; but oh no. I was then asked to complete a survey. You gotta be kidding me. With a hint of guilt I clicked ‘It’s’ survey into cyberspace oblivion.

Next stop Borders. The day wouldn’t be the same without a brief stop at a book shop, and today it is Borders. I am a compulsive book buyer, and seem to enjoy ‘Personal Shopping Days’ at Borders most weeks. Today was no exception and clutching my purchases I waited in line at their Starbucks franchise. I was second in line. Before me was a very tall German. He had long, crinkly hair kept in place by a pigtail. His clothes were large, loose and rumpled. His green shorts were long and large, aka British Forces Western Desert 1942.  He had a female partner that human kindness prevents me from describing. He ordered a complicated drink for both of them details of which I forget. What I do remember is his comic opera accent. What is it about the German language that makes their English sound like an English comedian pretending to be a German? Will the Germans ever be able to speak again beyond their borders without the rest of us thinking they are about to invade Poland? 

Florida is back. Upper seventies, blue skies, puffy white clouds the whole deal. Can it be that less than a week ago the mercury was heading for the upper thirties? I don’t want to even think about that – bring on the summer and the low nineties – that’s where I live.

As part of my ‘classics revisited’ diligence, I finished Moll Flanders – the book I mean, on the lanai this morning.  Unlike most readers of this Daniel Defoe classic, I could not warm to his 17^th century lovable rogue. There are a number of reasons for this, but primarily its because I cannot confuse lovable rogue, with consummate liar and thief.

About a year ago I was the victim of such a one. Those who have read Moll Flanders will immediately jump to the erroneous conclusion that I had been robbed by a whore. No, though that would have been preferable to what actually happened. I was due to sit in court in London during the afternoon of 29^th November, a Monday. As quite often happens in the court system the day collapsed and I was free until court the following day.

I was born and bred in London, and nothing gives me greater pleasure than the opportunity to walk it’s ancient streets. The day was bitter cold and every few yards I stopped off at a book-shop to top-up my ever burgeoning library. Just as I reached Trafalgar Square, I decided on a coffee at Café Nero. Can there be a greater pleasure than perusing new books while enjoying excellent coffee?

Evening was approaching, and it was time to return to my hotel. I gathered up my overcoat and briefcase – only there was no briefcase! While I was engrossed in my purchases, a sneak-thief had stolen it. Not a big deal I hear you say. Petty theft is a reality in big cities, and London is certainly a big city. But that briefcase held everything. My money, credit cards and driving license. My phone, PDA, car keys, essential medication for a chronic condition, everything.  I stood in Trafalgar Square on a bitter cold evening in November with not a penny in my pocket or keys to my car in the knowledge that the felon not only had my car and house keys, but also the parking ticket. All I had was the key to my hotel room. As I had been widowed five years before after a 35 year marriage; I really was alone.

How this was resolved is another story in itself, but suffice to say that people who lie, cheat and steal enjoy little sympathy from me. But then Moll Flanders is fiction – right? But this was real.